My Name is Hula, and I am a Co-dependent

After months of refraining from writing about this, I’m going to put it out there. Like so many other folks, my life is touched by addiction. Someone I care very much about is an alcoholic. I have hesitated to write about it because it is painful and I really believe you need to put a lot of thought about what you put on the internet for the whole world to read. The web leaves a deep and enduring footprint, and I don’t what to do anything to harm someone. Words are an important coping mechanism for me, and I am finally writing about it because it will help me to heal, and I think I can do it in a way that maintains the privacy of the addict. This post is about me really and not about the alcoholic. I need to do this, and I may never write about it again. It is a tiny step and yet, such a giant leap for me. Will you hold my hand while I jump from the curb?

An open letter to my friend, the alcoholic:

I love you, I really do, but your disease casts a wide reaching net that has pulled me under and practically drowned me in recent months. I keep thinking you’ll hit rock bottom and make a change, but that hasn’t happened despite everything you’ve lost this year. After months of butting my head against the wall and picking up the pieces each time you fall, I have finally learned that I can’t “fix” you. Only you can fix you. However, I can fix myself, and I need fixing. After your most recent brush with disaster, I have hit my “rock bottom”. You see, I realize this disease makes the non-addicted sick, too. And I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired. You have not chosen recovery, but I have. My recovery starts today.

I will stop driving by your house every day, wondering what condition you’re in. Little clues like whether your lights are on just fuel my overactive imagination. Sitting at home at night, wondering if this is the day it gets the best of you is making me physically ill, and I have to find a way to stop that. I have to stop making myself a hostage to my worries. I can’t let this disease consume me, too. I will not clean up any more of your messes. You must face the consequences of whatever problems you create with your drinking, or you will never have a chance to get well. Conversely, you can truly own your victories, too.

I have found a support group full of wonderful people who will help me to put some control back into my life. I’m hoping they can help me find some peace and help me to let go of this anger I’m feeling toward you right now. I didn’t ask for this disease. I never wanted it, and yet I’m suffering from it. Is this how someone feels when they find out they’ve caught AIDS from a lover they trusted? Betrayed in a life changing way? You know, I realized yesterday that sometime in the last few weeks I unknowingly accepted your alcoholism as a terminal illness, a disease that’s in its last stages. I was driving down the road, heard a song on the radio and thought that it would be appropriate for your funeral. That thought horrified me, and I almost had to pull over to the side of the road. I wept for the second time that day.

In recent weeks I’ve struggled with my running. Inexplicably I lost my endurance and my breath and then it occurred to me that I was dragging my heart around and yours too on those solitary runs, replaying the hurt over and over in my mind, mile after mile. It was wearing me out. Today I ran and forced myself to think about other things. I felt stronger than I had in a long time.

You and I have been friends for years. I don’t want that to end, but I can’t witness the destruction from the front row anymore. I have to step back. I will still love you, and I will only be an arm’s length away, but I will be focused on my recovery. That probably sounds mean and selfish to people who have never been in my shoes, but those who have been will understand completely.

We’ve taken vacations together and talked a lot over the years about the other places we’d like to travel to together some day. We’re at a crossroads in our friendship right now, and we may be headed in different directions. I know which path I’m taking, and I wish you would travel down the same road. Let this be our next journey together, without the margaritas this time. If not, I will grieve for you, but I will stick to my path. I love you deeply my friend, and that love will not end. My support for you will not end, but MY journey begins today.

Love always,
Hula

Come Back Summer!

Oh, how I miss summer. I've tried the fall thing folks, really I have. I put away the flip flops. I made some apple crisp. I even went to the pumpkin patch, and I was doing okay. Really, I was. And then the temperatures dropped. It's been below zero the last few nights. Okay, that's an exaggeration. It's only been in the 30's, but my thin blood mistook it for subzero weather, and now I'm cryin' the summer blues. I want my heat back, and my humidity and my shorts. Waaaa! Is it working yet? Feeling sorry for me? No? Oh. Well humor me then while I tell you how much I miss this.And this.

