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Growing Up (see my substack)

On day 207

Weeks are going by in my sobriety so quick. I’m on day 207. I’m managing. I am. I am more than six months sober and life is life.

Yesterday was quite a hectic 1368 court day. More chaotic than normal. It's always chaos, but usually it is controlled chaos. Yesterday, everything was off kilter. There were just too many cases on calendar, and too many private attorneys who can, at times, take up a lot of time with the judge because our court is very specialized and technical.

Still, I don't always mind it. I sometimes find chaos comforting. It feels normal to me. I find a peaceful environment harder to deal with sometimes.

Growing up, everything seemed off kilter. My parents would fight, then make up. It was cyclical. My sisters and I would watch almost as if it was one of our television shows, one with a soundtrack full of expletives.

1980s television was the best. Facts of Life and Different Strokes were two of our favorites along with Fantasy Island. All involved fantasies of a sort. Facts of Life was about a boarding school of girls, something I yearned for as a kid, a place I could just sit and read for days without interruption. Different Strokes was about two orphan poor kids adopted into a rich Penthouse living family, and wealth was a dream of mine. And then, of course, Fantasy Island, where your darkest imaginings could become reality.

That dream or fantasy of a life was never reality. Truth is, chaos is the flip side of peace. Light versus dark. Kind versus cruel. It’s up to us to choose the force we want to be in the world.

So from now on, even in chaos, I am going to try harder to be serene and slow down. I want to be a benevolent force for good. Why add to an already chaotic situation and environment? I will aim to be the light, always.

That’s all I got.

On day 207. #recovery #sobriety #substack #memoir 

Go to my substack! https://lifeofjem.substack.com/p/growing-up?r=7cq4g&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&fbclid=IwZXh0bgNhZW0CMTEAc3J0YwZhcHBfaWQKNjYyODU2ODM3OQABHvFDftEwnqYAZfVSwRKPR3ZgOUsSaJlo1O3T2SdbApuAVajxB4TTFLzDXKB1_aem_FmIGKg-Fgq3dgAC2ubDluw&utm_id=97758_v0_s00_e0_tv2_a1demoo4mlfjz7&triedRedirect=true

Hamnet and Me

In my book of essays that I've been in a mad rush editing the first draft of (a collection on grief and trauma) I have an essay on Hamlet, insanity and me. I love the play Hamlet. There's something about it that mesmerizes me. 

Then the night of the Oscars, I finally watched Hamnet when I couldn't stream the Oscars live due to a network issue. At first, I thought it started a little slow. Then soon, I was all in. I fell into the movie like I was diving into a pool. I stayed in it. Weeping. All of my sadness about life omnipresent. 

The young boy who dies, this is not a spoiler at this point, is a twin. His fraternal girl twin sister is dying of the plague. He comes to lay with her and comfort her. He sees death and decides to trade places with her and be brave as his father (William Shakespeare) told him to be when his father left for London. Then when Hamnet dies, he's shown in a dark place all alone, crying out for his mother.

Is this what death is like? It was terrifying. I was weeping and praying he would find a way out of the darkness to the light. And in our realm, his mother, the witchy woman who married Shakespeare, is beyond devastated. For Shakespeare, life moves on though he clearly grieves deeply as well. But for her, nothing is ever the same. 

Then Shakespeare makes and stages his play Hamlet, about a melancholy Prince. The father is a mere ghost of a man. And I will stop here with my description. You have to see it. It moved me beyond words and it showed that the way to work through the grief and find the light in this realm is by putting one's blood on the page and stage. 

It is everything you see. Just everything. The only way through. So I do. 

JEM's review of On the Mad River

So I just read a book called "On the Mad River" by Lucrecia Guerrero published by Mouthfeel Press. It drew me in immediately. The characterization of people and place was mesmerizing. Without giving too much away, I will say that it's a suspense novel about a young Latina woman searching for her purpose. 

She is a woman with big dreams of one day being on the stage, but she was never supported in her dreams by her family. So she runs into the arms of a man, and then runs from his arms to a small town in Ohio where the drama begins. 

What she finds there is not what she expected. Full of intrigue, romance, sharp dialogue and depth of character, this book will move you beyond words. Go get it now!

