Symphony of Thoughts

My mind is constantly full of thoughts. These days, I’ve started to give them labels: “old” and “new” or “sick” and “healthy.” Those that used to startle me and at times, lead me to self-destruction, have started to soften and to fade into the background. I still hear them almost continuously, louder at times than others, but mostly they buzz in my eardrums like white noise. They’ve lost their salience, their power.

I’ve often related my thoughts to a symphony, notes being spat at each other from opposing sides of the orchestra. The music has always been far from pleasant. It’s always been a cacophony of harsh and dissonant sounds, sort of like the phantom’s composition in Weber’s Phantom of the Opera. My thoughts were the kind of music that you hated listening to, it made your stomach churn and your heart race, but at the same time, you couldn’t tear your attention away from it. It was painfully intoxicating.

The symphony continues on inside my mind today, but it’s different. It’s almost as if the musicians have grown in their skill as I have grown in age and maturity. The instruments are tuned almost perfectly, notes are played carefully and with greater precision. The sound has grown more sophisticated, more solid and controlled. The melody has changed, too. There are fewer peaks and troughs, fewer drastic crescendos and decrescendos. Rather than the chaotic and unpredictable mess that was the music of my mind for so long… my thoughts have grown calmer, peaceful.

For most of life, I gave the solo performances to the thoughts that hurt me. I let the continuous self-criticism and verbal abuse take the lead in the symphony, overpowering everything else. It screamed inside my head until I begged for the song to be over. For it all to be over.

But today… that voice has grown soft. It plays at a pianissimo volume. Sometimes, it’s only a whisper. The absence of these harmful thoughts has allowed me to hear what was hiding beneath the ruckus, the chaos. Sweet sounds of joy, gratitude, passion, hope. I used to think that because all I could hear inside myself was pain and self-loathing, that I wasn’t capable of anything else, anything good. I believed that I contained nothing more than darkness.

But I was wrong.

There is more.

I can listen to my thoughts today and not be guarded. I can appreciate the delicate trills of excitement, the low cello-like moans of gratitude, the soft whistle of hope. I’m still learning, practicing and growing used to this new piece. It still feels sometimes as if I’m only sight-reading, playing the song for the first time. But day by day, it grows stronger.

…and this time, I won’t stop listening.

Translucent

My skin is translucent.

All eyes can see inside, but my own.

I can only guess what hides beneath my shell.

When I look in the mirror,

All I see is dark.

Like the depths of a chasm,

The light vanishes the deeper I look.

It seems I remain a mystery to all but myself.

Others can seemingly see so clearly,

All that I hide within.

They claim there is good, there is strength, there is beauty.

Inside, they see a flicker of light,

That to me, still hides beneath shadow.

One day, I pray, I will see it, too.

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.”

Just a Dream

Yesterday, I smiled,

I felt happy as a child.

I went to sleep light,

I welcomed the night.

I slept ’til half-way,

Before the break of day.

When all was still black,

The dreams made their attack.

The nightmares set in,

The fear twisted within.

Dreams cause the most fear,

When their memory is unclear.

As a fire leaves but an ember,

The fear is all I remember.

It chills me to the bone,

To think of the unknown.

In life, we can prepare,

Of some threats, we can be aware.

But to these, we are blind,

The threat is our own mind.

I awake with a start,

A hand over my heart.

Relief comes with open eyes,

Reality, a gracious prize.

“Only a dream,” I repeat,

As I calm my heartbeat.

But even if it wasn’t real,

The fear, I still feel.

As I step into today,

That fear’s strength may decay.

But even so, I’ll still dread,

The return to my own bed.

A dream is just a dream,

But it can still make me scream.

I guess all I can do,

Is to know it’s not true.

I’m glad the fear has moved inside,

From my life today, I don’t have to hide.

The only danger left to dread,

Is the one inside my head.

No Looking Back

The world isn’t quaking,

It’s just your legs shaking.

No storm in the sky,

Just a tear in your eye.

A war in your head,

But no threat ahead.

It feels like a jail,

But hope is your bail.

Though your heart’s in pain,

Know it’s not in vain.

You will make it through,

You will heal anew.

Alone, you may feel,

But know it’s not real.

Others share this plight,

And have found the light.

You, too, can survive,

In life, you will thrive.

You’re stronger than you know,

From this pain, you will grow.

When you fear there’s no way out,

Relieve yourself of doubt.

There’s more to life than this,

Cross over that abyss.

Because once passed the crack,

There’s no looking back.

♥

Afraid of the Light

I’m glad I’m afraid. I’m grateful for my fear. Because it means I care.

I’ve written about this topic before, but I went to a meeting today in which we talked about fear and it made me think, again, about its usefulness, its purpose. 

