The Year Of The Rat

I'm a dog person. I love dogs. Dogs love me. I like all animals in general, but dogs are my buddies.

Not once in my life did it ever occur to me to own a rodent. My other half, Donald, loves rodents. He's owned guinea pigs in the past, and he has this odd affinity to other small animals with little sharp teeth, tiny ears, and a strong desire to burrow.

Donald's last guinea pig died a couple of years ago, and he took it pretty hard. When a co-worker of mine was talking about her pet rats, and mentioned that one of them had just had a litter, I thought about getting one of the babies for Donald. When I broached the subject with him, he was, at first, unenthusiastic. My co-worker sent me pictures via e-mail of the babies, which I showed to Donald. His interest was piqued. Two weeks ago, we adopted Boris, a cream and brown colored baby rat.

I have to admit now that I'm in love with this little furry creature. More than that, I'm in love with the love that furry little creature has brought Donald. Boris perks up when Donald comes home from work and stands up to peer over the top of his home to see if Donald is there. The rat climbs all over Donald, happily nosing his way under his shirt and sitting contentedly on his lap. Donald feeds him treats, Cheerios and uncooked rotini noodles and the occasional blueberry. He strokes his little friend with a gentle finger. Boris falls asleep on his lap.

To see this man, who is over 6 ft. and broad-shouldered, tenderly caring for and playing with this tiny little animal is touching. Even I, who has never considered rats cute, find myself enchanted with Boris. He licks us like a puppy, doesn't bite, sits up and begs like a dog.

This little animal has brought happiness to us both. Donald is happy to have a pet and I'm happy because Donald is happy.

Okay...So he's not a dog. We can't afford a dog, and we don't have the space for one. When we can afford a larger place, we'll get a dog.

For now, Boris is our dog. And we love him.

Thoughts About Thoughts I Once Thought

In a conversation with my partner Donald, I recollected a childhood much like his own: One rampant with almost unbearable yearning to be someone else and somewhere else; to be more in control of one's destiny.

I mentioned a memory I had of standing in a clearing at the town park where I grew up. It was a summer day with a potent wind. Thick grass all around me, waving like an ocean. I closed my eyes and stretched my arms out and felt, for the briefest of moments, that I had transcended the earth and was rising...rising...rising. I was flying away. Much of my childhood was spent fantasizing that I was rising above my life, transcending the existence of a lonely, shy, fumbling, fearful, uncertain kid who was picked on by bullies, belittled by my father, and never comfortable with my own family. I didn't fit in with them, my school, my peers. Nobody. I had no comfort zone other than my own mind, where I created vast empires for me to rule and magnificent powers that made me stand out from the crowd.

It wasn't odd that I gravitated toward books that encouraged that type of dreaming: Lord Of The Rings; The Chronicles Of Narnia; A Wrinkle In Time. Had I a sword and a fearless horse and a suit of chain mail and an army behind me, I would have led the charge against the enemy without hesitation. Instead of girlish preoccupation with dolls and clothes and painting my toenails, I was obsessed with finding a place in the universe that would allow me to unleash my inner warrior. While others admired Barbie, I worshiped Joan Of Arc. Underneath all my hesitation and wallflowery behavior there lurked a Valkyrie.

Adolescence brought about a tempest of emotional problems, exacerbated by drugs, alcohol, sex, thievery, violence. The desire to rise and fight the good fight died. The chemicals I ingested might have loosened my tongue and given me false courage, but facile power is a fake god. If I swaggered with seeming confidence be assured I would stumble when it was least to my advantage. The pendulum, it appeared, had swung sideways.


I gaze upon my thinning hair
White and silver hanging there
Where did I get this sagging skin?
And what about this double chin?

I never knew I'd get this old,
Back when I felt so young and bold.
It startles me occasionally
When I get a glimpse of Present Me.


I wrote that bit of doggerel today in my head after examining my face in the mirror. On lame limbs, I go about my days sans the yearnings of childhood and the screaming of my teenage years. Under my white mop of hair, my eyes are still blue and clear, and I see beauty in many things. I'm calmer and happier, in quiet ways.


