HAPPY NEW YEAR!

2015 was in many ways a fantastic year!

"Cervix With A Smile" GOT PUBLISHED!  I will love the folks at the Exit Press forever.

I did a lot of writing!

I PERFORMED FOR THE FIRST TIME IN YEARS!  Last year's resolution was "perform once".  Achievable goals, folks.

We went to the Jersey Shore.  Fantastic weather, great swimming, and food, food, food.

A dear friend sent me a tin of homemade chocolate truffles, most of which have now been eaten.

Another dear friend went with me to my doctors' appointments and kept copious notes.

My first trip by myself, to Chicago, with a roomette on the train both ways.

I got to spend another year with my wonderful spouse.

2015 was in many ways a sucky year.

I started the new year in the psychiatric ward at Roosevelt Hospital.  Nothing says "Happy New Year!" than a paper poinsettia placement and a cupcake with blue frosting.  Then I spent several months with my brain not working quite right.

I got breast cancer.  That blew.

Our cat Rupert died.

I've gained weight, partly from eating most of the homemade chocolate truffles.  Actually, that's not really in the "sucky" column.

Bring on 2016.  I'm waiting for you, sucker.

15 Years Ago I Was Forced Into Detox...

15 years ago today, I was ordered into outpatient detox by my therapist.  It was that or lose my health insurance.  I haven't had a drink since June 27, 1999!  WOO-HOO!


Jon Stewart says, "Hey now!"

My first week of detox, I ended up in the St. Vincent's psych ward in New York's West Village.  My second night there, I thought, "I can never drink again."  There were mandatory AA meetings upstairs in the violent ward (!) where every door was locked, the way you see in the movies.

The day I was discharged, the wonderful woman who ran the meetings spoke to me for a long time.  I don't know what she said, but it somehow cemented my resolve not to relapse.

I spent the next year in outpatient rehab.  I was a "high risk" patient, so I had to take Antabuse* and other pills in front of a counselor.  There was also random drug testing, where a counselor watched me pee into a cup with the bathroom stall door open.

I'm writing this because I'm not anonymous as an alcoholic, far from it.  That's a story for another time! My sobriety has gotten easier over time.  I used to say in meetings, "my mental illness is kicking my ass much more than drinking".   I haven't gone to regular AA meetings in 5 1/2 years (burn-out) but I've been dropping in at some this week to celebrate.  I'm still an atheist, and I have the most lackadaisical sponsor in the world.

 
Dean and Sam are ecstatic as long as I don't ask Dean to stop drinking

The biggest incentive is that when someone who had been sober "goes out," all of their previous sobriety counts for nothing, so they have to say, "I'm ___ and I've had five days back."  I vowed NEVER to have to say "I'm Elisa and I have three days back."

So far, so good.  


*Antabuse makes you deathly ill if you drink, smell booze, anything.  I have a bottle in my box o' meds just in case.

Gratitude List

I haven't written a personal entry in ages, and I've been thinking about gratitude. I suggested to a friend that she make a list of things she's grateful for.  In AA I learned to do that, and after all of the drama of the past few weeks, it's time to make my own gratitude list.

1) Jeff.  I love him and couldn't be married to anyone else, trust me. We make each other laugh, enjoy each others company, and other private stuff. He leaves cut-up fruit on the kitchen counter before he leaves for work, such as oranges and strawberries. Most important: he puts a cup of coffee on my bed side table every morning. Priorities, people!

2) Fletcher. My crazy little dog gives me all the goodies that dogs give (and no, I don't mean poop). He's hilarious and loves to snuggle. He makes me laugh when I'm down. He likes naps.

3) Cleo and Rupert, my cats.  Cleo demands petting when I wake up at night. She's right there because she sleeps on Jeff's head. Rupert likes to lie next to me when I watch TV. They both like to knock things over, and I live in fear that Cleo will puke into the cable box.  Not so grateful for that.

