Category: Gratefully Sober

Gratefully sober since July 2008.

Anxiety is love’s greatest killer.


“


Originally uploaded by M e l o d y

Anxiety is love’s greatest killer. It makes others feel as you might when a drowning man holds on to you. You want to save him, but you know he will strangle you with his panic.

— Anais Nin

regrets

I have many regrets in my life, strongest of which is I am sorry that I became a mother. I may not wreck my children’s lives (or I may, the verdict is out) but they deserve a stronger person, a better example, different genes than mine, a greater chance for happiness & joy.

I’m sorry that I didn’t reach out to my sister’s kids when they were small.  Oh, I have excuses: working full-time, newly married, new step-mom, three little ones in four years. But I didn’t and I can never fix that.  I should have and to Michal and Josh, I owe an apology.

I’m sorry that I gave in to addiction. So it’s a disease and all, but don’t some people manage it better? I wanted to escape. I became a drunk.  To my children and my husband, most of all, I am so sorry.

I’m sorry that I never confronted my father while he was living about his abusive anger, control, retaliation, and cruelty. I was too afraid. I lived every moment in the thralls of that fear, but there were a few times when I almost had the courage. I didn’t.  He is dead and to my sisters, I am so sorry.  We all deserved better.  To mom, who took it on the cheek emotionally speaking, you’re still here and that’s saying something.

I’m sorry for all the sarcasm that I threw at people over the years. It’s wicked and wrong. I am glad to have mostly overcome this.  To my sisters, certain friends I will not name, Tom and even at times my children.  Especially Molly.

I have specific regrets,Molly, for not being the step-mom you deserved.  I was jealous, weak, and petty about your mom and for that I am ashamed.

I regret never trying anything when I was young. I was living in a straight-jacket of fear and need to please my parents. If I do anything now people smirk. I should know better. That’s just it. I don’t know better.

I really should never have tried to love, because I’m fairly incapable of it. Having never received unconditional love growing up, there’s a canyon of need and grief, and no matter how much I try to love others, I’m bereft of the skills I am certain one needs to truly love back. My best attempt is with Tom and 2nd with my children, and I’m sorely lacking. I know the actions but inside I am frozen-hearted.

I try to love others. But I am just hanging on. If I let go, to reach out to others, won’t I fall?

this epic grief

this Epic Grief

September 13, 2009


Minutes tick.  Limbs twitch.  Covers are tangled & awry.  I think I am almost under, when I realize that I have been awake for hours.

It is too late.  Sleep eludes me.

In the darkness I lay back again.  And again.  And  again.

My mind full of  shadows; ripples of awareness & memory.  Weariness.  Need. Needing anything besides my irrational, wild, anxious thoughts. Have I always felt so lonely?  Have I always had this epic grief?

It seems as if I was born lonely, afraid, ashamed. distrusting.  My heart in pieces.   One of my strongest childhood memories.

But hold on.  Pain must have a beginning.

Was it there before I was?  There in the hearts of my mother and father?

Was it as real to them? The waking dream.  The dreamless sleep.  A quiet pulse, ever present.

Did they pass this madness on to me, through blood and tears of a generational grief?

I am sleepless and crazy with sadness that in times past I would have gladly drowned with alcohol, or any other intoxicant.

But dry, I am left with this epic grief.

Days and years. Years and days of working at sobriety.

Because dry, without the work, I am simply left amongst my dreams.

Left

with this epic grief.


Writing poetry helps me feel something to its extreme.  To go as far as the madness allows and still remain sane.  And then — somehow — come back to a place of semi-sanity.  It helps me to write.  And I hope that it helps someone else as well.  I think that is why I share though some would say “A cry for help.” Ha, ha.  That is so.

eulogy to life


There was a time, when to wake with a pounding head

meant total indiscretion the night before.

On this day, the one year anniversary

of my choosing relief and power,

the day I rejected my empty Thirst

I can celebrate my life.

There is shame in being a drunk;

total confusion and self-contempt.

I do not remember to glorify it,

for it was pure wretchedness, and I still

sometimes feel disbelief that this is my story.

But I cannot, dare not, blot out the memories.

It happened.

There is  guilt, humiliation, self-disgust,

but I dare not forget.

