Dear 13 yr. old Self,

Hey! I was driving back from Raleigh to Sanford last night and listening to Nirvana and thought of you. Because it’s October and all the trees are changing colors, I remembered how much you liked the view from your bedroom window and I sort of wanted to join you there and scribble some more in that red plaid journal you keep in your bedside table.

Anyway, I thought that, because I’m twice as old as you are, I thought it’d be fitting to at least touch base with you where you are at that ever-so-pivotal and formative era and compare notes. (Oh, don’t get weary of hearing all about the elusive mystery of adolescence just yet because it honestly never ends. Seriously. Scores of people are obsessed with the “coming of age” years, even beyond John Hughes.) However, because we’ve both seen “Back to the Future” a million times, I’m sure you understand why I can’t start doling out advice or telling you how things are going to be 13 years down the road. Unlike when Doc came to tell Marty that his son was in trouble, I’m keeping my mouth shut because I’m rather pleased with the way things are in 2009 and I don’t want to say anything that might screw it all up. (I know! “2009″ sounds totally weird, right?)

Don’t get me wrong, though. There’s a massive pile of stuff I want to at least warn you about or try to advise you to do differently because, you know, experiencing heartrending pain isn’t fun. (You might’ve noticed.) It’s kind of like being a mother to a child and wanting that child to turn out to be really well-rounded and competent and socially adept and strong but knowing that she’s going to have to deal with and weather a lot of bullshit before she gets to that point. It’s all imperative to growth but it sucks to have to walk through together.

And that’s the point of me writing to you is to tell you that I’m here. I don’t mean to ostracize you or make you feel ignorant by saying, “You’ll understand this more when you get older” but I know you’re smart enough to get that I’m not intentionally being insulting. Please know that there’s nothing you’re feeling right now that I don’t fully understand. I get it. I’ve seen and remember all of it. I know the reasons you think you’re crappy and why you hate certain people and how you feel about certain things and I know that sort of omniscience from me is annoying but I just want you to know that I’m on board with all that. And I love you anyway.

No, I really do. And not in the way that mothers love their children because they have to or how people choose to love people because they’re settling. I really, honestly love you. And I think you’re pretty amazing, actually.

Yes, okay, you’re incredibly awkward-looking and you have no idea what you’re doing sartorially. (Those get better with time - the former slightly more than the latter - but just be thankful for that amazing rack you have. It’s pretty amazing for an 18 yr. old, let alone a 7th grader. And you didn’t have to pray a single day for it, right? Give thanks.) And, yes, you’re painfully insecure, which causes you to be horrible to people you feel threatened by. And you’re culturally inept and things with your parents have just started getting interesting and you’re often that weird girl who talks about sex or left-wing politics too much and you’re confined to those god-awful braces for another year and there hasn’t been a single male human who’s shown any interest in you since the 4th grade and you have to ride around in that giant bus your mom drives around and you have a deeper voice and more facial hair than anyone else in your class and you’re madly in love with someone who will never ever love you back and you only have enough money for a pair of Arizona jeans and some cK One knockoff fragrance for your autumn wardrobe… I get it. You’re tragically, unforgivably flawed and your first years as a pre-adult are not anywhere close to what you were hoping.

Let me clue you in on something that I don’t think will hurt your natural progression: Every single person your age feels exactly the same way you do. Every single one. Even those cocky douchebags who have throngs of girlfriends and torment you daily are freaking out on the inside about how tragically flawed they are, too. I swear. And here’s the real kicker, ready? This whole self-centered mentality is going to continue for at least another 4-6 years with those people you’re around. Seriously! I know you’re positive that all anyone’s thinking of is how much you suck every time you walk into a room and it’s easy to believe that when you’re constantly being reminded by idiots around you that they think you suck. Here’s the thing [that I'm hoping you'll believe because it's me you're talking to here instead of some adult who couldn't know what they're talking about because they don't know what it's like to be you]: everyone is so busy freaking out that everyone else is going to notice how much they suck that they try to hurl the negative attention onto someone else preemptively. And, because you’re the one who’s always had good grades and a loud mouth, you’re the top candidate at the moment. Apparently, you’re pretty intimidating. Good work! (If you want proof of this, wait until one of those little shitheads tries to embarrass you by loudly calling you a “dyke” again and then ask them how many times they’ve jerked off to two girls going at it. If you throw in a wink at the end, I guarantee they’ll have no immediate response.)

Just, above anything else, remember that those people who think that “these are the best years of your life” are the people who have done nothing exciting or of value since they were 18. And in Adult World [that lasts way longer than jr. & sr. high put together], those people suck.

I know. I know. It doesn’t matter who you’re hearing this stuff from; it can’t change how you actually feel about it and deal with it, even if the person telling you all this knows everysinglething about you. It’s cool. I’m not taking it personally.

I’ll spare you any more lectures and, no, I’m still not giving up any secrets. I will tell you that things get a little better for a while, then interesting and fun, then bad, then fun and bad with a little good, then kinda bad but you don’t really notice because you’re still having fun, then very very very dark and then awful and then completely intolerable (literally) and then, just when you’re positive it’s always going to be awful because it has been gradually so since right around now, it gets really unbelievably, incredibly, amazingly wonderful and it stays that way for longer than you can remember. I promise.

So that’s what you have to look forward to. And I wanted you to know so that, during these next 13 years, you’ll keep a glimmer of hope in your heart to keep yourself moving forward. I know you’ll disagree with me, but I believe you’re better than all that crap you’re grappling with right now and I know you’ll figure out how to get rid of it over time.

I do love you. And I think you’re exactly where and who you should be right now. Trust me on this one.

Much love and light,

Mrs.* Castallare

*

I have one relationship in my past that I tend to make a lot of references to.* At this point I am able to discuss this person and this situation and even who I was at the time without any sense of emotional connection, which I really consider to be healthy given the amount of time that has passed and the amount of contemplation and active therapy I’ve participated in. And, while I can site this relationship for being the base of a lot of my behaviors and lasting mentalities, I don’t sit around and blame it/him for my problems or addictions anymore as I’ve gotten to a mental state from where I can identify how my choices affected me and how any outside influences could’ve been handled differently.

However, up until 7 or 8 months ago this wasn’t the case and that really really started to bother me, especially given that, not only has this relationship has been nonexistant for years now, but I’m in a much better place with a much better life and a whole new sense of self and healthy habits that I never really felt myself capable of maintaining or posessing. In fact, given how embarrassed I was by the association to that specific person and/or the actual relationship, I couldn’t for the life of me understand why I had this need to keep revisiting the situation and trying to make sense of all of it. I’d exhausted myself with therapy and introspection and sobriety and even talking it over with this specific ex (who can site everything he did wrong but continues to do the same things to his partners today.) And then one of my friends suggested I get involved with an Emotional Abuse Survivors Support Group.

This sounded ludicrous to me. First of all, I wasn’t even in this relationship anymore and I’d been going to therapy for eeeeverything that was fucked up in my life anyway so surely this tiny element would’ve been taken care of already. Secondly, while the situation I was in was unbelievably unhealthy, shockingly insane and tumultuous, and had many singular episodes of undeniable abuse, it couldn’t have been categorized as “abusive” because I kept going back to it and inviting it back into my life… surely I was just as in control as the other party, if not just as much at fault. Plus, me still not getting this whole “removal of ego” thing [necessary for full recovery from major fuckeduppedness] had me still believing that I was somehow immune to having been in a full-scale “abusive relationship.” I mean, I wasn’t locked in a basement or told to remain silent in public or even beaten on a regular basis… So, sure, I was in a codependent relationship with a lot of powertrips and mindfuckery and infidelity and dishonesty and other general dysfunction but never an “abusive” one. Somehow, even though I had spent years prostrating myself and taking emotional beatings from a genuine self-loathing idiot, I still thought that that sad, subservient, grappling wreck of Me that I was was still too proud or self-aware to have been susceptible to an “abusive relationship” as if those were reserved for people far worse than me.

