Category Archives: Houston

When Sad Things Happen on Sunny Days

Posted in Courage, Houston, Recovery, Short Story by

It is somehow worse, Lydia thought, when sad things happen on sunny days.

Lydia sat by the pool, two ice cubes melting under the stare of the hot sun in her glass of bourbon. Any other day, any other time, one might have thought she was luxuriating under the elms in order to bring a rose hint to her cheeks. But today, unable to move, to move put one foot in front of the other, she was just sitting.

He just left. He came home, packed a bag and left. There was no fight, no hysteria. She wanted to muster the energy to throw something or cause a scene, but a scene for who? Why? To what end? He had left a long time ago, or so it seemed. All he did now was occupy a space in the closet. Its good he’s gone. Lydia thought for a moment about the kind of fear, stagnation that caused a person to stay, against all hopes of happiness, for just a little longer.

Yes, there should have been an argument, Lydia determined. It would have looked better. It would have made a better story for the girls. Lydia imagined a handful of select women scattered around her den, sipping some sort of cocktail appropriate for the solemn occasion. Someone would pat her back as she sobbed and recounted the tearful accusations, the appeals to stay, the shattered Baccarat, and finally the pointed finger showing the way out.

But instead, he just left. He came home, packed a bag and left. Left a note. She wouldn’t have even noticed he was gone had he not left the note. Lydia looked down at the bonded paper she had been holding this whole time. There was no need to read it again. It held no answers. Nor did it need to. Lydia knew the problems. Had known it for years. She originally said she was staying for the kids, but they had left a long time ago, off to live their own lives in distant places. But then she still stayed. With a sigh, Lydia realized she stayed because she wanted to. No, it was true; the marriage was over a long time ago. But Lydia loved the house. She loved her place amongst their society. She even loved the trees and the sparkling pool. And she loved the bourbon.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Of course, I would have people read more.

Posted in Houston, Recovery by

Hi Mrs. Ann!
Here are the questions. Thank you again for helping me out!

Questions:
1. Do you think that there is too much hate in today’s society?

I do think there is too much hate, but I think any hate would be too much. Hate is a powerful word that carries strong connotations. Hate is not annoyance or irritation. Hate is anger and fury and spite.

2. Do you think there is too much love in today’s society?

I have found through the course of my life, a surprising amount of love on the planet. It sometimes appears from the unlikeliest people and manifests in ways that never cease to amaze me. But, if you ask me if there is too much if it… No, I think we could probably do with a little more.

3. Is there any personal experience that is behind your opinion?

A little over seven years ago, I can to the realization and understanding that I was an alcoholic. My life was very sad. And especially lonely. I did not know what to do. I think now, that I could have probably gone to my family and asked for help; my family is kind. But at the time, that idea seemed too far-fetched, too humiliating, too debilitating.
So, I turned to complete strangers for help. These people, AA, showed me that I could live a better type of life. They taught me how alcohol manifests from the worst part of my psyche. Then they showed me how to be happy. I hated myself and who I was. I hated that I was a failure. That I let so many people down. But the women of AA “loved me until I could love myself.”
And they still do.

4. In general, what are some examples of too much hate and too much love?

I think one just has to look around to see examples of hate and love.

Drive down one of Houston’s freeways. You will see drivers cut one another off. Some drivers speed dangerously, swerving in and out of lanes, because where they are going is of far more importance than another’s safety. You will see drivers slow down to see if the accident is a fatality.

But you will also see people let others calmly merge. You will see people stopping at accidents to call for help and then stay to serve as witnesses.

5. Why would people in today’s society show too much hate towards others?

People have always had a fear of the unknown. There is a philosophy that says that people cannot know themselves. All one can know is what they are not. In other words, I look out in the world. You say, Ann what do you like? And there is too much of everything. How am I to know? Where do I begin? So I start by trying something, taking something, listening to something, seeing something. I say, I do not know what I like, but I know it is not that.

I think this philosophy is right.

People look out in the world and it scares them. And they see someone of a different race, who has a different culture. Rather than exploring or learning or understanding, they say, I do not know what I am, but I know I am not that. That mentality, the fear, that’s what spreads hate.

