I hope you know it wasn’t you, When all of it is said and through, When damage from the floods recede, I hope that you can still believe.
I hope you know I really tried To reconcile the pain inside And find a way to overcome Before my pieces came un-done.
I was walking wounded then, I didn’t have the tools to mend…. I tried to stick close to your side. I failed, but Jesus knows I tried.
My instinct is to protect you, love. I lost the strength to rise above So I did the only thing I knew, To protect my spirit, too. And in time, I withdrew.
I hope you know it wasn’t you.
Afraid to open doors to ghosts And raise the specters I fear most, I faded off into the clear. (I can only survive from over here.)
I’m still un-done in places, you see, Where life has gotten the best of me, But I love you all the same. I hope you bear no fault or shame.
You mean the world to me still now. I don’t know when or where or how To make things better, so I pray God smile upon your life today.
God show mercy on this soul Whom I love and lost in whole, When the pieces threaten to unbind, Give peace to this anguished mind.
When memories keep on pushing through… I hope you know it wasn’t you.
Years ago, I self-published a little book about recovery. I recently found a copy and dusted it off, and realized it may have some nuggets of truthful reflection. In the coming weeks, I will try to post little excerpts from the book, “Fierce Recovery, Living Your Best Sober Life Now.” I hope perhaps it gives you hope or lends hope to someone you love in active addiction or living recovery. WE CAN AND DO RECOVER!
Okay, now you are sober. Or perhaps you’re still drinking or using, and are ready to hop off the train wreck your life has become. When you feel broken, I hope you consider making The Big Admission.
“I am a drug addict / alcoholic / codependent person, and I need help.”
Who are we, the recovery community?
We are everyman. Every woman. We addicts and alcoholics are legion.
We are the famous actor who died of an overdose,
who is the rock star who lost her battle with alcholism,
who is the twenty year old kid who died in the bathroom of a fast food joint, needle in his arm,
who is the elderly man in the nursing home, stealing pills from a roomate,
wo is the wealthy businessman drinking in the wee hours of the morning to get going
who is the soccer mom who cannot stop at three glasses of chardonnay,
who is ME.
We are born with super dopamine-seeking brains, susceptible to hijacking our chemistry and feeding our anxiety.
We alcoholics and addicts are not weak. The strongest people I’ve ever met are addicts in recovery.
We don’t want to make excuses from the train wrecks we pilot; we only want you to know the disasters are not by design.
We are sensitive and often creative forces to be reckoned with.
We contribute to the landscapes of the world with music, art, poetry.
We love deeply, intrinsically…sometimes so deeply that our souls can hardly handle it sober.
We punch timeclocks and live ordinary lives. And truth be told, it isn’t always the pain that makes us want to drink and use, but fear of that ordinary.
We love our children fiercely. Yes, we would change “for the kids,” if only we knew how.
We have heart. We grieve for hurting people, but don’t always know how to handle grief without self-destructing.
We crave the ability to handle life “normally,” like you do.
We don’t mean to embarrass you.
We are brought to our knees in desperation that properly wired brains cannot fathom.
We might be your child’s teacher. Or your counselor. Or even your pastor.
We need each other for survival, sitting in dank church basements, drinking stale coffee, with others who are cut from the same brilliantly colorful, threadbare cloth as we. And it changes us for the better, as it should.
If no weapon formed against me shall prosper, I could only infer that includes the woes of today, the drumbeats of war, lives lost needlessly – this is no time to lose our faith. We are on a literal assignment from God, like the Blues Brothers.
As Elwood said, “It’s 106 miles to Chicago, we’ve got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it’s dark, and we’re wearing sunglasses. We’re on a mission from God!”
(Translation: It’s in fact miles from where we belong, but God has provisioned us, and given us hope, especially in the dark.)
Same brothers.
Almighty God,
Where I am bent on warring with myself, help me to remember that you are not the one calling the battle cry, and working all things for the good.
Help me stop consuming so much doom, because doom is never from you.
When the sword of truth is forged, let me remember not to use it as an implement of pain; but instead, use it to protect my peace.
When I want to throw self-righteous stones at wrongdoers, remind me that I live in a glass house myself.
When I turn the pistol of shame against myself, remind me that you have emptied the weapon’s chambers, and filled the chambers of my heart with your love.
When life cuts like a thousand knives, you are not the one holding the hilt, nor did you forge the iron. Thank you for being a soft place to recover.
You do not authorize pain, but your love is our medicine, no matter the ailment.
As we bear witness to all kinds of desolation, bigotry, and hatred, let us not lose the hope.
Sometimes, that’s all you knew on this earth, Jesus – despair!
Lord, we war against our own minds, stunting; tormenting and choking our spirits. Let us show ourselves grace.
Because believing the worst things about ourselves is not the humbleness you had in mind, but a misguided martyrdom to feel holy.
“Woe is me, I’m such a screwed-up human. Who shall save me from ME?”
But you say, “No woefulness required. You’re such a well-loved human. Lay down your weapons; love is a much better tactic. It’s time you realize your identity, oh anxious one. Go tell the others too.”
GO TELL THE OTHERS! That is your gospel.
We are taught our minds are evil above all else, but that is a remnant of the old covenant, not a sentiment from you – as I understand you are love.
God, it’s rough here in the world that you so loved. Why wouldn’t we arm ourselves or protect our own value with harsh words, heavy-handed self-righteousness, and “heavenly” battle preparedness?
Them’s fighting’ words!
But I myself have had enough war.
I’ve learned that your armor is soft and comfortable, a suit of protection, a covering of pure love.
It is not only worn, but woven into our very souls. It’s part of us.
It fits like peace and is tailored for truth. It isn’t heavy or uncomfortable; unwieldy or confining, but fits like a glove.
There may be chinks in our armor, but that’s okay.
I’m enough, chinks in my armor and all.
For such a time as this, here and now, we are on a mission from you, Lord. To spread the gospel of love, even in times of war.
“Behold, I make all things new!” was the message on the sign gracing yet another Methodist church in the countryside. Twenty-twenty six has been the longest year ever, crammed into 18 days of mayhem. I have been sick in one capacity or another since November, and I’m fried already.
It’s hard to “behold” when you are in survival mode.
But I happen to be married to my own best advocate and dearest friend, and so he decided we should have a weekend getaway, just the two of us. We chose an old historic town on the coast, just a couple of hours from home. Never mind that we already live on the coast. This is a different vantage point. Different sights to see. Different restaurants.
