My Sister and I Quit Drinking-- A Diary of Sorts:
Introduction
Last fall, I decided I wanted to try being sober. My sister Sybil immediately leapt on the idea. She can’t quit unless I do, I can’t quit unless she does. Why? Why not? I can't quit unless there is no alcohol in the house. Sybil, on the other hand, lives 4 houses down and keeps her alcohol at my house (her partner doesn’t approve). She also smokes the pot that I grow. She smokes and drinks vodka every afternoon. Not a lot, just a “fix”. It used to be right about when I got home from work, when I was tired, usually hungry, and just wanted to be alone. It became more irritating as I tried to cut back my own habits on the weekdays. There she’d be, dribbling pot on the counter, stinking up the kitchen, leaving black wads of half-smoked pot in the sink, pouring vodka; and then sitting down and looking at me expectantly as a source of entertainment.
The following are my ruminations on the experience.
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Jan 2nd, 2022
The Last Day (Supposedly)---
On New Year's Day I had my last solitary "party" (which means smoking pot, drinking, going on a hike, listening to music, and eating too much.) (I had a blast.) I had planned this to coincide with using up the last bit of wine in my house (you won’t see a miser like me dumping it down the drain!) So, on Jan 2, I took my last mostly empty bottle, poured it in a wineglass, took a photo, drank it, and that was that.
The next day I wrapped up my wine glass supply (which is huge) in newspaper and put that, along with my pot, down in the cellar. With that and the wine and liquor storage areas becoming empty, I became inspired to rearrange stuff in the kitchen, which was fun and therapeutic.
My source of inspiration in this quest? After I became a grandmother, health and longevity loomed larger in my mind. It is such a thrill to see Sienna, and watching her develop gives me real joy. The infant, the baby skin, watching her grow--all of the delight with none of the exhaustion. Seeing her in the various phases that remind me of my son is the closest thing to time travel I've ever experienced.
It breaks my heart that my mother never got to experience this. She knew she had a grandchild on the way, but died at age 45 before the birth. Had she lived to a reasonable age, she would have had nine grandchildren.
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Jan 4th
Easy Peasy
So far giving up alcohol has been no struggle whatsoever. Of course, this is only day 3, but I am really glad to be going through this process. Of course, I don't plan on socializing for a month or more, as that is my “trigger.” I can handle seeing my son and his family, and my morning hikes with Sybil, but not much else. I suppose at some point I will miss people, and put my “toe in the water” with a Sisters’ Weekend (which is what my 3 sisters and I call our weekend visits) or perhaps maybe something even more challenging.
My daughter-in-live gave me a bit of her alcohol free wine, it’s not bad, and I think that could be helpful sometimes. So I bought some Fre (alcohol-free) "Brut" bubbly, but it cost $10. I doubt it is any better than Martinelli's, so I'll try that next. (post script--it is way better than Martinelli's.)
My father certainly relied on his Sharp's (alcohol free) beer, so it clearly helped him. I don't remember precisely at what age he finally quit drinking-- perhaps 75-ish? But he had danced too long, so to speak, and so nonetheless had to pay the piper; dying of liver disease at age 78. Hopefully, my changeover plan, at age 66, will be more successful in ensuring longevity.
I think a long dry period (4 or 5 months?) will be like pressing a reset button. Throughout my life, I've had sober periods and heavy drinking periods, easily passing from one into the next, always determined by the phase of life and the type and number of friends I was socializing with. But for a long while now, my consumption has been heavy. My initial reasons for drinking, however, are no longer present (high stress, social anxiety) and yet, this time I haven’t passed easily into a non-drinking phase, which has started to concern me. My goal is not necessarily to become a teetotaler, but to not have the stuff at home, and not to have a daily habit. And to “mindfully” consume when I do.
Many who subscribe to the AA approach think this can never work, but I believe mine is more of a bad habit than a disease. For one thing, it is easy for me to quit drinking, as long as I am by myself. The challenge will come later. Summertime will be a huge hurdle. I have a hard time picturing boating, swimming, sunbathing, and loving the sunset without the green stuff. And, if you are me, you can’t have the green stuff without the wet stuff.
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January 7th
What I'll Miss
It would be hard for a normal person to grasp the difference between enjoying nature, and enjoying nature stoned. I live on the Connecticut River in Vermont. On my last boating excursion (solo) I felt like I was in paradise. I love dusk on the water. I take endless pictures of sunsets. Summer in general— lying in the sun with ear buds in, music playing, and a cold drink within reach? I couldn’t be happier if I was suddenly beautiful and at a 5 star spa with Brad Pitt wearing a codpiece giving me a massage. Diving into the cool river makes you feel like you are entering into another realm. When you back-float, staring up at the clouds, put your arms out and it feels like flying.
One of the most amazing experiences in my life was skinny dipping at night, high, at the tail end of summer 2019, with a full moon. The air was quite chilly, I sprinted down to the dock in a bathrobe, dropped it, and dove in. The water had cooled but wasn’t too shocking.
A beaver slapped its tail, and my dogs jumped in and swam around, chasing the beaver, who seemed to thoroughly enjoy teasing them. Thwack! Thwack! As our four bodies circled around, I sometimes wondered if I was coming close to a dog or to the beaver. Should I be afraid? Nah! Without my glasses I could only see shapes moving past by the light of the moon, which was low in the sky, so that when you turned and faced the moon there was a long bright reflection leading to it. A rippling shining path to swim to the moon. I stayed in for a REALLY long time, not cold at all. The water actually started to feel warm, womb-like. I’ll never forget that night! Yet, I never would have done it if I hadn’t “altered my consciousness”.
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January 16th:
Ah, Those were the Days---
A long solitary weekend of cold weather; 10 below when I got up. The day improved and was nice and sunny by the afternoon. People were skating up the newly formed, absolutely pristine ice on the river. I was never a skater, but at times like this I yearn for those beautiful winter afternoons when I would cross country ski for hours. Of course, in my later years, I would smoke and drink first. Once again, the combination of marijuana and the outdoors was irresistable to me. My Alaskan Husky Rika was an excellent puller, and people would admire our setup—me on skis and a large, thick, elastic leash which went around my waist and butt attached to her harness.
Those were the days! I lived it to the full when I could. Now, at 66, with a knee replacement, aching hips, and weak hands and wrists, my physical aptitude is diminished. But, no whining intended. I can still hike, swim, garden, etc, and life has no shortage of hobbies.
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January 20th
Taxes
Alas, I had to slave away today, dealing with my business taxes, and after 3 intense hours I emerged fairly triumphant, but, Boy! Would I have liked a drink. There is this longing for that feeling of "transition", of "unwinding" that's gone, and the only thing I could think to fill it in with was making macaroons. So I did.
My boyfriend's name is Tony. He doesn't drink. At all. (He used to drink a lot of beer.) He has volleyball parties every Friday night and invariably people leave beers and twisted teas, so he dropped 4 or 5 of them off at my place before he went to Florida for the winter (he goes from Jan through April.) I was not remotely interested in drinking them—Ugh, beer: a can of Coors Lite, a Bud Seltzer, an IPA, local brewery type stuff that I have always hated. When I wrapped up all the wine glasses in newspaper, I mixed in the beers in with them in different bags and put them in different locations in the cellar, so they wouldn't be easy to find.
Sybil came up at one point last week and confessed that she had wanted one of the beers earlier that day. (She had assumed that they would be where they used to be, and yanked open the former liquor cabinet door.) I said, in my best authoritarian fashion, “Ah, but do you know where they are?” She gasped, crestfallen; and under my critical gaze, said, "Well...... then, I guess I won’t have one.”
These beers, that I wasn’t remotely interested in, are now presenting a challenge. Last weekend I drank the seltzer Bud Light can. I didn’t feel a thing, even on an empty stomach. Today, I tried and tried to resist, but after all that tax work.......Macaroons, Schmacaroons.
So, I am now sipping a really delightful Harpoon IPA. Think of it as really slow tapering off. There are a few more (I haven’t looked), and I will probably drink them at some point, but I am not going to tell Sybil. If I show weakness, she will waver. Besides, I don’t want to share those last beers.
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January 26th
Progress
I’m settling in and becoming more comfortable. I’m starting to envision myself as someone who isn’t always hiding behind a glass of wine at social events. Someone with sense of calmness, who is a better listener, is more open and curious about other people’s lives, and who, then, actually remembers what they tell me.
