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I’ve been going to AA meetings for fifteen years and I love them. I always feel better after attending an AA meeting then I did before. I might be having a really difficult day, but I know that if I attend a meeting feeling down, I will walk out feeling uplifted. I didn’t always know this would be the case. Wisdom comes with age. What makes someone instantly feel better after hanging out with a bunch of random people they don’t know? Why would anyone go to a meeting just to tell everyone their problems and declare that they can’t control their drinking? Hell, what actually happens at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting? There are so many pre-conceived notions about alcoholism and AA that I hope to shine some light on what AA meetings are actually like. Hopefully, I can diminish any fear that would keep someone from attending. I’ve learned that fear keeps people sick for an extremely long time. Getting your butt into an AA meeting sooner rather than later can save your life. Things that do happen at AA meetings: When someone walks into an AA meeting for the first time they will see chairs for everyone to sit. All are welcome. There might be tables with different AA literature on them or no tables at all. AA members will most likely be chatting away with each other, laughing, and having an enjoyable time. One of us might say hello to you and reach out to shake your hand. We will most likely introduce ourselves and ask your name. We won’t ask if you’re an alcoholic or if you have a problem with alcohol. We might point out the table of snacks and coffee. Most of us love coffee and snacks but it’s ok if you don’t. Once the meeting starts the secretary ( a person who has at least a few weeks of sobriety) will read through a preamble of what AA is and give a little bit of information about the specific meeting you are attending. Information like what type of meeting it is (speaker, discussion, etc..) and what days of the week it meets. The secretary will ask if this is anyone’s first AA meeting that would like to be recognized. You do not have to raise your hand. However, if you do raise your hand, all you have to do is say hello and your name. You do not have to say that you are an alcoholic. Once the formalities of the meeting have started the secretary will then introduce the speaker (a person that has worked the 12 steps of AA) or ask for topics that people would like to discuss. At this point you can sit back and relax. Listen to the speaker or listen to the comments of those in the room. At the end of the meeting the speaker will read a statement reminding everyone that meetings are Anonymous and to please keep it that way. Alcoholics come from all walks of life, all races, both genders and all ages. We come from different economic backgrounds and hold many different professions. A founding part of AA is never to break the anonymity of someone that you see at a meeting. Unfortunately addicts and alcoholics are still harshly judged, and it could mean the loss of a job or some other catastrophic event if someone’s anonymity is broken. The last part of any meeting consists of the secretary asking the group members to hold hands and say a prayer. You do not have to participate during the prayer if you don’t feel comfortable. AA is not bound to religion; it is a spiritual program. Things that Don’t happen at an AA meeting: Walking into an AA meeting can be awkward the first time. If you are heading to one, most likely you are struggling with alcohol and going through some rough times in your life. No one that’s happy, content and having a fine time in the game of life decides to randomly attend an AA meeting. Don’t let the fear of the unknown or any pre-conceived notions about AA stop you from attending a meeting if you are struggling. See for yourself what we are all about and then decide if you want to come back or not. You will not be asked to share your story at an AA meeting. You are not required to say your name and that you’re an alcoholic. You might not be one. That’s for you to find out, not for any AA member to tell you. You do not have to share a comment or tell anyone anything about yourself. If people are commenting on a topic and it’s your turn to talk, you can simply say your name and that you pass. Everyone will smile and look to the next person to speak. Essentially you don’t have to do anything at an AA meeting except listen and be respectful to others. The best advice I can give is to listen to others and look for the similarities in their stories, not the differences. You’re going to feel uncomfortable; we all did when we first walked through the doors of our first meeting. However, when you enter an AA meeting you will find the most compassionate and kind people in the world. Alcoholics are some of the best people I have ever met in my life. They understand me better than my blood relatives and without them I would surely be dead or in jail. If you or someone you love has a problem with drugs or alcohol, please look at these resources. Recovery resources: Alcoholics Anonymous: https://www.aa.org/ Narcotics Anonymous: https://na.org/

The kitchen was almost entirely white, white cabinets, white walls, and white countertops. The floor was made of white ceramic tiles, even the appliances were white. The only color in the entire room came from the wooden butchers block in the middle. Angie smiled at the warm brown color of the wooden block; she was glad to see something inviting within the confines of the white kitchen. However, she wouldn’t be smiling if she knew what it’s purpose would end up serving. Angie’s nerves were on fire, although she had an idea, she didn’t know exactly what she was doing at her late grandmothers' estate. It was the evening and not having her day planned out was extremely uncomfortable for her. It was one reason Angie enjoyed her job as a lawyer, not only was each day laid out in advance, but the day itself was categorized and divided into fifteen-minute increments for her. Each billable hour broken down for every task she completed. As soon as Angie joined the law firm fresh out of college, she started to organize her time outside of work much in the same way. Her commute to and from the office took thirty-three minutes each way. Her time spent at the gym consisted exactly of one hour and twenty minutes, six days a week. She allowed herself fifteen minutes to get from the weight room floor back to her car. Technically it only took ten minutes to walk from the gym floor, grab her bag out of the locker room and get into her Mercedes, nonetheless she gave herself an additional five minutes in case someone at the gym initiated conversation while she walked past the smoothie bar on her way out. Angie’s life was a well-oiled machine and although most men didn’t appreciate her punctuality her clients did. As each year passed Angie excelled at work, winning case after case, each more difficult than the last. Slowly making a name for herself among her peers. She dove headfirst into her career. Angie wasn’t concerned with the lack of men in her life, largely because she hadn’t met a man in which she was interested. It also wasn’t that the men weren’t interested in her. Angie’s dark brunette hair, slim build and delicate features turned many heads, however after dating a few boys in college she realized that she was much happier at home on her own, reading, studying, or watching T.V. It wasn’t that she disliked men, she dated a few genuinely nice boys in college, but no one that she fell head over heels for. None of that mattered because there was something in her life that she cared deeply for. In fact, it’s safe to say that Angie cared more about this one thing then probably anything else. It was one of the first nights she spent in the apartment she rented after law school. It was frigid outside. Angie’s furnace wouldn’t stop running, desperately trying to heat her tiny apartment. Angie sat in an old recliner she brought with her from college. She was wrapped in a thick fuzzy blanket when she heard the soft cries on her back porch. Angie opened her door and looked to the right spying a small tabby cat, shivering, and meowing under her shrubs. Angie scooped him up, brought him inside and fell madly in love. She named him Mr. Pickle Paws, but mostly calls him Mr. P. Having Mr. P curled up beside her while she finished typing notes for work or watching a crime documentary was the best way to spend an evening as far as Angie was concerned. Angie checked her watch, 1:08pm. Her grandmother’s executor Dan was eight minutes late. Her grandmother had passed away almost a year ago. That's when Angie discovered she and a distant cousin were listed in the will. Dan reached out to Angie explaining that he was working through the estate, gathering insurance policies, and sorting through investments her grandmother had at the time of her death. He told her that he would be in touch soon as these items took a long time to work through, especially since the will had multiple beneficiaries. Add in the fact that her cousin one of the beneficiaries, Martha lived in another country, Angie wasn’t sure which, and the entire process had drug on. “Angie, there you are, I’m sorry to keep you waiting.” Dan’s voice flooded the kitchen behind her. “It’s ok, I was just sitting here admiring the kitchen and it’s classic look.” Angie tried to force a smile. “Ah yes, your grandmother kept it true to the Tudor style, updating when needed but never deviating from the original look. Dan smiled. “It’s still so sad that she passed, especially so young.” “She was ninety-eight” Angie couldn’t help but laugh. I think she lived an exceptionally long life.” Dan looked at her, his smile starting to fade, as an edge of anger flashed into his eyes. “Youth is in the heart, it’s much more than a number.” Before the tension in the room could get any worse, they were interrupted by the sound of a woman’s high heels clicking against the ceramic floor. They both turned in unison as a beautiful young woman walked in. She wore a white pencil skirt and a white blouse. The only color on her body were the emerald-green stilettos that made her entrance known. “Martha! Dan cooed. He immediately rose, clasped her hands in his and kissed her on both cheeks. “Daniel, it’s such a pleasure to see you again.” Martha spoke in a smart British accent. “I just wish it wasn’t under these terrible circumstances.” Martha looked around the kitchen and started to tear up. “Oh, it’s just like I remember it. This kitchen was her pride and joy, why did she have to leave us so soon?” She looked towards Dan who nodded his head solemnly. She was so young!” Martha wept. Angie couldn’t believe her ears. So young, were these two mad? “Um, she was ninety-eight. She didn’t have many health problems; I think she had a wonderfully long life.” Angie said. Martha and Dan whipped their heads around towards Angie and glared. After what seemed like an eternity Martha’s face relaxed, she extended her hand and said, “You must be Angela”? Angie reached out to shake her hand and noticed Martha’s long white manicured nails. She felt a shiver go down her spine. “Ladies, please sit.” Dan showed them to a large table with a few white stools placed around it. As the women sat Dan walked over to a tea kettle and poured three cups of steaming tea. He placed them on a serving table with milk and sugar and brought them back to the two women. Angie quickly picked up one of the teacups and started to sip the warm liquid. It was so cold in the kitchen and too late in the evening, she couldn’t bear it. Angie wished desperately that she were at home with Mr. P curled on her lap. Her sweet boy wasn’t feeling well, and she didn’t like leaving him. Angie flinched at her own thought, not feeling well wasn’t exactly the truth. Mr. P needed an extremely expensive surgery to fix a genetic defect in his small intestine, that he had been born with. There were only two veterinarians that knew how to perform the surgery on a cat, it was a new procedure that had been remarkably successful thus far. One veterinarian was located in New York City and the other in Europe. Angie had contacted the New York doctor, sending him all of Mr. P’s medical history and past procedures. After looking over the medical file the surgeon told Angie that Mr. P was a perfect candidate for the surgery, and that because of his age he would live many more years as a healthy cat once the intestinal trac was fixed. When the vet told Angie his fee to perform the surgery, she almost fainted. Even with her lawyers salary it was outrageous. Once she added in the travel costs associated with the trip, the expensive medicine he would need to prepare for the surgery and the surgery fee there was no way that she could afford it. As devastated as Angie was, she just didn’t have the money. “Angela, are you paying attention? “Martha stared at her in disbelief. “Yes, I’m so sorry, I just was thinking about my cat. He’s at home and he’s sick. I want to get back to him as quickly as I can. Martha sighed, her disappointment apparent and turned her attention back Dan. “Daniel, please go on.” “We are all here today to go over your grandmother’s estate. As you know the two of you are listed as a beneficiary, but you might not know that you both are the only heirs to her estate. He paused taking in a deep breath. Your Grandmother left the two of you everything. Angie tried to subdue her shock and the smile that was slowly creeping onto her face. Could this really be happening she wondered? Angie felt sad when she learned her grandmother had passed, but in all honesty, she hadn’t known her grandmother very well. Angie’s own mother had distanced herself and Angie from her mother years ago and Angie only remembers one previous time she was in the house that she found herself in now. To call it a house wasn’t doing it justice. It was in fact a mansion. It was over 15,000 square feet and sat on 5 acres of land. It took Angie twelve billable minutes to walk from the driveway where her car was parked to the kitchen she sat in now. Plus, her grandmother was ninety-eight years old when she died. Compared to Angie’s mom who died of breast cancer at fifty-nine her grandmother had an extraordinary long life. One of two heir’s how could this be? What did this even mean? Angie was doing well in her career, but she still had her student loans she was paying on, she was living in a tiny apartment and driving a used Mercedes. It was a nice car, but honestly, she had bit off more than she could chew when she purchased it. Although Angie enjoyed staying home in the evenings, it was easy to because she didn’t have the extra money to go out even if she wanted. She had even thought of selling the car when she received Mr. P’s diagnosis, but when she looked at how much she would get for the used car it wasn’t enough to buy another car and pay for the surgery. It wasn’t near enough. Angie was pulled back into reality when she noticed Martha glaring at her. Angie immediately wiped off any trace of a smile that had made it onto her face. “So, she left us everything, what is the actual amount, and what do you need from us in order to collect it?” Angie asked, her lawyer brain taking over. “Everything has been evaluated, and if the two of you decide to sell everything in the house, we can get it to auction within the week. I can only guess as it will all be auctioned off but everything except the house itself as has been appraised for 10.2 million dollars.”Dan sighed and looked down. He was obviously distraught and close to Grandmother Angie thought. “The house is another issue in and of itself.” Both women listened as Dan spoke. Your grandmother loved this house, over the years she hosted many parties and played all sorts of games here. “Dans eyes shot over to the butchers block and back to the ladies. Martha had large tears rolling down her cheeks as she nodded in agreement. Games, Angie thought. What are these two talking about? And why is Martha nodding along. Had she been invited to the parties and played the games? “Your grandmother states very clearly that whoever wants to keep the house and live in it will get the house outright and all other items will be split ninety percent to the owner of the house and ten percent to the other beneficiary. Do the two of you understand? Dan asked. This is important, ninety percent will be given to whoever lives in and owns the house while the ten percent will be given to the other person.” “How, how do we agree on who gets the house and thus the ninety percent of the remaining estate?” Martha finally spoke up after wiping away her tears. Her eyes were red rimmed and puffy now. “Therein lies the final game. If both of you want the house, then you must give up something you cherish greatly. He eyes the butchers block again. Come over here.” The three of them walk over to the butcher block. “You must pay in flesh and blood.” Dan says matter of fact. “What, are you talking about? Angie demands. This is insane. What do you mean?” Dan’s smile returns as he continues. “You’re sweet grandmother always felt that the generations after her didn’t know anything about sacrifice, and she wasn’t going to just hand over her entire estate to two grandchildren who didn’t work for it. Therefore, she wants flesh and blood from either one of you, or both. Whoever gets the house must give more blood then the other wishes too. You can start with anything at all, a tooth perhaps, or a finger, whatever you like. Cut it off and toss it to the side of the butcher block. You will take turns, back and forth. Whoever gives up first loses the house and walks away with ten percent of the estate, for their troubles. Whoever wins, gets house, as well as ninety percent the estate.” “I don’t want any part of this, I’m leaving. I don’t care if I only get ten percent, that’s more than enough.” Angie turns to walk away from them both. She didn’t need millions of dollars; with her ten percept she would have enough money to save Mr. P. that’s all that she cared about, saving her cat. Now that her mother had passed, he was all she had left. “Wait! Dan calls to her.