However, I thought I’d at least check out the criteria just so I could go back to my friend and have hard facts to back up my assertion that my former relationship was not abusive. So I checked some online literature and smiled with a sense of relief when reading first and foremost that abusive partners have real jealousy issues and control issues… actually, I laughed out loud. My former partner didn’t give a shit where I was or who I was with most of the time and he rarely bothered to call when he said he would, so he certainly didn’t fit that stereotype. But then I kept reading and I felt my stomach bottom out with the familiarity of the symptoms:
My partner had blamed me for all the problems in our relationship and even his own abusive behaviors.
(“I wouldn’t have lied to you about seeing my ex if I knew you wouldn’t get mad about it.”)
My partner did make fun of and/or belittle me to his friends/acquaintences.
My partner did treat me so badly that I became embarrassed to bring him around or even tell people when we’d gotten back together.
My partner did withold sex and emotion from me.
My partner did cheat on me repeatedly.
My partner did make me feel like I would never do any better than him and was lucky to have him at best.
My partner did leave repeatedly and then come back, begging for forgiveness.

The list went on and on, even as I moved from site to site, hoping to find one list that had little to no relevance to my particular situation. It was only when I read about the characteristics of an abuse victim that I felt my eyes fill with tears and I had to push away from the computer in order to catch my breath. All of these things applied directly to me… I wouldn’t have been surprised if the person writing these articles knew me personally.
I did take all the blame for what was wrong in the relationship.
I did contemplate/attempt suicide.
I did have clinical depression.
I was pretty much textbook in pecking-order chastization and battering.
I did withdraw from my family.
I did defend my partner’s abusive actions to people around me.
I did repeatedly leave my partner (and constantly planned to.)
I did feel like I loved and hated him all the time.

In a frenzy, I spent the next month collecting and reading everything I could about mentally/emotionally abusive relationships (and not all from the internet, either. Imagine!) and, even more than being surprised or dismayed, I was increasingly embarrassed. Mortified, actually.

I was already embarrassed that I had been so codependent with an average-looking, uneducated, emotionally stunted child for so long but then when I read words about our situation and how his manipulations were just another form of brainwashing, I felt hopeless and worthless all over again. I realized that all that time I had been the very malleable, idiotic stereotype who was just as pathetic as I’d always feared. I was “that abuse victim” who “couldn’t” leave [for no apparent reason], which was a character I’d always been frustrated and disgusted with.

And all this was even more distressing to me because I was in a great relationship with someone who wasn’t even capable of this sort of mental destruction and here I was feeling the ramifications of something I’d pulled the plug on years prior. This wasn’t relevant to my life anymore! This had nothing to do with the people I’d worked to surround myself with in the aftermath! This was something I’d worked really really hard to be fucking done with! I was pissed to have to be dealing with this already-belabored situation[/man] again, when it[/he] was never worth any of my time in the first place. And the very last thing I wanted to do was to beat the [assumed] dead horse even further by talking about it more and having to delve back in to all the wounds and emotions and shit I’d worked to fucking get over. More than anything, it just seemed unfair and unwanted.

When I started talking to other women in an online support group, I was kind of in the same mentality that I was when I started going to AA meetings; I don’t fucking want to do this, I know everything I need to know about this, how is this going to effing help me, etc. I mean, seriously, how much is there to talk about? As it turns out, there’s a lot. And there are a lot of things that I had experienced in my former relationship that I’d never even stopped to think about that these other women brought to my attention. And it was amazing to talk to other women who were on the “other side” and had all the same feelings about it that I did: Why wasn’t it so easy to just leave even when you’d known you should for months/years? Why can’t you get other people to understand the need to leave even when you’ve been in their place? When do you stop dealing with the emotional bullshit of all of it? What’s the best way to present this to your children as a life experience? It seems like the more I talk to women, the more I realize that I’m among many many women who didn’t realize they were in what would be considered “abusive” until long after they were out of it. Many of us considered ourselves empowered, educated neo-feminists and were certain we were going to be joining a support group of women with whom we had nothing in common.

And, although painfully predictable to the theme of this essay, it’s been really amazing. We’ve gotten to the point where we can talk openly about the relationships we’re in now and ask each other to keep us accountable for our actions and the situations we’re in. We’ve told our individual stories and even pulled out pictures of these abusive assholes to have a group “WHAT WAS I THINKING?!?!” laughing-fit-style cleansing. It’s been really great.

Because of this, though, I’ve gotten to that point where I can casually discuss this former relationship as just a marker in time for reference’s sake like I would with such phrases as: “When I was 9…” or “On September 11th…” or “During my pregnancy…” To me, it doesn’t come with conflicting emotions or that underlying frustration of me needing to figure it out or right it.

This became evident when I was speaking to one of my ex’s ex-friends (who still keeps in touch with me, obviously) during this last weekend. While it’s been amazingly validating to have a handful of former friends of his go out of their way to stay in touch with me (especially after all the horrible things he made sure to say about me) and hear their similar complaints (although never as intimate as mine), I’ve really gotten past that point where I’m trying to show off how awesomely I’m doing in case they happen to talk to him or where I love to indulge in gossip about how terrible he’s doing or how awful he’s treating those around him and can just enjoy having a friend that I delight in the company of who - ohbytheway- happened to be a friend I met through a former romantic partner. There’s a real sense of triumph and recovery in the simple act of physically getting our new families together and talking about everything great that’s going on with us without ever mentioning the god-awful circumstances/person that set up our friendship in the first place.

Strangely, it’s the realization that those old, tyrannical emotions aren’t even bothered with anymore that has given me the most pride and sense of accomplishment of anything else in my years of therapy and recovery. I never thought apathy could make me feel so good about myself.

*This is something I won’t be doing after this entry. Promise.

Once upon a time, many years ago, there was a Boy who loved me very very much. In fact, this particular Boy loved me more passionately, with more unabashed zeal, attentiveness and dedication than any other man in my life ever did, right up until three years ago. This superior love far outweighed anything I’d ever experienced, including that of The Other Guy I was currently in a long-term relationship with.

It all started out very harmlessly, as these things always do. We went to tiny local concerts together and made mix tapes and wrote postcards for each other when we were apart during the summer and there was nothing romantic about it or evident of any sort of ulterior motive. We both had significant others that we loved and we talked about them regularly, although more often than not his shared anecdotes were more pleasant than mine as I was prone to crying on his shoulder, sobbing about how The Other Guy had lied to me again or had been overheard talking badly about me or was just not giving me what I wanted in general. Over time, however, his words of encouragement and reassurance became more intimate than friendly and I found that mine were following suit. Suddenly, we realized we were in the throes of very deep, very unexpected emotions.

Soon, we were spending even more time together and flirting with the idea of “where this could go” and really becoming overwhelmed with emotion and excitement of new love. And then he pulled out the stops and broke it off with his girlfriend to offer himself to me exclusively. On my birthday that year, he lined all 10 miles of the major highway route to our school with signs that said “Happy Birthday, Elle!” and planted a banner in the front with the same message. He stuffed 20 empty glass bottles with varied hand-written loveletters and gave them to me for Valentine’s Day. He adored my family, he came around whenever he could, he always kept up with how I was feeling, what I needed, what I would need… he was everything I had ever wanted and I was enamored with him.

