If you have never roused from depression, all this will seem silly. But turning off the television, putting better stuff in the body and a daily commitment to physical exercise begins a mental recovery. I say “begins” because what MY head spins looks something like Buddah, the Atkins Diet and the Tour de France all wrapped up in glorious me. Needless to say another SVU will quell these disturbing non-realities, and I disappear again from my life. I really did need help, and as noted in a former piece, last week I asked for it. The axiom, “baby steps” always prattles in the voice of Bill Murray mimicking my own borderline personality, but the sound cheers me up. I am happy to report that in seven solid days I have not missed an opportunity to pedal or to play outside. The pain of stagnating into muck convinced me to listen to my mentor. I drink an insane amount of water these days and feel unfamiliarly hydrated. –For the TMI category–I commence to pee three times a night. And no matter how down or frightened I feel, I put on my shoes and go outside. I have not been sorry yet.

And here are the results of a week: I have mapped out a plotline for a short story, read back editions of writer’s rags, been a better pet owner, girlfriend, daughter–in that order–and I have stopped crying. –I have stopped crying. That’s huge. The visuals of self-pity, immolation via misery vaporized. I am to play tennis today with a champion in a wheelchair; I am to stay the fuck away from that television and nurture a creative side I do not feel today; I am due to get in the car so that I may listen to other alcoholics without judgment. I only feel like doing one of these these acivities. But it doesn’t matter; I scheduled them all and will look unreliable if I do not. So my motives are not 100%, who cares?

Last week I was ready to take my new tires and sail off Highway 74. Today, the memory zombies and fiends of the future sleep. Mind you, the accounts, the IRS, and the thief remain the same, and they bristle low in my gut. And while intellectually I always knew in a kinda non-intellectual way that I possess the tools–technicolor red shoes come to mind–of myself I am nothing. Truly Creation tweaked my course as without an ego-respite, I would not have been open to change. I may not stay on course, but just for today, I will. Something happened, and I am grateful. I hope I always see the ascension of the albatross as a miracle.

Here’s what happened: January 3rd, I journaled an ode to a friend lost to time–will post later. The subsequent entries plummet into depression and self-centered fear. And why post that shit? A sponsor once advised me against the old adage: When you don’t know what to do, do nothing. She said, “Just keep moving.” Kind of like, Don’t stay so still in Hell that the Devil finds you. So through a month of stultifying fear, negative thinking, and high anxiety, I walked through yet another certification process, joined a social club (NOT viral), and watched as my savings frittered. That I turned my will and my life over to the care of the Creator. . . . Well, I forgot completely that there is a spiritual net for me. I ended my day as soon as possible, got in bed, turned on whatever violent crime episode I’d DVR’d, and watched until my own night terrors took over. When I get like this, waking is painful. I am tennacled to the bed, and my thoughts, like bats out of the cave, whirl and race with scenarios that scare the hell out of me. I’ve seen too many demonic films, and the monsters live in my mind. I forget to breathe. Worse are the dark visions of a future completely ruled by an ego that viciously wants me back. Financial insecurity rules my heartbeat. I am professionally paralyzed. Worthless. I see myself in a chicken suit pathetically waving a sign to passing cars; it says: Best Wings In Town, and shame sweats through the suit as the assault of horns demonstrate the Doppler effect. I feel the suck of consequence, that all that had been gifted to me, I threw away and can no longer keep. Bodily, I hurt. I fear the unrelenting, electric waves of pain pulsing through my tailbone to flower down my leg becoming a looming illness. No insurance intensifies the vortex. I feel the tachycardia in my throat. Nothing will save me.

Warped perception coupled with wicked hormones. I succumb at times. And it is devastating.

Recovery, for me began with tears which flowed when I opened my mouth to share at a meeting. It had to be with a small gathering of women who would understand. The larger, more boisterous and familiar circle that I call home sees a facade, and I do not yet have the courage to bring it down. I could not pray in January. I began again. I could not focus in January. I am reading again. January frightened me. I asked for help in February. First from the group, then from an old mentor. She volleyed and chased tennis balls with me one morning not long ago. My lungs burned, but I could not let the oncoming neon globe go unchallenged. Breathing air at last, I felt some weight lift. Google Earth could’ve spotted my smile popping out of a face so red it took hours to calm down. There’s something about tethering the body and mind with exercise. And it is not until I do it that I re-get it.

