S is for Secluded ... A - Z Challenge

Seclusion. All I've been doing since detoxing from alcohol. Not that I don't have friends upon which to call. I just haven't wanted to talk or be around people. My choice. There's good days. And somber ones. Which describes this week thus far.

Detoxing threw me into my menstrual cycle early - PMS, food cravings, crying for no reason....

Actually, the crying is due to the fact that now, I'm forced to feel everything, instead of drinking the pain away. Debilitating --- that many things I hear or see cause a heaviness in my chest and a wild desire to weep and run. But there's no more alcohol. No place to hide.

Often, I sit in the corner of my somberly gray, L-shaped couch, positioned close to the windows, and stare out, watching neighbors walk their dogs and cars drive by. I contemplate my purpose in life, and what I want to do next besides training.

I pray for a sign. Some insight. A message from the Universe. A Word from God.

Last night I dreamed traveling to the east coast with a friend. We spent time by the coast, near the water. All the rushing waves and white sand and happy people rolling around in the thick of beach fun. Then, it came time to leave for the airport. Running late. Fear of missing the plane. Lots of long lines. Had 10 minutes to board the flight. My friend had magically attained her boarding pass. Me, not so lucky. Ran around looking for ticket counter. My friend boarded the flight. I, however, did not. Then I woke up. Feeling...anxious and "behind."

-------------

Last week I failed to mention something about Billy and I...

On Thursday, I brought Billy a gift:

The size of a silver dollar and SOLID silver. Heavy. Acquired this piece from a yard sale back in my 20s.
The picture above is a mere example what it looked like. Didn't take pix of the medal before I gifted it.

Placing the holy coin in his dirty hands, his giant blue eyes questioning me, I told him that he needed a good woman to watch over him -- Mother Mary.

He was touched. Passed it around the room to show off what Ruby gave him. I mentioned it was solid silver. Then, thought better of that statement -- I shouldn't have said that.

Never trust a junkie, I thought (and have been told this many times). I sat there, watching people massage and pass around the medal. Billy, watching the others, beamed. He seemed so proud.

Billy's had about a month sober. Formerly a heroin addict. He also loves cocaine.

On that Friday, after gifting the medal -- no Billy at meeting.

Saturday, when few showed up at meeting -- Billy still MIA.

Yesterday, Tuesday -- still no Billy.

Where are you, dear friend? Is Mary still with you or sitting in a pawn shop somewhere?

I'll be at tonight's meeting. Waiting.

R is for Real... A - Z Challenge

I've been avoiding this post because it's hard for me to be REAL with myself about certain things that are transpiring, since I've been going to AA. Things maybe I don't want to admit to myself. And I'm working through them, sort of...

Sober 6 days today.

No Alcohol and (few cravings so far)...I think I'm more frightened about the consequences, if I start again and the hell of detoxing. The first few days of DTs, insomnia, paranoia, emotions running wild...

No Xanex other than that one night. No desire either.

However, I am smoking hash. Especially at night. Not something I do all day. Usually, just at night. But I feel like I'll be smoking some after this post.

And the bulemia is back. In full force.

DZP (my boyfriend) has been out of town, and when left to my own devices, I behave like a teenager whose parents left on a long vacation. This weekend was no exception. Had to be one of the lonliest I've felt in awhile, although I know it's important for me to be okay with being alone. And I usually *am* alone, having no family, but alcohol made it okay.

The hash helps.

However, yesterday, I purged 4 times, binge eating on salmon, nuts, string cheese, egg whites, tuna, cheerios. Yeah, all healthy foods, however the rush I felt from purging was indescribable....an intense high, one of relief and satisfaction. I felt powerful.

And with my alcohol addiction, I am powerless.

Seriously, I think pot/hash should be legalized. But I won't step on that soapbox right now.

I didn't want to admit any of this today, but feel it's important to acknowledge to myself what's going on.
-----

Billy wasn't at the AA meeting last night. In fact, hardly anyone showed up at our usual time. I left before the meeting started, feeling rather dejected that my buddies were elsewhere. Where though?

I thought we had a date.
-----

Serious storms headed our way today. Tons of warnings.

I'm skipping AA tonight.

Q is for Question ... A-Z Challenge

Lost for the past 24 hours. 

Sober 4 days total. 

For the last 3 days, existed on 4 hours sleep. Insomnia is part of the detox process. Didn't help that I drank copious amounts of a black tea blend called "Awake" -- with spoonfuls of sugar -- which replaces sugar from alcohol the body craves during detox.

Last night's AA meeting sent me into an emotional spiral. Lots of pain.

Returning home, all I could do was sit on the couch and weep uncontrollably. Because of a guy named "Billy." More on him later.

So what to do with my sadness. In the past, pouring some vodka solved the ache. Not an option and frankly, didn't want any. Time to call someone....

No sponsor yet. 

With no desire to call the few girls I know from AA (more fucked up than me), I reached out to my bro. A risk, I know, as he is rarely emotionally available. He answered, in his usual sullen and angry tone. Sounded upset and in a rage.....his broker didn't transfer an investment fast enough, so he lost a few hundred bucks. By the way he sounded, you'd think he lost millions. He ranted on and on. Decided not to share with him the details of the meeting and about Billy.

Called DZP (my boyfriend)....he's out of town in a horrible hotel....in an angry and vengeful mood about the company he works for. Decided to just let him vent, told him I loved him, and then called it a night.

