Step Two: Say Again Carl?

Carl Sagan and I are sitting lotus in the middle of nowhere watching a supernova. This isn't serenity. Serenity would mean being at peace, feeling harmonious. No, Carl and I are watching the galaxy rend itself apart and letting entropy do the rest.

Step Two: Came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.
                                                                                                                       -Codependents Anonymous

One of the biggest problems for a codependent is having a God-complex. It's very easy, when you believe so little in yourself, to reshape something or someone; to make them into a god or goddess. Some people make themselves their own god and not in the "my body is my temple" sort of way. This is pure worship of the self, like narcissism on meth.

I created gods from the people around me. In CoDa, we learn that we have been doing this all our lives, that we have always made someone or something our savior because we came to believe that there simply wasn't anything worth saving in our own selves. In CoDa, we learn from the day we enter the dank church basements and fold out chair knights of the round  that there is something greater than ourselves. The cool thing is, we get to choose what that happens to be.

Before I go into what my Higher Power (HP) is, I need to tell you where I am right now, what I'm doing right now in my mind. I'm on a rowing machine pulling and releasing to the cadence of steel and plastic grinding together. I create the tempo, I am the flow that I wish to experience. My eyes are closed, my breath is an indicator of my pace. In my mind, Carl Sagan and I are floating outside of Earth's atmosphere, watching Madagascar slowly disappear on a globe tilted at 23.5 degrees. Envisioning myself as relaxed and loose is one of the hardest things to do. I feel like I have to be moving or making some kind of gesture but we don't. Carl and I just float there and watch coronal mass ejections get sucked into the Earth's magnetosphere, creating auroras that bombard the earth with radioactive particles which are perfectly harmless.

In my mind, Carl and I talk. He's my HP. Carl is the one person I can go to no matter where I am and no matter what is happening. Have you ever tried writing dialogue before? It's difficult; trying to make things sound natural and to make them flow in the readers mind like they would in real life. Not here. Carl and I just talk. When I close my eyes and begin to row, the words come unbidden to Me/Carl.

I won't share our words, those are private and they belong to me and me alone. What I can share is the slow realization that there is something greater than myself that I can and choose to believe in. If I hadn't made this conscience decision, I think I might be dead by now. I can share the painful moments like when my HP told me how afraid I was of being alone. I can share the hope I feel when I know that I'm not alone and I can share the hot tears that stream down my face along with the sweat and exertion of rowing through solar winds guided by the ionic storm of a nebula bursting into life from the collective gasses and dust of a trillion billion dead star particles. I'm lucky that I sweat so much in this regard I suppose. Nobody in the gym can see what's really going on inside my mind. And that is the way it ought to be.

This is where I am; three different places at once. In the uncomfortable chair on a campus typing, a rowing machine in a gym, and floating in the ether with Carl Sagan.

So...why Carl Sagan?

Higher Power....that sounds quasi-religious to me, or at least it did initially. AA, CoDa, SLA, we're all winners. Those like myself who've had multiple addictions are called "Double Winner." This is a concept that, when heard for the first time, made me feel violent. Not so much anymore, dejected and humored if you can be both of those at once.

The thing about our HP is that we feel out what that is as we understand it. It took me a long time to realize I wasn't an religious person and even longer to feel like it was okay to admit to. G, my sponsor, is quick to remind me that, "we gotta be careful not to throw the baby out with the bathwater." Chuck the organized aspect of religion, it's a control scheme and one that works exceptionally well. Keep the spirit, the spark, the "I" that chooses to be here.

So at first it was gravity. The empiricist in me needed some kind of tangible HP. I sure as shit wasn't going back into a church and saying the Lord of the Rings Prayer ever again. I refuse to become a victim and slave to shame and guilt under the yoke of organized Catholic guilt. I needed to feel my HP. I wanted to feel the apple drop from the tree and land on my head. I held my arm out one day, straight and rigid, then I let it drop. Gravity. I tried jumping as high as I could. Gravity. I looked at the drooping leaves of a a tree in my backyard that sought a photosynthetic source of nourishment all the while cow towing to gravity's relentless pull.

Gravity was the edge from which I leapt into space. It's easy to divide us from the rest of the universe. We are here. Everything else is "out in space." I suppose that's why my time spent with Carl initially started just outside of the Earths atmosphere. I couldn't imagine leaving that Pale Blue Dot. Just like I couldn't imagine leaving behind all my gods and false ideals that I'd fervently held on to for so long; thinking they were what was good for me.

Our minds, as we age, go through a process called convolution. Our brains become more wrinkled, defined, and pocked with age. As we learn more, since there's only so much real estate in our skulls, the brain turns inward so as to continue to expand intellectually without 'poppin our tops off. That's why, when they looked at Einsteins brain, it was like a California raisin.

I bring up convolution because I feel as though the same thing is happening within myself but on a cellular level. Almost as if I'm absorbing the idea rather than simply intellectualizing it. Knowing how a motorcycle steers is one thing but to feel the gyroscopic pull of each aspect of the machine in tandem with the direction you look is another thing entirely. You have to internalize it, make it a part of you.