“I need to tell you the terms of the will.” Angie doesn’t want to listen; she doesn’t want to turn around. But there is something that keeps her in the kitchen. She suddenly thinks of her mom when she was in the hospital bed and her mother’s words come rushing back to her. “Angie don’t feel bad for me. I had fifty-two wonderful years. I had time to build a family, time to enjoy my job, I traveled and of course I had my wonderful pets.” What could the term be, what awful thing could Angie’s grandmother have put into her will? “What is it?” Angie hurdles her words in Dan’s direction. “Whoever gives up the house and the ninety percent earning, will get the remaining ten percept that they are due. However, if they refuse to play the game, they won’t get it until their seventy fifth birthday. Dan say’s with a twinkle in his eye. What can I say, your grandmother had such a lively soul she didn’t want the money in the hands of someone so young and careless, someone not willing to work for it, not willing to give a little blood for it.” Angie’s shoulders slump. What was she to do? How could she ever live with herself knowing that she was too scared and selfish not to save her beloved Mr. Pickle Paws. Her cat meant the world to her, and the veterinarian was renowned. He was the best in his field. He assured her that this surgery would save her darling cat and even if it didn’t how could Angie not at least try to save him? Angie turned her head and for the first time really looked at Martha. Martha was slightly taller than Angie, probably 5’7. She was thin and although she was pretty Angie could tell that it wasn’t a natural beauty. She couldn’t have been much younger then Angie herself, at most twenty-seven or twenty-eight where Angie would turn thirty-one next summer. Martha was pretty, but her look was reminiscent of many women her age. Angie could tell that Martha had already had Botox injections and probably a handful of other procedures. When she cried earlier, she cried real tears, but her expression remained frozen in place. Matha wasn’t thin from the gym like Angie was either, she was the product of good genetics. Angie doubted that Martha every lifted a weight in her life nor would she become overweight as she aged, she wouldn’t have to work in order to keep the pounds off as her frame was small and delicate. In that respect Martha was lucky and would most likely always be thin. Angie on the other hand was toned and muscular, from the hours she spent at the gym each week. Her muscles had definition thanks to the laps she swam and the hours she slaved away lifting dumbbells over and over again. Angie lost her mother, she lived alone, and she had gone through challenging times in her life. Angie was a survivor; she could win this game. Thinking of her sweet cat Mr. P at home waiting for her to return, Angie’s decision was made. She turned, walking back to Dan and Martha. She picked up one of the knives next to the butcher block and laid her hand down on the surface. “It’s only a fingernail, I’m willing to give it up.” Angie looked directly into Martha’s eyes as she used the knife to slice off the tip of her left pinky finger. What about you?

Life changes in the moments that we least expect. Coming on suddenly like a rainstorm on a summer day. This week my heart went from being filled to left almost empty in the blink of an eye. Am I being ridiculous and over the top? Maybe. However, knowing that I’m overreacting does not change the feelings of loss as they sweep over me during everyday tasks. I’m continually pulled back to this past Monday morning wishing I could re-do it all. Wishing I would have stopped, been silent until I worked out the lie, I should have told. However, we all know that as much as we might want, we cannot go back in time, therefore I live with my choice and trudge on. “Mom, I want to talk to you downstairs.” My eleven-year-old son asked innocently enough. It was early in the morning; he was getting ready to put on his coat and walk to the bus stop. Glancing at my watch I realized I had enough time before the bus arrived to talk to him, so I followed him downstairs, glancing back at his stepfather, my husband, with a shrug. As we arrived in the basement my son walked in the direction of the Elf on the shelf and said“They have candy that I noticed you had hidden in the cupboard, how did that happen?” There was an accusatory hint in his tone. We had been here before, his older sister questioning me about the look of the Elves. They are in fact stuffed decorations. She questioned what they were made of, how they moved, the list going on and on. The times he asked I was always able to brush it off and make something up. I even wondered if my son really knew they weren’t real because one time he shushed his older sister and told her that she would ruin the fun if she kept asking if they were real or not. I figured at this point that he was playing along to some extent as well, enjoying the wonders of the season. Why not play along? In our house we had two elves, one for each child. My stepmother bought the first one for my daughter when she was one or two, and a few years later when my daughter started asking why there was only one elf for two children, (another reason she thought they must be fake) I bought a second Elf for her little brother. Over the years the elves brought the kids candy or Christmas related items such as socks or ornaments. My son was always more into the Elves then my daughter, loving the treats they left him. In the last two years my daughter, now fourteen years old, stopped searching for the Elves as soon as she got up. My daughter and I had a conversation one day when she was asking all about the intricacies of Christmas and I asked her if she wanted me to have a serious conversation with her about what was real and what wasn’t. She thought for a moment, looked at me and replied “No, I don’t want to talk about it.” It became an unspoken knowledge between her and I. My son, however, still looked each morning and told me he didn’t want them to leave each year on Christmas day. Therefore, they continued to show up each year. As I stood in the basement caught off guard, I immediately started to think of some way to explain the candy and keep his belief alive. At the same time, I remembered the conversation with my daughter. Should I ask him if he wanted to know the truth? Just then another conversation I had with my husband about my son starting to grow out of being a boy and maturing into a young man. All of these thoughts came to me in the blink of an eye and swirled maddingly in my head. “Do you want me to tell you the truth?” I asked him. “Yes,” My son said. “It’s the same candy I bought, I put it there. “So, the Elves aren’t real”? He asked And that is when I knew I made the wrong choice. He didn’t know, and he didn’t want to know. He had hope that I could explain why the Elves had the same candy in a way that made them real. In the moment I told him the truth part of his innocence was instantly gone. I took it away and I felt terrible. The worst part was a bit later when he came to me, cried, and told me he should have waited until later to ask me, until after Christmas instead of right now. We cried together. Somehow, I managed to get the kids to school, his sister none the wiser to what had occurred, but my day was ruined. I went through my meetings at work in a haze, somehow making it through the workday. I cried to my husband, and he listened. He told me I gave my son a wonderful gift that he would then in turn give to his children. His words helped, but I was still devastated and blamed myself. As the day went on, I replayed the scene in my head repeatedly. I concocted stories to tell him when he got home, I would make him believe again. But I knew in my heart that it wouldn’t work and even if it did, how much should I lie to keep the belief alive? The other issue I played in my head was where to go from here? I’ve read the stories on social media about parents being relieved when their kids found out the truth. I always thought I might feel similar to other parents, be glad I didn’t have to hide candy and come up with new hiding places. When the kids and I lived alone in a tiny apartment I ran out of places for the Elves to hide and I felt a surge of dread each night having to come up with someplace new. Oh, how I would welcome that anxiety now. There were also logistical issues I faced. Was I going to just stop cold turkey with 9 days left until Christmas? Would the two Elves stay seated permanently? Everything felt strange and sad. What was a fun tradition of Christmas was now gone, and I felt the loss like a hole in my chest. I knew I had to find out what my son wanted; how did he think we should proceed? I decided to write a note from his Elf asking him what he wanted to do. I used to leave notes from them all the time and I figured one more note wouldn’t hurt. The note told my son that he was now in on the “secret” and that the Elves would always be there, waiting for him to have his own children so they could return. I asked him if he wanted to continue the tradition or to have them remain as special decorations. He was to circle Yes or No. I placed the note in an envelope, with his name on it and left it next to his Elf. I knew he would eventually go back to the candy if nothing else. My daughter and I were in her bedroom later that evening when my son ran into the room to find me. He shoved a piece of paper in my hand, grinned and ran out. When I was alone, I look at it and he had circled yes. The best part was written on the top. It said, “Can I help you hide.” I sighed with relief. The next few days were still hard for me. I acknowledge they were most likely harder for me then for him. I was in a funk, and the joy of Christmas had lessened significantly. I found myself out shopping thinking what is the point? Normally I would walk through the isles looking for items to take home and have the Elf’s give, but now it didn’t matter. I was still moving the Elves, but it was different. My son didn’t have the gleam in his eyes when he found them. He didn’t tell me when they were hiding in such a difficult spot that he couldn’t find them. The longing in my chest was palpable. I wanted to go back in time. I grieved for the magic of Christmas and his belief to be back. It happened so fast. A switch had been flipped, and I wasn’t ready for it. I didn’t want the additional time back from having to hide them. I didn’t want the weight off my back of having to remember to move them. I longed for the anxiety of having to wait until the kids were asleep before moving them. Give me the lack of sleep from waking up at 2 am realizing I forgot to move them. I would take it all back in a second if I could. I found myself resenting others for being happy they didn’t have to play the game when their kids found out. I resented the reels on Instagram of parents rolling their eyes while trying to find a new spot for their Elf. Didn’t they understand when it was all over how sad it would be? I checked in with my son a few times and he told me a lot of his feelings. He said it was different going to sleep now, knowing. He also said that he had some good ideas' of how we could mess with his sister, giving her gag gifts from them and him good gifts. We made a plan that once school was out, he would take over moving them from place to place. I felt a little hope, but it was barely a flame, it could be snuffed out with the smallest brush of air. The first day of Christmas break we planned for him to “forget” to take his lunch box out of his bookbag, thus having to go downstairs after he and his sister were tucked into bed. Yes, I’ll take my fourteen-year-old still wanting to get tucked into bed as a good thing. My son snuck downstairs and as we went to retrieve his siters elf he said it felt weird. I smiled at him, put the Elf in his hand and told him I was giving the tradition to him now. He seemed to take it to heart. We hugged. He placed the Elf if her hiding spot, taking time to get her in the right spot and making sure she didn’t fall over. We left her with some gross candy as a joke. Next, he asked me about his Elf. When I said I would move it, his face fell with disappointment and said that he wanted too, so I let him. He grinned and we worked together to get his Elf all set up. As I tucked him back into bed I felt really good, better then I had since this whole terrible incident occurred. I snuggled him and told him I was happy that he was the one taking part in the tradition with me instead of his sister and I meant it. He laughed and smiled. Kids are so different, each wonderful in their own way, but this tradition belongs to my son. He cared about the Elves much more then his sister and he wants to continue the tradition. If the roles were reversed his sister wouldn’t be interested at this age. She wouldn’t care as much, which is ok. She and I have other adventures we share. This adventure belongs to my son and me. I know that although I felt better, I’m not over it yet. I’m well aware that I’m distraught because of what this symbolizes. It’s a step in the direction of becoming a man and leaving his childhood behind. While I know it’s a healthy step it is also an incredibly painful step for me to be a part of. In life there are times when we can re do something. We can choose another career if we so desire, heck even another marriage if the first one doesn’t turn out like we thought, but we can not redo or keep our children babies forever and that’s sad. Plain and simple. Many years ago, when my son was a toddler, he leaned into me as he was getting ready for bed and asked a terrible question. One that started to take his innocence away. He asked quite simply if dying was real. It killed me when I knew I had to tell him the truth. I snuggled him, my arms wrapped tightly around him as silent tears fell down my cheeks. “Yes, I whispered, yes dying is real.” Now years later more tears fell as I had to tell him that “No the Elves aren’t real.” Dear God, how I wish the opposite were true. Why can’t it be that that dying is fake and the magical sweet Elves are real. As this year comes to a close, I realize that there were two significant events that have reminded me to appreciate what I have, as it can change in a blink of an eye. Living in the present day is one of my biggest struggles, but I’ve once again been reminded to do so. This week has been incredibly hard, however tonight when I passed the torch to my son, as we smiled and laughed together when he moved the Elves I remember to live in the moment. I will enjoy the light feeling in my chest with the knowledge that the Elf on the shelf era lives on, only differently. Merry Christmas.

