The Human Race - Joining It

It's a slow road with switchbacks.

In too many ways I'm still doing damage control from the Descent that began in July.  My job has been threatened.  I don't know how I'm going to make it financially.  There is so much stuff I have to do that I go blank contemplating how to get my life back in order.

I was wandering around on Kindle the other night, looking for something nonthreatening, and made a discovery that put me in a cold sweat.  I haven't been a literary agent for eight years but there was someone I had worked very, very hard for and been unable to sell.  That person's books, which I edited with an Exacto knife, are now published.

I was surprised that my former, er, career still has that kind of power over me and I noted on Facebook that I wanted to chew my right hand off with jealousy.

"X (the literary agent who made money off some serious work I had done on the manuscript) doesn't have Daisy," I mantra'd as I turned off my computer and crawled into bed.  "X doesn't have a new flannel nightgown and clean flannel sheets and Daisy."

Of course, X might well have much better stuff but does not have that ineffable alchemy of flannel and Daisy, the solid 70-pounds of muscled weight sleeping next to me.

The Prozac, you see, is working.  The dosage isn't yet right but the worst is over until the next time.

Sometime in the last month I had a severe loneliness for a god I can't quite believe in.  One evening I went out to walk Sandy, a mild enough golden retriever, and demanded that god get down here and show himself to me.  It was a week of fuck-ups at school coming back to haunt me and I was scared and, always, lonely.  This demand was a bratty win-win: I know there is no god with a personal interest in me so there would be no answer and I could continue my terror and loneliness in blissful non-peace.

Then Sandy's owner gave me a hundred-dollar tip she referred to as "snow duty".

It was not Fatima but it was a penny placed on the other side of my personal scales of life.

And so I told the green-eyed dog of jealousy that I have a silky yellow one to sleep with, thank you very much, and fell asleep wondering how much of a wreck I would be the next day.

I woke at six in a rush to get to Facebook and quit all my farms.  Suddenly, I had to declutter that much of my life.  (I kept my city.  It's my only game and takes little time.)  And I was surprised to see that my post had several responses from women I respect saying, me too.  I was comforted not to be alone.

Not to be alone.

Not to be alone.

By writing a sentence I had let some people admit to the green dog as well and I could begin to laugh.  I began to hope that the version of the manuscript I worked hardest on had been the one to sell.  I owe that boss amends, although not for what she probably thinks I owe.  Maybe I can say I made them with that work.

Maybe it augers well for the novel I'm editing now.

That morning, the winter light poured through the windows of Grand Central so purely that I thought there was a spotlight shining on the west windows.  I asked one of my students if he'd seen it and yes, he said, he thought it was a special effect, too.  And I felt I had not been alone in that cold bath of early light, and that my loneliness and my isolation are not one and the same but are, certainly, related.  If I can't break the former maybe I can break the latter.  And maybe that will begin to mend the day-to-day lack of family and close friends at hand.

By whatever means.

Answers, for My Sake More than Yours, I Think...

I.

Are you angry because the author [David Kessler] glosses over the reasons people overeat, or because he doesn't offer much in the way of solutions?

Good reading, Susan. I was really furious and perhaps wasn't clear about this.

He all but calls sugar and fat addictive substances but stops at approaching them the way most clinicians would approach alcoholism. He stops short despite having spoken of people who feel out of control or obsessed by food, and writing widely about how sugar and fat stimulate the reward/pleasure/addiction/fear/pain regulator in the brain.

The reasons people overeat are as many as there are minutes in overeaters' lives. Tonight I would go out for Little Debbies because I was lethargic and tired today and didn't do any writing. (This post is supposed to save my ass.) Tomorrow morning I might go out for pancakes because I'm really tired of walking dogs and, hey, I need a little motivation.

In a way, I don't think the reasons people overeat matter. Everybody has to sort that out for themselves. But finding the reasons is not a eureka! moment. If I zone out on donuts in a land where no one can hurt me, all the reasons in the world aren't going to overcome that reward groove I've got going in my brain.

What I'm angry about is that he successfully describes sugar, fat and salt as an addiction but deliberately doesn't use the word or the techniques of the addiction model. He could have at least investigated it.

There was a lot of fascinating material in the book but I don't think anyone is going to lose weight because they read it. I do not feel that way about other books. People lose weight because of reading Atkins or Geneen Roth because they either give an inspiration of how to do it or why to do it.

II.
The God Thing

I'm a doubter by nature, although when I walk into a Catholic Church I immediately believe the wildest fairy tales. When I did my Third Step this time, I decided I would create a god who is at my beck and call. I won't ask him for anything. I demand it.

There is a dusk bird singing loudly in the gardens beyond my window. Daisy has loved me through the emotionally toughest years of my life. I will have very cold stewed apples for dinner. That's my personal, capsule-sized proof that God exists.

I want to yack every time I hear someone say "Goddess, grant me the serenity..." or refers to HP for "higher power". But there are some tangible things that are bigger than me, one of them being my desire to eat sugar, fat and salt. Electricity, my favorite thing (where would ice cream be without it?) is bigger than me. The Rooms and their success stories and support are bigger than me. Inspiration is bigger than me. My sponsor's 20 years of abstinence and affection for me is bigger than me.

