The first thing my therapist did was suggest a book called, "Co-Dependent No More", by Melody Beatty. "Co-dependency"....that was a new word for me. I thought it had something to do with living with an alcoholic in the family. And surely, that's where it probably started out.
There's still lots of controversy over what it really means, but there is much agreement that it's a dysfunctional mode of thinking that affects most/all of that person's relationships and is characterized by denial, low self-esteem, compliance, and/or control patterns. For many, it may have started because of an alcoholic loved one, or it may have been the result of growing up within a dysfunctional family life. Sometimes, the cause isn't clear. Typical is the person that denies their true feelings or has trouble identifying what they are, feels completely dedicated to the well-being of others, is often a harsh self-critic, never feeling they're quite "good enough", having poor self esteem and self-worth. The person may find that she uses sex to fill a need for love and appreciation, or she might compromise her own integrity or values to avoid conflict or displeasure from others. The co-dependent is also extremely loyal, staying in situations that are harmful to themselves. Very sensitive to other's feelings, she often adopts those exact feelings, shouldering them as her own. She may also be controlling, feeling overly responsible for other's happiness or success.
Reading this, I very much saw myself in its description -- then again, what Christian, adult woman was NOT on this list?! Again, we were all *taught* to be this way! Being selfless...attune to others and having a giving heart....this wasn't a good thing?
In those first weeks with the doc and the book, I began to learn about detachment. Needing to separate myself from others: Allow myself to have thoughts, feelings, decisions that weren't first based on another's.
I could see how I'd formed my first co-dependent relationship from my mother. Well, no....I learned it from her. She was the queen of co-dependency, being highly stressed and worried about creating an image for the world. She appeared to me to be very aware of other's possessions/successfulness, their children, feeling overly responsible for her family and how they presented themselves to the world, because of course, *everything* was a reflection on her. She always drank wine as I was growing up, but except for a period in my adolescence when I was rebellious, I never saw her as drinking to excess. But it was definitely a coping mechanism for her. And my brother and I, we tiptoed around her, trying our best not to set her off. I was afraid to speak my true feelings because I was fearful of her yelling; her over-reaction. Still, yelling and expressions of extreme anger can cause me to cringe as if I were right back to my childhood. Envisioning that kind of anger has kept me from acknowledging myself as an adult. Detachment, in this case, would entail me being able to live *openly* without the fear of disappointing her were I to stray from her ideal path for my life. I was able to achieve this best with distance - and certainly, distance helped her detach from her children as well. However, I'd still not been able to ever conceive of telling her, either of them, that I'd been involved with meth amphetamine. I'd never want them to think that poorly of me. I knew I'd be a great disappointment to them.
With my husband, co-dependency didn't seem to rear its ugly presence until I stopped working. Before my second child was born and I was still part of the workforce, I was more able to set limits. Yet, as he became a successful doctor, having more demanding needs of his own, I slowly began to ignore my own in order to please him. He always needed a good night's sleep, alone time that was chaos-free, or "selfish time" to "lie on the couch and veg" or watch a game because his days were long and arduous. Because I didn't have that big important job, my day wasn't as busy or emotionally demanding, I needed to make concessions for him. I needed to pick up the slack. I learned easily to deny any feelings of anger or disappointment, priding myself that I wasn't as needy, as worrisome, obsessive as he. I could handle chaos so much better. Detachment from my husband would have to mean that I'd be willing to risk his anger at my asking for more from him. Risk his feeling disappointment that I wasn't the girl he married; I wasn't as low maintenance as he'd hoped. Risk his disappointment with me that I didn't automatically try to make his life easier. And though he'd never given me an ounce of worry about other women, I risked the fear of losing him to someone that really WAS better at being a selfless mother and wife than I was capable of being.
I'd be remiss here if I didn't also mention my issues with money. The more affluent we became, I can see I became more dysfunctional in my thinking. I'd never felt that the money was "ours". It was from his own hard work. He *was* very good at his job; a good, conscientious surgeon, but even more, people liked him. He has a good heart that's easily apparent - his success is mainly from referrals, both from inside the medical community and the patients/families he treats. So, it felt as though people might look at me with envy thinking that I'd just hooked my anchor to a star and was living happily off the fatted calf. I've always had difficulty with outward expressions of affluence because I didn't want people to look at me with a question, "And what do YOU do?" My life - everything I did- had become a silent mode of proving to others I was worthy of the way we were living. And in the meantime, I agonized over returning to the workforce so I could prove I was monetarily valuable too. Struggling with the desire to be home with my kids, but wanting to look - and FEEL - more valuable and important, too.
Detachment from my kids is much more difficult. There's a very gray line about what I am responsible for and when feeling their consequences is a much healthier option. It was much easier for me to allow my kids to fail when they were younger - to literally fall into the pool, for instance - so it could teach them the value of watching where they were going. But as they've grown, it's been very hard to detach and watch them fail if I know that I might be able to prevent it. Having been the child of an over responsible parent, it feels like a failing parent if I'm not standing over them with a rod if they don't follow a narrow path of "the perfect child". Daily, I still struggle with allowing each of them, but especially my daughter, the chance to make her own decisions and feel her mistakes. Cuz mistakes are bigger now. More long-term. Can be more emotionally damaging.
I don't know all the answers for detachment with my kids yet....I'm still learning.
Harder still when your husband and you don't always agree.
Lastly, I was in great need at that time with detaching from my "friend", Mary, and housekeeper. She'd lived a hard life growing up and was still struggling as a single mom, recently divorced from an abusive ex, and trying to handle a rebellious, depressed, addict son. I was her closest friend. How could I detach from her? Abandon her? I was afraid she'd become suicidal, or start using again. Here I was living "in the lap of luxury" by nothing that I'd actively done; how I could turn my back on someone so obviously in need? I thought, why shouldn't I help out, make allowances for her, be more understanding? My life IS easier. Detaching might mean letting her down in her expectations emotionally of me as a friend. I didn't want her to feel alone without anywhere to turn. Her involvement with me had helped her personal strength - how could I abandon her when I had so much going for me? I knew it'd be best to let the relationship go, but I felt trapped in it. She couldn't afford therapy, so I was sharing what I was learning. Doing the book work, the journaling, seeing my therapist....and sharing my gift with her. Helping her to heal too.
Until, one day, she sent me a text...."Guess what I got?! Guess what (my neice) dropped into my purse just this morning?! Come visit me....come get a bump!!"
Monday, January 11, 2010
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Co-dependency
During that first week, my mind was going a mile a minute. Thinking about the why's. Analyzing myself. Amazingly, so blind to myself that I didn't see what was right in front of me. Up until this surprising trek down shame's lane, I was an open book. I'd tell you anything about me - even the unattractive stuff - I felt there was a little imperfection in everyone, so what's so bad to hide?
But realizing that I seeked out needy people in my life so that I could feed my self-worth by feeding them was a giant revelation.
My brother and his wife and son came to visit for the first time in 6 years that week. We traveled up to our lakehouse and spent a couple days boating. It didn't occur to me at first, but watching him was like watching myself. I could see how much he catered to his wife and rather than loving appreciation, his efforts were met with belittling. (Though my husband has never been belittling to me. Expectant, entitled and unappreciative for some things, but never mean or belittling.) I saw how both of us just Do, Do , Do........and was clearly able to see the lack of self-worth in him easier than I spotted it at first in me. But I knew there was some connection. Our mother always suffered from a lack of self-esteem, attempting to gain it through the appreciation she received from others through her efforts to please them. Taking on so much responsibility for others, jumping through hoops. To this day, it pains especially my husband and daughter to watch her. She's just *aching* for attention and approval. And then feels such a tremendous amount of guilt when something doesn't work out the way she'd hoped, even if it were out of her control. Like she'd not done enough.
I could see both her children - my brother and I - had learned those lessons well. We were doing the exact same thing.
I began to recognize that I didn't set boundaries with people because, like my mother and brother, I was so gung-ho on helping them to see what a good person I was. How valuable I was to them. Help them to see how much they needed me. Over time, as they learned what I'd taught them and took advantage of what I'd been willing to do for so long, I'd then back up and feel resentment with the unbalanced relationship. And feel cheated. Used.