I can see a lot of growth from my sick self to today’s healthy self through the evolution of my fears. Deep in my addictions, my fears were the opposite of those that I hold today. I feared the things that today, bring me comfort and hope. I remember being afraid to go out in public, to be around strangers, to be social… unless of course, I was drunk or high. Today, though some of that hesitation still lingers, I’m more afraid of being alone. I’m afraid of people leaving me when then, I feared people coming into my life. I feared getting close to anyone, because I thought the only person I could trust was myself. It’s almost comical how often my old thoughts are proved so absurdly wrong. Another contrast I see is in my fear of the future. I still fear my future, but in a different way. I used to fear a future without my addictions, without this illusion of “control,” without this numbness that had become so predictable. I used to fear even being successful in my education or future career, because I always expected the inevitability of failure. Today, I still fear the future, but only because I’m afraid my past will interfere with it. I no longer fear the future itself. I fear losing it. I don’t fear success, I fear that my addictions will ruin that success. I don’t fear sobriety and recovery. I fear losing the stability I’ve gained with them in my life.

While recalling some of my old fears, I also remembered a lack of fear that I had towards a common subject that causes anxiety for most people. The fear of dying. I find it kind of perplexing that the idea of no longer existing, of passing away from this life, never caused me any particular distress. Looking back now, I guess it makes sense, though. I didn’t fear death, because at that time, I had nothing to lose. Nothing in that life was of true value to me, or at least, not that I could see. I couldn’t appreciate the things that I did have. And I hold a great deal of guilt that I was so willing to toss those gifts aside, to give up on those people and joys that I took for granted. But I was blinded by another fear, not of death, but of life. I feared living. I feared prolonging that life of such agonizing pain and debilitating depression. I feared living another day in the misery that clouded my vision. I had imprisoned myself in a windowless cell with no view of what was outside. And after a while, I forgot that there was anything else. People told me there was another life for me, one of opportunity and hope. But I hadn’t seen it or felt it in so long. I couldn’t believe it existed. I feared it, because it was unknown.

“We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light.” – Plato

So long in the dark, I did fear the light. I feared everything that was unknown, unpredictable. And to me, that was recovery. That was sobriety. That was hope. I’d never experienced it, so I didn’t trust it. How did I know that it was safe? How did I know that it would last?

But today, I know it exists. I escaped my prison and embraced the light. And now, my fear has changed. I no longer fear leaving that cell. I fear going back to it. I no longer fear living, I fear losing this chance at a full, healthy life.

I still wouldn’t say I have a fear of death. I do, however, have a fear of not living, of not experiencing this life to the fullest. I fear leaving this world without having known it.

So in this perspective, I’m grateful for my fear. Because it reminds me that I have something to lose, that I truly value something in this life. I don’t think you can be alive without fearing something, or at least, fearing the end of something. Fear is human. Fear means we feel.

Fear means we’re alive.

Blooming from Concrete

I try to give most of my posts a positive spin, because I know we each already have our own ongoing dismal commentary on life, constantly critical of ourselves, focusing on the negative. I like to spread the hope, not the fear or despair. But the truth is, recovery isn’t always hopeful, life isn’t always positive. There are heartbreaks. There are losses. There are times when you have little hope for the future.

Like life, recovery isn’t perfect and we shouldn’t expect it to be. Perfect isn’t real.

And though it’s important to have hope so that we can motivate ourselves to pursue health, it’s also important to occasionally acknowledge the pain. It helps us to either remember what it was like and try to prevent the past from reappearing in the present or by looking at the current distress, it can help us to see what needs to change. Pain can be a propellant, a catalyst for growth, like a flower struggling to grow through a crack in the concrete. The flower saw the light and reached out from the dark.

My point is, I don’t want to portray this image of a “perfect” recovery story. My story is far from perfect. I’m far from perfect. I’ve had many a relapse, many a slip and fall. And at many of those times, I haven’t wanted to get up, but I did. I’m still standing. And honestly, I write hope into my posts because I’m trying to believe it, myself. The hope is there for those who read and for me, who writes it. But if you’re not ready to take it, to believe, I get it. We all recover at our own pace. Just don’t forget that it’s there. It’s always there.

Are You Afraid of the Dark?

So many of us hide the things that most need to be shared. Regrets. Mistakes. Shame. I’ve kept many of my memories, experiences that I fear to relive, hidden beneath a blanket of shadows. Over the months and years, they’ve gathered dust. Like a dark basement, I’ve been terrified to venture back there, afraid that they’d jump out at me when I wasn’t ready to see them again. I’ve always been afraid of the dark, afraid of being blind to what’s coming my way. In the past, I’ve viewed that fear as weakness, telling myself to grow up and to stop acting like the scared little girl that is still so much a part of me. But a friend helped me to see that the fear of darkness is natural, primitive. Like all fears and anxieties, they come from deep in our history when we faced encounters with predators that hunted us, when we lived in environments so wild and out of our control that we often really were in danger. Fear of the dark is not unwarranted, given the history of our species. The dark held unforeseen dangers: predators that lurked in the depths of caves or nocturnal beasts that attacked in the night.

