Busy mind today. Busy, busy mind.

It’s amazing the little bits of ‘wisdom’ that you pick up in the rooms of AA.
About a week ago, a guy took his 13 year chip(?) and as usual, they have you say your name and how you did it. (did it= stayed sober)
He spoke for quite awhile but, he said something that has been reverberating in my thoughts since that night.
This man was speaking of his sponsor(in AA) and told of a conversation that he was having about being “poor” and that he thought being sober meant everything would be working better in his life and here he was still poor after achieving sobriety.
I paraphrase but, fuck it. I love quotes so, I’m using the marks. lol
Sponsor: “I bet you have a nice house.”
Man: “Yeah, it’s pretty nice.”
Sponsor: “I bet that you sleep in a nice, comfortable bed.”
Man: “Well, yes.”
Sponsor: “Are you enjoying that Starbucks that you are drinking?”
Man: “Motherfucker. I’m not poor.”
That may not seem like much to most people. But, it struck me. I say that we are ‘poor’ all the time. ‘Broke’ I tend to use more often but, regardless; we are not poor. I am writing this on a $1k laptop and my $2k Mac Book is sitting in the drawer. We have a 3000sf home. I sleep on a $1k mattress. I have a brand new car that I put my kids in to drive to wherever; we are not poor. I have a husband that stayed when it would have been much easier to walk away. I have children that (most of the time) love me.
I do not write these things in a boastful manner. I write these these to remind myself that we are NOT poor. I am one of the most fortunate people that I know. I write these things to remind myself to stay HUMBLE and ACCOUNTABLE.
Saturday night at AA, there was this kid that came up to me. His heart is so pure that it radiates from his face, his hands and his willingness to give astounds me. I wrote previously about being asked to lead a meeting a few weeks ago. It was an 11th Step meeting. If you are not involved or not familiar with the 12 Steps that we alcoholics go on and on about; the 11th Step states:
“Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with [God], as we understood him, praying only for knowledge of his will for us and the power to carry that out”.
After I fought with my head and heart on whether or not I could lead that meeting, I decided to go forward and tell MY story. That I don’t have this “higher power” that everyone speaks of. I never have.  I wait for signs. I scream at the sky sometimes chasing after something that I really don’t believe is there.
After the meeting, this kid walks up to me and thanks me for leading. And he does something that most people wouldn’t really have the balls to do; he asked if he could pray with me. Not FOR me. Not AT me. WITH me. I was reluctant to say the least. But, I could just tell that this was something he was truly moved to do so, who am I to tell him “Thanks but um, no thanks.”?  So, I agreed. He then told me that he wanted Watson (my husband) to pray with us also. Because once you are married, you are one in his God’s eyes.
I went outside and got Watson and I KNOW that he could see the “I really want to roll my eyes at this kid” look on my face.  We all held hands and he prayed. Out loud. He prayed so unselfishly that I was standing there and looking at his face and wanting to just hug the pain of addiction out of him. Then I realized that the pain that I thought I saw is not his pain at all anymore.
Now, back to Saturday night. I sat at the table prior to the meeting beginning to start and this kid came and sat next to me. He wanted to know if God had spoken to me yet. This beautiful young man that is most likely young enough to be my son, was worried more about me than his struggles with his own addiction or whatever problems might be in his path right now.  And with the heaviest heart that I have felt in a long time, I told him “No, Tristan”.  He just smiled and asked if I wanted him to pray with me again.  I politely declined this time. He didn’t push, he didn’t preach. He continued smiling and told me that was okay but, he really hoped that I didn’t mind if he continued to pray FOR me.  Not at all, young man. Please do.
Here’s the deal; the rooms of Alcoholic Anonymous are many. The faces of alcoholics in those rooms are millions. There is so much wisdom that those rooms encompass.  And not all of it revolves around booze. It’s a fellowship. It’s a friendship of drunks and addicts; a friendship of those caught in the crossfire of alcoholism. It’s a room where no matter what your story is, there is someone that you will relate to. Someone that you will learn from. Someone that will inevitably tell YOUR story.
If you are an alcoholic or if you know someone that is an alcoholic or an addict, check those rooms out. You may think that you don’t belong in there with “those people”. Reality check… you ARE one of THOSE people. You just don’t realize it until you hear that you are NOT the only one struggling. And believe it or not, there are many of THOSE people that have so many more problems than you. There are so many more of THOSE people that ARE poor. Not just financially but, emotionally, physically and if you are a believer, spiritually poor.
I guess that’s all I have for now. But, if you held out and read this whole thing, thanks.  You’re probably one of the ones that I owe an incredible debt of appreciation to.
Much love…