A new year, a new way

I've been neglecting you dear blog. I am a bit obsessed with writing my recovery substack (https://lifeofjem.substack.com/p/powerlessness).

But I'm back. And it's a new year. The shih tzus are over a year old. My job is busy. Life is moving along, and I'm 54 years old and still working on self improvement. 

(Even though, the world is falling apart. The sky is not falling yet...)

This year, I am living life a new way. Sober. Peaceful. Zen. I really love where I am. My mood is good. I'm grateful. I know I have a lot. I'm hopeful that this year I will finish my novel. It's about a truck stop waitress drinking in dystopian times. 

So this is my new year. Love you all! See you soon, JEM

By the way, the second edition of Tales of an Inland Empire Girl was just released. You can get it here: https://www.pelekinesis.com/

The days after

The days after Christmas can be melancholy. This year, we have Friday, Saturday and Sunday. That's a whole weekend. I don't feel melancholy, but I do feel restless.

Then I found a book to read. "The Road to Tender Hearts". I always know by the first chapter. After reading the first page of this book, I thought, I'm in. Plus the title. "Tender Mercies" is one of my favorite movies with Robert Duvall. Anything with a heart in the title is great too. The film "Crazy Heart" for example. And they're all about drunks.

I'm a drunk. I inherited it from my father. I was very good at it and it worked until it didn't. But I have to say, the longer I'm sober, and I'm just at 104 days, the more I see why I drank. Life is hard sober. People can be annoying or downright mean. I think I do have a tender heart in my soul. And I let people mess with it because I could drink my sorrows away.

But no more. This next phase of my life will be me. Just dealing with my shit and not taking anyone else's. That's it. I've decided. Sober JEM is gonna be a little or maybe a lot different. 

And that will be a good thing. 

Merry Christmas everybody

Yesterday was Christmas. Today is the day after. 

There is always a let down after a holiday. I'm not drinking, so I am not hung over, but I feel a bit melancholy and sad. That is, until I look at the cool black and white Fender bass guitar my hubby got me. With an amp! And then I feel excited because I'm going to teach myself to play. I can learn right?

Plus, gal bassists are bad ass. Kathy Valentine of the Go-Gos. Kim Deal of The Pixies. Kim Gordon of Sonic Youth. 

I wish my name began with a K, so I could fit it. Kanita. KEM. 

Cool Jerk has a cool baseline. As does Gigantic by the Pixies. Any song by Sonic Youth. Oh and Fascination Street by The Cure. 

I'm 54 years old, sober as fuck and I want to learn bass. That's an anti cliche. So let's make my new year resolution to be an anti cliche. Let's not fit the mold. I am gonna be me. 

Just me. Shih tzus and all. 

90 days and still writing

Cross posted on my substack here: https://open.substack.com/pub/lifeofjem/p/90-days-6e4?r=7cq4g&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=false&fbclid=IwZXh0bgNhZW0CMTEAc3J0YwZhcHBfaWQKNjYyODU2ODM3OQABHkiF3VHw750g1WV9J42TDA3XvUcMhQqCgigSX_QC42PnU_46qV_Oaw-ecmke_aem_XRsm0MJfpdmtpcwS8p6CNQ

I never thought I would love meetings. Every day, for the last 90 days, I have done at least one.

I had to find the meeting that worked for me and I have. My meeting, in the early morning of course, is perfect. The people in my small group are supportive and wonderful people.

I always thought people in recovery would be boring, but it’s the opposite. These are all people who have lived lives of quiet desperation (paraphrasing Thoreau), including myself.

I have found some peace by my 90th day. I don’t have the same need to always be on the go.

In fact, I love staying home on the couch watching a movie with the dogs and hubby. Last night, I watched Little Women, the black & white 1930s version with Katherine Hepburn as Jo. It was so lovely. I love that movie. Although no one else in my household does. It’s a testament to the power of family and writing. Of course, it’s my jam. Jo figures out by the end to write what she knows best.

Then, I watched most of The Santa Clause with my husband. I went to bed by 9 pm. And before I fell asleep, I forgot to thank the universe for everything. So I will do that now.

90 days. I made it. A long way to go. Still writing, as always, on day 90.

