Contemplating My Navel (Personal Blog)

The Hunt for a Higher Power (February 18, 2014)

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Just like the Alcoholics Anonymous program that led to the formation of its sister groups, Al-Anon and Alateen involve the working of 12 steps that will guide participants along the path of recovery.

I’m all over Step 1: “We admitted we were powerless over alcohol [and other addictions]—that our lives had become unmanageable.” I am more than ready to seek help, look for new tools and develop solutions for the codependent mess that my personal life has become over the decades. No more enabling, covering, fixing, lying and trying to control the broken dynamics that have existed between myself and those who struggle with addictions and impulse control problems. I can retain a fondness for these people and their good qualities without driving myself insane, or depriving them of an opportunity to experience personal growth and responsibility…or not.

Let go of resentment, detach with love, accept the things that I cannot change. All challenging concepts but fundamental to breaking with unhealthy patterns of the past and opening up vistas of possibility. I came to terms with Step 1 before I ever set foot into a meeting room. An understanding of the limitations of my historical coping strategies is what brought me to Al-Anon in the first place.

I’m only a couple months into the early stages of recovery. Like any program that depends upon consistency, commitment and human struggle, there’s no prescription for how long the process could and should take. Accepting the unknowable is part of learning to relinquish control. But I am really stuck on a concept that I need to work through if I am to continue to grow and change in the program. Take a look at Steps 2 and 3:

“Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.

Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.”

Here’s the rub. I am a resolute atheist. Though I have folks I love and respect within my circle who ascribe to a variety of faiths and practices, the idea of God is not for me. I am not militant about it, nor am I lacking in experience, having been confirmed as a Lutheran in eighth grade before studying and converting to Hinduism for the expedience of marriage in my late 20s. It’s more that a combination of soul searching, critical thinking and experience led me away from the teachings of all organized religions. Some might offer that this renders me an agnostic more than anything, but I refuse to indulge my own temptation to hedge bets. There are definitely forces of nature and the universe at work that I don’t understand, but I can’t get behind the idea of an omniscient/omnipresent being without some scientific evidence. It’s not the way I’m built.

I don’t begrudge the faithful anything. In fact, I’m often envious of the security and peace of mind that comes with the conviction that you are part of a grand design, a purpose. The storyteller in me also finds something attractive about the idea of humanity as part of a larger narrative over which we’ve no jurisdiction.

Perhaps I’d struggle less with these philosophical ideas if I’d been afforded the luxury of trusting the adults who were supposed to be raise me. But I never regarded my father as a superhero or my mother as a selfless caretaker. I understood at an early age that the road up and out ran through me – the very opposite of turning my life and will over to a Higher Power. It had to be “I.” The cavalry was not coming.

I’m decidedly lacking in answers and that’s ok. I’m more comfortable with my innate cluelessness than at any previous stage of life. If I knew it all, I wouldn’t be reading this lopsided version of my story to date: achievement-focused with empowering friendships and collegial give and take on one end, competing with a heavy load of self-inflicted martyrdom on the other. As one group member said a couple of weeks ago, those of us working the Al-Anon program have been guilty of “trying to buy bread at the hardware store” – a metaphor for demanding and expecting the impossible from loved ones battling illness.

But in order to retain a sponsor, work through the coming steps and really, truly foment a revolution, something fundamental has to break. I can recite the Serenity Prayer without the word “God” at the beginning. No one in group is judging me for a lack of religious faith, but I have to come up with my own definition of a “Higher Power,” that idea that allows me to turn over my will and my life, something I admire and respect as bigger than me. My therapist has offered that perhaps the very idea of community is the answer, as compared with the fruitless commitment of years past to go it alone. It’s a thought – one amongst so many competitors.

My Friendly Valentine (February 12, 2014)

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There are two personal items on which I refuse to spend more than $15 – sunglasses and gloves. The reason is simple. I can’t be trusted to hang onto them. Case in point: today is February 12th and I have managed to lose four pairs of gloves and mittens with plenty of winter left to endure (Curse you Punxsutawney Phil!). At this point I consider it fiscally irresponsible to invest in another set. I might as well just set a stack of dollar bills on fire and call it a day. And since it’s hard to wash the WASPy values of my upbringing away completely, I am doing penance in the form of enduring the rest of the season without finger coverings. Maybe that will teach me to take better care of my things before next year.

