Transitional Willingness

I’m starting to accept that my career path is about to change. I’ve been ‘Annie the Nanny’ for almost 12 years now and for a long time, that was a huge part of my identity. I was the woman whom other women could depend on to help raise their children. I was their ‘go-to gal’, and Man Alive, did I love that shit. I loved that the kids would run to hug me when I walked in the door at 8am. I loved that the moms felt comfortable and confident leaving the precious little lives of their offspring in my extremely nurturing and responsible hands. I loved the freedom of not having another adult around watching my every move (there was a HUGE downside to that when the only interactions you’ve had during a 10 hour day were based on playing ‘dragon mommy’ with an extremely imaginative 5 year old girl and all you wanted was an empty chat about the new Starbucks latte coming out with a GROWN UP). I loved that I got paid to laugh Every. Single. Day. And truth be told, I still love that about my job. I got paid to take a 45 minute walk with a puppy today. I got paid to sit on my ass and watch 2 episodes of Walking Dead on Netflix too. Even though I am ready to move on from this line of work, there really are things about it that are priceless.

That said, the priceless moments of down time and exercise – while great in the health and relaxation department –  are making the very real fact that my brain and spirit have no real room to grow at my current job very, very apparent. The old me would sit on this realization for months and months, hemming and hawing and bemoaning the idea that yet another change was about to set its’ sights on me. The old me would wait until the job I was unhappy in started to suck my soul out. The old me would wait for it to get unbearable – loss of sleep, copious amounts of tears, general resentment throughout each day, anger…you name it –  before making a decision to really take some action.

Since I’m big into this whole Evolution of Annie right now I will say that the old me isn’t in charge anymore. The old me had the mentality of a 17 year old. She didn’t accept that change is a very real and manageable part of being an adult. She only saw change in black and white. Alive and dead. So, to her, a change meant the end of something….the death of something…or someone. That’s understandable. I get why that part of me viewed change in that way. I forgive her for that. I just can’t give her any more room to blow off steam.

I have been deep in the transition from the 17 year old I have felt like for the last 19 years to who I am today – the extremely capable, battle-tested, beautiful woman sitting at my laptop in my boyfriend’s house while he works on a music project downstairs (God, I love him) – and I’m facing this new professional pivot in my life with next level courage and awareness. I’m not cowering in a corner, eating or drinking myself into a numb haze to avoid what I know to be true. I’m talking about it. I’m writing about it. I’m reading about it – ‘Transitions’ by William Bridges. I’m giving myself time to work it out in my head before I make a plan to move forward. And I will move forward, I just have to reconcile the internal identity change first. I’m such an emotional creature; always in tune with what’s going on in my mind and heart. That’s gotten my into trouble in the past because my emotions are big, loud and over-fucking-whelming. But I have a better safety net for them now. My emotional barometer is solidly reliable. I can filter and interpret my giant emotions. I don’t let them own me and take over like I used to.  A helpful reminder from my gorgeously kind mother was – This too shall pass. Too true mama. Too. True.

Something major shifted over the last year and a half. I have started to give myself a chance. I have begun the journey back to my true self (my therapist would be so fucking proud) and I honestly can’t wait to see what a healthy dose of self love, patience and consistency will yield. I’m going to come into my own…what that looks like, I still don’t know…but I’m willing, oh, so willing to find out.

Such a fucking revelation.

Good Girl Addict vs. What Was

Yesterday was my father’s birthday. He would have turned 74. He died at 68, three weeks after a stomach cancer diagnosis turned his life and the life of my mother and I upside down. His decline was swift, the disease so sure in its’ quest to end his life. My mother and I barely had time to catch our breath to try to regroup before he was just….gone.

For him, I think that was for the best. He would not have done well with years of dragging chemotherapy and constant appointments with strange doctors. He was not one who liked to feel exposed or in the spotlight. He preferred to quietly go about his business, never bothering anyone but providing continually for his family. He only wanted happiness for ‘his girls’. Didn’t want us to worry. I think that’s why he died so fast. There’s no way he couldn’t have known something was wrong for a while before the diagnosis. Just, no way.

