Notes on a Day

I know. I can't believe I am back, blogging at this hour. It seems almost normal, to use a phrase. I spent time in a yellow room yesterday, with a dog named Doc Watson. Don't ask.

The remains of the silly wabbit have gone back to the woods from whence he came. Just thought you would like to know.

It's now a week without hot water, although men work earnestly on it, and they have replaced every part except the tank...thank god for a neighbor, who is a dear friend. And has hot water.

It's especially quiet this morning, and a therapy day to boot. We will not run out of subject matter.

My week of isolation has resulted in some rocky relationships at this point. It makes me long for the sturdiness of my borderline group, where everything changes, except the fact of our diagnoses and  that is understood. I have been in AA for 20 years, and have had some long term sobriety. Now I am on the receiving end of some, not a lot, of the attitude of "get with the program." And, "what's wrong with you? You just aren't trying hard enough." That is my resentment speaking, I know.

In group therapy, where most are dually diagnosed, with borderline personality disorder and an addiction, as well as many other mental health issues, I hear, "Did you cut, too? No? Oh good! Did you tell the therapist yet? I was worried about you. We missed you last week." The fight everyday is to not cut, not relapse, do the homework, while understanding that shit happens, and that's why we are in group: to learn to cope. Just get up and start again.

 I have also found this attitude in NA, Narcotics Anonymous, where the relapse rate is higher: the important part is to look at why you stumbled, and at all costs, to get back up and start again. The AA attitude I am running into is more of a "What a fuck up you are. Why do you bother? You must not want this very much." I suppose the difference is that AA assumes that if you work hard enough, you can have what you want. That if you want enough, you can have what you want.

Cutting is not longer an option for me, and I need to move acting on my addiction into that category, my therapist points out. Why one and not the other? I don't know.

It's also hard to hear that my relationship with my Higher Power is also the cause of my drinking. That is, if I am spiritually fit, everyday, this shit wouldn't happen. I have a great relationship with my fireball in the forest. It was there when no one, except a life long friend in Pennsylvania, was there for me. The feeling that It was there, never deserted me. Instead, I felt, "Why me?" and "What response do you want, HP?"

And everything I have written so far is called, Processing, in Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT), and Dialectical Behavioral Therapy (DBT). Processing is removing oneself from the emotions of an event(s) and thinking logically about it. "Thinking it through." It's not wallowing in something that happened, but looking at it, with an idea of understanding, how and why we, as humans, react. CBT teaches us to process, DBT teaches us to learn why we react, and how to change the reaction, with practice, over time. CBT teaches us to leave the football field, and watch the game from the newscasters' box. DBT teaches us how to get back into the game, and change it.

Everything I have written is also a lot of emotion that is a result of relapsing and judging myself. Saying to yourself, "Ok, you fucked up. Now what?" is different than "Thou Shalt Not Fuck Up."

There is a lot of resentment on my part, toward my nay-sayers in AA, but a lot of understanding from those who have relapsed themselves...and even some from those who haven't. The loveliest thing I heard from my 'relapse meeting' was, "God has a plan for you. I know you worry and feel bad about going in and out over the years. But God has a plan."

I will not "I Should" on myself today. Because what follows "I Should..." is always a judgement, Ladies and Gentlemen. Always.

There is a zinnia that blooms now in my garden. It's left over from last year's scattering of the flowerheads. And there is the new zinnia, quite small still, that is a result of this year's sowing. It is a bright fuchsia, astounding pink, and it blooms furiously, tall and proud. It is something left to me from this hard winter, this long winter. The pink that it casts, makes the grass seem greener, and the clover seems whiter, than any other flower in my garden.

The impatiens are straggling a bit, but the begonia, with their blooms of cherry red, and their dark green leaves, flourish. The hydrangea comes in blue, with a tinge of pink. And the bright orange dahlia, and yellow daisies, bloom together in their container. For the first time, I have bought a strawberry plant, and small, tasty strawberries grow. No doubt, that is what attracted the poor rabbit.

Lilac time has come and gone, but the lavender remind us of purple, and the marvelous way it scents the air. I keep a glass container of it, from my mother's belongings, in a heart shaped container, on my bedside table. The time is fast approaching when the growing lavender should be harvested, but the bees seem small and stunted this year, and I have pity on them. I will leave the lavender as long as I can, unharvested: foodstuffs for the bees and white butterflies that come. Today is Freya's Day, Friday, and I am in love with my garden in containers, and the plants that grow vigorously by the side of the pool. The only flower left from my garden at the Old House, the tall, white, Shasta daisies, live against the side of the red brick gathering sunlight, with the tomatoes.

I have heirloom tomatoes this year, and can't wait to taste them.