The Tramp

My dog Pippin had a rectal prolapse. Was it the Christmas light he chewed on, stress from the dog hotel he stayed at with his siblings over Thanksgiving, or an intestinal issue? I don't know. But it was horrifying. His colon literally exited his butt after straining, a few days after the holiday. It happened in front of me, in our backyard. Blood was everywhere. Like in The Shining. 

It's an emergency when this happens. You must rush the dog in for an urgent procedure where they put the dog under and fix it. Which I did. I drove 80 miles an hour to an emergency vet in Grand Terrance. Poor Pippin was in shock, just whimpering, and very quiet, I kept petting him telling him it would be okay, but I didn't know. 

The doctor who did the procedure was young. But kind. She did the procedure that afternoon. We picked him up at midnight that Sunday, only to find the procedure hadn't worked. It had happened again when he woke up from anesthesia and they had to redo it. I was panicked and questioned the vet's office who said that an older vet would be taking over and redoing it for free. I called his normal vet who explained that it was more an art than a science and the first vet probably hadn't put the sutures tight enough. He needed to sleep a bit more too. 

The second procedure was a success, and I brought Pippin home on Monday. I took the day off from work. He was in pain. And I had to help him do his business with a wipe. The stress was real. I breathed through it and as my sobriety program has taught me, told myself that I couldn't control this and to just let the universe take over. 

I did cry during a meeting. It was embarrassing, but felt like a catharsis.

I came home from work a couple of days right after court to watch over Pippin. On Friday and Saturday, we stayed home and did nothing, just decompressing, and aside from a Grinch meal run, I went nowhere and I cuddled him and his siblings. I realized how very much I adore these three shih tzus.

Then, finally, Sunday, they removed the sutures. Pippin's doing great. Back to normal. Running, playing, and barking like crazy as usual. I was singing The Lady and the Tramp song to him. The one by Peggy Lee. "He's a tramp, but I love him."

Mostly, I think to myself how life is so mercurial. It can change in an instant and then just as crazy, it can change back. So here I am. It's 5 am. I got to go feed the Tramp. 

Dear blog

I know I have been neglecting you. I have a new love, a substack on recovery, but I am still hopelessly devoted to you. 

So today, I am helping my shih tzu Pippin poop after he had rectal surgery post rectal prolapse which was so horrifying that I can't even write it. And you don't want to read the details, believe me. 

Yes, it's been awful, but somehow also okay. I love him so much that I don't mind. 

Pippin was always the least baby of my three puppies. Strong and the leader of the pack. A tramp. A rascal. Not anymore. He's a meek little baby with me now and very sweet and affectionate and I picture him saying, "Hey Mom, this sure sucks, but at least I have you."

My three shih tzus are always vying for my attention, like my different writings. Merry and Princess have been overtly jealous of all the attention Pippin is getting. I can tell they feel left out. But this too shall pass, and eventually, I will get back to all of them equally. 

So that's all I have got to say today. Other than this. Be grateful for those people, pets and things you love. As Joan Didion says, it all can change in an ordinary instant.

Day 71 and KA from my new substack on sobriety

Today’s daily reflection reminds us there are no coincidences.

It reads, 

“God is no stranger to anonymity and often appears in human affairs in the guises of “luck,” “chance,” or “coincidence.” If anonymity, somewhat fortuitously, became the spiritual basis for all of our Traditions, perhaps God was acting anonymously on our behalf.”

God for me is the universe. I picture God as a punk rock warrior fairy. I call myself a lapsed Catholic, Buddhist, Wiccan believer. I truly believe in the idea of what Stephen King calls KA, or what is also known as “the force”, or what some might view as destiny. I believe it because I have seen it. Everything is connected. There is a higher plan. In my own life, I was meant to be right here, right now, in sobriety. It was time. It was my time. 

I am re-editing my memoir for a second edition with a new press, and I see the references to alcohol all over it. It was always there you see. My quest was real and my search for something was true and I found it in sobriety and the program. 

It is KA. It is destiny. I am on my path friends. Just walking. Taking in the sights. It’s a beautiful view.