Yet, I wasn't sure how to draw a line. Worse, how to go back and change the rules when I'd be obviously willing to take on so much for so long. How does one establish what *their* responsibility is and what is mine? Where does love and caring fall into it - wanting to help a friend, a loved one out even though you know it's not your responsibility? What really IS the definition of a good friend/wife/mother? Where does one draw the line as to what you really do want to offer, because feeling good through service is not a bad attribute,...... and what inevitably becomes to feel like obligation? Where do you draw that boundary?
Change.....change in those close relationships started looking very scary to me. I'd let it go on for so long without saying a word. How does one change up the rules? How do you go back and say you want to change the rules and not feel like a failing wife or friend who just can't "cut the mustard". I'd taught them how valuable, how wonderful, how good I was in being able to DO.....how would I now be defined when I said I really couldn't.
My husband was doing nothing other than what I'd taught him. And frankly, what he'd seen. What we'd all grown up with. Both our moms bent over backward caring for their family. Taking on way more than what a mother and wife was supposed to. But it was their job! At least the thinking back before the 90's. Back before women joined the workforce. Where home life had to be a bit more balanced between husband and wife out of necessity. Sure, working women from what I understood were still struggling to make that balance, but as a stay-at-home mother, I had no reason to ask for change. It felt like a failure to me, worse - selfish, given Jim's demanding job to ask for anything different.
Despite my extreme unhappiness, that even *I* couldn't face for fear of the work of change....and how that major piece of change would play out in my relationships, I was more willing to sit in silence. Change me. But no, not to tell my husband. I felt I could never, ever tell him because he'd tie all of this to my supplier. It would be her fault. And he'd have been right all along, he'd say - she was a loser. She was *not* a loser - she and I were the same in so many ways - nor could I give him the satisfaction of being right. He likes to say he's *always* right. No way would I allow her to be shoved under the bus, for him to think he was right, and to not take responsibility for my own decisions.
Dana sent me to her beloved therapist with great anticipation. I went, open with everything, the drug use.....but especially my revelations over the last week. Why.....I'd practically been a shrink to myself in that short week. He should be proud of how far I'd come in such a short time! He should pay ME for doing half his work for him!!
But realizing that I seeked out needy people in my life so that I could feed my self-worth by feeding them was a giant revelation.
My brother and his wife and son came to visit for the first time in 6 years that week. We traveled up to our lakehouse and spent a couple days boating. It didn't occur to me at first, but watching him was like watching myself. I could see how much he catered to his wife and rather than loving appreciation, his efforts were met with belittling. (Though my husband has never been belittling to me. Expectant, entitled and unappreciative for some things, but never mean or belittling.) I saw how both of us just Do, Do , Do........and was clearly able to see the lack of self-worth in him easier than I spotted it at first in me. But I knew there was some connection. Our mother always suffered from a lack of self-esteem, attempting to gain it through the appreciation she received from others through her efforts to please them. Taking on so much responsibility for others, jumping through hoops. To this day, it pains especially my husband and daughter to watch her. She's just *aching* for attention and approval. And then feels such a tremendous amount of guilt when something doesn't work out the way she'd hoped, even if it were out of her control. Like she'd not done enough.
I could see both her children - my brother and I - had learned those lessons well. We were doing the exact same thing.
I began to recognize that I didn't set boundaries with people because, like my mother and brother, I was so gung-ho on helping them to see what a good person I was. How valuable I was to them. Help them to see how much they needed me. Over time, as they learned what I'd taught them and took advantage of what I'd been willing to do for so long, I'd then back up and feel resentment with the unbalanced relationship. And feel cheated. Used.
Yet, I wasn't sure how to draw a line. Worse, how to go back and change the rules when I'd be obviously willing to take on so much for so long. How does one establish what *their* responsibility is and what is mine? Where does love and caring fall into it - wanting to help a friend, a loved one out even though you know it's not your responsibility? What really IS the definition of a good friend/wife/mother? Where does one draw the line as to what you really do want to offer, because feeling good through service is not a bad attribute,...... and what inevitably becomes to feel like obligation? Where do you draw that boundary?
Change.....change in those close relationships started looking very scary to me. I'd let it go on for so long without saying a word. How does one change up the rules? How do you go back and say you want to change the rules and not feel like a failing wife or friend who just can't "cut the mustard". I'd taught them how valuable, how wonderful, how good I was in being able to DO.....how would I now be defined when I said I really couldn't.
My husband was doing nothing other than what I'd taught him. And frankly, what he'd seen. What we'd all grown up with. Both our moms bent over backward caring for their family. Taking on way more than what a mother and wife was supposed to. But it was their job! At least the thinking back before the 90's. Back before women joined the workforce. Where home life had to be a bit more balanced between husband and wife out of necessity. Sure, working women from what I understood were still struggling to make that balance, but as a stay-at-home mother, I had no reason to ask for change. It felt like a failure to me, worse - selfish, given Jim's demanding job to ask for anything different.
Despite my extreme unhappiness, that even *I* couldn't face for fear of the work of change....and how that major piece of change would play out in my relationships, I was more willing to sit in silence. Change me. But no, not to tell my husband. I felt I could never, ever tell him because he'd tie all of this to my supplier. It would be her fault. And he'd have been right all along, he'd say - she was a loser. She was *not* a loser - she and I were the same in so many ways - nor could I give him the satisfaction of being right. He likes to say he's *always* right. No way would I allow her to be shoved under the bus, for him to think he was right, and to not take responsibility for my own decisions.
Dana sent me to her beloved therapist with great anticipation. I went, open with everything, the drug use.....but especially my revelations over the last week. Why.....I'd practically been a shrink to myself in that short week. He should be proud of how far I'd come in such a short time! He should pay ME for doing half his work for him!!
Friday, January 8, 2010
Awakening Anger
Coming off that shit, I can look back now and see that it threw me into a great darkness. And having the awareness of hindsight, I can also see now that my deep depression after Kirby died was at least in part, withdrawl from meth. Not that those feelings weren't real - both then and at this point, but I do understand that despite my not feeling any sort of 'withdrawl symptoms', that this awakening into darkness was fueled from a lack of the joy juice in my system.
Most of my thoughts at that time were centered around shame. Wondering how in the hell someone like me would get involved with that at this time in my life. Surely, it's understandable in college when you were first free from the constant parental overshadowing and all your friends were doing the exact same thing to one degree or another. But as a middle aged active Christian woman, wife of a doctor in an "upper-crust"community, busy with two kids in elementary school? Who does that?! What kind of deranged kind of person? What was so wrong with me that I'd make such an ugly choice and risk so much?
I began to think of the night before, listening to our newest small group member. Her anger over her home life. How much she gave and gave without much thought, feeling taken advantage of.
And it hit a nerve.
I had no doubt in my mind that God put all those events together to OPEN MY EYES. No drug, the chapter on temptation and revealing your secrets, Jeanette's (our newest member) overpowering the conversation with my own struggle, even my suggestion to her at the time to journal to God - which I then complied with myself - to help her see. And ended up helping me to see.
It's strange to me now how much I deluded myself into a false sense of happiness, how in the dark I was at the time to how angry I was. But with time, I do understand it.
My mother was a very angry person -- and she showed it quite openly. Looking back, I know that she felt overwhelmed as a mother. My dad traveled all the time, so she felt pressured to take care of everything. And as a perfectionist - it was a never ending job, full of potential for failure....that the neighbors might see. All that anxiety and emotion and lack of control over everything at once would come spilling out in a vision that was often not very pretty.
And not for me. *I* would never be that screaming, red faced, race-around-the-house-in-a-panic-like Edith Bunker type person. Thankfully, that wasn't even in my persona; I was much more of a laid-back personality, but it certainly taught me to swallow my anger. Pick your battles - or not at all. It wasn't worth the upset.
