Who am I?

While I was in treatment I was given Recovery Workbook by my one on one therapist. There were many sheets on which to detail the progression of my disease. When I was in active addiction I would try to write, …

A Letter of Forgiveness

‘Let us be willing to release old hurts.’- Martha Smock

Dear Renee,

The last three years have been especially harrowing, yet you’ve persevered. I always knew you were  a strong woman.

I want you to forgive yourself for the last ten years of drinking. I want you to love and accept yourself and know that you are a beautiful spirit.

You are not your past, and it does not need to define you. Your future and your community are the sober people, the perfectly broken.

Your children love you. The longer you are sober, the more their trust will return.

Do not look for love until you can find it within yourself.

Go to meetings.Work with a sponsor. Keep busy. Dive into work and become a stellar employee again.

Be kind to yourself and know that you alone are enough.

Let go of your past. Let go of love that is not evenly returned and move forward.

Find peace.

Find joy.

Find love from within, and the brilliance of it will flow to everyone you encounter.

Forgive yourself, and put your trust in the future.

Love, Renee

(This is a letter I wrote to myself the last night of my stay at the Brighton Center for Recovery. My addiction counselor told me to save doing this section of my homework after everything else was done. I read it to my community the day I ventured out of the Brighton Bubble into the sunlight of new future. I’ll  share of my journey when the time is right. For now, I have another story brewing about a wheat farmer and his wife. I hope to post it soon. This girl is getting her sparkle back for sure. Thanks for following me on this journey.)

Superwoman is Dead

 

Curled up in bed on my left side, I opened one eye and viewed the Life Manifesto hanging on my bedroom wall. I struggled to discern the words in the dimness of the coming morning . ‘Life’ the largest word on the canvas, filled my vision as Eddie the Wonder Pup glued his body to mine. I reached behind me and gave his back a soft pat, his crooked tail began to beat against my crippled right ankle. I dreaded getting out of bed. Not because of chronic pain, because there’s always that. No, it was the chill of winter in my bedroom, that made me want to stay snuggled under two comforters with a little baby puppy by my side.

The promise of daylight was beginning to spread across the manifesto on my wall. I could now read the line ‘Life is Simple’, and I shivered. I wasn’t sure if it was because of the line I read or the chill in the room. In the last 16 months I’ve learned how complicated life can be. I ended a 24 year marriage, had a horrific car accident that’s left me disabled, and the job I’ve been doing for the last 14 years has been dissolved and moved to another department.

I shifted my weight on the mattress enough to wake my drowsy fur baby and he moved from my side to begin poking at me with his paws and kissed my ears and face. His eyes smiled as I stretched and lifted the covers from my body. He kept jumping on me and biting at the a few errant strands of hair that had fallen from my hair tie during the night. He knew what he was doing was bad, but he also knew his cuteness would let him get away with it. I slid my yoga pants and slippers on, then Eddie and I headed to the living room to grab his leash.

As I stood outside Eddie relieved himself while I continued to shiver. The wind cut through my rebuilt ankle, and I thought about all of the people that have told me how much worse my situation could be. Though I do agree with them, I alone know how much the last ten month have just plain old sucked. Each time I work with my PT or try to walk more than the length of sidewalk outside my apartment, I’m reminded that the minutes, days, weeks and months have sucked swamp water, wind, and a big old giant ass!

With this final angry thought, I unlocked the door to my apartment building. After entering my unit, I set about the tasks for getting ready for my day with my right foot dragging. I worked hard to shift my weight to the right side of my body while I stood in the shower, brushed my teeth, and did my hair. Though it was painful, I knew the more I stood on it, the stronger it would become. My surgeon and PT have both told me that I’ve healed and progressed more than they thought I would. Superwoman may be dead, but I have been bound and determined to work hard. I’ve fought through pain, depression, suicidal thoughts, and hopelessness, but I still haven’t ‘got’ this. And if one more person tells me that I do, I might lose my shit.

At work I checked the photo stream on my phone and grouped together all of the images of my accident, surgery and early recovery. I wondered, should I delete them or save them for posterity. The post surgery images made me feel sick because of all of the blood, swelling, discoloration and railroad track stitches. I decided to speak to a dear friend about the photos, and get his take on what I should do with them. His advice, look at them one last time and delete them. Let go of the last chapter of the experience and move on. I haven’t deleted them yet, but I swear I will.