I think that everyone can agree, 15 years is a long, fucking time.
I have worked so hard, slacked off, had three kids, battled alcoholism on a daily basis for the last 8 years and try to be the person that people want to have in their lives.
I’ve been told that I have offended. I have been told that I have disappointed. I have been told that I’m a good person. I’ve been told that I should be MORE selfish in regards to what I want and I need.
I have put myself first. I have put myself last. I’ve walked away from so many toxic relationships/friendships way later in the game than I should have.
I have compromised my morals, I have made excuses for them and myself at times to keep those same people in my life because well, I lack the brain function to walk the fuck away and not close a door but, slam that fucker shut.
I have given when I had nothing left; mentally, physically, emotionally and financially. I have given support to people but when I needed support; none was offered.
I started saying “NO” and people started to widen the divide.
I try and be a good friend. A good mom. A good wife. I’m honest most of the time. I don’t cheat or steal.
I guess there is no point to this other than I am too goddamned lazy to put pen to journal and I just needed to write this shit down.
It’s funny being told time and time again how “strong” that I am. When in actuality; not a single thing could be farther from the truth. I can BE strong when I have to be but, after so long; I’m here to tell you, just keeping up the facade of strength is exhausting.
I talk too much. I swear too much. I am too “harsh”.
I should find Jesus. (never knew he was hiding but, what the fuck ever) I should find something to “center” me.
I should meditate. I should “just breathe”. I shouldn’t take “all those xanax” and in the same conversation I have heard, “Did you take your meds today?”.
Well, I also shouldn’t be dealt the “FUCK YOU, MELODY” hand every time that I allow myself to be positive.
I envy those that can see the good in things. I envy those that are content in their ability to sit back and look pretty. I envy those that are happy with who they are even though, come on now… we all know that 99% those same people are full of shit. I envy the shit out of those that can be fake as fuck because, I definitely lost out on that trait somewhere.
I have fought for fifteen years to be the person that I thought I was supposed to be. And, every time there has been something thrown in my way; I dealt with it. But, there’s a point when enough is enough and it’s time to concede.
Last week, I was so stoked about seeing my doctor and even more stoked when he told me that it was a good thing that he doesn’t like to just give up and he was re-writing my referral for my surgery.
And, within 48 hours… all was shot to shit. Again.
So, longer story short… my surgery isn’t going to happen. And, all this strength that people seem to think that I have; there’s none left. Not even enough to fake it.
I guess that there is something that I have done or haven’t done, said or haven’t said that is coming full circle on me.
Whatever.  I have so much resentment in me right now that I can (and I hate this word) literally feel my blood pressure rising each time something so much as reminds me of this shit hand that I have to play right now.
I guess you get what you give and since according to some in my life, I’m mean, a bully, a disappointment, too harsh, too cold, don’t listen(which translates to “didn’t do what you wanted me to because trust, I heard everything you said.), I need peace, I need to forgive.

Most people also have no clue that I am in a therapist’s office at least once a week with phone sessions that I can’t count; trying to work on learning to forgive or at least trying to the grasp the simple concept of “letting go”. To live in the moment.

This morning, I had to cancel an appointment with my actual psychiatrist that I had made in JUNE. So, that means no meds until I see her again. But, I am sure that the reasoning wouldn’t matter to those that will inevitably ask, “Did you take your meds today?”.

Want vs. Need are two very different things; literally.

I’m killing myself. (NOT LITERALLY. Calm your tits.) That’s it. I finally have the answer and it truly has been in front of me the entire time.

As far as I can remember, I have pushed back. I pushed back against my parents, friends, ‘the norm’ and especially religion. Let’s not even go there.

I’m still not a religion kind of girl. I don’t believe in ‘God’ however, I do believe that there are powers that are higher than myself in this universe. Now, here’s where it get’s tricky. I am an alcoholic in recovery. I am an alcoholic that got sober with the aid of Alcoholics Anonymous. Alcoholics Anonymous is a ‘God’ based, Christian centered recovery program. I think you can see where I am going with this.

I struggle with the ‘Higher Power’ aspect of thee program also. Yeah, you can call it ‘God’ or ‘Higher Power’ but, we all know that it’s based on ‘God’. “The Man”. “The Holy Father”. And frankly, I have a problem with that.

It’s taken me 8 years to find my way back into the rooms of AA and listening to the journeys of other alcoholics that struggled with the same thing to finally understand; I am more confused than fucking ever. All this talk of getting on your knees and praying every morning and every night but, it doesn’t have to be to ‘God’. It can be to anything. Really? ANYTHING? This leaves the realm of interpretation open ended. I like being quiet in the morning; therefore, I wake up extremely early, make my coffee, walk outside and sit. I sit there and listen to the quiet. I don’t meditate. For lort’s sake, I am an adult ADD sufferer; that’s just too much to ask.  But, does this make quiet my ‘higher power’? It’s an utterly ridiculous concept. But, one that I am going to roll with for right now.