While I am careless with seasonal accoutrements, I am pleased to report that a penchant for leaving items behind in cabs, trains and restaurants does not extend to people. With folks I love, I am in it for the long haul. My longest-running friendship dates back to the summer I turned four years old. Bob, the neighborhood boy who lived down the street from my grandparents, anointed himself my confidant and protector before I knew I needed one. 31 years later, he checks in periodically for an injury count (physical and emotional), career updates and wishes for my health and happiness. Bob is a constant, a touchstone when everything else seems to be evolving faster than I can grasp. Then, as now, woe be to anyone caught in the act of inflicting pain in my direction. I can take this for granted, but I don’t. It’s a rare and special gift.

My other best male friend, Gary, I encountered for the first time at age 13, enrolled in a summer school program a few months before making the leap from tiny Lutheran primary to Chicago Public High School. We both sacrificed time at the beach in favor of a full day of French lessons and algebra so we could be competitive in the International Baccalaureate program into which we’d been accepted. I was there under duress – forced into the challenging academic curriculum by a mother frustrated in her own youthful, scholastic ambitions. I was still working out some juvenile delinquent tendencies and didn’t appreciate the interruption. Gary was as good a kid as you could wish, a parent’s dream. I am proud to say that across 22 ensuing years, we’ve rubbed off on each other in mutually beneficial ways. I grew a little more rigorous and studious, while Gary got in touch with his inner troublemaker.

Then there’s the quadrant of bad ass lady pals, gifts presented as I worked through issues with female relationships (courtesy of a competitive, threatened mother and some junior high bullying). Jessica walked into my life at the age of 16 and once we finished our yearlong pissing war, we were emotionally, if not always geographically, inseparable. One tearful “I need you” SOS is all it takes.

Theresa came along at age 18, when I worked my first hourly gig at the Wendy’s in University of Illinois’ Campustown. Unlikely duo were we: me with my big city shoulder chip and bitchy sorority girl looks, she with her light Southern twang, brick shithouse build and black lipstick. It just worked. Nearly two decades later, we both get a kick out of keeping in touch via snail mail, like Hillary and Cece from Beaches.

I met Diane at work in 2007 through another mutual friend and colleague. Immediately taken with her talent, empathy and survivor ‘s biography, she may very well be the most likeable, gifted human being on Earth.

Beth is the latest addition to the BFF roster, making me fall in love with her at first sight in the spring of 2011. I would remark upon the surprising ease and speed with which we’ve become family, but this is no shock to anyone familiar with her humor, generosity and loyalty. After we befriended one another, I told Beth I wanted to be her when I grew up. I still do.

Last, but certainly not least, are the close relatives I’d seek out even without the bonds of blood – my little sister Jenny and my cousin by marriage, Carla. It’s a pretty terrific thing when people you have to engage anyway are those you’d have chosen to be part of your life, if given the opportunity.

I am without a husband or boyfriend this Valentine’s Day, but I have plenty of significant others. I experience more love, joy, companionship and laughter than a body has any right to expect. I’d be a first rate fool to indulge in Hallmark-related self-pity given such a huge portion of life-fulfilling blessings.

The Happy PANK – Professional Aunt, No Kids (February 6, 2014)

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While motherhood, especially the birthing part of the equation, was a life choice I ruled out long ago, that doesn’t mean I hate children. On the contrary, I love them. Little people, especially those 14 and under, tend to get me, as I do them. I can’t decide if my success in bonding with kids, which often occurs far more seamlessly than trying to connect with adults, is the result of my own arrested development, or a relatable black and white world view of “fairness” that appeals to the uncorrupted. I know that life doesn’t often work as it should and am in the process of adapting accordingly, but accepting reality isn’t quite the same as altering basic beliefs of how human transactions ought to work in a vacuum. I think children sense a kindred spirit in me in that regard.

I also think relationships with the lambs in my circle are necessarily affected by my own youth being prematurely snatched by adult chaos, and the expectation that I would and should carry the family through it. I had an epiphany with my therapist this week. In the work we’ve been doing together for the last half-decade, I am not chasing my 13 year-old self, or 16, 18, 21, etc. Nope I am after recovering Kindergarten Becky, the adorable one with the self-confidence to believe that every room she walked into was affected for the better by her presence. The one who assuredly refused to do that which didn’t make logical sense or was detrimental to her evolving personhood, consequences be damned. That sunny, brave child had most of her best qualities frozen or driven out of her by a need to navigate a decades-long succession of crisis situations. Self-doubt, guilt, fear and a need to prepare for worst case scenarios stunted adult attachments, trust and certainty. Every move had to be assessed from all angles with the survival of two people in mind (myself and my younger sister), until the time came when I could no longer move at all.

