Stop Hitting Yourself

In November (8 months post-breakup) I thought I was cured. That is to say I thought I was over my ex and the trauma caused by living with his disease for the better part of a decade. I thought all the changes that I’d made were strongly rooted and I was ready to be released into the wild. I started dating again and it just so happened the first guy I went on a real date with was just my kind of dreamboat: smart, caring, rugged, funny, and had a smile that made me forget how to talk.

I will give myself some credit. At that point I had made some amazing strides towards awareness, compassion, and self-love; but I still had some pretty large blind spots. Unfortunately for me, those are almost impossible to see until I get tested outside my comfort zone.

In this case, losing my wallet.

I was riding a wave of happy. I had a modest social life again, was developing some personal interests and hobbies, and that aforementioned babe to be excited about. In hindsight, I was manic. I was refusing to see any bad, everything was rainbows and puppies. In my defense, and not to be dramatic, it was more joy than I’d felt in years and I was holding on to every second with a vice grip.

The night I lost my wallet I went to a yoga class at the gym. I usually travel light and this particular evening had only my wallet, keys, and phone. When I got home, I must have put my wallet on top of the trash bins as I took them to the curb and forgot it there.

In the morning, I realized I didn’t have a wallet. I tore my car apart, I tore the house apart, I went to the gym in a panic and scoured the parking lot, I asked at the front desk.  It was no where.

At some point early in this frantic search I started berating myself. I called myself all kinds of unkind things not limited to stupid and worthless.

My mother, bless her, was trying to help me look and I was awful: impatient, angry, argumentative, anxious. I don’t lose things, especially valuable or important things. That’s irresponsible, imperfect, and human; three traits I’ve always had trouble accepting in myself.

Eventually, she wisely backed away from me and left me to my dysfunction.

I continued to obsess, panic, and rage for another couple of hours. I called my boss and told her I would be very late, I lined up at the bank to get new cards, I lined up at the provincial office to get new identification.  I called the city waste management services to see if I could sift through the load that the truck picked up (yes, I know…). I even called to report myself to the credit bureau after having visions of identity theft (yep, that too…). All this time I did not stop bullying myself.

Three days later I got a call at work from a guy named Rusty saying he’d found my wallet in a ditch. He told me that the wallet was pretty much destroyed but all my cards seemed to be there. I retrieved the wallet and it was as he described. It was shredded and soiled, like maybe it had been chewed up by a garbage truck and then spent a few days in a slushy and salty ditch; but nothing was missing. Miraculously a business card had survived enabling him to find me. I bought Rusty a $50 coffee card and went home with my tail between my legs.

That week I also stopped hearing from that guy I liked.

It took me another couple of months to really dissect what had happened. Like many other insignificant events losing my wallet had somehow become an embodiment of my self-worth. Looking back, that’s silly. If someone else had a momentary lapse and made a mistake I would be empathetic. Wallets can be replaced.

I still don’t totally understand why I had that reaction, but…

I suspect it was easier than admitting that I really liked that guy and I was terrified I was going to get hurt. That I knew he could hurt me because I hadn’t been attracted to someone like that in longer than I’d like to admit. That a bit of fear was probably realistic and understandable given what I’d been through.

I guess it was easier to flip out about my wallet than admitting my heart was still broken and that I wasn’t ready for a new connection. I didn’t want to face that I still didn’t love myself enough to have any real success being with someone else.

That’s life.

Sometimes you need to show up in order to see what you need to work on.  Sometimes you need to fail to push yourself to the next level. Sometimes it’s embarrassing and unfortunately you can’t hit reset. You have to deal with that sucky feeling that you missed out on a good thing.

It’s going to be ok.

You never know what great things are coming, you just need to be working on living the best life for you and try to be a little more open the next time.

So, do your best to let it go.

What’s really meant to be yours can’t be screwed up.

Gratitude

Some days just suck.

I burn the toast. The dog saves all her farts for the long winter car ride. Flat tires, computer issues, dropped my phone in the toilet, milks gone bad, who ate the last cookie?!?

