I recently came upon this phrase—"hardships of the heart." I forget which book or poem I swiped that from, but it stuck. And it's the perfect description for what many of our readers are currently experiencing. We have readers whose dogs have died and readers whose parents have died. A couple of readers have been handed some life-altering health news. It is, as they say, a lot.
But they have managed not to drown despite all that. Some have even managed not to get drunk over it, which, if any of you have experienced your own hardship of the heart in sobriety, you can appreciate the tenacity it takes to hold on under those conditions. So, as is customary in some of the meetings—please take a moment of silence for all those sick and suffering before and after you read.
Usual formatting rules apply: All the writers shall and will remain Anonymous but are credited collectively as "The Small Bow Family Orchestra."
The ***** separates individual entries, as do pull quotes. Some of the shorter entries will be one big pull quote.
And, of course, TSB looks incredible because Edith Zimmerman drew everything.
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UGH, THAT’S A BIG WAVE
by The Small Bow Family Orchestra
*****
I made it through mostly staring at my laptop and moving emails around for later while freaking out and occasionally going to lie down.
I had a really rough week last week. I had been sick the previous week and still getting over it. That swiftly moved me into a feeling of falling behind at work due to that and having my kids for my week around the time I started feeling bad sending them back to their mom last wednesday. However, that week, I managed to plummet down into a state of what I would describe as a long-running panic attack. I've only had the feeling a couple of times before, both when feeling burnt out and worried about my job.
It left me completely paralyzed for most of last week as far as getting any substantial work done. I just couldn't focus on anything with a big pit in my stomach and my mind racing throughout the day. It's rough when you start out on Monday morning and tell yourself if you can just get through the week, then you can calm down and catch up on the weekend when work is not bothering you with constant pings, phone calls, and emails.
After getting in to see my therapist Thursday morning, I made it through mostly staring at my laptop and moving emails around for later while freaking out and occasionally going to lie down. I then worked 6-7 hours on Saturday, went to have some fun with my girlfriend Saturday night, and felt better. Then Sunday, after 6 hours at an emergency vet, my 14-year-old dog, who's been living with me since my pandemic divorce, died around 6 pm. So it's been a hell of a last week or so, but I haven't wanted to drink, and I'm happy about that and doing better today, even in a well of sadness, no more panic for now.
*****
You’ll die soon enough without tying your own noose.
Old guy here. Newly sober for two years because adult kids led the way back then. The AA booklet ‘Living Sober’ suggests there’s no prescribed right or wrong way not to drink. And as I sit here, I know that’s the case, having stopped at home (rather than in rehab) and not started AA meetings until six months ago. How am I doing? So-so. Cravings have subsided but still simmer with occasional flare-ups. (Pay attention, breathe.) It was true for me that one needs to embrace new non-drinking activities and attend to the day’s structure, its rhythms. So walking is in; beer-fueled two-hour lunches then driving drunk is out. Cooking (and pre/post activities like shopping, prep work, and cleanup) is in; drinking wine before, during, and way after cooking dinner is out. Reading mid-afternoons with feet propped is a nice standing appointment with myself. (That’s multi-tasking—enhancing mental states and reducing fluid build-up in legs. Take that, young’uns.) So why so-so? Answer: all the other stuff. Depression, anxiety, suicidal musings, screwed-up relationships, late mourning of dead family and friends, still stupid financial decisions—all the accumulated character defects, bad decisions, irrational thoughts, and yucky feelings that are too much a real part of this real human being.
But bits of progress (with not even an urge for perfection). Part of being a drunk depressive was my daily mantra, repeated often throughout the day, while just being sentient: “I hate my life; I want to die.” As a sober drunk geezer, I have modified it and added another voice. Now I say: “I hate my life; I want to die. No, you don’t. You’ll die soon enough without tying your own noose.” As I said, progress. Any other steps forward? I think I’m more polite. I also seem to voice appreciation (out loud!) more often to a few random others. Long way to go, and time is short. So work...and maybe play a bit too?
*****
“Suddenly” is made up of a whole lot of “gradually.”
After months of hopscotching my way through a mental minefield riddled with shame, imposter syndrome, and self-loathing, I’ve had two of the best weeks in recent memory. First, my new antidepressant kicked in. I am no longer wondering why I’m still here or waking up feeling like I’m trapped in hardening cement. Next, a great job prospect appeared, brokered by a former co-worker I hadn’t seen in over twenty years. Finally, someone capable of helping me recognize a massive creative goal told me they’d be thrilled to take me on as their client. These last two things were some heavy-duty “attraction, not promotion” stuff. I let go, and Higher Power was like, “Gotchu, Sis.”
