On behalf of gentleman everywhere I want to apologize.
See, I was raised to respect women. My father (who was not a saint) did a lot of things right. He adored my mother and he treated her with respect and deep affection. Dad was a sensitive guy and had no problem showing affection for my mother. He kissed her, hugged her, complimented her daily and praised her cooking even when it sucked. He often brought her gifts; nothing fancy just trinkets he would find on his journeys working as a traveling salesman or bobbles from the drug store. Sometimes he would surprise her with a nice piece of jewelry. She loved jewelry and although we were never wealthy, Dad always made a point of buying her a nice piece for her birthdays. There was also the time he got her a new kitchen appliance for Christmas. He only did that once.There was never any doubt as to her place in our home. “Go ask your mother” ‘Go apologize to your mother”, “Your mom’s had a hard day, tell you love her”. He also respected her opinion and they two of them worked together to raise their family. My dad had an amazing sense of humor and often poked loving fun at my mom at the dinner table, which you could tell she enjoyed. He called her “ My Bride” up until the day he died, and before he left this earth he made me promise that I would always be there to help my mom with whatever she wanted or needed. I have tried my best to live up to that promise.
My grandparents too. I had both sets of grandparents until I was in my 20’s. When we would go to visit my mom’s parents the first thing granddaddy would say before I could even really hug him was “go kiss your Granny”. Neither of my grandmothers suffered fools lightly. They were outspoken strong southern women who got shit done and who let their husband’s know when they weren’t happy. All around me I witnessed women being treated as equals, with respect and in many cases exalted as the stronger species. Indeed they are.
So I understand why I am attracted to strong women. I always have been. They make me feel safe and they remind me that values like courage and strength go hand in hand with compassion, kindness and love. There is no doubt in my mind that they are the stronger sex and if more of them were in charge in this world I’m pretty sure we would not be in the state of chaos, hate and confusion we are in today.
The fact that we still have to fight for the right’s of women is appalling. Any issues with inequality should not even be up for discussion and should have been taken care of years ago. Why on earth equal pay is not a given is dumbfounding. The fact that we have to stay vigilant to ending rape culture is appalling. Where did men get the idea that it’s ok to victimize women, verbally or physically?? I have my theories where it comes from and if you’ve read my other blog posts and you can probably guess with I think.
“Locker-room talk”?? That’s what they’re calling it?
Yes, I’ve heard it in the locker room of the gym where I use to work but let me be clear that I have never heard it the way Donald Trump describes it. Never. The talk I have over heard is much more subtle, but in my opinion carries with it the same message: that women are to be sexualized and treated as less than men. I’ve heard it on Sunday morning when they’ve finished sitting on the stationary bike, reading their paper, watching Fox news; in the locker-room while they get dressed to meet their wives for church. They are mostly old and fat, with a teensy peensy and a belly that only serves to exacerbate their already less than average manhood. They have no ass. They use the complementary hairdryer to dry their balls. (Side note: I actually had to make a SIGN for the men’s lock-room that said “Please use the blow dryers for the hair on your head ONLY). A good portion of them are actually cruising other men in the the steam room. ( Yes, I know who you are). They are mouth-breathers; nuckle-draggers and most of them haven’t seen a vagina up close since Kennedy was in office. You could knock them out with one punch if you had to. So they TALK. They talk, because there is not enough Viagra in the world to make that ramen noodle get up and dance. They talk because they are afraid. They are afraid of you and deep-down they are afraid of what they have become. And although most of them wouldn’t know what to do with you if they got ahold of you, their sons would. And THAT’s the problem. The “locker-room” talk is how they are teaching their sons about women. The “locker-room” talk is what fuels the already blazing fire of rape culture. The talk is why their son’s grow up thinking women are less than men. They talk and talk and talk because it’s all they can do anymore.
The irony to me is that our society has always blamed any demo OTHER than straight white men for the problems in our country. Seems the blame for the state of our culture always goes to women, gays, and minorities, the poor, drug-addicts…the “less-than”. But doesn’t the evidence show that SWM actually ARE the problem? I mean after all they have been in charge ever since we slaughtered the Native Americans and set up our donut shop. They have been in charge of all of us forever. And before you go and get your panties all in a bunch I know a LOT of amazing, educated, kind, intelligent straight white men, and I would be willing to bet you they will agree with me. Because they’re not threatened. They honor, value and respect women; they are not afraid of women. And the SWM that are bringing us down are afraid. They are cowards. Always, ALWAYS it goes back to fear.
So on behalf of the gentlemen in this country, I would like to apologize for the rest of the male population for making your lives so difficult. I am sorry you are not paid the same amount of money for she same amount of work as a man. I am sorry you have to fight for decent maternity leave after bringing another human into this world. I am sorry that you have to continue to fight for the right to safe and respectful medical treatment should you choose to have an abortion. I am sorry you are made to feel uncomfortable for breast -feeding in public ( Jeez–we got issues, ya’ll). I am sorry you have to carry mace so that you are not raped in the parking garage after work. I am sorry you have to listen to “locker-room” talk, endure cat-calls at the mall, and watch while a man like Donald Trump can be chosen as a candidate for the position of Leader Of The Free World. I am profoundly sorry that you have to teach your daughters about domestic abuse, date rape, being drugged, being kidnapped, walking in pairs and watching over their shoulders at all times while pursuing their education on a college campus. I imagine you could give me a thousand more examples of things I should be sorry for and I hope you do. I imagine you expeience things everyday of which I am not even aware.
So please keep speaking up and out and telling your stories; I want to know. I want to know what I need to talk about with my guy friends. There are a lot of us who support you and who want better for you and for us. I want to help to change it and the first step towards change is awareness.
Because you’re right. It is not safe. Women in this country are not safe and you deserve better.
We all deserve better.
Ever since I did my 4th and 5th Step with my sponsor, I have been aware of my judgement; my tendency to judge people, places, things and situations as good or bad, healthy or unhealthy, for or against me. Judgement feels good doesn’t it? Judgment allows me to separate myself from the bullshit ( perceived bullshit?) and to sit comfortably on my throne staring down with profound disapproval of you…or them…or it. Meditation has allowed me to see the not only is this one of my deepest character defects but it may well be my number one.
