Guilty as Charged

I sometimes refer to myself as not only a recovering alcoholic, but a recovering Catholic.  And I've always blamed my Catholic schooling as a reason for the guilt I carry for ridiculous things.  But I think it's also a habit of an alcoholic or any addictive personality.  For the Catholics, its the ritual of going to confession. The idea that another person has to voice their wrongs to another human being (AA's 5th Step)

Take tonight for example. I'm sitting here feeling guilty that I've not worked on any of my "home" work. Creating the breach/incident procedures. Finishing the ENS guide. Developing the patrol syllabus. Why should I create an emotional stress burden because I have chosen to not do work at home that I won't get paid for.

In the past I always took work home. I remember Monday nights when I lived with Amy. I worked six days a week-Ground Round & Helicopter Flight. We'd drink Miller Genuine Draft, vodka & shots of Rumplemintz. and watch football. Then at Leg Affairs. And at Westwind. Not when I was just a dispatcher at the Comm Center. The whole time I was married, Brian hated it. Always said I chose work over family. And it was true.

Now that I live alone, I don't have as much desire to be a workaholic. I just want to waste my time watching tv online and playing stupid computer games. So I then I feel guilty for being unproductive, for wasting time. But it's my time to do with as I desire.  So many things I could accomplish. My book of poetography. My master's degree. Service and volunteer work.

The guilt about the foods eaten or not eaten. The steps not walked. The weights not lifted. Friends and family not called. The guilt of potential failures. Risks not taken. Paths not chosen. The guilt of what if. The guilt of the imagination. The insidious ethical concept that becomes the pit in the stomach and reaching its thorny tendrils to the brain triggering the voice. The voice that criticizes. The voice that mocks and denigrates. The voice that says you'll never get there or be that.

The guilt that become a physical presence in the cells that created a body suit of armor made not of chain mail but of fat and toxins. The fat and the fear of alcoholic venues that make it easier to stay in a one bedroom apartment and play mindless color matching computer games that somehow turn down the volume on the guilt. Until the hands of the clock sweep in ever widening circles of time passed and wasted.

Sunshine, Roses and Qi

Today was World Tai Chi Day.  I actually took a Saturday off and used 8 hours of vacation to go. Even though, I've only had four lessons with one of the main coordinators.  I'm amazed at how much I remember from my early teen years when the family attended Lightning Fire Mountain Kung Fu School.

It was warm. Blue sky. Heavy aroma of roses. Chirping of hummingbirds from high in the trees at the Franciscan Retreat in Scottsdale. A few butterflies flitting through the crowd. The quiet strains of a wooden Native American flute in the background.

I wish I would have brought my real camera.  Taking photos with my cell phone was not a good experiment. Somehow I ended up taking video. Not sure how that happened. I wouldn't mind doing a weekend retreat there even though it is a Catholic facility. Another group there was doing a 12 step retreat. Maybe some day I will have to formally do #4.  Not just apologize to Brian who didn't see a reason why I had to.

I'm going to have a sunburn tomorrow. One that I'm going to be proud of. I'm also extremely proud of the fact that I went and participated for an hour. And even more impressive, I took fruit and jerky in case I got hungry. Don, my tai chi instructor saw me eating the fruit and said "good for you". Made me very happy.

I saw some amazing instructors. I wanted to do a reiki session with a man doing demonstrations, but he was very busy. But I did meet another healer that I liked. I'll probably book with him.  Several months ago I had searched for a tai chi school and actually posted their schedule on the board for awhile. I had been hesitant to join the class, but I've felt inadequate and clumsy and terribly fat.  But one of the instructors was wearing a bright orange shirt and was so incredibly flexible and graceful it was amazing. It made me feel like I could get to that point again.

So I talked to him after wards and got his card.  When I googled it, it was the same site I had posted on my wall.  Karmic message or what?  Guess I'd better listen.

