7 months sober as of September 16.

Got a crush almost 7 months ago, said it was love a month later, realized it actually is love about 6 weeks ago. Still single - not ready yet.

Selected for church choir at the beginning of July.

Unemployed as of a week ago. Best decision for all who were involved. Being guided by the universe. Huzzah.

Learning some serious leadership skills, learning tolerance, learning to phone a friend before busting out the Hulk-like rage.

Loving the good times, appreciating the bad.

Logged on to turn a community over to emmademarais. Figured an update might be in order.

♥

I went to dinner with a group of friends tonight, and during the course of conversation, I realized that it’s probably not appropriate for me to be publicly disclosing all the aspects of my recovery journey on this online journal. In times past when I’d heard the tradition of maintaining personal anonymity at the public level, the crazy person in me had interpreted that to mean “when I go on David Letterman, I won’t tell the world that I’m a member of Alcoholics Anonymous.” Never did it cross my mind that this tradition meant that I probably shouldn’t be identifying myself as an AA member to those outside of AA. Never did it cross my mind that, gee golly, maybe I shouldn’t be discussing my personal AA experience in a public venue. Obviously, I have problems with, like, thinking reasonably about things.

Honestly, it does kind of upset me because I am, notoriously, the chick who knows no boundaries when it comes to personal disclosure. Granted, I have gotten better at drawing the line; it’s been a few years since I updated the online world about my pap smears (you’re welcome). Nevertheless, I do have that weird, self-obsessed sense that I’ve got, like, this obligation to be a cautionary tale or martyr or role model (what?!) and expose to everybody the trials and tribulations of being me. And, you know, it’s not for any sort of reason of wanting to help or inspire others; it’s totally about having an interesting blog and getting page hits and figuring out any kind of way that I can profit from my life experiences because it’s totally unfair that I should have to struggle without as many people as possible paying attention to me. I mean, isn’t that what is really my issue here? For pretty much the last decade, my attitude has been, “Well, if I can’t put it in a book and make money off of it, then I’m not going to do it.” For years, my entire purpose for participating online was the hope that somebody “important” would notice me, offer me the contract of a lifetime, and make all my dreams come true.

The problem here is that it would seem that maybe I’ve been using AA for extremely selfish and profit-motivated reasons. That isn’t to say that, on a personal level, AA hasn’t been the key in keeping me alive and hopefully leading me to a better life; what I’m saying is that, by talking about the experience publicly, I’m a total asshole and betraying the fundamental principles that make this program work. To have complained to the whole world about my former sponsor is outrageously disrespectful. I should have my ass kicked.

Personal evolution is excruciating when you’re going through it. As I wrote in one of my fan fics, “self-awareness of this shit sucks.” I love my ignorance. I love being completely unaware of how my behavior affects others. I love it because being aware means having a conscience and having to make difficult changes, and that isn’t fun. I don’t like having to give up what’s become comfortable or pleasurable to me.

I am at a place in my life where the decisions I must make very rarely result in an immediate feeling of satisfaction. Tonight, I’ve come to the realization that I really shouldn’t talk about AA on here anymore and for a number of reasons, especially the fact that I have not been a good example of how this program works or should work or whatever, and that is totally unfair to an organization that’s responsible for saving hundreds of thousands of lives. Tonight, I decided that I’m no longer going to do my little “AA updates” on this journal. And, no, I’m not happy about it. What am I going to write about now??

This is the next step for me to take. I’ve been challenged to think about something other than my own interests and aspirations for the sake of that which is larger than myself. That’s uncomfortable for someone as self-absorbed as I.

So between practicing personal anonymity at the public level and not trying to have sex with someone I’m attracted to (no matter how much I fricking want to), my definition of “things I do for enjoyment” is pretty much shot. That doesn’t mean I’ll never have fun again; it just means I need to reevaluate. Redevelop. Discover. Venture. Grow. I’m not thrilled about it, but there are plenty of new opportunities to have a good time.

Like having dinner with friends.


P.S. Today marks 30 days of sobriety. What up?

I still can't get over the fact that things aren't better than they were before, and at least before, I didn't have to feel it.