And yet, I began to acknowledge a slow to boil anger deep inside. I recognized how much I did take care of everything - willingly. I realized how I'd taught him what a powerful, independent, capable person I was! Because I was so willing, he was more than happy to load it on. Expect more. He had long hours building a cardio-thoracic practice; I was responsible for anything that happened in the home as well as the kids. When they were babies, I had no help during the night because he needed his sleep. Keep them quiet! I'm on call tomorrow! (It's a joke with us now that I yelled back, "I'm on call *every* night!) I always nursed, so I was the one that always had to comfort; he got the squeals of delight. His schedule never changed with kids. He'd come home from work, give me and the kids a kiss -- and out he'd go for a run while I juggled the hungry toddler with a baby in my arms, stirring up dinner. Weekends, the kids would be cranky, and he'd be frustrated, head out the door saying he could get more peace in the office. We'd go on vacation, and he'd leave to read the paper in peace while I was left with fighting siblings, arguing over what to wear and eating enough for breakfast.
I'd always loved kids; spent my early years with dozens of babysitting jobs, and devoted my career as a social worker to them, helping teens in a mental health hospital, and later with disabled youngsters in the school system. I knew I wanted kids early in our marriage - the rollercoaster ride waiting for Ian to arrive 5 years later was agonizing. Being so child-focused, I had no idea - NO CLUE- how draining they were.
I was a great mom, though. I wanted to be part of it all. I raced through all the playground tunnels with them, pushed and under-ducked all the swings, played hours of dinosaurs and Barbie, listened to more than my share of Baby songs and Disney movies. Had the play dates and enjoyed organizing the support for Baby'n'me groups. Lied awake with them at night, trying to get them to stay in their beds, cleaned up the vomit, and listened to them scream for the doctor's needle.
Of course it was draining.
And of course, they misbehaved. Looking back, I'm proud of how I handled their little wills. I knew to never give in to crying, was a master of time-outs or 'basket holds' for the all-out tantrums. I taught them to say sorry and please and to hug after they squabbled. For the most part, I think I did it without their being afraid of me - as I was of my own mother.
But heavens, don't hit them. No spanking. "You don't want to be your mother," he'd tell me.
I'm glad we didn't. Corporal punishment really isn't necessary.......99% of the time.
But there were times that, frankly, it was needed! They were obstinate. I'd tried the rest. They needed a little pop on the bottom. Not hard. A little shock.
"You're becoming your mom, " he'd say. He'd criticize, but when left to the kids himself, he refused to discipline. He'd allow me to sleep in and I'd hear all hell breaking loose outside the door.
"Be a parent," I'd say. But he had a hard time offering a strict word with them, risking the tears and conflict, when he had so little time home with them. He was the fun Daddy, I was the mean Mom.
Even as they grew, I'd set the limits. Dad would say he'd "smooth things over with me". He became the "go to guy" because he could make all their wishes come true. My expectations and limits became fiction.
He kept begging me for more kids. Said that I was going back on my side of the bargain - we said we'd have four.
Are you kidding me. He had no clue.
In the house, I was living a 50's movie set. Cooking the meals and cleaning up as well. Picking up after everyone's messes - even the papers, magazines, clothing that my husband tossed on the floor, vowing that he'd pick up later. Whatever the house needed, it was my responsibility. If I wasn't willing to do it, I organized to have it done. Weekends were not to be spent working on the house, he said. No "Honey Do Lists" in this house. Animals, which we loved....we were working on re-creating Noah's Ark....were met with criticism as well. Have they been fed? I see crap in the sunroom! Come over here and pick it up! He often argued that with all my free time, I could at least pay the bills and take care of the pool too.
And take away his only two tasks to the house? No way.
I was, as the title of this blog suggests, married to my *house* and the demands of the people within it.
And then I'd justify those ugly thoughts with "this *was* my job." This was exactly what I'd signed up for. I wanted to stay home and be with the kids. All of this really was my responsibility. He worked outside, I worked inside the home. I was blessed that I was able to do it. He really was a great guy; charming, compassionate, fun, responsible, wanting nothing more than to come home to his family.
But then I'm reminded of a metaphorical situation here. My parents were in town with us once - we'd taken them to a Rams game. My mom and I stepped up to the counter and ordered beers and a small meal for the four of us which totalled some astronomical price. And not once did my mom reach for her own wallet. We were making the big bucks now, so it was just expected that'd we pay for it. And of course I planned on it - they were our guests to the game. But she never once offered to help out.
That was the feeling. It *was* my responsibility as a stay at home mom to take care of things. But in that expectation, that entitlement, without automatically helping out when we were both at home together in the evenings and weekends felt...ugly. Disrespectful. Selfish. I was being used.
And yet, who was I to complain? He *did* work long arduous hours. He had peoples lives in his hands. It was a stressful, demanding job! How could I ask for more when he got home? How could I be so ungrateful? Even if my gut is telling me he's being selfish, how can I complain when I have so much? When any girl would just love to trade places with me?
So I said nothing.
I was the sweet, agreeable, powerful wife.
And my anger grew.
Most of my thoughts at that time were centered around shame. Wondering how in the hell someone like me would get involved with that at this time in my life. Surely, it's understandable in college when you were first free from the constant parental overshadowing and all your friends were doing the exact same thing to one degree or another. But as a middle aged active Christian woman, wife of a doctor in an "upper-crust"community, busy with two kids in elementary school? Who does that?! What kind of deranged kind of person? What was so wrong with me that I'd make such an ugly choice and risk so much?
I began to think of the night before, listening to our newest small group member. Her anger over her home life. How much she gave and gave without much thought, feeling taken advantage of.
And it hit a nerve.
I had no doubt in my mind that God put all those events together to OPEN MY EYES. No drug, the chapter on temptation and revealing your secrets, Jeanette's (our newest member) overpowering the conversation with my own struggle, even my suggestion to her at the time to journal to God - which I then complied with myself - to help her see. And ended up helping me to see.
It's strange to me now how much I deluded myself into a false sense of happiness, how in the dark I was at the time to how angry I was. But with time, I do understand it.
My mother was a very angry person -- and she showed it quite openly. Looking back, I know that she felt overwhelmed as a mother. My dad traveled all the time, so she felt pressured to take care of everything. And as a perfectionist - it was a never ending job, full of potential for failure....that the neighbors might see. All that anxiety and emotion and lack of control over everything at once would come spilling out in a vision that was often not very pretty.
And not for me. *I* would never be that screaming, red faced, race-around-the-house-in-a-panic-like Edith Bunker type person. Thankfully, that wasn't even in my persona; I was much more of a laid-back personality, but it certainly taught me to swallow my anger. Pick your battles - or not at all. It wasn't worth the upset.
And yet, I began to acknowledge a slow to boil anger deep inside. I recognized how much I did take care of everything - willingly. I realized how I'd taught him what a powerful, independent, capable person I was! Because I was so willing, he was more than happy to load it on. Expect more. He had long hours building a cardio-thoracic practice; I was responsible for anything that happened in the home as well as the kids. When they were babies, I had no help during the night because he needed his sleep. Keep them quiet! I'm on call tomorrow! (It's a joke with us now that I yelled back, "I'm on call *every* night!) I always nursed, so I was the one that always had to comfort; he got the squeals of delight. His schedule never changed with kids. He'd come home from work, give me and the kids a kiss -- and out he'd go for a run while I juggled the hungry toddler with a baby in my arms, stirring up dinner. Weekends, the kids would be cranky, and he'd be frustrated, head out the door saying he could get more peace in the office. We'd go on vacation, and he'd leave to read the paper in peace while I was left with fighting siblings, arguing over what to wear and eating enough for breakfast.
I'd always loved kids; spent my early years with dozens of babysitting jobs, and devoted my career as a social worker to them, helping teens in a mental health hospital, and later with disabled youngsters in the school system. I knew I wanted kids early in our marriage - the rollercoaster ride waiting for Ian to arrive 5 years later was agonizing. Being so child-focused, I had no idea - NO CLUE- how draining they were.
I was a great mom, though. I wanted to be part of it all. I raced through all the playground tunnels with them, pushed and under-ducked all the swings, played hours of dinosaurs and Barbie, listened to more than my share of Baby songs and Disney movies. Had the play dates and enjoyed organizing the support for Baby'n'me groups. Lied awake with them at night, trying to get them to stay in their beds, cleaned up the vomit, and listened to them scream for the doctor's needle.
Of course it was draining.
And of course, they misbehaved. Looking back, I'm proud of how I handled their little wills. I knew to never give in to crying, was a master of time-outs or 'basket holds' for the all-out tantrums. I taught them to say sorry and please and to hug after they squabbled. For the most part, I think I did it without their being afraid of me - as I was of my own mother.