Although, without socializing, I’m not really putting it to the test. I may be like my friend Sue, who, since she quit drinking, never wants to see more than 1 person at a time ever again. And although I like how I feel, I still can not picture summer without alcohol.
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Jan 29th:
Sugar, The Next Frontier---
Unfortunately, I’ve developed a sweets habit. Now, as I’m driving home after work, I think, “Oh Boy! Pretty soon I can have some cider and candy!”
Is that hard on the liver? Google....google......oh, crap, it is.
Here’s the goal: I will learn to defer short term pleasures in order to reap long term benefits—initially I thought just health and longevity, but perhaps it will be more than that. A mark of maturity. An ability to enjoy people without alcohol. More balanced neurochemicals. Perhaps a dab of spiritual insight.
I think of those studies where they give a kid a marshmallow and tell them that if they don’t eat it until later they will get a second marshmallow. Then they leave them alone with the marshmallow for 15 minutes. Studies have shown that the kids who can’t hold off and go ahead and eat the marshmallow have less successful lives.
Actually, I think I would have passed that test. I was too much of a “good girl” back then--I would have deduced what the ideal outcome would have been, and I also would have really wanted that second marshmallow. I probably would have licked the bottom a few dozen times, though, unaware of the cameras in the room.
Now? I want to be nice to my body. My poor overworked liver must be dancing a jig of relief. Every day is a joy, in the sense that I love going to bed, and I love getting up. I love getting hungry and I love eating. I love weekdays and then I love the weekend. I love almost everything that I do. I want to be alive for myself and my family. The rest of my life is “Gravy”: with enough money, a house and yard I love, wonderful family, hobbies, pets, and part-time work I enjoy. That is, if my health holds up. I’m a really lucky gal now, and I want to wring every moment out of it.
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Feb 18th
The Social Dilemma
This past week I have accomplished 2 hurdles.
Hurdle #1: First Outing. My dinner with Donna, a friend I haven’t seen much of lately. She was my roommate in college, and we couldn't have been more different. Except that we had both lost our mothers in our teens, and I've always thought perhaps that was why we had been placed together.
Donna has endless illnesses. She has hemophilia, fibroids resulting in infertility, back issues, leukemia, and, to top it all off, a car accident, which, due to the hemophilia, resulted in a brain-bleed TBI. She had lots of dizzyness and disorientation. Her career, which she loved, was over. Her hobby, dancing, was no longer possible. A series of debilitating migraines moved into her life, which for years had no solution, until she met a Doc who did botox all around her skull every 3 months. This helped, but didn’t cure it, and she now tiptoes through life, eschewing the marijuana we used to smoke together, and not drinking.
She is somewhat didactic, most likely from having been a teacher of small children. She can go on and on about one subject, or one story, often about people you’ve never met, and aren’t particularly interested in. There are webs of relatives that she wants to keep you up to date on. I don’t like this kind of “conversation.” What’s the point of friends? Commiseration, yes, but laughter and banter are equally (I actually mean more) important. Depression and levity are both contagious. If I feel bad, I like to keep to myself.
Regarding the drinking--I had reached a point when I knew I had a problem, and my rationale was to only do it when I knew I’d really enjoy it, and not “waste it" on bad times. So, I distanced myself from Donna and other friends. At her insistence, I even told her why.
A couple of years passed, and she left a voice mail, sounding somewhat shattered, asking me to call her back. Her husband of 22 years, the "nicest guy" you could ever hope to meet, was having an affair. She’d kicked him out of the house, and was in severe heartbreak, so (no matter how cold and selfish I was feeling), it was time for me to rally. So I went to dinner at her house, and although it was fairly excruciating, I, of course, did not drink.
Not everyone has this approach, but I knew I would never stick to it unless I made it public, so I told everyone I knew ahead of time--so I would stick to it.
I’ve thought about Donna a lot since this visit. Maybe it's time for me to be more generous of spirit.
Hurdle #2: A 2-day Sisters' Weekend in Massachusetts. Usually when I go down there, Sybil and I drink like Lords. We have (what I thought was), a Helluva Good Time. I anticipated, "Oh, no, this is going to be hard. I’m going to sit quietly, uncomfortably, wishing I was home, wishing I had something to do with my hands, counting the minutes until it’s time to leave."
The first night was kind of like this. We had a quick supper, and dashed out to go to a Della Mae concert. I’d always loved going—the singer is my niece (Sybil’s daughter.) Before we left for Massachusetts, Sybil confessed that she might want to smoke and maybe have a drink, and I said I was actually curious to find out what it would be like to be at the concert sober.
Well, I did NOT have a good time. I felt uncomfortable and trapped. That night I kept thinking, "Why in the hell did I come down here for 2 nights, this is awful."
The next morning, however, I got up, drank coffee (which I normally don’t do) and gradually began to have a really nice visit. The day just got better and better. If anything, I became more chatty and gregarious than I used to be. I actually became manic. I slept both nights without any tossing and turning and trying to figure out how to get back to sleep (which usually involved a drink.) I had a fantastic time! Now I’m back home, bursting with energy.
I am completely gobsmacked. Can it really be this easy? Of course, it helps that they are my sisters. I doubt I could be so engaged with just anybody. I cleared that hurdle with about a foot to spare, and I am so relieved.
To be honest, there is one other little footnote to this story. At my sister's house, I kept my cider out on the back porch. A private sort of place, with no windows looking out onto it. Someone had put a bottle of Jagermeister out there, right next to my cider. At one point, I did a little test. I took a few swigs of the Jagermeister—just enough to feel it, and went back in.
After a bit, a little voice told me I should get another sip. I asked myself, do you really like the way this feels?
The answer was a decided "NO!" Fortunately, that shut the voice right up, and all that was left was to wait for the feeling to pass. Instead of feeling good, it felt disorienting. I truly did not like it. One more arrow in my anti-AA quiver. Well, not actually anti—just alternative.
So today is the six weeks mark, and things couldn’t be going better.
P.S. Since we were in Massachusetts, Sybil bought a lot of edibles, and got overly stoned, but did not drink. When I asked if she had fun, she said NO.
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March 5th
The Social Scrooge
After the great success of the sisters’ visit, two weeks ago I happily agreed to go to Donna’s birthday party. There were to be six women—most of whom I didn’t know. I was looking forward to it, still riding on the crest of my new-found sociability. Important lesson I take from this: It matters who you are with.
They were all fine women, but I found it to be stultifyingly boring. They were polite and self-effacing. They sipped delicately at 5 oz glasses of wine, each of which lasted at least over an hour (I think the record holder might have had 3 over the course of 4 hours.) And they talked about their dogs. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s when people talk about their damn dogs. The host had 2, both of them hideous to behold, with wet, drooly mouths. As soon as I walked in, the larger one jammed his nose into my butt. It’s one thing if they give a little sniff, but an altogether different matter when they jam it right in there, several times. Why do people tolerate this shit?
They had a large dog bed in the middle of the floor, and one of them moaned and whined intermittently throughout the evening. They expected you to want to pet them, and curl up with them on the couch, and everyone obliged and cooed over them except good ‘ol cranky me. And of course, the other dog owners (except me) chimed in with various endearing anecdotes about their beloved pooches.
The next day's challenge was another party 3 houses down, which I thought was just the neighbors. But, it was much larger than that, with lots of young people I didn’t know. It was going to be an outdoor campfire party, so I bundled up and brought chairs. Instead everyone headed into the extremely small house. The neighbors sort of clumped together in a standing crowd, almost shoulder to shoulder, like a frat party. I dislike standing around talking, fumbling with hors d'oeuvre. I really haven’t liked that since college days, and sober was not the mindset. It was one of those evenings when you just want to leave, but can’t figure out how to do it without seeming rude, so you stick it out for an hour and a half.
Now it is a few weeks later and my social optimism bubble has burst. There is another gathering today, on the ice, with airplanes coming and going. (My neighbor and his friends are flying enthusiasts.) Here I sit, not really wanting to go (and stand around), even though I thought I would, and I said I would. I’d much rather write. Formerly, in all of these situations, the reward would have been to get pleasantly buzzed. It’s a beautiful day, and I really should put in an appearance, however reluctantly. As soon as my farther-away neighbor stops target shooting (My dog is terrified of gunfire.)