There were others I could have called, but didn't. So I sat, debating how to "heal" myself.

I prayed. Watched a few Cat Comedy videos on YouTube. Played with my Emma...

Nothing helped. Tried to close my eyes -- too wired on so little sleep. And reeling from that AA meeting.

I needed sleep. I needed to eat (no appetite).

Seven Xanex later and a few hits of some resin (which is left over black stuff from pot and over time, turns into a form of hash)...I finally fell into a peaceful trance, where I no longer felt the tremendous burden in my heart.

My stash of resin.

Appetite returned and the tears stopped. And then I slept. Twelve hours.

The Xanex is prescribed. I hoard it and never take any unless I'm flying or giving a presentation. Not a great taker of pills.

I don't consider this a "fail"....as my main addiction is alcohol. My desire to smoke resin --- no desire really --- just so desperate last night for sleep and food. The Xanex...ugh....not a fan, but it aids with severe anxiety.

-----

At last night's meeting, when we go around and talk about our struggles, the AA QUESTION of the day was "How do you love yourself" or in other words "self love."

I planned on confessing my anger toward my girlfriend, who asked me to make that 60 mile trip to the airport ... after she knew I was detoxing ...and on only 1.5 hrs of sleep at the time.
I wanted to confess how selfish I was for feeling that anger....and that part of "recovery" is being of service to others. A change of heart and yes, I felt shame for being so selfish. Hard to love myself lately.

My potential topic soon changed because of "Billy," who spoke before me.

Billy--------a late 50ish, gray-haired, bronzed-skin, towering man (6'5") from the Bronx with a long, lean body like a swimmer, large hands with dirt under his nails, black-stained clothing and scuffed work boots. A working man -- perhaps a mechanic. His huge, kind, blue eyes melt your inhibitions. Believe it or not, still handsome, or at least I think so. A bad boy, too. Formally a heroin addict and some alcoholism with a bastard for a father and a long life of abandonment and abuse.

His father never called him Billy....only "lil bastard", "stupid prick" or  "waste of time." In his wonderful deep, east coast accent and abjectly honest replies, he could narrate any story as well as Morgan Freeman. He's a brilliant story-teller, and I could listen to him all day like a wide-eyed child in complete amazement.

He sat across from me at my initial AA meeting and introduced himself to me first as a stranger. He couldn't take his eyes off my shaking hands and asked me many questions about my addiction. The last few meetings, he sat next to me and kept the conversation going with words of comfort and questions of concern for my well-being.

I loved him instantly. A soul friend. His heart. You can always feel in your gut when someone is a good soul. Billy is one of them.

Billy spoke about not wanting to be a mechanic anymore (I was RIGHT!) after 35 years. And having no-self love because of the lack of affection and attention, as well as emotion/physical abuse from his father. He currently lives in his car and works 5 days/wk at a car shop.

And here's where I lost it at the meeting. Billy's voice began to shake and his deep blue eyes filled with tears. I'm paraphrasing his story:

"What will I do with the rest of my life? I'm a piece of shit and no one will want to hire me. Working on cars is all I've known, since my father took me out of school at 13 and made me work in his shop 18 hours a day. No playing with kids or sleeping in. He's woke me at 5 am every morning, and I wouldn't get dinner until after 10pm. In the shop, every time I made a mistake, my father would hit me hard in the head. I didn't want to get hit anymore, so I got very good at working on cars."

He went on and started crying, this gentle giant of a man:

"I don't even know why I was born. To live hell on earth with this addiction. I'm lost and I don't know what to do with my life. I have no self-love. I hate myself most days. I'm worth nothing to no one. No family. You guys in AA are my only friends. And I don't feel worthy being around you because I have nothing to offer anyone. No purpose in this world..."

Yeah, I fucking lost it. The topic of my girlfriend and the 60 miles----fuck that. I had something to say to him. Big time.

My turn. Trying to hold back a storm of tears (fail), my hands shaking as I reached for tissues, I looked him in the eyes and said (paraphrasing):

"It breaks my heart to hear you say those words -- that you're worth nothing to no one --- you mean so much to me, and you don't even know it. You were the first to introduce yourself to me as a stranger and you comforted me when I was scared and feeling lost at my first meeting. You're an amazing storyteller with a tremendous and memorable voice (cue in others saying yes, yes). God has a purpose for you even if right now just being at the meeting comforting and helping others. Your path will be made known by God, just please have faith and please keep coming to these meetings..."

He looked at me and said "Okay then, it's a date."

We both laughed because he says that to me after every meeting:

"See you tomorrow same time?" he asks

"Yes."

"It's a date!" he calls out to me as I walk out to my car.

BIG SIGH. An emotional meeting!

Can't wait to see my Billy tonight.

There are no words for today. All is well, just exhausted. Have to make a 60-mile round trip tomorrow. My girlfriend just notified me of this a half hour ago. Storms tomorrow too. All on (so far) 1.5 hours of sleep. Hope I get more tonight. Gotta train the fatties at 4:45a.

P is for Prayer ... A-Z Challenge

First AA meeting in over a year. And I trembled in fear, as well as from the Delirium Tremens. Shakey head, arms, hands, all the way down to my knees. Hard to walk. My emotions --- if anyone said anything to me -- I feared I'd collapse in their arms and cry like only an addict can when she can't have her fix. Filled with shame, overflowing in fact.



