Tag Archives: personal

Remembering Bugles

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bugles

Today I ate too many Bugles, the corn chip snack, not the instrument. Yesterday I was flitting through the grocery store on a quest for eggs when a sighting of Bugles stopped me in my tracks. Bugles have that effect on me. The last time they stopped me in my tracks was this past Christmas season. I was visiting my sister in Texas when we both spotted the tasty, nutritionally empty specimens at the same time. We looked at each other, and she spoke first, “Remember these? Bugles were the only snack that didn’t make me sick when we were kids.” In adulthood she would learn that she has celiac disease.

Her simple question, “Remember these?” caused my heart to jump because there are many times I cannot answer such a simple question. I have large memory gaps from childhood, and anytime I can actually answer a memory question from childhood I am pleasantly surprised much the same way that Buffalo Bills fans are surprised when the Bills are faring well. The moment I saw those Bugles on the shelf at the HEB grocery store I saw a snack size package of those buggers flying out of a vending machine at the community swimming pool where we took swimming lessons as kids. She would get Bugles, and I would get Boston Baked Beans, the brown candy-coated peanuts. I’ve always been a sucker for snacks with nuts. But that is all I remember about Bugles, that they were part of our post swimming lesson repast as kids.

When I find something I remember as a child I tend to overdo it in my quest to find answers. It’s like the Bugles could be a possible missing key that will unlock more memories that are unavailable to me. And there I was this afternoon with the bag of Bugles unopened on my counter. I thought to myself that I could use a small snack. I should have known better, these were Bugles after all. With every crunch I would close my eyes, and see if anything would come to me in the form of memories. Nothing. I would crunch them cone end first, then cone end down, to no avail. Nothing except an overconsumption of salt.

The Mental Marriott

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The Mental Marriott* looks like any other large Tudor cottage with brick siding, and oddly shaped rooms that give it an Alice in Wonderland feel. I had one of those rooms with cornflower blue low ceilings that required you to bend your head as you walk so that you don’t hit your head. I did eventually forget and hit my head, but the room didn’t lose the Wonderland feel for me in spite of this.

Thirteen of us lived at The Mental Marriott for an average of 3 weeks, depending upon the agreeability of your health insurance company. Most of us were there for post-traumatic stress disorder.

At The Mental Marriott we took turns making dinner. I volunteered for more than my required number of turns, and I couldn’t cook enough for them. I made West Texas Stacked Enchiladas (my own contribution to the menu), Chicken Francese, Spaghetti and Meatballs, and more. I was astonished that I had the ability to cook for 13 people. I would often start cooking 2 hours before dinner just for the leisure in drawing out the experience, and I would have fantasies that the house would hire me just to be the house cook. In my own mind, I was the house cook while I lived there. It’s the best job of my life thus far.

After dinner we would gather in the TV room and watch The Big Bang Theory on TBS. There was a Big Bang marathon up for viewing every night, and woe to you if you wanted to watch anything else.

My nonstop cooking and loquaciousness on endless topics had many wondering if I really belonged there. I struggled at times, but never felt as bad as I did on my own in my apartment back home. I  was often introverted in the rest of my life outside of The Mental Marriott, but with this group I felt like I could be myself. I had no idea I had lost myself with trudging in the real world with PTSD at my heels.

As nice as the place was, there were times when we had to stand up for ourselves to the staff. One gal summed it up best when she said very simply to some staff members, “You know, we’re people too. You guys forget that sometimes.” Then there was my favorite therapist, Martha. She once made this statement in group therapy, “I don’t believe PTSD should be called a mental illness. I get so enraged by the way people are treated because of this condition. You have PTSD because of something that happened to you. Otherwise, you would not have it.” Needless to say, she had her own way of looking at things. We loved how she went against the group think of most of the staff in that place. She would say to me, “Beatriz, are you in a bad neighborhood again? Get out of that head of yours, girl. It’s a bad neighborhood.” She could tell I was ruminating by just looking at me.

We laughed at the irony of having the residential program on the campus of a famous Ivy League university. On the weekends we would go into town, and take in the college haunts with the rest of the students: the fun and groovy Indian restaurant, the chi chi bakeries, and nonstop bookstores. We had to return by midnight on Friday and Saturday. We would joke that our house was a sorority house, and we needed to sign in with the Sorority House Mother by midnight.

