One Day at a Time

Last night I made a bad decision. I was left here, alone, at my parents house, sitting and thinking and worrying and feeling hurt and pathetic. And in an effort to ease the pain I turned to my old habits and walked down the street to my old hangout where I promptly finished three beers and six gin and tonics. It felt so good to be back there, talking to strangers, feeling less alone, like I fit in somewhere, like there were people who liked me. I was even propositioned by a lovely English guy who wanted me to come with him and a friend to another bar that just so happened to be conveniently located across the road from his hotel room. There is something about a reasonably attractive stranger whispering in your ear how much he would like to please you that can make a girl feel pretty damn good in a twisted kind of way. Now years ago I would have been sneaking out of that hotel room at four in the morning, trying not to wake the mistake who lay sleeping. I would have walked home on a high that combined a sickening sense of guilt and euphoria at the conquest and boost to my ego that comes with the one night stand. But, tempting as it may have seemed, I thanked him sincerely and headed home by myself. I don't want anyone touching me, except my partner. I cannot substitute anyone for him.

Anyway, the damage was done. I was officially drunk and sick from the booze. I spent the night trying to sleep but inside I was disgusted with myself for being weak, for not having really learned anything from my time away from the bottle. But really, if you don't do the work, relapse is always going to be waiting right around the corner, waiting for the slightest justification or excuse to pick up that first drink. But today is a new day, and a new chance not to drink. I know what I have to do, put my own sobriety above everything else. Sobriety must be my number one priority if I am ever to live a sane and healthy life. I realize that I have been stuck in a three year rut, hiding away from myself and the world in order to avoid temptation. No one can live honestly like that. It is a half life, a life lived in fear. I must be brave, face my demons and my truths. Only then will I see the world as it really is and not as something to hide from. Any goals I think I have can never be fulfilled like this, to fulfill a goal one needs clear vision and clear thinking, two things I am currently lacking.

I should go to a meeting, I should be honest and admit that I cannot do this alone. Whatever issues I may have with "joining" and "programs" and "God, as we understand him", well they are actually just my addiction's way of controlling the situation, of raising doubts that will keep me from recovery. "Keep coming back!" they say, and once again I must go back. There is no shame in it, eventually it's going to stick.

The List

I haven't written anything in quite a while. To be honest this blog intimidates me. I am one of those people who, if they can't do something perfectly, prefer not to attempt it all. I do not write because I am afraid that I will only write garbage. Useless mumblings of a loser of average intelligence with nothing important to say. This is my fear, my insecurity that prevents me not only from writing but from pursuing life and all the challenges it presents. I know that I am doomed to fail. I realize that I do not know myself very well. My interests and opinions are flighty and shallow and my path is anything but clear. There are some interests that have lasted through many years and that I still feel strongly and passionately about but they get lost in a scramble of frivolous research and flights of fancy. I see my lifelong interests as devoid of any merit or simply beyond my abilities. I have been trying, of late, to recognize those things that matter to me.

For my own benefit, a reminder, a list of those interests that have stood the test of time.:

Human rights: I have been a member of, and avid letter writer for, Amnesty International for more than a decade but in the last year I seem to have lost my outrage, my passion and my hope. I have an innate respect for "different" peoples, religions and customs, patience for differing world views and a willingness to defend the ideals of freedom, responsibility and equality. This is not a passing, or "fair weather" trait but one that I strive to live by every moment of every day.

Tea: Yep, I am a tea whore. I couldn't even tell you how many boxes of tea I own at this moment. More than twenty, that's for sure. And tea cups, and saucers, and sugar bowls and creamers. I love the art and ritual of tea, not in the Japanese sense, but the British High Tea. Little sandwiches and pastries and fine hand painted china, raised pinkies and impeccable etiquette.. Aah, that is lovely. I could ramble on about tea and tea services but Ill leave that for another day.