This is the last thing I wrote on Live Journal a little over six months ago. The flaw in this statement’s logic is that it doesn’t take into consideration the issue of progression.

I’d heard a thousand times that alcoholism is a progressive disease. I never really took the time to think about what that meant because I’d assumed that I had this thing licked. I was cured. I didn’t have to consider what would happen if I drank again because I was, simply, never going to drink again. And if I did – God forbid – drink again, then I’d surely see the error of my ways and immediately return to working a stellar recovery program.

When I wrote my last post, I had this thought in my head that my sober life sucked, and if I started using again, I wouldn’t have to feel any of the anxiety and sense of incompetency I was experiencing. As far as that whole “progressive” thing goes, I figured that just meant that I’d build up a greater tolerance and have to drink more. No big deal.

So a few hours after I wrote that entry, I relapsed. I drank three big glasses of vodka and Red Bull. And it was fucking incredible. It was amazing. It was the best I’d felt in a long time. Immediately, all the reasons I’d drank like a fiend for three years came back to me. I had no anxiety. I had no fear. That hole in my gut was filled. I felt happy and social and perfectly content in my skin. I felt smart and witty and creative. I was invincible. I could accomplish anything I wanted, and it was only a matter of time before all my hopes and dreams would come true. With alcohol in my system again, I’d write the greatest story, and then I’d win that Pulitzer or Academy Award or whatever. At long last, I could once again breathe and dream and do. I could be. I’d go on Oprah and David Letterman, and everyone would love me, and I’d have riches beyond my wildest dreams, and everything would be the way it was supposed to be. Finally, I was me again.

Five and a half months later, after losing all my friends, destroying my reputation at work, failing in numerous romantic endeavors, attempting suicide five times, being committed to a psychiatric hospital, narrowly escaping abduction and rape after I’d impulsively hopped on a plane to South Florida, and being told by my parents to find somewhere else to live because they didn’t want to see me again, I was drinking shots of Captain Morgan while listening to a recording of my favorite Alcoholics Anonymous speaker, Earl H of Studio City, giving a workshop on the Twelve Steps. I think that says it all right there – that despite living in an endless hell, despite wanting to hear the hope of a sober life, despite listening to the things I had to do to be happy and joyous and free, I still had to drink. And drinking had ceased to be fun. I was miserable when I drank. I was a wreck. I created chaos and filled my family with fear. More often than not, drinking led me to cutting or swallowing lethal dosages of pills (being forced to vomit all night long isn’t fun). When I wasn’t drinking, my whole body ached, and when I was drinking, my heart ached. I hated everyone and everything.

I wasn’t afraid that I would die; I was afraid that I wouldn’t.

I guess that’s the progression they were talking about.

Today, I am three weeks sober. I don’t have a post for you about the wonderful things I’ve learned since my last drink, or my hopes and dreams for the future, or a sense of limitless possibility just beyond the horizon. I don’t have that post for you because I’ve got none of those things. The last time I got sober, God allowed me to feel joy and hope and potential so that I’d want to stay sober. My ego grabbed hold and demanded that I feel nothing but happiness, never again experience discomfort and disappointment, and when it became clear that this isn’t how life or recovery work, I decided to quit the game. My ego has always been my downfall. This time around, God isn’t giving me any illusions. He’s saying, “You know what, you are a miserable person, and your life does suck, and if you don’t like it, then you’re going to have to do some things to change it.” God’s on my team, but He’s not going to hold my hand and gently walk me through this. That approach obviously didn’t work.

Alcohol has beaten me into a state of reasonableness, which is to say that I got my ass kicked so thoroughly that I give up. It’s become clear to me that I have no idea how to live or think or feel in manner that would suggest sanity, so I don’t get to make the decisions anymore. When my previous sponsor told me to do something, I thought it was stupid, so I didn’t do it. Now when my new sponsor tells me to do something, I think it’s stupid, but I do it anyway. ‘Cause I obviously don’t know what works. Before, God would tell me, “Don’t be a whore,” but I’d think that surely I could make my own rules. Now when God calls me to do things – like looking at getting involved in ministry (what?!) – I say, “I think You’re crazy and I’m totally wrong for this, but it’s Your call.”

