Goddammit I hate memory sometimes.
And everything it leads to. Nostalgia. Reminiscence. A concrete sense of Self. Rambling, confessional blog posts about supposed childhood sexual traumas. And so forth.
After all that, after my whole humiliating confessional frenzy here in my last few posts (holy crap, was that all the way back in February??), I have to admit now that I'm not entirely sure my memory of these early experiences is even correct. And I've wanted to write and post this explanation for a good while now, because those posts are still sitting there on the front page, like a severed head at a dinner party; but I've been alternately too busy, or, mostly, too embarrassed by the whole ordeal to want to return to it. But I can't just leave that shit up there for anyone to read without any context or resolution. I have to put this to bed.
So here's how it all started. I was driving to work that February morning, and there was a discussion on the radio of how children respond to parental abuse. I don't remember what it was exactly, but something they said reminded me of this childhood friend (I'm going to start calling him "Bill" just so that I have a name to refer to him by). I hadn't thought about Bill in many, many years. I remembered some of our experiences together, and I remembered his big, angry father. And that's when I suddenly made the connection and realized, "Oh! Bill was abused by his father!" And everything else just followed from that.
I still believe that to be true; I believe Bill was abused (at least mentally and emotionally, if not physically or sexually) by his father. But the rest of it, I must admit now, I am significantly less sure about. I know that Bill and I "played doctor," but I don't remember all that we did. I don't actually remember how far our sexual play went. And, I am forced to admit to myself and all of you now, I don't actually remember who suggested what. I thought I did at the time, but I've since realized that's not true. It was just too long ago now for me to remember it clearly. It was so long ago that even the things I do remember clearly are suspect. And through my research I discovered that I would be forced to admit something else, something much worse: it is entirely possible that I am the one who abused him.
Reading through literature on the subject, I was surprised to find out that one of the more common, and yet least often discussed, forms of childhood sexual abuse is to simply educate a child about sex too much at too early an age. (It had never even occurred to me before my research that this could possibly be considered a form of abuse.) Sex is one of the most complicated and complex of all human interactions, and a 4 or 5 year-old child is simply too underdeveloped to be able to fully understand it (hell, a lot of adults are too underdeveloped to be able to fully understand it, for that matter); and so therefore giving a child that age too much information on the subject can often lead them to act out behaviors that they are not able to fully understand, process, or deal with in a meaningful way. That's the basic idea.
My mother's policy was that if I was old enough to ask the question, then I was old enough to hear the answer. And she was always very quick to let me know that if I ever had any questions at all, she would do her best to try to answer them truthfully and completely. And she lived by that statement. And I was a very curious boy. I had a lot of questions. And she answered every one she could. So I remember that throughout my childhood, basically until high school, I always knew more about sex (among many other things) than any of my friends or classmates seemed to. I was proud of that, actually. It made me feel grown-up. It made me feel strong. And superior. (Realizing now, as I type this, that this may have something to do with why I value intelligence so highly, in both myself and others.)
But in terms of my memories of my experiences with Bill, that throws everything into a new light. I only actually remember one thing we did that was definitely Bill's idea, and while that was a little dirty, it also wasn't exactly sexual, either (we were naked, but there was no touching); it would fall squarely in the category of "normative childhood sexual play." I don't actually remember what else we may have done, or who might've suggested any of it. But I know that in my memories of all the other boys (and some girls) who came after Bill, I was definitely the aggressor.
The hard part to admit, is that when I suddenly realized that morning that Bill had been abused by his father, I didn't then "realize" that he had actually been acting out his abuse on me, as I originally wrote. No, the truth was that I actually just assumed that was the case, and didn't recognize that I was making an assumption. "OMG, Bill was abused by his father! What do abused children do? They act out that same abuse on others. He must've been doing that to me when we played doctor! So that's why I then went on to do it others; I was acting out his abuse on me! That's where it all started! It makes perfect sense." And it does make perfect sense. But that doesn't automatically make it true, either.