I think about that often and wonder how he was able to go so long without speaking up. Did he really just not know? Or, did denial rule over his mind? Most likely it was the latter. And I accept that. There’s nothing like the finality of death to help me ‘accept what is’. He is gone. I’ve lost a stupendous amount of opportunity because of his death, but there’s nothing to be done to change it. Not one thing, other than accept it as fact and move forward. I do my best to do just that most of the time….but it is especially tough on days when I would have loved to see his shining eyes and hear him say, ‘Hey, kid’ as I stood on tiptoe to give him – my 6’4″ gentle giant of a father – a hug.

God, this life of mine surprises me all the time. I held the death of my brother in such a brutally angry way that I lost years mucking through it, trying to understand the why and the how and the where it exactly went off the rails. I repeatedly beat myself up for not being better equipped at 17 to be able to grasp a loss like that. I tortured myself so much that I convinced myself that I actually deserved to feel as broken and hungry for love as I did. I fully believed I wasn’t worth enough to try and imagine a life without pain as a central concept.

Losing my dad was a different animal entirely. I took care of my mother through it and shared my grief with her – I ran from her when my brother died. I wrote and read aloud a eulogy at my father’s funeral – I remained silent and numb at my brother’s. I mourned my father openly and without apology – I hid in the pain I felt when my brother died, covered myself up so completely that I became addicted to food, sex and eventually booze. Now, I allow myself to miss my dad and cry for his loss whenever I need to – I bottled up my rage, my fear, my outright brokenness when my brother died.

I still feel those old, familiar and oh, so restless beasts that were born back in ’97 prowling around in my mind from time to time. The ones that don’t know how to tolerate sitting in an emotionally uncomfortable or painful period of time without something to else to take the edge off. The ones that whisper that I am FAT and DISGUSTING. The ones that assure me that I could never go back to school to earn that elusive Master’s degree. Sometimes I give their voices and muscles too much room to speak and move. Sometimes, but less and less often, I let them take over completely and I want to isolate isolate isolate and forget forget forget. The farther away from that pattern I get, the more I recognize how useless it is. It brings me nowhere but down. Nowhere but removed. Nowhere but Alone. And, holy shit, I don’t want to be alone like that anymore. Ha! I love that.

Even though they exist – when sometimes I wish they would just cease that shit – and even though I let them take over for much longer than I wish I had, I know my worth now. I know I deserve all the ideals, happiness and over the top fucking dream world fantasies I have ever thought up. I just do because I’m here for some purpose and it sure as shit isn’t to sit home alone, watching tv and sipping wine with a cat on my lap forever. Nope. Not so much. I want and deserve soooooo much more than only that.

I still have some work to do, some education to seek…I don’t think that will ever not be true…and I am going to dig deep to try to resolve what’s conflicted within me. I’m going to cross the bridge between what was and move into the land of what is and what I want to be. I’m going to keep my head up. I’m going to focus on what’s good for me. I’m going to remain open to new adventure. Nothing but forward, positive momentum.

I’m going to make my father proud because I know he’s quietly watching and rooting his heart out for me.



The In-Between

Lately I’ve been feeling caught in an ‘in between’ phase of who I used to be and who I want to evolve into. My therapist gave me a little nugget of clarity this past week when she said that I got ‘frozen in time’ after my brother died. I didn’t really care about evolution. I just wanted something, anything, anyone to make me not feel. I got stuck in a cycle of dysfunctional relationships and bad habits with food and alcohol….but underneath that I also got stuck in a belief that I would never really be able or capable of doing or becoming successful in my professional life.

I got into being a nanny practically by accident. I graduated from Syracuse with a Bachelor’s in social work. Unfortunately, I had absolutely zero desire to use it. There was however, a man I told myself I loved whom I had never met – except for online (this was in the early days of America Online, before real online dating was born) – who lived in California so, I decided to move out there. It was a complete unconscious geographical escape from the life that had fallen apart completely after my brother was killed. I didn’t make a plan, look for a West Coast job or think about any sort of repercussions. I just needed out of New Hampshire. Consequences be damned.