(I have a new journey, sobriety. Please subscribe to my substack, just search juanita mantz)

A poem for Pippin at 453 am

Scowling, I walk downstairs

Pippin is barking again, and again 

His bark as sharp as a Ginzu knife

It pierces the ears, makes eardrums

Metaphorically bleed with annoyance

"I am getting rid of you

Then I'll only have two

A caramel colored girl 

And a snowy white boy

The brown spotted shih tzu gone"

"But where would I go?

To the cornfields? To the beach?"

"No my little pretty," I cackle with glee

"You will go to she, the mother of me

Judy. She will fix thee."

Eating glass

I am sitting with my shih tzus, Merry, Pippin and Princess Leia. The Christmas trees are decorated, yes we have two, one pink and one green. Both decorated in pink and gold. 

Pippin had a bad week last week. He ate a glass Christmas light. A small one, but it caused blood to come out of his butt. The blood was bright red, like in The Shining. I was terrified the glass would cut his stomach or intestine while coming out. So after taking him to emergency, I fretted and then figured out to give him bread. 

The bread helps pass the glass you see. It catches it. It took four or five days, but Pippin is now blood free, and very happy. 

He is now part of the baby cakes club. Before, Merry and Princess Leia hogged my affections, but through this ordeal, Pippin and I bonded and he's very lovable with me now and fights his siblings to sit on my lap. Only baby cakes get to sit on the lap, and now, they're all part of the club. 

Back when I was drinking, it was kind of like eating glass. I didn't realize how harmful it was to my body, to my soul and to my mind. It cut up my relationships too. Into pieces. There was sober Juanita. Drunk Juanita and hungover Juanita. I was always trying to figure out who I was that day.

But now at least, I know who I am. I am just the sober one. There's still a lot of levity. I laugh often and see things clearly. No more eating glass for me. It's too painful. It's not worth it. And for me, being sober is life saving. I feel like the real me again, the me who believes in possibilities. 

Now, as long as I'm not eating glass, anything is possible. I'll stick to bread, well actually, toast with butter. 

Dancing with myself

Sometimes, I feel as if I am writing into a void. I'm working on a novel and it feels weird, lonely, and sad at times. My protagonist is unhappy. Her world is a mess. 

She's an alcoholic and spends most nights at her favorite bar by herself, barflying it. Mornings are spent at the outpost cafe where she works as a truck stop waitress.

My deadline is coming up. Not yet, but soon. It's a self imposed deadline for a collective I'm part of next year. I will be workshopping my book with two other writers. They are both writing fiction and I know and love their work, so I'm excited. But I've never written fiction, and it's going way slower than I anticipated. 

Plus, I only have weekends to write this novel, my weekdays are work filled and my early mornings during the week are reserved for my blog, substack and my recovery 6 am meeting. I figure, hey, if I don't finish in time, I'll just submit a book of essays for the collective. It might not be in pretty shape, but at least I have most of that in separate pieces. 

It's my backup plan; I always need one. 

Maybe because I'm primarily a memoirist and essayist, it feels odd not to reach into my own experience. I want to write in my voice in the novel, what I am calling my truck stop waitress novel. Yet, I'm not this protagonist. I mean there are a few similarities, she used to be a lawyer for example, but she is not me. 

So where exactly do I go from here? I guess I just need to sit my butt in my chair this weekend and write. Write. Write. Then write some more. I suppose I'm just dancing with myself here. Dilly dallying. Finding a way to not do what I need to do. Put away the Gilmore Girls reruns and write! I'm talking to myself now too. 

I better go write. Love you all. Thank you for listening.

Book baby twin

Recently, I've been thinking of how hard I am on myself. I always cross examine myself. I suppose it's the drawback of being a defense attorney. Is it normal to ask yourself, why'd you do that? Or say that? 

I want to live a more peaceful life. Last night, I meditated but it didn't work very well. My back was hurting so much I could barely catch my breath. But meditation helped a little. I did sleep. Other than when the dogs started barking at midnight, I didn't wake up until now at 4:15 am. 

I've been really stressed recently, trying to figure out what will happen with my memoir Tales of an Inland Empire Girl if it goes out of print. It is my book baby. It took me over 15 years to write and publish my memoir. And my small press publisher passed away recently. His memorial is this weekend. His press will likely not continue unfortunately and in losing him, I lost one of my dear friends as well as a huge supporter of my work. 