“Slow down, if you keep drinking that you’ll get intoxicated” The volunteer said with a grin. I froze with my paper cup full of water. It was halfway to my lips. At least I thought it was water. I just downed a full cup and started to fill another when the volunteer brandished this warning to me. The large thermos of liquid was placed next to snacks and post-race refreshments. It tasted like water, but in reality, I was so exhausted from my five and a half hour failed ultra marathon that I could have easily downed almost anything that was put in front of me and not have been wiser. I have fifteen years of sobriety; did I just throw it all away due to my lack of attention? Even worse would the cravings all come back to me? Would my disease, much stronger now than before, hold me hostage while the devil himself smiled outside my cell? What had I just done? Logically I knew it was highly unlikely that there would be alcohol at a post-race aid station, but the fear was there, quickly overtaking me. I’m not an ultra-runner, see the above paragraph where I say, “failed attempt.” But this race was the first ultra I signed up for and I made it halfway through. I just completed the first 25k (sixteen mile) loop of a two-loop course 50k (total 32 miles) however I wasn’t allowed to start the second loop because I didn’t make the cut off time of the first loop. I was one minute late. Yes, you read that right, I missed the cut off time to keep running by one minute. Why was I here? I wondered. I was exhausted, cold, and sweating all at the same time. Bruised from hiking and running in a random forest two hours from my house. The icing on my miserable cake was that even though I ran/hiked/crawled for the last five and a half hours I only made it halfway. I would not be returning home an ultra-runner. I also wouldn’t be recovering in my warm bed with my best friend. A few months prior I lost my cat of seventeen years. It was a devastating blow to my life that was ripe with change. I moved in with my amazing husband and as we started to blend our families together change ran rampant. It was wonderful and all-consuming at the same time. Within two months my beloved companion passed of old age. The loss a felt was palpable. Gone were the nights of my cat snuggling on my lap while I unwind from my day. During this time, I started running every day, hoping to busy my mind and focus on something besides what I lost. As I ran, I signed up for 5k and 10k races just to do something on the weekends. I hoped to give myself relief from the loss I had and if nothing else to distract myself. At some point in those first few weeks I decided to run an ultra-marathon, because why not? I needed something to focus on. I’ve finished a few half marathons and one full marathon. As the mental pain enveloped me, I decided the physical pain of running 32 miles wouldn’t be anything I couldn’t manage. At best maybe I could finish the race and have accomplished something few others have all the while taking my mind off my furry friend. I downloaded a running app and clicked the 50k (thirty-two miles) race training plan. For the next four months a ran. I ran a few miles almost every day and, on the weekend, I ran anywhere from thirteen to eighteen miles. I joined Facebook ultra-running groups and learned all I could about proper fuel and nutrition. I became obsessed. I doubted myself many times but regardless of that doubt I picked a race in November and signed up. It was a trail race, and although I wasn’t running trails, I thought I would be fine. Honestly, it didn’t matter if I was fine or not. I didn’t really care what I was getting myself into physically because every single post I read about ultra running told me that ultra’s are mostly mental. Yes, we need to fuel and train but everyone agreed at some point you will be exhausted, that’s when the mental part kicks in. I reached out to a few race directors inquiring about their specific races. The race I ended up choosing had a director who told me it was a great first ultra and as long as I added hills to my training, I would be fine. Therefore that’s what I did. I added in a few hilly runs. What I didn’t realize until I was in a forest months later was that trail races in reality should be called hikes. Because that is what they are. I should mention that I hate hiking. I knew the course was two sixteen-mile loops, and you could only start the second loop if you completed the first in a specific amount of time. I did the math and as long as I was running fifteen-minute miles I would be good to start the second loop and finish in time. I was running an average of twelve min miles during my long training runs therefore I wasn’t concerned that I wouldn’t make the cut off. I had plenty of wiggle room. Even a cold three weeks before the race didn’t deter me. I was completing this ultra-marathon for my cat. It sounds stupid but that was my plan. As I got into the first few miles of the race I started to panic. I quickly realized that this “trail” was a hike. I also observed the other participants running differently then I. The trail path was thin, and the dirt formed a V shape. The other runners put each foot on the side of the ground while I was going slowly one foot in front of the other, almost like walking a tight rope. When I tried anything different, I stumbled and almost fell. Next came the “hills.” There were about three or four hills I had to climb up onto using my hands and feet. These were the extreme hills. The majority of the race twisted throughout the forest, making it almost impossible to run. What the hell kind of race was this? I kept envisioning my ankle rolling to the side and snapping in it two. I tripped more times then I could count but somehow managed not to break anything. As I ran I didn’t think about my cat due to all of my mental effort focusing on keeping my bones intact. I also wasn’t fueling properly because I couldn’t get to any of the food I had as I tripped through the forest. I was losing electrolytes and felt terrible. After five and a half hours I came to the close of the first loop. I was back where I started. I checked in with the race coordinator and he confirmed what I already knew. I missed the cut off time. What I didn’t know was that I missed it by one minute. When I heard how close I was the salesman in me wanted to start talking. I knew I could convince him to let me start the loop a second time, but I also knew that it wasn’t safe for me to do so. I narrowly escaped broken bones when I was fully rested. Staring the second loop completely exhausted would have meant injury. I forced myself to smile, thank him and walk over to my husband who had been patiently waiting for me like the amazing man he is. I grabbed a few snacks and gulped down my glass of water, getting ready to refill it when I heard “Slow down, if you keep drinking like that, you’ll get intoxicated.” I froze. “Um, ha ha, that’s funny” I stammered sweat pouring off my brown from anxiety. “It’s water, right? I mean there isn’t any alcohol in it?” “No, no alcohol. I was just messing with you.” The volunteer said smiling. I could breath again. Thank God. In that instant the fear and anxiety dissipated. I was safe. My demons would have to wait another day to attack me. “Oh good, I don’t drink so I had to be sure.” “Have you always not drank?” he questioned As soon as the words left his tongue, I knew he and I were the same. I can’t explain it but if you’re an alcoholic in recovery you get it. “No, but I haven’t drank for the last 15 years.” I smiled. “Oh, that’s great, I’ve been sober for 25 years. The drinking almost killed me.” He said. I smiled and suddenly the lady standing behind the snack table said. “Me either I’ve got seven years sober.” The man and I both turned to her and smiled. “Congratulations”! We said in unison. The three of us chit chatted for a few more minutes and then I excused myself to get back to my husband. I told him excitedly about the exchange, however as a nonalcoholic he didn’t understand the importance of what had just occurred. Which is okay. I sat in the car feeling my legs begin to cramp, and I thought about all that had occurred. Even though I did not finish my first Ultra I didn’t care much. I didn’t train for a trail race, so how could I be upset with myself for not finishing? I could be angry at myself for not investigating the race, but I already ran through those thoughts. Hell, I had five and a half hours to think about it during that stupid hike. The part that I hadn’t known until I spoke with those two souls waiting for me at the finish line was that our five-minute conversation made the entire race and the months of training worth it. Finding those two gave me the knowledge that I was supposed to be there. If not for them just as much as for me. What about my cat Scooter? Did this race erase the pain of losing him? Of course not. Do I still miss him? Sometimes more than ever. Grief often comes to me whenever I’m in a stressful situation, perhaps it’s because I know that I don’t have him to ease my stress anymore. However, running did help. I found the further I ran during one run the less I thought of him. I was too focused on nutrition, exhaustion and making one foot move in front of the other. He was with me though because in times of true fatigue, I would think of him, knowing that if I were able to breathe through his last moments on earth, I could finish the damn mile I was running. Am I bummed that I’m not an official ultra runner? I sure am. Was it worth running through sixteen miles of forest so that I could share a laugh with a fellow alcoholic? Yes. If your in recovery or if you need to be in recovery know that you are not alone. You’ve got angels around every corner just waiting and wanting to help you. Remember that you might just find them in the oddest of places. Recovery resources: Alcoholics Anonymous: https://www.aa.org/ Narcotics Anonymous: https://na.org/

Even as a teenager, Kendra knew she drank differently than her friends and by the time she was in college she discovered two startling facts. “ I knew two things my senior year of college. The first thing was that Alcoholics were hopeless, rarely did they ever quit drinking. Instead, they lived miserable sad lives, ruining everything they touched. The second thing I knew without a doubt was that I was an alcoholic.” As Kendra moved through her life, she tried to keep her disease at bay. She graduated college, learned how to box, started her own business, and got married. However, when her drinking finally hit an all-time high, causing everyone in her family to abandon her, she realized she had to get help. Kendra’s journey to get and stay sober was not an easy one. Juggling financial hardship, a failed marriage and being the sole provider of her two children, all the while putting sobriety above everything else. Whether it was getting sober, testifying in court, or trying to melt the heart of a broken man. Every obstacle she overcame showed Kendra that she was morphing into a better version of herself. What started off as choosing the hard path to survive Alcoholism turned into seeking out difficult situations to become the woman she was meant to be. Kendra’s story will take you on a roller-coaster of emotions. There will be tears, anger, laughter, and joy as Kendra rebuilds her life from the damage that was self-inflicted, and the damage she suffered from others. You’re invited into the most intimate of life’s situations that many of us face. All the while unearthing the alcoholic mind and its many idiosyncrasies. Behind These Eyes: My Journey through Alcoholism, Fear and Uncertainty is more than a memoir, it is a story about learning to embrace the hurdles life throws at us to become the person we are truly meant to be. #sobriety #alcoholism #memoir

The holidays are upon us! This is the time when we are surrounded by our amazing family, and best friends. Most of us are walking along the snow-covered streets singing Christmas carols, or at home making baked goods from scratch and feeding the squirrels as they scamper by. Right? Ha, not in my world. My reality looks a little like this. I’m currently sick with a cold that includes laryngitis, my family and I bicker about random stuff that’s truly unimportant and I want to spend time with my friends but in reality, just finding a day and time to meet outside of life’s obligations make it probable that I won’t be seeing any friends over the holidays. Did I mention that I haven’t even started Christmas shopping yet? If all of those regular things weren’t enough to deal with during the holiday season, I need to remember that my disease (Alcoholism) is lurking in the corner waiting to sucker punch me from behind. It just happens to be dressed in flannel pajamas this time of year. If any of this resonates with you fear not, here are four tips to stay sober over the holidays. Tip Number One. Have an exit strategy. This was very important to me in early sobriety and honestly still applies today. If you decided to attend a function where you know there will be alcohol there then you need to have an exit plan on the off chance you get too uncomfortable. Your exit plan need not be elaborate either. It can simply mean recognizing the fact that you have the ability to walk out of the party at any given time. You can say that you don’t feel well, or that you are stopping at another function. It doesn’t matter what you say, what matters is feeling comfortable to grab your coat and walk out the door at any moment. Having a sober friend attend the gathering with you is a great idea. There is strength in numbers. This isn’t always an option though, so be ready to dash anytime you need to even if you are on your own. If you’re worried about offending the host don’t. I guarantee the host would rather you ditch out early than get drunk, knock over their great aunt’s crystal vase and ruin the entire party. Personally, I suggest staying away from gatherings where everyone will be drinking as the main event. You know what I’m talking about. These are the Christmas parties that are an excuse to have a party, so the host puts the word Christmas in front of it. This is the place that no one would care if you got drunk and knocked over the tree, they would be happy you did it before they did. You know what I’m talking about. Stay away from these places just like you would on any other day of the year. Don’t let the word Christmas fool you as you know what is really at play. Tip Number Two: Have your sponsor on speed dial and be ready to text, or call. One of the first parties that I went to in early sobriety was at my mom’s neighbor’s house. These people were all older than I was, but they still drank. I honestly forget the reason I attended but I remember jumping into their spare bedroom to call my sponsor. She was great and just hearing her voice made me relax and calm down. It doesn’t have to be your sponsor who you call. It can be anyone who knows that you are sober and is supportive of you maintaining sobriety. Tip Number Three: Carry a nonalcoholic beverage in your hands at all times. I was always amazed at how most people rarely asked if I wanted something to drink as long as I had a glass in my hand. As alcoholics we have to remember that we are the ones obsessed with drinking, not others. Many times, the host is simply trying to be a good host when they ask if they can get you something to drink. However, this simple question throws those in early sobriety for a loop. I know it did me. The good news is that the longer you’ve been sober the easier this question gets. I do not even think about it now when someone asks me if they can get me a drink, I answer easily and choose a nonalcoholic beverage. When your newly sober being asked what you would like to drink is terrifying. A million emotions run through you. Try to relax and remember that we are the ones concerned with drinking not the person asking. You can simply tell them what nonalcoholic drink you want. Or as I mentioned, as soon as you get to the party grab a glass of water, or ask for a soda, coffee, or tea so that you will have something in your hands. Keep it with you for the remainder of the evening. If someone asks you if you need a drink or a refill just smile, look at your glass and say, “I’m good.” Tip Number Four: You don’t have to go anywhere you don’t feel comfortable. This is your life. You don’t owe anyone anything. Alcoholics like to beat ourselves up for all of the terrible things that we used to do when we were drunk. We know that we hurt people, let people down and hurt ourselves. The list goes on and on. However, as we work the 12 steps of Alcoholics Anonymous, we realize that we are healing and that we must put our sobriety above everything, for if we don’t, we will lose whatever we put above it. Therefore, do not feel bad if you decline an invitation. You would not feel bad about saying no to a drink, you might feel uncomfortable but that’s different than feeling bad. Saying no to an invitation is exactly the same thing. You might feel uncomfortable telling Aunt Ginny that you won’t be able to make it to the annual Christmas party this year, even though you have gone for the last 18 years in a row. It’s ok to feel uncomfortable saying no, we aren’t used to it. However, don’t ever feel bad for putting your sobriety first. If you have any other tips that helped you in early sobriety leave them in the comments below. Looking for more tips on hot to stay sober? Check out another blog post here: https://www.sobrietysister.com/post/two-tips-for-those-in-early-sobriety #sobertips #holidays #christmas #AA

