In my mind I’m in a café in Paris wearing an oversized black sweater with leggings and boots. My bobbed hair is nearly touching my shoulders. I’ve been writing here for hours at a tiny table by a window, stopping to watch the snow fall while slowly working on a cappuccino.
My reality is much different. I’m in Chicago, it’s August and sweltering outside. A train is taking me home from another ten hour day behind my chair. My brain is so fried I can’t even read. I put in my iPOD and listen the soft piano music that makes up a beautiful song called “Clair de Lune”. This is where my mind takes off. It’s been happening more and more often this daydreaming. I like to think that it’s my over active imagination flexing it’s muscle but really I think it’s my mind’s way of escaping when there are no other distractions present.
My mind continues to wander, playing back the events of the day and the people I met. I worked on a girl today with bra strap length blonde hair and beautiful green eyes. She had me laughing with her story telling until I began to blow dry her after finishing her haircut. It gets hard for me to hear over the noise of the dryer and I get quiet. Once the dryer was off I started to comb through her hair carefully detailing her layers section by section, removing any hard lines with the tips of my shears. I can barely hear the music playing over the white noise of other blow dryers turning on mixed with the various conversations going on around me. My mind stretches, reaching for Rob, thinking about him in a way I don’t remember now to even say when my client’s voice brings me back.
“I love the Black Keys.” she simply states.
“What’s that?” I stop cutting and face her even though I heard her clear as day.
“The Black Keys.” she points upward. “I love them.”
I smile and nod. Funny she could hear it over all the other noise. The Black Keys was one of Rob’s favorite bands. I admit to not being into them much but always smile when I see a t-shirt or a CD of theirs.
I think about sharing this with her, sharing that I was thinking about Rob and then she said that. I decide against it, then think, “Nope. I’m gonna.” So I do.
“Oh wow. That is crazy.” her eyes get big.
“I know.” I giggle even though none of this is amusing to me.
“Wow…”
My hand moves to pick up another section of her hair and I feel her head is heating up. I keep cutting watching her scalp and face turn a light shade of pink. I try not to regret telling her. I sometimes forget myself and the fact that other people are not connected to the things I experience or want to share…
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Chatter...
I’m sitting in a pool of words and thoughts swimming around my raw, chapped little body. I feel I need to be in a padded room right now complete with soundproof walls and a straightjacket. These words and thoughts are desperate to come together and form something coherent but I can’t seem to make it all fit.
I want it all to fit. Right this minute. It’s too uncomfortable to sit here and let it all drift by without organizing it. My fingers reach out trying to grab hold of something, anything that will stop the free fall into something unknown but I can’t grab anything when I’m drowning.
Except I’m not drowning. It only feels that way. It’s like watching something on IMAX where it feels like you’re really there on that rollercoaster or next to that shark but you’re not. You’re safe in a theater letting the images play out before you.
I am home. I just took a shower and ate dinner. I can do whatever I want. It’s just me now. Isn’t that what I wanted? Why is hurting so much then?
I have jewelry to make, a journal to continue with, a book proposal I’d like to get started on this century and yet I can’t sit still long enough to touch any of it. Instead I’m taking the long way to the places I need to go to. I feel I’ve spent more time walking and on trains than at the actual places I was using those means to get to.
“It sounds like things aren’t coming naturally to you right now.” my new therapist Beth observes after explaining to her the structure of my days off.
I shake my head. “No. It used to but because of how my work days are, I don’t do anything. I save it all for my days off and sometimes, I just don’t feel like it. I fear that not feeling like it over and over again will end up with nothing accomplished so it feels imperative to get as much done as possible.”
“You’re very disciplined and I’m wondering if we just need to explore your creative process more and redirect how you approach these things. I feel they should be therapeutic and give energy rather than taking energy.”
“Definitely!” I beam.
“Ok, so I want you to simply try writing without an agenda. Let your mind go where ever it goes and write it down. Don’t judge it, just do it. For an hour. If you go longer, great, if not, at least do it for that hour.”
I nod.
“How does that sound?”
“I want it! I do. I’m nervous about actually doing it though. I always have an agenda.”
“I knew you would say that.” she smiles. “Ok, so when you’re writing and you’re getting overwhelmed, stop, and breathe. Really breathe deeply a couple of times and get back to it.”
“Deal.”
My mind goes to all sorts of places that my pen and paper don’t capture. I’m not sure why I don’t record any of it really. I think some of it I’m afraid of. I’m afraid of what I might say or might feel. I’m also afraid of feeling silly or getting stuck so I say nothing.
When I leave Beth’s office I have the best intentions. Ok. I’m going to do this. I get on the train and head to Millennium Park. I walk around and look for a spot to sit and open my notebook, ready for all of this to pour out of me.
It’s awfully busy out here. I observe while meandering. I feel the warm sun on my back and a breeze pushing my straightened hair around my face and smile feeling lucky to be outside today, to have a day off, to be simply breathing.
I plop down under a tree and give in to my compulsive phone checking habit. For six months now Jeff and I have sent bagillions of text messages throughout any given day. It’s going to take a while to stop anticipating the screen of my phone lighting up or the chirping sound it makes when I don’t have the ringer on silent alerting me to some sweetness he’s delivering.
Opening my notebook, I find a blank page and sigh. A screaming seagull captures my attention. Some girls laughing next to me compete with the seagull and with all the people walking around…my head might start spinning. Maybe I picked a bad spot for concentrating. I write a couple of sentences then stop to watch the sun glittering through the leaves on the trees over me.
This is a bad idea. I need less distraction. I pick up and go again ending up at Filter, a coffee shop not far from my apartment. It’s packed but I find a table. I open the notebook again. I get a paragraph pushed out but am still judging, thinking a little too much and desperately wanting to simply let go but I don’t have a clue as to how to do that. I start writing again, asking more questions of myself instead of simply stringing sentences together.
Maybe this is just what it’s going to be today. I pack up after an hour and head home.
The sun is blazing but I run anyway, sweat racing down my spine. I try to remind myself that the writing will come once the dust settles and I find a routine again. My life was just enmeshed with someone else’s. I’m not tolerant of the fact that an adjustment is being made and all I can do is put one foot in front of the other.
Once I make it home again I try to quiet the chatter in my brain to figure out what it is I want to do. Nothing is clear. Well, one thing for sure is clear and that is a much needed shower.
“Just do what you know.” my high school art teacher would tell me when I didn’t have all the answers as to what direction I wanted to take a particular project in. I’ve kept that sentence tucked away with me ever since.
I go through the motions without paying much attention to the water spraying onto my skin or the smell of the strawberry scrub I adore. I get out of the tub and wrap a towel around myself sighing for the hundredth time today.
Once dressed I park my tail on the couch, turn on the computer and take a look at the submission guidelines for a publishing company based in San Francisco. I tell myself I can do all of this. I can write this proposal. I don’t have to have all the answers now but I’ll have them eventually.
Upon reading these guidelines the dermatitis that has plagued me since moving here is sparking. Not only is it eating my hands, it’s threatening to eat my arms too. I click out of the browser set the computer on the coffee table.