I still don't know what happened back then, and I probably never will. But I have to admit that the much more likely scenario seems to be that I was actually a victim of childhood sexual abuse, but the abuser was my mother, not Bill. And it seems much more likely that I was acting out my abuse on him (and all the other boys and girls that came after him) rather than the other way around.
Bill moved away before we even hit puberty. I haven't seen or heard from him since I was a child. I have no idea what his life has been like.
If you're still out there, "Bill," I hope you're okay. And if you're not... all I can say is, I'm so, so sorry.
It wasn't my fault. I was only a child.
Showing posts with label dilemma. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dilemma. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 27, 2015
Tuesday, February 10, 2015
Apparent Exaggerations...
Still need more time to write out the full story/explanation, but I did learn something that requires an immediate update.
I knew that the language I used yesterday didn't feel quite right. It seemed inflammatory, and loaded with a ton of connotations that were not actually part of the experience I was trying to communicate. But what other language was I supposed to use? How else was I supposed to describe it?
Well, finally getting around last night to doing some very preliminary research into the topic of child-on-child sexual abuse, revealed the rather obvious fact that I'm not the only person in the world who has ever had experiences like these, and that as such, there is already a whole lexicon available to me to describe it, if I had only bothered to look.
I learned right off the bat that I was not, in fact, molested. I was not abused. What happened to me would be characterized as "Normative Childhood Sexual Play," even if it was a little more advanced than most. The difference being, I was never coerced, or threatened, or manipulated, or made to do anything I didn't want to do. All this friend of mine did was suggest the ideas; I went along with them willingly, even excitedly. And I enjoyed them completely, to the point that I then went on to suggest them to all my other friends for the next 20 years.
What I went through was a normal part of growing up that pretty much everyone goes through at some point. The big difference for me, was that it happened to me about 10 years earlier than the average. I was regularly having sex in elementary school, and I was having the kind of sex that most other people don't even know about, much less start trying to engage in, until middle school or high school. (Oddly, I steadfastly maintained my virginity, however technical, until I was much older; I think having so much sex as a child made my virginity seem more precious to me somehow, and I was determined to save it until I found someone I really loved.)
I still think my friend was abused, though. It's the only explanation I have right now for how he could be so sexually aggressive, and adventurous, and knowledgeable, at such a young age. And so it's still possible that, from his point of view, he was acting out from his history of abuse. But whether he was attempting to abuse me or not (who knows how he would've responded if I'd said no), I wasn't abused. I went willingly, and loved every minute of it.
And while I feel a lot better now, knowing that I don't actually have to wear the "childhood sexual abuse victim" label for the rest of my life, there's still a lot left here that I need to unpack. I'm still not sure what all this means, or what I'm supposed to do with this new information.
I knew that the language I used yesterday didn't feel quite right. It seemed inflammatory, and loaded with a ton of connotations that were not actually part of the experience I was trying to communicate. But what other language was I supposed to use? How else was I supposed to describe it?
Well, finally getting around last night to doing some very preliminary research into the topic of child-on-child sexual abuse, revealed the rather obvious fact that I'm not the only person in the world who has ever had experiences like these, and that as such, there is already a whole lexicon available to me to describe it, if I had only bothered to look.
I learned right off the bat that I was not, in fact, molested. I was not abused. What happened to me would be characterized as "Normative Childhood Sexual Play," even if it was a little more advanced than most. The difference being, I was never coerced, or threatened, or manipulated, or made to do anything I didn't want to do. All this friend of mine did was suggest the ideas; I went along with them willingly, even excitedly. And I enjoyed them completely, to the point that I then went on to suggest them to all my other friends for the next 20 years.
What I went through was a normal part of growing up that pretty much everyone goes through at some point. The big difference for me, was that it happened to me about 10 years earlier than the average. I was regularly having sex in elementary school, and I was having the kind of sex that most other people don't even know about, much less start trying to engage in, until middle school or high school. (Oddly, I steadfastly maintained my virginity, however technical, until I was much older; I think having so much sex as a child made my virginity seem more precious to me somehow, and I was determined to save it until I found someone I really loved.)