The universe appears to give me an enthusiastic middle finger as I wallow in a sea of small annoyances and disappointments. Or if I’m especially unlucky, large seemingly insurmountable problems surface to drown me in suck.

As cheesy as it sounds, on those days I’m starting to put more energy into exploring gratitude; expressing appreciation for what I have, not what I want or think I need. I work at eliminating phrases like “I’ll be ok if…”, “I’ll feel better when…” because more often than not, these “if’s” and “when’s” involve events beyond my control.

The last few weeks have been especially trying. I’m working on answering a question involving a large life change which has no clear answer. Both the “yes” and the “no” have very heavy and very different pros and cons. I am confident that either way I will be able to forge ahead and neither outcome will be fatal, but I’ve never been that great at uncertainty.

Gratitude starts with an acknowledgement that life is good and rewarding. I remind myself that I live in one of the safest and most affluent countries in the world. That I have great friends and family. That I have a job, free time, a lovely canine companion. I have enough to eat and opportunities that a lot of the rest of the world does not. And – well, I’m alive, so there’s still time to change the things I’m not crazy about. That’s pretty rad.

I try to mix it up. I journal about gratitude. I speak it aloud to myself in the car. I’m social about it: I tell good friends about what I’m thankful for; especially if that is thanking them for their support.

When I take these moments, I find that it does work. I generally have less lows, I sleep better, I find it easier to practice compassion and kindness, and I feel healthier. I’m also able to rationally approach my problems and have constructive conversations about them where I am not defensive.

For the last week, as I’ve been wrestling with that life question, I have been kicking gratitude up a notch with some trust. I wake up with the exclamation that “everything I need will be provided today” and I repeat this to myself at intervals when doubt starts to creep in. I’ve even set myself a reminder that displays that message to me in the afternoon as a reality check.

Although I still don’t have an answer to my question I am confident that it will be revealed to me in the fullness of time. Until then, I know that I will get what I need, even if it doesn’t look like what I want or what I think I need.

Try not to worry, time cures all and is one of the few things in life that is totally reliable.

Lake Monsters and Jelly Shoes

My family has a cottage on a lake in rural Ontario, Canada. In lieu of travel and family vacations to exotic locations we spent most of our time off at this magical place.

When I was little, my extended family used to enjoy spending time up there together. I had four older cousins and I idolized them; I thought they were beautiful, animated and godlike. Unfortunately for me, with a significant age gap, they thought I was annoying, clingy and lame. I remember being very excited and nervous on those rare occasions when they chose to include me.

The lake is small and shallow. As an adult, I have to walk out at least a hundred feet for the water to reach over my head. As kids, we had access to a homemade raft made from solid wood which weighed a ton, nothing like the lightweight foam contraptions I see around the lake today. We would push it out to the middle with great effort so we could compete in jumping and diving off, something that wasn’t safely available closer to shore.

Even at that age I remember being scared of deep water. I used to imagine monsters and animated plant life with tentacle like appendages ready to pull me to the bottom. Of course I wouldn’t admit that to my cousins and did my best to hide my fear hoping that would somehow convince them that I was mature and cool enough to be around them.

It was the 80’s and plastic shoes were all the rage, most cottage seasons started with a trip to Zellers to grab a pair. They would be promptly christened as lake shoes on arrival.

Walking out from shore, as the water got deeper, the bottom would get murkier and your feet would sink into the clay and sand. It wasn’t unusual for someone to lose one or both shoes yielding shrieks from the victim and laughter from the rest.  They would then have to press their bare feet into the muck to help push the raft back to shore; one of my first experiences with the concept of “chicken”.

In hindsight, my cousins were also scared of deep water and the bottom of the lake. The jelly shoes were a sort of armour we all shared but didn’t discuss; an illusion of safety against imagined demons. At the time I was too absorbed in my own fear and trying to be cool and accepted that it didn’t occur to me that admitting my feelings probably would have brought us closer together and helped me work through it.

