CHOOSE YOUR PATH

Sometimes my brother and I waited up late at night to see what condition dad was in when he got home after a night of being with his friends. Several times we saw him stagger up to the porch and just sit on the bottom step. Sometimes he made it into the house by crawling across the porch and pushing the door open. His hands would be shaking, his eyes unfocused, and he smelled of whiskey and sweat. I knew of his secret stash at the back of his closet but I never told anyone, not even mom. In 1950 none of us understood alcoholism or other addictions. We’d never heard of AA or Al-Anon. Chemical imbalance was an unknown. Years later we were told that our granddad, whom we’d never met, was locked up in an insane asylum because when he drank alcohol he went crazy yelling at his kids and hitting anyone in his way. My dad only hit with his belt. We learned to hide somewhere until he cooled down. As a little kid I usually got under the kitchen table hoping he couldn’t see me. It worked pretty well most of the time.

            As a 14-year old ninth grader I was responsible for preparing the evening meal, ironing nine long-sleeved dress shirts for my dad and to brothers once a week,  feeding three dogs, a dozen chickens, doing my homework, and playing competitive volleyball after school. One day I came in the door, exhausted, dropped my books, when my dad said, “Time for you to get out there in the kitchen.” I marched past him, went into the bedroom I shared with mom and my little sister. As I slammed the door I yelled out, “Oh! Shit!” My next thought? “He’s gonna kill me.” At least whack me with his belt. Instead, he came into my room, looked into my eyes and asked, “What. Did. You. Say?” I knew life was over. It couldn’t matter what I said so I squinted my eyes and looked right into his. “I. Said. Oh. Shoooot.” The only reason I’m alive today is that for some rare – nay – unknown reason is that my dad actually laughed. Do you think if I had said, “I’m sorry." He probably would have slapped me across the room. At that time, I went to the kitchen and began putting dinner together.

            My oldest brother, three years older than me, would argue with dad so he got the belt more than the rest of us. Years later, mom said my brother’s spirit was broken. She tried to protect him from dad but was scared that would only escalate the battle. When my dad was angry, that brother would run out the door and stay away for several hours. We never knew where he went. As a kid, that scared me too. I do remember looking at dad one day when I was 14. I said to myself, “I am NOT going to be like that.” And I’m not.

            When I turned 17 my parents split up. I knew that my very thrifty grandmother had given mom enough money to buy a little house in town. We’d lived out in the country for most of my growing-up years so this was an exciting adventure. We’d have neighbors close to us. Since this was my last year of high school I didn’t want to go to the new school. It was probably a three-mile walk to my high school, but I would arrange to meet a friend at the halfway point and that made it easier.

            My dad did meet another woman, whom we met once or twice, and he remarried, or I should say he married her without divorcing mom. Not long after that he died from liver failure at age 64. It was many years later that I learned about addictions and was able to forgive him because I understood it was an illness, not a deliberate ploy to ignore me.

Son

            Our son was 16 when I learned that he was not only using marijuana but also selling it and drinking alcohol quite a bit. We lived in Anaheim Hills, where kids seem to have cars and money and parents with well-stocked bars in their homes. He was a beautiful young man: tall and strong, curly blond hair and big blue eyes. The drugs and drinking got worse after high school. He left home. We lost contact with him for six months, which broke my heart. Every time I saw a young man his age my heart pounded and I teared up.  When he was dropped off at our front door we learned that he’d been hospitalized because of a suicide attempt. He said that nothing made him high anymore and life was just not worth living. We found a rehab center at St. Joseph’s Hospital in Orange. He spent a month there. The first day when the nurse was checking him in, he was asked what his problem seemed to be. He glared and me and said, “I don’t have a problem. My mom thinks I have a problem.” I had told him earlier that if he didn’t go into rehab he was never to contact anyone in the family again. I lied and said it was only a week, although I knew it was a month-long program. I spent five 8-hour days at the rehab center, learning about chemical imbalance, addictions, hereditary possibilities, and how much I loved my son. I joined Al-Anon. He did quite well for many years. He married a beautiful young woman, had three amazing children, and now has a grandson of his own.

            Because of a severe back injury, and not wanting to use painkillers due to their additive qualities, he started sneaking alcohol again. Things escalated. He got deeper and deeper into the rabbit hole. Finally, he agreed to try rehab again. Fortunately for him, he had good friends who guided him through the process, and a wife who has stood by him through it all. He has been sober for 18 months, attends AA meetings every day and is a beautiful, functional, loving human being.

Daughter

            She comes from a family of addicts: drugs, alcohol, and painkillers. When she first came to live with us, at age 9, she would sometimes get up in the middle of the night searching for sweets. I remember once watching her spoon sugar out of the bowl. One time I found six Popsicle sticks in her bedroom trash. She denied that she had anything to do with them. Her birth mother had died from an overdose of painkillers. Her grandparents and uncles had drinking problems at one time or another. It seemed the cards were stacked against her. Now, at age 51, she has been to three rehab centers, most recently a two-month stay at a beautifully spiritual place in Austin, Texas. She’s doing better but has slip-ups from time to time. It seems it’s not only an inherited chemical imbalance but also depression, anxiety, and isolation.

            Because of her addictions, and her husband’s lack of understanding or willingness to attend Al-Anon meetings, they have decided to live apart. I understand.  She can go on screaming and crying rages. He doesn’t know how to handle the chaos. His social anxiety seems to prevent him from being more helpful. More depression. More anxiety. More isolation. We love both of them through all the ups and downs. That’s what moms do: unconditional love. I sense the story has not ended. I try to be supportive.