But heavens, don't hit them. No spanking. "You don't want to be your mother," he'd tell me.
I'm glad we didn't. Corporal punishment really isn't necessary.......99% of the time.
But there were times that, frankly, it was needed! They were obstinate. I'd tried the rest. They needed a little pop on the bottom. Not hard. A little shock.
"You're becoming your mom, " he'd say. He'd criticize, but when left to the kids himself, he refused to discipline. He'd allow me to sleep in and I'd hear all hell breaking loose outside the door.
"Be a parent," I'd say. But he had a hard time offering a strict word with them, risking the tears and conflict, when he had so little time home with them. He was the fun Daddy, I was the mean Mom.
Even as they grew, I'd set the limits. Dad would say he'd "smooth things over with me". He became the "go to guy" because he could make all their wishes come true. My expectations and limits became fiction.
He kept begging me for more kids. Said that I was going back on my side of the bargain - we said we'd have four.
Are you kidding me. He had no clue.
In the house, I was living a 50's movie set. Cooking the meals and cleaning up as well. Picking up after everyone's messes - even the papers, magazines, clothing that my husband tossed on the floor, vowing that he'd pick up later. Whatever the house needed, it was my responsibility. If I wasn't willing to do it, I organized to have it done. Weekends were not to be spent working on the house, he said. No "Honey Do Lists" in this house. Animals, which we loved....we were working on re-creating Noah's Ark....were met with criticism as well. Have they been fed? I see crap in the sunroom! Come over here and pick it up! He often argued that with all my free time, I could at least pay the bills and take care of the pool too.
And take away his only two tasks to the house? No way.
I was, as the title of this blog suggests, married to my *house* and the demands of the people within it.
And then I'd justify those ugly thoughts with "this *was* my job." This was exactly what I'd signed up for. I wanted to stay home and be with the kids. All of this really was my responsibility. He worked outside, I worked inside the home. I was blessed that I was able to do it. He really was a great guy; charming, compassionate, fun, responsible, wanting nothing more than to come home to his family.
But then I'm reminded of a metaphorical situation here. My parents were in town with us once - we'd taken them to a Rams game. My mom and I stepped up to the counter and ordered beers and a small meal for the four of us which totalled some astronomical price. And not once did my mom reach for her own wallet. We were making the big bucks now, so it was just expected that'd we pay for it. And of course I planned on it - they were our guests to the game. But she never once offered to help out.
That was the feeling. It *was* my responsibility as a stay at home mom to take care of things. But in that expectation, that entitlement, without automatically helping out when we were both at home together in the evenings and weekends felt...ugly. Disrespectful. Selfish. I was being used.
And yet, who was I to complain? He *did* work long arduous hours. He had peoples lives in his hands. It was a stressful, demanding job! How could I ask for more when he got home? How could I be so ungrateful? Even if my gut is telling me he's being selfish, how can I complain when I have so much? When any girl would just love to trade places with me?
So I said nothing.
I was the sweet, agreeable, powerful wife.
And my anger grew.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
The Secret is Out
I don't think I'd ever had such little sleep as we did that weekend. It amazed me to see the time on the clock; it'd be 3am or 5am, and it'd feel like the middle of the day to my mind. I'd always had a good internal clock, so that memory stands out strongly in my head.
Your body, however, takes a beating on this crap. (Actually, given the state of my memory at this time in my life, I'm sure your brain does too. I mean, it's made with freakin' battery acid - how could it not?) But as you'd start to come down, the lack of food and sleep would cause your body to feel like you'd been put through a press. I'd feel actual physical achiness and bone weary. You'd have to force food down or agonize over trying to fall over that brink into sleep so that you could function as normal. That weekend, however, there was nothing to keep me from going for the remedy in the form of that bitter powdery line. I didn't have to keep up any "normal" looking role or be a responsible, attentive parent.
That evening (or maybe it was the middle of the night) we were tackling the last of our project - the stairwell. It's the highest ceiling in our place. There's a main room in the "cottage" with an open stairwell that runs up the side to a balcony and our master bedroom above it. So, the ceiling there, which I needed to "cut in" is probably at 20 feet from the main floor. I had wedged the ladder from one of the top steps, leaning the top edge to the angled ceiling opposite the stair. And was using this angled base as a
Mary freaked, and had me increasingly convinced that I'd not thought this plan through - and that somehow, the ladder would work it's way through or beyond the ceiling and cause me to tumble to the floor if I put much weight on it. I laughed her off; I was a good student in high school and college! I knew there was no way, mechanically, that the ladder could come down. But it still shocks me, today, how much the drug could make you so paranoid that reality was unclear. I look at that wall today and still see it's flaws, I was so eager to get down from that ladder that night.
Anyway, the painting was finished and we head home. What's vivid for me that particular night, as I lay awake once again next to Joe, was a strong feeling that I'd burnt a hole clear through the back of my nose into my brain. I could feel it burning, the air rushing through it. Couldn't believe what I was willing to do to myself.
That Monday was the beginning of the rest of my life. I'd like to say it was because I'd decided that was enough. That I was done with the shame, the lying, the lowering of myself. Rather, I'd called Mary when I woke up experiencing that achy, weary blood-drained-from-me feeling. And she gave me a gift.
She told me that her supplier had gone to jail. Apparently, he'd been this tri-state's main guy. The Feds had been following him for months. Though I'd never gone with her to pick up our supply, I felt my first sense of "luck". He'd been watched for months, and I'd been just one step away.
Ironically, that very night was my night to hold small group at our house. That's the strange thing in all of this. My double life kept me active at our church this entire time. I was involved there more than a couple times a week, either within the music ministry, singing every Sunday morning, helping out with planning retreats, writing for their monthly newsletter, or being candid every other week with my own, dearly thought of, small group members. I didn't feel as though I was living a lie. As much as I was devoted to my addiction, I was equally devoted to my spiritual life. Deep inside, I knew that He would offer me a way out and redemption, but up until that time I was just too weak to walk that path.
So, small group was at my house. As usual, I was procrastinating my reading for that evening. I was still achey, I needed to nap, the *last* thing I wanted to do was to host group, but that has always been my saving grace. I had to prove my goodness. Had to prove I wasn't as messed up as I felt. Had to follow through with the "good" role. Sitting down to read, a cold sweat ran down my spine. We were working on Rick Warren's Purpose Driven Life, and the chapter that week was on temptation. That we were as sick as our secrets. That a small group, a Christian community, couldn't be healthy when there were skeletons in your closet.
And I knew. I needed to tell. It was being held at my house, and we were on this specific chapter because I was meant to spill the beans. I'd flirted with the idea of doing that ever since Kirby died. I didn't like living in the shame that I experienced daily. Feeling like such a bad person. I mean, METH AMPHETAMINE! ME?? Just as people were always shocked to find out that I hid my smoking cigarettes, it was so out of my exterior character, they'd never suspect meth from a girl like me. But it all came back to the fear of losing the drug. And justifying it to myself that if no one knew, if I was holding up my end of normalcy, it couldn't really be that bad.
That night, sitting around my dining room table, a newer member monopolized the conversation. She'd been experiencing panic attacks out of the blue, and a severe depression. She came out of this depression feeling an overwhelming sense of anger, realizing how much she'd accomodated for everyone else in her home. How much everyone else's needs caused her to ignore her own which, in her own blindness at the time, caused the mental instability. I found no commonality in listening to her that night - I was blissfully happy in my own marriage and family life; no complaints. I just wished she'd shut up so I could follow through with telling someone about my (unexplained) use of meth.
Clearly, I remember the night coming to an abrupt halt that evening. When the discussion rolled back to the chapter in the book, the skeletons in the closet, I said, "When I read this, I really wondered what people here tonight would be willing to share about their own closets. Who would be willing to really open up. Lay it all out there."
Utter silence.
It was like I was sitting there completely naked. All eyes were on
me.
"Like what?" my friend, Dana, asked.
Think. Think quick. What might we - any of us - be hiding? What am *I* hiding?
Oh God, I'm not ready.
"Well, I mean, I smoke. Not many people know that. My kids don't
anyway."
Silence again. Eyes.