I choose sobriety.

I choose to be aware of my cravings and needs.

I am an alcoholic who chooses  — every day — her Life.

What is suicide — picking up the glass knowing it is death, for me.


What is Life?

Awareness.

Humility.

Service.

Love.

Life is facing down my demons,

knowing the dark times will come.

Life, is wanting something more.

Power comes in the choosing.

Choosing more Love, choosing Life.

Even as I remember,

I choose this day to Live.

I choose my Life.

July 17, 2009

My first AA meeting




…

Originally uploaded by M e l o d y

Beauty in the midst of Chaos

Just a few brief thoughts, because of the business of my day. It’s a bold confession to admit to others, especially Christians, that you are an alcoholic. I can admit it to myself readily enough, although it did take me six years. But once the admission is made internally I do not feel ashamed.

The moment that one speaks publicly, the idea of being an addict feels shameful. I fear that others will perceive me as weak (an unspoken judgment that I used to make about other addicts, if I am utterly honest).

So little is understood about the nature of this disease, and after all my training I still find it hard to believe that alcoholism is a disease, like cancer or any other.

My own internal judgment, my low esteem for myself, my fear that I am simply a weak person all join forces to tell me that I have to do this alone!

And so, it took me nearly a year to walk into my first AA meeting. I’ve been sober since July 24th, 2008 but yesterday was my first meeting where by walking into that room filled with beautiful, amazing women, I was admitting that I was powerless over alcohol and I was acknowledging that I have been judgmental about others and have not wanted to be surrounded by what I had perceived, in advance of even meeting them, as slightly -odd, -crazy, -weak, definitely-weird overly needy strangers.

Forgive me, for my wrong thinking. For the last year I have found strength in feeling “above” those others: addicts who need AA. I felt superior, intelligent, stronger, better … I didn’t ‘need’ AA.

You know what I have to say to that? WHATEVER!!!

I am powerless. And yet for nearly a year I have stayed sober by isolation and sheer strength of will. I have worked on very many aspects of my life, spiritual and physical, emotional and psychological. I have quit smoking. I have become more centered. I have sought out strong influences.

And yet, I can not stay sober alone. And so I went to my first meeting and for the first time in ages I felt that I was not alone** in my addiction. I could sit and listen to others and not have to think so much, get out of my head into my heart, and just BE.

Keep coming back was a good message for me yesterday and I will.

So be it.

Melody

** alone – by that I do not mean unsupported. Tom and others have been encouraging and supportive, but not being addicts, there’s just something that can’t be said, understood, known.

The Journey In Between

In my journey between belief and disbelief, I have found Truth to be something I choose not to argue about, but to be what I have experienced in the mystery of the flesh-and-blood of the incarnation.  My encounter with Truth is the Story — my responses, reflected in word and image, are but a ripple in the ocean of that mystery.

After a recent exhibit at an artist showcase at my church, I found that I was ultimately ambivalent about it.  One image I preferred, titled Sinkhole, seen below, truthfully expressed the dark lull of depression which is a reoccurring struggle for me, but the rest of my images were drivel.  After searching within, and asking for guidance, I found inside myself a desire which I came to understand as this:

I want my photography and poetry to reflect the improbable and shattering experiences I have had encountering Jesus — encounters between my grubby and muddled life and Truth.  These moments aren’t at all pretty; my struggles with a life-threatening depression (the sinkhole), the death of an abusive yet charming parent, a loathsome self-esteem, the tensions between my passions & my search for ultimate purpose, and the shame & fear in acknowledging my alcoholism, are all relevant to my faith journey.

I am living with the tension of wanting to create beautiful, excellent art and to reflect the sweat and toil of my faith.  To honestly reflect the sweet serenity of unconditional love & laughter, as well as suffering, pain and broken heart I have from things chosen and unchosen in my life.  The satisfaction I have experienced in my slow, bittersweet surrender to believing God is who he says he is and can do what he says he can do!  The heart’s quickening by the spirit of God which is earth shattering and good.

I’m fully aware that my writing and photography will never have the Answers to the Questions people have — but if it can be a simple witness to my experiences and a nudge toward Truth, I will be satisfied.  Knowing Jesus promised that those who seek will find.  We can trust him.  He meant what he said.

