When I mentioned to Sweet Greg last weekend how uncomfortable I am with the 25 extra pounds I have been carrying for the last 4 years. He said: “When you are bothered enough, you will do something”. This is absolutely untrue. I have never set or achieved a goal of any sort. Not academic, physical, financial, social, nothing. I have survived, one scary day at a time. Reminding myself: Just get through the day, pray for sleep and know that tomorrow will be very fkn similar.
From decades of believing I was shit and that I would never know comfort, peace, or prosperity, and incapable of changing that, I have lacked hope, ambition, direction and any semblance of connection to myself. I learned consistently and early on that my best was unfruitful and insufficient. My resulting depression looks like this: I do what I must to keep a roof over our heads, a clean enough home with good meal and snack options. I do nothing creative, aspirational, or life giving. I carry on with no sense of agency or hope. My 11 plus years in recovery have been dedicated entirely to refining my responses to pain—the pain which I have been told is either imagined, self inflicted, or well earned—each of which leaves me alone and in despair. Maybe if I reach next level recovery, it will be focused more on thriving than survival. Feeling forever tethered to a person who behaves as an enemy, when displeased, feels both depleting and defeating, though….and so so familiar(like of the family).
I have not yet landed in that elusive spot between giving up and trying too hard. I think that may be known as healthy striving. And, I continue to find myself resigned and apathetic OR trying too hard….but mostly the apathy. Like 96.9% apathy(outside of work). Either way, I am neither healthy nor striving.
Though I lacked the wisdom and maturity to see and articulate this, prior to recovery; These were the goals of my first forty two years:
Be like them ( the people who misunderstand, invalidate, reject me- my truths, needs, preferences, feelings, desires):
Want what they want, like only what they like, feel as they feel and if I can’t actually do that, just fn pretend.
Mothers’ day, four, maybe five years ago was the last time I saw my mother and sister. I hate this fn day for so many reasons. Today, I have delivered my boys to a day of love and connection with trusted others- because I am too distraught to engage in “Happy Mothers Day” festivities. Today is one more day– to get through.
Randy Dean Ross Long Beach Monroe NC Catherine G Whitney Charlotte NC