There is this shyness to me now, and a realization that being a manic pixie girl doesn’t always pay off. Sometimes it’s good to let the grass grow beneath my feet, and feel the grounding force of a foundation where I once didn’t want one. For even in my slowness, there is a passion that burns within me. A smoldering ember where a wild fire once burned, and it emits heat all the same. I’ve often heard that the embers burn hotter because the fire is contained in the core. It doesn’t burn out easily like that of the brilliant orange flame that can die quickly, even though that flame dances with an unadulterated exuberance.

I’m not afraid of death, and I wasn’t before my accident and the death of Superwoman. After the car accident, I’m even less afraid. No, I didn’t have a near death experience, but I experienced extreme shock. I nearly drowned in the abyss of it, and I can tell you I welcomed the feeling. If it had been my time to die, I would have gone without a fight. I wouldn’t have railed against the dying of the light. There was such peace in that cocoon in the early hours of my accident, that many times during my recovery, I wanted to go back to it.

Even as I continue to heal and realize that the old me is dead, I often wish to return to the cocoon, never to emerge, because I hated the moth I’d become. The one that kept flying to the light and dying each time it was zapped and suffered a setback. I miss the butterfly I once was, and it pains me to know she won’t return. As I endure ongoing recovery, I know I’m going to emerge from my chrysalis. I won’t ever be the same, but I will be beautiful again. And I will dance, live, love and fly…again.

**This will be my last post about recovery and chronic pain. 2015 is already a better year. It’s time to stoke the embers, and write with passion again.**

 

Even flow, thoughts arrive like butterflies
Oh, he don’t know so he chases them away, yeah
Oh, someday, yeah, he’ll begin his life again
Life again, life again

Face

Photo courtesy of filmcamera999

A man’s face is his autobiography. A woman’s face is her work of fiction.
~Oscar Wilde~

Beauty and peace is what they see.

How to tell them that both are a lie?

My eyes hold sadness.

Fear.

My lips long to kiss that of another.

To lay my heart beside his, and live forever.

I’ve been told I have the perfect nose.

Why not the perfect ass?

The perfect thighs?

I want to be happy.

Content.

There is no pill for what I crave.

But still I want.

Always, want.

I need a smoke.

A vodka and tonic.

A moment.

For myself.

For life.

Freedom.

45 Can Suck my Dick!

Fuck 40. 40 can suck my dick!-Debbie-This is 40

As I tried to drag my tired ass out of bed this morning, all I could think about was the movie I watched last night. By myself of course, because Roger Darling had a stressful week. He’s recently been promoted to assistant manager at the direct care group home where he is employed. I have to say when Leslie Mann bemoaned the fact that 40 could suck her dick, I agreed completely. Of course, I’m now 45. That age can suck my dick too.

What the hell have I become but a hamster on a wheel? I have to work out for an hour to eat a cupcake. Hell, to even take a bite of a cupcake, and not have it go straight to my ass. Forget carbs. A woman my age can no longer even enjoy a fucking bagel without calculating how many miles she will have to run to burn off the calories. This sucks!

I sit here in my workout clothes waiting for RD to get home so I can trot my ass to the gym and run a couple of miles. Of course, it’s been a few weeks since I’ve done any kind of workout. I’ll probably keel over and die on the way home.

I miss the days when Diet Coke and a cigarette were dinner. If I did that now, my blood sugar would plummet and I’d end up in the ER. This getting older shit ain’t for sissies. I swear to you I’ve seen more wrinkles appear on my face in the last six month than I have in the past few years.

No more complaining. It’s time to get up off my ass and head to the gym. Drink more water and eat healthier too. Just once I’d like to go back in time and slap the 17 year old me and tell her to lighten up. To have more fun and run more. To go to college. Not to smoke! Don’t worry, I quit that habit years ago. I had to because I would lose my breath when doing the dirty, dirty, and no one wants that!!!!