And I definitely miss this.And mercy, how I miss these. I long for this so much it hurts.Sigh. If anyone needs me, I'll be in hiberation.

Halftime

Daddy turns the big 7-0 next month. I can’t believe it. He doesn’t seem 70, but then I don’t feel 44 either. This week, for the first time ever, I stopped to think about all of the changes he’s seen in his lifetime. Not just computers and the advancement of technology but world events, too. The U.S. has been involved in five wars just in his lifetime. Five. World War II was just gearing up when he was born in the fall of 1938, and he would be nearly old enough for his little neighborhood country school before it was over. His life would take him from a small farm in rural Illinois to Chicago and back before settling into married life with a wife and eventually three kids. He has seen a lot.

The year he was born Hitler seized control of the German army, invaded Austria and set up a death camp. Franklin Roosevelt was still president, and the minimum wage was 40 cents an hour. Polio was still a threat, and the March of Dimes formed to fight it. Several important things were developed and patented that year, including chlorophyll, Teflon and something DuPont called “nylon”. The first Xerox machine was demonstrated, too. Jim Crow laws were alive and well in the south, but Philadelphia approved the first black woman legislator. And the U.S. finally forbade child labor in factories. While plenty of folks in this region were making and running moonshine, the first breathalyzer was introduced in Indiana. 1938 was the year Seabiscuit beat War Admiral at Pimlico, Orson Welles scared the daylights out of everyone with his broadcast of War of the Worlds, and the Baseball Hall of Fame opened in Cooperstown, New York. I doubt daddy’s seven brothers and sisters noticed since they were too busy trying to scratch out a life on the farm. Times were still tough for a lot of folks then. Funny how some things don’t change, even though it seems they do. We’re still fighting wars, the economy has folks in a squeeze and America still loves a scary story and baseball. We’re still battling diseases and drunken driving. But folks are making more money, we can communicate with people halfway around the world with the click of a few keyboard keys and no matter how you vote for president next week, the tickets will include a woman or a black man.

I wonder if daddy ever thinks about this, and I wonder what changes are in store for the rest of my years. Will they be as exciting or much scarier? Is the best yet to come or will our rush for progress overwhelm us? This economy has folks worried, including me, but I do take comfort in the fact that in the last seventy years we have weathered some terrible times in history and come out okay. Seventy years. Wow. It seems so big and yet so small when I consider than I’m more than halfway there.

The One Where I Sound Like my Mother

It’s my understanding that the most popular Halloween costume for men this year (just ahead of Joe the Plumber) is Heath Ledger’s interpretation of The Joker from the latest Batman movie. That mask has sold like $2 a gallon gas. I haven’t really heard much about women’s costumes, but without checking any resources I can tell you that the most popular costume for women is the Ho. That’s right, the Ho. Followed closely by the wench, the slut and the ever popular tart. A trip through the local Halloween store this past weekend left me standing in the middle of an aisle barking out loud, “Where are the costumes that don’t make women look like ho’s?” And you know what? No one even noticed my rant. I felt like the Maytag repairman. Lonely, very lonely in my thoughts.

Teen Angel is trick or treating for UNICEF Friday and going to a Halloween party afterward, so we went to find a costume. Before we ever entered the store, I gave her the speech to not even go near the trashy stuff. That I had no intention of buying anything that left her participles dangling. The problem was that didn’t leave much to choose from. Everything, and I mean EVERYTHING for females over the age of twelve looked like something you’d wear to a party at the Playboy mansion. Even the most innocent of characters had been turned into something sexual. Characters whose authors would probably roll over in their graves if they could see these interpretations. There was Little Bo Peep.

She’s a nursery rhyme character for goodness sakes. Nursery, as in book material for babies and toddlers. Why, she needs a sheep just to keep warm in that get up.