I’m not for a second going to say that this is easy because it’s not. I’m not going to say that I like it because I don’t. I’m a very stubborn and self-involved person, so I struggle every minute with trusting other people to make my decisions. Most of the time, I fail. Most of the time, I walk around feeling bitter and irritable. And, of course, when I feel that way, it’s a red flag that I’m trying to control things again. I can then choose to let go, or I can choose to stay pissed off. More often than not, I choose to stay pissed off. But maybe one of these days, I’ll figure out that it’s easier the other way.

I’m not happy to be sober, but I’m happy to not be drinking. Or maybe I’m not happy to not be drinking, but I’m happy to be sober. I don’t know. One of the two. I’d like to drink. I’d like to not feel discomfort. I’d like to feel those things that alcohol used to make me feel. But somewhere along the line, drinking stopped being fun and started being the opposite, and it took a lot of hard hits for me to finally figure out that it’s never going to go back to being fun. Believe me, every time I drank, I thought that maybe this time it would be fun again. It never was. And once you get to that point, there’s no turning back. So, you know, I’m happy I’m not drinking because if I were drinking, I’d be feeling a lot worse than I do right now.

Nobody said it was going to be rainbows and glitter, but that doesn’t mean it has to be gray clouds and thorns. Or whatever. I just come up with random bullshit sayings to try to sound clever and existential and cool. And that’s not exactly the way I wanted to end this post, but that’s the ending I’m going with.

[ETA]: I'm grateful I've got enough humility now to not praise myself for being God's gift to recovery. Was I a fucking douchebag or WHAT?

The first week of school isn't over yet, and I already have this sickening feeling that I'm going to fail. I don't feel like I'm performing to expectations at work. The boyfriend who was saying he wants to marry me and have kids now isn't returning my phone calls after I left him a voicemail saying I got the time off from work to go see him. My ex-love interest called me today and yelled at me for being rude (if anyone's ever yelled at me for being rude, I wasn't fully conscious while s/he was doing it) and hung up on me. My psychologist said that something's going to give, and it's going to be my recovery. I'm so tired, irritable, and discontent, and I'm trying really hard to still give a fuck, but the reasons why I should keep going like this just aren't coming to me. The biggest thought that keeps rolling around in my head is that I never wanted this in the first place. I was forced into it, and I only stuck with it because people were making all these promises to me about how good life was going to be. It's not good. It's not fun. There's no joy anymore. I feel like I got sold a shitty deal, or this is some bait-and-switch bullshit. No matter how much I tell myself that I knew this wasn't going to be rainbows and glitter, no matter how many times I hear my counselor saying that this is about learning how to meet life on life's terms, I still can't get over the fact that things aren't better than they were before, and at least before, I didn't have to feel it.

I just finished watching the CC Roast of Bob Saget. Remember how I said that when comics eat shit, I want to cry? That was Norm MacDonald. He was terrible. It made me sad for him. These are the times when you wish you could rewind the clock and send him some comedy writers to help him along. Cloris Leachman, however, was brilliant, and as always, Greg Giraldo and Jeffrey Ross were wonderful. I adore Jeff Ross. In him, my passion for Jews, comedians, and awkward-looking chubby men become one (perhaps that's why I like David Krumholtz). I wish there were more roasts since that's the only time Jeff Ross gets any work.

-------

My sponsor's words to me last night must have really done a number on me because I couldn't find the strength to go to work today. I managed to drive to my parents' house to get my work uniform (in fear of falling asleep the whole time during the drive), and after I got my uniform on, I called in to work, said I'd be late, and went back to sleep. At 12:30, I called back in and said I wouldn't be showing up. It's nearly 3:00 now, I'm on my second energy drink, and I still don't feel like moving around to do anything. I really hope this doesn't get me fired; that's the last thing I need. I think it's a combination of the eating disorder, the medication I'm on, and a general feeling of hopelessness.