As an adult, I’m still not crazy about deep water. I feel momentary panic when seaweed wraps around my ankles or I realize I can’t see the bottom. But I also recognize this fear is mostly in my head and rationalize that I am fortunate enough to swim in lakes that are free of most monsters. I accept that I have these irrational feelings, I can’t change them, but I can choose my reaction. I can choose to acknowledge my fear and move forward bravely with awareness and without a crutch. I may even choose to share that fear with a trusted friend.

Sometimes, when I am lonely and feel disconnected and I desperately seek comfort in others, I remind myself that there are lessons in fear and am grateful they can help me stay safe. For example, if I ever go swimming in the Amazon I will be grateful for my apprehensive and fearful mammalian brain reminding me of dangers in the deep. But in the relatively safe lake of my youth my fear is irrational, outdated, and holds me back.

I calmly remind myself that I am strong, smart, and independent. I am grateful for jelly shoes for getting me in the water as a kid but I’m happy I’ve grown enough as an adult that I can swim without them.

Flavours of Dysfunction

When I started recovery I was often surprised that things I accepted as normal my whole life were not in fact normal. I remember a conversation with my therapist, after describing one of my early childhood memories, where I had the sudden revelation that what I had accepted as simple reality was actually kind of tragic. I told her as much through a mess of tears and cuss words. She gave me a sympathetic smile and said “every family has their own flavour of dysfunction”.

At the time it didn’t really register. I’d spent so much time isolated and self-critical that I thought I was destroyed beyond repair, a lost cause: crazy, broken, worthless and unlovable. After all, the person I cared about most chose alcohol over me or at least that’s how I rationalized that series of events.

It didn’t occur to me that there were other people out there who had already put themselves back together, some from a much lower place. I thought my story was unique, pitiful, and underlined incurable deficits in me.

I hated myself so much it was physically painful to get out of bed or look in a mirror.

Although I believe that we need to examine the way we romanticize substance use in Canada, I also know that alcohol is not to blame for the tragedies in my life. I have no doubt that someone determined to numb themselves will find another avenue if their drug of choice is not available. I see how poorly we socialize our children to deal with stress and challenges in healthy ways and that “toughening” people up can lead to a cornucopia of mental issues. I see that I have my own set of these challenges.

Slowly, I found the commonalities in many stories involving the devastation caused by the disease of addiction. I found how prevalent these issues are and how many people I know are dealing with similar generational injuries. I discovered the context for the phrase “addiction is a family disease”; that compulsive behaviour is learned and can be passed along for generations. I know that growing up with addiction makes you significantly more likely to be an addict or be with an addict. I know first hand that you cannot properly connect with an addict, and those of us who’ve had this experience as a child can spend the rest of our lives confused about how to connect with others.

Despite this understanding, I sometimes find it difficult to be around people that are not actively pursing recovery; who are isolating, numbing, or otherwise trying to cover up their wounds with denial and care-taking. I see my scars and I can now spot similar marks on others. Sometimes they scare me, sometimes they make me angry or intolerant, other times my old survival programs run and I become the desperate and closeted women that has dominated my adult life. I sometimes feel the sensation of bursting with the effort of holding back unsolicited lectures on the benefits of recovery. When I do erupt in well meaning but misguided attempts at “education” it almost always falls on deaf ears leading me to feel more isolated, helpless and broken.

As much as it has been challenging admitting my problems, swallowing my pride, disregarding my embarrassment, and seeking out support, there has been value being in contact with people who are in active recovery. It is comforting to see down the road to the benefits and stability that can be earned.

As I get to know myself I appreciate the similarities between us. We all have heavy suitcases full of good and bad experiences that we haul around. The contents vary but we are family, no matter how we try to highlight our differences. I recognize that my actions have been as wild as yours and we have both cried tears of frustration and anger over the hands we’ve been dealt. I see my pain reflected in you and I’m grateful to have your company in the dark. I hope that I can offer you the same comfort. Normalizing my experiences through these connections has helped to combat some of the self-loathing, shame, and embarrassment I feel.

I understand that although I need to protect myself and enforce healthy boundaries and separation from people that add chaos and strife to my life, it’s impossible to live a balanced life in isolation. If I don’t have anyone I can trust with my deepest and darkest thoughts I will almost certainly drown in them. I also recognize that the right way to help someone is not to drag them away from their chaos, it is to focus on myself and hope that they join me when they are ready.

