Another National Something Day

Today is August 31. There’s a “National EVERYTHING Day” isn’t there? It’s almost laughable. You can’t throw a stick without hitting some national day. Talk Like a Pirate Day is my personal favorite. Shiver me timbers and such. Avast me hearties.

Today is National Trail Mix Day. Why? I have no idea. I enjoy a good trail mix as much as the next guy but, really? We need an honorary day for it? Trail mix. Really it should be about education. Eating an entire bag of trail mix is not good for you, dude. Yes, there’s nuts. Yes, there’s fruit. Yes, it’s all grains and healthy shit. Portions, people. Portions. And if you just eat the M&M’s, you’re missing the point.

I’m really ADD today.

In addition to National Trail Mix Day, it is National Overdose Awareness Day. As I said above, I really enjoy me some trail mix. However, I feel like it’s a bit more important that I talk about the other national day happening today.

Everywhere, people are dying.

Let me just say that again.

Everywhere, people are dying.

We can blame doctors. We can blame parents. We can blame pharmaceutical companies. We can blame dealers. We can (and usually do) blame the addicts themselves. There is no blame here. There is an epidemic here. It’s devastating. It’s heartbreaking. If I knew what the solution was I’d give it to you, but I don’t. I wish I did. All I have is my experience.

I started blogging because of a post I wrote on my anniversary a few months ago. Some of this may be repetitive, so I apologize in advance.

From the jump, I felt like I didn’t belong on this planet. It was as if each day, before school, there was a meeting and everyone was there. They all talked about what was going to happen that day and how they were going to act and who they were going to be. Each and every day I missed that meeting. I spent each day simultaneously trying to figure out how to do those things, and trying to pretend that I was at that meeting. I couldn’t let the collective you know that I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. And each and every day it got worse.

Until the day that I discovered drugs. For the first time in my life, I experienced what freedom felt like. I never comprehended how uncomfortable in my skin I was truly was. I mean, if you always feel the same way, you don’t recognize that there’s any other way to feel. Until I got high. All of a sudden I was relaxed and funny and charming. I felt attractive and likable and connected to other people. I felt like I belonged on this planet. I felt like everyone else looked like they felt. Why wouldn’t I want that? All I ever wanted was to belong. To have people love me and accept me. Drugs broke down all the barriers of insecurity and fear and let me be present on this planet. For a time.

Fast forward 20 years past two recoveries and relapses and a whole lot of good and bad life experience.

I had been sober 9 years but was only going to a meeting once a year to pick up a medallion (oh how I used to judge THOSE people). One day my back was bothering me. A coworker handed me a non-controlled pill off the shelf and said “take this. It will help.” That feeling exploded through my chest. Happy. Joyous. Free. I was bouncy. I was talking too much, too loudly. I was laughing and playful and excited. Manic. I was manic.

I don’t call that day my relapse. I believe that I could have recovered from that day, had I only had some sort of a network in place. (Some would argue that had I network in place, I never would have taken the pill, but that’s a chicken egg type thing). My relapse occurred the next day when I took another. Chasing that feeling.

I had a home. I had a job. I had a car. I was, for all intents and purposes, successfully living life. And my (not so) dormant addiction had been lit on fire. That day started the vicious cycle that only someone who has been addicted to a drug can truly understand.

I need that feeling.

I need to use to get it.

I have to use more to get it.

You should be ashamed of yourself.

You need to stop.

This thing happened. I have to use to get through it.

You must stop.

Why can’t you just suck it up.

What are you, a pussy? Just stop!

Well, just today. I’ll just use today.

They’re going to find out.

You’re going to lose everything.

I just need to use to get through today.

A plan is what you need. A taper plan. Follow the plan and you’re golden. You’re free.

I can’t. I simply can’t. I cannot stop.

For 18 months I fought the fight. I. HAD. TO. USE. I went to work. I functioned. I lied, I cheated, I stole.  I did what I had to do to survive. I had to use to survive. I did things that were against my morals and values. I did things that I don’t want to admit to you. Things that I want to be able to be “the kind of person who wouldn’t those things.” But I did them. I had to do them. I am an addict. When I am in active addiction, the only certainty is that I WILL use.

Towards the end, I had started having seizures. My body was falling apart. I was committing suicide on the installment plan. One pill at a time.

Why did my story not end with overdose? I don’t buy into the “I’m blessed” system of thought. Nor do I believe that I was somehow “chosen” to make it. To believe in a God like that (and this is only for me. If those beliefs help you, I’m glad you have them) would mean that at any given moment, some clash of the titans god could point at you and say “now you die” and could point at the guy down the street and say “now you get recovery.” I believe that I was very, very incredibly lucky. Had my supply dried up, had I been caught before I staggered my sorry ass into Narcotics Anonymous, I do believe I that would be dead today.

