Wednesday, February 23, 2011

I'm Not Lovin' It

I am in a bog of quicksand, known as Resume Hell, and sinking fast.

I have to find a job. My hubby is constantly stressed out because of all the debt we've amassed, and eventually, we want to buy a house.

Plus, he's going to be traveling a lot with his job come spring.

So, I need to start working again, both for financial reasons and to put some structure into my everyday life.

I have no problem with that part.

I know I can DO almost any job that interests me or I'm qualified for.

It's GETTING the job, or actually getting the interview that's tough.

I've been trying to update and rewrite this durn thing for 3 days now.

Which format to go with?

Functional? Chronological? Hybrid?


For almost my entire adult life, any time I've wanted or needed a job, I've gotten that initial intro through word of mouth, a friend of a friend -- that sort of thing.

So, this is really hard. I have to present myself and my history and my accomplishments in a way that will make someone want to consider an almost-54 year old woman for a job.

Who would want ME? I'm too old, I don't have the right experience, and I've never really accomplished anything of significance in my entire life.

I'm a washed-up loser, a hack, a has-been.

Maybe McDonald's is hiring.

Sunday, February 20, 2011

Under The Weather

My honey and me are both sick.

Chest congestion, nasty coughs, and now upper respiratory symptoms as well.

I think I got it on the airplane from Denver to Atlanta, but truth be told, I could have been exposed in any number of ways at any point in my time away skiing.

Since I came down with it first, I'm actually feeling a little better than my PBH (Precious Baby Husband, if you must know must know -- ooh, did you just throw up in your mouth?), I am trying to take care of him and dote on him, make him comfortable, and generally fuss over him.

The odd thing is, this is the first time I can remember maybe ever actually wanting to do this because I love and cherish him.

In the past, I did it grudgingly, muttering under my breath, and building a growing sense of anger and resentment.

Why? Who knows.

I was angry and resentful about everything back then.  I felt that life was generally unfair, and in addition, that I'd been dealt the most pathetic hand in history, that I'd drawn the shortest straw since the dawn of woman. I hated my life and resented and hated my husband for not allowing me to develop into whatever my full potential was meant to be.

Not that I had a clue what that was or looked like.

It was just so much easier to blame someone else, someone close to me -- someone I love, someone I had committed to spending the rest of my life with -- for all my unhappiness and my failure to accomplish anything or to achieve any sense of purpose and meaning in my life.

Ya know what? I still don't know what my purpose, my destiny -- whatever you want to call it -- in life is.

The difference is that today, I don't obsess as much over it.

I've learned over the past 3 and 3/4 years that I may not see the big picture right now -- maybe NEVER -- but that's okay.

More will be revealed.

My responsibility is to be focused, alive, and aware of the cues and of what is going on around me right now, in the present moment.  To respond to that and to do my best to live in a way that reflects my relationship with my Higher Power, and the love the he has for me, and that he wants me to share with those around me.

So, perhaps it's that Love that's motivating me right now to be kind, compassionate, caring, tender and loving toward my husband, to nurse and nurture him while he's weak and vulnerable, to do whatever I can to help him heal and regain his health and strength quickly.

Whatever the reason, the motivation is, I like it.  I like the change.  I like the serenity that comes with it.

And I like me better, too.

Saturday, February 19, 2011

WARNING: Wonderland Ahead

Go read Jeremy's post, Cunning. Baffling. Powerful. NOW!

Wow. Powerful, right?!

And, oh, how I relate...

When I came back from skiing, I stayed overnight at my mother-in-law's in Atlanta. I wanted smooth legs for my honey who was to pick me up in Memphis (sorry, TMI!), so while trying to locate my razor which I'd cleverly stowed inside my ski boot bag, I accidentally cut my finger.  Like all flesh wounds, it bled profusely, so I opened the medicine cabinet to search for a BandAid.

Now, you need to know that Mom never takes ANY medication (barring her required thyroid medication, which she takes religiously and ritualistically), but laying on the shelf was a little paper packet that said "for pain as needed..."

It might as well have said "Drink Me" or "Eat Me."

In an audible voice.

I left the packet on the shelf, untouched, but I knew the pills were were there... waiting.

Taking one or two or three (c'mon - who knows how long they've been in there - they probably have lost all their efficacy by now!) would alter my feelings, take me out of my discomfort, numb my anxiety and put me in an altered state of emotion and experience.

They would take me out of the miserable discomfort of being me.

It was almost as if I was being mocked and set up: "You got through the ski trip; here's your reward... come on, it's JUST PILLS, not alcohol, not your drug of choice."

I had to slam the door shut on the temptation and the voice of my addiction, which was telling me just to nab the packet (it would never be missed, after all) and save it "for later."

I had to take a moment and repeat over and over, while staring into the blank whiteness of the washbasin, "I don't do that anymore."

"I don't DO that anymore!"


I don't go through people's medicine cabinets looking for pills.

I don't tell myself pills are okay.

I don't pretend that pills won't take me almost immediately back to my first love, alcohol.

Because they will. Inevitably and inexorably.

And if I ever drink again, I will wreck everything.

I'll destroy myself, my life, and those I love.

I will be out on the street and dead in a matter of months, not years.
That's how bad my alcoholism is.

That's the kind of alcoholic and addict I am.

And I am BOTH.

Maybe my drug of choice, my "main" addiction is alcohol, but anything that controls my emotions, alters my state of consciousness, elevates or deflates my mood will be my undoing.

Thanks, Jeremy, for your amazingly candid and timely post.

You're in my heart.

Care for a tart? (durn, I KNEW I was going to do that!)

Friday, February 18, 2011

Sober Skiing in Snowmass


I went snow skiing in Snowmass, Colorado for a week with my former drinking buddies ski chums, and I DID NOT DRINK!!

Even when my ass was falling off.

There were a couple of nervous moments, but I realized even before they occurred that they would be caused by my social anxiety, which USED to be alleviated by drinking, and that it might be tough, but armed with the right tools, I could get through them.

That's pretty much a part of everyday life out in the real world.  I've had to become accustomed to blushing when I can't find my wallet in the checkout line, getting tongue-tied at the bank teller's window, and babbling incoherently when asked if I can be helped by retail store personnel.

Granted, it's better when I'm on Cymbalta, but the anxiety and awkwardness are never totally gone, and I'm never completely at ease in any social setting beyond my immediate family (meaning my husband and my cat). Even my family of origin, all of whom I adore, can be tough to be around, especially all at once.

I know I was stupid and headstrong to do this.  I knowingly put myself in a potentially dangerous situation.

But it was a challenge I felt I needed to face.

And I DID IT!!

So, nah-nah-nah-nu-nu-stick-your-head-in-doo-doo to everyone who was sure I'd fail, and THANK YOU from the bottom of my heart to all who prayed for me and cheered me along the way.

I love you all. M-U-A-H!!