I’ve been working on the strategy of detaching; understanding that to make it out of this nightmare it has to be a personal choice. I grudgingly accept that finding your way is part of the lesson and it isn’t right to rob someone of that, even if I think I’m helping.

Read aloud with me:

I can’t change someone who doesn’t want to change and I can’t help someone who doesn’t want help. This is not a reflection of my worth, it is just the reality of life, love, relationships, and being an adult. All adults need to take responsibility for themselves first.

Repeat as needed.

Be the Renegade

Recovery is hands down one of the hardest things you will ever do. Although I can’t say with certainty that my challenges are the same as people who struggle with other types of compulsive behaviour, I know that there are common themes in our journeys. I try to write only from my own perspective but I need to make the point that, despite my own experiences, I admire anyone that takes up this crusade.

No matter what lead you to recovery, we are all looking to bring out the best versions of ourselves and improve on the maladaptive behaviour we’ve accumulated. I applaud you knowing that not only are you going against years of your own habits, thinking, training, and (sometimes) trauma; but I suspect, like me, you will have points that are totally lonely and discouraging.

At the beginning, I was so desperate and motivated that I honestly think I was trying to be a totally different person.  Not surprisingly, this made people uncomfortable and uneasy. I didn’t understand that the goal of recovery isn’t to erase my traits and experiences, it is to own my past and build on it. I was so embarrassed about what had happened and how I’d acted that I thought I had to be someone else in order to be accepted and healed. I was robotic and obsessed with my every action. I stopped bending over backwards, I stopped dropping whatever I was doing for others, I did more of what I thought I needed to do for myself and offered less explanations, justifications, or apologies for those choices. I didn’t think I could help anyone or give them anything without being “codependent”. I found it impossible to continue the same kind of conversations I was used to and I had to take large steps away from some people because I knew I wasn’t strong enough to continue to be with them and change.

As I leveled out, I started paying attention and I realized that most people didn’t really know how to react to what I’d been through. I believe that most try to help and support me, but without any true understanding of the dynamics of addiction that usually means telling me I’m “ok”, “strong”, and there’s “nothing wrong with me”. I think this reaction is driven by the very human reflex of wanting to try to return to the status quo as quickly as possible after a disruption. In this case, telling me I am “fine”, so I could go back to being the “fine” that is recognizable.

I suspect this is why there are recovery centers and retreats. In recovery, not only do we need to deal with giving up our vices, but we need to deal with the triggers and the people who have joined us in those behaviours. The people who care for us and just want us to go back to the normal us that they know not understanding that our normal is slowly breaking us apart.

While the thought of running away and starting over in a foreign land still holds some undeniable appeal, I recognize that ultimately I need to get to the point where I can “do” recovery standing in a pit of vipers. In other words, when the stress is so high and I would step over my grandmother to get my poison and make it all go away. Believe it or not, it is possible. I’m not there yet but I know that people much stronger than I am go through this process while in abusive relationships, with partners that are still engaging in addiction, and despite or in spite of horrible and unimaginable trauma and hardship.

If you’ve ever been on a diet you have also probably had the experience of not being able to sustain it. If you’re anything like me, after you failed a few attempts at whatever fad was circulating at the time, you may have used trial and error to find a plan that you could get some enjoyment from. The simple reason? You don’t need a diet to get and stay in shape, you need a lifestyle change. It has to be something sustainable and something that isn’t worse than whatever you perceive you are giving up (please cross-reference my previous post on Rock Bottom for more information on that tipping point).

Recovery is a total lifestyle overhaul. It is the granddaddy of all fitness journeys requiring adaptation of mind, body, and soul. Change is uncomfortable and you need to give up your vices, your safety nets. That means that whatever you reach for when you are upset won’t be there anymore.

What I want from recovery isn’t elaborate; I don’t need riches, recognition, or power. My goal is to lead a full and happy life, something I sincerely don’t think I’ve experienced before. That means having relationships that are built on equality and trust, food in my stomach, a roof over my head, and a bit of freedom to grow. Goals don’t need to be elaborate or get anyone else excited, the important thing is that you’re excited. And this goal is important to remember and repeat when you are tempted to backslide.