Not that I wouldn't jump at the chance to lead an army to victory or slay a dragon.

"A Thousand Nameless Fears"

Anyone who is in recovery from drugs or alcohol has heard these words before. They come from a guide that many of us use. Not until I became sober and began the process of recovery from my own alcoholism did I become willing to confront the fears that have driven me all of my life. Fear of the dark. Fear of rejection. Fear of pain. Fear of others. Fear of poverty. Fear of men. Fear of change. Fear of being lost. Fear of responsibility. Fear of success. Fear of everything, really.

Once I was able to give a name to these fears, I was able to confront them head on. ("To name a thing is to have power over it."---Ursula K. Le Guin.) It has taken years for some of these fears to dissipate or resolve themselves. Throughout this process, helping hands and hearts have been there to help me march through the darkness of fear and come through to the other side where wisdom, courage, and knowledge await. I'm not alone in this. Ask anyone who has managed to stay clean and sober for a good measure of time, and their stories will be similar to mine. It's a process; a road we all must travel if we wish to be free of those things that drove us into addiction.

Part of my process has been to face things that I've avoided dealing with. Part of the process has been confronting people who, ironically, are like how I was before I began to heal. This is happening at the place I currently work. I am confronted with someone who is full of fear, and her fear drives her to lie, manipulate, lash out, and try to control people around her. Through some work I've done recently, the fact that she is so fearful was illuminated. Because I now know what her true motivations are, I am able to relax somewhat and realize that her behavior is not my responsibility nor directed at me personally. She has been this way a long time. I'm positive I've not been the only person subjected to character traits.

Now, I am able to go to work and see her through different eyes. I'm able to see that she is driven by terror. The instinct to help someone who is in great fear has come back to me. I don't know what form my help will take. It could be that I will just be as pleasant as possible and do the work and not allow her to get to me.

Just for now, I will try to bring up compassion instead of anger. I'll keep you posted.

The Road I Traveled: Thank You, Dr. Peck

Dr. M. Scott Peck died on September 25, 2005.

I don't remember where I was and what I was doing on that day, but perhaps I felt a twinge of sadness and didn't recognize it for what it was. A man who had greatly influenced my life had ceased to exist on this planet, and I wasn't aware of it. A few months prior to his passing, I looked up his website and learned that he wasn't well and that neither he nor his family could be contacted. I had toyed with the idea of sending him a letter telling him how profoundly his writings had affected me over the years; your typical fan letter. When I learned he was ill, I discarded the notion.

I remember when I first heard of the man, M. Scott Peck. My mother, who never gave up hope that one day I would pull my head out of my ass and learn to function as a normal human being, gave me a copy of "The Road Less Traveled". It was a best seller at the time, and she had read it herself, finding a lot more of interest in it than I had when she gave me my copy. I remember cracking it open for the first time, reading the first line in it: "Life is difficult.", and then tossing it aside with some sort of expletive.

I was twenty-two, immature, stupid, selfish, and wallowing in drugs, booze, sex, and other such hedonistic distractions. Work was what I did to earn enough money to do the distractions. Such things as rent, bills...those were things that interfered with my pastimes. Dr. Peck's book meant little to nothing to me. I wasn't deeply interested in changing who I was. I expected people around me to change to suit my fancy, and that was that. I was destined to be a rock star or Oscar-winning actress, and in the meantime, I was going to pursue my self-centered activities and pleasures as I saw fit. To hell with responsibility. To hell with earning a good living. All that would come to me from the great Sky Fairy who would one day reward my talent with the bounties I had come to expect were my birthright. Nothing like attaching a big ego to a small mind.


In my early thirties, somewhat settled down with a small child, a husband, and a job I had stuck with long enough to get promoted, I picked up another copy of "The Road Less Traveled". This time, I actually got past the first line. Some of what he wrote made sense, but I argued with most of his ideas. That love was: "The will to extend one's self for the purpose of nurturing one's own or another's spiritual growth." Oh, please. Love wasn't a feeling? Are you kidding me? Of course it was! I felt love all the time. What a dry and unromantic definition, I thought.