I'll have a donut, bartender

Why is it that I can admit I am an alcoholic but not a sugarolic? (I just made up that word, I think.) Or that I was able to learn to like all of those nasty tasting alcohols like Jack Daniels, Jaegermeister, Goldschlager and all the others.  Even that first drink of vodka during a freshman year road trip to Denver. Or the second time as a sophomore in the Centennial Hall Cafeteria when the daughter of a Lutheran minister brought a bottle of cheap vodka to drink after the Christmas holiday dinner.  We poured soda from the machine and Siri poured a huge (or maybe not) glug of it on top and I drank straight from the cup without mixing it. That was the same night I said fuck.

During the drinking years I really didn't "do" sugar. Alcohol contains plenty of substances that convert into sugar in addition to providing that warm feeling in the pit of my stomach. Or that wonderful buzz that turns into a way of not thinking.

Since I've been sober, I've sought out sugar to create that buzz. Although it's really a poor substitute. The peanut M&M's,the licorice,  the Skittles that are sorted out by colors and eaten in a specific order (green, yellow, orange, red and purple - I really like the new green apple).

So why is it that I could quit alcohol, but not sugar?  Why is it that I use the excuse that a bag of Skittles is better than a  bottle of vodka? Why can't I apply the 12 steps to processed food?

Today is my first step in SA (Sugarolics Anonymous). I admit that I am powerless over sugar and processed food. I will endeavor to eliminate this poison from my palate and become a sugar free person. Not quite sure how to do it, but I know that it begins with taking each meal or food at a time. 24 hours at a time.

Except, I am not ready to give up my 20 ounces of liquid Coke Classic or  Dr. Pepper.  Afterall, we strive for progress, not perfection.

Rosemary, Sage, and Thyme

Somedays it's necessary to make mud pies. And you don't even have to use pie tins or bake. I had enough energy to get some flowers and commit to make the patio a bit of an urban oasis and more appealing to my hummingbird, whom I haven't spent enough time with.

It felt good to  sit in the sun and get my hands dirty and sweat.  Even planted some herbs. Not rosemary, sage, and thyme. Actually it's dill, mint, and parsley. I thought about Mom's vegetable and flower garden. How much I hated working in what I thought was a huge acre full of work. Time away from my all important reading books that were over my grade level.

Now I wish I had the opportunity of all that organic food.  It would be so healthy. I know now why I was so skinny all those years. All that grass fed beef, organic eggs and unchemicaclized vegetables. I also remembered today, that when I work in the sun, I don't get hungry.

I made a good food decision today and chose herbal tea over a second Dr. Pepper. I've been wearing a pedometer and shooting for 10,000 steps a day. I calculated that cleaning the apartment should come pretty close. Boy was I off. Barely 3,000. But I felt good getting some of these chores done that I haven't had the energy to do. Tomorrow, the kitchen, especially the refrigerator.

I don't wanna be

It seems like when one looks into a mirror one should be able to have an accurate reflection of one's being. But I have found that to not be true. I think the  psychologists call it body dysmorphia or something like that.  A fancy way of saying that how we see ourselves is seldom accurately reflected in that two dimensional reflective piece of glass.

Thirty some years ago, the reflection showed an insecure young girl with geek glasses, braces, few friends, great report cards and a habit of reading to escape the real world. Just what I was escaping from, I'm not sure.  The mirror showed a girl who scorned anything resembling popular, cool, or in.  Turned 180 degrees away from it, even if deep inside she wanted it or liked it. Who reveled in A's, the National Merit Scholars, and the Knowledge Bowl team.. Was always told, "you're skinny enough to be a model." No one ever said "pretty enough". I'm not sure why that always bothered me, but it did.

In college, it helped to have a budget controlled diet. Now I tried harder to fit in. I was always the "make-over" candidate, but I never really made the transition.  I did gain a social life, but looking back it was somewhat self destructive. Always chasing the wrong guy, sobbing on the shoulder of the ones I should have been with.  And yet the girl in the mirror couldn't see anything but a fun house distortion.  





Forward three decades, I still have zits and feelings of insecurities and an additional 130 pounds. It's not that I want to be part of the right group-maybe just be respected by co-workers or subordinates.  I still don't fit in. This time around, I do want to fit in. At least most of the time. Perhaps they can't respect me because I don't have very much respect for them and I don't know how to do that because their worlds are so far from me.