Frank Kearns of Los Nietos Press was why my book went to print. I remember him pushing me to finish my final manuscript. We went back and fourth on edits for the final manuscript for months via email. He was so kind, lovely and a wonderful writer himself. I'm so sad he's passed, but the heavens have a beautiful scribe. 

I had avoided thinking of the book for a couple months. I had twenty or so copies. But then, I thought, I have to deal with this. I approached a couple of small presses and got no response quickly and because this is just a super time sensitive issue, I started panicking. Would I have to self publish it? 

Then I approached a press owning good friend and he said okay. He would help me and release a new second edition on his press. My book baby would not go out of print. I spent Sunday gathering the original manuscript, the original photos we had used and the cover art, and my friend even agreed to design a revised cover. 

After, I thought to myself, was I too much? Should I have asked?

But then, I thought, you asked with grace, it's okay. 

So there we have it. My book will live on. Tales of an Inland Empire Girl will have a second edition. A twin! Now if that's not ironic . . . 

Day 50

This post just ran on my new substack about my recovery journey. Please subscribe at: 

https://substack.com/home/post/p-177961330?fbclid=IwZXh0bgNhZW0CMTEAc3J0YwZhcHBfaWQKNjYyODU2ODM3OQABHq2ja0ssfN3wI-m9lYFwWnD7xZHQMwQdTGnqlFAc2Hi1B5VS7NWOR7AblhXG_aem_kSl9Mc_og3edYXT1r2u17Q

Day 50 of my sobriety is almost here. It is 11 pm and I'm on day 49. I'll go with an east coast clock and call it my day 50 post.

I am really trying to take it one day at a time. I’m still very impatient, anxious, overly concerned with how I’m perceived by others and self absorbed and attention seeking. 

You see, I am becoming more aware of my defects of character. The self awareness of the program and the steps does it. It opens your eyes to who you are truly. 

But I also pray every morning for my higher power to help me act in accordance with the universe’s will. To make my actions have good intentions. To do what is meant to be. To thine own self be true. 

I have never really practiced this way. This way of living with integrity is lovely and affirming and it’s helped me in so many ways to become a better me, and to stop running and to stop numbing myself to life. 

This week, I am still on step 4. I had to make a list of my resentments and I am still only listing the noun part (the who) and still haven’t gotten to the actual listing of the resentments themselves. I know I am avoiding it because I will have to deal with some real stuff. Some of this is trauma that I have dealt with and some of it is trauma that I have avoided out of self preservation. 

But now, to save myself from the deep abyss of the loneliness of my alcoholic soul (did I really just write that? Yes I did.), I must confront some horrors in my life. 

The good news is that I am living my life with positivity. I feel lighter. There is still a lot of stuff I must deal with. Why do I treat those I love badly at times and all that? Why do I overbook and over schedule myself? How do I live life like a normal person? But I am getting there. 

I really am. Day fifty almost. Wow. I’m happy. Truly.

Halloween time

It's Halloween time! We started decorating yesterday. It was so lovely and fun. I also went to a party Saturday. I dressed as a Diet Coke and my husband was whisky. And this weekend, we are having family over and I am doing Grease. I've been Rizzo before, but Friday, I'm gonna be a hot Sandy. I even modified my leather jacket to add a paper t bird logo. And I'll wear my black pleather pants. No high heels, but a red scarf and a black tight belt with a blond wig. Hoop earrings. 

There's something about Halloween that I love so much. I get to cosplay. I adore theater. I might even sing a song. Perhaps the lyric, "I got chills". Oh wait, that's Danny's part. I'll sing, "you're the one that I want" to my husband. 

Things have been interesting on my sobriety journey. I'm documenting it on my substack page. I'm having a daily epiphany. Today, it's that I like myself sober. I like myself clear headed. I loved decorating with a soda. I don't need the alcohol to have fun. 

I also realized that my life is going to bloom. I had a lot of anxiety about reaching out to a writer I greatly admire to come on the podcast. I know her, and she's been so supportive of me, but I was terrified she would say no. Then I thought, why live fearful? And she said yes! So there you are. I just need to live, putting aside my bottles and baggage. It's a new day. 