Big surprise—I’m in a bit of a panic. It’s time to level all the way up in Al-Anon. In my recovery, I have solid experience navigating my grief, anger, and disappointment, but I feel like an absolute newcomer when faced with so much goodness. Where’s the disaster around the corner I’ve been heat-seeking my entire life? The ticking timebomb? The dropping shoe? My heavy-duty addiction to fear wants to keep me out of faith, gratitude, and the ability to feel good about myself for more than two seconds straight. I want to enjoy the fruits of my labors—to recognize, as I heard last week, that “suddenly is made up of a whole lot of gradually.” I want the “what ifs” in my head trying to sabotage my happiness—or really, the “what-ifs” trying to rob me of the acceptance that I am someone who’s worthy of good things—to shut the fuck up. “Just for today” has become “just for an hour” once again. It’s enlightening and very, very humbling.
*****
I would prefer it just disappear.
I have been pretty well for a few months now and haven’t made time for any meetings. I felt bad only having good news to share.
And then I watched “Baby Reindeer.” I am gutted, and my body reacted to THAT episode in such a strong way. I know I need to explore this because there is something there, but I have pushed and squished it back down so I can avoid it—for now. But I can’t get that out of the back of my mind. It’s there. I would prefer it just disappear.
I carry on—trying to not need attention and validation from other people!
*****
I can't do anything remotely pleasurable right now because I'll inevitably want more and ruin it all
I swapped food and alcohol for validation from unavailable men, and I bottomed out last week. I was having casual sex with a man (the best sex I've ever had) for two months, but it quickly became unmanageable, and I lost my shit. I became obsessed with him, even though I didn't want a relationship nor thought we were a good match. I annoyed my friends by dissecting his messages. My work suffered. And I was becoming increasingly insecure. Finally, my anxiety was so overwhelming that I brought up the topic of who he was sleeping with (we were openly non-monogamous), and his answer made me feel worthless like I was nothing. So I ended it, knowing I would have to at some point. Now I feel the same emptiness and despair as I did with other addictions, like intolerably uncomfortable. Even though I've identified as an addict for over ten years, and I know I substitute one addiction for another, I still didn't see this one coming. What is wrong with expressing my sexuality after years of not feeling satisfied? Why can't I have sex? Well, when you're an anxiously attached addict, a lot! I've been going to SLAA meetings to make sense of these patterns. I can't do anything remotely pleasurable right now because I'll inevitably want more and ruin it all.
*****
I know at my core I'm really not the hot-shot that I believe myself to be
I was sober for a few months this year for the first time ever outside of two pregnancies. My family history is stacked with drunks, but because I'm smart and high-functioning and have all my teeth, I always acted like I was above them.
I'm not quite sober right now...I'm taking most nights away from drinking, but I've had a few nights/mornings since restarting where I've been my Old Self (i.e., obliterated, out-of-control drunk), and I wonder what it's going to take for me to step away fully. In January, I ruined my own good time at a comedy show and followed that up with a night with my active alcoholic aunt and cousin...I looked at my aunt that night, who is only 20 years older than me, and had a revelation that she could easily be my future. I love her so much but I absolutely do not want that to happen, and have worked my ass off my whole life to be different than the bad role models who populate my entire side of the family, but I know at my core I'm really not the hot-shot (my grandfather's term) that I believe myself to be.
When I stopped in January, I intended to step away until our family trip to Europe over March break. I didn't want to deny myself a drink on that trip if I wanted to have one, and I also wasn't ready to commit to full sobriety, if I'm honest.
April was tough. I made a career change a few months ago, and it's not going well. I'm so fucking lonely every day at work. I don't have anyone I can share a look with during meetings, let alone have lunch with, or do anything more than work tasks. I manage a team of people I don't particularly care for, doing work that doesn't inspire me. The institution I'm at now is just trash compared with the place I left.
And I haven't even met people that I'm interested in getting to know. I never have trouble connecting with people and making friends, but this has been a big challenge for me. I know part of it has to be me somehow; I know I'm not always able to bring my A-game in every situation.
