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steadycoffeeflow · 6 years

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Day 10. Flowing | H&J

This prompt was supposed to be about Leo and his addictions, in the framework of J&H. I didn’t want to write that. Maybe another time. Instead, we get my self-insert character. She seemed easier to slip into and deal with.

Today was also Mental Health Day! Take care of yourselves you fucking eggs.

Osmosis: a process by which molecules of a solvent tend to pass through a semipermeable membrane from a less concentrated solution into a more concentrated one, thus equalizing the concentrations on each side of the membrane.

The concept was something Steady knew they’d gone over in high school AP Bio class. She could picture it, as if a mere decade hadn’t passed her by at all. Mr. Brett who was a portly and pleasant man with a full, pepper-salt beard who always referred to himself in the third person. They were setting up an experiment that involved potato slices.

Damn if Steady could remember what the results were. Just one thing stuck out to her: homeostasis and equilibrium. Needing to have a balance.

And as she sipped from her coffee mug - laden with irish cream and vodka, her fingers feeling heavy and mind slipping even farther away - she considered that. Mulled it over. Fixated on the idea.

Having a balance. Two solutions. One lacking and the other too much. Too much of what varied. Energy. Electricity. Food dye. It didn’t matter what - it was just Too Much. A lot. Excess. It needed to be burned off, in the case of energy. Spread and shared around in the case of dye.

One side, flowing into the other. Filling in for the lack and spreading out what was too much. It sounded...nice. Peaceful. The type of ideal tranquility that would strike her on some odd Thursday night, an ordinary day out of ordinary days, and make her begin to weep, curling in on herself.

Steady watched, eyes languid, as Mr. Brett put the potato slices in the water, then took another sip of the syrup, letting it sting her tongue pleasantly.

One time, just before college started, Steady had been struck by the idea that she needed to go camping. Had made it to the door with her old tent pack gear, a couple days’ worth of food and a fishing pole. She didn’t even know if there would be water where she was going. Didn’t even know where she was going. Said as much when her mother asked. Both parents had flown into rages at that, thinking she was running away. Hell if Steady even knew where she was running to, let alone away from, just knew she needed to run.

It happened another time, when she was still working in Detroit. This one had an impulse. ‘New York State of Mind’ by Billy Joel came on the radio, cutting through the static of the afternoon and information technology article write-ups. Steady had to go to New York. Could see it so clearly, her sitting on a bench, watching the taxi lanes clog up, observing the people on their phones and in their nice clothes with her darting eyes. She’d only seen the city on the news, for New Year celebrations, in the older shows before the century.

She got to the receptionist when he’d joked: “Taking a second lunch?”

She’d frozen, hand raised to push the handle, but not quite touching it. The spell broken, she laughed at him. “Just putting my bag in the car. Thinking of taking a walk to wake up.” Nodded. Accepted. Normal response.

She had to be more normal.

There was that other time at college, her mind pivoted to next. She’d stayed up, drifting into hour-long naps once every 24-hour period because, distantly, she knew she needed some rest, and all she’d been doing was writing. Writing writing writing until her wrists were aching with the force of creation.

Then, she crashed for 32 hours, unable to move. When she woke up, groggy and head stuffed full of pain, she’d called home. Explained what had happened.

‘Oh honey, you’re just creative.’

But this was different than all-nighters in high school. Each new idea had been something to explore, a compulsion she had to explore. It was frightening, getting swept up in a tide of creation. Usually the process was freeing. This...this was something else. She was skipping class, realizing only when it was dark out that she hadn’t left to go to the dining hall, that someone - her roommate - had asked if she wanted to go. Then snuck a plate back. Bought a sandwich using Steady’s ID. Put a bottle of water snugged up on the pillow with a smiley face on a sticky note and Steady couldn’t answer her own question: When had that gotten there? When did you last drink water? Shower? Eat? Use the bathroom?

People joked. ‘Who’s your supplier, eh?’

Who knew how long Reese had been standing there. Not Steady, that was for sure. She jumped when she noticed him leaning in the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed and a slight crease to his brow. “Heya,” she said, chipper.

“You do this often?” he asked, processing something.

