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Easy on the liver. Most of it sounds boring, I know. And yet, somehow, it is. If you need help, reach out.

Tell on yourself. Last night, I leaned against the counter in our hall bathroom with my arms crossed, watching my year-old brush his teeth.

I choose to watch him mostly because if left to his own devices, he only cleans the right side of his mouth, completely forgetting about the left.

Kids on the spectrum — who also have ADHD — are like that. It took me a long time to understand and accept this behavior as something other than carelessness.

As he brushed, I noticed that his height likely surpasses 5 feet and made a mental note to measure him.

That is when my child looked at me with genuine concern and asked if the rate of suicide will increase because of what is happening. Because of the number of businesses closing their doors.

Because people are losing their homes and their livelihoods and their loved ones. I had to answer him honestly.

Maverick just knows things, no matter how much I try to wish away his level of awareness. My husband arrived from work around 7 p.

I was hanging by the very last shred of my sanity after helping our 8-year-old assemble his Nintendo Labo.

I peaced out for a walk to clear my head, slash, talk myself out of running away from home for good, during which I discovered one of our neighbors an elderly man wearing sweatpants playing bagpipes on the sidewalk.

When I got home, our 6-year-old was insisting in her screechy-screech voice that we all participate in something I can only describe as Hobbs Masterpiece Theater — she wrote a script, we all had lines, and there was singing and dancing involved.

The discussion with my son happened at the end of a very long day of pandemic parenting. And this is why all of us are so beyond over this shit.

Not our kids. We love our kids. None of us are doing great. Every parent I know well enough to have an honest conversation with is slowly dying inside from the agony that is modern day parenting and working whilst isolating because there is a pandemic out there.

Last week, I shared how the pandemic is affecting my recovery journey on Good Morning America. Read the full story and watch the interview here!

The worst. It is survival of the soberest. And can I just say, having all my wits about me right now feels almost painful. In times of extreme stress, I automatically revert back to my old ways of coping.

My knee jerk reaction to a pandemic is not to meditate, pray, or look for ways to help other people. My knee jerk reaction is to drink, and not like a lady.

I mean draaaaaaaaaank. Some people in recovery say that the desire to drink has been removed, but I have not experienced that phenomenon.

The miracle for me is that even though I might want to hole up in my bedroom with a gigantic cup of alcohol, ignoring everyone and everything, I have the tools today to make different choices.

Being sober does not mean the absence of thinking about drinking or eating CBD gummy bears. First, I acknowledge that they are there.

And then I immediately tell someone my thought before it has time to take hold. But, if I keep it to myself, giving it room to grow into a giant clusterfuck, chances are that I will end up hurting someone else or myself.

For today, everyone in recovery is doing the impossible. No matter what happens: loss of loved ones, livelihood, home, and security — we refuse to go back to our old ways of thinking and living.

Because when I was drinking, I hated myself. How fun! An Easter egg hunt! There are ants living in my house. Our living room rug appears to be moving because there are so many of them.

This is fine. Now my parents are in our front yard hiding eggs. Do we tell them about the ants? No, we do not.

We let them have their fun because they have been stuck inside their house for weeks and they are bored. Because when there are no words, there is almost always the perfect GIF.

Hello from Groundhog Day I got some backlash for my latest post, which you can read here if you missed it. Listen close, cats: I love my children.

In fact, the reason why I share my experiences is to hold myself accountable as well as help other women in a similar situation see that there really is hope for anyone who is struggling with any kind of addiction disorder.

The thing is, that the feeling of impossibility is actually probably a lie. The truth is that deep down inside of me there is a strength that I can tap into — but only if I choose to.

So, in the spirit of choosing to be okay when very few things are actually okay, here are a few things that are bringing me joy — or at the very least, a chuckle?

The realization sank in: I get at least six. There is just really no telling what kinds of awe-inspiring things I have to look forward to, but I feel fairly certain that all of them will involve damage to my home or my psyche, and not necessarily in that order.

