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I think often about the Monkees with addicted family members and friends. I know how hopeless it looks. How far gone they can seem. How angry and confused you feel.

Early one morning during my drinking days, I staggered home drunk and high, and found my mom and dad sitting in the family room waiting for me. They were as blurry eyed as I was. Bubba looked right at me and said, “Glennon. Do you even love us?”

And my heart imploded into my own chest. All I could do was whimper a slurred yes but I knew how hollow and weak and false that yes sounded to each of us. Because love is as love does and addicts don’t love, we destroy. It is hard for others to believe that we can love the things we are destroying.

But I remember that moment vividly and I recall how my heart felt in response to my dad’s question. My heart was broken deep and hard with love for my parents. I loved them in that moment, when I was a hopeless drunk and treated them horribly, exactly like I love them today . . . wildly, frantically, solidly, all.

I don’t know how that works, I’m sorry. I just know that it can be true. Your addict can love you madly and still keep hurting you.

Addiction just does that. It’s evil, addiction.

But addicts are not. As a matter of fact, whenever an addict writes to me about how she is so lost and shameful that she’s certain God can never love her I always say, really? Because I think God loves us the most. I really do. I know a whole lot of addicts and outside of the whale, they are some of the kindest, brightest, most creative and passionate people I know. It’s the sensitive soul that feels the need to escape the harshness of reality. And so whenever a parent writes to me about her addicted child being “special” I always think, Yep, I know exactly what you mean. I really do. It’s like this:

“For now, let me say this: measure the hate you feel now, and the shame. That quantity is your capacity also to love and to feel joy and to have compassion.” – I Never Promised You a Rose Garden.

It’s true…where there is great pain, there is the hope for great joy. With great shame comes the possibility of great redemption.

Sometimes I think this blog is for families of addicts. I want you to know, mamas and daddies and sisters and brothers and daughters and sons of addicts – that even when I’m not writing specifically about addiction and recovery, I’m still writing to you.

When I write about my marriage, or my children, or my friendships, or this crazy, typical, magical life I’m leading . . . the message underneath, meant for you, is: Look! There is hope! I was hopeless . . . and now I’m so hopeful I’m ridiculous. I’m just ridiculous with hope.

I am not perfect, I am not always well or stable or happy or kind or peaceful or content. And as I may have mentioned…I’m generally a little WOOOHOOOOO!!!

But I am myself. I am living this tough, confusing life as myself. That’s the best I can do. That is thrilling. I just want you to know that it is possible.

And I think you need not wait till your addict starts living before you do. It is okay for you to live while you wait. It’s necessary, really.

I’ll end with this passage from I Never Promised You a Rose Garden. It’s a conversation between a therapist and her patient – a young, brilliant girl who is deciding whether to hold on to her mental illness or let it go and try to Live. Scary decision.

Well, did I ever say it would be easy? I cannot make you well against your own wishes. If you fight with all the strength and patience you have, we will make it together.

And what if I don’t?

Well, there are lots of mental hospitals, and they build more every day.

And if I fight, then for what?

For nothing easy or sweet…for your own challenges, for your own mistakes and the punishment for them.For your own definition of love and sanity- for a good strong self with which to begin to live.

That’s enough, right? That’s all we can ask of ourselves. To allow ourselves to live. Addicts or not.

Filling Up

Jul 142011

If you follow me on Facebook, you know how much I loved The Bloggess’ chicken post. I made Craig read it, for the same reason that I tell him every time a friend gets in a fender bender or locks her kids in the car or sets her kitchen on fire – to prove that I’m not the only eccentric wife out there. I read a lot of the Bloggess’ posts to Craig, to make him feel less alone. Their marriage dynamic seems similar to mine, and it’s comforting.

Here’s the thing – I’ve been spending too much money lately. It happens to me every once in awhile . . . I get into this yucky rhythm in which I experience these feelings of restlessness and anxiety until I get to a store and buy something. The something is usually a stupid and unnecessary thingamajig for my house. Then after I get home and set up the thingamajig, I feel relaxed and happy for a bit. Then my eyes travel to a different part of my house and I notice something else I “need.” And back out I go for more stupid thingamajigs.

And this cycle turns into large credit card bills. And a worried husband. And Craig drops little hints that make me feel guilty for not having more control over myself and for not being a better partner and for putting my petty imaginary needs ahead of my family’s financial security and our giving. And so I promise myself no more shopping. But then I find myself driving to my favorite treasure store the next day.

For me, not wanting to do something and then compulsively doing it anyway is a Big Red Flag. Because the anxiety that I experience before shopping feels dangerously similar to the anxiety that led me to binge on food and booze. And the temporary feeling of relief I feel after making a purchase reminds me of being high. And then the guilt I feel when the credit card bill comes reminds me of how I felt when the insanity of the binge was over . . . when I sobered up and crashed back down to Earth.

After it’s all over, I feel more anxious and empty and out of control than when I started the whole exhausting compulsive process. For me . . . all three – drinking, overeating, mindless shopping – they are like frantic attempts to fill up on air. I feel emptier and hungrier afterward than I did before I started. Because, of course, you can never get enough of what you don’t really need. Thank you, Bono.

My head knows that…but my appetite has a mind of its own.

After years of experimenting, I’ve learned that there are healthy ways for me to deal with my anxiety. . . large glasses of ice cold water, a long hot bath, a walk outside, meds, deep breaths, exercise, yoga, reading, writing, meditation, a date with a friend . . . but at this stage in my life – there is a certain kind of mindless shopping that is an unhealthy choice for me. Leaves me worse off than when I started. Hurts my family. Makes me feel untrustworthy.

