• • •
You see, the hole had gotten bigger and bigger until God fit right in. He just stepped right in.
When you’re all hole, God fits.
That afternoon I quit smoking, drugging, drinking, and bingeing.
I woke up. I married Craig. I had a baby, then another, then a third. I became a preschool teacher. I became a writer. I became a good Sister and daughter and friend. Without all the bingeing and purging, I settled at my natural weight and started to feel beautiful. So much wasted time and tooth enamel. I became a person of serious faith. Wavering, doubtful, confused faith, but faith nonetheless.
I still have a God-sized hole.
I fill it with less poisonous things now, but things that are equally ineffective. I shop too much. Bubba calls this my “bulimic shopping.” I get antsy and uncomfortable, and instead of sitting with this feeling, asking what it means, and using it to grow, I head to the mall and enjoy the adrenaline rush of a shopping binge. Then I feel guilty, so I head back to the mall to purge and return. At the end of the day, I just feel tired and frustrated from using a whole lot of energy to gain zero lasting satisfaction.
I also move a lot. I start feeling empty and restless, and instead of remembering that sometimes life is uncomfortable and empty everywhere, I decide that bliss is just a new house or town or state away. It isn’t. Wherever you go, there you are. Your emptiness goes with you. Maddening.
Shopping and moving don’t help, but I’ve discovered a few things that do: writing, reading, water, walks, forgiving myself every other minute, practicing easy yoga, taking deep breaths, and petting my dogs. These things don’t fill me completely, but they remind me that it is not my job to fill myself. It’s just my job to notice my emptiness and find graceful ways to live as a broken, unfilled human—and maybe to help myself and others feel a teeny bit better. Some people of faith swear that their God-shaped hole was filled when they found God, or Jesus, or meditation, or whatever else. I believe them, but that’s not been my experience. My experience has been that even with God, life is hard. It’s hard just because it’s hard being holey.
We have to live with that.
If there’s a silver lining to the hole, here it is: the unfillable, God-sized hole is what brings people together. I’ve never made a friend by bragging about my strengths, but I’ve made countless by sharing my weakness, my emptiness, and my life-as-a-wild-goose-chase-to-find-the-unfindable.
Holes are good for making friends, and friends are the best fillers I’ve found yet. Maybe because other people are the closest we get to God on this side. So when we use them to find God in each other, we become holy.
On Writing and Dancing
A friend recently told me that she’d love to write but doesn’t because she’s not any good at it. I have some thoughts about that.
When I got sober, I dreaded weddings. I was so terrified of weddings that I cried upon receiving invitations. At the weddings I had to attend, I sat straight up in my chair and fake-smiled at the dancing people and prayed that no one would invite me to the dance floor. I tried to look very busy chewing my gum or reapplying lip gloss, and I made many, many unnecessary trips to the ladies’ room. The dance floor, sober, was a terrifying place to be avoided at all costs.
During my festive days, I was the first and last one on the dance floor. Thirteen glasses of chardonnay doesn’t make a girl confident and sexy, but it sure makes a girl think she’s confident and sexy. Sober, though, I was too self-conscious to dance. Dancing at a wedding is like being naked out there in plain sight. It’s like a confidence test. And people dance in groups, so it’s also a belonging test. It’s also, let’s face it, a dancing test. I have never been an expert at feeling secure, belonging, or dancing. Also, watching other couples lose their inhibitions and just let go with each other made me feel sorry for myself and Craig. I felt like we were missing something important as a couple—like we couldn’t really experience fun together. It all made me feel loserish and claustrophobic in my own skin.
At my cousin Natalia’s wedding a few years ago, I sat alone at my table, smiling at the couples flirting and pulling each other onto the dance floor. I felt sad for myself. I thought about how much I missed drinking. Then I made myself think a little harder. And it became clear what I was missing wasn’t really the drinking, it was the dancing, and nobody was keeping me from dancing. So I stood up and joined Sister and Husband and all of my cousins on the dance floor.
