Ever heard the phrase, when we start using we stop growing emotionally.  So basically look at the age you first began using and that’s EMOTIONALLY where you’re starting from when you get sober/clean.  Scary eh? A bunch of teenagers trying to navigate the social world.

Except that many teenagers have learned coping skills through the natural progression of adolescence.  How to deal with the difficulties presented in their peer groups; healthy self esteem, playing nice with others, how to act with integrity, value identification, how to deal with peer pressure (I could go on for days here but I won’t.)

Kinda puts things in perspective yes?  That we are emotionally immature with little/few coping skills, trying our best to overcome a disease that’s trying to kill us.  This is a large part of our “sick”.  Ever dealt with a saucy teenager who is freaking out about pretty much … everything??? Right. Difficult is putting it mildly.  When we grow up … there is a factor of “pain” involved.  Hence the term growing pains. Get it? Got it? Good.

Remember this when dealing with the newcomer. If you ARE the newcomer … be gentle with yourself you’re still an awkward growing gangly teenager way deep down inside.  I sorta like the idea of that really – the perpetual fountain of youth from the inside out.  (0kay you know I was being sarcastic. I hope. Sheesh.)

What does emotional maturity mean? Growing up. No more foot stomping hollering “It’s not fair!”. Well you CAN do those things but it won’t get you far in a healthy recovery community.  Stepwork is vital.  In a way the steps teach us in a clear concise way what a large portion of the world learned while battling the initial onslaught of acne … and then some.

• How to focus on yourself and your own problems. As MOM would say … “Don’t worry about what everyone else is doing. If everyone else jumped off a bridge would you do it to?”
• Don’t overreact. MOM-ism “Quit being so dramatic. How important is it?”
• Ask a power greater than you for help. MOM says “You don’t know everything.”
• Humility (no better or worse than anyone else). MOM: “You are NOT the center of the universe child. Everyone is NOT staring at you because you’re goofy looking. People have their own lives to worry about.”
• Apply the principles learned to ALL your affairs. MOM : “Act right because it’s simply the next *right* thing to do. Not just when someone’s watching. Be who you really are. I love you.”

Okay I just almost made myself cry with that last one. Good grief. Recovery as parental teachings with the additional benefit of non-judgment. Boy do I like the idea of that. And a kind gentle real loving recovery mom. Which is what I strive to be every single day to my daughters. This blog post was rather revealing … as it usually tends to be for this recovery chick. Just goes to show you when you give it away … you keep it.

I love… recovery.

“You are so bright and happy, even at work. Are you always like this or is there something wrong with you?”

To which, of course, I replied… A little of both. You see I like both aspects of this compliment/tease from one of my favorite people at work. First of all, I like that I’m seen as bright, which I am most days; and of course that it seems a little “odd” to someone NOT in recovery.  Both equal transparency. Both are absolutely 100% truth.

You see, we have a solution today. A seemingly infallible way to deal with whatever is ailing our addled brains. Twelve steps to rely on to clear out the wreckage of self and sick and twisted. A way out. A SOLUTION.  So that we don’t have to stay stuck.  Once you know the way out, it’s like riding a bicycle. A little wobbly at first yet the moment you begin your muscles instinctively remember how to pedal.

The steps are like that for me anyway.  I’ve been steppin’ times 12 for nearly two decades (with a brief intermission for idiocy).  I can tell a distinct difference when I don’t do a daily tenth step.  To be honest, this stumps some people in my life.  That I don’t put my issues ON them.  That I’d rather work through it and come back later to resolve if need be or simply let go of the situation. After close examination of my behavior and reactions, I am fully able to LET IT GO.  Make amends if necessary and after discussing with an objective party (usually my sponse/bff/killer cool bestie blonde chick – *waves at Kat*)  Checking things out with someone NOT in the situation is vital.  Yes. VITAL.

If left to my own devices, if I try to resolve things without really looking at my part? It gets ugly.  Definitely easier to blame you for my feelings and reactions than examine where I had been selfish, dishonest, self seeking, and afraid.  (Sound familiar??? It should.  It’s the fourth step inventory and for me the tenth step as well. Written. Yes.)