6. How would you think of solving this problem?

Of course, I would have people read more.

– Victoria

P.S Based on the answers you give me, I may make up new questions for my paper… thank you!

There’s Zen and the there’s Zennnnnnnn…

Posted in Courage, Houston, Recovery by

On page 72 of the Twelve and Twelve, it says, “Whenever we had to choose between character and comfort, the character was lost in the dust after what we thought was happiness. Seldom did we look at character building as something desirable in itself, something we would strive for whether our instinctual needs were met or not.”

I keep re-reading this page. It was the impetus for starting this website. My whole life, I have thought of myself as a writer. And yet nothing was ever good enough or finished enough to be shared. Then, a few weeks ago, I was at a retreat. It occurred to me, through the help of my women, that “practicing principals in all my affairs” included having the courage in all my affairs too. That night, I came home and signed up for WordPress before I could chicken out.

And so here we are. And all is good.

Except… WordPress keeps track of all the numbers for every single day. How many people have read your shotgun writing. If they clicked on the “About Me” page. It even tells me what country people are from. (Not surprisingly, it says my readers are all from the United States.) And this whole numbers mojo is messing with my headspace. I’m sure other writers must know what I’m talking about. It has become almost obsessive when I get the rare email that someone has decided they like my writing enough to “follow” it. Reminiscent of Veruca Salt, “But Daddy, I want them to follow me now!”

So, yes, here’s the thing. I would like to tell you I’m all adult and Zen about this thing and that my recovery is so strong that I will continue to expose the ridiculous nature of my life as an experiment in self growth regardless of who follows me and who does not. And that’s all true. But I kinda need you to follow me too. Five people. There’s like a hundred billion people out there and I would like five to scroll to the bottom of the page and click the follow button. Five would make me happy. Nine would be like crazy train. Okay, nine people (one from a foreign country and who is not a spambot) and two comments. That’s the most I dare ask for.

 

And yes, I get it. I’m chasing after what will make me happy. I’ll let you know how it goes tomorrow. Thank you for indulging me.

Love,

Ann Gabriel Kroger

I Dream an Alcoholic’s Dream

Posted in Houston, Recovery by

I dream an alcoholic’s dream

Of insanity.

With broken bottles at my feet

And a car wrapped around a tree,

Walking through the city streets,

I wonder, how this can be me?

 

I dream an alcoholic’s dream

Of guilt and shame.

With no money, I cajole,

From my family I stole,

Within me there’s this hole

I wonder, where could be my soul?

 

I dream an alcoholic’s dream

Of serenity.

I dream this ride will finally end.

I dream of finding one true friend.

I dream my heart I can amend.

I hope, this life I can transcend.

Courage II

Posted in Courage, Houston by

As I have published my short story, Courage, something keeps itching my brain. There is a stereotype regarding the type of woman who finds herself alone and abused, a stereotype which I have perpetuated. And the reality is that all people, men and woman, rich and poor, from the city and from the country, have suffered that humiliation and pain of abuse. So, I rewrite and re-post, one story next to the other. I wonder if it sounds any different.

She’s been thinking a lot about courage today. She didn’t think she was an especially courageous person. No, courage was not the characteristic about her that immediately sprang to mind.

She was many things. Many great things, perhaps. She didn’t really know. intelligent, maybe, and perhaps ambitious. She was lead in a merger last quarter which brought her acclaim from the partners. They said in the next review her shares would increase. She didn’t tell them the merger was less her success than the other counsel’s failure. So, maybe she wasn’t all that honest either.

But this morning, she thought of herself as courageous.

She, perhaps, had not been courageous the first time he hit her. The time she yelped as she was hit, before she learned that he enjoyed her cries of pain and surprise.

But today, she is courageous.

No, she had not  been especially courageous the many times since the first time, when she slunk to the back bedroom and did her best to remain quiet, lest he hear her over the sound of the TV.

But today, the luggage was packed and sitting by the door, waiting for her to pick it up and walk out for good

Nor had she been especially courageous the last time, when she had to go to the hospital. The doctor had asked her what happened, but she simply said she accidentally stumbled down the front stoop. It was not very plausible. And she knew it. And the doctor knew it. And she knew the doctor knew it.

