RealMental

My meeting tonight was about forgiveness and the other side of it, resentment.

I’ve been taught in recovery that if I resent someone, in order to release the resentment I must pray for that person. Even if I do not mean it, which sounds a little like “god bless that stupid cow”.

Praying for another person that I resented was very foreign to me in the beginning and I hated it. Sometimes even now my resentments seem justified enough so that I can sit out on that whole praying thing. And then I’m reminded that I will be the one who suffers.

I have learned that a good way to not get a resentment in the first place, is to not have any expectations of other people or situations. Better yet, to not get attached to an outcome for any situation.

As a recovering alcoholic, resentment is my number one offender. If I hold on to a resentment, it makes me sick inside and could eventually lead back to active addiction. Because of this, it is extremely important to me to always try and keep my side of the street honorable. (I’d like for you to believe this is due to me being a good person, but in reality, it’s a matter of life and death for me.)

As the topic was carried around the room, and each person added their pieces I began to have a very clear thought about resentments.

People build their lives around the resentments and their anger. Resentments keep you from being your true self, they suffocate you, and somewhere buried in there they comfort you. (Note: using “you” in this context figuratively.)

It dawned on me that part of who I am is made up of my resentments. The thought of them actually being a comfort to me, I wondered why I would choose to hang on to them.

All I could come up with was, “they are MINE goddammit”. They have served me.

As I continued to listen to people share, I pondered this aspect of resentments, and created an exercise for myself to do later. The exercise would be to treat my resentment as a pair of lenses. I
would put the glasses of resentment on, and take note of the things I saw or experienced. Not just feelings, but actual scenes that I’ve created in my own head that feed the resentment monster.

My hope is that by seeing these more clearly through the resentment glasses, I may be able to let them go on a new level and gain more insight. And, to let go of those layers that no longer serve me in a positive way.

I’ve been having allergic reactions to lithium and abilify recently, the abilify added after I had to quit lithium, cold turkey. The abilify was even worse, and made me feel really crazy for the first time ever– manic, mixed, unable to concentrate, on the verge of rage. Even my worst depressions never left me doubting myself so much. Fortunately, yet again, my great doctors spotted what was going on at an early stage, and now I am off both drugs and going through withdrawal. The withdrawal’s been more of the same, just only slightly less severe each day, and slightly better after each nap, each liter of water, each massage, as the poisons slowly leach there way out.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Mornings are better/a mostly full night’s sleep/or at least two or three chunks of several hours at a time.
When the antsiness is replaced by weird dreams if you’re lucky/bad ones if the ativan and tylenol and benadryl name brand saviors fall behind the poisons.

With your nocturnal naps under the belt of your bathrobe and some light reading from three to five a.m./and a good liter of water to wash down more name brand saviors/I can mostly function well/well/except I have to pee constantly/pace like a tiger in the zoo/clench dystonic jaw and neck and shoulders and hands into claws of rage and rictus of anxiety/I feel like an animal/in a bad way./To talk wildly/drum fingers constantly/shift and squirm in my seat like a kindergartener/to want to run around the table until it’s time to take an early lunch and walk around the building eight times/more pills/more water.

All day stretching your poor sore stiff self as poisons leach through your pores your pee your sweat/I swear I smell like salt all day/all muscles poisoned, protesting, screaming for relief, especially when you are so distracted you miss the next dose signaled by that cell phone alarm you forgot to answer.

Sitting still is bad enough/talking to someone is worse/keeping in the hypomanic bursts of speech/words burbling like water over stony brooks at icemelt’s bursting./It’s worse after lunch because six hours is really all you’ve got before the name brand saviors cease to be so effective and you need a three hour nap interrupted by a ten minute pee and more nap to feel human again and keep your thoughts from running together like hot caramel overflowing the pot, sticking to everything burning hard to peel away taking forever to cool.

Touch your tightened jaw/your knotted neck/use the sensory trick of touch to tame the tensioned parts momentarily/petting/stroking/pressing/smoothing/soreness frantic when will this stop when will I feel better/maybe I should take just half of the dog that mauled me? to ease it?/but you know that will slow it down, stop it, reverse it, increase it, make it longer harder even worse/unimaginable, unendurable.

You know it can be worse/you know you’re not that bad/you’re home, not at hospital/and while you’re hyped stressed bummed exhausted hurting talking and oh it’s all too much at once/but still you see the light at the end of the tunnel/can say, with reason, that mornings are better/tomorrow will be better than today/and you hope pray wish cry weep for tomorrow to come sooner/soonest for those who don’t know can’t know/deny/relapse/refuse to see/to feel/to believe each morning can be a little better.