Pulled up at the "little green house on the corner," (what everyone calls it) where meetings are held. Couldn't locate a picture of this little shack -- but despite it's appearance, so many of us addicts get sober there. With good people around to help.


Stepping out of the car, my entire body shaking...I looked over to the smoking area outside the place. Someone was already waving to me, recognizing me instantly. "There she is! "Bob said, waving both arms wildly, a fellow addict and friend. I almost ran to him, but my legs couldn't take it. So I shuffled quickly to his embrace.


"I've been lost in bottles of vodka and rum," confessing to him, tearing up, hoping it wouldn't matter to him. And it didn't. He whispered, "Been there, done that, girl. But you're back here in my arms and that's all that matters!" I needed to hear that. Others around us smoking, joined in the welcome.


Headed inside and walked into the room. Three elders, Chuck, Paul and Charles, the only ones in the room, all stood up. "There's our Ruby!" they exclaimed. They still remember me. "Take off those sunglasses, girl so we can see those pretty eyes." I did what they asked, and then immediately broke down --sobbing uncontrollably in their arms.


The shaking got worse. They stared at my hands, as I grabbed a shitload of Kleenex, knowing I would need it. "Coffee?" they asked. I said I'd get some. Chuck stopped me, "No, I will get it-- you'll probably spill it all over yourself anyway," he joked. He filled it with lots of cream and sugar (sugar helps in the detox).


Others started walking in. Saw my crying with the elders in the corner. All eyes on me suddenly, probably wondering if I was a newcomer.


Chuck handed me the coffee. I attempted to hold it. Fail. My hands shook so violently. Paul stepped in and held the cup for me, while I sipped through the straw. I felt so cared for, yet so embarrassed at the state of what alcoholism reduced me to.


More entered the room. More stares. Familiar faces coming up to me, taking my trembling paws, trying to console me. Within minutes, the small hot room was packed. We sat in a big square, shoulder to shoulder - about 50 of us with folks sitting outside the room because no more seats. Everyone can see you.


Despite the three rickety ceiling fans, I started sweating profusely. Trying to hold back more tortuous emotions that were welling up. Wiping away tears and sweat. Attempted to drink the coffee with no help, I still shook so violently. Looking up, almost all the room was watching me. Wondering.


Chuck started the meeting, made some announcements. We prayed. I prayed for the courage to speak up and tell my story -- without losing all control and shutting down. In the past, I always spoke either first or second. People remembered my stories -- I was always so transparent about my life, hoping someone could relate and understand. Tonight would be no different.


Seeing how all eyes were on me, I boldly announced first and loudly, "My name is Ruby and I am an alcoholic." Now the ears really perked up. They knew my storytelling. I started sobbing again, but made it through my story, which is detailed on this blog. I especially focused on the Delirium Tremons which was the harbinger of my "rock bottom."


After that, the entire meeting focused on speakers who related to my story: they've been where I'm at; it's hell they said; even warned me I should seek medical attention; gave advice and a shitload of empathy. Instantly, their words started calming me. I was home again, like I never even left. So many thanked me for coming back, adding, "We're glad you're here."


Nice. I was glad, too.


Although they did make me nervous about the side effects of detoxing off alcohol. I promised them if I start feeling ill, I'll drive to one of those Medifirst Care clinics for medication to help with the sickness. So far, I just feel shaky. No nausea, headaches or stomach/heart pain. The worst would be the seizures that can sometimes result in hardcore alcoholics.


After the meeting, I immediately called my bro. Explained to him everything that went down at the meeting. Confessed about the Delirium: "I want you to know about this in case anything happens to me. The next 7-10 days should be interesting." Bro really came through. Very supportive. He told me he wouldn't speak any of this to Roscoe (the ex) who still works for him, but is no longer living with him.


Good. And fuck Roscoe. I'm gonna find a new path to follow.

O is for On... like it's ON!....A-Z Challenge

Vegas -- fun time. Copious amounts of drinking vodka and rum. My last hurrah per se. The worst part about the trip --- I couldn't put on my make up without my hands shaking violently (and that's an understatement). DZP, my companion, says he believes (my lie) about the psychiatrist upping my meds, which can cause violent hand shaking. My prescription has doubled... and can cause some shaking. However, I sometimes wonder if he knows the truth and doesn't want to embarrass me.

The good news is that today on the way home (flying), I didn't order *any* alcohol as I normally do (at least 4 wines). Hate flying...always very nervous when I'm not in control. Popped way too many Xanex though...5 to be exact and fell asleep. Felt hung over when we arrived home.

My first thought while heading back to the house was "I know I have left over vodka in the fridge." I fantasized about making a valiant effort by pouring it all down the drain after walking through the door.

I didn't.

After DZP left (he drove), I immediately poured a stiff drink, then left for an around-the-corner deli for a bottle a wine and some chicken salad. One last party.

I obsessed over my Delirium Tremons -- the hand shaking. At the airport, I drank a large bottle of water. A man sitting close to me watched. He asked me, "nervous flyer?" My hands shook like crazy while squeezing the liquid into my mouth.

"No, I'm on some new meds," I croaked. Not looking him in the eye. He nodded. Suspiciously. Suddenly I felt everyone watching me. Paranoia, I suppose. I tried to text a few people -- pure torture, because I kept misspelling words. DZP asked if I needed help. "No," I said...."just the meds fucking with me." Lie. Lie. Lie.

Tomorrow -- AA. I'm nervous, but plan to spill my guts at the meeting and look for a sponsor. I hope I can find a good one.