No matter WHAT someone else does to me, real or imagined; I cannot look at their part in things.  What’s important is the way I react.  That is ALL I am responsible for today.  What a relief really.  I mean if someone is being an ass (like people do from time to time), I look at my part.

• How did I want this person to think and act MY way? With no regard for the situation or perception, when I want YOU to do what I want YOU to do; it is FAIL. Selfish.
• What behavior did I exhibit in response to your behavior? Did I knee-jerk, as I am wont to do? Did I get pissy or angry or yell or cry to get my way? Did I arouse bitterness or suspicion? Did I talk behind your back? Did I punish you in some way?  This is Self Seeking.
• Did I lie and say nothing was wrong? Did I lie out of self preservation? Did I omit details to make myself look better? Dishonest.
• Was I afraid of your reaction? What you think of me? What the repercussion would be? Was fear filling my gullet like an impregnated sperm whale? Afraid.

This is my 10th step. This is what keeps the crap from building up inside stroking my sick; my guided meditative directions that prevent me from falling back into the same patterns of addictive thinking.  THIS … is my daily housecleaning. How I was taught by the oldtimers, how I keep MY behavior in the forefront instead of blaming ALL OF YOU … for my issues.  Like windex for the soul, it is my salvation most days.

Now some don’t get this at all. A few that are close to me, and you know who you are, want to address things right on the spot.  To which I simply say … I need to process this first and then I’ll get back to you.  The issue is mine, or at least feels that way, and I have to look at my stuff. Nine times out of ten, it’s resolved quickly and the emotional boo boo is kissed by the lips of the tenth step.

What a revelation, gift, tool, blessing … freedom. To not be burdened by trying to control others emotions and behavior? Freakin’ priceless.  This leads to my mostly sunny days.  Sure I cry. Yes it’s not always sunshine and roses. But I embrace those days too as it can’t be sunny ALL the time.  Fortunately in my world there is just enough tears raining down to make the flowers grow.  Just… enough.

And for the second part of this morning’s comment? The “is there something wrong with you?” question?  Well. Duh. I just explained that.  There’s tons wrong with me. It’s my natural inclination as an alcoholic to be selfish. To want others to think and act MY way. The “if only” syndrome. If only people would … do what I wanted the world would be a better place.  How arrogant.

These days I’m satisfied, most days, to accept my flaws and imperfections and to know that I’m NOT in charge.  I like that.  If I were in charge? Whoa baby, we’d all be in trouble.  So yes, with step work, I can remain positive. And YES, there’s lots of things wrong with “me”.  I’m completely and totally okay with both.  Not to mention grateful.  But that’s another blog entirely.  Step ten saves my ass every single time. Thank the gods … whomever they may be.

An hour lead and tons of times people spend 50 minutes on ‘what happened’, realize what time it is and say “I worked the steps and life ROCKS now.”Some refer to this as the ‘drunkalogue’ or ‘war stories’.  I think it’s important to identify. To help the newcomer and not so new timer to be able to relate.  To get their “AHA” moment of … holy crap someone drank/used the way I did.

However…

One of my favorite things in the world is to hear ‘what it’s like now‘.  You know. The HOPE part.  Like I said … identifying is uber important but so is the PROGRESSION INTO RECOVERY.  How life is different now.  Where once was lonely self hatred is now a budding self confidence and love like one has never known before.  Example? Sure. I aim to please.

Remember the blog on the guy from work who didn’t realize how sick his sick was? No? Read this please … (yes it’s a link) … The Opened Hand.  Anyway synopsis is … guy forced to come to the rooms who had no idea he really fit there.  Anyway, he has been coming to meetings regularly “to look good for court”.   Yes quite a few of us have been there.

But last night was different.  HE was different.  Head up, eyes shining, beaming smile, daughter in tow, bright disposition; he hugged me. He’s getting it. The IT that we get when it begins to sink in that “omg. I fit here.”  Hope looked beautiful on him.

A scant month ago he schlepped into my job as miserable as he could have ever looked.  Complaining of how life was a ‘bitch’ and so was his wife.  That the world was out to get him and poor me poor me pour me … a drink.  How he drank “light beer” but still went to AA to ‘get one over on the judge’.