Opioid addiction is very hard to maintain. In a lot of places, heroin is cheaper and easier to get. And we’re dying. Addicts are dying. Left and right. From overdoses. Good people who in so many cases just needed something to help them feel ok. And who among us hasn’t at some point just needed to feel ok?  I wonder how many people that we’ve buried because, many years ago, they made one decision to turn left when they should’ve turned right. And it was over for them before it began.

There HAS TO be a solution.

There HAS TO be an answer.

More of us are dying than are living.

I truly am one of the lucky ones. 

I am a writer.

There’s a yoga and writing retreat happening the weekend of my 42^nd birthday. Two lovely young women whom I have mad respect for are hosting it. I remember when I saw the post on facebook about it I thought, “I LOVE them!!! What a great idea!! Too bad I don’t write. I’d like to go to that.” Because I don’t feel like a writer. Not me. I can’t write. You see, I have a brain that tells me that everything I try to do isn’t enough. That I should be better. I watch you do something and it’s significant. YOU can write. YOU can cook. YOU can paint. YOU can do yoga. And the same eye trained on myself says “You Can’t.”

In a conversation with a friend recently, it was explained to me that oftentimes the mere act of doing something qualifies you as someone who does that thing. Go ahead, read it again. I tried a bunch of different ways to word it, and that’s all I’ve got. Example: If you go to the gym, you are someone who goes to gym. If you vote, you are a voter. If you paint, you are a painter. If you murder someone… not a good example. So, the simple fact that I have written – I have put pen to paper or fingers to keys and put down my thoughts – makes me a writer. So my argument (as is usually so) is invalid.

I am a writer.

A few weeks ago, my dear friend posted about why she writes and she asked me to do the same. I was surprised and honored that she would want to hear my thoughts. See paragraph one - *I’m not a writer.* Except that I am.

I felt pressured to write something really profound and powerful. You see, all the people she asked are REAL bloggers. They take these beautiful words and send them out into the universe and they touch people’s lives. And she did ask them. But she also asked me.

Why do I write?

I write because sometimes the words in my head pound like a drum until I let them out.

I write because it feels good when someone thanks me for my courage and for my words.

I write because pain shared is pain lessened.

I write because joy shared is joy multiplied.

I write because, like each of us, due to my experience I am uniquely qualified to carry a message of hope to someone.

I write because sometimes I get very angry and the words want to explode from my chest and putting them down eases the fire in me.

I write because every now and then, I see myself as funny and charming.

I write because it counters the voice in my head that tells me that since I have a GED and no college diploma, that I’m not intelligent.

I write because I have something to say.

I write because I want to celebrate something with you.

I write because sometimes my higher power and your higher power conspire together to help us both.

I write because when I get the nudge, I have an obligation to act. Many different pieces had to fall into place to ensure I was able to get to where I am today. Who am I to decide that what I’m being led to say isn’t worthy?

I write because sometimes I like to hear myself talk.

I write because maybe, just maybe, my experience will resonate with you.

I write because when I hear you share openly and vulnerably, it gives me courage. Your words can and do help me so much. I want to pay that forward.

I write because fear is very tall and it’s very wide – like a giant wall. When I look at it, it fills the whole horizon. But fear isn’t very deep. If I try, I can push right through it. Someone had to teach me that. What if you never hear that message because I’m too afraid to say it? And how else can I prove to you the truth in those words than to push through myself?

I write because sometimes the words get stuck in my brain like a song that won’t go away.

I write because I want you to like me.

I write because my whole life I’ve never been able to practice authenticity. I needed you so much that I sold myself to be the one I thought you needed me to be. I needed you to stay and love me. I have found authenticity through vulnerability. My greatest expression of that vulnerability is through telling you the truth, even when it isn’t pretty. Even when you may not like it. Even when I’m afraid. Even when it might mean I’ll lose you. Through that, I have found me AND I have found you.

I write because I’ve found myself surrounded by amazing women who love and support me. These women encourage me to be the best me that I can be. These women want to hear what I have to say. These women look at me and see me as enough, even when I can’t do that for myself. Through their eyes, I’ve begun to see a woman worthy of respect. Someone who is funny and charming and kind. Someone who is worth loving. So, I write. For them. And for me. 

Choose freedom

Facebook greeted me with “It’s Father’s Day! What’s on your mind?” Well, facebook, I’m glad you asked.

Today is Father’s Day. It is also my father’s birthday. I have done 50% of my daughterly duty. I mailed two cards. Well, a birthday card stuffed in a father’s day card. Like a Turducken. Technically, I guess for that I would’ve had to stuff a third card inside the birthday card. Like a Thank You card. Or a Congratulations. Or maybe Get Well Soon?

Squirrel!

