Feelings

Brace yourself, I've got A LOT running through my head right now so this could be a long one.

I went and saw a movie tonight with some friends and it really got me thinking about a lot of things. It brought up a lot of "stuffed" feelings that I'm sure the creators of the movie never even intended. The movie we saw was The Secret Life of Bees and I would highly recommend it. Unless of course you are me and you have 10 years worth of pent up emotions just dying to get out. Then… maybe not so much.

So about that, this movie made me cry. If you have known me for any length of time you would know that this, in and of its self is AMAZING. Two weeks ago we saw Nights in Rodanthe and I cried at that movie too. Before that, it had been probably a good 5 years since I have cried in public. At anything. I could watch sad movies, talk about sad things, even go to funerals. Nothing. No tears. Both of my Grandmother's died in this time frame and the only tears I cried were during the actual funeral when everyone else was crying.

Someone asked me why I would come to this blog and write about all of these things that cause me pain. Why not just focus on the positive things in my life and move on. The reason is, because I can't. Because when I do that I end up going to a movie and then breaking down the minute I get into my car and bawling hysterically the whole way home.



Alcoholism [Addiction] has contributed to many dashed hopes, broken dreams, and considerable pain in my life. I do not wish to dwell on these feelings, but neither do I wish to turn my back on them. Al-Anon is helping me to face even the most unpleasant aspects of my past. […] I am able to feel the pain and mourn the losses, and then move on.

These feelings are a deep part of me; when they come knocking at the door of my awareness, I wish to open it and let them in […] only through this can I become whole and at peace.

-- Courage to Change, One Day at a Time in Al-Anon II



For me, I have spent so many years "stuffing" my feelings down I have essentially forgotten how to feel. There was a line in this movie that said sometimes people don't feel so that they can live. That was my life. It wasn't always that way. In the beginning I used to cry at a lot of things. He would call me a name or we would get in a fight and the emotions would come out. But over time you sort of become numb to all of it. The first time you are called a B!tch it really hurts but by the 50th time you just sort of take it all in stride.

Alcoholics / Addicts also tend to use those emotions to show that you are weaker than them. I remember several times breaking down crying and instead of getting sympathy or compassion from him I got ridicule. Stop being a baby. What are you crying for? After a little while of this, you just train yourself to stop crying. To hold it in and don’t' show any weakness. You train yourself how not to feel.



When I came to Al-Anon I didn’t' feel. […] When we had a child, I said, "No big deal, it's just another day. Nothing moved me at all. It was like being dead.

My Al-Anon friends assured me that I did have feelings, but I had lost touch with them through years of living with alcoholism [addiction] and denying every hint of anger, joy or sorrow. As I began to recover, I began to feel, and it was very confusing. For awhile I thought I might be getting sicker than ever because the feelings were so uncomfortable, but my Al-Anon friends assured me this was just part of the process.


-- Courage to Change, One Day at a Time in Al-Anon II



Now that I am starting to heal things are all starting to come back to me. Feelings that I thought I had stuffed so far down that they would never escape are suddenly coming flooding to the surface when I hear lines like why am I so unlovable? I spent a large portion of my time thinking that all of this was happening because DH didn't love me enough. That I had done something to make all of this happen and if I could just make him love me again he would want to stay home with me, want to be with our son.

None of that is true. He did drugs because he is an addict. Not because I was unlovable. When he would drink/do drugs he would get angry and violent. The dad in this movie is also that way and watching him go into fits of rage brought be spiraling back to that place in my life. Towards the end of the movie the little girl has a realization. She finally understands that her dad didn't hurt her because he didn't love her. He hurt her because he was hurting and he was lashing out at whomever was closest.

Somewhere deep inside I am slowly digging through all of those stuffed memories and repressed sadness, anger and joy. Slowly, I am learning to feel again.

Part III - CaCa's Story

**This is a guest post by a reader who refers to herself as CaCa.**

It all blurs together….sometime between high school and my first years in college I learned I had a half brother; my mom slipped it into conversation as if she had always known. All my life I longed for a sibling. After me, despite attempts and a miscarriage my mom was unable to bare more children.

After the divorce my PG “disowned” my BF, we never discussed him but he never told me of my half brother either. To be 20-ish and find out I have a brother who was only four years younger than me, it was like a dream come true, or so I thought.