Another thing my sponsor said that I didn't mention in yesterday's voice post is that maybe I haven't hit my rock bottom yet. She could be right. Maybe occasional prostitution wasn't enough of a low. My parents still want me around. Maybe I need to experience an overdose, homelessness, and getting charged with 25-to-life in a federal prison. Because that would be a rock-bottom for sure. Maybe that's what she's telling me I need to experience before I'm able to completely surrender my will and my life to God and this program. But you know what? That's totally unnecessary. Sure, sometimes I think my life wasn't that bad. Sometimes I remember only the good feelings. But that's just my addict talking to me. Do I really want the degradation of being a stripper again? No, I just want an easier, softer way, and my twisted thinking starts making deals and compromises. I think the important thing for me to keep in mind is that while sometimes I would like to use again, I don't give in to it. I stick to my sobriety because I know it's a life raft.

If I were stranded in the ocean, treading water constantly to keep from drowning, I'd get tired after a while, and I'd want to stop treading. I'd say that death would be easier than this. But I'd keep treading because I'm not ready to die. I'm not ready to give up. It's the same thing with recovery. I know I could stop trying, but if I go back to using, it's only a matter of time before I'm dead, and while I love God, I'm not ready to be with Him yet. So again, I choose recovery today.

I'm going to make some more phone calls today and reach out in the hopes of finding more strength. I can't continue to take blows from my sponsor. As I told my roommate last night, sometimes I think about relapsing just so I won't have to deal with my sponsor anymore, and that's just sick. My roommate asked if she could give me some advice, I said yes, and she recommended that I find a new sponsor as soon as possible.

I think that's what I'll do this evening.

Also, another woman at my meeting last night strongly urged me to stop journaling online. She said that the things I say could come back to haunt me. I already know that. I've been blogging for about six years, and I've had my share of repercussions for my online activity. I've lost hosting over things I've said online, and I would imagine that many of us remember the mess with penguingal and pro_f_iler following a suicide post I wrote two years ago. I understood this woman's concerns, but my head is dangerous territory, and I feel like doing my journaling publicly opens up the mess in my head to others so I can get feedback and be held accountable. Since I do "answer" to my friends list about the things I do, I understand that when I make decisions, they're going online. It helps me to think twice or at least understand that whatever I do, "everyone" is going to know about it. So I plan on continuing with Live Journal, at least for now.

I'm a little disappointed that no one called me last night, but it's okay. I understand that it would be unfair of me to expect people online to drop what they're doing for my benefit when I've done so little to offer that same favor. Let's be honest here; how often do I respond to your posts? So until I step up as a true friend to you (which I don't know that I have the willingness to do yet when I'm still so wrapped up in my own crap), I can't expect anyone to do the same. Guilting someone into doing something is manipulation and taking hostages, and I'm trying very hard to not do that anymore. I owe you all that kind of respect.

Today was a bad day recovery-behavior-wise, and the frustrating thing about it is that a) I was aware of what I was doing and b) I didn’t seem to care.

What’s ridiculous is the hypocrisy of my behavior. I wrote an email to a fellow LJ-er that included my boundaries and being proactive in regard to this behavior even as I was engaging in it. Hypocrite.

Shortly after I woke up, I did some cardio and then took diet pills with Diet Coke. My intention was to eat in a half hour. An hour passed without eating, and I felt nauseous, so I forced myself to throw up. I then took some more diet pills with an energy drink. A while later, I weighed myself because I hadn’t in a few weeks, and I was upset to see that the scale said 126.6. I was sure I would have lost more weight by now. Never mind that I should be proud of having lost 15 pounds since leaving rehab; I’ve been at my current weight for about a month, and I’m not happy about it. A few hours later, I reluctantly ate a piece of string cheese, but I was both cranky that I hadn’t lost more weight and feeling vain about the way I was looking (ironic, I know), so I decided to throw up again. So at that point, all I’d had in my stomach was Diet Coke, half an energy drink, some diet pills, and a piece of string cheese, and I’d purged twice.

Already, we’re talking about some insane behavior.