Take that annoyingly positive thinking of yours and get the hell away with all of that bullshit because I am not fucking negative.

I have been holed up in my house since March 13 with these children and I am doooooooone. We have crafted and put together puzzles and watched all the movies.

We went on bike rides until one day everyone including me threw a fit a street away from our house and all the people came out onto their driveways to look at the spectacle that was the Hobbs family.

Who the fuck knows! Certainly not me! All of my children are regressing. I am regressing. I want to curl into a ball on the floor and eat freshly baked cookies and blast gutter rap and growl every time anyone comes near me like a feral grizzly bear basking in her own filth.

I am a woman in the prime of her life who cannot leave her house. I remember when I was a kid, seeing older folks doing peculiar things.

The Great Depression made able-bodied men leap from the tops of buildings, or shoot themselves in the face. Just the title of that dark period of American history lets us know that it freaking sucked.

This event, and whatever else is to come, is what will shape us. And be fast about it. I love my children dearly, but we all like each other so much more when we get a small break every once in awhile.

Just a teeny tiny bit of time away. Just one little trip to one place. They — I mean, us — will be unfreakingstoppable.

We will be out all hours of the night dancing on top of tables, probably topless. The police will have to pick us up and drive us home to our families, who will breathe sighs of relief to see us home safe and sound.

Remember back when was a little intense and all of us looked forward to ? We had no idea what was coming, bless our little privileged hearts.

Remember when I almost relapsed last summer on diet pills because I was so stressed, and I swore I would never again stay home full time with the kids?

Last summer seems like a breeze compared to this. What the hell even is this? Sometimes it feels like a gift, a blessing, something divinely orchestrated to open my eyes to the simple joys that I spent so many years drowning out before I got sober.

Can we really do this? Or are we, the American people, too soft, too spoiled rotten? Someone said that an Amazon employee tested positive for the virus, and now people are freaking out that Amazon might stop delivering things like bike helmets and creamy peanut butter to our doorsteps.

You fools took all the creamy peanut butter in my town and all that is left is extra crunchy. The same people who are buying up all the good peanut butter are more than likely the ones hoarding toilet paper, because greedy people are like that.

No one knows when — or if — school will resume for the academic year. None of us were aware, when the kids climbed into school buses or cars at p.

We are all doing impossible things all day long, trudging a minimum of 6 feet away from each other up a slippery hill.

And YES, it is all too much. Way, way too much. I am only here to validate our immense and bottomless angst. When the kids and I quarantined ourselves 11 days ago, my husband continued to go to work.

First of all, who the hell is out buying cars right now? You do not need a new car. You need to stay at home like the rest of us who want this horrible self-isolation thing to end ASAP so we can get back to regular life.

Robbie says he is thankful that he still has a job, because people are being laid off right and left. The rational side of me is thankful, too.

The irrational side, which sometimes finds me eating chocolate icing directly from the container while I cry on the floor of my closet, is royally pissed.

When it sunk in that nail salons, hair salons, and other such things were closing up shop for an unknown period of time, my first thought was oh shit, my roots, immediately followed by oh shit, my nail s.

Gel manicures tend to last two days at the most, and any attempt to do my own nails produces a result that looks a lot like that of my children.

My therapist was the one who told me to try dip nails. After the first time I did it last summer, I was hooked.

Reader, please join me as I embark on a journey into the unfamiliar territory of do-it-yourself tutorials. You might be wondering why my face looks a little … off.

This situation reminds me a lot of the time I decided I could give myself a bikini wax at home: arrogant and misguided. I told myself that surely I could do the removal just like they do in the nail salon, which was a lie, of course.

I really struggled to do my left hand, so my kids stepped in to help. I soaked until I could no longer feel the tips of my fingers, then pulled my hands out of the bowl and used a rough paper towel to wipe off the melted dip goo.

So, yeah. Ok, look. After writing my previous blog post, I basically had a hour meltdown wherein I cried, stamped my feet, and felt sorry for myself.

My body felt like it was filled with lead. Eventually, I got ahold of myself. I have no control over an invisible virus.

