Tag Archives: alcoholism

Today is October 28, 2014. I am alive and well.

excerpt from my memoir in progress

My character in the story “A Meditation on Panty Hose” speaks to perceptions being not what they are. Perceptions shape our experience of things. My perception camera was broken for many years.

My broken camera accelerated my alcoholism. I believed when drunk, I was really sure footed although I was falling all over myself. I believed when drunk, that I was artistically brilliant even though I could not decipher my scribbling from the afternoon or evening before. When drunk, I was more social. When drunk, people tried to avoid me because I was stumbling all over myself with words that made no sense. When drunk, the world was right even when I came to on the bathroom floor of a bar having passed out and puked all over myself. I was beautiful; just misunderstood.

When sober without a 12 step program, I was terrified of everything. I knew people were talking about me behind my back, even strangers. I knew snot was hanging from my nose. I knew the government would come knocking on my door. I was important; I was a nobody. It was impossible for me to differentiate the false from the truth. Both my alcoholism and my schizophrenia kept me from seeing the truth for years.

Today, truth matters to me. If I have a problem standing in the truth, I reach out to friends who provide me with strong legs and broad shoulders. I have no need to be sheltered from the truth today. The truth will always set me soaring.

Today is May 16, 2014. I am alive and well and a bit sad.

Mother’s Day has moved on like a semi, all gears engaged leaving a truck stop. The soup at the cafe was good, but not good enough to keep her off the road for another three hours, when her hunger returns.

My mother lost her hunger to a coffee cup filled with vodka. There was no Easter Egg hunt the year she died. No hanging lights to entice St. Nick to come down the chimney. Hell, the Fourth of July didn’t even get a flag waving from her crumbled hand. I don’t remember the year she died, but I do know it was bleak. She was only 58-years-old.

I was not prepared for my mother to die; there’s knots in my long black hair that conditioner will not get out. Only a rough combing will help. It hurts. Mother loved brushing my hair. I loved that time with her, alone, doing something ultimately feminine. Her hands were smooth then with polished nails, a deep blue red, and the whiff of berry coming from lotion.

How best is it to remember my mother? Her life was tragic. King Alcohol stole her socks. Her beauty, although still hanging on like a spider to its web in rain, was being washed away. Her inner light was being shut down and I didn’t know it. Her liver was failing. 

That’s what happened, her liver failed her. She fell into a coma and didn’t wake up. All this time later, years, I still feel the brush in my hair, her hand in my hair. Is it too late to light a candle for her? An unscented candle? One that she could have lit her cigarette by?

Mother’s Day is heavy feet on a stairwell. Mother’s Day is a sheet knotted on the bed. Mother’s Day is a day of remembrance–mother on her horse, her hair loose in the wind, nothing any louder than hooves on packed dirt. I loved her. I loved her.

Today is June 20, 2013. I am alive and well.

So, a little bit about myself and why the blog. I am a 48-year-old woman who has alcoholism and schizophrenia; two diseases that tell me I don’t have a disease. Writing the blog reminds me of where I come from and hopefully dispels some of the myths that get attached to these two diseases.

I am in good health. It is possible to live well with these two diseases. It is not easy. In fact, it is quite difficult, but I am up for the challenge. And the pay off is tremendous!

I am a member of a twelve step program that assists me in taking care of my alcoholism. This year, God willing, I will be celebrating 20 years of sobriety.

This year, because of a good medication regimen that I take as prescribed every day, and a little bit of willingness to walk into the day, I will celebrate being hospital free from schizophrenia for six years.

I am a writer, and as such, I don’t usually write in simple black and white ways. I didn’t want my metaphors to cloud alcoholism and schizophrenia. But it is true my alcoholism is a patient dog who will, if not given clean water to drink regularly, drink from the sewer every time, making her quite sick. And my schizophrenia will place me on a runway with an oncoming plane. I will either step out of the way of the plane or jump onto one of the wings in flight to another reality other than the common one in which you and I eat dinner and watch the local news.

I invite you to take off your hat, stand in socks, and journey with me as I slide into truths. Alcoholics are not just men in sheets with bottles in paper bags. Schizophrenics are capable of joining others in the stream of stars that invite love and kindness and compassion. I welcome you. Ride with me. Suspend judgment. Reach out. The world is full of all of us and allows for unicorns. God bless.

Today is June 16, 2013. I am alive and well.

Another Sunday. Guy and I were going to see The Man of Steel but the show was sold out and we didn’t feel like standing in line for two hours to catch the next one. Two hours is a great deal of time to me. I savor time. Gertrude Stein said genius required a lot of time. Maybe one day I will establish genius! Would that mean I would be able to finish cross word puzzles and have a meaningful conversation with the professor of religious studies at the local university? Ha….and then I want to believe what Flannery O’Connor said, “Nothing you write will lack meaning because the meaning is in you.” Beautiful, isn’t it?

Excerpt from Mind WIthout a Home–

The line goes dead. It is three in the morning. I don’t know what to do. I softly return the phone to its cradle and turn on the television. Mom will be in a coma and placed on life support within the hour. Her liver quit working. Everything quit working.

Today is June 5, 2013. I am alive and well.

Why don’t we all have blogs? I think, why as drunks, do we not all get sober? How are the two related? Is it an issue of vulnerability? I just finished reading a magazine article that talked to the strength that comes with being vulnerable. I don’t know how vulnerable I am being in this blog–my shirt is not on backwards, the tag is not showing. When standing in line behind someone that has a tag showing I ask “may I put your tag down?” Some are put off by this, and some are actually grateful. Maybe the put off person thinks I am flirting, man or woman alike! I think there are better pick up lines….great hair, nice hands, I love your voice, do you have a dog?

As for getting sober, my mom did not make it. Her liver stopped working at the age of 58. Wednesday she’s walking around, Thursday she’s on life support. The life support is pulled and she dies. I am left to kiss her forehead one last time.

Today, I will hold my mom close, feel her breath as I imagine it on my cheek, feel her fingers trying to make sense of the knotted curls that is my hair, and I will work at the library, being the best employee I know how to be.

Today is June 5, 2013. I am alive and well.

Today is May 29, 2013. I’m alive and well.

I have no idea how to begin a blog. Is hello necessary? Maybe. Good morning, good afternoon, good evening…any of it. Name. I’ll start with my name–Kristina Morgan. Middle name Marie if you would like to know. Just like putting butter on a warm roll. Kristina Marie Morgan. There, I’ve said it. I take full responsibility for all I write here. Hopefully, nothing offensive. Or is offensive a good thing? LIke having to open a glass jar with a rubber mat. It gets your full attention for 10 seconds, and then voila, there is release.

If you’ve gone to Amazon and looked up Mind WIthout a Home, you know that I am alcoholic and schizophrenic. My memoir includes details about both these things. Today, I believe I live life well. This has certainly not always been the case.

Pre-sobriety, I was a drunken shadow. I made myself as invisible as I could. Being six feet tall by the age of thirteen made this very difficult. In sobriety, I worked at a convenience food store. It was during the time that one could freely smoke in the store, even standing at the cash register. One night, a couple of police officers came into the store. One of them said to me “smoking will stunt your growth.” I said to him “thank God I started smoking! I don’t need to be any taller.”

Today is May 29, 2013. I’m alive and well.