Taking a large cross with a chain attached on the table, Dana said, "Well, it's not like your doing this." And she proceeded to pinch the chain into a line and lower her head to snuff the metal. This is imprinted on my mind like a grid. My heart stopped.
I was stunned. Oh. My. God. She knew. "No, no. Right. Nothing like that."
Who knows what happened after that. All I know is that it dragged interminally onward, Jeanette whining about her homelife and how selfish she was enjoying to be. I couldn't wait for them to all shut up and get the hell out of my house.
Until they actually were leaving and I thought, I'd not told. I missed my chance. This was it - if I didn't do it tonight, I was sure I'd go back. I'd find a way to get another connection. I needed a lifeline!
So, alone once again in my house, I reached for the phone. Dana - the one that surely knew anyway - was the best one to approach. She was ten years older than me. Non-judgemental. Wise. Loving. She was a single mom for several years and just...open-minded. I felt quite surely that she wouldn't throw the wrath of God on me.
I could feel my heart beating in my throat. I thought of hanging up several times as the phone rang.
"You know," I said.
"What?"
"You know what I"ve been doing. You did that with the cross thing on the table. You know."
She had no clue what I was talking about. I had to lay it all out there in shame. I felt like utter scum, street trash, telling her what I was doing behind everyone's back. The life I was leading. Meth ampetamine! Oh my God! How could I be doing
that?
As tears run down my cheeks as I write that memory, I'm humbled by how poorly I thought of myself. How much I'd deluded myself into believing that it was "no big deal". That I could still maintain "normal". And how blessed I was to find someone to confide in - someone that wouldn't condemn me to the hell I felt I deserved at that point. Someone that would love me enough to listen. To suggest help. To open the door to forgiveness.
It was the beginning of my spiritual journey. The real one. Not the "church going" one.
Your body, however, takes a beating on this crap. (Actually, given the state of my memory at this time in my life, I'm sure your brain does too. I mean, it's made with freakin' battery acid - how could it not?) But as you'd start to come down, the lack of food and sleep would cause your body to feel like you'd been put through a press. I'd feel actual physical achiness and bone weary. You'd have to force food down or agonize over trying to fall over that brink into sleep so that you could function as normal. That weekend, however, there was nothing to keep me from going for the remedy in the form of that bitter powdery line. I didn't have to keep up any "normal" looking role or be a responsible, attentive parent.
That evening (or maybe it was the middle of the night) we were tackling the last of our project - the stairwell. It's the highest ceiling in our place. There's a main room in the "cottage" with an open stairwell that runs up the side to a balcony and our master bedroom above it. So, the ceiling there, which I needed to "cut in" is probably at 20 feet from the main floor. I had wedged the ladder from one of the top steps, leaning the top edge to the angled ceiling opposite the stair. And was using this angled base as a
Mary freaked, and had me increasingly convinced that I'd not thought this plan through - and that somehow, the ladder would work it's way through or beyond the ceiling and cause me to tumble to the floor if I put much weight on it. I laughed her off; I was a good student in high school and college! I knew there was no way, mechanically, that the ladder could come down. But it still shocks me, today, how much the drug could make you so paranoid that reality was unclear. I look at that wall today and still see it's flaws, I was so eager to get down from that ladder that night.
Anyway, the painting was finished and we head home. What's vivid for me that particular night, as I lay awake once again next to Joe, was a strong feeling that I'd burnt a hole clear through the back of my nose into my brain. I could feel it burning, the air rushing through it. Couldn't believe what I was willing to do to myself.
That Monday was the beginning of the rest of my life. I'd like to say it was because I'd decided that was enough. That I was done with the shame, the lying, the lowering of myself. Rather, I'd called Mary when I woke up experiencing that achy, weary blood-drained-from-me feeling. And she gave me a gift.
She told me that her supplier had gone to jail. Apparently, he'd been this tri-state's main guy. The Feds had been following him for months. Though I'd never gone with her to pick up our supply, I felt my first sense of "luck". He'd been watched for months, and I'd been just one step away.
Ironically, that very night was my night to hold small group at our house. That's the strange thing in all of this. My double life kept me active at our church this entire time. I was involved there more than a couple times a week, either within the music ministry, singing every Sunday morning, helping out with planning retreats, writing for their monthly newsletter, or being candid every other week with my own, dearly thought of, small group members. I didn't feel as though I was living a lie. As much as I was devoted to my addiction, I was equally devoted to my spiritual life. Deep inside, I knew that He would offer me a way out and redemption, but up until that time I was just too weak to walk that path.
So, small group was at my house. As usual, I was procrastinating my reading for that evening. I was still achey, I needed to nap, the *last* thing I wanted to do was to host group, but that has always been my saving grace. I had to prove my goodness. Had to prove I wasn't as messed up as I felt. Had to follow through with the "good" role. Sitting down to read, a cold sweat ran down my spine. We were working on Rick Warren's Purpose Driven Life, and the chapter that week was on temptation. That we were as sick as our secrets. That a small group, a Christian community, couldn't be healthy when there were skeletons in your closet.
And I knew. I needed to tell. It was being held at my house, and we were on this specific chapter because I was meant to spill the beans. I'd flirted with the idea of doing that ever since Kirby died. I didn't like living in the shame that I experienced daily. Feeling like such a bad person. I mean, METH AMPHETAMINE! ME?? Just as people were always shocked to find out that I hid my smoking cigarettes, it was so out of my exterior character, they'd never suspect meth from a girl like me. But it all came back to the fear of losing the drug. And justifying it to myself that if no one knew, if I was holding up my end of normalcy, it couldn't really be that bad.
That night, sitting around my dining room table, a newer member monopolized the conversation. She'd been experiencing panic attacks out of the blue, and a severe depression. She came out of this depression feeling an overwhelming sense of anger, realizing how much she'd accomodated for everyone else in her home. How much everyone else's needs caused her to ignore her own which, in her own blindness at the time, caused the mental instability. I found no commonality in listening to her that night - I was blissfully happy in my own marriage and family life; no complaints. I just wished she'd shut up so I could follow through with telling someone about my (unexplained) use of meth.
Clearly, I remember the night coming to an abrupt halt that evening. When the discussion rolled back to the chapter in the book, the skeletons in the closet, I said, "When I read this, I really wondered what people here tonight would be willing to share about their own closets. Who would be willing to really open up. Lay it all out there."
Utter silence.
It was like I was sitting there completely naked. All eyes were on
me.
"Like what?" my friend, Dana, asked.
Think. Think quick. What might we - any of us - be hiding? What am *I* hiding?
Oh God, I'm not ready.
"Well, I mean, I smoke. Not many people know that. My kids don't
anyway."
Silence again. Eyes.
Taking a large cross with a chain attached on the table, Dana said, "Well, it's not like your doing this." And she proceeded to pinch the chain into a line and lower her head to snuff the metal. This is imprinted on my mind like a grid. My heart stopped.
I was stunned. Oh. My. God. She knew. "No, no. Right. Nothing like that."
Who knows what happened after that. All I know is that it dragged interminally onward, Jeanette whining about her homelife and how selfish she was enjoying to be. I couldn't wait for them to all shut up and get the hell out of my house.
Until they actually were leaving and I thought, I'd not told. I missed my chance. This was it - if I didn't do it tonight, I was sure I'd go back. I'd find a way to get another connection. I needed a lifeline!
So, alone once again in my house, I reached for the phone. Dana - the one that surely knew anyway - was the best one to approach. She was ten years older than me. Non-judgemental. Wise. Loving. She was a single mom for several years and just...open-minded. I felt quite surely that she wouldn't throw the wrath of God on me.
I could feel my heart beating in my throat. I thought of hanging up several times as the phone rang.
"You know," I said.
"What?"
"You know what I"ve been doing. You did that with the cross thing on the table. You know."
She had no clue what I was talking about. I had to lay it all out there in shame. I felt like utter scum, street trash, telling her what I was doing behind everyone's back. The life I was leading. Meth ampetamine! Oh my God! How could I be doing
that?
As tears run down my cheeks as I write that memory, I'm humbled by how poorly I thought of myself. How much I'd deluded myself into believing that it was "no big deal". That I could still maintain "normal". And how blessed I was to find someone to confide in - someone that wouldn't condemn me to the hell I felt I deserved at that point. Someone that would love me enough to listen. To suggest help. To open the door to forgiveness.