Because WOW. I mean … you know. We all know. At first, I tried to homeschool them. It sounded like a good idea.

Routine is always good for kids — how hard could it be to carry on what their teachers were doing with them before schools unexpectedly closed down?

It turns out that stressed mothers are terrible teachers. I was stressing myself out as well as my children, so we just … well, we stopped.

There was no big announcement, no dramatic throwing in of the towel, I just fucking quit doing it. And guess what? Nothing horrible happened.

Today we went to a pond and threw out food for the turtles. My greatest challenge is that I am trapped with my kids during a time that I would absolutely LOVE to numb out, maintaining my sobriety without access to the step meetings that have been such an integral part of my recovery, and surrounded virtually, not literally by people who are conditioned to cope with Bad Things by drinking.

This is Louisiana. None of us are doing this perfectly or even that well, but if you are sober and your kids are loved and safe, then give yourself a huge pat on the back!

You are demonstrating every single day what it looks like to love yourself so that you can truly love them. I know cost can be a problem — look for a counselor without all the fancy letters after their name.

HARD exercise. Wear those kids out! Wear yourself out! Get the anxiety out of your body by doing something outside in the sun or even a Zumba video inside the house.

Just move your body, sweat, and get the kids to move too. We are doing the impossible, and doing it sober. But I am.

We are. Gwen reminds me of a hummingbird. Her petite frame and wide-eyed curiosity is almost ethereal, and she always hugs me hello and asks me about my writing.

Arrogance, and possibly denial, kept us from considering the fact that a pandemic, Covid, would be here. Something about the way we live our lives keeps us from believing that whatever is happening over there could ever actually happen where we live.

Before the viral panic descended upon us, I was wrapped up in the politics of our local public school system. I was focused on helping our new principal get the surveillance cameras fully functioning.

I was dealing with the individual challenges of my kids, which have recently become overwhelming. And now I am home with my three kids, indefinitely.

No playdates. No gym. No library, no seeing grandparents, no playing at the park. Robbie is still going to work. There is no toilet paper to be found.

My face is breaking out. The kids are anxious. I am anxious. I am sober. I can think of this time as a gift. I can make gratitude lists, and try to make the best of it, and work on my spiritual growth.

One of my biggest triggers is being stuck at home with the kids because I had no idea how awful it is to be stuck at home with the kids.

I miss the gym. I miss everything I used to do to make myself feel sane. I feel like a whiny bratty baby for complaining, but one glance at social media reminds me that we are likely to be on lockdown soon because all of you idiots refuse to stay home.

My therapist shifted in her seat as she waited for me to respond, uncrossing and re-crossing her legs.

I wondered if she was starting to get that tingly feeling that happens just before a limb shuts down. Early recovery is, hands down, the most uncomfortable experience of my life.

I have a heightened awareness of the way my thighs rub together when I walk. I feel the heaviness of my breasts.

I feel empathy for other people in a way I did not before I got sober, and my mental clarity allows me to comprehend situations that I would have previously written off as impossible.

I can feel every creak in my left knee and I have a deep, primal need for simple carbohydrates. I feel changes in the air, like a golden retriever with his head hanging out the passenger window of a car, except with a lot less joy.

The thing about high-functioning alcoholics and drug addicts is that they seem so pulled together. High-performing, ambitious, gregarious, successful — all of those words described me.

But eventually, with all forms of addiction, cracks began to appear. I fell into this category. Oh, and the pills. No one needed to know about that.

Sobriety feels like nakedness. It feels like someone stripped away my garments and left me standing on a stage in front of everyone I know and love, and people are slowly, kindly, offering me things: a scarf here, a glove there.

I used to drink to cope with the stress of parenting. My default coping mechanism was always wine, and if I happened to be pregnant, I had no choice but to turn to food.

Now I understand why I gained over 50 pounds in each pregnancy. When babies were teething and crying and fussing, I held it together until my husband got home — that was my rule, another adult had to be present — and then I would start drinking.