I have the most amazing family. I have a dad who loves me and an entire family that welcomed me. Many cousins some of which, would later become my best friends. I have always had my maternal family: two wonderful grandparents that were more like a second set of parents, an aunt who was more like a sister and two uncles who would do anything to protect or provide for me. Then there was my mother. I wouldn’t trade her for the world and I knew with every fiber of my being that she was the best mother for me and a remarkable woman. That every decision she made she did so with a clear head, a heavy heart and only my best well being in mind. I had it all, right? Despite a life so full I had part of me missing.

By the time I learned of my brother I was old enough to make the decision to meet him. I remember that time vividly. We had spoke on the phone several times prior to meeting, so I knew of his upcoming football game. I saw this as the opportune time to meet him. Without his consent – I love surprises, my boyfriend (now my husband) and I jumped in the car and drove the two hours to get to him. I thought this way I could sit in the stands, watch him from afar and change my mind without any let downs. I didn’t though, we sat through his whole game as I anxiously awaited the end.

There he was coming out of the school with about five or six other guys, my boyfriend stood back as I walked forward. Without saying a word I tapped on his shoulder, he turned around and without a second thought he hugged me as if I had just flown in from across country, as if he knew me. He took me home with him, I met his mom, and we proceeded to spend three hours together that night.

Over the next several years we conversed on the telephone, shared emails, and visited on occasion. I made the huge decision to attend his high school graduation wondering who I would see or might run into. Turns out my BF came to my brother’s graduation, sadly when he saw me he left and didn’t venture to the after party. I felt bad for him, I felt like I ruined that time he at least could have had with our BF. At the after party we sat with my PG and later one of my paternal aunts who I did not remember or recognize. It is ironic how people act in our situation. My paternal aunt felt the need to fill me in on everything I missed without considering that maybe I didn’t miss it?

Shortly after, my brother joined the military and our conversations became fewer and further between. It was then the “weirdness” set in. Having a sister came so naturally to him. I wanted it to be for me to but it just never was. I think this feeling I could not shake came between my brother and me.

My mom longed for more children, my dad cared for me better than any dad I knew, and here I was longing for something they couldn’t give me and couldn’t have themselves.

A part of my life that didn’t come from the only thing I ever knew. A part of my life that I found, that they could never have. A part of my life they could never give me came from the one man that didn’t want me.

Guilt!

Comment Moderation

I just read your post and what I hear you saying is - Don't comment unless you are 100% supportive meaning you agree or don't comment at all? Is that what you meant to say or did I read it wrong?

Absolutely not!! Which means that once again I'm not making my point very effectively. So, Comment away. I feel a great responsibility for the people who tell their stories here. Real, or imagined, I just feel like if they come here to tell their story I don't want them to get bashed by someone who doesn't understand what it means to have loved an alcoholic / addict.

Someone who hasn't been to a family gathering and felt like crawling under a table when their addict / alcoholic did something stupid. Someone who hasn't had to bail their addict / alcoholic out of jail. Someone who hasn't heard the I'm sorry's and the things will be different. Someone who hasn't wanted with every fiber of their being to believe that this time it will be different. This time they will really change.

So to protect myself and others on this blog I'm turning on comment moderation. I want people to be able to comment but that way it will catch any hurtful or snide comments before they have a chance to hurt any one's feelings.

I would feel absolutely AWFUL if someone trusted me and this site to tell their story and then someone insensitive bashed them in the comments and they never came back. Or never felt like they could share any more of their story. I want people to feel safe here. I want people to be able to say whatever they want about their story and not feel attacked in any way.

Now, back to the real meaning of this blog because I have LOTS more to say.....

Personal

It has been mentioned to me that I seem to take some of the comments on this blog very personally. Even when someone is writing about someone else, I seem to get defensive.


Guilty as charged.


When I handed out this blog address I gave it to VERY specific people who I thought knew enough about my story to know things that I, or others who come here might take offence to. However, before the back story to this blog could be fully finished the address was given to some people who may not know all of my story. People who may or may not know what it is like to live in an alcoholic / addict situation.


The error is mine. I left the blog open because I wanted anyone who needed to be able to find it to do just that. I wanted anyone who is suffering to be able to find this blog and have a safe place to land, even if it is only for a momment.