Beauty: As cliche as it sounds I am a person who thrives on, who is inspired by beautiful things. Trees, a squirrel running along a fence (watch one sometime!), a peony in bloom, a spider web in the sunlight, the running waters of a river teeming with growth and life. Nature in all her glory, even those things in nature not celebrated in prose and poetry have there own distinct beauty that when looked at with new eyes, or ears, or nose can be wondrous. Compost heaps magically changing from waste to nutrient dense soil from which new life will spring. Worms aerating the soil, even the dung that feeds other life. Of course, give me a beautiful home, lovely clothes, perfume in a simple and well designed bottle, lipstick in an ornate and shiny tube, all of these are necessary to life. What is the point if your surroundings, everything you see, smell and touch do not bring pleasure. Pleasure is what separates us from the animals (though I'm sure that many animals enjoy their particular pleasures!). Form and function are the ideal. What is that saying "Do not keep anything in your home that you do not find either useful or beautiful" (or something like that) but...yeah. Of course my problem is that I find myself feeling guilty for desiring pleasure and beautiful things. They are not true necessities for life. Are they not frivolous? Are they not elitist? I don't know, I'm confused. I feel as if I am in the closet about this, feeling self conscious about wanting nice things. Maybe while drinking I lived so long wrapped up in my self, unaware of the outside world that now I don't know how to change, how to embrace being a person who wants to wear cute shoes, maybe a skirt, lipstick and a little expensive perfume too.

Well, enough rambling for tonight. To be continued....

Nothing

I have nothing, this week. Well. actually, I have too much, this week.

My Sickness Benefits have run out and I have no money, now I must apply for Welfare and Disability. My partner and I must lay our entire lives out on the government table to be examined and judged. My sense of self-worth is through the floor, I'm scared of what will come, of the long hard, bureaucratic struggle I have before me. I don't want to do it, but there is, really, no other way. I am no longer a productive member of society.

The last week I have been getting worse again. I am so confused. It feels as if there is a foggy curtain sitting in front of my mind and if I could only peek over it, I would be okay. I hate this symptom the most. Forgetting simply things, words, spelling, how to hold a fork. My sense of shape and volume and space are off as well, I cannot judge how big a bowl is needed for something I have just cooked. I end up dirtying three bowls before I find the one that will hold everything. The fine motor control in my hands is affected. I cannot hold a pencil, and as for typing this, well, it's taking forever, and thanks the Gods for "spellcheck". I put capitals where they don't belong, hit four keys at a time, suddenly erase all that I have done by hitting the wrong key. That really sucks. I was typing something the other day and erased it twice (using the mouse!) before I finally got it! The stupidity is embarrassing. I hate being around anyone when I'm like this, I try to seclude myself, close the door, stay inside, hide from those people who look at me with pity, or judgment. I don't need it, really! I've taken up smoking again, late at night when my mind is numb and the tension is squatting inside me, causing every muscle to tighten and quake and want to kick out. I know it's bad for me, but I like it, it feels really good, and few things do.

Anyway, I'm not really creating a masterpiece here, am I? I apologize for my rambling, but it's all I have right now. My mind, the one that can write, and paint, and cook and carry an intelligent conversation is currently on hiatus. My hands have tagged along for the ride. I am hoping that they will see fit to return again soon. I miss them terribly when they go.


A.

Responsibility

“What happens when the pain doesn’t stop? How long can you put on a brave face before crumbling to the ground? Only to rise again and again to feign strength a bit longer until you can endure no more. It does not help when you realize that it was your sin – your tragic flaw – that brought you to the asphalt.”**

I feel like my mind has made my body sick, in a last ditch effort to quell my madness. The above quote may not appeal to most people dealing with a debilitating disorder like Fibromyalgia, but it certainly appeals to me. I have never been a healthy person; in the “survival of the fittest”, I should be dead. It was never serious, I was just sickly and small, in and out of the hospital all through my childhood. I was a weak teenager, but then, when I seemed to have left all that behind in my early twenties, I went a little crazy; bad food, booze, drugs, smoke, late nights and risky behaviour (wink, wink). Either I was over-celebrating my body’s freedom from illness, or I was being stupid. I’m going to go with stupid, but with just cause. No, just stupid. For fifteen years, I ignored all the signs, and landed myself in the hospital many times. A descent into chemically induced (yet untreated) paranoid schizophrenia had me hidden away from the world for over a year, and has left me with night terrors and bouts of crippling panic. “Traumatic Stress Disorder” is what they call it. Yet, with all that was happening, with all the people around me who wanted to help, I never took the time to listen to what was going on inside my own body and mind.

