inspiredodyssey daily prompt, Inspiration

How What I’ve Been Through Shaped Who I Am

 

 

People love to say that we are not defined by our circumstances, but those circumstances sure as hell help shape us. Lol. I am a product not only of the environment I grew up in, but of everything that environment, and life itself, did to me. I didn’t ask to be bipolar. I didn’t ask to become an alcoholic, go to jail, become homeless, or face every future job application with that one condemning question:

Have you ever been convicted of a felony?

I didn’t ask for the wreckage. But somewhere inside all of it, I found grace, mercy, faith, sobriety, and resurrection.

So are we shaped more by our experiences, or by who we already are?

I think it is both.

Maybe we enter the world with certain raw materials already inside us. I was always loud, determined, rebellious, emotional, funny, impulsive, and completely incapable of doing anything halfway. Then life got hold of those qualities and threw them into every kind of fire imaginable. Some of those fires nearly destroyed me. Others revealed parts of me I never knew were there.

I once heard that a horse must first be broken before it can become a prizewinner. I don’t know if that is actually good horsemanship, it sounds pretty damn cruel when you think about it, but the idea stayed with me. Are we required to be broken before we can become something greater? Do we have to crawl through fire before we can recognize the light?

And what about people who live relatively ordinary lives without enormous trauma? Are their lives better because they were spared the destruction? Or do they sometimes wonder what might have happened if they had taken the risk, left the familiar road, or allowed life to shake them up a little?

I live at the extreme end of that theory.

I went from being a loudmouthed Brooklyn girl with giant hoop earrings to the high school party girl rocking a pink pager and running her own fake-ID business. Yes, I was apparently an entrepreneur before I was even old enough to drink legally. I was always all or nothing. Unfortunately, that same attitude eventually followed me into alcoholism, mania, a destructive marriage, criminal charges, and incarceration.

But that all-or-nothing nature did not disappear when I became sober. It simply changed outfits.

The same kick-ass grit that could probably sell Grandma her own retirement back to her, (morally, I would never do that, shame on anyone coming for Grandma’s pension), now drives nearly everything I do. I gave up alcohol, but I eventually realized I had not given up my habit of becoming completely consumed by something.

Yeah. Do the math on that one.

For the past two years, I buried myself in church work. I was baptized. I joined the Legion of Mary. I became a lector and stood at the podium during Mass, reading Scripture aloud. I became a Eucharistic Minister and brought Communion, Jesus Himself, to people who were sick, elderly, or unable to leave their homes. I attended novenas, volunteered at events, helped with parish projects, and made myself available whenever someone needed something.

Now, let me be clear: I was not trying to buy my way into Heaven with volunteer hours and church casseroles. As a new Catholic, I genuinely believed this was what I was supposed to do. I had been given a second life, so I thought I needed to pour every drop of it back into God.

The work was meaningful. It still is. My faith is real. My service is real. But once again, I had gone all in. And while I was busy building a beautiful life in the Church, I quietly let go of the community that helped me build that life in the first place: my AA home group.

Much to learn, young Skywalker still has.

And then some!

AA was where my shattered life first began becoming whole. Before the church committees, the podium, the Communion visits, and the holy work, there were folding chairs, burnt coffee, terrible cookies, and people who understood exactly what it meant to wake up ashamed and still try again. That room held me when I had almost nothing.

This past month, I spent more time with my parents and began gathering all the old pieces of my recovery story: papers, books, folders, notebooks, letters, jail memories, and rehab materials. It was like opening a time capsule from a woman who did not yet know whether she would survive. When I got out of jail, my parents told me I was absolutely not moving in with them.

BEST PARENTS EVER. 😂

At the time, I probably did not appreciate the brilliance of that decision. I had just come out of jail, my marriage was collapsing, I had nowhere to live, and my parents were essentially saying, “We love you deeply. Now go to the homeless shelter. But they knew me. They knew that if they rescued me too comfortably, I might never learn how to rescue myself. So I went into a shelter and then rehab. I learned how to live sober, follow rules, manage my own life, and begin again without hiding inside my childhood bedroom.

Today, I live independently in a beautiful apartment only about thirty minutes from them. I have peace, privacy, friends, responsibilities, and a life that belongs to me. That independence exists partly because my parents loved me enough not to make my recovery easy. That was not abandonment. That was wisdom.

