Twirling

Relationships are a long-feared territory for me.

My weak attempts at commitment over the years have either fallen apart quickly or left me with fragmented emotions that I refused to acknowledge.

This new frontier in my now-semi-stable life is daunting. In relationships, even casual acquaintances, my thoughts are flooded with insecurities, second-guesses of my words or actions, desperation to know what the other people may think or feel about me. I cling too hard to some and then push them away in fear that I may be burdening them. Though I’ve managed to remain sober for some time, to rebuild many areas of my life, this realm of reality remains completely befuddling.

The hardest parts come when I attempt minor romantic relationships. Dating, for me, is like walking across a shaky catwalk with no railings. I’m reaching out for any form of stability, my arms waving wildly in the air, my heart pounding in my ears. The confusing part about dating is that I start dates feeling seemingly confident. I even relax a little at first and try to have fun… that is until I’m asked to speak about myself, to share details about who I am, what I want.  Honestly, the answers to these questions are still elusive, even to me.

And when my mind comes up blank in response to the questions, I feel guilt for bringing someone who is willing to give, to confide, to be vulnerable… on a date with me, a girl with no clue what she’s even doing sitting in that restaurant.

I know that I feel lonely. I know that I crave security, dependency, companionship.

I know that I want to try.

So lately, I’ve been taking one step forward in this dance called dating.

I accept an offer for dinner, I dress up, I smile and crack jokes. I even receive a good night kiss…

…and then, when I’m left alone again, I freeze.

My thoughts start to spin. My fears kick in about whether I feel the way I’m supposed to feel, whether I’ve been genuine, whether this person will hurt me just like those in my past. I start asking myself those same questions of who I am, whether I can be vulnerable, and what it is that f*cking want?

Then, after a moment’s pause in the dance, I make my trademark move: I twirl.

My foot angles sideways, my other foot plants itself beside the other, my body spins so I’m facing away and I distance myself yet again.

Once again, I stop the dance before it begins.

I reach out, then step away.

Twirling. I can’t think of a better metaphor for how I feel in relationships these days. I start to move, to participate in a dance with another person. I feel willing to give someone a chance, and then…just as they get close enough to touch, I spin away from them. I twirl in space, so they can’t hold me still.

I know this must get easier one day. One day, there’ll be some person who makes it easy to stay still, to keep my eyes on theirs, to let them hold me in their arms. Sometimes, I even think I’ve found it. But maybe like everything else in recovery, it will just take time.

After all, I’ve been dancing alone for a very long time. Adding a partner requires learning a new dance.

Been There, Felt That

A blessing that has been provided to me continuously throughout recovery is the fact that I’m never alone, I’m never the only person in the world who has felt the way I am feeling.
I’ve often been convinced by my own insecurities of the opposite, but I am constantly proved wrong if I just listen a little more closely, use my network and reach out.I’ve been feeling very lonely about some feelings I’ve been experiencing regarding past traumas. I’ve felt very afraid of reaching out to others in fear of being judged, rejected or misunderstood. I’d been convincing myself that no one could possibly have experienced what I’ve experienced. No one could have felt this shame. No one would understand if I confessed the events of my past. How arrogant and naïve can a person be, especially when surrounded by a network of people in recovery?

The phrase, “bondage of self,” has been so relevant to me throughout my journey. My own fear, my own shame can so often hold me hostage in my emotional isolation. And the only solution to that bondage is awareness, which requires the action of reaching out to realize that I’ve been wrong all along.

I believe there is a divine power in the act of relating with someone. Whether being a support to someone else or finding the support from someone who has had a similar experience, there is no greater relief than the realization that I am not alone, nor have I ever been.

You know the phrase, “been there, done that”? Well, I often paraphrase it to say “been there, felt that,” because sometimes knowing that someone has done or been through the exact same circumstance isn’t what is important. Rather it’s the knowing that someone has felt what you have felt. Someone knows how it feels to have been through something similar.

And that very fact has been the saving knife that has cut the ropes that have so long kept me in my own bondage of self.

Those few simple words, “I know how you feel,” can set me free once again.

Ready or Not…

As a kid, I loved playing the game, “hide and seek.” I was a master at finding the perfect spot, contorting my tiny body into the smallest of nooks and crannies. I’d play with the light, disguising myself beneath the shadows of doors, plants, or furniture. I was always the last to be found by the seeker, many of them giving up hope and resorting to calling out my name.

To me, it was almost an art form. I took pride in hiding. It thrilled me to become invisible. Waiting in the shadows, I relished in being unseen. Looking back now, though I enjoyed crafting the best hiding places, I think the real reason I loved being the one to hide…was because it was evidence that someone cared enough to look for me. My childhood often left me needing that validation, that evidence that my absence was noticed. As a kid, and even today, I still find myself needing to be found… a form of proof that someone cared, that someone noticed I was missing, that someone was willing to track me down.