It is 9:30 am and I have already judged probably 10 people. Two on the highway and the other 8 just in my head pondering life and it’s inhabitants. One of the people I judged looked to be a soccer mom in a mini-van, driving down I-40 at about 80 miles an hour in the rain with 2 kids in the backseat frantically glancing up and down at her cell phone. Without skipping a beat my inner voice immediately said, “ IDIOT”. Upon further reflection not only was I judging her apparent lack of common sense and parenting skills, but ALL soccer moms and ALL mini-vans. ( Really, ya’ll MINI-VANS?! Surely, we can do better…). I assessed the situation and boom…YOU have been JUDGED.
With greater awareness of my propensity to be judgmental (after all, it was one of the first things I inwardly experienced as I began my forward march towards relapse) I don’t take it lightly. It needs to be considered and continually challenged so as not to stay stuck in old patterns and old beliefs. The first step towards making any significant changes has to be the awareness of that thing we hope to change. Without becoming mindful, we are doomed to repeat.
So the question is, when and where is judgement necessary and is it ever actually helpful?
I suppose it is helpful if you see a bear coming at you in the woods and your judgement says holy fuck there’s a bear coming at me and I better do something like climb a tree or play dead, or run, or burst into show tune (don’t come to me for bear advise, ya’ll, clearly I’m not your guy) and in that case judgement is very helpful. If you misjudge that situation you’re an idiot. ( See what I did there?). But in everyday, ordinary life when is it actually helpful? When does it actually create change for the better? Does it ever?
Many of my common judgements are built upon my actual experience in life. I grew up going to church with my folks. My both my parents were pretty devout Christians ( the good kind) and had strong faith. I never much cared for church but went because, well, it was mandatory. There was an associate pastor at my church who I really liked and looking back I realize he was actually the object of my little boy crush. He was cute, a young, and cool, and he treated all the kids really well. On Sunday mornings during the regular service, I would be ushered to the front of the church where he would give a short children’s service about animals, or brotherly love, or the kindness of Jesus. Sweet little sermons after which I would return to my pew with the rents and dig through my mom’s purse for a stick of Teaberry gum.
One day we went to church and my handsome associate pastor was no longer there. Someone I didn’t know led the Children’s service. After the service I was aware of groups of fellow Christian’s huddled together chatting in whispers; they seemed worried, or upset not the usual laughter and chatter about lunch plans and gatherings that I was used to. Later at home I asked my mom what had happened. She sat me down and it was one of those moments where I could tell she was deciding whether to tell me the whole truth or not. I don’t remember exactly what she told me but basically the pastor had been having an affair with a church staff member and it had exploded in their faces and both had been fired. I sat for a minute, before asking…” So why we’re they fired?” Mom said, “well…because they are both married to other people and they were cheating on their marriages with each other.” I thought for a moment and said, “what about forgiveness?” “What do you mean?”, mom asked. “Well’, I said, Jesus forgave everyone and God forgives everyone, so why can’t we just forgive them?” Mom sat for a minute and said “Well, honey, we DO forgive them”. Another minute and I asked “ So why can’t they have their jobs back?” I could tell my question made my mom think. She looked sad, shook her head, held be close and said…”I really don’t know.” Yeah…my mom is the best.
For the next several weeks it was a huge church scandal. I overheard adults and even some of the other kids talking about it and how awful it was and how THEY were, and how everyone could not BELIEVE such a thing could happen, and they talked and they talked and they talked. And I became confused. First of all I was confused because although I understood that having the affair was wrong or at the very least socially unacceptable, the bigger concern for me was how these people who preached love, tolerance and forgiveness could so quickly turn on one of their own. What I overheard during those next few weeks, was NOT forgiveness, but mean-spirited, self-righteous, gossip. And then it dawned on me: what if they all know I had a CRUSH on the sexy, playboy pastor. What would they do to me?? Would I be “fired”? Would I be FIRED from life??
Thus was born my core belief that people who claim to be Christians may in fact not be actually following Christian principles. They may be hypocrites. They may recite the bible verse by verse but when the chips are down they are not going to be very helpful. And if fact, they may be downright mean. My mother never weighed in on whether or not she thought the pastor should have been fired but she only spoke of him with compassion and forgiveness and regret that he had to leave. My mother is one of the “good” Christians.
Not my mother
So core beliefs: Picture a large box with a round hole in it. The square box contains your core belief, in this case “ all christians are hypocrites” ( except mom). Imagine that all of your life experiences that validate that belief are round and fit perfectly through the hole and into your “core-belief” box adding weight and substance to your belief and all experiences that do NOT validate that belief are rectangle or triangle and will NOT fit into your core-belief box. You with me? Round beliefs support, other shapes cannot get in. That is how core-beliefs work. Growing up gay in the South, most of my personal experiences with people who claimed to be Christian have been round and confirmed my core-belief. An extreme example would be Westboro Baptist Church. That particular example is pretty easy to dismiss because, well, those people are nuts. My efforts to keep an open mind and not lump all Christians in together has been (and continues to be) thwarted by personal experience and challenged by much more subtle examples. I have to make a sincere and concerted effort to hold in my heart the few folks I know personally, who identify as a Christian and live their lives in what appears to be accordance with the teachings of Christ. And here is how I know. They are happy, they smile a lot, they are kind, they are compassionate. Their ideas are liberal and allow others to be themselves and make their own life decisions without judgement. Their spiritual principles bring them peace as evidenced in how they live there lives. Their lives are improving and moving forward. They don’t feel the need to remind me about God or Jesus in every other sentence. They don’t say things like “ I’ll pray for you”, “forgive the sinner, hate the sin” or “have a blessed day”. They are people from whom light radiates and their joy for living is apparent. They are people who spend most of their time helping others. They are attractive in a way that encourages you to be around them. And most importantly, they make you feel good about yourself. If you wanna pray for me, by all means do, I can use all the prayers I can get, but telling me that you are going to make a special effort to contact my creator on my behalf kinda makes you sound pious and judgmental. At the very least ask me first. Don’t assume. After all how would you like it if I whipped out my cauldron, some sage and a chicken bone and began invoking the Guardians of the Four Corners on you without your permission? I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t. Except for some of you and that’s why we’re friends. So the message here is let’s all ask each other permission before we go unleashing our voodoo wizardry upon one another. I’m a firm believer in prayer and I pray often. I just don’t like when it’s pushed on me.