I take this opportunity to go to the grocery store and get veggie burgers. On my way back a (seemingly) schizophrenic black man holding a Walkman waltzing toward me is yammering on about God knows what then very coherently says to my face “I love you honey!”
I think of Rob and laugh.
At home I eat and try to be still. Nervous energy is pulsing through my veins. I have enough of it to light up New York City. I try to ask myself what I want. I want to write for hours. I want to write unabashedly until it’s all out of me. I want to be uncensored and unafraid. I want to hurl words in big, bold, all capital letters across a blank page. I want to sing until my vocal chords can’t produce sound and talk until there are no words left. I want to dance all night until the sun begins to rise. I want to cry until my eyes won’t make tears anymore, laugh until I can’t breathe, run until my lungs can no longer expel the air they take in and express myself in all the ways I’ve held back, then…sleep like I’ve just eaten a Thanksgiving dinner.
Until I figure out how to accomplish that, the chatter continues…
I want it all to fit. Right this minute. It’s too uncomfortable to sit here and let it all drift by without organizing it. My fingers reach out trying to grab hold of something, anything that will stop the free fall into something unknown but I can’t grab anything when I’m drowning.
Except I’m not drowning. It only feels that way. It’s like watching something on IMAX where it feels like you’re really there on that rollercoaster or next to that shark but you’re not. You’re safe in a theater letting the images play out before you.
I am home. I just took a shower and ate dinner. I can do whatever I want. It’s just me now. Isn’t that what I wanted? Why is hurting so much then?
I have jewelry to make, a journal to continue with, a book proposal I’d like to get started on this century and yet I can’t sit still long enough to touch any of it. Instead I’m taking the long way to the places I need to go to. I feel I’ve spent more time walking and on trains than at the actual places I was using those means to get to.
“It sounds like things aren’t coming naturally to you right now.” my new therapist Beth observes after explaining to her the structure of my days off.
I shake my head. “No. It used to but because of how my work days are, I don’t do anything. I save it all for my days off and sometimes, I just don’t feel like it. I fear that not feeling like it over and over again will end up with nothing accomplished so it feels imperative to get as much done as possible.”
“You’re very disciplined and I’m wondering if we just need to explore your creative process more and redirect how you approach these things. I feel they should be therapeutic and give energy rather than taking energy.”
“Definitely!” I beam.
“Ok, so I want you to simply try writing without an agenda. Let your mind go where ever it goes and write it down. Don’t judge it, just do it. For an hour. If you go longer, great, if not, at least do it for that hour.”
I nod.
“How does that sound?”
“I want it! I do. I’m nervous about actually doing it though. I always have an agenda.”
“I knew you would say that.” she smiles. “Ok, so when you’re writing and you’re getting overwhelmed, stop, and breathe. Really breathe deeply a couple of times and get back to it.”
“Deal.”
My mind goes to all sorts of places that my pen and paper don’t capture. I’m not sure why I don’t record any of it really. I think some of it I’m afraid of. I’m afraid of what I might say or might feel. I’m also afraid of feeling silly or getting stuck so I say nothing.
When I leave Beth’s office I have the best intentions. Ok. I’m going to do this. I get on the train and head to Millennium Park. I walk around and look for a spot to sit and open my notebook, ready for all of this to pour out of me.
It’s awfully busy out here. I observe while meandering. I feel the warm sun on my back and a breeze pushing my straightened hair around my face and smile feeling lucky to be outside today, to have a day off, to be simply breathing.
I plop down under a tree and give in to my compulsive phone checking habit. For six months now Jeff and I have sent bagillions of text messages throughout any given day. It’s going to take a while to stop anticipating the screen of my phone lighting up or the chirping sound it makes when I don’t have the ringer on silent alerting me to some sweetness he’s delivering.
Opening my notebook, I find a blank page and sigh. A screaming seagull captures my attention. Some girls laughing next to me compete with the seagull and with all the people walking around…my head might start spinning. Maybe I picked a bad spot for concentrating. I write a couple of sentences then stop to watch the sun glittering through the leaves on the trees over me.
This is a bad idea. I need less distraction. I pick up and go again ending up at Filter, a coffee shop not far from my apartment. It’s packed but I find a table. I open the notebook again. I get a paragraph pushed out but am still judging, thinking a little too much and desperately wanting to simply let go but I don’t have a clue as to how to do that. I start writing again, asking more questions of myself instead of simply stringing sentences together.
Maybe this is just what it’s going to be today. I pack up after an hour and head home.
The sun is blazing but I run anyway, sweat racing down my spine. I try to remind myself that the writing will come once the dust settles and I find a routine again. My life was just enmeshed with someone else’s. I’m not tolerant of the fact that an adjustment is being made and all I can do is put one foot in front of the other.
Once I make it home again I try to quiet the chatter in my brain to figure out what it is I want to do. Nothing is clear. Well, one thing for sure is clear and that is a much needed shower.
“Just do what you know.” my high school art teacher would tell me when I didn’t have all the answers as to what direction I wanted to take a particular project in. I’ve kept that sentence tucked away with me ever since.
I go through the motions without paying much attention to the water spraying onto my skin or the smell of the strawberry scrub I adore. I get out of the tub and wrap a towel around myself sighing for the hundredth time today.
Once dressed I park my tail on the couch, turn on the computer and take a look at the submission guidelines for a publishing company based in San Francisco. I tell myself I can do all of this. I can write this proposal. I don’t have to have all the answers now but I’ll have them eventually.
Upon reading these guidelines the dermatitis that has plagued me since moving here is sparking. Not only is it eating my hands, it’s threatening to eat my arms too. I click out of the browser set the computer on the coffee table.
I take this opportunity to go to the grocery store and get veggie burgers. On my way back a (seemingly) schizophrenic black man holding a Walkman waltzing toward me is yammering on about God knows what then very coherently says to my face “I love you honey!”
I think of Rob and laugh.
At home I eat and try to be still. Nervous energy is pulsing through my veins. I have enough of it to light up New York City. I try to ask myself what I want. I want to write for hours. I want to write unabashedly until it’s all out of me. I want to be uncensored and unafraid. I want to hurl words in big, bold, all capital letters across a blank page. I want to sing until my vocal chords can’t produce sound and talk until there are no words left. I want to dance all night until the sun begins to rise. I want to cry until my eyes won’t make tears anymore, laugh until I can’t breathe, run until my lungs can no longer expel the air they take in and express myself in all the ways I’ve held back, then…sleep like I’ve just eaten a Thanksgiving dinner.
Until I figure out how to accomplish that, the chatter continues…
OA Lead...
As usual I’m up early and am setting out on my Sunday route to Alliance for a huge Americano and some writing. I have to give the lead tonight at OA and I’m only half way through with writing it out. I’m scared to finish it. I don’t want to touch it. I’m not sure what I’m afraid of but something has me putting on the breaks.
I sit in my favorite spot by the window, computer on, the Americano in my hand, eyes staring out at the world. I alternate between this position and being completely engrossed in typing away, telling a story to my laptop. I was expecting the floodgates to open today spilling words from my mind to my hands to the screen but not much is happening.