I have been craving the happenstance of something new but was absolutely certain – as my depression kept insisting – the only things new have been ushered in by evil. The only “new” things happening have been sickness and anxiety and being a witness to treasonous leaders.
Pffff, God. Making all things new. It has been the same old same old for a year solid now. One chapter of Revelations per day, if Revelations had 365 verses, and a fat, orange antichrist.
But then we passed another church, identical to the past dozen we have driven by. “I make ALL things NEW!” it read, with offensive positivity. I feel like God hasn’t spoken to me in a minute, at least not what I have “felt.” Feelings, as I learned in AA, are not facts. But they sure are noisy and convincing.
By the time we passed the third church, I could feel the Holy Spirit whisper, Hey kiddo. Are you getting this? I am telling you that the old ways will pass away, and I am doing a brand new, unexpected thing! Just the easiest and least creative message to announce in black, block letters on a sign in front of a church on a new year? Or a message from the Universe to me? It felt personal.
I wanted to remind God that hey, look around you. This place is a shitshow. But it’s a shitshow you so loved. Why? Why does he so love it? I have been so enmeshed in the horrors. One time, I reminded one of my daughters that we are ALL God’s children. And her reply, without missing a beat, was “Yeah. We are all God’s children. And he has left us all in a hot car.”
If ever it has felt like we were left in a hot car, it is now. And so, in our suffering, we can only assume he has forgotten about us. That he stopped at a bar for a drink and forgot about our existence. The evidence is everywhere, that evil is prospering and he hasn’t even bothered to tip the tables, even though the moneychangers have taken over the temple.
What if it’s true, though?
What if it’s truth that God always makes things new? What if we cannot see the kismet beyond the same shit, different day? I had plenty of time to think about it, since I’d promised my therapist that I’d try to stay off social media for the whole weekend. And I did try, and mostly succeeded, and when I did peek in on my page, I avoided political posts like the plague. Didn’t even entertain the idea of checking on the news. It took a change of scenery and three very convincing small-town church signs to remind me.
NEWs. I have been plastered to the television news all year. But God has NEW news. Good news. At the end of the day, we get to choose what we believe. The Universe is a gentleman that way. We get to – we have to – come to our own conclusions. This little getaway – with new sights to see and new experiences – has reminded me that it is not, in fact, over. But it is finished, the end of the story has already been written. And I get to believe there are better things ahead than what lies behind. It is a choice to behold.
Behold, I am making all things new.
Different sights. Different feasts. Different hope.
I am making peace where now there are only the horrors.
I am making a way that you cannot even conceive of.
Evil may appear to be prospering, but where is your faith, little one?
In exactly 17 days, I will celebrate that it has been 25 years since my last drink.
Twenty-five years since I lay on my bathroom floor, begging God for help me quit drinking. Just as I had innumerous times before January 3rd, 2001. It was certainly not the first time. Or the fiftieth.
But because alcoholism is cunning and baffling, I couldn’t get sobriety to “stick.” If you knew me then, you probably had no idea. Nobody knew how much I was drinking. Active alcoholism requires mad distraction skills, a Masters in deflecting, a passel of excuses, and a side of lies, in order to keep the scam going.
I can’t be an alcoholic! I am Room Mother in my daughter’s 2nd grade classroom.
I can’t be an alcoholic! I don’t drink until the late afternoon.
I can’t be an alcoholic! I’m a regular church-goer.
But it was a scam; one I perpetuated on myself. I scammed myself into thinking I could drink “normally,” that I was okay so long as nobody knew my secret. I had at least a bottle of chardonnay a night, all by myself. But GOD, wouldn’t YOU? Kids are fighting, marriage is failing, I am constantly sick. The government is corrupt. The stars aligned in an unfavorable configuration. Tuesday. Any excuse to justify it.
See, that kept me from getting well for a long time. The rationalization that life was just too intense to raw-dog sober. The mental gymnastics of raising kids without my “reward” – Mommy’s “glass” of wine. The prospect of never (NEVER??!) having another drink. Not at my kids’ weddings? N E V E R?
I feel everything. I am a Deep Feeler. Feelings never stop coming. As Cynthia Plath famously remarked, “Even when I feel nothing, I feel it completely.” It has always been that way, even in childhood. Maybe especially in childhood.
So, you can imagine my delight at finding out that the antidote to my Deep Feeling came conveniently in a Bartles & Jaymes bottle. There was little trauma that Zima couldn’t smooth over. Boxed wine was the Holy of Holies. You can drink and drink, and nobody sees the level of wine disappearing. You could even take the foil bag out when the box got low, and drink out of it like a dang Capri Sun.
My new medicine came in LOADS of iterations – sweet, savory, celebratory! Every flavor profile. Drinking is sophisticated. You can’t have a toast without alcohol, or take real communion, or ring in the new year. How convenient that my drug of choice was associated with merriment and milestones. Society doesn’t care if you drink to excess. But it would have a fascination with people NOT drinking. Why aren’t you drinking?
I have written my entire story before, but I think only on my prior blog, and I might share it here again. It’s long and intense, but no less dark than my life before I got sober. By the time I was willing to work hard enough for it to “stick,” I was depleted. Turning yellow. I was not the mother my beautiful daughters really deserved. On the surface, maybe, but not in reality.
The heartache, desperation, loneliness, shame? I had it in spades back then. I had become careless, obsessed, and resentful of the drug that had been my salvation. I was poisoning myself. Alcohol got between me and my kids, me and my God.
That was 25 years ago, and that BLOWS. MY. MIND. I can remember sitting in the Rooms, listening to “Oldtimers” talk about their sober time, and thinking, that will never be me. I am not made of stuff that strong. But I stayed and no matter what – I did not pick up a drink. NO MATTER WHAT. I worked the steps, started taking self-care, and talking to God in earnest. I felt ALL THE FEELS and let them land where they wanted.
I imagined Jesus crouched down with me in that bathroom on the sickest night of my life, and that was my proof that I wasn’t in it alone. I can’t scientifically prove to you that he was sitting with me in my pain, but I can spiritually prove it. The proof is my recovery – my janky, imperfect, solid, triumphant, well-worn recovery.