And I don’t know about you, but I don’t remember Raggedy Ann ever looking like this. My Raggedy Ann doll had more..um..skirt…and less cleavage.
I doubt Lewis Carroll had this in mind when he envisioned the Queen of Hearts. And did the folks at Rainbow Bright actually approve this version of their Saturday morning kids’ character? Surely not.
And I've never seen this in the bible.

As if that weren’t enough, every pair of shoes in the store was hooker heels, just like these.Call them platforms. Call them anything you like, but any way you slice it, they’re hooker heels.

Look, I’m no prude. I did the Rocky Horror thing in my time, but honestly my skirt came to my knees, and I wore a blouse. There are plenty of consenting adults who will wear these costumes to parties this year for some naughty fun, and that’s fine. But what bothered me most was there were practically no costumes that weren’t some form of lingerie, and that store was full of girls who appeared to be 17, 18 and 19 years old, buying these costumes for frat parties and other get-togethers that involved drinking. As I waited for a dressing room with a frustrated Teen Angel I listened to these girls and their chatter. They obviously gave no thought to the message they would be sending to everyone who saw them in those costumes or the situation they might be putting themselves in by throwing drunkenness into the mix. My mama always said if you want a man to treat you like a lady, you should act like one. Call me old fashioned, but I think she was right. Who would have thought that the scariest costumes this year had nothing to do with blood or gore?

*Images from Halloweenexpress.com

She Had me at Hello

As I waited for my husband in the hospital hallway, my eyes met hers for a brief second. A stranger with drooping shoulders and a weary face. She was probably a little younger than me but seemed twenty years older. The heavy burden she wore like a coat filled up the space between us, not more than five feet. She quickly dropped her eyes, but I felt compelled to speak. I'm not sure why. Perhaps, it's just because she seemed so alone. Maybe it's that compulsion I had to fill up silence. I hesitated when I realized she was waiting to enter the mental health floor. Behavioral Management they call it, in small lettering on a sign right next to the locked door. The voice inside me urged me on, and I quietly said, "Hello."
"Hi," she softly replied. She glanced up. Our eyes met again, and I refused to let go of her gaze.
"Rough day?," I asked.
"Yeah. Rough coupla' weeks."
"I'm sorry." I didn't want to pry, so I wasn't going to ask any more questions, but my few words were enough to open a door she was eager to walk through. She needed to talk so badly, she was willing to share with a stranger.
"It's my husband," she offered. "His depression's been really bad the last coupla' weeks, and he..he...you know....".
"I'm so sorry. I know that's tough."
The tears started to leak in a slow drip from the inside of her right eye. She tried to hold them back, but couldn't.
"He's been here since Thursday, and he should get to go home tomorrow, but they told me today I need to remove the guns from the home. I..I..I just can't believe we're to this point. I can't believe we're here," her voice trailed. She didn't look away. She wanted answers. Answers that I didn't have.
"I understand. Really, I do. I know how hard it is, and I hope it gets better for him and you. You're not alone, you know. Lots of other folks are going through the same thing, so don't think you're alone."
"Thank you," she whispered. And then she wiped her eyes and reached for the opening door. It was time for visiting hours. I watched her walk through the door and stood glued to the same spot on the floor, staring at the door until my husband tapped me on the shoulder. "Let's go," he said.

I had wanted to tell her it would be better in a few days. That everything would eventually be okay. That this was just a bump in the road that they would weather together. And it may be. But it may not. You see, I really DO know what she's going through. I have someone I care very much about who has struggled with depression, and I know how debilitating it can be. How overwhelming it can be. How it can overtake a person and destroy them. I know what it's like to worry that today's the day this person will give up, that hope is out of their reach and unattainable. And I know that there are many people out there without hope.

We often try to hide our troubles, sometimes out of embarrassment, often out of pain. So many folks are walking around with problems we don't even know about. Things we don't find out about until it's too late to help. I don't have the answers, but I know they're not alone. And if you love one of those folks, you are not alone. Take comfort my friend, you are not alone.