I really should work on my lead…soon…
Instead I pack up and head home to drop my things off and go out for a run. I change my route slightly, heading north on Milwaukee instead of south. It’s quieter than I expected which is glorious. I go for forty five minutes then turn around and head home only to grab my things again and head to the gym for a quick workout.
A couple of weeks ago I met John* at a Wednesday night OA meeting. He noticed I wrote nearly the entire time while people were speaking. I love to write down what everyone says. He also liked what I had to share and asked me to give a lead two weeks later at a Sunday night meeting about Step eight. My mind started to formulate reasons why I couldn’t make it. Giving a lead and talking for fifteen to twenty minutes sounded real scary. While part of me was backing away from this, another part was pushing me to do it, reminding me that I am capable. The word “yes” left my mouth before I could talk myself out of it.
So here I am, on Sunday, with this lead half finished. Ok seriously…I have to get this done…
I’m reading while letting this thought bounce around in my head, sipping red tea at Argo Tea downtown after working out, watching people walk by the huge windows. I’m doing more watching than reading. My OA stuff is spread out in front of me like an impatient child waiting for attention yet I continue to ignore it.
Once my tea is finished I’m packed up and heading home where I fix lunch, shower and continue my avoidance of the task at hand that still needs to be completed. Maybe I’ll just head up there and find a coffee shop…
Again, more avoidance. What the hell am I so afraid of? Doing it wrong? Being judged? Suddenly I’m thirteen again and terrified of being made fun of because what I’m saying isn’t good enough. I have to bare my soul to these people. What will they think of me?
My story and my sharing it is an act of faith and love. I have faith that in sharing, I’ll be loved anyway. I will love myself more for taking this opportunity to give service. Fear is paralyzing though as I’m quickly finding. Time is closing in around me as I step off the train and out into the blazing sunshine. I walk for a while before stumbling upon a Starbucks. I have exactly one hour to get this done. No time for excessive thinking. I order a tea and get to work.
I brought along a journal that Jeff gave me. I decide to rewrite what I’ve already come up with to get the ball rolling and to make it neater and more organized. The first page of the journal is filled with his sweetness in the form of a short note to me. I read over it again, smiling at thinking about his hands forming the words on the page.
I turn to a blank page and begin writing. I write and write and write, barely looking up. Words pour out of me splashing across the paper in the form of my messy handwriting. My desire for food is steadily increasing as the minutes tick by. My energy is haphazard and spastic. There is no way I’m giving in to food before a fucking meeting. I glance at my watch as I finish writing the last word. It’s been exactly an hour. Whew! Made it. I pack up and walk to place where the meeting is held.
“Welcome to the Sunday night meeting of Overeaters Anonymous. My name is John and I’m a compulsive overeater and the leader for this meeting tonight.”
John goes through the usual announcements that begin every meeting. Each one is slightly different depending on which day we attend. On Wednesday nights, the meeting I usually attend, we choose three topics to speak about. This meeting someone gives a “lead” talking about a particular subject or step and discussion follows.
“I’ve asked Melissa to give the lead on the eighth step tonight. She’s not from Chicago and I asked her to speak to hear a different perspective that she might have coming from somewhere else.” He nods for me to take over and I beam.
“Hi! I’m Melissa and I’m a compulsive overeater. I’m really grateful to be here tonight.” I exhale, quickly checking in with my heart rate. It’s steady. Thank God. I can do this. “I moved here from Atlanta and this is my second time at this Sunday night meeting. I attended this one shortly after moving here but my schedule doesn’t always allow for me to come as often as I’d like.”
I remember to make eye contact while speaking, only tearing my eyes from other’s to glance at what I’ve written.
“Being asked to give this lead tonight put me in a position where I was needing to check in with myself and make sure I had nothing needing to be “cleaned up” before sharing.
Before diving into that task I felt I needed to reflect on what Step 8 was, what it meant to me upon entering the program and what it means to me now.
Step 8, as we know is making a list of all persons we’ve harmed and became willing to make amends to them all. I find that “willing” is a key word in that sentence. I could make a list all day, it’s the willing part that had me putting on the breaks. For me, being willing means letting go and taking action despite any fear I might have floating around.”
Some heads were nodding. I realized at that moment that people were actually listening. I had their attention and I suddenly got nervous. I paused for a brief moment before taking in another breath, letting it out and continuing.
“Taking action meant stepping into some unknown world and the unknown is a scary place to be. The first time I had to make my list I had to remind myself that it was only a list. No action needed to be taken yet. It was still a scary process. I dunno about you but I like to believe in Melissa’s world, it’s all puppies and rainbows and no one has ever been hurt as a result of something I’ve done!”
Everyone laughs including myself simply needing to release energy.
“None of that is real though.” I continue. “I’ve harmed people and carried resentments against even more people. It’s all been festering in a dark place inside my head. It’s a place I was terrified to look into out of fear of what I might find or feel.
When it came time to visit that place after moving through Steps one through seven thinking thank God we don’t start with eight,” I joke. “I had to stop and ask myself “Why am I doing this?” I hoped that in at least getting curious about my intentions I could move forward with a little more ease.
The answer was simple. I wanted to let go, move forward and take another step in the direction of recovery and self acceptance. I wanted to release the pain and secrets I had been walking around with.
I found my willingness by reminding myself that I will not die from these uncomfortable feelings, or from apologizing. Many people before me have gotten through Step eight and now it’s my turn. I will not burst into flames for these admissions.”
More laughing ensues and I feel good.
“I was struggling as to whether or not I was going to share what my original list consisted of. The only person who has heard all of it is my former sponsor. So I’m deciding to share it with all of you tonight as a reminder that I’m a human being and am not perfect.”
I list all the unsavory stuff…including, but not limited to, the unfortunate resentments I’ve held against friends and family, a man who abused me and the hardest to accept, the resentments I held and sometimes currently hold against myself.
“Seeing it all out there on paper and relaying the details of it to my sponsor at the time all while trying to remember that I am still a loveable human being despite my flawed actions was a tremendous act of faith.” I continued feeling my skin heat up at these admissions.
“As time has moved on, my list is usually kept quite short. It’s no longer the daunting task it once was. It’s never easy though. I took an inventory after committing to this lead tonight and found that I had some residual anger left over from someone I just recently broke up with. I had to be honest, tell him everything and let go. Sure it was hard but I feel so much better that it’s not longer something I’m hanging on to. Without this program I have no idea where I’d be. Without Step eight and all the step before it and after it I’d still be bumbling around in the dark hanging on to all my fear. Without all of you giving me more love than I deserve I’d still be in the food eating my life away. So thank you,” I exhale, trying not to cry. “for being here, for listening and for letting me share.”
Applause erupts around me and I feel myself relax. I feel so happy to have taken John up on the challenge of doing this tonight. For the rest of the meeting I sit quietly, and listen to everyone else share. My little heart is so happy to hear that my struggles and experiences match those around me. People thank me for sharing my thoughts, for the preparation and for admitting the icky stuff and share their own unsavory moments. There is lots of laughing and some tears. I feel I still have a long, long way to go when it comes to self-love and acceptance but tonight, I feel I just made an important step in the right direction.
* not his real name.