What should I bring with me? This was not the first time I asked myself or a fellow companion this same question. I answered this question countless times when I was alive. Was the weather warm, would I need clothes for the gym and what about my bathing suit? Should I bring it in case there was a pool at the hotel? I spent hours picking out the right outfits to make sure I had everything that I needed, if not more then I needed. Better to have that extra shirt in case we decided to have a casual dinner instead of only having formal dinner attire. Now that I was dead these questions were rather unimportant. Plus, where I’m going, I don’t need anything. The trip I’m embarking on will not have a pool at my final destination nor will it have a gym. If humans are correct in any way about the place I’m traveling too, it will consist of fire, lava, and smoke. No need for a bathing suit.                 I looked around my room at the items I once cared about. They still had such meaning to me. My art collection, my pictures, even the designer jewelry that I was so proud of seemed utterly pointless now. Pride, ha I almost chuckled. My childhood religion lessons rushed back to me reminding me that Pride was one of the worst sins one could partake in. Didn’t someone once write that Pride was the Devil’s favorite sin? Perhaps because it was the most common?                 Irony was that I never felt prideful until the later years of my life because I was too busy sinning in a number of other ways. I never thought of myself as better than until years later. I never knew how much pride was allowed until it became too much. My younger self sinned mostly by lying which took a lot of time and patience. I had to remember what lie I told and to whom. It was exhausting. The next sin I mastered was a bit easier. After lying I graduated to stealing. Cheating everyone out of what they held dear got me what I wanted and was far easier then doing the work myself. Each time I stole it became easier still, nonetheless I was always very aware that my actions were wrong. This is one of the reasons I know my destination is headed downward instead of up. Whenever I sinned, I knew in my heart of hearts that I was doing wrong, and yet I couldn’t stop myself or maybe I didn’t want to stop myself. It doesn’t matter anymore. My sins started small but steadily grew as the years went by. I continued making the wrong choices. Don’t all atrocities start small? Hitler didn’t start off murdering Jews, it wasn’t the first thing that he did. First, he blamed the Jews for all that Germany didn’t have. He called them dirty and spinless, making the Germans view them as something less than. Something non-human. Once the minor atrocities were in place, he moved onto the major atrocities. This is essentially what I did as well. Although perhaps not on such a grand scale. When I looked at my classmate’s test and copied the answer, I knew what I was doing was wrong, and yet I still did it. Next came lying to my teachers, parents, friends and whoever else I came in contact with. What if lying was the only sin I committed? If I stopped at that point, would I be packing for a different location? Would I even have to pack, or would I be placed on a golden sleigh and told that I didn’t need material things for the trip I was about to take? I can’t help but wonder what I would be doing now. Maybe I would have drifted through time and space arriving at the beautiful kingdom that all the virtuous people travel to. Oh, how I wish I could change my life and my actions now that I’m dead. After I mastered lying and it was second nature I turned to stealing. There were times that felt bad and times that I didn’t. I started off stealing from people that were mean as it was easier for me to justify my actions. My victims were deserving of meanness, were they not? I wish I could say that I stole food so that I wouldn’t starve or that I stole a winter coat to stay warm, but this was not the case. In reality I stole for pointless reasons. Mainly because I wanted more than my share and I wanted it instantaneously, without effort. I was lazy, and self-absorbed. “Are you ready?” The whisper in my ear brought me back from my memories. I took one last look around my home. This beautifully crafted building where I spent the last few years of my life. I felt tears fill my eyes, but I struggled against them. I knew that tears wouldn’t help me now. I saw the pictures my grandchildren drew posted on my refrigerator; the stick figure drawings smudged by crayon. Now my eyes filled with tears that I couldn’t control. I forced myself to leave the kitchen into the living room and smiled at my cat sleeping in the sun. Did he know I was gone? Did he even care? “You don’t have much time” The whispered voice was in my ear again. If you’re going to bring something, get it now.” What should I bring? What do I need? How am I supposed to pack to go to a place that I’ve never been, in order to meet someone, I’ve never met? The questions whirled in my head as my gaze drifted over everything in my house. The possessions I once thought so important were all so meaningless now. The fancy handbags, the electronics, my expensive car, it all meant nothing. What about my rosary? I bought it years ago at a flea market, it was old and beautiful, warn from someone else fingers touching it while they prayed. It was worn by them not me. I shuddered. I never prayed the rosary; I only purchased it for its beauty. I sighed knowing that it wouldn’t save me now, I was too late. Any hope that I retained diminished inside me. This is it. I thought. All there was left to do was to start my journey. “I don’t need anything” I whispered and suddenly I’m surrounded by what I can only describe as darkness. I see nothing in front of me, nor behind me. Darkness doesn’t fully describe what surrounds me, it is more a sense of nothingness. No ground beneath my feet, no air to fill my lungs, no sound for my ears to hear, there is absolutely nothing. My thoughts race back and forth. Panic rises in my chest, when suddenly another memory floods my mind. I was surrounded by darkness lying next to my son in his bedroom. I couldn’t see anything since the power had gone out, and it was the middle of the night. Thick clouds covered the moon stamping out any light it normally gave. I couldn’t see my son but unlike what I was experiencing now I could hear his breath. I counted each breath as his chest rose and fell. One, two, three. Slow down I prayed into the dark night. Please slow down. He had pneumonia and the doctors told me that if he breathed more than 30 breaths in a minute, I needed to take him to the E.R. That many breaths meant that he wasn’t fully expanding his lungs allowing the air to fill the tiny sac’s within them. Shallow breaths came quickly and did little for the body. I counted, his breathing was between 22 and 25 breaths a minute. “Please God” I begged. Please have him be ok. Please have his lungs get the oxygen they need. He is so little, so young.  How could I ask such a thing? Did I really believe that my prayers would do any good? Why should God answer my prayers after all the hurt and pain that I put others through? I couldn’t slow my minds thoughts just as I couldn’t slow my sons breath. My mind raced. Growing up I was always told that if you asked forgiveness for your sins that God would forgive. It’s easy to tell children that the thing that saves them is to say they’re sorry. As a lonely, scared adult it’s easy to ask for forgiveness, but is it really enough? At one point the shame and misery became to much for me to bear on my own therefore I asked for forgiveness. It wasn’t enough that I also stopped lying, stealing, and sinning. I still lived with the guilt, and for that reason I not only asked but I begged for forgiveness. Would it be enough? I made amends to many people in my life. The ones that knew about the sins I had committed. However, I was still plagued with guilt and shame because there was one sin that only God and I knew about. It of course was the worst of them all. The second that I committed it a deep sense of dread burrowed into my heart. I knew more than any other time in my life that I had done wrong, and it ate me up inside. For years I tried to forget the terrible sin until one day I simply broke down sobbing to myself and begged for God’s forgiveness. I jerked myself back into my current state, the pain of the memory too hard for me to bear during this time. Even in death I could not escape the humiliation. I looked around and still I saw nothing. How long have I been here? I wondered. Where am I? Where is the fire, tortured souls and screaming sounds of hell that I somehow know exists? I’m cold, and alone. More alone then I’ve ever felt in my entire life. My hand flies automatically to my collarbone searching for my mother; s necklace I always wear but there is nothing there. I only feel my bones underneath thin, old skin. Suddenly I feel my skin melting at my touch. I scream, not because it hurts but because I now know this is the beginning of the eternity, I built for myself. I pull my hand away and see flesh fall from my fingers. I cry, and the wet tears wash away the skin on my face. Everything flashes in my brain all at once. Every second I lived is before me. I cry and laugh as I watch it all. There are times of such joy, and of such pain I almost don’t know how I bared to live through it. If it’s this hard to watch, how did I continue when I was alive? As fast as it starts the images flashing in my mind vanish and I’m alone again. I don’t know how long I’ve been here or laid in this nothingness. I feel no pain or sense of my physical body. My emotions are all washed out of me. I’m just here, waiting for what comes next. The blue light comes down from above like a waterfall. It flows into me and through me. It is not painful, nor does it burn me, but it is an intense feeling. Almost like I’m drowning slightly. I struggle as it fills me and pours around me creating a new ground for me to stand. I suddenly realize that I’m not alone any longer. As I peer around at my new surroundings, I see images of people I recognize. People that I’ve known a long time, maybe that I’ve known forever. But I can’t remember their names. I smile at them, as I remember that I have no lips or skin, I shrink at this realization, but they smile back. The beings propel me towards the waterfall and its terrifying. The terror is different now, it’s not a sense of dread as it was before. I’m terrified of what I don’t know. When I saw the waterfall of light, I found a seed of hope and the intensity of the water planted the hope inside me. The hope is nestled into my chest, but I can’t fully let go of my belief of what I think the truth is. Why aren’t I looking into a cauldron of death I wonder? Why hadn’t the flesh that melted off of my bones hurt? Where am I? As if on clue I hear the great voice all around me. It is everywhere and it is in everything. “How did you feel in the fortress of nothing? The Voice asks. “I was scared?” I whisper. “What were you scared of? The Voice says. “I was scared of what would happen next.” “Did you make others uncertain? The Voice roars. “Yes.” I say. “What did you feel when you saw your flesh fall from your hands?” “I felt ugly and full of shame. I was disgusted and terrified.” “Did you make others feel ugly and shameful in life?” I could barely get the words out. “Yes.” “How did you feel when you came to see the blue light? The Voice demands. “I felt hopeful.” Did you make others feel hopeful during your life? “No.” I weep. “Your last answer is wrong my child.” Scenes of my life again flash in front of me. This time slower, allowing me to understand what I’m looking at. I see myself next to my sons bed telling him to trust his mom, telling him that everything would be ok. Helping my granddaughter move into her first apartment, telling her how strong and smart she was. Finally, I see myself on my knees as a young mother asking God to forgive me, asking others in my life to forgive my wrong doings. I not only see the scenes differently this time but now I feel the hope that I gave during those times. “Rise child. You felt the pain you caused many others while you were in the fortress of nothing. You felt the uncertainty and the fear your own actions forced onto others. But now you also felt the hope you gave to others and the forgiveness that was given to you during your challenging times. You are home now. It is enough.” Love washed over me, how had this happened? I was convinced that my life would send me strait to hell. Yes, I changed, I asked for forgiveness, but I was a sinner, not a saint. How could I be forgiven? “Child you are a sinner, as is everyone. During many parts of your life, you were packing your bags to hell, but I spend more time with sinners then with saints. I heard your cries when you needed me just like you heard your child’s cries when they needed you. You went to them, reprimanded them if it was warranted and then met their needs. It is no different then what I do for my own children who call out to me asking for forgiveness. You were right when you took nothing with you to come here. You don’t need anything in Heaven. The tears are upon me and my heart is soaring. It is filled with something that words cannot describe. My questions are answered. After all I did wrong it was enough to ask forgiveness, to believe and to be willing to change. It’s enough for him.