Sobriety is where my strength lives. I would not be the person I am today if I had not learned how to fight the demon that brought me to my knees for most of my life.

Recently, I walked past my five sobriety chips sitting on my entertainment center. Five years. Five little circles marking thousands of choices no one saw me make. I took a picture and made a post on Reddit. Yes, Reddit, the giant black hole of the internet where you can find emotional support, conspiracy theories, and someone arguing passionately about the correct way to toast bread, all within five minutes.

But the response to that post shook me.

It was not only the seven-year and ten-year sober veterans giving me digital high-fives. There was someone who had relapsed. Someone with five months. Someone just beginning who could not imagine ever reaching five years because five years felt impossible. Every stage of sobriety showed up beneath that post.

And suddenly I realized that while I had been swallowed by church life, I had become blind to another group of people who needed my voice. Not because I have everything figured out, God knows I do not, but because I have walked through something they are still trying to survive.

My story mattered there.

My five chips mattered.

The woman I had become mattered.

And then the revelation came, clear as anything:

Go home, Lynn.

Go home to your home group.

Walk into that room without shame. Walk in quietly. Do not go all Brooklyn, prancing through the door like the prodigal daughter has arrived with her own theme music. Go in humble. Sit down. Listen. Remember who you were when you first found that room.

I had arrived there fresh out of a marriage to a drug addict, a man who had isolated me from my friends and nearly dragged me into another crime while I was still fighting to remain sober. I was frightened, angry, newly independent, and barely holding myself together.

My home group gave me community before I found my church community. It gave me language for what had happened to me. It gave me people who did not flinch when I told the truth. It gave me a place where shame did not have the final word.

Somewhere along the way, I became so involved in being useful that I forgot I was still allowed to be supported. That is one of my oldest patterns. I know how to give. I know how to perform. I know how to throw myself into a mission until there is no room left to hear my own thoughts.

But when I looked at the crucifix on my wall, I felt Jesus smiling at me as if to say:

“You don’t have to give Me or the Church up. We can exist inside your sober life.”

Now, I better slap that revelation onto a recovery lunchbox and get my ass to the noon meeting. Lol.

So, are we shaped more by our experiences or by who we are?

I think who we are determines what we carry into the fire, but our experiences decide what comes out on the other side. I was always fierce. Life taught me where to aim that fierceness. I was always loud. Recovery taught me when to listen, and the Church gave my voice somewhere sacred to carry.I was always all or nothing. Now I am learning that a healthy life cannot be built entirely in extremes. It needs balance. Church and AA. Service and support. Independence and community. Giving and receiving.

What happened to me is not the whole definition of who I am, but it changed me. Jail changed me. Homelessness changed me. Alcoholism changed me. My parents’ difficult love changed me. Sobriety changed me. The Catholic Church changed me. The people sitting in folding chairs at AA changed me.

Grace changed me.

The tragedy of my life did not disappear. It became the beginning of a redemption story. I am not grateful for every terrible thing that happened. Some things were simply terrible. But I am grateful that they did not get the final word.

I did.

God did.

And five years later, I am still here—sober, independent, faithful, deeply imperfect, and finally finding my way home. So yes, I believe what we go through shapes who we become.

I am living proof.

inspiredodyssey daily prompt, Journal

From the Floor of a Jail Cell to the Body of Christ

I think everyone is unique because of their story; what they survived, what broke them, what found them, and what finally brought them home.

Mine was chaos for most of my life. A downward spiral. A wreckage. A long season of self-destruction that felt like it would never end.

And yet tonight, somehow, I came full circle.

Tonight, I took an oath to become a Eucharistic Minister.

Even writing that sentence feels unreal.

I am not going to hide the fact that I am a proud Catholic. In fact, part of the reason I am so unapologetic about it is because of my Muslim heritage. I know the difference now between a faith that made me feel constantly watched, measured, and punished, and a faith that met me in my ruin and loved me anyway.

That is my truth.

I spent my whole life feeling punished by Allah; for every desire, every rebellion, every time I tried to use my voice, every time I dared to want something beyond obedience and fear. But I will say this as plainly as I know how:

Allah didn’t find me on the floor of that jail cell five years ago. Jesus did.