I'm trying to find a new role & return to my old institution. But until that happens, I'm sitting in a chair I don't want to sit in, surrounded by strangers and people I don't really like, and I'm on my own for pretty much everything. I'm not infinitely self-motivating, which I know well about myself.
I'm also struggling with doing what I really want to do, which is writing. I picked it up again this year, and it's been so good for the soul, but I'm at a point where I need some inspiration to keep going & I'm just having trouble finding it. I know it will come, and I'm not giving up on continuing to look, but I haven't found it yet, and I know I just have to be patient. So I'm continuing to try and listen, be patient, be gentle, and remind myself that work is work and that nothing is forever. To focus on my kids and husband, who are wonderful people I love and like, and to enjoy the most beautiful time of year where I live. All of my favorite flowers are in bloom, and watching everything come back to life reminds me of the promise that Spring always comes.
*****
Thank god for Wellbutrin, my acupuncturist, my health insurance, my partner, and my dog.
I planned to take some time off of work this month to reset, recover a little from being burned out, and go to EMDR therapy twice a week to deal with some long-buried trauma. On my first day off, I woke up and found out my mom had cancer. I have melted down into a puddle of tears, anxiety, and all-around feeling like shit for my mom and my family. I know no one (almost no one?) *deserves* cancer, but she really, REALLY doesn't deserve it. I'm trying to make peace with the unknown, to show up for everyone, including myself, to eat lean protein and exercise and keep going, but blech. I'd rather crawl into my bed and stay there all day. I am still 4+ years sober from alcohol and all the stuff that you can't find growing on a forest floor, but I was also going to try and take a THC break this month... which now feels quite impossible, as a 10mg gummy at the end of the day is the only thing helping me sleep. Thank god for Wellbutrin, my acupuncturist, my health insurance, my partner, and my dog.
*****
The truth is I can’t fucking stand him when he’s drunk.
My 33-year-old son is my favorite human. He’s also an asshole of an alcoholic. I’ve run the gamut of trying to get him help, and nothing has worked. I recently decided to let go-let God and just be his mom truly. I realized if he is never going to choose sobriety and dies from this horrible disease, I want him in my life, not out of it. I miss him. But damn, the truth is I can’t fucking stand him when he’s drunk, and he is always drunk. I wish someone would tell me how this is ever supposed to work. Oh, that’s right! It never will if alcohol always remains his one true love. FML.
*****
I thought I knew what depression could hand me, but hey, it's been getting creative
It was a drag of a winter -- my dad was very sick in the hospital -- and it's been a heartbreak of a spring as my dad died. I've been keeping up with my routines as best as possible but I've put on weight, a lot of it. I feel like I'm dying myself, to be honest, just kinda floating through my days. I thought I knew what depression could hand me, how petty and cruel it could be, but hey, it's been getting creative. I hate so many parts of being around. It just hurts a lot. (Others have it worse! I know.) But I have my family and a wonderful partner, and I keep getting out of bed, so I have to keep trying. But I am getting very tired. So much frustration. I hope you all are able to find a way out of bed every morning. It's a start.
*****
What I really want is a stranger on the street to see the little spark of sobriety and struggle in me.
My boyfriend got me a gift for being seven months sober. It’s wrapped and sitting on the floor of his apartment and we have dinner plans tonight after work. It’s what I’ve always wanted — someone to acknowledge that I'm working really hard. But the acknowledgment falls a little flat when it’s from your partner. Feels like it’s coming from my mom. They have to be proud of me and make my little struggles a big deal. What I really want is a stranger on the street to see the little spark of sobriety and struggle in me and say, “Wow….. Looks like you’re working really hard. And man, you really look good doing it.” Then maybe I would believe that it’s true.
*****
The only practical thing that came to mind after meeting with the neurologist was to go home and drink tequila and smoke pot, which is exactly what I did. Aphasia, he said, like Bruce Willis. You’ll need an MRI and psychoneurological testing. AKA, my future is fucked. I cared for my mother as she went through her stages of dementia: first to arrive was aphasia and a rapid decline in language, then she could not care for herself, eventually it was Alzheimer's Disease.
I thought my cancer diagnosis was a lot to go through (it was enough). Who wants to say that they’d rather go through another round of chemo? No one —except that looks like a better option to me at this moment than facing the loss of all my words and my language. I know substances like alcohol and marijuana will only make everything worse. I’m struggling to get back to that plateau of strength that has kept me sober. I have not told my husband or my children.