So how do I stay excited about my uncertain future when the vipers are winding around my ankles and slithering up my calves?

I remember all the times I have succeeded in the past. I collect the hardest moments of my life and I line them up to prove to myself that I’m stronger than I think in my weakest and ugliest moments. Some achievements you could list, include: quitting smoking, that 25 lbs you lost, graduating, making a really mean cheese omelet, or making it to the 3rd flight of stairs without wheezing. These do not have to be big, they can be literally anything that makes you feel accomplished.

Next, I remind myself of all the times I went beyond my own limitations and off the beaten path. Again, this can be as small as when you stood up for the kid getting picked on in the school yard, showing up at that support group meeting when you literally would rather be anywhere else, or trying something you were pretty sure you would fail in a moment of unbridled bravery. I remind myself that I can be an outlaw, a revolutionary and a rebel. Sure, maybe I don’t exactly embody that in this moment, but I can and I will – I’ve done it before. Even if I am also a follower, a doormat, or something equally or more unattractive, I don’t need to be forever.

Little by little, I keep walking.

I take breaks to have fun.

Unfortunately sometimes I stumble.

I pick myself up and I keep walking.

At times it’s a crawl, but I’m still moving.

I try to be accountable to myself and the people I love and will grow to love in the future. I keep perspective and my eye on the prize and I dig my heels in and forgive myself when I fall.

You can be a renegade too. You don’t need to keep doing what you’re doing if it isn’t your authentic self. If you can relate to the content of this blog, maybe you can also relate to the idea that the self you accepted was not totally truthful.

And sometimes, when nothing else works. I turn up the volume as loud as it will go and blast whatever song I know will make me feel like I am a superhero. I let myself have that Rocky stair climb moment, if only for the duration of the music.

If you don’t have one of those songs, try this:

 

Amorphous Blob

*This comic was unknowingly sent to me by a dear friend after I’d drafted this article, it was too perfect not to include.  Follow this talented artist, here. Thanks M, you add so much depth to my days.*

From a young age I believed that self worth is measured in personal sacrifice. In other words, you always put other people’s needs first. On the surface this seems like a beautiful and romantic idea, although in the long run taking a bullet might be less painful.

I realize what I’ve been doing isn’t actually all that selfless. I do think that I generally have good intentions, but I’m motivated by the thought that people would value my contributions and reciprocate. Although I acknowledge it is normal to want to be appreciated for your efforts, my self worth is woven up a little too tightly in these outcomes. Whether intentional or not, it puts me in a position of martyrdom. Operating with so many expectations for other people’s behaviour is often disappointing. It’s also manipulative, which is an ugly word I don’t want anywhere near my name.

This approach has also disconnected me from what I want and need. I have trouble answering questions like: what would make me feel better right now? Where would I like to go next? What would I like to do? My programming tells me that what I want and need is irrelevant and unimportant and it takes a lot of concentration and quiet to try and tap into those thoughts and feelings.  After a year of trying to develop this awareness, sometimes I still can’t.

Undervaluing myself has also impeded my ability to express love in a healthy and meaningful way. I’ve never had clear boundaries to enforce. Without them my relationships eventually become strange amorphous blobs of resentment and stagnation. I send the message that I’m unimportant by not asking for what I need or asking then immediately folding because I feel shame for imposing. I therefore don’t get what I need and eventually feel taken advantage of and again can’t express what the other person can do to fix it to salvage the relationship. A vicious cycle that comes with a fragrant bouquet of unpleasant feelings, my focus has always been anger.

I focus on anger because it’s easy and familiar for me. When I’m angry I can be productive and aggressive. Anger motivates action and makes me feel powerful. Alternatively, sitting with any of those other drippy feelings makes me feel helpless, weak, selfish, useless and unmasked. I have illusions that anger hides my weak spots and resolves things quickly when in reality it just weakens (or ends) my relationships and leads others to (rightfully) conclude I’m imbalanced and a jerk.