And there wasn’t much not to like, really. He was one of those kids who came from a rough upbringing and somehow beat the snot out of the status quo. He was more determined and driven than any single person I’ve ever met to this day but, even more importantly, he kept about him this constant attitude of optimism and joy. He was a spiritual guy who always kept that at the top of his list, even though there was no parental figure holding a gun to his head to do so (This was a new concept to me.) and he was proud of that aspect of himself. He even took me to my first and only Christmas Eve Midnight Mass. He was open-minded, healthy, successful, friendly, joyful, spiritual, ambitious, creative, resilient… the list could go on.

The problem, of course, was that I was an emotional wreck of biblical, Jericho-like proportions. Usually, these stories have that pathetic theme: “Girls only want bad guys and nice guys finish last.” but this time it doesn’t apply at all, surprisingly. The truth was that I’d always wanted to be with someone like him; who doesn’t? And, specifically, I wanted him. But I - being submerged and brainwashed with self-loathing and general desperate insecurity - was positive that I was not deserving of this sort of happiness, that somehow I was going to screw it all up and only be reminded of how undeserving I was in the aftermath.

And me, never being one to pass up the opportunity to fulfill a personal prophecy, went ahead and did just that.

(WARNING: This is where the Crazy kicks in. Also, the Pathetic. I sound like a complete, psycho-ex-girlfriend-stalker-type loon from here on out. Just be forewarned.)

So, in unbelievably predictable fashion, I cowardly sprinted back to The Other Guy in the “safe” dysfunctional relationship I was familiar and “comfortable” within. (For those of you who haven’t spent years in therapy and/or 12-step meetings, this is textbook codependent/addict behavior. The more you knooow.) My heart ached as the Boy kept coaxing me to come with him and let him make me happy after I’d told him my decision, but once I’d finally settled on my choice, I transformed into something very very sinister and hideous.

From where I sit now I can only come up with one theory as to how my mind possibly justified my behavior immediately after this, but that doesn’t make it any less excusable or blatantly insane. I guess because I was genuinely ruled by the staunch belief that I was worthless, unimportant and undesirable, my mind concluded that anyone who would bother to try to romance me was a moron. I’ve discussed it before, but for years I had a very Eeyore vernacular, always thanking people for paying attention to me or thinking of me and always wondering why in hell I was included in any sort of social engagements at all. When I started dating The Other Guy in my earlier high school years I was just amazed that any male would find me desirable at all, so I settled for that and assumed that I was lucky to have even obtained that much. So, when I see the Boy continuing to go out of his way to make me feel wonderful and show me his affection and shower me with adulation, I start to think there must be something wrong with him.

Soon, I’m treating the Boy like a pathetic, lost puppy who is intent on over-romanticizing everything and must be desperate to still be pursuing me. I start mocking him and emasculating him, both to our mutual friends and to his face. I ignore his calls, laugh at his attempts to talk to me like a concerned friend, and try desperately to swat away any remaining emotions I may be experiencing.

Jesus Christ, it just seems so arrogant and ridiculous from where I am now… anyway.

When we got to college a number of months later, I found myself feeling remorseful and missing his company but, still tumbling down a slope of self-destruction, my attempts at apologies were always overshadowed by my desperate loneliness and my hopes that maybe he’d come back and try to rescue me again. Any formal apologies I initiated always turned into a weepy, clingy drama fest in which I would be torn between desire and guilt while he would just be trying to figure out what the hell he could do to escape without causing me to implode. Naturally, his resistence in these conversations translated through my insecurity as blatant rejection and sent me into even more despair. (Like I said: I. Was. In. Sane.)

Honestly, I just thank God he had the integrity and self-assuredness to get the hell away from me instead of letting me drag him into a quagmire of Crazy. It’s one of those things that’s rather admirable about him.

Anyway, I left that college after I hit Rock Bottom: Episode I in 2003. We kept in touch here and there but it was always kind of strange and stilted. Frankly, I was so amazed that he’d waste any more time talking to me at all that I didn’t care what our meetings were like, but I always felt that he saw me as some sort of charity effort and I fought not to loathe myself for that.

Presently, we’re both married to people we’re insane about. All he ever wanted was to find someone to love, get married, and start a family and, like with everything else in his life, he did exactly that right after he graduated college. We speak when we can, although conversations are always in that cordial, scripted, “Hi, how are you, I’m doing well, it’s good to hear from you.” kind of language you use on loose acquaintences and your parents’ friends. While I know there will never be any more singing or giggling or sharing absurdities, I am quietly heartbroken at the knowledge that there will never be any reminiscience - happy or otherwise - between us and the realization that this is entirely my fault.

I found myself thinking about all of this after I recently came across a friendly “Hi, how are you…” message from him in my inbox from many months ago. And I realized that, even after all these years of real, intense apologies that I’ve had to issue to pretty much everyone I’d ever spoken to before I got sober, I never bothered to give him one. Yeah, there were a half-dozen of those drunken, blubbering apology sessions I previously mentioned but I’m positive those couldn’t have been taken seriously.

So, after 8 years I sat down and wrote him a letter in which I sincerely apologize as a sober, [mostly] sane, self-realized adult. Truthfully, I really hate doing that sort of thing after all this time because it kind of makes me look like some obsessive freak who can’t let things go and needs to rehash shit that other people have obviously laid to rest and gotten over. Most of the time I feel like I’d be better off just leaving it alone. And heaven forbid if this somehow gets misconstrued as me trying to instigate trouble or something else.

But, as per my Twelve Step practice, I know it’s something I’m responsible for and, even if I never hear from him ever again, he deserves to hear at least one sober, sincere apology from me. And frankly, if I went to my grave knowing that I didn’t grow a pair and give that to him, I’d never rest peacefully.

However, THIS? THIS is what we should be talking about in those government-funded D.A.R.E. programs. “Hey kids, you shouldn’t drink because one day you’re going to have to look at all the carnage in your rearview, pull a U-ey and clean it all up.”

In maintaining and controlling my sobriety and mental illness it is imperative that I take inventory of myself on a daily basis, even in the aftermath of all the intensive therapy I’ve done. And because I consider myself a giant, lazy wuss I kind of don’t understand it when people around me are just unwilling or even incapable of doing the same thing to themselves when it’s absolutely needed.

Admittedly I’ve taken being self-aware and explorative to a bit of an extreme as I’m constantly overanalyzing every move I make almost to a fault, but at least I can confidently say that I’ve thought about every decision I’ve made, the motivations for that decision, and how this decision is going to affect myself and those around me. This is not to say that I don’t make wrong decisions, but I’m at least able to honestly take full responsibility for anything I do, regardless of the outcome. And frankly, that cost thousands of dollars in therapy to be able to accomplish. So there isn’t anything I do that I haven’t thoroughly considered, even if I’m deliberately making an unhealthy choice (A recent example: “I’m having sugar cravings like a crazy person and will ingest a Reese’s SonicBlast every single day for two weeks, fully knowing and accepting that this will cause my ass to expand, which I will deal with once I’ve exhausted this craving and moved it out of my system.” By the way, it worked and I’m not craving sweets with such ferocity but I totally owe God a favor because somehow I only put on three pounds after a solid month of constant indulgence.)

