“You should start a blog,” said my well-meaning husband and friends, as with some regularity my interest would be seized by a question or subject and I would plunge deep into a rabbit hole, all the while eagerly regaling any who would listen with what I discovered. For years, I thought about doing so. I have actually started one or two and their inaugural posts drift through cyberspace in lonely isolation.
There are many reasons that I was never able to get a blog or writing practice going, chief among them of course that what unclaimed time I had was given over to drinking wine or recovering from drinking wine (or cocktails sometimes because we moms deserve to kick our heels up, right?) When I did contemplate putting fingers to keyboard my thoughts and ideas seemed to scatter in dozens of different directions and I could neither marshal them nor pick a thread to follow. I had so many ideas, and so much I wanted to think and talk about, but I couldn’t find my voice and I didn’t have the discipline to look for it.
My most-often cited stumbling block, though, was a title. “I don’t know what to call it,” I would lament, palms outspread. “It needs to be about something and it feels like it’s all been said before and better than I could anyway. All the good ideas are gone.” Who knew that what I was missing all along and in so many ways was sobriety. I have so much more time. I have (some, more) clarity. I have so much to say, and I see now that what I needed was not discipline* but hope.
When I started Storm in a New Cup 59 days ago I felt as though I was lost at sea. The waves seemed to be crashing down on me faster than I could catch my breath and it was all I could do to keep my head above water. I had no time for joy or even fun and I didn’t believe that it would ever get better, because I knew it was me. I was the sea and the waves and the storm and yet I had no control over any of it. Our home was chaotic (our home is still chaotic) and I was crushed by the feeling that I was responsible for everything and everyone. If my husband was tired or out of sorts or my kids were unhappy or fighting or acting out I felt on some level an absolute conviction that it was utterly and entirely my fault.
In desperation I had stopped drinking five days earlier, not so much because I understood that the drinking was the problem, I see now, but because I felt I could not keep on riding the storm as I was – I was never going to figure out how to fix myself and my marriage and life itself unless I made the only change I could (finally) think of. (You have to be on top of your game to save the world, baby.)
With the fledgling clarity of 64 days sober I am still at sea, and the waves still come (all the f**ng time,) but there is space between them, and better – so much, much better – than that, I know that I am not the storm. I am not in charge of the sea, and although waves and weather will come, they will also pass. I don’t know what the shore looks like, or whether I will ever even get there but finally, finally I feel like I can swim.
All this by way of saying I have changed my blog’s name to better reflect what it is that I am doing here: no longer trying to be the weather or control the sea but learning to accept it and embrace it, and find my joy where I am. I am so looking forward to figuring out what I want to fill this beautiful, new sober life with.
I am so proud of this blog. For the longest time I felt as though I wasn’t making anything but babies and dinner (which, while I am proud of those too, are not mine.) To be honest, I don’t know whether I have anything to say that hasn’t been said before, or if I can say it in way that will bring value to anyone but me, but at last I am making something of my own. It feels wonderful.
*Perhaps. This is a whole blog post – or blog – of its own.