I want my Art to be a connection that cannot  help but push one toward God. I need to make this kind of art, need it desperately.  And I hope in the act of creating, whether through a lens or written word., some restitution will be found.

Is it too much to ask that Art heals, directs, and in the end is a tiny inkling of God’s Truth?  There is a certain anxiety or fear involved with the attempt.  Not wanting to be marginalized by the world for making “Christian art,” I feel reluctant and yet strangely compelled! What other option do I have?  If my art is relevant to the entirety of my experience, from the dazzling to the profane moments, then it just may be relevant to the people around me.

This is my wish.

MHH

Some of my thinking was inspired by: http://www.relevantmagazine.com, http://www.insidecatholic.com, as well as by the writings of C.S.Lewis. Teaching at Blackhawk Church, http://www.blackhawkchurch.org, has been a catalyst in this profound change in my life over the last seven years.

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I need a filling (a poem)


…Originally uploaded by M e l o d y

It’s difficult to face

some days.

Yesterday was like that

simply

because I was face-to-face

with my [faithless and revolting] need

for Substance.

And I vowed,

again, as I do many days

to offer my need to God, the ultimate Other,

asking for a filling.

I need a filling dear Lord, I need a filling.

written 4/13/2009

by Melody Harrison Hanson

Addict

Being an addict catches me by surprise.  Today,

seemingly innocent things — a drink, a smoke, a purchase, food, even exercise can become

urgent

need.

In the time that it takes to feel a flash of happiness, sadness or regret;

less than 60 seconds of my life

and I remember,

I am an addict.  How could I have forgotten?

Today I must ask what brought this on?

For tomorrow I must fill the need

with OTHER.

As for yesterday, I can only look back and remember

I am an addict, but I am stronger than my need.

And as for this moment — I know I am an addict;

I am. I was. I always will be, always will be

an addict.

ADDICT written april 9, 2009 by melody harrison hanson

Those that have no background in addiction look at the word ADDICT and the word alcoholic as kind of wicked and weak.  Face it, our culture doesn’t understand.  But if you’ve been there, if you live there, if you love someone who does or has you know exactly what I mean.  And I thank you for understanding.

Compulsivity and Change

Between stimulus and response, there is a space.

In that space lies our freedom and power to choose our response.

In our response lies our growth and our freedom.*

STIMULUS —————> Freedom to Choose –————> OUR RESPONSE

For years it has been a compulsive habit to chew my nails.  Frankly it’s a disgusting habit, and it is an instant signal to me (and to others unfortunately) that I’m feeling insecure.  When I was in high school I noticed that my very accomplished and well-educated teacher had disgusting, chewed to the quick, nails.  And I realized in that moment, which felt extremely profound to me as an 11th grader, that my teacher was  insecure.  And if you combined the fact that she over-weight, in my mind, she was extremely insecure.

My take away, I was not the only one! I know it seems strange, but at that point in my life, I was self-aware enough to see that I was insecure I didn’t realize that other people were too.  But in that amazing moment in my class I accepted that other people were insecure too.  I will never forget it.

What makes us so afraid of change? It takes three weeks to make a habit, supposedly.  So are we basically lazy, or don’t believe in ourselves enough to change, do we think we somehow deserve what we have, or are we afraid of change?  I’ve been thinking a lot about this as I work on internal and external issues.  Internally, I am working on liking myself and acknowledging good and positive things about myself.  Externally I am working on liking myself and fixing the things I don’t like.  Actually, I’m working on change in both places.

But it’s seriously more familiar to stick my head in the sand, as they say, and just ignore the scale, my energy level, my moods, my low esteem for myself, and the good people in my life that love me and accept me.  Even as I write I can see how screwy it is.  But, it is….what it is.

But I’m working toward looking for the indicators in my life that say other truths.  Although I have some friends who have said that I’m too difficult, manipulative, unpredictable, mean-spirited ….  I have others who have said my story, my experiences, my processing my pain, helps them.  Do I focus on the one that feels like rejection or on the positive?

Well, you know what I do choose, habitually and compulsively. The NEGATIVE!