How will I live without alcohol?

The vodka is gone. All's left is that bottle of wine. After that....it's on.

N is for Now ... A - Z Challenge

Today, a moment of decision. And several embarrassing moments.

It's becoming painfully obvious that I need to stop drinking. In getting ready for Vegas (I leave tomorrow), I needed to cross a few things off my to-do list. Since I would be driving, there was no time for drinking. I do not drink and drive, if I can help it. So I went cold turkey, running errands.

And so the embarrassment begins.

First, drop off my female pitbull, Emma, at a place called the Watering Bowl (WB) for boarding. I ensured she would stay in the high end kennel, instead of a wire cage. Her favorite toy, a Scooby pillow and her favorite blanket in tow. Plus all her food for the week.

In talking with the WB manager, my voice quivered, I felt weak. Then he had me sign a form -- my hands shook violently as I applied the pen to paper. My signature resembled that of a 90 year old woman....bare recognizable. He asked if I was okay. I told him, "It's some new medicine I'm taking."

They call it "Delirium Tremens" -- an uncontrollable shaking of the hands....when you don't get the alcohol your body now needs to function.

I felt less than a person. Ashamed. And desperate.

Next, a visit to the accountant to pick up my taxes. She too asked me to sign some forms. I closed my eyes and asked for stability of my hands. Sure enough, even more shaking. She put her hand on mine, and asked if I was okay. "New medicine I'm on," I replied, without looking her in the eye, as I would normally, when someone shows me an act of kindness.

Then...home. To write several checks to the tax collectors. Over $1,100 owed. Plus four checks which needed to be written. I cannot tell you how degraded I felt, when I couldn't even write my checks without stabilizing my hands. And still, my writing looked like a two year old wrote it. After mailing off the taxes, I immediately (and finally) poured a drink.

You can see the degeneration of my handwriting....from December 'til now.

I can't do this any more, but I'm not sure how I will live without alcohol. I'm tearing up as I write this.

In Vegas, that's all everyone does at the event I'm attending. Copious amounts of drinking.

I've resolved to go back to AA when I return home.

That should be an adventure. Getting clean.

M is for Monster... A - Z Challenge

In my 13 year relationship with Roscoe, also an alcoholic --- during our last days before the final break ---he became a monster to me.

I never thought I'd be with a guy who'd hit me.

Grant it, I hit him first on all occasions. After he called me a fat ass, stupid whore, fucking cunt, alcoholic bitch...berating me every chance he got. Worse names than I'd been called in my school years. It hurt even more being called those names by a guy I've stood by, even in his darkest moments (4 DWIs, and a hit and run........................I'm ashamed to even admit that I stayed with that piece of shit).

I felt like an abused dog that finally attacked its owner after 11 years of torture. I started hitting him after I couldn't take the pain anymore. Our last two years were a fucking nightmare. I didn't care anymore.
I **wanted** to abuse him. And that's when he started hitting back.

Oh so many black eyes I had. And I didn't give a fuck. Hitting him gave me a release I cannot describe. Almost a high.

However, it was the silence after I hit him....when he took pause to compose himself and gather strength to attack me harder......**that** was the worst part. WAITING to be hit. His hits always hurt more than what I unleashed upon him.

That motherfucker.

I think I'm more angry at myself that I stayed with Roscoe so long. As two alcoholics, we fed off eachother. Keep in mind, my alcoholism truly started after I couldn't change his binge drinking. One day I decided, fuck it -- can't beat 'em, join 'em. A grave error on my part. I couldn't keep up with his drinking, although I tried my best.

Let's call a spade a spade -------he had a big dick and was good in bed. Also very handsome. Women (sluts) flirted with him whenever we were out in public. He was a skateboarder and possessed many cronies (guy friends)....they all knew me. Finally, I was accepted into the popular crowd. After years of being an outcast in my school years. When we went out together, I was finally "known." Acknowledged. Even respected. Because I was with Roscoe. A mid-western legend of sorts. Everyone who is anyone -- knows him.

I clung to that.

Truth be told --- he was an asshole....a prick to me....always cutting me down and trying to control my every move. While he did whatever **he** wanted.

I never thought he'd cheat on me though. However, eight years into our relationship, he did. With a 21 year old slut....whom he left me for....for over a year. Devastated doesn't even begin to describe how I felt. Traded in for a younger woman.

We got back together a year later.

And I'm pretty sure that's when I desired to abuse him. Maybe why I welcomed him back in my life. I beat him with a golf club. He beat me with his fists. I hit him with brass knuckles (which belonged to my grandfather)....he dragged me down the stairs and tried to gouge out my eyes with his punches. I kicked him in the balls. And I fucking enjoyed it.

Fuck this, I thought. Next time....I will kill you.

God saved me from that nightmare. In all honesty, I couldn't kill anyone. But I do enjoy exacting revenge on those who deserve it. Roscoe deserved it -- that motherfucker. A monster, and that's a kind word for him.

Writing about this seals the deal. I would never take him back.

I never thought I would say that.

L is for Loner....A - Z Challenge

In high school, I was treated like a freak. To be accepted was all I ever wanted. With size 12 feet and a penchant for punk music, I dressed differently than others. It was easier to dress in men's shoes, as my size was always readily available. One of the favorite names they used to call me was "combat woman." Because I wore men's combat boots. Not such a bad moniker....better than what they used to call me in grade school.