Later that day…..
Well, the neighbor stopped shooting, so I was out of excuses. The thought of going over there became a large black miasma that drifted in and hovered over me, sending me into a state of depression. Then I thought of that Bloody Mary kit that Adriana had given me last summer. I’d discovered that a few weeks ago, mixed in with the salad dressings. (Just one nip with the fixings.) I’ve been so good for so long…..... I cracked it open, drank it, and then, feeling somewhat better, went over to the gathering. I stayed only about a half an hour, and it was fine. Fine, as in the sense of the word being given somewhat blandly, with a slight shrug, rather than a beaming smile. So I can now do what I want for the rest of the day with no sense of guilt for being antisocial.
The thing is, my neighbors and I are all friendly. I love just bumping into them, and the spontaneous little chats that pop up. But, invite me over, call it a "party"? Then I'm jonesing for a drink.
Also last weekend, I hosted for the first time. I had a nine person dinner party. My sons, Sybil, Donna (who hadn't met my granddaughter yet), and assorted partners.
It was awful. This dinner had all of the work and stress without any of the reward. I did my first dry brine of a pork roast and it didn’t come out well. Due to the fact that it wasn't just family, I guess I assumed we should be on somewhat better behavior—and not grabbing hunks of pork off the platter before people sat down and diving into desert standing up when other people were still eating, but apparently the other guests didn't see it this way.
Sybil popped her head in the next morning, as she always does after a social event, to check in so we can give our summations and judgments of the evening before. She agreed that the whole thing sucked, and I declared I would never host another dinner sober again.
Today, I’m giving you the totally wrong impression. I’ve had a great week and had intended to write about how fabulous everything was. Perhaps I’ll take keyboard in hand at another time. But, I've certainly had a chance to reflect on my achilles heel. Just plain discouraging.
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March 13th
AA Alternative
I rejoined Audible so that I could listen to a book a friend recommended, called “Quit Like a Woman”, by Holly Whitaker. I did like it, and I listened to it all the way down to a Sisters’ Weekend yesterday, and all the way back today. I’ve had discussions with friends who, like most Americans, seem to think AA is the only solution. That tell me I “need support” and should “see a therapist” and maybe “go to some meetings.” And that one must label themselves an alcoholic and quit 100%, or one is kidding oneself, and doomed. Ms. Whitaker agrees with my questioning of A.A.. and, of course, it’s always nice to be affirmed.
She says that A.A. was designed by and for “the patriarchy.” At first I was a little put off by this, but now I get her point. It reminds me of the military: They seem to want to strip you down and then build you back up within a rigid structure: The twelve steps, which include: Label yourself as an alcoholic. Admit you are helpless. Throw yourself into God’s hands. Do a relentless moral inventory of your failings. Make a list of poor decisions and character flaws. Outline the hurt you have caused to others. Put aside your ego and pride to acknowledge shameful past behavior. Make amends for those you’ve wronged. Continue to keep an eye out for any defects of character. Above all, practice humility.
I’m not quoting her directly, but the gist of it is that WOMEN ARE DOING THIS ALL THE TIME ANYWAY. Well, maybe not the admitting helplessness or throwing themselves into God's hands parts, but the rest of it. The other line I loved was that it sounds like it was designed for people like Donald Trump. People who just blunder around with no self awareness or scruples whatsoever.
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March 14th
Fun
Sybil poked her head in this Monday morning to see if I “had any fun” at this last Sisters’ Weekend. We usually go to my oldest sister’s house as it is large and quite good for a crowd. There was a dinner party that Saturday evening, including the four sisters, and two women of our following generation, with husbands and kids. Just as the discussion was starting to get interesting (illustrated by my oldest sister’s voice and opinions becoming loud and strident, as they invariably do), her son-in-law gave her the “time out” signal, and said sternly, “You need to stop now.” She acquiesced.
I thought, OK, she’s calmer now, so I attempted to re-introduce the subject (which was health care and trans rights.) Son-in-Law said, “We are not going to discuss that. We are done.” I felt somewhat miffed, and thought, “Well, who appointed him Dad?”
Part of our family identity is to be different: to be opinionated and to express ourselves without reservation, as opposed to being mild and polite. The two Massachusetts sisters have gotten used to the son-in-law’s moderations, and accept it, but Sybil and I thought that the whole evening was pretty boring, and we both, in retrospect, agreed that Saturday night wasn’t any “fun.” Sunday morning, the sisters were on our own again and we could be ourselves.
Another point made in the Whitaker book: If you need to drink to want to be with certain people, then you need to find other people. Whitaker claims to be an introvert, but now after years of sobriety is making new friends having all kinds of fun. At one point she starts dating a man who asks (after a few dates), “So, if you don’t drink, what do you do for fun?” She names off everything they have been doing together on their last 3 dates: hiking, going out to eat, playing miniature golf. Like, Duh, right? But I absolutely could relate to the man’s question.
Since I was 15, all our childhood play seemed to go by the wayside, and the focus immediately and relentlessly became alcohol, and whatever drugs we could get our hands on. Whitaker reassures me with her chapters detailing how your neurochemical responses have become distorted by years of drug use, but will become gradually better as you maintain sobriety.
I hope this works for me. I have to keep reminding myself that I really am not drinking. The novelty is gone and it’s easy to forget the benefits. I’ve starting longing for my next "solitary party". (I never found that bit of rum that I squirreled away in the basement, though.) I have promised myself one when the weather gets nice (soon!), as compensation for not getting my retirement party Feb 11th, which was the former plan. I was going to buy two bottles of champagne. But will occasional “parties” ruin my neurochemical progress?
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March 15th
More Fun, but Also Not-So-Fun
I had a very exciting day. You need some backstory here.
I own a small wholesale only bakery—built onto my house. This has been my career for the past 32 years, and it has been wonderful. I’ve saved up for a comfortable retirement, and I want to devote myself to my house and my yard and my part-time quilting business. My plan for the past year has been to retire on Feb 11, gifting the business to my full-time baker, Ryan. There had been a few hiccups in his plans, as he has to borrow money to set up his own bakery, and I had despaired, thinking I might have to work through another summer.
The wonderful news I got today is that Ryan thinks he will be able to take over the bakery by June 1st. This is incredibly good news as I won’t have to jump through all the hoops the health department enumerated if we were to continue here past May 31st. Also because I can really enjoy SUMMER!!!!! Flower gardening starts up in May, so I won’t have to miss much of that. I really do feel incredibly thrilled today.
Additional excitement: I've narrowed in on a decision about my “retirement present” to myself (a new electric car).
The car market is in the toilet and dealerships are falling all over themselves to buy my beat up Honda Fit. The bidding war is up to $10,500 with no trade in. Wow! For a filthy, dog-haired, rusting, dented, and damaged-by-bakery-delivery-wear-and-tear 6 year old Honda. So I sold it!
I’ve been spending my evenings researching all the new EVs, and I just put a deposit on my dream car that I have wanted for YEARS—a new Tesla!
All of this is coming to a pinnacle of frenetic decision making and good news today. I'm so excited I thought maybe I'd fish around down cellar for that rum. Instead I found that I still had TWO beers! I cracked a bottle of something called "Omission Pale Ale." It fizzed wildly and dumped about a third of its contents into my utensil drawer. And it tasted AWFUL!! Yuck! So I mixed it with cider and then it was pretty good. I got a brief, very mild buzz, which unfortunately I liked a lot. I cooked a nice meal, ate, and that was that.
Why? I was just so damn excited! I didn’t want to “tie one on,” I just wanted SOMETHING to mark this auspicious day!
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Unfortunately, yesterday was just as awful as this one was terrific. Perhaps I should preface the story by saying that I took a laxative the day before that, at 6PM, to make sure any effects would be long past by bakery delivery time the following afternoon. (This is not something I have much experience with.)
I had heard that masks were going to come off today. I was doing deliveries, and went into the Hanover Co-op, forgetting to think about my mask. I was happily stocking my shelves, and just about done, when a masked customer walked up. I looked, and gasped, realizing that I didn't have one on. I quickly darted a look at the employees at the cheese counter and they all had masks on. Oh, No! I literally had about 5 things left to put on the shelves, so I hurriedly finished.