A lot of things came to an end when I quit drinking. Dysfunctional and toxic relationships, chiefly. I could keenly feel the losses, I wish I could have had hope for the gains. Because when I lost my relationship with drinking, I gained a whole entire new life.
I had to love myself and believe I was worth loving at all. But slowly, I regained my self-respect. Any dumbass mistakes I made fell squarely on me, not my “drinking.” And when I am the origin of my own chaos, I can then fix it. The responsibility is mine.
Don’t get it twisted – alcohol is still poison to me. I will have 25 years of recovery, but I could lose it all tomorrow, easy as pie. I respect the addiction. It is still – always – cunning and baffling. I will never “arrive.” Alcoholism has no remission. But so long as I practice what has worked for me this long, I shall hold the monster at bay. One day at a time.
And what transpired is a beautiful, full, rich life. It’s not a perfect life, mind you. But it’s mine, wholly mine. My efforts – along with God’s grace – enable it. My efforts. The thing that I was sure would be the end of me, turned out to be the beginning of me. The thing that was going to ruin all the fun in my life actually made me more fun. The thing that signaled an old way of being coming to end, became my salvation. And I am so flipping grateful.
I haven’t written much lately, but today I’m sharing my heart. I hope your heart receives it in full. I hope you cannot relate to my experiences at all – that you grew up safe and protected.
Many of us did not.
Back when I was speaking at recovery meetings, I would sometimes give my testimony to large groups of people. How did I come to be comfortable sharing my most devastating experiences? That’s a much longer blog post. One thing, more than any other, became anathema – the droves of women who would line up to speak with me in order to tell me one thing: ME TOO.
When I say droves, I mean a dozen or more at a time. Women abused and exploited as children and teens. Some had been trafficked. My heart broke for them all.
They came to thank me for being transparent, but also to tell me their own stories. And as I listened, you would think the abuse had happened the day before. I could sense the raw and gaping wounds that still felt fresh, a chasm full of tears of grief.
My own experiences are depressingly common. The family member in a position of power, who wielded his strength over me. The elderly man in our townhouse complex that offered to teach me piano at his house when I was in second grade. The father of a neighbor boy I would play with in kindergarten. The grooming as a young teen in church youth group. In church youth group.
Do you know what it does to a girl, to be objectified as a child? To be told to keep secrets? To see men as aggressors so early in life? To feel helpless, with no safe place to be? I have had over ten years of therapy to help me rise to speak the truth. But it still hurts, all these years later.
Friends, when I tell you this is endemic, it is everywhere.
We are the victims who survived assault at the hands of imposing men, who used their strength against little girls. But we are not going to do the one thing every deviant, abusive man asked of us: Don’t tell.
But we aren’t just walking wounded, no sir. We are TELLING. We are telling, because it’s a salve for our wounds. Because our tears do not go to waste. Because far too many children have been victims for time immemorial.
We have risen from the ashes in order to reclaim our lives, and we are no longer afraid of the flames. In spite of your hijacking our innocence, they didn’t get the last word.
We grew up to be kind, resilient, and bold. We grew up with shattered trust, our little bodies abused, our little minds corrupted. But we are made of the toughtest stuff, and we are saying ENOUGH.
The chickens have come home to roost now. They always do. And I wish I could go back in time and hold Little Me, when she was so terrified. Me, before she deduced that she was worthless.
Me too, friends.
We are witnessing a renaissance right now – what has been done in the dark is coming to light. Not just on the geo-political stage, but in homes and schools and churches all across the nation.
We have alchemized our trauma into strength. And we have no intention of being quiet.
Good day, dear readers. I woke up today with a version of this prayer on my lips. Even in times like these, it helps me to consider God as the kindest, gentlest keeper of our precious souls.
I am so tired of hardness and sharpness. It cannot all be bad news, so long as we all remember that we carry the divine that will save us.Amen?
After a grueling religious deconstruction, who is a girl to trust?
By: JANA GREENE
I’m trying this crazy new thing, and it’s called trusting my intuition. It’s crazy. My whole life I have been coached to never trust the human heart – especially your own – for it wants its own way. It is deceitful and full of the flesh, they said. It will steer you wrong, they said. But I am finding it an oracle itself, not separated from a loving God by sin, but part and parcel of the Spirit.
God himself (or herself?) put it in me – intuition. Why would we be sent into the wilderness with sub-par equipment? Is he like the producers of “Naked and Afraid,” letting us choose our one, inadequate tool for the whole journey – and SUPRISE! It’s shitty intuition! Here you go, here’s a stick, when you could have used a pocketknife or a can of “Off” spray!
Godspeed, Kiddo. It’s a jungle out there. Whatever you do, lean NOT on your understanding!
I can no longer fathom that our consciousness is separate in any meaningful way from the Source. So, intuition – while not perfect – is trustworthy, in that it has much to teach us. In the realization that it’s not a sin to consult our intuition is a game-changer.
Most of my life, I have shushed my intuition in an un-valiant effort to prove to God that I had a faith bigger than my understanding.
But the gut is a quiet thing if you’re not used to listening to it. It politely tugs at your hem, whispering “excuse me, please, but I have a feeling about this.” Listen to her until her voice steadies. Listen to her until she is heard and BOLD. But for God’s literal sake, LISTEN TO HER. Say “yes” to the copious heaps of lavish grace and decide to stop eschewing it for distrust of self.
We are so afraid to honor ourselves; we forget God is not the kindly warden overseeing us while we do time in our flesh prisons, but the living breath in us – part and parcel. Holiness is our DNA, and all the self-flagellation in the world cannot whip it out of us.
My gut tells me that it’s true.
Can I get an AMEN?
(Part II to come: Trusting the intuition of others)
In my town, there is a little hippie-dippy church – open to all peoples, no matter their belief system – that hosts “healing nights” once a month. I like to go with my grown daughters when I can, and our eldest daughter accompanied me to the healing night last Wednesday.
Each “service” is different, but all of them would have been too spooky for my former evangelical self. There’s still a little fun-killing gremlin inside me that says, this is hokum! But the funny thing is that that little gremlin gets hushed like a kid in church when the yoga mat comes out, and I actually remember to breathe.
So we roll out our mats, and brought out the blankies we brought, in case it was cold in there. We pulled out our journals, as the teacher welcomed us all. What will it be tonight? We’ve done Spirit Animals, Reiki, even past life regressions.
