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DAY 308:
ever since i heard someone say last week that they started keeping bees in sobriety, the image of someone scooping up bees bare-handed has been stuck in my head. bare-skinned swimming through so many bees that they sort of look like they’re skimming through a loose bag of beans.
bees sometimes mistakenly make homes in walls and floorboards, freaking people out when they hear, and then find them. if they’re not idiots, they don’t try to kill them and then they call somebody up who puts on gloves and scoops ‘em up, escorting them safely to a place where they can reconvene.
lately, i’ve been a scared idiot. i’ve been scooping up clumps of bees and i am surprised when each of my palms is full of stingers. i keep calling strangers with gloves, and either they don’t show up or they show up with the wrong gear.
i’ve been in a lot of fear lately– i’m physically exhausted and i’m tired of growing. i’ve got three-hundred-and-eight-days— a little less than 60 days til i’m at a year and yet, despite how much time I HAVE, i could lose it all if i’m not careful.
i need to tend to the maintenance of my spiritual wellness like my life depends on it— because, in reality, it does.
today i went to the apple store because when i put my iPhone next to my head, i can’t hear anything and when i try to do voice notes, my voice comes out jumbled and garbled, as if my words were tumbled through a sound proof blender. i went into the apple store to see if i could fix this problem, but i was also open to the idea of buying a new phone.
turns out: it’s a lot harder to buy a phone than you would think.
thought i could walk in and be like, “Hello, can I give you money?” and they’d be like “Yes!”
turns out, not the case: i can only buy the newest iPhone, which has some sort of fancy chip AND is aesthetically pleasing, but everyone just wants it because it’s aesthetically pleasing. it’s on backorder until the second week of November but i’m gone second week of November, and i’d like to have a new phone with me- if i get one.
Which, ANNOUNCEMENT: I’M TRAVELING MOST OF NOVEMBER. guest writers will be steering the helm, sharing their wisdom with you.
which is why i want a new fancy doodad to capture what i’m seeing so that i can pretend to remember but really i’m just remembering the image of what i once saw. SO I sat in the store for two hours, but i did not walk away with a new phone.
Turns out, i have filthy little holes: the ear and mouth holes on my phone were just hella dirty, so some guy used a paint brush to scrub earwax and dead skin from three years ago out of my phone.
*Truly Humbling*
why am i blabbing about minutiae? because this has been the last month for me.
humbling, horrible, debilitatingly annoying BOOL SH*T.
NOTHING HAS BEEN EASY.
last week was especially bad. i landed at LAX and came to realize that i could not find my car key in my bag, and that i had lost it back in New York. ESPECIALLY annoying because i had tried to be self-sufficient, driving myself to LAX and parking in a ValueLot so that i could drive myself home post flight, so that i could be self-sufficient. there was only one spot left in the whole lot for my car, at the very top– sixth floor on the open roof. i parked and i felt e m p o w e r e d – finding myself a way home for the cost of one Uber thinking to myself, I am GROWN.
my self-sufficiency turned into three days of sitting outside of the ValueLot, calling AAA to no avail. Tuesday, I called AAA at 11:45 PM, but no one came on the line. I Ubered home. Wednesday, mom drove me to LAX and we sat in the parking lot for SIX hours, as we kept waiting for the time texted to us, only for them to push it two hours.
during the wait, we went into a Westin because i was bursting with pee. when I walked by the bar, i had a genuine dirty martini thought– tasted it, smelt it, felt it. thought to myself: that would be nice. we sat down and stared at our respective filthy phones, but then mom promptly mobilized us (as she later confessed to me, “Probably not a good idea to be next to the bar.” she was right). parking at the Westin for 10 minutes whole cost us $24.
after sitting a vigil from 12 - 6 pm, we drove home during rush hour. when we finally got someone on the line, while stuck in stop and start traffic, we were P R O M I S E D someone would come Thursday at 1:30 PM, i got haughty and said something like: ‘CAN U GUARANTEE THEY WILL BE THERE’ and the guy was all: ‘They will be there, Miss Pinsky.’