Steady looked around the kitchen. “Cook? Yes. I need to eat food, Reese,” she snorted, going back to slicing the peppers.

“Are you cooking for an army? Was there a new upgrade I didn’t know about, where androids have to eat too?”

Steady bristled a bit. Reese wasn’t laughing. Wasn’t brushing it off. Which meant she’d misstepped. Shit.

Taking inventory of the counter, she tried to think if this was excessive. Was it too much? There was the crockpot with the chili simmering away on low. Had been for the past three hours. Still needed another five or so, which meant it would be ready for her to take to work. Then, she still had pepper left, so she was slicing those up to fry for a fajita mix she’d cook up once the chili vacated the crock pot.

This all had a logical, clear progression.

Steady looked confused at Reese, to see if he was going to fill in any gaps she was missing.

“Are you going to eat that all tonight, or will you be feasting in your dreams?” he asked, holding out his hands at the mess.

Steady followed the hand motions instead of looking at Reese’s face. Couldn’t meet his eyes. Whenever she did look at him, she found herself drawn to his chin, or maybe the wave of his hair or the tattoos he had. Or just the knife in her hand - that was a good idea - to keep an eye on that.

“I mean,” she said, mumbling it now. Voice lower than she needed it to be. Had to pitch it up. Sound like she wasn’t affected - like she normally was. “I’m just not tired. Must be the coffee, whoops.”

Reese frowned. Folded his arms. Watched her. “You...last cup of coffee you had was this morning.”

The blade skipped on the pepper skin. The blade was dull. Knew she had to watch it, or she’d graze her knuckles, slide a fingertip. “Should cut it out entirely,” she replied, smiling ruefully. “Last doc suggested I go straight decaf if I needed to have my hot drink fix. I never went back.”

Reese nodded. Didn’t say anything until Steady was working on the third and final pepper to slice. The pile was consuming the counter space, thin, uneven strips of it falling off the cutting board. “Well, are you going to need help cleaning up…?”

He moved to the sink and Steady jolted. “No.”

Her cry rang out. Probably alerted Rose and Aria. She winced, sucking air through her teeth as she bowed her head over the pepper. “Don’t. I’m good. I’ll clean up after myself.”

“That’s a lot of mess,” Reese started to protest.

“Don’t.”

“Okay.” He relented easy, likely had only been offering to be polite.

Steady eased up, then scooped the peppers up, dropping them into a waiting, warm pan. She turned up the heat, added a dash of butter, then turned to the flank steak. She’d used about half for the chili. Could sear it nicely with the fajita mix. Keep that on low for another-

“It’s nice to see you up and about. Last two weeks you spent on the couch,” Reese said.

Steady shrugged. She was missing something. Something about this scene was odd to him. She had to figure it out, smooth it down, fill in the crack somehow.

Reese patted the island counter. “Well, looks like you’ll be a minute or two. Mind if I…?”

“Go for it,” Steady said, smiling. Forgot why she’d been worried anyway. Probably just paranoid. Nothing to worry about. She busied herself slicing up the beef. Methodical. After a couple of minutes, her mouth began to move of its own accord. Filled in the cracks. And Reese listens. Listened to her story about high school AP biology as she trimmed the fat from the meat. Soaked it in when she relayed the story about camping back in Detroit as she stirred the peppers, appreciating how they were sweating down and charring the bottom of the pan. Tilted his head as he considered her story about wanting to travel to New York.

“Is that why you’re here now?” Reese asked.

“What?”

“New York. Now. Rose hasn’t mentioned how you two met yet.”

“Oh. No. That’s not - I’m. That’s something else, I mean. I always wanted to go to New York, who doesn’t. There was this one time we were going to see a Broadway performance, actually, but the trip just didn’t work out so we went to the local Apple Diner Theater in my hometown instead. Gosh that was such a good - my friend was in it? She was great. Knew her from high school. She used to sneak out with me during lunch breaks. Always smoked. I never did. I mean the harder shit. Sometimes I get a nicotine hit.” Steady shrugged, pushed the meat into the pan. “Wonder what happened to her.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah! I mean, we had a falling out. People always have falling outs with me.” A tightness overtook Steady’s chest and her eyes stung. Must be the peppers. No - that was onions. “Misunderstandings and the like. They get tired. But…” Where had she been going? Right, the play! “It was Wicked! She had the role of the witch…”

And as Steady bustled about in the early hours of the morning, limbs, chest, fingers, heart - mind - racing with electricity, Reese listened. He inclined his head this way and that, shrugged, flashed his palms, wrinkled his nose that caused the burns around his brown eye to crinkle.