The stranger at the hospital....I hope she's okay. She had me at hello, and now I can't let her go.

Fun Monday-Halloween

The lovely Sayre is our hostess this week, and here is our assignment:

Tell us about your favorite Halloween as a kid (pictures, if you have them!), and show us your costume for this year. If you're not dressing up, show us a picture of a pumpkin carving that really tickled your fancy or how you decorated your house.

I don't have a costume this year because the party I'm going to does not require a costume. However, if I WERE wearing a costume, I'd probably go as Carmen Miranda because that's my all time favorite costume. I've always loved Halloween and dressing up. I'm all about the costumes. That's probably one of the reasons I love the Parrot head stuff so much. It's an excuse to dress wacky. When I was in college I regularly did the Rocky Horror Picture Show thing, always in costume. For the record, I was Magenta, and I was very authentic. I don't have a picture, but let's just say I looked almost exactly like the real thing.

Tucked away somewhere in a box in the attic is my old RHPS costume. My friends V. and G. would dress up as Nell and Frankenfurter, and we'd do the Time Warp in cities as large as St. Louis. Good times. I dressed up in high school, too. My freshman year I won the costume contest dressed as a box of Kleenex.

As a kid, Halloween was a blast, but I can't think of a single Halloween that was better than the rest. In elementary school we had a costume contest every year, and I remember dressing as everything from a clown to Dolly Parton. Back then no one bought a costume. Everyone made their own out of stuff they had around the house or crafted out of paper mache. I usually started thinking about my costume around the first of October, digging around in dress up boxes and mom and dad's old clothes. Long before October 31st I had my outfit crafted and ready to go. We lived in the country and had no close neighbors, so we had to drive fifteen minutes into town to trick-or-treat. I have vivid memories of racing through crunchy leaves in the cool night air trying to beat my brothers or my friends to the porch to ring the doorbell. Back then, you could roam all over neighborhoods, going to homes you weren't familiar with and never really worrying about someone trying to hurt you. It was a great time, but I honestly have to say that I never enjoyed Halloween more than when Teen Angel was little. Hubby and I have had a ball over the years helping her to dress up and trick or treat. She's big on costumes, too. She was a "debbel" the first year.

Mama sewed this costume. She ran around all night whacking things with her plastic pitchfork. The next year she was a "weetch".That's my cousin's little girl on the left. My child was always the hungry one. She had to have an apple for a snack before she made it to the second house.

Like most little girls, she went through a Disney phase. This was the year she was Esmeralda.

She kept scratching her had all night because the wig was itchy.

About age five she started getting into the more creepy costumes.

She loved being a vampire. She said this mummy outfit was a bust because she starting coming unwrapped about halfway through our neighborhood.

It didn't stop her from racking up the candy. The best costume she had though, was the one I can't find a picture of. I know that picture is around here somewhere, and it's driving me crazy because I can't find it. It's the year she was a Lego. I painted a box red, cut out holes for her head and arms and glued six red, plastic Solo cups to the front. I also glued a sour cream container to a small box and painted that red for a small Lego for her head. It was great, but you'll just have to take my word for it because I can't find the photo. ARRRRGGGHHH! I hate it when that happens. I'll bet if I ate a few of those Reeses cups I bought for the tricker or treaters I'd feel better about that.

Word of The Day-Blunt

BLUNT

Pronunciation: bluhnt
Function: adjective
Etymology: Middle English
Date: 13th century

1 a: slow or deficient in feeling : insensitive b: obtuse in understanding or discernment : dull 2: having an edge or point that is not sharp 3a: abrupt in speech or manner b: being straight to the point

Example: Hubby saying to me after we exit the grocery store, "That girl that checked us out, she sure is sweet. I just wish she could get some dental work and replace those three teeth that are missing."

Ah, the joys of living with someone who almost always says out loud what he's thinking.