Your love is fearless, help me to be courageous, too.

“The opposite of faith is not doubt, but certainty.” – Anne Lamott

I won’t claim to be an enlightened individual. Mainly because if you’re reading this, you likely know me and could call me out on my several thousand spiritual flaws. My humanness. But I will say the desire to want to be enlightened flutters daily from heart to brain in this 5 foot 2 inch body of mine.

My fears still get ahold of me, though. The all-or-nothing, black-and-white, yes-or-no thinking begins to call the shots. Everything is an absolute, there is no need for context — I already know. When that happens, the possibility for miracles — the miracles I need — gets snuffed out. Just that fast, just like that. *snap*

The date of the third anniversary of my sobriety gallops towards me and I think, Are you sure you’re coming for me? Are you mine? Does that date belong to this alcoholic?

Time just isn’t a good measuring stick to use for this kind of stuff. A year is a year is a year. Am I better for it, I guess? But the reality sets in that this spiritual malady never. goes. away. A reprieve, yes. Twenty four hours — I know, I know. But also, what about all those times I didn’t rely on my Higher Power? All those times I curtsied politely and said, “Thanks but no thanks, God. I’ll do this my way,” turned back back to walk right smack into an infinite loop of regret and still worse choices.

Not a drop of alcohol, not a pill swallowed — yet still, desperate to feel something different. To be someone else. Chasing a high I didn’t know I didn’t need.

If I don’t get this, then I’m not that. If I can’t feel this, then what is the point. Why try, why try, why try? Why believe anything could ever change?

That last thought: the inebriated final call of self-will. So short-sighted. So delusional. So drowned in self-pity and self-interest.

The truth is I want to believe. Otherwise why would I care that I didn’t?

Things can change. Things will get better. And I know I’m speaking in vagueisms and that can be annoying but believe me that this is the constant state I am in during this season of my life. The solution remains the same, it is always the same. If I ask God to help me believe, He will.

Just. Like. That. *snap*

The Biggest Worst “Decision” to get a 3rd DUI

There is no excuse for driving drunk. Let me be clear.

For true change to happen, for people to stop being reckless with their own lives at the expense of others, the way we talk about mistakes like these would have to change.

It baffles me that to this day, someone will say I made the decision to drive drunk. Maybe the first time, or the trillionth time, but by that time — it wasn’t a choice. It was my life. On a daily basis I was engaged in behaviors that put me and others at risk. Or at the very least, would severely concern my parents.

There was not another way to function at the time of my third DUI. I was given every opportunity to be a happy healthy individual and still, the true CHOICE I made was to not. get. help. I refused to believe I was living in a way that was “wrong”. My alcoholic life seemed the only normal one.

By the grace of God and the human angels he’s placed in my life, I’ve been able to see there is another way. Through tremendous amounts of work and mercy, many old beliefs and behaviors have been abandoned to transformed to support living a healthy and meaningful life.

I was all covered in sound when you asked me to turn it down…

It’s two o clock on a Friday afternoon and my nose is red. It would be red on a Monday morning, too. Or a Wednesday night. But it’s bothering me more now because I wear a mask in public to keep safe from a virus and I understand that importance but I’m still vain at times and it annoys me that the rough cotton rubs off my overpriced foundation. My nose is red because I have rosacea. It’s nothing interesting. There is actually a subtle joy I have to complain about such a stupid thing.

Actually, right now I’m staring at my red nose in my driver side vanity mirror. My car is perched over what I imagine is a bottomless pit of metal and mystery. The oil change I’m finally getting is 3,200 miles overdue. I meant to throw away the remnants of the Valvoline sticker semi-reminding me (and alerting the oil change guy) that I’ve slipped back into irresponsible habits bound in excuses and lack of motivation to care for myself.

My last car was a Beetle and I drove it to. the. ground. It still ran pretty well in the end, I guess. Part of me wanted to keep it for actual sentimentality, a feeling I can only conjure up when cars and pets are involved.

The windows stopped working in the middle of a storm when I was running a fever and God said, “Are we done with this yet?” and I littered highways from San Diego to Arizona with my headlights that would spontaneously crash on the asphalt if I hadn’t duct taped them in place well enough.

My cars and I were always in tune though. When my life was going well, my car ran well. When I was running around in a flurry of chaos, my Beetle would spontaneously malfunction. It was an accumulation of accumulations: neglect on avoidance on top of denial and self-reassurance that I didn’t have to listen to that knock on my engine, I can just turn the music on louder. Or I didn’t need protection from the rain when my window won’t go up, it’s time I buy a better raincoat anyway. And so today, in the middle of a work day, I decided this can’t go on and 3,200 miles over I’m getting my oil changed now.

And right now I’m finding joy at this drive-thru oil change place. The guy is very friendly and even his calling me sweetheart hasn’t rubbed me the wrong way. We are very different looking people and our lives probably wouldn’t intersect for any other reason than he provides a service that I need. He possesses a skill that I lack and have no desire in learning. It is an act of rebellion to have my oil changed. When my work cell hasn’t stopped ringing since 7am and the numbers in my inboxes are nearing to triple digits.

This here, me in a hot car in a drive-thru oil change, making small talk with a largely-bearded and tattooed thin man, writing down my thoughts, while the world kills itself over who is holier than thy, and I’m wearing a (now, sweaty) yellow shirt that says, “trying my best.”

And I am.

Post-car maintenance.