People often ask, “What do people with PTSD need?” Primarily and largely we need people. It is often that simple, not always though, but you might be surprised at how often that is answer in the moment. It’s not the cure, but it’s often what will carry the day.

There was a constant supply of frozen oranges in the freezer. We were taught that we could use frozen oranges to give us a “jolt” when we got stuck in a PTSD moment. In any random group therapy session you would see a number of frozen oranges in hand. I haven’t used a frozen orange since then. I associate them too much with that time, and it makes me sad to recall that time because I want it back. I want the thirteen place settings eagerly awaiting a person about to enjoy a meal.

* a special nod to Mary Karr for originally coining the phrase, Mental Marriott, in her memoir, Lit.

What they don’t tell you in AA

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You make fast friends in AA the moment you walk in the door for the first time. What they don’t tell you is that not all of those friends will maintain their sobriety. However, there is no way to communicate that to you. It wouldn’t be fair, and there’s no real way to figure out who will “go back out” as they say.

They don’t tell you that “coming back” means you are “coming back” from “going back out” and drinking. No one will tell you this. You have to figure it out on your own. They often ask at meetings, “Who’s coming back, and wants to acknowledge it?” You raise your hand for quite a few meetings there in the beginning as you take the question literally. You think to yourself, “Well, sure I’m back. Aren’t we all coming back?” No wonder you had all sorts of attention from the old timers. They must have thought you were picking up a drink very regularly after meetings. One day you realize your mistake when another man raises his hand when you do, and starts talking about drinking the night before.

They don’t tell you that not every meeting will be inspiring or even useful, but you still keep coming back because you’ll miss out when it is useful or inspiring if you are not there.

They don’t tell you that some sponsors are megalomaniacs, and see themselves as bigger and more important than your doctor or clinician. No one tells that that there may be a time when you have to reach down into your judgement circle deep down inside of you to see if your sponsor is right, or if they are, indeed, a megalomaniac. You are afraid because you know that you are not known for your best judgement. After all, you don’t even have 90 days sober. But, after deeply considering the situation you decide that your sponsor is fucked in her thinking. You land here … taking Trazodone is not equivalent to picking up a drink. You do not have to change your sobriety date. No one will tell you that you will have this crisis.

No one will tell you that mentioning taking psychotropic drugs during an AA meeting will divide the room in half, and render the meeting a Girl Interrupted version of The McLaughlin Group. Without even realizing it, you unveiled one of the biggest controversies within AA, the role of psychotropic drugs in sobriety.

No one will tell you that when you tell your sponsor that she is fired that you will want a drink, and you will only have yourself to rely on during that crisis. You will have that moment when you envision yourself picking up the drink, and you will desperately want the taste of that Crown Royal. There will be no one there to talk you out of it, or help you. You will see the clarity in the midst of it with the realization that taking that drink could get you back to that very bad place you were in when you put down the drink. All you know in that moment is that you want a better life, and you are not going to pick up a drink because of a sponsor with flawed and mistaken ideas. In the end, it will only be your fault if you take a drink.

No one will tell you that people who occasionally come to AA are considered to be “around the program”  and not “in the program.” Sponsorless people and people without a step meeting in their repertoire are also considered to be “around the program.” There’s countless criteria for being “around” instead of “in.” No one will outline the rules for you. You have to observe and watch in order to figure it out. In fact, if you ask what the rules are someone is likely to say it’s a program of “suggestion.” Perhaps that’s the case to some people, to others it is a program of rules.

No one will tell you that there will be a day when you will miss the camaraderie, the terrible basement rooms, and the hope in the air. You will go back to the program in those times of wanting to return, but you will always return to that same place in your heart where you realize that AA is not for you. Sobriety is for you though. Sobriety is a heavenly gift, but the program of AA was not meant for you. You wish it was. You will spend the rest of your life explaining to people that you are indeed sober without AA. You cherish your sobriety, and “people in the program” will look at you suspiciously.

No one will tell you that years later you will run into that sponsor with the wrong-headed ideas about psychotropic drugs. All the statements that you had swirling around in your head for a long time after your parting will come to you in that moment when you see her. Instead, you will smile and hug her because you realize that she was only doing what she thought was right. She will walk away after a brief conversation with you, and in that moment, you will realize that this is sobriety.