I still think my friend was abused, though. It's the only explanation I have right now for how he could be so sexually aggressive, and adventurous, and knowledgeable, at such a young age. And so it's still possible that, from his point of view, he was acting out from his history of abuse. But whether he was attempting to abuse me or not (who knows how he would've responded if I'd said no), I wasn't abused. I went willingly, and loved every minute of it.
And while I feel a lot better now, knowing that I don't actually have to wear the "childhood sexual abuse victim" label for the rest of my life, there's still a lot left here that I need to unpack. I'm still not sure what all this means, or what I'm supposed to do with this new information.
Monday, February 9, 2015
We Are What We Remember We Are...
I realized this morning, that I was - rather technically, I must caveat - molested by one of my very first childhood friends. And that this series of events was directly responsible for shaping a very large portion of my personality; of who I still am today.
I'm honestly not sure how I feel about this. There's way too much story there to be able to tell it all right now. But I had to at least get this much, the realization of it, the acknowledgment of it, out of me and into existence, before I forgot it again, or subsumed it in some other way.
I feel like I'm supposed to be upset about this. But I don't think I feel particularly upset about it, at least not yet. (There is a small part of me, however, that is upset at myself for not being upset about it, for whatever that's worth.) I'd always remembered - and still remember - our "playing doctor" as being entirely consensual. (As much as it could be, at least. We were about the same age at the time, so technically, legally, neither of us could consent; but we were also the only ones involved. So how does that work?) So, I've never felt - and still don't feel - victimized in any way. I feel no enmity or ill-will towards this individual, and never have. And the parts of my Self that I can now suddenly attribute to my early friendship with this person (at least, the ones I know about) are not things that I've ever felt particularly bad about or wished to be different. Nor have I ever felt a need to investigate their root, or determine their origin.
Which I guess is part of why it feels so strange to suddenly know where they all come from. I received an answer to an absolutely massive question, before I had ever even asked it in the first place. There's an almost vertigo to it; the sensation of it makes you dizzy. A memory you've had for almost 40 years, and suddenly, from out of nowhere and apropos of nothing, one tiny little detail you'd left behind somewhere along the way comes back into focus; and it fits like a keystone into place with all the other memories it connects to: that time, that place, those people; filling in a hole you never knew was there; and now you see it all so clearly, understanding it all for the very first time, after 40 years; and that realization leads to another, which leads to another, cascading down through your history like a line of dominoes, until suddenly four decades of Self have been re-written. You understand yourself now in a new, better, more complete way, a more whole way, than you ever have before. But you also know now, that you're not who you thought you were; and you never have been. So, then, who are you?
That's kind of a lot to handle when it all hits you in a matter of seconds while you're driving down the highway late to work on a Monday morning.
So, yeah. This one's gonna take a while to unpack, I guess.
I'm honestly not sure how I feel about this. There's way too much story there to be able to tell it all right now. But I had to at least get this much, the realization of it, the acknowledgment of it, out of me and into existence, before I forgot it again, or subsumed it in some other way.
I feel like I'm supposed to be upset about this. But I don't think I feel particularly upset about it, at least not yet. (There is a small part of me, however, that is upset at myself for not being upset about it, for whatever that's worth.) I'd always remembered - and still remember - our "playing doctor" as being entirely consensual. (As much as it could be, at least. We were about the same age at the time, so technically, legally, neither of us could consent; but we were also the only ones involved. So how does that work?) So, I've never felt - and still don't feel - victimized in any way. I feel no enmity or ill-will towards this individual, and never have. And the parts of my Self that I can now suddenly attribute to my early friendship with this person (at least, the ones I know about) are not things that I've ever felt particularly bad about or wished to be different. Nor have I ever felt a need to investigate their root, or determine their origin.