These are all things that Evangelical Fundamentalist Me would have at the very least bristled at, and at worse, would have marched up to the altar in a fundie church until someone laid hands on me and “delivered me.” If you don’t know, deliverance ministry is… well, that’s a blog post for another time. I digress.
This session was Yoga Nidra, which – as the instructor described it – is the art of doing nothing. After some calming words, incense, and breathwork, we began. This guided meditation was about colors, he said. “I’m going to take you through the color wheel.”
We started with white. “Quiet your mind, and imagine the purest, cleanest white light you can.” So, after much intrusive, non-relaxing thoughts (where did I put my glasses? what about the state of our country? Are we out of laundry detergent?) I sank into the exercise.
The purest, brightest of white light was conjured by my desperate mind. I thought of Jesus emerging from the center of it, resplendent in white robes, arms outstretched. I thought of my wedding gown (which technically, is off-white,) and for some reason, meringue cookies. I was hungry, I guess.
Next was yellow. I visualized running barefoot through a field of daffodils. And then I focused on a big, ripe lemon. And the craziest thing was that I could almost taste the tartness. Then something unexpected. Something I have not thought about in at least forty years – a flower girl dress when I was little; festooned with little yellow sunflowers and gingham, a green ribbon tied in the back. Just like Holly Hobbie.
When we moved on to orange, I though of…an orange, because how original is that? I sunk back down in my mind and stopped trying to think.
Then I stopped trying to “conjure” visions. I guess I let my mind wander off-leash. You know how in a dog park, when a dog is released to run free within the confines of a fence? And when the leash comes off, they run batshit crazy all willy-nilly, not a care in the world? Yeah, like that. And a flood of imagines bombarded me.
Orange. Orange is the warmth of the sun at the beach, cheetohs, a threat level. I let it fill my mind – all the shades of orange. My breathing was steady. Hey, maybe there is something to this!
And red? The velvet pew cushions at the Baptist church my grandparents attended. Red is the blood in my body, tainted by leukemia. A rich red wave filled my mind, and I tried to think of something less traumatic. A nice cup of Red Zinger tea. I could smell the tang of it, feel the steam coming from it. It’s weird where your mind wanders, when you’re relaxed.
Purple? The sunrise over the ocean, if conditions are just right. Twice I have seen sunrises that are made of pinks, and yellows, and purples. If you are very valiant in war, you may receive a Purple Heart. I get purple bruises all the time. But I also imagined Tudor period dress in purple, laced in gold, as purple was for royalty, as indigo was at a premium. (Nerd thoughts of the history of indigo scribbled all over my nice little meditation.) Get back on track, Jana.
Blue. The sea, where I imagined floating in warm, salty water – turquoise waves moving me gently through ripples. The blue Froot Loops I used to pick out of the cereal to eat first, convinced they tasted best. And then I visualized sitting cross-legged in a field of bluebonnets in my beloved home state of Texas. “Yeah, but the last time you did that, you sat on an anthill in that field,” my brain whispered. Shush, I told it, going back to the field. No ants allowed in my vision, thank you very much.
I hung out there for quite a while. Felt like home.
My daughter and I melted into the floor, splayed out in relaxation. This isn’t hokum, I thought. This is as close to God as I have ever felt in a church. He is found in our imaginings and dreams. I think the hippies are onto something, ya’ll.
I’m sharing this because the experience blessed me, calmed me, comforted me. And God – always in our visions – can choose any number of ways to hang out with you, inhabit you. If I – with my wild anxiety and unfortunate neurosis – can let my mind wander off-leash, then maybe you can too? Maybe we are made for meditation, which I was warned about all my Christian life, but turns out to be a holy experience.
The church may be the “house of God,” but it’s not his only residence. He inhabits our thoughts, hears our prayers, and dare I say – invites us to explore our minds. Are our bodies not the temple of God? Our minds share in the divinity, but we go about or lives paying taxes, working, entertaining ourselves with empty pursuits just to pass the time here. But that’s not all we are here to do. If the body is a temple, the mind is the playroom.
With the introduction of each color that we were instructed to focus on, my senses participated in the practice as well. But those five senses we know in the flesh pale in comparison to the thing that’s truest about us.
The truest thing is that we holy already. We are holy. And we have been given these beautiful minds. Not to make an enemy of it (“lean not on your own understanding”) but to meet God in the Temple. The Holy Spirit lives in you, and not to condemn you, but to guide you through scary thoughts, and say, “You are already enough. Meet me at the playground, which is your mind! It’s colorful there.”
When my daughter and I got up to leave, incense hanging in the air, everyone seemed sleepy and contented, like a baby after the milk she has been screaming for. Most all of us were also smiling. Like having just had the best massage of our lives, our legs were noodley for a bit, hair just a little bit mussed, and a cacophony of yawns.
Because we allowed their minds to wander off-leash and go batshit crazy with the freedom that comes from exploring the beautiful mind God gave you. It’s okay to be all willy-nilly. It’s a colorful world, hons. Don’t let fundamentalism convince you that there is just black and white.
The birds are singing outside my window. The audacity of them, having joy, when the whole world seems to be on fire.
When I was a little girl, living with my grandparents, the windows were never open. I loved them very much, but it was a depressing place. The drapes were always drawn. My grandparents watched the 6 o’clock news when my grandfather would come home from work and then watch an entire lineup of shows until it was bedtime. My grandmother would watch her “stories” all day – the holy trinity of 70’s melodrama – The Young and the Restless, General Hospital, and Days of Our Lives.
In the evenings was The Rockford Files. Little House on the Prairie. Quincey. And to wrap it up, The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson. But it was always dark in the house, save for the glow of the television. There was a myriad of dysfunctional happenstance in that home, but one thing that stands out – the darkness. The isolation. What I now know to be severe depression and agoraphobia, but at the time seemed a willful boycott of fresh air and light.
The only time I knew my grandmother – whom I called “Gaga” – to voluntarily leave the house was for one of three things: Church, twice a week. The grocery store. And Foley’s department store salon, so she could get her bouffant hair-do done. She took me with her for those appointments, proud that I was her granddaughter. “Look at that auburn hair!” she would tell her hairdresser. And I would beam, because there was something unique about me that she was proud of.
The odd thing is that she collected bird figurines. She loved birds but could not tell you why. But later – much later – she and my grandfather changed. They didn’t just wake up one day and felt the sun on their faces by chance. They changed deliberately.
