Give me 5 weeks and I’ll show you how to thrive through menopause!JOIN 5 TO THRIVE!

St. Petersburg, Florida, 1993. I’m reeling. Again. In agony. Again. Crying and shaking in the fetal position on a scratched-up hardwood floor that hasn’t been swept in months, a mixture of snot and tears spreading across my face. I am 95 pounds of fear and desperation. It’s 3am, I’m 25, and I’m done. Again. The temple is on fire and I want out.

Checking Out
I took my first deliberate drink of alcohol when I was 13. It was New Year’s Eve, I was babysitting for the neighbors. As they left the house, they told me I could have a beer from the fridge at midnight if I wanted to celebrate. Perhaps they were kidding. Long before the clock struck twelve, I’d consumed a 6-pack of Heineken. It wasn’t that it tasted so delightful, but it provided an immediate escape from my body, mind and emotions. And that was delicious.

Over the next few years, I fell in with a group of older kids who exposed me to all the substances that would enhance the effects of that escape. Being invited to sit at the back of the bus one morning with the wiser, more experienced crowd of hell-raisers was certainly a step in the right direction. Margie had a mason jar that was full to the brim of a dark, foul-smelling liquid. She offered me a drink. As the cool kids looked on in disbelief, I gulped the entire contents at once. Within the hour I was hallucinating strongly and by the end of the school day I was nauseous, exhausted, completely useless, and ready to give it another go.

School was a social nightmare. I had once been a strong student, making good grades, excelling in music and the arts, even testing for admittance to an academically accelerated school (I purposefully threw the test – another story, another time). I was frequently told I had great potential. But I couldn’t find my tribe. I bounced from one social group to another trying desperately to find my place among my peers. Not being athletic nor much of a team player, PE was a particular challenge for me. I spent many days hiding in the locker room drinking an offensive blend of Southern Comfort, Jack Daniel’s, Galliano, any combination that I’d stolen from the liquor cabinet at a girlfriend’s house. Believe me when I tell you discovering Mad Dog 20/20 (#concordgrape) was an upgrade. Half a bottle would have me dropping into blackout bliss, the other half stowed in the trunk of a friend’s car for the following night. One bottle was perfect for weekends on the beach. Affordable AND effective.

Destruction
South Florida in the ‘80’s offered limitless opportunities for self-destruction disguised as pleasure. By the time I graduated from a West Palm Beach college I had serious problems. Drinking vodka daily – mostly behind the wheel of my car – from a 25oz glass Perrier bottle, inhaling too much cocaine (or so I was told), and consuming a steady diet of bagels, coffee, and Camel non-filters.

At 21, my dreams of living and performing in New York City had been shattered. In a state of sustained oblivion, my health had taken a nosedive. I couldn’t keep anything – food, drink, or the drugs – down, and I had become a hindrance to the individual who’d set me up in a studio apartment on Bank Street in the Village. Within two weeks of my arrival in the Big Apple, I was put on a plane and sent home to my mother. So much for sweeping the Tony’s.

 

Demolition
Fueled by Absolut, the next four years were volatile. Hellbent on annihilation, I invited all manner of demolition crews into my life. Full of rage (which I now know to be fear), I’d mouth off and pick a fight with the biggest, most tatted up guy in any bar.  As I continued to wear out my welcome at the clubs, I sought refuge and camaraderie in the more seedy establishments. These were the sketchy joints with sticky floors, ceilings yellow from cigarette smoke, a distinct smell that you can’t quite pin down, and a heavy air of desperation.  The details of this period are irrelevant. The outcome was always the same: pitiful and incomprehensible demoralization. I soon fell into the beat-up arms of an active heroin addict and was certain I’d found my soulmate.

And this is how I ended up on the floor of the unkept house in St. Pete at 3am. Thing is, these brutal, soul-crushing nights weren’t atypical. Why this particular night was different from the others, I don’t know. What is clear though is that at some point, between sobs and gasps for breath, I heard it. You know, the voice. “Lisa, if you want to live, I got you.”

And with that, I reached for the phone.
“Hi Mom …..”

Renovation
My studies in Ayurveda and yoga have taught me to view my body as a temple and in February 1993,  I began the never-ending process of renovating mine. Within two weeks of “the night”, I’d packed my belongings and was heading west to Colorado. At 25, I would move in (again) with mom and begin the arduous process of recovery.

Ram Dass said, Grace meets us exactly where we are. Everyday I pulled into the parking lot of a 2-story house in Lakewood, Colorado where I was embraced by a group of men and women who were delighted to see me; it was as if they’d been waiting for me. We were from different places, ethnicities, beliefs, and socioeconomic backgrounds – but we had one thing in common; we drank the same. And each day for an hour (or two or three), I found solace and safety from the madness of my inner world. I found relief and camaraderie. I found my people. Some were working professionals, some were just a few days out of prison. Gathered around a pot of cheap coffee and brimming ashtrays, the playing field was leveled. We were all the same. I met Grace.

And so the dismantling began. I went through a process of knocking down fears, hammering away at resentments, hitting my knees daily, and looking at my foundation from all angles. I was ready to rebuild.

Maintenance
Supervision and extraordinary patience are necessary for any remodel and the sanctuary I’ve built requires daily maintenance. Fortunately, I have been given so many tools! Today I seek out and create opportunities to make living amends not only with my family (Hey mom, I love you!) but with my body as well. This means prioritizing sleep, bringing awareness to what I eat and when I eat it, moving my body daily, and maintaining certain breathing and meditation practices.

Sure, there are days I skimp, I sometimes cut corners, I fall into self-pity and want to throw in the towel. Wouldn’t it be easier to chuck it all and check out? Some days I feel certain it would. Full disclosure: I didn’t drink because I found the taste of MD20/20 all that pleasant; I drank to change the way I felt. And the truth is, I have plenty of days where I don’t like the way I feel, days in which I desperately want to escape some mental, physical or spiritual discomfort.

So yeah, picking up a bottle of vodka is one option. But I know how to change the narrative today. My power tools have been upgraded and I remember that I have another option: I think it through. I recall the night on the floor, the work I’ve put in, the opportunities I’ve been given, the obligation I have to pay it forward, the women who might benefit from my experience. And I make a different choice. I pick up the phone. I go to my people. I cry. I get on my mat. I write. I pull weeds. I pray. I make changes. I laugh. It’s an ongoing process. Each day requires me to stay sharp, hone my awareness, and take deliberate action to choose peace over chaos, choose love over fear, choose community over isolation. Someone once told me that the ‘ism’ in alcoholism stands for “I separate myself”. And I felt that viscerally.

I was once what I call a ‘bolter’ – always on the run, ready to bolt, ready to CTL+ALT+DELETE the moment life got uncomfortable. Those lone wolf days are gone for me. I need you. I need us. If any of this resonates, trust me – you’re not alone. I assure you there’s another way to do life. A much, much better way. Reach out; your people are waiting. And so is Grace.