When that whole scenario imploded after about a year of homesickness and emotional unavailability from the man I thought I loved, I moved back East and stumbled into a career of full-time childcare. At the time, it made perfect sense. Kids made me laugh and I was good with them; becoming a nanny felt exactly right…and simple. When I first started out I was 25, living on my own for the first time and making what I thought to be pretty decent money. I felt vital, important and successful without having to use the degree I didn’t really want. And oh, I loved my job. It kept me busy during the day and fulfilled enough to feel pretty good about myself.

As I’m writing this, it feels like I’ve used my job as a salve too. My work allowed me to live vicariously through other people’s successes. The homes I worked in were huge and luxurious. Wealth and opportunity were always available in abundance. Having that kind of life is something I never even attempted to dream up for myself. But working with people who live that kind of life helped me forget my regret about not giving a fuck when I went to school. Being in a lovely home helped me lose sense of the fact that I wasted some of the best years of my life because I was too broken by my loss and pain. Being in their environments gave me satisfaction too – I helped raise their children to be healthy, productive members of society. I was the busy little cog that kept the wheels of all the families I worked for spinning effortlessly. They needed me. I loved that feeling.

But these days……being needed at work only suffocates me. I don’t feel successful. I feel stuck. I feel like I haven’t done enough (or anything) with my life. I feel that I should have made a better plan. I am 36 and I’m still working in someone else’s home, helping raise someone else’s kids, running someone else’s meaningless errands and feeling like a fucking professional failure. I did get frozen in time. I didn’t evolve. But that doesn’t at all mean that I can’t. Again, I’m feeling caught ‘in between’. I used to feel ok with doing what I do for work….but I’m waking up to the very real fact that I honestly don’t want to do this work anymore. I can do more. I want to change course. I’ve been afraid of that for quite a while. Afraid to try. Afraid to fail. Afraid to succeed.

Fear is such an asshole.

This post is me making an effort to not let the fear stop me anymore. Sure, it feels familiar…but it doesn’t feel safe. I need to push past this phase and find my path. If only I knew what that was………….I guess that will be my first step.



I’ve been sitting here for the past hour trying to start this damn post. I realized yesterday that it’s been close to 3 weeks since I last even looked at this Blog O’Mine. There was a period over the summer when looking forward to sitting down to write was the only thing getting me through. It felt like a lifeline for me when I was close to drowning. I almost feel like I’ve been unfaithful somehow. I want writing to be a central part of my life, I want it to always be something I turn to. What if I turn around one day and it’s not there for me anymore? What if I outgrow this desire to emote, create and reach out? Eh, that’s just fear talking. She can hit the bricks.

I’m pretty certain that I will always write. I just feel terribly neglectful lately. Nothing bad has happened. No metaphoric shit has hit the fan. All is well. In fact, all is really well. Writing has not been on my mind because I’ve been beautifully distracted. I’ve fallen in love. Plain. Simple. Wonderfully complicated.

I’ve been distracted like this before….beginning phases of relationships always used to take up all my energy and focus. In the past, my immediate pace was Ludicrous Speed (points if you get the reference). I went hard, fast and furious because I was falling in love Goddamnit. And that was all I ever wanted out of life. Love loveity love love love. It would be a constant stream of texts, phone calls, head in the cloud fantasies (delusions), lots of sex, lots of food and lots of booze. I would lose myself in this pattern and binge uncontrollably until I would inevitably have to come up for air….and when I did, I would wonder how the fuck I had ended up in the exact same place I had vowed never to return – with a man who didn’t value who I am and who was deeply broken and incapable of loving himself. The reason for that is simple, I used my new boyfriends as another layer of buffering myself against the harsh flow of my life. I couldn’t deal with myself or what I had been through without something to take the edge off. My addiction is threefold, remember? Food, men, alcohol. The men part didn’t just have to be a stranger. I used the ones I fell in love with to numb me too.