I’m not looking for positive comments and ah grrrrlllll, you can do it pats on the back. I just wanted to bitch. As the title states, 45 can suck my dick!

Off to the fucking gym!

Love,

Sparkly Girl

I’ll Have What She’s Having

YES, YES, YES, YES, YES, YES!!!

Er, well, maybe not. No my fellow pervs, I’m not writing another erotic entry. Today is about me. Then again when isn’t it? It’s a good day. I saw Super Therapist. I made him laugh and blush. He questioned me about how I felt about my anger on a certain subject. I told him I felt betrayed and abandoned. Like I didn’t matter. He asked if my anger left me helpless. I explained that now that I’m pissed, it proved I was fearless. That I could move forward knowing what I want. What I need.

It’s time to get up and Try, Try, Try as my girl, P!nk would say. I’m going to meet that woman someday.

The first thing I need to do is lose the 30 fucking pounds I’ve put back on. I’m an addict. Food, alcohol, the written word, validation, exercise, etc. You name it, and I’ve been addicted to it. I slunk back into the Medical Weight Loss Clinic yesterday and talked to my favorite counselor, Crissy. She has a huge crush on Roger Darling. Whenever she speaks of him, she blushes. I peed on sticks, weighed myself and waited for her to rag on me. She didn’t. We discussed a cleanse and going back on Plan. I wanted to scream, shit, fuck and dammit. I kept my mouth shut though. I purchased 10 weeks of the program and told her I’d be back to weigh in and buy my protein supplements on Friday. Shit, fuck and dammit!!!!!

The next thing to do is go to the gym. I started this good habit again a couple of weeks ago. I bitched and whined the entire time. I suffered from shitty insomnia and a racing heart. Roger Darling and I kept going though. I’m so damn mad at myself. I was running three miles, four to five days a week. My arms were sculpted with muscle. So were my legs. I’m walking at a fast pace and getting my ass kicked on the elliptical.

Rog and I have a goal. We want to do the Color Run on May 11, 2013. I will be wearing a tutu, tiara, white shorts and t-shirt. This bitch is gonna look HAWT! Then we’ll get sprayed with paint as we meander our way to the finish line. There’s muscles to be regained and weight to be lost and maintained. I’ll do it again. I’ll fight the good fight. I revel in the fact that my battle will only take 10 weeks instead of the original 15 months it took me to lose 150 lbs.

There’s this novel I’m writing too. Today is one of those days when the words flow like sweet honey. I ache to write all day. My day job prevents me from doing so. I’m an old school writer, even though I’ve only been doing this for a little over a year. I write notes in my journal. The few words I jot down jog my memory and help me fill in the blanks when the time comes to create.

My main character Ian has written the other main character, Maggie their first love letter. He slipped it into her notes for his class. She hasn’t even read it yet. What will it say? I’m not sure yet. I’m sure it will have to do with her hair the color of flames and eyes the color of the sea. He’s a bit of cad though, so he may write something filthy too. We’ll see. BTW, this book is a love story. I promise you it will not be shitty. The love scenes will make no mention of the word inner goddess. I like the words cock and pussy and I’ll be sure to use them liberally. The love notes are the key to my story. They are.

Time to finish up some work. Eat an orange. Drink more fucking water!!! I swear to you I’ve an ocean floating around inside of me. Then it’s off to the gym and red meat and salad for dinner. Yup, this Sparkly Girl’s going to do it again.

Gotta get up and Try, Try, Try. Gotta get up and Try, Try, Try. Hey, if I don’t get to meet her, I can at least look like her. Giggle, snort!

The Intense Need to Live

Anxiety is love’s greatest killer. It makes others feel as you might when a drowning man holds on to you. You want to save him, but you know he will strangle you with his panic.-Anais Nin

I feel torturous fear. My entire body becomes chilled. Palms perspire and feel as though 1000’s of stick pins are pushing into them. The small hairs stand up on the back of my neck. My heartbeat quickens to 175 beats per minute. There’s tightness in my chest. Tingling and numbness in my left arm. Am I dying? Will someone help me? Please!? My head pounds and I become dizzy. My teeth clench. I feel as if I’m living outside of myself. That I’m not real. I touch objects, but can not feel them. My breathing becomes shallow and rapid. I have feelings of impending doom.