I bought and mailed the cards. And I actually sent them to the correct address this year. Daugherhood for the win. The obligatory phone call will come later. And I will make the call. Not for him, but for me. I choose freedom today.

I don’t really know how I found forgiveness. I spent so many years of my life just waiting for an apology, for an admission of guilt, for him to pick up the phone and say, “honey, I didn’t do right by you and I’m sorry.” I wouldn’t allow my wound to heal until I heard those words. Father of mine, tell me where did you go? I’d react to any suggestion of reconciliation with rage. I wrapped the resentment of the perceived wrongs around me like a protective blanket, keeping out every hint of forgiveness, guilt, or sense of wrongdoing from my own side of the street.

Well meaning people would tell me “He did the best he could with what he had” and I would fume. No. No he didn’t. He should have done better. He could have done better. I deserved better.

It almost seemed worse because I had a dad. I had a strong, brave, funny, hero of a man who loved me more than anything in the world. I remember one night he came into my room and woke me up because he had a dream that I had drowned and he couldn’t get to me to save me. When he awoke, he had to make sure that I was alright. He loved me. He cared. He was my dad. I had a dad.

And then I didn’t. It took me years of therapy to be able to stand in my truth and say that neglect is abuse. It took me several more years to be able to admit that I wasn’t a terrible child. That my badness wasn’t the reason my father turned his back on me. The inverse was true. The behavior that I was exhibiting which I used as ammunition against myself to validate what a piece of shit I was, wasn’t the cause of the abandonment. The abandonment was the cause of the behavior.

And it isn’t lost on me how contradictory that all is. You hurt me and I blame you. I was awful so you hurt me and I blame me.  Both of those beliefs can exist in the same space at the same time. And what is left is this giant swirling mass of shame and blame and longing and regret. The push pull that so many of have experienced. Come to me – stay away. I love you – I hate you. I need you – I don’t need anyone. It’s all my fault – It’s all your fault. How to sort it all out?

You see, after years and years of not speaking or any sort of communication between us, my dad got sick. And I got scared. I know people who never had the opportunity to reconcile with their parents and I can only imagine how that must feel. Like a nagging wound that won’t heal. That won’t ever heal. Because what happens when you decide you want to bury the hatchet and make peace, but the person is gone from this earth? I know people who have gotten to a place of acceptance with that, but I’d rather reconcile with a person than with a headstone. And I choose freedom today.

I’m so grateful that I’ve learned what I have about addiction. Addiction isn’t only about drugs. Addiction is about getting to what you need, regardless of who you hurt in the process. When I realized how I harmed people in the many quests to feed my addiction, I developed more empathy for what other people have done to feed theirs. And even though my dad doesn’t do drugs and he only drinks socially, he’s still an addict. He still has a need that he MUST fill. I can understand that. And I choose freedom today.

So I started to reach out. The first time I called, he thought I was calling for money. I’m so grateful for my Higher Power and the protection that it often affords me because I didn’t feel that sting until after we were off the phone. It all could’ve ended right there. But it didn’t.

I continue to call. Every month or so, I pick up the phone and I call him. I ask him how he is. I tell him about my life. He isn’t a fan of the gay thing. He isn’t a fan of the Narcotics Anonymous thing. And I might as well be speaking another language when I talk about yoga. But I tell him just the same. I’m not going to pretend to be someone other than I am so that he’ll like me or feel more comfortable. I talk about what’s relevant in my life on the day that I call him. If he wants to know me, he will know me, even if isn’t who he would rather I be. And I choose freedom today.

One day not too long ago, the most amazing thing happened. I went out to the mailbox and there was a card. From my Dad. A Christmas card. Not a generic card out of a box, but a “To my daughter at Christmas” card. Sometimes you never know how much you need something until you get it.

I’d love to tell you that we have this amazing relationship now and that our reunion was like a greeting card commercial but that would be a lie. It’s still awkward. It’s still uncomfortable. He still hurts my feelings without meaning to. I don’t all of sudden feel like I have a dad again. But I’m not angry anymore. I have freedom. I don’t regret. I’ll take it.

What’s really on my mind is what I want to say to you.

If you have a dad and you love him and you have a great relationship, happy father’s day. I’m happy for you, truly. I hope you recognize how special that is and how many people would trade with you in a second. Choose freedom.

If you had a dad whom you loved dearly and you lost him, happy father’s day. Celebrate what you had. Rejoice in the memory of the man who made you what you are. Choose freedom.

If you had a dad who was your everything and then he went away, happy father’s day. You had him. Remember what that felt like. Sometimes I like to sit and remember that night he came into my room and woke me up because he loved me SO MUCH. I remember what that felt like. For a time, I had a dad. Choose freedom.