Speaking of which, one time, I was in 8th grade....we were studying Russia in history class. We talked about Moscow. I remember some bullies calling out MosCOW, in reference to me. I sat in class hearing the boys call me that. They sat in the back of the room, repeating "cow" and laughing. The next day, when I arrived at school, they had written MosCOW on my locker in big letters with a magic marker...impossible to erase, but the janitor tried his best.

Other favorite names they called me were fatty, fat bitch, amazon woman, disgusting pig, hog lady, ugly monster, fat slob. Yeah, I was size 14 -- those motherfuckers. But back in the 80s, if you weren't a size five, count yourself out of *ever* being accepted.  Is it any wonder why I became bulimic? Or a loner?

Back in the day, when they taught square dancing in gym class, all the girls easily paired up with the boys. Often, I was left without a partner. No one wanted to dance with me. Because I was so gross, I suppose. Any boy who had to hold my hand, acted as if they were touching a leper. Is it any wonder why I'm so angry? 

However, I'm also a big-time fighter. I learned to fight the odds against me. Because of all those judgemental jack offs. In gym class, they forced the girls to walk the balance beam. 

 Yeah, that's not me.

Anyway, what a crock of shit....but I was determined to do it. I can remember all the boys laughing while they watched me attempt to climb on the beam. I fell off. Someone called out, "She's too fat." Everyone laughed. And, instead of getting sad, I got angry for the first time.

I remember thinking, fuck you.... I'll show them all. And I began practicing walking the beam at home. Walking on anything with height and a narrow base. We had to perform a series of dance steps on the beam. You actually had to *design* your own routine. I'm shaking my head as I write this...what am I.....a fucking gymnast? Yet, filled with hate and determination, I refused to let the bullies prevent me from succeeding. Although, they tried awfully hard.

Even as I practiced the beam, I still recall all the name-calling directed at me. 

Seriously, I totally understand why some kids shoot up an entire school. 

Nevertheless, I walked the beam every day and designed my own routine. And yes, after three weeks, I performed in front of all those fuckers, despite the ridiculing and giggles. And I whipped ass. Even **I** impressed myself. 

A week later, in music class, my teacher, Mr. Mitchell, took me aside and congratulated me. He said, "I heard a great compliment about you from the gym teacher...she said that girl (me) has alot of gumption." He proceeded to tell me that I was "all the talk "in the teacher's lounge. Me?? Really?? Yes he said. And added, "I've always known that about you."

One of the defining moments in my life.

And regarding all the bullies, I still thought fuck you. I don't need you or your fucking approval. It was **on** after that.  I started fighting back.

Now many years later, I remain bulimic, still an alcoholic and still very much a loner. And I don't mind that last part. I've learned to enjoy my own company and pride myself on not needing anyone or suffer from the desire to belong. 

But don't ever say I cannot do something. ;)

J is for Job... A - Z Challenge

Just getting a head start on Thursday. Posting late on Wed night. A lil high.

I'm sad....just heard from my guy (DZP). Looks like his younger son, the trouble maker, (16 yrs old)  will be spending the entire weekend with us. Now, please understand, I do enjoy having his two sons over, as it makes me feel like I have a lil family. It's just lately, his youngest son, whom his mother doesn't pay any attention to ..... well.... he's **always** over at my house now when I'm with DZP.

His name is Jake.

I have no children. I see this as an opportunity to make a family, but his youngest son of two, Jake, is a little shit. His grades are poor and he likes skateboarding. Jake is very sweet to me, although I recently tripped outside a bar after dinner a couple weeks ago, and he couldn't stop laughing. 

An innocent mistake on my part (yes I was a lil drunk)...he took it upon himself to ridicule me. As only a 16 year old could do. After having skinned my knee and repositioned myself as if nothing ever happened, I couldn't help but hate ... Jake.

Fuck you, I thought.

I've bought Jake several vaporizers, since he's addicted to smoking. And treated DZP and Jake to dinners on a number of occasions. But lately it's felt like a JOB... to take care of Jake. To be the surrogate mom. 

I shouldn't be so selfish, knowing that I'll have my DZP from next Wed - Mon. in Vegas for the rockabilly weekender. Maybe I'm angry because I have no children of my own with which to torture DZP.

Yeah pretty sure that's it.

Also no mother or father of my own with whom he has to pass a test ---- my family is dead.

I so look forward to my weekends with DZP...but since he has sons, and I don't have anyone but them, 

I often feel as if it's another part-time JOB.

Trying to be grateful.

I is for...Idolize A - Z Challenge

So I'm prepping myself for my annual pilgramige to Vegas for the Viva Las Vegas Annual Rockabilly weekender.

Unlike previous years, I'm dreading the prep, the pre-pack....where you try on clothes ahead of time. Yeah. Nothing fits. 

I've gained a good 7 pounds, making last years clothes fit....rather tightly. UGH!

Last year, I was super lean, having been with Roscoe in a horrible relationship. I was barely eating, other than protein shakes and salmon.

Now that I've been with my new guy (as of June 21, 2013), I find myself happier, eating out more and splurging on late night snacks more than I ever have in awhile.

I knew this was coming. Yesterday, I hesitantly tried on a few key pieces, and I had to SQUEEZE into them. It's not like I haven't been through this before. My weight fluctuates based on life circumstances. I despise my fat years attending Vegas. Not really fat, but thicker, as most clothes worn for this event are supposed to be snug, show off curves....the cleavage. Mine's more like a lil muffin top, which I cannot stand.