Terms like "cathexis" and "dependency" made me shrink. Love was supposed to be a series of explosions, wasn't it? If you asked my husband then, he would have probably asked that the explosions cease. I was an explosive person. I demanded what I thought were signs of love from him---completely disregarding who he was, what he was capable of, and what his own needs and desires were. It wasn't about HIM, goddamnit. It was ME. When I didn't get my way, I blew up. Oddly enough, we were divorced after only a few years. He didn't really love me, I said. He was a jerk, I said. He was selfish and uncaring, I said. Dr. Peck was wrong, I said.


I didn't touch "The Road Less Traveled", or any other book by M. Scott Peck until many years later. By that time, I had entered into recovery and gained sobriety and a willingness to change. When, in the fourth year of my recovery, I once again picked up Dr. Peck's first major work and read it again, it was as if I had never read it before. I was astonished at his wisdom. The ideas about personal responsibility and spiritual growth and how love is WORK---Why, they all made sense! Of course! This new recognition was courtesy of a Twelve Step program, my Higher Power, and the collective wisdom of those who were making the journey of recovery with me. At last, what Dr. Peck had penned all those years ago clicked with me.


In this, my middle age, I still have "The Road Less Traveled" as part of my personal library. It has become almost as invaluable to me as religious tomes are to the religious. I often quote from it. What was taught to me through this great book has stayed with me. What I learned from it has helped me in friendships, work situations, and with my partner. Because of what I have absorbed and incorporated into myself  from Peck, I think of my partner as a loving, caring, separate being who has chosen to spend his life with me; and that it is up to me to be that same person right back at him. He isn't an extension of myself. He wasn't put on this planet to serve my needs or heal my old wounds. He is a gift, and I am to cherish him as he cherishes me. I am to extend myself willingly for his spiritual growth, as he encourages me along the same path.


In a way, I guess, this blog is a fan letter to Dr. Peck. His other books are wonderful in their own ways, but it is "The Road Less Traveled" which will stand the test of time and remain a source of inspiration and power to many for years to come. I am only one person who was touched by him. Here's hoping there are many more out there who will discover his gift to the universe.

I Fear For My Country

Right-wing blogs, "news" channels, and talking heads have managed to make a lot of people fearful lately. They fear a black man as president. They fear anyone who is different than they, whether it be skin color, country of origin, or religious belief. They fear they won't have any money when they are old. They fear terrorists. They fear government. They fear each other.

Know what I fear? I fear that the United States of America has lost it's Constitution. I fear that laws are for changing at a whim. I fear that racists and homophobes and other hateful people are taking over our government. I fear religious oppression in the form of those that call themselves "Christians" imposing their warped biblical ideas on the rest of us. I fear that whatever rights I currently possess as an American citizen will be taken from me. I fear that America will become a horrible place to live.


I find myself getting angrier and angrier at the people who are causing my fear. I want to lash out at them, and I sometimes do when responding to comments on threads or blogs. I become vituperative in my responses. I am full of bile when speaking to those who spout hatred and bigotry and homophobia. I don't like myself when I get like that, and I'd dearly love to find common ground with those I am angry at, so that I could have reasonable discourse with them. But, I've become so fearful of the future of this nation that I've lost my patience with people such as they. I end up in battle mode when confronted by them.


This doesn't make me proud. I'm not thrilled if I feel I've scored some sort of verbal victory. I feel helpless. Helpless to make people understand how they have been lied to and manipulated and brainwashed into believing that same-sex marriage is wrong. That liberals are evil. That Barack Obama is a Muslim. That government regulating corporations makes us all less free.


It's like beating one's head against a wall. Most of the people I encounter who fit into the categories of Tea Party people or Republican or Libertarian are impermeable to logic and reason. Seemingly oblivious to facts or rational thought. It's astonishing how they dig in and refuse to admit anything outside their sphere of knowledge to penetrate and perhaps change their perspective. They appear allergic to new ideas.


I fear them. They are legion. They are everywhere. They are my neighbors, co-workers, customers, and even family. I can't find common ground with them.