I know the difference because I felt Him.
I called for Him.
I begged for Him.

And there, in the filth and the collapse and the absolute end of myself, I told Him I would never drink again. I vowed myself to Him.

And what I felt back was not condemnation.
Not disgust.
Not punishment.

Just this:

“Follow Me.”

After that, things became very black and white.

Before then, Christianity had mostly come to me through movies, books, and Christian friends. I never knew what church I would choose if I ever became Christian. But once Jesus came for me, it became strangely clear. I didn’t hesitate. I joined the Church He told His apostles to build. I chose the Church that traces itself directly back to them. I chose to be Catholic.

And for a woman whose life has always loved mathematics, precision, and things adding up, the calculations made perfect sense.

That doesn’t mean it was easy.

When I spoke to Father, he asked if my family would be okay with it; almost like he was quietly wondering whether I’d be disowned, or worse. And honestly, if I were living in an Arab country, maybe that fear wouldn’t have been dramatic at all. But I told him what I know to be true: West Indian Muslim culture is often far more Americanized than the most traditional Arab expressions of Islam. And besides, I only really cared what my mother and father thought.

My mother came and supported me.

My father made the trip too, even though he couldn’t quite bring himself to walk into the Catholic church. He stayed in my apartment. But the fact that he came that far, that he came at all, meant everything to me. That was love, too. Imperfect, complicated, but real.

This Easter marks the anniversary of my baptism. And what has happened in just one year is nothing short of a miracle.

I don’t use that word lightly.

So many doors have opened. So many things I thought were dead in me came back to life. I now have a real chance to tell my story of redemption and salvation out loud; the whole ugly, holy thing. The story of how every Easter for fifteen years, I ended up thrown into psych wards in some manic unraveling. How I drank with my pills for over a decade and did nothing with my life except become a burden to my parents. How I sat in sex chatrooms online, showing my body to any man who would give me five minutes of attention, hoping that maybe one of them would stay and save me. How my life split wide open when I married my husband and went on a drug-fueled crime spree that landed me in jail. How that relationship was steeped in abuse. How he introduced me to crack and literally put the crack pipe in my mouth because I refused to touch it myself.

That is part of my story.

So is the shame.
So is the mania.
So is the degradation.
So is the pain.

I am not cleaning that up for anyone’s comfort.

There was anguish for so many years. So much suffering, so much self-hatred, so much wandering around like a ghost in my own life. And all that time, strangely enough, the Catholic Church was just… there. Quietly in the background. Waiting.

There was a church off the main road near the place I went for therapy. I used to go there after drinking an entire carafe of wine, completely numb, trying to sedate myself out of existence. I would sit outside in the garden near a statue of Mary and tell her how ashamed I was; how I felt like I was a disgrace to women everywhere.

Then one day, a verse I had come across somewhere came back into my head:

“Ask and you shall receive. Seek and you shall find. Knock and the door will be opened to you.”

So I did.

I walked up those church steps for the first time in my life, a complete sinner, and I knocked on the door.

No one answered.

Well, maybe not no one.

The door was open.

And He was there waiting for me.

I walked inside and sat in those pews and cried for an hour. I was in complete awe of what I was feeling, what I was seeing, what had found me there. That was the first of many times I returned to that empty church, carrying all my wreckage with me.

And now?

Now I am living a life that would have been unimaginable to the woman I was back then.

Tomorrow, I begin at a local radio station doing broadcasts for the blind. Every Monday at Mass, I stand at the podium and read Scripture aloud to the congregation. My voice carries now, the same voice I once believed was sinful for a woman to use too proudly, too boldly, too loudly.

And tonight, I was ordained as a Eucharistic Minister.

It is now my privilege to bring Communion to the sick and the homebound, to carry the Body of Christ into places of suffering and loneliness, to do in some small way the work Jesus Himself pioneered.

What an honor.

What a sentence.

From the floor of a jail cell…
to hands that now hold the Body of Christ.

That is my story.

That is what makes me unique.

Not because I am special in some glamorous way. But because grace reached all the way down into a life like mine and pulled me up anyway.

It makes me unique.
It makes me redeemed.
It makes this a story like no other.

inspiredodyssey daily prompt

Sobriety, My Own Place, My Own Life

I hung on to my ex-husband longer than I should have. We were both wrong for each other from the beginning. Leaving him was the best thing to ever happen to me, and something I am the proudest of.