This was especially hard for me. I was so burnt out by religion that I couldn't quite make that leap yet. G said something simple, "fake it til you make it." So I did. I spent time alone, with my eyes closed or open just trying to...talk? Is that what I'm actually doing or is the idea of talking a representation of the process of cellular internalization? Maybe both.

It felt disengenuine at first and one of the hardest things I had to share on my support group was that I was an Atheist. I spent weeks gathering the nerve to say it and was sure I'd be ostracized afterwards. How little I knew about CoDa is obvious to me now. There were plenty of people like myself there, G included. I guess that's one of the reasons he and I click, we both believe in ourselves and something greater but we don't want to smell like frankincense and mer afterwards.

I just realized I forgot my donut in my car, bummer. I was really looking forward to that apple fritter....shit.

So I turned inward. I attempted to fake it and become so convoluted that my mind would look like a circus fun house mirror by the end of my recovery. But it doesn't work like that. We all have our own pace and limits for personal growth.

I was still drifting close to Earth, rowing back and forth on the machine...but I started to distance myself from the Pale Blue Dot. Weeks of rowing and I was floating in the Oort Cloud, surrounded by cosmic dust and Star Stuff 15 billion years old. One day, I realized I wasn't faking it anymore. One day I realized that I was genuinely asking for help when I was scared or feeling alone. One day, I took my second step in recovery and came to believe in something greater than myself.

That's what codependency really is about anyway; Us. Our actions, emotions, decision are means of controlling others to get what we want. I manipulated others by using anger, guilt, and charm. I thought that if I could make someone feel bad for me or fall in love with me then I could get what I wanted.

There's a great lyric from a band called Fear Factory that goes like this:
I am the thorn in your,
I am the thorn in your,
I am the thorn in your,
I am the thorn in your I. 

That was my existence. Just Me in the most selfish ways possible. It's one of those paradoxical relationships because codependents give so much to help others but we do it to make ourselves happy. But after it's all said and done, there simply isn't a shred left for us. We've seen to our own destruction time and time again. I am the thorn in your I. It can go on forever. This cycle of fear, anger, obsession, and denial. They're all part of a codependent's balanced breakfast.

This creation of gods isn't new, I'm not the first and I won't be the last to do this. But I know now that I am guilty of it. Guilt and shame are two of the things I felt the most upon learning Step Two. I felt ashamed that I had let myself fall so far away from my own truths. I felt guilt because I had hurt so many people in the process. G was there to save me from yet another cycle of self-loathing. "Shame is thinking you are a mistake. Guilt is knowing that you made a mistake."

I didn't have to feel either one. Just like suffering I had a choice in the matter; I always did. Part of Step Two is taking the initiative to surrender (oxy-moronic isn't it?). Being willing to admit to something greater than myself was one was one of the hardest things to do. The idea that this universe was Ian-Centric was lodged firmly in place by the time I was in my 20's. Erasing all those old tapes, and throwing them in the garbage takes a lot of time but it is an endeavor worthy of our commitment and uncertainty.

It finally stopped at Carl Sagan because my HP was the Universe and who better to represent it than one of the pioneers of exploration outside our planet? That mean that everything was a part of my HP. I didn't have to pick and choose; there were no sacred or profane places. "We are all Star-Stuff" Carl once said before he died. It's true, we are all made from the matter withing the universe. That's a fact. It's Entropy and where else could we have come from?

Making the Universe my HP meant I was a part of my own beliefs, I didn't have to hope for images of Carl on pieces of toast, he's just hanging out wherever I go.

 Carl and I are sitting lotus in front of a supernova, side-by-side. There is no pain here, there is no fear of floating endlessly in the abyss of an endless vacuum. It just is. Carl talks to me without effort cause he is me. He's the indicator of peace and serenity that is possible if I am willing to surrender another part of myself. Another bit of the Ian-Centric universe I wish I could control.

Bathing is super-heated helium and methane gas isn't bad at all. Now when I row, when I close my eyes, I still feel the occasional sting of tears in my eyes but I know there is someone sitting close by read to listen with intent. Someone to remind me to breath. Someone who loves me without condition and asks for nothing in return.

We learn to surrender to something greater than ourselves.

-Ian
 

The Spice Must Flow.

Recovery isn't an event. It's a process. All too often, I've found myself wanting whatever it was I thought I needed immediately. The idea that I'd have to finally sit down and commit to something scared me shitless. What's more, the idea that I'd be doing it for the rest of my life was a dismal realization...initially.

I'm a fighter. I've been, throughout the course of my life, fighting to fit in, to belong, to be loved. I've spent almost 29 years fighting. Look where it has gotten me. Recovery is a process. Not only is it a process but it is also a series of surrenders.

I've told myself one thing for the last ten years: Never give up. Keep getting out of bed, pull yourself off the bathroom floor, get yourself to do whatever it takes to get back into the fight. But what is it I was fighting for? Never giving up has it's virtues...but what is it I'm not giving up on? I've told myself for years that what I was fighting for was a happier and more peaceful life. With someone to share that experience. But fighting to have something or someone you aren't ready for is like trying to stop a wave from crashing; the water will always find a gap in your defenses.

