The Consequence of Being One's Self

I have a happy baby. How in the world did that happen? She smiles every morning when she wakes up. She is not fussy, except when she needs to tell us something like "I'm hungry." The daycare providers say she is a calm baby, unlike some in the room. My greatest wish for her is to be happy. It's comforting to know that we must be doing something right; that I must be controlling my depression adequately and not taking my frustration and fear and insecurities out on her. Maybe, just maybe, I am different from my dad! Only time will tell.

I've been thinking... the difference between me and others is that I know I am dysfunctional. I know I have issues, I know what they are, and I am SELF-AWARE. I realize I am supremely imperfect and am willing to admit it. I am working to self-correct, but I know I need help to do it. Yes, I have experienced sex and love addiction and destructive codependency, but I am actively trying to get better. The people who judge and criticize me most likely aren't very self-aware and probably aren't cognizant of the dysfunction swirling around them. It's a difficult and dangerous task, rising above the dysfunction that's got a chokehold on you. It's a life-threatening decision to take. Some of us can't bear the consequences, I suppose.

The consequence of allowing myself to be ME and breaking out of the primary dysfunctional system has been abandonment. It's a tough price to pay. Let me tell you, I miss my sister and I mourn the lost opportunity to watch my nephew grow. It has left a hole in my heart. But, the hole in my spirit was more potent and would have been the death of me. I hate being forced to make choices like this, but perhaps I ought to be grateful, for I am alive and am making a wholesome life for myself and my family for the very first time.

NY Times Article

Well, well, look what I bumped into while searching the web this morning....Even though it was written in 2006, it's timeless!

Strung Out on Love and Checked In for Treatment

I can soooo identify with the writer. I honestly didn't expect to see anything in the public media that confronted this issue. I remember being embarrassed while checking in to my program--I wasn't an alcoholic or on drugs. Yet again, I had one of the invisible scars, the psychosomatic reactions that I couldn't whip out and show anyone to prove that something was wrong inside of me. I hunched up in the waiting room, and glanced suspiciously at the other participants, feeling defensive and angry and most of all, unworthy of even being in a treatment program. All I knew was that I felt like SHIT, I was ready to give up because someone didn't want me anymore, and what the FUCK was wrong with me???? I remained in this state for the rest of that day. By the next morning, though, I knew I was in the right place. And I felt very safe--especially in the cafeteria. I chuckled as I read that the author stuffed herself with cookies...the cafeteria was our comfort zone. Always some fragrant aroma of comfort food wafting about. And we all ATE, as in four-course meals, three times a  day. We were encouraged to transition our pain, for the time being, into the comfort of food. And not to mention that this therapy--the psychodrama, family sculpture, never being alone, was HARD work, and we were all famished by the time we walked (in a group of course) to the cafeteria. Of course, exchanging one addiction for another is a no go, but in desperate circumstances, we needed SOMETHING to cling onto when our worlds were dissolving in front of our eyes. And the therapists helped us deal with transferring our addiction and then disengaging from it. And I wouldn't really call comfort eating an addiction (even though I have) in this case. It worked. And it works for hundreds of suffers going through the program each year.

Withdrawal from a person

One more word about this love addiction and then I'll let it go. I never expected to experience physical withdrawal from a person. The Caron time felt like detox, and not only was I emotionally miserable, I also began physical withdrawal, which continued for probably a month after returning. I had heard a lot about alcohol withdrawal at my 12-step meetings, and when I look back on it, that's what was happening. I didn't know the body could react to the withdrawal of another human being as though he were a potent drug (my therapist compares the high and then withdrawal from cocaine), but it's true. I suffered through this list, basically.
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Symptoms of alcohol withdrawal:
Anxiety
Depression
Difficulty thinking clearly
Fatigue
Feeling jumpy or nervous
Feeling shaky
Headache
Insomnia (difficulty falling and staying asleep)
Irritability or excitability
Loss of appetite
Nausea
Pale skin
Palpitations (sensation of feeling the heart beat)
Rapid emotional changes
Sweating, especially on the palms of the hands or the face
Vomiting
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Especially the shaky feeling and sweating, which surprised me. I guess it should have felt familiar, as this is similar to what I experienced during and after my father's visits, but I wasn't able to consciously make the connection at the time. Who can, when you're going through a living hell?

I was unconsciously reliving the intensity and drama of the love-abandonment I experienced when I was younger. That was the bottom line. I had to relive it in order to heal the wounds of the past. It was an integral piece of my recovery puzzle.




Enough now. I have completed this portion of my personal history, and I will allow it to grow old and gather dust in my library of experience.





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