And if you have stayed thus far, thank you. These posts tend to be chaos at best sometimes. Honestly?, I totally blame ADD and my therapist says that’s A-Okay. 😉

As I sat outside this morning with my coffee and my Daily Reflections book, it hit me that here I am; I am in a house that is constantly loud.(and, I love it most of the time) I walk outside and it is constantly loud. I go into the grocery store and it’s loud. What the fuck am I doing in a place that is so loud when the only thing that I truly want is to be quiet? And then, I started crying. All this time that I have tried to prove that I was not a “country girl” to others and all this time, I could have been quiet. I could have just accepted that I truly want a place in the middle of nowhere (but, as close as possible to Target and a Starbucks, thank you very much) where I can sit and be quiet. I want to be able to scream in frustration and not worry about the neighbors calling 9-1-1, or sit outside when it rains and not smell oil and asphalt. I am totally not talking Texas Chainsaw Massacre locale or shit like that; fuck you. I need people also. But, right now and at this stage in my life; I need quiet more.  And, I think that our family needs quiet.

We are all overly stressed, overly medicated, overly in debt, overly every-fucking-thing. My husband is nearing the end of his military career and after 20+ years, he deserves some quiet.

About a month ago, we made the decision to put our house on the market. It’s been a back and forth, confusing and less than quiet time for me and it seems like something is always in the path of this taking place because this fucking place is still not on the market. HAHAHA

But, yesterday it hit me. I truly believe that shit always happens for a reason. I don’t always like the reason and admittedly, I am not a patient person so, if the process of the reasoning takes awhile, I am not always onboard with this. But, whatever; I digress. Yesterday as I was chatting via text with a friend (her husband is also our agent) about how our scheduling a dinner date is always getting fucked; it hit me. Duh, Melody. Remember? Shit happens for a reason.  So, as of today I am going to be quiet. I am going to TRY and let things go as they are intended and not bitch TOO much about it taking so long. The keyword here being “TRY”.

So, all this time and all these years and all I really NEEDED was quiet. What I WANTED is killing me. I love my life for the most part. I love our home, I love the friends that I have here, I love the boys’ schools. I mean, I could be thinner or younger, I could be a millionaire and then you wouldn’t be reading this because I would be in my quiet; in Hawaii but, right now I’m gonna settle for quiet on my front porch. I’m going to take my 0430 coffee and quiet time and roll with it until our family’s reason shows up. I just wish it would hurry the fuck up. lol

Happy Tuesday!





It was only six minutes…

Today, as many other days, I found myself preaching to the proverbial choir; my children. As I always make an attempt at doing, I tried to speak with reflection on past discussions and with my best attempt at calm through my clinched teeth and forced patience.

I’m going to make this short and sweet because it hit me, really hit me hard in the gut, that I truly hoped my kids learned something from me during their years at home.

All kids do it. They sit there and “listen” as a parent preaches at them. Tells them what is expected. Explains why they are being punished. Blah, blah, blah. The whole time, thinking in their little child brains, “Is she ever going to just shut up? Maybe if I sit really still and look at her forehead she will think that I’m paying attention and shut up.”  I did the same thing. I’m wise to their game; only this time, I’m the old lady that won’t shut up and I just. keep. talking. (Sometimes on purpose.)

This time was different. This time, something would be taken away from my nearing 41 year old, mother of three, gibberish. (And by the way, not going to be short and sweet as I had hoped) This time, I was speaking of a box. An imaginary box but, a box nonetheless. This box, like many other boxes, begins empty. This box then is filled with tiny pieces of well, shit. Yes. Let’s use shit as a prime example.  A box is only capable of holding so much shit and then, it’s done. It’s filled with all these little bits of shit and there is now no room left for the big pieces of shit. It’s nearing impossible to carry without help. Now, let’s equate that box of little bits of shit to one’s ability to handle all “the little things” that we are told our entire lives that we should let go.

One can only handle so much before all the little things turn into one big solid THING and its a whole lot harder to rid yourself of that heavy, huge box than one that is halfway or even a quarter of the way full. So, for every little thing that is kept out of the box, there is room for something else. I know, I know. All this talk of shit and boxes; all this is confusing me so, my kids were probably fucked from the get-go.