“Hide and seek” was only a childish game I played when I was young. However, I sometimes wonder whether I’m still waiting to be found. I continue to spend much of my life hiding in the familiar, rarely venturing outside of my comfort zone. I’ve found safety in hiding, in being alone…that is until I realized that I’d let all the seekers go. No one was left to look for me, because they’d all given up the search.

I remember one time when I was at my friend’s birthday party, I hid in the attic and waited nearly an hour to be found. Eventually, I grew restless and tiptoed down the stairs to the living room where the party had continued on without me, my friends laughing and playing a new game together, leaving me in the last one. I remember standing there, watching from the hallway as they giggled and ran around the room. I realized then that my talent for hiding myself was only useful as long as there was someone there to look for me. Without someone to seek, I was hiding on my own… disappearing into the shadows which had become my safe haven. My invisibility had moved from a game of “hide and seek” into my reality.

…and the only way to come out of hiding was to stop waiting to be found.

The same is true, today.

It’s time to stop waiting for people to come into my life, to notice me in my hiding places and to pull me into the light. It’s not up to them to seek me. Life isn’t a game of “hide and seek.” If you decide to hide, there’s no guarantee that you will be found. Instead, you have to become your own seeker. It’s through seeking out others that we find people who will care enough to notice if we go missing. But you have to be present before anyone can notice your absence.

It’s time to stop hiding.

“Ready or not, here I come.”

Powerful

We are all powerful in that we have the innate ability to make someone else feel something.

With words, we have the power to make someone feel beautiful, sad, betrayed, inspired, elated, hopeful, resentful. Compliments. Criticisms. Lies. Gossip. Stories. Wisdom.

Our voices make us powerful.

With touch, we can soothe, comfort, restrain, push, hurt, embrace, kiss. We can make others feel safe, loved, scared, wounded, special, unique.

Our actions make us powerful.

With our own emotions, we can gain empathy, sympathy, consideration, attention, appreciation. We can express ourselves through tears, body language, laughter, smiles.

Our own feelings make us powerful.

With our presence, we can stand near someone, sit next to them, be there for them. We can make someone feel important, supported, scared, intimidated, cared for.

Our existence makes us powerful.

Whether we choose to believe it or not, we make an impact on every single person in our lives. Even if we’re just a person in a crowd, if each member of that crowd chose to disperse and go off on their own, we’d be left alone… with no one but ourselves to keep us company. A lot of us spend our lives feeling weak, insignificant, unnoticeable. But in truth, we are all powerful in that our mere presence changes this world and the people in it. Even if all we do in our lives is breathe, we contribute to the balance of oxygen and carbon dioxide in the atmosphere. Even if all we do is walk around from place to place, we are seen by someone, we pass and are passed, we are noticed. We have an impact whether we believe it or not.

Each of us affects the other even if we don’t intend to do so.

We hurt.

We get hurt.

We love.

We are loved.

We are affected by others.

And we affect others.

We are powerful even if we view our contributions to this life as small and insignificant.

We are powerful, because we exist.

Agreed.

Make love, not war.

♥

Heart to Heart

Don’t ever underestimate the healing power of a quality hug.

Growing up, my parents weren’t very touchy-feely people. Few in my family were that way, actually. Physical affection was rarely shown. It’s no one’s fault. I know that people have different love languages. Some convey their love for others through words, quality time, service, gifts or physical touch. My parents love me, I know that. They’ve always supported me financially, they’ve always believed in me and trusted me to follow my dreams.

But growing up, I realized I felt deprived of that physical love.

There were times when I needed to be held. There were times I wish someone had played with my hair or rubbed my back for comfort, times when all I really needed was someone to hold my hand. Even if only for a moment.

As in all families, we’ve had periods of struggle and hardship, of pain and loss. We’ve fought and reconciled. It’s during these times, however, when I wish we were more affectionate. I always knew we loved each other. I know that will never change. But sometimes, you just need to see it, to feel it. A soft touch on your arm, a squeeze of your shoulder, a kiss on the forehead. Sometimes, you just need love to be tangible, visible. Doubting that it exists becomes that much harder when you see it demonstrated or feel its warmth across your skin.

Part of me wonders if, had I been reminded that I was loved, had I been given more physical affection, would I have felt less alone? Would I have had less doubt that I was loved? Would I have felt safer to express myself, to show others the pain I held inside?

I’ll never know the answer.

I’ve realized, though, that I do appreciate physical affection. After feeling so long isolated and alone, that tangible connection to someone else, however fleeting, means so much to me. It counters all of those insecurities inside with proof of that love and support that others have for me. It pulls me out of my thoughts, back to reality with that reassurance that someone cares enough to touch me, to hold me. Perhaps its because a person has to make a conscious effort to open their arms, to reach out their hand… that literal demonstration of love is undeniable to me. I am worthy of that effort.