From what he told me last night, not one person judged him, berated him, or belittled him for being (as he called it) “FREAKIN’ NUTS”.  People were kind and simply told him to keep coming back.

See I love that about recovery. It’s an osmosis thing. Attraction not promotion. We don’t have to convince anyone of anything.  Simply suiting up and sharing who we are is the key.  I’ve never been so proud of my fellow AA members as I was last night.

So. The progression of recovery.  The waking up from denial and death and the hopelessness that this disease has for us.  Next time you see a speaker talk for most of their story about their consequences … check their eyes, their posture, the feeling in their words, the heartfelt amazement coming from their very pores, the gratitude that they survived all those horrible events.  THAT is where you see the progression of recovery.  Be aware and get the message that they don’t even know they’re sending.

And as much as I adore, cherish, love words … actions can speak louder.

“We are people who normally would not mix. But there exists among us a fellowship, a friendliness, and an understanding which is indescribably wonderful”.  Chapter 2. Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous. (if I tell you the page then you won’t read it to make sure I’m not pullin’ yer leg)

I had a sponsor do that once.  My very first.  Find flippin’ awesome ways to make me read the book.  She’d write little snippets all through it. “One certificate for a free steak dinner if you find the quote about acceptance.”   She was an older lady, funny as hell.  Not someone I’d have met any other place but in the rooms.  Always wore saucy red shoes and talk about the “Hillbilly Beer Gardens” in Kentucky.   I loved her with all my might.  She was more nurturing to me than a hundred of my peer group could have ever been.  Kentucky born and bred, old enough to be my grandmother, one of the first handful of women in AA, brash and bold and beautiful, alcoholic.

And then I got my first ride on the back of a Harley to Cook’s Forest PA camping/convention.  Never been a biker chick but I certainly found out I could rock some chaps.  What a sense of community they had.  I was loved through a sore rump that weekend.  Hot ass, bike lovers, real and raw, alcoholics.

Oh and I can’t forget Kailash.  My partner on a “god walk” at an Akron Area spiritual retreat.  With my early twenty something self I said God to me was a “big blob of love”.  I’m not kidding.  We laughed about that for almost two decades.  Doctor, brilliant man, native to India, alcoholic.  One of my dearest friends.

Dan. The man.  Young peoples conventions.  Co-chair with me for OYPAA (Ohio Young People’s convention of Alcoholics Anonymous) about a decade ago.  Crazy hair, alternative lifestyle, been involved in young peoples forever, loved to wave light sticks, suspected nudist, alcoholic.

Paula. Online friend. Our beliefs and similarities are so significant that I could swear we’re sisters.  Never met her. Hopefully will someday.  She’s bright and cheery and loving and lovely.  Courage that would take your breath away.  Mother, daughter, writer/poet, amazing woman, alcoholic.

Me.  (too much to describe. i think. yeah i’m pretty sure) Mixing with hundreds possibly thousands of folks in recovery over the years;  loving them, living the gift of recovery.  Common bonds of sick begetting unspeakable beauty.

Indescribably … wonderful.

For all the people who have touched my life and loved me through it all …

I love you. I miss you. You saved my life.

I’ve seen the people who have what I want.  They don’t speak badly of others, no matter WHAT the others are doing.  No criticizing. No judgments. No “They’re not working a program.” No snark.   Most of all … they don’t take anything personal.  People can be where they are and it’s okay.  Micro-managing someone else in their recovery process isn’t really an option.  Dictating the lives of other sick folks is NOT their calling.  Just willing to share what they have. Don’t want it? No problem.

This is what I choose to be today. Kindness and compassion and focused on the lifting up of another. I certainly cannot MAKE anyone stay clean or sober. My will couldn’t do it for me, why the hell would it work for anyone else? Bottom-line-ism: If I’m focusing on my own recovery process and simply “giving it away to keep it” I don’t have TIME to focus on what others are doing. Unless they ask me of course. And even then what am I to share? Experience. Strength. Hope.  That’s it. Seriously.