Take a shower. Get dressed. And so on and so forth. Try destroying your body for 15 years before entering a step program. I literally have to retrain myself in every aspect of my life.

The answer is slowly and deliberately. Minute by minute. I ask for help. I accept help. I breathe more deeply. I sleep better. I meditate.

I laugh a lot more. Getting sober while parenting small children is very difficult. Trying to parent as an active addict.

As hard as this journey can be, my most challenging sober day is a hundred times happier than a typical day as an alcoholic. This essay was originally posted on Babble.

None of the things I wanted to have done by now are finished. I joined an enormous Facebook group dedicated to women over I found a few designers who manage to make sensible shoes look not depressing.

I bought eye cream and I use hyaluronic acid and some kind of prescription-level stuff that I think should have erased my hyperpigmentation by now. But I watched it, with Robbie, apparently, in our home, at the end of I do not recall any part of this.

How is that even possible? For a slightly obsessive, Type A personality, missing something — anything — is troubling.

How much of my life have I missed? There is not a cure for alcoholism or drug addiction. If I forget, or stop being willing to do the uncomfortable, hard work, or if I cease to be honest with myself, or if I simply have a real bitch of a day, it could all come crashing down.

My therapist and husband keep reminding me to write. Will I? Because quite honestly, the thought of sitting down and dumping my thoughts on paper sounded like much too great a task.

It would be so much simpler, I rationalized for months on end, if I just continued to ignore it all. Eventually — today — I reached a point of such substantial discomfort that I unhappily broke my laptop out of hibernation.

So, hi. Life does not get easier when one stops numbing her emotions, just so you know. I have a hard time during the holidays for a lot of different reasons.

There are things that can lessen the effects, and there are plenty of coping skills that can help a damaged person live an emotionally healthy life, but at the end of the day we are all still broken inside.

Most of the women you know and love who suffer from addiction, have a history of trauma. You have a great life! Yes, I do have a great life.

None of it is easy. And while most of the time I am not bitter or angry, around this time of year I get real bitter and angry.

I used to drink those feelings away, but now I simply carry them, feel them, accept them. I have zero control over the past or other people.

What I DO have control over is what I choose to do with it all, and every day I get another chance to make different choices. They say that alcoholics are fortunate because we get to experience two lives.

This summer, a whole lot of crazy opportunities started falling out of the sky. I was in The Washington Post. I was on the radio.

ABC brought a crew to my house and filmed for 12 hours. I spent a lot of time talking to Deborah Roberts.

I wanted nothing more than to hide out in my house, speak to no one, and forget I ever loved writing. I wanted to change my mind on all the things.

I wanted to take it all back, undo the improvements and hours of therapy and self healing. She wants to keep me sick. She knows that the more I tell on my disease, the harder it will become for her to destroy me.

Telling the world about recovery means that I have to fully commit to sobriety. There is no going back. I am all in. Here is a link to the piece they wrote about my story on ABC.

Here is the short segment that aired on Good Morning America last week. Tonight, the full episode will air on Nightline.

But, like my friend Audrey reminded me, I would never feel ready. So here goes. Jenny looked like she may have been transitioning from male to female, and I liked her immediately.

She was the one to call me one evening when my youngest, then 5 years old, got sick with a stomach virus during Orchestra practice.

They were laughing about Jenny. It was mid-winter, and the sun dipped below the horizon. I slowed down, pulled over onto the shoulder, and rotated my entire self so that my children had a clear view of my face.

I asked how they would feel if they felt different inside like Jenny, and overheard their friends referring to her or her appearance in a negative manner.

Ideas about other people — color, sexual identity, religion, even political affiliation — are largely based on nothing more than asinine assumptions and a significant lack of education.

So thank you, East Baton Rouge Parish School System, for fostering a diverse learning environment for my three children.

Because when you know better, you do better. I honestly had no idea how much work a puppy would be. Holy shit. Every summer with my kids feels like the longest stretch of time imaginable until it is over and I have time to reflect on how little time we have left before childhood ends and adolescence — the Wild West of parenthood — begins.