If you never knew your dad and there’s always been a void in that dad-sized hole in your soul, happy father’s day. Look around. If your experience is anything like mine, there has been a series of dads who’ve loved you, supported you, and given you what you need. You have everything you need. Choose freedom.

If your dad hurt you in unspeakable ways and the pain is unimaginable, happy father’s day. This day will continue to happen. Every year, you will be overwhelmed with images and sentiments and well wishes of people who can’t even imagine what you have had to endure. People who have gotten to experience something that should have been your birthright which was stolen from you. It isn’t fair. You did nothing to deserve it. Your pain is real. You are not alone. Don’t just survive this day. Kick the bitch of today in the teeth. Celebrate you and the beautiful soul you have become, not because of but IN SPITE of what you needed but didn’t get. I love you. You inspire me. Do something to celebrate you. Choose freedom.

Let this day be full of joy.

Choose freedom. 

The right to be handsome.

I just read the transcript of a PBS interview entitled “The right to be handsome.” I hadn’t planned on blogging again so soon, but I started writing a facebook post and realized I had more to say than would fit in that little box.

From the time I was very little, I hated clothes shopping. I can remember my mom dragging me around the store and both of us were so exasperated by the time we were done that we had no idea what to do with each other. I know I’m not unique in that. A lot of women hate clothes shopping. I think part of it was just another manifestation of the disease of addiction. That ever-present awkwardness with my skin, my body, and my self that made nothing FEEL right. Up until a few years ago, I’d have panic attacks in department stores. I just couldn’t take it.

I never thought about it until I was reading this article tonight, but I remember being in elementary school and feeling so foreign – so out of place. My big brother Tom wore what I suppose was the style then – two Izod shirts. Layering was cool in the early 80’s, I guess. I distinctly remember dressing like that one day and feeling ahhhhhhhhhhh. Better. This fits. This works.

I didn’t figure out that I was gay until I was 17, but I knew that girl’s clothes felt utterly and completely wrong on me well before that. I’ve theorized that since my mother wasn’t available to me in my formative years, that I had no one else to emulate BUT my brothers. I dressed preppy like my eldest brother for many years, then something happened in the 8^th grade and switched to emulating my other brother. The middle child. The trouble maker. The COOL KID. I started wearing black jeans and black t-shirts and that was my wardrobe until I left high school.

After that I spent many years wearing whatever my girlfriends suggested I wear. I didn’t know how to shop. I didn’t know how to pick stuff out. I couldn’t figure out what looked good with what. I needed someone to make these difficult life decisions for me. I wanted to look nice. I didn’t know how to pull that off. Even though I’d look at myself and think that these clothes were ‘wrong,’ I would trust YOU. You would tell me if it looked bad. You would tell me if I needed to change. You wouldn’t steer me wrong, would you?

I finally just reverted back to high school. Jeans and t-shirts. In summer, cargo shorts and t-shirts. I had a closet full of funny, quirky t-shirts. I kept Shirt Woot and T-Fury in business. I honestly had no other idea what to do.

Alert – this may be more than you want to know about me. You can get out now. I’ll never even know you were here.

A woman in my life once told me that she just felt more confident when she wore sexy underwear. No one had to know she was wearing them. She wasn’t wearing them because she had a hot date or for anyone in particular, but she just felt more alive – more like a woman – when she did. That was never my experience. I’ve had girlfriends buy me lingerie before. I’d wear it for them, but I never felt that thing she was talking about.

And then, The L Word happened. The world was introduced to Shane McCutcheon. I always wanted to be like Shane. I’m much more of a Dana, but I really wanted to have that… swagger... that Shane had. So I went to the store and I bought men’s underwear. For the first time in my life, I felt THAT THING. No one needed to know, but underneath, I was feeling very Shane today.

Years later, it all stopped working for me. I stopped feeling like I looked cute and quirky in my amusing t-shirts and started feeling like I looked a slob. I don’t know what caused that. I don’t remember there being any particular incident that caused the sudden upheaval of my clothing comfort zone. It just… happened. Most likely, it was because I’d been single for a few years and decided I was going to have to clean my shit up if I was ever going to find love. I’m still working on that. I’ll keep you posted.

And as often precedes the greatest growth in our lives, in came the pain. To want with ever fiber of your being to change, and to have neither the knowledge nor the ability to make those changes happen is a horrible place to be.

I was stuck between a rock and a hard place. If I put on women’s clothing, I felt like a monkey in a suit. My insecurity blew through the roof because I felt like I had tattooed on my forehead “this person has no idea what she is doing!” They didn’t feel right against my skin, they didn’t feel right in the reflection, and they didn’t feel right in the well-intentioned support of my friends who told me I looked great. Everything was just… wrong. But what’s the alternative? Men’s clothes. Women don’t wear men’s clothes.

