Recovery
The fever is broken. My face is still half-mini-paralyzed, but I am learning to talk with it and so grateful that generally otherwise, I feel improved.
I’m sleeping in the cool dark bedroom. Not-sleeping. Watching A&E’s Intervention .
When I first started watching this show, it felt voyeuristic. Addicts and their families reveal daily life of co-dependance and misery. It always ends with an intervention and a bottom line by the family: go to rehab, or we’re done.
The sickness of the families horrified me. But I was drawn to it, and changed. I found comfort. Raw humanity, the core of us all ripped open to see: dark and confusing and sick and alive and good. There was something to love about all of them, and all of them were there because they truly loved someone else.
I find the feelings I have toward the alcoholics are all the same: sorrow and remorse; total irritation. Unspeakable things have happened to them — abandonment, abuse, rape, loss. But they suffer from an ugly self-pity, and use it as license to abuse the people who love them.
And then the enablers: bless their sweet generous sick little hearts. I watch as they allow themselves to be pulled along by the people they love, propping up the paper thin walls of their delusions so they don’t have to face themselves, either.
The drunks have the alcohol, the enablers have the drunk.
Tonight’s episode is about a woman named Laney, who brings her cat with her everywhere and won’t fly. She’s taking a limo between Boston and Kansas, cat in the back, drinking herself obliterate on cheap rum. The cat uses the litter box at her feet. The ride goes on for days and costs $10,000.
She gets wind of her family’s planned intervention and holes up in her mansion, calling the cops when the people who love her arrive. The cops send her family to the street, where they wait in the cold in a rental van.
Such misery. Such abject darkness and loss.
Finally a quiet-faced African-American woman in a sleek black leather jacket knocks on the door and smiles kindly.
“I am the woman who will be your counselor if you go to rehab,” she says. “I have twenty years in recovery, and your family has a message for you.”
Go to this rehab in Florida. Or we’re out of your life.
Not without the cat, she answers.
No problem, smiles the counselor.
And then they’re in the limo, making the drive to Florida. The repulsive litter box is back there. So is the rum.
Laney drinks, cries, listens to her music, talks to the cat. The counselor rides quietly along beside her, in the clothes from days ago, a pink blanket pulled to her chin, down the road and the days in that car with the drunk and the cat and the rum.
It is an astonishing ride — literally, a cruise to rock bottom, a staring contest to see if this woman can make herself so unlikeable that no one will make her face herself.
They arrive, and the alcoholic’s bravado is gone. Her face is contorted in fear. She knows. It is literally the end of the road.
“I’m not staying,” Laney says, “turn the car around.”
“C’mon sweetie,” the counselor says. These are the first words the documentary has credited to her since the Midwest. “We didn’t come all this way, along all these days, to have you quit. I kept my end of the deal. Now keep yours.”
I am in awe of this woman who has ridden all this way with a repulsive person in a repulsive situation. Stripped of sentimentally, bare to the world, generous in its days and miles and quiet company with the grotesque — her gift is stark.
I did this for you. Earn it. Do well, come on, you can do it!
She says none of that.
“It’s time, now,” is what she says, sending Laney into the building.
Laney checks out after two days. The ending credits say that she claims to be sober, but her family has refused all contact because she did not complete rehab. My little enabler heart shatters. Poor thing. Wherever you are, Laney, I hope you get help.
I want to know what happened to the counselor, although expect I do know: she kept traveling the road, her blanket to her chin, looking out the window. Not the catcher in the rye, reaching desperately for the children to save to ease his own sorrows. Just the woman with a little health and a chance to help. She doesn’t know this woman she has ridden with, but she knows the disease and she wants to do what she can.
I am droopy-faced in the dark bedroom with the TV on. Tired, a little scared. But I’m determined to keep on with my life and give this as little of myself as possible. And as my little village kicks in — “We’ll take the kids, we’ll feed them, we’ll love them and we’ll clean your kitchen … JUST KICK THIS THING’S ASS” — I think that this is love.
We all have our own journeys of misery — our moments of being the lunatic with the cat and the rum — and no one can take our seat.
But, oh what a gift when someone is willing to ride along and see us to the door.
July 21st, 2008 at 8:49 pm
We have the choice to succomb or to kick ass. You keep kicking ass, Elizabeth. I’d ride with you.
July 21st, 2008 at 9:47 pm
I hadn’t visited the site in a couple weeks. But wow. Glad you’re doing better. The village thing…. My husband just left for another deployment. Not the same thing as what you’re going through, but it’s the people that come alongside that make it bearable.
This probably sounds really odd given your current circumstance, but in some ways I really envy you. You’ve got that support, those people. We just moved here and I don’t know anyone so I am slowly trying to find those connections.
And I am scared.
But yes, even stories like this help make everything better, put it all in perspective.
July 21st, 2008 at 10:18 pm
Is it strange that no matter what you say, I can relate to it at that very moment at time? I mean, good grief, as my son was leaking spinal fluid from his cracked skull, you were having it removed. Then, the nerves controlling his face decided to act up and make his left side stop expressing itself, and yours do to the same, just for different reasons. And now, your village comes together to save you. My village cleaned my entire messy house, top to bottom, while I sat in the hospital for a few days. They kept my kids and fed them and bathed them and let them eat lots of cookies. It’s amazing how loved a village can make you feel. Or, in your case, a posse.
Merinda, I’m certain that somewhere in the archives of this blog, there are multiple comments from me, discussing my envy of DaPosse. I know how you feel (also, military wife here, too!) The lack of a village can be so very hard. Finding those connections is hard and scary, but so so very worth it. I hope you find them soon. I keep hoping maybe my life will move out of crisis mode so that I can BE that village, rather than the one needing them. One day…
Liz, we’re praying for you over here. Michael’s in Oklahoma and I told him what’s been up with you lately and he says he’ll drop you an email if he gets a chance, and I know he’s praying too. You’ll get through it, you always do, because you rock like that.