Seemingly blue, they became mall walkers. They got out every day to walk the Sharpstown Mall, wearing coordinating outfits (they went through a cowboy phase – it was Texas after all, which mortified me then, but seems adorable now,) holding hands the whole time. They started visiting interesting places, some of them outdoors. They took to eating healthy. And my grandmother’s favorite thing about being outdoors? Birdsong.
When I had my first daughter, they came to visit me. Gaga accompanied me on a diaper run. Just a casual jaunt to the store, so we could spend all the time together we could before her return to Texas. She gave me one of her ceramic birds on that visit. I’m so glad she did.
Out of the blue, she said, “You know, for most of my life, I didn’t hear the birds sing. I was too depressed to even hear it. Now I sing alongside them!”
And then she proceeded to sing a hymn, as if birds sang hymns. I guess to her, they did.
I miss my grandparents. And I also miss hearing the birds. Because recently – even when I hear them – the birdsong is muted with anxiety and worry. Yeah, yeah, yeah…it’s Spring. The birds are tweeting away. But did you know everything is messed up right now beyond repair? I have leukemia, and our country is being hijacked, and our environment is poison, and my pain level from EDS is BONKERS, and….
And, and, and.
We cling to our anxiety; at least I do. Without realizing it, I snuggle up to the Worst-Case Scenario, who – like a toxic ex – is unhelpful and mentally abusive. I know better, but I can’t help entertaining ideas of doom, doom, DOOOOOOM.
Funny, how we think sitting in the proverbial dark will hasten the light.
I’ve been doing a little isolating myself. And although the drapes are not drawn, they may as well be. The world seems so dark, so broken beyond repair. I leave the house to go to the grocery store, medical appointments, and the occasional dinner date with my husband.
But today, I sipped my coffee and deliberately listened to the birds sing, thinking of my dear grandmother and her curious collection in her China cabinet.
The bird she gave me is one of the only physical things I have to remember her by. It is chipped and the paint is faded, but it is perched on a stand that plays “Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head” when you wind it up. And that’s the song she used to sing to me when I was very little. It was released by B.J. Thomas the year I was born.
“Raindrops keep fallin’ on my head. But that doesn’t mean My eyes will soon be turnin’ red, Cryin’s not for me ’cause I’m never gonna stop the rain by complainin’, Because I’m free, nothin’s worryin’ me.”
May we not lose our humanity because the world is on fire. May we deliberately seek out sunshine and mall walks and the outdoors. Out of the house, yes. But also out of the gloomy inner”indoors” cling to.
May we hear the hymns of birdsong and not count it as noise, but as a harbinger for HOPE.
It is Spring, after all, which “springs eternal,” even when we are hiding in the dark.
That is what I believed about myself, as an unplanned child. I carried the message that I was an “oopsie” for as long as I can remember. Nobody in my family outright said it, but I carried the shame as if it were by my own doing.
Once upon a time, I was s a very religious teenager, I carried my Bible to high school each day, hoping it would let everyone else know who I was – a Christian. I would not realize until much later, that Bible was a talisman to keep me safe from my peers, because I was scared of the world.
Once I was a young mother, absolutely certain that this – THIS! – was my true identity. All other things I had identified as melted away. This is it. I was a mother. I threw myself into raising my daughters with my whole heart. So, this is who I am, I thought. But I was a mother with a secret.
In a land far, far away, I had somehow also become an alcoholic. I could go through a box of wine (classy, eh?) in two days. Chardonnay was my savior, I could not function without either the promise of, or imbibing in, alcohol. I was not the mother I wanted to be for my kids, so when they were 5 and 8, I decided to get sober.
Then I came to identify as an alcoholic, albeit one in recovery. In each of the hundreds of AA meetings I attended, I would introduce myself to the group with, “Hi, my name is Jana and I’m an alcoholic.” So that was my identity too, in the early years of my recovery.
The next twenty years were a blur of trying on identities, macro and micro. I strove to be a career woman, which was a terrible fit for a person who would rather daydream and create art than push for corporate success.
I buried myself in church activates, becoming a prayer leader, a recovery coach, and a door greeter.
I was playing Identity Whack-a-Mole. Just keep moving and hitting on various things, until I hear DING DING DING! We have a winner! I’m a __________ after all!
Now, once upon a time – in a place not at all far away – I have become angry. Not angry as in a passing mood. Angry as in a whole-ass personality. I am mad all the time, since November 4th.
Every day, I worry and fret about what all of this means for the futures of my three daughters and granddaughter. Every day, I have flashbacks of being obsessed with the Book of Revelation, which I furiously studied way back in high school. Doom. Doom. DOOOOM. Anger is my least favorite emotion and the one I am poorest at.
Hi. My name is Jana, and I’m an angry woman, trying desperately to not become bitter.
And I hate that journey for me. I truly don’t want to be mad. The anger comes from a place of fear for the country I love. But even so, it is transformative in the worst of ways.
I will not get stuck here. I will one day move past anger, and I’m giving myself grace until then.
I now understand that we are all an amalgam of every experience we live. Every “identity” that makes us feel temporarily “special”, just a lily pad jump away from the next thing that will also reveal who we are. Not for us to cling to, but to learn from.
It made me feel special to be a teenaged evangelist, a mom, and even an alcoholic. Looking for ways to prove to myself that I alone – on my own merit – have worth.
And I guess I’m writing this to remind you that if you feel like a mistake; if your hardest struggles cause you to slap a label on yourself, you don’t have to cleave to it.
We are wondrously complex visitors in a place that is equal parts amazing and terrifying. A place that – as you enter and leave – erroneously insists you be labeled for safe consumption.
A society obsessed with asking “how do you identify?” lest your mark on the world be for naught, and your search for identity be rudderless.
Dear Reader, I’m glad we are on the planet at the same time, so that we can remind each other that we are not a fleeting identity, but a PERSON. A messy, floundering one, perhaps. But all the same…
Hi. My name is Jana, and I am not a mistake. I am a life-long learner, a grateful mother. I am indeed an alcoholic. I am a writer who doesn’t get paid a lick for her craft but does it anyway so the feels have somewhere to go. I’m a wife, a partner to the dearest of all to me – my husband.
I will hold doors open for people, even though I’m not a greeter at church. I will be a shoulder for the addict and alcoholic. And I will – heaven help me – learn how to manage anger in healthier ways, so I do not identify as such.