Every interaction I have with the children I love is motivated by the desire to help them remain as young and uninhibited for as long as possible. I am not perfect, but as much as can be controlled, I will not let my background and the lingering dark cloud that sometimes follows me as a result, affect my dealings with the delicate, evolving humans I adore. Or to put it more gauchely and succinctly, I won’t put any shit on them with which they shouldn’t have to deal. The memories of frantic wishes for escape, an exit route, when my father used to pull the car to the side of some quiet road, for the purposes of rendering me his confidant, are as keen as ever. He needed a therapist, a treatment plan and some personal responsibility – in that order, not an overwhelmed 10 year-old who suffered from migraines to act as his life coach.

So in my estimation, childhood is a stage to be jealously protected by the adults entrusted and honored with the privilege of helping little students of life learn and grow. They need to figure things out for themselves with a mix of love, support and guidance. Whatever the age of the child, the adult’s job is to try to think like them, to listen and understand, rather than project our own embittered, world-weary disillusionment on their wishes, dreams and ideas. I have stumbled in trying to attain this ideal, most notably and shamefully in the process of a Christmas 2011, post-divorce breakdown. But I take pride in the fact that for the most part my nieces, former step-daughter and step-granddaughter know that I am safe refuge where they can come for advice, help or good old-fashioned silliness.

I am not the one who knocks. I am the one who jumps on trampolines, hides in clothing hampers during spirited games of hide-and-seek, the one who explains menstruation to a confused and disgusted middle schooler, the lap provider, the beach playmate, the old lady who thinks nothing of setting an example by throwing herself headlong down the backyard Slip ‘N Slide. I tutor, I give word search hints, I furnish life advice nuggets such as “That’s the way to go through the world [youngest niece], you are onto something. You come up with the ideas and get other people to do the work.” I smile at my sister’s half-serious disapproval. I show up to the tournaments, games and recitals. I laugh at the fart jokes and hand out the candy. I consult and leverage my years of writing and editing experience to help produce compelling grad school applications.

PANK, Grandma Becka – I may not have figured out adult relationships yet, but these are the roles I was born to play. In being good to the people who trust me, in supporting the adorable faces and fancies of those I love, this is when I feel most useful and alive.

Polar Vortextual Mood Swings (January 31, 2014)

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“Yesterday, I stood outside waiting for the Chicago Avenue bus. I saw one approaching and my heart leapt. Then the bastard drove right by us, resulting in another 30 minutes of trying to withstand the wind. I just started crying. I am so sick of being cold.”

-Conversational anecdote from personal trainer friend

“Oh my God. More snow. I want to die. Can’t take anymore. Stabby stab.”

-Text message from a buddy who thought this might make for a catchy, if lengthy, Twitter hashtag

“Sometimes I just sit at my post at the reception desk and wistfully stare out the window, trying to summon memories of less dark and miserable days. Lately I am just pretending to be a nice person. So much hate in my heart.”

-Forlorn colleague

“Hey Mother Nature and God… this is a memo to you. WE ARE GOING TO GET ON THAT PLANE TOMORROW MORNING to get to New Orleans for our cruise. I don’t care WHAT you say. We deserve a vacation after the crap you’ve thrown our way these last few weeks. 8″ of snow on Friday night before our trip starts? REALLY? NO. I’m telling you RIGHT NOW. WE WILL GET ON THAT PLANE TOMORROW MORNING. #PolarVortexCanSuckIt”

-Agitated Facebook rant courtesy of my best friend’s partner

“Dear Alaska and Chicago, Illinois:

We need to immediately work out a weather exchange here. Anchorage, Alaska, Colorado wants its weather back. I am going to arrange for Chicago to send you yours. And I’m going to send this s**t to Chicago. Chicago should be fine with that, since the 22° we had today is much warmer than what they had.

Every time I have to break out my ‘Chicago clothes’ a baby kitten cries. True Story.”

-Native Chicagoan who relocated to Colorado several years ago

“Winter 2014 sucks more than anything that has ever sucked before.”

-A poetic Becky Sarwate, channeling “Beavis & Butthead”

These are quotes sampled from a smattering of hardened Midwestern weather survivors. It felt appropriate to publish this roundup on this, the last day of January 2014. A punishing 31 days indeed, the month will forever be remembered as usurper of April as the cruelest. If T.S. Eliot was still alive and forced to wear two pairs of pants every day just to survive the commute to work, I am certain he’d agree.