Oh well.

But after attending this event for 13 years, this year especially, I am not so much into competing with the other girls in so far as how "hot" I look. Frankly, I don't give a shit anymore. There's no greater peace than being in your 40s and making the best outta what you have, instead of starving yourself for months, just to compete with a bunch of 20 year olds. I'm done.

But not quite yet. I used to IDOLIZE all the bitches at this event...they have bigger boobs, smaller waists, beautiful child-bearing hips, long legs....and maybe a prettier face. You can always tell the boob jobs verses the real ones. *That* made me angry...because real boobs sag a bit. The fake ones look perkier than what they deserve, age-wise. It doesn't seem fair. If I had $8K, maybe I'd feel differently.

I also don't want to replace my boobs every 10 years, which is the sentence of those who get boob jobs, so I hear. It's not a "forever thing."

Always wanted a boob job, but refuse to put that shit in my body just to get the attention of a handful of men. I asked myself, "Why would you do that to yourself? For so little attention? There will always be someone who's got a better bust line than yourself."

Once you turn a certain age, you stop caring....IDOLIZING....the illusion of what you *could* be, based on society's standards. You begin to realize who you are, faults and all, and accept the best you can be, baggage and all. 

Although it didn't stop me from throwing up my dinner last light (a cooked sweet potato and a bowl of whole wheat Cheerios).  I didn't fit into my jeans....so I didn't deserve to eat. I'm a master at bulimia, another addiction. 

Even though I say I don't care or IDOLIZE others who are thinner than me....the comparison of them verses me....haunts me. Maybe I can lose a few pounds before Vegas. It's a disease, like alcoholism.

I actually went to Target and bought a few fatty pants to accommodate my 7 pound gain.....trying to make the best out of it. 

I care....but then again, I don't give a fuck. Sick of IDOLIZING woman who are 20 years younger than me.

Why can't I just be my 44 year old me? 

H is for...HELP A-Z Challenge

(Check out the skeleton. Yeah, alcoholism kills.)

Before my first husband and I tied the knot, we visited a local psychic. Being skeptical about marriage, I sought the psychic's advice....should we get married?

He brought up a couple interesting things, which still haunt me. He asked two questions:

1) Is someone cheating in this relationship. My (now) ex and I looked at eachother and shook our heads: "Well of course not," I said. Seven years later, come to find out, the ex was cheating with his ex-girlfriend the entire time. Well before we married.

2) Do one of you suffer from alcoholism? Again, we looked at eachother with abject impunity. "No, not that I'm aware of," I said. The psychic replied, "Well, keep an eye on it. It could be a major issue in your life later on."

Still haunted by that reading.

Fact was, back then, circa early 90s, I only drank on the weekends. Never thought about getting high on a daily basis. Wasn't right --the partying begins on Friday, after work, of course. Ah -- those were the days. Never craved it back then, other than a release from working all weekend.

When you're an alcoholic, the disease progresses over time. I'm witness to it. I drink daily now.

Recently, a dear friend asked me a few simple, non judgemental questions about my drinking. I'm paraphrasing here, but she asked, "what small steps can you take toward sobriety? If you do seek help, when will it be?"

Good questions. I think about this daily.

On Wednesday 4/16, I'm leaving for Vegas for my annual pilgrimage to the Viva Las Vegas Rockabilly Weekender, which I've been attending for the past 13 years. It's like prom for me (I was stood up twice for prom in high school. It's my chance to dress up in vintage clothing, swing dance.....and drink. Heavily). More than 50,000 attend this event. I live for it every Easter).

This event is all about Pabst Blue Ribbon and every kind of whiskey or liquor you can imagine. Held in a casino, there are more than 20 bars inside. When I arrive with suitcases in hand, I never go to the room first. Always the liquor store, a huge one in the casino. And I stock up. Priorities you know.

In so far as seeking help and attending AA again, I'm hoping to do so after Vegas. At least that's been my thought. After my Vegas trip, there's always a huge let down...like the excitement is over, and I have to wait another year for it. I worry about getting caught up in that sadness. There's a huge part of me that is tired of the drinking. But I still love the high and the creative jolt drinking gives me. Especially when I write.

I need to pray about that. God can help save me. If I trust in Him.

What small steps can I take in the meantime? Writing about my addiction, which makes me more aware of what I'm doing. And how I know it's not right. 

And I guess that's all I have to say about that. 

G is for God A- Z Challenge

When I buy my booze every other day, and as I carry the bottle out of the store in a sloppy blue plastic bag at 9 in  the morning, I wonder what God thinks.

My day starts at 4 in the morning. I'm often up at 3 am. All I think about is finishing the few clients I train. Then, getting home in time for the Today Show. By 8 am. With my booze. I love day-drinking. I can be so productive at that time of the morning. When I pay all my bills. Usually high.

I adore getting high in  the morning. So taboo. Nothing better than drinking water, vodka and lime before 9 am. Feels so naughty. No one checking on me. Other alcoholics I know wait until 12 noon. They at least have family -- mothers and fathers. I use my orphan state as an excuse to behave badly.

Fact is, I don't give a shit. My floors are scrubbed, bills are paid, windows washed, dog poop scooped, plants watered... everything done by 12 noon. Then I take a nap. Awake by 3pm, and then I start sipping again. 

God keeps me going. So I tell myself. I have faith.