The events that are about to occur today have been years in the making. Today is the last day that you will torture me. You have tortured me with the vilest of weapons that exist. Not a whip, nor a knife, what you used was far worse. Maybe it would have been better if you had kicked or punched me. Thrown me in a basement and starved me, if you had taken a knife and cut me, the pain would have been bad, however the wound would have healed. But you did none of these things, instead of inflicting bodily harm you used a far worse weapon against me. Your vile tongue spewed hatred and disease every single day for years. I will never forget the first day I laid my eyes on you. What a dreadful awful day! It was third period on the second day of 7th grade. I was the average awkward teenager, and my life was about to get much worse. Being in middle school was a whole different world then elementary school. I was surrounded by unfamiliar faces and was awkward in my own skin. You walked through the door late and made quite an entrance. You didn’t so much as walk but strode into class. Disrupting it as you did, however, your face showed you couldn’t have cared less. You weren’t scared of anyone or anything, at least not in our classroom. The memory of your fiery red hair trailing behind you still remains almost 15 years later. You were taller than most of us, and far thinner. The monster of adolescence you had somehow tamed. Your skin was beautiful, without any signs of acne like the rest of us. You weren’t the prettiest girl in the world but there was something about you that set you apart. You held a sense of self-confidence that is unnatural to teenagers. It was as if you knew deep in your soul that you were better then everyone else. You believed it and would make us all believe even if it killed us. You walked in, looked around at, and frowned when the teacher called your name. “Sherilyn, please take a seat at one of the open desks.” Mrs. Farrow said. The look you gave Mrs. Farrow made me shiver. Judging by your look it was more likely Mrs. Farrow called you an evil witch and asked you to remove your black cat from the classroom, when in reality all she had done was request that you choose a seat. That first day I felt sorry for you. I didn’t understand why you had such a callous expression on your face, nor did I know who placed the chip on your shoulder. It would take me years to discover the answer. As middle school progressed so did the look of distain you carried on your features. The contempt spread from your face to your entire being. You were hateful to everyone outside of your little circle of friends. I don’t believe that I ever initiated conversation with you in all of our school years together. But you certainly spoke to me, perhaps its more accurate to say you spoke at me. “Who told you that you could wear that? You spit the words out with such venom I had never witnessed before. “What do you mean? I stammered. “You can’t wear those tights; they look terrible on you. I remember staring down meekly at the plaid tights I convinced my mom to buy me. It had taken me 3 weeks of begging her and doing extra chores, but she finally relented. I paired them with black shorts and low kitten heels appropriate for school. I thought I looked mature and smiled at myself in the mirror that morning before leaving for school. I realized too late that the tights resembled the kind of fashion you liked and that meant I wasn’t allowed to wear them, since I wasn’t part of your group. Tears rolled down my cheeks that night as I hid the tights in my dresser drawer hoping my mom wouldn’t ask me about them again. In high school you continued your verbal assault on me and everyone else. You called us fat and ugly even though we were not. You laughed at us if we danced with a boy at one of our homecoming dances even when you didn’t like him yourself. You tripped us as we ran up the stairs, cackling in our faces as we pushed back tears. I distanced myself as much as I could from you. In high school it was easier since our school had so many students. It also helped that you started to pick on those in younger grades as we got closer to graduating. Do you know that the freshman you tormented for two years before she finally killed herself? You used to tell her she was disgusting and reminded her how pathetic she was. Do you remember screaming at her almost daily before class started? “You are one ugly, fat bitch Kate” Chuckles and snickers enveloped the crowd. It’s sad how many people laughed at their peer, when in reality they were laughing only because you weren’t attacking them. “Who would ever want to date you?” “Shut up Sherilyn, you’re such a bitch” Kate shot back. “Don’t you say me name. Get my name out of your disgusting mouth.” My heart sunk in my chest. I didn’t know Kate well. She was a freshman when you and I were Juniors. She seemed really nice and funny. Yes, she was overweight and a homely girl but so what? Why? Was what I always wondered. Kate wasn’t a threat to you. She wasn’t in your league in either appearance or popularity. Why did you attack her? I remember trying to figure it out as I walked to my classroom feeling terrible. I force myself to stop thinking about the past as I move slowly towards you apartment. I can’t let my emotions get in the way of my plan. Being subjected to your wrath got underneath my skin and became a permanent fixture in my body. This is what happens when someone is tormented for years by such an evil entity as you. I wonder if once this is completed and I’ve changed you if the permanent residence you’ve taken up in my mind will somehow dissipate. I think that it will. I imagine that it will work in an equivalent way as water erodes rock. By washing away, the sediment slowly. I’m almost at your apartment and I have to confess that I’m giddy with excitement. Oh, I should have done this years ago. It pains me that I lost track of you after high school. However, at the time I thanked God for not having to be around you every weekday. It was so nice to be free of your witchy voice and evil eyes that bore through me. I actually hadn’t thought of you for a long time until that fateful day at the beach. I laid on my beach towel enjoying the sun on my skin as I though about how refreshing a cold glass of iced tea sounded. Oh, how I wish I never thought of than damned tea. If I hadn’t, I could have lived the rest of my life not remembering you. I grabbed my wallet, told my husband to watch the kids and walked to the beverage sand. It was after I paid for the tea that the familiar sound of your voice pulled me back to high school within seconds of hearing it. “Cover up Millie, you can see your fat thighs.” Anxiety washed over me, and I froze, the straw between my lips. I slowly turned and there you were. You looked exactly as I remembered you. Long red hair, poker strait, tall and thin. But this time your words were directed at the most innocent of people. A small little girl, perhaps 8 or 9 stood tugging at her bathing suite trying to cover up. She looked just like you, her red hair just as strait as yours. She was skinny, almost unnaturally skinny, and here you were, telling your own daughter that she was fat. I felt the tears roll down my cheeks as I was suddenly standing in the halls of high school again. For the next 6 months I was obsessed. Searching social media in a frenzy and learning all I could about you. I even went so far as to hire a private detective to find out anything I could. Once the PI told me you now went by Sherilyn Gaws instead of Sherilyn Nessle it was easy to find out everything I needed. I found out you were married for a brief time and had a daughter. Facebook confirmed my suspicions that it was the same little girl I saw you chastise at the beach. You went through a divorce out of state and then moved back to the town where we grew up. You own a small vegan bakery and pride yourself on producing organic vegan baked goods. Which I must say taste as disgusting as they sound. You live in a two-story condominium which I have visited frequently at night. You don’t have any security at the condo and luckily for me it is free standing, so I don’t need to worry about a pesky neighbor hearing me when I break in to change you. You have a cat, and thankfully no dog or other pets. You do not have a boyfriend as far as I know, and you barely have people over besides your book club members on the first Saturday of the month. Your daughter spends 2 weeks out of the summer with her father in Georgia and she just left two days ago. I’ve spent hours thinking about what I could do to get you to change, to try to make you understand how much you hurt people and how much you were hurting your own daughter. The more I found out about you the more the hatred grew and that’s when I realized that you wouldn’t change unless you suffered some drastic fate. The private investigator used surveillance allowing us to listen to conversations at your bakery. You are nice to every single paying customer that comes in. Yet the moment you are alone with an employee or your daughter the mask you wear comes off. “Millie, you do not need another cookie. You look like a little pig. You might be skinny now but just you wait; it won't last forever. Robert, why are there two racks of brownies? Are you an idiot? I specifically told you we needed three. Is there something wrong with your brain that you cannot remember the simple tasks of your job?” The yelling goes on and on. I’ve listened to hours of your cruel antics, realizing you had to be stopped and that I was the only one that could stop you. I thought about killing you, and even fantasized about how I would do it. Unfortunately killing you is too hard to cover up. The private investigator is a problem I can’t overcome, he would turn me in as a person of interest to the police and I can’t have that. This has plagued me and after over a year of thinking through every possibility I won’t kill you, but I will disfigure you. Maybe then you will understand what it feels like to have others look at you and speak about you with disgust. A cruel smile comes to my lips as I think of the jar of gasoline that I have stuffed into my backpack. You deserve this, plain and simple. Your daughter deserves a mother who isn’t concerned with appearance only. Yes, this is an extreme way to teach a lesson but it’s the only way to get through to something like you. As I walk to the condominium, I can hear you talking. Your windows are open and although its late you are still up. That’s ok, I know you have an early day tomorrow morning, Tuesdays are aways early for you. All I have to do is wait patiently until you go to bed. You leave your windows open and rarely remember to lock your back door after letting your cat out. You have made this quite easy, it’s almost as if you know that the universe has to even out the playing field. It’s been 45 mins that I’ve waited next to your back door. Just as your turning out the lights and walking to the back door in order to let the cat out I hear your phone ring. “What?” you sigh into the phone. Something is off, your voice doesn’t have the normal distain that I’m used to hearing. I continue to listen. “I know that she has problems, ok I know that I’m the problem. I, I can’t do this anymore.” Your voice cracks. “She is almost the age I was when it happened and I’m starting to unravel.” What is this all about? I think as I step closer to your open window. I need to hear everything you are saying. “When Mom left, she told me I was the reason. She told me that if it wasn’t for me being born and changing her body into a disgusting mess Dad would have still loved her and he would never have cheated. She told me I was the reason she became old and ugly. It was her baby who broke her and aged her beyond repair. If it weren’t for me, she would still be with her husband as happy as can be.” You start to cry, and I suddenly feel that I shouldn’t be listening to this. Even though I followed you and listened to your conversations for months, this somehow is too much. But I can’t pull myself away even as I’m getting angry at myself. This isn’t fair, just because you have a bad mother doesn’t allow you to be such a bad person yourself. “She kept me in that awful room, do you remember? She lined it with mirrors and all I could do was look at how terribly ugly I was. All day I thought how I ruined everything for my parents. When Dad and I finally moved it didn’t get better. I lost my mom, even though she wasn’t a good one she was the only one I had. Every time she sent me a letter, I silently hoped that she would say that she missed me, but every letter I received she asked if I had gotten any prettier, or any thinner. When she called, she would scream at me instead of asking me about my life.” Your sobs were uncontrollable at this point, and I couldn’t make out anything else as your words became blurred by tears. I turn and start back in the direction of my car, trying to digest all that I’ve just overheard. I can’t believe this. The hatred I had for you is not the same, its mixed with sadness. I see a picture of your life and realize its different then I thought. It’s softer and its filled with a profound sense of loss. I toss my bookbag with the gasoline in a nearby dumpster before climbing into my car. As I drive home, exhaustion hits me. The time and effort I’ve invested in hating you has taken its toll. I think of my own children, and shudder when I think about the horrendous crime I almost committed. I think about you and your daughter. I hope the two of you can build a better life and think that perhaps all these years you’ve been living in your own hell that I can’t even imagine. I hope that hell can be transformed. It seems you’ve made a relationship with your daughter that’s far more painful than any punishment I could have inflicted. As I drive in the dark of night, I think about my own family at home asleep. I realize now more than ever how lucky I am to have be surrounded by people who loved me both now and when I grew up. I climb out of my car and walk to my own house; I feel a little lighter and for the first time in a long time I feel hopeful.

