Alone

     Well I've managed to finally accomplish my dream.  I did it.  I got into medical school.  It was the best feeling in my life and even two months later reminds me that I am better than I think I am, and that I am enough.
     However, I may be enough and accomplished, but I am also very alone.  Much of it is my own doing.  I didn't have the same energy and zeal when it came to investing in my friendships.  I came to find that when I stopped this investment, I received little in turn, very little.  And somehow in the time that has past I have forgotten how to be a friend, not that I didn't struggle with this before, but now I find it very difficult to be a part of the group.
     I know the holidays always give me bit of a complex, and this year is certainly no exception.  Everyone is talking about their family and friends and loves and I'm over here wondering why I bother.  As much as I would like to think that I am strong, I have been weak.  Too open about my pain.  Ain't no one have time for that.
     It's a difficult thing to take on the world by your lonesome.  But I don't think I know how to even let anyone back into my world.  Good thing no one is knocking at my door.  Haha, even if anyone tried they would have to get through ten inches of pure steel for me to even notice the efforts.
     My job had taken regular ACA meeting from me, and now I am too scared to go back.  Maybe I need to go back to the online chat rooms.  The thoughts that ravage my mind are debilitating and perhaps can only be quelled with gentle introspection and caring hands.  Just like before.
     There is always hope.  I know when I'm at my lowest there is my Higher Power, but in the chill of a winter night, sometimes it simply doesn't feel like enough.  Still...I suppose we have to keep trying.  I mean what else can we do?
     

The Slippery Slope Downwards

It's been a while hasn't it?

In that time I have stopped attending ACA meetings, devoted myself to my EMT job, and cut ties with nearly all my non-EMS friends.

I am such a patchwork of emotions and ideas that it seems like a miracle that I can continue to function.  I think it's only due to my prolific stubbornness that I manage.

What does it mean to be a friend?  I'm not sure I know anymore.  I don't know if I am expecting too much or I'm not fighting hard enough to be treated like I think I should.  The problem is though my idea of fighting is actually giving up.  Easy than conflict, no?

I am so completely focused on my goal of getting into medical school that I have thrown everything else by the wayside.  I am being completely selfish and it feels extremely off putting, but the sad realization is that my singular focus is producing results.  I'm going to get into medical school this application cycle and it's all because I'm not wasting my energies on anything else.

Inside, I am so amazingly empty.  Numb has become my choice of feeling.  Alone is now how I spend my time.

Clearly I am not capable of having relationships beyond the superficial, minus the one or two I retain through the common tie of EMS.  If I wasn't stuck with me I wouldn't bother either.  God, that reeks of self pity, and while I am an expert on the subject I do know I need to give it up.  But it's hard when I've lost not even just friends, but my feelings.

You can't get hurt if you don't feel right?  Easy peezy.

I might write further once I'm done with the MCAT next week.  Writing has always been there for me and it never fails to respond to my pleas.  But we'll see.

Later then.

Intermission

Obviously I have been away from this blog for a long while.  I needed some distance and frankly my self esteem had me questioning that anyone would want to read my posts.  In the between though I have made great strides in my personal recovery.  My six month birthday in Al-Anon was last month and that was such a wonderful accomplishment.  I do have much to say about that and others things, but for now I will say that I am back and eager to get into the thick of things.  


Thank you all for sticking with me, here and outside the confines of this blog. 

Relapse and Recovery

     Someone said to me in a meeting once that recovery is three steps forward, two steps back.  I definitely agree.  Last month things came to a head with the accumulation of a few rough months with a rejection.  I was hurt and depressed.  I kept everyone at arms length, because I felt even if I let them in that they couldn’t help me.  I wanted to, but didn’t trust them to help.

     Of course then I got angry when I felt people weren’t helping me enough…after I pushed them away.  I spent a two weeks absolutely miserable and then gradually things started to get better.  I started to let people in slowly.  I started to figure out that even if they couldn’t fix my problems they could at least sit with me and listen to me.  I had to battle my own guilt.  I felt guilty for falling apart, for shutting people out and not being a better friend.  I felt guilty for both wanting to be helped and guilty for wanting people to listen to me.

      I struggled with the numbness taking over me.  I mean it makes sense doesn’t it?  It’s easier to be numb than feel pain or hurt.  But I’ve lived a great chunk of my life being numb and I don’t want that anymore.  I want to feel, the good and the bad.

     Yesterday I chaired (led) my meeting.   Afterward I was showered with compliments and called a “natural chair”.  I shrugged off the compliments, because I still don’t feel deserving of good words.  But then a senior member complimented me on all the progress I’ve made in two months.  He also complimented me on the strength of my desire to work the program and get better.  These two compliments I didn’t shrug off.

      It is hard to see what progress you’ve made in the program, particularly after a relapse such as mine.  But the group, it notices.  The senior member’s words meant the absolute world to me.  Combining the great meeting with great friends and that night I actually felt happy, like a normal person might.  That moment solidified the idea that I am making progress.  Also now that I’ve had a taste of true happiness, I think I’m addicted. 

