Chip On My Shoulder

In the past 90 days I have collected 4 chips, all from Alcoholics Anonymous.  Every alcoholic’s story is different and not all involve several DUIs, trips to jail, losing jobs, or family.  Mine involved my daily decision making and I decided to give it up before drinking lead me to one of the above.  I only mention this because giving up alcohol has made facing my recovery that much more difficult.

Over a year ago I “voluntarily” admitted myself to a behavioral health center to get help with abusing my anxiety medications and cutting.  These medications were removed from my regimen and I have not taken them since.  I considered not telling my new psychiatrist about the medication abuse in order to have the anxiety pills prescribed again.  It was a short-lived internal debate. He had my discharge papers from the hospital.  I have had to ride out the anxiety since then, which is not all that much fun.

I did not stop drinking when I stopped the pills. I did not see it as a problem, even though I was mixing pills with the alcohol.  I decided alcohol was controllable and I did not drink that often anyway.  With the loss of anxiety medication, the drinking picked up.  A lot of my writing has taken place with a glass of vodka right next to me.  On occasion I have met with my therapist and support group just after consuming a drink, just to take the edge off, to numb reality enough to avoid being crushed by it.  

To recap, I am off anxiety medications and alcohol.  Where does this leave me? Smack in the middle of reality with no way to escape and experiencing “white knuckling” when I feel like I could just explode. There is not a clear way to distinguish the good and bad of this new lifestyle and I can argue both sides.

I am no longer depending on alcohol or medication abuse to help get me through the rough spots.  The buffer is gone. Everything I have used in the past to keep myself sane has disappeared.  Cutting is no longer satisfying.  I tried it after giving up alcohol and its effect was minimal.  I considered upping the severity, but eventually decided against it. I did not want to have to explain it to anyone.

The upside of all this is the same.  I can no longer numb myself or keep a buffer zone between myself and all that emotion and truth I need to get through.  Logically I can rationalize the benefits.  The possibility of having a life unconsumed by the abuse and its effects surrounds brings hope in face of soberly tackling the mess the abuse left behind.  However, the thought of digging through all this mess head on, without chemical help, also brings nausea and fear.  There are moments it all feels like a lose-lose situation.

Not drinking has affected my desire to write for the same reason above.  I will feel the full impact of the emotions and memories I post here.  For the last 90 days it seemed easier to keep the laptop off.  

Recently, I wrote out another portion of my story for a support group, first time I have ever done this totally sober.  It was painful, simply because I felt it this time.  There was not my comfortable level of detachment.  In the past I had written out parts of my story in one sitting, maybe taking an hour.   This time around it took nearly the entire week.  I would get a section down and have to stop.  I wrote some of it in a public place, which is a cheap form of putting distance between myself and the words on the paper.  I have a strict rule about making an emotional scene in public.  I barely do it in counseling or in private.  My nerves of steel were now spasming and I was amped up on emotion.  If I had to paint a picture of what life was like that week, leading up to the time I had finished reading my story, it would be of a squirrel in the middle of the road with a car coming at it.  I could not make up my mind which direction to go.  It was like I did not have time to think rationally, and I wasn’t. I experienced my first episode of “white knuckling” and hated every second of it.

Approximately an hour after I finished reading the story and the next member told theirs, I felt better in the sense I was no longer rocking back and forth in my seat.  I was exhausted and I was emotionally exhausted well into the next day.  However, I had done it.  I faced my story head on, as nerve-racking as it had been.  I am certainly not saying I will be able to handle my recovery in stride and with grace, but I at least know I have done it once, and the first time is always the hardest, right?

Serenity Prayer

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. 

I have to be honest, I have grown weary of this prayer. 

The serenity prayer was written by American theologian Reinhold Niebuhr. Its earliest recorded reference to the prayer is in a diary entry in 1932. In early 1942 it was noticed by Bill W. In AA in an obituary and grew in popularity with the organization and several others over the years. 

For years I have been hearing this prayer quoted in all types of circumstances. Every recovery program I have been involved with used this. It is quoted to give comfort to those who are hurting and those needing encouragement. It has become a standard poem for people searching for something to say in uncomfortable grief moments. I have seen it printed on mugs, wall hangings, pendants, blankets, coasters, cards, journals, and countless other items. In my opinion, it is overused. 

How much comfort can one get from an overused prayer? If it is so repetitious and can be quoted from memory, how does the meaning get across? How much comfort does it really provide? Maybe my problem is I have heard it so many times I have forgotten what it can mean for those needing comfort, including myself. 