Of course, I know that physical love isn’t always as real as it feels. I’d be naive to think that’s true. It can be given without conscious understanding of what it means for the other person. It can be abusive. It can be used to convince someone or to convince yourself of a lie. I’ve used it many times to pretend that I felt something real, to pretend that I felt someone at all. I gave myself physically to others on numerous occasions, but it was never real. It was always done in attempts to fill what was empty, to heal the neglect I felt as a little girl. Sex was a form of validation for me, reassurance that I wasn’t so repulsive as to be denied physical touch. But it was nothing more than a lie. I did not feel loved. I felt nothing.

Today, I know when it’s real. Now that I’m no longer hiding in my numbness, I can feel when someone truly cares. I can feel genuine, lasting, unconditional love. When someone holds my hand, I can appreciate the warmth between our palms. When someone rubs my back to soothe and comfort me, I feel a deep sense of gratitude. And when someone holds me in their arms and hugs me tightly, I feel the loneliness evaporate from my body. I feel protected, safe, important.

A hug is a powerful thing. Heart to heart, it’s nearly impossible to feel alone. Just as it removes the space between two people, so also does it remove any doubt that we are loved.

Genuinely.

Completely.

Unconditionally.

All the Lonely People…

I read today that loneliness is processed in the same part of the brain as physical pain. Fitting, isn’t it? I’ve been lonely for most of my life, usually because of my own efforts to isolate and to seclude myself in my own misery. My twisted mind argued that by keeping myself separate, I was protecting everyone else. I was afraid that by even being around others, I was a burden, that I could bring them down with me, as if I were some contagious disease. And by being alone, I could also protect myself from the insecurities of being with someone else, from the heartache which I believed imminent in any relationship that included me. I became so immersed in my isolation that loneliness was everything I knew. I woke up lonely, I spent the day lonely, and went to bed feeling entirely alone in this world.

As time passes, loneliness does begin to feel like physical pain. For me, it began as a tiny bruise above my heart and grew steadily each day into a wound so large it threatened to consume me. Like with any open wound, the pain isn’t fleeting, it doesn’t stop after the flesh is torn. It lasts. The pain is constant, stinging and throbbing, ever reminding you that something is missing. 

The wound is healing for me, but very slowly. I still find myself trying to isolate. Loneliness, though painful, is familiar and I’m not used to living without it. I’ve emotionally stunted myself by keeping myself away from people. I’m finding that now, I have to relearn how to be social, how to have simple conversations, small talk. It’s difficult, awkward, strange… and most of time, I just want to run away and hide. But that’s an old habit, I know.

I’m also starting to develop a new trust for others, something which I’m not sure I ever even really had. Obviously, as a baby, I trusted my parents to care for me. But early in my childhood, I learned to take care of myself emotionally. My upbringing taught me to be self-sufficient, to rely only on myself, because expressing my emotions was both dramatic and selfish. In recovery, those beliefs have been plucked from my brain and tossed over my shoulder. I was forced into this new habit of expressing my pain to others, sometimes complete strangers, in order to heal. I think vulnerability is scary for most people. For me, it has been terrifying, but also relieving. By sharing, I no longer have to carry the weight of my past alone.

In a meeting this week, we read a story where a man depicted his escape from what he called the “prison of uniqueness.” This phrase resonated so deeply with me, because my beliefs that I’m different have truly held me captive for years. What kept me from seeking help and from feeling a part of the recovery community was always focusing on what made me different from everyone else. I hadn’t been through that, so I must not be an addict. She had it worse than me so I’m not that bad. My beliefs that I was unique led me back to my addictions on several occasions. It was only when someone told me to “focus on the similarities and not the differences” that I realized the former outweighed the latter.

I’ve sometimes wished that we could read each others’ minds or that we could all wear our emotions literally on our sleeves, because maybe then, we’d see how truly similar we all are. I understand the need for privacy, but I think many of us take that to the extreme. We keep too much of ourselves hidden, believing that we’re meant to fight our battles on our own. But that belief is dangerous. That belief almost killed me.

Loneliness is a part of life, but it doesn’t have to be your whole life. Reaching out to others can help us discover that though it’s painful to be lonely, we’re definitely not alone in our loneliness.

Echo

I went to a meeting tonight at a treatment center with my sponsor. It was a beautiful and rewarding experience, but I did not expect the flood of emotions that welcomed me as I revisited that environment. It was as if my past was waiting for me as I crossed the threshold of that locked doorway. Given, it wasn’t the same treatment center that I went to, but the atmosphere, the set-up, the staff, the structure of it all made me relive a lot of those months I spent in early recovery. I started to remember the simultaneous desire to leave and get back to my life, while also fearing the outside, the dangers I would face from myself and the world around me. I remembered feeling trapped, but also secure and comforted.

