2. Just Call Me Sonny: Awakening and Acceptance

Just call me Sonny. Sonny, a name I borrowed from "Sonny Liston" the fighter, the champion. It was a name and an identity I chose to assume because to me it represented youth, strength, agility and fearlessness...all things I felt I needed to be and not all the things I feared becoming; old, tired, weak, inept and afraid to face life. Maybe if I played the role (Sonny) long enough, and well enough, I could get past my situation, I could turn my life around and I could still make it.

It's Monday morning, I wake to the sound of a garbage truck working its way up the street. A wave of anxiety surges through my body. I can feel the surge as it courses up my legs, moves up my spine and bears down on my heart. "It's time to wake up," scolds the voice inside my head. "The world is already busy at work...while you are still lying here hiding in bed." I lay aimlessly watching the particles of dust floating slowly down the rays of sunlight that filter in through the Venetian blinds. I pull the blankets over my head and pray, "Oh God, I can't face another day."

I force myself into a sitting position. My head aches from too much sleep and my eyes feel gritty with yesterday's mascara. Slowly, I stand and stumble toward the bathroom. I step into the shower. I turn on the hot water...feed in a little cold. I work a bar of ivory soap slowly between my hands. I inhale the familiar scent, which somehow seems to comfort me. I begin washing away the long and restless night. Warm water pulsates against my head, rolls off my shoulders and down my back. Something, if not someone is touching me...my body...reminding me I am still alive, still vital, still a woman. I turn off the water...I run the side of my face across the wall of cool wet tiles. Absently, I watch the water as it funnels down the drain and with it; I feel my life force pulling away.

I look in the linens closet...no clean towels...a sheet will have to do.

I urge myself toward the kitchen, cold wooden floors painted white. I love the color white. It's so clean and simple. A sense of order in my otherwise disordered life.

I make a cup of coffee...the aroma brings back a sense of us...the way we used to be...your apartment, the sound of the alarm clock going off...the automatic coffee maker...a quick kiss and a dash for the 7:15...our life together so full of promise...so beautiful we were then.

I add plenty of sugar to my coffee, a little reward for facing the day. I look at the clock on the wall, its 9:15. I move back toward the bedroom, back into bed, just 5 minutes more. Days turn into weeks, weeks into months. Oh God, I can't fake another day.

He's gone.

And with him went my sense of self, my purpose and direction. I've stopped working my business. I don't want to face people. I don't want them to see my face and read my pain. I move through a world that has somehow become surreal and where the sounds of everyday life have become muted...the way things sound when you're swimming in a pool under water.

My spirit rallies. Today is going to be different, says the voice inside my head. I'm going to make it different. For too long I've just let myself drift, pretending to live, putting up an efficient busy facade but doing just enough to get by.

Hours later, I'm back trapped inside my head.

I spend hours trying to sort things out. Thinking...replaying scenes from our past...memories of the man I loved and lost. I weigh and measure his words...my responses...playing what if, evaluating and analyzing, trying to make some sense of it all, some order of it all and at the same time praying to forget.

The telephone rings, shhh...my heart races...go away! ... there is no one home...no one but us chickens and we are hiding in the closet...sitting in the dark...busy thinking...as if thinking could somehow change the things that have happened between us and in doing so bring me to a different place than where I am today...alone in my pain and madness. I can't answer the phone. I can barely speak. My voice is but a whisper, choked with the weight of the sorrow I feel.

On other days, I feel so strong, so centered, so in control...I see everything so clearly. I've got my game plan together. I even manage to go out and land a couple of new accounts, make some money, pay my bills, and buy some time. On those days, I look out my window to the river...I envision myself there sailing...the smell of water, the sun, the warm wind whipping against my body...I have power, purpose, a course and a destination. But, mostly I just sit, think, and o nothing to change my life.

Why not? What is holding me back? Intellectually I know what has to be done, I know I can do it and I struggle to move ahead, but I don't have the strength to fight the waves of anxiety that threaten to push me down into the black abyss of depression. I'm exhausted from the fear. I feel so cold. I can't get warm.

Over time, I come to terms with the fact that no one is coming to save me. And the voice inside my head begins repeating. "Be still. Enough crying and grieving. Enough struggling to hold on to the past. It's time to stop playing the role of a victim. It doesn't suit you. You've been blessed with unmeasurable gifts and with the strength to carry you on to a new and beautiful life. There are people who have traveled greater distances, overcome greater obstacles, and defeated greater disabilities than your childish fears and self-imposed limitations. It's time to change. The time is now." But how?

Enter center stage - "Sonny" Carroll

Copyright © 1999 Sonny Carroll. All Rights Reserved.

Used with permission from Sonny. Thank you Sonny!