I sit in my favorite spot by the window, computer on, the Americano in my hand, eyes staring out at the world. I alternate between this position and being completely engrossed in typing away, telling a story to my laptop. I was expecting the floodgates to open today spilling words from my mind to my hands to the screen but not much is happening.
I really should work on my lead…soon…
Instead I pack up and head home to drop my things off and go out for a run. I change my route slightly, heading north on Milwaukee instead of south. It’s quieter than I expected which is glorious. I go for forty five minutes then turn around and head home only to grab my things again and head to the gym for a quick workout.
A couple of weeks ago I met John* at a Wednesday night OA meeting. He noticed I wrote nearly the entire time while people were speaking. I love to write down what everyone says. He also liked what I had to share and asked me to give a lead two weeks later at a Sunday night meeting about Step eight. My mind started to formulate reasons why I couldn’t make it. Giving a lead and talking for fifteen to twenty minutes sounded real scary. While part of me was backing away from this, another part was pushing me to do it, reminding me that I am capable. The word “yes” left my mouth before I could talk myself out of it.
So here I am, on Sunday, with this lead half finished. Ok seriously…I have to get this done…
I’m reading while letting this thought bounce around in my head, sipping red tea at Argo Tea downtown after working out, watching people walk by the huge windows. I’m doing more watching than reading. My OA stuff is spread out in front of me like an impatient child waiting for attention yet I continue to ignore it.
Once my tea is finished I’m packed up and heading home where I fix lunch, shower and continue my avoidance of the task at hand that still needs to be completed. Maybe I’ll just head up there and find a coffee shop…
Again, more avoidance. What the hell am I so afraid of? Doing it wrong? Being judged? Suddenly I’m thirteen again and terrified of being made fun of because what I’m saying isn’t good enough. I have to bare my soul to these people. What will they think of me?
My story and my sharing it is an act of faith and love. I have faith that in sharing, I’ll be loved anyway. I will love myself more for taking this opportunity to give service. Fear is paralyzing though as I’m quickly finding. Time is closing in around me as I step off the train and out into the blazing sunshine. I walk for a while before stumbling upon a Starbucks. I have exactly one hour to get this done. No time for excessive thinking. I order a tea and get to work.
I brought along a journal that Jeff gave me. I decide to rewrite what I’ve already come up with to get the ball rolling and to make it neater and more organized. The first page of the journal is filled with his sweetness in the form of a short note to me. I read over it again, smiling at thinking about his hands forming the words on the page.
I turn to a blank page and begin writing. I write and write and write, barely looking up. Words pour out of me splashing across the paper in the form of my messy handwriting. My desire for food is steadily increasing as the minutes tick by. My energy is haphazard and spastic. There is no way I’m giving in to food before a fucking meeting. I glance at my watch as I finish writing the last word. It’s been exactly an hour. Whew! Made it. I pack up and walk to place where the meeting is held.
“Welcome to the Sunday night meeting of Overeaters Anonymous. My name is John and I’m a compulsive overeater and the leader for this meeting tonight.”
John goes through the usual announcements that begin every meeting. Each one is slightly different depending on which day we attend. On Wednesday nights, the meeting I usually attend, we choose three topics to speak about. This meeting someone gives a “lead” talking about a particular subject or step and discussion follows.
“I’ve asked Melissa to give the lead on the eighth step tonight. She’s not from Chicago and I asked her to speak to hear a different perspective that she might have coming from somewhere else.” He nods for me to take over and I beam.
“Hi! I’m Melissa and I’m a compulsive overeater. I’m really grateful to be here tonight.” I exhale, quickly checking in with my heart rate. It’s steady. Thank God. I can do this. “I moved here from Atlanta and this is my second time at this Sunday night meeting. I attended this one shortly after moving here but my schedule doesn’t always allow for me to come as often as I’d like.”
I remember to make eye contact while speaking, only tearing my eyes from other’s to glance at what I’ve written.
“Being asked to give this lead tonight put me in a position where I was needing to check in with myself and make sure I had nothing needing to be “cleaned up” before sharing.
Before diving into that task I felt I needed to reflect on what Step 8 was, what it meant to me upon entering the program and what it means to me now.
Step 8, as we know is making a list of all persons we’ve harmed and became willing to make amends to them all. I find that “willing” is a key word in that sentence. I could make a list all day, it’s the willing part that had me putting on the breaks. For me, being willing means letting go and taking action despite any fear I might have floating around.”
Some heads were nodding. I realized at that moment that people were actually listening. I had their attention and I suddenly got nervous. I paused for a brief moment before taking in another breath, letting it out and continuing.
“Taking action meant stepping into some unknown world and the unknown is a scary place to be. The first time I had to make my list I had to remind myself that it was only a list. No action needed to be taken yet. It was still a scary process. I dunno about you but I like to believe in Melissa’s world, it’s all puppies and rainbows and no one has ever been hurt as a result of something I’ve done!”
Everyone laughs including myself simply needing to release energy.
“None of that is real though.” I continue. “I’ve harmed people and carried resentments against even more people. It’s all been festering in a dark place inside my head. It’s a place I was terrified to look into out of fear of what I might find or feel.
When it came time to visit that place after moving through Steps one through seven thinking thank God we don’t start with eight,” I joke. “I had to stop and ask myself “Why am I doing this?” I hoped that in at least getting curious about my intentions I could move forward with a little more ease.
The answer was simple. I wanted to let go, move forward and take another step in the direction of recovery and self acceptance. I wanted to release the pain and secrets I had been walking around with.
I found my willingness by reminding myself that I will not die from these uncomfortable feelings, or from apologizing. Many people before me have gotten through Step eight and now it’s my turn. I will not burst into flames for these admissions.”
More laughing ensues and I feel good.
“I was struggling as to whether or not I was going to share what my original list consisted of. The only person who has heard all of it is my former sponsor. So I’m deciding to share it with all of you tonight as a reminder that I’m a human being and am not perfect.”
I list all the unsavory stuff…including, but not limited to, the unfortunate resentments I’ve held against friends and family, a man who abused me and the hardest to accept, the resentments I held and sometimes currently hold against myself.
“Seeing it all out there on paper and relaying the details of it to my sponsor at the time all while trying to remember that I am still a loveable human being despite my flawed actions was a tremendous act of faith.” I continued feeling my skin heat up at these admissions.
“As time has moved on, my list is usually kept quite short. It’s no longer the daunting task it once was. It’s never easy though. I took an inventory after committing to this lead tonight and found that I had some residual anger left over from someone I just recently broke up with. I had to be honest, tell him everything and let go. Sure it was hard but I feel so much better that it’s not longer something I’m hanging on to. Without this program I have no idea where I’d be. Without Step eight and all the step before it and after it I’d still be bumbling around in the dark hanging on to all my fear. Without all of you giving me more love than I deserve I’d still be in the food eating my life away. So thank you,” I exhale, trying not to cry. “for being here, for listening and for letting me share.”
