The Author of My Life

The first thing I want to throw out here today is that I’m new to blogging. Maybe that’s already obvious, but I’m adding a disclaimer to be safe. Doing a little C.Y.A. (as we used to say at the office).

Anyway, I just kind of dropped my anchor and jumped in. I’ve got a habit of diving into the water before getting my toes wet. I’m notorious for it. What matters is that I’m doing it. Typing my heart out, and bopping away to the beat of my own drum.

I’ve always danced to the beat of my own drum. Maybe it stems from feeling like such an outsider in my early years. At a pretty young age I started exploring self-help books and read whatever I could about becoming the magnificent Author of my Life.

I was always STRIVING. I strove to be ultra-independent, to make money, and to be totally self-reliant. Then I strove to be stress-free so that I could somehow be happy and content! The only thing that ever stood between me and the accomplishment of these goals were HUGE obstaclesOver time, the art of “picking up the pieces and starting over” became second nature to me. I was a pretty solid warrior. Until my last few bouts with alcohol nearly consumed me, that is.

My drinking never seemed to be a problem until my mid-twenties. I’d like to say that I still led a functioning life for about seven years beyond that, but my kids would probably disagree. Unfortunately, the addition of other mind altering substances—and a dysfunctional marriage—also contributed to that whole ungodly mess. So, yeah, I was functioning… just not very well!

While my sons were fairly young, I managed to quit drinking and lived nearly ten years sober. I worked harder, made more money, and bought our first home. Life was good! Unfortunately, I had no relationship with God, no religious convictions, nothing that even resembled a recovery program, and an inflated ego.

I toyed with the notion that things were different, that I didn’t really have a problem, and that things wouldn’t get out of control if I ONLY allowed myself to indulge in wine, and for celebratory reasons. That proved to be a bad idea. Very bad. That particular celebration lasted for years, and so the cycle continued.

I guess the point I’m trying to make here is that being the head honcho, the magnificent Author of my Life, didn’t really work out for me.


As I sift through the pages of my journal, there are memories that I’m scrapping (saved electronically of course). While some of the tales probably have some real entertainment value, I’m not convinced they have REAL value. They are obsolete. I’m not the same person that I used to be!

I’m in a real recovery program now, and I’ve surrendered pen and paper to the REAL Author of my Life. A power MUCH greater than me is in charge…

…and I am finally free.

Next Up: Sweet Surrender