If I Had No Love to Give, I Wouldn’t Give it to You March 21, 2009

I never quite understood what that lyric meant.  Joan Armatrading, assuming you’re reading this, could you please explain?  And yet, it knocked at my brain to be the title for this post.  This reader-beware post that will likely be more 15 minutes of neurotic panic than anything insight-bearing.

How can love just vanish?  My sponsor reminds me that it always comes back, and so far she’s right, but in the moments when it’s gone, it’s the scariest fucking thing.  I’m waiting for C to arrive, which was a change of plans as I was going to go to her tomorrow (today), which by the way I also resented because I’ve been doing so much driving this past week and it takes an hour and a half to get to her, and I’m putting on something a little nicer than the stained white turtleneck I’d been wearing most of the afternoon (it wasn’t stained when I first put it on, but that’s another digression), which I probably also resented as I was making a lot of headway work-wise and wouldn’t necessarily have stopped then, much less to prettify myself or change the sheets or tidy up the place, and I suddenly think, “this isn’t going to work.  I don’t enjoy talking to her.  I’m not intellectually stimulated by her.  This isn’t going to work.”

Now, if this were in any way new information, I might have reacted differently.  But this, sadly, is the flaw I bump up against every goddamn time I’m feeling distant from her.  And when we’re good, I’m fine with it: her emotional IQ is off the charts, she’s smarter than I first gave her credit for, I tend to be drawn to women who are not as intellectually agile/informed as I, yadda, yadda, yadda.  But it’s been 6 months, and my entire relationship life is peppered with these existential crises about my partners, only this time it’s not that she’s not loving enough, or doesn’t make enough money, or isn’t communicative or thoughtful enough – oh, no, all that’s perfect beyond my wildest incarnations.  She’s just a little slow in the verbal department sometimes.  A little obvious.  Lacking in subtlety. Boring. Repetetive.  Nothing at all like this rant.

I’m not going anywhere, so it’s pretty clearly an opportunity to distance myself and not feel love.  But why?  Why am I choosing to protect myself rather than be close?  Because I feel encroached upon?

I’m off to a meeting.  That always helps.  Self-care, in general, usually does.

The Ego Giveth, The Ego Taketh Away March 20, 2009

Being human is just so darn funny sometimes.  I gave C my key, which after 6+ months and having a key under my welcome mat (yes, I am a living cliche) of which she was aware the entire time, I figured no big deal, right? Ha!  Not in my disease-addled brain.  Pretty much from the minute I casually handed it over, I started looking for reasons why she wasn’t good enough for me.  And, as my therapist has pointed out on many occasions, I could find something to pick on about anyone.  George Clooney – couldn’t you just stop being such a prankster for once?  Mother Teresa – that burlap really doesn’t do anything for your complexion.  I know, I know, but in the moment it all feels so fucking real – the committee is saying the same stuff I pull out every goddamn time I’m feeling threatened, and we all know the power of sirens…like a zombie, I return, repeating “she’s not worthy, she’s not worthy…”

Thankfully I have a sponsor whom I believe in and whose relationship I respect, so when she tells me it’s my disease picking the fight, I listen.  And then something magical happens – I find out she’s right, and get to see my own part in the drama.  And that’s always the biggest relief, honestly, to find out it’s not her, but me; that I can’t control what she says but I can control my attitude about it, where I decide to take it.  I am a verbal snob, ridiculously nimble on my conversational feet.  If I have to choose between someone who is loving and grounded and communicative versus someone whose energies go into being a good sparring partner, I’ll gladly take the former, and besides, it’s not a Chinese menu, I’ll take one from column a and one from column b and in neat little containers with a set of chopsticks comes my perfect mate.

I just wrote to an old friend that there is good awaiting us of which we cannot even conceive because we don’t yet have a template for it.  If most of what I got as a youngster was criticism, anger, and volatility, how can I possibly conceive of a different model on my own?  We have to be shown new ways in order to live them ourselves.  That’s where other people come in, where the growth potential is infinite depending on who we choose to walk with.  Someone in one of my meetings said that perception is merely evidence-gathering for our own beliefs, and I think that’s so profound: we don’t see reality as it is, we see reality as we are.  We notice what stands out to us, and what stands out does so because of our own histories, because of what has been made apparent or familiar to us.  So the trick is to get that shaken up a bit, but in a good way.  The trick is to step out of one’s comfort zone, but in a healthy direction.   Therapy can do that if it’s really good, and 12-step meetings can because people share their experience, strength and hope through incredible adversities, and because they don’t judge one another for the lessons that get us there.  The other day, someone in an open AA meeting was counting days, and he had 6.  6 days of sobriety, and when he said it out loud, everyone clapped loudly.  No blame.  No finger-pointing.  Just welcome back, you’re in the right place, the prodigal son returns.

What I vigorously don’t believe is that we can do it alone.  With only my brain, I can only think my thoughts, through the filters of my experience.  That limits me tremendously.  I realize meditation can serve as a channel to something higher, but if my translator isn’t familiar with the language, I’m not going to hear it or understand.  So I keep coming back.  To meetings, to my sponsor, to my girlfriend, to sources of wisdom I believe have been placed in my path as loudspeakers for the messages I need to hear.  My job is to remain open to them, but the rest comes from humility and connection.