As much as I loved being an Addictions Therapist, my job in recovery is NOT to analyze others. (Actually any good counselor will tell you that it’s not their job either … we leave that to the shrinks.) It’s to share what I did to stay sober.  That’s it.  EVEN as a sponsor. Yep. Again unless someone I’m talking with asks my opinion, then I’m simply a friend giving an opinion. And yes I do preface such conversations with “In MY experience” and “This is how I dealt with that”. Yes this applies to relationships. To family and money and jobs and life in general.

Think about this.  If you take credit for the recovery … you take credit for the fall.  Ick. Yeah. Sounds awful. But I’ve seen it.  Hell I’ve done it.  Always ends in fail.  Our only job is to show what YOU have … be an example of recovery.  Nothing more is required. The rest of it is simply the gravy.  Which can be flavorful and enhancing or messy and drown out the unique taste of the fare beneath.  Use sparingly.  Everyone has the right to be their own type of potato or biscuit … or steak … or … or … you get the idea. Great. Now I’m hungry. On that note, I’m off for dinner. And I don’t like gravy … much.

Waking. Agony. Not again. Not another groundhog day. I don’t wanna do this again. Suckin’ it up, bitch slap self for the sake of the babies. Play, learn, teach, grow … the only sunlight in the cave. Counting the seconds til the captain can come out to play. Three o’clock and whew and sigh and finally. Hands shakin I traipse to the hiding spot. The back of the top shelf of the play room closet, underneath the sink hidden in the carafe meant for caffeine drinks. Everyone does this. Cooking gourmet meals after a long day of teaching and mommy’ing. I deserve it. “IT” consumes me.

Started off innocently enough with cheap grocery store rum. “That’ll be three dollars and nineteen cents please” the smarmy cashier laughed at my cheap booze. That wasn’t so hard. First time buying alcohol legally … at the tender age of thirty and six years. No bells went off, no whistles. No flashing roadsign that said “She’s been in AA for 15 years.” Whew. Was worried. The big red A wasn’t visible that day, unless you count the shiftiness in the eye and hiding the bottle. “Not really an alcoholic, I mean I got sober at 19 fer shitsakes. Phase. Nothing more.” the incredulous lie signed, sealed, delivered to my demise.

The man of the house rolls in. I wince as the gravel squeals and hits the house. Brace yourself. Breathe. The rum takes off the edge of it all. “Bitch. Keep the kids quiet. I’m fucking tired and I’m going out later.” I die a little more with every syllable. How did I get here I wonder … where did the strong confident woman go? The one with a spring in her step and feistiness oozing out of every crevice? She’s gone. Slowly murdered by self hatred and the cackle of a marriage gone sour. A genuine smile does not cross my lips for almost a decade. I am broken. Lost. If not for blonde babies, momma woulda checked outta the Life hotel long ago. Inhuman and numb is better than this. I fill coke zero cans with rum.

Within the year of the relapse; chinese zodiac never predicted this outcome. The liquor store lady smiles sadly at me as I relate how much my “family” likes to drink. With disdain in my voice no less. It’s self directed. The hate bubbles over daily. I begin to talk back. Pseudo-courage bottle form. “don’t you call me ugly you fuck.” “stop laughing when i cry” “no don’t touch me … you’ll NEVER touch me again” “i hate you.” … these phrases are coined daily. Emboldened by booze crazed thinking I actually stop taking shit. In all the wrong ways of course. Culminating in a punch to the jaw … almost forgot about that little incident. The floodgates opened and a week later I wake up in a hospital bed with scars on my abdomen.

What happened?? I am mentally nimble still and say I fell … down the steps … carrying laundry. Husband approves and brings flowers. Bits of hell float back during that moment … hitting the wall, being drop kicked, ducking to miss the oscillating fan swung at the noggin. Two muscular hands grabbing my throat and squeezing the insolence out like a rotted mango. I remember laughing and saying various silly things. “Go ahead and kill me. It’s better than you walking through that door everyday and me dying slowly, minute by minute. Do it. DO IT.” I begin to fade away and remember being thrown to the floor and spat upon. I laugh. Pussy.