For us today, the dark is still ominous. Why? Because it holds the unknown.

In the darkness of my own mind, the predators are memories. Memories of pain, helplessness, shame. The darkest parts of my addiction, eating disorder, and depression await me in those shadows. Yes, when I look back on these times, I can acknowledge the progress I’ve made since then, the growth. But I’m also forced to relive them, to remember the thoughts and feelings that held me captive. And they are so salient, so real.

Recently, I remembered a night deep in my addiction. Well, I didn’t remember the whole night. I only remembered waking up from a blackout, in a house that I didn’t recognize, with a man I didn’t know, in a life that couldn’t be my own. I didn’t know how I’d gotten there. I didn’t know what had happened, what I had done up until that point. Everyone in the house was drunk or stoned out of their minds. My head pounded, my heart raced, my body trembled with fear. The room smelled like something was rotting. The walls were cracked. The carpets stained. I looked over at the man next to me and saw that his eyes were glazed over, his mind in a stupor. He gazed at me, but he didn’t see me. And honestly, in that moment, I was glad to be invisible.

Though the situation was certainly a scary one, when I reflect on this night, it’s not the fear that I focus on, but the knowledge that this is what my life had become, what I had become. I remember looking around the house, at the chaos, the polluted environment, the unfamiliar faces, and thinking… this is where I belong. I deserved this fear, this degradation, this loneliness. I had brought myself here and this is where I was meant to stay. I was convinced that my death was near and I beckoned to it.

I have many similar nights, many blackouts that led me to unspeakable places and situations. I was hurt, I hurt others.

When I think of them, I have to remind myself that I’m no longer there. I’m safe. I’m okay. 

As I venture back there today, into the dark corners of my mind, I’m still afraid, but it’s different now. I know that though I’ve experienced darkness, I am not that darkness. And with that awareness, I’m able to bring light into my past. Because the more I know, the more I remember… the less scared I am of my own mind, of myself. The more I visit them, the less power those memories have over me. The more I wander through the darkness, the more I know about what waits there, the more light that is shed on those things that used to frighten me.

It will take time… probably lots, before I can be at peace with my past. But for now, I’m taking a step into the dark and having faith that I’ll find my way back to the light.

Abracadabra

Now it’s there, now it’s not. As kids, we’re fascinated with magic tricks, awed at the idea of coins sprouting from our ears, bunnies emerging from top hats, thumbs that appear to sever from hands, only to be joined back a second later. We marveled at the idea of someone changing reality, bending the rules with his or her own power. We envied them as they spun dishes in the air, blew fire from their mouths. The idea of “magic” gave our minds free roam towards the possibilities of perfecting our own flawed lives.

Now she’s there, now she’s not. The “grand finale” of the magic show frequently displayed the same trick, the vanishing of an actual person, usually a woman, dressed to draw the eyes of the entire audience, though to us children, it wasn’t needed. We stared in amazement as the door closed, watching, transfixed on the magician’s mouth as he uttered a few inaudible words, tapped his wand three times on the door and opened it wide for all to see. Empty. Gone. Vanished. Terror would bubble in the pit of my naïve stomach as I feared for the woman’s life. What if I’d been in that box? Where would I have gone? Would I have disintegrated into the air, become nothing more than an imitation of a breeze? Though the woman returned after a second closing of the door, my mind still reeled over the horrible possibilities.

Now I’m there, now I’m not. It scared me that the act of vanishing could be as easy as the tap of a wand and an incantation. And what, I thought, would happen to that invisible person if she couldn’t be brought back? What we don’t realize is that though we grow older every day, we never grow out of our fears, not really. The fear of a monster under the bed merely changes into the fear of monsters in the world, lurking behind street corners. The fear of the dark becomes the fear of being alone, facing the unknown…on our own. The fear of getting lost in a crowd, well, remains the fear of getting lost in the world. Fear is not juvenile, naïve or foolish. It’s something that we face every day, every second even, of our lives. Bravery comes from understanding what we’re afraid of and realizing that though these things are scary, it doesn’t make sense to worry about them all the time. Eventually, fear becomes a shadow in a world lit by the sun. It’s there, but it doesn’t cover everything. It only hurts us if we decide to step into the darkness, into the box with the door. Even then, all we have to do is look back and find our way back to the light.