Which I guess is part of why it feels so strange to suddenly know where they all come from. I received an answer to an absolutely massive question, before I had ever even asked it in the first place. There's an almost vertigo to it; the sensation of it makes you dizzy. A memory you've had for almost 40 years, and suddenly, from out of nowhere and apropos of nothing, one tiny little detail you'd left behind somewhere along the way comes back into focus; and it fits like a keystone into place with all the other memories it connects to: that time, that place, those people; filling in a hole you never knew was there; and now you see it all so clearly, understanding it all for the very first time, after 40 years; and that realization leads to another, which leads to another, cascading down through your history like a line of dominoes, until suddenly four decades of Self have been re-written. You understand yourself now in a new, better, more complete way, a more whole way, than you ever have before. But you also know now, that you're not who you thought you were; and you never have been. So, then, who are you?
That's kind of a lot to handle when it all hits you in a matter of seconds while you're driving down the highway late to work on a Monday morning.
So, yeah. This one's gonna take a while to unpack, I guess.
Thursday, September 11, 2014
We Become Merlin, Lord Of The Geeks...
the Man is no longer a Man
in this day and age
he is a strange Middle-Aged Boy
an Aging Adolescent
hair going grey
with the hours whittled away
on Xbox video games
the Man that is a Man
is of a bygone age
The Real Man in the films of old
Age-ed Anachronism
strong and proud and brave
standing tall to face the day
and keep the wolves at bay
that I am a Man-who-is-not-a-Man
a product of this modern age
has vexed my Heart and Soul
my Arrested Ascension
how can I always play
when a Real Man works all day
but really who's to say?
the Boy is also a Man
in our culture at this stage
in truth both young and old
Advancing Adolescence
we get to play our lives away
yet still have bills to pay
the balance of the middle way
I am a Boy and I am a Man
by internal and external age
work only to play is my road
an Admirable Aspiration
that I get to live My Way
a little boyhood every day
is the great gift of this age
Fuck it
I'll be okay
Friday, October 4, 2013
Making Excuses...
I haven't written in a long time. Long enough that it is beginning to weigh on me.
I've been busy. I haven't had much time to write.
But I have had time.
And when I've had the time, I haven't had the energy.
And when I've had the energy, and the time, I haven't had the desire.
And when I've had the desire, and the energy, and the time, I haven't been inspired.
And when all my stars have finally aligned in the heavens of my birth, and I have found myself inspired, and with a desire to write, and the energy to do it, and the time to do it in - I haven't had the tools at hand.
It's happened several times while I was driving. It's happened in the sauna, and the steam room. It's happened late at night, just as I'm falling asleep. It's happened while I was rushing to get ready in the morning, late for work. It's happened in meetings. It's happened on the toilet.
I've tried to write without keyboard or pen, but I've yet to meet any measure of success. The process is completely different. My mind must then be constantly pre-occupied with remembering and reciting and memorizing whatever I've written to that point, while simultaneously trying to determine what comes next.
But when I have a keyboard - or paper and pen in a pinch - I can focus entirely on feeling out the next line; all I have to do is express.
What I realize as I observe this, is that making it up in my head is simply not my style.
But it's all I've got right now. And I am clogging up.
I've been busy. I haven't had much time to write.
But I have had time.
And when I've had the time, I haven't had the energy.
And when I've had the energy, and the time, I haven't had the desire.
And when I've had the desire, and the energy, and the time, I haven't been inspired.
And when all my stars have finally aligned in the heavens of my birth, and I have found myself inspired, and with a desire to write, and the energy to do it, and the time to do it in - I haven't had the tools at hand.
It's happened several times while I was driving. It's happened in the sauna, and the steam room. It's happened late at night, just as I'm falling asleep. It's happened while I was rushing to get ready in the morning, late for work. It's happened in meetings. It's happened on the toilet.
I've tried to write without keyboard or pen, but I've yet to meet any measure of success. The process is completely different. My mind must then be constantly pre-occupied with remembering and reciting and memorizing whatever I've written to that point, while simultaneously trying to determine what comes next.
But when I have a keyboard - or paper and pen in a pinch - I can focus entirely on feeling out the next line; all I have to do is express.
What I realize as I observe this, is that making it up in my head is simply not my style.