So, not to sound like a holier-than-thou arrogant prick but whenever I’m around someone whose flaws are palpable and this person simply will not confront them to get themselves out of misery, I’m not only frustrated but genuinely confused. It’s hard for me to realize that because most people’s flaws aren’t life threatening like depression or alcoholism, there’s no pressing need for them to do the emotional legwork and actually deal with their problems. As long as they can live a functional existence, they can afford to avoid delving into their inner selves and picking up the therapeutic habits of self-awareness, even if that means keeping walls up between themselves and their pasts, etc. And that’s kind of a foreign concept to me. After so many years of being exposed to self-improvement techniques (whether I was actually practicing them or not) I kind of forget that most people don’t think in terms of recovery and the mental therapy required to change their lives.

Naturally, I’m not saying that every single person requires therapy. In fact, I’ve been happy enough to know many many people who have that perfect balance of self-awareness and clarity. However, I’ve been in the presence of so many people who just settle for mild misery and the lower-end of mediocrity in their lives simply because they’re too afraid to confront change and the idea that they might have to evaluate themselves. Again, because I consider myself a stubborn lazy-ass, I just don’t get how so many other people can be scared of things that are really not so bad.

For example, I know a woman who is in a marriage she should’ve left a long time ago. She and her husband haven’t communicated in years and, in turn, have created an intricate web of blame and disdain for the other. Intimacy is foreign to them but instead of sitting down and actually bearing their feelings and talking about the state of things and how it came to their present situation, they avoid each other, he sometimes running to other desperately alone women in hopes to fill the hole. It’s sad, yes, but it’s unbelievably sick above anything else. I can’t imagine how living in fear of having to deal with the inevitable pain of confrontation and a marriage disintegrating by spending every single day in misery, living with someone who hurts you and makes you loathe yourself even more is better than just growing a pair, dealing with the pain for a couple years and living the rest of your life in the happiness you’ve made for yourself. It’s so so sad and unbelievably frustrating to watch. I understand that this woman is afraid of being “alone” (even though I can’t imagine feeling more alone than living with someone who is perpetually emotionally devoid) and having to learn to function in the real world on her own and will probably have to finally tackle some massive demons instilled from her crappy childhood in order to build the confidence to get out of this marriage she’s punished herself with for too too long, but it just seems so cowardly for her to spend the one life she has being miserable because she’s afraid of fucking feelings.

And it’s like that with anyone who is in a terrible, demeaning relationship of any sort (obesity, addiction, romantic, etc.) They’re somehow more comfortable being constantly hurt by something else than just ripping off the band-aid, dealing with the terrible emotions that will follow and then getting on with their lives. I understand it because I did it for about 5 or 6 years with someone constantly working to demoralize me, but now that I’m on the other side of that mental barrier and see how easy and undaunting those feelings that I was terrified of confronting actually were, it just seems incredible that anyone would spend their life not taking the risk of making themselves happy. Or at the very least, not increasingly miserable every day.

It’s just amazing how, when not in someone else’s mind, the prison their fears create are completely superficial if not nonexistent. It’s amazing to watch how crippling someone else’s mindset can be to their entire life. And it kind of gives a renewed perspective to how false the power of my own fears actually are.

I spend a freakish amount of time dissecting and scrutinizing myself, motivations, emotions, thought patterns, actions, etc. I’ve discussed it before but in my recovery I kind of took the whole “taking a daily self inventory” thing to an extreme. (I’m big on extremes; never much for moderation. This, too, I’ve discussed. Moving along.) Most of the time I’m not so much reviewing my actions as convincing myself further that I am an emotional disaster that even the Red Cross wouldn’t cover. I obsessively judge every single thought that crosses my mind and I tend to drive myself into a self-beaty-uppy frenzy more often than I’d like to admit. Honestly, I’m not just tough on myself; I’m fucking relentless.

Recently, however, I’ve been privy to a few different situations that kind of have stopped me in my tracks. A while ago I talked about the Universe momentarily dropping the veil between my life now and what it could have been hadn’t bothered with practicing active recovery and, since that didn’t seem to be enough to get the message across (I’m a slow learner sometimes), the Universe then began hurling at me more and more examples to support its point. I was kind of starting to get it, but apparently I needed an extreme example. Go figure.

So yesterday I’m folding laundry, washing dishes, doing other general housewifery and watching a documentary about women who are stalkers. I listened to women who were reformed stalkers and had gone on to live normal, sane lives and other women who were still proud of their actions and felt totally justified in their completely insane tactics. It was weird how some of the women on either side discussed a very real sense of purity and justice in their actions (even though the reformed ones have since realized that this was a mere illusion) and remembering how, in my craziest (usually alcohol-soaked) moments I felt the same drive. And then I thought about people that I knew/know in my own life who display this same kind of Crazy… and then I started thinking about the people I know who display a lot of Crazy in other forums.

And I started to feel really really good about myself for a change.

Here’s the thing. I still have tendencies toward the Crazy from time to time and sometimes they even get a little out of my control, which is scary. But I am always always working to get better and I’m consciously keeping them in check (or immediately wrangling them back into check should they momentarily escape.) And you know what? My Crazy isn’t ruining my life or the lives of those around me anymore. My Crazy isn’t bailing on my friends and family, isn’t busy trying to destroy myself with drinking or drugs or insane spending sprees or shitty relationships. My Crazy isn’t driven from fear or loneliness or selfishness or low self esteem anymore and I’m no longer perpetuating a shitty or even mediocre existence out of confusion or denial or anger or fear or anything, really. My Crazy doesn’t conduct any of the dramas that inevitably come into my life and I’m able to dismiss any unnecessary bullshit quickly and efficiently because the Crazy doesn’t rule my ego anymore.

In fact, if I can take a minute to fling humility by the wayside, I have a pretty rad life right now. And, given that this life is so much better than it used to be a few years ago, I’m pretty convinced that my work in therapy and sobriety and general recovery is directly responsible for building this around me. My family not only completely trusts me these days (a MAJOR change from the former) but they enjoy my company and have confidence in my abilities as a parent and as a competent adult (an even more major change.) I have a base group of amazing friends who constantly have my back and are always rightthere when I need them, without me having to ask. I have a functional, jealousy-and- [99%]- insecurity-free love life with a man whom I trust and love completely, who treats me the way my parents always told me I deserved to be treated, who is committed to growing and nurturing each other in our lives together. I have a healthy, happy daughter who is developing perfectly on schedule even though I know next to nothing about being a parent.

Apparently, even though my Crazy may always be on my mind and I may always be on guard for its attacks, it really plays a very very minor role in my life these days. My neuroses (and ensuing insecurities and then the resulting complications of such insecurities which cycle back into neuroses) are minor obstacles that crop up every so often instead of acting as guidelines and barriers in which to contain my whole entire existence. Proudly, I can admit that this is the very first time in … well, since I can remember… since 5th grade?… that I can say that. These days the things that used to cripple me and keep me submerged in a miserable life are just little mostly insignificant quirks to my character that are laughable among my close friends and family, instead of being exhausting and embarrassing to those around me.

This doesn’t let me off the hook, of course. I’m never off the hook, really, if I plan to keep growing and learning about myself and life and recovery and all that (which I do.) And I certainly don’t think I’m all figured out or have all The Answers or am somehow above fault or relapse or missteps. I’m not a conceited idiot. I’m sure I’ll continue over-scrutinization/criticism of myself until I’m old and grey (even though, like effing everything pertaining to my thought behaviors, I’m working to find a middle ground on that, too.)