July 21st, 2008 at 11:19 pm
You are surrounded with love and prayers, not only by those you “know,” but by a community of people who read here and have come to feel a connection to you and your family. Know that my family way out on the West Coast is thinking of you as you continue to kick this thing’s ass.
July 22nd, 2008 at 4:38 am
Sending thoughts your way from New Zealand.
July 22nd, 2008 at 5:57 am
I wish you could have seen me reading this. I had no idea ‘Intervention’ was a tv show. I thought you were talking about you doing some intervene style love in with the the LD. So when I started reading about your feeling towards the ’show’ I was completely confused! LOL!
Hang in there and get well my friend…
July 22nd, 2008 at 9:00 am
I remember that episode, but you brought it back so much more eloquently than my memory ever could. I had forgotten that she was one of the ones who didn’t make it through. I wish they gave more updates on some of the older segments.
Anyway, I’m glad to hear that your village is coming through. My sister and best friend (2 separate people) just moved back home after a couple of years away. It makes a huge difference to know that my support is back in case anything ever happens.
July 22nd, 2008 at 9:14 am
God bless the village…..
July 22nd, 2008 at 10:00 am
You kick ass and the village helps you. Awesomeness.
July 22nd, 2008 at 10:03 am
Good for you Liz. I’m sending a big warm and wonerful Thank You! to the village
July 22nd, 2008 at 10:46 am
OMG I just read all this now. Take good care of yourself while your wonderful support network takes care of the rest. That is what they are there for. Rest, and heal.
July 22nd, 2008 at 11:43 am
If I lived closer, I would be taking the girls to the park right now, or fetching your latte, telling you to “sit back, here. take a sip, now you rest.”
July 22nd, 2008 at 12:07 pm
Wow. Just WOW. The fact that your writing is still so eloquent and thought provoking is, IMHO, a sign that you will recover and be the ass-kicker that you’ve always been. Stay tough and keep leaning on your loved ones. And your lattes. Neither will let you down.
July 22nd, 2008 at 12:10 pm
My heart goes out to you. We are keeping you and yours in our thoughts.
July 22nd, 2008 at 12:22 pm
You always hit me between the eyes, girlie. You’d think that your aim might be a tender bit off, but nooo…
July 22nd, 2008 at 12:22 pm
A couple of sleepless nights ago, I too, watched back to back episodes of Intervention and also got sucked in. It is amazing how wretched people’s lifes become and how long it goes on. I find that I am like the family members that write them off right away. Out of sight, out of mind. Consequences are a bitch, huh?
I am glad you are able to be in a dark, air-conditioned room, with everyone helping where they can. If I lived closer, I would offer too:). Here’s to feeling stronger every day.
July 22nd, 2008 at 1:49 pm
Every one of your beautiful, thought-provoking and (of course) humorous posts lately has brought me to tears. You’re an amazing woman, and I’m so glad that I found this blog. Your writing helps me to see the world in a new way and I am so thankful for that!
July 22nd, 2008 at 2:27 pm
God bless da posse, and the others who are seeing you and yours through this tough time.
July 22nd, 2008 at 3:23 pm
Thinking of you… that was an amazing post.
July 22nd, 2008 at 3:45 pm
Tracey, I think you’re mistaken. Family members who truly love their fellow struggling family members may indeed keep them out of sight, but never out of mind. We never stop loving or thinking about the family members we choose to strengthen by our absence. The consequences are suffered by ALL, not just by the alcoholic.
July 22nd, 2008 at 4:54 pm
You know I’m not a particularly religious person in general, but I’d like you to know you are in my thoughts and prayers nevertheless. I can’t imagine remaining strong in your situation, let alone continuing to blog. You give strength and hope to a lot of us out here who are struggling with day to day shit.
Bless you.
(and big kisses to the girls…)
July 22nd, 2008 at 5:04 pm
I am a silent lurker on your site… it brings me so much happiness, i being obsessed with my own mothering skills LOVE to read your antics…. I was sick when i read about LD. I am so glad you are sounding like yourself and the fever broke…. God Bless
July 22nd, 2008 at 10:59 pm
You’re a tough cookie, Liz.
I would’ve hung up my blogging spurs a spinal tap, ago.
You always give me (us?) something to take away and never more so than in the past couple days.
Stay strong.
July 22nd, 2008 at 11:17 pm
My God… I hadn’t read your blog for a few weeks… Always so much humility in face of life bad turns, so much depth of thoughts: that’s you, Liz. And that’s what is going to get you through this. Take good care of yourself, let the village take care of you. They love you even more than we do, and lucky them, they can give you back all the strength, understanding and hope you use to give them.
Kind regards from Canada
July 23rd, 2008 at 11:16 am
I’m sending healing light and love your way, Liz. You’re a warrior/rock star. (take your pick)
July 23rd, 2008 at 4:05 pm
This was incredibly powerful and I hope you know how powerfully it impacted me, in so very many ways.
Take care Liz, you are in my thoughts and prayers.
Thank you for continuing to give in light of everything else.
July 24th, 2008 at 12:36 pm
I am really new to your site and am sooo glad you are feeling better.
I am completely obsessed with this show and I remember Laney. She stayed with me because she seemed to have it all-looks, money and a great family and still couldn’t keep it together.
Keeping getting better.
October 30th, 2008 at 8:21 pm
[…] on. Look. Here’s me in my bedroom with a headache, watching TV waiting for it to get better. This never happens. The phone […]