09-24-2014, 08:02 AM | #2401 |
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September 24
WORKS I cry the waterworks so necessary to the healing of my heart. I explode with the fireworks required for anger to set living boundaries. I sleep the sleep of angels, as I link to dreamworks allowing mental maintenance to occur. Slipping into my political face I make time for public works. I return to my abode, call the pie maker and order ‘the works.’ Have it delivered so I can face the mountain of homework waiting for me and bearing my name. Suggest solutions in your diary. * No Dialing Tonight. When it is late at night and I can’t sleep I wander and putter and plan my dreams. I hold out hopes and wash their faces; pray for rain and clean all traces. Thunderstorms rumble and lightning strikes; I tune up the plumbing and wipe down the pipes. All the paint and promises in the world won’t change me; I’m still lost in the dark without you. Tear stains are friendly till I wash them away leaving blotchy eyes that can’t be explained; an aching heart that keeps on ticking and wishes that can’t come true. Sunday morning is here, too soon and life rolls on whether you think it should. Tiny thoughts come out to play and sad, sad fears keep them at bay. But the dog is curled up under the covers without a care; I long to disturb her but do not dare. She is the queen here and I’m but the naïve; I’ll tend to my writing and try to be brave. For the dawn will follow this endless nocturne; the whole world will be safe once more. I will cry but it’s all too late; though you are merely a phone call away. You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault
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09-25-2014, 10:28 AM | #2402 |
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September 25
OPTICAL ILLUSIONS “Like my new frames?” I ask my sponsor. “Who wrote your prescription?” “Oh, the lenses aren’t new, just the frames,” I reply. “You want to be seen differently but you want to see things the same old way. My question still stands. Who wrote you the script for those funhouse glasses you have used all your life? Did it ever occur to you the distortion is ground into the glass? Remember, some people need you to see things as other than what they are. Unhappy families look great if you can’t see them too clearly. It’s hard to know what to say to keep the peace, said Grandma. She never took off her specs to see there was no peace to keep. So, I will ask you again. The view of the world you base your choices on, who chose the color you see it through?” Breathe to improve your mind and mood. * Green Wood When a nail is hammered into a living tree, the tree is forever changed. Even if the barb is pulled out he tree will never be the same. If the spike remains and the tree lives; over time the nail will be incorporated, the tree will get on with the business of living and carry the thing as just a part of what it took to get here. What was trauma is trauma, but life is big and the longer it gets the larger the life, is the hope. Piercing experience is engulfed by rings of fresh wood and a will to grow beyond the moment of impact. The tree branches out and even a hundred nails can’t stop that. You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault
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09-26-2014, 07:07 AM | #2403 |
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September 26
SCREAMING LETHARGY The screaming lethargy of being alive after many years of wanting something else, the exhaustion of pulsing, breathing, waves and waves of thinking. Yet as tired as I am, I am. Here without a doubt, I stand. No crawling for I have not fallen, no climbing for I have reached the plain. I wait for the rain to wash over me, the truth to run through me, time to pass by me. As if on a free trip to an unwelcome destination I arrive with randomly packed bags and low expectations. I’m here now. The train doesn’t seem to be moving on. I might as well leave the station, nothing to do on the platform. There may be points of interest or flowers to be smelled. I step haltingly and fear making any connection to this unbidden place. My name is unknown; I befriend the lamppost, the birds, the street. I am tired of travel, fearful of arrival. Fury courses through my veins but the weather is pleasant, I might take off my coat and stay. Plan a trip with no destination. * One Street off Amory Apology holds change at arms length. Apology is the thing I was taught to wait for as a sign that things will improve, but apology is not a harbinger of change. It is quite the opposite it is the guarantor of business as usual; no amendment need occur, apology has been made and life goes on with no alteration. Without variation we all stay sick and apologizing for that won’t get us better. Restitution, amends, revelation, revolution these are the things which make the world bright, Apology is just a scrap with which to wipe your ass. You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault
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09-29-2014, 06:46 PM | #2404 |
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September 27