My brain speeds up and all thoughts scatter. My eyes dart around the room. Can anyone sense what’s happening to me? My anguish? My need to live? To run away? That I’ve lost my breath? That I’m shutting down? Dying. Of what, I’ve no idea? I hyperventilate and my body shakes. I think I’m going to pass out. Won’t anyone help me? I can’t breathe! I can’t see! My face flushes. I am shaking. I reach out with trembling hands and scream, “HELP, I’m dying!!” Am I crazy? Can those around me see it? See me? Heal me. Please!

So pronounced was my need to live that I lost my breath. Every single day.

I would wake up and try to focus. Stand up. Breathe air into my lungs. It felt as though they had collapsed. I could barely gulp in air. The tightness in my chest would intensify and my heart would constrict. Such was my need to live. My need to survive everyday. I was a young wife and mother. I had lost control of my spirit, mind, and body. I wanted to die. But I didn’t. I wanted the fear to subside, but it never did. Every day I spiraled out of control. Every damn day.

It took years to come to grips with the fact that I was doing all of this to myself. That I was hurting myself. I went to the emergency room constantly. There were EKGs, EEGs, blood work, stress tests, and echocardiograms. I was a healthy, albeit crazy 22 year old woman. I fought the good fight. I finally found my way to the Anxiety and Panic Disorder program at the University of Michigan Hospital. After an assessment, I was put into an anxiety group discussion. I worked hard at my program. I faced my fears. My anxiety went into remission. I was able to live again. Enjoy my husband and children. Find my way back to happy.

Ten years later I started having symptoms again. My children were growing up. I was self-destructing. I was gaining weight and sabotaging myself. I started waking up in the night with panic attacks. It was time for medication and more therapy. I started Lexapro. Within one week the sparkle returned to my eyes. There was life in my life. There was hope. I and my family flourished. I realized that I was like a diabetic. I needed the meds to bring me back to life. I still take them. I need to.

I work with an incredible therapist. He helps me find my way. He tells me I’m not crazy. That I am good. He makes me work hard. Makes me accountable. What’s surprising is the fact that I’ve become an adrenaline junkie. Nothing scares me. Well, hardly anything. There’s that unnatural fear of sharks that I have. I think I was killed by one in a past life.

If you feel these symptoms, know that you are not alone. Get help. Talk to me. Talk to others. Find your way back to life. And breathe easy. You are okay.

40 Days and WTF Happened to my Ass???

40 days till my Meggie marries the man of her dreams. He looks an awful lot like Eddie Vedder. His name is Chris.  My future son in law couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. If you listen to Eddie though, he sounds like he’s sucking on a few marbles when he sings. Which is just fine with me. I think he’s a golden god! I digress. Now back to Chris. The young man loves my daughter with everything he has, so I gotta love him too. I love him even more, because before he asked Meggie to marry him, he asked her dad.

The wedding plans are coming together. Not much to do. Get the dress there, get the license, and make sure that the bridal party gets off the cruise ship on time. We also need to get to the rented beach bungalow, hair/makeup/clothes, catch a taxi and make our way to where the ceremony will take place. Roger Darling is in charge of getting the wedding guests, family, groom and groomsmen to the beach by 10 am.

Roger sent me a text yesterday that said, I love you Mother of the Bride. I sent him a reply that said Olive u 2 Father of the Bride. We’re a couple of dorks, but we’re fun!

When I got home last night, I realized that Meggie’s dress will have to be cleaned and pressed. Then placed in its own suitcase for the trip. I started freaking the hell out. What if it gets ruined at the cleaners? What if the suitcase it’s in gets lost in transit? What if? What if? What if? Roger looked at me and said, Ah hell we’ll rent her a dress on the ship. I totally forgot we could do that. Phew!

In the last few weeks I’ve tried putting on and zipping up my size 12 pants. Seems I’ve grown out of the fuckers. I’m none too pleased by this development. If you’ve been following me for long you know I’ve gone through a huge weight loss. My body and mind have been transformed. The last two years have been quite the roller coaster. Through writing, I’ve been learning to adjust.