What you don’t know is that it started in high school. “Is that a guy or a girl?” “Is that a dude or a chick?” Laughter followed by “What IS that?” I was ashamed of who I was and had no idea how to be any different. I wanted to be invisible. Stop looking at me that way. Stop saying that. Can’t you see that I’m a girl? I know I don’t know how to be a girl, but I am a girl. I am a girl. I used to get called sir all the time. It burned each and every single time. It was worse when I’d be with someone I knew. The only thing worse than a shameful experience is a witness to a shameful experience. And my friends would always say the same thing: “I don’t see how anyone could ever mistake you for a guy.” And I appreciated the sentiment, but it was just that. A nice sentiment.

So I can’t wear women’s clothes because everything about them feels wrong, and I can’t wear men’s clothes because my soul can’t bear the shame of the confused stares. What to do?

Own that shit.

That’s what you do. I once bought a suit to wear to a Halloween party. It was a very nice pinstriped men’s suit. With it, I wore a red shirt and a silver tie. I put that suit on and for the first time ever, I looked in the mirror and I thought – you look fantastic. This is the most attractive you have ever looked. Any girl would be lucky to have you. I stopped at the store and was called sir and I didn’t even care. I was walking on sunshine. You couldn’t possibly bring me down. And I realized that it isn’t about what you think about me. It’s about what I think about me. And I thought I looked handsome.

I don’t know why I feel more comfortable in men’s clothes. It’s the style and the cut and WAY THEY MAKE ME FEEL. But I don’t have to know why. It doesn’t matter why. I don’t think I should’ve been born a man. I wouldn’t want to be a man. Men are gross. I mean, I think it would be fun to have a penis for a little while. I could, like, spell my name and stuff. That would be awesome. But I am a woman. I know I’m a woman. I don’t want to be anything other than who I am. I don’t have to judge myself. I can’t help it if you judge me, but I don’t have to judge myself.  I have the right to be handsome. I have the right to be exactly who my god made me to be. And I have the right to own that shit. 

tail wagging

I used to compare myself to a big, goofy puppy as an insult. I would curse myself for galloping up to people and awkwardly blurting out “Hi! I’m Jackson! I think we should be friends!!” I mean, why shouldn’t we be friends? The problem with that type of vulnerability is that it’s often loaded. If I want to be friends and you want to be friends, then we become friends. Perfect. Easy peasy. If I want to be friends and you think I’m a big weirdo, then insecurity happens. If I want to be friends and you are distracted by other things, then insecurity happens. If I want to be friends and you’ve got a no vacancy for new relationships sign up, then insecurity happens. If I want to be friends and you think I’m hitting on you, then insecurity happens. If I want to be friends and insecurity makes both of us look away at exactly the wrong time, then even MORE insecurity happens.

So I walk up to you, put out my hand, introduce myself, and I give you the power to dictate how I feel about me. There’s only one possible outcome where I feel okay. Friendship. Acceptance. Mutual connection. Every other path leads to further evidence that there’s something wrong with me.

There’s something wrong with me.

That horrible nagging fear has hounded me for as long as I can remember. There’s something wrong with me. I used people, places, and things to assuage the fear. The endless hours I spent trying to figure out how to hide it, how to pretend it wasn’t there, how to just act normal. JUST ACT NORMAL!

What’s wrong with me?

It’s such a struggle when I’m enamored by connection and terrified of rejection.

But that’s the funny thing about change. I never notice when change is happening. I just turn around one day and realize that I’ve changed. It usually becomes apparent by a reaction (or lack of) to a familiar situation. Rejection = what’s wrong with me? But not today.

Today I was that goofy puppy. Today I galloped up to people and said “Hi! I’m Jackson! I think we should be friends!” Rejection happened. Maybe they were cat people. Who knows? But it doesn’t matter. Just for today, it didn’t matter what they did. This is the icing on the cake of the glory of today: I didn’t wonder “what’s wrong with me?” I wondered “what’s wrong with you?” And it wasn’t judgmental. It wasn’t ego. It wasn’t all “so step off bitch.”

It was more like: hey, opportunity is knocking here because I’m pretty awesome. I’m a good friend. I’m kind, generous, thoughtful, funny, loyal, and I can lift heavy things. I’ll give you the shirt off my back and wash it for you when you’re done. Because I love people and I love friendship and I love meeting for lunch. I love embroidering cool shit as gifts. I love to bring you food because I love to cook and I love to share. I see you and even if I just saw you yesterday, I’m overjoyed to see you again. I like to hug just one more time. You may have to tolerate lengthy conversations about Harry Potter and yoga, but it’ll be worth it. I’m more than just a hot piece of ass.