This time though. It’s different. Before it was oil and water with the men I picked. Now it’s peanut butter and chocolate. I am not ready to go into too much detail. It’s still really new and in the fragile stage of general disbelief. How is this my life now? Am I really allowed to feel this good? This free? This accepted? This loved? I still feel the quiet fear that if I go ahead and sing my voice at top volume about how I feel then I will have somehow jinxed myself and the universe will snatch back the gift it has given me.

*deep breath*

I’m sure that will wear off.

I’m sure I will write more too.

I’m not getting lost this time around.

Good Girl Addict vs. The Phenomenon of ‘Used To’

I’m beginning to think that I’m recovering. Not just from a recent foray into alcoholism, but from the last 18 or so years of my life. My mindset is the strongest it has ever been. My awareness is flat out flawless (if I do say so myself). My forward progression is pointed in a healthy and positive direction. I feel my capability, my vulnerability, my power and my fucking worth growing and growing and growing.

I mention vulnerability specifically because I’ve always seen it as a negative, as something to hide or be ashamed of. I’ve held it in my head as a weakness. That’s just not true. It’s within our vulnerability that we can see what truly makes us authentic humans. It heightens and strengthens our experiences in love, life, lust and loss. Of course, I can only speak for myself….but I like to think I’m speaking some truth for other people.

My life has suddenly found a groove in which I am thriving. I feel inspired more than I used to. I feel more awake, less checked out, more involved, more giving, less miserly with my emotion and time. I feel like the most real and true version of myself that I have ever been. And the best part right now is that I don’t need to drink to numb. I do not feel that gnawing, grating, grumble that tells me to walk in the door and pour. There’s no cacophonic deluge of emotion that must be quieted. And for a long, long time there was. It ruled my life and my behavior…But lately, it’s more like an ever-flowing river that’s just one single solitary piece of the scenery that paints my life; some days it’s smooth and calm. Other days it’s surging and wild….but not insurmountable.

And yes, there’s stuff that I am continually dealing with – e.g., all the adoption stuff, my mother’s cancer, mourning my brother and father (I don’t know if that will ever stop) and all my annoying and sometimes consuming body image bullshit. I used to feel like the sum total of all the things that happened to me and when they were all added up I was fucking worthless. I used to think that I wouldn’t heal from the years that beat me up and broke me down. I used to feel completely isolated and alone. Used. To.

Now, I see my life as wide open. I feel possibility. I feel a future I didn’t think would ever be mine. All the times I couldn’t handle my reality and decided to get fall down drunk or eat myself silly or get fucked blind by a stranger felt like tiny failures in themselves, baby steps leading me farther and farther away from knowing my worth. Now, I am beginning to feel like I matter. And not just to my family and friends…I matter to myself. I am important to me.




In and out goes the tide…

Yesterday was my birth mother’s birthday. I met her for the first time shortly before she turned 50. She just turned 52. For years, I would have given anything required of me to know that piece of information. Any knowledge about my birth mother held an elusive and seductive power over me for most of my life and I would have willingly paid the price. In many ways, I have.

Two years ago, my birth father and I organized a surprise lunch for her. He told her that he was taking her out to lunch, just the two of them. But, unbeknownst to her, he and I planned for me to be waiting at the restaurant. When she saw me, the look on her face was priceless and she started to cry. I was elated to be able to share a moment like that with the woman I never thought I would know. I keep the memory of that day in my heart.

Last year, when she turned 51, I texted her and said something like: ‘Happy Birthday ___. I hope all is well with you.’ And her response, hours later was: ‘Thanks, kid.’ That text was the first contact I had with her after our major falling out, 7 months prior. From surprise lunches with tears to a vague text….the tide comes in…then it goes out.

My dad used to call me ‘kid’. My heart. It aches.

This year, I didn’t reach out at all. I thought of her the day before her birthday and wondered if I would be able to gather the courage/desire to send another awkward text. Apparently not.