But today, she is courageous. And as she looked out across the city, she wondered what her new life would bring.

 

Courage

Posted in Courage, Houston, Recovery by

She’s been thinking a lot about courage today. She didn’t think she was an especially courageous person. No, courage was not the characteristic about her that immediately sprang to mind.

She was many things. Many great things, perhaps. She didn’t really know. Kind, maybe, and passive. She was involved in the church and all the other ladies said she made the best cheese and broccoli casserole. They wouldn’t let no other ladies make it but her. She didn’t tell them the secret ingredient was Campbell’s soup. So, maybe she wasn’t all that honest either.

But this morning, she thought of herself as courageous.

She, perhaps, had not been courageous the first time he hit her. The time she yelped as she was hit, before she learned that he enjoyed her cries of pain and surprise.

But today, she is courageous.

No, she had not  been especially courageous the many times since the first time, when she slunk to the back bedroom and did her best to remain quiet, lest he hear her over the sound of the TV.

But today, the bag was packed and sitting by the door, waiting for her to pick it up and walk out for good

Nor had she been especially courageous the last time, when she had to go to the hospital. The doctor had asked her what happened, but she simply said she accidentally stumbled down the front stoop. It was not very plausible. And she knew it. And the doctor knew it. And she knew the doctor knew it.

But today, she is courageous. And as she looks out over the plains, she wonders what her new life will bring.

 

 

Freeway Thinking

Posted in Houston by

I drive a lot. Houston requires one to do so. And I drive on a lot of  freeways. I try to limit myself to the span of I-10, going as far west as Katy, where I work, and as far east as the Heights, where I love. But not a day goes by where I am not shocked and amazed at the sheer number of cars on the road. Now, this is not an ecological, environmental article where I make you feel guilty for driving that huge pick-up you drive because you feel the need to work from the pretense that you are an outdoorsman even though we all know you secretly cried at the end of The Notebook. No, this merely an observation about my daily existence.

Every day, I drive. And every day, I think… In every one of those cars is a driver worried about money. And that’s about it. I could add that almost every car is also worried either about their relationship (or that they are not in a relationship) and is struggling with greener grass issues. I could say that almost everyone in those cars does not like their job and dreams of vacations on a remote beaches.

But mainly, I think about them thinking about money. I think knowing every single person worries about money, somehow, humanizes the cars to me. When I am cut off or someone does not use their blinker, I am more apt to forgive them if I think, “Its okay. They are lost in thought, worried about money, rent, car payments.

I wonder what would happen if, just for a day, instead of worrying about money, we worried about the lack of music programs in schools. Or maybe we should worry about if we, as individuals, still have honor.

Schoolbus II

Posted in Houston, Recovery, Uncategorized by

The metaphor of missing the bus is not lost on me. I’ve looked other dreams up on those online dream analyzers that also try to sell you Prozac and Viagra, but not the bus dream. It seems almost too obvious, too blatant, as if the dream analyzer program would be like, “Come on now. Really? You couldn’t figure that one out on your own?”

To be mocked by computers is one of my secret fears. Somewhere out there, someone is keeping track of all the words I need to look up on Dictionary.com and making broad statements regarding the American public school system. “You don’t know how to spell potato?” “No,” I retort. “Dan Quayle F-ed me all up, and I never recovered.”

Regardless, I spent the morning once again lost in thought, trying to pinpoint the exact moment I first began “missing the bus.”

Maybe it was last year when I took that job everyone told me not to take, at the inner city school where no one else wanted to work, as some sort of screwed up attempt at societal amends.

Maybe it was when my brother first told me I was an alcoholic. I listen to him on the other end of the telephone as I poured myself another drink.

Maybe it was when I was eighteen and my father said something. Instead of backing down, I said something too. And with that, I loaded up my 1983 yellow Honda Accord Hatchback with my duffel bag and enough anger to last a lifetime, and headed east out of Houston.

But in the dream, I am a kid. This leads me to think, I must have missed the bus really early on in life. I wonder what happened that day.