Hello you, it's me...

God,

You know how I’ve been struggling with my first blog entry—how do I introduce myself, where do I start, people are going to think I’m nuts, and finally why am I compelled to do this??? And then this last beautiful episode in my life happened. There could be no better story to share with potential friends then this one. It introduces my insanity, my ill concept of priorities and greatest of all it humbles me in front of all.

God, you know this but not everyone out there does, that I’ve always addressed you in journals, letters, and the dialogue in my head. I’m not making this up. I talk to you, a lot. Probably many of us do. Fortunately for me I’ve started hearing your subtle replies to my constant rambling, probably because I’m sober. More on that soon…

So anyway God, I haven’t journaled in a few days because I have been sick. Not just sick but hugging the toilet, buckled over in cramps, sweating and shivering sick. And then when that past I was left with the wooziness, headache, and weak legs trio. It’s been tough. (God, bear with me as I cover ground you’re quite familiar with.)

I thank my two-year old for this. I really forgot since my last kiddo went through pre-school what germs they came home with. Those germs are monsters! I swear if I were eighty I’d be six feet under from this! There’s not enough Greek yogurt in the world to keep my digestive track full of “healthy” bacteria to ward off this crap. 

But what’s odd or ironic or coincidental is my most recent obsession before the stomach bug, but first I got sober—aka quit drinking and taking pills—six months ago. It’s been a journey. But lucky for me I was as desperate as only the dying can be and I have been given a life preserver.  Six months ago, I was lucky enough to call on a friend in the ‘hood (Golf course community) I live in.  She’s one hip chick. She’s covered with tats, has the figure of a ballet dancer, has hair like Pink and sings like a white Billie Holiday.  Oh and very into the vintage 50’s vibe, I think it’s called Rock a Billy. She sings with her jazz band, drops the occasional CD and plays gigs from here to Paris. She’s also a devoted wife and the world’s coolest step-mom (she let her step-daughter cut a track on her last CD. She didn’t have to do that, you know?) Anyway, she told me about this anoynomous group she belonged to fifteen years ago that helped her quit “drinking and drugging” she would say, with a raspy voice that has known a smoky bar and a brutal hangover.

Basically two days later, I dragged my drunk, pilled-out ass into a meeting.  Insert big sigh of relief.

So, part of my program and the ladder rung I’m at is practicing handing it over to God. Well, what does that mean? I don’t know, I’m still figuring it out, but I have a hazy idea. First of all, I can be obsessed with anything! If I, dare say, start a shopping cart online at Old Navy, forget about it, I’m updating that bitch two times a day for a week. I may or may not buy anything, that’s not the point. Hell, I don’t know what the point is, or why I do it but I do. Don’t even let me go to Loft.com. I’m trapped in a cycle of sale items for weeks!

I know it’s part of my sickness—anyway… I create a lot of fodder.

So, my obsession is weight! I gained seven or eight pounds during the first few months of sobriety. I have really been taking it easy on myself during recovery. For some reason (and let me just say here that ‘getting sober’ stories are just as varied as ‘giving birth’ stories—no two are alike) I stopped working out. It’s like all this artificial energy left my bones and made me inexplicably tired. I was exhausted. Had to nap two hours a day for months plus I slept like a baby at night for the first time in years or ever. In addition to intense slacking off in all areas of my life in order that I could start recovery I ate however or whatever I wanted to. Who cares! I was sober and that was and is the most important thing. A peace and quiet washed over my house in the first few months of sobriety like a warm wave and I let it envelope me. It took everyone in the house on a vacation too. We were all stunned and sleepy. Mom is sober, say what?

But because I am still an alcoholic or recovering alcoholic or grateful alcoholic or whatever you want to call it, that ol’ sleeping giant called obsession still lingers in my mind. And every now and then it will wake and latch onto something and crush it. Then I got an iPhone and let me tell you why that sucked. There is an app that can count all calories, fat grams, fiber grams, minerals, vitamins, everything you put into your body can all be calculated for you upon tapping in whatever you just inhaled.  Oh and it’s free. “It’s awesome,” says my disease, formerly known as me. I still like it, ok. But one must know balance.

I have no balance.  When I get a box of thin mints, I eat one sleeve, rapidly, in succession. I can’t stop so don’t bother telling me to, I’ll just say something snide and bitchy.

So, I gained the weight, then I started counting calories IN ORDER to cut back, soon I was always counting even after I had exceeded my measly 1300 calories a day. By the way, WTF! That’s an absurd amount of very little calories. Usually I’m done with that by five o’clock, before dinner or the late night cereal binge.

Ok, so then I twisted my ankle in a mature ladies workout class at the Y. We think we’re fly. Don’t tell us otherwise. Our instructor had set up twelve-inch hurdles for us to jump and I didn’t clear one. I went down on the floor and in ego. But after resting for two days I thought well, I gotta start running or something because otherwise this weight is just gonna go up and up and up. Then I got a stomach flu.

In comes the voice of God, “You said you wanted to loose this weight you’ve gained?”

Me, “Yes God, I really do! I really reallllly do! I’ll prove it to you by being obsessed with the idea of it.”

God, “Are you going to cut back on your caloric intake?”

Me, “I’d rather not.”

God, “Ok, let me see what I can do.”

Pause.

Me, “Whoa! I didn’t mean in six hours!”

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God gave me what I THOUGHT I wanted proving yet again that I do not know what’s best for me.  It’s not best for me to think about weight loss because today I weighed myself at the Y and thought, well actually, I’d like to loose four more pounds.

I gotta give it up. I do not need to obsess about weight. I think that if I ‘tell on myself’ and confide in you what my weaknesses are, maybe they’ll loose power and I’ll wiggle out from under them. If I occupy space in my brain with ‘weight thoughts’ then I’m not being of service to anyone, not even myself.

Peace out new friends and God,
Sara