I had been living a nightmare of my own making for most of my life. I had been drinking heavily, in and out of mental institutions, living in a room in my parents’ house with no hope of ever moving out or making anything of my life. I spent nearly a decade online, before OnlyFans was a thing, giving myself freely to men online, not having any kind of respect for myself. Did I really think I could find a husband this way? Did I really think a man could save me from all of this pain?

Then I met my husband. We went through NYC like Bonnie and Clyde, him introducing me to crack by giving me the pipe in my mouth, (I would never touch it), and me drowning more and more in alcohol. Even though we shared a special moment in my favorite church, where God told him to ask me to marry him, it was the last bit of romance that would ever go on in our toxic relationship. From emotional abuse, physical fights over money for drugs, me leaving him a bunch of times and him threatening me with suicide so I took him back, and us committing many crimes in NYC, we fled to North Carolina to start a new life.

But it didn’t end there, it just got worse. He found a new group of people to get drugs from, my alcoholism got worse, and I was so deep in sin, that only thing left for God to do was send us both to jail to stop all the madness. I spent 10 months on the floor of a jail cell, still dreaming of him and sending messages to the officers to give to him for me. I still hung on, even after I got out and became homeless, having to find shelter in a rehab. I was always building for our future, visiting him in the psych ward after jail, trying to make a life with a man that wanted nothing more than look for crack the moment he got out. He tormented me every single day in our new apartment, after I tried to do things the right way and live sober. It all crumbled. He refused medication. His addiction raged. And somehow, by grace alone, I didn’t relapse. The old crack spots were boarded up. The temptation wasn’t there. That was God.

He became incoherent. I watched him dissolve like I once had. My parents, now in North Carolina, put him on a bus back to New York. They saved my life. I owe them everything.

The last time I saw him, my parents drove us to the bus depot. I was quiet the whole ride, watching the North Carolina roads blur into memory. He looked exhausted — thin, worn, not quite tethered to this world anymore — but there was still something in his eyes, those big brown eyes I had fallen in love with in the ward. We stood outside the Greyhound station, under a gray sky that couldn’t make up its mind. He reached for me, and I melted into him, holding on like it could somehow undo the damage. And then came the final kiss — slow, trembling, soaked in goodbye. I closed my eyes and tried to memorize everything: the shape of his mouth, the scent of his skin, the sadness in his breath.

His last words to me were, “We can try and make this work, right?”

And part of me — the part still haunted by our first kiss and that candlelit church — wanted to say yes.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

Even after he left, I kept in touch. I loved his mother — she made sure I had support even in jail, wrote me letters, and sent cards. She loved how much I loved her son. But it wasn’t enough.

He kept disappearing in New York, lost in the same cycles, same streets. And one day, I changed my number.

I grieved him like a death. Because I had buried so many parts of myself just to stay with him — my sobriety, my sanity, my dreams. And still, I would have stayed. That’s what heartbreak does to you. It confuses sacrifice with salvation. 

Because for all the chaos, for all the darkness — he loved me in a way no one else ever had. He made me feel beautiful when I had been discarded by so many. He gave me an adventure. He made me feel chosen.

All I ever wanted was to save him. But love is not salvation.

And sometimes, the kindest thing grace can do — is say goodbye.

I think of him still, when the nights are lonely — only because there were nights that he used to hold me when the mania or depression was just too much. He would stroke my forehead and lull me back to sleep. Mostly, it was the mornings when he kissed my forehead while I was still asleep.

If only he could have been what I hoped him to be. But you can’t change someone, you can’t even try. All you can do is pray for them, and hope God takes care of them. I pray for him to this day.

I moved on of course, and fell in love again, but it honestly hurts more than what I went through with my ex-husband. This time, this love showed me what it could be like to be loved completely and without addiction and toxicity – although I still got heartbroken in the end.

So what am I most proud of? Through all of that I’ve been through, I managed to keep my apartment, my sobriety, and most of all my piece of mind. I live my life alone and in peace, embracing my freedom and independence everytime.

To me that’s priceless.

Stay tuned.