When I think about not giving up, it seems less virtuous and more self-defeating. I realize now that the voice telling me not to give up on finding the perfect woman, being loved without condition, finding a place to call home was, in fact, my addiction talking. Codependency is a subtle killer. Unlike alcoholism or sexual addiction, codependency creeps into your mind like a weed and leaves a dandelion in it's place. You think it's a flower but past the petals, stamen, and earth there is still a killer inside.

When I told myself to never give up I should have been listening to the rest of that sentence. With my growing awareness of codependency it probably would've been something like “never give up...or else you'll have to acknowledge this pain. You will have to recognize who you really are so never give up fighting because the pain of remembering is far worse than knowing and not feeling” (Shaughnessy, 2012, frontal lobe, pg. 185).

Anecdotal comedians will joke about people with “commitment issues.” Commitment is synonymous in our culture with relationships, love, bro/romance, marriage and so on. When I think of commitment now, I notice that my definition and understanding of it are gradually changing. Commitment is the genuine desire to have a loving relationship with ones own self. Commitment means, in my eyes, abandoning the belief that someone else can make me happy. Commitment means devotion to myself without reservation.

To Thine Own Self Be True.

I've written about fear before; the energy it takes to make fear-based decision making. This is inexorably tied to commitment, they truly are opposing emotional forces. This does not mean they are autonomous from one another, only that they cannot co-exist in a healthy manner. They're like two neighbors who know one another but secretly dislike each other. Commitment means embracing and then freeing ourselves from fear because that is exactly what has hindered the evolution of our emotions. Conversely, if we choose to embrace fear alone, we abandon the prospect of commitment (that is, in relation to ourselves).

I've always hated commitment. It means doing everything the hard way and only slowly getting results that are often vague and hard to discern at first. When my ex and I broke up, the fear, the addiction within me, screamed out for a substitute. Something tangible, something fast and easy. Something to keep me from delving into the pain. In my case, it took a type of emotional deprivation tank to force me to commit to myself.

It would have been very easy to replace my ex. It would have been easy to replace my fear of abandonment with someone else's feelings because there's no easier way to feel better about yourself then to please another...right? I'm a people-pleaser, a care-giver as it's referred to in CoDa (Codependency Anonymous). Being a people-pleaser means sacrificing things such as my integrity, morals, or genuine feelings in order to please another because the fear of losing this person, if I choose to be myself, is far more powerful than being alone with that pain.

Gift-giving, canceling plans to accommodate the higher power we've created, abandoning personal interests, sex when we wan't love; these are all ways I have tried to be the consummate caregiver. It's simple when you have so little self-esteem to continuously give up pieces of yourself. But if I can just show you for a one night that there are redeeming qualities within my facade that you find appealing, then I've found my fix. It's like that Nine Inch Nails song, “You are the Perfect Drug.”

But this kind of love, these kinds of relationships have an expiration date attached from the moment they begin (just think about any rebound relationships you've ever had).

There's a great book by Frank Herbert called Dune. A young man, Paul, prophesied to become the Muah-dib or leader of his people must undergo a trial called the Gom-Jabbar. Paul must place his hand inside a box all the while a seer has a needle pressed against his neck with a poison that will kill him instantly if he flinches from his trial.

Paul's hand is, for lack of a better word, incinerated within the box. The bubbling of flesh that sloughs it's way off to reveal meat and ivory bone is a tangible image in Paul's minds eye. But there is a credo Paul recites over and over again while he envisions his hand melting, the threat of death pressed against his neck. "I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when my fear is gone I will turn and face fear's path, and only I will remain."

Fear is the mind-killer.

Fear kills our rationality. Fear blinds us to the mistakes we have or are making. Fear kills our sanity and, in a sense, renders us insane. Synonymous to insanity is drooling inmates with straight-jackets. That is mental illness. I'm talking about losing control of our selves. When we let fear govern decision-making, we lose sight of our own ideals and goals. We abandon the prospect of a life full of joy even if it's spent alone and in solitude. Fear will do anything it can to survive which has served it's purpose in humankind’s ancient past. The “fight-or-flight” reaction of heavy breathing from the chest and adrenal glands pumping battery-acid into our veins has it's place when confronted by a predator three times your size. But like all things humans interact with, the environment becomes a reflection of our current cultural and emotional zeitgeist.

The predators we fear now are not saber-toothed nor are they mythical unknown beasts we cannot understand. The predators of the now are bills stacking, an unfulfilling relationship, a friends choice to not be a part of our lives. The prey of the 21^st century are the intangible and insatiable appetites we are conditioned from day one to want. Our Great Hunts don't rely on bringing back deer slung over our shoulders. We've opted out of that for drunken coupling that still requires some kind of carrying of one another to the bed.

When I found myself in this very position a few years ago, I let fear take the wheel. I let insanity be my guide and I externalized my hopes and dreams on the off-chance that I had just had a one-nighter with “The One.” The wisest thing to do would have been to say “that was a good time, nice knowing you.” But when two codependents wake up pretzeled around each other; it's pretty easy to mistake desperation and fear with love.