• • •
That night, I danced like I’d never danced before. Wildly, horribly, embarrassingly, relentlessly. Sister and Husband understood this to be the breakthrough spiritual experience that it was, so they stayed close, which was helpful. I danced for three hours straight. My hair became a rat’s nest, I got sweat stains all over my dress, and I almost broke my ankles twice because I refused to take off my stilettos. Despite Sister’s efforts, there were still many of those terrifying moments in which I found myself alone because the dancing circles had closed without me. So I had to awkwardly push my way back into a circle or just close my eyes and sway as if I was so lost in the music that I didn’t care that I was alone. Like I wanted to be alone, anyway, because I was having a moment. Sometimes we have to do that. But I kept dancing, as a gift to myself.
I didn’t dance because I was good at it; I did it because I wanted to. Because nobody else can dance for me, no matter how “good” she is. If I feel a yearning to dance, then I’m going to dance. It’s not about whether I’m good or secure or I belong. Here’s my hunch: nobody’s secure, and nobody feels like she completely belongs. Those insecurities are just job hazards of being human. But some people dance anyway, and those people have more fun. On my deathbed, I’m not going to wish I had danced like JLo; I’m just going to wish I had danced more.
The night I first danced sober was one of the most important nights of my life. “Dancing sober” is what I try to do every day. Dancing sober is what I do when I write. I just try to be myself—messy, clumsy, crutchless. Dancing sober is just honest, passionate living.
If, anywhere in your soul, you feel the desire to write, please write. Write as a gift to yourself and others. Everyone has a story to tell. Writing is not about creating tidy paragraphs that sound lovely or choosing the “right” words. It’s just about noticing who you are and noticing life and sharing what you notice. When you write your truth, it is a love offering to the world because it helps us feel braver and less alone. And if you’re a really, really bad writer, then it might be most important for you to write because your writing might free other really, really bad writers to have a go at it anyway. Kind of like how watching Sister’s confusing lurching on the dance floor finally got me out of my seat at my cousin’s wedding. Because I thought, Well, if she’s allowed to keep dancing, certainly no one’s going to call me out.
If you feel something calling you to dance or write or paint or sing, please refuse to worry about whether you’re good enough. Just do it. Be generous. Offer a gift to the world that no one else can offer: yourself.
Day One
To My Friend, on Her First Sober Morning,
I have been where you are. I’ve lived through this day. This day when you wake up terrified. When you open your eyes and it hits you: the jig is up. You lie paralyzed in bed and shake from the horrifying realization that life as you know it is over. Then you think that’s probably okay, since life as you know it totally blows. Even so, you can’t get out of bed because the thing is you don’t know how. You don’t know how to live, how to interact, how to cope, how to function without a drink or at least the hope of a future drink. You never learned. You dropped out before all the lessons. So who will teach you how to live?
Listen to me. You are shaking from withdrawal and fear and panic this morning, so you cannot see clearly. You think that this is the worst day of your life, but you are wrong. This is the best day of your life, friend. Things, right now, are v
ery, very good—better than they have ever been. Your angels are dancing. Because you have been offered freedom from the prison of secrets. You have been offered the gift of crisis.
As Kathleen Norris reminds us, the Greek root of the word crisis is “to sift,” as in to shake out the excesses and leave only what’s important. That’s what crises do. They shake things up until we are forced to hold on to only what matters most. The rest falls away. And what matters most right now is that you are sober, so you will not worry about whether the real you will be brave or smart or funny or beautiful or responsible enough. Because the only thing you have to be is sober. You owe the world absolutely nothing but sobriety. If you are sober, you are enough. Even if you are shaking and cursing and boring and terrified. You are enough.
But becoming sober, becoming real, will be hard and painful. A lot of good things are.
Becoming sober is like recovering from frostbite.