I’m done. It’s semantics now. I crawl hands and knees style to the rooms I left behind. Under a microscope now … he backs away. I cry for a month straight. Hands hold me up. Gentle looks and loving kindness feel so foreign. I remember. I remember. The girl I used to be. Head up, eyes bright, shining, laughing, brave and lovely. I REMEMBER!!! I plan my escape. I begin to heal. I am remembering. Who I really am. No victim am I. All choices. Bad ones albeit, but pain wrought by my own action or in this case, lack thereof. I am healing … flesh wounds cauterized with loving gentleness of those holding my head up. No longer alone. My family in recovery shields my eyes as I stagger out of the cave … they cradle my head … they feed me when I cannot bear to make myself eat of the fruit of life.

I am free. I am once again … the girl I used to be.

I write a lot of posts under the heading “emotional intelligence”.  I could blather on about the actual studies and models on the study of EI; quoting Gardner, Payne, Petrides, Landy, Locke, and even Darwin.  Transversely I could give you all an EQ-i (Emotion Quotient Inventory) measuring the mental ability to be successful in dealing with environmental pressures and demands. (Bar-On, R. (2006). The Bar-On model of emotional-social intelligence(ESI). Psicothema, 18 , supl., 13-25.) TOTALLY looking over my hot librarian glasses right now. Just sayin.

But …  I won’t. In the effort to KISS (and you’d BETTER know what that means), we’ll just say that EI is the ability to have I over E. And besides only real nerds like me get off on that stuff anyway. Okay I digress. Moving along…

Not letting our pure emotions (better yet emotions based in false evidence), overcome our intellect and therefore our behaviors.  Example I’ve heard used a gazillion times at meetings:  “I walked into a room full of people and I just KNEW they were all talking about me.”  Or the ever popular, “Are you mad at me? Cause you seem like you’re mad at me.” And oh the very best one of all, “If there were a hundred people in the room and 99 liked me, I’d focus on the one that didn’t.”  Yeah. When in reality that one person may simply just have had gas, or cancer, or their OWN life to think about. Ahem … ego. Point being,  learning to discover if my emotion is based in fact or fiction; and YES again with the perception thing (see fourth step of any handy dandy recovery program to address this issue).

I’m a cryer from way back. Always have been. Cry when I’m angry (which pisses me off more), sad, happy, indifferent, bored … yadda yadda yadda. Can’t hide a damn emotion to save my life. Blush like crazy, eyes rollin’ in the back of my head; total transparency.  Alcohol used to mask that for me because I’d not mastered this so called emotional intelligence thingy.  So my emotions ruled me once more upon entering recovery.  Scary part was that I didn’t know the difference between fact and fiction.  Many times my ego driven mind made it all about me … imagine that. Hyper sensitive, raw, and easy to react led me down some pretty dark paths.  The ONLY way I was able to overcome this is to begin to look at the reasons why I acted as I did.

Shock and awe, it was my perception of ME that was the culprit.  Now I know most of you probably already get this, but for me this was an epiphany of epic proportions.  Once I learned the how’s and why’s, I was able to decipher my behavior and begin to be a bit more unflappable. Cool as a cucumber. Duck in water baby. Until that point I was a slave to my emotions and didn’t seem to have much choice in the matter. That is why a DAILY inventory of some sort is vital to me.  What the hell triggered this reaction? Why did I feel this way? Did I react in a way that fit with who I really am? These were added to the daily 10th step and I found remarkable results.

So I take a step back, when I’m feeling all “feely”; and I inventory, inventory, inventory.  After examination and of course bouncing it off others, my transparency has become a valued thing.  Cause those that know me, know that the real is just that. Not some convoluted notion of “poor me” or “i’m not good enough” or “piss me off and you’ll pay”.  Intelligence over emotion … cause I’m one feelin’ broad; just now I’m “smartly sappy”. It works for me.

for more on EI – for geeks like me

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emotional_intelligence

I mean really. The early recovery questions of “should I hang with so and so?” to the seven year itch of “should I keep going to these damn meetings?” to relationships, friendships, family ties, what job to choose, does he like me, am I doing the right things … question question question … angst angst angst … bleck bleck bleck.