unsurprisingly, when i showed up at 1:25 pm on Thursday, the third day in a row at LAX, there was no one there. i called a number who had called me around 2:20 pm, asking, are you supposed to come? And he said; “We did. But a flat bed can’t fit in the parking lot.” low ceilings, i was told.
i was smothering a hysterical breakdown, i told him how this was my third day here, that i’ve been put on hold for days and that no one has come— he was the first.
flatbed truck guy truly felt bad for me, he was all, “WOAH that is not okay!” then the flatbed driver told me, “i want to help you– but I can't. We only have a flat bed– but… don’t tell them i told you this, but: you have to get hysterical.”
being a sober woman of dignity and grace is not about getting hysterical. it’s about taking life on life’s terms, it’s about being selfless instead of selfish. it’s about being the best version of myself that I can be. but definitely not a hysterical white woman screaming into a phone.
I said, “I don’t want to be a Karen.” he said, “You have to be a Karen. You have to tell them you’re in danger and you need to speak to their supervisor.”
PROGRESS NOT PERFECTION.
And so, i did.
Someone answered after 14 minutes of hold music and i screamed: “I AM IN DANGER AND I NEED TO SPEAK TO YOUR SUPERVISOR.” Fifteen minutes later, a tow truck came– it could not fit in the parking garage either. LOW CEILINGS, STRIKE AGAIN. tow truck guy wanted to help, so he took the elevator to the sixth floor with me, got my car into neutral– hoping he could push it down to ground level as i steered her to the tow truck waiting outside– but my steering wheel was locked.
all bets were off. the anger that i hysterically turned inward, fermenting into depression, was being spewed outward: CALL. SUPERVISOR. DANGER.
at this point— hour 12 — the manager of the parking walked up to my car, which had been parked beside his parking lot for two days, knocked on my window and said, “You’re still here?” he suggested I call a private locksmith. i called the private locksmith, and he came immediately, texting me updates along the way– 20 minutes, 5 minutes, sorry, traffic!--
“Is this Miss Pinsky?” was what AAA said after i screamed at AAA through my dirty phone: “YOU WILL BE PAYING FOR THIS. I HAVE BEEN WAITING THREE DAYS. THIS IS NOT OKAY. notorious at AAA.
all it took was three days of sitting vigil in Inglewood for them to recognize my voice. or was it the tone i struck today? was i memorable when i was being civil? or was it when i was pushed to insanity that i finally struck a chord?
the locksmith came– a small Israeli guy with machines that he told me “cost more than your car”. car alarms were going off, and it felt like a weight had lifted. i recorded myself dancing to the alarms— the locksmith told me i had good vibes. and then he lightly hit on me, but i didn’t/don’t even care– if it meant getting my car out of that parking lot, i will give my body as tribute.
i was presented with two brand new keys– but no extra person to drive my car. locksmith drove me down to the ground floor, and i kept saying, “I am so thankful for my new friend,” and he understood what i was doing, but he did give me a hug when i hopped out of the car. i am sure i was drenched in the stench of my anger and anxiety, but i no longer felt it.
after getting insane on the phone, getting two new keys, and dishing out dough i don’t have ($900+ that AAA said they would reimburse me on a recorded line), i drove home to pass out in bed. but i would be back— i had no one to drive my car home.
the next morning, i picked up a sober friend to take her to a meeting. upon relaying a synopsis of my horrible week, she offered to drive with me to LAX and to drive it home for me. tears threatened to break— i didn’t have to even ask. i thought about asking her, but felt like too much of a burden to ask– and here she was, offering.
two days later, we drove to LAX and she drove my car home.
POSITIVE SPIN: two new keys, faith in my mom’s ability to help, and a new friend who showed up for me without even asking.
TRUTH: i am burnt the eff out. i feel like burnt toast. i feel like sludge at the bottom of a dried out pond. i feel like i am a bubble about to burst. i am hanging on to a rope that is fraying, threatening to snap as i hang over an open abyss.