We are always trying to pull contentment out of the ethers, somewhere – anywhere – but within. But when all the parts of Me Within feel confused, alone, and despaired, the last thing that seems natural to me is to go inward.
FOOL, THAT”S WHATG I’M TRYING TO ESCAPE FROM.
But I’m thinking I get lost sometimes on my way to my heart’s Eden. Took a wrong turn in Albuquerque, as Bugs Bunny would say. I have ended up in a wretched place, yelling “YOU CALL THIS EDEN?? Psssh.
INWARD is where I learned to be scared. That neighborhood is where I got lost in the first place.
INWARD is where I take to my bed, like an eighteenth-century woman who simply CANNOT with this world anymore.
INWARD has historically been a chasm rather than a resort.
It is a place I was warned against by the church proper. God is on high. He is above us, they say, after also reminding you that God also lives in our hearts.
But they say your heart is also full of deceit, so remember that. Remember that within you is The Creator. But also, indomitable darkness.
What, now?
Finding my way to the God inside me is quite the expedition. I still get turned around sometimes.
But through prayer and meditation, I am finding…
Surely, if God lives within our being, perhaps we all harbor an inner Garden of Eden. A garden where a holy Kudzu takes over, covering the darkness.
A place with so much air to breathe, you don’t feel choked by cruel realities.
A place where it’s safe to rest that was formerly a void.
A place where the grating anxiety has been buried in lush soil, and in its place, becomes a tall willow tree.
A place where the rocks themselves cry out in glorious praise, and music fills the atmosphere.
Where pain can be shushed, if not taken away entirely
Where I don’t have to hide or run.
Or conform to a certain expectation.
I’m learning – very slowly and deliberately – that INWARD is a safe place after all.
INWARD is where all the iterations of me gather in a circle to summon the Grace of God.
INWARD is where I am learning to be calm and quiet, and to search for the trinkets of Eden – calm, peace, balance, hope, and LOVE.
My inner Eden is lush with life, springing forth with new green shoots and popping with vibrant flowers.
It has a bounteous garden, a soft place to sit, and a babbling brook that assures me with each ripple you are safe here.
And in the Garden, which is myself, I find God.
Not so much as an entity of blinding light and booming voice, but as a wise little hobbit, living in a hollowed-out tree, who knows all the answers but whose presence makes me forget I had questions.
He sits with me in the ethers, fully content.
And he will dwell with me INWARD forever and ever, in this glorious place we co-created: my contribution being trust and surrender.
God, being big enough to create all that is glorious in existence; but small enough to come as a hobbit, who has time to sit under a Willow tree with me to consider the miracle of the Most High inhabiting my little human soul.
Every year, I am apt to say “well, that was a hard year to stay sober!” Some years I’d say it almost flippantly, because drinking didn’t seriously enter my mind.
Most times, I meant it though, because life is effing hard. Battling chronic pain and illness – all of it really difficult to raw-dog. But raw dog it I did and got to pick up a shiny token for my labors at the end of each year. Wheeee!
This year, staying sober has felt like having your bratty cousin hold your arm behind your back until you scream “UNCLE!” Now obviously, God is not a bratty cousin. But there have been days I’d have sworn he was just as bad.
How else to explain adding a cancer diagnosis to my already ridiculous list of health woes? How else to explain allowing the election results to carry consequences of harm to the most vulnerable among us? How else to explain THIS (*gestures wildly*.)
Even the” good” days felt like wearing wet socks with the seam all wonky, (emotionally.) Something was so off, all year.
On some of the bad days, I felt like drinking. And I thought about it way more than the usual amount, which is none.
“Humph,” said my internal narration.”Who in the heckin’ world would even blame me, if I were to pick up?”
“Nobody! Nobody would blame me! “I concluded, fist raised to the sky. “It’s TOO MUCH!”
I imagined people saying, “Bless her, it was the cancer that was the final straw.” Or “No wonder she fell off the wagon.” Or “At least it’s not hard drugs.” Or some such self-pitified bullshittery.
And then I laughed because silly alcoholic; mind games are for addicts! Of course, I recognized that voice from days of yore! It’s the one that kept me sick.
I’ve decided – for the sake of argument and a slightly fragmented faith – that God is not a fraud.
He is only love, and love has not failed me this year.
Love has shown up, hat-in-hand, smiling gently.
Love was with me during the bone biopsy, while they punctured my hip and sucked out the marrow, and hot, sad tears ran down my face, alone.
Love was with me when the biopsy confirmed that I have a form of leukemia, by lending me a calming essence not organic to my own understanding for comfort.
Love sat and listened to me primal scream in my car, when I’ve had unbearably painful days from Ehlers Danlos syndrome. When I couldn’t walk without agony or stay awake due to fatigue.
Love rocked out with me when I listened to purging metal music at full volume by myself, as if the genre could wick the anger out of me. (Thanks, AC/DC.)
Love was with me, rifling through my recovery toolbox, passing me whichever tool was the right one for the job. And I – much like the father in A Christmas Story trying to change a tire – cussing the whole way. “Again?!! Aw, blast it! Poop flirt rattletrap camel flirt! YOU BLONKER! Rattle feet sturcklefrat!” (Only not quite that wholesome. FUUUUDDDGGGGE.)
Love was with me when darkness enveloped me and hope was a little wisp in the ethers, so faint it barely had form.
Love manifested through my friends and family, who doggedly refuse to give up on me.
Love peeled off my wet, wonky socks, and then proceeded to wash my feet.
Love did all of those things, in the form of a God most compassionate.
My Higher Power provided everything alcohol would have withheld from me.
So this year, as I order a 24 Year sobriety chip, I say UNCLE, UNCLE, UNCLE!
I still say it’s TOO MUCH.
But I also say thank you, thank you, thank you. Because after the shitshow that was 2024, I will treasure that shiny 24 year chip. I earned it this year, homies. It was hard to stay sober.
But not impossible, you see. Because who in the heckin’ world would I be able to help, should I fall back into the drink? Surely not my family. Surely not myself. Surely not Love.
Bloodied and bruised, wild-minded and obstinate, and leaning into the Divine Love, I will pick up that shiny 24 Year chip and dance around with it on Friday.