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change:  This is a major hang up for me. I feel the need to be in control of most things and I am always hesitant to admit I am powerless in a situation. I cannot change people. I cannot change my past. I cannot change the fact I was sexually abused. I cannot change the fact I have an addiction. I cannot make God fit into my plan. God has always had a plan for my life and so much of it is unknown. I have to be okay and comforted by this. I cannot change God, but he can change me. 

To change the things I can: Accepting what I can change is difficult also. To change anything about myself is to admit I am not fine the way I am. For the most part, the only thing I can change, with God’s help, is myself. There has to be a different future based on choices I make. Healing from the abuse is part of my future. By taking the steps forward I have no option but to change; the changes are a choice.

If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to you. James 1:5

Wisdom to know the difference: This is where it gets tricky. Wisdom can all be linked to control. I have to take a step back and allow logic to make a decision rather than emotion. The wisdom is in the pause, a pause I fail to take more often than I would like. I can learn to take a breath before reacting but cannot do it regularly without divine help. How does this wisdom come about? Prayer and meditation in God’s word. By consistently being in God’s word and regular prayer, the pause will become more of the norm, second nature if you will. There will be times, of course, my knee-jerk reaction will kick in and the wisdom will come afterward. It’s human nature. It takes a divine nature to interrupt foolishness and gather wisdom. 

The Serenity Prayer could be an irritation because I see a truth in it I am unwilling to face. 

Scars

I have a lot of scars on my body. The bigger ones are from surgeries I have had in the past to repair knees, stomach issues, give birth to children, and to remove further possibility of children. I never really think about those scars unless they are going to be exposed to strangers. I like to think my husband does not even seen them anymore, that I am his wife and my heart for him matters more.

The scars on my body that bother me the most are the ones I created. The cuts I have inflicted upon myself out of a myriad of emotions related to my abuse that were not healthy, true, or not dealt with in a productive, safe way. The cuts were usually made in hidden places, places I sometimes I even managed to hide from my husband by withholding sex so he would not see them. This was unfair to him and to myself, as the intimacy we so desperately need in marriage was being tainted and ignored. My husband has now seen them all, and while it bothers him significantly that the scars are there, I no longer have to hide them. The worst are the ones in places other people can see, created out of the same overwhelming emotions without the consideration of placement, mostly created out of a severe lack of control. Believe or not, some cutting is controlled, but that explanation is beyond my scope.

The scars most visible are on my arms. I had a good, plausible explanation the first time these appeared. The only ones who knew the truth were my husband, who had to clean them up; my therapist; and I suspect my group leader. I cannot tell you what was going on when they were made because I really cannot recall my state of mind at the time.

A month or so later, it happened again. I do not recall the emotional force behind it but it was a desire to see how much I would bleed. It was a constant cutting, trying to reach the vein in the crook of my arm. I was unsuccessful but was caught by my husband and required a trip to the ER. I made up a story about being impaled by scissors by a running dog. I begged my husband to stick with the story. He promised no such thing and said he would crack under the pressure of being asked directly, but would keep silent and let me do the talking. The doctor never seemed to question my story and debated on whether to “glue” it shut or use stitches. I asked for stitches, simply because if there was not something physical in the way, I was afraid another attempt would be made to get to that vein.

The last incident this summer (and hopefully the last ever), was a little over a month ago. I remember being in a state of emotional wreckage and blindly hacked at my arm and then traced the veins. It was a mess, but a controllable one. My husband made me go the ER, not because of the cuts but I had evidently taken a significant amount of my anxiety pills with vodka in order to “calm down.” I narrowly escaped being hospitalized. I was constantly asked if I was suicidal and the answer was a truthful “no.” I really was not, just really upset. They hesitantly released me into the care of my husband and insisted I call my therapist in the morning.

Whew, that was really hard to write. Because of the last incident, I wore long sleeves for a solid week to keep the cuts covered. I did not want to have to offer any type of explanation and I knew that lying was not going to be an option. It was just too obvious. Of course we hit the hottest days of the summer and I suffered through the heat to hide my secret.

All the scars on my arms haunt me. Some days they almost seem to glow out of anger. They appear redder, almost purple, and so obvious. Other days they are more subtle, light in color and barely visible unless looking closely. I am sure there is some biological reason for this, like the temperature in the room or whether I am hot or cold, but I was thinking today it might have something to do with the temperature of my heart. Some days I just need to be reminded in a more obvious way of how I lost control and how I need to make sure I look for the alternative, look to God.

