Tomorrow I’m Going to Get My Sh*t Together

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I was just sitting around this morning, procrastinating, when an article on procrastination showed up in my inbox. Wow! First off, I got to meet Mo Issa, who describes himself as spiritually human. I want to be this guy when I grow up. He’s amazing!

Second, his article really hit home. And I’m talking about procrastinating with your life’s work, not about doing the laundry. Here’s a quote:

“In the English dictionary, procrastination is defined as the act of delaying or postponing a task. Put another way, it’s self-sabotage. We place obstacles in our path to avoid the work at hand.”

I did this for years and years through drinking. Your entire life can be put on hold if you’re living buzzed. I could make great plans while drinking. I could even start big projects. I just couldn’t see them through.

This article is well worth the read:

Procrastination is Real, But We Have 3 Ways to Fight It.

I’m Out There

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For those of you who think I might be a little “out there,” I’m about to prove it:

Tomorrow, I’m flying to Chicago to attend a Sonia Choquette workshop. I can’t wait!

I’ll have three days to delve into intuition, chakras, spiritual healing, and dancing sober. And not even my mother’s deep deep disapproval of anything “psychic” can stop me. (She always points to a 60 Minutes show that she watched 30 years ago in which an elderly woman gave all her money to a gypsy.)

Sorry, Mom.

Then again, my mom has no idea I have a sober blog, or that I’m writing a book about my journey to sobriety.

There is much much disapproval and chagrin in my mother’s future. I can hear her now, embarrassed to go to the grocery store in case someone who knows her also knows me and also knows about that whole drinking thing, which was much better swept under the rug, like women did in her generation.

Best epitaph ever: She Never bothered her neighbors. 

(Someone out there remind to take down this post around publication time.)

No matter. I’m on a roll.

Calling All Angels

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A decade ago, I used to listen to this song over and over again. My kids got so sick of it. It’s the theme from the movie, “Pay It Forward,” where Helen Hunt plays a mother with an addiction to alcohol. I prayed to the saints and the archangels too, and anyone who would listen. I even prayed to Michelangelo, who I thought was a saint. It turns out I’d just heard the name over and over on Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtles. It didn’t matter. The lyrics so exactly capture where I was at the time.

Calling All Angels.

(After blaring ad, it takes a few seconds for the soundtrack to start.)

I’m Sick : (

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I’ve got a week-long virus, apparently. I just wanted to let those wonderful people who have either emailed me or commented on my blog or posted blogs that I want to read to please forgive my (temporary) absence. I’ve been busy laying on the couch, binge-watching The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel.

And with a cold, cough, insomnia, a fever, and general achiness, I still feel WAY BETTER than when I used to have those hangovers from hell.

💕  Shawna

A Drinking Story

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What’s Your Story?

Mine runs something like this: I had a great childhood, though I grew into an anxious adolescent. By high school, I was pretty much OK. Going to college, however — that place of higher learning — changed that.

I hadn’t experienced much of the drinking culture in my small hometown. Instead, I jogged and played tennis and painted and went to movies. I was shocked at first, and then gradually drawn in to the almost nightly ritual of going out. The habit of drinking instead of doing other things was formed here, as was the feeling of being truly lost. The two went together, although I couldn’t see it at the time.

If life can be described as navigating a river, then I started to hit the occasional rapid. Sometimes it was exhilarating — flailing about in the raft, trying to get myself back into the flow of the river, and sometimes it was scary, not knowing what might happen next. Sometimes, without warning, I was thrown from the raft completely. Then life became more like survival.

Still, for most of the journey, I traveled with everyone else on the river, especially with other fun people with floating coolers. You can go a lot of places with these people. You can tie your raft to theirs. You can ride the rapids together. You can befriend them, marry them, and have children together. Then you won’t feel so alone — so afraid when the next rapid hits.

So the end of the story goes like this: I went in way over my head eventually, and began to experience some near-drownings. But as is the nature of addiction, I was less afraid of the dark swirling water when I had alcohol flowing through my veins. Soon, I had to drink during the calm parts of the river, just to anesthetize myself from the stress of being out of control. I was no longer sure where I was headed. Part of me didn’t care.

But as luck would have it, I began to link the rough waters and terror and loss of control with the alcohol itself, and not the river. I began to see what a mind-game the whole thing was — drinking to prevent or survive the effects of drinking. I recognized this, and could talk a good game about why I needed to quit. But I didn’t quit for long.

After decades of living like this, slowly making my way downstream, I could see the foreshadowing of how one might die while drinking on the river. It would happen sooner or later, either by declining health or by being flung one last time into the cold, rushing water. And on some deep level — one that barely registered in my wine-addled brain — I knew the choice of how the story ended was mine.