At this point, the look of confusion is too much to bear and I start giving examples such as small chores. One of which I had assigned them in the past was wiping the table down after every meal. This is not a hard chore. This is not a cumbersome or time consuming chore. It is three (sometimes) times a day and one can accomplish this in two minutes. Three times a day x two minutes = six minutes. Six minutes from their day.  Could they spare SIX minutes in order to rid that box of some of the little shit so that I didn’t lose MY shit? The look on their faces was that of, “Well, of course. It’s ONLY six minutes.”

The conversation continued on as I tried to impress upon them that I am NOT trying to be the bitch mom. However, I had tried to be the nice mom, the bitch mom, the friend mom, the spoiling mom.  I have been the yelling mom. I have been the begging mom and the pleading mom. I have been the bargaining mom(which I swore I would never be) and I have been the Southern-beat-your-ass-with-a-belt mom. I have taken all of their things. I have donated and given away, sold and trashed their shit. What would it take?

Here lies where I bring up THE stupidest rule as mom that I have EVER heard but, have been forced to well, enforce. The “All for one, one for all” rule. If one of you acts stupid, all of you get punished.  My kids ages are 12, 11 and 4. Take a minute and let that soak in. Now, isn’t that “rule” the most asinine shit you have ever heard of? But, it’s the only thing that works. The 4 year old fucks up when you’re with him, all three get punished. The oldest one steals snacks, everyone loses that particular snack. I think that you get the idea.  If you are a parent and reading that, is that not the most ridiculous shit? Hell, if you are not a parent and read that; fucking ridiculous. It makes no sense but, it. fucking. works.

Now, here is where it hit me that I truly hope that one day in their lives, they will have that “A-ha” moment that I spoke of earlier. I looked at the eldest and told him that eventually he will have a job, maybe a home of his own. It may be a first job working at a fast food joint with a table that he has to wipe down for a customer or it may be his own table that he needs to wipe off to feed his own kids.  I hope that if it’s him or if it’s one of his brothers;  in that one second of thought, I hope it goes back to my words from today; “…it was only six minutes”.  Six minutes that can help another person more than they will ever know. Six minutes that may just take a lot of that little shit out of someone’s box and make it a little lighter for them to carry.

Sometimes I tend to talk a bit excessively…

For those that know me well, I tend to talk a wee bit. haha
But, I am terrified of any type of public speaking.
I have written speeches for local business owners (friends) however, had I been asked to actually say them OUTLOUD?
Who was the speech teacher in high school? Track her down. Ask her if she remembers the 200 pound student that cold passed out on her floor when it came time to present.
So, after all that; I actually spoke at AA last night.
The topic was “What did you do today to stay sober?”
#1 I hate that fucking question. Normally, it means that you are an unprepared dick who shouldn’t have accepted to lead a meeting.
Moving on…
Last night when I spoke, I touched on words of persons that I came across in my first year and change of sobriety and the words that as of late, had be resonating in my head.
1. I remember sitting at Starbucks after a meeting in 2010. I was contemplating if I really WAS an alcoholic. MAYBE, I was just so severely depressed that I used it as a crutch. This woman looked at me and with all the sincerity she had said, “You know, that could be the case. Maybe you AREN’T an alcoholic. But, are you willing to take that chance to find out?”
2. There was a couple in the main AA meeting that I attended in the beginning. He was an “old timer” (years upon years sober) and she was sober for quite awhile. These are people that I respected and looked up to. I was about a year and change into my recovery and one night after a meeting, he and I were chatting about me not having a sponsor to walk me through working the steps.
His words to me, “If you don’t have a sponsor, you’ll be dead in a year.”
Challenge accepted, mother fucker. And, I never walked back into a meeting until 2015.
3. And this one, I think can apply to most any task in life; if you get comfortable and give yourself a chance to think “maybe”, you have already relapsed.
Get comfortable, get canned. Job, social circles fuck, even in the route you take home from work everyday… you name it and this can apply. If you start to get too cocky enough in anything, BOOM! You’ll find out how quickly that shit can change.
And, as the always pleasant Melody, I felt that I also needed to knock the newcomers in the room back into the harsh reality that alcoholism, like any disease/addiction, there are three levels of initial TRUE recovery;
1. Immediate high of, “I’m really doing this! I got this! I am invincible!”
2. You hit the bottom of the roller coaster where that adrenaline has hit the pit of your stomach and you’re not wholly convinced if you need to vomit or ride again but, that feeling is not “okay”.
3. You eventually get to feel “normal” again. And that may be the hardest part. (imho)
So, thoughtless meanderings of a recovering alcoholic. Thanks for letting me share; my name is Melody and I am an alcoholic.

