Trust is a fickle thing. More so when the individual you are trying to trust is yourself.
There have been a few roadblocks to my recovery, more to come I'm sure but part of having some Higher Power or something greater than myself to believe in for help is being able to trust it. It's really fucking hard...how do you articulate into words how you feel about yourself? Especially when that self-image is pretty low at the moment?
I guess going years without fully letting people into my lives and then finally giving myself completely to another, losing that person, and feeling immense pain has left a large and still very sensitive wound in its wake. I'm supposed to continue to "fake it til I make it" and eventually this becomes my reality. I start to believe in something greater than myself, I have a chance at recovery because I surrender the idea that I have complete control; which I've never had.
There's a lot of trauma to experience. I've been storing it up for years and now I have the privilege of experiencing it all as a flood and not the gradual trickle that built this river. Emotional bukake. I really don't know how to handle it sometimes and instances like last night where I just lose control seem to happen from time to time and are seemingly inexplicable. My sponsor tells me how all of this has to do with really discovering who I am. It's so difficult; discovery. It means exploring the triggers, opening well-hidden boxes, and looking at old photos.
I feel as though I've just been scraping by lately which simply isn't good enough. I deserve better than that and I have many things to be happy about but my addiction is quite the contrarian. My addiction has had years to mold itself into something that seems reasonable or even healthy. I sometimes forget that my old behaviors are what got me here to begin with. G (my sponsor) will say stuff to me like "you've been doing the same shit for years and look where its got you. How else could you be?" It's those days, where I play the old tapes, look at images that can only hurt me, that I let my addiction have it's daily bread.
There are two dogs. One is white, the other, black. The white dog is the healthy aspect of myself while the black dog is the unhealthy addiction I've fostered and fed. I can see the white dogs ribs while the black dog had gorged himself on years of self-doubt, insecurity, and denial. G says that I can never kill the black dog, it's a part of who I am, but I can starve the mother fucker. I'd like to leave an emaciated and broken animal behind me and see that white dog feed on the health and vitality I possess. I want to feed that dog and when I nurture him, I nurture My Self.
I remember reading about POW's imprisoned in the Philippines during WWII They had just been rescued and as one of the young, vital, and strong marines offered his comrade a bar of chocolate, the man crumbled the ground and wept. He wept for the generosity shown, the end of his fears, and he wept because he could finally release all the insecurity, fear, and pain he's used to survive for so long. When I read this story, I felt my gut wrenching itself and my eyes misted over. It was one of those simple acts, the kind we never expect to happen because we've lost hope. To experience such a simple gesture was like being embraced by a thousand arms at once.
I've starved myself both physically and emotionally. Much of the weight I lost within the last few months has yet to return and that in of itself angers me. I weighed 145 lbs. for so long. That was one of the few constants in my life was my body weight. And now even that has changed. I've starved myself emotionally; so caught up in the ascetic lifestyle I thought was necessary to survive my initial period of suicidal thoughts and then recovery. But just like bad habits from my childhood, I carried that Spartan-esque approach to health into the now. I'd often wondered if the prescriptions I'm on had somehow hampered my ability to feel. I know that isn't true at all now. I can see that I'd simply held back, like that prisoner of war, I'd clung onto what few scraps of sanity and hope I had even if it was hatred because that kept me alive and the fire burning. But when those gates fall down, and the people you never expected to see again because you just assumed you'd be dead before they ever arrived embrace you, it's the souls daily bread. The emotional weight of an embrace from another was so foreign and powerful that when I was able to embrace a family member recently, I realized it had been months since anyone else had even touched me, or rather, I let them touch me.
It's so easy to forget once the love we've become so accustomed to is lost to simply stop loving ourselves or anyone for that matter. I see how well-fed that black dog is, how vigorous his gait is and it makes me ill. In stark contrast to this grotesque emotional behemoth is the sunken-eyed, terrified, white dog I've neglected for so long...and I am so sorry for having done this to myself. I am sorry that I've let this part of my soul, my body, my life become so emaciated, tired, and weak.
There's an affirmation on my mirror. It reads "it is being strong, asking for help when you need it most." So, here I am, asking for help because I simply don't feel able to do so myself. Like the horse that gallops until it's frothing at the mouth from exhaustion because of it's reckless rider; I've nearly ran myself to death with my addictive behaviors whipping me all the way to insanity.
This is a plea, a cry for help. I know I have friends and family who love me very much so all I ask is for some support. Many people I count on are thousands of miles away but to just see something real, to know that there's hope...it's like that one penny a day to a Somalian child with a swollen gut. To you it may seem a small and fickle thing but to me; it's the bowl of rice that keeps me alive.
It's what keeps the white dog fed.
-Ian