It was pointed out to me this evening by someone whom I love dearly that not very long ago, rejection equaled devastation. The very fact that I’m not hiding under the covers in a bitter morass of self-pity speaks volumes to how far I’ve come. The enthusiasm with which I delve into friendship has caused me quite a bit of pain in the past. It probably will again, too. But in order to fill my heart, I have to risk my heart. Nothing without a payoff, right? What’s the payoff? You. You’re the payoff. I could give you a long list of amazing women who’ve come into my life and filled my heart. If you’re reading this, you’re probably one of them. We fill each other. Life is full and whole and complete because of you and because of me and because of love.

Hi! I’m Jackson! I think we should be friends! (tail wagging)

This should be yours.

As I sit here with her in my lap, I can’t help but ask myself, “How did you get here again?” What was I thinking? I’m struggling with all the feelings that any of you with furkids will understand. Is it too soon? Should I have done more? Should I have made the decision sooner? Is it the right decision? Is it selfish? Am I selfish?  How to know? It’s impossible to know. We tell you when you come into the clinic that you’ll know when it’s time to let go. It isn't that easy, though. We know it isn't. All we can tell you is that if you feel like it’s time, it’s time. But never is there a decision harder to make than when is it time to let go of a pet.

Harley was a good girl. She was a Great Dane/Great Pyrenees mix and the only dog I've even gotten as a puppy. She lived a good long life and her death was traumatic for both me and for Wiley, my (at the time) 15 year old Border Collie mix. We were both kind of lost after her death, wandering the house looking for that thing that was missing which was her. I went to the shelter for the first time ever to adopt a dog. I was looking for a medium sized, middle aged mixed breed. Someone to keep Wiley and me company and to give us some focus after such a painful loss.

I walked around the corner and there he was. The cage card read “Dachshund, male, 17 years old, owner surrender.” I stopped looking immediately. He was coming home with me. My heart broke at the thought of a dog living for 17 years with one person or family, and then getting dropped at the shelter. It's the lack of understanding that breaks my heart. Extenuating circumstances or not, they don’t understand why they’re there. They don’t understand where their family is. They don’t understand what has happened to them. My heart breaks. I tried to tell myself stories about the situations that could have led up to this little boy ending up in the shelter. Maybe they were deployed. Maybe they were sick. Maybe…. I wanted to believe the best. I told him that it was ok. That I was breaking him out of this joint. My first special needs adoption came home with me. I dubbed him Hebrew National and called him Natty for short. The first day home, he bit me right in the face. I laugh when I remember it now, but I was pissed. I told him I’d take his little wiener dog ass right back to the shelter! You can probably guess that that didn't happen. I’m guessing that he wasn't truly 17 when I adopted him because that little guy lived for 2 years! He brought me 2 years of joy. When I lost him, he gave me the greatest gift I could have asked for. He curled up in his bed and passed in his sleep. If only that could happen with all of them… Meet Natty.

Since I have SUCKER written on my forehead, I got a call in October 2013 that there was an owner surrender husky mix at the shelter who had health issues and who needed a home. Again, I tried to tell myself that there were surely extenuating circumstances. That no one who had a dog for 12 years could ever dump it at that shelter without a good reason.  Enter Yahtzee.  She was beautiful and fluffy and soft, and she would bite the shit out of you if you did ANYTHING she didn't like. She loved, however, pets and scratches and food and lovings. She was a sweet girl with a low threshold for anything unpleasant and a bad heart which caused her to turn blue if she was under any sort of duress at all. That made treating her issues challenging, but we worked it out. Yahtzee spent 16 months with my family. It was so hard to make the decision to let her go, because there were things that could have helped the symptoms of her illnesses, but I couldn't get those things to her because of her temperament. She was the first rescue that brought me to the difficult decision that I've made today. Is it too soon? Am I too late? Am I being selfish? The guilt and questioning and self-doubt can be overwhelming. The question that it comes down to is: “Is she having any fun?” She wasn't having fun anymore. In February I let her go. Meet Yahtzee.

Last October, I got tagged on Facebook. Damn you, Facebook. A 12 year old owner surrendered Dachshund in need of a home. There was no sugar coating this. He was a breeding dog who had developed a skin condition and instead of taking him to a vet, his “owner” took him to the shelter. Enter Sargent Pinochle. His skin condition is chronic, as well as the sinus problem he seems to have. He’s been a bit of a money pit, but I am completely smitten with him. “Knuckles” as I call him, is pure joy. He loves toys! I've never had a dog who loved toys! He walks around the house squeaking them and sleeps curled up with them. He is handsome and kind and gentle and has won my heart. I pray that he is with me a long, long time.Meet Knuckles.