At which point, a cheese counter employee strode up to me holding a mask. I laughed nervously, and was about to explain that I had forgotten it and thank him, when he said in a very nasty tone, “You need to wear a mask. It is VERY DISRESPECTFUL not to!” I was somewhat stunned, took the mask, put it on, and walked out, loading my delivery racks in the car. But it really bothered me. I am trying to learn to manage conflict in a calm and adult manner, (now that I am sober and mature). So I walked back to the cheese counter, and explained to the rude man that I was NOT being “disrespectful”, and that I had simply forgotten. He said, “Well, you seemed irked.”
It then occurred to me— the nervous polite laughter response that I had given-- is a problem for some people, including myself. It has become known lately as an issue--that women tend to respond this way when a man does something inappropriate, or makes you uncomfortable in some way. (As women, we are supposed to be agreeable, and not caustic or challenging.) Unfortunately, the other person interprets it as an agreeable laugh, or in my case at the Co-op, a scornful laugh.
The improvement I could have made on this situation would have been to calmly tell him my perspective right away, instead of giving the nervous laugh. Ah, well, I thought, Rome wasn’t built in a day. But I made some progress here, I thought. Then I walked away and literally shit my pants.
I kid you not. As I walked away from that fellow, I became aware that the laxative was not done with me yet, and I quickly re-routed myself in the direction of the rest room. My best effort at sphincter and butt cheek tightening completely failed. OMG! This has NEVER happened to me before. What can one do but flee to ones car just as fast as humanly possible? (It wasn’t just a matter of a few swipes of TP.)
Thank GOD I was done with the delivery. Imagine having to explain why you fled the scene, leaving it a mess, with racks and baked goods akimbo over the floor. Good God.
It occurs to me that, despite my outward calm and polite correction of the rude man, it MUST have internally disturbed me (roiling my gut, shall we say). Rome sure wasn’t built in a day.
I went home, really wanted a drink, but didn’t have one. I showered, threw my clothes in the laundry, and went upstairs and lay down until I could face the world again.
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March 30th:
People, Who Need People
Over and over I read that having friends is critical to health and happiness. You know those obituaries where the person is described as having SO many friends, constantly entertaining, having crowds of visitors, bustling around making them soup, etc?
I feel envious-- and yet the truth is I would HATE to have people around a lot. I'm one of those types who "like their own company."
But, then there are the stories about how, in the midst of dying, people marvel, “It’s all so simple!” (The purpose of life is love.) Yet, here I am, with a socially empty weekend ahead of me, feeling very happy and very busy.
Don’t get me wrong, I do have friends. I just don’t see them very often, and hardly ever talk to them on the phone. I have a certain group of perhaps 10 friends who have parties—perhaps three times a year—I am the most frequent host. They are interesting people and we always have a good time. It’s not too stressful because everyone brings food and their favorite beverage. There is a fair amount of alcohol and marijuana.
I will host one this summer, when my retirement is final. I don’t plan on attempting it sober. Am I a chicken? Shouldn’t I at least TRY it?
I also have my boyfriend Tony, for 8 months of the year, when he is not in Florida. We see each other most weekends and we are both very happy with that arrangement. I don’t have the slightest interest in living with my….um….partner? Hate that word. Romantic partner? After 17 years together, it would be strange to call it “romantic”! Boyfriend? Sounds purile. People, we need a new word! Along with another one for non-gender specific singular pronoun. People who expect others to refer to them as “they” rather than he or she kind of freaks me out. It just gives the Republicans fodder. This is a situation for a new word. In the 70's we managed to pull it off with “Ms.” It took many years before that rolled off the tongue, nonetheless it's now a success. But I digress.
I heard once, on some podcast, about someone who had a hermit uncle, who refused to go anywhere or host anyone at his place. He was considered to be a bit autistic, schizophrenic, or something of that ilk. His niece thought it such a tragedy—(the poor lonely guy, right?) It wasn’t until after his death that she discovered that he had a rich and happy social life; it was just all online.
Thank God I’m getting older in the age of the internet. I never seem to run out of things to do online when I’m done with the more physical and creative parts of the day.
The other reason I don't need to see people is I have my sister, Sybil, four houses down. We hike every morning, weather permitting. Even in the winter. We go on trails through the woods, and we love hills. We don't go far, but we go fast and hard.
It's great to have a sister who lives 1/4 mile away and is your best friend. It’s always amazing to me how much I find to talk about with her. When you see somebody every day, you can comb over the news, any gossip, every minute development of the day before. On the other hand, if someone calls you and you haven’t talked for several weeks, you seem to draw a blank……
“How’s it going? What’s new?”
“Uhhhhhh……well.... let’s see……”
The daily minutia of life seem too trivial to bring up. For example, you wouldn’t excitedly proclaim, “Yesterday I farted when I was lifting delivery racks in the store!” It just doesn’t seem worthy. One searches for more important categories of news.
It takes me a while to relax into a phone call. Our family never learned to enjoy phone chat that much, as our father would bellow to “Get off the goddamn phone!” if we ever talked for more than a few minutes. He seemed to believe that the phone was for conveying terse or urgent bits of information and nothing else.
I remember when the hospital called to tell him that our mother was going to die (she’d had cancer for 3 months), and to ask if he wanted them to take extra measures to keep her alive. He let them talk, and made a few brief verbal acknowledgements— just enough to indicate that there was actually still someone on the line. Then all he said was, “Let her go. Let her go.” and hung up the phone. (Apparently he and my mother had discussed this beforehand—the only purpose in her going to the hospital was to get morphine—you couldn’t get it at home in 1971.)
It wasn’t that he was unfeeling; after her death, he wept, over his beer, night after night. But Sybil and I (who were the youngest two kids of the five who were still living at home, and usually in the kitchen making supper or cleaning up when we heard him), would just stiffen, and continue our work, trying to not make any noise. Why? We didn’t want him to know we had heard it. Outlays of emotion were not something we shared.
After he quit drinking, at about age 75 or so, he moved into the house 3 houses down from me, which had been my brother’s house—-but is now my sister’s—-(long story there…and not germane.) At that time I was 8 months pregnant and the mother of a toddler. I would stop by occasionally, as one does—always looking for some little outing for your kid before one goes house-crazy. At one point during a brief visit, my father asked me, “How are you feeling?”
You could have knocked me over with a feather. He had never asked me that or anything like it before in my life!
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April 20th:
RATS!
I'm in a terrible mood. I've been slightly sick for 2 days. Covid test was negative. I'm not sick enough to declare a day off and curl up with a thermometer and a steaming cup of broth and a bottle of advil. Well, I did actually do the latter two, but am soldiering on with work. I couldn't quilt today, because I had to tend to the annoying details of life. Meaning phone calls and the endless chase of money. Sometimes I think, OK, so what if the tax department owes you $45.95? Maybe I should just let it slide. Isn't that what having plenty of money means?
My bad mood and raw throat are greatly exacerbated by the dead rats. Perhaps I should explain. I've had a rat infestation this spring. Rats frolicking around in the driveway. Rats in the compost: attracted by the bakery; then they then successfully gnawed through the wire enclosing the compost. Ideal life for a rat, really; tunnels underneath, some leafy layers, nice and warm, plenty to eat. Rats in the chicken coop, thriving on the chicken feed and enjoying wood shaving beds. Rats dropping out of the couch when I lifted it, having thought that a mouse might be under there, as the dog and two cats were excitedly sniffing around it. Rats squabbling in the walls, coming through the cat door. Rats in the basement, ironically trying to chew through the lid of my massive rat poison container. (Kind of a metaphor for some human behaviors?)
I'd had minor incursions in the past, but nothing like this. In other words, something had to be done. And there is that big container of rat poison. So, I began placing nuggets where I knew the dog, cats, and chickens couldn't get to them.
Rats trying to gnaw into the poison container seems a poignant metaphor for some human behaviors.
The good news? After a couple of weeks, I think they are all dead. No more sightings, the chicken feed is lasting again, no more gnawing sounds in the walls.
The bad news? My basement and living room now smell like the TV crime scenes where the body has been decomposing, and the newbie detective runs, retching, from the room.
Hey, I'm a homebody, and when my home become unpleasant, so do I. Initially, I thought my raw throat was just from the carrion fumes, but now the symptoms have progressed.