If there’s no one else to blame? Easy, I rage on myself. This is the worst kind of anger; it erodes self-worth in an even more destructive way. It’s a lifetime of picking yourself last in gym class and then tossing yourself in a locker with an atomic wedgie.

If you don’t love yourself, you have absolutely no protection from the impact of other peoples impressions and thoughts. You are only capable of getting validation from outside yourself: you’ve given away your power. There is a marked difference between taking responsibility for your choices and bullying yourself.

In her book Daring Greatly, Brene Brown distinguishes shame and guilt quite simply as:

Guilt = I did something bad.

Shame = I am bad.

In my world, failure of any kind results in shame and I pass that judgement on to others when they disappoint me. Nothing is ever a simple mistake or a bad choice, it is some kind of reflection of value. Everything is personal to the hundredth degree.

I think society romanticizes the ideas of vengeance, anger, and aggression. The media, politics, and literature are all filled with protagonists who shoot first and ask questions later. I realize how confusing this messaging has been with my experiences in developing my identity.

Anger has helped me avoid vulnerability for years. I carry a lot of grudges and burn a lot of bridges. I play the viking in an effort to avoid being the victim. I operate under the faulty logic that it is better to hurt someone before they get close enough to hurt me. After I drive them away I carry that rage and rejection with me everywhere keeping my wounds open and festering, reminding me that I am unworthy of the things I am so desperately seeking. It has made it easy to get hurt again because I am not able to heal.

Before this year, I thought that forgiveness was weak and designed to make people feel better who probably didn’t deserve it anyway. And frankly, if I wasn’t about to forgive myself why should I forgive you? After all, we are all bad shameful people.

I realize that forgiveness isn’t just for the other person; it’s a gift and a remedy to shame.  Not only can it empower others to overcome their own roadblocks (and regardless of any action they may or may not take) forgiveness means that you don’t have to carry it with you. You can move forward a few pounds lighter. I realize that making bad choices does not make a person bad or shameful if they are committed to improving.

Forgiveness works because the cure for shame is empathy, it is a social wound and it requires a social cure. Shame inspires me to withdraw and isolate and I’ve started to overcome it by talking to people who understand what it’s like and don’t judge me. They accept me for my flaws and encourage me while I take all the right and wrong turns I need to take in order to resolve it. They let me practice boundaries, share my ugly moments, and still reach out to see how I’m doing afterwards.

Since starting my recovery, I’m trying to act with more vulnerability, compassion, and forgiveness; both for myself and others. I’m trying to develop boundaries and be more mindful of my motivations and expectations for results beyond my control. I’m also trying to be more authentic and transparent in communicating my feelings and needs. Based on my experiences I think this is far better expression of strength and bravery. This approach requires honesty, awareness, vulnerability, responsibility, and maturity which are infinitely harder than manipulation and jumping for the throat. Acting this way opens you up to both rejection and acceptance based on your authentic self. This is terrifying to someone like me who struggles with confidence and worthiness in relationships but it is ultimately worth the risk for better quality connections.

I’m also working on my shame resilience by talking to myself with the same compassion I would give to someone else who is flatted by shame: “I’m human. I made a mistake and it does not define me”. I feel my feels and when I’m ready, when shame is manageable, I dust myself off and step back in the ring a little more prepared.

I’m getting better.  Like everything else we’ve discussed, change takes time, patience, and effort. If it was easy, no one would be struggling.

I am hopeful that participating in my own emotional renaissance will help me do my part to contribute to a kinder future. But if no one else joins me, that’s ok too. I’m just happy to be moving forward with a little less shame and a little more confidence and resilience.

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I highly recommend checking out Brene Brown. Her research has changed the way I think in a lot of beautiful ways. This entry is inspired heavily by her research and writing. There’s no wrong way to experience her: audiobooks, print, or Ted Talks. But do yourself a favour and check her out: https://brenebrown.com/.