Yes, I’m still judgmental. And I am working on it. My awareness of it is ONLY a first step and any enlightenment in this area is more than likely a lifelong process.
I suppose a benefit of this mindset has been that it forced me to look beyond conventional religious institutions in order to find peace and make sense of living in this world. I have always believed in God, the presence of a divine order to things and I have always felt a connection to a greater source of power than myself. I tried to be an atheist one time and it just didn’t take. It seemed too boring, too dry, it did not mesh with my soul and it didn’t last long. I have self- studied, a variety of religious texts; both Eastern and Western, mysticism, energy healing, crystals, Wicca, Buddhist philosophy, Taoism, and endless books on Paganism and Quantum Physics. Interestingly, to me, they all have much in common. I have never had trouble blending Spirituality and Science for they seem to absolutely support one another. Creationism on the other seems childish and literal interpretation of the Bible seems dangerous to me. But WTF do I know?
There’s a lot going on here and I like it.
I was reading a story online recently by an author whose name escapes me at the moment. I can’t recall the story word for word but it goes something like this:
Guy dies and goes to heaven. God is at the gate. When the man looks around he notices there is no one else there so he asked God, “Where is everybody”? to which God replies, “What do you mean”. The man says “ where are all the other people? The people who have gone to heaven before me? Surely, am not the only one.” God replies: “there are no others, only you.” Confused the man says” but what about all those other people down on earth?” “ All you”, replies God. “ All those other people were you, different versions, difference incarnations of you. When you were helpful to others you were helping yourself, and when you were harmful to others and judging others you were harming yourself”. “ What now?” The man asked? God: “You go back, with this knowledge and try to do better.”
Wouldn’t that be something? If we could keep in mind that we are all in fact just one person, we are all part of the same energy, the same God, the same One? I have long ago dropped any labels to what I might call my spiritual practice. Labels do little more than separate us. Labels can be peeled away to reveal an empty vessel. Labels stick to the bottom of your shoe and annoy you. I believe that religious labels especially keep us boxed in; trapped by a particular belief that limits us to opening out hearts and minds to the greater picture. The Oneness of ourselves and our universe.
That day in our kitchen talking to my mom about the pastor I had asked her a question to which she replied “ I don’t know”. I will always love her for giving me that answer. She didn’t know, and she didn’t claim to know. She didn’t quote scripture or talk about sin or hell or punishment. She simply said “ I don’t know. The longer I live on this earth I find that “ I don’t know” is , quite often, the correct answer and the more I can remember “I don’t know” the more I can continue to stay open to answers and to the voice of God.
I’ve never really thought I was very good ay many things. High School for me was miserable and most of my teachers seemed uninspired at best and at worst emotionally unstable. I had two teachers who had nervous breakdowns and I don’t blame them one bit. The school system did not allow for much grace where teacher’s were concerned.The majority of my teachers seemed bored with their lives and uninterested in mine. There was very little encouragement to explore, create and find something I was good at AND learn how to capitalize on that particular talent. I was blandly taught the basics and in turn, learned to detest school.
The only teachers I ever had to embrace my JimmyT-ness were drama and music teachers. Those were the ones who made high school bearable for me. Many thanks to Vickie, Dan and Marta. You helped shape me into the man I am today…for better or for worse.
As I kid I really didn’t have much interest in many things. I liked stuffed animals and real animals. I liked planets and stars. I liked playing down by the creek with my friend, Ashly. I liked my parents and my grandparents. I liked playing in the yard. I liked music. I had two older sisters but they were too much older to be a reliable source of entertainment. And I hated being far away from my mom. My favorite times as a kid were with my mom- just doing whatever. It was a challenge to get me to do anything that involved a group of people. I am actually still kind-of that way (but I have learned to occasionally get beyond my comfort zone) but as a child I became extremely anxious whenever my mom would “drop me off” somewhere to “have fun” with a bunch of other kids. My mother was dedicated (and understandably desperate) to find something for me that I really enjoyed doing. So at the age of 9 I became involved in theatre when my mom took me to an audition for a community production of the Wizard of OZ. I sang “ We Go Together” from Grease-accapella, complete with choreographed hand gestures and I sang the entire song. I was cast as a munchkin. I really wanted to be they Mayor of Munchkin City, but my friend Harry, beat me to it, and I was relegated to Coroner. (I did enjoyed pronouncing the witch dead, though. Good times.) I remember being really nervous in the audition but as soon as the crowd in the audition room began responding positively I knew I had arrived at a pivotal point in my life and I never looked back. Thus my career as a gypsy showman began. And ham.
Up to this time I never felt like I was good at anything. I was interested in science but teachers crushed that dream when they told my I was too weak at math to be any good at it. I hated sports ( you know, the thing ALL boys are supposed to like). I had tried to be good at sport things, but I just wasn’t. When I was about 8 years old, Mom signed me up for T-ball for one miserable summer and I have never been as hot and thirsty in my life as I was standing in the field in 98 degree heat. I really don’t think they allowed us water…at least I don’t remember any. And I remember a lot of old men yelling. I think it’s why I hate the heat to this day. Anytime a fly ball came towards me I wanted to cry. I wanted to be home in the air-conditioning with my dog listening to my Donna Summer album. I could not grasp ( and still can’t) why anyone want to stand around in a dusty field and play catch. And they took it so seriously. Bleh….
Anyway, when I began performing I had finally found something I was naturally good at. I grew up in a musical family and I could sing. I took to acting like I hooker to a C note and although I never considered myself a dancer my personality was large enough to carry me through. (Keep your eyes on the hands, folks!!) I FINALLY felt like I was GOOD at something. And not just good, but real good. Good enough to make it my career. So, I studied, performed, attended a conservatory in New York and went on to have a decent ( life- sustaining- with- a-little-help-from-the-folks anyway) career. But I think I could have done better. Of course addiction seriously derailed my ambitions (and my ability to walk) but besides that there was always this nagging voice that said “people like you don’t make it big”. Fast forward to now; I have begun to look at that belief more closely.
I was raised in a humble home. My parents were wonderful, loving, kind and humble people. They taught me and raised me well. They are two of my heroes; children of the 50’s, both of them. And they had certain beliefs one of which was humility was of utmost importance. A fine and important lesson, but I took away another message, or at the very least one that I don’t believe was intended, that has played on a loop in my head ever since then.