Do you not know that your bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own; you were bought at a price. Therefore honor God with your bodies. I Corinthians 6:19-20. The context of this verse is in reference to Paul speaking about sexual immorality among believers. To me, this verse speaks of everything I do that does not honor God with my body. Destroying it intentionally, bleeding in an effort to get out pain and emotion that I should try to turn over to him, may be even worse. Jesus paid the ultimate price for me to be whole in God’s eyes. Who am I to go against that and disfigure myself out of selfishness? Is the temptation to cut still there? Most definitely. I was recently advised to delay cutting by an hour, or even just 30 minutes, and find something else to do with that time, in the hopes that at the end of the allotted time the feeling will have passed and I would find a constructive way to handle the pain and emotion. It did work. I cannot say I turned it all over to God, but some of it did. I am looking forward to the day when this is no longer an issue for me, when the pain and emotion of abuse is not so overwhelming that I can hardly breathe. If I keep trying, surround myself with people who will encourage me to stay safe and seek God, I know I can get there.

May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit. Romans 15:13.

Emotionally Drained

Last week was a bad week. Deep down I knew that I would have more bad days, weeks, and maybe even a month or two. I knew I would fall back into the pit again. A pit that is still in my path, but I believe it is not as deep anymore. I have also been reminded of this on occasion by people who support me.

I am in my second round of support group and wrote my story again this week. The story does not change. As mentioned in an earlier post, after the last time I wrote my story and read it aloud, I was then flooded with way more details about different incidents than I believed I was ready for. The hole I fell into that time seemed impossible to climb out of. With a lot of extra help and prayer from others, I made it. Fortunately nobody spouted “God never gives us more than we can handle.” For the record, this is not in the Bible. This is equivocal to bumper sticker theology or “Sunday school answers” that annoy me. What is in the Bible, for example, is 2 Corinthians 1:8-10 For we do not want to be unaware, brethren, of our affliction which came to us in Asia, that we were burdened excessively, beyond our strength, so we despaired even of life; indeed, we had the sentence of death within ourselves in order that we should not trust in ourselves, but in God who raises the dead; who delivered us from so great a peril of death, and will deliver us, He on whom we have set our hope. And He will yet deliver us.

Anyway….

I was caught off guard by the effect of writing my story again. I threw up. I suspect it was a combination of a couple of things. One was the fact I relived it yet again. My first version this time around was a pretty vague summary. I ended up writing it again with more details about how I felt and other sensory details, as recommended by the group leader. It was difficult to “feel” all that again. Second, is I have to read it aloud. There is something about saying it out loud that really makes it real. Once you speak it aloud, it can no longer be denied. This is an overwhelming reality.

Two days after group I saw my therapist. Seeing my therapist after group is a good thing but it is still difficult at times. I have made progress but we talked about a couple of hurdles I still need to work on with my personal relationships that are painful. They hurt because getting to the other side of them requires a level of trust and vulnerability I struggle to achieve. Not only do I have to trust them, I have to trust myself. Both are tough for me to do.

Later that evening, still processing my next steps, I got a call from the office of the new psychiatrist I was scheduled to see in a month. They were calling to tell me they had a cancellation for the following morning and asked if I wanted to move my appointment up. I took a deep breath and accepted. Panic set in. I sent a message to my therapist, finished the “New Patient” paperwork, took my medication, and went to sleep. The appointment overall went well but again I had to repeat my history out loud, tell her my diagnoses, and hope for acceptance. She did accept me but all together it tested the limits of my medicated nerves.

The rest of my week was tough due to issues with my kids, but I had reached my limit by that point. I went into autopilot, a phase that very easily could have lead to a crash. Sure there were things that went right with the week, but emotionally I was exhausted.

Through all of this I let go of God. Part of me kept trying to seek him in either by making sure the worship/inspirational music was playing in the car or a verse or line from this music would make  it to the front of my brain during the day. Just about each time this happened another part of me said, “Oh, just shut up!”

Late Saturday night it all partially came around. While I had essentially let go of God, He never let go of me. He remained constant, never changing, and was just waiting for me to come around. He gently reminded me of a verse I had seen on another blog.

For I, the Lord, do not change...Malachi 3:6.

I am still uneasy about the upcoming reading of my story in the next week or so. There is no guarantee that next week is going to be any easier. Maybe, just maybe, I can seek help and comfort from the people who care for me and support me, and also seek God, who is always there for comfort and ready to hold me up. I just have to reach out.

Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. Matthew 11:28.