Defrosting is excruciatingly painful. You have been numb for so long. As feeling comes back to your soul, you start to tingle, and it’s uncomfortable and strange. But then the tingles start feeling like daggers. Sadness, loss, fear, anger, anxiety—all of these things that you have been numbing with the booze—you feel them for the first time. And it’s horrific at first, to tell you the damn truth. But welcoming the pain and refusing to escape from it is the only way to recovery. You can’t go around it, you can’t go over it, you have to go through it. There is no other option, besides amputation. If you allow the defrosting process to take place—if you trust that it will work and choose to endure the pain—one day you will get your soul back. If you can feel, then there has been no amputation. If you can feel, you are not too late.
Friend, we need you. The world has suffered while you’ve been hiding. You are already forgiven. You are loved. All there is left to do is to step into your life. What does that mean? What the hell does that mean?
This is what it means. These are the steps you take. They are plain as mud: Get out of bed. Don’t lie there and think—thinking is the kiss of death for us—just move. Take a shower. Sing while you’re in there. Make yourself sing. The stupider you feel, the better. Giggle at yourself, alone. Joy for its own sake—joy just for you, created by you—it’s the best. Find yourself amusing.
Put on some makeup. Blow-dry your hair. Wear something nice, something that makes you feel grown up. If you have nothing, go buy something. Today’s not the day to worry too much about money. Invest in some good coffee, caffeinated and decaf. (Decaf after eleven o’clock.) Read your daughter a story. Don’t think about other things while you’re reading; actually pay attention to the words. Then braid your girl’s hair. Clean the sink. Keep good books within reach. Start with Traveling Mercies. David Sedaris is good too. If you don’t have any good books, go to the library. If you don’t have a library card, apply for one. This will stress you out. You will worry that the librarian will sense that you are a disaster and reject you. Listen: they don’t know, and they don’t care. They gave me a card, and I’ve got a rap sheet as long as your arm. When reentering society and risking rejection, the library is a good place to start. They have low expectations. I love the library. Also church. Both have to take you in.
As Anne Lamott suggests, only three prayers are necessary. Mine are “Please!” “Thank you!” and “WTF???” That’s all the spirituality you’ll need for a while. Go to meetings. Any meeting will do. Don’t worry if the other addicts there are “enough like you.” Face it: we are all the same. Be humble.
Get out of the house. If you have nowhere to go, take a walk outside. Do not excuse yourself from walks because it’s too cold. Bundle up. The sky will remind you of how big God is, and if you’re not down with God, then the oxygen will help. Same thing. Call one friend a day. Do not start the conversation by telling her how you are. Ask how she is. Really listen to her response, and offer your love. You will discover that you can help a friend just by listening, and this discovery will remind you that you are powerful and worthy.
Get a yoga video and a pretty mat. Practice yoga after your daughter goes to bed. The evenings are dangerous times, so have a plan. Yoga is a good plan because it teaches us to breathe and appreciate solitude as a gift. Learn to keep yourself company.
When you start to feel, do. When you start to feel scared because you don’t have enough money, find someone to offer a little money. When you start to feel like you don’t have enough love, find someone to offer love. When you feel unappreciated and unacknowledged, appreciate and acknowledge someone else in a concrete way. When you feel unlucky, order yourself to consider a blessing or two. Then find a tangible way to make today somebody else’s lucky day. These strategies help me sidestep wallowing every day.
Don’t worry about whether you like doing these things or not. You’re going to hate everything for a long while. And the fact is that you don’t even know what you like or hate yet. Just do these things regardless of how you feel about doing these things. Because these little things, done over and over again, eventually add up to a life. A good one.
Friend, I am sober today. Thank God Almighty, I’m sober today. I’m here, friend. Yesterday my son turned ten, which means that I haven’t had a drink for ten years and eight months. Lots of beautiful and horrible things have happened to me during the past ten years and eight months, and I have handled my business day in and day out without booze. GOD, I ROCK.
Today I’m a wife and a mother and a daughter and a friend and a writer and a dreamer and a Sister to one and a “sister” to thousands of readers. I wasn’t any of those things when I was a drunk.