Inflicting pain is easy when you're insane, you just act. The rest follows suit. Months dragged on with this woman who was wonderful in all sorts of ways. Kind and gentle, she accepted me despite our significant age difference and made an on-going effort to see me during our time together. When she dropped me off at the airport, she started to cry. I was so surprised, but so was she. Like myself, the idea of giving up was a thousand times more harmful than to continue fighting. It's so much easier to simply stuff those emotions down because we let ourselves believe that those feelings are abnormal.

It ended like most of these kinds of relationships do; poorly. Fear is the mind-killer. It robs us of our sanity to make decisions that benefit ourselves, even if that means causing another person pain in the process. Fear deprives us of the opportunities we deserve if we'd only shirk off the shackles of desperation. Fear takes all the things we deserve and makes us feel inadequate and undeserving of them.

Once we've lived this way for long enough, it becomes normal. It certainly did for me. Codependency is a subtle killer, moreover, it's an addiction that replaces the need to nourish ourselves with the insatiable and never ending desire to please others; believing that we simply are not worth the same effort we lavish upon others.

To commit means to be free of fear. Or, if nothing else, to take the first steps towards that goal. When we commit ourselves to a cause that is for our own good, we can find peace because at the end of the day, you are all that you have. I know that sounds bleak but I mean that in a very realistic way. We don't have control over others so it behooves us to be kind to our minds. To commit to taking better care of ourselves which may require saying goodbye to the one thing or person we are convinced will make us happy.

I don't know where the strength to make the first step towards committing to healing myself came from but when I told the person I cared the most for in this entire world that I couldn't speak with her, I felt...terrified. It was my addiction rearing it's head once again. Pleading for me to take back those words, to stop erasing photos of us together, begging me not to place all the things we had together in a box and then have my father hide them so I could never find them on my own. And, trust me, I looked fucking everywhere for that damn box in those first few weeks.

Strength, serenity...those are things that are already inside of ourselves. They never were and never will be within someone else. It isn't anyone’s job to make you happy. When we take the advice of those who have gone before us, when we are ready to finally listen and not simply hear, then the teacher appears (in my case it was a rowing machine so....you know...shit's weird sometimes).

I'm nowhere near free. Fear has taken ahold of me time and again today. The “what ifs?” and all the unknowns that are so damned intrusive. We do this to ourselves. No one is telepathic, no one is projecting shit-images into your mind so it's important to own up to our own self-flagellation. It's best, I've found in times when my mind begins to make a rolling snowball made of shit to simply admit to the one thing I abhor and that's this: I simply do not know.

When we can admit that we do not know what he or she is doing, when we can be okay with uncertainty (or as I like to call it, “Diet Fear”), then we've made another step towards healing.

I'm no guru, just some guy with great friends and the immense blessing of a second chance but I do know this if nothing else: Fear cannot exist inside the hearts of those who wish to be free of codependency.

-Ian 

Unexpectations

Sometimes...shit just happens. 

There's the grad student inside of me that looks at things in relation to the past; a sort of emotional benchmark. It's a qualitative way, I think, of gauging progress within myself. So whenever, in my past, an event that was troubling or unexpected occurred, I immediately sought some frame of reference. An emotional benchmark I could use to put my feelings in context. 

An 8th grader should be able to read 230+ words per minute but when the test results come back and he/she's at 180 WPM, we deem that as below our standard(s). That's quantitative analyses. Looking at a number and saying, "that's not progress, we have not met or exceeded our expectations." I know I still do this from time to time and I'm lucky because taped onto my mirror is a wall of affirmations. My first and favorite one is "I no longer need to compare myself to others to validate who I am or the decisions I make." So now when I see that my emotional WPM has dropped or isn't where I'd like for it to be that day...I can be okay with that. 

The learning curve for emotional growth and development is less like a winding road and more like one of those optical paintings by M.C. Escher. The concept of up or down is irrelevant. Some days you wake up feeling fucking great. Taking a shower feels like this cathartic massage of your muscles that steams off the emotional fat of the previous day. Brushing your teeth becomes a ritualistic cleansing of the place where you allow the "I" to flow from. Even the same shitty knock-off brand cereal you can barely afford tastes like the milk was ambrosia. These are the days where you just are because...how else could you be?

The post-modernist in me immediately seeks the polar opposite to what is mentioned above: The Shitty Day. We all have these. Sometimes they're simply because of circumstance or a difficult event. More often than not, they're a combination of the two. But there's just something highly fucking irksome about not knowing why it happens on some of those Shitty Days. Again, we can choose to use emotional benchmarks to gauge our state of mind and emotions (funny how I never seem to do this on the good days). Now it's about units of comparison, like going from kilometers to miles. Do they meet in the middle, is one greater than the other, is one superseded? The point is, on the Shitty Days, we try to rationalize the "why" and then find a way to either draw ourselves further into that dark void or use some kind of survival strategy to simply push on through.