     It’s hard but the program works.  Three steps forward, two steps back, but it works.  All I have left to say is thank God for ACA and Al-Anon.

Flashes

     I walk briskly down the sidewalk, my small Al-Anon book in my right hand.  I throw the book out into the street.  Step after step, moving in time with the music pounding through my headphones.  I stop and I launch my fist against the nearest tree, feeling the rough bark scrap against my tender knuckles. Finally I reach my destination, my Al-Anon meeting.  I yell and scream out, my screams drowned out by the rush hour traffic.

     Inside I find that I am early.  “How was your week?” my Al-Anon friend asks.  “Good,” I reply.  “It’s been good.”  I see the Al-Anon table and overturn it in a rage. I head to the bathroom and wipe off some errant tears from my eyes.  I can’t stand the person looking back at me.  I smash the mirror and watch the pieces fall and sparkle.  I look down at the shards.  I return to the meeting room and grab myself a cup of soda, and settle into my favorite chair in the circle.  I clench my fist tightly around my cup, soda erupting up and down my hand, my arm.  

     The meeting starts and I find my focus goes to tracing the patterns in my jeans with my eyes.  I grab the empty chair next to me and hurl it against the far wall. I sit with my arms and legs crossed.  I find a point on my jeans and focus on it until my vision turns black.  Though my eyes remain unfocused, my ears follow each word that is said.   I rip out books out of the bookshelves and then pull the shelves down.  They crash to the ground resoundingly.  I can feel their eyes on me, pondering why I won’t look at anyone, why my face is emotionless, why I haven’t shared yet.  I stand up quickly, pushing my chair back behind me.  I run out the door, and keep running, and when I can’t run anymore I walk, and when I can’t walk anymore I sit.  I stare up into the night sky and pray for peace.  After the meeting I grab my book, stand up and leave quietly.

Moments in the life of an ACoA

     Sometimes I wish I could give people a chance to live a day in my head, just so they might understand what I struggle with everyday.  I can’t so I thought I’d write out a few different scenarios and show how ACA thinking affects everyday life moments.

     You’re out with friends.  Hanging, actually enjoying yourself, but then someone makes a joke, one single stupid joke about the joys of booze, and then all that fun you’ve been having?  It’s done.  You try hard to have a good time, but you just got reminded of all the fun with booze you had growing up.  The yelling, the anger, the fear.  In a single instant you just got consumed.  You can’t wait to leave, because you want to run to your bed, fall asleep in the hopes it resets your mood.  But these are your friends.  To run away now would raise questions.  So you sit and stay and pretend to be having a good time, and wonder how screwed up a person has to be to hate hanging out with their friends like this. 

     You’ve made the decision to go to this group meeting.  You’re eager and excited about going, because you like the people in the group.  Everything is going well, until you hear someone else share something personal in their lives.  You want to share as well.  But what do you say?  You’re struggling and hurting and close to tears, but you can’t figure out what to say about it.  So you stay silent.  Doesn’t matter anyway.  Even if you did figure out what to say, you can’t.  Despite your best efforts the words stay stuck in you.  You get so frustrated, because you know that if only you could ask for help, it would be given to you.  You know this, and still can’t force the words out.  So you become angry at yourself, and upset, and when you are alone you feel the tears well up.  You wonder whether or not you should go to that group meeting anymore.

     Things aren’t exactly going super in your life right now.  You accept this, because you know that your life is destined to suck.  When things go wrong sometimes you don’t even know if you’re allowed to be upset about it.  You look to others to gauge how you’re supposed to feel.  And because things go wrong, you blame yourself.  Even if you did your best, it doesn’t matter, because you failed.   And because you failed you get angry at yourself.  You start listening to that voice in your head that says you’re worthless, that you don’t matter.  You get struck by depression and then find yourself doing nothing for days on end, because you don’t think you can stand one more failure.  And you just know if you try and go after what you want you’ll fail.  Because that’s how your twisted mind works.

     And God.  You struggle with God a lot.  For a while it was okay.  You accepted what happened to you as a kid because it made you stronger.  But then you realize just how weak you actually are, and that you are forced to recover in Al-anon/ACA due to what happened.  So now you struggle to find another reason why God let that happen to you.  And you wonder if God’s plan is for you to be broken.  You end up concluding that you can’t understand things right now, but surely in time it will all be clear.  You hang on to this hope desperately, because Al-Anon and ACA are spiritual programs.  And you need a relationship with a Higher Power to recover, so you feel trapped by your inability to let God in. 

     Truly the mind of an ACoA can be a troubling place.  I battle self-hatred every day.  Some days I come out ahead, and others I go to sleep hoping my life will reset itself in the morning.