I should probably mention that I had been arguing with myself during deliveries. I am sick of feeling sick, and I was craving a puff of MJ and a bottle of champagne, knowing that I would instantly feel much better. I kept telling myself to stick with my "success" so far. Just get over it, I thought, you are just a bit sick, and you will feel better in a day or two. The black mood will lift. And, at that point, I brought my delivery into the Hanover Co-op, greeted by the ubiquitous greeting: "HOWRA DOIN?" from the sometimes moody, but presently cheerful, Ryan the Receiver, the marijuana enthusiast.
"I feel like shit," I said. He said, "Whaaat? C'mon, Man, it's 4/20!"
For those of you who commune with mother nature's mood remedy, and are familiar with millennials' holidays, you understand what that means. For the rest of you, there's Google.
"Oh My God!" I yelled. and promptly resolved to rush in to the liquor store and get a bottle of champagne and a bottle of rum.
The guy at the counter of the liquor store and I know each other enough to chat a bit and occasionally ask after each others kids, who went to school together. He discreetly omitted exclamations like "Wow, I haven't seen you in forever!" They must be trained not to remark on the frequency or lack thereof, of the clienteles' visits. I was tempted to boast about my habit moderation, but decided I didn't really want to call attention to the subject.
I drove home, thinking, Wow, am I really doing this?
I can't get a champagne cork out without using my teeth. (My hands are weak.) People are shocked by this, but if you just use your back molars, there is really little pressure on them, and it works like a charm. I can do it so quickly that people hardly notice.
What was unusual today was that a ring of glass broke off the top of the bottle as I was doing it. Huh, that's strange, I thought. Is this an omen? But, my course was set. I decided God wanted me to finish the bottle (you couldn't cap it anymore). I poured a glass, got Sybil's bong, (mine had finally gotten so clogged that she bought a new one) and set a timer for 4:20.
As soon as I smoked, I felt such joy. I put on a song I had been singing earlier, "I Don't Need Anymore Friends", by Collective Soul. My hunched, achy body suddenly wanted to stretch and move. I sang and danced while I opened the cat food and prepped Lulu's dinner.
I was glad I was alone. When I first smoke, I get so spacey I can't remember what I am doing. But despite that I managed to transplant some perennials, and washed 'Ol Sparky, my 10 year old electric car. I was mindful of my urge to drink lots and drink fast. I realized that it was because I was hungry.
I think one of the side effects of a lifetime of worrying about weight led me to the habit of drinking, rather than eating, at low blood sugar times. In my younger years periods of heavy drinking caused me to lose weight, rather than gain, so I never bought that argument about the calories. So after two small glasses of champagne, I poured my bubbly peach tea cider drink, and resolved to drink half a glass for every shot of champagne that I had. I would "wet my whistle" with a bit of the shot glass, savoring the flavor. Then alternate with several swallows of the cider drink. It worked! And I also knew enough to eat, and then lie down and take a nap afterwards, rather than keep drinking.
I woke up. I hadn't finished the bottle. I'd had a wonderful time. I'm seeing the light. Can I carry off this moderation moving forward and when with people?
Because, when I started this whole experiment, I knew that my "trigger" was socializing. But I've become increasingly aware that it is also a low-blood-sugar, starting-to-cook-dinner association. When I'm hungry I want to drink before I eat. Furthermore, and more importantly, it is a beautiful weather-end-of-the-day thing--which is when I crave marijuana. Anticipating that, the loss of that, since the beginning of this experiment, I figured would be my "downfall" from true sobriety.
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April 22nd
So, why (you ask), why did I buy a bottle of rum? I wanted to keep it, unopened, for a while, as a sort of practiced disinterest. I don't crave hard liquor in the way that I crave white wine and bubbly. Obviously, I would open it at some point. It's not like I have a perfect track record, but the whole point of this entire exercise is to change my attitudes and habits around alcohol--not to quit drinking. Also, lately I'm becoming almost obsessed anticipating the first time I get high--to have my "happy spring" solo party. This obsessiveness seems not healthy. It is almost scary--I envision losing control and feeling really bad. I wanted to plan a controlled resolution.
My second son Gavin is turning 30 next week. I don't want his milestone to go by without familial attention--so I offered to host a get together--his paternal side of the family live close by. I decided I could have a bottle of champagne (I meant it when I declared I would never host another party without alcohol.) I hadn't planned on my house becoming a rotting flesh horror show, becoming sick, and then unexpectedly being reminded of 4/20 when I needed the perfect excuse. So I moved it up 8 days. It didn't seem like such a big deal, and I'm glad I did it when by myself, so I could be "mindful".
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April 23rd
Yesterday morning I told Sybil about my lapse, and also that I had bought the bottle of rum. She came up for her daily puff when I was gone on deliveries, and the top of that bottle was speedily removed. So much for "unopened." I should have hid it.
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April 24th:
I sent this blog out to my sisters for the first time last night. Doing so meant sharing my imperfect performance for the first time.
Sybil was shocked at my admission of previous lapses. She said, "So you LIED to Dereka when you said you hadn't had any!" I said, "Well, yes, I HAD to, because if YOU knew, then you would start drinking. Which is EXACTLY what happened."
I think, for some reason, the words "Enabler" and "Co-dependent" are suddenly being shouted from the rooftops.
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April 25th
I mentioned to Sybil that I had intended for my bottle to remain unopened, so the next day she bought her own bottle of vodka, for the same sort of test, and the next day the top of that bottle was also speedily removed.
I think it's safe to say-- we are embarking on a new phase of our experiment.
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April 29th
Party Time
Yesterday I hosted Gavin's 30th birthday party. I had given myself to have permission to buy 2 bottles of champagne. One for me, one for everybody else (there weren't going to be a lot of champagne drinking types there.)
The cooking part was made easy by the buying of 3 pizzas. I also made a big salad.
I had a wonderful time. I mean a really wonderful time. Everyone did. I slept very well, worked hard all the next day, and feel oh so much better about my whole project here.
Despite the presence of our open rum and vodka bottles, we are staying (essentially) the course. I haven't had any rum except to make lemon & honey cough syrup when I was sick. Sybil CAN smoke her daily bit without drinking her vodka. After the party, there was half a bottle of champagne remaining. I'm not drinking it.
Obviously, the real test will be time. But I'm feeling optimistic. If the meaning of life is love, then I'm better off feeling it.
I laugh every time I look at this picture. Gavin and I are "normal." Nin (center) is caught mid eye roll, and the rest are the happy clowns.
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May 15th
Well, I'm back to square one, or should I say, square 0, which seems a better descriptor. The thing is, I'm not tearing my hair out with regret about this. Tony is back (and bear in mind, he is a teetotaller) and sober I am most definitely not. But, I'm having such a good time! It's summer weather, we went out on the boat at dusk, and I am in paradise.
I took care of Sienna yesterday and it is such a joy to be with her. At naptime we lay down together and she did her "I'm going to fall asleep now" motions, but she kept looking at me; I think she wasn't used to falling asleep with someone else. I pretended to be asleep for the most part, but I would sneak a peek now and then and she was always staring at my face. She thrashed around for about a half hour and then finally fell asleep.
I'm looking at my photos of Sienna yesterday with a gigantic smile on my face. Her little face with her blue eyes remind me of Sybil's baby photos.
My gardens were at their apex yesterday, right before all the daffodils and tulips start to shrivel.
It's the beginning of summer, and I feel so happy! Four weeks till retirement!!
I try to imagine what this weekend would have been like if I was sober. Tony usually shows up at the worst time of day for me: mid-late afternoon. He is always working on some project, and I am, at most, expected to participate, or, at least, to do something equally productive. Those are not his stated expectations, but my assumptions of his expectations. I mean, how would you feel if you showed up at your girlfriend's house for the weekend visit and were greeted with, "Hi Hon, I'm going upstairs to take a nap"? But, it is the time of day when I have the lowest energy, and without alcohol, I usually lie down and rest for at least an hour. Maybe two, just to get through that time of day. Then I get up, and garden or do something else productive. But I want to be alone. I am almost obsessed with being alone.
It occurs to me that, upon retirement, I can spend pretty much all of my time alone, for the first time since Sybil went to first grade, when I had that one year home alone with my mother. Somewhere there is a letter she had written to her mother, where she describes how nice that year was, and how I always had some little project going, and how I "sang like a little bird" all day.