Then I went to work, and I was so weak that I was dizzy and in a complete daze. I knew that if I didn’t eat something, there was a very real possibility I might not be able to make it through my shift. Over the course of the next several hours, I ate three spoonfuls of soup and a wheat bagel with peanut butter, all the while beating myself up for eating carbs, even if they were complex carbs. I’ve probably had less than 400 calories today, which clearly falls into the category of restriction, yet I can’t seem to stop my desire to throw up again.

This is crazy. I know it is, but I can’t seem to conjure up the desire to quit. The addict in me tells me I’m doing the right thing. It points to a picture of a super-skinny celebrity and tells me I need to be that. First of all, this is the same talk my addict gave me when I was using – telling myself that I needed to drink in order to be creative, never mind the risks to my health because the million-dollar book deal was worth it (though all I was writing was nonprofit fan fiction) and all the good artists either die young or are addicts (or both). Secondly, this obsession with weight is the product of having worked in an industry in which aesthetics pay the bills. I, of course, am once again referring to my former job as a stripper. I got deep enough in the industry that thinness has become one of my core beliefs of survival. I’ve convinced myself that being super-thin is essential for mere existence, and without being thin, one will experience blows to her career and financial success as well as her general outlook on life.

My old lifestyle has me by the throat. I’ve been told that I’m not going to get over this in a few months. Yesterday, my counselor said something to me that was right on the money. She said, “Even 24 years later, when I get into a rough spot, I still say to myself, ‘I know how to fix this.’” That’s the shit right there. I got into stripping without thinking that it was going to have any permanent impact on my life, and what I’ve found is that it’s become my first reaction response to nearly any scenario. Want more time to write? Strip. Want a less stressful job? Strip. Want a Louis Vuitton handbag? Strip. Want to pay off that debt? Strip. It’s constantly in my head as a viable – dare I say a wanted – option, and on a very deep, subconscious level, I think that’s why I’m trying to get so thin. I’m a self-saboteur by nature, and when I finally put the last nail in the coffin with regard to whatever aspect of my life and it all comes crumbling down, I’ll be ready right then and there to just show up at a club, audition, and start dancing that night.

For the last few weeks, I’ve gotten in my head this idea that I’m eventually going to relapse, and I don’t think it has anything to do with a desire to use drugs and alcohol again. I think it’s my excuse to go back to stripping. If I don’t have my sobriety, then I don’t have my friends or my quality of life, and then nothing’s holding me back from stripping. I’m resentful of my recovery because it’s challenging me to not take the easy road – that is to say the road I’ve known. I still have the desire to use sex as a band-aid, to use men as validation, to use manipulation so others will play my little head games, to make fast money so I don’t have to make wise financial decisions. Pardon the TMI, but when I masturbate, I still think of gang bangs and sexual degradation because a) that had been my reality in terms of “intimacy” for a while and b) that’s what I associate with quick money and I don’t think anything turns me on more than money. I’m a very sick person LOL.

Sometimes it feels like this is a chicken-or-the-egg thing. Did my insanity turn me into an addict, or did my addiction turn me into cuckoo-pants? I don’t think it matters, it’s probably the former, either way I have a lot of work to do.

So I’m running on caffeine, diet pills, and something like 400 calories, and though my addict is giving me a big pat on the back for it, I know this isn’t kosher. Recovery 101 says, “I don’t put anything in my body that affects me from the neck down,” and diet pills definitely fall into that no-no category. Obviously, I’m not working the best program. But it is the choice I made, and I can make this choice again tomorrow if that’s the way I want to go. Let’s keep it real here; I can do whatever the hell I want. I can go to the bar and get drunk right now, I can call up an old crack/cocaine connection and get high, and I can drive up to the cities to audition at a strip club. I don’t have to do anything – stay sober, stay clean, stay moral, stay healthy. Fucking up my recovery is always an option. The question then is “but at what cost?”

The point? Today wasn’t a setback. I’m still clean and sober. Today I did things I could have done differently that fall more in line with recovery behavior, and tomorrow I can try again. I’m going to stop beating myself up – whether it’s for eating carbs or for not eating more carbs – and I’m going to ask my Higher Power for a little more strength in the future. It's a different opinion than what I had when I started writing this long-ass post, but that's the deal. Just like that.