It was the beginning of my spiritual journey. The real one. Not the "church going" one.
A Paint Job
My last weekend with the stuff was August 5th and 6th of 2005. Mary and I went to our lakehouse to paint the main rooms - the family room and connecting kitchen, the hallway, and the kids' bedroom. I'd had a plan for colors in all 4 areas, and was excited to try separating the kid's bedroom wall into 3 equal horizontal stripes of nautical red, blue and yellow. I'd also brought along a rub-on wall mural that was a stone window looking out onto a water view. I saw no reason that we wouldn't finish all these projects in a day and an afternoon, returning the next night.
Mistake one. Forgot the ladder. Or at least thought we'd had one there.
We went next door to borrow one from the neighbor. Dear Mr. Rheins. He'd talk you into a stupor if you'd let him. Not sure if he couldn't stand his wife or he was just plain lonely, but I hated asking anything from him because I just knew I'd spend an hour more than I'd intended. And of course, when he came over, his wife needed to come to. Neither of them had seen the house since we'd moved in. We'd finished the basement - and I'd done a lot of the design and faux painting, so they wanted to come in and see.
She and her husband run a framing shop in town, so not only is she an expert in color choice for framing, but she became an expert for color on walls too....whether I was interested or not. She proceeded to tell me that the color we'd already painted in the kitchen was all wrong. That in the dusk, it'd look pink. That I should choose, rather, a lovely rust or adobe to match the random stone in the fireplace.
The gall. I never asked her. Yet, wouldn't you know, after she left that I couldn't get her opinion out of my mind. And as the sun was lowering on the horizon, it very much looked freakin' pink in the sunset.
Crap.
Out came the color wheel, and I flipped and switched through that thing, determined I'd find a better color than rust. Or adobe, for God's sake. She wouldn't be coming into OUR place later and find I'd switched to HER opinion. No way.
But there I was, an hour later, lugging back a beautiful shade of adobe to slap on the freakin' wall. She was, damn it, right. I vowed right then and there, she would never be invited back to our place.
Mistake two. Several hours lost.
Next, we tackled my kids' room. Measured it off all evenly so that the stripes didn't appear to converge into a faux distance. And taped. Then painted. And talked. And kept refreshing with a bump. I remember thinking that I'd never done that much of the stuff with Mary - had not spent that much time with her for so many consecutive hours. Not since Chicago.
We'd brought our two puppies with us. The new pup, Duchess (ironically, Duchess was a later litter from Kirby's mom - she happened to be expecting when Kirby was hit by a car) and my friend's pup, Boo, were playful siblings of the same litter. Being the good friend that I was, I sent monthly checks to pay off her puppy to the breeder - a full $650 bucks - as she worked hours cleaning in my home. Can you spell messed up?! She killed my dog, and I paid for hers.
But that's another fucked up story. I digress.
The dogs were playing and we'd fogotten to shut the door to the kids' room behind us. A big tray of yellow paint on the cream carpetted floors. And later, two sets of darling yellow footprints all over it. Lots of them. Like playful groupings of yellow daisies popping up out of the floor.
I could have cried. I tried scrubbing an area out. Then just decided to let it dry....and cut them out with scissors. To this day, it looks more like the two of them got hungry and tackled the carpet with their new sharp little teeth taking chunks of wool out and leaving divets all over their beautiful nautical room.
Mistake three.
Better do another bump.
And forget everything. Watch a movie. See if we could sleep later. And hope for better in the morning.
Oh yea, and call Jim, my husband, and beg for another day!
Mistake one. Forgot the ladder. Or at least thought we'd had one there.
We went next door to borrow one from the neighbor. Dear Mr. Rheins. He'd talk you into a stupor if you'd let him. Not sure if he couldn't stand his wife or he was just plain lonely, but I hated asking anything from him because I just knew I'd spend an hour more than I'd intended. And of course, when he came over, his wife needed to come to. Neither of them had seen the house since we'd moved in. We'd finished the basement - and I'd done a lot of the design and faux painting, so they wanted to come in and see.
She and her husband run a framing shop in town, so not only is she an expert in color choice for framing, but she became an expert for color on walls too....whether I was interested or not. She proceeded to tell me that the color we'd already painted in the kitchen was all wrong. That in the dusk, it'd look pink. That I should choose, rather, a lovely rust or adobe to match the random stone in the fireplace.
The gall. I never asked her. Yet, wouldn't you know, after she left that I couldn't get her opinion out of my mind. And as the sun was lowering on the horizon, it very much looked freakin' pink in the sunset.
Crap.
Out came the color wheel, and I flipped and switched through that thing, determined I'd find a better color than rust. Or adobe, for God's sake. She wouldn't be coming into OUR place later and find I'd switched to HER opinion. No way.
But there I was, an hour later, lugging back a beautiful shade of adobe to slap on the freakin' wall. She was, damn it, right. I vowed right then and there, she would never be invited back to our place.
Mistake two. Several hours lost.
Next, we tackled my kids' room. Measured it off all evenly so that the stripes didn't appear to converge into a faux distance. And taped. Then painted. And talked. And kept refreshing with a bump. I remember thinking that I'd never done that much of the stuff with Mary - had not spent that much time with her for so many consecutive hours. Not since Chicago.
We'd brought our two puppies with us. The new pup, Duchess (ironically, Duchess was a later litter from Kirby's mom - she happened to be expecting when Kirby was hit by a car) and my friend's pup, Boo, were playful siblings of the same litter. Being the good friend that I was, I sent monthly checks to pay off her puppy to the breeder - a full $650 bucks - as she worked hours cleaning in my home. Can you spell messed up?! She killed my dog, and I paid for hers.
But that's another fucked up story. I digress.
The dogs were playing and we'd fogotten to shut the door to the kids' room behind us. A big tray of yellow paint on the cream carpetted floors. And later, two sets of darling yellow footprints all over it. Lots of them. Like playful groupings of yellow daisies popping up out of the floor.
I could have cried. I tried scrubbing an area out. Then just decided to let it dry....and cut them out with scissors. To this day, it looks more like the two of them got hungry and tackled the carpet with their new sharp little teeth taking chunks of wool out and leaving divets all over their beautiful nautical room.
Mistake three.
Better do another bump.
And forget everything. Watch a movie. See if we could sleep later. And hope for better in the morning.
Oh yea, and call Jim, my husband, and beg for another day!
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Power
Just home from a 12-step meeting about the first step - powerlessness.
I've always liked the feeling of being in control and have prided myself in (the delusion) that I have done a spectacular job of being quite powerful.
As a kid, I was always pretty astute in being able to figure people out and spit out what they wanted. Pretty much a survival tool when I was younger because my parents my mom had such specific expectations for me and my brother. You didn't need any special sensitivity to figure her out though - she was very LOUD in letting you know what she wanted. The upshot of being in that environment, and in the effort not to step on the frequent perceived landmines, you learned to be ultra-sensitive to others' needs/desires/expectations. In fear of the bomb going off when I least expected it, I perceived so many potential blasts. Being proactive about it, I'd take action ahead of time: sidestep it by doing something extra-good or more than expected, or.......lie....and do what you want. I was good at both. Good at showing my ultra good, I-can-do-anything-for-you side, as well as the stubborn lying, ask-what-you-want-but-I'm-doing-my-own-thing side.
As a teen, I learned about beauty (and later, sex) and the power that had over boys/men. I felt very powerful in being able to get the guy I wanted if I pursued him enough - and then would break up with him before he had the opportunity to break my heart first. I lacked any conscience in my choices -- there were a few guys that were good friends with an ex-boyfriend or my brother, or a love interest of a good friend of my own. Sadly, if I had the interest, I went after it. And generally got what I wanted. Until I tired of him. I used to sing the song "And another one bites the dust...." with amusement in my head.
Writing that is hard to admit, because I certainly didn't feel so arrogant, smug or confident at the time. While I did feel that the world was my oyster and I was capable of anything, I needed that constant reassurance of my power.