I dream of Him telling me "keep going." Even though on most days, I'm not satisfied with myself and feel guilty because of my addiction. 

I always insure I've accomplished a to-do list each day while drinking, which, after achieving, justifies my drinking... "Well at least I accomplished this, that, and the other" I tell myself.

I'm not a complete failure.

No one watching over me except myself. I'm quite a bad caretaker. But at least I set daily goals for myself before imbibing.

Wow -- that sounds pathetic. 

But that's who I am for now. God accepts me. I know He does.

F is for Father.... A - Z Challenge

How fitting. 

Blogging about my Dad, the ultimate functional alcoholic. I learned his best practices over the years...how to be an alcoholic, but always keeping it a secret . Never a bum, nor missing a day's work, my Dad provided for us; bro and I never went without. You'd never know that Dad was a binge drinker. Not every day, but when he did drink, he never knew how to stop.

No matter how hung over he was, and the number of times he threw up -- with mom and I caring for him bed side while he vomited at 2am --  he always got up for work at 5 am. 

I came home from a Christmas dance one time in high school. All dressed up --  I was over the moon! Then Dad came home. He passed out in the hallway. Mom and I had to carry him to the bed. I was still in my dress. The evening -- ruined.

With only a ninth grade education and a fire and drive to be an entrepreneur, Dad never missed a day of work running his own business (the laundry mat and cleaners in East St Louis, IL), while working as a respected Teamster in the afternoons and evenings. No wonder he drank. When was his life - his own?

Often times, he'd keep me up on the weekends, drinking in the family room until well after midnight, telling me stories while I tried to stay awake, listening to him. After I went to bed, he'd wake me up a few hours later (3am) and tell me more stories. When all I wanted to do was sleep. Mom laid down and refused to deal with him. 

I was Dad's only audience. So I stayed up and listened to his war stories from Korea...and the friends he lost in the war.

It was always the ***same*** stories....I could repeat them verbatim but still enjoyed the attention he paid me.....always when drunk though. Listening to him, that's how I figured out *why* he drank -- no one to talk to.... no one wanted to listen to his stories anymore. Plus, he suffered from the disease of alcoholism. 

For some reason, I always related to his pain. And would stay up, sometimes until sunrise, when he'd stumble off to his own bed and pass out. Afterwards, there was peace in our family for several hours. Until he woke up.

Here are my tattoos of him. First the neck. With his name : "AL"

Then his initials on my wrists.

Funny, his initials spell AA. 

Maybe it's the Universe telling me something. Just realized that now.

E is for Erlene...A - Z Challenge

This is a hard letter to write about, hence my procrastination in posting. The only topic that comes to mind is my mother, Erlene. The fact is, she's dead. And I miss her every day of my life. 

Drinking soothes the pain and emptiness, although it's killing my soul, my spirit. I know mom would be "on me" about going back to AA and wouldn't approve of my *daily* in-home bar ritual. Passing by her picture on my dresser each morning, I cannot look at her. The guilt of my addition makes me blind to her kind eyes and warm smile. I always look the other way.

I wouldn't know how to love without her in my life. Having had an alcoholic, unavailable father, and a prick for a brother, without mom, I fear I would have "offed" myself long ago ---the selfish solution. What I love most about myself comes from the gifts that she taught me: Love, compassion, empathy, generosity, selflessness, forgiveness, humility, abject kindness....just to name a few.

Also, how to be a lady. Growing up a rebel, I picked up smoking as my so-called "cool habit." Once, she caught me smoking on the corner, waiting for the school bus. I must've of been all of 14. She waited until I got home to admonish me, saying, "That's not how a lady acts! Flicking cigarette butts on a street corner!" 

Fuck the whole it's-not-healthy argument. Being a lady, first and foremost, trumped all else for her. Discretion, for mom, remained her bullet-proof vest. In other words, what people can't see, they can't gossip about. Hence my secretive drinking life.

She believed in a bright future for me, even when I couldn't envision it. Hence my tattoo of her holding a crystal ball:

The pretty lady on the right...

Thank you mom for adopting me. I cannot imagine never having had you in my life. A blessing from God. You mean the world to me, and I can't wait to see you again one day.

Now excuse me, while I go refill my wine glass.

D is for (The) Divine -- A - Z Challenge

One of my favorite activities while I'm drinking is listening to The Gospel, spoken by the Bishop TD Jakes. I'm often searching for his sermons on youtube weekly. Most inspiring words, he speaks. Another sage who reaches me, when I am unable to be reached by others.

Having been raised by a racist family, I've often found that despite my family's prejudice, people of color possess the most blessed mindsets. I was adopted, not cut from the same cloth as my parents. It's easy to be taught prejudice as a child, but later on, when you discover that hate serves no purpose other than to hurt the hater, one begins to reach out for other beliefs.

I am not about hate. Sure I've harbored opinions about other races....but really, how ridiculous.

All I want to do now is love others. Fuck skin color. These are my bothers and sisters. God sent me here to help them in some way. Prejudice serves no purpose in my life now.

Without God in my life, I'd be lost. Listening to the Bishops sermons (even while I drink) touches me in such a way that I begin to believe there's still hope for me. And others who suffer from addictions.

C is for Choice...A-Z Challenge

Severe storms and tornado warnings today. All day. Perfect drinking weather.