Applause erupts around me and I feel myself relax. I feel so happy to have taken John up on the challenge of doing this tonight. For the rest of the meeting I sit quietly, and listen to everyone else share. My little heart is so happy to hear that my struggles and experiences match those around me. People thank me for sharing my thoughts, for the preparation and for admitting the icky stuff and share their own unsavory moments. There is lots of laughing and some tears. I feel I still have a long, long way to go when it comes to self-love and acceptance but tonight, I feel I just made an important step in the right direction.
* not his real name.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Beth...
“I don’t think you’re being open to him.” Beth tells me as I sit, wide-eyed across from her on a couch in her small comfortable office. Sunlight streams through the blinds that cover a large window next to her seated brightly colored form.
I nod. She’s prolly right but I don’t wanna see it, plus I don’t know how to, so I let her words go in one ear and out the other.
It’s the day after the half marathon. My joints are sore but nothing tremendous. This is my first appointment with my new therapist and I’m ecstatic to see what’s in store for my lil brain and all it’s many emotions.
I just told her that I broke up with Jeff. She’s thinking there is more there that needs to be looked at. Like me being open. What does that even mean though? I thought I was. Then again, I think about Dr. M. and her asking me if I feel I’m closed off when it comes to Jeff because of losing Rob. The answer to that question when she asked was an immediate yes. I felt that a part of me was but didn’t know how to unlock it and invite Jeff in. The whole thing felt very heavy and “too much”, so I left.
Being this is my first visit with Beth we gloss over the surface of my reasons for being there which mainly are Rob, my eating disorder, work, and stress management. She’s an art therapist and I talk to her about these collages I’ve been doing when writing gets tough. It started with a handmade journal I bought at a local bookstore in my neighborhood. I got the idea from my roommate at the time when I first moved to Chicago. I cut up magazines and paste images down in these pages and watch what I’m feeling come to a surface. These images are like looking into a mirror sometimes. I don’t usually know what I’m going to come up with before I start, I just do it and am always excited to see what’s reflected back at me. Currently these images have been expanding to canvas. I have three large canvases filled with images waiting for more additions to their already rather colorful surfaces.
“I’d like to see these.” Beth tells me.
“I’ll bring in my journal first as the canvases are tough to transport right now being they’re so big..”
Beth also tells me at the end of our session that she’d like me to create a timeline consisting of major events in my life.
“Start with birth and write down anything that stands out, particularly body image issues, like when they first started.”
I nod. This will be easy enough right?
“I’d like to meet with you once a week for now.”
“Ok.” I nod and we set up a month’s worth of appointments.
Minutes later I’m out the door and walking to the train. I decide to head downtown to get sushi and work on this timeline while things feel fresh in my mind.
Jeff and I are texting. He asks how everything went today. I say that I’ll email him. I wonder when this will stop. When will I stop letting him in on details of my life. I’m terrified of keeping in contact with him, yet I don’t necessarily want to stop. I don’t want to meet up with him some time down the road or get an email from him saying how good things are at work then telling me he just went on a date with someone.
I get off the train when it gets downtown and walk to the sushi place I frequented with Jeff when he’d finish a shift at dinner time. I pull out a pen and a notebook after ordering spicy tuna and a glass of wine. It’s beautiful outside and I’m having one of those moments where I can’t believe I’m here. I live here. I’m sitting in a sushi restaurant content with my own company across from a beautiful park in the middle of downtown Chicago, the world buzzing around outside and I’m a part of it. Never did I ever imagine this when I was sixteen looking ahead at what my late twenties would be like.
I begin my timeline. Everything is easy until age fourteen. That’s when the trouble started. I became painfully aware of my body then. It would take five more years though to begin the eating disorder. Five more years would go by before I acknowledged it and two more years before getting help for it. Meanwhile, I’d float around from boy to boy, travel from city to city, buy a car among other things, always trying to fill the void that threatened to swallow me whole if I didn’t fill it quickly enough with material things, with experiences, hobbies, people, anything really to distract me from myself. I quit a job, started a new one. I fell in love, lived through his death, and started a new life many miles from a place I called home.
Now…who the hell am I?
I nod. She’s prolly right but I don’t wanna see it, plus I don’t know how to, so I let her words go in one ear and out the other.
It’s the day after the half marathon. My joints are sore but nothing tremendous. This is my first appointment with my new therapist and I’m ecstatic to see what’s in store for my lil brain and all it’s many emotions.
I just told her that I broke up with Jeff. She’s thinking there is more there that needs to be looked at. Like me being open. What does that even mean though? I thought I was. Then again, I think about Dr. M. and her asking me if I feel I’m closed off when it comes to Jeff because of losing Rob. The answer to that question when she asked was an immediate yes. I felt that a part of me was but didn’t know how to unlock it and invite Jeff in. The whole thing felt very heavy and “too much”, so I left.
Being this is my first visit with Beth we gloss over the surface of my reasons for being there which mainly are Rob, my eating disorder, work, and stress management. She’s an art therapist and I talk to her about these collages I’ve been doing when writing gets tough. It started with a handmade journal I bought at a local bookstore in my neighborhood. I got the idea from my roommate at the time when I first moved to Chicago. I cut up magazines and paste images down in these pages and watch what I’m feeling come to a surface. These images are like looking into a mirror sometimes. I don’t usually know what I’m going to come up with before I start, I just do it and am always excited to see what’s reflected back at me. Currently these images have been expanding to canvas. I have three large canvases filled with images waiting for more additions to their already rather colorful surfaces.
“I’d like to see these.” Beth tells me.
“I’ll bring in my journal first as the canvases are tough to transport right now being they’re so big..”
Beth also tells me at the end of our session that she’d like me to create a timeline consisting of major events in my life.
“Start with birth and write down anything that stands out, particularly body image issues, like when they first started.”
I nod. This will be easy enough right?
“I’d like to meet with you once a week for now.”
“Ok.” I nod and we set up a month’s worth of appointments.
Minutes later I’m out the door and walking to the train. I decide to head downtown to get sushi and work on this timeline while things feel fresh in my mind.
Jeff and I are texting. He asks how everything went today. I say that I’ll email him. I wonder when this will stop. When will I stop letting him in on details of my life. I’m terrified of keeping in contact with him, yet I don’t necessarily want to stop. I don’t want to meet up with him some time down the road or get an email from him saying how good things are at work then telling me he just went on a date with someone.
I get off the train when it gets downtown and walk to the sushi place I frequented with Jeff when he’d finish a shift at dinner time. I pull out a pen and a notebook after ordering spicy tuna and a glass of wine. It’s beautiful outside and I’m having one of those moments where I can’t believe I’m here. I live here. I’m sitting in a sushi restaurant content with my own company across from a beautiful park in the middle of downtown Chicago, the world buzzing around outside and I’m a part of it. Never did I ever imagine this when I was sixteen looking ahead at what my late twenties would be like.
I begin my timeline. Everything is easy until age fourteen. That’s when the trouble started. I became painfully aware of my body then. It would take five more years though to begin the eating disorder. Five more years would go by before I acknowledged it and two more years before getting help for it. Meanwhile, I’d float around from boy to boy, travel from city to city, buy a car among other things, always trying to fill the void that threatened to swallow me whole if I didn’t fill it quickly enough with material things, with experiences, hobbies, people, anything really to distract me from myself. I quit a job, started a new one. I fell in love, lived through his death, and started a new life many miles from a place I called home.