I ache sometimes to know which fork in the road to choose (I know you can’t relate *eye roll*). Which way lies the path of clarity and consistency?  I play the Ramone’s Should I Stay or Should I Go, just to mess with my head some and laugh out the wrinkles in my cognitive reasoning.  I want SO badly to believe in the fantasy ya know? That people are good and nice and have my best interest at heart.  That just ain’t the case sometimes sport.  There’s always … and yes I used that word … an agenda. Whether people realize it or not. Not always a “bad” one mind you, but an agenda nonetheless.

Is there such a thing as completely unconditional? No payoffs, no touchy feely, dudley-do-right, here lemme “help” you’s?  My head plays in fantasy island; the what if’s, could be’s, and if only’s. That’s crap. Real is real. And can be hurtful and brutal and cold. If I’m not my biggest fan, I’m fucked.  Cause you can be damn sure that people aren’t going to tote home my dirty drawers and wash em’ up all purty with their own.

Bottom line is just that.  What’s it gonna take … to take care of my lil’ ole soul? Sure ain’t the smooth talkin’ boys who say all the right words but fizzle out after they find out this girl ain’t that easy.  Friends, sponsors, family all are amazing. However they don’t lay on my pillow wiping away tears of lonely and afraid. I DO THAT. And I like that I do.

Steps and work are crucial to relative sanity and recovery. But me … loving me … and a power greater than wanting me to do so … is the only thing that counts when the rubber hits the road.  I make mistakes just like the rest of you … probably more so since I’m gullible girl and that’s okay.  Owning it, making it mine, taking responsibility for MY choices … makes the bitter pills bearable to swallow dry.

Should I stay or should I go? Only I know … I get clues or hints from well meaning loved ones. Truly my gut is the final judge. You know,  the place without words that causes bile to rise when something is whack. Years of work it’s taken me to listen to that voice.  It used to be a shrill nagger … now it’s Barry White. Smooth, silken tones of reason and clarity.  As I always tell my friends, “You already have all the answers … what’s keeping you from seeing them?”  *Heal thyself smart-ass*  Barry snickers.

I’m gonna go slip into my robe, groove to “can’t get enough of your love babe”, light a candle, and slow dance myself to sleep.  Angst can get bent.

Gut churning is a sign, along with a raised eyebrow or eye roll.  Something is not quite right here champ, take a gander at the internal flashing lights.  Inventory taking helps, as does talking with sponsor like folks or spiritual teachers worldwide.  In the end, however, we shine our own light on issues far and wide and will not be moved if our heels are dug in deep.

We all know the much cited Einsteinian definition of insanity … repetition with like results equals “duh”.  Beating bloody fists into the same issue over and over and over; shocked when it’s not different … this time.  Why try a different choice? Why take the risk of healthiness? Replay has worked so far right? I mean doing the same things over and over is familiar and comfortable (see prior blog “Shitty Diaper” for further reference).

Spirit (gut, conscience, god, belief, karma, et cetera), won’t let us get away with it. Manifesting in a million ways it is a bitch of Jiminy Cricket;  stomach pain stress levels, sweaty palms and sleepless nights lend themselves to the pounding of the “real” inside coming out.  Get out the rolaids and take an ambien, it’ll be okay.  Until it’s not.  When the unspoken screams to be heard “STOP WHAT YOU’RE DOING HERE” bleed to the brain, then we begin the process of change.

Recovery process (those silly steps again sheesh) in essence helps us to listen to the internal mumbling by erasing all the justifications rattling our brain.  No excuses leaves an open window for spiritual awareness.  Meditation becomes meaningful and really listening to those around us with an open heart leads to “AHA” moments worldwide.  Take a listen, write out the pro’s and con’s with a red sharpie, ask and ask and ask some more … when someone loves you enough to give their take,  this time really listen.

Spiritually absent or spiritually aware?

Not so easy. Not so quickly did the dynamite go BOOM. Like a flash before your eyes in slow motion; it happened.  Never knowing when the next unkind word would spout and knock you on your ass, before you even knew there was a cap in it.  No one says, “Gee golly Mom and Dad when I grow up I wanna get my ass kicked and feel stuck in a horrible relationship. Ain’t ya proud?”  Incomprehensible on a conscious level, totally get down with the subconscious question, “Maybe things will get better? He’s really nice deep down inside.”  Double bleck.