PIROUETTES I turn and spin; the world flashes as I go. I am erect, proud of my self-possession. I can stand the forces of vector rotation, public opinion and gravity. Sobriety has made a dancer out of me. I sprint the stage and take my place. I know the moves and trust, as best I can, the choreographer and the choreography. I feel the wind move on my body as I revolve, the blur of existence spreads out before me. I can let it all pass. To spot myself and keep my upright posture, the only place that requires my clear and unobstructed view is the line of sight from my sponsor’s eyes to mine. Let your work speak. * A Verse to the Wise Encoding truth into poetry makes reality survivable by giving readers the opportunity to dig truth up like diamonds. Throwing certainty in people’s faces like cold water gives them a wakeup call but nothing to embrace. The beauty of semaphore is the dance that need not be understood by everyone who sees it. Communication through device leaves headroom and breathing space while acceptance might be reached. The current of a conversation often leads me to face the facts, but a tsunami of candor could drown me. You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault
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09-29-2014, 07:17 PM | #2405 |
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September 28
LINEAGE People stand in the queue and I stare, lost in contemplation and compliance. I weigh the conflicts and complications. Is this the method to clear identification? I think I am better known for the lines I’ve crossed, the times I press between warm souls and force myself to the area beyond. How can I wait my turn for generational stew when the fruit trees bear life for those who break free from ruts and rumbles to bite deeply the flesh of the future? I can’t stand here though I love so many in this line, I cannot love the line itself. I must step through, breathe, stretch my legs and mind, take leave of grids and locks, to live a lonelier but healthier life, all caused by a change in direction. Enjoy change like flowers before the fruit. * Kicks New balance is more than a brand of sneakers. New balance is a joyful revelation made possible through constant vigilance. I am tap dancing into a vision, no more soft shoed wishfulness. I can lift my feet knowing I can keep my up right posture; my musculature robust from climbing the steps and accepting direction. This bright tempo delights me; I feel stretched, subtle, able-bodied. Life off the balance beam offers me the world in which to embrace my equilibrium. You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault
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09-29-2014, 07:37 PM | #2406 |
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September 29
DEATH PRACTICE “Why do you practice death like it were a skill? Do you fear you lack ability? Or, because it’s your goal, have you made it your hobby?” Beleaguered by the questions of my sponsor I search quickly for some believable response. “I confused calm with death and thought I was practicing the former…..Death came for a holiday, how could I refuse it?…..It’s a test drive, if I like it I can keep it.” My sponsor doesn’t think I’m funny. “Check your motives, wants and desires. Make sure death is what you really want, that it’s not just your fallback position because you fear life. Don’t get me wrong, I hope death is a good thing, but why try to chew tomorrow’s food when your plate is full of today? Ride change. * Moniker The Hurt carry on the tradition, would never think to give it up, don’t even know there is that option, strap on their weapons without a second thought. How can there be a second thought when there never was a first. Hurt is a reflex and it moves its way through the world like dominoes tumbling; Everything’s knocked down before you ever saw it standing. So, what’s the use anyway? So, I fall down and in that action push you forward and we are all together in the mud. But it is so hard to recognize anyone in the mud, including myself and especially you. If I hurt you that makes it hard for me to see anything about you except my wish for your departure, Which I subconsciously hope will take away the guilt I can’t afford to feel. If I make it out of the mud I can’t afford anything, but if I don’t pay up I’ll be in new mud soon, So I must break tradition and the first step toward that is seeing it and the second is calling it by its name. You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault
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10-01-2014, 06:59 PM | #2407 |
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September 30
WEE HOURS In the wee hours I hear the high pitched wail, the tiny pest whining in my ear, the onset of my thin stretched nerves reaching their end. A few more hours are required of me tonight. I rally my spirit and lift the edges of my willing resolve. Long slow nights carry me to the far corners of my mind. I am more average than I had imagined or hoped for. The commonness of four AM brings the base to disclosure, the charmed exposure of predawn wakefulness. The fuzzy vibrations in my brain make me feel deep and real, vulnerable to all the normal limitations of nature and caprice. The sun will rise, ending this night. My sentry over, I will fall to earth, and rest, and bed. Change everything, change yourself. * No Substitute for Fire I wanted alcohol to do better for me than burning did. I was constantly disappointed, yet I kept trying. I was not to find pleasure in that bottle though I had no problem finding addiction there. This is how I came to believe that there is not an upside to everything. Booze took me to surprising destinations, but never the ones I desired. I sought release, the release I got from a wildfire spreading across my skin and this might have been mine had I poured the liquor on rather than in. But in me it did no good, it never let me exhale the way that the “right” kind of pain did. What I got from alcohol drove me though; Fear rode me roughshod and I found my way home, it was a bumpy road, but once there we doused the flames and I live the upside I had come to doubt, because fire is no substitute for life. You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault
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10-01-2014, 07:21 PM | #2408 |
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October 1
OLD BOOKKEEPING, NEW PAINTING What will become of the fine lines I use to divide good news from bad? How will I handle a life with no screen to keep the silt from shifting across my personal landscape? A delicate crosshatch had kept little checks in little boxes; now the checks are bouncing randomly, no pattern or restraint. My old bookkeeping has come to an abrupt end, leaving many questions and much uncertainty. I lift the green visor from my brow, looking for answers from the periphery. Taking the long view I put down my pencil and pick up my paints, sling the easel over my shoulder and walk away from meticulous survival. The fine lines I have now are in my brush strokes and even bad news is somehow good. Donate some time. * Saltbox House Refusing to make reasonable demands is quite as dysfunctional as making unreasonable demands. The opposite of an extreme is often twice as crazy and harder to explain. I open my mouth and dry toast is the reply. Nothing should be said when nothing can be done and to do nothing is harder than one might think. I fold my hands but my lap rejects them; I quiet my mind but my soul objects. I must let my heart sing and trust you enough to ask for help. You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault
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10-03-2014, 07:19 PM | #2409 |
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October 2
A LITTLE EXTRA HOPE “What will you do with a little extra hope?” asked my quizzical sponsor. “What good is a little hope?” my retort. “A little hope got you sober. What can you do with a little more? Could you take out your dreams and fly them on a breeze? Could you throw yourself into a wave of intention and see if you can ride it out? Breathe easier, smile broader? Take my hand tighter and walk the road awhile longer before you run for refuge? Now let me ask you a better question. What couldn’t you do with a little more hope?” “Fail.” Wash as a meditation. * Sackcloth Tragedy is a tale unfinished. Life is far longer than calamity can endure. I will not give up, not even when hope is lost. For life carries forward; more is filled with optimism. Threads break, but the fabric is woven still, flowing off the living loom waiting to be used. I will cut my swath and fashion a garment to wear and if sometimes it is filled with ashes I will sit and grieve all the while knowing that this is never the stories end. You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault
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10-03-2014, 09:41 PM | #2410 |
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October 3
SEAM ALLOWANCE The space given and taken, the space used to bind us and sew us fast. The permission for humanness and the need for seams to make us whole. The narrow margin, a shoulder on which I lean, the slender strip a place of refuge. Darts are snipped to hug the curves; I bend to fit to life. Our nearness; being my own part and part of more. Planning, and a pattern cut to order with allowances made for fraying and fragility, allow me to feel woven into a web of what is and still hope for more. The unfinished garment is taking shape, easing and stretching. And before my eyes, pins held between the teeth of God. Keep strong words on a high shelf you have access to. * Have Faith Strange and wonderful tragedy takes you away from me and I don’t know how it is that you return, but you do and I thank God, But I’m not sure it was God’s idea that you went away or that you came back, though, I am sure, He missed you every bit as much as I did. I revolve the freshness of you in my mouth like candy; I swirl, but don’t want to crack open. Honeymoons are for people who live comprehendible lives; we fly to each other and cling like raptors plummeting to the ground. You leave your mark upon me I do the same for you; we are none the worse for the wear. I stand in the gush from the hydrant, soaked in the pleasure, forgoing the safety. The world may burn down again tomorrow, I remember that it has before, but I am wiser for the singeing and weathered with soot in my eyes and charcoal piled roundabout my legs, yet I’m still standing and you are back from the dead and I think of you as Lazarus. And now we will live the comedy for life is what lay ahead, we took the hit of death before its time and so must be off the hook for the rest. You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault
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10-04-2014, 09:58 AM | #2411 |
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October 4
BELLS The bells are ringing but no one sings. There are no peals of laughter and that’s just fine, for pleasure is not the only response to sound. Shock and distain are other options, too. I have what I want in relationship to the buzz in my ear, equal opportunity attitude, pro and con. Some songs bring joy when they end. I have to lower my expectation of pleasure and value my distaste for tinkling sounds or any other preordained sweetness. See through your problems. * Jeopardy Today I tore down the isolation booth. I didn’t live in there exactly; sometimes I stuffed God in there and went out for a ride. I left that shack stand for far, too long; a testimony to ill conceived, ham-handed, control freaks everywhere. I said all I wanted was some peace, but a vacuum is not tranquility and escape won’t substitute either. Since the live studio audience has gone home and the house lights are dimmed, I feel pretty foolish for playing round after round on my own. This game was never any fun and the sponsors were death merchants and scavengers whose interest lay in destruction and nothing else. I must not cast aspersions, I didn’t care that the contest was merely an upright pit with a lethal pendulum, I used it as a hideout and a lair, A place whose walls I could keep between me and my Higher Power and an activity I could depend on to keep me free from living a life. It all came to the ground today; I walk over the splinters and shards, I know there has to be a better game and I’m ready to play. You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault
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10-05-2014, 05:12 PM | #2412 |
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October 5
WHAT IS PAST The past cannot hold me in a loving embrace. I run too often looking for affection and recognition in things long dead and purportedly buried. I return to the ghoulish obsession of digging up old hates and sorrows, longing for support and finding only the cause of the ulcers in my soul. I wallpaper the crumbling facade not wanting to cover it up but to hold it together, trying to unify something, which is totally shattered. When I view it with a sober eye, the past is nothing but a slideshow under a strobe light. The pulse triggers the impulsive belief that it was all real when, in truth, it was the lie I survived. No life existed in the past and only now is there air to breathe. The past is all vacuum and I don’t need to be sucked away. Take an enemy’s inventory and don’t give it back. * MCBuddLake Barefoot smokers sit downstairs chatting on cell phones as I wait. Wait for the Doctor to come and tell me what? Tell me that I am ill or hale based on a hammer hit on the knee and a deep look into my eyes. I will leave this place hours late for a life I barely understand but am grateful to be living. Like one of the dancing flowers from Fantasia I am swept downstream, but it’s an amazing journey even while I wait in this six by eight room. You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault
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10-06-2014, 08:05 AM | #2413 |
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October 6
REMEMBERING Remembering is the oxygen my brain pumps to my soul. Remembering gives me mobility and traction. Everything in my life that is positive depends on my remembering. It keeps apathy at bay and complacency locked in some far off cupboard. Remembering gives today the misty sweetness I have grown to love. I can live to my potential and enjoy the process, watch misery move away. I can dream the future every night because I remember who I am and what I am capable of. Never can I be haunted, memory keeps me from reactionary visitation. Though some fear the past, I know holding it in a close embrace allows me to dance to the rhythm of truth. Think of names for your sneakers. * What Oliver Could not Know One of the complications of being an orphan is not learning about the failings and foibles which visit themselves on all parents. Living estranged from God has this same blind spot. When you live with someone day in and day out you understand their dimensions; Depravation causes celebrity and the casting of very large shadows in some very odd places. The intimate knowledge of a guardian allows for relaxation and experimentation. Isolation creates an overload of anticipation; Fear of risk and the yearning for attention swing a pendulum to the point of weaponry. Familiarity is a breeding ground, which means many things grow. Life in a vacuum is devoid of life and nothing grows up. You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault
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10-07-2014, 08:05 AM | #2414 |
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October 7
FRUSTRATING IMPROVEMENT Improvement is frustrating, lonely and yet exhilarating. It somehow starts with moths in the stomach and ends up with that warm soup satisfaction. Struggle, waiting, followed by further struggle; progress is made by tugging one string then the other. It is hard to accept scaling the ropes alone, but tottering assent is always this way. Once at the top I realize how easily I could slide to the bottom, sometimes friction is all that keeps me up. Establishing a new altitude is challenging; I must ground myself in a new way. My talents hinder and aid me. I must open the correct doors in my mind and avoid the traps in the floor. Stuttering through requirements and obligations I transform but only slowly, earning each drop of comfort from a job just done. Think smart, speak clearly. * Wasilla I don’t appreciate those who wear ignorance as a fashion accessory, but then I have to work too hard, not to wear intolerance as a badge of courage. So what can I really say, while I’m on this topic, what kind of game is “Playing Dumb” where do we get with that as the vehicle? I don’t know why grown folks act like corralled farm animals, nor do I comprehend the idea of salvation through unnecessary sacrifice, But here I am in a society riddled with it and I try not to drink in the face of this idiocy. this is a job for which I am unprepared. I have spent so much time feeling my internal lacking, that when facing the siphon created by the general public I start looking for a glass and some ice to tinkle, I have tried this before and it solved nothing. I can climb under this pile of human failing or try to crawl on top. What I really must learn is to look at it without a drink in my hand. You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault
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10-08-2014, 07:00 AM | #2415 |
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Have any of you heard this before???