Back then I didn't see how little flesh was on my frame. Today I have a problem seeing how there is too much fat on that frame. I've known intellectually. The scale is proof. The Just My Size jeans are the proof.  But that part of the brain that distorts my personal reality doesn't get it. Likes to rely on denial and excuses. Can't figure out why  I can quit the vodka but not the sugar? Why I feel the need to reward myself with unhealthy food if I'm in a good mood? Or drown my sorrows with coke and chocolate? And then tell myself that it's better than a quart of vodka?

Where does the motivation go? The energy of the twenties? How does the self-deprecation seep into the soul? How does the creak of the joints get so loud? How do you reclaim that self?  Recapture the ideals and body of the twenties, with the wisdom and income of the high end of forties?

As Gavin DeGraw sings, "I don't want be anything other than me."  Too bad I don't know who the hell that is. 

Ids, Egos and Superheros

Clark Kent has his phone booth.  Isis and Wonder Woman have their alter egos.  Split personality. A normal persona. A secret one. Okay, maybe not secret, but famous, important.

It seems so easy to morph from one to the other. A quick step inside a phone booth while ripping  your button up shirt off and exit with super powers. Take the glasses off, the  bun down and twirl around with your arms wide and you accessorize with a golden lasso and bullet proof bracelets.

I wonder who they see in the mirror? The normal? Or the supernormal? When they walk down a sunlit sidewalk, do they see the shadow of the cape or the lasso? Which is real? Are they both?

Where does one persona begin and the other end?  And how could I create my own? I did when left the original Jeff and went to Mankato.  From shy, intellectual wall flower to outgoing, drinking and swearing, somewhat promiscuous dean's list honoree.

So why do I find it so difficult to recreate myself again? The one that chooses sweat over sweet. Activity over sedantry. The persona that quietly and magnetically persuades people of her brilliant ideas. The persona that is well respected and liked by coworkers. The persona that  leads with charisma and wisdom. The persona that is given a nifty nickname out of adoration.

Eats right. Sleeps well. Breathes fresh air.  Meditates. Gives back.  The person that matches my self image with the shadow on the sidewalk. 

Petty Petulance and the Pouter

Almost 48 years old. Still plagued by acne and temper tantrums. Some days I just want to kick and scream (usually at my bosses or co-workers). The worst part is I usually want to do it in response to a behavior that I have been guilty of.

My ideas are always brilliant, and the wise would do well to smilingly adopt my plans. Why do I get insecure and worry that I'm not important or useful anymore?  Why must I be self arrogant?  Why do I see that my way is the only shiny golden path to efficiency?

Why does my petulance seek and outlet in the consumption of unhealthy food? Filet o fish. Beefy nacho griller.  Donuts.  Pizza. White flour. White sugar. Visions of vodka induced numbness.

Why can't I crave the endorphins of riding my bike? Why is self destruction and bad behavior so much easier than self care?

I guess if I knew all that, I wouldn't be sitting here pouting like a two year old

You Can't Crash on a Merry-go-Round

Why should self care be so difficult and self destruction so easy.  Why long for the body you had twenty years ago? Why castigate yourself for the moment of weakness as your tongue relishes the oh-so-fake cheese of the beefy nacho griller washed down with poisonous Dr. Pepper? Why bemoan the fact you have averaged 40 hours of overtime a month this year rather than smile with satisfaction over the extra payment made to Visa?

Celebrate the crisp juicy organic apple that was your afternoon snack. Don't dwell in the fatigue that followed every step through Walmart and Costco. Delight in the fact that you have the mobility to walk for thirty minutes.  Think of the unfortunates you saw on  your way to the store tethered to the motorized wheelchair they must rely on.

Let go of the double edged comment from your coworker about wanting to assign overtime to make sure his shift is taken care of. Convince yourself that he really does want to lighten your load and cheerfully train him. Don't be jealous of the new supervisor winning over all of the people who screwed you over when you became a supervisor. Take a lesson.  If nothing else, you have to interact with them less.

Shift the paradigm. Fill the glass. And if you are stuck on the merry-go-round, feel the joy of the music and the rhythm of the horse. And be grateful that the horses never collide.