But for just a second, I think I’m going to take a break to be a little smug and arrogant. (Again, I’m big on extremes.) ‘Cause I used to be Utterly Hopeless, Pathetic, Destructive Crazy, but now I really believe (supported with aforementioned evidence, of course) I’m safely in Self-Aware, Seemingly-Normal(-Whatever-That-Is), More-Than-Functional/Downright-Thriving Crazy. To the outside [of my head] observer I’m functional, capable, assured, competent, sane, trustworthy, normal-amount-wobbly, instead of being chronically catastrophic. Nobody’s making “Crazy Bitch” or “Crazy Train” the ringtone that sounds when I call them. (This actually happened at one point.) Sure, people may have terrible things to say about me (people always have terrible things to say about anyone, it seems) but they’re not locking their doors or putting restraining orders out because of me. (Frankly, I think anyone who may have a problem with me these days really just has to be looking for drama. Clearly they’re wasting more time/energy being pissy and resentful than I am, ’cause it’s clear skies on my end.) And I’m not covering my head in shame from my most recent stint of making a total ass of myself or loudly defending myself to a bunch of random people I may or may not have wronged a la “Springer”. Not having the Crazy at the ready is pretty damned liberating, relaxing even.

So yeah, I’m taking a minute to sit back on my laurels and indulge in a little schadenfreude toward the Crazies with whom I no longer share a category. Of course it’s morally wrong/bitchy/insensitive and an incredibly cocky, shameful fault to admit to publicly. However, this emotion will, of course, settle into a middle ground of healthy, normal, gratitude with which I can maintain a productive sense of humility. But for just one second I’m going to enjoy snorting and sighing at the Crazies around me with knowing pity, “Damn; that bitch/bastard is cah-razy.” without feeling too much like a hypocrite.

I’m probably going to start with my next door neighbor. It’s like having Springer’s show delivered to my home! (Actually, any reality TV is good for this.) And then there’s the crazy bitch that keeps harassing me via MySpace from 1,000 some miles away. Oh, I could do this for a while.

“I’m rich rich richrich rich.” - Yeah Yeah Yeahs

I’ve talked about incorporating the familiarities of pop culture references into my spiritual practices before but, recently, I’ve started using another offbeat [completely fabricated] method for my daily meditation practices. See, because meditation is such a foreign thing for me I have trouble really feeling like I’m committing myself to it when I’m doing it alone. Somehow, something so relatively new to me and my Western upbringing feels completely false when I’m practicing it by myself. So I thought that perhaps if I create a little bridge of familiarity between the new practice and things I feel comfortable around and emotionally related to, then I could ease myself into a routine over time that I really felt I was being genuine with.

So what the hell am I talking about?

My specific example involves the fact that no matter what traditional Hindu mantra I choose (and there are tons of them… who knew?!) I simply cannot take myself seriously when I’m repeating something over and over in a language I don’t even speak. It feels too pretentious. So, instead, I’ve been using small phrases (which - in case you aren’t aware - are all mantras really are. Even “om”.) that originated as song lyrics.

Man, just saying that out loud makes me feel kinda lame, to be honest. Ah well; I’ve done worse in a public setting.

Recently I’ve been spending my meditations cleaning house. In the last two months there was the relapse of depression that really knocked me over and then, just as the fog from that began to lift, I made the mistake of opening myself up emotionally and reanimating some old demons and battles that I’d figured out and left behind years ago. (My bad.) So in the last week or so, my meditations have focused on imagery of letting go of these “demons”, which take the form of recurring harmful thoughts (kind of anti-mantras) and erupting emotions that have no benefits or relevance to my mentality or life at all. I like to address these terrible mental habits like annoying ex-boyfriends who are unwelcome in my house (mind) and mess up my day and waste my time and simply refuse to go away. And, luckily there are a lot of songs that address such scenarios. Shawn Colvin’s “Get Out of this House” has been a great one to start with. Usually, I just repeat the title line during visualization practices, but sometimes I’ll feel my concentration waning and I’ll switch up to a couple lyrics here and there.

But no song has been as great of a mantra for this specific practice than… oh man, it’s kind of embarrassing… Tom Petty’s “Don’t Come Around Here No More”. I’m positive I’d be less embarrassed admitting this if it weren’t for the well-known psychedelic ‘Alice in Wonderland’-themed video. (I saw his giant hat at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame!) However, feeling the slow-moving melody and just repeating “Don’t come around here no more…” when my mind heads back over to its habitual dark thoughts has been fantastically empowering. All the lyrics fit perfectly, too, which is beneficial to my adopting the whole song.
I particularly like to repeat this verse:
I don’t feel you anymore
You darken my door.
Whatever you’re looking for,
(HEY!) Don’t come around here no more

A few days ago I was inspired to do one of my semi-annual sage-burning, salt-spreading, crystal-cleaning cleansings around the house and that’s the song I put on during the ritual. The benefits of the song were multiplied by the immediate access to the musical composition, meaning that when the Heartbreakers rock out there at the end [with Tom making all those weird-ass ad libbed noises] it helps to usher in a great sense of relief and resolve to maintaining the healed, strong mentality achieved through the meditative practice.

It sounds kinda lame when mentioned out loud, but I found/find it to be quite effective as a meditation technique, in addition to being engaging and stimulating. And isn’t that what practicing spirituality should be anyway?

————————————

Progression in Hindsight

If you’ve been reading for any length of time you may recognize that one of my biggest (and most embarrassing) faults is my routine inability to just let shit go. For some reason, after a situation has emotionally drained me and ultimately imploded, I just looove to revisit it to figure out what can be repaired and/or salvaged. No matter where the shattered pieces have landed, I just have to go back to ground zero and try to make sense of it so I can, eventually, put all the pieces back together and place it in a perfect little frame to display in my “Closed Cases” exhibit (I assume.) I like to venture all the way back into these past dramas to poke and prod and try to make sense of situations that obviously made no sense ever (otherwise they’d still be functioning) instead of just accepting that sometimes disarray is an acceptable finale to a situation. (Thank you, Samuel Beckett!)

Returning to a senseless, broken, crazy-making situation to try to make sense of it or resolve it is exactly comparable to me drinking a bottle of wine in hopes of figuring out or curing my alcoholism. I know this. I’ve known this. I realized this many many years ago in fact. And, still, I catch myself making that same mistake even to this day, even after years of evidence that it never ever works.

And I kick myself for this fault of mine on a daily basis. Hard.

But recently I ran into a person with whom I shared many years of drama and general insanity. After letting her suckiness monopolize entirely too much of my time, emotions and energy (without receiving any of these in return, of course) I’d finally cut her off. Cold turkey. This is something I’ve never been able to do successfully. In fact, after I sat her down, explained why I would no longer be taking her calls and said “bye!” she continued to try to get in touch with me, claiming she had no idea why I suddenly didn’t want to associate with her at all anymore. (So yeah, my hour-long presentation highlighting my standpoints on the matter clearly had no effect on her whatsoever.) Even still, I stuck to my guns and never wasted any more time arguing with her or trying to get her to be more respectful or engaging in any part of her dysfunctional insanity. As a matter of fact, after about a month or so I never even wasted any more time thinking about her or being mad at her or feeling anything at all for her. This all happened a little over 5 years ago and even recently when she wanted to hang out and/or catch up, I was still completely emotionally disconnected from the situation and shrugged off her request without a second thought.

Whoa. That doesn’t sound like the obsessive, clingy, chronically emotionally invested, can’t-get-the-fuck-over-it image of me that I kick myself for routinely. In fact, that healthy choice seems pretty progressive and emotionally stable of me.