“Coming Out” with my ACA story

     Like being gay, being an adult child of alcoholic is something that isn’t immediately obvious to others.  It can be a secret, even to the individual.  Such is the power of denial.  The secret can evoke shame and holding on to the secret can cause the person undue pain.  The individual holds on tightly to that secret until either they are exposed or they come to terms with the secret.  

    

     Additionally, the secret can be very hard to share with others, even friends.  It is a struggle.  The first people I came out to with my ACA story were a close knit group of friends I had in college.  The group of us met at orientation and became really close very quickly.  They were the first people I have met whom I felt genuinely cared about me.   Even still it took me five months before I got in depth about my being raised in the home of an alcoholic.

     When I finally told my friends they more than supported me.  They showed me what love is.  My group of college friends loved me more than I had thought possible for people not tied together by family secrets.  Things were good.  I had a core of friends who knew my story and who I felt close to as well.  The problem?  College ends eventually.  I moved away and soon new friends came into the picture. 

     Because it’s never enough to tell your coming out story just once.  Different people are going to come into your life, and you have to make the choice whether or not you choose to tell them your story.  You don’t have to tell them.  In fact it’s probably not advisable to go up to people you’ve just met and say, “Hey, my mother drank a lot and her pastimes included screaming, breaking stuff, and making life miserable.”  Yeah…not going to fly. 

     You have to be choosy about who to tell.  I am friends with this group of really great people and have been for about a year.  Even after that year I still feel like I have trouble connecting with them.  I think to myself, "Connecting with my college friends was never this hard."  But that’s me, simply remembering the time after I had let go of my secret shame.

     I really do want to tell this group my ACA story, and I struggle to find reasons why I stay silent.  “They seem too perfect.  They won't understand.”  "They’ll think I’m attracted to crazy or drama or something if I tell them this after everything else that has happened.”  “The timing/atmosphere is never right to share this.”  “If I do it, they’ll drop me quicker than a flaming sack of potatoes.”  “They don’t care about your past (which then translates to ‘they don’t care about you…not enough at least to listen to you whine about the past’).”   

     Not helping is the fact that I had a dream where, after a violent confrontation with my drunk mother, I seek asylum with a college friend, who turns into one of my new friends from the group.  I tell my story, but he is unsympathetic.  He kicks me to the curb.

      All this leads to this question: “Why again do I have to?”  I too easily answer my own question.  Because, I know they care about me.  Also perhaps it would help explain me and my occasional idiosyncrasies to them.  I’m not sure how I’ll tell them.  Maybe I’ll share during a group meeting.  Or maybe I’ll just send out the web address to this blog post.  I do know that I will tell them…eventually….some day.

How is being an ACoA like having a disease?

                Alcoholism is a disease.  I’m not sure who was the first to say it or when that came about, but it is a statement very much accepted in the world of recovery.  It seems lately there have been several mentions in the meetings I attend that link ACoAs with disease as well.

“A thinking disease”

Something I heard today is that our disease is a thinking disease.  Because of how we were raised our minds were warped and our subsequent thoughts and actions mutated.  It is so very true.  My body may be physically in perfect shape, but this thinking disease shapes my world in a grotesque and solemn manner.

“It’s like diabetes.”

A newcomer asked the group whether or not this thinking disease can ever be cured.  An old-timer took the question on.  He likened how we are after being raised in an alcoholic or dysfunctional home to diabetes.  There is no cure for diabetes.  However if we take care of ourselves and seek appropriate medicines and help, we can live active, productive and healthy lives.

“Growing up with an alcoholic is like growing up with cancer.”

Be forewarned, I have a bone to pick with this comparison.  Growing up with alcoholism is like growing up with a parent or both parents who always has/have cancer.  Because of the nature of the disease often the focus will be on the inflicted.  At certain points in your life you might have to explain why your parent looks different due to lack of hair.  You may even have to take over the role of caretaker.  

 So there are similarities, but I feel still conflicted about this simile.  There is no shame in having cancer.  It’s not something you have to hide from your friends, or even your relatives.  And while alcoholism is a disease, the choice to drink, at least initially, is a choice.  Cancer is not a choice.  Cancer was actually the best thing to happen to my relationship with my alcoholic mother. 

She got breast cancer my junior year of high school.  And for several months she had to undergo chemo and radiation therapy, and I loved it.  Not because my mother was suffering, but because she could not drink on the drugs she was on.  And back then she could make the choice not to mix alcohol and her drugs.  So I got a sick, but sober mom for a whole summer.  The best months I spent with her were those months.  I felt bad I was so grateful my mother had cancer, but I couldn’t help but brush the guilt away as I enjoyed the love she had to give to me then.  Then of course she got recovered from the cancer, and as soon as she could she started drinking again and things were back to "normal". 

So for me, being an ACoA is similar to some diseases, but not all.  Then I shrug my shoulders.  What works for one may not work for all, but if it works for them, then that's all that matters.