Once I went to 1st grade, she commenced completing her teaching degree at UMass, so that decimated any free time she might have had from that point on, up until 3 days before she died. (She worked as a first grade teacher.) Poor Ma, I now not only wish her grandchildren, but also the experience of free time.
Here is a snippet of a thing that Sybil wrote about our mother's car. She needed her own vehicle to get to UMass, and a family friend of comfortable means gave her his hand-me-down, but not flawless, car.
In the winter the car wouldn't start. It became our job, the children, to push our mother off to school each morning. After we had eaten and dressed, before our school bus came, we went out into the freezing morning. If Marshall was working he would be gone by then, but even if he had been laid off and was at home, he didn't help push the car. He would sit at the breakfast table, chewing his poached egg and toast. (He encouraged us to contribute....and this was something we could do. Also, I don't think he liked the fact that she was going to school.)
Ma got in the driver's seat, and put the car in neutral. We found handholds, all of us, and inched the car towards the short hill by the house. Once it started rolling, she didn't have much time. She turned the ignition, popped the clutch, and pumped the accelerator. We cheered when the car jolted, coughed, and a plume of exhaust spurted from the back. We always stood watching till she putted out of sight, turning left on Devil's Bend Road. She told us there was a special hill at the University, where she always parked the car so that she could get it started for the ride home.
To think that a simple thing, like a new battery, could have solved the problem! But, we always "made do".
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So, to return to my issue, why do I like to be alone so much? My gut reaction is that I must be overly reactive to what I think other people expect of me, and therefore, when there are other people around, I have that constantly badgering around in my mind. Granted, it is what I think others expect me to be (as though I am constantly expecting criticism?) But, could that have been true at age 5? Or was it just--that being away from my siblings for a lot of the day made life easier? Or am I just an irritable bitch? Or all of those? When Syb shows up and smokes, and I just feel irritated, am I the one who is wrong?
Really, I should be paying you to read this. You are my thera-post. (Ha ha, get it?)
........Later that day............
So, why am I so happy? I think back on my writings here and cringe a bit when I recall being so relieved that I wasn't drinking. I think it was the novelty of it all. And the solitude. By the time April rolled around that was over.
I remember when my father quit drinking. Boy, was he nasty. He came to a lunchtime gathering at my house one time, and it was a beautiful day outside, so we decided to dine al fresco. As I was ferrying everything outside, trying to get everything arranged, with two little kids and company; he sat there and bitched and complained about everything. I sort of lost it. I finally plunked down, looked at him with rage, and said, "You know, you are a REAL DRAG lately!!" He did what he usually did when someone called him on his shit.....he drew back, seeming somewhat baffled. I clarified, "All you do is bitch and complain!" He muttered somewhat apologetically, "Oh, I do?", and then was quiet for the rest of the somewhat stilted lunch.
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May 19th
A Glass Half Empty Day:
Mood is a strange and powerful master. Why, oh why, does it have such power? Does this just happen to me, or to everyone else also?
Things literally break when I am in a bad mood. Bad shit just keeps happening. I don't think it a matter of interpretation or selective screening. It makes no sense, I can only think of the amorphous descriptor "bad energy." Here are some examples:
My knee (replaced 8 years ago) has lately giving me trouble. It used to be that whenever I cleaned up a lot (company coming), for 3 or 4 hours, it would seize up and swell and get hot. It would remain so for a couple of days, and I would struggle going down stairs and limp dramatically for a couple of days.
Lately, however, after only an hour and a half of gardening, the same problem. This was Monday night. I got pretty frustrated, took ibuprofen, watched stupid TV programs, but by Wednesday morning I felt fine.
Actually, I woke up in a great mood. I thought, Ah, the cloud has passed, and this wonderful happiness that I felt last winter is finally returning. I just need to appreciate all the wonderful things in life. Then, after coming home from deliveries, and just cleaning up the fucking kitchen, I am back to square one. It was a beautiful day out, an absolutely perfect gardening day. and I couldn't do anything but read, which I am trying to return to, but it makes my hands and wrists hurt to hold a physical book. (Hence Audible) I would have LOVED to garden. Such a bummer.
So, I wake up today, hoping for the best. I deal with the bakery stuff, which I heartily sick of. Ryan and I are in a period of transition, where he kind of feels like it is his bakery now, and I am wishing it was, but still needing to actually run the place. I gamely go through my to-do list, trying to tick less favorable things off before I allow myself to go upstairs and run my longarm and listen to music, which almost always leads to a feeling of peace.
To sum up the list succinctly: My longarm machine wouldn't work, and a few hours of troubleshooting didn't work. Meanwhile, I got a scam phone from the "Customs and Immigration Department" telling me of illegal drugs addressed to me (I wish!), my dog had a HUGE boated tick on her leg, my iphoto application wouldn't work, I googled the solution and made it worse, I couldn't garden so I decided to at least mow (on a riding mower) which wouldn't start.
Ryan wanted to go on deliveries with me to re-acquaint himself with the process, which isn't awful, but is more stressful and draining than going by myself and listening to my book.
So, just as I am about to retire, in 3 weeks, I have a ridiculously expensive car waiting in the wings; the anticipation of which has been a major source of joy, but now feels like the ultimate folly, since the stock market is going through a huge crash, which is where I have ALL my money, especially in tech stocks, which are crashing the worst. (I am a fairly aggressive investor.)
It's not, by any means, just the issue of money. The world seems to be going to hell in a hand basket, recession looming, war, and the end of anything approaching democracy in this country. Midterm elections loom, and I have never felt this pessimistic before in my life.
Upon getting home, I had that "fuck it" reaction, and drank rum (which I easily hadn't touched since the weekend.) I took a nap and talked to my sister Tam, and now feel happy again.
Happy Birthday, Mom.
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June 3
Actually, I'm NOT back to square one, or square 0, as I said. Aside from the weekend parties, I remain sober. Last weekend was a three day Memorial weekend. I had the family over (lots of fun). My granddaughter steals the show every time. She is so happy and engaged; she seems so thrilled to be alive! Every moment someone is interacting with her, because she is so good natured and appreciative. I also went boating with friends, and then had a sober and relaxing Monday off. Not too bad!
I was describing the boating expedition, which involves hoynter (slang for marijuana) and alcohol, and how much fun it was, and my sober friend asked, "Why?"
I said I didn't know how to describe it, except that "Lit" seems, to me, to sum it up. Everything looks more beautiful, and you feel this warm glow inside.
Next week is my last in the bakery, and I am beyond excited. Is retirement such a thrill for everyone? It helps that it is the beginning of summer, that I love my house and yard, and that I am going to get a snazzy car soon. It's been 54 years since I had a summer off! And this time it won't end in September!
I bought a skirted one piece bathing suit (time to start looking a little more respectable--no more running bras with vaguely matching underwear, or lightweight brazillian shifts with nothing on underneath.)
I do feel somewhat wistful when I look down at my legs, once so perfect and now a scarred, droopy-kneed mass of cellulite and veins. I hate it when you wave hello and the bottoms of your upper arms flap back and forth. But, there's aging...........or the alternative. Which isn't a desirable one.
I used to admire the adage, "Live fast, die young, and leave a beautiful corpse". Not any more! The interesting question is, if you could go back and live your same life over again, without the ability to change things, would you do it? We don't want to die of course, but strangely, the answer is NO. Not even to get those legs back.
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JULY 7th
Note the date. Been a while, a lot has happened: I think I am FINALLY ready to transcribe my hand written notes from the psych ward: I'll put the notes from journal in red and the present day commentary in black.
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June 17th
Waking up on a locked psych ward. Not my finest moment.
Is this bottom or just a rocky outcrop on the way down?
For the last day I've composed a calendar, trying to recall what happened.
The series so far---- the 5th or 6th I dropped the computer in the river. (It was the 7th). I drank.
June 6th, (actually 8th) Bought new computer. Couldn't recover data. Gavin gets access, gives me the computer password but that's all. I continually get stuck and don't know what to do. Drank a fair amount more, kept working. Sybil drove me on deliveries because I told her I shouldn't drive.
On the 11th (it was the 8th) Phil called, gonna come visit, and he invited Long to go boating. Tony and Sybil showed up and we all head out. Had a fine night, but at the end I must have had words with Gavin. He basically called me on my drinking, in a very unkind way. I don't remember it. Sybil said it was actually the next morning. I was asking him for more help with the computer. I said, "Think of me like a baby when it comes to this tech stuff. I need to be fed, diapered, and clothed." He said some negative thing that really upset me and we basically hung up angrily on each other, probably with choice words such as Fuck Off.