And I absolutely love being a recovering alcoholic. I am more proud of the “recovering” badge I wear than any other.
What will you be, friend? What will you be when you become yourself ?
When Jesus saw her lying there and knew that she had been there for a long time, he said to her, “Do you want to be made well? Then pick up your mat, and walk.”
—John 5:6–8
Chutes and Ladders
You know that mind-numbing kids’ game, Chutes and Ladders?
Not long ago I thought I had landed on a big chute.
I was driving the kids home from school, and my cell phone rang. It was my doctor. She told me that she had found Lyme disease and an indicator of lupus in my blood. Lyme disease: definitely; lupus: maybe.
I was tested because for weeks I’d been feeling exhausted and sore and cranky, which are all symptoms of autoimmune issues, but they are also just symptoms of motherhood, so we weren’t too worried. In my writing, I seem to be extra nice, and I am—at the keyboard and outside in the world—but in my house, I tend to relax. It’s hard to be on your best behavior all the time. So we thought maybe I just needed some more sleep or coffee. Until the doctor called.
I held the phone in one hand and peeled the kids out of the van with the other. I scurried to the front door and passed them off to Craig, pointed to the phone, and mouthed “doctor.” He distracted the kids so I could go back outside and pace up and down the driveway while listening to the confusing details. My doctor explained that since we caught the Lyme early, it was likely that I could beat it, but I would need to immediately begin a double-dose of an antibiotic known to make people very sick. Then she referred me to a specialist about the lupus because it was serious and incurable and my bloodwork looked quite suspicious.
Weird, I thought. I tried to pay attention, but the doctor’s voice faded in and out while I stared at the ridiculous metal reindeer in our front yard. I started daydreaming about being on Oprah—hailed as the quirky writer who singlehandedly discovered cures for her own incurable diseases. I planned what I would wear to the show. Something classy but whimsical. Then the doctor interrupted my outfit planning with some scary details and I started feeling like I was being pushed down that big chute—you know the one: just when you think you’ve about won the game, it forces you to st
art from the beginning. I felt powerless and slippery.
But then I went back inside. And here’s what happened in the wake of the Lymie, maybe-lupy news:
Craig and I got dressed up and drove into Washington, D.C., for a fancy dinner to benefit the International Justice Mission, the organization Sister worked with in Africa. There I learned more about slavery and human trafficking and the heroes who storm the darkness to help. I stared at my baby sister across the table, because she is one of those heroes. And I kept thinking of the sign that my friend Josie hung on her classroom wall that said, “We can do hard things.” And I thought a lot about how beautiful and powerful courage and faith are when they are found together. I thought, maybe I could be courageous and faithful, in my own little way. Then I went home and slept soundly.
At the crack of dawn the next morning, I called Bubba and Tisha to tell them the news, and they immediately started canceling plans so they could come and stay with us. This is exactly what I wanted them to do. I love when my mom and dad visit. One of my many secrets is that although I look like a grown-up (sort of), I am actually still a little girl who needs to be taken care of and brought snacks and blankets. Bubba sent me this message that day:
Keep your spirits up. Don’t waste your time and energy on negative thoughts. They will all be in the rearview mirror in a few short weeks.
We will get through this together.
Lots of help coming from Reedville.
We love you. Dad and Mom
After breaking the news to Bubba and Tisha, the girls and I drove to my friend Leigha’s house. Leigha has chronic Lyme disease, which has wreaked havoc on her life, family, and body. When I got to her house, we let our girls run wild while we sat on the couch and talked. I took notes while she told me every bit of information I needed to know about Lyme. She said that it made her feel grateful to be able to use her struggles to help me. I love Leigha, and I’ve always hated that when she talked to me about her disease and pain, I could sympathize but I couldn’t really understand. There was always a distance between us. On this visit, it felt strangely comforting to me that we were now in the same club. It might be a club that no one else would want to join, but it’s a special club just the same. A little Lymie club. Leigha and I became more like family that day, which made me feel cozy.
Carry On, Warrior Page 3