Tomorrow I will send a 6th grader and 3rd grader off to school while I cart my 1st grader to the doctor.

I am not ready. I am never ready. When something bad happens, everyone waits for an alcoholic or addict or anorexic or cutter to relapse.

The people who care about the person in recovery hold their breaths and pray, fingers twisted behind backs. They whisper and they watch. More commonly though, and perhaps less understood, is how recovery can become equally tenuous when good things happen.

I am as terrified of success as I am of failure. I purposefully aim low because underachievement feels safer somehow. If the stakes are low, the return is low, and most importantly, so are the risks.

My life-long fantasy is to envelop myself in a cocoon where I never have to feel any kind of discomfort ever, ever again.

For a long time, alcohol did that. It was a blanket fresh out of the dryer, coating me in warmth and the illusion of safety, all while it slowly destroyed my life.

The crazy thing about addiction is that when something amazing happens, at first I experience normal feelings like elation and excitement.

Good things are happening that I did not orchestrate and I am terrified. Today I actually laid down on our bedroom floor in the fetal position and stared into space until Robbie asked what I was doing.

I eventually got up and forced my body to move around the house as though I am not absolutely, one hundred percent scared out of my mind.

Somehow when I make my feet walk and my hands function, the rest of me falls in line after a little while of me pretending to not be freaking the fuck OUT.

Just because good things happen, I do not have to regress into my old patterns of behavior. Drinking a pint of vodka will not make my fear of success or failure any less of a problem; in fact, it would only magnify it.

You know, for almost 2. Everything was so NOT. So here we are. At the same time all of this other stuff was happening, Health published a piece I wrote; you can find it here.

BUT, I almost relapsed. Not on alcohol — on my first love, phentermine. The article ran. I hung onto my sobriety. Crazy how that works.

I need to concentrate not so much on what needs to be changed in the world as on what needs to be changed in me and in my attitudes.

This summer is turning out to be nothing much more than an endless exercise in practicing acceptance. I have to accept that my children sneaked out of the house while I was in the shower and tried to sell sandwich baggies full of chopped up fruit and vegetables — food from our refrigerator that we were gonna eat — to anyone who would answer the door.

I must accept that Maverick sometimes runs around naked and screams obscenities in the morning before his meds have kicked in.

I wish he would stop; one day, he might. Until then, I can either yell at him until my throat feels sore, or I can simply accept it and move on.

I choose to move on. And my therapist asked me why I was avoiding doing things that would be helpful to other people.

She called it what it was: laziness and fear. I finally figured out that my issue was lack of control. I lose control over the narrative when someone else creates the words.

What if I look stupid? What if, what if, what if? So I did. I lowered my walls and I got out of my own way and now my story can be found here.

After that, in another, unrelated event, I was contacted by a reporter at The Washington Post. The online version will be out tomorrow, just FYI.

What if I sound stupid? What if all of Baton Rouge judges how I sound at a. Before I stopped drinking, I wrote prolifically for a number of online publications.

I was briefly a staff writer for Scary Mommy , one of the most well-known sites in the parenting world. I was asked to interview for magazines and podcasts.

My essays were published in three actual books. Editors called me on the actual telephone. Being in demand gave me the opportunity to negotiate my rates — and I got what I asked for.

I made money, sometimes a lot of it. Stopping my work in order to focus on recovery is the greatest gift I could ever give myself. There was a very specific drug and alcohol combination that fueled my work — a lot of creatives can probably relate to this — and when that combo went away, so did my inspiration.

The past two years have been full of growth and grief and renewal. School is almost out for the summer, and I will officially have a 6 th grader, a 3 rd grader, and a 1 st grader living in my house.

Pepper, who will be 6 years old in a few weeks, was barely out of toddlerhood when I entered recovery. That just leaves Maverick, who remembers everything.

Not only that, but I had cash in my purse to pay for whatever they wanted. I am learning how to be okay, how to not ruin this moment by obsessing over the future or agonizing over the past.