I speak up for myself now. Well, sometimes. As long as it doesn’t rock the boat TOO much. As long as the person I have conflict with won’t stop loving me because I’m mad. Only when I’ve rolled the issue OVER and OVER I’m my brain ad nauseam and have decided I’m with a safe person. Only after I’ve played out the worst case scenario in my head, mini-grieved the possible outcomes. And after I speak my peace (because I’ve learned my peace has value, too,) I will fret and worry that I’ve upset someone. Doesn’t matter if it concerns life events or little frustrations, I speak. Even if it’s a whisper, I speak. Even though I know assertion-guilt will try to make me feel like a bad human. I’m starting – with fits and stops – to say when I’ve been hurt or bothered, even though I’ve been a people pleaser all my life. So… No, You cannot talk to me like that. Little Me had no say, but I’m re-parenting her, you see. I’m teaching her things I should have taught my daughters, and must have somehow over the years. They speak up for themselves, without fear of abandonment, because they know they’re safe. And Little Me is safe now too, finding her voice and using it.
This election has proven we are as far from compassion as the East is from the West. And as for the trite moral question, “What would Jesus do?”
I’m pretty sure Jesus would go straight to the Temple (the church, or ‘body of Christ’) and throw out everyone who had set up shop, buying and selling. Matter of fact, maybe he’d kick over the tables of loan sharks and the stalls of dover merchants and declare “My house was designated a house of prayer; You have made it a hangout for thieves!” (Matthew 21:12-13)
That’s actually in the oft-touted Bible that gets trotted out by politicians every election year. But the rest of the verse – from The Message translation – is followed by this zinger: ” Now there was room for the blind and crippled to get in. They came to Jesus, and he healed them.”
Table-tipping Jesus is kind of my spirit animal right now. I’ve never related to him more. All my Christian life, I did not understand that verse. Because my black-and-white thinking could not relegate sweet white American Jesus, hands folded in prayer, eyes heavenward, to this renegade loose-cannon Jesus.
But LOOSE CANNON JESUS? I SEE YOU NOW.
I’m not going to turn this piece into an opportunist sermon. I’m all sermoned out, plus, since distancing myself from the church proper, I have no intention of evangelizing. It’s too late for that (but it’s never too late for God! you say? Bold claim for people who voted God off the island in his own name.) It’s too late for the next four years anyway.
But don’t expect to be considered the temple when you host thieves in your heart and elect criminals to run the free world. The thing about having a temple full of snakes and liars, is that there is no room for the blind and crippled, not even standing room. We are not getting our healing because we have made a rummage sale out of our freedoms, and a discount house of our blessings. We have done it in the name of a God who has been denied entrance at all, hawking our shiny, empty wares, and calling them holy. The only thing in short supply is love, which is supposed to be the Greatest of These, but has instead been relegated to the scratch n’ dent bin.
“You don’t want THAT,” say the merchants. “You want THIS!” And shown the whole world (this could all be yours!) we have settled.
We are the Temple, my friends. Us. And I will never take the spiritual inventory of another human, except for maybe the guy with his own translation of the Bible (a bold move! I thought for sure everyone would awaken to the audacity when that happened. But, no.) Maybe except for the man half of us elected to run the free(ish) world. We should have all at least peeked at the inventory, and not signed off on it en masse.
Maybe instead of basing our votes on the “economy” (the moneychanger’s specialty!) we should have had a pow-wow with Jesus about what he prioritized – the sick, who will lose insurance benefits. The hungry, which will manifest in children going lunch-less. The poor, who will only get poorer. And the rich, richer. God ain’t worried about the economy, he never has been. That’s our schtick. He’s worried about our hearts.
Make room for the crippled, the sick, and the hurting, so that they might be healed with the resources our creator has made us stewards of.
When we are young, we grasp at labels in the striving to know who the heck we are. Our identity is in finding out identity. And we glom on to our role in each life stage until it describes us to a T; until it becomes a self-fulfilling prophesy. And when the wind changes, we are lost.
When I was a victim, I thought of myself as a victim. And the more trauma I experienced only convinced me that victimhood was my identity. Shitty things had happened to me, stacked-up evidence that I have every reason to be depressed and anxious. Who wouldn’t feel justified, coming out from under that abuse? I’m a victim here. That’s who I am.
Then, I became an alcoholic, and in recovery rooms they tell you “Once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic,” which is no lie. So, I said, “Oh! That’s who I am. An alcoholic.” And while there was certainly no joy about that revelation, it was better than just being a victim, at least. I did the programs, worked the steps. Really dug into recovery, because I am an alcoholic, you see. That’s who I am.
Then I became a mother, and then EUREKA! I found my identity for real! I even had a new name – “Mom.” I was obsessed with being good at it, and so my whole identity became hinged on being their Mama. Then Mommy. Then Mom. Each one of their life stages determined who I was, by virtue of who they were growing up to be. Until they were teenagers, carving out their identities, I was starting to lose my own. Children grow up, and you are left wondering, Gee…who exactly am I, apart from a mother? I’m a mother. that’s who I am.
Eventually I became a fundamentalist Christian. I would tell people that their identities are found only in God. I told people who were full of self-hatred to strive to be “less of you, and more of God.” It’s another confirmation to a hurting person that they themselves are of such little importance, God demands they become even smaller. And if they are like me, they have been trying to be empty of themselves all their lives, not realizing that the God is within them. So, for most of my adult life, being a Christian was my identity. I was on the Greeting Team, for crying out loud – me, an introvert. Being a Christian is who I am.
My husband jokes that I only like to watch TV shows with “complex” characters. Characters who don’t respond how you expected, and perhaps have a dark side. When the bottom fell out of my faith and I went through a deconstruction, I realize you don’t have to die to yourself and your human desires and interests to please God. He doesn’t turn away from our humanity.
Today, I am still those things, but the influence they have over my primary identity is nullified. The way we see ourselves is not static but flowing. I’m a survivor, rather than a victim. I’m still an alcoholic, but the stigma behind it has morphed into acceptance. I’m still a mom but relate to my children as adults now. I am still a follower of Christ but have a different relationship to him than I ever had. A better one. We never stay the same and thank God for that.
And we will never fully understand our identities in this dimension, I suspect. But maybe it’s because we are BOTH / AND a conglomeration of selves. Maybe our identity doesn’t require a label, and neither does the Universe require one. We put that pressure on ourselves. What complex, beautiful creatures we are!
We are complex characters, y’all. However we identify ourselves, we don’t always respond how you’d expect. We have a dark side. We are attributes and character defects, all rolled into one.
