And so it begins... the unwinnable battle with the alarm clock. I hit the snooze button one more time, debating whether 10 more minutes of sleep was worth it. Finally, I muster up the energy to swing my legs around and hop down from the top bunk. I guess I should clarify, at this point, that I am not a 10-year-old kid, but a 32-year-old woman (although this is, admittedly, debatable).
I try not to wake my roomates as I stumble clumsily into the bathroom. I wonder if Congress will ever consider passing a law forbidding people to work before dawn. Doubtful. Oh well, at least I'll get to see the sunrise. That's something for which to be grateful. Gratitude is very big in recovery. It's the alcoholic, and it's addicts' chemotherapy. All these thoughts filter through my mind as I brush my teeth. I throw on my life-affirming Charlie Brown scrubs and make my way to the kitchen for a cup of joe and some much-needed nicotine (two more items to put on my gratitude list). Meditation time. Time to embrace my inner zen. This is a work in progress. My mind and serenity go together as naturally as Michael Jackson and Lisa Marie Pressley, but I do my best.
I live in a recovery house. This is not as glamorous as it sounds: five emotionally fragile women living under one roof and sharing two bathrooms. My best friend here has been here the longest and is the house manager. She somehow manages to deal with all our bullshit, work a full-time job and go to school without messing up her hair or chipping a nail. Now that's talent. It's not always a pretty life, but it's very rarely boring.
I work in an assisted-living facility that will remain nameless to protect the innocent as well as my job. Officially, my job title is personal-care assistant, but due to my blatant inability to say, 'No,' sometimes I'm a housekeeper, sometimes I sit with residents in the doctor's office, sometimes I'm in laundry and sometimes I'm the resident toilet plunger. The sanest thing about the facility are the residents, and some of them are diagnosed schizophrenics. I'd thought I'd seen it all in my 10 years of active addiction, but I was mistaken. Life is just as bizarre when I'm sober. The fire alarm randomly goes off, and we have to evacuate 70 people, some with severe cases of dementia - no easy task - and the whole place is run by a 24-year-old, who is probably still doing keg stands at sorority parties. That being said, I love my job. I get to leave work exhausted in a good way. I have the privilege of being in these people's lives, and when I leave for the day, I may be messy and frustrated, but I'm also fulfilled.
So how does a girl, who hid for years in the back bedroom of her grandmother's house drinking cheap vodka and watching bad TV, who was shot at looking for crack in a shady neighborhood at 4 in the morning, who was also arrested for being an accessory to shop lifting (I was a get-away driver, a different story for another time) now have an interesting, frustrating, bizarre, fulfilling, confusing, fun, sometimes, lonely, but always sober life?
Well, there's no easy answer, or I'd be making the talk show circuit. I come home from work to whatever drama is going on at home: who's eating who's food, who hasn't done their chores, yada yada yada, which, in turn, makes my small, annoying headache become a brain-buster.
STOP.
Whining in my head is one step away from whining out loud, and I'm not about to take a trip to self-pitysville: population one. I know too well where that road leads, and really, I have nothing to be upset about. I have a job I love that never bores me. I've been reintroduced to my sense of humor, and I am learning not to be afraid of hope. Don't get me wrong. I still have my shitty days, where I free fall through fear, loneliness and anxiety (my nuerotic suit of armor, and man, is it heavy.) That's OK though because the house I live in, all the women in it, and all the people currently in my life, act as a safety net, a trampoline, and that makes free-falling a little less scary.
Time to call my sponsor, Linda. What can I say about Linda? She has a lot of sobriety, and it's good sobriety. There is a difference. I learned that in my first few meetings. She is smart, funny, down to earth, unpretentious and human. There are a lot of reasons that I like her as a friend, but my reason for loving her as a sponsor is a selfish one. She makes me stop apologizing for being who I am and does not try to force me into a box. God, Buddha, Muhammad, Gus... whatever artist created this abstract painting called life put her in mine, and for that, I will be eternally grateful because without her, I would still be in that back bedroom, drinking, God knows what, and hoping it's not poison. I was a coward. But not today.
