Happy Birthday to ME

“Happy Birthday to me.  Happy Birthday to me.  Happy Birthday, dear Jennifer…”

Yep, I’m going to stop there, but I really hope you finished the song in your head.

I’m not really sure if this is a birthday, or if it’s more appropriate to call it an anniversary, but whatever. You get the picture. I’m choosing “birthday,” because it represents renewal. Celebration of birth. And that’s what recovery has been in some ways.

February 6th, 2020.

It’s been 365 long and interesting days since I last took any alcohol whatsoever into my system.  And it’s impossible not to reflect on what this process of recovery has brought me thus far. 

I SOOOOO want to write an amazing gift for you this morning.  I always do.  It’s even somewhat of a goal, because I know how it feels to finish a piece that I’m really proud of.  When I’ve finished the final sentences of some of my pieces thus far, I’ve been left with the same contentment that I feel after a successful performance.  That final note hangs, that final well-written sentence is punctuated. And it’s followed by silence.  Silence of mind.  And silence of soul.

That’s a beautiful moment. 

But here’s the catch.  I’m also usually waiting for some kind of response.  Very, very true.  And also very annoying. 

Sometimes it comes.  Sometimes I receive praise for what I’ve done.  What I’ve written.  What I’ve given.  And damn, that feels good.  I live for it.  If you’ve ever been a performer, you know this well.  There is nothing better than the sound of applause after a successful presentation.  To know that what you’ve given means something to someone…even if you don’t know exactly what that IS. 

Strangely enough, I have never been very comfortable with actually sitting through that kind of praise.  I like to sit my ass down and avoid eye contact as soon as I possibly can.  But I DO need to know that it’s occurring.  I DO need to know that the performance was worthy of that response.  That I was worthy of that kind of support and praise.  If you just caught that, YES, I equated my own personal worth with the success of the performance.

Oooooh, but if we wait for that.  If we live for that applause…it can be a problem.  It can compromise the art itself.  And it can certainly compromise our sense of self.  Itself.

So, my present journey takes me to this realization. 

That each time I write, that’s what I’m doing.  I’m singing to you. 

Everyone loves an anthem, yes?  They are invigorating.  There are even pop singers who I distinctly value for ONLY singing these types of songs.  You know, Kelly Clarkson, Pink, Sia and the like.  I don’t need their art most of the time.  I certainly don’t listen to it with any regularity.  But if I’m feeling really good about myself on a given day, nothing compares to cranking up one of their songs and driving with the windows down.  Arm out waving to the breeze and giving high fives to the gusts as I round corners.

It would be cliché to simply tell you that recovery has brought overwhelming joy, clarity and strength. That I sing anthems on a regular basis.

That’s true.  Sometimes I do.

But I’ve got to be honest, recovery has also brought days of discomfort, confusion and indecision.  Sure, I’ve written about the pain of the PAST.  I felt like that was important to do.  But I also kept you at bay during my more difficult times.  In the present.  I only shared a bit of it, really. And now that I’ve already covered some of the past, I recognize that I’m forced with a decision here.  How do I let you in now?  What does this relationship look like?  What kinds of songs am I willing to sing to you? About recovery. About writing like this.

Over the past 20 years, I have abstained for exactly 9 months…exactly 3 times.  Directly related to the number of children I have birthed.  Yes, my three pregnancies have been the only substantial periods where I didn’t get to drink out of joy, confusion, relaxation, boredom.  So, without drinking, I just get to sit through those emotions, right?   

Obviously, I’m happy to sit through the joyous moments.  That’s not really a problem.  I’m happy to be “present” to experience JOY in all of its grandeur.  To revel at that mountain top and take in that feeling that easily connects us to others.  And to God.  But I didn’t really drink in celebration all too often.  I drank in boredom.  In shame.  In pain.  In confusion.  And that led to isolation.  That led to feeling connected to only one thing. To those emotions.

But ALL negative emotions don’t disappear just because the bottles aren’t present in my refrigerator.  There’s a shelf deep inside me that still saves a little space for them.  A place where I still feel empty and want to redistribute the items around, so that it doesn’t look like something is missing.

That’s when I don’t feel like writing an anthem.  I don’t feel like cranking up the music in the car.  I don’t celebrate sitting through those emotions, because I just want them to pass as quickly as possible.

I need to let that all go.  If we’re going to do this thing together…which WE ARE doing, if you are reading this now…I must be able to go to the light and dark places.  Equally. In the present.  Not just when I talk about the past.  Because this also doesn’t present a real picture of recovery.  If I only write like I’m preaching from the pulpit at an Easter revival, you may get the wrong idea.  Make sense?

How about I just write what the hell is really happening in the moment?  I may need to do that from time to time.  I just don’t think it’s healthy to always wait to write until I figure it all out, because that doesn’t exactly present a realistic picture of this thing called writing.  Of this thing called recovery.

I need to let go of presenting a pleasant picture.  The fact is that I get SO annoyed at only seeing cute and presentable pictures of people on Facebook, and yet, I’ve been doing that to some degree.  I’ve been presenting the idea that I’m really past the worst of it.  But that’s bullshit.  I have no idea if I’m past it all, because I only know where I am today. 

So, here’s my newest proclamation.  I solemnly vow to not only sing anthems, but to sing ballads whenever appropriate.  Appropriate is a strange word for that, I suppose.  Maybe it’s better to say that I’ll sing ballads whenever that’s the song that I wake up with.

I realize that I’ve kept some songs to myself, especially if the present carried pain or confusion…waiting for those moments to pass or that realization to come.  That’s all fine and dandy, but it may not give you the right impression of recovery. 

Those more difficult mornings have remained unwritten.  Unsaid.  Unsung.  Because I didn’t think that anyone wanted to hear about them.  That perhaps I would be passing on woe.  And not wisdom.  And that anyone reading may realize that recovery is hard sometimes.  Notice that I said recovery is hard, not necessarily sobriety. 

It’s everything that comes with RECOVERY that is sometimes difficult  The SITTING THROUGH.  The WAITING.  The many ballads before the anthem. 

Because there is wisdom IN woe.  And there’s a little woe IN wisdom.  I haven’t had a standing ovation for the hard realizations that have rocked my soul thus far.  My more intense realizations have not been joyous ones. 

It was not JOYOUS to be in rehab a year ago.  I didn’t celebrate every day that I got to spend there.  I just had to sit through it all.  I had to decide what happened in DOING the SITTING.

And I am not JOYOUS when I speak to my children about the past.  Or when I make amends for present failures.  I am grateful that this is necessary less and less often, but I still make mistakes…they just look a little different now, right?  I don’t drink anymore, but I’m still just human.

So, yes, I can write an anthem for you.  I can come up with a few sentences which rise like resounding cadences where you await the final chord and wonder if I’ll send you off on a high note.  Or I can decide that I don’t always wake up with that song.  I can decide that it may be better to just commit to singing and worry a little less about what comes out of my mouth.

Because most mornings are acoustic ballads, really.  A little slow to begin.  Minor in spirit.  Unsure of where they are going.  No memorable chorus to sing.

That is recovery.  Having the patience to sit through the unknowing, the boredom, the confusion, the pain.  To NOT try to eradicate these feelings but move through them. 

To sing everyday, regardless of who hears it.

A ballad if that’s the song I wake up with.  An anthem if the day inspires it.

To not care too much about what you do with my song and who you might play it for.  To not wait for applause, because it doesn’t define my own personal worth. 

And to just keep singing. I hear it. God hears it.

“Happy Birthday to ME.”