Daily writing prompt
What are you most proud of in your life?
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inspiredodyssey daily prompt

Most of What We Postpone Isn’t Hard — It’s Emotional

I’ve been putting off an honest conversation with Mr. California, sitting my parents down to explain why I don’t want to move to Florida, and completing Step 9 of my AA amends with my two best friends in New York City. The list goes on and on.

And then there’s the usual stuff — cleaning out drawers, doing a deep clean through all my junk, exercising, eating better. That list could stretch to the moon.

So why am I putting so much off?

I’m starting to understand my procrastination more and more these days — and the truth is, about 90% of it is emotional. Facing feelings about people, or having hard conversations, is really hard for me. I catch myself thinking, maybe they’ll just forget, and I can pretend none of it ever happened. But that’s not how life works, and I know it.

If I keep avoiding the truth with Mr. California, I’m only setting myself up to get hurt — because I keep pouring in everything and getting almost nothing back. If I don’t have an honest conversation with my parents about not wanting to go to Florida, I could end up alone here in North Carolina during another manic episode, with no one to help me this time. And as for my friends in New York — they deserve a real amends from the bottom of my heart after all I put them through.

My sponsor and I have even hit a wall. I’ve been stuck on Step 9 for months now, circling the same emotional ground, and it’s keeping me from moving forward in my recovery. I’m nearing five years sober, but lately, that “dry drunk” mentality has been creeping in — all the old thinking, none of the bottles. And truthfully, it’s been far too long since I’ve been to a meeting.

These emotional barriers that keep me from doing what I need to do feel like heavy stones I keep tripping over. But I’m done just staring at them.

I have a plan.

🌹 The Courage Plan

(for the hard, emotional conversations that matter)

1. Recognize: It’s Not Fear of Conflict — It’s Fear of Loss

I’m not afraid of the words. I’m afraid of what those words might do.
I fear losing connection, approval, belonging — or the fantasy that things could stay comfortable.
But silence is never peace; it’s just an ache waiting for a voice.

“Telling the truth may cost me peace in the moment, but silence is costing me my soul.”

2. Name the Truth I’m Trying to Protect

Every difficult conversation guards something sacred.
Ask myself:

“What truth am I honoring by saying this?”

  • With Mr. California, it’s: “I need to feel emotionally safe, not uncertain.”
  • With my parents, it’s: “I need autonomy and to honor my boundaries.”
  • With my NYC friends, it’s: “I want to repair what I broke and meet love with humility.”

“When I finally figure out why I’m speaking, my courage will find its rhythm.“

3. Plan for Peace, Not Perfection

I won’t wait for flawless phrasing. That’s fear dressed as preparation.
I have to make notes, not a script. The heart never sounds polished — it sounds real.

“I’m not here to control how they react — only to speak what’s true, with love.”

4. Choose Timing and Setting with Care

Truth deserves a safe container, my sponsor stresses this a lot.
I can’t ambush anyone mid-stress and I can’t corner myself either.
I need to find the moment that breathes — not the one that breaks.
Maybe I can send a message like “Can I share something that’s been on my heart?” to open the door gently.

But when will I actually do this? NO TIME LIKE THE PRESENT. (First message will be sent at the conclusion of this blog post).

5. Practice with Compassion

I think rehearsing out loud will help greatly.
Once with all my tears, then again calmly, then again as if I were comforting my past self.
By the third time, it will feel less like breaking — and more like healing.

6. Hold Space for the Fallout

Even the gentlest truth can land clumsily, I have to be prepared for that.
I have to have my after-care ready: a walk, a prayer, a song, a friend who knows what this will cost me. (definitely texting the bestie).

“Courage shakes the body. I need to treat it like recovery, not failure.“

7. Anchor Back to Love

At their core, these conversations — the ninth-step amends, the “no” to family pressure, the truth I need to tell Mr. California — all rise from love.

“I’m doing this because I love you, and because I’m learning to love myself too.”

That single line can soften any storm.

We don’t postpone hard things — we postpone feeling things.

But when we finally face them, we reclaim power we didn’t know we’d lost.

Courage is rarely loud. Sometimes it’s a trembling voice saying,

“This is who I am now.”

And that, right there, is the beginning of peace.

Stay Tuned.