Recently I injured my back, got depressed, started drinking again and well, kinda fell apart. Little by little I’ve healed. I’ve recovered in almost every way. Except I still can’t fit into my fucking pants!

Now it’s back to the gym for Roger Darling and me. Time for us to get addicted to something healthy. And though I’m sore from doing 75 ab crunches and reverse sit ups and my legs feel like jello from learning how to run again, I’m elated. Fucking elated, I tell you!!!! I’ve got my gym clothes in the car and I’ll head there right after work today. It feels good to sweat. It feels good to run. It feels good to hurt from a workout. Fucking A it feels good!

I told Super Therapist today as I opened up my palm and pointed at it, “This right here in the palm of my hand is the world. I can do and be anything that I want.”

He just looked at me, smiled and replied, “Yes Renee, you most certainly can and you will.”

Happy Wednesday my sweets. Happy Wednesday. Go grab life by the balls, will ya?

BLOW ME (One Last Kiss)

Just when I think it can’t get worse, I had a shit day (no!)
You had a shit day (no!), we’ve had a shit day (no!)
I think that life’s too short for this
I’ll pack my ignorance and bliss
I think I’ve had enough of shit, Blow me one last kiss.

As David from Lead.Learn.Live. has said about my blog, strap in for the ride. Because darlin’s here we go. Feeling a bit like a snarky bitch today. I’ve just about had it. These last few months have SUCKED! Fucking sucked!!!!!! I’ve gained 20 lbs because I haven’t been able to run. I’ve been drinking because I’m a whiny dumb ass. I’ve been obsessing over shit I can’t fix. I’m pissed off at myself for not being able to hold onto friendships and relationships. I’ve changed. It’s what I’ve done. I can’t go back. I won’t. I have to get up and run. Every damn time I want to go back to the gym something happens. There’s some road block. Some obstacle that gets in my way and fucks everything up. But no more!!!!!!!

As I was helping my Adam Boy move tonight, he had me laughing my ass off. At one point in the evening, he looked at me and asked me how we could be related. I told him, I was there and I know I gave birth to him. He’s such a cynical shit. Then I started singing and Meggie bitched at me to shut up, because my voice sucks. I have to say even though they are shit heads, I love them immensely. I looked at them after we repainted a bedroom in the apartment and said come hell or high water, I was going back to the gym tomorrow night.

I’m tired of feeling anxious and being a cranky cunt. I need to get fucking moving!!!!! I’ve worked too damn hard to go back. I can’t backslide. As I was driving home tonight, one of my new favorite songs came on the radio. Blow Me (One Last Kiss) by P!nk. I idolize her. She is the epitome of what I want to be. She doesn’t give a fuck and she says what’s on her mind. She sings what’s on MY mind.

I cranked up the radio, banged on the roof of my car and sang my ass off. I made the decision that enough is enough. I’m done whining and making excuses. It’s time to get back in the gym and get this crazy aggression out of me. As I was telling Rory today, instead of self-destruction, I need to focus on self-preservation. Not only of my body, but my heart and soul too.

I’ve made a lot of connections here in this lovely blogosphere. While some have been good and healthy. Some have been self-defeating and taken me into a downward spiral. It’s time to look up. To move on.

Tonight when I got home, I turned on some P!nk and danced in the living room in my tank shirt and undies. This Sparkly Girl is heading back to the gym and starting the long way back to being able to run 3.5 miles again. Sometimes the best revenge is living well. It’s what I plan to do. Every damn day of my life. I’m going to live well.

I will do what I please, anything that I want
I will breathe, I won’t breathe, I won’t worry at all
You will pay for your sins, you’ll be sorry my dear
All the lies, all the wise, will be crystal clear

Tales of an Addictive/Compulsive/Impulsive Sparkly Girl

No, I didn’t break out in handcuffs. However, I did break out in stupidity. Read on, dear reader, read on. Oh and on the subject of RDJ, yeah I’d hit that. In 100 different ways. Giggle!!!!