I am present in body and in mind, for the first time in my entire life. Sounds great! For richer or for poorer?

Not Rated 97 min Drama. A dramatization of the shocking Barbara Daly Baekeland murder case, which happened in a posh London flat on Friday 17 November The bloody crime caused a stir on both sides of the Atlantic and remains one of the most memorable American Tragedies PG min Drama, Thriller.

Set against the backdrop of the succession of Queen Elizabeth I and the Essex rebellion against her. Not Rated min Comedy, Crime, Drama.

Bubby has spent thirty years trapped in the same small room, tricked by his mother. One day, he manages to escape, and, deranged and naive in equal measures, his adventure into the modern and nihilistic life begins.

Votes: 12, R 94 min Crime, Drama, Horror. A young man held prisoner by a cab-driving serial killer must make a life or death choice between following in his captor's footsteps or breaking free.

Votes: 16, Not Rated 83 min Action, Drama, History. Votes: 1, Unrated min Comedy, Drama. About to stay a summer internship, promising young medical student at MIT, Raymond's mother, Susan, breaks her leg.

Housebound and immobile, his father, Tom, makes Raymond stay home and Director: David O. TV-MA 95 min Documentary. A look at a plethora of pornographic films ranging from the s to the s and a commentary about their lasting impacts on the adult industry and the world.

Votes: R min Drama, War. NC min Drama, Romance. When his father dies, a young man is introduced by his attractive, amoral mother to a world of hedonism and depravity.

R min Comedy, Drama. As France is nearing the end of the first Indochina War, an open-minded teenage boy finds himself torn between a rebellious urge to discover love, and the ever-present, almost dominating affection of his beloved mother.

Unrated 89 min Drama, Thriller. A father driven into desire, a son coveting that of his father's, and the sorrowful maternity that hovers them into tragedy.

Votes: 4, R min Drama. While touring in Italy, a recently-widowed American opera singer has an incestuous relationship with her year-old son to help him overcome his heroin addiction.

Not Rated min Drama. Rescued from abandonment and raised by the King and Queen, Oedipus is still haunted by a prophecy--he'll murder his father and marry his mother.

Votes: 5, Not Rated min Crime, Drama. A loan shark is forced to reconsider his violent lifestyle after the arrival of a mysterious woman claiming to be his long-lost mother.

Justine Koo Stark wishes to remain innocent and virginal, but instead slips into a life of debauchery, torture, whipping, slavery and salaciousness.

Meanwhile, her brazen, flirtatious and Not Rated min Drama, History, Horror. During the Prussian army's invasion to Poland in , a young Polish nobleman, Jakub is saved from the imprisonment by a stranger who wants in return to obtain a list of his fellow A story centered around a group of self-destructive skateboarders in Paris.

PG 87 min Comedy, Crime. A duke dies and leaves the title and wealth to his adult son. But who's the real son: the found baby raised in USA or the abandoned baby raised by a Hindi family in London?

Comedy follows. After struggling to find employment, Amanda takes a hotel position in a small town where she ends up fighting for her life.

Who's watching Oliver tells the story of a mentally unstable loner lost in a life forced upon him.

Unlike more tourist-friendly stops, he noted, the significant feature -- Robert Johnson's grave -- wasn't clearly marked.

If I had intended to impart a life lesson, I couldn't have done better than the one he found himself. Years from now, I hope he will carry it and maybe a few of our miles with him -- an indelible groove, like a well-played record.

Your vote is your voice! It is your right and your responsibility. For your voice to be heard, in most states you must register before you can vote.

Visit the state elections site. For the Nov 3 election: States are making it easier for citizens to vote absentee by mail this year due to the coronavirus.

Each state has its own rules for mail-in absentee voting. Visit your state election office website to find out if you can vote by mail.

Sometimes circumstances make it hard or impossible for you to vote on Election Day. But your state may let you vote during a designated early voting period.

You don't need an excuse to vote early. Visit your state election office website to find out whether they offer early voting. US Edition U.

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