We have to soak the dog’s glucosamine and dissolve it because if she senses any kind of chunk, she spits it out. Someone fished the pill out of the water. I’m pretty sure it was one specific cat. I’m worried now that this cat is ill. She is the best cat I’ve ever had. She’s six years old, so hopefully if she is ill it’s easily taken care of. I’m writing on Sunday, and on Wednesday both my work partner and my home partner will leave on trips far far away. I’ll have the work place and the home place on my own, and that always causes me some anxiety. A sick cat would just not be good.
I was protesting yesterday and I was protesting last week. I’ve protested five times, I think, since that first one in DC in January.
Carole marked 21 years sober the other day. Yesterday at our meeting I told a bit of a story I’ll tell here. My daughter sometimes goes for work to the place where I grew up, drank and got sober. The other days she passed by my university and sent me a picture from traffic of a main walkway of the place. A walkway I used many, many times. It made me think that the worst years of my life were spent there. The years I was most drunk and that I’m only lucky I survived. If you had told me then that …..34? 35? years later my scientist daughter would pass by for work, that she’s care enough about me to take a picture and send it, that she’d by OK and I’d be OK and I’d be approaching 33 years sober…… Beyond my wildest dreams, for absolutely sure.
My co-worker’s step son died from and overdose the other night. My next door neighbor died from one two weeks ago. Two young people in their 20s.
All really is well with me right now. I’m still trying to adjust to the political “new normal,” the one where I’m engaged no matter what the outside conditions. I’m heartened by all the people who think like I do and who join me in these endeavors. I’m saddened by what I perceive I lost, knowing that it remains perfect in my imagination because it didn’t happen. I’m taking a moment to consider what the very old lady I might (probably not, but maybe) turn out to be 30-some years from now might be like. One thing for sure, if I don’t drink I should be a bit of an AA record holder by then.
Politics still looms large for me, all day, every day. I haven’t been successful in making it a small, important, comfortable part of my life yet. I’ve struggled with it before from time to time, but this time the change in me is permanent, so it’s important that I right size it.
I still struggle with a sense of unreality but I think that makes me severely normal. The other day C SPAN had three lines for viewers to call; one if you believe the president, one if you don’t, and one if you’re not sure. And they don’t mean the regular “has the guy spun this so thoroughly we can’t recognize it?” They mean “is he stating something that is just not in any way true?” It happens. Weekly if not daily. I still fine this very disturbing as well as being disturbed by the people who fail to be disturbed.
I have a sort of ideal I’m aiming for, though. Most days I mean to move my time and attention away from this disaster quickly, giving it a bit of my attention and moving on. Sometimes I’ll give it more time, like when I go to a rally or help in a campaign. Monthly, at least, I’ll give it my money. And daily I’ll read the New York Times at least a little bit, starting in a random section and not concentrating on politics, though he who shall not be named makes his evil way into most sections these days. I aim to get a little bit more informed and educated about everything.
My program as applied to my problem. It tells me in no uncertain terms not to hate, though honestly I often feel hatred for people I’ve never met who, to my understanding, want to hurt vulnerable people. I hate that. And really I think that the ones who don’t want to hurt vulnerable people are too stupid to understand that’s what the agenda is. And yeah, the program has things to say about that attitude, and they aren’t good! I’m grateful it’s there to show me the way. I will use it to give myself a good quality of life in this strange and terrible time.
Three years ago at this time I was in a place far, far away, visiting my daughter. A place where graves were marked with numbers rather than names. I wonder who is under number 137, man or woman, boy or girl? Did number 137 meet that fate due to alcoholism? It’s entirely possible. Alcoholics throughout history had no access to a program of recovery like I have.
Now I’m visiting her in a much colder place, one not so far away, but still far. She’s buying a house here. She’s doing very well. Cleaning out some of the picture mess of my ex-in-laws’ past I made a pile for my daughter. At her brother’s baptism party her father, his best friend, and my uncle all sit together. All gone, all dead from drugs and alcohol in their 50s and 60s. I know that her father and his best friend tried the program and achieved periods of sobriety. I doubt that my uncle did. He’s the one I called to tell him about me and my program after he was already dead. I picture my voice playing into the empty kitchen, him dead around the corner on the couch. That really happened. The phone I called was part of scene of my last drunk, at my grandmother’s kitchen table, my uncle arriving at the end of it. I didn’t drink after that, and he did.
That’s what’s on my mind. My days are pretty good. I’m still struggling to make personal sense of a “president” who said yesterday that job numbers used to be phony, but are real now, even though the Bureau of Labor and Statistics said they haven’t changed a thing. That, and the people who support him. It’s a struggle for sure, and I’m grateful that my mind pretty quickly turns to program to try to deal with this. I guess I shouldn’t complain about being schooled in advanced acceptance.