Listening to those positive people, it doesn’t mean that the others were wrong.  Alcoholics are manipulative.  I am broken. Many times extremely dysfunctional.  I am needy.   I a’m impulsive.  I am unfaithful.  I’m … see how easy it is to make that list? (Deep breath.)  But not always.  Not completely.  And I’m working to change. I cannot change the past, and even some relationships I can’t fix.  As much as that hurts, I can’t stay there.  And I trust that some day, something redemptive will happen there.

But for now, it’s on to mastering my life!

So, about the life change:  I’ve been dieting and exercising for two weeks, Sunday, and had gotten pretty discouraged because I wasn’t losing weight more quickly.  I started at 168.5 and yesterday, at noon the scale still said 165, which makes me fucking furious. (Please excuse my cursing.  It’s a inelegant habit.  Perhaps one of these days I’ll work on it too, but until then …)

Today I was finally at 163!!!!!!!!!!!!!  I’ve changed two things.

1) I weighed myself first thing in the morning, before I got ready for the day, before eating, drinking my coffee, and exercising, and it was lower. Wahoo!

2)  I actually think I may have been eating too few calories, so as Tom has told me a million times, my body thinks I’m starving it and goes into hoarding calories.  It is impossible to lose weight in those circumstances. And although the fact is weird, I just lose my appetite when I’m not eating.  And I’m just compulsive enough to not slam a bunch of carbohydrates if I happen to feel hungry, like I normally would.  A chocolate croissant or even a Big Mac for lunch, yes that is me.   (Did you know a Big Mac is 600 calories or something?  That’s like half the day’s calories if you’re watching it.) So instead I’d have a couple pieces of string cheese or a hand full of almonds or a protein bar, none of which is more than 200 calories and not enough for a meal.

Anyway, lessons for life.  Making positive change in your life is firstly about believing in yourself.  Deciding, just for today, I’m going to do something different.  Not glancing back at yesterday, for it is likely to have some failures.  And NOT looking at it like it is for the rest of your life.  It’s today.   What am I eating that is in the positive column, if you will: fruit, veggies, protein, even carbs if they are grains that are good for you.  Did I exercise in any manner.  Why not a 15 minute walk?  or, something else.

If I’ve learned anything about this alcohol addiction it is live for today.  Today is the one I can do something about, not yesterday, and not tomorrow.   Just this minute.   Make it count.

* The Seven Habits of Highly Effective Familes, Stephen R. Covey

Flow of Consciousness – 1

1/11/09 It is stunning that it is mid January already.

It is a fine time as any to reflect on the past few weeks. My house is quiet. I have my youngest snuggled in against me as he “can’t sleep” (after five minutes of trying) and I’m a sucker for cuddles.

The holidays were really a blur ending with the death of a friend that has thrown me in major ways.  But I just can’t process that yet.

We had lots of family, mostly at our place, which was actually fine and quite fun to cook. I baked a lot and remembered how much I love to bake: pies and cakes, and many meals including crepes for Christmas morning.  Most memorable was baking and decorating Christmas cookies with the kids which I’ve decided to turn into an annual tradition it was so much fun and the kids were literally giddy!  I have tons of good memories, mostly centered around sharing food.  But I missed not seeing two of my sisters, their kids and husbands.  My sister Tonya has a new son Daniel whom I haven’t yet met.  I hate that we live such a distance from one another and right now are too “poor” to travel.

It really wasn’t an issue not drinking. I’m not sure if it was because it isn’t around (Not much anyway; some people still drink around me and that’s cool. It’s just that a few of my friends that I sometimes drank with are not around, but that’s another story. I get a pit in my stomach every time I think of it.) Or is rather simply because I’m at a place in my abstinence where it isn’t an issue. I’m not so naive that I believe I’m done with it being an issue, but at least for this holiday I felt okay about it.

I am feeling my age and you can see it in my face, puffiness around the eyes and age spots, wrinkles.  And gray hair, though you can’t see that in this image.  I am carrying extra pounds that haunt me and make me feel old, make my knees hurt on the stairs and just make me plain lazy.  My TMJ is acting up again, just like last Christmas strangely enough. It must be some internal stress that manifests at night, as I dream I clench my jaw causing it to ache in the daytime. And ache in the evenings when I am reading to my kids so that by the time I am done it’s throbbing.  But I won’t give that up, I enjoy it too much! We’re reading the Narnia series and it’s so terrific to read aloud. I do have a good memory of my dad reading that series to us when I was around that age.  Anyway, I suppose it’s time to visit a specialist for the TMJ.