Outside the night pressed in, chilling and tran - We should decorate the house for Halloween. Just the inside should be fine. Not too attention grabbing. I can go shopping after work and- quil in its absolute pitch blackness.

And things felt just right.

#inktober #inktober2018 #promptober #dbh fic #my writing #steady writes #day 10 #flowing #hey so this was uuuuhhhh pretty easy to write because most of its nonfiction #imagine that #one day i'll get to leo but i'm less familiar with those struggles honestly #wanna do them right #rkhaus

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alexdmorgan30 · 5 years

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11 Ways to Heal a Broken Heart in Recovery

Heartbreak. At 14 or 54, we’ve all been there, but today we push through the pain, one-day-at-a-time, cold brew sober. And here’s what’s helping me now, because, despite what still feels like an endless volley of water balloons hitting concrete beneath my breastbone, the fibrillation is in my mind, not my chest cavity, and that scrappy muscle thumps on, still propping me upright each morning to face my new reality.1. Find that God of Your Understanding and Glom OnWhen I reached Step 3 with my sponsor, I got an assignment: flesh out your concept of a higher power, in writing. Lisa M. wanted detail, a God I could see and talk to, and grab by the elbow. And because I’m neither original nor progressive, I came up with a male God in human form — a cross between Santa Claus and Mr. T. to be exact. With a twinkle in his eye and a glint off his gold tooth, my HP is jolly and generous, strong and sexy, and funny as hell.And at this moment, when I’m finding myself on the sucky side of one-sided love, it’s not bad to have a real hunk who loves me for an HP. After an especially vicious salvo, when the heartbreak balloons start to leak out the eye sockets, I can HALT, remember the in-breath, and picture HP (and yes, predictably, I’m looking heavenward). Funny, his response is always the same: with bronzed torso and silver beard, forearms flexed and crossed over a white undershirt, the big man in the sky stares down at me, then starts nodding reassuringly. Suddenly, he flashes that easy smile and I know I’m good.2. Slam the SlogansH.A.L.T., Easy Does It, Turn It Over, Just for Today, Live and Let Live, This Too Shall Pass, When One Door Shuts Another Opens, Fear Is the Absence of Faith, The Elevator Is Broken - You’ll Have to Use the Steps. I’ve become something of a short-order chef when it comes to using a few well-chosen words to support my sobriety. Day and night, I sling slogans, flip affirmations, and call out quotes from famous dead people. I’ve scotched them to the inside of my kitchen cabinets, along with the 3rd, 6th, 7th and 11th step prayers. They are the comfort food my soul craves now. “Success is moving from failure to failure with no lack of enthusiasm.” - Winston Churchill. “If you want to be loved, love and do loving things.” - Ben Franklin. Words that nourish, as I’m waiting for the kettle to boil. Having well-chosen words highly visible in the kitchen (or as a screensaver) can be a real lifesaver!3. Phone TherapyAnd here’s a slogan I’m slamming hard today: “We drank alone, but we don’t stay sober alone.” The old timers carried quarters, and I make sure I leave home with my phone fully-charged. I listen to a morning meditation walking to the train, text three newcomers on the platform, compose a longer text to my sponsor in transit, then dial my best sober gal pal as I push through the turnstile on the final leg to work. I send silly GIFs to lift spirits, including mine, and add a trail of emoji butterflies, praying hands, and peace signs. By 8:00 a.m., the lonely in me already feels not so alone.4. Explore PodcastsRecovery Radio Network, Joe and Charlie, and the Alcoholics Anonymous Radio Show are three in my queue. On my lunch hour or driving upstate, I take 30-60 minutes to laugh, cry, and identify…5. Make a Gratitude ListMy first sober Christmas, going through a divorce with two kids still believing in Santa, the above-mentioned sober gal pal suggested I find ten things for which I was grateful, save them to my phone, and recite them like a mantra through the Twelve Days of Christmas. I did:1. My sobriety 2. My sons 3. AA program of recovery 4. AA fellowship 5. Food in my stomach 6. Roof over my head 7. Colombian coffee 8. My dog 9. My extended family 10. God (HP has since moved up to the #1 slot)It worked. I said no to nog that first Yuletide, and made merry for my sons instead. And counting