But it's all I've got right now. And I am clogging up.
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
Lost In Recvoery...
Ok, so, in hindsight, clearly not the most righteous stance I've ever taken. But I still don't think I did anything wrong. And I just can't help but bristle at the idea that my attempt to view an explicit media with clear artistic merit has caused me to get lumped into the same group as the guy who spends his lunch hour spanking it in his office. And it really bothers me that, because of this, I now have to fear for my job. That just seems wrong to me, but I'll drop the subject now, I swear.
In other news, I think I'm going to go back to a SMART meeting tonight, if I can get home in time. (Yesterday's Inauguration has snarled traffic all through the surrounding area.) I haven't been to a SMART meeting in months. It got to the point where they became more of a hassle then they were worth. I never got very much out of the meetings, and I often felt worse afterwards, which struck me as rather counter-productive. And having to give up every Tuesday night (and Tuesday morning for that matter, as I had to get to work early to make sure I could leave early so that I could get to the meetings on time) became rather tiresome. I wanted to make sure I attended enough meetings on a regular basis to establish myself in the group, and to be sure to give them a fair chance (and not make any decisions based on first impressions), and get a sense of what I could expect from SMART in general, and from this group in particular. And I accomplished that. And if I'd felt as if I was having trouble maintaining my sobriety, or that attending these meetings would help me maintain my sobriety in any way, then I would've continued to attend. But, as neither of those were the case, I decided to take my Tuesday nights back, knowing that this group was always there, should I ever need help again.
And now, I think I do. I had always assumed that, in regards to my sobriety, the only person's reaction I needed to be concerned about, was my own. It never occurred to me that other people that I care about might have as difficult a time dealing with my sobriety as I did. I've known that my wife has been missing her "drinking buddy" since I sobered up; we established that early on, in just the first couple of months. But, honestly, I didn't really think much of it; it just didn't seem that important. She didn't seem all that upset about it, and my focus, frankly, especially in those early months, had to be on maintaining my sobriety, and not on whether or not She had someone to get drunk with on Friday nights. I don't think either of us realized just how important it really was to Her, or that it was actually about much more than just missing Her "drinking buddy" - it was about my entire personality changing, again, and for the first time, changing in respect to the ways that I treat Her. And as the months have dragged on and on, and the situation has remained unchanged, Her feelings about it have apparently grown worse and worse, until we are at the point now where it has become a painful and difficult problem in our marriage.
And I don't know what to do about it. I thought things had unarguably changed for the better. I'm much more even-keeled now than I ever have been before. Yes, I still have my ups and downs, but everyone does. But whereas before every emotion was turned up to eleven, now I never get much higher than a four or five. I used to be full volume every minute of every day. Every high was the highest high possible, and every low was the lowest I could get. And in terms of how I treated Her, that meant that when I was happy with Her, she was the Sun, Moon, and Stars to me, and I loved her more than Romeo ever loved Juliet; my entire world revolved around her. (Which sounds beautifully romantic at first, but try living up to such ridiculous and fantastical standards for ten years. It can't be done. And I did a lot of damage to our relationship trying to keep her up on that pedestal for so many years.) But it also means that when I wasn't happy with her, I hated her, because she was completely ruining my entire fucking life.
Now, my feelings never get that ridiculously, over-the-top intense. I still love her, and I still sometimes get angry with her, but I don't treat her like the be-all-end-all of my existence, nor do I treat her like the worst thing that ever happened to me. All of my feelings for her, both good and bad, are much softer and quieter, much more reasonable and responsible, much more practical; and so completely fucking boring. Because while both of us are clearly glad that I no longer feel such intense anger at her every time she makes me feel anything bad, from her point of view, my world used to revolve around Her. And now it doesn't. And that hurts her. It hurts in a way she has a very difficult time understanding, or articulating. And it's very confusing. Because while she's certainly glad that I don't yell at her anymore, and while she is definitely very proud of me for all that I've accomplished these past eight months, she's also really hurt and upset; she feels rejected, because, from her point of view, I don't seem to love her as much as I used to. Which isn't true at all; I still love her just as much as I used to, I just don't express it as intensely. But how can she be expected to know what I'm really feeling, if I've completely changed the way that I express those feelings?