4) My health. Tremendously grateful for that. Yes, I' m disabled, and mentally ill, but them's the cards I've been dealt. From the neck down, my health is excellent.

5) Our beautiful apartment. Yes, we rent and don't own. But it's large, sunny and comfortable. And it has five huge closets!

6) Being intelligent. It feels like bragging, and it's a mixed bag, but I'm glad I am. It helps me to feel better about what an emotional and social spaz I can be.

7) Confidence in my ability as a writer.

8) The play collection, a validation of my years as a playwright.  The amazing reaction to "The Abortionist's Daughter" from readers.  How much people enjoy my writing, comments, notes, reviews on Amazon.

9) 20/20 vision in my 50s. Boo-yah!

10) Twitter...I am such an addict. I've gotten to interact with House writer Doris Egan, one of my idols, who gave her blessing to The House Dialogues . Also fun silly conversations with friends, Supernatural writers, and many others. An alter-ego is a very good thing.

11) My friends, on and off line.  Some you know how special you are to me.

12) My family, including the DeCarlos I have yet to meet!

Okay, that's enough!  

Frozen

I'm sitting at my desk, using Twitter.  I'm in my shortie polka dot nightgown.  I need to take a shower.  "Classic Rock" is on MusicChoice on television.  The Doors's "The End" starts.

As soon as I hear the first chords, I am frozen in place.  Inside my head, there's a simultaneous clunk and "oh, shit".  I have my right hand on the mouse, my arm is leaning on the desk.  My legs are slightly drawn up, resting on my toes, at angles to each other.  My left hand...rests lightly on the keyboard stand.

I.Can't.Move.Anything.  My eyes cannot look away from the monitor.  I'm hyperaware of my body as the song plays, the pressure on my left arm, my hand resting on the mouse, my toes.  Nothing moves.  I try to move my eyes, which usually snaps me out of it.  It doesn't work.  I move my head--YES!  But instead of getting up, I slump sideways, face down, on my desk, my arms hanging at my sides, my legs still in the same position.

Jim Morrison sings.  My blonde hair is a curtain around my head.  I'm staring at edges of paper.  The desk, once my dad's, smells like pencils.  My entire world is here, my nose pushed into the desk.  I try to lift my head.  I can feel muscles and vertebrae strain, but nothing happens.  The top of my head clenches, but nothing happens.  "It's not a stroke," I tell myself  "I'm still breathing."  Long deep breaths.  I move my jaw and tongue.  I try to speak.  I can't, beyond small noises.  I try to move my right arm.  The whole world has become my body.  Which cannot move.  My legs and feet might as well not exist, although they are getting sore from being in the same rigid position.  I forcibly relax all of my muscles but it doesn't help.

That fucking song is still playing.  It's 15 minutes long.  I have to turn it off. If I manage to somehow get out of this chair, will I fall on the floor and stay there?  Jeff can't find me like this.  I have to move.  If it kills me, I will move.  I pull my head up against what's pushing it down.  I move my head back and forth.  My right arm moves, my legs move.  I use my right arm to push myself up, hanging onto the desk.  Holding on to the furniture, I make my way to the coffee table, pick up the remote and turn off the tv.

I sit down, hard, on the couch, hyperventilating, heart pounding.  My teeth chatter.  I can't control myself.  I dial my sister on my cel, and she talks me down.  I had a series of these incidents in 2005, which is when I went to the epilepsy ward at Columbia Presbyterian.  They thought I might have progressive temporal lobe epilepsy.  I don't.  These episodes are emotional, I know that.  My body once again in service to my mind.

As I talk to my sister, I still can't walk straight, but my relationship to the physical universe is changing back to normal.  She's the one who uses the word "hyperaware." I lie back and my bed and realize I'm in a large room, the blue ceiling above me, everything seems far away but this is how it's supposed to feel.

My heart is still hammering.  I take a shower, balancing against the wall.  That damn handicap bar still hasn't been installed.  I dress.

I sit to write this down before I forget.