When I think about it now, I think that the worst of my tragic flaws is a desire for control. I see everything in my life, in my health, and in my world, in terms of power struggles and control issues. I fight for mastery over my own body, and over my thoughts. I see other people as either those I can control, those who are trying to control me, or those that I just couldn’t care less about. I hate loosing the upper hand, and when I seem in danger of doing so, I could usually figure a way to re-gain it, or I would simply turn my back on the situation. Yes, even in the most intimate of moments, I have calculated the power plays at work, but now I’m getting sidetracked, and a little flushed. Every day, every minute was taken up with little mental games meant to increase self-discipline. Whether it was knowing more than anyone else at work, trying to be faster, stronger and better, engaging in silent competition with an adversary, a pigheaded insistence on ignoring my body’s warning signs, or wanting to appear to be the calmest, most self-possessed person at the party. Never at the center, but off to the side, taking in the scene with an interested, innocent and aloof look in my eye. “Look[ing] cheerful while under the table I stuck a fork in the back of my hand”.* I delighted in making people I truly despised think that I was the nicest, smartest, sweetest girl they had ever met. I like people to feel that I am better than them. Makes them humble. Makes me self-absorbed. If I couldn’t do a thing perfectly, I simply wouldn’t do it. I hated my own weakness, and even more having to show that weakness to others. Never ask for help, they’ll just use it against you later. And yet, the flip side to all of this: guilt, terrible guilt that would rear its ugly head when I wished it wouldn’t. Guilt and fear of discover and judgment. It is my own lack of self-confidence that must make me behave like this, who am I to think myself better? What if they knew what a horrible person I really am, underneath it all?

How, one wonders, does that cute little girl in the pink dress, from the good family, end up so twisted, so bitter? Hmmm, too much time spent alone as a child, cripplingly shy from a young age? Too little serotonin in the brain? That boy who would not hear the word “No”? Or, am I just a bitch, and don’t want to admit it? Bitches rarely hold the power they think they do. ”Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer” I always say. Of course, I don’t really have many friends, or enemies, now days. Sometime after I quit drinking, and gave up my social life, all of my control issues were left to fester at work and at home. Between the two, I ran myself into the ground and drove my partner crazy! I tried too long to discipline my failing body, hobbling around work like Quasimodo, but goddamn it, I was there, I was working! I wasn’t about to let a few aches and pains, or any of my co-workers, get the better of me. Pop a few painkillers and keep going! I certainly wasn’t about to become unemployed, unemployed people have no power. So, when I finally admitted that I could no longer do my job, I decided to take a three-month sick leave. Take a few months to relax and get myself back on track, then get out there and find something better. About two months in, my partner came home to find me moving furniture. Not wanting to ask for help, and thinking that no one else would do it right anyway, I decided to rearrange the living room and lug an unused armchair down to the basement. Stupid? Yes…but in control.

So now, here I sit, in my pink jammies with my cane across my lap, wondering how to dispel this tragic flaw, or at least find it another outlet. I feel as if my mind has made my body sick, and only by helping my body to heal, will my mind be made well. I went to a Restorative Yoga class a few weeks ago, and there I saw a glimpse of how to practice self-discipline in a sensible way, and it had nothing to do with performing the perfect forward bend or holding a posture longer than anyone else. Lying there, in the quiet, dim room, supported by bolsters and mats, listening to the tall, cherub faced teacher tell stories from the Yoga Sutras, I breathed deeply and could feel myself release. My body began to give in to the pain it wanted to express. I tried to calmly wait and listen to whatever it wanted to tell me.

“I’m sore, and you’re stupid” it said.

Well, it’s a start.



A.

** "Lord Melodrama" by Logan
* Marquise de Merteuil, “Dangerous Liaisons”