My Cats Are In The Trash.

My cats.

Meet Starla and Buster. Oh, sure. They look sweet. But, as I lay here in the dark and warm cocoon of my bed covers I’m listening to them tear into the small trashcan next to my favorite chair in the living room. Of course, they know they’re not supposed to be in it. If I go out there they’ll both run to hide under the couch.

It’s something different every night. Last night I listened to them chase each other across my kitchen counters. I never go out into the house to confirm the source of the racket because I’m certain no intruder would ever be so outrageously LOUD and rambunctious. At this point I’ve turned the noise of their ruckus into a guessing game. I listen as they crash into something or some object crashes to the floor and without going to see what it was, I guess. So, far I’m batting 100.

Every morning I wake and rise to discover knocked over vases, plants, books, dishes, or nick-knacks. Nothing in my home is safe. Nothing is ever placed so high that they can’t reach. I’ve tried. But they either climb or jump to attack whatever has their attention. Sometimes, things just happen to be in the way when they’re chasing each other. If I want to save anything from the hell-bent destruction of my precious furry babies, I have to keep it in a box out in the garage. With the door locked because I swear if they had opposable thumbs and knew how to unlock doors – they’d take out everything I value.

Once they get bored with what they’re doing they jump on my bed and sniff my eyebrows. If I leave them outside my room with the door closed, they claw up the carpet outside the door. Or meow. Or both. I can’t win.

It’s 5:11 a.m. and I know they want to be fed, but that isn’t about to happen. Neither, unfortunately, am I going to be able to fall back to sleep. Who, besides news anchors and paper delivery guys, gets up at such a godawful hour? Okay, maybe bakers get up this early, but that’s it. Okay, and military personnel. And medical professionals. But that’s it. No one else gets up so early. Okay, maybe new parents with infants.

But not me. Not on purpose.

Where Are You Going?

Some folks are going crazy.

Some folks are becoming sane.

Some folks are going in circles.

Some folks go backwards.

Some folks try to go too many places at the same time.

Some folks take the long-winded roads.

Others take short cuts.

Some folks only go somewhere in their minds.

Some folks go to a future that doesn’t exist.

Some folks go to work.

Others just walk off.

A lot of folks wish they were going somewhere other than where they’re going.

Me? I’m going to the kitchen for a cookie.

Live, Laugh, and Love.

Do we need a sign to tell us to do this?

Aw, shit. That commercial is still giving me the giggles and it’s 4:12 a.m. I should be unconscious!

I suppose it could be a good reminder. So, all of you WordPress readers —-Go forth today and remember to live (so you can eat your favorite snack later), laugh (laughing is contagious (not like the Corona Virus)), and love (it makes the whole planet spin more gently)!

Or – just choose to exude a positive attitude and perhaps make yourself do one new thing today, and you’ll be good.

An Analogy:

Pay attention to where you are – not just where you want to go.

Okay. You know how when you’re taking a walk and you say to yourself, “Damn, I should have taken the car! I’d be there by now!”

Well – there are no fast ways to reach sobriety and all that it entails.

Because it’s a process.

There are numerous steps involved – just like when you take that walk.

So get to it!

The sooner you start – the sooner you’ll leave behind the place you no longer want to be.

Here Is The Big Announcement And It’s Not What You’re Thinking.

1st edition published March 2011

I am accepting applications for a reader/writing coach. I am NOT looking for an editor. I’ll get to that later. Right now, I am looking to hire someone to read my book, the 1st edition, and tell me what you THINK about the story – regardless what you think I might want to hear. The truth of my story is not being altered. I’m only tweaking the wordiness.

As some of you might know, I’ve been working on the 2nd edition of my memoir, Saturation, for some time. The 2nd edition is a condensed version of the same story – my story – my past. Some of what I wrote in the 1st edition doesn’t contribute to the overall message so I’ve chosen to leave it out. The overall message is – sobriety isn’t just something that ‘happens’ to other people. Anyone can have sobriety when they’re able to accept what drinking means.

Please forward this post to interested parties or reach out to me at ~ Lumen9095@gmail.com

I Disagree With This Photo.

It’s when we plug in – plug into our selves and into our hearts – with our attention and awareness – that we connect with something bigger than ourselves.

My guess is – the closest we can ever get to seeing IT is when we watch someone hug another person or an animal – or we see a couple holding hands or a mother adoring her child or WE experience it when we look at someone we care about or when we’re overcome by the beauty of something like a sun rise or a child laughing…the list goes on – fill it in with whatever speaks to your heart…

I think the word for IT is LOVE.

A Cherokee Legend

An old Cherokee is teaching his grandson about life. “A fight is going on inside me,” he said to the boy.

“It is a terrible fight and it is between two wolves. One is evil – he is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego. He continued, “The other is good – he is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. The same fight is going on inside you – and inside every other person, too.”

The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, “Which wolf will win?”

The old Cherokee simply replied, “The one you feed.”

My addition to this story = Drinking is a choice. It’s that simple. Either feed the evil wolf with alcohol or deny that wolf any alcohol.

When Is It Time To Give The Other Person The Last Word?

Sometimes this is true. Sometimes, folks actually hear you.

Is it me or are debates and arguments sometimes nothing more than exhausting and exasperating? They just wear me out! I feel like I need to go take a damn nap!

So, I’ve figured out that sometimes, not always, the best way to end it is to give the other person the last word. It’s not always easy, but when I want them to move on – giving them the last word seems to work.

