After my soda bread all-nighter, I found myself tired today.
It came as no surprise that I was beat, because in addition to being physically tired, I knew today would be emotionally tiring as well. Every St. Patrick’s Day makes me long for New York City, my family, and the Irish community I left behind. As much as I wanted to wake up and seize the day in a fantastic lightening bolt of green, the best I could muster was putting on a green t-shirt my father sent me last year adorned with a big shamrock that reads: Irish New York.
I felt like a tourist, my knee-high black and green shamrock argyle socks peeking out over my new cowboy boots. I felt more like a western rancher than a wee, New York lass. And, even as I packaged up my loaves of soda bread to distribute to the happy recipients, I felt the sad ache pull me down.
After my morning AA meeting, I commenced to performing the typical acts of my Sunday routine. Picking up my sponsor, listening her to her chide me for my lack of motivation on the 4th Step. A women’s meeting. And, then, back home to sit on my couch and ruminate. The sun shone brightly outside, even if the air still had the chill of a Portland winter. I couldn’t bring myself to watch the televised parade.
Instead, I watched Netflix. Distracting myself from the fact that everyone else I knew was out there doing something, even if it wasn’t St. Patrick’s Day related. And I, I was stuck. And, even sitting in the awareness that I could get out there and do something, I chose to pout. I chose to be spiritually unfit. Being a typical alcoholic. Poor me. Pitying my own loneliness and my choice to just ride it out.
Later, I met up with Lars, who was able to cheer me slightly. Reminding me that if I just make the effort to get outside myself and my own head, things get better. It’s all about choices and awareness. And, some days, I’m aware I’m making the wrong choice. I’m aware that I don’t have to wallow in the self pity that brings me down. But then again, I’m aware that sometimes there is something good about just sitting in my own pain. Something in the act of feeling all that mud run through my system that’s satisfying.
I can’t blame anyone but myself for having a lack luster St. Patrick’s Day. I’d love to blame the city for its lack of enthusiasm. I’d love to blame the alcohol companies for making me feel like I’m missing out on something special today because I’m not sitting at the bar. I’d like to blame Lars for not surprising me with some fantastic St. Paddy’s outing. But, when all’s said and done, I can only blame myself. I’m responsible for my own low morale. I created it, nursed it, and let it fester.
So, despite all my chirping for Irish pride, it turns out I’m the worst kind of leprechaun. The alchie leprechaun who waits for someone else to make his day instead of taking charge and making it good all on his own. It’s OK though. Like I said, sometimes, I just want to sit and wallow, and today, I did just that.
But damn girl, I will say this, wallowing sure does look better dressed in green.