I was raised with the message that ” Yes, you can be anything you want, BUT don’t get your hopes up too high or you’ll end up disappointed”, as though being disappointed was the worst thing in the world. I distinctly remember having conversations when, at age 18, I was preparing to leave for New York about how difficult and rare it is for anyone to be able to make a living in theatre. And they were right. But there must have been a better way to convey the message other than “ Good Luck…you’ll need it”.
My paternal grandfather referred to people who were highly successful and proud of it as “putting on airs”. Anytime I got something new he would make comments about being “ too big for my britches.” So I was encouraged to succeed…but just not too much. You don’t want people to think you’re vain. I learned that I was capable of doing great things…and that a LOT of people are and most of them don’t, so you’ll probably end up sad and alone,in a tattered bathrobe with a bunch of cats. But here’s to giving it the good ol’ college try, (and you’re gonna suck, but we’re proud of you anyway).
Separated at birth?
Then there is recovery. We learn early in recovery that humility is a primary component of staying sober. Many of us have had such a distorted sense of ego that it must be smashed in order for us to experience a new way of life. Whether we have suffered from an inflated “King Baby” attitude or utter self loathing our ego is twisted and garbled and it no longer serves us. In recovery the ego must be adjusted and we must learn to be “right-sized” so that we can function sober in this world with others and learn to get along.
So the question on my mind has been: “How to we take pride in our work, and allow success (and I’m talking big success…and financial security) into our lives AND keep our egos in check? How do I take my work and the livelihood of my family to the next level and open myself up to the abundance of life without sounding like a douchebag while doing it?” That’s really the rub. I don’t want people to think I think I’m all that… but between you and me…I kinda do. In a humble way. I don’t mean in a way that says that I believe I am better than anyone, that’s incredibly far from the truth…I quite often feel worse (ego-maniac with low self-esteem table for one, please), but in a way that says, “I am worthy”. I do feel like I have gifts to offer and I want to share them with he world- The big wide world. I want to create change for the better. I want to help others learn to heal themselves. I want to help people experience the same kind of freedom from addiction and joy in recovery as I have. The world is a broken place and I want to help it heal.
SO THE QUESTION: How do we stay humble and not sell ourselves short?
I think it begins with not being afraid of what others might think. If I am honest and sincere and my motives are good (which I always check with my husband and my sponsor) then It really doesn’t matter if someone thinks I’m a conceited jerkface, or an egotistical D-bag or whatever they may think. I know I’m not, the people in my life know I’m not, and the people who love me know. And that’s enough. And secondly ( and it ties into the first) not being afraid to speak up and let the world know I’m here, I’m available and I want to help. And third not being afraid to ask for what I need. My time and my energy and my resources are valuable and I don’t have to give everything away for free. I look around and I see millions of people doing what they love, doing and living well. There is no reason in the world that I can’t do that too, other than a limited, outdated belief system. And no, it’s not all about the money, but the money sure as shit would be nice.
I have excellent mentors today who inspire me to continue to do good, (most importantly) ethically sound work and at the same time reach for the stars. Yet the old tapes continue to play. Meditation has begun to bring into my awareness solutions and part of the solution is to write it all out; get it out of my head. When I do that, it quiets the volume on the tape.
Fear. It always come down to fear doesn’t it? Self- centered fear. Fear that we might be judged as stupid, conceited, clueless…whatever… Maybe it’s the fear that we may actually succeed big time and God forbid, be responsible for something. But you know the bigger fear I have? It’s waking up from my autopilot in 30 years and thinking “Why didn’t I try harder? Why didn’t I just GO FOR IT?” That would really suck. Plus, I want a beach house.
“Don’t hide your light under a bushel”. That’s in the Bible, ya’ll. I’m no Bible expert but I think Mary Magdalene probably said it. I mean, she was all about light and bushels. She got a bum rap, too. She had sass. She had spirit. Screw those villagers with their torches and pitch forks. I’ve always liked Mary Magdalene, seems like my kinda gal. I think she would have liked me too. And I’m quite sure she would have told me to go for it.
So here’s to you Mary! I’m sorry everyone treated you so mean.
A couple of years ago my husband and I decided to add to our flock. We began raising chickens as a hobby back in 2011 and have had a lot of fun with them. We love being outside in the yard and raising chickens has been a really fun project. They are sweet, ridiculous creatures and the eggs are great! We had lost a couple of chickens to a hawk and another , a rescue chicken (who had been abused by a rooster and fallen on hard times) named Helen literally flew the coop. She was kind of a bitch and never really played nice so we weren’t all that sad. The last time I saw her was on a Facebook post; someone in my neighborhood posted a picture of her struttin’ her stuff down at the park. She looked happy. But I digress…
So we were down a few chickens and decided to head out to Southern States to purchase a few new peeps. Southern States sells baby chickens in the spring for a couple of months and you have to get them while they have them. I’ve never ordered chickens online but I think you can. The idea of a box of chickens traveling cross-country makes me kind of sad though. Anyway we went to Southern States and picked out 2 chickens and a guinea hen. The hen was Dan’s idea. I had heard they were loud. They are.
We made our way home and settled them into their temporary residential quarters: the bathtub in our downstairs bathroom. Baby chiclets have to be raised inside until their feathers come in and it becomes warm enough to transfer them to the coop. Then you have to separate them and acclimate them to the older chickens lest they be mauled in a hideous chicken riot, which I have unfortunately witnessed in the past and am still traumatized by to this day. It’s a whole process, but one I really don’t mind. So I covered the bottom of the tub with shavings and gave them food and water and a heat lamp that must stay on so they can stay warm.The set up worked well- like the Embassy Suites for chickens- and the tub keeps the dust from going everywhere. We gave them some tiny chicken toys. We named them. The little white one -Elsa, the darker one- Buzz and the guinea is Kiki.
We try to spend some time each day holding them and socializing with the baby chickens because the more you do that the more affectionate and social they are as adults. And we love a good chicken social. I mean who doesn’t? So I am very in tune with my chickens ( all my animals, really) and I started becoming concerned when I noticed they were getting these read bumps on their necks. Nothing causes me more stress than when I feel there is something wrong with one my animals so I immediately began searching the google for chicken illnesses and cures.