I took my entire bottle of amitriptyline in about one gulp. I went right outside and told Sybil. What was I thinking?! Drama Queen? Pity Party? Tesla disappointment? (the loan hadn't come through.) Tech helplessness & feeling stupid? Freakout about losing identity and starting retirement at the point where I just lost $300K in the stock market? Crushed as a parent? WTH!
I was so incredibly upset by losing control of my life. I'm one of those people with their computer practically attached to them. (Hence bringing it onto the party barge.) Just as my business was in it's last week I completely lost it.
It is important to note that, in fact, I went into the hospital on the 9th, and have no memory of it until I woke up being brought to the psych ward on the evening of the 16th. I couldn't walk without a walker and assistance for the first day. I had been on a ventilator and in intensive care for 8 days and had no cognizance of that. I had no idea of the date or the past week until Phil called me on the ward phone and told me.
My first recollection of these 8 days is trying to get up to go pee. I couldn't understand why someone wouldn't let me. I'd been catheterized but I didn't understand that. Every time I moved a hand or a foot, some "drill sergeant" would bark, "What are you doing!?" I would shrivel back. (I was on suicide watch.) This argument seemed to go on for days. I kept having hallucinations. In my dreams I'd be driving my Tesla, and suddenly the windshield and windows became opaque. I couldn't see through them! I couldn't find the brake, and there was no longer a steering wheel. Over and over, people watched me--my arms frantically thrashing, my foot stomping the "floor", looking for a brake. A voice would tell me, "Don't worry, it's a TESLA."
Sometime on the 16th I woke up, gradually, in and out, in and out. "Do you know where you are?"After many repetitions of "Alice Peck Day", I rolled my eyes in exasperation. "Of course, Alice Peck Day! How many times do I have to say it?"
"Actually", they said, "You are at Dartmouth Hitchcock."
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June 18th
If I hadn't fucked up, today would be my retirement party. I would have had a week to prepare. The weather is perfect.
Instead, here I am, in a locked psych ward, as just punishment for my existential crisis. Here they tell you to bolster yourself up, rather than beat yourself up....but really, if there ever was a time to feel like a dunce, this is it. Waking up with a giant squishy pad on my ass "to prevent bed sores". I recall in my dreams, that when I discovered it in my delirium, I kept saying, "Gosh, I can't believe this, I'm 66 and have my period!"
What I miss: Lulu, my cats, chickens, yard, phone, computer, dental picks.
At 6:00 a.m. I'm the earliest one up. Apparently the shambling denizens of the ward do not leap eagerly up to face the challenges of the new day. The staff looked at my polite face with a dumfounded expression when I asked where the coffee was. She blinked at me in astonishment. "Coffee?! "It will be here when breakfast gets here." Geesh, it wasn't like I asked for koi luck (made from coffee beans plucked from civets' feces.) So I go to shower and stretch till it's here. Since I have no chair or desk in my room, I must write in the public areas, which though against my inclination, is probably a good thing, as it gives me perspective on the other patients.
Finally, coffee has arrived! 7:50 a.m. It was terrible. I had to add 4 creamers and 2 sugars to make it bearable.
I haven't cried except for when that guy kept wrenching my wrists, (while in my delirium) way too hard I thought. But my thoughts on my saviors? They kept me alive, but they must be filled with scorn for people like me, idiot babbling hunks of meat doing themselves harm. I wonder if they ever wonder about the results about my care.
I mentioned this to the doctors on my exit interview, and they assured me that they did care. They suggested I write letters of gratitude to the 3 departments--EMT's ER, and ICU, so I did.
I'm feeling intense awkwardness, socially speaking. I don't think it's socially OK to ask what I really want to ask, which is "What are you in for?" or, "For how long?" I'm picturing a grizzled tattooed taciturn, giving me the stink eye.
This morning's "meeting" (before breakfast, just to check in.). God! I really wish I could take candid photos. In the mornings everyone seems like their worst. What a bunch of slack jawed, dull eyed people--just like in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.
They have doubled my prozac and, of course, taken away my amitriptyline, so I have bad insomnia. Also, no amount of water slacks my thirst. I sign up to do every activity possible even though I feel like crap.
Even though I am shy, I'm sure the others think I am standoffish, so I try to be just a bit goofy. I decided to break out of my shell and started up a bit of hearty chatter. This led to me talking to Gioia, who was not only a classmate of Gavin's, but whose mother I'd been visiting when she went into labor. Now here we are, both of the east wing psych ward. I asked about her mother, and her brother, and life started to feel "normal". She's a beautiful young woman.....just get's really depressed I guess. Tends to isolate herself too much, perhaps. I didn't ask for details.
There is a somewhat frightening woman who just got her lunch late, because she was too busy yelling nonsense at a fictional person, and now she is royally pissed. Otis, the Head Man, (I don't know his actual title) is a most delightful guy, always keeps his cool and has just the right amount of good nature vs strength and control. He always keeps his cool, got a sandwich made and brought to her tout suite! He is very good at his job, and I am growing fond of him.
There is one other potentially dangerous chap, Kevin. Formerly handsome, now friendly but babbles nonsense, and starts up a lustful stare if you talk to him. I was headed past him with my silverware on my tray and Otis quickly muttered to "take the silverware off" my tray before I passed Kevin, and smooth as could be, cheerfully offered to take my tray so I could veer in another direction with the silverware. This seemed quite odd, but Kevin just gets plastic to eat with, so there must have been an incident. The staff are all pretty nice. They do have odd rules. For example, no one checks your tray when you are done eating to make sure you haven't kept back any silverware. If you want a dental pick, however, it must be kept in a locked cubby, and they have to get it for you. And then you must return it when you are finished. Yuck. I'm still trying to figure out how you could kill yourself with dental picks.
The basic function of this place seems to giving meds under supervision. And observing the results. So, if I want to make the hastiest exit possible, I won't make too much of the fact that I can't sleep, and that some of the meds make me feel sick.
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June 19th
Now I know to stay in bed until 7:30. Yesterday, after my midday nausea had passed, I had a really good day. Sybil came with the right charger for my phone, so I know it will work when I get out. Otis let Gavin synch my new computer with my phone (secretly), which gave me the joy of a religious conversion. It took a long time, so I didn't want to push my luck by going to all my critical sites regarding the bakery and all the lost documents. Corey showed up, and the three of us had a long chat. Corey seems thin and hyped up. He has quit pot--as he has similar problems as I have. Try to be moderate, but inevitably, it is becomes too much and too often.
Gavin is hot on the trail in the internet dating scene. The photos he shows me of women look professionally photographed. They are curled up with puppies, their pouty mouths matched only by the glossiness of their hair. Cover Girl shots. Then pile on their stats--iimpressive careers abound. Reminds me of that song by Weird Al Yankovic, "Close But No Cigar."
The med they have me on to "reduce alcohol cravings" make me nauseated and gives me headaches. The staff tells me to eat more, and Otis was shocked by the skimpiness of my supper. I have zero appetite, but to appease them I doggedly shovel down whatever I can. They don't seem to understand how little food a suddenly sedate petite 66 year old woman requires. And I'm in a vicious cycle--the meds make me sick and destroy my appetite, but I have to take them with food. This morning I shoveled scrambled eggs with unparalleled speed, to get the whole fucking thing over with.
I'm forcing myself to sit and eat with other people, even Kevin who makes lots of unappetizing snorts and coughs while he is eating.
Tony just visited! I'm glad he got to scope out the place. The yelling woman, pacing, rules and regs. (Actually, he was so disgusted by the whole thing, in retrospect, it would have been better if he had been in Florida.) He ket mentioning the lack of "fresh air" in the ward. I laughed uproariously because it is not the sort of place you can throw open the windows (6 flights up with abounding suicidal ideation).
A new nurse was on staff last night, "Pat." She came in for a brief chat. She intimated that I might get out today. I'm trying not to accept it as a given, but it's hard not to. I've been up since pre-dawn. I put my bedding and towels in the "soiled linen" bin (kind of makes you wonder what its history has been). I'm no longer shocked that there isn't coffee until 8:00, and learned to content myself with Poland Springs, which must make a helluva profit from this joint. I sit at the window in the public room, in a dirty, yet comfortable chair. I miss my animals so much it hurts.