When I realized that I’d been capable of actually following through with something I’d honestly believed I’d always been incapable of, I sat down and thought about all the other times in the last few years that I might’ve been able to do the same in similar situations. I was kind of convinced that this instance of me genuinely discarding something broken/dysfunctional/insane and completely emotionally getting over it in the aftermath was just a fluke. Just a one-time occurrence that wasn’t likely to happen again. But, the more I really thought about it, it seemed like I’d actually been capable of a good deal of emotional weeding. From where I sit right now, there are at least a dozen instances I can name where I found myself thoroughly immersed in and ravaged by a toxic relationship of some description and finally cut off the pointless interactions and walked away from this emotional tarbaby* AND was able to completely emotionally disengage from this scenario without having to go back and try to make sense of it all. These situations all vary in their previous intensity and power over my emotions and thoughts but in every case I’ve been able to just be done with it. Completely.

Now I’m not saying I’m cured just because I’ve been able to successfully remove myself from harmful relationships a few times because even doing it once is still damaging. (That’d be like saying, “Well I must be getting better because I don’t shoot heroin as often as I used to.”) But it really does give me a lot of faith in myself by having proof that I’ve been able to do this one thing (for years now!) I’ve always assumed I was incapable of. Makes me feel like doing it a couple more times isn’t that big or insurmountable of a deal.

So. Um. Yay me!

::: Smiling tilt of head. Gentle pat on back :::

*The use of “tarbaby” in this instance is a reference to the Br’er Rabbit folklore of the Old South… NOT a racial slur.

Validation

There is a girl

who cries out at night

and the only thing

that can soothe

her

Fear

Loneliness

Pain

is

Me.

<insert space here>

There is a girl

who knows nothing.

She knows not of

Time

Society

Death

and the only definition

of Love

that she knows

is

Me.

————————————

I’ve been having, as they say in the South, “a time” of things. Usually, the Depression comes in great, heaving waves of endless sorrow and feelings of worthlessness, bringing with it a barrage of loud, relentless reminders as to why I suck and why my life is useless, etc. that simply won’t be swatted away. After tolerating/battling this for months, I suddenly felt myself shut down. For the last three weeks or so, my mind suddenly stopped everything and I found myself in a state of foggy lethargy and aparthy. This resulted in my forcing 600 calories a day (when I remembered or was pressured to eat), and staring blankly at the wall as the hours slipped by, unable to complete simple tasks or basic sentences. After about two weeks of this, the clouds parted and I was able to get out a little, socialize with friends, bathe and put on some makeup and feel a little relief finally. And then I took a tumble into the haze again.

My doctor opted to change up my medication [yet again], and I found myself both in withdrawal AND in this state of elevated depression, which left me completely useless. I attempted to take on the task of running a household and watching my daughter to no avail, and, after a day or so of this, my mother caught wind of my condition and immediately leapt into action, taking over my mothering duties and scrubbing my filthy, neglected house from top to bottom. I fought off long-seeded feelings of guilt and uselessness on relying on my parents to bail me out [yet again] and spent the days sleeping in completely exhausted, painful fatigue. Occasionally I was able to drag myself from bed to a steaming bath, staring through the splotchy green haze of medicinal withdrawal and watching my limbs disappear until I realized I was shivering and the bathwater had turned cold long before I had the clarity to notice. I didn’t check my email, I didn’t pluck my eyebrows (both being manic habits of mine for a little more than a decade), I didn’t bother to read or enrich myself in any way. In fact, the only effort I was able to manage was a smile and forced (forrrrced) enthusiasm when my husband returned home every evening, terrified that he will soon become exhausted with frustration at my perpetual dysfunction.

(I think the thing that pisses me off the most about those people who don’t bother to understand mental illness or depression is their misunderstanding about the dysfunction of it all. To them, doing nothing or staying in bed all day is a choice that is one’s way of disappearing from life, which is simply not the case. If a person is physically incapable of completing thoughts and sentences and is losing track of time as though being stoned, it is nearly impossible to pull together enough clear cognitive progress to will one’s body out of stasis. It isn’t the same as being in post-breakup mode where a depressed person lies in bed all day and sobs over old love notes and mementos; it is a real disability that is part of the whole “mental illness” diagnosis. I digress.)

Today there is movement and a sense of independence again as my doctor has put me back on the amphetamines that allow me some energy, albeit artificial. I still feel as though I have nothing of use to write about, but I am forcing myself to do so in order to keep my recovery moving forward. (And yes, this entry has taken me an hour to write, whereas it would ordinarily take me twenty minutes. I am having to retype sentences and proofread to catch my incoherencies.) Today I am showering, putting on makeup, and leaving the house to meet a friend for lunch. This, I know, doesn’t sound like a productive day to many, but I feel it is a vast improvement from the blurry suspended reality of this last week.

My mind is quiet for now. For the first time in literal years, I am not bombarded with constant doubt and worry, I am not hearing my inner Opponent laugh at my intentions, I am not shirking away from forward movement because my relentless neuroses convince me that I’m worthless. I am not beating myself up for making my parents and loved ones carry me through my dark times or clean up my mental mess. I’m not raking myself over the coals for all the mistakes I ever made to anyone ever. This, too, is a major improvement on a number of levels.

But something still doesn’t feel right. I feel this sudden emptiness, like a veil has been lowered to keep me from feeling anything. Perhaps this is another stage in recovery, my mind shutting down and resting before slowly allowing itself the freedom of emotion again. Maybe this is The Hermit card incarnate, when I’m supposed to hibernate and store energy for the next chapter of my recovery instead of wrestling with the demons in hopes that they’ll be forced into submission.

Thankfully, however, there’s a tiny inkling of hope that has returned, which is the biggest relief of all. For the past few weeks, the apathy and lethargy has hosted a belief system of hopelessness, which was the most intolerable of all emotion. Even in my darkest moments of the past, there has always been a notion of hope. Even sitting in a mental hospital amongst the other crazies, I still believed there was a life better than this, a reality just out of my reach where claircognizance and functionality were a part of life. The daunting idea that this would always evade me, that there was no point to any of this, no use for any of our society or recovery or progress, no hope in any form for any one person or people was too much to bear. I don’t know where this sense of renewed hope and worth has come from suddenly, but I will consider it another blessing and not delve too far into my Higher Power’s motives in returning it to me.

~ On the plus side, I’ve lost 15 lbs, which puts me where I was in high school. To most people, this would be wildly exciting news but, because I was always about 15-25 lbs overweight in my teenage years, this is just mediocre news to me. However, this still means I’m 1/3 of the way to my goal and I’m still making gradual progress, which is always motivating and exciting. My clothes are starting to get increasingly baggy, too. 

~ To take a break from my relentlessly whirring mind and neuroses, Greg and I have started indulging in completely mindless, asinine television. While ordinarily I would be appalled at myself for doing it (much less for admitting it publicly), we’ve somehow become devoted American Idol watchers for this season and have found it to be an amazing weekly bonding experience. It comes on in the middle of our busy week, on nights when we are home together, and we delight in clearing our minds and laughing at the pathetic drama that unfolds. It’s fun and although neither of us are actually invested in the contestants or the outcome, we both get excited to sit down together and ridicule everything about the show from the singers to the judges to that obnoxious host. It’s also been incredibly helpful in clearing my mind and lifting my spirits. On evenings that we sit and watch this painfully trite reality show, I smile more, I worry less and I feel lighter in general. I don’t care that it’s a waste of time, it’s helping me a lot and for that I’m grateful. 

