I do it. Envelope myself in a blanket of alone. Shaky ground really. Sometimes I feel as if I need to lick my wounds before I show the scars to someone that cares. Wrap my head around what the hell is going on before I try to explain the insanity to another poor soul.  As if I don’t want to inflict my “me-ness” cause golly gee, I know firsthand how effed up I can truly be.

Now I know what you’re thinking … sorta.  So I’m just proposing this as food for thought.  Is it okay to have some “alone” time in recovery when shit hits the fan … to gather one’s thoughts? To inventory or cry or scream or yell?  When is enough … enough? Is there a point where you start treading on dangerous ground? A semipermeable line where recovery focus crosses over into disease focus?

There are moments where I really treasure my alone time.  Quiet, peace, solace; covering myself with my thoughts and music and writing time. (mind you this is very difficult to obtain with three mini ninjas hootin’ and hollerin’ most days and nights) I like being in my own skin these days.  There was a time where all spare time was filled with others and I couldn’t sleep alone in my bed.  Alone meant lonely and unfulfilled equaled omg I don’t wanna look at me.  So … I didn’t.  Was always chattering about something; which meant most of it meant nothing.  Words can be valuable tools,  if chosen wisely.  They can also be space fillers intended to divert from what the hell is really going on.

Then there comes a point where “alone time” means isolation means uh oh.  When the “alone” is no longer enjoyable and I find myself rocking myself to sleep to cheezy 80′s love songs  (i KNOW i’m not the only one who does it. shushup). Where I am no longer my best friend, but my worst enemy; and my perception of life events becomes twisted and dark.  You know the whole routine, nobody likes me because yadda yadda … and I’m not worthy cause of blah blah blah.  Bullshit. All of it.  But I’m not communicating so nothing’s being challenged.

As a byproduct of stepwork and rote and routine and operant conditioning Pavlovian style (no drooling thank you … put the bell down. now.), I’m able to thankfully tell the difference.  Also having a few amazing people in my life that will tell me the absolute truth … helps.  Okay it’s vital.  My sponserrific extraordinaire has this unerring way of telling me I may be in the “danger zone”.  She simply lifts one eyebrow and says, “I miss you”.  That’s enough for me. I get it and see it and usually never tell her til after I’ve processed the shit outta me. It’s just my process. And she knows me. Probably better than I ever thought a person could.  Example. Tonight sitting outside drinking some hella good coffee … she looks at me and says, “I so want for you to have the ability to have somewhat of a social life again. You just have so much on your plate.”  Wise words, loving words, words of kindness and simplicity. Exactly what I needed.  I cried (per norm) and we chattered on for two hours. Cloud nine.  My cup is full yet again.

Funny how sometimes we don’t even realize we’re running close to empty.  Perhaps I should develop a beeping light that comes on when our tanks are getting low.  Like a gas tank indicator.  ‘Cept mine would say “dumb ass yer empty” or somesuch thing.  So in conclusion, getcha some folks that “get ya”.  All the way in.  Who can see when alone is productive and when alone is drowning in the proverbial sea of self.  An eyebrow raise is really all it takes.  And some chutzpah … cause I can be a bit much to handle.  Thanks for takin’ the risk Kat … and all those others who aren’t afraid of my bitch slappin’ false pride.  Speakin’ of slapping I met this cute male nurse the other day … oh wait. Maybe I’m “talking” too much.