I think about her a lot. I wonder what she’s doing. I wonder if she thinks about me. I fantasize that one day she will reach out and apologize for disappearing and choosing my birth father over me.

I try to hang onto the good memories I have of her – the first time I met her, when she first hugged me and touched my cheek, the day she introduced me to 2 of my brothers and that elated smile when I surprised her. I move forward with the security and peace that comes with knowing (finally) that I have her eyes, her hair, her lips and that for a short time, I had her love.

As much as thinking about her these days makes me sad, I am honestly really grateful for the beautiful pain that comes with having known her. It’s spectacularly complicated but it’s light year better than wondering who she was all those years…34 to be exact. That particular ‘not knowing’ pain was fuel to the fire of my addictions. Never ending fuel.

I miss her. I miss her raspy voice and her no nonsense way of viewing people and their ways. I miss her perspective. I miss the possibility she held. I miss the connection I had with her.

Maybe next year I’ll be able to write about how she and I mended fences and were able to celebrate her 53rd birthday together. Maybe.


Good Girl Addict vs. Her Worth

“He thought he was just having a fun, relaxing conversation with his long lost daughter. I didn’t speak up in the moment and I let my emotions fester. In order to move forward I was going to have to knuckle down and let this go. So, that’s what I tried to do. I assured him that I was fine and wanted to move forward with a relationship with him. I told him that, but God, I didn’t mean it. I was just putting on my game face for the sake of someone else’s comfort. I was still pushing my very valid and loud feelings aside for the explicit purpose of making someone else feel better.”

So. The above paragraph is from my journal-like-stream-of-consciousness memoir outlining a tiny bit of my interaction with my birth father. This happened about a month after I made contact with him, but before I met him in person. What I tried to let go was him making ugly, sexist comments about ‘fat chicks’ before he knew that I am in fact, a fat chick. Unfortunately, that shit runs deep for me, so my ability to let go when it comes to things of that nature isn’t strong and it ended up being part of the reason he and I have not spoken in almost 2 years. I’m still working towards opening up more about all that stuff here. Today is not that day.

The reason I wanted to reflect on this is because of the last 2 sentences. I used to do this kind of thing constantly. I would placate. I would please. I would submit. I would reject my reactions as ‘over the top’ or ‘irrational’ all because I didn’t want to upset someone male.

Thinking back on how I used to behave with the men in my life deeply unsettles me now. For years, I quite literally didn’t have a voice in my relationships. I was never heard, never actually acknowledged or recognized. It just didn’t happen. It became my normal course of action to behave exactly as I did with my birth father. I felt triggered and fearful but didn’t speak up because I didn’t want him to ‘react’. I didn’t want to upset the apple cart because of my huge emotions.

Well, I don’t think I’m going to do that shit anymore. Sure, my emotions are loud, they’re consuming, they’re fickle. But you know what? They’re also mine. They’re also valid. They also have worth. It’s taken me a long time to figure out how very ok it is for me to feel the way I feel. It’s taken  me even longer to stop (well, to try to stop) feeling guilt for how I feel. I taught myself to reevaluate constantly so that I could please or take care of others. Well, I don’t think I’m going to do that shit anymore either.

I’m feeling a large sense of coming home lately. A sense of gratitude and a sense of actually feeling whole. The broken parts are still wounded, but they are healing. God, they are reknitting themselves in ways I didn’t think would ever happen. It’s fantastically beautiful.

I used to feel terrified when I would feel similar shifts in the past. I didn’t think I deserved to be healed, so I would run from the light because the dark was safe. Familiar. Comfortable. I also didn’t think I was worthy for the deeply good, healthy and fulfilling relationships that I see a lot of my friends invest in. I just….didn’t think it was possible for me.

I was wrong.

It’s very possible for me.

I have someone new in my life. Right now.

I was talking to my mom the other day about him and she asked, ‘He’s kind to you, isn’t he?’