And then, on top of all of the hurt and rejection she's already feeling, she ends up feeling very guilty, too. She feels guilty because she understands that my sobriety is clearly a good thing for me, and she wants to be able to support me in that and feel proud of me. And by feeling hurt and upset in response to my sobriety, regardless of how else she feels about it, she feels like she is doing something wrong, and hurting me, and undermining my sobriety. Which, unfortunately, I have to agree with, in a sense. It definitely hurts me to know that I'm hurting her. And it definitely makes me want to drink, because I feel like that would make her happy (and I'm kind of hard-wired to want to make her happy). But I don't think she's doing anything wrong; on that point we disagree. I can't blame her for how she feels, at all. I would almost certainly feel the same thing in her place. And I think it can be said that, almost certainly, she has been the one the most hurt, she has been the one who has lost the most, she has been the one who has sacrificed the most, for my sobriety. And I could never expect her to just be a hundred percent happy about that. I feel horribly naive for not anticipating it ahead of time.
But now, what do I do? How am I supposed to respond to this? How should we deal with it? What can we do about it? In the addiction/recovery cycle, most people end up feeling like they lost their loved ones to the addiction side of things, when the addict reaches the point where the only thing they are capable of caring about anymore is using. We're really fortunate that we've never had to face that problem. But I've never heard of anyone feeling like they lost their loved one to sobriety. In all of my experience with addiction and recovery, I've never heard anyone say, "Now that you're sober, you don't love me the way that you used to." And now that we're unfortunate enough to be faced with that problem, I have no idea how to deal with it. I have no experience to draw on.
And, so, back to SMART. I'm hoping someone there has some experience with this, or has at least heard of it before. At the very least, I'm hoping to come away with some perspective.
Will me luck.
In other news, I think I'm going to go back to a SMART meeting tonight, if I can get home in time. (Yesterday's Inauguration has snarled traffic all through the surrounding area.) I haven't been to a SMART meeting in months. It got to the point where they became more of a hassle then they were worth. I never got very much out of the meetings, and I often felt worse afterwards, which struck me as rather counter-productive. And having to give up every Tuesday night (and Tuesday morning for that matter, as I had to get to work early to make sure I could leave early so that I could get to the meetings on time) became rather tiresome. I wanted to make sure I attended enough meetings on a regular basis to establish myself in the group, and to be sure to give them a fair chance (and not make any decisions based on first impressions), and get a sense of what I could expect from SMART in general, and from this group in particular. And I accomplished that. And if I'd felt as if I was having trouble maintaining my sobriety, or that attending these meetings would help me maintain my sobriety in any way, then I would've continued to attend. But, as neither of those were the case, I decided to take my Tuesday nights back, knowing that this group was always there, should I ever need help again.
And now, I think I do. I had always assumed that, in regards to my sobriety, the only person's reaction I needed to be concerned about, was my own. It never occurred to me that other people that I care about might have as difficult a time dealing with my sobriety as I did. I've known that my wife has been missing her "drinking buddy" since I sobered up; we established that early on, in just the first couple of months. But, honestly, I didn't really think much of it; it just didn't seem that important. She didn't seem all that upset about it, and my focus, frankly, especially in those early months, had to be on maintaining my sobriety, and not on whether or not She had someone to get drunk with on Friday nights. I don't think either of us realized just how important it really was to Her, or that it was actually about much more than just missing Her "drinking buddy" - it was about my entire personality changing, again, and for the first time, changing in respect to the ways that I treat Her. And as the months have dragged on and on, and the situation has remained unchanged, Her feelings about it have apparently grown worse and worse, until we are at the point now where it has become a painful and difficult problem in our marriage.