I realize now that in doing that, I opened myself up to comments I was not ready to receive. In hindsight I would have not given anyone the address until the entire backstory from 1996 - present was written. But seeing as I am now working on that at a turtle's pace that could be awhile.


So for now, I want to explain myself a little and give those of you who are new a bit to think about. For me, the comments on this blog are very personal.


To quote from one of my favorite movies:


It wasn't personal. What is that supposed to mean? I am so sick of that. All that means is that it wasn't personal to you. But it was personal to me. It's *personal* to a lot of people. And what's so wrong with being personal, anyway? Whatever else anything is, it ought to begin by being personal.

When you make a comment about something someone says you should make it as personal as possible. If you wouldn't say it to their face, you shouldn't write it on this blog. What you see here may be only half of a picture.

I come here because this is my safe place to fall and sometimes I fall really hard. I spend so much of my everyday life being happy and positive that sometimes I just need a place to come to let the rest of the junk out. But what I say here, is only half of my life. I write about the parts of my life that are affected by alcoholism / addiction. I'm not going to come on this blog and brag about how when I got home tonight my husband had cleaned the kitchen and made dinner. I will however be logging on when he has yelled at me or called me names or when he was lying on the couch while I was cleaning the house.

Things that I have not gotten to tell you about yet: being picked up and thrown across a room, staring down the barrell of a shotgun, dragging my 6 week old son to drug houses, leaving my son "home alone" to chase my husband down.

People in horrible situations often do horrible things. It is neither my place nor yours to judge the decisions that people make. This website is filled with people from all walks of life and I just ask that you consider that when you are making comments.

So, I guess to wrap up this long wrambling post I just want people to understand that this blog is very personal to me. And if you are going to make a comment on here, you better understand exactly who it is you are commenting about and what it is you are commenting about and if you don't know, then ask. There is an e-mail address over there on the right.

And if you still don't know than I would suggest that you practice one of the wonderful Al-anon principals and just pass on making a comment until you fully understand the person's situation.

Weakness

**This is a guest post from Jen**

"Jenny, are you sure you don't have any money? Check your pockets again."

I check again even though I know for sure there is nothing there.

We're walking to Des Moines right now. That's what Mommy told me when she finally arrived at the nursing home two hours late. I knew something was wrong as soon as she was late. This morning she dropped me off to visit Lily, the 94 year old neighbor who used to babysit me until she moved to the nursing home.

I was waiting in the lobby for her when she arrived on foot to get me. All I could think of was to get out of the building and away from the worried and pitying stares of the staff. I hate them.

She didn't tell me what happened but I can put things together pretty well by now.

There was a small incident that set him off. He escalated to the point where she had to run out the door - afraid. There was no chance to get her purse or the keys to the car. She just had to run.

Did you check all the way deep in your front pockets, Jenny? Are you sure you don't have a dime?

I check again for her. She has already walked across town to get me and now she tells me we are walking all the way to her work in Des Moines. I am skeptical of this from the start. I don't see how we can possibly walk this far. It takes a long time to get there by car. She wants to make a phone call but neither of us has even a dime for a payphone.

We've been walking along the highway for quite awhile now.

"Jenny. This isn't going to work. You can't walk fast enough - we won't get there before dark."

So now we've turned back towards Norwalk. I don't know where we're going. I'm not sure if she knows.

"If I could just borrow a car for the night. It's really no big deal - just a disagreement."

The phone rings at the Waltzes house. It is Daddy asking if they have seen us. We don't know the Waltzes that well - their daughter has babysat me, the husband likes to tinker with engines. They say, "No." they haven't seen us. I think they realize the urgency now and they are going to let us borrow their son's VW bug for the night.

Sitting now in the VW I am filled with a sense of physical relief. I don't think I've ever walked so far in my life. My legs hurt.

I'm excited now, too. It feels like an adventure now. It is just the two of us. We are going to spend the night at the pre-school my Mom directs. She says we will sleep in the cubbies with big pillows and I will be able to play with any of the toys I want - that we will play together.

There is also a sense of hope. Maybe we won't be going back this time. This time seems like it was really bad. Maybe it will be just the two of us from now on.

"Glenn. It's me. We're in Des Moines."

Stupid! No! Why is she calling him?? Why? I can see what's coming.

