Last.Damn.Call

Here’s a quarter, call someone who…well, maybe not. Pay phones have been laid to rest, much like many of my old habits. But, you know what I mean. Phoning a friend is sometimes a hard but necessary thing to do. It sounds simple, but we have all stared at the phone going back and forth in our head whether or not to dial the numbers. You may even get bold enough to hit the person’s contact info and then back out at the last second before hitting the send button. We are all familiar with the popular game show that offers contestants “lifelines”. Well, peeps, we need those in real life, too. And, the “phone a friend” is the scariest to me. What if they don’t have the answer? What if they don’t answer the phone? What if they do have the answer, but it’s not the one I anticipated or had hoped to hear.

When I was drinking, I called lots of people I loosely called friends. Loosely as in, I wanted a friend. I needed one. But I was calling for all the wrong reasons. It’s how I feel sometimes about my relationship with God. Lots of it is a one-way conversation with me talking and wondering if whoever is on the other end is really listening or just rolling their eyes. Drinking Lindsey never called to see how your day was going or if you needed anything. It was a selfish, one-way conversation about whatever latest disaster was happening to poor, pitiful me. I can imagine the phone ringing, and the recipient pausing from cleaning their bathroom or cooking dinner, seeing my name, and saying, “Nope. No time for that crap right now.” And that’s ok. Looking back, it’s ok. At that time, at that moment, I was not ok, and that was a me problem.

In AA, we learn to believe in a God of our understanding, whatever that may be. A Higher Power. Because, let’s be honest, what we’ve been doing ain’t been working. Left to our own devices is scary. Real friggin’ scary. Much like your kid not wanting to wear a coat when it’s 10 below outside-they need some supervision. Or as I like to call it when it comes to my drinking, Stuporvision. Rehab was my stuporvisor in the beginning of my journey. Something that clears some of the stupid blocking your line of vision. I needed it on a spiritual and mental level. Not letting those thoughts consume you like I did–the thoughts of deserving a shitty life because I was a shitty person. The thoughts of I will never be happy again because I can’t drink. The nagging voice telling me I ended up just like my parents. The mental battles we face are truly brutal. In real military style battle, you see wounds and scars and hear stories of combat, and people listen and thank them for their service. As we should. Mental battles are trickier, sometimes less visible, and sometimes the most dangerous.

The on-going mental battle (at least mine) is like constantly being aware of landmines, underground bombs. But, instead of watching cautiously and stepping lightly, we often plow right through them with anger and hardheadedness. Almost like we want to get hurt. Self-harm. It also makes you an easy target for others to invade your positive space. Negative people in your life love this. It hands them the lighter fluid to help you burn yourself down and out. Like adding salt to an open wound. If I have a person in my life that isn’t good for me–a friend, family member, co-worker, whoever it is, and they make me feel less than, then I am allowing that person to have control over me. Stop this. Don’t beg people to like you. Don’t beg them to accept you. Don’t put yourself out there in hopes they will react in a way differently than you know in your heart they will. You know they are a dumpster fire waiting for a match, so don’t offer them one.

I complain about work. Less than I used to. Baby steps. But I think we spend so much time at work that it is hard sometimes not to vent about it. It’s natural. I want to share a lesson I learned at a previous job in very early sobriety. But it was an important lesson I am so thankful I learned and kept with me in my trying-to-stay-sane toolbox. I stopped speaking to one of my managers. There was no rule that we had to speak unless absolutely necessary, so that’s how I treated the relationship. Need to know, need to speak basis only. Like a secret spy, I watched his interactions with others and realized something, this mother trucker just liked to hear himself talk. Period. Didn’t have to be work related or worth the friggin’ oxygen he was taking up to speak it into existence. He just talked. So, here’s what I did. And it was glorious. Plus, it didn’t have any of the legal consequences like some of my other plans my little brain so easily conjured up. I would say “Good morning, Douchebag” every day. No, I left out the word “douchebag”, but my brain knew it was there, so I could even smile while saying it. So, I would tell him good morning, and he would either grunt or make a weird face like I just asked him what planet we were on, and then I moved on with the day. Period. We never spoke, I didn’t even look at him, and it was the best feeling. It sounds so mundane, such a tiny thing, but it was saving my mental space for positivity during the workday. I do believe you are given X amount of good feelings or space for the day, and I would be damned if I let Douchey-Douche have any of it. If he started a band, I would have gladly paid for the naming rights: “Douchey Douche and the Douche Bunch”. Yes, ADHD Lindsey just reared her clever head.

In AA, we have sponsors. It’s like having a parole officer but one of your choosing. And there’s no real punishment if you disobey. I mean you might get “a talking to or an ass chewing” or scolded, but the police ain’t showing up, weapons drawn and yelling at you to come out with your hands up and to get down on the ground. So, I found the task of getting a sponsor complicated. Of course, I did. Why in the hell can’t I make anything easy? Seriously. I literally had to get a phone number of someone I’d like to sponsor me…no, no, no that is not true. Let me make myself look even more stubborn here–women in meetings GIVE you their numbers. Like candy at the bank–free of charge, they don’t even ask. They willingly give you their numbers, and all your stubborn ass has to do is call them. That’s it. But, oh no–Lindsey can make anything difficult. Let me think on it. Will so and so get her feelings hurt if I pick so and so as a sponsor over her? Will it be awkward if I don’t choose her and then sit next to her in meetings? Jesus, Lindsey. If they could hear all these thoughts, they’d probably be secretly wishing they could take their damn name off the sponsor ballot (this is not a thing by the way). Revoke their offer. Or at least, apply some terms and conditions including “no obsessing over dumb shit”.

Do you pick and choose who you call for certain reasons? For example, a person you call about recipes. Or one you go to for health advice? I think everyone does. I sure as shit ain’t calling my pastor to discuss menopause. It’s ok if you do, it just ain’t for me. You are very welcome, Pastor Kurt. You can continue answering my calls because it ain’t related to that. So, do you call people who will tell you what you want to hear or what you need to hear? Ah-hah! That’s a tricky one. When a mom at baseball acts all nutty cuckoo and thinks the Cardinals are calling her 12 year old for pitching advice next week, is that who I want to discuss baseball with? Nope. If someone has been divorced 6 times, is that who I want marital advice from? Probably not. If I have a problem and know what the answer is but don’t like the answer, who do I call? The person who gives it to me straight? Or the person who waters it down so it’s easier to swallow, fluffs it up with padding to make the landing soft? That’s a tough call. But put on your big girl panties, you know the ones…that you could hold above your head on your rooftop and fly away in the wind if that desperate situation were to arise. And listen to the things you don’t want to hear but know deep down in your heart you need to hear.

Much like my counselor in rehab who literally told me to sit my ass down and stay put and learn some shit. I cried. It hurt my feelings. I guess I wanted a hug. But there was no hugging this shit out. And I knew that. That wasn’t what I wanted to hear, but I knew that, too. It was simply what I needed to hear. And I am grateful someone said it to me. And it was a stranger. Maybe that helped, too. A stranger could see through me, my pain, my lies, my hurt, all of it. A stranger was telling me what I needed to hear, what no one else could or would tell me. And believe me, people in my life did try. It was another “It’s not you, it’s me” situation. And that’s the truth. It was me. I was the problem, not you. Phone a damn friend before it’s too late. The worst that could happen is they will tell you what you don’t want to hear. And sometimes, my friend, that literally saves your life.

link to book below:

LAST.DAMN.CALL.: M. Cox, Lindsey: 9798299331349: Amazon.com: Books

Or email me lindseymariecox2024@gmail.com and I can arrange to ship you a signed copy from yours truly!