I was taught to be tolerant of others, but I have yet to find that level of understanding with these folks. I don't know that I can.

Difficult People...Difficult Me

Back in the day, I was something of a partier. I just loved getting high or loaded and dancing and singing and carrying on like Mardi Gras. The image I had of myself was that I was a lot of fun to be with.

Of course, those more sober and rational than I saw things differently. To a lot of people, I was irresponsible, obnoxious, gossipy, aggressive, loud, petulant, moody, and lazy. I was dishonest when honesty was necessary, and angrily honest with my criticisms when it was best I keep my mouth shut. I was not a good employee; frequently late, absent, and when I deigned to show up, not very productive. I copped attitudes against co-workers and carried grudges for years for the least little slights. Nothing ever went my way, and by gawd---I was going to let you know it.


So...I sobered up and grew up. Now, all these years later and being middle-aged, I have gained the wisdom one gets when one painstakingly goes about changing one's entire outlook upon life. It took me a while, but eventually, I was able to get the hang of interacting with people without causing friction or bad feelings. I learned discretion. Rather than reacting to whatever was tossed at me, I learned to step back and think about what was going on. My manner tempered and became more laid-back, serene. I gave a day's work for a day's pay, and even a little extra if it was asked of me. Bosses began to like me---not consider me a problem. Instead of a liability, I was an asset. Instead of an enemy, I became a friend.


Not that I've become some kind of spiritually enlightened guru or anything. I'm a pain in the ass sometimes. There are times when I lose my temper---the major difference being that I don't lapse into "FUCK YOU YOU FUCKING FUCK!" as an automatic response anymore. The hugest difference is that I am able to listen. I mean, really listen. Not listen for what I want to hear, but to hear what another person is truly saying. This ability to listen to others has given me a larger sense of compassion and tolerance. It's an amazing transformation. It wasn't easy and it wasn't quick, but it is still a marvel to think that I am no longer that person mentioned above.


This is more of a reminder to me than it is a message to anyone else. There is a person I work with who is very difficult. She's gossipy, overly talkative, opinionated, obnoxiously insistent on doing things her way, and dishonest. She's manipulative and phony. She has managed to alienate all of her co-workers, including myself. Unfortunately, I'm the one she works with the most, and it has taken all of my life's lessons and all of my patience not to blow my lid at her. She is exhausting to work with.


There is a lesson in here for me, beyond the obvious. I have a theory that my manager placed her on my shift for a reason. Perhaps it's because he knows I am wiser and stronger than my younger colleagues. Perhaps he trusts me to do the right things. It doesn't matter to me one way or another. What I really want is relief from her. I don't wish her ill, but I do wish she would go away. She is one of those people who sap your energy just by being in the same room with her.


I'll deal with it. I always do. I have to, in order to keep my job. Something will change about the situation, and it will probably be me. I have the capacity to change, whereas it doesn't appear that she does. Whatever it takes to get peace, I will do.


So...onward. More learning ahead.

Lazy

There aren't any excuses. I've been lazy. Lazy about cleaning. Lazy about getting my car up to date. Lazy about contacting help for my financial woes. Lazy about getting to necessary gatherings of folks who can help me keep clean and sober.

It's as if I entered a vast, lethargic phase that allows me to sleep long hours and wish to do nothing but doodle on the computer and take baths. Nothing that requires thought or work.

It isn't the same thing as the typical depression that my brain is wired to produce. It's not a chemical imbalance. It's thought imbalance. Or rather, lack of thought imbalance. I don't want to think about anything important. I want to hide. I want to dodge anything remotely resembling an idea.

The compassionate among my fellow travelers would tell me that this phase is a natural reaction to a stressful week, and that I am merely recharging my batteries. That it should be so simple. Rigorous honesty prevents me from using that escape route. The truth is, I shut the business of me down for a week and lost productivity.

On this evening, I shall attempt to jump-start the process all over again and meet with my fellow sober folks. I will not try to hide tonight. I will suit up and show up.

The truth is: I am prone to be lazy. No way around it.