And I don't know what to do about it. I thought things had unarguably changed for the better. I'm much more even-keeled now than I ever have been before. Yes, I still have my ups and downs, but everyone does. But whereas before every emotion was turned up to eleven, now I never get much higher than a four or five. I used to be full volume every minute of every day. Every high was the highest high possible, and every low was the lowest I could get. And in terms of how I treated Her, that meant that when I was happy with Her, she was the Sun, Moon, and Stars to me, and I loved her more than Romeo ever loved Juliet; my entire world revolved around her. (Which sounds beautifully romantic at first, but try living up to such ridiculous and fantastical standards for ten years. It can't be done. And I did a lot of damage to our relationship trying to keep her up on that pedestal for so many years.) But it also means that when I wasn't happy with her, I hated her, because she was completely ruining my entire fucking life.
Now, my feelings never get that ridiculously, over-the-top intense. I still love her, and I still sometimes get angry with her, but I don't treat her like the be-all-end-all of my existence, nor do I treat her like the worst thing that ever happened to me. All of my feelings for her, both good and bad, are much softer and quieter, much more reasonable and responsible, much more practical; and so completely fucking boring. Because while both of us are clearly glad that I no longer feel such intense anger at her every time she makes me feel anything bad, from her point of view, my world used to revolve around Her. And now it doesn't. And that hurts her. It hurts in a way she has a very difficult time understanding, or articulating. And it's very confusing. Because while she's certainly glad that I don't yell at her anymore, and while she is definitely very proud of me for all that I've accomplished these past eight months, she's also really hurt and upset; she feels rejected, because, from her point of view, I don't seem to love her as much as I used to. Which isn't true at all; I still love her just as much as I used to, I just don't express it as intensely. But how can she be expected to know what I'm really feeling, if I've completely changed the way that I express those feelings?
And then, on top of all of the hurt and rejection she's already feeling, she ends up feeling very guilty, too. She feels guilty because she understands that my sobriety is clearly a good thing for me, and she wants to be able to support me in that and feel proud of me. And by feeling hurt and upset in response to my sobriety, regardless of how else she feels about it, she feels like she is doing something wrong, and hurting me, and undermining my sobriety. Which, unfortunately, I have to agree with, in a sense. It definitely hurts me to know that I'm hurting her. And it definitely makes me want to drink, because I feel like that would make her happy (and I'm kind of hard-wired to want to make her happy). But I don't think she's doing anything wrong; on that point we disagree. I can't blame her for how she feels, at all. I would almost certainly feel the same thing in her place. And I think it can be said that, almost certainly, she has been the one the most hurt, she has been the one who has lost the most, she has been the one who has sacrificed the most, for my sobriety. And I could never expect her to just be a hundred percent happy about that. I feel horribly naive for not anticipating it ahead of time.
But now, what do I do? How am I supposed to respond to this? How should we deal with it? What can we do about it? In the addiction/recovery cycle, most people end up feeling like they lost their loved ones to the addiction side of things, when the addict reaches the point where the only thing they are capable of caring about anymore is using. We're really fortunate that we've never had to face that problem. But I've never heard of anyone feeling like they lost their loved one to sobriety. In all of my experience with addiction and recovery, I've never heard anyone say, "Now that you're sober, you don't love me the way that you used to." And now that we're unfortunate enough to be faced with that problem, I have no idea how to deal with it. I have no experience to draw on.
And, so, back to SMART. I'm hoping someone there has some experience with this, or has at least heard of it before. At the very least, I'm hoping to come away with some perspective.
Will me luck.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Back Burner Blurble...
I give up. I've re-written it and re-worked it over and over again and again until the words don't even mean anything to me anymore. It's still not perfect, but it's definitely the best I can do.
But then I started questioning whether to post it at all. It just didn't feel right. I began to wonder whether it would be a mistake. I've spent the last three days wrestling with that dilemma, and I've decided to just let it go. And that's probably for the best.
Some things are better left unsaid.
But then I started questioning whether to post it at all. It just didn't feel right. I began to wonder whether it would be a mistake. I've spent the last three days wrestling with that dilemma, and I've decided to just let it go. And that's probably for the best.
Some things are better left unsaid.
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