~ I hate that Michael Phelps had to issue a public apology for hitting a bong at a college party. Being one of those people who can’t accomplish anything when she dabbled in weed-smokery (seriously, I once took a two-hour shower and didn’t realize it until I ran out of shampoo from washing my hair repeatedly), I think the man deserves an extra medal for being able to experiment with performance-hindering drugs and still kick everyone’s ass at the Olympics. 

But truthfully, everyone needs to just leave the boy alone. So he went to a party in his early twenties and did some silly social drug and got a little drunk. Who hasn’t? It’s not like he’s getting killing people in DUIs and carrying cocaine with him through airports. Give the man a break. 

However, between the Phelps incident and ‘Borat‘, the kids at USC are reeeeally making South Carolina look great. Thanks a lot for helping us break down stereotypes, guys. Hooray for the future. 

~ The only animated movie that Chloe has been mesmerized by so far is ‘Aladdin‘. Despite all the other movies we’ve tried on her, that was the one she sat still for the whole way through. 

~ I’m running into a lot of speedbumps with this sugar scrub project. So far, things have been on hold for a while. I hope to start changing this early next week. 

~ Two kids that I went to middle school with are getting married in a few weeks. This makes me happy because, shortly after I moved away from the small town where we were in school together, they left the area as well and hadn’t spoken in some 10 years until they “ran into” each other on Facebook and started talking over emails and then on the phone. They traveled back and forth from Nashville to somewhereinTexas for a while and fell madly in love and dammit, if that’s not the cutest, most estrogen-inducing modern-day reunion/love story you’ve ever heard then I quit.

~ While they’re on sale for 75%, I’m thinking about purchasing some amazing designer jeans in the size I’m working toward so that, when I finally reach my goal, I’ll have an inexpensive reward waiting for me. This being said, if my body type doesn’t work with the jean-style/cut/fit that I bought then I’ll have wasted $20 for nothing.  Hmmmm.

For someone with chronic guilt issues, having to decide when to stand up for herself is a toughie. And when that person has a tendency to wear all her faults, vulnerabilities, and innermost emotions right there on her sleeve, it’s even harder to know where and when to start drawing lines. 

My first response is always to launch into a diatribal monologue that exposes my every feeling toward creating whatever boundary needs to be created. I need empathy and sympathy, I need the person I’m defending myself against to know my every single reason and my every possible sentiment on the situation, I need to express my every motivation for doing what I’m doing and I need to defend why I’m choosing to defend myself, as if to justify my strong-arminess (new word alert!) to everyone on the planet and convince this person I’m defending myself toward that I’m not a bad person, I’m just looking out for myself. It’s the ultimate in passive-aggression and yet it’s so difficult for me to make the move, to stop whatever’s hurting me with a definitive “NO!” 

It doesn’t make any sense. If someone was attacking me physically, I wouldn’t say, “Um, I’m sorry to tell you this, but that knife is really frightening me and, if you don’t mind, would you just put it away and leave me alone? I’m sorry to thwart your plans, but I really just don’t feel like being stabbed today.” I’d bellow, “GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!” and kick and scream for my life. 

But when it comes to emotional pain, I’m somehow a giant wuss when it comes to defending myself. I feel guilty telling people to back off their agendas, that what they’re doing hurts me, that their actions have very deep repercussions to me that aren’t healthy to my mental state.

I don’t know, maybe I assume my mental well-being isn’t as dire a thing to protect as my physical well-being… Well, that’s just effing ridiculous. If I’ve learned anything about myself, it’s that my mental condition is the thing that has to be the most guarded. It’s pretty damned fragile. 

Maybe I assume that people don’t take my mental state as seriously as I do… But in The Four Agreements lifestyle, I’m supposed to be not caring what other people think of what I need.

Maybe I feel like I deserve to feel bad, especially when it’s from people that I’ve hurt previously… 

…Well, now I think we’re on to something. My sponsor’s been telling me for years that I can’t be held hostage for the mistakes I made years ago by myself or anyone else. But, the minute someone I’ve previously hurt needs or wants something from me, I bend right over and let them take it from me in hopes that this redeems me from whatever it is that I did to them. Even if this person has openly forgiven me, I’m the most vulnerable to him/her because I desperately want to prove myself as a better, selfless, more giving person. In fact, I don’t think I’m more giving to anyone else than I am to those I feel I’ve wronged. 

And this has definitely caused me a lot of heartache. For the first few years after I started The Steps, I’d let both family and friends remind me of how much I sucked as often as they needed to to help them express themselves. I learned to let go of trying to control everyone around me and let everyone react to me the way that they wanted, which really hurt but felt like I was finally doing something right. As those close to me slowly learned that I wasn’t going to slip back into destruction mode, they started resting a little, letting things go, really forgiving and forgetting what had happened. And then I started going after that Step 9 with a vengeance, seeking out every single person I’d ever hurt and trying to make things right. Even people I didn’t necessarily care about heard sincere apologies from me and could have had me jumping through hoops had they only asked. I wanted so desperately to prove to myself and those who knew me that I was actually changing, getting better, working toward a better life that I totally immersed myself in seeking redemption. 

I’ve talked about it before, but in the years since I’ve become the kind of person who admits she’s wrong even when she might not be. I’m the first one to tap out of a fight, assured that I’m just being an asshole again and I’m constantly offering apologies, admitting to my obviously ever-present flaws, generally apologizing for any hint of burden or trouble I’ve ever caused anyone. Somewhere along the line, I stopped seeking redemption and started apologizing for being alive.

I am a modern day Eeyore. 

So, recently, when I found myself being indirectly hurt by the actions of someone I’d hurt in the past, I was stumped. My first reaction was to spill my every emotion on the matter, how I felt guilty, how I cried about it, how I was angry at being hurt, I was frustrated for being put in an easily-manipulatable position, I was miffed about feeling taken advantage of and disposable, I was pissed for having my kindness being complicated and overextended, I was pissed for having my feelings and vulnerability taken for granted, I was scared to defend myself but I’d bitten my tongue long enough, yada yada yackety schmack andsoonandsoforth. Knowing me, I could have belabored it for hours, explaining my motivations for saying “No”, delving into the very depths of my psyche and my past and how it all resonated and what it should mean to this person who was causing me pain.

And then, of course, I immediately felt guilty for wanting to say anything at all. Who was I to stop this person’s agenda? I’d screwed things up for them before, why not feel some more on my side? Maybe this person had things to express, things I needed to hear! Maybe my pain hadn’t been rehashed enough! Maybe there were things I needed to feel more so I could extract more lessons and more humility!

My mind sloshed back and forth between the two extremes for a while until I was sufficiently terrified to do anything at all. Resolved to just keep my mouth shut, I surrendered myself to whatever pain may come in hopes to keep the boat steady and on course. 

Until something kicked me in the ass:

THIS IS THE FUCKING LESSON, DUMBASS.

And I strapped on my big girl stompy boots, wrote a letter unabashedly defending my emotions and needs, and sent it without a second of regret. 

Score one for me. I think my new resolution is going to be trying out assertiveness. I certainly need it more than weight-loss, even if I was 250 lbs.