I drove down the mountain and found Portola comforting. I was a kid here. I still see the road winding around Silver Spur Ranch through 12 year old eyes new to cactus and Palm trees, thoroughly amazed that at night they light up in lavender and lime. Haystack. Grapevine. Shadow Mountain. On this slope I knew rich children lived in real homes with yards. As my mother drove, I’d scour the street for clues. What would it feel like to be safe? Normal? So my experience with the hills of Palm Desert elicit a sense of OK-ness, albeit wistfully elusive. But it’s there. And as my head recovers its place in reality, the jaberwocky of the future retreats. I remember that if I neglect to take care of my physical being, the ego is back in control with all its attendant tortures to keep me sick. Soul sickness is the sickest. Like it or not, I have some issues that are sometimes exaerbated by the chemical, electrical, hormonal creature that houses my soul. When I remember that the past is the programming not the reality, I remember the present is my gift. When I remember and act accordingly, I can live life on life’s terms. And be OK.

Some recovery issues in brief:

Wading through the wreckage of one’s past feels like trying to move in mud. It’s heavy, and it sticks. You think you’ve cleaned it up, but you scratch a spot that leads to a vein of yet more mud. Details later.

Alanon has become my roadmap for dealing with others and hence, resentments. “Let it begin w/ me” and “Detach with love (respect and acceptance)” have kept me in my own lane facing forward more effectively than any practice I remember. Details later.

My Higher Power has revealed a gentle oneness. Non-judgmental and ever-supportive–Qualities I have not honed but wish to grow into. It started with a visual hanging in the hallway of a respected friend and echoed previously read details of profound psychic transformations, stories of quantum changes I’d read in the past. Transcendentalism then was a thing buried under labrynthian layers of illusion. Now I almost feel the pull of a truth surfacing. Up on the mountain in the hallway, the round image read: The idea of God is like a circle where the center is everywhere and the circumference nowhere. That feels right. Details later.

Life has gone on–organized a grant for a friend, took a big test, learned a few artistic techniques, juggled bills, got part-time employment, accepted a few opportunities to not to take other people’s actions personally, took great pleasure in a peaceful Christmas. The bottom line is to keep moving, even when to do so is to be still. Details later.

This quickie is nothing that shatters the morning air, unless I give me credit for getting back to my goal and taking the first step. I have and I do. –Or, as Dante elevates the sentiment to inspiration: Begin then, and declare to what thy soul/ Is aimed, and count it for a certainty,/ Sight is in thee bewildered and not dead.

See? Gentle. Supportive. Non-judgemental

Some two decades later, I would accompany my decidedly unreligious spiritual mentor to the old stone churches and stately cathedrals of New Haven. She showed me how to quiet my mind and open up to the energy–old ancient energy of souls on the move, petitioning, thanking, searching, aching. I sat anonymously in dusky oldness–listening to sounds echoing their apology, watching the warm light from The Catholic stoniness softened by pastel saints undercast with sorrow and hunger/solemnised by doey eyed personifications I would catch tucked into corners. The flickering hope of candles glowing with ache and hope. The rotundity of the Baptist church girded with brilliant glass whose stories unfolded and changed and intensified with the sun’s angling descent. Deep rich carvings swooping wood along the pews into spirals arcs and banisters that flowered overhead like a forest/tree tops/cover

So today. My visit to Saint Francis of Assisi was in part for someone else. The dousing of Sunday perfume was not bad in the airy chapel. Stained glass high and austere in little windows dotted the plaster. Rustic chandeleirs hung still and drew the eye forward to a wooden Jesus whose right arm laid across the carved shoulders of a man who looked like he needed the support more than Jesus. ISRI?? on top of the cross like a chapter title. Sermon in brougue. And the admonishion to be authentic in our communications earthly and otherwise found a mark in me. My little sponsee wore her rosary proudly and took to the ritual reverently. It was a good thing. And I did feel the energy of souls past and present all wrapped in now. And Peace. The responsibility to bring and accept peace authentically. Seek to comfort rather than be comforted –understand rather than be understood, love than to be loved–that’s what I needed today.
It is not the material structure that commands the heart, but an opening to the collective experience of worship that I find energizng.