Similar to trying to diagnose yourself on WebMD, a web search for chicken disease is a rabbit hole of doom and despair. Everything is fatal, everything is easy to contract and you probably have it so just give up now. But fortunately the symptoms “red bumps on chicken’s neck” produced relatively benign results: Mites, perhaps scabies, or maybe just a little rash…fairly easy things to treat. I poured over chicken blogs and chicken info carefully and the solution seemed to be a chicken bath and coop and chicken dusting with diatomaceous earth. OK. I can handle that.
I shopped for my chicken supplies and prepared to de-mite. I gave each little chicken ( by now about 8 weeks old) a bath in the kitchen sink. Remarkably, chickens enjoy a warm bath. They settle in and just let you soap them up and rinse them off with the sprayer. Like a dish. I carefully bundled them in a warm towel making sure they were good and dry before placing them back in the chicken pen. Once dry you have to actually dust the chicken by picking it up and kinda holding it upside down to dust it and get the powder all up under their wings. They don’t like that too much. I also had to dust ALL the other chickens in case they had been exposed to these vile mites, or fleas, or whatever. Nine chickens in all. I wrangled and dusted nine chickens, changed the bedding in the hen-house, dusted the coop and all around the pen. I was covered in diatomaceous earth from head to toe. But I felt satisfied. The babies would be OK and they wouldn’t have itchy necks. I slept good that night.
A few weeks go by and one day while observing them I noticed the new chickens looked …well…they looked kinda ugly. I mean I hated to admit that, but they were kinda like the ugly ducklings. That’s what it reminded me of. I guess that’s what it must feel like to have an ugly child…rather disappointing. And they weren’t really socializing with the other chickens. The introduction of the new chickens to the older ones had been really easy. No fighting, no pecking, nothing. Strangely easy. I called Dan out to the take a look. “Do those chickens look weird to you?” I asked. He looked and said, well…they’re just kinda strange-looking, maybe they are a different breed.” ( we thought they were Americauna’s- the SIGN said AMERICAUNA’S!!) “Maybe the sign was wrong”, he said,” they kinda look like wild chickens.”Now, I have no idea what a “wild chicken” looks like but my husband is a smart guy so I went with it. OK, I thought. We have wild chickens. They definitely aren’t as pretty as my other chickens but they are really sweet and I will love them just like all the others.
So as the chickens got older they continued to look weirder, but I had accepted them as they were and loved them so I really stopped giving it much thought. They were still adolescents, about 9 weeks old, and I thought maybe they will grow into their looks. I mean, most teenagers and ugly, right? Gangly and awkward at the very least. And most of the them turn out relatively normal looking.
So that was my thinking when my friend Jennifer stopped by one day to visit with her daughter. I had been telling her about the ugly chickens and she said he HAD to come over and see. We made our way into the back yard and down to the chicken coop. The chickens were hanging out doing their chicken thang. “Look” I said, aren’t they the strangest chickens you’ve ever seen? I’m kinda worried they’re sick”. Jennifer took one look at them and without batting an eye said, “well, I know what your problem is…that’s not a chicken, that’s a fuckin’ turkey.”
Turkey….TURKEY… a fuckin’ turkey…the words rattled around in my brain trying to find a place to rest. A box to fit into. But…but…the sign said…the sign said….chick…chi…turk…ok ,ok…yes YES of course…that IS a fuckin’ TURKEY! It was like scales had fallen from my eyes. I had never even considered they might be ANYTHING other than a chicken. I mean, I bought chickens. I raised chickens. I have fed, and cooed, and bathed, and loved CHICKENS. And they’re turkeys. Interlopers. And ya’ll I’m not dumb. I KNOW what a turkey looks like…but when they are little, they look EXACTLY THE SAME. EXACTLY. They look the same ya’ll…they do!
Dan and I stood there kinda quiet for a minute allowing the realization to settle in while Jennifer and her daughter laughed and laughed and laughed. “What are you gonna do” She asked me? “Well, I guess we’re gonna raise them”, I said, “I mean, they’re ours… they’re like our weird, ugly children but I love them. I can’t turn my back on the turkeys…How big do turkeys get”, I asked. “BIG” she said.
So we now have two 40 pound turkeys who have commandeered the back yard. They are friggin’ huge, y’all. And stubborn, And they are sweet. We made them their own little ramshackle turkey hut because they were too big to fit into the chicken coop ( and apparently turkeys and chickens should not sleep together). They have very social personalities…sometimes too social and they tend to make people nervous. Which makes me laugh. They have a menacing look on their faces at all times, which also makes me laugh. Especially because they are so sweet. They come up to us and will pull on our shirt tail when they want attention. Buzz occasionally pecks at toe and fingernails and jewelry. Buzz and our dog Franklin actually play…like really play with sticks and stuff. The puppy, Fiona, guards herself against them ( she’s gotten too close and received a peck on the snoot). They cats eye them suspiciously and keep a wide berth. It’s like friggin’ animal planet back there. We call it The Big Gay Chicken Ranch.
First of all and most importantly October contains the most fabulous of holidays, Halloween. Secondly it contains my birthday. Here are the reasons why October is the best month of the year.
OK, well I just mentioned two. Now, I’ve never been one to call much attention to my birthday. As an adult I have never had a party or even gotten together with friends for dinner. I’ve always felt this almost passive-aggressive need to downplay my birthday and then to feel sorry for myself when the day actually comes and the only acknowledgements I get are a lousy sheet cake from my co-workers ( yes, yes It’s nice they remembered…meh), $25 dollar check from my mom and some birthday booty from the hubster. I took cynical delight in watching the faces of dear friends when they realized they had forgotten my birthday.”It’s ok” I would say, knowing they felt a sliver of guilt. In reality they had not forgotten anything, I had just failed to mention it. On purpose.
But NO MORE! As of this year I am coming OUT of the birthday closet and I am dressed to kill. I told my husband a couple of days ago that October was heretofore to be known as:
The 31 Days of JimmyT
And yesterday I got an Asian Spice Reed Diffuser from Pier one from Dan, so it’s working.
This year I am celebrating everything October, including me. I adore the chilly fall air, building fires in the fireplace, the sense that the earth is preparing for her rest, and I’m so, ever so, happy that kids are back in school and not wilding around the shopping center where they seem to be all summer long. I love the colors of fall, the clothes and boots and long dark evenings.