Sweat droplets drip down the small of my back like a leaking faucet. Drip, drop, drip, drop. The sweat isn’t confined to my back, it covers every inch of my body. The heat is stifling. I sigh and check my watch, the band sticking to my wrist. 3:45pm, the air conditioning technician is late. What was taking him so long? The customer service representative told me that even with the heat index as high as it is they were relatively slow this summer, apparently, I was one of the few with a faulting unit. She said she could get a technician out within 2 hours. That was over 3 hours ago. This is ridiculous I think, for the amount of money I pay in rent the apartment complex should have a designated air conditioning company they use. Instead, the leasing department informed me that they didn’t have a specific company on their payroll. I needed to locate and hire my own air conditioning technician. What is the point of renting, if not to be able to rely on your landlord to fix things like this when they go wrong? I have to wait, what else can I do? I need to do something to prevent myself from dialing the landlord and screaming obscenities. I pull myself up off the kitchen flood and walk to the fridge to refill my iced tea. As I refill my glass with both tea and ice cubes the familiar feelings of depression flow through me. Last year at this time I was sitting in a kitchen twice the size as the one I’m in now, reading the news off my tablet, enjoying the cool ocean breeze. What a difference a year makes. What a terrible awful difference. I long for the beautiful beach breeze of North Carolina. Yes, it was hot back home this time of the year but the air from the ocean always cooled you down. Plus, living on a waterfront property meant being in a bikini the majority of the time I was outside. Unfortunately, I wasn’t In NC anymore, I was in the Big Apple, stuffed into a tiny Manhattan apartment with a broken air conditioner. “Mam, if you don’t answer in the next 10 seconds I’m going to my next apt.” A deep voice jolts me from my memories back into my present state. “I’m here don’t leave” I nearly screech. It takes me all of 1.3 seconds to hurdle myself to the front door and pull it open. “Come in I say breathlessly. I didn’t hear you, I’m so sorry” The A/C technician is turning away as my door swings open but when he sees the desperation on my face he sighs and turns back around. “Don’t keep me waiting, I have a lot of people to see today.” He snarls. “Of course,” I say sheepishly. I’m in such a foul mood that I want to tell him he is in fact the one keeping me waiting, but as I look him over, I feel it’s best if I just show him where the A/C unit is. There is something about him that is off-putting. I show him to the corner of my tiny apartment, and he kneels on the floor, taking out his box of equipment. He’s a larger man probably in his mid-forties. His hands and forearms are muscular. Most likely from the work he does I think as I look over him absentmindedly. When he was standing, he towered over my 5’4 frame. I can tell he has muscles under his white shirt now that he is turned away from me and I can see his back and shoulders. He takes his ball cap off wiping away his own sweaty brow. As he removes the hat, I notice its wet with sweat and grime. I see there is oil, or some other thick liquid spilled on it. I shudder, realizing what a miserable job he must have. “Are you going to sit there and stare at me the entire time it takes me to fix this?” He snarls. “N, no” I stammer. “Can I get you some iced tea?” He looks me up and down making me uncomfortable. He doesn’t say another word as he pulls his gaze back to the A/C unit. I don’t know what else to do so I walk into the only other room in my apartment, the bedroom. The second room serves as my bedroom and my office all in one. I sit down at my desk. Why is this man being so mean to me? When I called the repair company the receptionist told me they were slow and that her technician would be happy to take a look at my unit. Something just doesn’t add up. I start to scroll aimlessly through my phone when I notice the local new station states that it’s the hottest day of the year so far. The hottest day of the year and my a/c unit breaks, of course that’s just my luck. I continue to scroll trying not to feel sorry for myself when I see a headline about a murdered woman found in her apartment. I shudder as I read the article. Three women have been found brutally murdered in the neighborhood just a few blocks away from mine. There is no sign of forced entry, nothing has been stolen and there is no known motive. Each of the women were stabbed in their place of residence, all of them aged in their 30’s. A cold feeling flashes through me. All of these murders happened within a mile radius of my apartment. I turned 27 weeks ago. Is this a serial killer, and if so, am I at risk? Just as I’m trying to catch my breath and talk myself down from the ledge, I hear footsteps on my wooden floor. I physically jump when the technician says “Mam.” “Yes,” I whisper as I jerk my neck around to look at him. “I need a different part; it’s in my truck.” He looks at me strangely as I nod my head, unable to say anything. Am I being ridiculous? I type rapidly on my phone, texting my best friend while the technician is downstairs getting the part he needs. Mellissa and I have been friends for about 6 weeks, but she is the only friend that I have in the city. All my co -workers are just that, co-workers. I met Melissa at a yoga class, and we’ve hung out a few times. I wouldn’t consider us great friends yet, only because we haven’t had enough time to get to know each other. But I don’t have anyone else to talk to right now. I fill Melissa in as quickly as I can via text and now, I’m waiting impatiently for her to get back to me. My WhatsApp tells me my flurry of texts has been delivered to Melissa’s phone, but she has yet to read them. In the 15 minutes that the technician has been out of my apartment my emotions have ping ponged back and forth. One moment I’ve decided not to answer my door, toss his equipment into the hallway, and tell him to leave when he returns. It’s obvious that he is the man who killed all those poor women. The next moment I want to welcome him back with open arms, thanking him for fixing my A/C unit, telling him I would have died from heat exhaustion if it wasn’t for him. I’m being an emotional basket case; I even checked the app on my phone that tells me when my period is about to start. My emotions have to be hormone induced, don’t they? Just as I convince myself that I’m being emotional due to my cycle, I revert back and justify refusing to let him back into the apartment. The irrational fear I feel is my gut instinct, survival mode is kicking in. I can’t possibly open the door for him when he comes back. I don’t care if it’s the hottest day of the year, sweating is better then being dead. My decision is finally made for me when the doorknob twists and in he walks. I didn’t even lock the door; I gasp as I run into the hallway from my bedroom. I’m such an idiot, a silly fool, I was so focused on texting Malissa I went into my bedroom without locking the door. What is wrong with me? This isn’t North Carolina, I’m in Manhattan for Christ’s sake. The technician walks directly over to my A/c unit and gets back to work. For the next 45 minutes I sit on the couch behind him as he works, praying to all the Gods I can think of but never believed in to spare me. “All done” the technician stares at me blankly. That’ll be $425 dollars even. I hand him my credit card as I hear the A/C unit kick on. I’m starting to breath easier now, feeling foolish for my thoughts. As he hands me the tablet to sign, I notice a dark stain on his nailbeds. It looks like the same liquid that I guessed was oil when he removed his ball cap to wipe his brow. But this time it looks brow, or dark red. I sign and he hands me back my card, stares at me for a moment too long, and then walks out the door. After locking the door, I fall onto my bed and let out a sigh of relief. I’m exhausted. I don’t have my phone next to me, its on the couch in my front room. I don’t check to see if Melissa ever got back to me, because honestly what does it matter now? Let her worry a little anyways, she was too busy to call a friend back in a potential life-threatening situation. I look out my window and the sun is still high. My eyes are heavy, I tell myself I deserve a short nap, finally being able to relax that I’m alone. I let myself drift into slumber as my apartment is getting colder with each passing moment. A noise in my living room wakes me from my sleep. I’m confused as I look out my window and the sun is no longer in the sky. The lights of the city illuminate my bedroom. Did I really sleep for the remainder of the day? What was the sound that woke me? The thoughts hammer my brain so much that I’m confused as I place each foot onto the wood flooring, appreciating how cool it is under my bare toes. I walk unsteadily into my living room, relaxing as I remember locking the door after the technician left earlier in the day. It might take me a little while, but I’ll get used to city living. My eyes aren’t adjusted as I just work up, so I grope my way toward the lamp. When I turn the knob, the lamp doesn’t shine brightly. I turn it again, but still, it stays dark. Is the bulb out? I try to think when I last changed it. Have I even changed it since I moved in? I shuffle over to the other side of the couch making a mental note to order bulbs off amazon as soon as I find my phone. When I turn the knob on the second lamp it doesn’t turn on either. What’s going on? I turn around towards the living room window and find the drapes have been drawn shut. My breath starts to quicken, I didn’t shut the drapes, I never do. Being on the top floor I don’t need privacy. Plus, I had the windows open allowing the air to flow before the A/C unit was fixed. I closed the windows after it was fixed but I did not pull the drapes closed. The noise comes again, this time behind me, near the door. I quickly turn and see the door is closed. It hasn’t been pushed open, there is no sign of forced entry. Involuntarily I suck in my breath remembering the news article I read about the three murdered women. No sign of forced entry it stated. But I locked the door. I remember turning the deadbolt. I’m sweating now, despite the chilly air that’s pushing its way through the vents. I slowly walk over to the small table where I keep my keys. I see the ceramic dish I constructed in elementary school, a pitiful mud brown color of multiple glazes I used. The dish is empty, my keys are gone. “Are you looking for these?” He says. I recognize the technician’s voice immediately. I turn to see him standing between myself and the door holding the keys in his hand. “I took them when you were in your bedroom preoccupied with your phone. You made it quite easy. All of you make it quite easy. “ He is beside me in two steps, one hand over my face muffling my scream. Suddenly I feel shooting pain in my side and warm liquid running down my cool skin. More pain on the other side, followed by more liquid. The feeling is a lot like the sweat I had running down my body earlier in the day. Oh, what I would give for this to be only sweat. Can I start this day over? Can I take back all of the whining and complaining I had done regarding the heat? I’ll take the heat, please God, I’ll take the broken air conditioner.  I double over myself, my screams still muffled by the technician’s hand. As my eyes flutter, I can tell I’m losing consciousness, but I can see his hat, the same one he had on hours earlier. I see the oily liquid that I noticed earlier, and I realize the stain is from blood. Blood of how many women, I’ll never know.