"I know. Okay. I'm sorry. Okay, we'll come home tonight. We'll be leaving in a few minutes"

So that's it. We're not spending the night. We're not sleeping in the cubbies and playing with the toys together. We're going home to him again.

We walked all that way for nothing. We went through all this for nothing.

She didn't even teach him a lesson.

We're driving in the little Bug that seemed so exciting before and we're going home.

I am so angry.

She is weak.

I hate weak.

I am not weak.

The Couch

For years I have had a hate-hate relationship with our couch. Not really our couch even, all couches in general. I remember before DH and I moved in together we vowed that neither one of us would ever sleep on the couch and for awhile after we moved in I tried to enforce that rule.

When we were dating his dad slept on the couch. First out of necessity (his - he had a broken foot) and then out of more necessity (hers - she just couldn't stand him, the excuse was his snoring but I saw things differently). I think by the time I arrived in the picture their marriage was strained. By the time DH moved out it was just hanging on by a thread.

Eventually, after about a year, his dad got tired of sleeping on the couch and moved down to the bed that was in his mom's "office." Many an argument was had about whether that room was an office or his bedroom and if it was his bedroom what did that mean for their marriage. After DH moved out, the line was officially drawn. She turned that room into her "work room" and his dad moved into "his own room" which used to be DH's bedroom.

So, needless to say I had a BAD view of sleeping on the couch. And, it didn't get any better when we moved. DH liked to stay up late to "watch tv" on our couch. Which basically amounted to him sneaking out of the house to do drugs or sitting on our couch drinking as much as he could until he passed out.

When we first moved we had a different couch. It was not long enough for him to sleep on and stretch out but that didn't seem to stop him. I suppose when you are passed out from drugs or alcohol you don't particularly care where or how you sleep. After awhile, I stopped waking him. But I never slept. I would get up every hour or two just to peak down the stairs and see if he was still there, still asleep. It was about a 50-50 shot. Many a night I walked down the stairs to find the living room dark and him no where to be found.

Sometimes he was outside, many more times he had snuck out, gotten in his car and driven away. No rhyme or reason. I remember many times sitting there on that couch calling him over and over and over. Ring, ring, voicemail. Redial.... ring, ring, ring, ring, voicemail. Eventually he would just turn the phone off and I would just get voicemail. Then I would cry. Until I went to Al-anon I always wanted to know the reason why.

I remember just chanting over and over, pick up, pick up, pick up. I just wanted to ask him why. I thought if I talked to him I could make him come home. That I could win over the addiction, I was wrong. Very, very wrong.

On the nights that he would stay home the couch was often a dumping ground. There is a burn hole in our couch from something. (Also in one of our pairs of sheets for our bed) One side of our couch does not work, (it's a reclining couch) and I'm not sure if it is because of something he did or simply because it is a hand me down.

There were several days that he would get up after a night on the couch and I would stick my hand in the end to find the remote and instead would be greeted with a pipe, some drugs, a bottle cap, a beer bottle, etc. Things were hidden throughout our house but the couch seemed to be his favorite spot.

When DH left for treatment the couch was cleaned. I turned it over swept it out, cleaned all the crevices, dumped out all the memories and the bad feelings and then I sat on it. A lot. I played with munchkin, I laid on it after he went to bed, just tried to get the bad feeling to go away.

And for the most part, it has. That is probably the most used piece of furniture in our house. But still, at times, that lingering feeling is still there. Last week DH had a sinus infection. And he snored... BADLY. So he offered to sleep on the couch so that we could both get some sleep. I agreed but in the back of my mind there was still a nagging feeling.

Then I fell asleep, and when I woke up it was 6:00 and my alarm was going off. I think that is progress.

Part 2 - CaCa's Story

**This is a guest post by a reader who chooses to refer to herself as CaCa**

Never forget a face; never forget a daughter became my issue throughout my childhood and adolescent years.

After my mom and BF divorced, a custody suit pursued. Let’s not kid ourselves, the custody suit was between my mom and my paternal grandmother who I have been told loved me but should have invested her energy toward some psychiatric care for herself. She attempted to hire local people that would testify to my mom being an unfit mother and having extramarital affairs. Neither of which could be further from the truth. In the end my BF was allowed one weekly supervised visit at my maternal grandparent’s house. I never saw him again.

