In transition. This is arguably the shittiest part of recovery. I don't say this because it's overwhelming or because it...underwhelming. It's an awful period...because you start to forget.
You start to forget what her face looks like, the smell of her hair, the things that made her laugh. You start to forget all those old tapes that have been on repeat in your head for the last 2 years and you start to replace them with quiet grey moments that I really can't describe as anything other than being in "transition."
I had an anxiety attack at work yesterday. It wasn't the worst I've ever had but within the last few weeks it ranked pretty high on my "oh-shit-ometer." I started to clench my right hand and I made this gesture that sorta came to me while I was in the middle of a yoga routine by myself one very emotional night. So I clenched my fist and placed my thumb in between my pointer and middle finger. I did this because, earlier that day, I had read something on a website I visit everyday that has some nugget of wisdom if you want to hear it (http://www.hazelden.org/web/public/thought.view?catId=1904). The woman who writes these passages is pretty amazing. I don't mean to deify her, she's human and has gone through things I literally cannot imagine or begin to feel. So I take her words with a small grain of salt and, despite my reluctance to make assumptions, try to expect and assume that she knows her shit to some degree. This is also based on a book by the same woman, Codependent No More by Melody Beattie.
You know that book you encounter during those incredible shitty times in your life? The ones where after you skim just a few pages at the book store you think "this asshole's been looking through my mail!" The kind of book where just seeing the cover, you think, "that's the one I need."
That was the title mentioned above. I read it once I got home, when I had first moved into a condo as a house-sitter of sorts and felt like it was a sort of deprivation tank. The grad student in me pulled out the highlighter and went to work.
It was pretty brutal, just reading a few pages and already starting to tear up cause you know that each successive page is going to be exponentially more intense than the previous one. It's fucking terrifying if you ask me and I don't feel ashamed to admit that that fear existed and still does to some degree right now as I write this.
So tying this string-theory of thought back together, I was in a yoga pose called Hero. It's one of my favorites poses. In Hero pose, you sit on your heels with your knees on the ground. It's a lot like a pose of supplication but instead of being called the Pious Courtesans pose, your back is straight, head held high and your hands rest on your upper thighs. It's a dignified, concentrated, and calming pose because it affords you a moment to simply sit with it.
I began to think about my reading for that day; about detaching with love. This is extremely difficult for me. Love aside, just detaching from someone, a certain person in particular, has been immensely difficult. Adding love has, more often than not, made the equation more difficult rather easier. I thought about mudras, or signs of enlightenment indicated by the Buddha and a number of other religious figures. Mudras are indicated by gestures with your hands such as Jesus who is often depicted with his fore-finger and thumb pressed together and the remaining three fingers stiff and rigid, pointed upward. This is a sign of peace, calm, enlightenment, etc...
My mudra for loving detachment was placing my thumb in between my pointer and middle finger. It doesn't matter who or what you assign to any of those three fingers, it's really just arbitrary. For me, I was the thumb, this person I must lovingly detach from, the middle finger with the index in between. If this gesture was about complete detachment without any love, connection, or memories to guide us from this point on...then I think my gesture would have simply been fingers splayed out, leaving those little frog webbing in between strained and red.
The thumb represented the love. It connected the fore and middle finger through the flesh they share. They were apart physically (much like the current situation) but there was still some kind of bridge of the intangible present. So that was it. Three fingers all connected though they are apart in another fashion.
It was pretty involuntary and after I had formed my hands into this gesture while in hero pose, I felt like that was...appropriate. It felt right. It also felt sad. Having a physical representation of my situation. And my fingers, they could grow closer or further apart. I have the choice...which is something I don't entirely trust myself with.
I've said it before and I have to rerun it in my head everyday; recovery is a process, not an event.
So there I was, all by myself in this house I wasn't quite ready to call a home. The soft breeze tussles a palm tree that the neighbors have neglected to remove from our side of the property. I don't begrudge them since I like to watch nature take over human-made artifices. A wind chime, more subtle and eerie than any I've ever heard elicits a sparse few hallow notes before it ends. It doesn't ring again that night and it always seems to punctuate whatever I'm doing; like some zen monk ringing a gong on top of some snow-capped mountain in Tibet.
My Higher Power is Carl Sagan and I lucked out cause it was a full moon and Venus was shining especially bright that evening. So I just sat on my heels for a while and started to weep; looking at a star and a moon with the lights out. It was just a moment for me to do exactly what I needed to do for myself because I was starting to forget things. I was starting to gain new memories. I felt sad...in transition. I won't say that it would have been the "easy" thing to do by stopping and simply crying 'til I was done. There is nothing wrong with that
How else could I be?
But in this moment, I felt like Carl was pushing me to continue my osenas, to keep working through my routine in the dark. I have no night vision and haven't had any for many years now so I don't worry about the dark. If I trip and stumble, which I did a number of times, I don't admonish myself. I just get back up.
So I just wept and practiced my poses. It felt awful, liberating, confusing, and so many other combined emotions that we don't have a word for. And it was totally worth it. There wasn't any kind of break through; just another little baby step in my recovery. I've done my best to stop thinking in all or nothing, black and white kinds of ways. I won't just have one emotional night and be all fucking better. I wouldn't be writing this if that were the case.
All I could do was wash up afterwords and try to think of someone to thank for the experience. Nothing and/or no one came to mind so I just let it be. Sometimes, there is no one you can thank, praise, or hate for what has happened. Not even yourself.
Sometimes, it just is what it is. I laid my head down to rest and slept like a baby.
I don't write these things to garner sympathy, I know I have all the support I need from my family and friends so I don't feel starved for love. I write this because I'm starting to forget and just like some Reagan-esque figure nearing the end of his former life thinking about writing his memoirs; I want to have this recorded somewhere. I need to have this somewhere safe where I can see it a year from now. I want to look at this and think that's progress.
Ideally, the guy writing here will be unrecognizable a year from now.
And if nothing else, that small kernel of altruism within me wants someone else to benefit from this as well. There isn't a lot of fruit on this tree but what it has tastes sweet and nourishing I think, given time to grow.
I'm starting to forget things and sometimes I have to clench my fingers together and detach with love. Sometimes I just shout "STOP!" as loud as I can. But I keep forgetting and I keep acquiring new memories. None of them seem to be on the same level, one has become sacred while the other is mundane and pales in comparison.
I know they're all equally important memories, the memory of writing this in my special ed class, helping young boys learn to do double digit multiplication. They're all of equal importance. But I have to admit that the things I am forgetting hurt more often than not when I realize what is happening. But its like mental entropy, all the memories can't be taken away from or added to. They will always be there, they just go somewhere quieter, waiting for the right time to emerge in a new light; hopefully.
Strange what some flesh, time, and thought will do to a man.
-Ian