Mornings are better, at least for me.

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There was a thought-provoking article in the NYT about the “Mad Pride” movement— about proclaiming our craziness publicly, about being examples of adaptation and function despite it all. Like any movement, any blanket platform, there are lots of threads, some of which are more provocative of thought and agreement and disagreement than others. I’ll try to assemble some thoughts on it next week.

I watched a movie recently called “The Departed”.

There was an exchange of dialog that really struck a chord within me, this is the exchange:

Jack N. character: How’s your Mother?

Irish Man: Ah, she’s on her way out.

Jack N. character: We all are, act accordingly.

Just a few simple words to bring me to the precious present, “act accordingly”.

Act Accordingly.

How many of us that try to escape the monotony of life with things? We fill our closets with things, we fill our pantries, our cars, our bodies, our whole houses and our garages with things. Some how, along the way we get the message that things are what we need in order to feel better.

I have been just as guilty as the next human to always try and reach outside of my own space in order to find the thing that would placate me, give me the feeling of being loved and supported, and pretty. I did this with alcohol and drugs.

When I was high, I felt prettier, smarter, and completely free in a very ethereal way. I was Wonder Woman that could overcome any obstacle that dared to get in my way. When drunk I would start fights with grown men that were much bigger than I.

My desire to accumulate was not out of jealousy or to covet others’ perceived happiness and success. My desire came from the extreme need to not feel the pain. I would do whatever it took to not feel my pain. This desire was so strong I would take other people’s medication if they offered it, and sometimes when they didn’t. I would ingest anything that I thought would stop the pain.

Lucky for me, I made it into recovery and I have 16 years of continuous sobriety. How does one who started out so badly find a way to recovery? Not only find it but stay there? Especially when I had certain family members telling me that I didn’t have a problem. My close friends at the time knew all too well that I had a problem. Denial is so strong that it will cause other people to talk you out of it so that they can continue down their own addiction paths. How dare you attempt happiness when they are not ready yet?

Around the four year mark in sobriety, I started cleaning house. Literally, getting rid of things, possessions that no longer served me. It was a process that started between my ears, and eventually made it’s way to my surroundings. Prior to this, I was a pack rat and saved everything afraid to let anything go as if these were the very things that held me together.

By letting go, I gained a million times in spirit and love that I never would have been able to achieve in my addiction. In fact, everything that my heart desired came to me in sobriety, not in my active addiction. I was unable to feel joy due to my extreme need to push the pain down.

Newly sober I thought by stopping the chemicals and attending meetings my life would be over at 21. The fun of puking in public places, stripping in a crowd, stealing, and not remembering how I’d gotten home were things I thought I would miss.

I can honestly say that at 39 years old, I try each day to act accordingly.  Some days I miss the mark because I am human, but I keep on trying just in case this day will be my last.

There comes a time when we all have to stop offering excuses, and pick up where we rather messily left off.  I’m at that point, and feeling rather proud of myself for doing something really incremental– taking the call of a creditor on some health insurance payment snafus.  It’s a drop in the bucket of all the stuff I’ve got left to wade through, swim through, not drown in, but until the last week or two, I just haven’t felt up to the task of being functional.  I still don’t really feel up to it, but I do feel more up to it than I have.  And I’ve got to start sometime.  But I still want to excuse myself from my behavior– I’m not normally like this, I’m usually more of your 45 day billing cycle procrastinator, every three week housecleaner and laundry doer, who still gets stuff done.

“My mother went rather spectacularly mad,” I could say.

“I have bipolar and have been having a difficult time adjusting to my new medication,” I might put it, mildly.

“The endless winter this year has made me even SAD-der than usual.”  That’s true.

If I was feeling really TMI?  “My thyroid is also falling apart and I am a rashy mess of brittle nails and hair, swollen hands and feet, and lumpy throat.  And I’m even colder all the time than I was before.  And I could lie down on the subway and sleep, I’m that tired.”

“I’m depressed and scared and elated and paralyzed and whirring with activity all at once at potentially leaving litigation forever, and starting a whole different career,” I could also say, at least as if I was in my therapist’s office.