When I was about four or five my paternal grandmother died and a relationship with my paternal grandfather (PG) ensued. He had always watched over my mom and I, the best he could considering; never missing a birthday or Christmas. I can remember when I was very little he would come to my maternal grandparent’s house which was only blocks from his to drop off my Christmas gift. Then when I was old enough my mom would let me call him to arrange my own visits often times dropping me off and picking me up there. It was always one on one time with Grandpa and soon his new wife. Over all those years of one on one time I lost touch and contact with any other paternal family member. My BF had four sisters; there was a whole family I didn’t know. My BF would make me an occasional gift one of which was a jewelry box with my name inscribed. He would leave it for me there and my PG would gift it to me.

Looking back over time I can’t remember a time my step dad and his family wasn’t in my life. Even though I could never choke out the name “dad”, he is every sense of the title and more, I refer to him as my dad – the name never rolled off my tongue easily. When I was 4 my mom and dad met and by the age of 8 they married. I was less than thrilled about sharing my mom and I remember feeling like I didn’t like him. He had long hair and drove a loud Harley that he built in our living room out of parts in five galloon buckets. He would pick me up from school on it: pull my waist length hair back in a ponytail, change me into an older shirt so the oil wouldn’t spray all over my uniform and away we would go. Looking back now I see the sweetness and the tender ways but then I longed for my mom to continue every step of my life which turned into wonder and this overwhelming personalization of why my BF never wanted me. He could see me, call me, send me anything, ask about me, something….yet he never did. Soon I had been sent off for my first day of kindergarten, switched from private to public school, joined sports, entered high school, started dating, excelled in choir, cheerleading, and swim team, graduated, went on to college, married, and bought a house.

He could have been across the street as I went through the double doors for my first day of school, he could have been a face in the crowd cheering me on, he could have been peeking through as I stood in my white dress, he could have been but I know he wasn’t because I never knew his face.

Part 1 - CaCa's Story

**This is a guest post by a reader who chooses to refer to herself as CaCa**

My mother got pregnant out of wedlock, married her high school sweetheart (my biological father = BF) shortly after, slapped by the reality of the person she thought she vowed to love and see forever with, regretfully entrusting the same person with her daughter, and shortly after divorcing looking back with no regret and facing a hopeful but scary future “alone”; just her and me. That’s the beginning of my story all wrapped up into one long winded sentence.

One long winded life belongs all to me. My mom learned of my BF’s drug addiction after they were married, which increasingly worsened over their sort time together. It was like a roller coaster from everything she has told me. He would try to get better even sobering for a while until the roller coaster fell and he crashed harder, then he would start to climb back up again. There were times when she didn’t realize the gravity of his addiction; she would have to entrust me with my BF. My mom was in the kitchen, I in the living room with my BF when she heard a heart dropping scream. I had bit my tongue in half. She says I tried to pull myself up onto the footstool my BF was relaxing on, she thinks I slipped and fell, but wonders if he moved his legs causing me to fall; either way not watching close enough – he wasn’t. He never did.

‘We never had much money so I would have to wait until Friday when your dad got paid to get groceries. This became a Friday night ritual; we would meet at the door. I always took you with me but this night it was a blizzard out and I didn’t want to take you out, so regretfully I left. I knew I wouldn’t be gone long; there wasn’t much money to spend. When I would get home from the store your dad would meet me at the bottom of the stairs to help me carry the groceries up. We lived on the upper level of an apartment house. Only this time he didn’t come down. I filled my arms, climbed the stores and tapped my foot against the door….nothing! When I got inside he was passed out in the living room, you had pulled the knife drawer out in the kitchen and locked yourself in your bedroom which must have happened right after I left because you had been crying for some time. I made it through the night, we waited until he left in the morning for work, called your uncle K and he came and packed us up. We left, never looking back. Your dad would call telling me he changed begging me to come back, he stole my car your grandpa bought for us, he would drive by all the time but I couldn’t go back.’ This is the story in a nutshell.

Over my 29 years of life I have heard so many stories about him. Two years ago I passed him in the corridor at a local gas station in our hometown – I didn’t know him he was merely a stranger in passing, he may or may not have recognized me. How do I know this? …. My aunt, my mom’s younger sister was behind me. She would never forget his face.