Immediately, with warmth spreading through me I said, ‘Yes, mom. He is very kind to me.’ Later that day, I was struck – deeply struck with how foreign that sentiment actually is to me. The last man who was truly kind to me was my father and he’s been gone for 5 years now.

I’m so fucking blessed to see my worth now. I hope very much that other women are waking up to their worth too. We are so incredibly powerful, ladies. Own that shit.

Good Girl Addict vs. Vulnerability

I had a session with my therapist this week. I had much to say about my addictive patterns. Not shocking. It seems to be all I think about. I observe my behavior constantly, always watching and waiting for my Addictive Voice to engage with me. She speaks a lot and encourages me to act on my addictive thoughts. She likes to be in control. She likes to win. She’s still loud. She still has a hold on me, but she’s not as potent as she once was. That in and of itself is a huge comfort.

My therapist and I got to talking about my response to vulnerability. This is a common theme within the work I try to do on myself. I have spent a lot of time over the years feeling vulnerable and needing something to take the edge off (especially when I don’t understand why or how I’m feeling about something). This is where the roots of my addictions were born. e.g., eating and eating to compensate for the neglect and fear I felt when my parents couldn’t give their attention as completely to me as they did to my troubled big brother. This is something I know, something I turn over in my head a lot and in doing so I really understand why this tendency of mine started. I get it. I have examined it to death and yet I still feel the need to write about it here…we all know I like to adore my pain. I like to stroke it and remember. In a sideways, fucked up way I feel alive in the remembering.

But I don’t need memories to make me feel alive lately. I haven’t wanted to wistfully look over my shoulder to find another nugget of truth so I can better understand why the wording my boss’s latest e-mail may have triggered me a little. Clearly, I’ve been hyper-sensitive over the last 2 or 3 years and very involved in my pain. Having an affair with my memories and feelings felt like the right thing to do, back then. That’s what being a sensitive Empath will do to you I guess, especially when said Empath had some serious shit thrown her way.

I needed to stay where I was for as long as I did in order to gain the clarity and sense of self that I have today. So now, I am able to recognize the depth of the strength I have. I can appreciate that even though I have my moments of feeling overwhelmed and FAT and shitty and tired and lost, they are fleeting.

I am so much better at recognizing when a hopeless pattern of sifting through the ashes of my failures is rushing to knock on the door of my consciousness. I used to be waiting at the door to welcome that shit onto the couch in my mind so that I could have a good, long conversation with my sadness. Now if I hear the knock, I may look out the peephole just to assess what is actually there, but I don’t let it in. If I walk away from the door, the emotion or pattern goes away and I feel relieved and empowered when I feel it retreating. That kind of thing responds well to internal walls (in my experience).

I want to put my energy into things that are worthwhile and don’t hold me back. I deserve to feel good about where my life is going and I am finally, finally beginning to accept that.

I still have a tough time sitting with my vulnerability. But I don’t feel an overarching, tremendous need to check out and be numb. I truly do not need to escape. I’m still drinking, yes…but it’s not holding me prisoner as persistently as it once was. That shift has been game changing. Grateful doesn’t even cover it.

But, I still don’t want to give it up. I still want to have the freedom to drink, when and how I choose…typing that hurts a little…and I’m not sure why. Maybe because one day I will have to give it up? Maybe I’m scared of that? Maybe I’m just too stubborn for my own good and I’m fighting a battle I can’t win? I don’t have all the answers tonight and I’m not going to wrack my brain trying to figure it out and beat myself up when I can’t. I’m just going to try and sit with this feeling, let it in a little and then let it go as best as I can.

I’m still here: this Good Girl Addict, defining my own recovery one post at a time.


Unexpected Hunger

This song – Elliot Moss, ‘Slip’ – is my new discovery and obsession of the week. I found it randomly in my Facebook newsfeed and fell for it. Hard. It’s one of those songs that has a hook that immediately makes the world stop because it unexpectedly made me feel. It spoke directly to my emptiness; pressed the button that activates the loneliness within. And you know what was weird? I enjoyed the feeling. Quiet loneliness is as familiar as my skin, and much like my skin, it sometimes filled me with bitter rage….this is what I expected to happen……..

