It was an unremarkable Saturday, one wedged into a weekend that looked like any other I sacrificed to the road, ferrying a five and ten year old to this playdate, that birthday party, a class or two. Call it Mom Life and I could do it with my eyes closed. And I did, only this day felt desperate, like I was a wild animal fed up with the too small parameters of her cage. It was three weeks into January and that tingle of New Year hope was already gone. My husband was exhausted from work and anyway, I signed up for this. This was mine to do, but I didn’t have to like it.
This feeling wasn’t anything new. I had a strategy of breaking up these kinds of weekends with stops at the fancy grocery store with the playscape and a cafe that sold wine by the glass, but I couldn’t Jenga it into this outing. So I white-knuckled the wheel instead and indulged the only flight of fancy available to me: a daydream. It was around that moment I noticed a new apartment construction, right on the parameters of our neighborhood.
Today in Austin, you can’t drive a block without passing new construction but ten years ago, it was a less common sight. My longing began taking form as I visualized my new apartment, away from my family and this drudgery. Solitude, at last, a space not unlike the ones I occupied before I got married, twice, before I had a kid, twice. A place where I could listen to my moody records at volume TEN, where I could spread out all of my old photographs across the floor, where I could scribble unintelligibly in my journals until something clear emerged that mapped me to my desires, where I could drink like I wanted to without any eyeballs on me, judging me, measuring me, where I could dance and stumble and rave and fix my dissatisfaction with my life. A panacea within four walls and a number on the door, if only.
At the time, fantasizing about leaving my beloved family didn’t scream rock bottom to me. My outrageous daydream seemed like a very plausible solution to my misery. This tracked. I was always seeking some new experience as a fix for whatever was ailing me, never committing to find the right medicine for the job.
“Mom, I left my goody bag at the party!” And the dream bubble burst.
In six months, I would have my last drink but it would take me years to learn what I really needed all along. I needed help. I needed support. I needed guidance. But first, I had to learn how to ask for it.
I could write pages of examples of my inability to ask for help and what that cost me. I could cite my failure to seek out good college counseling and the directionless years, which allowed the seed of alcoholism to sprout roots. I could write about the time my ex dropped me off at the hospital for an overnight induction, how he left to go to the bar for a few, how I didn’t have anyone to talk through the potential consequences of taking an Ambien suggested by the nurse, how it took my head out of the game and cost me a natural childbirth. I could tell you about my resentment towards anyone who could afford childcare, anyone who had the option of working outside the home, anyone who could have a coffee with a colleague in the middle of the day, anyone who could have an uninterrupted dump and that cost me all of my ambition and most of my executive functioning.
My response to all of this became one note, I drank at it. Because of my inability to ask for help, drinking became my way of taking my power back, my time back, my identity back. My second partner was more than willing to support me, but I was already married to my stoicism. I was determined to walk through the snow without shoes even when no one expected me to do that. And you’d drink too if you had to walk through snow shoeless! Only I was the one with frostbite. My solution almost cost me everything I loved.
The morning after my last drunk was my first cry for help since I had to call my parents when my clutch went out in the middle of Nowhere, Texas. After I got sober, it would still take years before I learned to ask for help prior to shit hitting the fan and even longer to learn that it was okay to ask even if the shit was nowhere near the fan.
Revealing my recent Parkinson’s diagnosis in a public way was asking for support. And I received it, which is another soft skill that should be resume-worthy. I received phone calls and invitations to coffee and lunch dates. I received letters in the mail jammed with art from my recovery community. I received orders from my handmade textile shop, a discounted haircut and even a check, just because.
When I opened the door for help, it also showed up in unsolicited ways. Last week, I was at a high school for a half day of substitute teaching. So when the office asked if I could stay when another teacher called in sick, I panicked because my new meds require that I eat, and I’d not packed a lunch. Wading through the swarm of students in the cafe, I finally made it to the cashier with my sandwich and bag of chips and when I handed her my card, she just shook her head. Cash only. I could feel the tears pooling when a voice from the student behind me said, “I’ve got it”, and he pulled a twenty out of his wallet. The kindness of humans astonishes me, yet I still receive.
I am still the Keeper Of The Schedules and Head Driver for both of my kids that have yet to earn licenses (somebody’s gotta do it). I recognize that many ask for help over and over and never receive it. Receiving can be its own kind of privilege. And sometimes the help you receive isn’t so helpful. It’s complicated.
But I have a working theory: when I allow for some support in my life, it broadens my capacity for joy. Call me Captain Obvious but I really didn’t embody this conditional statement until I got sober, physiologically and emotionally.
While I do love cooking a delicious meal for my family, that $20 I spend monthly for help from the New York Times really does allow for more JOY of cooking.
Hey, that should be a book.
The comments are open for everyone! While you’re in there, I’d love some feedback. I’m thinking about bringing back the monthly Zoom meetups for paid subscribers. Are you interested? Are there topics you’d like to explore? I’d love to hear from you. xo
Hi Sondra, your writing is beautiful as always, it is a pleasure to read you. I hope that you will write a book, this would be so great.
Your teaching about the eneagram was so interesting, I would love to learn more.
Thank you for your work,
Xo
I love how you speak the truth, my friend. Xo