Right-Sized:
A Memoir of Doubt, Drinking,
and Unlikely Faith

An Excerpt
   

The delivery of my son’s severe autism diagnosis was the nail in the coffin for me. I no longer doubted the existence of God. There wasn’t one. I needed solutions, not an imaginary friend. I would fix this. Channeling the same drive that fueled my professional life, I secured him a spot at one of the top schools in the country and put some of the best doctors, lawyers and experts in his corner. I was killing it!
     Life needed to be on my terms and when it wasn’t I was hell on wheels. Earning nicknames like “Little Napoleon” and “Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong”. Food, booze and husbands were my solution…and booze was Big Daddy—my Almighty. For over twenty years, I was a fall-down, blackout drunk. After yet another dangerous night involving a stranger, I sensed my luck was going to run out and took my first stab at twelve-step recovery.
     I tried the buffet-style approach to recovery, picking the parts I liked—the fellowship and coffee—skipping the whole “God thing,” and eventually just white-knuckling it. That was a complete bust. I stopped drinking and expected everything to get better. While I wasn't catching charges or waking up in strange places with strange people, I felt worse inside. The same problems persisted; I just didn’t have my solution. Abstinent only and desperately wanting relief from the mental torture, I contemplated driving my car into a telephone pole. I eventually drank instead.
    Apparently, “Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong” can be. After my relapse it was time to get honest about what hadn’t worked, and I crawled back into the rooms of recovery with my ass on fire ready to do it someone else’s way—including seeking God. Make no mistake, there was no burning bush. I’d tried everything else. God was the last house on the block. I finally understood that if I was powerless, there better be a power that could help me, or I was screwed. Clearly, it wasn’t going well without one. 
    Full of doubt and feeling stupid, I put Him to the test, examining past beliefs and prejudices about God and self-reliance, embarking on a series of spiritual practices and experiments.
    Taking direction to start praying, and having no idea where to begin, but needing something tangible, I bought a bench. Kneeling? Not a chance. Each morning, before my kids got up, I sat on the “God Bench”. Coffee in hand, with childlike apprehension, I’d gaze up at the tops of the pine trees and wave. “Good morning! I don’t know if you can hear me. I feel like an idiot, but they told me to pray, so I’m out here. Please keep me sober today.”