Me at five

The person I am was born five years ago, on January 20, 2003.

At the time, it seemed accidental.

That other me was miserable, lonely, depressed, worried, muddled, anxious, flabby, fearful, morbid. My life was passing me by in excruciating slow motion. And I was like a spectator at a Kabuki theater show, uncomprehending and confused about the plot, the characters and the point of it all.

I drove the streets of Houston, dreading to go home.

If I swerved my car into that telephone pole, or this concrete embankment, would it look like an accident? I couldn't stand my children suffering the abandonment caused by a mother who committed suicide. Plus, they could collect my life insurance.

But I'd screwed up so many other things in life, I'd probably screw up my death, too. I was chicken--thank goodness.

Despite (because of?) being so crazy myself, I was on a mission to fix the crazy people in my life. If I could just come to grips with my screwed up family members-- as my addled reasoning went-- then, THEN, I'd be happy.

So, I headed into Al-Anon, looking for serenity, trying to find the secret to fixing them, searching for the magic mantra or fail-safe strategy to straighten all of them out.

I even screwed that up.

I walked in the wrong door, into the wrong room.

Sitting on that folding chair in the back of the room, the fog in my head and darkness in my heart was heavy as I'd ever known. The God of my childhood was pissed off and vengeful, and I was sure He was deeply disgruntled with me. My family was estranged. I felt awkward socializing and retreated from the few friends I hadn't pushed away. My business was stumbling. My third marriage was spiteful and loveless. I was afraid my son would die and my daughter had left to go live with her dad.

But that night, a white-haired man with twinkling blue eyes and kindness like drops of warm rain on parched earth smiled at me and said, "There's only one person in this world you can change, and that's you."

"Just because you get sober, that doesn't mean your life will suddenly be wonderful," he said. "It may not get any better. Life will still be life. But YOU will get better, and that will make it so much easier to deal with life."

He was right.

My life didn't get better. In fact, it got worse immediately. Then a lot worse.

Then it got different.

Then it got better.

Then it became miraculous.

In five years, I have:

Gotten divorced.

Taken a year's sabbatical from romantic involvement.

Sold a house and a business, bought a house, sold it, and changed jobs twice.

Confessed my most shameful, guilt-inducing secrets to a priest, then to my dearest friend and gradually made peace with my past.

Reconciled with my daughter and rebuilt our relationship better than we'd ever dreamed.

Celebrated the miracle of my son, shared Thanksgivings and Christmases with him--after spending previous holidays not even knowing if he was alive.

Met a lovely man. Fell for him. Moved in with him. Proposed to him. Married him.

Seen sunrise over Tikal and sunset over Lake Atitlan, Guatemala.

Attended the funeral of a man who ODed six weeks after his baby son was born.

Looked down from above the clouds at Machu Picchu.

Celebrated Easter morning fireworks in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico with cherished friends.

Made my friend Doug's wish come true by asking him to be flowergirl at my wedding.

Felt snowflakes melt on my face at Lake Louise. Watched clouds drift through the treetops in the Canadian Rockies.

Walked on the floating Uros Islands of Lake Titicaca.

Roasted marshmallows around the campfire in Wimberley.

Prayed over a comatose man in ICU who overdosed after a few months sober.

Helped repair flood-battered homes in New Orleans.

Felt good knowing my parents have finally, after 40+ years, stopped worrying about me.

Seen a dear friend conquer breast cancer while losing her health insurance and her job, yet emerge with her marriage and prodigious sense of humor stronger than ever.

Lost a friend to cancer, while watching him deny that disease victory by maintaining his grace and never succumbing to self-pity.

Sung karaoke sober.

Danced sober.

Made love sober.

Discovered that every cell in a body not deadened with massive doses of a depressant feels marvelously alive and vibrant.

Survived the Bikram Yoga Challenge.

Not too bad for a five-year-old.