And I'm a new JEM, all dressed up for my day. 

Tomorrow will it ever come

Tomorrow I'm seeing Morrissey. He's playing in Ontario. Social Distortion is playing with him. I'm hoping everything goes off without a hitch. Morrissey is getting older so you never know with him. 

It's the IE and I'm an IE girl. We all know this and to get to see Morrissey in my hometown is epic. Especially now that I'll be wide awake and sober. In case you don't know, I'm working on my wellness. 

Today, I went to a lunch meeting that involves music and played a Morrissey song from the Smiths. The group is all genres and we play a song and talk about it. Not everyone knew the Smiths or had heard the song. I kind of felt like Jan Brady. Like no one liked me. But then I thought, well maybe I'm introducing someone to music they've never heard. 

My need for approval persists. My perfectionist tendencies are real. My insecurities manifesting even sober, and maybe that's why I drank. Because I'm not as confident as I pretend. If you want to read about my recovery journey check out my substack. 

https://lifeofjem.substack.com/?utm_campaign=pub&utm_medium=web

And I'll just keep humming along. Until tomorrow when I'll be singing along to every song. 

The mime & me

At the Paris themed party I attended this weekend in Palm Springs, there was a mime. A mime!

While in line, I see him and think about David Bowie who was a mime for a bit. The mime has on a black and white striped shirt and a bowler hat and he has a grey beard and a black and white painted face (of course). And he might have suspenders on. 

While I am standing there, we lock eyes, which isn't hard because I'm staring at the mime. I'm wearing a black dress with a red petticoat. He walks up, and points at my dress and nods. Then he grabs my arm and escorts me into the party. I'm so happy, I could burst. 

We walk in together, the mime's arms flailing widely by his sides. We step in concert, marching to the beat of music I hear the strains of from inside the party. The mime brings me to the entrance, my family trailing behind, my husband Adrian quizzically looking at me as if I planned this.

Then voila, we are at a picture stand. The mime puts his hands in a heart. I do too. I blow the heart up. He smiles and puts his finger in his dimple and bows. The mime and me take pictures together preening, making faces, and gesturing and diagramming to communicate. 

The mime fake hugs me, arms wide. After a minute, the mime knocks the door on the picture booth, and out comes a hand with a glass of champagne like magic. The mime disappears, but it's not over. 

I find the mime again. I know we need to do the "imaginary box" mime trick. I see him and run up to him, pretending I'm stuck inside an imaginary box. My hands feeling the imaginary glass. I've seen it in movies. The mime immediately understands my hand gestures & helps me out by trying to smash the box then somehow, gently opening an imaginary door that I step through with a woosh of my petticoat. 

Then later, the mime takes a picture with my twin sister Jackie at a purple windmill. We say our goodbyes with an enthusiastic wave as I wipe an imaginary tear from my eye. 

My mom remarks that the clown is funny and cute. I say, "Mom that's offensive, he's a mime, mimes are not clowns. They're performance artists."

A few days later, my husband will say, "Please stop with all the mime talk. No one likes a mime." I retort with a raised brow, "Except me and the entirety of France." Touché. 

Happy birthday to me

I am 54 today and up at 4:20 am writing. Who does that on their birthday? Me!

I am working on some things. Big things. Wellness things. And of course I'm writing about it. I started a substack but I am keeping it quiet for now. You can read it here dear reader: https://substack.com/@lifeofjem/note/p-175514673?r=7cq4g&utm_source=notes-share-action&utm_medium=web. Please be kind.

I have not realized much in these 54 rotations around the sun, yet I do know this. I'm a writer in my soul. In my heart. In my head. I have at least three more books in me. I have the beginnings (and a little more) of all three. They're in my head percolating and I just gotta get them down on paper. 

I'm petting my three dogs and they're all over me like life. Messy, unpredictable and loving. A nip here and there by their teeth. 

Life is crazy. It changes in an instant. One minute you think you could party on and stay "as is" forever. Then you realize, nope you can't. You need to change, evolve and adapt. 

It's time. It's time JEM. So just go for it. It will be okay. You will be okay. Promise.