 Cigarettes – My FORMER addiction

            Most of my friends were smokers since 10th grade. The only previous smoking I did was really crazy. My best friend and I somehow got hold of some pipes and a bag of tobacco. We were trying to break the mode of being extremely female. We only smoked at her house a few times, never inhaling, and the one time I smoked at home, my dad told me to stop. So I did. I kept the pipe for a few years just to be rebellious. Dad was a life-long smoker.

            By the time I was 19 all of my friends, and most of my co-workers at Autonetics, smoked. Ashtrays adorned every desk; the office air was permeated with cigarette smoke. In 1961 that was normal. One sunny Sunday afternoon two of my girlfriends decided it was time I became one of the “in” crowd. While dancing and singing to the sounds of The Everly Brothers and Jan and Dean (heart throbs of the day) my friends taught me how to inhale, how to hold the ciggy so that I looked sophisticated (adult) and how to exhale: chin up, eyes slightly squinted. At that moment, albeit extremely dizzy, I became a member of the fully adult smoking crowd. And to further prove my adultness, with a flash of my drivers license I could purchase a pack of ciggys at our local drug store for twenty-five cents.

            I met my first husband, Rich, shortly before my 19th birthday. He was a Marlborough Man. He lit my cigarettes for me. I felt very sophisticated and adult, as I’d seen this done in some 1960’s movie. Six months later I was addicted, although we didn’t know that word. Smoking was so common in the ‘60’s. I remember, at age 21, when a social worker from the L.A. County Bureau of Adoptions came to interview us and check out our home. I offered her a cigarette. She accepted and we spent a pleasant 30 minutes discussing our hopefulness and willingness to adopt a baby. Six months later, when I’d just turned 22, our precious baby John arrived. Seventeen months later, Brenda was born. It wasn’t until she was five months old that she was placed in our home. I still smoked. Rich still smoked. Back then, all of our friends smoked.

            When the Surgeon General warned that smoking could cause lung cancer, I began the process of quitting this terrible habit. Every time it felt like my nerves were being scraped inside. I suppose it was the nicotine trying to leave my body and my body trying to hang onto the nicotine. My mouth and throat felt tight. I was dizzy, as dizzy as the day I began smoking in 1961. Finally, when I was 25, after a week of not smoking, not eating, barely drinking sips of water due to extraction of my severely damaged tonsils, I quit. For good. But don’t cheer for me. My dear neighbor Kathy M. came over to visit. I asked her for a cigarette. She gave me a stern lecture about all the times I’d tried to quit. “No, you’ve come one week. I’m not going to be the one to make you start again.”

            Fast-forward 50 years. I can’t stand to be around smokers. They stink. My lungs demand clean air. I do understand the addiction. I don’t understand why people are still smoking; why they start with all the evidence that smoking causes lung cancer, throat cancer, emphysema, and yuck – bad, really bad breath. In my now mature world, appearing sophisticated never enters my mind and I certainly don’t wish to appear older. When I see young people smoking, I say a silent prayer. “Please, Spirit, go over and whack that kid on the head and tell him how stupid he looks.” Stupid! Not sophisticated!

My Advice to the Younger Generation

            Health is at the top of my priority list. That means physical, mental, and emotional health. I did pretty well as a teenager turning down offers of alcohol from friends. I resisted smoking until I was 19 – which I gave up a few years later. Being raised out on a little farm and having lots of physical chores to accomplish each day certainly helped keep me in shape. In the 50’s most of us kids walked to school or walked a ways to the bus stop. I played hard at field hockey and volleyball. In my senior year I took up surfing. I also loved body surfing.  By the time boogey-boarding became popular I had three kids. We all loved that sport.

            I’ve always been a hiker and backpacker and a kayaker and a water skier and snow skier and walked a lot. In 2001 I trained and walked in the Avon Breast Cancer walk. Sixty-five miles in one long weekend. I walked over 1,000 miles in eight months of training for that. For several years I swam a mile in the outdoor pool at L.A. Fitness before I arriving at 7:00 a.m. for my teaching job. Now that I’m almost 75, I exercise six days a week: pool aerobics, tread mill, rowing machine, weight lifting, and walking along Aliso Creek.

            As part of my fitness routine I’m a vegetarian, which means I eat veggies every day. I spend time chopping up zucchini and mushrooms and onions and other veggies. I’m not vegan. I do eat eggs and yogurt. I love making veggie-tofu soup and sharing it with my dear husband and neighbors and friends. Eating healthy is a top priority to me.

            Being social is very important to us. We have friends over for meals and games. We have a Laughter Yoga group of friends that keep us happy. We belong to several clubs and organizations. We take classes through an Emeritus program at the local Community College. My husband and I do lots of things together and once in a while do things on our own with other people. We keep in contact with family through social media and visits. I will admit that I’m not much good at keeping up with current movies and TV sitcoms. I don’t know that latest popular music or celebrities. That’s probably because I’ve always got a good book going. I read fiction, non-fiction, self-help books, and L.A. Times. I check Facebook once in a while but I’m not interested in computer games.

            I’ve been studying Science of Mind for over 30 years. It’s a philosophy that essentially teaches how to be peaceful. The basic wisdom is that God (Allah, Spirit, Divine Mind, Whatever created us) is in everything and we are all one. That’s it. If I could give one piece of advice to teenagers it would be to get a copy of Don Miguel Ruiz’s book “The Four Agreements.” He reminds us to “Be impeccable with your word” and “Don’t take anything personally” and “Don’t Make Assumptions” and “Always do your best.”

            My awareness: No matter what pain I experience: mental, emotional, physical, I always feel there is a joy center in me, in my heart. No one can take that away from me. I often think of what the Dali Lama said when he was asked why he was always smiling and always cheerful. “You don’t think this is reality, do you?” Knowing this world is not the be-all and end-all allows me to be joyful most of the time. You know, most of the time. After all, I’m human. A pretty happy human.