So personally I don't have a problem thinking that there are powers beyond my own. And I don't have a problem squooshing them together and inventing a god that suits me.

Some Rooms are really, really Jesus-obsessed. I've been warned that the South is not a good place to go into recovery if you kind of think Jesus was prissy. Some are so new age that my blood sugar rises at the thought of them. Some have a good balance where the god thing isn't too heavy.

But I definitely get it that the God Thing can get in the way. I happen to take it for real, but not very seriously and not very zealously.

If it's what's stopping you from dropping into the Rooms, you can write sarcastic emails to me.

III.
Eaties and Foodies

Everybody seems to see themself in that post. There are moments that I'm a foodie, but when I am, I often want more.

Right now I'm ruminating on how abstinence makes me a foodie more often than I am when I'm not abstinent. I love what I'm eating when I'm abstinent, partly because I'm actually hungry and food is gratifying under that condition.

Goodnight, all. Dream of good things tonight!

Scissors, Paper, God

I had a box of them. Mary Poppins, with Jane and Michael, Samantha from Bewitched, the perfunctory bridal party so many girls in the early 60's had. On and on. I can't remember what others were there but, unlike my limited Barbie collection (didn't Barbie cost an astronomical amount of money in the `60's?), I could actually perform The Sound of Music with my paper dolls because I had enough of them.

Then I discovered my mother's wrapping paper and starting making clothes for them with whatever didn't reek too much of mistletoe.

It would not surprise you to know, then, that I still love cutting things out of magazines and catalogues.

The point of the Third Step, which is the same for all 12-step programs ("Made a decision to turn my will and my life over to the will of God as I understood God") is to first make some decisions about God or a higher power and then cast one's fate to it.

My sponsor and I have had several conversations now that have hinged on me playing God. The first was my rage at having relapsed. The second came up in a conversation about how to approach the Dreaded Fourth Step ("Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves"). "How could I have two crazy bosses in a row? It must have been me." After the first go-around of being so angry at myself for relapsing, I caught myself. Who am I to say it was me or it was them? Who am I to say I was naive and unable to establish an adult relationship with either of them? Those are judgment calls. Is someone who will tuck her nightgown into sweatpants and run out to the deli in the rain really in a position to make judgments about herself, let alone anyone else?

Let alone my fondness for paper dolls.

I'm sure I've written about my Catholic School Girl Concept of God, which is best sung to the tune, "You Better Not Pout". My sponsor is all too familiar with it. I've tried a buddy God I called Ralph for a while. I've tried to integrate myself back into the Church. I've tried various saints. And then I relapse. Or feel crummy about wasting my life with online games. Or watch a marathon of America's Next Top Model, God save me.

When I first went into the Rooms, I made what is known there as a "God box". It can be anything -- a paper bag, a shoe box, a jar, whatever. The idea is that when something Big happens (a fight with a friend, a resentment, a decision to be made: whatever troubles the waters), you write it down and stick it in the vessel of choice. I, of course, saw this as an opportunity to play paper dolls.

That God box, made from an oatmeal container 11 years ago, is dusty, faded, fraying and heavy. I really want this abstinence to be a new beginning so part of my Third Step was making a new God box. I had the good karma box for it -- the box from the Ralph Lauren Romance perfume my father gave me for Christmas -- and stacks of unread magazines and catalogues. It was time to go to work.

It's been an interesting and sometimes moving several days because of it.

My first God box was about my relationship with God. The new one is about 1) God's relationship with me, and 2) proof that there is a God. Swan Lake, for instance, is proof of the Sublime. So are the Rockies that are my soul's cradle. Venice, flowers, my sense of being from Somewhere, the Hubble Telescope, Barack Obama, the fierceness and love of bears, Jane Austen -- proof. I'm sorry, my Agnostics, but these aren't random items for me.

Then there's the matter of God's relationship with me, which has been missing since the days I used to hold hands with guardian angel, probably pre-First Confession when God gets wicked on kids. "Be Yourself -- Everyone Else Is Taken," God tells me. "Love is patient, love is kind," he assures me. Buddhas laugh; a wounded angel is carried by ordinary boys; a black Edmund Gorey Lab carries a banner that says, "We belong together."

The project got me humming The Mills Brothers. I wasn't surprised when the chorus of "Paper Doll" echoed my sense of what-have-you-done-for-me-lately.

I'm gonna buy a Paper Doll that I can call my own
A doll that other fellows cannot steal
And then the flirty, flirty guys with their flirty, flirty eyes
Will have to flirt with dollies that are real

When I come home at night she will be waiting
She'll be the truest doll in all this world
I'd rather have a Paper Doll to call my own
Than have a fickle-minded real live girl

I'm interested in seeing what the compassionate, monogamous, cheerleader of a God will do for me.

Woman Seeks God

The second step of the twelve is "Came to believe a power greater than myself could restore me to sanity". This step means finding a god one can work with. I've done various treatment of God but this time around I decided to place a personal ad on Craig's List under Missed Connections. Fifteen hours later, I haven't received a response, but it was a really interesting & revealing exercise because a) I had to sell myself, b) in essence, I asked God for a life. Should he be willing to give me one, of course the only possible reciprocity is to {gulp} give mine to him.