Daily writing prompt
What have you been putting off doing? Why?
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inspiredodyssey daily prompt

Loving this Spring

My favorite type of weather is Fall, but I am definitely loving this Spring. Warm days, cool nights with the windows open, definitely some good memories to be made. I have had a couple of wonderful days, (except with a feeling of guilt last night for committing sin), but I think my days of fearing punishment are long behind me.

I love it when it is around 70 degrees. I feel like it’s the perfect temperature, with the smell of rain in the air. It is a fresh smell, a welcoming smell. Fall is my favorite season, but after the events of last Fall I have to rethink that. Usually, it’s Spring, and around Easter that send me straight to the hospital, but last year took a different turn of events. I am also feeling less guilty about my ex-boyfriend. His emails are getting less and less, which is leading me to believe that he is starting to fade me out of his life. It is my worst fear, but I am not going to sit around and let it destroy my life. I am out doing things, especially things like going to the gym again, which I am really proud of myself for. The only thing left is to fix my eating habits, so I can actually lose weight, but either way I am really proud. I have also started going to my AA meetings again, which it is really important to me. I have had a couple of really good days, and as the days count down to Easter, I am hopeful for the future.

I think about my ex often, I still think there is a future for us. God led him to me, I know He did. I had never met a Catholic man before, and what I learned from him and the Church, it has propelled me in this direction toward my faith. It is an exciting time, where I will be converting from being raised Muslim, to a fully baptized Catholic. So much has gone into this = from jail and homelessness to a profound rebirth. I am grateful, and most of all I will hold onto the love I shared with my ex, and hope that one day he comes around. In the meantime, I will focus on myself, my faith, and my future.

Daily writing prompt
What is your favorite type of weather?
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Sobriety – What I am Most Proud of in my Life

Out of all my accomplishments in my life – being sober is what I most proud of. It changed everything about the quality of my life, especially the impact it has had on my mental health. I have struggled with bipolar disorder for so many long years, and I never stopped to think that it had anything to do with all my drinking. But taking bipolar pills early in the morning, then waiting for them to wear off, drinking all afternoon, waiting to sober up, and then taking more bipolar pills to go to bed at night, is the ultimate definition of insanity. THIS IS NOT NORMAL AT ALL FOLKS. Doing that same routine for many years, is EXACTLY how I was in and out of all the mental institutions in New York for many, many years. This is how I destroyed myself; this is how I suffered and endured so much pain.

It’s only after coming to North Carolina, going to jail, then spending almost 2 years homeless and in the recovery community, did I realize it was the addiction that was the cause of all my problems, stress, heartaches, headaches, and overall poor quality of my life.

Being sober is the best thing I have ever done with my life. I am so grateful for surrendering when I did, giving my addiction over to God, and having Him take it from me. My life has changed so much, being almost 4 years sober, and I couldn’t have imagined a better life today compared to what it was 10 years ago. I have my family, my friends, a wonderful healthy relationship with an amazing boyfriend, a path to an amazing career, and an independence unlike any I have ever known; I love living by myself so, so much – this is absolutely the life I prayed for.

Stay tuned.

Daily writing prompt
What are you most proud of in your life?
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inspiredodyssey daily prompt

What it Feels Like to Be Independent

So, today’s prompt is about when was the first time I actually felt like a grown-up, and I have to say it’s only been this past year, even though I am now in my mid-40s. Being in the mental health system and the drug addiction cycle for so long, and of course, living and mooching off of my parents for many years, I never knew what it was like to be a grown-up or experience independence – especially like the independence that I experience today.

It’s a lot more than just paying bills, rent, and taking care of yourself – it’s also about self-discipline and having self-control. I am off of probation now, so honestly, nothing is stopping me from getting a huge bottle of wine from the grocery store or kicking back with some mimosas on a Friday night. Maybe SOME people can do that, but not this alcoholic. I am not worried too much about going off the deep end and going on a drinking binge, but more how drinking again would interact with my bipolar medication which would definitely lead to mania, and of course hospitalization, which I can absolutely NOT afford right now.

The level of responsibility is heavy, but the rewards outweigh all of that. My own place, my own home, my own freedom – and most of all, having a beautiful guestroom in which my friends can come stay, (like this weekend and next weekend), is a feeling that is just irreplaceable. This is the life I prayed for. When I was little, I wanted the house, car, marriage, the whole thing, but God had different plans for me. I think of ex-husband often, and the crazy adventure that led me to North Carolina – through jails, institutions and rehab, BUT if it wasn’t for him, I would have never left New York and the horrible cycle of non-independence I was living in.