And I ADORE Halloween. It really is the best holiday in my book. The “thinning of the veil” between the worlds where the natural and supernatural become seemingly inseparable. I have always been a firm believer in all things supernatural. paranormal and mystical and during this time the energies resonate with me so profoundly that I can feel it in my bones, like a tiny buzzing vibration. Like a bee. A very tiny, devilish bee.
I haven’t decided if I want to gather people for the occasion of my birthday. I have a thing about parties. That thing is, I don’t like them. Or at least I’ve convinced myself I don’t like them. I’m not sure which. I used to think I liked them, but looking back I think it was the vodka. I tend to get overwhelmed in large groups and confused. I get nervous. My upper lip sweats. They can seem like a good idea and then about a week before comes the sense of dread and the scrambling to find reasons to cancel. BUT I love gifts. So there in lies the connundrum.
Please note, that I am NOT including Pumpkin Spice anything in the list of reasons to celebrate October. I just can’t with that.
So I shall meditate and let life unfold. I have outed myself ( My birthday is October 23) and I have alerted my husband that daily gifts would be appreciated. He alerted me that I better alert 30 more people so please share. Happy October everyone.
About 4 years into my sobriety I became bored. Although I considered my 12-step program to be strong, something was missing. I was attending meetings, working with a sponsor and doing everything I knew to do, yet I was dry. My Spiritual life was on hold and my luster for life had become dull, flat and boring. After attending a weekend convention I called my sponsor to ask for his guidance.
“Something doesn’t feel right” I said. “I don’t know what it is, but I just feel stuck. I’m not necessarily unhappy, but, I mean…is this all there is?”
I told my sponsor I thought I needed to work through the 12 steps again ( sponsors love it when you tell them what you think you need) . My sponsor asked me how much I was meditating. “Um….well..I think about meditating a lot”, I said.
“Yeah”, he said, “that sounds about right. I tell you what, I don’t think you need to re-work the steps, I think you need to spend some time on Step 11
My sponsor has always given me strong guidance and this time was no exception. Step 11 suggests “prayer and meditation” in an effort to improve our spiritual lives and although I am not a religious person, prayer was a pretty regular part of my routine. Meditation however had been something I have conveniently overlooked.
So we began to meet weekly to investigate meditation together and this was the beginning of something that has improved the quality of my life more than I could have even imagined. Now don’t get me wrong, my meditation practice is far from perfect. I am not a meditation master nor have I had mystical experiences, but I have experienced a profound shift in my thinking and my reaction to life. In other words I can tell a difference in my life during times when I am meditating on a regular basis versus times when I am not.
The effectiveness of meditation led me to begin studying mindfulness which is the foundation of all Dialectical Behavior Therapy. Mindfulness is defined as “a mental state achieved by focusing one’s awareness on the present moment, while calmly acknowledging and accepting one’s feelings, thoughts, and bodily sensations, used as a therapeutic technique.” DBT is that delicate balance of acceptance and change; a dance between the ability to accept ourselves (and our thoughts and emotions) exactly as we are in each moment, without self-loathing, self-pity or judgement and the ability to work towards changing problems in our thinking and behaviors that lead us to suffering, acting- out and negative consequences
So often it seems we go through our busy lives unaware of what is going on in our minds and in our hearts; we are all on a fast track to the next appointment or obligation forgetting that we are human beings with thoughts and emotions that if left unchecked spiral out of control or at best keep us stuck in unhealthy thinking patterns that prevent us from moving forward in our lives. To put it in DBT terms” DBT believes that “ All people at any given point are doing the best they can” and “people need to do better, try harder and be more motivated for change”.
DBT was created by Marsha M. Linehan, PhD and focus on learning to balance the acceptance and change through four modules of therapy: Mindfulness, Interpersonal Effectiveness, Distress Tolerance and Emotion Regulation. Each module requires mindfulness practice as the foundational skill for that module. To quote Lenehan, “ We can contrast mindfulness with rigidly clinging to the present moment as if we could keep a present moment from changing if we cling hard enough. When we are mindful, we are open to the fluidity of each moment as it arises and falls away.”
What has been discovered is that DBT, an evidence based treatment, is effective in helping people with addiction learn to become mindful of triggers, emotional upsets and unhealthy thinking patterns and learn the skills necessary to become effective in their lives in recovery. DBT shares many views and beliefs with Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, noting that unwanted thoughts and behaviors are learned and reinforced. DBT believes that the interaction between two factors increases the chances of persistent mental health issues:
Someone that is emotionally vulnerable will feel like their life is turbulent and extreme, and they will be quick to respond with strong emotional reactions. This vulnerability can be caused by traumatic events or from the individual’s natural disposition ( i.e. they are simply born that way).
An invalidating environment is where someone is consistently made to feel as though their feelings are wrong or “bad.” A lack of kindness, respect, acceptance or simply not understanding the person with emotional vulnerability can produce an invalidating environment.
DBT includes a level of optimism that is not found usually in CBT. DBT conveys that:
People are doing the best they can in their current situation.
They want situations to improve.
People are capable of learning new behaviors to change their lives.
The problems are not always the person’s fault, but it is their duty to resolve it.
As mentioned, DBT is focused on creating an effective environment for the client to learn and practice skills. The primary skills addressed in DBT are:
Mindfulness. This is the act of being completely aware and engaged in one’s current setting. People with mental health or substance use issues often spend increased time distracting themselves, thinking about the past, or worrying about the future.
Mindfulness is the practice of being fully immersed in the here and now, with kindness and curiosity towards one’s current experience.
Distress tolerance: When people experience distress, there is an urge to reduce or change it immediately. Using a substance during periods of stress is an example of an unhealthy way to manage distress. Distress tolerance teaches how to accept and tolerate distress rather than escape from it.
Interpersonal effectiveness: When communication and conflict resolution skills are lacking, problems increase. DBT teaches people to learn how to have happier, more fulfilling relationships through effective interactions with others.
Emotional regulation: This is another example of dialectics. Distress tolerance moves towards acceptance while emotional regulation works to identify unwanted feelings and find ways to change them.
These skills are so effective that other styles of therapy have borrowed them and currently use them in a number of settings.
DBT Skills Training in not group therapy and processing of important client issues are reserved for individual counseling. The Skills group focuses on teaching DBT skills with homework given and participants practicing each skill between sessions. Homework review with each client sharing his or her experience utilizing the skill is done at the beginning of each session followed by discussion and teaching of the next skill. It is a requirement in most DBT Skills groups that each participant have an individual counseling session each week.