Blue-eyed people tend to have a higher alcohol tolerance and are therefore more likely to be drunks! A study that used data from two archival samples to tested the hypothesis that light-eyed people are more likely to abuse alcohol. The first sample had 10,860 Caucasian male prison inmates and sample two consisted of 1,862 Caucasian women. Both samples proved to show that people with light eyes, or blue eyes more specifically, had consumed a considerable more amount of alcohol than those with dark eyes. Previous studies have shown that dark-eyed people show more physiological arousal and more sensitive to medications than light-eyed people. The point here, is that dark-eyed people may shy away from drinking heavily, because they are easily made drunk and this keeps them from developing a physiological dependence. Therefore, blue-eyed people may engage in drinking much more, because they aren’t so physiologically dependent on substances causing them to overdo it and become dependent on alcohol. So, if you’re blue eyed, be careful, because you might become an alcoholic. http://www.omgfacts.com/lists/11023/...y-to-be-drunks
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10-08-2014, 05:08 PM | #2416 |
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October 8
ALARM CLOCK The dream-killer plays its harsh tones. I pull my lids, so unwilling to wake. The tip of my tongue, dry to leather, welcomes the wet of my toothbrush. I grin a foaming smile. I run through my night's travels; I mentally wonder the highlights, ponder the implications and meanings. Dressed, with open door breeze in my face, I leave nighttime escapades for daytime pandemonium. The only thing that won’t leave me is the last image before the gong sounded. Tie paper dolls of people into books that may help them. * The Problem with the Peter’s Principle Is there a harsher lesson than learning that love is not the same as trust? This is a fact all the more painful because it is true. Affection is not the safeguard of sanctity. I am learning to steel myself to survive ardor and its blatant disregard for honesty and still I am caught by surprise when the slight of hand is revealed. I think of love as a building material, most use it as a method of clear-cut or a fire which extirpates whatever I hold dear. I can trust people to be who they are and do what they do, but if I have to spend my time watching for the ordeal I have no time for the ecstasy. You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault
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Clicking on these dragon eggs will take you to my new erotic novella: Dragon Bait .........Hope you enjoy it! ________________________________________________ Please take a look at my work Click on flashing smilie to see my website To look at my Daddy/girl erotica book Click on pompom girl to see Elbows on the Table, Palms Flat |
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10-09-2014, 09:09 AM | #2417 |
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October 9
VIRGINIA CREEPER In a clearing grows a vine; as seasons change the leaves turn pale. This type of vine grows throughout the wood, but does it grow pale everywhere or only in the sunlit space? I see the trembling of the lovely foliage and wonder the destiny of the flora. Does growth have a will of its own? Does it grow to the light or is it a must? Can I turn my face even if Virginia Creeper cannot? And if I can, should I, just to prove a point? Keep a spare heart for your overflowing love. * The First We Before powerlessness can be dealt with, before unmanageability can be faced, it is imperative that the “WE” is embraced. It is the first and last job of sobriety. Initially the human “we” is faced and finally the I and Thee. But the full spectrum of “we” is there to allow the creation of possibilities in my life. As the human body is 97% water the recovering alcoholic is 97% “We”. What I could never do on my own; We do with ease. On my own I might not be much but together We are everything! You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault
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Clicking on these dragon eggs will take you to my new erotic novella: Dragon Bait .........Hope you enjoy it! ________________________________________________ Please take a look at my work Click on flashing smilie to see my website To look at my Daddy/girl erotica book Click on pompom girl to see Elbows on the Table, Palms Flat |
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10-11-2014, 08:39 AM | #2418 |
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October 10
ALSO A GIFT Sadness is as life affirming as joy, but in the same way that people eat together but defecate alone, joy is encouraged in public and sadness is a private matter. Happiness is embraced and discouragement relegated, even though personal experience shows disappointment is often a point of growth. What beauty and change stem from disillusion, but still it is hard to look directly at grief and not flinch away. The temptation to feign pleasure and leave sadness swept under the carpet is strong. It is an unwelcome job to be the defender of grief, a job that should be unnecessary, in the same way that the valley between the mountains is unnecessary to defend. We are not giants who can step from one mountaintop to the next. Try a new game for body, mind and laughs. * Ping Pong Balls and Possession I keep an aquarium with a goldfish on my counter and sometimes he splashes my work proving to me that the thing I think I have contained often has a mind of its own. I have heard that goldfish don’t remember much, but mine always knows which side of the tank provides him a view of me. Memory may be reflexive. Assumption possibly is as well. I must keep a fresh account of what is within my grasp and what can swim away. I have heard the many fish tales from the part of me that likes to lie. The scales shimmer and lure me to pretend control when in truth it is all just a game of chance. You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault
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Clicking on these dragon eggs will take you to my new erotic novella: Dragon Bait .........Hope you enjoy it! ________________________________________________ Please take a look at my work Click on flashing smilie to see my website To look at my Daddy/girl erotica book Click on pompom girl to see Elbows on the Table, Palms Flat |
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10-11-2014, 06:44 PM | #2419 |
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October 11
DENY ONE, DENY THE OTHER If you want to deny the problem, by necessity you must deny the solution. Resolving a problem whose existence is rejected creates a split in the crust of collusion. Oftentimes, the convolution and reconvolution of addiction causes a bloated roiling mass that rolls through the streets of sanity. How can a wedge be cut in a creature so dense? How can I work on piecing together remedies when I am readily assured by fellow sufferers there is NO DIS-EASE? Can I trust my personal depletions? Can I employ faith to a resolution when faith is utilized to fortify the contagion I’m told doesn’t exist? But if not faith, what? Count out all the buttons in your box. * Alarm I have lived life like one long fire drill. Is there smoke? Not always, but I fear flames. The alarm in my head is with me always and I walk from my life single file and silent. I don’t move on, this is only a drill, ‘I don’t want to take drastic action, this will pass,’ is my constant thought, though, I can not remember a time without the buzz. I have stood outside my life so long practicing in case of an emergency that there is no life to protect. I have been conscientious to the point of being consumed by caution. Balance requires risk. I must be brave enough to have it all. You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault
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Clicking on these dragon eggs will take you to my new erotic novella: Dragon Bait .........Hope you enjoy it! ________________________________________________ Please take a look at my work Click on flashing smilie to see my website To look at my Daddy/girl erotica book Click on pompom girl to see Elbows on the Table, Palms Flat |
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10-12-2014, 08:05 AM | #2420 |
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October 12
JOY IS NOT ENOUGH I was driving around in my car, eating a meltingly ripe persimmon. On the radio came a fiddle-playing band performing their rendition of In The White Room. I was traveling with the three drafts of my first step, version one consisting of 690-some words and the final consisting of only four. Joy is not enough. That’s it. The whole thing. Today my life is unmanageable due to the fact, having a balanced life, feeling my wide range of feelings including joy, is not sufficient to eliminate the pain and damage of the past. My horrific childhood has not healed, has not mended seamlessly. I have joy today, every day at some point, in proportion to my sober choices. I fail to realize the promise doesn’t say heal the past; it says I will not regret the past. I don’t, at least not any of the choices I made. Other peoples’ choices are not mine to regret, so I can’t do that for them. I will not wish to shut the door on the past, and I don’t wish to. I want it healed. I may not get my wish. Just because I am doing my part to heal the past doesn’t make anyone else do it. I can’t strong-arm the perpetrators into recovery the way they strong-armed me into abuse. Joy is not enough, but it’s a hell of a start. Lend your assets; keep your defects home. * Matching “Matching calamity for serenity,” is a task requiring attentive diligence. Each tragedy has its unique blast pattern and necessitates a precisely cut cure. Coverage is one concern and depth is another, the weight of the healing atmosphere must equal the corrosive depletion caused by ruin. I have to make available the wound in order to receive the remedy; anytime I camouflage or barricade my injury I have eliminated the opportunity for a corresponding solution. Knowing this fact and answering it with right action is the job of a lifetime, but I cannot think of a more productive use of my time. You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault
__________________
Clicking on these dragon eggs will take you to my new erotic novella: Dragon Bait .........Hope you enjoy it! ________________________________________________ Please take a look at my work Click on flashing smilie to see my website To look at my Daddy/girl erotica book Click on pompom girl to see Elbows on the Table, Palms Flat |
Tags |
12 step recovery, acoa, al-anon, alcoholic, alcoholics anonmyous, coda, on-line meeting |
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