THANK YOU. To those of you who have reached out to tell me what my words have meant to you. The fact that they resonate is proof you’re not alone. MANY of us are ruthless in our self-talk, treating ourselves internally in a way we would NEVER allow someone to talk to a loved one. Let’s agree to think differently about our internal dialogue, okay?
What I’m finding interesting about such a touching response is how much it took for me to start writing about it in the first place. I have struggled with not wanting to come across as someone who has all the answers—because I don’t. And I didn’t want to give the impression that I somehow had the market cornered on suffering as a child. Again, I don’t. And 100% of my recovery, my transformation, has taken place outside of recovery rooms. I have never attended a 12 step program, never had a sponsor, and I took that to mean my experience held no merit. All perfectly reasonable thoughts. All wrong.
The truth is: we all have a story and every one of our stories has tremendous value. If only we’re willing to share it. Maybe a public forum like this is not for you. And that's okay. Maybe sharing your struggle with a single friend over a coffee will touch their soul. I bet if you try it, your soul will be touched, too. We’ve all overcome something and what I write really isn’t about ME, anyway. It’s about resilience. I’m just the illustration of resilience through my experiences as an ACOA.
I am also finding myself exceedingly thankful for my mother—the “dysfunctional” alcoholic who never admitted she had a drinking problem. As far as a childish mind can, I ranked my parents and I somehow thought my dad was “better” because he got up and went to work every day while she stayed on the couch, drunk. But it was my mother who taught me to read before I entered kindergarten. It was my mother who took me to the library for the first time and introduced me to the smell of books, the potential to explore the entire world through words. And books saved me in a lot of ways. I owe a tremendous debt of gratitude to my mother for that. Because if it weren’t for her—that sloppy drunk who burned holes in every single couch we ever owned from her lit cigarettes slipping from her hand when she passed out—I would not have developed the ability to write. So, wherever you are, mom. THANK YOU.
Last, please pass along this page to folks you think might be interested in the content I’m producing—whose own resilience you find remarkable, or who you think would benefit. I’d appreciate it.
And if you’d like to subscribe and get first notice of new material—please find the button at the bottom. I’ll never sell your information or use it for ulterior motives.
[Full disclosure: I have a few subscribers and I haven’t figured out how to use the app/program/whatever it's called to contact them yet (I’m working on it—one of the downsides to NOT being a millennial. That, and the ability to eat any damn thing I want and not gain weight…God, I miss that. But, I digress).]
I wish you peace.