Being a former (recovering? Am I allowed to call it that?) pathological liar, I’ve done a lot of work on speaking only what I mean and learning the real value of my words in the last few years, thanks to work with AA and The Four Agreements. (Yeah, turns out that people hold value with my words even when I didn’t… go figure.) These days there might be a completely-transparent white lie or mistake with planning here and there but, for the most part, I’m pretty good with my word in general. I don’t say things I don’t mean and, even though it sucks sometimes, I’m up front and honest about my shortcomings, opinions, and other things that might make life uncomfortable. When I say something, I say it with the intention of standing behind it, regardless of who hears/reads it and what repercussions might ensue. (For some reason, however, I tend to repeat myself a lot as if saying things once doesn’t make it real. It’s something I’ve worked for years to curb, but I’m one of those annoying people who makes sure things are stated more than once “just for the record”. So, maybe I’m still working to place exact value on words, still… ANYWAY…)

With this in mind, I find that I’m having a lot of trouble dealing with the idea of diplomacy. Here in the South, we’re very good at saying one thing to someone’s face and then saying something completely different behind their backs, which is a habit I’ve been working pretty hard to break. These days when I have something to say to someone, I say it right to them before taking it to anyone else, which often causes a lot of confusion as this seems to be outside of the norm. (Likewise, I tend to respect those who bring their problems with me to me before taking them elsewhere and am more likely to accept criticism this way than if I happen to hear it through gossip. This, too, seems to be a new concept to many people I’m around. Strange.) Additionally, if I don’t like someone, I’ve gotten better at not faking my way through a friendship like I used to. Granted, I’m not rude for the sake of being inappropriate, but I don’t go out of my way to make someone feel welcome around me if I personally can’t stand them. (Again, this is a bit of a taboo where I’m from and it’s something my mother is appalled by.)

I understand the need for diplomacy in business situations or in mixed company and I’m always striving to be as classy as possible (You can laugh at that. It’s okay.) when representing myself or my family, but I’m trying to learn the levels of diplomacy needed in intimate situations. And, for the most part, I do okay. There are always times in social situations where people say things I cannot stand by and agree with and I’ve made more than one social situation uncomfortable by vehemently opposing ignorant, idiotic, elitist views that groups I’ve been in have accepted as truths, but for the most part, I keep my mouth shut and do alright.

But this doesn’t translate so well when it comes to my personal relationships.

See, I don’t like being dishonest with my friends. I mean, that’s why we’re friends, right? So we don’t have to put on airs and fabricate realities around each other. Friends are there to let you see the reality around you and help you get through it and I believe in supporting and loving my friends unconditionally BUT I don’t believe in supporting them through everything if what they’re doing is destructive or plain idiotic. This has caused a lot of hardship in my friendships over the years but it’s something I continue to stand by. I mean, I’m not some sort of militant bitch with an agenda for purity, but if one of my friends is willingly putting him/herself in a stupid, potentially hurtful situation, I’m not cool with sitting by and letting that happen. Boneheaded and frivolous actions are one thing, but mindlessly self-deprecating are quite another. For example, if my friend wanted to call into work sick for a week so she could drive across the country to visit a wonderful man she was madly in love with then I’d be completely on board with her and would even give her a little gas money to send her on her way. But, if my friend was thinking about leaving her dream job because some asshole who had broken her heart a thousand times wanted them to “make a new start” in another city where he could chase his dream of being a stand-up comic, then I’d make sure she knew I thought it was moronic of her to consider it. Even as I write it, that seems brash, but frankly, I’d expect one of my friends to do the same. I mean, if I started drinking again and acting like a selfish bitch, I’d expect one of my friends to tell me she doesn’t support me and thinks I’m being a horrible person. I’d hope that she would give me support in recovery, but if she said she didn’t want anything to do with me while I was drinking then I’d understand. I, personally, have a hard time walking away from friends in need, so even if this friend DID leave to be with her stand-up-wannabe boyfriend, I’d be ready and waiting with my spare bedroom and some chocolate ice cream when/if things fell apart. (And, yeah, I’m still working on the “I told you so” reaction. Although it’s gotten significantly better over the years, it has a long way to go. I’ll be “healed” when I can resist the urge to ever say it, I think. Right now I’m still prone to mentioning it, although not right at the beginning.) And if, somehow, this boyfriend somehow pulled his head out of his ass and started treating her well and made her move worthwhile, then I’d eventually forgive him and support their relationship (which has actually happened, believe it or not.)

The point is, however, that my inability to withhold my opinions from my friends is something that troubles me. A lot. I’ve gotten better about not sharing my opinion unless asked for it, but I’m usually the one giving advice to friends that they should be listening to and then looking like an idiot when they do the exact opposite.

My main example of what I’m talking about is this: I had one of my best girlfriends wake up about a year-and-change ago to discover that her husband wasn’t only having his second affair, but he was stealing money from the family pot to blow up his nose, was drinking far more than she’d realized, and had lost 3 more jobs in the last two years than she’d known about. In the time that she was working on divorcing him, I was very supportive and continually told her how proud of her I was for getting out, getting a new job in a new city and doing what she needed to do to make her life free of this destructive man. I knew she was hurting from the demise of her marriage and the loss of a happiness she thought she was living, but I was supportive and encouraging, lending an ear when she needed to vent and sending her little tokens of love in the mail to let her know that she wasn’t alone. Now, she’s been living in a fabulous new house with her three kids and working a great new job for about six months, but she is getting back together with this man and I am terrified for her. She hasn’t asked me for my opinion on the matter, so I haven’t given it, and instead, I listen and nod when she tells me that “he’s doing better” and is apparently in AA and trying to piece his life back together while he lives with her and the kids on the weekends. I don’t tell her that in AA one of the beginning rules is to be sober for a year before trying to be in any sort of romantic relationship (I mean, I only made it about 7 months.) I don’t tell her that, no matter how sober or healthy this man gets, she can do better with someone she actually trusts and who won’t devastate her so badly every few years. I don’t tell her that I’m scared that she’s going to be dealing with this again in another 5 years when his penchant for cheating flares up again. I just smile and nod and tell her honestly that I wish her the best with this, because that’s the truth. But this sort of withholding makes me feel dishonest. It makes me feel like I’m not doing what I should as a friend or someone who loves her. Mostly, though, it makes me feel like there is a wall between my friend and myself where we can’t be as unabashedly explicit as we usually are together, which is something I’ve always loved about her and any of my closest friends.

And that’s where this feeling of loneliness comes in with regards to even my dearest of friends. If one of my best friends was getting into heavy drugs really badly, I’d break into her house and steal all her needles and spoons so she wouldn’t kill herself or become psychotic. If she was playing in the street with some kids and was about to get hit by a truck, I’d tackle her out of the way (and maybe the kids, too). I thought that’s what giving a shit about someone was all about; helping them when they’re not helping themselves. So why is it different when it comes to choices about love and life?

Xenocrates said “I have often regretted my speech, never my silences.” That was something my mom used to tell me when I was a babbly teenager who thought she knew everything and, for a while, I believed that. And then I read about all those people who have kept silent during truly evil happenings around the globe and I realized that Xenocrates was a coward. (Not that I’m comparing my conversations to friends with telling someone that the Holocaust is happening, though. It’s just an extreme example.)

I tell my best friend every time she calls and tells me about her most recent ailment that I think she’s making herself physically sick by not getting out and chasing her dream rightthissecond, but I fear that this drives a wedge between us because she may think I’m disappointed, when really, I’m just hopeful and confident in the potential her life holds. Even still, I worry I should back off, listen calmly and give my diplomatic, censored opinion only when asked for it. And I’m beginning to feel that, no matter how close I am to anyone, that that’s how I should live my entire life.

Still though, that doesn’t seem right. Even if my opinions/predictions/fears are completely and utterly wrong, I still feel it’s wrong to keep them completely to myself all the time in the name of “decency” and “manners”. This might make me a horrible person, but it’s the one embarrassing characteristic of mine that I think I’ll choose to stand behind.