So yes, take the risk if you can – open yourself to new opportunities, and grow-up every chance you get – but honestly, I may say that, but I will always be a Toys’r’us kid!!

Stay tuned.

Daily writing prompt
When was the first time you really felt like a grown up (if ever)?
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inspiredodyssey daily prompt

Peace in Sobriety, Paying it Forward, and Helping Others

In an endless loop of mental institutions and instability, my only salvation was to become sober or die trying. Many people in recovery often talk about the fact that becoming sober was no longer a choice, that rock bottom wasn’t even where they were at, it was that they were literally knocking on death’s door.

I am very much in the same place. What bring me peace is staying sober and passing the message on the next addict/alcoholic. I mean the principles being AA teach that very thing, but the reason behind it is that it brings peace and total serenity to the teacher. My life was chaotic for so many years, just endless nonsense of angst and frustration – and as I mentioned in a previous post, when I was looking back at some of the old threads I made on a mental health website, it made me painfully aware of how out of control my life was.

The main culprit: drugs and alcohol. I didn’t start using cocaine until I was 40, but the alcohol use screwed up my brain bad enough to the point in which I was in constant torment of myself and others. People don’t take sobriety seriously; many believe that weed isn’t even that bad – I am here to tell you that ANY substance that alters your mind in its natural state, will rob you of any peace and calmness you seek. We are not MEANT to be high; a human’s brain is not built for that; we are built for community and fellowship – we should be getting high on the endorphins we get from good feelings created by good deeds or a really good workout.

Sound like buzzkill yet? GOOD! Your ass doesn’t need to get buzzed. Living a peaceful life isn’t about getting lost in a fantasy created by chemicals created in a lab to create an altered state. That’s a temporary peace, one which you will be chasing all your life to get, much to the detriment of others and yourself. Also, it depends on your definition of peace as well. For me, the satisfaction of teaching felons and convicts the skills they need to land the job they thought they could never get brings me peace. The inspiration that I instill in a newly sober brother or sister with sharing my story brings me peace. And of course, the fellowship in my AA homegroup and the participation in my church gives me the ultimate peace.

Stillness, and calmness comes from being able to say to yourself: I don’t need this TV on for 10 hours straight binging something on Netflix, and I don’t need to scroll for hours on ten-second reels and videos because my attention span is pretty much now fried from it. All I need is a good book, (with actual pages), and a small lamp escaping into imagination in the silence of the night. To some, this may be a boring existence, but to me it’s a nirvana that I have been searching for my whole life.

Stay tuned.

Daily writing prompt
What brings you peace?
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inspiredodyssey Life

Tropical Storm Debby and Finally Growing Up

So, as this storm barrels toward my new home state of North Carolina, I am learning a lot about what it’s like to finally grow up. I had experienced Hurricane Sandy in New York, and even though I was hunkering down scared in my basement, this new experience of living on my own as this deadly storm approaches, is seeming to be even scarier. There are so many things that are scary, so many more fears I have to deal with since my newfound independence, and I am just learning that it is all part of finally growing up without my parents. Of course, my mom and dad said I could definitely come over as Debby rolls in, but I am choosing to fight it out and do this on my own – besides I know this is just the beginning of hurricane season and there will be many more storms I will have to contend with.

The big factor in all of this is the Californian. I read an old post here: “Sacrificing Yourself to Make Someone Else Happy” and I realized how much has happened between now and then. I sacrificed so much of myself to make my ex-husband happy, I never realized what a real healthy relationship could be like. I have done so much growing up since that last relationship. The Californian is teaching me that there are men out there who don’t do drugs and alcohol and can be responsible and loving. He is the best thing that has ever happened to me, and as I look at old blogs and the journey I have gone on to finally find him, it is all so monumentally astonishing. I spent 15 years just combing the internet from a tiny room in my parent’s house, searching and searching for Mr. Right. So many online dates, so many dating apps and websites, so many hours in therapy talking about the same thing over and over again – “who’s the new guy today, Lynn?” “Oh you know, some guy I met on the internet,” – just endless conversations like this with my therapist at the time; If only he can see me now, and how far I’ve come – may he rest in peace.