My depression has held itself at bay for a long while, but reared its ugly head at Halloween, and again before Christmas and then again recently. It’s strange when you have a chronic thing like this which is something that people don’t understand. I’ve had it so long, and know so much about it at this point.  But it never ceases to amaze and dismay me how little people know about Depression; how they lack true understanding, which makes it difficult to feel or express real compassion.  I hope that it has made me kinder and more sensitive to others – at least that would make one positive outcome from this hellish illness.

I think in our culture we don’t really believe depression is a disease. Honestly, I might have been in that same place before this happened to me. I have always been one of those “pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps” kind of people and in many ways I still am actually.  I do believe that if you’re feeling ill you should get up and face your day as if you aren’t. Nine times out of ten, you can work through it and the world is none the wiser.  And sometimes I can even do that with this, but it takes so much to do it.

[Caviat: I have been thinking that it is time to start writing about this experience and some of the others of my life.  If there was one thing I will take away from my friendship with Pete (there were many) it is WRITE!  He even went so far as to scold me, gently, about it.   Pete, if you can hear me, I heard you!  I promise to start writing!!  I don’t know what will come of it, but I’m starting with this Flow of Consciousness series. ]

But back to the topic at hand, silly me, I’ve got major depression which is not like anything I’ve ever experienced. Oh, I’ve always been melancholy, (“Melancholy Melody” my friends used to say jokingly in college and at that time it was true. I also put a pessimistic spin on everything and was always slightly anxious and filled with dread in social settings.)   But this, which began in June of 2004 (I’m not sure I’ve got the right year ’cause I’m terrible with dates and will have to think back which I’m far too tired to do right  now) is by far the most difficult thing I’ve encountered in my 42 years. Worse than my dad getting sick, worse than facing my mom’s alcoholism, worse than the shit of my childhood, being raged at and shamed, worse than all the heartaches I’ve faced in relationships in and outside my family, worse than being an alcoholic myself and worse than having to admit it, simply the worst thing in my entire life is Depression – admitting it, accepting it, living with it.  Did I mention admitting it because that is a story in and of itself, for another day.

It comes and goes but it has come again and well, it feels like it is here to stay a while. I’m doing all the things that I know help fight it and fight is the only thing you can do.  Unless you’re just going to lie down and give in to it, say your goodbyes perhaps and be done with this life.  Yes, another day has passed, I fought, and hope against all hope I will sleep hard and well, and start again tomorrow.  For all we can do it Hope in a new day.

I think that’s all I have for tonight.

Gratitude, Not a Cliche

My arm is killing me today from the surgery yesterday to remove potentially hazardous skin, but it isn’t Melanoma, the ‘bad’ cancer.  I’m thankful for good health.  I’m even more thankful that I’ve been depression-free for more than a year and that is just damn good news, when you’ve travelled to the depths of darkness and feared your own return.

I want a glass of wine, but I’m drinking non-alcoholic beer. I’m thankful for my sobriety. Though it has caused me to be “self-centered,” sobriety is worth losing some social life.  I’m thankful that I’m not falling down drunk this thanksgiving, or even heavily tipsy, at 4:00 in the afternoon, like years past.  It is amazing how your mind remembers, I woke up this morning wanting to drink today.  After months of sobriety and not even thinking about it, it’s kind of strange.

The pumpkin pie I baked today from scratch is the ugliest pie I have EVER made, but it was made with love, and it will (hopefully) taste good.  And if not, well, I’m thankful to not have to hold on to perfection as the ideal, because I fail it miserably and this pie is a good metaphor and reminder for me.

I have loads of laundry to be done, but I am thankful that we have such abundance.  Our home, Tom’s business, cars, food, health care; I could go on and on.

I lost a friend recently when I thought we were close, but I am thankful that learned some things.  I learned that I can be manipulative, and selfish.  And that friendship isn’t unconditional, but depends on how healthy you are and whether you cause a person too much work.  I play what you call “games” and am not there for my friends, as much as I need them to be there for me.