I see these things as being similar to the Light and Dark side of the Force. If the Force is life and all life is the Force, can anything be inherently good or evil? Is there such a thing as a good or bad day? No. The Force, just like our emotions and our environment, is Unified. We are the ones who decide whether or not today will be shitty, great, or simply a thing that is. Anakin Skywalker commits terrible acts but he does them out of love. So does that make him inherently evil or inherently good? Can these seemingly opposing philosophy's intermingle? I believe so. I think that things simply are. I believe people simply are. Because, how else could you be? 

A friend said this to me and I'm grateful for hearing it: Pain is inevitable but suffering is a choice. 

We choose to have the Shitty Day or the Great Day. Neither one is right or wrong, they simply are. It is okay to have a fantastic evening with your friends and then ball your eyes out on the drive home. It's okay to smile at a fart joke after unwillingly becoming single. It's okay to simply be. How else could you be?

A very strong woman I know described to me the difference between emotions and feeling. Emotions are like the seasons such as Fall, or Winter. Feelings are just that; feeling good, bad, so-so. It is alright to have a good day in winter even though things are cold and dark. It's okay to be unhappy or melancholy during a beautiful Spring day. We can let emotions be like the weather. We can let them come, experience them, and let them go. You know the futility of trying to stop a beautiful day from being clouded over. You can't stop the snow from melting. So shouldn't we also be able to recognize the futility of trying to hold onto feelings that aren't ours or simply cannot last?

We all know there is heartbreak around the bend. Many of have parents whom we will probably outlive. Some of are married and may experience a divorce in the future. Many of us know that, quite frankly, shit happens. It's when we try to divine these things ahead of time that we create self-fulfilling prophesies. "I don't think this relationship is going to last." "I think I'm going to do shitty on this test." What else can we expect when we create an entire worldview based on assumptions and negative expectations?

Another affirmation on my wall is this: Assumptions and expectations can only hurt my feelings. I touch my tattoo when I say this one because it's an image of a bird in flight and, to me, there is no better way to symbolize freedom than by escaping the confines of a presumably circumscribed environment. We have the choice to take flight emotionally, we have the choice to stay rooted and afraid to take our first leap off the branch. 

The amount of emotional energy required to make a fear-based decision is a thousand times greater than the decision made from acceptance and utilizing our own personal power. When we chose to be our own Higher Power in the sense that we deserve to live free of fear, we can experience freedom. We as human beings think there are a lot of things that we have to earn. This is true in many regards, such as a work or academic setting. But when we talk about simple human needs such as shelter, food, social interaction, family; these are things we deserve. 

When we decide we are unworthy of these things and make fear-based decision making, we not only deprive ourselves of the things we deserve, we deprive our souls of their daily bread: our happiness and freedom. 

While fear-based decision making takes tremendous energy to continue doing, making the conscience decision to live a life that is free of self-criticism and spiritual neglect takes a massive effort to initiate. I say initiate because once the choice has been made, there simply is no going back. When we have admitted to ourselves the nature of our suffering in a critical and purposeful manner, we are beginning the first steps towards true self-awareness. This is nothing like enlightenment, I don't think that's an actual state of mind. I think true enlightenment, if we're going to use the word, is someone who is not simply okay with being themselves despite the consequences but rejoices in every moment unfolding. You need not glow or float to be this person. It starts by simply admitting to powerlessness. It's initiated when we admit to ourselves, first and foremost, that the things we have done to survive simply were not enough. There truly is a difference between surviving and thriving. 

So when I received an email from my ex this morning, I made the choice to reply honestly to this person. To let her know that I was in a 12 step program, that I was determined to become my own man. I did these things not to garner pity but because...how else could I be? It's because I owe it to myself and deserve to be honest without fear.  

My emotional benchmark is January 1st, 2012. It's the lowest and most awful I've ever felt and the following days were nothing short of misery in its purest form. Today is March 23rd, 2012. My hands did not shake when I typed my response to this woman. My eyes didn't tear up. My breathing was steady and from my stomach, my center. 

This is how I know I have grown more whole, more human. This is how I know that I can be okay with simply being myself. This is how I know that I am worthy of love and that I deserve to live a happy and fulfilling life. Because I can look back at that scared and shivering man from a few months ago, smile, and tell him that things are going to be okay.

Because...how else could I be?

Lemon Party.

It's a Lemon Party and we're all invited. 

There's something strangely disturbing about walking into a room and seeing a very large basket filled to the brim with lemons. J (pseudonym) brought all these lemons in from her house which she had plucked that very morning for our CoDa (Codependency) meeting. It's strange...but I could not stop looking at those fucking lemons. It wasn't as if there was some analogy screaming to be discovered; it was just so out of place in the room I was used to being in, which was lemon-free. Isn't that a Pine sol commercial or something...?


Flux. Dynamic. These are words that describe change. Everything changes, constantly. It never stops. Grabbing on to the present moment is sorta like saying "toilet" over and over; it just loses all meaning. You're brain takes a dump and shuts down. I suppose, if I had to attribute some kind of meaning to that basket of lemons, I'd say they were an indicator of change and I might even go as far as to say that they were intrusive. Support groups are one of the few semi-static environments I've encountered. The chairs are always laid out the same, the coffee is always generic and tastes like carrots for some fucking reason, and most of the people you're used to are there as well. There was no room for a Lemon Party in group today!