But, now that I am evolving (well, I’m at least trying to evolve) and using my voice more than I used to, I feel strangely and peacefully nostalgic about feeling lonely (but I only sometimes feel this about my skin…work in progress, that). I don’t feel like it will tear me apart, as it once did. I’m not sitting here wondering when someone will magically appear to fill up the dark corners of my life with their light to make it (and me) better. I’m not bemoaning my present circumstances and feeling fucking sorry for myself because I don’t have what a lot of my peers have – you know, relationships, houses, kids etc. – The Whole Sha-Bang.

Sometimes I wonder if that’s what I even want anymore. I used to tell myself that I wanted the picket fence. That’s what I’m supposed to want, right? That’s what I’m supposed to design my life around, right? I mean, yes, I do want to find that sweet, that nasty, that gushy stuff with a worthy partner. I definitely do. That hasn’t changed. I just think I was looking and searching in the wrong ways. I used to want someone to know immediately how they could fix me and in the same breath I wanted them to let me fix them. I expected way too much and knew far too little before I started running around proclaiming my undying love for men who, I’m sorry to say, were deeply, utterly, unworthy of me.

God, I have spent a long, long time trying and striving to find that ‘thing’ with someone so that I can finally become the person I’m supposed to want to be. I’ve spent way too long seeking a cure for what’s wrong with me. Whatever happened to simply being myself, for me? Where did self-acceptance go? Oh right, I never learned how to do that. I was too fucked up about being adopted, losing my brother, being in abusive relationships, losing my dad….and the list continues….to truly slow down with myself and listen to my heart. I’ve never achieved that in all my years of trying, stumbling and falling. I’ve gotten so low over the last few years. God, so low.

Being low never stopped me though. I’ve gotten stuck, sure, but I’ve always found the strength to stand up, brush myself off and keep going.

And that’s what the surviving, almost thriving, Good Girl Addict in me really recognized when that song started playing….. I’m still here, despite the pain, the loneliness, the rage, the frustration, the loss, the core shattering self-hatred. Still. Here. And still hungry.




Urgent Frustration

Urgent Frustration. That’s the name of the game tonight. I couldn’t get my laptop turned on and logged in fast enough. My fingers are moving at a twitchy, irritating, pulsing pace. My back fucking ACHES. My shoulders feel tight as fuck. My throat is closing because of the lump of unexpressed emotion I am holding back. Frustration.

Ok, fine. If that’s the flavor of the evening; let’s explore it. Frustration traditionally means: the feeling of being upset or annoyed, especially because of inability to change or achieve something. Well, isn’t that the fucking shock of the millennium? Annie has been unable to change. Such a surprise.

I am still drinking. Yes. I am.

I am not drinking the shocking amounts I was before I started writing here. I stopped for a handful of days after I began this Blog O’Mine, while on vacation from work. During that time I was able to slow down. I focused solely on myself. I tended the fragile soil of my soul and it was excellent. Then I went back to work, my attention shifted. I started putting focus into the people I take care of 42 hours a week. And wouldn’t you know, before long my habit slowly, inevitably started to creep back onto the stage of my life. So far, it’s merely skulking in the corner – downstage left – but it’s beginning to inch its’ way forward. I think. Blech.

I feel so desperate right now. So deeply unsatisfied. I feel disappointed in myself and tired. Pull my hair out tired.

I want to write more. I want to go fucking OFF right now. But I’m not going to feed the beast of Urgent Frustration because I know this feeling is temporary. As uncomfortable….wait, Fuck that….as unbearable as it feels right now, I know it will pass.

This ability to know that I won’t feel pain or anger or discomfort on my own forever is infinitely comforting.

Whooooooo boy. Did I just have myself a moment or what?

This woman needs some sleep. That always helps to lift the veil of ‘This feels bigger than me and it will never end. EVER.’

Thanks for reading my bullshit – whoever y’all are!