My family is spread out all over the country and has slipped apart since my father’s death, but I’m thankful that my 70 year old Mother is healthy and should live a good long time.

I’ve been forgiven by God for the many mistakes I’ve made in my life.  His grace is something I don’t fully comprehend, but as I am forgiven by him, which is undeserved, I can forgive others.

I’m thankful for my husband Tom who held me recently and whispered “It’s going to be okay.”  He’ll never know how much those words meant to me, because often I am afraid that it is NOT GOING TO BE OKAY!  He is an amazing man and I am often so undeserving of his graciousness and love.  He picks me up off the floor and reminds me of all the good things.

I’m thankful for my children, each of them unique and beautiful in their own way.  I am so thankful for their innocence, their unconditional love and the hugs.  My kids love to give and receive hugs.

I’m thankful that my kids are able to get an education, live in a free society where ideas can be expressed without fear, and they can believe in God without fear of oppression.  I’m thankful for Barack Obama!

Being thankful, no it isn’t a cliche.  I am thankful.

It’s Lonely Here on the Wagon

So I quit drinking a while ago.
It was the right decision, for me.
I am addicted. I am
an alcoholic.
I never expected it to be easy; or for life to remain static.
As I see it, I am more present; I am more awake
than I have been in years.
Don’t get me wrong
I — have — hard — days;
Days when stress makes my brain, heart, and thirst buds scream.
I have days when I want to make it all go away!
This is sometimes why
I drank in the first place.
But the more difficult thing, surprisingly,
has been — from — time –  to –  time
I am lonely. And I face,
my old friends are gone
because I drank too much.
And my new friends are gone
because I don’t.
I wasn’t a happy drunk
nor was I particularly sad.
I was sometimes quiet.
I know people who got really loud,
and others overtly friendly, even one
who used to cry.
But now I see drinking, apparently,
didn’t make me ‘fun’ (enough.)
Those people that I gathered with, who seemed
to accept me as one of them;
It must have been that I just didn’t get
in the way.
I was accepted,
because I was a hard drinker, amongst
h a r d  d r i n k e r s.  And now,
I am s o b e r and I feel alone.

Nothing rings louder than a s i l e n t phone;
an empty email box or when one remembers an annual party, uninvited.
We could throw the party, I could make the call, but I’ve tried over time,
and now I’m thinking, they wouldn’t come.

Today it’s an aching heart I deal with;
A feeling which once, ironically,
I would have drowned out with a friendly glass

(or two, or five) of Merlot; anything to forget
this
f e e l i n g.
I have to face it, I am alone in my choices. Alone,
with my memories,
of people I thought were friends.
I am a lot more interesting sober; but I guess not
more fun.

My drinking friendships seemed to have disappeared.
Though I would never have said they were
d r i n k i n g friends.
I thought they were …
Well,
to be honest I thought they were
just f r i e n d s.
You know that phrase that is said when an alcoholic starts drinking again?
She’s “fallen off the wagon.”
Well, all I can say is it’s awfully lonely,
here

on the wagon.

Melody Harrison Hanson
October 31, 2008

This is incomplete as a poem, but full of real issues and emotions.

I Am Destruction

I wake with the familiar headache.
Deeply tired.  My bones in protest.
Emotions already chafing; dazzling, fluorescent, raw. Ablaze.
Coffee the first panacea of the day.
Sip by sip, its power over me if not to heal, then to awaken.

Slowly flooded by familiar disappointment.
Weary, I begin to See myself.
I am Destruction.
I am Broken Promises wielding their power.
The surge of rage,  justified.
It hurts.
My body adjusting to an awareness
of this old enemy within.
Destruction’s impact yet unknown.
Fury toward the innocent who contribute to the chaos
of my life and toward, the hell inside.

10/27/08
by Melody Harrison Hanson

My father was addicted to his rage – he admitted that to me at the end of his life. He wielded it over our family in pathological ways that nearly destroyed my Mother, and at times I feel it in me to either consume me or destroy me. I fear, more than anything, the legacy of that rage in my life.  More than alcoholism, more than depression or even debilitating insecurity. Rage is the ultimate nemesis. The curse he left for the next generation; for me.