As an adult, I learned to be all for everyone. Be the ultra good mom, wife, Christian, friend. If you didn't have a problem, I'd make sure to show you how I could be helpful to you. But I more often tried to find the needy people in my neck of the woods. "I neeeed someone to neeeeed me." Let me be your all.
And then I'd be pissed when you used me.
Competition...it was my measuring field. I felt that if I tried hard at anything, I can do/be anything I wanted. Not a bad message to embrace - but terrible if you have no sense of yourself, of what YOU really want. Whatever was defined as "successful" at my age level - I was there, I was going to be the best at it. Dependent on an exterior framework of accomplishment, my delusion of power was bound to crash. Further, that exterior framework was never very firm - needing that sense of power through attaining it at any cost..... paradoxically........ was only feeding a very insecure feeling of powerlessness within.
********
Still clueless to my motivation for using - nor really wanting or caring to stop and take a look at it, I hit two bottoms.
The first still brings tears to my eyes. In 2004, 6 months into my addiction, our family left on Christmas Day to Orlando for the holidays. We had two dogs and a cat at the time - and that was always the dilemma...who's going to take care of the menagerie. And who's going to do an exchange on *Christmas Day*. Who can you ask to leave their family gathering to take care of your burdens - treasured as they were - but burden, all the same. Well, of course. You can ask your sick friends. You can ask your supplier.
Not only did she happen to break our doorknob in getting into our house on Christmas Day, but she allowed our puppy to get run over by a car outside her house on New Year's Eve - just 12 hours before we arrived home.
I remember thinking acidically, at the time - "Well, 2 out of 3 ain't bad." We got a dog, a cat, and a wood box back for the New Year.
And I spent the next 2 weeks in bed, beside myself in pain. I knew without a doubt that this was a giant, neon message to me to quit doing what I was doing before something really terrible happened to a *human* person I loved. I never imagined it might be me - nor did I care; I'd be dead and that really didn't have much importance to me - but it could be one of my kids. So I scared the living bejeezus out of my family - the "rock", as my husband calls me, the one my kids saw as so "together" and in control - lay in bed for two weeks, cried and wished for my fuzzy little Kirby back.
We buried him in the backyard with his Christmas bone on an uncharacteristically warmish day that January while a soft rain fell from above. And I knew I was done. No more.
I was back within two weeks. The pain was too great. The guilt was too great. I just needed to feel JOY again. No matter if that joy had the strings of shame attached.
Seven months later, I crossed the last line. I traveled with it. On a plane. With my family.
I took a large chunk of the stuff and taped it securely to the inside top cover of one of my makeup jars. Put it in the checked baggage.
And I sweat with uncontrollable fear the entire trip. I thought for sure my bag would be sniffed out by some drug trained canine. As I sat on the plane, the pillow clouds shining bright beneath the afternoon sun, my kids chattering away excitedly beside me, I was drowning in the vision of what would happen in the baggage claim area when we landed. The police officials would be waiting until I claimed my baggage and then they'd come out of the woodwork. It'd be a great big scene - worst of all, in front of my kids. They'd question me, handcuff me, and carry me away. I could see the question, the confusion, the fear on my kids' faces. And the utter disgust in my husband's. There was no doubt in my mind that this would be waiting for me once we got to our destination. Why in the world did I do that, I cried to myself? If I'd just brought it on the plane *with* me, I could at least throw it out in the bathroom (after I had a bump). No other option, I sat and I sweat....and dreaded going to baggage claim. Walking there, my legs were like stone.
And nothing happened. No scene. No shame. No embarrassment.
I was all-powerful again.
It was not until I was into recovery that I could look back and see this was a bottom for me. I'd sacrifice all - the ability to be with my children and husband, my dignity, and literally my freedom - my real power - in order to have this drug with me on vacation.
I had no clue. Funny, I still remember worrying at the time if I was a drug addict.
I've always liked the feeling of being in control and have prided myself in (the delusion) that I have done a spectacular job of being quite powerful.
As a kid, I was always pretty astute in being able to figure people out and spit out what they wanted. Pretty much a survival tool when I was younger because my parents my mom had such specific expectations for me and my brother. You didn't need any special sensitivity to figure her out though - she was very LOUD in letting you know what she wanted. The upshot of being in that environment, and in the effort not to step on the frequent perceived landmines, you learned to be ultra-sensitive to others' needs/desires/expectations. In fear of the bomb going off when I least expected it, I perceived so many potential blasts. Being proactive about it, I'd take action ahead of time: sidestep it by doing something extra-good or more than expected, or.......lie....and do what you want. I was good at both. Good at showing my ultra good, I-can-do-anything-for-you side, as well as the stubborn lying, ask-what-you-want-but-I'm-doing-my-own-thing side.
As a teen, I learned about beauty (and later, sex) and the power that had over boys/men. I felt very powerful in being able to get the guy I wanted if I pursued him enough - and then would break up with him before he had the opportunity to break my heart first. I lacked any conscience in my choices -- there were a few guys that were good friends with an ex-boyfriend or my brother, or a love interest of a good friend of my own. Sadly, if I had the interest, I went after it. And generally got what I wanted. Until I tired of him. I used to sing the song "And another one bites the dust...." with amusement in my head.
Writing that is hard to admit, because I certainly didn't feel so arrogant, smug or confident at the time. While I did feel that the world was my oyster and I was capable of anything, I needed that constant reassurance of my power.
As an adult, I learned to be all for everyone. Be the ultra good mom, wife, Christian, friend. If you didn't have a problem, I'd make sure to show you how I could be helpful to you. But I more often tried to find the needy people in my neck of the woods. "I neeeed someone to neeeeed me." Let me be your all.
And then I'd be pissed when you used me.
Competition...it was my measuring field. I felt that if I tried hard at anything, I can do/be anything I wanted. Not a bad message to embrace - but terrible if you have no sense of yourself, of what YOU really want. Whatever was defined as "successful" at my age level - I was there, I was going to be the best at it. Dependent on an exterior framework of accomplishment, my delusion of power was bound to crash. Further, that exterior framework was never very firm - needing that sense of power through attaining it at any cost..... paradoxically........ was only feeding a very insecure feeling of powerlessness within.
********
Still clueless to my motivation for using - nor really wanting or caring to stop and take a look at it, I hit two bottoms.
The first still brings tears to my eyes. In 2004, 6 months into my addiction, our family left on Christmas Day to Orlando for the holidays. We had two dogs and a cat at the time - and that was always the dilemma...who's going to take care of the menagerie. And who's going to do an exchange on *Christmas Day*. Who can you ask to leave their family gathering to take care of your burdens - treasured as they were - but burden, all the same. Well, of course. You can ask your sick friends. You can ask your supplier.
Not only did she happen to break our doorknob in getting into our house on Christmas Day, but she allowed our puppy to get run over by a car outside her house on New Year's Eve - just 12 hours before we arrived home.
I remember thinking acidically, at the time - "Well, 2 out of 3 ain't bad." We got a dog, a cat, and a wood box back for the New Year.
And I spent the next 2 weeks in bed, beside myself in pain. I knew without a doubt that this was a giant, neon message to me to quit doing what I was doing before something really terrible happened to a *human* person I loved. I never imagined it might be me - nor did I care; I'd be dead and that really didn't have much importance to me - but it could be one of my kids. So I scared the living bejeezus out of my family - the "rock", as my husband calls me, the one my kids saw as so "together" and in control - lay in bed for two weeks, cried and wished for my fuzzy little Kirby back.
We buried him in the backyard with his Christmas bone on an uncharacteristically warmish day that January while a soft rain fell from above. And I knew I was done. No more.
I was back within two weeks. The pain was too great. The guilt was too great. I just needed to feel JOY again. No matter if that joy had the strings of shame attached.
Seven months later, I crossed the last line. I traveled with it. On a plane. With my family.
I took a large chunk of the stuff and taped it securely to the inside top cover of one of my makeup jars. Put it in the checked baggage.
