Tuesday, May 31, 2005

"A stereotyped but unconscious despair is concealed even under what are called the games and amusements of mankind." -Henry David Thoreau

Funny I should love that quote, when I make a good living -- well, it's a good living in South Dakota; not so much in LA -- creating "games and amusements" for mankind. Perhaps it's the "stereotyped but unconscious despair is concealed" portion of Thoreau's observation that resonates all too deeply for me. Whenever I try to conceal my (sometimes considerable) despair, I blow it up like a dirigible (if you don't know what a fucking dirigible is, watch the damn Hitler Channel) until it explodes -- mostly in my own face, sometimes in the faces of my beloved ones. Then I proceed to hate myself, plummeting further into a more conscious despair and (depending on the source of the depression) eat. Or not. Eating would be for a fear-based/stress-related/hormonally-charged despair. Not eating is, of course, the heartbreak-related despair. I've recently lost about 5 pounds. Who the fuck needs Atkins when you've got unrequited love on your plate?

Last week, I was asked by dear friend M to speak at her BDA meeting. I'm not a Business Debtors Anonymous girl, but the 12 steps are the 12 steps -- one size pretty much fits all of us addicted sorts. I understand I spoke rather eloquently on the finer points of sobriety and its myriad practical applications, but I don't pay much attention when I'm speaking extemporaneously. I figure, if you've really had the experience, the words will flow. I let go of my inhibitions in the way that I now do -- sans alcohol and pot -- and reached quite a few of the people in the room, judging by their questions after my "pitch." Odd to have a Q&A after speaking at a 12-step meeting. We never do that in AA...but this is Business, so I guess it necessitates another level of communication.

One of the questions -- the last one, in fact -- came from a man whose eyes had filled up at one point in my talk, in which I referred to my spiritual path. He asked me how I know when I'm not connected to my higher power. The thought came to me immediately: Depression. I explained that, when I'm depressed, I completely forget how protected and loved I am, I feel lost and abandoned -- and that is a function of my ego. So many heads nodded at this revelation, they looked like a shelf full of those rear-car-window bobber toys.

It's the truth. When I forget I'm inextricably connected to the Source, to the Higher Power, to -- (that's right, Mom, why use all the euphemisms?) God -- I spin out of control, unrecognizable to my true self. I loathe myself so much, it's almost narcissistic. It's what drove me to the bar, to the liquor store, to the friend who always had great bud.

So I stop, and take a breath, and maybe weep a little (or a lot). And thank God that I figured it out again. And every time I get a little better at managing the mess. I even avoid making it, much more than in the past.

Despair teaches great lessons, if you have faith and remain vigilant. And despair sucks.

I'm gonna go home and watch TV.

Friday, May 20, 2005

"Turn and face the strange ch-ch-changes..." -David Bowie

Why did I cry across the desk from Susan this afternoon, and on B's telephonic shoulder earlier this evening? Because the past three months have seen me uprooted from my home of 12 years. I've been sorting and tossing and packing the accumulation of stuff for 90 days (do I need it, want it, love it?). It's the most protracted, wrenching relocation of my life. And this is the weekend I finally hand in the keys.

The first six years in the cottage atop bucolic Mount Washington began a month after I got sober, and after my ex-husband had started as head writer for a burgeoning computer game company. We were on a great roll in our personal relationship and our professional pursuits, we were making the strides we'd worked so hard to achieve. We were writing a great comedy series pilot with a close friend and colleague, we were firmly planted on our spiritual path, we had room for his daughter, we had turtles and a cat and a hamster...we were RIGHT THERE, on the precipice of the success we'd envisioned.

I won't say here why and when it began to crumble. But, like the house in which we lived, there were cracks in the foundation, and it took a flood for us to pull up the carpet and see the irreparable damage.

So, the last six years, I soloed on the hill. But was I really alone? Were vestiges of the marriage and the life I'd left behind still sharing the space with me?

More ruminations about this to come...after I'm completely clear of the debris...

Friday, May 06, 2005

Decaf Venti Chopra Latte

Jeez...have I been SO consumed with working, moving and other such life challenges that I haven't been reading my Starbucks? I set my tall white and green cup down on my desk this morning and my eye caught a series of words peeking over the heat shield, expressing a thought that has nothing to do with how hot this beverage is, please sip carefully so as not to burn your tongue and sue the shit out of our fat little megacompany.

The first line reads, "The Way I See It #30" (apparently I've missed 29 other such advisories on my inevitable morning javas). It continued, "The secret of attraction is to love yourself. Attractive people judge neither themselves nor others. They are open to gestures of love..." I slipped the sleeve off the cup to read further. "They think about love, and express their love in every action. They know that love is not a mere sentiment, but the ultimate truth at the heart of the universe." And just WHO sees it this way, you ask? No surprise, here:

--Deepak Chopra, Author of The Spontaneous Fulfillment of Desire and other spiritual guides.

Now, as evidenced by many of the headlines in my blog, I enjoy a good quote here and there. Pithy, ironic, inspirational; if they hit the desired mark, I'll feel it, appreciate it, share it, and move on. And I love getting a fortune cookie with EXACTLY the message I needed to hear at the moment.

(Which reminds me of a voicemail I got from B a few weeks ago: he'd just had Chinese food, and when he opened the fortune cookie -- there was no fortune. If you knew him, you'd appreciate the killer irony.)

But this advertisment disguised as profundity annoys the living crap out of me. If I want to know the way Deepak sees it, I'll hie to the nearest Barnes & Noble and buy one of his "other spiritual guides."

Ah, no, I won't. I already have one.

Wednesday, May 04, 2005

12 years, 1 day

Last night, I told my B friend that I'd never had a sponsor. Not for all the 12 years I've been sober. He thought that was ridiculous. He (who is not an alcoholic, but claims to have many sober friends), said I hadn't really been sober, then, and I should either go get a sponsor or go get drunk. I have many things I could say about that, but I'm holding back. Like the fucking Hoover Dam.

I was on the edge of a migraine this afternoon...it hit me about 2/3 of the way through a meeting with a couple of esteemed colleagues at Toast, one of my favorite lunch spots (and not because it's where, a few months ago, Paris Hilton told her companion as she passed me on the way out, "She has great hair"). Within minutes, my eyes began to burn and turn red, my vision blurred, I felt vaguely nauseated...by the time I got back to my office, the back of my head felt like it was being slammed by a small cast iron frying pan.

When I got in my car, to seek Chinese medical attention from my beloved and brilliant acupuncturist/herbalist Jeremiah, I could barely see -- the late afternoon sun hit my eyes, and I was virtually blinded. Ironically DUI. Terrified, I called my associate and kept her on the phone until I reached the elixir bar (just in case I had an accident, she'd know where to find me), where Jeremiah concocted a combination of herbs that, in a matter of about 4 minutes, relieved most of the symptoms. It was mutually decided that I could use a massage at the place across the street.

Just as Jeremiah found the right ingredients for my healing beverage, so did a big African-American masseur/real estate agent (get over it, this is LA) named Lamont find precisely the right manipulations for my aching body. End of migraine.

Later, when I extolled the virtues of these guys to B, he scoffed, as is his wont when it comes to non-traditional therapies. I do believe he'd rather see me drunk. Too late, baby -- by 12 years and 1 day.

Tuesday, May 03, 2005

12 years.

As of today, that's how long I've been sober.

So much more to say about that...but must attend to the latest challenges that would have, 13 years ago, sent me to the nearest liquor store.

:)