I FOUND MY VOICE

“I’ll SHOW you not to do that!!” My father’s voice shattered my troubled sleep.

I sat up in bed covered in sweat. His middle of the night rantings occurred frequently in my family of origin, so, my usual response was to put a pillow over my head and try to block out his loud shouting. But that particular night, I heard the terrified squealing of my newly rescued puppy. Our old family dog had died recently, prompting my mom and I to find a new dog from the local animal shelter to fill that gaping void. It was this cute, but very abused and skittish puppy that now screamed in agony.  I threw off my blankets and ran to the top of the stairs overlooking the living room of our split-level house in Las Vegas. 

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I’ll teach you not to piss on MY drawings!” my father growled through his teeth at the cowering animal he dragged around on a short leash. He periodically jerked the choke chain more tightly around the puppy’s neck. The alcoholic inventor maniac, his drawings spread all over the carpet, didn’t seem to get that the more his yelling frightened the baby animal, the more it urinated on his precious creations. His rage just escalated every time a new dark yellow puddle appeared.

“Daddy, stop!!” I begged him, finding my voice. “You’re hurting him, Daddy, PLEASE STOP!!”

I no longer remember my mother’s part in this particular incident, but by the age of 12, I knew intuitively she wouldn’t be able to protect my puppy. After all, she hadn’t protected herself or my siblings very effectively from the emotional havoc this monster I had to call “daddy” wreaked on our lives. So, why would tonight be any different?

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My dad stopped torturing the puppy that night. Maybe my pleading voice got through his drunken haze and touched him. Maybe he came to his senses on his own. All I really know is that I discovered a power within me and a tool, my voice, to intervene in the course of events. That night, I inadvertently found a way to pierce through the cold, thick fog of my heretofore invisibility.

Finding my voice, literally enabled me to develop it as a vocalist and public speaker. It thrills me still to have this ability to move people. I feel called to speak out against injustice and advocate for those unable to defend themselves. I also sense emotional climates and can escape before the eruption of violence, or prepare myself to stand and defend. I can, and still do, effectively utilize these invaluable skills I learned in my original home. In appropriate circumstances.  

Less fortunately, however, I also learned to take charge when I felt out of control of situations. I expressed my opinions and intense feelings whether invited to or not: in my workplace, as a volunteer, and in my own home as a wife and parent. I raged at my ex-husband and children, keeping them walking on eggshells, and modeling how to exhibit the same behavior. Both my ex-husband and I hailed from alcoholic families and neither of us had healed from, or learned to effectively deal with, alcoholism’s devastating effects. After many years of emotional hell for all of us, I ended the marriage. But not before passing many of the effects onto the next generations: to my children and grandchildren.

When recovery found me, I was 47 years old, divorced and sole supporter of three of my five children still at home. At that time, my mother and grandmother had both recently died, my siblings and I were locked into a bloody battle over my grandmother’s estate, and I was depleted physically, emotionally and spiritually. I had developed a virulent, chronic case of asthmatic bronchitis and had run out of sick leave at work, my work, our only source of income.  Until the sale of my grandmother’s house could be resolved, I had no extra funds and was frantically worried about my ability to get back to work.  

One night as I laid in bed in darkness, agonizing once again over what to do, I prayed. In retrospect, I realize that I had hit my bottom and was experiencing the first of the twelve steps of any recovery program: “Admitted we were powerless …” Then, however, I just experienced helplessness and hopelessness. “Please help me!” I begged the oblivious silence of the room over and over.

Through the haze of my inarticulate pleas, a telephone number suddenly flashed into my mind. Not recognizing it, I hesitated, but after a few minutes, I remembered. It was the number of an old friend who had worked on community projects with me. I had not talked to her for a long period of time, but felt compelled to call. The last time I had talked to her, she had been going through personal issues in her marriage and I had tried to comfort her.  I knew she could understand my pain. I groped for the phone in the dark, called the number, and she answered. Barely catching a breath, I poured my heart out to her.  I didn’t censor my pain or desperation and she listened to me. Just listened. After several compassionate conversations of listening to me without judgement, she shared that she had fallen into a recovery program the year before and invited me to attend the first of many meetings with her. Initially, it took all the energy I could muster to just sit in the back of the room and cry while others shared their stories. After many meetings, more physical and emotional recovery, and return gradually to work, I found my voice, again. This voice shared my own pain and realizations in lieu of defending or rescuing others. 

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That woman, whose number flashed into my head so many years ago, was my first sponsor in recovery and continues to be a dear close friend. Over a period of 19 years of healing through a combination of therapy for post-traumatic stress and the rooms of what I like to call laboratories of inner work, I’ve learned to balance my assets and shortcomings. By developing compassion and understanding for the little girl I was, I’ve learned to take care of myself. My voice communicates my fear, hurt, anger, as well as passion, joy and gratitude to those with whom I am intimate. I’ve also learned when and where it isn’t safe for me to do so. I have forgiven my parents for their unsuccessful struggle to harness the disease of alcoholism and its effects.  I use my voice to serve my groups and encourage others to find their own voices.  

My life is amazingly full today. My husband, who I met in a recovery program, is also a long-time member. We use therapy, the 12-steps, program tools and meetings to recognize our own responsibility in conflicts and heal our growing relationship together. Two of my children have found their way into recovery and my others benefit through my participation as I make “living amends” to them ongoingly. My growth has not ended as I continue to attend meetings, participate in service opportunities and sponsor others. My spiritual higher power threw me a lifeline when I most needed one. Now it is up to me to allow self-awareness to increase and change my wounded reactions to the world around me. I’ve developed a much more highly attuned sense of humor and laugh with others in my life as we recognize our common humanity: its fragility and our inflated sense of control. I am, and will be, eternally grateful that awareness seeped slowly into my life as I have become ready to accept my own limitations.

I find it challenging to continue my inner work and accept the increasing self-awareness it brings. It takes effort to recognize survival behaviors that must be changed if I am to continue to develop. Some of the skills that I learned to help me survive my early life, and now hamper my growth, are very close to the core of who I think I am. I have been blessed by the often-miraculous presence of spirituality in my life and I choose to continue following the path of self-development that is placed in front of me. My life today is full of mystery, love, beauty and serenity. I intend to keep living it, and voicing it … one day at a time.

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