I have been studying DBT for the past year and the mindfulness practices have absolutely informed my meditation allowing me the ability to slow my mind, consider facts vs thoughts and feelings more regularly, and to bring a new sense of ease and freedom into my life.
Jimmy Tunstall is a counselor and Resident Manager for a residential sober living program offering clinical services in North Carolina. He works with individuals and groups. He is Certified Peer Support Specialist and Certified Substance Abuse Counselor-Intern. He believes in healing in all of it’s forms and that each individual is unique and deserves to be treated with dignity, respect and kindness. He offers a wide variety of options for pursuing and strengthening recovery with client-centered guidance.
Yesterday marked 8 years and 3 months of sobriety. I have been here before. The last time I had 8 years and 3 months of sobriety I was in the process of slowly and subtly moving towards a relapse of epic proportions. Here’s how it all went down…
In 2007, after 10 years of sobriety, I relapsed with alcohol and spent a year spiraling deeper and deeper into the utter hell of alcoholism and addiction. How could this have happened to me? I had been alcohol free for 10 years, I had a wonderful, loving husband, a loving, supportive family, a moderately successful (if unpredictable) career and was garnering attention and accolades for my work as an actor we owned a beautiful home. I looked good, I (thought I) felt good. My life had been good. I was at the top of my game. How had I slipped back?
Looking back is really easy for me to see where it started to go wrong although I could not possibly see it at the time. 12 step work, meditation and careful self-assessment has allowed me to see where I began to slip back into old patterns and old behaviors and it all started for me when I quit going to meetings.
I had gotten sober through 12-Step recovery in 1996 and for the first 4 or 5 years I was pretty active. I stayed close to the rooms, worked with a sponsor, and went through the steps. Somewhere around 2000 I begin to feel I was “cured” from the disease of addiction. Further, my father died and I became disgusted. I got tired of listening to others whine about their problems and I began judging. I was tired of going to meetings and so I stopped. Just . Like. That.
The second thing that happened was I started keeping secrets. Very slowly (I mean really slowly over the course of several years), I began to slip back into old behaviors. I began to lie about little things, act out in old (but seemingly benign) sexual behaviors, began to be concerned mostly with myself and my career, I began to struggle with anxiety and depression and when my father died from cancer at the age of 68 my anxiety rose to the point that I pursued a doctor to ask for help. I was already in therapy and my therapist knew my history with addiction, but I conveniently kept my doctor’s visit a secret from my therapist.
I went to another doctor who, knowing I was an alcoholic, prescribed for me Klonopin. I remember putting up a vague, half-assed argument for about a second when I reminded my doctor that I was alcoholic and couldn’t take anything addictive. His response was that as long as I took it as prescribed that I would not become addicted. “Well then, GREAT”, I responded with a small sinking feeling in my gut. So small in fact, it was indiscernible. Let me make clear that I do not hold the doctor (no longer MY doctor) responsible. It was my choice. MY decision. However I do now see a doctor who is familiar with addiction and who is “addiction friendly”. My current doctor would no more prescribe me benzos anymore than he would suggest drinking Drano.
For the next 3 years I carried on as usual, taking Klonopin “as prescribed” save for the few times I maybe took an extra one on a really bad day. I continued to see my therapist, never mentioning the Klonopin and keeping more and more secrets. One of the biggest secrets that I was keeping was that I ADORED my Klonipin. The first time I took one I’m pretty sure I saw the face of Jesus smiling down on me and giving be a “thumbs up”. I called them my “I don’t give a shit” pill. Even writing this, I can feel the instinctual pull towards something so small which totally and completely changed the way I felt within minutes. It was like a slice of heaven.
I never craved alcohol, and the drugs I was taking were prescribed so I still considered myself completely sober. Once in a blue moon I would attend an AA meeting and I had convinced myself I was doing just fine. Then I got a cold and took some cough medicine (alcohol free, of course) and noticed the scrumptious effect that combining Klonopin with cough medicine gave me. Delicious. Energy with a sweet, cool buzz. It made me want to clean my house. I began to get a sneaking suspicion that combining benzos and cough syrup probably wasn’t the most sober behavior in the world, but I wasn’t harming anyone and it wasn’t alcohol so again I was able to convince myself that carrying around a bottle of Robotussin in the glove compartment of my car was completely normal ( this nagging cough, for heaven’s sake). It was around this time that I started going back into the clubs.
I worked in theatre so many of my colleges went out after shows and for years I had declined because I knew I had no business hanging out in bars. But with a little pill and some cough syrup I could hang with the best of them. I could sip my diet coke or bottled water, smoke cigarettes and feel connected to “the party” like I hadn’t in years. I love to dance and shoot pool and in my mind those were my reasons for going. “I’m not drinking” I told myself, “I don’t even want to drink”. I was still very verbose about my “sobriety” and everyone I hung out with knew I was ” in recovery” and didn’t drink. So I could go out, kick back and enjoy a secret buzz and I thought I was the smartest person in the world for having figured this out. If there had been a way to patent and sell this idea I would have. I was the king of the dive bar world.
This went on for another year or so.
On the outside I seemed (mostly) perfectly normal, although my husband may disagree with that. I looked good, I worked, I traveled, I helped take care of the house and yard, I was getting lots of acting work. I had not told anyone, even my husband about the cough syrup or about how it made me feel. I never talked to my therapist about going to bars and clubs or any of it. And in 2007 on a business trip to Dallas, without planning, or scheming or any thought whatsoever, I reached across a cocktail table and took a giant sip of my friends glass of wine. It was a Kendall Jackson in a tall, slender stem glass; I can still see it today. There had been nothing between me and that first drink. NO program, no higher power or higher mind, ( whatever you choose to call it), no resistance. “Man that’s good” I said. My friend Kathy said “Uhhhh… wait, I thought you were in AA. Aren’t you not supposed to drink?” I said, “You know what? Fuck it. Fuuuuuuck IT. I have not had a drink in 10 years, I want to party tonight and when I get back home I’ll go back to AA and start over, but tonight I want to have some fun!” And from the bottom of my soul that was my intention. I knew I wanted to get good and drunk, ( I knew myself well enough to know I never had one – or five- of anything) ,have one huge blow out in Dallas, and then come home and go back to life as I had known it. I did succeed in getting extremely drunk and after several bottles of wine a handful of klonopin and about 8 Absolut martini’s later, found myself naked in the swimming pool with a bunch of strangers. This was pretty normal for me; drunk and naked always seemed to go together. (I thought EVERYONE was naked, turns out it was just me). I had no intentions of continuing to drink after this one big night. My disease had other plans.