Having children wasn't in my future, apparently. I chose no children with Roscoe; he never got his shit together. But we woulda made beautiful kids. And I would be the only caregiver, since Roscoe would be a 44 year-old drunk man-child. With no money or job. :(

After 13 years of Roscoe's alcoholism, DWIs and what-not, I never got off the pill. Why should I? Smart girl, I tell myself daily.

Having had an alcoholic father, I never wanted to raise my babies in that environment.So I made the choice to wait. And wait. And wait for Roscoe to fulfill his promise -- that he would get his life together. 

Never happened, my friends. Instead, I built my own family. Here they are:

This is my Lydia. She is a the No. 2 Lydia. I had another Lydia who died after 17 years in 2004. Refused to adopt another until I found one who looked exactly like Lydia No. 1. Two years later, I found a replica to her precursor. Gave her the same name. I'm a sicko that way.

My Chango and Spike, brothers from the same litter. Both were rescued from a crack house. Spike, on left was the runt. Chango was first born. It's amazing to see how well they interact like brothers. Chango, the older bro, lets Spike have his way . Albeit begrudgingly. Spike is a thief of food and pushes Chango's buttons. Chango puts up with it. Chango always taking the high road, like mom taught me to do. Sigh.

This is my Emma. Not being a lady in this photo  LOLOL Also rescued. She's my baby girl and bed partner. I always wanted a little doll to call my own. The Universe delivered. She is Chango's girlfriend (little sister). To see them smooch on each other makes me smile like a proud mama. Got Emma for him because his bro Spike has issues playing (bad hips). Chango's a playa and loves to roughhouse, like Emma. Broke my heart he had no one to play with. So I found his doll.

I'm in a melancholy mood tonight. Not into much writing. Would rather drink. I miss people.

Trying to stay present.

Maybe I'll watch some Saturday Night Live.

B is for Baron ... A-Z Challenge

(And I'm not talking about the "Red Baron")

My grandmother's last name was Baron. Otherwise known as "Nanny." My mother's mother.

A bad ass and on most days, always an annoyance to me.

I loved her very much. Despite the fact that every Saturday when kids slept in, she woke me at 6am to clean windows. She was Lithuanian. And a great follower of cleaning the house top to bottom. Often times she'd admonish me when I didn't want to clean. Instead, I wanted to watch cartoons and eat cereal.  (like most kids). She'd say in her heavy forgein accent:

"Bad girl. No want to help Mama!" I resented her on most days.

After she finally died in 1995, I drempt about her more than I care to acknowledge. However, she no longer yelled at me in her old fashion. In dreams, she brought me Lilac flowers in a huge bouquet. Or bundles of red and pink Peonies. A great gardener, I often spent time collecting flowers from her garden for dinner time. Her request.

It was the right and proper thing to do as a wife of the household. Preparing me, for marriage, I suppose.

Still single :(

After dinner she would draw me a bath. Opening the medicine cabinet while the hot water ran in the tub, Nanny reached for her Estee Lauder expensive parfume in a small bottle -- the strong stuff, not in a spray bottle. I'd stand naked as she filled the tub and sprinkled the parfume in the steamy bath. This was a regular ritual on Saturday nights when I was left with her by my parents for the weekend. Then she'd bundle me up in fancy satin pajamas, and we'd watch Carol Burrnett and Vincent Price movies before bed.

Still convinced her house was haunted. Scary. But welcoming. That house still haunts my dreams. Roscoe and I lived there for years together.

Despite yelling at me a lot, she treated me like a princess at night, always making sure (after I worked a full day cleaning) that I smelled of expensive parfume before bed. I still wear fancy pajamas when I want to spoil myself, especially on vacation. Nanny always told me to have nice PJs on hand in case you need to be hospitalized. Ah the rituals of Lithuanians.

Here's her bad-ass self:

Wounds three men with two shots. Protecting my Grandfather. Arrested for assault and battery.            That's my girl ;)

Here's my tattoo of her:

A is for Addict.... A - Z Challenge

Bet you didn't see that one coming ;)

Today's word should have been an obvious and immediate selection for me, but I spent over a half hour googling "A" words. When I finally found it on a Scrabble site, I just shook my head and called myself clueless. The one thing I know with 100% certainty is that I *am* an addict. 

Having attended multiple AA and Alanon meetings -- yes I have tried to quit -- I would always flamboyantly announce at every meeting "My name is Ruby...and I'm a selfish alcoholic." Never did anyone shame me, because we were all stating the same thing aloud before our turn to speak. This comforted me; I no longer felt alone.

Speaking of which, bro finally broke down and called me. After 4 months of harboring Roscoe and his bad tattoos (giggle). A little tipsy, I aggressively and angrily listened to his probable excuses. He was apologetic. Very much so. Regretful. This calmed me down a bit, but couldn't help lashing out at him. No name-calling. I felt rather dignified yet pious in my speech. Dropped the F-bomb several times. Then, I apologized. And told him all the angry and ugly texts I sent to him recently were written under the influence. Bro understood, he said. 

It feels good to be forgiven.

In AA, we were encouraged to right all our wrongs we do unto others. The sooner the better. And I am not above apologizing. That's what addicts do when they're in recovery. Out of recovery, we are sour, sad souls. And very selfish. It's all about the booze and drugs. And deep down we despise ourselves for acting in such a cruel way with others.

Hmm - sounds familiar. The above is not who I am - my addictive behaviors though turn me into mini-monster at times. Then I feel bad. Then I drink. No pain. Cowardly. But let's call a spade a spade. 

Admitting I'm an addict keeps me honest.