It starts slowly, as most things do. A jab here, a mean comment there; always followed with an I’m sorry and an excuse.  Note to YOU … anytime, anyone, anywhere believes that it’s okay to down you and use something else as a reason for such shitheadedness – RUN LIKE HELL.  My less than lovely love affair started with a punch in the door and “I don’t have a Dad and that’s why I’m mean.” WTF??? Lots of folks don’t have Dad’s … does that mean they have the right to be hateful too? Excuses.  Easy to believe actually. Because by that time, you’re invested somehow and WANT so badly to believe that they indeed are just “misunderstood” and “broken”.  Hell I’m broken too but you don’t see me randomly beating people.

Rain Slicker smooth like buttah, assuaging doubt with a double dose of nicety. The kind they tell you about in Fabio inspired novels and Lifetime specials.  THIS … you say to yourself … is who he really is! All this other shit is getting in the way right? (another note to you … if these words EVER run through your mind about someone … RUN LIKE HELL) The fact of the matter is problems are worked through if and ONLY if people accept personal responsibility.  This ain’t Fantasy Island kids, no one can flip flop that quick. Sorry.  It is true that people can change and NOT do things that are hateful again … BUT … they are accountable for their behavior and it ain’t no honeymoon sugah.

Walking on eggshells because of his “issues” (get a fucking tissue and get out man) I found myself wondering what had happened to me. The sassy ass, wisecrackin’, whippersnapper of a twenty something was reduced to a quiet, solitary, isolated, whipped cur. When did THAT happen? Better to be quiet than to deal with his rants. Newest issue depression. Did you know that depression made you belittle people or beat their spirit to a bloody pulp? As a former therapist I never saw depression contraindicated with slicing up someone’s clothes with a butcher knife. Eh, who knew?

Babies begat by force squeeze their way into this hell that is the home.  Rather quickly after marriage, I might add.  Maybe having a bundle of joy could make it better. Oh for the love of the baby jesus, if you EVER think that … RUN LIKE HELL.  Trapped, isolated, friends still try to call. “They don’t care about you. Meetings are for sissies” he says as he swigs the cheap beer and puts the last blunt of the night out in the basement ashtray.  Logic says … umm run? Fear says, “Where the hell is there to run to?” Embarrassment and shame are what’s cookin’ for dinner these days.

In order to stay, you gotta buy it on some level. Really. Hopeless people don’t strive for greatness, they’d give their left (body part of choice)  to be able to breathe normally; sans the elephant sitting on them.  Easy to see on the outside, in the middle of it we are a blind mouse who smells the cheese but starves just the same.  Roller coaster lovin’ is nothing like the real thing baby.  Ups so high that you’re terrified.  Think you’re scared now? Wait for it … wait for it … the descent is like being butchered alive.

It takes extreme measures to leave. Financial ruin is sure to follow if you don’t got it like the rich folks do (my current checking account balance is available for references).  The short term pain has GOT to outweigh the long term, ie … you don’t give two shits what it takes you gotta get up outta that joint. It takes what it takes. It took me internal bleeding and a sucker punch or two … it may take others less or more of the same. The fear, oh good gawd a mighty, of never knowing when the other shoe was gonna drop? The “trying to make it better for the babygirls” of it all? The “I do til I die?” bullshit? The “I relapsed after 15 years sober cause I was going to kill myself so I opted for a bottle instead?”… take a breath. It just ain’t all that easy to stand up for yourself when you’re looking at everyone from the floor.

Let’s just keep it simple (eye roll)…  hell to the NO she doesn’t fucking like it, most women/men in the sitch don’t know what to do, it usually happens so deviously that we’re not aware of it, and screw you for not getting that things aren’t that easy.  “Just get out.” they say.  Umm … no shit. Where, how, why, when, how much, and who’s gonna give two shits bout me when the battered women’s shelter is done with my ass?

Instead of a snide comment, maybe give the girl (or guy) a hug and a whisper of “I’ll be here when you’re ready. I’ll stick.” Better yet … “RUN LIKE HELL”.