All of these are true.  And they’re what come to mind when I wonder why my house is a mess, my bills are a mess, my life is a mess.  But at the same time?  I’m tired of making excuses.  I think I’m almost recovered enough that I just need to start plowing through, as painful as it is, and start taking those creditor calls, opening those bills, slaying those dust hippos, climbing those mountains of laundry.  In short, sucking it up.  No more excuses– even though I’m still tired, even though I can’t wear a turtleneck or scarf because my thyroid’s so tender, even though I don’t fit in my normal-sized clothes, even though I’m still not at a fully effective dose on my meds, and therefore prone to weepy-whiny-crankiness.

But life is what happens when you’re making other plans, or even just lying down in the middle of it, letting it wash over you.  I’m going to get more than a bit winded, trying to keep up, but I’m restless and productive enough now, I think, to pick myself up slowly, painfully, start catching up.

As I sit here, on a balcony staring out into the ocean, listening to the waves breaking, feeling the cool mist on my face, my mind wanders towards unlocking the secrets of the ocean and all the stories it holds.

I think of the people and their the secrets it’s met, the items it’s stolen from the shores as it moves in and out all day long, the vessels carrying treasures that have been pulled deep down into its deathly grip.

Those that have offered themselves up to its escape, hoping to swim their way into a new and free life, trying to escape the perils of a communist government.

Or, how many have relied upon the ocean for their final exit, hoping to release themselves from the pain of life. This thought, is the one I have wondered the most.

Each time I am in the presence of Mother Nature and all her greatness, I become Alice in wonderland, falling into the rabbit hole. As I fall, becoming smaller and smaller submitting to her will as I give up my own.

It brings me peace to know that humans will never really unlock the secrets, nor will we ever be able to control Mother Nature.

There are places that need to be left untouched and unfettered in order to remind all of us that there are much bigger things beyond our control, that work just fine without our involvement.

I believe humans try to control entirely too much myself included, we build bridges and walls to try and block out the tides of the ocean, or the falling rocks. Yet, we all know when Mother Nature decides to dance; we have no protection.

Something in this brings me a sort of peace, similar to the feeling of unrequited love. We must let go, turn ourselves over to her mysteries and in doing so, we become free.

In reality, unlocking the secrets is not my real goal; I prefer the feelings of melancholy, hope, and inspiration that Mother Nature brings to me.

I fear I would lose my passion, and join the others that believed their answers lie in trading their life for her eternal protection.

When I was in high school, I played the organized (thuggery) sport of field hockey.  It’s not a genteel sport for ladies, or at least it wasn’t in the Greater Boston Division One league.  Pushing, shoving, high sticking, tripping and fouling when we hoped the refs weren’t looking—if it only pushed the bounds of dirty, we pushed it.  (And had more than a few fistfights after games to prove it.)  But it was all a part of our love of the game. 

I wasn’t an all-around athlete, but I was a good defenseman—halfback, fullback, and occasional goalie as the changes in the line up dictated.  But I could drive and tackle, defend corners, pass, flick, scoop, and make penalty shots with the best.  I was blessed with a team that functioned as a team.  My offense was there, up ahead, making themselves open so I could dribble and dodge the other teams offense, and push them the ball or drive it up the sidelines to a waiting wing or center.  I had a long drive, so I also had league record number of assists for a defenseman.  I drove a ball so hard one time from just the other side of the 50 yard line that some of the opposing players jumped out of the way.  And the joy of the game well played more than made up for the laps I hated to run, the sprints I had to do.  Stickwork drills?  All over that.  Running?  Not so much.  But tackling an opposing player, stealing the ball, passing it to my wing, and having her flick it into the upper corner of the net?  All the sprints were worth it. 

Life is like field hockey in that it’s played with very little external padding.  When I played, we wore mouthpieces and shin guards.  That’s it.  No helmets, no padded glovers, no chest pads—despite the fact that concussions from balls to the head, and ruptured spleens from balls and stick-ends to the gut were a frequent occurrence.  And even with the padding, we were still open to injury.  Broken fingers, noses?  I’ve had several, some twice.  And that ball?  A larger-than-baseball-sized solid plastic ball, driven at as much as 75 mph (my hardest driving speed) by a fiberglass-reinforced oak stick of no small dimensions.  It hurts. 

