It was Christmas Eve of 1969 and I was eight years old. We lived in a two story white brick house on a quiet street with towering pines in the yard. The property was surrounded by a tasteful red brick wall and a long driveway leading to the carport. Sounds serene, doesn’t it? Hardly. Inside, were my parents, Dr. John and Dot Mooney, one of my three brothers, a couple of nurses, a night attendant, and 20 drunks. Actually, my brother wasn’t in the house. He was living in a cabin in the backyard because we needed room for the influx of people seeking detox and medical attention.
The ground floor was split level with a massive den and brick steps leading up through swinging doors to the kitchen, the formal dining and living areas, an office, and two bedrooms. In the den stood a typical 1960’s Christmas tree draped with silver tinsel and at least three boxes of icicles carelessly thrown on for good measure. The den, or “playroom” as we called it, was the gathering place of the house. There was a TV, aquarium, game table, and several large sofas. It’s also where all of the lectures and group therapy sessions were conducted. So it wasn’t unusual for 20-30 people to gather in there at all hours of the day and night. Sometimes there was a cot in the corner that housed a sick alcoholic waiting on a bed in the dining room or bedroom.
I was so excited for Santa’s arrival that I left the playroom early, headed through the kitchen, made my way to the dining room - or detox unit, and finally to the formal living room where I had a cot behind a folding wooden room divider. This area was shared with several women who had come seeking help for an addiction problem. After several failed attempts at counting sheep and not being able to sleep, I crept back through the house to find something to do. It was about midnight. The night housekeeper was busy tidying the area and preparing for the next morning’s meal. As I was about to push open the swinging doors and head down to the playroom, she turned and yelled “Don’t you go down there! Santa has already come and gone, so you better leave those doors shut.” Slowly backing away from the threshold to the den, I asked for something to drink. As the night “boss” turned around to pour some milk, I quietly pressed my face against the doors. There was a small space between the two panels when they were closed that allowed me to peek into the playroom as if I was looking through a keyhole. What I saw that night made my blood boil.
Dolls and dress-up clothes were never my thing as a little girl. I often wondered if my parents were disappointed after having three boys. On picture days in school, my mom would always try to dress me in a collared or lace frock and pearls but I invariably ended up in a football jersey and pony-tail. Horses, dogs, forts, and dirt were my favorite things! This year, the only thing I wanted was a Johnny West set. I loved anything with horses and cowboys. You’re probably too young to know what that is, but it’s basically movable cowboys with horses, fencing, and all things from the wild west. I wanted the whole set, including Thunderbolt, Johnny’s horse.
The laughter coming from behind the forbidden doors that night was just too inviting for this little girl. It sounded like a bar room bash and I had to see what was going on. As I squinted through the opening down into the playroom, I saw a group of about 15 men and women of various ages sitting in a circle in front of the fireplace. In the middle of the circle was a Johnny West set. MY Johnny West set. They were playing with all of the characters and accessories like they were children themselves - except they were smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. It was, after all, 1969. Several thoughts raced around in my head as I turned away in time to get my milk and sit at the kitchen bar. Did they see Santa? Did Santa tell them they could play with my toys? Why didn’t they have to go to bed? But most of all, I was mad. Really mad. I didn’t want to share my toys. I didn’t want someone else to play with them first. I didn’t want all of those strangers in my house. The next morning found everything in its place under the tree quietly waiting to be discovered by the true recipient - ME.
The latin origin of the word resentment is sentire - meaning feel. “Re” is a prefix meaning again. So, simply put, a resentment is something I feel again and again. Although this whole Johnny West incident was not a big deal in the scheme of life and wrongdoings, it stayed with me for years. Until that moment, I always loved having the patients living in our home and, in fact, it seemed like a normal life to me. But afterwards, I was angry because they were there. I no longer wanted to share my space and my belongings with them. It felt personal.
As a person in recovery, I can’t afford to have resentments anymore. I’ve witnessed many people return to alcohol and drugs because they wouldn’t get rid of the anger. Some never made it back. That almost happened to me ten years ago. Sometimes it's easier to talk about the big resentments. In a way, they seem more logical and justified. But the crazy, seemingly ridiculous ones - like Johnny West - are often hard to admit. I can’t tell you how many people I’ve counseled over the years that are embarrassed to share those kinds of resentments, but can easily share the “big” ones, the one where the harm was obvious and intentional. When I got sober, I had to tell someone all of it, holding back nothing. Did I want to be embarrassed or sober? It’s truly amazing the positive impact letting go of those incidents can have on my life today. Now, I try my best to start each day without any leftover anger from the previous one. Some days it’s easier than others. Nothing I do is original. Most of my ideas about letting resentments go come from a set of principles found in a 12 step model like that found in the book Alcoholics Anonymous.
Here’s some of the things that have worked for me:
1. Talk about my anger with a neutral person immediately
2. Look at anything I did that contributed to the situation
3. If I owe an apology, make it right away
4. Turn my attention to my Higher Power going forward
5. Help someone in need
6. Practice forgiveness
7. Repeat as needed
Usually, when I get a resentment, there is something inside of me that is threatened. I wouldn’t have been angry at those patients if they were playing with a toy that belonged to my brother. Looking inward is alway the answer. Finding out what makes me tick, what makes me react is the only way I can move forward and be at peace. It’s perfectly normal to seek help from a professional to learn those things. My mentor and spiritual advisor always tells me, “Carol Lind, if you’re not the problem, there is no solution.”
Those patients weren’t trying to harm me on Christmas Eve. In fact, they thought I was asleep. They were away from their families trying to make the best of a Christmas spent in treatment. Looking back, I am grateful they shared some laughter together. May you all find someone to laugh with and some toys to play with this Christmas - just make sure the kids are asleep!

Great story about resentment Carol Lind! Love your blog.
Great story and reminder about resentment! Thank you for this gift !!
Loving your blog!
You are such a talented writer! It’s so true that the little resentments fester and grow larger if we don’t deal with them and look at our contribution to the problem. I love your sage advice!
This is amazing and inspirational!!