*****
At the moment, I need a harm-reduction strategy for my worn-out brain.
Recently I was shitty to a person. While I knew I had been shitty, I did not understand what exactly about my behavior was wrong. Then I did it again to someone else, and everything suddenly clicked into place. Wow, what an asshole I was. I have no idea how to make amends but I guess finally getting instructions on what not to do ever again is progress of a sort?
Meanwhile, I am future tripping like a loon because my oldest grandchild is acting out in ways exactly like his mom did many years before her diagnosis of bipolar as I coped with my own ADHD, anxiety, and depression. I absolutely did not have the tools to help her as her mom, nor do I have the tools to help my grandson. Which makes me feel guilty and sad.
Yesterday I was on the bus with the two oldest grandkids and the 9-year-old was being a dick (so like me!) and my brain hopped on the hamster wheel of I CAN'T HANDLE THIS; DO I HAVE TO MOVE AWAY TO SURVIVE; SHIT THIS SUCKS; DAMMIT, NOT AGAIN; OUCH OUCH OUCH; HOW CAN I MAKE HIM STOP BEING MEAN TO HIS SISTER; OH GREAT, NOW HE'S CRYING, THE GASLIGHTER; I CAN'T HANDLE THIS.
We didn't get home smoothly, but we got home without too much damage. This is my new goal: not serenity because that goal is too lofty right now. At the moment, I need a harm-reduction strategy for my worn-out brain.
*****
I don’t know where this story is going, but I’ve got these fucking t-shirts.
I’m obsessed with ordering FINAL GIRL t-shirts online. I’m trying to find the right size, right font. The “final girl” is the chick in the slasher flick who makes it to the end. She’s the one who nukes the Freddy-Jason-Michael-Chucky who has been terrorizing her. She’s the hero. It doesn’t take a mastermind to make the metaphorical leap here. I want to be the hero of my own story, vanquish my addiction — and keep it from coming back for the sequel.
That’s proving to be more difficult than I’d like it to be right now. The job’s not right. The relationship’s not right. The depression looms large. I’m only seven months and change into my sobriety, and I’m in mourning for the romance of the bar — the adult-ness, the darkness, the just-right-fucking-song-on-the-jukebox-ness. The Flamingos’ “I Only Have Eyes for You” — something ghostly in their voices. The song can move me to tears, even sober. I’m about a million miles away from figuring out who I am sober, which is weird since I’m turning 50 in a couple of weeks — I’m half a century old and wandering around on baby legs. I’ll spend a lifetime figuring this out. I don’t know where this story is going, but I’ve got these fucking t-shirts. I guess I must be pulling for me to make it to the end. That’s something.
fin
OTHER RECENT CHECK-INS:
This is The Small Bow newsletter. It is mainly written and edited by A.J. Daulerio. And Edith Zimmerman always illustrates it. We send it out every Tuesday and Friday.
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*****
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A POEM ON THE WAY OUT:
Glimpses
by Stephen Dunn
************************
It’s the last few hours of a county fair, or the ninth inning, score tied, in a small-town high school big game, everything that’s going to happen destined to feel inevitable. Everett’s favorite cow has yet to win a prize, and what occurs next on the field will likely determine whether a certain boy, years later, will run for mayor, or still be known as the guy who dropped the ball. Elsewhere in the same town Pastor William is writing down his sermon on what it takes to live a moral life, confusing rectitude with deprivation, and his wife’s frequent, unapologetic nothing-for-you-tonight-dear. Tomorrow, no doubt, because this happens in towns both large and small, seventh-grade Joshua, who knows the answer, but won’t go to the chalkboard because he has a hard-on, is thought to be dumb. That is, until he proves he’s not, the answer written down in code for Mr. Zenner to see, perhaps to understand. Sharon the beauty is also smart and her pet pig wins Best in Class, but she won’t accept the award. The family needs money, but the prize is given by the DAR, and she wants to take a stand. It seems inevitable that in a town this size Joshua and Sharon will marry, but she goes to a faraway college, meets Nathaniel, a city boy who knows nothing about pigs but something about integrity. They fall in love and the rest, as they say, is history—babies and hardship, grad school and in her case visits to the now curious place that was home— Joshua working the counter at Beal’s Hardware, Thursday night bingo at the church— how things could have been had she not become someone else.
ALL ILLUSTRATIONS BY EDITH ZIMMERMAN
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