That chilly October night in Dallas marked the beginning of the most hideous, destructive, and nearly fatal 7 months of my life and I believe that the self-pity, the guilt and shame of the “first drunk” and my inability to forgive myself and move forward was one of the main reasons I continued to drink. Besides, of course the physiological fact that the craving and obsession had been activated by my drinking. The genie was out of the bottle.
Of course I drank the next morning to ward off the hangover, and get through work and I drank martinis on the plane on the way home. I have a vague recollection of getting into an argument with a fellow passenger on the plane and telling him to go fuck himself and the flight attendant cutting me off and telling me to keep my voice down. I had phoned my husband the first night I got drunk, hysterical and crying and saying how sorry I was and how I was going to get back on track.( I called him about 15 times that night alternately professing my remorse and raging at him demanding he fly to Dallas to get me.) He told me to eat something, go to bed and we would work through this together.
Yes, he’s a bit of a saint.
But when i got home I was unable to stop drinking. Something in my brain had short circuited. I went to 12-Step meetings and I got a sponsor, but I couldn’t stop drinking. I would put together a few days, a few weeks, but then would drink again and it was always worse. I continued taking the Klonipin and cough medicine along with the alcohol I was consuming. I stole bottles of booze from my job and worked drunk. I began drinking Lysterine and other mouthwash to hide the fact that I was drinking. I probably consumed anywhere from 50 to 100 bottles of mouth wash during those 7 months and I spent a lot of time on the toilet. I began having accidents. Falling, running into things, banging my head on countertops. I went to the Urgent Care for a shoulder injury and got Vicodan. I went to another Urgent Care for a back injury and got Oxycodone. I have some vague, foggy, memories of going to several other Urgent Cares and faking symptoms to get more Klonipin and one doctor prescribed me Xanax. I went to different drug stores all over town in the hopes that I wouldn’t be discovered. I began to steal pills from the medicine cabinets of friends and family. I stole handfuls of my 70-year-old mothers valium (she takes for an inner ear problem) from her nightstand. I had stashes of little pills everywhere. Sometimes I would take one, or two, or three, or a combination and wash it back with mouthwash. And then get in my car go to a meeting.
I kept picking up “start-over” chips in meetings. Something in me wanted so desperately to stop using. Many times, I would stop at a bar on the way home from the meeting to belt back a few shots and think to myself “I’ll try again tomorrow”. I had lost my mind.
I can only describe my mental state as seriously fucking crazy. I mean out of my mind crazy. I can’t adequately describe the level of sadness and despair I felt. The confusion and guilt and shame never left my side. I wanted to die but would not consider suicide, and I was hopeful that I would get lucky, take the wrong combination of pills and booze and maybe, just maybe, not wake up. That thought crossed my mind almost every night. My husband was in complete despair not knowing what to do or how to help me. He was only partially aware of everything I was ingesting because I lied to him so much. But he knew I was very sick. He is in recovery himself and he relied on his meetings, his sponsor and his friends in recovery to keep him afloat. He was close to throwing in the towel on our 10 year relationship. He kept telling me I needed to go to treatment, but I kept insisting I had gotten sober once before, and goddamnit I would do it again. And then I would drink.
The last 2 months of my drinking had me drinking rubbing alcohol and mouthwash, alone in the back yard of our North Carolina home. It was spring, May and June and the weather was beautiful. I remember vividly how surreal everything looked and felt. I relinquished my money, credit cards, drivers license and passport to my husband so I didn’t wind up taking a one way flight out of the country and disappearing, (a very real possibility) and I had wrecked my car so I had nothing to drive. I had lost 2 jobs, was unemployed and unemployable. I gave up my credit cards willingly believing it would make it more difficult for me to get alcohol, but you know, we always find a way. I was spending lots of time in the bathroom, sick. I spent the days at home alone with the puppy I had gotten ( thinking she would help me get sober)…
and for what it’s worth that sweet puppy was the one reason I got out of bed in the morning and I give her credit for helping to save my life).
I spent the last 2 months of my relapse, sitting in our back yard taking what pills I had left or could find and drinking rubbing alcohol I had stolen from a neighbor’s medicine cabinet.
It was a beautiful, warm summer morning in late June when, while rummaging through a medicine closet, realizing I was almost out of rubbing alcohol that the thought of drinking gasoline from the gas can in the garage hit my mind like a sharp tack. It was very specific and very doable. The very next thought was what I believe and refer to as my “moment of clarity”. ” You’re insane” a loud and specific voice in my head told me. “You have literally lost your mind and you need to be in a hospital. You need round the clock, professional help.” These words rang out in my mind loud and clear and over and over. I immediately, almost robotically closed the closet door and went to the phone and called my husband. ” I’m sick” I said, “I need help”. He asked me what I wanted to do. I told him I wanted to go to treatment. I told him I had no idea how we were going to pay for it. He said he had already taken a loan out on the house and the money was in the bank. I asked him why he hadn’t told me that. He told me he was hoping and praying I would come to the realization that I needed help myself. He told me he knew me well enough to know that if he had forced me into treatment that it wouldn’t have worked. I asked him to call the treatment center. He told me I needed to be the one to make that phone call. He told me how much he loved me, and that was leaving work immediately and would be home shortly. He told me he loved me again, and to make the phone call, sit tight, and wait for him. And he told me he loved me again.
I entered treatment the next day, on July 1, 2008. That was the very beginning my journey in recovery and my story of hope.
Today as I write this I am a few months past my 8 year anniversary and continue to invest my heart and soul in a program of recovery. My life has gone in a direction I did not choose, but that chose me. I practice 12-step philosophy, meditation and visualization, and I am a part of a vibrant recovery community. I get to work as an addiction counselor helping others. I am able to use my experience, all the good, and especially all the bad to help others. I am grateful everyday to wake up alive and sober.
Recovery IS possible for anyone who seeks it and it is my sincere hope that I will be able to inspire and support anyone who has a desire to get sober.