Surgical humor… best question EVER

So, on the topic of weight loss; mine in particular…
For those that are not aware, I had gastric bypass in 2002.
October 16, 2002
I was checked into the hospital and in that gen pop, OR prep area where they give you all the good relaxation shit via IV. My mother went to close the privacy curtain and the nurse quickly stops her. My mom looks at her and says, “You just gave her meds to chill her out. Trust me. You WANT to close this curtain.” (The curtain remained open at the insistence of the charge nurse.)
Not moments after this and watching the Today Show with Katie Couric, I for no reason known to me, yell out “FUCK YOU, KATIE COURIC!” Dude, I have never had any issues with Katie fucking Couric before this moment. (The nurse then comes and closes not only the curtain but the door as well.)
My dad comes in and informs me that somehow he has made contact with my anesthesiologist and they went to college together. (Delta State, bitches! Home of the mighty FIGHTING OKRA!) Okay, so that should be comforting, right?
Anyway, I digress. They (Who the fuck were ‘THEY’ anyway? Who are all of those people that always roll you into an operating room?)
Rolled in and everyone is so well, happy. I guess the thought of cutting into people thrills the shit out of them. Hey, me too! Carry. The. Fuck. On.
Looking back, I could have felt like I was Ana from 50 Shades of Gray/Grey being tethered down and locked into place. Dear lort… And then it starts; they all start asking you questions to keep your mind busy while they stick needles and fuck knows what else everywhere but, this day; a question was asked that stuck in my brain and swear, I can still hear my dad’s friend saying it,
“Melody, what’s the first thing that you’re going to do after you lose all this weight?”
“I’m gonna work at mother fucking Hooters.”
The entire surgical team froze and then started laughing so hard that they were actually making me nervous.  And, that was the last thing that I heard as my life changed.  It’s a pretty good memory of a really dark time.

***Draft AGAIN from last year…. lmao

My name is Melody. I am a recovering alcoholic. I am a mother. I am a wife. I am a woman that is diagnosed as bi-polar with clinical depression, severe anxiety and panic disorder. I am a woman that wears many hats and not all of them are positive. Today, I finally admitted to myself that I am addicted to food.

My entire existence and who I am has centered around food. Food and being fat because of it. I am not a medically reasoned fat person. I know each and every time that I put food in my mouth that I am making the choice. And every time, I sit there and literally ponder what I can cut from my intake in the next day to make up for what I am about to do. It’s a horrible way to live.

How I envy those people that eat to live and not the opposite. How I wish that I could walk away from cookies and cupcakes. How I wish that I didn’t obsess about one particular food for a week. Not eating anything else until I have made myself so physically ill from the consumption. How I wish that after nearing forty years on this earth, I could put down that last bite and be satiated. But, I never do.

At one point in my adult life, I weighed in at 331 pounds.  Today, I stand at 168. Last week I weighed 164. Yes, you read that correctly. In one week, I gained 4 pounds. How in the fuck does that happen? Normal people don’t do that, right? Now, most people think that in the scheme of things, four pounds is a mere drop in the pie pan when you compare 331 to 168. Well, not to me.  Nothing changed in my life last week. I wasn’t anymore sane or depressed than normal. Nothing changed in my physical activity level (or lack thereof) in the last week.  And, it’s not Aunt Flo’s visit.  I just gained fucking weight. And, to an extent I can see where 4 pounds is “nothing”. That is until I begin to analyze how that measly four pounds is really going to hurt me. That is when I think about gaining 4 pounds a week for a month. (16 pounds approx.) Then, I think about gaining 4 pounds a week for the seven months that my husband is deployed for.  That is where panic ensues.

You know that point when you are eating something and you use KNOW that the last bite(s) are going to make you miserable? You stop eating, right? Nope. Not this girl. This girl sits there with the last bite of food in her hand or on her plate and waits. Waits until it feels like she can manage that one. Last. Bite. Then she gets sick and has to stick her fingers down her throat to vomit because it hurts so badly. This is not normal. This is not the actions of a person that wants to “eat to live” and be happy. Yes, you also read that correctly. I gag myself to vomit if I eat too much.

I am 168 pounds and I am 5’8″. By some accounts, a relatively tall woman. All the charts say that I am overweight. Yet, I have been told that I look “sick” or asked “how much more weight…” do I want to lose. (btw, I am not sick at all and I want to weigh 150) When do I start feeling that my weight is acceptable? When do I start remembering that my husband met me when I was 200 pounds and still wanted to be with me? When do I stop thinking that the rail thin woman is silently scolding me for eating the exact same thing that she has on her plate?  Well, apparently not anytime soon since I can’t stop eating.