I need to acknowledge that I've been way deep in my head around the long-term medication I started this past week. Leading up to the date (3 weeks post radiation) I had myself wound in knots about possible side effects. I'd tell myself I was letting go and trusting the process, all the while girding my loins for a bumpy ride. I don't like to be physically uncomfortable. I don't like feeling out of control of my moods and emotions (hello hormonal fluctuations). I carry around an ancient notion that if I know what's coming, I'll be better off (even though time and experience have taught me I can't really see around corners).
And then I was in a meeting where the topic had to do with learning from all that occurs, with a reminder that the Big Book suggests we abandon ourselves to our idea of a higher power, that we let go absolutely. Nowhere does it say, "Half measures availed us half." So if I'm mouthing the words, "Let go," but my hands are balled into little fists, what, exactly am I doing?
I used to think that fear was a character defect, to be eradicated so that I could float through life in perfect acceptance. But no. Fear is a normal human emotion. It's what I do with it that can be defective. Holding on, trying to control the uncontrollable, future tripping - those are the defenses. Worry is not surrender. Worry is not trust.
The funny (as in ha-ha) thing is that I was consumed with what might happen before I even swallowed one of the little buggers. How much psychic energy have I squandered over the years making up stories about possibilities? Of course, trying to figure that out would be an attempt to live in the past, equally as nonproductive as looking into the crystal ball. Right here, right now I have a choice of where to direct my thoughts. And, now nearly a week into the daily medication, my left arm hasn't fallen off, I'm not overtaken by hot flashes or crankiness - and the beat goes on.
But oh, how my mind can wander. On a walk this week, I had a few moments of regret around the house where I hit bottom and lived for the first three to four years of sobriety. It was/is a lovely home. At the time, I was tired of living with roommates, who I needed to help pay the bills, but now I can wonder if I shoulda/coulda/woulda tried to hold on to it. Never mind that I've lived in four different houses since then, and am now in the home my spouse and I love - what if I'd stayed in that other one?
What if I'd gone away to college instead of marrying my first husband? What if I'd truly heard a long-term partner when he initially said our relationship didn't feel quite right (instead of experiencing the pain of break up when he got the nerve nine years later)? What if, what if, what if?? Of course, I can also think about the what if's that could've been a missed opportunity - what if I hadn't gone to that potluck where my now husband and I struck up a conversation? What if I'd gotten to treatment a week later and had never met the man who is one of my best friends?
And what if pigs could fly? Again and again and again it comes down to one day at a time. seemingly a simple instruction, but SO challenging for this alcoholic. Which is why I keep coming back - I need the reminders and examples that I see and hear in meetings, of how you muddle through, sometimes skipping, sometimes on your hands and knees.
We went to a re-upped (post covid) Native American Pow Wow this weekend, where twice I was addressed as an elder. It took me a minute to realize both situations had to do with how I look on the outside and not how I feel on the inside, which is sometimes 50, sometimes 14, but rarely what the calendar says. I have to laugh at myself, and asked my husband if I should start acting my age, whatever that means. My dad didn't make it to 68, but Mom at this age seemed old. Once, in a store, a clerk was describing a customer as having dark hair and wearing glasses. It took me a second to realize she wasn't talking about gray-haired me. How do I, or even should I try, to reconcile my insides and outsides, which now has a different meaning than the old comparisons I used to do to your outsides and my insides. Funny thing, this aging business. Grateful to have the opportunity.
What does it mean to "act your age" in long term recovery? Is there something going on today that has you trying to see into the future? What small thing can you do to bring yourself back to this moment? When shoulda/coulda/woulda comes up, how can you move towards "if things were supposed to be any other way, they'd be different?"
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See the Jan 13, 2023 post for a sample of the "I've Been Sober a Long Time - Now What?" workbook with 78 pages of topics, member's views, and processing questions. Available in PDF format ($12.95) for those of you outside the US (or who prefer that format) or hardcopy ($19.95 mailed to you. Email me at shadowsandveins@gmail.com with questions. You can order from the WEB VERSION of this page, payment link on top right. Note that the workbook is also available at Portland Area Intergroup at 825 NE 20th
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