In aggregating the misery of my acquaintance, I accomplish two goals. The first is to feel slightly less isolated throughout my own increasingly despondent winter experience. The second is to answer critics who have diagnosed Windy City residents with an acute case of Cry Babyitis. We should be used to this, the thinking goes. What more do we expect from January adjacent to one of the Great Lakes?

Perhaps just a small, teeny tiny respite from the cycle of white out blizzard conditions followed by Arctic deep freeze. In years past, winter could be counted upon to furnish the occasional 30 or 40-degree day which made daily life navigable, even if the sun remained stubbornly hidden. This is expected and infinitely preferable to the trick of blazing sunshine that requires industrial strength shades, a cruel irony contradicting the soul deadening chore of trudging through multiple feet of snow-turned-block ice.

But I believe the current variable that is really dragging down morale is the calendar. Tomorrow is just February 1. We have so much farther to go before there’s any real hope of hospitable climate change. Let us not forget that we received nearly an inch of snowfall in mid-April 2013. With a number of meteorologists predicting “Polar Vortex: Part 3” during the early days of February, it’s not a stretch to wonder if a hat trick of tragic weather (predictably on the heels of what’s expected to be another 10” of accumulated snow through the weekend) might not just be enough to turn us all into Jack Nicholson from The Shining.

Banishing Resentment (January 16, 2014)

Becky SarwateLeave a comment

The theme of this week’s Al-Anon meeting was “Resentment.” It was examined and discussed from a variety of angles. But the larger lesson imparted was that holding onto it does no harm to anyone but thyself. As the great Nelson Mandela once said, “Resentment is like drinking poison and then hoping it will kill your enemies.”

Before the meeting started, I joked with a friend that resentment was my life’s work. How could I be expcted to give it up? Keeping score was one of the family’s favorite activities throughout my formative years. We were competitive on the athletic field, at the game board and most of all, during arguments. The rules confused my sister and I but we certainly internalized the need to try and follow. Satisfaction points were awarded to the aggressor who delivered the lowest blow, drew the quickest and most plentiful tears and generated the most enduring shame. On the other hand, earning the title of “Most Acutely Suffering” also seemed to possess its own appeal.

I never cared much for developing my skills as a verbal pugilist. The debilitating firsthand pain offered by domestic and external bullies alike led to resolution. I would not wittingly subject another to ritual humiliation. It’s cruel, bad karma. But oh how the martyr title fit just right. I often wore the cloak of the persecuted – and I wore it well. It provided excellent cover for withdrawing into my own little world, furiously journaling about how they’d all be sorry one day.

With very little consciousness, I carried this habit forward into adulthood. I found comfort in a familiar pattern. Step 1: Deplete my own energy by giving everything I had without consideration of the worthiness of the task or subject. Step 2: Experience the special kind of misery only available to those with a determined lack of self-respect and the good sense to say “Enough. I’m done.” Step 3: Bask in the masochistic glory of knowing I had been utterly wronged. Step 4: Wait vigilantly and patiently for my assailant to receive their comeuppance.

String 35 years or so of co-dependent, destructive relationships together however, and it becomes impossible to hide from the reality that for all your perceived virtue, you are definitely part of the problem. In the first place, Ms. Naïve Version of Social Justice, there is no mathematical certainty that someone who’s injured you will come to regret it, either through self-awareness or ironic retribution. It is in fact frequently the case that those who move through the world without conscience, remain untouchable. Life isn’t fair. And in the second place, if you’re repeatedly drawn to this dynamic, maybe you’re just as broken as the person you’ve deemed a horrible monster. Repeatedly casting yourself as a victim under circumstances designed to end up with that result, is nothing short of pathological.

While I have not been successful in knowing when to say, “Enough. I’m done.” to others, I figure the quickest way to improve is to start with myself. And so, I am taking off the cloak of matrydom. It’s scary but it must be. Recovery is of course a process and I am bound to risk a step backward now and again, but I am resolute. All those years of cocooning myself in bitter resentment has yielded insomnia, autoimmune diseases, depression and two divorces. Who is the bully in my world after all? Letting go and detaching with love is not a habit that comes naturally, and I can think of two people toward whom I’ve not evolved far enough yet to forgive and compartmentalize. But I’ve put the scoreboard away. The game is over. Team Martyr has lost repeatedly. It’s time to stop blaming my parents for impulses I now have a choice to control.