Let me be the not-first to say that change, in my experience, is usually a pretty shit process. Most of the times I've encountered  change, the effects were usually quite severe. My best friend getting cancer right after x-mas break in 4th grade and not seeing him again for 10 years. The divorce at 14. The very painful breakup/emergence from adolescence at 22. That same boy with cancer dying at the age of 24 and I never got to say good bye to him. 


So I guess, for me, change has always been associated with negative repercussions. 


I sat down with my sponsor today, G (pseudonym), and really hashed it out at my place. It was weird, having an adult who wasn't a member of my family at the condo. "It's pretty spartan in there" I warned him. But then I remembered that this was a guy who'd been shot at and ass-deep in mud in Vietnam for a few tours; G can hack "spartan." So we do the "Step-Work."


The deal with the first step in any support program you go into whether it be AA, Sex/Love Addict, CoDa...the first step just fucking sucks. For Coda, the first step is as follow: We admitted we were powerless over others - that our lives had become unmanageable. Unmanageable...? What the hell does that even mean, to say that a persons life is unmanageable, like some dog that just won't stop pissing on the rug? You really have to scrutinize each one of the words because they are chosen with extreme care. It's sorta like looking at a Picasso; there are no mistakes present. 


I never thought of myself as being "controlling." That, to me, was some part of the step I felt I could ignore...and then you do the step-work with a sponsor. You get the opportunity to flip control on it's ass and look at things conversely. What have you done or acted out to get a desired result or thing from someone? Without going into detail, I found out that there were quite a few ways I had learned to manipulate and control others. In the same way an alcoholic will drink reckless amounts of booze to gain attention, CoDa's will charm, say, or try to impress others with facsimiles or half-truths. I remember doing this to a woman at a bar and ending up in her bed a few days later. I had no idea how I did it or why. I just knew that I could control certain kinds of people. Sick attracts sick. People with fucked up parenting and/or childhoods tend to get into destructive and abusive relationships as they grow older. What a fucking concept. 


G said something to me as he was sharing his eclectic life-story. He said, "I had no idea what a normal, healthy relationship looked like!" That was a kick in the dick because when I tried to answer that quasi-question myself...I had no idea either. I had had "relationships." There were goals attached to those relationships such as sex, comfort, being needed. But I wouldn't call any of that "healthy" I had no idea what a healthy relationship looked like. 


Modeling. It's a term used in education a lot to help you, the teacher, set a good example. You model the correct way to read, write, speak and so on and the kid gets it. Good modeling, usually, leads to good students (I know that's a HUGE generalization and that there are a lot of other factors but my back hurts from yoga so I don't feel like elaborating). I really believe something I've heard from my sponsor and folks at CoDa. It's this: We all do the best that we can at any given moment. I really believe that. Even when we're acting shitty and pulling people into our misery, that's the best that we can do. So when I think about my parents relationship, I try to keep that concept in mind. 


My parents did the best they could but it's easy as a child to take information that is odd or abnormal and normalize it. I never wondered why my mom always slept on the couch. I never wondered why they didn't do public displays of affection. It was normal. So when you have all this..."normalcy," being taken to a strange office, not being told why my whole family is there, and then finding out my parents are getting a divorce...normal goes ass over tea kettle. 


And, yes, I am going to tie all this back together at some point, hang tight.


So...what's a normal relationship look like to a 14 year boy who has to choose which parent he's going to live with look like? I had no idea, but I did know of a way to take care of it. Alcohol, drugs, getting arrested (B&E 2nd degree, aw yeah). When the normal environment suddenly changes, your whole paradigm shifts and it does so according to what you know at the time, what you think is the best that you can do. 


My life had officially become "unmanageable."


I decided, on a very subconscious level, that the only way I could be happy was if I was in a relationship. I was never going to make me happy cause I just didn't have the stuff. Fuck self-esteem, I can get it from other people if I can just keep them happy, right? Serial dating is a term I just recently heard and had been an active participant in for years but after you do some reading, after you start to see the patterns of control, the active choice not to be alone...it's a "face-palm" moment. 


And, I mean, this shit continues for YEARS!


There's a step way down the process where you make amends to those you've hurt so some of you reading this may be getting a heart-fucking-felt letter from me sometime in the future cause man....I made some mistakes. But that's the idea, admitting it. Becoming aware that, "hey asshole, your shit has become unmanageable and all the girlfriends and booze in the world isn't going to fill that void!" 


But, we do the best that we can do at any given moment.


The first step is hard because you not only have to understand that you have an addiction, you also have to embrace and internalize it. It's like watching cell mitosis but backwards. Two seemingly separate entities becoming one because, for me, all that shit that happened in my childhood and in my teenage years, EVERYTHING previous to January 1st, 2012 was an autonomous series of events perpetrated by some other guy. Now you have to be accountable. 12 step programs are great cause they help you out but they never let you off the fucking hook. Keep Coming Back. And, if you don't, we'll be seeing your sorry ass again after the next bender, the next break-up until you get your shit straightened out. 