I started writing this on 10/19/2012. Not sure when I will post it. Not sure of anything as of late. Except the fact that life is only as good as you make it. So I’ve decided to make a good life for myself and those around me. First off, I have a confession to make. I am an addictive personality and very compulsive/impulsive. I think with my heart most of the time, and to hell with the outcome. Then my conscience gets the better of me and I have incredible panic and anxiety over my actions. I’ve always been this way. It’s not something I can shut off. It’s something that I must live with and control every day. It sucks, but it’s who I am. Secondly, I am an alcoholic. Yes, I am. My addictive/compulsive/impulsive brain thought that I could drink again after all the weight loss and exercise. What I got was a big, fat nope, you can’t do that!  I got the message after I proceeded to drink a magnum of wine one night and pour my heart out to a friend that I had no business pouring my heart out to.

My Roger Darling knows nothing of this binge and if he reads this post this is where he will find it out. I’ve been married to the man for 23 years. He’s kinda got this sparkly but tarnished girl figured out. For reasons completely unknown to me, he stays. He stays with an addictive/compulsive/impulsive woman who does stupid shit when she drinks. He stays with an addictive/compulsive/impulsive woman when she doesn’t drink and still does stupid shit. He stays. And why does he stay? Because he loves this addictive/compulsive/impulsive woman. Yes he does.  For that, I love him with every part of me that I can.

He sat down with me a few days ago after my wine binge, which he might have known about but didn’t acknowledge, and said, “woman, I love you, get your shit together.”  I said, “you’re right honey, I’m sorry I will.”  AGAIN! I’ve been saying shit like that for hmmmmm, going on 23 years now. That evening he had to go back to work for a few hours. We sat, had coffee, watched the Tigers sweep the Yankees (YAY!) and chatted. I gave him my word that it was a night for me to disconnect. To watch 30 Rock, Up All Night and The Office on NBC. Then it was bed and a book. No computer. No writing. No texting. Nada, nothing, zip, zilch, and zero. And that my friends, is exactly what I did. I threw out the empty wine bottle, I kicked my feet up and watched crappy t.v. Which isn’t that crappy because 30 Rock is the shit! Tracy Morgan makes me laugh so hard, I wet myself. I talked to Roger Darling on the phone. Then crawled into bed with the Wonder Schnauzers nestled around me and slept the best I had in weeks. I never even heard RD crawl into bed with me later that night. I was out!

The next morning, I awoke and I was happy. Maybe even a little sparkle had returned. I’m a little tarnished still. I always will be. Because, well, I’m an addictive/compulsive/impulsive girl. But I’m one that is dearly loved by her Roger Darling, her Meggie, and her Adam Boy. And by many, many, many others.

First and foremost I need to find the love I have for myself. I’m a good person. I have a good heart. I love with all of it. Though not too wisely sometimes. I am smart. I am funny and sarcastic as fuck. I say fuck a lot! I’m a bombshell and dammit, I’m a fucking rock star! Yes, I’m in therapy. And that man is a fucking rock star too. He keeps me in check and makes me realize I AM NOT CRAZY! I am not bi-polar, and I’m not narcissistic. The highs, lows and and intense emotions I feel are what make me, me. This is me!

Here’s a bit of random trivia for you. Robert Downey, Jr. was born April 4, 1965. I was born April 3, 1968. We’re both Aries (stubborn/bullheaded/fiery/passionate/sensual/adventurous/fun). We are both addicts. Why am I not surprised I am born under the same sign and only a day apart. I’ve always loved the man, but now I get it even more. Hey, I watched Biography recently because, well the man flips my damn trigger. I’d let him watch t.v. while he did me for the love of God! Okay, enough about him. DAMN is the man HAWT! Seriously, enough.

I’ve been sober for a week. I’ve been getting better by the day. The depression is waning and so is the anxiety. I went back to exercising. Which is such a good addiction to have. My joints hurt and my muscles are sore. But hey, it’s so much better than a hangover.

Not sure why but the song below resonates with me. He was newly sober, but had incredible support. I have incredible support. So on and on this sparkly but tarnished girl goes. BTW the book writing continues…… On and on I go….. With love in my heart, and love by my side.

Special thanks to Harry for sending me a message to tell me to keep writing. You’ll always be my BFF who gets me. Why in God’s name you are still my friend after 14 years I will never fully understand. But I love you Harry.