Looking back, I feel as if I lived a whole life while in treatment (I was there for several months). I came in numb, disconnected, fearful and somewhat traumatized. I trusted no one, not even myself. It took me a long time to open up, to allow even a whisper to escape my lips. I actually acted on behaviors while in treatment which was almost impossible. I would burn myself with a curling iron, self-harm with paperclips or my own finger-nails. I would purge in the bushes while walking back from the dining hall. For most of the time in treatment, I was in absolute agony. I didn’t want to be in treatment, I didn’t want to be alive. It felt like these people were forcing me to keep living, literally and figuratively forcing me to eat, sleep, exercise, socialize. I never thought I’d actually be grateful one day that they did. But today, I can say that I am. I know that had I followed my own will in those months, had I not gone to treatment, I would not have lived.

There was a girl at the meeting tonight in whom I saw so much of myself. I felt like I was listening to myself speak a year ago, as if the echo of my past was still ringing in my ears. She spoke about the process of learning to love herself, about how she often couldn’t admit that she even liked herself. She said that she believed she cared more for others than she ever could for herself. Like me in my early days of treatment, she spent all of her time trying to meet the needs of the other women in treatment. She listened to their tragic stories, lent them her shoulder to cry on, held their hands, tried to give them the hope that she didn’t have for herself. I almost started crying listening to her speak, because that was me. And sometimes, it still is.

I don’t know if I was successful in spreading any hope tonight, but I tried to speak from the heart. I was honestly very distracted by my own empathy for these women, picking out different phrases and emotions that were shadows in my life of darkness that preceded and lasted through part of treatment. I tried to encourage them to be open, to give themselves credit for seeking help, for fighting for their own lives. I spoke of the relationships I made and continue to cherish with the women I met in treatment. I told them how these friendships reminded me and still remind me that I’m not alone, that my struggle isn’t unique and therefore, isn’t hopeless. Recovery, though difficult, is possible because others have achieved it.

I’m very glad that I went tonight, that I was able to share a little about how treatment helped me, how recovery and sobriety are worth pursuing. It was difficult to remember that dark time that is not so far behind me, to empathize with those who are struggling and worry for their futures, but it was a reminder of how much I’ve grown, how much my life has changed for the better. Tonight, I’m having to force myself to stay in the present, because part of me actually misses that old life. Urges are strong, but I’m rooting myself in the present the best that I can.

I’m grateful tonight, not only for my sobriety, but for the pain of my past, because it allows me to relate to those who still struggle. I still have so many days where I don’t see the purpose of me continuing to live this life. But if a single word of what I said tonight at that meeting sparked even the tiniest of hopes in someone’s heart, then my life is worth it. It’s worth it to keep living if I can help others do the same.

Dear __________ ,

I remember you telling me about your hopes, your dreams. You’ve always had such a passion for life, a yearning to experience everything it has to offer. You were determined, determined to seek out what you knew you deserved. Though I know it had some bruises from your own troubled past, your heart was full, strong, alive. You had fears, but you didn’t let them envelope you like the rest of us. Instead, you used them to motivate you… dedicated yourself to proving your insecurities to be false.

Some time ago, you shared that beautiful heart with me. You opened your arms and welcomed me into your light. You inspired me with your strength, your vigor. You made me see my own potential, my own capacity to enjoy and experience this life. I would have loved to have been by your side when you achieved all of your accomplishments. I would have given anything to have traveled the world with you, to have experienced all that you have experienced.

But I wasn’t there.

When I had the chance to be with you, to embrace life by your side… I chose something else. I chose to chase death. You showed me the light, but I walked further into the darkness. And I regret this choice with all of my heart. In the past, I’ve held anger towards you for leaving me behind, for not staying with me, but I know now how selfish that was. I was projecting the anger I held for myself… because the truth is, I left you long before you left me.

Watching from afar, I truly am happy for you. Though I’m sad that I missed out on a beautiful life with you, I’m grateful I didn’t make you miss it. I’m grateful I didn’t hold you back from chasing your dreams. I don’t yet forgive myself for losing you, but I know I’d never forgive myself for weighing you down, for taking even a moment’s joy out of the life that now inspires me. 

Thank you. Thank you for showing me the beauty in life that is mine for the taking if I just reach for it. Thank you for the friendship and love that I so miss, but so cherish despite its short duration. Even though you’re no longer in my life, you continue to inspire it, to inspire me.

Whatever you decide to do next, promise me you won’t stop chasing your passions, you won’t stop feeling and experiencing everything this life gives you, you won’t stop smiling with that contagious smile… and promise me you won’t stop living.

From my heart to yours… I send admiration, thanks and all of my love.

Sincerely,

♥