I take meaning from this "interlude". A lot of it is self-care. For 36 years I've been going full-tilt, working full time combined with studies, and then working full time combined with child rearing. Success with the bakery in 1990 put me into overdrive, as I knew it was my best chance out of poverty. Thirty two years later--and well, I was right.
I will be emerging into the world on a beautiful June day. I took a shower, stretched, and put nice-smelling oils on my body (free samples).
Another unwanted (breakfast) meal has arrived. I haven't felt any appetite whatsoever since I arrived. I'm dreading my meds (the Naltrexone in particular), because I know that once I take it, I will feel shitty for at least 5 hours. I continue to take it, of course, because it is given under observation, and I don't want to ruffle any feathers, in the chance that it might affect my (hoped for) release.
Today they offered me an anti-nausea medication to counteract the Naltrexone. I'd just need an EKG first, they said. Oh, great I thought, this will take days. If you'd been an outpatient, it would have. Make the appointment, wait in waiting room, get procedure, wait days for the results. Things are much more streamlined here. Within 10 minutes a guy came bustling in, pushing the machine, pulsating with good cheer, hooked me up and Bob's yer uncle in about 10 minutes and I get an anti-nausea med.
In the early morning, I watch the workmen drifting in, who are building the new DHMC wing. I'm struck by the snail like pace of these early arrivals. God! When I get out of bed (normally), it is like I'm shot out of a cannon. When I'm doing deliveries, I push my rather loud trolley so fast the customers scatter in alarm (a bit of poetic license here.)
Now, here I am, on an unintended tech holiday, with time to kill. My hip ache issue that has been bothering me for years has vanished, despite eating gluten, so that whole thing was another red herring. I am convinced at this point that it was psychological. I just wanted to change my life?
Here's what I wish I had:
My phone--mostly for the camera. A beside table lamp. Reading prone with nothing but a glaring overhead lamp sucks.
I feel affection for the people here. Allison, the anorexic LPN, who gushes positivity but is painful to look at. In my new disguise as a mental patient, I was tempted to say in my best Ebonic, "Gurl, you gotta eat more!" Christopher, the pacer. Kevin, the shouting woman Rachel, Gavin's friend Gioia, Morgan, Donna....I write their names now so I do not forget them. I'm struck, however, by the lack of visitors. I guess for a lot of people this is normal life.
As I anticipate release, I'm reminded of Brian's releases from jail. Each one was accompanied by such anticipation and euphoria, which, alas, diminished with each iteration.
I still can't believe I have no recollection of over 8 days, other than dreams about the runaway Tesla.
Two of the 10 people on this wing seem to have "trans" issues. I'm not pronouncing any conclusions, just an observation. As I write, across from me this morning, is a young woman with a crew cut, crying to herself. I'm imagining the self abegnation this lovely person is experiencing. Humanity can be so tragic. I wish I could help her.
Sybil visited recently and as I was discussing the various limitations they put on picayune items in the interests of safety, and she glances around with the jaded eye of a retired psych nurse and immediately points out the potted plants that one could "chuck." Haha. Humor is everywhere, you just have to see it.
What turns out to be my last half hour: Had a great group where I was the "star pupil". I had all the best answers. I had to force myself to shut up. Why couldn't I do that when I was in college? Kirkland was a terrible setting for me--a place that valued group think and verbal participation above all else, and I was terrible at both, shrunken in a pathetic ball of low self-esteem. I wonder if Ma hadn't died.......I was her last kid, after all, the only one home for my senior year in high school.....she probably would have gotten involved in my choice of college and given me some guidance.
July 24th
These late July evenings--so distinct, yet so ephemeral. I walk the dog, noticing the maturity phase of each blossoming plant, My yard is a veritable jungle. Why wouldn't this be enough? Why aren't we content just being in this world?
Tony helped me move furniture today so that I can set up my new sewing room (I just re-painted). I was in an ecstatic mood, but then Tony told me that Chris was telling lots of people that Sybil had told Gavin that I "loved Corey more than him" while I was in a "coma" and he (Chris) was rip shit mad. Chris had told me this at Corey's wedding also last weekend, and I was stunned, but had convinced Sybil to let it go for now (I knew it couldn't possibly be true). I've been reluctant to address these tensions between Gavin and I, as I don't think I can take the expected slapping about the face just yet--I've still felt a bit fragile. But, now Sybil is very hurt and puzzled, and so we are going to have a sit-down tomorrow with Gavin.
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SO busy enjoying retirement, painting rooms, rearranging---my idea of heaven. Without.amitriptyline, my mood is diminished, and sleep and alcohol continues to be a problem (especially on the weekends), but I really don't think I will ever quit. Without it I don't feel emotion, or love. My walls are fully erect.
July 25th:
At first I told her to hide her vodka, but then I said she didn't need to, and now I'm drinking it sometimes to get back to sleep. I'm no longer getting home from deliveries in the afternoon, starving and exhausted, so that isn't the irritant it used to be. The main change I've achieved-- is sobriety when alone. I used to panic if I would run out of wine. Now it is a given that I won't have any unless there is an event coming up--which in the summer there are a lot of. Winters will be solitary and healthier.
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September 26: (Long gap)
A recently widowed friend told me his wife had always claimed she didn't want to live past 75 (a fate which essentially came true, apparently, due to bad habits.) This stunned me like a thunderclap as simultaneously brave and stupid. What is so terrible about being old?
Well, I guess I am learning...... I remarked to my sister, as we hiked, that the last 20 or 30 years of of life are a gradual physical decline, to the point where dying doesn't seem so bad after all. I recall what is was like, in my 20's, to dash around outside barefoot, tingling with energy. Well, that is certainly gone. Sex drive is dead. Looks are kaput. Body aches and you collapse after only a few hours of physical activity.
I felt really great until I was 52, which was when the arthritis set in. Couldn't run anymore. So I biked and skied like a demon. Fifteen years later, with knee replacement and torn ligaments, energy depleted, I hear this remark regarding the 75 year limit, and think, Yeah! Not that I take it literally, but maybe it is better to just relax into old age. Develop a sense of affection for your larger belly, and be fun without being pretty. Watch a lot of good TV. Is longevity overrated?
It's been a helluva summer. Lots of parties and dinners and boating and campfires. I am....naturally....drinking again with great gusto. Even the attentions of the recently widowed friend, which can lead me to a fantasy world of being in love, with that sense of renewal. It's a drug so tempting as to be irresistible. The best I can do is not encourage these situations. I've noticed how all the women light up around him, so it is not just me that has a crush. I doubt very much that he was a faithful husband, and is the kind of man who would be lusting and flirting with every new woman, which would be torture. It would be so much better to surrender to old age and not be tormented by these issues.
Before I retired, when money was magically multiplying in the stock market, I had plans to work on my looks. Cosmetic surgeries, tattooed eyeliner, redone eyebrows, white veneers on teeth, and I even wondered if I could get parts of my scalp tattooed a lighter color so that I didn't have this very pink scalp glaring through my thinning white hair.
My retirement portfolio has declined 30% since then, and especially with the purchase of the Tesla, I have decided not to spend except on essentials until things improve.
I had lost a lot of weight during and after my hospitalization, what with the medications they had me on that made me feel sick all the time. I actually looked pretty good in a bathing suit in the beginning of the summer. Now that I convinced my Dr to give me my sleep medication again (the stuff I had overdosed on), and I've lost that "recently retired energy", the pounds are piling on and the thought of trying to attract anyone new is horrifying.
My greatest joy now comes from my granddaughter. I tried to take a nap with her and she couldn't settle down. She kept putting necklaces on me, and lovingly covering me with blankets, and wanting me to kiss her teddy bear, or showing me her books-- that nobody was getting any sleep. I finally left the room and then she went to sleep, which was what she needed.
I had liked lying down with her, even though it didn't succeed in producing sleep. I realized that this was pure unadulterated love from a child, and so I hadn't minded a bit. In fact I was tempted to sneak down and have a puff of pot so I could really revel in it.
Corey came for dinner and he and Sybil made supper while Tony and I and the kids went out on the boat. Tony is teaching Daliah to fish and I had CC on my lap learning how to steer, and it was one of those moments of bliss!
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