Red and blue flashing lights assault my eyes. I only open them halfway because my head is too fuzzy to open them any farther. Pressure surrounds my skull and I somehow know that if I open my eyes anymore, I will feel pain everywhere, so I squint allowing the red and blue lights to twirl around me. The sirens are what overload my senses next. All kinds of whistles, horns and noises invade my ears. The sounds get louder and louder as I try to make out what is happening around me. In between the sirens I hear screams and cries, but I don’t recognize any of the voices. Where am I? What has happened to me? What have I done? That terrible thought is the last one I have before the lights and the noise all fade away and everything goes black. “Good morning lovey” a deep, gruff voice sings out to me. I smile hearing my fiancé’ Ben’s voice. “Are you awake? We have to get to my mom’s in less than two hours. You know if we are even a minute late, she won’t ever let us hear the end of it.” I loathe waking up early, especially on a Sunday but despite myself, a smile creeps across my face as I listen to Ben start the shower. I slide my long bare legs out of bed, even as the crisp linen begs my body to stay. I ignore my tired body and forge ahead to meet Ben in the shower. He is right, if we don’t get to his mother’s Sunday brunch on time, we will never hear the end of it. Today’s brunch is more important than any of the regular twice monthly brunches, even though no one knows it yet. This is the brunch that Ben and I plan to tell everyone that we are engaged. After 6 years together, two living in the same house, we are finally going to be married. His parents will be thrilled. Even though they adore me, and consider themselves modern, open-minded parents, they secretly hate that their son moved in with his girlfriend before putting an engagement ring on her finger. What is ok for other children, or the rest of society has never been ok for their only son. None of that matters anymore. Or it won’t as soon as we tell them our happy news. I smile as I look down at the diamond on my finger. It’s only been there for three days, but it feels as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. We arrive at Ben’s mother’s house precisely 5 minutes early and its already bustling with the usual friends and family. As we walk through the front door we are engulfed in hugs, kisses, and squeals of delight. Anyone watching the display of affection would think this was a family reunion 20 years in the making. In reality it’s just an average Breyer family brunch. “Penny, what kind of Mimosa do you want?” Karlie my soon to be sister-in law asks. My breath catches as I stare at her blankly. My tongue is suddenly dry and twisted into knots. I’ve dealt with this question what feels like hundreds if not thousands of times in the last 3 years. As a recovering alcoholic you get used to being asked what kind of drink you want at almost any event, even if it occurs on a Sunday afternoon. The more often it happens the easier it is to answer. After a few months of sobriety, I realized that most people offering drinks are only trying to be good hosts. Rarely do they actually care what it is you are drinking, determined more to have a glass in every guest hand making sure they are content. But Karlie’s question makes my skin crawl. But why is this so upsetting? She along with the rest of Ben’s family know that I don’t drink. They don’t know the exact reason why, like Ben does, but they know I do not partake in any alcoholic beverages. Why is she asking me? And more importantly why can’t I answer her? Am I that nervous to tell them the good news of our engagement? Maybe I’m not as confident as I thought. Am I scared that once they do find out I’m in recovery they won’t want their son marrying me? Sobriety yields many gifts, one of those being that we will “not regret the past or wish the shut the door on it.” This promise has come true for me, but now suddenly I feel uneasy again about my past. To the outsider I look like an average 26-year-old that is enjoying her life with her fiancé. I’m tall and thin, my long auburn hair falls in layers down my back. I’m wearing a stylish tennis inspired dress that is just the right length to show off my toned legs but not too short to be inappropriate. Minimal make up is applied to my delicate features while my smile is open and engaging. You would never know that only four short years ago when I first met Ben, I was nearing the end of my drinking career and rapidly approaching rock bottom. Ben was wonderful and stayed with me as I navigated the hospital detox center, my liver almost failing me at the ripe age of 22. He and I had been together for a tumultuous year when I ended up in the hospital due to binge drinking. It was in that hospital that I cried myself to sleep for nights on end, realizing I had inherited the disease that killed my father and grandfather. It was Ben who stayed with me each night, holding me as I cried telling me that he wasn’t going anywhere. Telling me that we would get through this together. Ben somehow saw through the devastating disease of Alcoholism that had me in its vice. He saw through my lies during our relationship, not fully understanding that it was the disease talking through me, trying to protect itself against sobriety. As an alcoholic my default setting in life is to drink until I’m dead. Before I started working a program of recovery, I knew no other way to live. Imagine learning that all of your thoughts aren’t true and that your mind can’t be trusted. What would you do? Alcoholism is a devastating and devious disease that does everything in its power to convince it’s host that it doesn’t exist, that drinking is not their problem. Regardless Ben saw the glimmer of hope and light behind my eyes that first year. He stayed with me as I started attending AA meetings, first online while in the hospital hooked up to tubes and then in person when I was released. I never fully understood why Ben stayed with me. He and I had only dated a year before my kidney’s started to fail. We had no financial ties, and only some emotional ones but he stayed nonetheless, and I got sober. Each year getting stronger physically, emotionally, and spiritually. I’m suddenly brought back to the present day when I hear Karlie’s voice. “Penny, I know you don’t drink but there is something special about today. I don’t know if it’s the alignment of the planets or what, but I just feel something special’s about to happen, she beams. We have, watermelon, Peach and original. The peach is fabulous. You’ve got to try peach.” She pours the champagne in a glass and looks around for the peach mixer. Less than a moment later Karlie hands me the peach mimosa and turns to her cousin Rudolf, asking him what kind of mimosa his wife would like to sample. I stare at the drink in my hand when suddenly Ben is at my side, taking the drink away. “You’re fine babe. I’m sorry I don’t know what’s gotten into Karlie. But don’t worry, I’ve got you.” He kisses me quickly on the lips and walks away with the peach mimosa in hand. The rest of the brunch is a whirlwind. There are probably 20 additional people that Ben’s parents have invited because it’s June and the weather is simply amazing in southern Michigan. We are at the family lake house and the breeze off the lake cools our warm skin as the sun rises into the clear blue sky. Right at the height of the brunch Ben stands up, grabs my hand and announces to his family and friends that we are engaged. There are smiles, hugs and tears of joy as I am officially welcomed into the Breyer family. Ironically, no one offers me another drink although this would be the time to do so. Ben and I are, however, toasted but I raise my glass of iced tea, and no one says a word. They are too busy smiling and wishing us a wonderful life. I look up to Ben, squeeze his hand and smile. I couldn’t have asked for more. I’m beyond happy. “Stop, you’re hurting me. I scream through the pain that is searing through my leg. It’s hard to scream because the pain is so intense. The words that I’m trying to get out don’t sound right and that’s when I notice that there is something over my face. It’s a plastic breathing mask. It’s helping push air into my lungs while at the same time preventing my words from leaving my mouth. I’m angry, confused and scared all at the same time. The paramedic, scowls at me with disdain. Why is she looking at me like that? I’m able to open my eyes fully now and as I look around, I see I’m in a room lying on what looks like a hospital bed. It’s now that the memories of the last few hours start coming back to me, the car accident, the red and blue police lights, and the ambulance sirens. I look down and I can see that the doctors are doing something to my leg, I can’t tell what but whatever it is it hurts, and I see blood on the white sheets. A lot of blood. I close my eyes as the memories come back to me. I tremble as I remember. Ben and I at our apartment, he’s yelling at me. But why? I look around the room and I see beer bottles everywhere. I’m sitting on the bed, crying into my hands. Where are the white linen sheets that I woke up on? Why are my hands shaking? Why can I taste the beer on my lips? I shut my eye’s tighter trying not to remember. I don’t like these memories, but the more I try to forget the more memories flood my mind and flash before my closed eyes. Ben drinking with me and laughing, then yelling. Us getting in the car, Ben jumping in behind the wheel smiling at me. “It’s ok babe, get in. Let’s just go for a drive to the lake. I hate fighting with you. Let’s just go drive to the lake. My parents won’t care.” He smiles. I open my eyes and see the doctors above me; I can’t feel any pain now but I’m still coherent when I hear one say. It’s a miracle she’s alive. That accident was one of the worst I’ve ever seen. It’s too bad though, did you see her chart? Oh, yes. I’m sure she’s an alcoholic, with her liver enzymes so high. This wasn’t the first time she drank, even at her youthful age. It’s just so sad.” The next time I wake up I’m in a hospital bed, luckily, I don’t feel any physical pain. But I sense the emotional pain is far worse. As I come too, I realize that I don’t feel my engagement ring on my left hand. As I feel the clean sheets, and all the tubes attached to the back of my hand I move my finger and notice its bare. Where is my ring? “Where is my ring” I demand when the nurse walks into my room. Where is Ben? Where is my fiancé? The nurse stares at me with a sad expression on her face. “Did the EMT’s take my ring off? I want it back. “Honey, calm down. There wasn’t a ring or any jewelry on you when you were placed into the ambulance. “What”? I stammer. No ring? I love that ring. Some bastard EMT stole my ring and I want it back. “What about my purse? Where are my things?” I have this awful headache and I feel hung over, but that can’t be. Even as the terrible images filter through my mind in the room with all the doctors, they can’t be true. I’ve been sober for 4 years. What is going on? The nurse gets up to leave, she has finished taking my vitals while I’ve questioned her repeatedly about my ring and fiancé. Once she realized I wasn’t listening to what she was telling me she gathered up her items to retreat, but before she leaves, I’m able to get out one last question in. I plead through the tears that have started to fall down my face. “Is Ben, ok?” The nurse turns and says quietly “No, honey, your boyfriend is not ok. He’s dead.” In that instant the truth takes my breath away, because although her words are terrible. The truth is far worse then what the nurse has just told me. Her words were only the tip of the iceberg. Her words opened the door to show me the terrible awful truth. I never had a fiancé, only a boyfriend, I never had an engagement ring, and I never had 4 years of sobriety. It was all a dream. It was a snapshot of what I could have had if I had gotten sober. But in reality, it was only a beautifully terrible dream.

Like most of us, seventeen years ago my life was completely different. I was living in Killeen, TX waiting to get married. It was the first time outside of college that I had lived away from my family. Killeen is a small army town about an hour north of Austin. Outside of the army base Killeen is made up of bars, tattoo parlors and a few strip clubs. Growing up in the suburbs of Ohio, I was out of my element. Being that far from way from home made my normal coping mechanisms difficult to adhere to. I was in the middle of nowhere without any friends and a fiancé I barely knew. Anytime I found myself homesick, became upset or angry I couldn’t just take off in my car, ending up at a friend’s house, or my parents house to talk it out. I was smack dab in the middle of the lone star state with a man I didn’t even know. I didn’t have any friends when I first arrived but what I did have was a house and a lot of time to fill. My fiancé loved to fish, and I often accompanied him to the lake for lack of anything else to do. One evening I found a kitten there and I decided to keep it. However, my fiancé refused to let me name our kitten. We argued over it and finally I gave in. He named the kitten Buddy and that was the end of it. I was just happy to have a companion. Buddy was a rascal as most kittens are. He very much enjoyed keeping me up at night by running all over our house during the long nights. One of his favorite things to do was lightly touch my face at 3am inevitably waking me up. Looking back, it was sweet and funny, but after a few weeks I was exhausted from lack of sleep. For whatever reason Buddy never bothered my fiancé. I loved that cat, but I was very much annoyed and resentful of the sleep my fiancé was getting. I came home from work one day and found Buddy staring at our couch. He wouldn’t budge. I crawled onto my hands and knees to see what he was so interested in. As I peered into the darkness, I saw two eyes staring back at me. Thirty minutes later a sweet six-month-old tabby cat crawled out. My fiancé had gotten a kitten for our kitten. He explained to me that a soldier had been deployed and was planning on setting this kitten outside to survive on its own. Instead of letting that happen my fiancé went over to pick him up. I was ecstatic and this time I even got to name him. I already had the name in my head. I named this darling cat Scooter. Texas was the first of two states that Scooter and I would live in together. Over the years we would live in two different states and five different houses. We eventually left Texas and moved home to Ohio. Moving into our second living space, a condominium where I eventually had my two children. By that time, my fiancé wanted a dog and therefore he adopted a sweet mixed breed named Norman. The three pets got along wonderfully and then my children appeared in our lives. All three animals were special, and I loved each one of them, but there was something about Scooter that tied me to him. Maybe it was because I was the one who named him. I chose his name from on I always liked as a child but never had the chance to use up until then. When I thought of the name Scooter my family had animals already and thus, I couldn’t use the name. In my mind as a child I wanted a dalmatian named Scooter, instead when I saw my tabby cat years later somehow it just fit. Scooter was a fiery little shit. He galloped around the house, jumped on couches, and ottomans, his 16-pound frame making all sorts of noise in our house. He had the sweetest round face I’d ever seen. His expressions lured you in to scratch him and that’s when he would bite you. Not hard of course but just enough to keep you away. He did this to everyone except for me. Well, if I’m being honest, I got bitten also but far less than everyone else. It was a game he and I played often. My sister, friend or family member would come over, see his darling face, and want to interact. They noticed he was a little finicky and asked if they could pet him. “Will he bite me” My sister asked?               “Nope.” I said. Followed by laughter on my end after Scooter bit her. He never drew blood or hurt anyone, but he always let you know who was in charge. Years later when I left my husband I moved the two kids, two cats and one dog into a two-bedroom apartment. I was afraid my husband would demand one of the pets, but this fear dissipated when I realized I had no need to worry. He wasn’t interested in taking care of his kids, why would he be interested in taking care of any animals? The apartment was home number three for Scooter and me, it was little, but we made it work. A few months after we moved into our apartment Scooter got sick and I found out he had bladder stones. I had just left my husband who was unemployed and giving me zero financial or emotional support. I was on food stamps, working part time and I had used the last of my savings to put the deposit and first month’s rent down on my apartment. I didn’t have the money for an operation. I asked my parents for the $1300 so the vet could surgically remove the bladder stones. I felt terrible. Here I was 31 years old, using government assistance and asking my parents to pay for surgery for my pet because I was too broke to do so. I thank God my parents helped me with his surgery, otherwise I wouldn’t have had him for as long as I did. I lived at my apartment for the next 5 years and I’m sad to say that both Buddy and Norman passed during this time. Both were hard on me. It was the first time I was an adult making the choice when to end their suffering and have them put to sleep. As the years went by and I worked hard, getting promotions regularly, I was in a better financial position that allowed me to afford medicine and different diagnostic procedures for both Buddy and Norman. However, they each reached the end of their lives in that apartment. Buddy was young, only around 9 years old when he got intestinal cancer, and the vet told me there was very little they could do. Norman was around 10 when he developed a tumor on his spine. Although logically I knew there wasn’t anything else I could do, it was still extremely hard to be the one to make that final decision. I took comfort knowing they were not in pain any longer. Although I struggled with each one passing, I have to say that when Buddy passed the kids were still so little, I didn’t have a lot of time to grieve his death. I was still working to make it through each day as a single parent, falling into bed at night happy we all got through another day. A few years later when Norman passed, I felt the grief a little more. The kids were older, and I was getting ready to look into buying my first home. Norman was a Shepard mix who initially I didn’t want to adopt. We were living in my dad’s condominium without a yard, and I felt that it was wrong to get a dog who needed to run. My ex-husband didn’t care and wouldn’t listen to my concerns, so we rescued Norman. I walked him and took him to dog parks, but it wasn’t the same as being able to open up the door and let him lay in his own open yard. After all the years living in a condominium and then an apartment, I just wanted Norman to have a backyard to run in. Sadly, I wasn’t able to give him that before he died. With the purchase of my first house, Scooter moved into the 4th home we would share. This was when I started to realize that at 12 years old he wasn’t a young cat anymore and that I needed to take the extra time to enjoy him. I knew he wasn’t going to be with me forever. This was when I really fell in love with him. Although the kids were older and more self-sufficient, they were both still in elementary school. After they went to bed I would start a fire, curl up on my couch and wait for Scooter to jump into my lap. Some people read to relax, others go to the gym, paint, or cook. I made fires in my fireplace and snuggled with Scooter. During COVID I started working from home and Scooter sat on my lap for hours. I would be in meetings with my fat cat sleeping on me. If I had to work, this was the way to do it. Scratching my cat’s ears while I looked at spreadsheets made the spreadsheets slightly more bearable. The years went on and the jokes began. “Mom, do you love Scooter more then us?” my daughter asked. “Baby, how could you even ask that? Of course, I love Scooter more than I love you.” We would all burst into laughter as my daughter playfully hit me. My son would walk downstairs to crawl onto the couch as Scooter and I watched a movie. “Be careful, don’t hurt my cat.” I would say while grinning at him. As much as we all joked about my love for Scooter there was an ounce of truth to it. Of course, I didn’t love my cat more than I loved my kids. But Scooter had been in my life longer than my kids had. I joked that Scooter lasted longer than my first marriage and I had been with him longer than my kids had been alive. Scooter was around while I was wrapped up in the chains of active alcoholism and also there when I got sober. Scooter was with me when I was on food stamps and kept me warm when the furnace in my apartment barely did the job. He had slept with the kids, the dog and I all in one bed. He had been in my life for a long time. Scooter started to slow down significantly in his 17th year. He suffered a few bouts of pancreatitis throughout his life, but these flares went from once every 5 years to a few times a year. Scooter also started getting around slower. Taking longer to walk up and down the stairs and jumping onto the counter happened less often. The vet was able to give him supplements for arthritis this past year and I’m happy to say it did him wonders. In many ways it turned him into a kitten again. As I saw him age I marveled at the way Scooter did ordinary things, watching his relaxed face as he slept curled up in a sun beam that peaked through the window. It brought tears to my eyes when he ran after a laser pointer my kids danced in front of him. Every night coming to a close with Scooter on my lap as we watched TV while the kids slept. At the start of this year as I got married and bought my second house. This house was the 5th house that Scooter and I lived in together. A few weeks before the move I started to see a change in Scooter. His vomiting increased, and changed from when he had a pancreatitis flare up to a few times a week. It finally got to the point where he couldn’t keep his arthritis supplements down which caused him to move much slower then before. As the move got closer I was terrified it would stress him out and toss him into another bout of pancreatitis. Luckily, he made the move much better than I anticipated and he thrived for a few weeks. Acclimating better than our younger cat and dog. But then Scooter started losing weight. Not just a little as he aged but enough that I could tell by looking at him. I spared no expense in allowing the vet to run tests while also balancing the stress of putting him through taking blood and giving him medicine. The only good part of this scenario was that I was in a financial position where I could afford to try whatever medication the vet suggested or to run whatever test was needed to try and help him. Ironic that the money I had worked so hard to get, in hopes of making my family’s lives better didn’t give me anymore time with my beloved cat. On June 9th 2024 I took Scooter to the vet to put him to sleep. With his passing a wound opened on my heart. It will heal but I know that it will also leave a scar. I cried the entire time I was at the vet’s office as she asked me questions and finally agreed that it was time to end the pain he was in. We had run out of options to make him better and she agreed his quality of life was not a good one. I stayed with Scooter the entire time, snuggling him, and stroking his head. The next day I told my husband that I was surprised how hard I’m taking this. I’m not an overly emotional person. I love animals and consider myself a “pet person” but I’m also very practical. Everything dies eventually, it is just a part of life. My husband was the wise one as he said that “It’s been almost 20 years”. He is right, no one grieves 17 years in a day. Therefore, I’m allowing myself to feel the terrible feelings I have. The most basic thoughts invade my mind these days, I keep thinking that I want Scooter back. I want him physically back with me. Our 5th home together wasn't supposed to be such a short time. I don’t like not having him. I had an exceedingly difficult time leaving his body with the vet. Although I opted to have him cremated and have purchased a small urn to keep him near me, I do not like it. I do not like not having him with me. I don’t like being at my house expecting to see him, even as skinny as he was I want to pick up that skinny body and snuggle it. Logically I know that taking his pain away was the right decision, but we humans don't primarily live in logic. Emotionally I want him back. I feel like a child. If I thought stomping my feet, yelling, and pounding my fists on the floor would somehow allow him to return to me I would do all of it. Unfortunately, at 45 years of age I know that won’t change anything. I can’t imagine what it’s like for a parent to lose a child. I imagine the feelings I have of wanting my Scooter back are only a small representation of how a parent feels when they have lost their child. I think the only reason losing an animal is bearable is because we can understand that they live faster and shorter lives than we do. We understand that by loving an animal we will also have to withstand the pain of losing that animal. With children we are not supposed to lose them, they are supposed to lose us. I tell my children that my only real goal in life is to die before them. If I die before them then I’ve won at life. Don’t get me wrong, I hope that I'll die when I’m 97 and that my children don’t suffer any terrible fates, but in general as long as I die first then I’ll be happy. Often times the kids and I would joke and say things like “He’s not going to be with us much longer.” Even though it was said lightheartedly I knew that it was a true statement. Cats rarely live to be 20, although I thought my Scooter might make it to 18 or 19. One of the hardest realizations I've come to during this is that I realize that Scooter was my reward at the end of each day. After I had finished my job, taken care of the kids, the house, and my husband. I was able to sit down and have my cat’s soft paws and gentle purrs take away the stress of my day. The time I spent with him was when my cup was refilled, he recharged me, allowing me to wake up and start all over again. I don’t know how I’m going to recharge now that he is gone. What I do know however is that Scooter gave me the most precious of gifts. He taught me to live in the moment. I can honestly say that I made a very conscious decision to love and enjoy Scooter more in the last 5 years than in the first 12 that I had him. I knew that time was running out for us to be together and instead of mourning his age I very much embraced it. I enjoyed every ear scratch, and each face snuggle. I took more pictures, made more Instagram posts, and ate up the affection he gave me more than ever before. Scooter taught me to slow down and appreciate the time we had together. Therefore, I will slow down to enjoy the time I have with everyone and everything in my life. I can honestly say that Scooter gave me one of the greatest gifts in my life and for that I will forever be grateful to my sweet, feisty tabby cat. R.I.P Scooter 5/2007 to 7/2024

Most alcoholics don’t get sober because we want to. Rarely do we tackle the new task of sobriety as an exciting adventure that we choose to embark on. We don’t think to ourselves about how lucky we are to take a new path in life, or about the exciting new people we could meet as we walk the road of sobriety. These were not the thoughts swimming in my head when I had 24 hours of sobriety. The questions in my mind went more like this. Will my husband ever interact with me again outside of handing me divorce papers? When will my immediate family talk to me? Where am I going to work? How will I get money to live? Can I survive not drinking for the rest of my life? Hell, can I survive not drinking today? These questions on top of crippling anxiety and sometimes physical withdrawal of alcohol are not an inviting scenario that any of us want to be a part of. As terrifying as early sobriety is as the hours, days and weeks go on, some of these questions are resolved and if not resolved at least we are able to look at them from a slightly different perspective. I started attending Alcoholics Anonymous meetings because the beautiful souls that sat in the rooms of AA were the only ones that wanted to talk to me and enjoyed being around me. I kept going back to AA because these people were nice to me. They told me to come back while everyone else in my life was angry and wanted nothing to do with me. To some extent I was being selfish attending AA day in and day out. As much as I didn’t want to be in the predicament I was in, I also wanted people to speak to me and treat me like a human being. A few months into sobriety I was feeling slightly better and some of the relationships in my life were starting to heal. I attended AA regularly and had a sponsor who was working the steps with me. Even though my life was changing for the better I still didn’t fully understand what I was up against when it came to fighting my disease. Luckily, I had other alcoholics around me that knew more than I did from being in the program longer and from being sober longer. If it weren’t for the knowledge that they gave me, I wouldn’t be sober today. Therefore, I’m going to share these little nuggets of wisdom in hopes that they help you as much as they helped me. Below are two of the most life changing items that I learned from my first sponsor and many other angels within the rooms of AA. I hope that these will help shine light on what the disease of Alcoholism is and how mysteriously it works to kill us every day that we are alive. Tip number one: When you start to think “Maybe I can have just one” it’s the disease talking to you. This is the most important item I learned in early recovery. Alcoholism is both a physical and mental disease. Meaning that as an alcoholic my body reacts to alcohol differently than the non-alcoholic. I get drunk quicker and stay drunk longer, I can not stop drinking once I start even if it means drinking to the point of blacking out or vomiting. This part of the disease I pretty much had figured out on my own through a lot of trial and error. As well as talking to my friends who weren’t alcoholics. How were they able to stop drinking after a few beers when I was not? The short answer is that alcohol doesn’t affect them physically the same way it does me. If the physical part doesn’t make the disease bad enough there is also the second and, in my opinion, deadlier part of the disease. Alcoholism is also a mental disorder. This is the part that I never knew until that fateful day in the car when my sponsor explained it to me. We were on our way to a meeting, and she asked me how I was doing. I was very honest, and I told her that I was doing pretty well but that every once in a while, I felt like maybe I could have just one drink and stop. She kind of chuckled, smiled and said, “that’s the disease talking to you”. The light switch suddenly flipped in my brain. As an alcoholic I have a mental obsession and drive within my brain to drink. It doesn’t matter what terrible things happen from my drinking, when I’m living in active alcoholism my mind obsessively thinks about drinking and my thoughts try to deceive me, hence the “maybe I can have just one” thought. That was the day I learned that I cannot trust my own thoughts. The alcoholic cannot have just one or learn to drink like other people. There is no amount of willpower we can exert to stop after one. First the mental obsession starts, we forget the past, we obsess about the drink, and we drink it vowing that we will stop after one. Once the poison of alcohol is physically in our system the physical changes or addiction kicks in and we are off to the races. We cannot stop once we start. Next time you think to yourself that you can have just one or that you have things under control, know that your thoughts are your disease talking to you and it’s lying to you. Talk over the thoughts with someone in your life, run your idea to have “just one” by them and see what they think about it. Tip number two: Powerless does not equal weakness. For as long as I can remember I’ve been a bit of a rebel. I like the idea of doing my own thing, being different and going against the grain. Hell, you can argue that’s one of the reasons I started drinking in the first place. I was trying to be different. What 15-year-old sneaks into nightclubs, dances and gets drunk? Perhaps some yes, but it’s not the typical path for most. As I got older and further along in my drinking career, I changed from the classic rebel into a sell employed rebel. I went to college and accomplished a lot of traditional goals, but I moved into a niche career field, starting my own boxing business. I was able to grow a business where I not only made my own rules, allowing my alcoholism to grow but I remained a bit of a rebel in society. I thoroughly enjoyed telling people what I did for a living when I met them. There I was in a commercial garage, hanging out with a bunch of boxers, working as a personal trainer. Not many women choose this path after college, and I reveled in it. Years later when I got sober, I had to admit to myself that I was truly powerless over alcohol. I could not control it in any way. Admitting defeat against a substance you used to love is a hard thing to do. Somewhat because admitting that you have no power in a situation takes away the thing that you enjoyed for so long. This admission also takes away the idea that you control anything in your life. If I couldn’t control my drinking, what could I control? As I worked the steps of AA, I learned that although uncomfortable at times giving up control and admitting powerlessness is not a sign of failure or weakness but in fact a sign of strength. It takes a strong person to give up control, to say they have had enough, that they are been beaten. Especially by a substance. It was easy for me to admit that I was an alcoholic, I knew enough about the disease being genetic and running in families that I was pretty sure that I had it, but once I was able to see that I was truly powerless against it I was able to start the process of recovery. With recovery comes strength, with strength comes perseverance and knowledge, with knowledge comes power. I now have the power to give myself a fighting chance against my disease. I have the knowledge to know how much I can help myself and when I need to hand the reigns to something greater than myself else. Let me tell you most of the time handing the reigns over is better for me and everyone involved. I hope that these two items are beneficial to those of you in early sobriety and those who are struggling. Know that sometimes what you think is true could be your disease talking to you and if you are feeling defeated or that you are weak because you can’t control your drinking, try to admit your powerlessness. You might just be surprised how light you feel afterwards. It is incredibly freeing to know that you have an active disease that you can seek treatment for instead of believing that you lack willpower. Looking for more tips on hot to stay sober? Check out another blog post here: https://www.sobrietysister.com/post/four-tips-to-stay-sober-over-the-holidays #recovery #sober #AA