You have to accept that you have lost control of yourself and that you never  had control over anyone else. Never. The first step means embracing all the good and bad parts of those relationships, the black-outs & benders, the time spent with family. You can't have your cake and eat it too; you gotta take it all in...which is great. I think it's great because you no longer have to live in this black and white world. You have a choice. You have perspective. You get to take your life back. 


So as I sat there looking at this basket of lemons, I thought "I'm okay with these being here. I'm okay with being single. Or at least I am getting to that point." I think I'm starting to understand what a healthy relationship looks like. It's based on interdependence, not codependence. There's reciprocity and compromise. Most importantly, at the end of each day you can still discern where you end and the other person begins. 


I'm not blaming or trying to guilt anyone who may have relevance to this blog. Things could not have happened any other way. We do the best that we can. I'm just glad that I actually have the opportunity to start living my life as it was meant to be; Precious & Free.


And, no, I didn't write this blog on the can.


-Ian

Pan-Handling Wisdom.

I think I've been going about this “writing” thing the wrong way.

Initially it started with NyQuil-infused short stories. Fun! Then it moved onto emo-diatribes. More recently, it has been a service rendered in hope of getting payed. Because, shit, I want easy money too. I'm not above it at all. I was reading a friends blog and I realized why I like it. It's because the word “pretentious” didn't pop into my head once. It sorta reminds me of this interview I heard with Ben Folds, my gay lover, and he was talking about <gasp> song writing. I'm just going to paraphrase. Ben said that he hated listening to songs that were always using pronouns like “I” and “you.” These songs are pretty obvious ways to get some attention.

You go through a shit breakup, queef out a sad song with barely-veiled references to your own station and hope some hugs come your way. I just can't do that. I am going through a shitty time in my life, break up included; haven't written a single fucking song. Why? Because the “I” in that song just doesn't want to hear it. Songs are like books, they should tell a story, not espouse your misery. Company doesn't want misery. It's one of the hardest parts of breaking up, I think, watching the “Sad Movie.” My Sad Movie is The Fountain. If I watched it right now, I'd be in tears for the next couple days...cause really good shit like that will make you cry! It's a story, so fucking tell one!

The same goes for if you're writing a blog, the “I” is there inherently, we know that, we clicked on your page and saw the banner. Now tell us a story, won't you? That's why I respect certain friends of mine who write. That despite having what should be a really ego-centric piece of the internet dedicated to themselves, these folks still manage to include the rest of the world. A blog is not an autonomous digital island. We don't get to be alone anymore, we have to many things. Things that constantly keep us in the know. Things that incessantly tug at our curiosity in a nearly infinite realm of information and accessibility, we're just as much prey as we are hunters.

There's a certain degree of...out-of-mindedness...required to be a decent writer and that's because you and-I-are-alive. We bring it all with us into that little digital bubble. All our frustrations, the good stuff, the mediocrity, and everything in between. But “pretentious” should never pop into my mind when I read something bloggy-like whether it be from a friend or from myself. I have stockpiles of BS entries on my hard drive that'll NEVER see the binary like of day because...they suck! They're loosely-knit stories that reek of Me.

I've always heard this line from all the great writers, “you should never be content with your own writing. It should always be shit.” True....-ish. As an expression of ourselves, and if we have self-esteem which many writers do or they wouldn't feel confident enough to bare themselves online, then shouldn't we at least take some pride and satisfaction from our creations? Aren't we, (“we” being anyone who considers themselves a writer) deserving of credit, props, ass-slaps, and a “good game?”

I suppose this is more about berating myself and finally shirking off some of the weight of feeling like they all have to be hits. I've had friends tell me that I should “keep writing.” They mean this in the same way that if you're getting good at eating hot dogs fast, you should keep eating hot dogs. I love writing but for so long, I've felt like I had to produce something really great or nothing at all. Shades of gray are only now being introduced into my life, in a painful way, and the tendrils are seeping into the writing cortex...and that's cool. I like the idea of just putting something out there and saying “fuck it.” If you don't like, don't read it. I spent the last 28 years trying to be a people-pleaser and look where it got me.

I can't guarantee you, the reader, any nuggets of wisdom or truths you don't already know. I can just do my best to express what it is I see happening around and inside of me and keep you and I from saying “pretentious” by the end of it.

Oh, and by the way, I wrote all of this while I was on the toilet.

Step One: Pulling the Arrow Back.

The thing they neglect to tell you when you join and continue to attend a support group is that you're in it for life. It's like herpes: once you got it, there's no going back. Don't get me wrong, I love the people I'm with. They're like this family I never knew I had. Always there, sharing a commonality that you rarely find so easy to approach in strangers in any other context. There's a simple saying at CoDa (Codependency Anonymous, yeah I know it isn't anonymous if I fucking say I'm in it), the saying is “Keep Coming Back.” I capitalize those letters because it's more of a credo than a saying. “Keep Coming Back,” they say and if you by the sixth meeting you still don't feel right then maybe it's not for you. You get these chips. Not edible chips but like little medallions and each one signifies a certain amount of time. I keep my “First Day” chip in my wallet, and roll it around in my palm til I think I could break the damn thing. Those are the days when it's great to be in a support group. When you do Keep Coming Back and keep finding your family there to hold you or pat you on the back. Those are the days where, even if for an hour and a half, I feel like I belong somewhere.