I wrote this piece originally in 2014, shaken by the death of Philip Seymour Hoffman. I am reposting to this blog in the hopes it may speak to another generation of alcoholics and addicts. I will celebrate 24 years alcohol-free in January, but I am not cocky about it. Because I understand completely that it is only accrued One Day at a Time. I feel like maybe the world needs reminding: Recovery is WORTH IT.
By: JANA GREENE
He had enjoyed 23 years of clean time, previous to his relapse. Phillip Seymour Hoffman.
In the announcement of his recent death from a drug overdose several years ago, CNN refered to Hoffman as “everyman,” and indeed, he was extraordinarily talented while still remaining personable. I know in my head that people with two decades of sobriety “fall off the wagon,” but it is always jarring to my heart when I hear about those occasions. Addictions will not be taken for granted.
There seems to be a slight shock that Hoffman, who suffered the same disease as Amy Winehouse, died from the same disease. His spin was not that of a train wreck, but of an accomplished and revered performer.
The article goes on to describe Hoffman as an actor so versatile that he “could be anybody.” I’m not sure the author of the piece really appreciates how true his statement is.
We are everyman …. everywoman. We alcoholics and addicts. We are legion.
Hoffman is Winehouse,
Who is the twenty-year old kid who died in the bathroom of a fast-food joint with a needle in his arm,
Who is the elderly gentleman in the nursing home, stealing pills from a roommate,
Who is the wealthy businessman drinking in the wee hours of the morning to get going,
Who is a soccer mom who cannot stop at three glasses of chardonnay,
Who is me.
If the silence of those ripped from the landscape of the entertainment world is deafening; the gaping voids left by loved ones lost to addictions are life-swallowing sinkholes.
We alcoholics and addicts….
We are not weak. The strongest people I’ve ever met have been recovering alcoholics.
We are born with super dopamine-seeking brains, susceptible to a hijacking of our brain chemistry. We know that our choices can keep our disease at bay, but we usually have to learn that the hard way.
We don’t want to make excuses for the train wrecks we pilot; we just want you to know they are not by design.
We are sensitive and are often creative forces to be reckoned with.
We contribute to the landscape of the world. We make music and poetry and art. We make business deals, and partnerships. And we value relationships more than you can imagine.
We love deeply, intrinsically…..sometimes so deeply that our souls cannot seem to bear it sober.
We punch time clocks and live ordinary lives. And truth be told, it isn’t always the pain that makes us want to drink and use, but fear of the ordinary.
We love our children fiercely. Yes, we would change “For the sake of the children” if only we could.
We have heart. We grieve so for hurting people. We often lack the instincts to handle that grief without self-destructing.
We really don’t want to self-destruct at all, but we don’t always know how to keep it from happening until the process has begun.
We crave the ability to handle life on life’s terms “normally,” like you do.
We don’t mean to embarrass you.
We don’t want to inflict the pain on others that our brain chemistry urges us to. Addiction is as a plaque in the arteries of the spirit, a disorder of the brain. Like any mental illness, nobody wants to have it.
A good portion of any recovery program worth its salt is accountability. We want to make amends with you (and if we don’t want to, don’t despair…. we are working on it.)
We are brought to our knees in a desperation that normally wired brains cannot fathom. And we can get better – if we stay on our knees.
We need each other for survival. We sit in meetings in drab church basements drinking lukewarm coffee with others like us who are cut from the same colorful brilliant, thread-bare, sturdy cloth – because we want to go on living and contributing to the world, just like you.
We need God most of all. He is the Power Greater than Ourselves that can restore us to sanity.
We are “everyman” and “everywoman.”
And we get sober. We even stay sober, with work. With the understanding that our disease will not be taken for granted.
But we need you to understand some things:
You can support people who are trying to win – and daily WINNING – the footrace with tragedy.
You can try not to shame them. They feel guilty enough.
You can start here to educate yourself on the realities of alcoholism and drug addiction.
You can know that you are NOT ALONE – if you are everyman or everywoman, too.
You can ask someone who struggles with addiction – past or present – to church. Our spirits, above all else, need to be nourished.
You can ask a recovering friend to go to the movies with you, or out to dinner, or for a walk on the beach. Our minds and bodies need to be nourished, too.
You can ask questions.
You can pray for us.
You can just not give up on us.
You can know this, mothers and fathers. Your child’s addiction is NOT YOUR FAULT. You did not cause it.
You can be tender to us in recovery, just as you would anyone in treatment for a disease.
By simply talking about it, you help strip away the stigma. Because the only thing worse than battling a disease is battling a disease that many people don’t believe exists. A disease that – if treatment is not embraced as a way of life – can be fatal.
I had plans to go to the pool at the YWCA today, but about half an hour ago, spiked a sudden fever. So my plans went from swimming to resting. Resting, in case you don’t know, is a very recurrent activity if you are fighting Ehlers Danlos Syndrome OR cancer. With those two conditions onboard, I have to rest so much.
For a couple of years now, I will spike these fevers with no infection, no apparent cause. They’re awful, rising within minutes. We called them my “mystery fevers.”
So finding out six weeks ago that it’s caused by leukemia, it all made sense. Fevers and night sweats mean my body is fighting ever harder. It’s good to know what was causing these, as well as the frequent infections and extreme fatigue. If I pop one fever, I usually pop a few more during the course of the day. BLARGH.
And it’s disheartening that there is no cure for my type of cancer, not even chemo will cure it for good (it can however slow it down some, when it comes time for treatment – and it will.) Might be in 2 years, could be in 15-20. “Twenty years!” you might be thinking, “That’s great!”
Is it, though? If I have to battle fevers, and night sweats, and crippling fatigue for the next 20 years? I am struggling right now. Becaus actually, they both suck. I am admittedly not Miss Merry Sunshine about my chronic illnesses on hard days. It’s the most frustrating thing in the world when you just want to feel decent and enjoy a long, happy life, but a host of chronic conditions put the kibbutz on so many things.
Maybe this explains why on “good days,” when I can do things with my friends and family, or participate in any activities, I am ECSTATIC.
I appreciate good days so much, I take as many pictures as I can on good days, even of little things. Because on days like today, I go back and enjoy those pics, and the memories attached to them, and look forward to having more.
It reminds me that more good days WILL happen. Because there must always be hope. Hope I desperately need.
Words by Jana Greene 