If I could only see myself now from back then, and the adventure that finally led up to my lifelong dream of being on my own and living the life I have always prayed for. Who knew that all those days before therapy that I would go drink in my favorite restaurant, walk up the steps to sit in an empty church, and just pray for deliverance, for a man, for a future, for a purpose – that years later God would say – “you have to face 10 months of hardship in jail during COVID, 15 months in a homeless shelter getting clean, and then 9 months in a crazy sober living house with women who were calling 911 almost every night.” I mean Steve Harvey says an amazing truth – “if God told you what you had to go through to get what you have now, you would have been like nah, I’ll skip that part!” LOL – We all know that to be true. God won’t tell us or show us our path because it isn’t always easy, or we have to travel the more difficult road – but it has led me here finally, and I am entirely grateful, not at all regretful of the heartache and pain it took to get here.

Most of all, I would like to say this about my ex-husband – my heart and soul is with him today. Not only did he get beat up once in Hempstead, but TWICE, and the second time was worse, with two black eyes, a broken nose left with no shirt and shoes and couldn’t even get on the train to go home. The drugs have taken him, he can’t let go – and knowing that when we were running around in those streets of New York together that we never got hurt like that, makes me ache because I am not there to protect him anymore. Being raised in Brooklyn taught me what to look out for, and now that he’s all alone out there with his scattered mind and untreated schizophrenia scouring the streets for drugs, my heart is just breaking. But I can’t help him anymore, look where it led me. No, I have to grow up, and part of growing up is letting go. May God be with him today, as I say a little prayer for him as this storm looms closer to my town.

It’s time to face the storm, face the fear, and finally Let Go.

Stay tuned.

inspiredodyssey daily prompt

Making Your Bed Every Morning Challenge – It Can Make Quite the Impact

It’s become a habitual thing, and you have NO IDEA what a difference it has made in my life. A morning routine is very important, and I didn’t realize how much being institutionalized for almost three years has changed me into having one. But you know, people say that it is the small things in life that make a big difference, and I think the simple of act of forcing myself to make my bed every morning has made a significant impact on my life.

Routines in recovery are important. Being almost four years sober, through the Grace of God, I have noticed that having a morning and evening routine has greatly impacted my overall well-being, as well as my mental health. Not only do I consider myself a recovered alcoholic, but I also consider myself a recovered bipolar too – much like Susana Kaysen was diagnosed at the end of “Girl Interrupted” – she was released from an institution as a recovered “Borderline.” A lot of this “recovered” status of mine has to do with regular routines, and systematic structure. My days and weeks are basically all planned out – I have set schedules for everything I do, which includes, work, volunteering, mom and dad visits, church, sponsorship, and my AA homegroup – throw in some randomness like last-minute shopping and adventures with friends, my life is pretty much set in structure. It’s really important to keep things like that going because it keeps you accountable, and it also doesn’t really allow the days of boredom and nothingness to set in where you can easily slip into a state of depression and isolation. Living alone is hard, and a lot of us can actually fall in on ourselves if we allow it.

I have determined that this simple act of making my bed every morning is the MOST important thing that brings me the most joy. In fact, if I forget or don’t have time to make it, it actually ends up bothering me for an entire day. I almost feel silly sometimes because I have a ton of pillows as a person living alone, (much like Ben Stiller in “Along Came Polly”), and I find myself taking a bunch of pillows on and off my bed every morning and every night when I am ready to sleep. But that’s not what matters the most – I think it is all psychological. Being able to walk back and forth from my bedroom and seeing a freshly made bed gives me an immense sense of joy because it represents a vision of order in my life which had previously been such chaos. Also, like I mentioned, being in jails, homeless shelters, rehab and sober living residences for a few years where we were all pretty much FORCED into having a neat bed for daily inspection, it became a mostly unconscious habit as well.

So yeah, I recommend testing yourself to this challenge of making your bed every morning if your life is in complete chaos and you’re trying to get yourself in somewhat some sense of order and routine. I think it’s the first step to some real-life stability. You will really notice the difference! I sure have.

Stay Tuned.

Daily writing prompt
Describe one habit that brings you joy.
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