In my sophomore year, I got whacked on my left shin one day intercepting a straight-for-the-goal drive from a player on the Bishop Fenwick team, and even through the shin pad, I could feel it start to sting.  The hit was so hard it didn’t even really bruise—it just became a hard, sore mass right in the center of the shin.  For weeks, it sent stinging, shooting pain up my leg, every time I ran on it.  Since the xray was negative, I learned to ignore it.  For months afterward, the lightest brush was excruciating.  So I taped a small gel pad on between my shinguard and my leg, and kept playing.  For three years, it was tender to the touch.  I learned not to touch it.  I never thought it would heal—but it did, while my attention was elsewhere.  (Only to promptly get whacked again in the same place during college field hockey tryouts—but that’s another life metaphor, for another time.)

I was reminded of this after a recent fight with my mom, who, less than three weeks after her release from the hospital for another psychotic/manic episode, accused my brother and I of trying to take control of her money and leave her in the poorhouse.  Currently, we’re not speaking, since she had the gall to tell me that I had no idea what being depressed was like. (I believe I said “I find that hard to believe, since you gave me the f-cking bipolar…nice f-cking present.  Thanks.”).  Afterward, I was angry for letting her goad me, and then angry at her for being Queen MeMeMe– but then I accepted that I’ve just got sore spots that she pokes, hard, intentionally or not.  But I was still despairing of the whole situation, until I remembered what I’d learned from my field hockey bruise– some things just take longer to heal.  Even if you think they never will, they very well might, long after you’ve learned to function, walking wounded, and have gotten on with things.  One day, the sore spot will be gone.  So for now, I am going to ignore my most recent sore spot, pad it as best I can, and trust that it’ll heal when it’s good and ready.  It’s the only thing I can do– I’ve got a life to live in the meantime.

I am a control freak, a perfectionist.  I am sure that some of it is the “nurture” effect of being an ACOA, but that’s not all it.  I am, by nature, a Type A as well, and the need to achieve, to prove, to surmount, to perfect is at the firm core of my personality, like the cookie center of a Twix candy bar. 

The ACOA part of the control freak includes the irrational belief that if things go the way I plan, then everything will be Fine.  But I am not Ganesha, remover of obstacles, equipped with the many arms needed to remove roadblocks and keep all those balls in the air. 

The Type A control freak is a little milder than the adult child—the urge to control comes from self-confidence in my intelligence and skills, coupled with just wanting to win.  Of course, the Type A control freak can be just as dangerous—the insistence on doing it my way is not conducive to cooperative working and family relationships.

And buried beneath all of that it my inner child.  She is all to willing to shed the outer adult skin, ill-fitting, stifling, too hot and too cold all at once.  The inside me wants to cede control, yield responsibility.  I want someone to take care of me.  To take care of it.  To take care of everything, always.  Because I’m 33, and feel 80 sometimes, I’ve been working so hard.  I’m tired of being Right, being Responsible. 

Learning to share control is the hardest.  My Type A is convinced that My Way is Right.  Therefore, everyone else is wrong—why would I do it any way but mine?  My Adult Child is afraid—if I don’t do it, I am pathologically certain that no one else will.  I took up those burdens because no one else was, or could—whatever the reason, the fact remains that I am Eldest, Responsible.  Perhaps I was unconsciously self-appointed at first, but in being reliable, others allowed me to remain responsible, ceded their obligations to keep things going. 

In my friendships and loves, I’ve carried Control on my shoulders—until the sheer weight of it caused me to collapse.  Sprawled on the ground, gasping for emotional breathing room, grasping for a sense of self that had nothing to do with solving other people’s problems all the time, I would disappoint the expectations of miracle work I had encouraged others to believe.  When I let them down, they were, in some ways, right to be angry, disappointed, to never speak to me again.  Some of these friends I’m glad are gone from my life, since now I know they were emotional black holes, never reflecting any light or warmth.  But others I miss dearly, and I regret my failures, whether it sprung from something healthy or not.

I’m slowly, creepingly, glacially, trying to not say yes to everything.  I’m slowly trying to let others volunteer first, and to do it their way.  The world won’t end because I wouldn’t have done it that way.  Often enough, my pride is mere vanity.  I’m painfully learning discernment—what requires my real skills and abilities, and what can be done by others, without harm to anyone.  Most frighteningly, I am trying to listen to my inner child, and hear her when she says “I can’t do this alone,” and ask for help.  But yielding control is at least different from losing control, and since so much of my control comes from wanting to please those I love, yielding, ceding, sharing control, asking for help avoids failing those I love.

The self-control, to not take control, is exhausting, exhilarating, illuminating.  Eliminating the knee-jerk assumption of control?  It will be a long journey.  But after many years, I finally think I have an atlas, and a map light.