And I sweat with uncontrollable fear the entire trip. I thought for sure my bag would be sniffed out by some drug trained canine. As I sat on the plane, the pillow clouds shining bright beneath the afternoon sun, my kids chattering away excitedly beside me, I was drowning in the vision of what would happen in the baggage claim area when we landed. The police officials would be waiting until I claimed my baggage and then they'd come out of the woodwork. It'd be a great big scene - worst of all, in front of my kids. They'd question me, handcuff me, and carry me away. I could see the question, the confusion, the fear on my kids' faces. And the utter disgust in my husband's. There was no doubt in my mind that this would be waiting for me once we got to our destination. Why in the world did I do that, I cried to myself? If I'd just brought it on the plane *with* me, I could at least throw it out in the bathroom (after I had a bump). No other option, I sat and I sweat....and dreaded going to baggage claim. Walking there, my legs were like stone.
And nothing happened. No scene. No shame. No embarrassment.
I was all-powerful again.
It was not until I was into recovery that I could look back and see this was a bottom for me. I'd sacrifice all - the ability to be with my children and husband, my dignity, and literally my freedom - my real power - in order to have this drug with me on vacation.
I had no clue. Funny, I still remember worrying at the time if I was a drug addict.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Lines in the Sand
Another night similar to the first, my other friends none the wiser. Then despite my line drawn in the sand, that I'd *never* do that kind of thing around home.....it made the trip back with us. It was not until I was home that I actually looked into what we were using. I'd honestly thought that "crystal" was just a more potent form of cocaine because it was in rock or "crystal" formation. I researched it on the internet and realized I'd been snuffing up meth amphetamine. I'd heard the news stories about meth labs - heck, they were all over the midwest it seemed at that time. I was horrified.
There was NO WAY I'd been doing that! But somehow, the drug helps you to justify it to yourself. It's not *that* big a deal. It *feels* a lot like coke, only better cuz it lasts sooo much longer. It can't be *that* bad. I was coherent the whole time, no one was able to tell.
So, the amount we bought - typical if we were buying coke - could never have been used on that one weekend. And that's how I began a year and a half of meth usage, each week stepping over the last line drawn in the sand.
Never during the day. Only if we went out.
Not while my kids were home.
Not every day.
Never on vacation.
The only line I didn't cross after I started using during the day was never after my husband was home. And I never smoked it.
The first, I'm not sure that was any great achievement. It would have been better to have been slipping off to the bathroom while my husband was home. At least someone would have been the "responsible" adult.
The second, I think I'm here today writing from such a good place because I never smoked it. I've heard too many stories of "no man's land" after people smoked it in a pipe. My "friend" tried to persuade me to try it but I just couldn't go there. I felt so terrible, so shameful about myself for what I was doing *already* - I couldn't add insult to injury and start using a pipe.
I remember at the beginning feeling that this drug was the best thing since man created the wheel. I was joyous, I was making lists and getting things done, I felt that I was an ultra-good mom; able to listen, have patience and still have energy to cook, clean up, help with homework, and I could remember infinite details. I'd ponder them late into the night, remembering exactly what someone said, their facial expression, how I felt in return. Details. Little details. And I was on top of it all.
AND getting thin! I didn't even think about it until I was 25 lbs lighter. It was after we started using during the day, and at that point for a short time....everyday. I'd hired my housekeeper to stain the sunroom, but because I didn't completely trust her ability, nor did I want to pay her fully, AND unconsciously, it gave me the opportunity to use more frequently, I stained it with her.
Again, what FUN. What awesome discussions. Great connections, she and I. We were like sisters separated at birth. We could have been the same person had I not made better choices and had a better supportive family. It must have taken close to two weeks....and that was it. My addiction was set.
I began to worry at that point. Heavens, what if I'm becoming an addict. More rules. More lines in the sand. Not everyday. Not ever to get going in the morning.
And for the most part, that worked for awhile.
Then I decided it'd be a good idea to start a painting company with her. I loved - loved - to strip wallpaper. Imagine being hyped up, loving the minutest of details....and stripping wallpaper. Wallpaper that split. And left small pieces behind. To me, for those of you that can stomach it, it was like peeling sunburnt skin. It literally made my mouth water. I'd get into the zen of peeling....and picking. So bad that I'd need heating pads for my neck at night! But it gave me reason to be around my supplier on a regular basis, and it gave me reason to obsess about peeling.
As gross as that probably is to read, I did have one redeeming quality there as well. I was a genius in doing faux wall painting. Some of the walls I did really were quite phenomenal. And of course, I had the energy and patience of Job to do it all day....and get it .....just.....right!
But that entered me into my daily usage. And each of us would fuel the others' usage. "Ready for a bump?" "Another somethin-somethin??"
I cringe at the thought of using these unsuspecting clients' bathrooms. They had no clue. I always maintained the social etiquette with all our clientele. I have always had a natural charm - I say that without an attempt at boasting - but I usually do quite well with first impressions. Clean - or when I was high. I just hate thinking that even though I was doing this beautiful work for them -- or the grunge work of getting rid of wallpaper that they'd hated for years -- I'd be slipping into the bathroom, crunching and lining up our next boot, then smiling and acting the role after. Horrid.
There was NO WAY I'd been doing that! But somehow, the drug helps you to justify it to yourself. It's not *that* big a deal. It *feels* a lot like coke, only better cuz it lasts sooo much longer. It can't be *that* bad. I was coherent the whole time, no one was able to tell.
So, the amount we bought - typical if we were buying coke - could never have been used on that one weekend. And that's how I began a year and a half of meth usage, each week stepping over the last line drawn in the sand.
Never during the day. Only if we went out.
Not while my kids were home.
Not every day.
Never on vacation.
The only line I didn't cross after I started using during the day was never after my husband was home. And I never smoked it.
The first, I'm not sure that was any great achievement. It would have been better to have been slipping off to the bathroom while my husband was home. At least someone would have been the "responsible" adult.
The second, I think I'm here today writing from such a good place because I never smoked it. I've heard too many stories of "no man's land" after people smoked it in a pipe. My "friend" tried to persuade me to try it but I just couldn't go there. I felt so terrible, so shameful about myself for what I was doing *already* - I couldn't add insult to injury and start using a pipe.
I remember at the beginning feeling that this drug was the best thing since man created the wheel. I was joyous, I was making lists and getting things done, I felt that I was an ultra-good mom; able to listen, have patience and still have energy to cook, clean up, help with homework, and I could remember infinite details. I'd ponder them late into the night, remembering exactly what someone said, their facial expression, how I felt in return. Details. Little details. And I was on top of it all.
AND getting thin! I didn't even think about it until I was 25 lbs lighter. It was after we started using during the day, and at that point for a short time....everyday. I'd hired my housekeeper to stain the sunroom, but because I didn't completely trust her ability, nor did I want to pay her fully, AND unconsciously, it gave me the opportunity to use more frequently, I stained it with her.
Again, what FUN. What awesome discussions. Great connections, she and I. We were like sisters separated at birth. We could have been the same person had I not made better choices and had a better supportive family. It must have taken close to two weeks....and that was it. My addiction was set.
I began to worry at that point. Heavens, what if I'm becoming an addict. More rules. More lines in the sand. Not everyday. Not ever to get going in the morning.
And for the most part, that worked for awhile.
Then I decided it'd be a good idea to start a painting company with her. I loved - loved - to strip wallpaper. Imagine being hyped up, loving the minutest of details....and stripping wallpaper. Wallpaper that split. And left small pieces behind. To me, for those of you that can stomach it, it was like peeling sunburnt skin. It literally made my mouth water. I'd get into the zen of peeling....and picking. So bad that I'd need heating pads for my neck at night! But it gave me reason to be around my supplier on a regular basis, and it gave me reason to obsess about peeling.
As gross as that probably is to read, I did have one redeeming quality there as well. I was a genius in doing faux wall painting. Some of the walls I did really were quite phenomenal. And of course, I had the energy and patience of Job to do it all day....and get it .....just.....right!
But that entered me into my daily usage. And each of us would fuel the others' usage. "Ready for a bump?" "Another somethin-somethin??"
I cringe at the thought of using these unsuspecting clients' bathrooms. They had no clue. I always maintained the social etiquette with all our clientele. I have always had a natural charm - I say that without an attempt at boasting - but I usually do quite well with first impressions. Clean - or when I was high. I just hate thinking that even though I was doing this beautiful work for them -- or the grunge work of getting rid of wallpaper that they'd hated for years -- I'd be slipping into the bathroom, crunching and lining up our next boot, then smiling and acting the role after. Horrid.
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