Now…who the hell am I?
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
13.1...
In March, I had the bright idea to sign up for the Chicago Rock-N-Roll half marathon taking place downtown on August 1st. Twice I’ve signed up to run a half and twice I’ve messed up my shins so badly that I didn’t run either one. I decided to try it again, wanting to better plot my training routine and make it happen this time around.
What really happened was I barely ran. At all. All spring and summer. I ran more through the snowy winter months than I did during the beautiful days of warm temperatures and sunshine.
A couple of weeks before, I was giving into the fact that I am simply not a competitive runner anymore. I stand for a living and my legs and feet aren’t happy with high mileage runs. I had pretty much decided that this would yet again, not happen. Until…
Mom sent me an email asking if I was running. I quickly replied with no, because I needed more time off from work to pick up my race gear downtown and wasn’t sure if that could happen, plus I hadn’t been training. When I clicked “send” I immediately regretted it. I can do this. I can run this. Even if I’m the last damn person to cross the finish line, I’m going to regret not trying. My fingers flew across the keyboard, looking up my work schedule. I am not booked during the last half of my day on the Saturday before the race. I ask Cyndi if I could take the rest off to which she agreed. I quickly emailed mom again telling her I was going to run it and if she and dad wanted to come up, awesome and if not that was ok too because it was going to be a packed weekend with me working plus going downtown, then running on Sunday.
That was the last I heard about it and the night before the race found me home finally from McCormick Place with my race number among other things cooking dinner, and watching one of my favorite movies “(500) Days of Summer”. I was feeling awfully emotional about this whole race thing. I wasn’t sure what to expect but I wanted to figure “everything” out. I wanted my mind to go where it wanted, to get answers to my many questions. It was a lot to put on an already seemingly intense experience. I was happy to be alone, happy to be accomplishing this goal on my own. It made me think of Rob though and how he wouldn’t be there in the way I would like. I remembered thinking after he died that I better live. I better do all the things I want to do, God forbid my life get cut short. I better write my book, learn the things I want to learn, run the races I want to run, and go to the places I want to go. Looking back, I’m pleased that I learned how to make jewelry, that I made the effort to move to Chicago, that I completed Art+Science’s program, that I haven’t stopped writing and now this race will be something else to check off my list.
The next morning I was awake at 5:30am. I bought new shorts and tank top specifically for today and felt pretty despite the fact that I was going to be a sweaty mess in an hour.
After eating breakfast and making coffee the way Jeff showed me how to make it, I pinned my number to my torso and happily bounced out the door hoping to catch a cab to the start line.
Except there were no cabs at the taxi stand. Uh oh. I stand and wait. Nothing. Dammit. I exhale. Train it is, except I’m not entirely sure where I’m going. Maybe I’ll get off at Jackson. Hmmm…
On the platform, thank God, it was me and about twenty other runners waiting. I followed them on to the train and at each stop more and more runners piled on. The train smelled like sunscreen and hair products. I’m so excited I can hardly stand still. I’m really about to do this!
Everyone exits at Jackson and I follow suit. The air outside is perfect despite it being slightly humid. It’s almost seventy degrees and the sun is beginning to rise over the lake. The street we’re on is flanked by two other streets full of runners all heading to the start line. Despite hating crowds I feel nothing but sheer joy and happiness.
Nearly thirty minutes after the official start of the race, the “corral” I’m in is set to begin. I listed my finish time as a rather slow 2:30. I’m hoping to finish in 2 hours though. We take off. I turn my iPOD on as my feet begin striking the pavement. It takes a little bit before I can hit a comfortable stride. I watch the bobbing heads in front of me, weaving in and out through people. I stare at the sparkly sunshine bouncing off the windows that line the buildings that make up the fabulous skyline of this wonderful city I live in.
My iPOD is set to “shuffle” and is playing all sorts of upbeat, motivating stuff. I continue to follow the runners ahead of me, happy to be alone and not rush but to go at my own pace. In high school I had a tendency to start out every race too fast and be out of energy by the end. I’m trying to keep a steady solid pace this time around.
We turn on to State street approaching the Chicago theater. There is a sea of people ahead of me taking up the entire width of the street. Crossing Randolph, I think of Jeff and my Intelligentsia visits. They’re open right now and I wonder if they’re slow because of the race traffic blocking off all the streets around it.
We all head down Michigan Ave and get on to Lakeshore Drive heading south. I notice a “10K” sign and realize we’re about half way there. Oh. Wow. Already?! I’m still feeling good, legs still moving, feet are ok. Yup. Still going.
By mile eight I could physically feel my body slowing down. I let it but refused to walk, afraid that if I did, if I let up for just one second, I’d never start running again. I imagine briefly, Rob running alongside me. I used to ask him to run with me on the weekends to which he always declined. After he died I could practically feel him when I went for my runs through Freedom Park. It was almost like I could reach out and touch him. Later, after moving to Chicago and flying back to visit Atlanta that feeling simply moved to having knowledge that he was there but above me instead of beside me. I feel both today.
I start noticing I’m surrounded by “new” people. The 2:30 “pacers” aren’t to be found. These are the folks you want to stay by to keep you on track to finish at a particular time. Sure enough after scanning the crowd I find the 2:15 pacers. Excellent.
I thought my mind would wander, that I would daydream like I usually do when I run. I can’t seem to because for the first time during a run in I don’t know how long, I am present. I am focused on the movement of my legs, my feet pounding the pavement, my breath that is moving steadily in and out of my lungs. I find there is nothing else to think about but right now.
Mile eleven. Lots of cheering from the sidelines is keeping me going. Cheerleaders from middle and high schools are yelling and waving to us. I like them the best. The signs people are holding up are great too.
At mile twelve my eyes flood from be emotionally overwhelmed in the best way. “No, no, no!” I say to myself, remembering that crying makes my legs go numb. I’m doing this! Really doing it! It’s actually going to happen! I decide that I’m going to finish under 2:15. There are 1,600 yards left. I pick up my pace and pass the 2:15 pacers.
With nearly 800 yards left to go Rob’s favorite song “Addicted” starts playing. Again I have to blink back the tears. The crowd is heavier and louder on the sidewalks as we all begin approaching the finish line. I go and go and go, legs stretching out further and further creating longer strides. I take my iPOD out of my ears to hear the cheering surrounding us. I remember to keep a smile on my face as per my friend Christine as pictures are taken as we cross the finish line.
My right foot strikes the finish at 2:03 minutes. There are no words to describe the flood of emotion that washes over me. There are also no words to describe the jelly-like feeling taking over my legs and ass right now but it’s something close to heavenly.
I wander over to a small station with bottled water and try not to use both my nose and mouth to inhale it. I’m spacey, happy, and really loopy. More pictures are taken before I make a trek back over to the Clark/Lake blue line home.
It takes almost an hour to get home between all that walking and the train. I left my phone at home and when I got there Jeff had texted me wishing me good luck and my friend Kate also texted me saying “Run Melissa Run!” It lit me up inside to read their words.