A little something to get you started:

 

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A little bonus soundtrack suggestion from one of my all-time favourite bands:

Melody Beattie (& Grief)

If you’ve done even a simple internet search on codependency or families of addiction you’ve probably run across the work of Melody Beattie. Beattie has survived addiction (both her own and in her relationships), abandonment, abuse, divorce, and the death of a child. Whatever you’re going through, there’s an excellent chance she can relate on a very personal level.

In the 1980’s she brought the term “codependency” into the mainstream as a description for caretaking and related behaviours that are commonly found in those of us who have been intimately involved with addiction. Often the development of these traits go back to childhood, and I am certainly no exception. I come by my challenges honestly, substance abuse is not unheard of in my family and neither is caretaking. Beattie helped me to see the parallels between my own behaviours in my relationships and those of the addicts I’ve been involved with and their substances of choice. I understand that on both sides these behaviours are a byproduct of unmet needs and desperation to find comfort outside of ourselves.

Her book Codependent No More is argued by some to be a handbook for recovery and I will say not a bad place to start; although I do recommend seeking out the New Codependency which is updated with more current trends, language, and cultural influences.

As part of my current routine, I attempt to start my day with journaling and reflection. This includes Beattie’s books: the Language of Letting go and More Language of Letting Go. Both are books of short daily meditations, the latter sometimes includes activities to supplement the reading. I find this routine is helpful in developing my awareness by giving the ideas context in my own life.

As I’ve come through the last year I’ve found one of my greatest challenges to be grief. Given what I’ve learned about addiction I feel there is a decent chance that if you are reading this, you’ve probably suffered from grief as well. It seems to be an unfortunate and inevitable byproduct of the ravages of addiction.

Grief is not something I would have generally allowed myself to feel in the past. Historically, my sole coping strategies for grief (and everything else, really) were to get busy and/or walk it off. I do indeed come by this honestly; there is a family legend about how my Great Grandmother avoided spending her son’s last day with him before he was shipped off to war because she had promised to bake pies for the church. When we’ve told this story as a family it was always as a joke of extremism but with an air of admiration for how bulletproof she was. It wasn’t until I started therapy that it was suggested to me that she may have been avoiding her grief at the potential loss of her son. It was strange to me that I never considered that might have been her true motivation, and also shocking developing awareness of how often I’ve “dealt” with things by pretending I’m bulletproof too.

Learning how to grieve has been a tough and ongoing process. There have been times where I’ve felt like it was over only to be slammed back into the depths of it like I had made no progress at all. I know this has been hard on my friends and family and their patience; but – grief is personal, it takes time and it’s an inside job. I wish I could tell you there was a shortcut.

I’m sorry that other people can only provide gentle support and no one can “save” you from grief. Understand that another person’s efforts will only band-aid the issue and it will rise to the surface again years later. The universe has a tricky way of continuing to present us with the same problem in a different wrapper until we solve it the right way. It’s your choice when you face that reality or not.

While I will not comment further on timing and process of healing from grief, I will say that being active, adaptable, and aware in your recovery are universally important. I doubt very strongly that true recovery exists without effort and much like improving physical fitness; sometimes (although our strategy has been working) we plateau and need to try something new or push a little harder. But, given the difficulty of this process, understand that it is done in our own time and does not benefit from impatience.

I wanted to share with you part of the entry for February 11 entitled “Grief” from Beattie’s book, More Language of Letting Go:

This much I will tell you about grief: if there was ever a second, a moment, when you suspected you knew you had been betrayed at the deepest level by someone you adored, and a splintering pain began to shred your heart, turning your world grimly unbearable to the point where you would consciously chose denial and ignorance about the betrayal rather than feel this way, this is one-millionth of what it feels like to grieve.

Grief is not an abnormal condition, nor is it something to be treated with words. It is a universe, a world, unto itself. If you are called to enter this world, there is no turning back. We are not allowed to refuse that call. Grief is like nothing else, with the possible exception of the pounding waves of the ocean. To the untrained, casual eye, each wave looks the same. It is not. No two are the same. And each one washes away the old, and washes in the new.

Gradually, almost imperceptibly, whether we believe it or not, we are being transformed.

You can find more information about Melody Beattie on her website; including her blog, daily meditations, and information about her books.