AMENDS TO MAKE: i did not write or publish this newsletter last week. i broke my end of this deal with you, dear reader. i hope i can make it right by continuing to write and publish this newsletter, week after week, no matter what. i’m sorry, i will do my best moving forward.
i’m a little over ten months sober now, and i can delude myself into thinking that i’ve got the hang of things. when really, i don’t know jack shit. i’m still, somehow, new. i somehow have ten months but really all i have is today.
and last week really, really tested me. i had my first genuine drinking thought in a long, loooong time. and it scared me. showed me how tenuous this thing— sobriety— really is. i don’t have it all figured out.
but sometimes life grabs ya by the neck and shakes you around a little bit— reminds ya that you really aren’t in control, that whether or not you like it, you never have been or will be.
i have to remind myself: i am living life on life’s terms. dealing with my car, i lost two full days of work, five days of sanity, and complete and total burnout all because i tried to do things by myself.
And maybe, just maybe, that was my mistake.
over the course of this saga, i posted it on my IG story, and at least 5 people said something along the lines of: I can drive you to the airport with advance notice! which, i previously thought would be impossible to even ask for. i made the mistake of thinking that my family were the only people i could ask to drive me to the airport, and that was my mistake.
~*~these are the miracles of sobriety~*~
a little over ten months sober, i have a lot to lose and i have a lot to gain.
there are people who flip into Karen mode in ways that are absolutely undeserved– like that batshit ladies screeching in Victoria’s Secret. but i’m starting to see that sometimes, when dealing with an insane world, we are pushed into insanity: i hate when i turn on Entitled White Woman voice. i absolutely hate it— it’s draining and feels disgusting. but i feel caught between striving towards being a sober and selfless women of dignity and grace while living in a world of automation that is cold and careless. i sat for three days, and it wasn’t until i channeled rage that anyone actually came to help.
historically, i target my anger inward– i’m a brilliant self-sabotager. but when anger is turned inward, it mutates into depression (i’ve been depressed— A LOT). spewing anger outward, i felt a slight tinge of release. i somehow, ever so slightly, understood the woman go absolutely batshit in Victoria’s Secret— how we can’t dictate when the valve bursts. I am by no means condoning unhinged, angry, abusive behavior– but i understand that when your internal world is fucked up, when you feel like you’ve been screaming into a void and no one is listening, all of a sudden you’re just screaming because you can.
i’m still recovering from losing my shit— physically, emotionally, spiritually. i am silently pulling the stingers out of my palms. i am trying to remember that there are times– like getting through the automation on AAA– when getting hysterical is the only way to be heard.
however, no one can go through life unscathed— we must account for the stingers. we will get stung, and there’s no way around it. and right now, i feel like Macaulay Culkin at the end of My Girl ( if you know, you know.)
i’ve deluded myself into thinking that just because i’m sober, i will never get stung. but baby, make no mistake, life is hard. getting sober and being sober is fucking hard. but when we make space for the stings, when we don’t fight them and pretend that we are entitled to a sting-free life, it somehow makes it more bearable.
i’m recovering in more ways than one— thank god, i’m not allergic to bees.
BONE MARROW TRANSPLANT
i got a call a few weeks ago asking if i remembered getting my cheek swabbed at A Fair at Columbia University in 2013.
i replied: “I don’t remember it, but it sounds like something I’d do.”
that’s when i found out that i am potentially a genetic match for someone who needs a bone marrow transplant. turns out, i DID swab my cheek at a fair on Columbia’s campus in 2013, and now, 9 years later, i may be able to donate blood or bone marrow to a 32 year old female with acute leukemia. (hence, the picture with the blue bandages around my wrists— my veins are fine like angel hair pasta and it takes a lot of attempts to get my blood— three tries to fill five vials). i should know if i’m a match within the next two months, and i’ll be sure to keep you posted~
SAVE A LIFE! if you would like to see if you are a potential match, you can do so here: Be The Match.
as always, thank you for reading. i’ve come to realize that writing is a part of my spiritual maintenance— that i need to protect my writing time as i would a sacred space, which it very much is. but i am so quick to forego time to create for literally anything else. but this week showed me the ramifications of not maintaining and pursuing my writing practice— i lose my mind. so, here’s to writing and treating our writing/creative practices as a sacred pursuit towards spiritual wellness.
i love you.
xoxo,
PAULINA
p.s. remember what’s at stake.
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