Thursday, September 29, 2011
The hardest thing to change
When I was a teenager and thought I knew stuff, I used to say "the hardest thing to change is an association." I'm not sure where I got this from. I probably overheard it and connected to it because of the feelings I could get from hearing a certain song or smelling a certain smell; those kind of muggy feelings that are comforting without being happy. The phrase might have meant something because I was so detached from my experiences as a kid that they all took the form of songs or sounds or smells rather than full memories or feelings.
Today, I'm compelled to think that the hardest thing to get over is self-righteousness. I can look to my growing up for the roots of some of this, too. Though I did my own version of rebelling, I never was allowed to get angry in my family, and had no means of separating my identity from the identities of my family members. Someone mentioned at a meeting recently that one of the products of codependency is confusion, and in the midst of that confusion, I did what made sense at the time. I watched a lot of sitcoms, read books, tried to connect with other confused people, smoked pot and kept my mouth shut. And I dreamed of what I wanted and didn't say a word about how angry I was, how right I was sure I was, and how wrong I was sure everything and everyone around me was. That added self-righteousness and, with it, self-injury, to the confusion.
My recovery is often not graceful. I find myself acting like a frustrated teenager, with heaps of self-righteousness falling out of me before I can catch them. Years ago this would have been average behavior, but it's not so excusable when it's coming from someone otherwise considered an adult. I'm not gentle with myself about this, yet; I think because that gentleness requires a vulnerability that self-righteousness doesn't allow. I try to give things to my higher power and then I try to take them back. I try, and I succeed. I try, and I mess up. I feel better when I think in ones: first things first, one day at a time.
Today, I'm compelled to think that the hardest thing to get over is self-righteousness. I can look to my growing up for the roots of some of this, too. Though I did my own version of rebelling, I never was allowed to get angry in my family, and had no means of separating my identity from the identities of my family members. Someone mentioned at a meeting recently that one of the products of codependency is confusion, and in the midst of that confusion, I did what made sense at the time. I watched a lot of sitcoms, read books, tried to connect with other confused people, smoked pot and kept my mouth shut. And I dreamed of what I wanted and didn't say a word about how angry I was, how right I was sure I was, and how wrong I was sure everything and everyone around me was. That added self-righteousness and, with it, self-injury, to the confusion.
My recovery is often not graceful. I find myself acting like a frustrated teenager, with heaps of self-righteousness falling out of me before I can catch them. Years ago this would have been average behavior, but it's not so excusable when it's coming from someone otherwise considered an adult. I'm not gentle with myself about this, yet; I think because that gentleness requires a vulnerability that self-righteousness doesn't allow. I try to give things to my higher power and then I try to take them back. I try, and I succeed. I try, and I mess up. I feel better when I think in ones: first things first, one day at a time.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Needs
I've had several good conversations about needs recently; particularly the need to be loved. Early on, I came to conclusion that the best way of coping with not having my needs met was to stop having needs. Physical, emotional and sexual needs just became things I would not entertain. And I reached a tentative peace with this, like being set on ice and made to stop for the benefit of others. What I see now is that while I was trying to preserve everyone from dealing with my needs, I wasn't present to really interact with anyone. Whenever someone took one step towards me, I took one step back, in order to avoid what I once believed was the inevitable conclusion: disappointment. It's hard to shed this urge to withdraw; it's hard to believe that there is any other way to feel safe. The expectation that embracing yourself will bring immediate warmth and a sense of purpose is another expectation that won't be met. It's the process that makes it possible. The process is anxiety-producing, but knowing that I've felt a different kind of life is enough to keep me moving toward it.
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