After washing the sweat and film of dirt that covered my body I headed up to Earwax on Milwaukee for some much needed food. I got to sit at a perfect table, facing the window while inhaling a huge brunch, barely tasting any of it from being completely ravenous.
I’m experiencing the best runner’s high in the history of the world! I gotta do this whole half marathon again…
What really happened was I barely ran. At all. All spring and summer. I ran more through the snowy winter months than I did during the beautiful days of warm temperatures and sunshine.
A couple of weeks before, I was giving into the fact that I am simply not a competitive runner anymore. I stand for a living and my legs and feet aren’t happy with high mileage runs. I had pretty much decided that this would yet again, not happen. Until…
Mom sent me an email asking if I was running. I quickly replied with no, because I needed more time off from work to pick up my race gear downtown and wasn’t sure if that could happen, plus I hadn’t been training. When I clicked “send” I immediately regretted it. I can do this. I can run this. Even if I’m the last damn person to cross the finish line, I’m going to regret not trying. My fingers flew across the keyboard, looking up my work schedule. I am not booked during the last half of my day on the Saturday before the race. I ask Cyndi if I could take the rest off to which she agreed. I quickly emailed mom again telling her I was going to run it and if she and dad wanted to come up, awesome and if not that was ok too because it was going to be a packed weekend with me working plus going downtown, then running on Sunday.
That was the last I heard about it and the night before the race found me home finally from McCormick Place with my race number among other things cooking dinner, and watching one of my favorite movies “(500) Days of Summer”. I was feeling awfully emotional about this whole race thing. I wasn’t sure what to expect but I wanted to figure “everything” out. I wanted my mind to go where it wanted, to get answers to my many questions. It was a lot to put on an already seemingly intense experience. I was happy to be alone, happy to be accomplishing this goal on my own. It made me think of Rob though and how he wouldn’t be there in the way I would like. I remembered thinking after he died that I better live. I better do all the things I want to do, God forbid my life get cut short. I better write my book, learn the things I want to learn, run the races I want to run, and go to the places I want to go. Looking back, I’m pleased that I learned how to make jewelry, that I made the effort to move to Chicago, that I completed Art+Science’s program, that I haven’t stopped writing and now this race will be something else to check off my list.
The next morning I was awake at 5:30am. I bought new shorts and tank top specifically for today and felt pretty despite the fact that I was going to be a sweaty mess in an hour.
After eating breakfast and making coffee the way Jeff showed me how to make it, I pinned my number to my torso and happily bounced out the door hoping to catch a cab to the start line.
Except there were no cabs at the taxi stand. Uh oh. I stand and wait. Nothing. Dammit. I exhale. Train it is, except I’m not entirely sure where I’m going. Maybe I’ll get off at Jackson. Hmmm…
On the platform, thank God, it was me and about twenty other runners waiting. I followed them on to the train and at each stop more and more runners piled on. The train smelled like sunscreen and hair products. I’m so excited I can hardly stand still. I’m really about to do this!
Everyone exits at Jackson and I follow suit. The air outside is perfect despite it being slightly humid. It’s almost seventy degrees and the sun is beginning to rise over the lake. The street we’re on is flanked by two other streets full of runners all heading to the start line. Despite hating crowds I feel nothing but sheer joy and happiness.
Nearly thirty minutes after the official start of the race, the “corral” I’m in is set to begin. I listed my finish time as a rather slow 2:30. I’m hoping to finish in 2 hours though. We take off. I turn my iPOD on as my feet begin striking the pavement. It takes a little bit before I can hit a comfortable stride. I watch the bobbing heads in front of me, weaving in and out through people. I stare at the sparkly sunshine bouncing off the windows that line the buildings that make up the fabulous skyline of this wonderful city I live in.
My iPOD is set to “shuffle” and is playing all sorts of upbeat, motivating stuff. I continue to follow the runners ahead of me, happy to be alone and not rush but to go at my own pace. In high school I had a tendency to start out every race too fast and be out of energy by the end. I’m trying to keep a steady solid pace this time around.
We turn on to State street approaching the Chicago theater. There is a sea of people ahead of me taking up the entire width of the street. Crossing Randolph, I think of Jeff and my Intelligentsia visits. They’re open right now and I wonder if they’re slow because of the race traffic blocking off all the streets around it.
We all head down Michigan Ave and get on to Lakeshore Drive heading south. I notice a “10K” sign and realize we’re about half way there. Oh. Wow. Already?! I’m still feeling good, legs still moving, feet are ok. Yup. Still going.
By mile eight I could physically feel my body slowing down. I let it but refused to walk, afraid that if I did, if I let up for just one second, I’d never start running again. I imagine briefly, Rob running alongside me. I used to ask him to run with me on the weekends to which he always declined. After he died I could practically feel him when I went for my runs through Freedom Park. It was almost like I could reach out and touch him. Later, after moving to Chicago and flying back to visit Atlanta that feeling simply moved to having knowledge that he was there but above me instead of beside me. I feel both today.
I start noticing I’m surrounded by “new” people. The 2:30 “pacers” aren’t to be found. These are the folks you want to stay by to keep you on track to finish at a particular time. Sure enough after scanning the crowd I find the 2:15 pacers. Excellent.
I thought my mind would wander, that I would daydream like I usually do when I run. I can’t seem to because for the first time during a run in I don’t know how long, I am present. I am focused on the movement of my legs, my feet pounding the pavement, my breath that is moving steadily in and out of my lungs. I find there is nothing else to think about but right now.
Mile eleven. Lots of cheering from the sidelines is keeping me going. Cheerleaders from middle and high schools are yelling and waving to us. I like them the best. The signs people are holding up are great too.
At mile twelve my eyes flood from be emotionally overwhelmed in the best way. “No, no, no!” I say to myself, remembering that crying makes my legs go numb. I’m doing this! Really doing it! It’s actually going to happen! I decide that I’m going to finish under 2:15. There are 1,600 yards left. I pick up my pace and pass the 2:15 pacers.
With nearly 800 yards left to go Rob’s favorite song “Addicted” starts playing. Again I have to blink back the tears. The crowd is heavier and louder on the sidewalks as we all begin approaching the finish line. I go and go and go, legs stretching out further and further creating longer strides. I take my iPOD out of my ears to hear the cheering surrounding us. I remember to keep a smile on my face as per my friend Christine as pictures are taken as we cross the finish line.
My right foot strikes the finish at 2:03 minutes. There are no words to describe the flood of emotion that washes over me. There are also no words to describe the jelly-like feeling taking over my legs and ass right now but it’s something close to heavenly.
I wander over to a small station with bottled water and try not to use both my nose and mouth to inhale it. I’m spacey, happy, and really loopy. More pictures are taken before I make a trek back over to the Clark/Lake blue line home.
It takes almost an hour to get home between all that walking and the train. I left my phone at home and when I got there Jeff had texted me wishing me good luck and my friend Kate also texted me saying “Run Melissa Run!” It lit me up inside to read their words.
After washing the sweat and film of dirt that covered my body I headed up to Earwax on Milwaukee for some much needed food. I got to sit at a perfect table, facing the window while inhaling a huge brunch, barely tasting any of it from being completely ravenous.
