About Miss Obvious

Over the last few years I have had several blogs, some private, some public, mostly all covering the topics of motherhood, divorce, dating, relationships, friendship, and grief.

My blogs are all snapshots of moments, places I go in my head or heart, pain I release or joy I express, stories I tell, and that is why I love them. They capture the constant changing crazy moods of me, always spontaneous, but after I hit that publish button, the words on the page are forgotten, and I hardly ever look back to read them.

I have fallen in love with the internet for that very reason, the idea that I send these little messages of my heart into the Universe, without a clue who would read them or why.

I write because that is what I do.
I write because I have something to say.

It has been a freeing beautiful thing to express myself in such anonymous wonder, until, a little mishap occurred in my writing journey. When I hit publish as I always do, this sophisticated technology sent my little blog to my face book and twitter page without me realizing it.
Yikes.
Talk about hitting the panic button two days later, horrified at the thought that relatives could have been reading about my sex life, that my auntie could have seen the f bomb and my outcry for that break up I pretended was no big deal, that church acquaintances from the past would know I thought religion was a crock. Oh God, and the men I had written of, the ones I had nicknamed, as all my blog names are made up, nothing unusual. I make up names for everyone, especially men I date. They are for phone conversations for friends, so we catch up quickly, but not for them to know. I thought of all the people who knew my father, or our family as it once was, and I want to dive head first into cement, thinking of them reading my blinding faults and failures. They are always the people you see once in a decade in the grocery store, who look you up from head to toe, raise an eyebrow, the eyes asking questions you would rather die than answer, not to them, especially in flip flops without make up, holding creamer and crossing your arms, hoping they don’t notice you aren’t wearing a bra.
I had always written with a fake picture that I loved, namely my mismatched socks picture, or my buddha the pig picture, a pig named by an ex boyfriend who now thanks to face book, made a comment on the name I had chosen on a whim for this blog. Even worse, I thought of three people that had taken most my life to confront and end my relationship with, people so toxic I could hardly breathe at the thought of them finding me here, on the world wide web, and so I obsessed.
Then something magical occurred.
The weight of my words hit places inside of people and they responded, and I would discover little notes written in my inbox or email, some comment on this or that, and it felt good.

It made my heart smile.

Then, at work, I began getting questions about Clyde or Marco, something that made me laugh out loud, those not being real names at all, but people were curious. I began getting requests, feedback, questions, and in spite of having all my insides bleeding for everyone to know, there was something I had not realized.
I knew I had something to say.

I never thought what I said had an audience.

To feel my words being read, the joy in my soul over being asked to write daily, I knew I had to move into acceptance. I am a writer.
I love and hate you face book for outing me.
I almost barfed putting my real picture up today, the one Kat took when she wasn’t supposed to be touching.
The first picture of me this summer that I liked.
I figure I might as well start liking all of me, the deep regrets, flaws, and decisions. I might as well move through the world with no fear or not at all.

If you read this, which is so hard for me to imagine anyone taking time to do, such a humble terrifying thought, I hope I don’t know you.

But, if I do, and I see you in the Kroger, without make up and in sweats holding creamer without a bra, I apologize in advance for diving behind the bananas, or holding a magazine above my face as you walk by.
I may be fearless but there is something awkward knowing people who were once your teacher or Kat’s Girl Scout troop leader could possibly know you use words like bitch slap, have been out on dates with men in pigtails, or had sex outside of wedlock, well, I’m working on that last one still.
And for the glorious strangers who didn’t teach me bible verses or know me in high school or remember my family as a part of the community, God bless you.

I write because there is this place of hope that someone out there, someone deep into my computer and in the cyberspace world, will be touched, challenged, humored, entertained, or even befriended.

I write because I hope that person may be you.

Recent Posts

Just for Today

Just for TodayBesides my parents, my longest relationship has been with prescription drugs, nearly eighteen years. Even in the midst of excruciating loss, relationships and friendships destroyed, homeless and destitute, I refused the thought that we would ever break up.

Addiction will take every thing and anyone you ever cared about, your dreams, your integrity, self worth, and even then, it’s never finished.

It wants you to die.

Go ahead,” I’d say, usually to a mirror. “I’m already dead.

I have an app that is a clock, continually running hour by hour, minutes, and even the very seconds of my sobriety.

One day I will write about my rock bottom, but not today.

We learn in Recovery to keep it simple, take each day at a time, and there really is no other way.

The first two weeks was a living nightmare, barely able to even crawl out of bed, the exhausting thought of even brushing my teeth overwhelmed me. It felt like an Elephant was pressing with all his strength directly into my chest while simultaneously a Military boot kicked me in the head.

Two days, Ten hours, 14 minutes, 22 seconds, the clock would flash.

I attended 90 Narcotics Anonymous meetings in 90 days. I’ve heard that if you’ve met one addict, you’ve met them all, and nothing is farther than the truth.

It was freaky almost, as if strangers were opening their mouths and words from my own personal diary were pouring out of them.

The first sixty meetings or so I was on the down low, keeping my head down, my ears wide open. Every day when I feel like I am crawling out of my skin, those meetings are like warm tender hugs, invisible medicine for my aching heart.

Then I leave, where the world awaits, a place I know as home, yet feel more like an alien just in town for a visit off my space ship.

I feel like an infant, very much reborn, raw and vulnerable but filled with wonder and hope, for my new life to begin.

And so, I breathe. I breathe, pray, cry, and feel.

With my heart pounding, the faces around me disappearing, I hear my own voice blubbering, “Hello. I’m Kathleen and I am an addict.”

 

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