Now – I understand the importance of being right when the other person is wrong 😁. But – I’ve learned that occasionally, feeling peaceful outweighs being right (even if I’m wrong).

One point for me!! Yay!

Just a thought.

Is It Possible To Diagnose Oneself With Anything Other Than Being An Alcoholic?

I just thought of something every person on the planet shares – our mortality. It’s unavoidable. But that’s not a diagnosis is it… Hm.

I don’t know where this thought came from, but I was laying in bed this morning and this – situation – blew into my mind (this is totally non-fiction): I have a young child, say between six and ten years old, and she or he has just been diagnosed with a terminal illness. Do I tell my kid they’re going to die? How do I say it when they’re so young? They don’t even fully grasp what death means at such a young age. Bless.

Of course the child is going to ask questions. Like – What is death?

Aw shit.

“Well, Sweetheart, it’ll be like going to sleep and not waking up.” This is the most common go to explanation – right? It makes sense AND it’s kind.

“Will I dream?” The child asks.

“I don’t know. But probably better than a dream. It’ll be fun and happy, and it will be like you’re really there.” And then we dive into all the people and animals that went before the child who the child will (hopefully) run into.

Now – this can’t be a lie we’re telling because we’ve clearly not died ourselves. It’s just a hope. A wish. Something to say that will comfort both the child and ourselves.

I couldn’t keep something like that from my kid. And I’m a parent. There’s something very wrong with keeping information this monumental from the very person it’s going to happen to.

Anyway – So, then I remembered that I’m a lot closer to the exit door of my own life than the entrance. I’ve gotta get busy being the best me I can muster.

Time has run short…

Drama In The Dining Room ~Part 2~

Eric’s smile faded as he looked from me to the loud table.  “The noise level coming from their table is totally unacceptable, Eric!”  I answered, for him.  Eric blinked at me and said nothing.  Why did I know what to do and he didn’t?  Maybe he’d never confronted a group of unruly residents before.  Maybe he was trying to decide for himself whether or not the noise level was unacceptable.  Maybe he was trying to figure out how to escort me from the cafeteria. 

Maybe he was new.

“Are you new, Eric?!”  I asked.  “No!”  He yelled back.  “You look confused, Eric.  Here’s the thing.  I can’t hear what people at my own fucking table are saying.  Have you noticed that you and I are having to scream at each other to be heard while I’m practically in your lap?!  I can’t stand much closer to you!  The noise level in here is over the top!  Will you please take care of that?!”  I yelled, pointing to the loud table again.

His uncertainty and immobility unnerved me. I needed a confident, go-getter right then and it seemed I’d chosen the wrong guy for the job.  Finally, he said, without yelling, but I lip-read enough, “Yeah, I can say something to them for you.”  “Eric,” I said, “don’t say something for me, say something because they’re being too fucking loud!”

I watched him approach the loud table as I took my seat.  I disliked his slouched posture and decided he looked insecure.  He got everyone’s attention though, and the entire decibel level in the room dropped.  This amazed me.  But as soon as he turned and walked away, it rose right back to where it had been.  No one gave a shit.  Except me.  Some guy at the loud table started strumming a guitar.

I snarled.  “Fuck this shit.” I said to myself.  “What?!”  Yelled the woman across from me at our table.  “I can’t hear you!”  I had no doubt in my drugged-up head that I could succeed where Eric had failed.  I confronted the noise and got down to business. “HEY!  Excuse You!”  I yelled from one end of the loud table.  At least 25 people sat clustered around it – about one quarter of the total house population.  There were residents sitting here that belonged to other groups.

The young guy near the middle picked away at his guitar between two young women – a blond and a curly haired brunette. These three were clearly the center of attention.  Several residents made eye contact with me including music man, who stopped playing, and the two girls, while others ignored me or simply hadn’t heard me.  So, I tried again.  “Fuck me!  HEY!!” I roared.  This worked.  It actually worked for the entire dining room.  The instant quiet got my attention for a moment.  Sweet. 

“Didn’t that guy over there,” I said, pointing to Eric across the room, “Just ask you all to keep the noise down?  Yes, he did!”  I answered for them before they had a chance to answer.  “I know he did because I asked him to and watched him do it!” I leaned over their table a bit and placed both my hands in front of me – for balance, mainly.  “Why didn’t you take him seriously?!”

No one answered, so I continued.  “You guys are being OBNOXIOUS!  The noise level coming from this table is fucking RIDICULOUS and it’s PISSING ME OFF!” I was finding my rhythm here.  “Do you realize that everyone at my table has to yell at each other just to be heard?!  We’re all the way over by the doors!”

Several residents looked away from me, embarrassed, while others just stared.  And then, as though on cue, about half the table, including Blondie and Curly Brunette, started defending their behavior simultaneously.  However, Music Man immediately silenced everyone by simply raising one arm.  I found this quite impressive. “We’re just having a little fun and enjoying each other’s company.  Why don’t you ease up?”  He asked me.  He smiled and strummed a few chords for emphasis. 

“Oh, yeah?!”  I shot back.  “Why don’t you ease up on your guitar pickin’ and muster a little fuckin’ consideration for the new people here, like me, who are detoxing?!”  And then I tipped the scale before he could weigh in. “Oh, what’s that?!  You didn’t get the memo?! YEAH, BUDDY – THIS IS REHAB!  Some of us are on meds and going through withdrawal, and I for one don’t appreciate having to listen to your backup singers while I’m trying to eat!  They SUCK!”

~~~

The above is an excerpt from my memoir, SATURATION.

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