I’m experiencing the best runner’s high in the history of the world! I gotta do this whole half marathon again…
Mail...
In between clients I sit at the computer and check my email. There is a message from Jeff sitting in my Inbox. My heart drops to my stomach as I open it. I read his words, each one of them searing into my brain and suddenly I am no longer twenty eight sitting in the break room of my place of employment but seventeen in my parent’s room where they kept the computer the day after cheering at my first football game my junior year of high school. My seventeen year old self is opening email sent “anonymously” by some folks with nothing better to do that evening, tears filling her eyes at the unsavory sentences splayed across the screen.
“What’s the matter?” my dad asks upon walking in on me.
I explain the screen.
“Just ignore them Melissa.” he told me.
Deep down in my gut I knew their words to be untrue as I know Jeff’s are. No one lives in my brain. No one knows what I’m feeling or not feeling. No one is living my life for me and can’t tell me what’s going on or not inside of me. He’s upset with me and is hurting. I can see all of that but the short paragraph in front of me cuts through my center and touches a nerve that is so insanely sensitive and already feels so exposed that I am reduced to a brief, albeit intense, bout of crying before I pick myself up, dust myself off and get on with my life. I know all the way down to the white meat of my soul that none of this is true.
I go back to work, all smiles because I’m ok. No matter what. I’m starting to see that I can trust myself. I can take care of myself. I don’t need to give any more energy to this situation.
Later my phone lights up with a text from Jeff.
“How are you?”
I exit out of the message and finish my work day. I have nothing to say. Something is still eating at my hands as they’ve not quite healed up as I thought they would. Something is still bugging my brain. Parts of me want to attack him, say mean things back, parts of me want to calmly, and simply respond and another part of me wants to ignore it altogether.
The next day while I’m writing at the Unicorn I get another text from Jeff. He still wants to remain in touch, still wants to talk. I lose my mind. Rage boils underneath my skin lighting up my veins and has me gripping the phone so hard I might break it. I want to throw it across the room but not before dialing his number and unleashing a kind of crazy I save only for the Atlanta interstate at five in the afternoon on Friday.
I don’t want to lose Jeff. I don’t want to be mean to him. I love him dearly and don’t want to lose touch but for right now I’m raw, deeply saddened, and angry all at the same time.
“What would you like me to say?”
“Anything.”
“You send me a vile email and expect me to respond?!”
Our texting goes back and forth. He feels something else is going on with me and I’m not giving him the whole truth. He wants whatever it is that I’m holding on to whether it’s anger or not.
I am truly intrigued by this. Rob was the last person to encourage the admission of my feelings. Jeff is the only one who has actually pulled this hard. He pulls when talking is hard for me, when I don’t want to and still pulls when I do, letting more of me spill out onto him. No one has ever wanted my crazy as much as Jeff.
I won’t give it up though. Nope. I can do this in a calm way. There is no need for the Exorcist-style scream fest that could possibly erupt. I’ll give him the last piece as calmly as I can. I put my phone away and head to work.
Earlier in the week at OA I was asked to give a lead on Sunday August 8th. This means speaking for 15-20 minutes about the topic of the week which is Step Eight. That step is to list people we have harmed and be willing to make amends to them all. Upon agreeing to do this I had to take a quick inventory and make sure I had nothing that needed “cleaning up.” I currently feel I can’t give this lead without being one hundred percent honest with Jeff. I’ve never had to say any of this before.
I did it though, I typed it up and clicked “send” watching the computer do it’s job before displaying “message sent” at the top of the screen. I exhaled and went back to cutting hair.
Later, Jeff texted me simply saying thanks. Something lifted from my shoulders. I went home and to sleep without my hands itching.
“What’s the matter?” my dad asks upon walking in on me.
I explain the screen.
“Just ignore them Melissa.” he told me.
Deep down in my gut I knew their words to be untrue as I know Jeff’s are. No one lives in my brain. No one knows what I’m feeling or not feeling. No one is living my life for me and can’t tell me what’s going on or not inside of me. He’s upset with me and is hurting. I can see all of that but the short paragraph in front of me cuts through my center and touches a nerve that is so insanely sensitive and already feels so exposed that I am reduced to a brief, albeit intense, bout of crying before I pick myself up, dust myself off and get on with my life. I know all the way down to the white meat of my soul that none of this is true.
I go back to work, all smiles because I’m ok. No matter what. I’m starting to see that I can trust myself. I can take care of myself. I don’t need to give any more energy to this situation.
Later my phone lights up with a text from Jeff.
“How are you?”
I exit out of the message and finish my work day. I have nothing to say. Something is still eating at my hands as they’ve not quite healed up as I thought they would. Something is still bugging my brain. Parts of me want to attack him, say mean things back, parts of me want to calmly, and simply respond and another part of me wants to ignore it altogether.
The next day while I’m writing at the Unicorn I get another text from Jeff. He still wants to remain in touch, still wants to talk. I lose my mind. Rage boils underneath my skin lighting up my veins and has me gripping the phone so hard I might break it. I want to throw it across the room but not before dialing his number and unleashing a kind of crazy I save only for the Atlanta interstate at five in the afternoon on Friday.
I don’t want to lose Jeff. I don’t want to be mean to him. I love him dearly and don’t want to lose touch but for right now I’m raw, deeply saddened, and angry all at the same time.
“What would you like me to say?”
“Anything.”
“You send me a vile email and expect me to respond?!”
Our texting goes back and forth. He feels something else is going on with me and I’m not giving him the whole truth. He wants whatever it is that I’m holding on to whether it’s anger or not.
I am truly intrigued by this. Rob was the last person to encourage the admission of my feelings. Jeff is the only one who has actually pulled this hard. He pulls when talking is hard for me, when I don’t want to and still pulls when I do, letting more of me spill out onto him. No one has ever wanted my crazy as much as Jeff.
I won’t give it up though. Nope. I can do this in a calm way. There is no need for the Exorcist-style scream fest that could possibly erupt. I’ll give him the last piece as calmly as I can. I put my phone away and head to work.
Earlier in the week at OA I was asked to give a lead on Sunday August 8th. This means speaking for 15-20 minutes about the topic of the week which is Step Eight. That step is to list people we have harmed and be willing to make amends to them all. Upon agreeing to do this I had to take a quick inventory and make sure I had nothing that needed “cleaning up.” I currently feel I can’t give this lead without being one hundred percent honest with Jeff. I’ve never had to say any of this before.
I did it though, I typed it up and clicked “send” watching the computer do it’s job before displaying “message sent” at the top of the screen. I exhaled and went back to cutting hair.
Later, Jeff texted me simply saying thanks. Something lifted from my shoulders. I went home and to sleep without my hands itching.
Can't...
Jeff and I got into a bit of an argument last night. Granted it was late and we were both tired which contributed I’m sure to this insanity but it still had my head spinning and still had me wanting to end it and walk away. So I did. This morning. Via text message in response to one he sent me, which is an icky way of doing things but I wanted to disentangle myself so badly that it was the only way I could see out. I don’t want to talk anymore. I just need to walk alone until I can figure out what to do next.
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