Two months will have passed until I again stood under the church rafters. More later

–First thought wrong.  I’ve been listening to how some otherwise chaotic folk start the day off peacefully.  Actually, I’ve been listening–not doing–for a long time.  I think, hey I can do that (as well).  The trick for me is what to move down the priority list, in this case, staying up late for reasons still mysterious to me.  Rising early because I want to have mental clarity backfires when I stay up late because I’m used to it.  Something’s gotta give.  Ah, change, the scariest good thing I’ve ever done.  Probably the closest I’ll get to skydiving.  So, with no promises to tomorrow, I started a new routine today.  Here’s how it felt:

Early morning is a vast quietness–like Yesterday breathes out and waits for a few hours before Today breathes in.  An interstice.  Dreams feel no immediate need to vacate the frenetic pace of a thought-possessed consciousness, and they loll about, draping themselves catlike over furniture and memory silhouettes.  They are easier to catch and put on paper in the pre-dawn hours.  Kind of like falling stars.

Some time had to pass before these hours felt right.  See, there was about a decade back there when these hours boiled with fear.  What had I not done the day before, which fire needed to be squelched first, when could it be called a day and I could again hide in a bad illusion of peace?  Sometimes the hits would come solely from misplaced idealism.  The perceived impossibility of my job.  I stuffed volatile concentrations of fear, anger and procrastination all sub-psyche and waited for the skyline to lighten.  Teacher-mares, common as syndicated re-runs, and ten times worse than waiter-mares, cast nets of restraint around any initiative I had for positivity.  Bad stuff.

Add alcohol.  I didn’t know at the time why I thought survival depended on oblivion.  I do now.  There were stretches of weeks where my crawling skin sucked me out of nightmare and into hot, spikey blackness only Captain Morgan could smooth to tolerable pin-like unconsciousness.  Without fail, in the hour of three, this routine would convince me I could take another day of hell.  That was near the end.

Beginnings are equivocal and attractive.  Chemical delusions arrive in disguise and are seductively patient.  Two decades ago, a 4:30 a.m. shimmered in an illusion of fun.  Youth and health appeared to me bulletproof.  If I was seeing the sun come up, it was because of an afterwork and/or all-night “party.”  But the morning body told the truth, took on a nagging tension, an unease easily dispelled by another inducement or finally convinced by exhaustion to go underground and wait.  Tomorrow there would be work, school or another drama that would eventually crest upon another 4:30 a.m.  So the cycle didn’t show up as an addiction and certainly did not proffer a vision of the future, it spun and whirled, and I thought the spinning to be “normal.”  Fast forward to hell with no handles out.

I wrapped the gift of morning myself and ugly indeed the paper with which I wound it year after year.  It is an Amazing Grace that taught me to unwrap years of self-centered habit and acknowledge the present itself.  The reality manifests in a quiet awareness that Now is well.  No more slathering monsters of morning.  Instead there is prayer and breath and gratitude.  And when the sun does lift and radiate, its sure light fractures the crystals in my window into dancing incarnations of promise, one day at a time.

One year ago, I was an orange-clad figure herding tumbleweeds on I-10.  Highway heat from a Mojave July blew like ocean breezes against the shame under which I toiled.  That I collected butts and rubber debris in July rather than mid-August, I owed to Gracie who was in charge of my schedule for a 90-day period in 2010.  Thank you, Gracie.  Some thoughts on Caltrans–Work is good in that a feeling of reparation comes with action.  Finally.  Although, really, the work wasn’t hard and break time/work time was about 50/50.  A squirt straight out of juvy spotted my first day hesitation and attempted to direct my seating arrangement to the back of the van–what she didn’t know made me tired.  I took a seat by the middle window.  The others settled in and into familiar anticipation of a supervised day of dust and heat.  Identification tucked into back pockets, bandanas wrapped up black tresses tightly, and lunches swooshed under seats.  Moving now, I watched heads wobble in unison against the incremental bleakness of the interstate as an incredibly loud conversationalist carried on with no one in particular directly behind my left ear.  Up in front, the delinquent smacked her gum and secured her allegiances as deftly as any debutante.  Whose week-end had gone well, which cousin ended up in county, the club report, chew, smack.  Did someone want to trade for an orange deviled with chile?  She still wasn’t sure of me and skipped past my gaze to the conversationalist now behind my right ear.  The bandana directly ahead turned around and offered hello.  She had been on the crew for 20 week-ends in a row.  And the stories began.  We were chauffeured to various exits, presented with garden tools and pretty much left alone.

Time-tripping on the road, my visions wavered up to the year before one year ago.  My life had devolved into a running nightmare.

And . . . Until I figure out how to add to the format, that’s it for today.  Meanwhile, I’ve written.  And for what it’s worth, I feel good about that.  T