off my blessings still works today, when I’m a shallow-breathing shell just going through the motions.6. Make an Extended Gratitude ListWhen the restless, irritable and discontent in me keeps spilling the glass half-full and this positive punch list isn’t getting me over the hump, I pour out ten more things to celebrate, like: my pre-war bathtub, which holds upwards of 60 gallons of bubble bath and the fact that I live within easy walking distance of two subway lines so I can always get into the city on weekends.7. Make Meetings“Meeting Makers Make It,” “Get Sober Feet,” “Carry the Body, the Mind Will Follow.” These three slogans in particular encouraged me as a newcomer, and I’m calling upon them now, in cardiac arrest, when my heart needs serious heartening. So I’m hitting my home group, and getting hugs from retirees with double-digit sobriety who pass fresh Kleenex and envelop in equanimous smiles. I’m also checking out other meetings across town, then going out for...8. Fellowship AfterwardsI’ve started tucking my Boggle into my handbag when I head out to my Friday night meeting. At the secretary’s report, I pull out the box, shake it, and invite anyone interested to a nearby diner for passable pie a la mode and a few rounds of a three-minute word game. Sometimes it’s Yahtzee. We roll the dice and down bottomless cups of bad coffee. Last week someone brought cards, and I lost badly at hearts (ha!). It’s good, wholesome fun, and by the time I hit my pillow, I’ve significantly pared down the number of waking hours I could have spent obsessing over-ahem-HIM.9. Self-CareSelf-care is somewhat self-defined. These days, after I’ve covered the basics—eat, sleep, bathe—I’m noodling what more I can do to support my mental, physical, and spiritual self. Prone to self-pity and self-indulgence just now, self-care is really urgent-care. So I ask: am I under-meditating and over-caffeinating? Am I speeding up at speed bumps? Am I four months behind in balancing my bank statement? Am I using money to buy what money can’t buy and damn the consequences? Am I treating every Monday like Cyber Monday and abusing the free delivery feature of Amazon Prime? Have I forgotten yoga and found red velvet cake in Costco’s freezer? Are my spot checks spotty lately because I just don’t want to cop to this alcoholic acting out, and instead keep blunting the full force of feeling??? Yes to all of the above. And this leads me back to Step 2: turn to top management for a takeover.Working Steps 2 and 3 is probably the most caring thing I’m doing for myself today: seeing the unmanageable, then seeing the way out. And also forgiving myself for these self-indulgent splurges. So what that I’ve added three pounds to my midline and three pairs of silver sandals to my shoe rack? The rent is paid, and my latchkey kids still let themselves in after school and seem content to eat my crockpot soup and call this home.10. Get on your Hobby HorseWhen was the last time you read “Chapter 6: Getting Active” in Living Sober, that handy paperback that’s not just for newcomers? This month I’ve been making good use of subsection 6B: “Activity not related to A.A.”The anonymous authors suggest “trying a new hobby” or “revisiting an old pastime, except you-know-what” (Yea, Amstel Light). Fat chance I’ll pick up cabinetmaking, leathercraft or macramé, but I am baking granola and simmering bone broths.I’m also revisiting my adolescence with amateur YouTube ballet routines by hammy-thighed figure skaters and dancing to Heavy D. music videos late into a Saturday night. I’m choosing happy music over sad, and tuning in to The Messiah, not Blue Christmas.I’m even considering “Starting on long neglected chores” like editing my nearly obsolete recipe binder, now that I’ve found Pinterest. And while I can’t claim to be going out of my way “Volunteering to do some useful service,” I am trying to be more useful on my job. And just as helping a newcomer find a meeting helps me, helping a kid graph algebraic equations makes me feel purposeful (when otherwise I feel like a mess).11. Become a card-carrying member of the “No Matter What Club”For God’s sake, whatever skillful or unskillful actions you end up taking during this time of triage, please don’t drink over him or her. They are not worth it. (And I’d put money down—money that I don’t have—on a bet that they’d agree with me.)Voila! My top eleven tips to help you over the hump of heartbreak! Take what you like and leave the rest.Have you had your heart broken in recovery? How did you heal? Let us know in the comments.