Since the first Facebook tag was so effective, they tried it again. Second verse, same as the first. A 12 year old Miniature Pinscher. Her former “owners” didn’t have the decency to take her to the shelter – too ashamed, I’m assuming. She was dumped in a driveway in the country. Twelve years old. Nine and a half pounds. Dumped. Outside. Alone. Based on the condition of her body, she was also a breeding dog. But let me tell you guys, a sweeter little girl has never existed. She won my heart the first second I met her. I went to the shelter and adopted her the first morning she was available. She was meant for me. I was sure of it. I brought her home and she wagged her little nubbin and followed me around and jumped in my lap and I fell head over heels in love with this little girl. My sweet little Jenga. The day was April 21. When her bloodwork came back the next day, it wasn’t good. Lyme Disease. Renal failure. Heart murmur. That was 20 days ago. Her health declined very quickly. She’s sitting here in my lap and I can see every bone in her spine. And I’ve had the conversation. You know the one. Is it too soon? Should I have let her go sooner? Am I selfish? Should I try more things? But what it comes down to is this: Do I continue to watch this poor sweet soul starve and try to treat her symptomatically so I can feel like I tried everything, or do I let her go? She isn’t having fun anymore and my heart is broken. Twenty days. She won my heart in one hour and she broke it in 20 days. I was so happy the day I brought her home. I'm so sad today. Meet Jenga. She was a part of my family for 20 days. 

These guys love us with every fiber of their being. They deserve to be loved until the end. Please realize that when you bring in a pet you are making a commitment to be there until the end and no, it isn't going to be easy. No old dog or cat should ever end up in a shelter. No breeding animal should ever be discarded when their usefulness is over. Love them. Keep them. Honor them. They would NEVER leave us.

I don’t want to go through this again. Right now in this moment, I don’t want to feel this again, ever. I don’t want to be the one to love your elderly pet when you chose not to anymore. I don’t want to be the one to walk through the pain that should have been reserved for you. This is the deal we make when we take them in. They will give us years of love and happiness and loyalty and joy and then we will outlive them and it will hurt like hell. That’s what we sign up for. You don’t get to skip that part. You don’t get to be the selfish one. How dare you allow me to feel selfish and guilty and sadness and pain? That’s yours. That should be yours. That’s what you agreed to.

Tomorrow I’ll probably feel differently. I've been told that pain shared is pain halved. Thank you for sitting in my pain with me today. 

For Wiley and Parcheesi and Natty and Alfred Abraham Lincoln and Yahtzee and Sergeant Pinochle and for this sweet little soul Jenga – don’t shop, adopt. Rest in peace, sweet girl. You were loved. 

Yoga is my girlfriend.

Happy Mother’s Day. This post has absolutely nothing to do with Mother’s Day, but my mom is going to like it. Honestly, I could plagiarize haiku about cat poo and my mom would like it.

Litterbox not here.

You must have moved it again.

I’ll poop in the sink.

See. I’m sure my mom liked it. That’s what moms do. And that’s why they have a day. Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. This part of this post is for you.

These thoughts have been marinating for a week or so and I had the sudden thought that it was time to put them down. This could just be a slothful ploy to try to keep myself as far from productivity as possible on my day off, as it seems to have resulted in my butt on the couch again. Either way, I’ve been packing up clothes to donate for the last hour and three trashbags full of ridiculously large clothes (for me) are now in the trunk of my car. I used to be a bit bigger than I am now, and I was ashamed of my body so I wore baggy clothes to hide it. Just for today, that has changed.

Weight is an interesting thing. My experience is that we seem to be incapable of accurate self appraisal when it comes to our weight. Our magical, mystical, magnifying minds won’t allow a true assessment of how we look. I know many people who I would call skinny who look at themselves in the mirror and see an overweight person. For me, it was the opposite. I couldn’t see how overweight I had become. I looked in the mirror and I saw the same person I had always seen. In fact, it was weird to me that I had to keep buying larger clothes.

A year ago, I was working on the 9^th step (the amends one) and a huge part of that was making amends to me for how poorly I had treated my body and my spirit for so many years. I set about trying to treat myself like I was someone that I loved and cared about. It was HARD. I’ve always identified outward and my drug of choice is love from you so to treat myself as special as I would treat you was a daunting task. There was a whole lot of acting as if in the beginning. It was foreign, it was uncomfortable, and everything in me screamed out against it. Women seem to think that self-care is a sign of selfishness. It isn’t. Kick that lying bitch to the curb. Self-care isn’t even a want, it’s a need. No one else is going to do it for us. I took baby steps. I tried to do some of the kind and generous things for myself that I would historically sacrifice my own needs in order to do for you. And it started to feel kind of good.

Then this happened. July 4, 2014 this picture was taken of me.

 I was having a great time with great friends and this picture popped up on facebook. I saw in that picture something that had been unapparent to me for many years – the weight. I cringed. You know the feeling. That ugh in your gut kind of feeling. But I had begun to build this foundation in the step process of self love and acceptance so rather than deleting the photo and burying my shame-filled head in the sand, I made a decision to change.