As goofy as all this sounds, I'm kind of moved by what I've done.

***

Seeks God – female – 52 – Brooklyn

Me: female, tall, zaftig but losing weight; dark hair graying; navy blue eyes; best smile; great voice. Fabulous sense of humor, talented & successful writer, Labrador/reading/movie/ballet-loving, earnest. I give the best presents & always remember birthdays. I have enough money to live moderately. I love my parents and my family, and they love me back, even though I confuse the bejesus out of them. Dogs like me. I have a lot of friends but none locally who will motivate me to get out & do stuff. I like tchotchkes, especially things that remind me of my childhood, & tend to buy too many books, movies, music & Barbie dolls. Very passionate. Prefer mountains to the ocean & want a hiking-camping companion.

You: beats me but my Catholic childhood tends toward male. Tall, strong, magical, warm eyes, best smile, great voice. You must have the perfect sense of humor that also accommodates mine, be as rich as, well, God. Inspire me to write & relieve my fear of it. Give me best presents & remember my birthday -- especially that I don't feel 52 & that it's a sore day for a kid who is adopted & feels congenitally unwantable. You must make me feel wanted, necessary & loved at all times & so well that I will return same. Be my best friend & teach me how to have fun. Suggest a movie or massage or season tickets at NYCB & I'm there. Indulge my weaknesses but not my dis-eases. Of the latter, you must slowly but certainly relieve me. You are passionate about all things, worlds, people, plants, animals & space dust, but you are most passionate about me & will teach me how to use & enjoy my passions. Help me plan & go with me to the Cascades, Fatima, the Rockies, Prague, Ireland, Yorkshire, Cambodia, Venice, Budapest, Krakow, Bath, Nova Scotia, Gettysburg, Transylvania & New Orleans. Be so much fun & so into me that I forget my jealousies, lost opportunities, vanished friends, the dead, the men I still have a sore spot for. Shield me from insults, fear, giving too much when I have too little to give. Hand me energy drinks when I need them and read me to sleep at night.

Willing to relocate -- you must be as well.

***

The code I had to type in to publish was, interestingly, “go Dolores” – Dolores means “sadness”.

***

I must add that I had this brain wave during a melanch0ly dog walk after two days of living someone else's obsessions for a good cause. I will have failed to accomplish what she wanted, which was to get a dog a home instead of back to the shelter. I was walking with all my own adoption issues, praying for the dog, feeling extremely lonely & abandoned to the inevitable flack that comes with writing for brooklynheightsblog.com.

At the end of the long block that these thoughts & feelings filled, Daisy began to play tug-of-war with her leash, which drives me crazy & very dangerous. I felt too weak to hang on to the leash & I stumbled slightly. She immediately let go & poked her head between my legs in what we call the tunnel-of-love, in which she threads through my legs for a butt rub. She was very concerned about that stumble (she gets hysterical when I actually fall).

We met A. outside my house & chatted about what's going on with her & with this dog. At the end of the conversation she reached out & rubbed my arm in what I can only describe as a gesture of warmth. "I needed that," I said. "I know," she answered.

God is in the small things.

Day 37 = 5 weeks. I think 5 weeks sounds better that 37 days.

Heart of hearts

What a strange expression -- "in my heart of hearts". I'm doing a lot of if-only's & I'd-be-happy-if's these days, a branch of frustration that comes from the plodding my book has come to, the pain the book is about, & fear-fear-fear.

In my heart of hearts I wish I was working on my poor neglected novel.

Frustration is such an appetizer. Even civilian friends recount with some shame that when work is hardest their default setting is "a little something would be good right now".

This morning I sat in my kitchen in the chair that just fits between the cupboard & the oven (I have to move it to use the oven), drinking coffee & having a smoke while Daisy lolled in my pillows. I've been talking to instead of begging God lately. I may rename him Buddy as a consequence of this because I've sort of been making him into a best friend -- the buddy a heterosexual man can be 1% of the time or a gay man can be about 75% of the time.

I was thinking about the boyz who are or aren't distantly in my life right now. I could reel any one of them in closer. Buddy sighed. I sighed back. I don't need to think about that today. Their distance is their business & if I let the distances each has go there will be more room for a Better One if the time is right, or more room for one of them to make his own decision about me.

Glad we cleared that up. Did Buddy think I could be abstinent today? Uh-huh -- as long as I don't snatch that commitment back. What about the book? I have a problem with the chapter I'm working on, or maybe a couple of problems. The content is solid but how does it pertain to relapse per se & what is the plotline of it in regards to the book as a whole? What am I writing today?

Buddy & I came up with two thoughts as regards all of that. OK, I said. Good job. Glad we had this little talk. Time to take the dog for a walk.

& I promptly forgot those two essential thoughts.

Now if Buddy is my best friend as well as having who's-been-naughty/who's-been-nice memory, don't you think he'd remind me of what we were talking about?

Because it's put a damper on my day, those missing insights or ideas. One of those boyz called. & I'm starving.