from RSSMix.com Mix ID 8241841 http://bit.ly/2U3i5gZ

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pitz182 · 5 years

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11 Ways to Heal a Broken Heart in Recovery

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emlydunstan · 5 years

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11 Ways to Heal a Broken Heart in Recovery

from RSSMix.com Mix ID 8241841 https://www.thefix.com/11-ways-heal-broken-heart-recovery

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litcityblues · 7 years

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Winter 2027 Pt. 1

The problem with trying to imagine your life in 10 years is that it’s so hard to conceive of. Ten years. Ten whole years. I’ll be 43 ten years from now. So will the Missus. Our oldest will be 15. Our medium baby will be 11. Tiny Man (if he’s still around) will be 10. Our youngest will be 7.

Ten years, huh. Well:

The alarm goes off at 6:30. I should be more used to getting up early in the morning by now, but I’m not. I like the warmth of my bed. I like sleep. At one point we had two kids under the age of 3 and that was hard. We were working- both of us, busting our asses trying to get those damn loans paid off and get our debt beaten down into submission and that was hard. I like sleep. I appreciate sleep. I like a warm bed. I like-

The alarm goes off again. 6:35. The Missus and I both groan, each in our own way and she gets up and heads for the shower. I get up and head downstairs to start making coffee. I stop and stare out across the backyard for a moment, like I do every morning since we moved to the mountains. We’re in Colorado. Those are the mountains. Life is good in the mountains. Then I shake myself loose from my reverie and start making the coffee. Fair Trade coffee of course- in our ridiculous old-style coffee machine- a Black and Decker that refuses to die.

The coffee starts gurgling and by the time enough has landed in the pot for me to pour a cup, it’s 6:40. I pour myself a cup and think about the day ahead.

It’s Monday.

Laundry day.

Dishes.

Prep dinner for later. It’s taco night tonight and we’ve got authentic tortillas, some nice pico de gallo salsa we picked up at the local farmer’s market and a pork shoulder that’s going to simmer beautifully in the crockpot all day long.

6:45. I put my coffee mug down and head back upstairs. Time to get the kids up. For Austin, cruelty is the easiest way to do it. Turn the lights on. He groans and pulls the covers of his head. ‘Time to get up!’

The middle kids are easiest. Kelvin is already up and Jackson is at that stage where he likes school, so he’s pretty excited about life as well. They share bunk beds. Jackson is all about music right now. Kelvin loves building things- models and Legos are all over their room.

Delaney is still young enough that she’s fun to wake up, She’s on the verge though of being “too big for silly stuff” which makes me sad, but for now... ‘Delaaaaaaaaaaaaaaney time to get uppppp....’

It take some wrangling but by 6:55 the kids are dressed, downstairs and eating, which is quite the accomplishment. My mental list for the day continues in between filling breakfast orders and refereeing the occasional disagreement between the kids. The Missus emerges from the shower, dressed in her scrubs and ready to head out for her shift at the clinic.

“Do we have clients today?”

“Not today. Tomorrow you have a consult in the afternoon.”

“Today is clear.”

“Hope so, I’ve got classes in the afternoon.”

“Have fun, I gotta go.” She grabs coffee and a slice of peanut butter toast and then, after kisses for the kids she’s out the door. After some wrangling, threats and cajoling, I get all the kids loaded into the van and headed off to school. Austin grumbles as usual about lacking his own car, but as always, I point out cheerfully that should he get his own car, he would be driving his siblings to school and paying for his own gas and insurance and he subsides as he always does. By 7:30 the kids are dropped off and I’m back home. Alone. In the silence.

....end of Part 1.

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