Watch What Kind of Bullshit Drama Being Played... by zemtv
Article Source: http://EzineArticles.com/3849182
I try not to wake my roomates as I stumble clumsily into the bathroom. I wonder if Congress will ever consider passing a law forbidding people to work before dawn. Doubtful. Oh well, at least I'll get to see the sunrise. That's something for which to be grateful. Gratitude is very big in recovery. It's the alcoholic, and it's addicts' chemotherapy. All these thoughts filter through my mind as I brush my teeth. I throw on my life-affirming Charlie Brown scrubs and make my way to the kitchen for a cup of joe and some much-needed nicotine (two more items to put on my gratitude list). Meditation time. Time to embrace my inner zen. This is a work in progress. My mind and serenity go together as naturally as Michael Jackson and Lisa Marie Pressley, but I do my best.
I live in a recovery house. This is not as glamorous as it sounds: five emotionally fragile women living under one roof and sharing two bathrooms. My best friend here has been here the longest and is the house manager. She somehow manages to deal with all our bullshit, work a full-time job and go to school without messing up her hair or chipping a nail. Now that's talent. It's not always a pretty life, but it's very rarely boring.
I work in an assisted-living facility that will remain nameless to protect the innocent as well as my job. Officially, my job title is personal-care assistant, but due to my blatant inability to say, 'No,' sometimes I'm a housekeeper, sometimes I sit with residents in the doctor's office, sometimes I'm in laundry and sometimes I'm the resident toilet plunger. The sanest thing about the facility are the residents, and some of them are diagnosed schizophrenics. I'd thought I'd seen it all in my 10 years of active addiction, but I was mistaken. Life is just as bizarre when I'm sober. The fire alarm randomly goes off, and we have to evacuate 70 people, some with severe cases of dementia - no easy task - and the whole place is run by a 24-year-old, who is probably still doing keg stands at sorority parties. That being said, I love my job. I get to leave work exhausted in a good way. I have the privilege of being in these people's lives, and when I leave for the day, I may be messy and frustrated, but I'm also fulfilled.
So how does a girl, who hid for years in the back bedroom of her grandmother's house drinking cheap vodka and watching bad TV, who was shot at looking for crack in a shady neighborhood at 4 in the morning, who was also arrested for being an accessory to shop lifting (I was a get-away driver, a different story for another time) now have an interesting, frustrating, bizarre, fulfilling, confusing, fun, sometimes, lonely, but always sober life?
Well, there's no easy answer, or I'd be making the talk show circuit. I come home from work to whatever drama is going on at home: who's eating who's food, who hasn't done their chores, yada yada yada, which, in turn, makes my small, annoying headache become a brain-buster.
STOP.
Whining in my head is one step away from whining out loud, and I'm not about to take a trip to self-pitysville: population one. I know too well where that road leads, and really, I have nothing to be upset about. I have a job I love that never bores me. I've been reintroduced to my sense of humor, and I am learning not to be afraid of hope. Don't get me wrong. I still have my shitty days, where I free fall through fear, loneliness and anxiety (my nuerotic suit of armor, and man, is it heavy.) That's OK though because the house I live in, all the women in it, and all the people currently in my life, act as a safety net, a trampoline, and that makes free-falling a little less scary.
Time to call my sponsor, Linda. What can I say about Linda? She has a lot of sobriety, and it's good sobriety. There is a difference. I learned that in my first few meetings. She is smart, funny, down to earth, unpretentious and human. There are a lot of reasons that I like her as a friend, but my reason for loving her as a sponsor is a selfish one. She makes me stop apologizing for being who I am and does not try to force me into a box. God, Buddha, Muhammad, Gus... whatever artist created this abstract painting called life put her in mine, and for that, I will be eternally grateful because without her, I would still be in that back bedroom, drinking, God knows what, and hoping it's not poison. I was a coward. But not today.
Watch What Kind of Bullshit Drama Being Played... by zemtv
Article Source: http://EzineArticles.com/3849182