I started trying to lose weight. I began and completed couch to 5K, I got a fitbit, and started a strict calorie control diet. And it started to work, but physically I was feeling worse and worse. I needed help. There is an incredible amount of conflicting information out there about nutrition and exercise. I’m really good at following directions, but I couldn’t seem to find any consistent direction to follow. Then I took a step that changed the entire direction of my life. I hired a health coach.

I discovered that my attempts at losing weight had nothing to do with self-love, they were about self-loathing. I was trying to change myself into something loveable – something you would love. What I was doing was the antithesis of amends to myself. I was trying to force my body into something that you would find more attractive so that I would find love. I was depriving myself of what I needed for you AGAIN. And I never even saw it coming. I ditched the fitbit, I deleted the calorie counting app on my phone, I started eating food that was real food, and I was introduced to yoga.

I had been to one yoga class before and I swore I was never going back. It was a “beginners” class. I walked in and everyone there seemed to know each other and everyone knew what they were supposed to be doing. It felt like being in school all over again. It brought up every single one of my insecurities and fears and I never wanted to be in that position again. But sometimes our Higher Power has a plan for us whether we like it or not. I started getting these stirrings that I should give it another shot. They got louder and louder until I couldn’t block them out any longer and I asked my health coach if she would help me start doing yoga.

It was scary. I ain’t gonna lie. My first private lesson with her = terrified. My first class with her = terrified. My first “beginners” class with another instructor = terrified. My first hot flow class with ANOTHER instructor = terrified. My first class at a different studio = terrified. But I wanted it. I knew that I could do it. I just kept acting as if I wasn’t scared. Fear is very tall and it’s very wide, but it isn’t very deep. If you try, you can push right through it.

And I’ve done all of the things that we’re scared of when we thing about doing yoga. I’ve worn yoga pants and a tight tank top. I’ve forgotten which side is which and lunged on the left when it should’ve been on the right. I’ve fallen spectacularly on my ass when practicing Side Plank. I’ve gone into completely the wrong pose. I’ve fallen forward on my face with a resounding BOOM out of Crow. I’ve had one sneak out despite all of my best efforts to keep it in (if you don’t know what I mean, keep coming back and you will). I’ve wept in Child’s Pose. All of those things have happened and I survived. And all of those things have happened to the person next to me in class and they survived, too. I realized that when these things happen to someone else in class, if I even notice, I don’t judge them. I internally applaud them because they’re here, they’re trying, and they’re pushing themselves further than they’ve gone before even though it’s hard and even though they could fall on their faces.

I realized how far I’ve come a few weeks ago when I fell (for about the 5^th time) trying Crow pose and I sat up smiling. I was laughing at myself. There was no judgment and no negative self talk. I rejoiced that I could just keep trying. That I DO just keep trying.

Through the lifestyle changes that I’ve made, I have lost a lot of weight. And I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make me feel good when people comment on it. I’m human, afterall. But the confidence and the joy for life that I feel isn’t because I’ve lost weight. The weight loss was the impetus that brought me to yoga. Yoga has brought me confidence and joy for life.

The first time I walked into the studio, I never would have imagined that it would become home to me. It truly is my favorite place to be. I’ve met some amazing women there who have brought so much to my life.

Through yoga, I have learned that I can challenge myself and even when I fall short, I can celebrate the challenge.

I’ve learned that through patience and practice and I can accomplish most anything.

I’ve learned that for the 60 or 75 or 90 minutes that I’m in practice, I can send the rest of the world away and nothing else matters. For the first time ever, I can truly be in the moment.

I’ve learned that breath is life and I can get through anything in life if I just take some time to breathe.

I’ve learned that I can sweat more than I would’ve thought was possible.

I’ve found a community of amazing women who have become some of my favorite people in the world.

I’ve learned that I am stronger than I ever would’ve believed.

I’ve learned that it’s ok to not be able to do something, that you won’t judge me or think less of me, and I don’t have to either.

I’ve learned that yoga pants are really comfortable although they don’t have pockets. (the bag I carry is NOT a purse)

I’ve learned that Savasana is glorious and stillness is necessary.

Most of all, I’ve learned that weight is just a number. I had 10 more pounds that I really wanted to lose but that goal that seemed so important not too long ago has just fallen away. I learned that if I take care of my body, my body takes care of me. Sure, sometimes I feel like a sausage in my yoga clothes and as graceful as I’d like to be, I’m still pretty sure that I resemble a basset hound running a whole lot of the time, but once I get on my mat, I’m strong and brave and solid and centered and I know peace. Nothing else in the world gives me that feeling. I’ve looked so many places for it – drugs, food, sex, work. Each is temporary and each ultimately caused me pain. Yoga stays. Yoga is my girlfriend right now. We’re happy together.