I used to be the guy who thought AA and all those things were sad and that I'd never need it. I thought I was better than all those unlucky bastards who had to go to weekly meetings just to hold their shit together. Turns out I was the bastard and my family was eager to welcome me home. I can't say that support groups are for everyone. I've seen a few folks pop up and then never show their face at another meeting. You can't judge them, you can't assume or postulate as to why...you just hope they find some kind of peace somewhere.

I don't know peace. I've been going through a very difficult breakup, triggering a lot of repressed emotions. Things I had no idea I was doing or that they even existed. People at group always say, “we always do the best that we can at the time.” I really believe that. That I did what I thought was for the best, that it was right and that self-sacrifice was a virtue. I don't know peace because all of those things I thought I had, people I thought were going to be there forever are gone now. What an awful feeling. I remember my first meeting. I had just shaved my head, I was feverishly rubbing this stone bear that my mother had given me for x-mas symbolizing strength. I was shaking because I was so nervous and scared. I had to share for the first time, in front of complete strangers....”Hi my name is Ian and...I'm codependent.” The resounding chorus was like a clarion call. The combined welcoming and acceptance I received upon my admittance nearly made me weep. But they knew. They could recognize the pain of another stranger with a need to be somewhere with a honest desire to be healthy and free.

So I shared. I shared how this wonderful relationship I had been a part of had ended recently, that I had lost almost 10 pounds (I weighed 145 previous previous to the event so 10 pounds is a big fucking deal). I shared that I'd spent the better part of an hour staring at a bottle of sleeping pills. A good friend of mine ordered that I throw them in the garbage and I still can't thank her enough for it. There's this safety, I suppose, in sharing with all these strangers. You aren't being judged by any previous information. You're this clean emotional slate. I shared my thoughts on suicide and how, if this is what the universe had intended for me, then I no longer wanted to be a part of it.

Those feelings began to change, so did I as a reflection of my desire to live, to have a healthy relationship someday, to get through the pain and not around it. So January 1^st, 2012 was one of the worst days of my life. It's when all the pain truly started, my denial phase wore off. It's when I had to see my reality and accept loss. I stopped drinking, haven't had a drink in months and that's good. I found out later on that chemical codependency was as much a part of my life (since 14) as was my addiction to being loved and/or needed. January 1^st, 2012 was the first day I surrendered anything. I stopped fighting. All of this may seem out of sync or confusing, I don't know, but it all occurs to me as I write it. I don't know if you've ever been through a devastating loss but the worst part are the triggers.

The subtle, and not so subtle reminder, that the past is past. My heart starts to race when I see an Asian woman, honestly, it fucking does. I can't eat or see Vietnamese food. Can't make cat sounds when I play with my buddy's cat cause that's what she used to do when she wanted something. The triggers. My therapist suggested I get a rubber band and whenever I start to think or get stuck in a bad place mentally, just snap that rubber band a little to bring myself back. My wrist has been pretty fucking red lately. And I wear 12 of them in different colors. I chose 12 'cause I'm in a 12 step program. Me, the guy who thought he was above it all, humbled by his own mistakes. But those mistakes are opportunity for growth. And growing up fucking hurts.

I had a break down just a little while ago, a friend has helped me as best she can but, really, it's on me. I make the decisions to look at old photos, to subjugate myself to things that can only hurt me. I'm The Decider. My sponsor has held me accountable, responsible for these...setbacks. He's a salty son of a bitch and I love him all the more for it. Who better to cut through my bullshit than a Vietnam Vet with PTSD and Survivors Guilt. Fuck, if he can make it, then so can I. What's the saying from the move The Edge...? “What one man can do, so can another!” I may have misquoted but the idea is there. If he can survive a war in the same place I vacationed and spent 3 weeks in what seemed like paradise and both come out of the experience ragged and fucking ruined...then there's hope, right?

Words will never really embody what I'm trying to say because they are just that; words. It's the actions that have true impact. I can still feel her hair on my face, her small hand, insistent on always being held by my right side, in my own. I can remember being happy to hear another person come home, knowing full-well that they felt the same way. Those things hurt right now. But maybe someday I'll be able to look back on those times and smile a little.

Right now, all I want is to recover, to mend, to heal. But I suppose the shit part of it is that I'm accepting a year long sabbatical from love, sex, and romance. I'm accepting that I'll be practicing my steps for the rest of my life. I'm surrendering little pieces of myself everyday that cling onto the past I used to refer to as “ours” and instead start to call “mine.”

I never read the whole book, the title was enough. It was by Ayn Rand, The Virtue of Selfishness. I think there's a lot in that title we can all benefit from.

-Ian