But it’s tricky because as a parent of little ones, there’s plenty of shopping that does have to get done. Shopping’s like food- I can’t avoid it completely. So Craig and I have been talking a lot about Wants vs. Needs – trying to determine which sort of thingamajigs fit into which category.

One evening recently, I decided that I was DONE with my children for the day. I was feeling anxious and I made a conscious decision to relieve my anxiety destructively, by shopping.

I casually yelled to Craig, “I’m going out for awhile,” and I grabbed my keys and started walking to the car. But the sneaky bastard followed me outside, stuck his hot little head in the window and said:

“Glennon. Please don’t come home with a huge metal chicken. Just, please.”

The man has a sixth sense which God granted him to survive his marriage to me. I rolled my eyes as if he was completely ridiculous.

DAMNIT, I thought.

Tragically for him, Husband mentioned nothing about six foot wooden giraffes.

This is Mr. Wardlow. Chase named him after the husband of my friend, Geri. Because Geri’s husband is tall, obviously.

Mr. Wardlow was our friend. We dressed him in tutus and sunglasses and tiaras and purses. I guess Mr. Wardlow was a bit of cross-dresser. We embraced him for who he was. And for three glorious days Mr. Wardlow stood proudly and ridiculously in our foyer and greeted each of our confused guests. Tish hugged him each morning. Chase made him a huge nametag which hung around his long. elegant neck. Forgive me, I didn’t take pictures of him all dressed up because I assumed we’d have more time together for photo shoots.

But it was not meant to be.

Craig returned Mr. Wardlow.

He sure did.

When he got home from The Returning, Craig found me on the couch wearing a black t-shirt and black leggings. I announced that I was in mourning for Mr. Wardlow and could not speak for several days. Craig disregarded my mourning process and spoke to me anyway.

Craig: Glennon. I really thought we were doing better about deciding between Needs versus Wants. Wooden giraffes are definitely WANTS.

Me: Well. In your opinion, I guess they are. I guess they are.

Craig: NO. In EVERYONE’S opinion. NOONE NEEDS a six foot wooden giraffe. That thing was TERRIBLE. AWFUL. Embarrasing.

Me: HOLD ON A SECOND. Let us be clear. ARE YOU INSISTING THAT NOONE NEEDS MR. WARDLOW?

Craig: Right. NOONE. That’s what I’m saying.

ME: What about a GIRAFFE COLLECTOR? A GIRAFFE COLLECTOR would most definitely need Mr. Wardlow.

Craig: What, are you suggesting that you’re a giraffe collector now?

Me: WELL, NOT ANYMORE, AM I????? Thank you for killing my dream of becoming an internationally respected giraffe collector. Thank you. I hope you are satisfied.

So long, Mr. Wardlow. You were a good, tall, wooden friend.

Done forget to vote today! We’re #12!

Love, G

Obsessed

Mar 122011

I feel exhausted after posts like these. Not bad exhausted – more like just-finished-a-marathon exhausted. I feel grateful and inspired, but also worn out, poured out, and a little shaky. Not so much from the writing of the essay, but from the responses – which challenge me and require me to rethink and practice accepting criticism and praise without internalizing either one. That’s tough for me, but good tough. Growing tough.

Here was one of my favorite responses to the last post:

Dear G: Why are you so obsessed with gay people?

This one cracked me up because for a whole day I couldn’t stop picturing myself as Jerry McGuire in this scene – except that in my daydream I was screaming: I LOVE GAY PEOPLE! I LOOOOVE GAY PEOPLLLLLEEEEEEE!

Anyway, I guess my answer is, as usual: I don’t know. I think it might have something to do with this picture, though.

This is a picture of a sit-in in 1963. Just fifty years ago. In America.

I love this picture. I might actually have it framed for my family room wall. I think it just shows the Truth of Things. It shows how complicated people are – how our courage and weakness and blindness and anger and love are all wrapped up together. It shows that often – the louder people are, the wrong-er people are. It shows that there is no safety in numbers. It proves that you can stand alone with the whole world jeering at you and God can still be right there beside you, holding your hand, encouraging you to resist, encouraging you to keep the faith, begging you to BELIEVE.

And God I could stare at those warriors at the counter all day. Look at them. Quiet, believing, together. That jeering crowd…. each one jeers alone. They just look alone – together. There is no real unity in a mob. Fear incites – never unites. But look at the people at the counter. They are suffering together. They are united by Love. I bet inside they were shaking, though. I bet they thought they were LOSING. They thought they were losing, I bet.

I think that’s why I love this picture so much. It is proof that things are not always what they appear to be. It is proof of quiet, courageous, determined, Hope. It is proof that even if it doesn’t feel like it in the moment…Love Does Win. It’s a done deal. Always. The first will be last and the last will be first, eventually.

My minister showed our congregation this picture several years ago. He asked us to look carefully at the faces. Some are giddy with mob fever and hate, some are distressed but fearful to take a stand, some are looking away. Which face would I have been? Or would I have been absent from the picture altogether? Would I have been home, preaching to my kids about equality from the safety of my living room? Would I have even recognized the opportunity to join my brothers and sisters in insisting that We Belong To Each Other?

So anyway, Lovie – I guess that’s why I’m obsessed with gay people. Because it seems to me that gay rights are civil rights. And when I look back at the snapshot of this time in my life - I want to see myself sitting at that counter, covered in mustard, alongside others who believe that in the end, Love Wins.

“Civil and political rights are a class of rights and freedoms that protect individuals from unwarranted action by government and private organizations and individuals and ensure one’s ability to participate in the civil and political life of the state without discrimination or repression.”