Would You Like Some Tea with those Keys? March 5, 2009

I did the thing that makes writers quake in fear and self-loathing: bumped into my little, ridiculously unstable TV dinner tray with my hip, and heard the slosh of my nearly-full tea mug as its contents tipped over this darling, brand-new little netbook.  And yes, the tea contained honey, though thankfully not milk, which I’ve now read is basically a laptop hollow-point bullet.

I’m writing on it now, but the bottom left keys just don’t have the click they once did, and I’m debating on whether to try to return it or not, as I’ve only had it a couple of weeks.

The truth, though?  I’m standing at my kitchen island typing this out on its keys, and guess what’s sitting right next to my arm?  A big ol’ mug of coffee.  With sugar and soy milk, no less.  This morning I realized I was grappling with a lot of shame over what I’d done, the parental voice shouting at me about how I’d treated something new and costly.  But now, I’m just a student/writer/gadget geek who likes a beverage with her stream of consciousness.  I’ll be more careful on that wobbly little Ikea TV tray, but truly, expecting myself not to drink, eat, or pet my animals when I’m working from home is a bit ridiculous, and these things happen.  Imagine if I had a puppy or a kid who knocked over the mug – would I scream at them about how they knew this would happen and did they know how much it would cost to replace?

Maybe I can think of this as more of an electronic hazing ritual: kind of like when we drop that gorgeous new cell phone on the pavement and it gets some huge scratch, but it’s otherwise fine.  We’re disgusted by our clumsiness at first, but then it’s just a cell phone, and it works just as well with its laugh lines and crows’ feet – the scratches and dings become part of its identity.  And we often don’t drop it as calamitously ever again.  What the hell is that about?  At any rate, maybe that’s what I’ve done, and my little machine now has a lazy “z” to remind me of what we’ve been through together.  Like we got a tattoo to drunkenly, stupidly mark this new love forevermore.  Or she did, at least.

Shame’s a toughie, though.  So incredibly useless.  So paralyzing.  Are there people who can feel regret or anger without it turning to shame or self-blame?  Could I interview them, please?  Or get a wee bit of their brain fused with mine?  Awareness, as always, is the first giant step, and I was very loving to myself every time I awakened during the early morning hours with a heaviness in my chest and a mild sense of persecution – I literally wrap my arms around myself and kiss my skin, saying “it’s okay, I love you” over and over again.  It helps – it really does.  It’s what a good parent would do, or a good partner/spouse.  It’s what C would do if she’d been here with me – she’d have talked me down, stroked my skin, suggested all the things that could be done to make the situation better.  To be able to do that for myself is seismic.  What I’d really like this morning is to get to a meeting, but as recovery-intensive as this area is, there isn’t one on Thursday mornings, at least that I know of.  I attend an open AA meditation meeting on Friday mornings that I’m definitely going to tomorrow – there is so much wisdom and humor in that room, and I think one thing AA folks have way over us Al-Anoners is their sense of humor.  When you face death and choose to return, I guess you can find a lot to laugh about.  Not that aspects of my life and recovery haven’t been pee-pants funny, but somehow as a group we seem to take ourselves far more seriously, always probing, thinking, processing.  I guess that’s why we can still drink.  Oh my, that’s kind of funny.

Newton Faulkner is my new music crush.  “Hand Build by Robots” is the album, and I just can’t stop listening to it.  He’s got this sexy, gravelly voice and great guitar skills, which pretty much amounts to love in my book, but he also writes some great lyrics and has a couple of rhythms that I hear in my head and can’t help dancing around to.  One’s on right now (for real – not in my head) – “All I Got.”

Okay, so the laptop’s performed well through this first typing test (all typos are the tea’s fault, though – not mine).  It’s time to get some morning chores done and then settle into using this for its intended purpose – getting my qualifying exam up to snuff.  And if I get stressed, well, maybe you’ll hear from me again later.

Don’t Just Do Something, Stand There March 4, 2009

I think self-care is a foreign concept to many of us – certainly its unfamiliarity is pretty much a prequalification for being an Al-Anon member.  Learning how to be still in one’s own head, learning how to be comfortable in one’s own skin without constantly looking around for some kind of validation, without a touchstone that dictates how we’re supposed to feel, think, act is revolutionary and at times outrageously, squirmingly uncomfortable.  I’m finally here, home, by myself, after a week of busy-ness to rival my mother’s.  She was part of that insane agenda: I worked from the city Wednesday through Friday, stating so early and ending so late there was no way I was going to make the 1.5 hour drive back and forth to my farmhouse each time, so I asked my mother if I could stay in her extra apartment.  When she agreed, it felt ridiculous and rude not to see her, so we managed to find a half hour at 9pm on Thursday in which to catch up a bit about our lives.  When she left, I tried to go to sleep but my heart was pumping so hard I could feel the blood rushing in  my ears.  Like a crisis had been averted through which I’d remained calm, and now I could feel all the attendant feelings, all the panic and “what-if”s of narrowly-missed disaster.

Writing in this calms me – I think it’s a method of self-care, to just put my unedited feelings down, feeling the clickyness of this little machine beneath my fingertips (my new Samsung NC10, by the way, which I think I like very much), tap-tapping my way back to a sense of calm.  Learning how to sit still, how not to quell the panic with still more activity and more interaction, is most definitely the key to self-care for me – going back to my last post, if I know that in the end, food, chocolate, retail therapy and sex aren’t ultimately going to soothe my anxious beast, I need to do the very thing that causes so much of the anxiety in the first place: stay and endure.  Stand still.  Don’t worry about looking pretty.  Just stay.  Breathe, and stay.