Holidays and Holidaze

     Since I first got clean, people have been complaining and whining about "the holidays." I did too. At some point, I got over it but a few others perhaps did not. Recovery is as easy or as hard as we make it. 

     Here are some things you can do in order to not have meltdowns over a time of year that can be enjoyed or ignored rather than feared:

1. If you don't like a holiday or don't think you can manage to stay abstinent/ clean/ dry/ sober, then cancel it.
     * Not recommended if you have children. *
     
You can always visit the relatives the day after for leftovers.

My best Thanksgiving was the one I spent in the woods with my dogs and a couple of hiking buddies. For a meal, we heated up cans of turkey vegetable soup in a fire that we built in the snow.


2. You can volunteer at a soup kitchen or other place that is serving meals to those who need one. This just may get you out of yourself long enough to understand that not everything ought to be about you now that you are in recovery. You can take a newcomer with you to volunteer.

My elderly father volunteered in a soup kitchen on Christmas one year. He has Lewy Body Dementia but at that time he was able to manage being a volunteer for the day. He enjoyed himself immensely.


3. You can ask to work so that some other co-worker can have the day off.

I have specifically asked to work holidays and I enjoy doing it. This is another way of giving.


4. You can go Christmas caroling around the neighborhood or sign up to visit a nursing home or hospital on a holiday. Bringing in a simple program-- story-telling or singing-- is much appreciated there. You can take a newcomer with you.

A bunch of acquaintances and I did this one year in several neighborhoods. We had loads of fun. No one turned us away.


5. If someone wishes you a "Merry Christmas" and you celebrate something else or nothing, it really does not hurt you to wish them a "Merry Christmas." Same goes for Hanukkah, the Winter Solstice, and Saturnalia. Recognizing people in the ways that they wish to be recognized does not diminish you as a human being.

I am an atheist and I do this. (I understand that some people will boycott stores whose employees are required to say "Merry Christmas." That is a matter of choice). Not everything that people say to each other has to be perceived of or ought to be perceived of as a personal affront.


6. You can go to a meeting if that is something you do for your recovery. You can take a newcomer with you. 

For those who attend meetings, why not? 


7. You can go to a clubhouse or other place that has an alkathon or narathon. You will find meetings there. Maybe even some food, games, and friendly faces. You can take a newcomer with you.

I've spent several Thanksgivings and Christmases doing this and I had a blast.


8. Instead of worrying that your Thanksgiving or Christmas will not be perfect, you can participate in a food or clothing or toy drive in your neighborhood. Instead of buying presents for other adults, you can give stuff away to the less fortunate. If you have your own computer, you probably have an extra coat or sweater kicking around in your closet. Or you can host your own dinner and invite people who don't have a place to go for the day.

Dad taught me early on to pick out gently used toys for the kids in a local orphanage. Yes, it is wonderful to be able to give to others instead of focusing on my hang-ups or have nervous attacks over something that is supposed to be fun.


9. If you decide to brave being with family or friends who are not in recovery, you can grab a cup of coffee (or tea or hot chocolate or a combination of cranberry and orange juice warmed up in a microwave) instead of relapsing. You can also make an excuse and leave if you really must. You can call your sponsor or someone else in the rooms.

A cup of coffee reminds me of my recovery because I first started drinking coffee in recovery.


10. You can start your own traditions.


sapphoq itching for a coffee says: At all times, it helps me to remember why I am doing whatever I am doing. This includes family gatherings at Thanksgiving, Christmas, and other times of the year. When I get self-absorbed, I forget that not everything is "all about me." Because it really isn't. Just saying.

Thanks to #AddictionChat on Twitter for an excellent discussion about the holidays last Wednesday at 9 p.m. EST.

Elderly Woman Raped in Her Own Home

     She was an elderly woman living alone in her home in a small village. Her name was-- I will call her-- Mary. I hadn't met her then. I imagine her as a cheerful but quiet sort with blue eyes that sparkled in the sun as she bounced a grandchild on her knee or waved to a neighbor. 



     The mother had blue eyes. The son and the younger daughter had blue eyes. The mother's ex-husband living in another state had blue eyes. The middle child-- my"little sister" in the program at that time-- had brown eyes. 




     I imagine her asleep. It was the middle of the night. An intruder broke in. I don't know how. I will say through the back door. The back door had three small windows. He broke the bottom pane and felt around for the lock.



     "I don't want to be his daughter," she told me. "I hate him. He is disgusting." I didn't know what to say to her. I didn't know enough to ask her those sorts of questions that one is supposed to ask children or to take her to someone who did. I was not able to keep her safe. I didn't know how.



     Carefully, he closed the back door and secured it shut. He didn't want any interruptions. He stepped into the kitchen, avoiding the shattered glass.



     The local program went on a witch hunt. I'd been in that program for eighteen years and I'd been clean for sixteen of those eighteen years. I'd had two "little sisters" before her without incident. One had aged out of the program. The other had moved away. 



     No lights came on, no dog barked, no alarm system sounded. Good. Silently he crept through the small kitchen to the hallway. 



     Unexpectedly, I received an application in the mail and a request to fill it out. Seems the office had "lost" my original one. The application asked if I was asexual, heterosexual, bisexual, or homosexual. I was unmarried. I wrote in "celibate." I returned the application to the office in person. "We lost your references too," the woman in charge told me. "Please obtain three new references for us." 



     The stairs were there, to his right.



     I was disgusted. "I've been a volunteer with this program for eighteen years. If you don't know who I am by now, that is your problem," I told her. "I did not lose the references. I will not be getting you three new ones." My days in that program were numbered. 



     The house was quiet. He crept to the bottom of the stairway.



     The newest literature generated by the local program stated that if a "big sister" or a "big brother" was homosexual, the parent of the "little sister or little brother" had to sign a form releasing the program of all liability. As a single woman, I was no longer to be trusted with a child. I had suddenly became a liability after eighteen years in. Women my age were "supposed to be" married to men. Women like me who weren't partnered with men were suspected of a virulent form of lesbianism-- according to the collective imagination of the local program board-- which automatically preyed upon little girls from single parent households.



     The third stair creaked. He froze.


     John-- that is what I will call him-- found me outside. I had just returned from walking my dogs. I knew him from recovery and also as my ex-little-sister's ex-step father. 
     He had around six years clean. We were friends, so I thought. I invited him in. He could not sit still. He paced. "I don't know what to do," John said. "I'm clean for six years. This isn't getting any better."
     His long-term ex-girlfriend did not want him back. Ever.


     The intruder marked nine more stairs. Almost reverently, he nudged open the bedroom door.
     Buried in the blankets was his target. She was frail with papery skin and age spots. A head of thinning gray curls framed her face. She was an angel. He wanted to consume her.
     Savagely, he tore off the blankets and took her.


      The elderly woman in the nursing home was terrified of us. "She was raped in her home last week," a nurse told me in hushed whispers. Wordlessly, the elderly woman screamed herself hoarse, no matter how gentle we were with her. 



     He was tried and convicted. He was sentenced. I forget how many years. "Did you hear about John?" friends in recovery asked each other, startled out of their apathy. I could not talk about it.



     Nothing eased her pain. 



     "It's a letter from John," my neighbor said. "I don't know if you want it or not." I took it, retreated into the safety of my home, read the letter. 


     She shook and screamed until we were finished.



     If only I'd been able to ask you for help that night, John had written. I tore the letter up and threw it into garbage.



     She died still frightened of everyone.