Friday, August 22, 2014


The word "slavery" brings up many different images to different people.  My recent research on the BDSM community (remember, I'm the girl with the psych degree that is fascinated by people and what makes them tick), the Master/slave relationship has befuddled me.  In my research, I have met a few people in the lifestyle and have proceeded to pick their brains.  One gentleman, in particular, has shared a wealth of knowledge and experience with me.  As I was teasing him a bit about his preference for slaves over submissives (in a nutshell, submissives have more negotiating power in a relationship than slaves do), I mentioned that I didn't think I could ever be a slave because I have too much of a backbone.  After I said that, I apologized because it made it sound like I thought slaves were weak. That wasn't my intention.  No harm, no foul.  However, as I was driving to my appointment today, it struck me.  I HAVE been a slave.  I was a slave to my addictions for years.  Whatever my addiction required of me, I did.  Usually without hesitation.  I jumped through hoops, degraded myself, manipulated others, lied, stole, cheated, you name it, I did it.  All because my addictions told me to.  I'm not saying I could ever function as a Master's slave, but I certainly can't say I've never been one.

Seriously, humans fascinate me.  Oh, and just so I've said it, please please please don't comment with a tirade about the BDSM lifestyle.  As I said, this was for research purposes because I am easily bored and like to learn about new things.  No need to lecture me.  Ok?  Thanks. :-)

Tuesday, August 12, 2014



That is perhaps the shortest phrase on the planet that strikes fear in me and is nearly impossible for me to utter.  Why?  It is because to me, that is the ultimate admission that I am not in complete control of all things at all time (a delusion I revel in).  It is an admission that I am vulnerable, that I have feelings; that my mind operates at a diminished level that I am not comfortable with.  It’s an admission that I have failed to live up to the ridiculously high standard that I like to hold myself up to.  Honestly, I’d rather spend 50 minutes getting paper cuts and rinsing them with lemon juice than sitting in a therapist’s office asking for help.  Why?  Because acute physical pain is easier for me to deal with than emotional pain.  There’s a beginning and a foreseeable end to the physical pain.  The emotional?  Not so much.  In fact, yesterday, I was thinking about going the paper cut route, but then the news broke about Robin Williams’ death.  A larger than life icon with unlimited resources felt that suicide was the only option.  He is now a statistic.  A statistic I don’t want to be a part of.

Shortly after clicking “publish” on my blog post last week, I received a message from a friend asking me if I had ever heard of Borderline Personality Disorder; that my recent behavior seemed like textbook symptoms.  Shit.  I had forgotten all about that.  I was screwed.  Big time.  You see, I have spent so much time focusing on my recover from various addictions over the past 14 years that I forgot about the mental illness in me that rears its ugly head from time to time.  Mental illness is an insidious little bitch that will lie to you and tell you you don’t have it.  It is a lot like addiction in that respect and while proclaiming that I am a recovering alcoholic is easy for me to do, admitting I have an underlying mental issue is not.  The stigma surrounding mental illness is still so much greater than it is surrounding alcoholism.


The life of a Borderline is chaotic, at best.  Here’s the clinical criteria of what we’re dealing with: 
Borderline personality disorder affects how you feel about yourself,  how you relate to others and how you behave.
     Signs and symptoms of borderline personality disorder may include:
  • Impulsive and risky behavior, such as risky driving, unsafe sex, gambling sprees or illegal drug use
  • Awareness of destructive behavior, including self-injury, but sometimes feeling unable to change it
  • Wide mood swings
  • Short but intense episodes of anxiety or depression
  • Inappropriate anger and antagonistic behavior, sometimes escalating into physical fights
  • Difficulty controlling emotions or impulses
  • Suicidal behavior
  • Feeling misunderstood, neglected, alone, empty or hopeless
  • Fear of being alone
  • Feelings of self-hate and self-loathing
When you have borderline personality disorder, you often have an insecure sense of who you are. Your self-image, self-identity or sense of self often rapidly changes. You may view yourself as evil or bad, and sometimes you may feel as if you don't exist at all. An unstable self-image often leads to frequent changes in jobs, friendships, goals and values.
Your relationships are usually in turmoil. You may idealize someone one moment and then abruptly and dramatically shift to fury and hate over perceived slights or even minor misunderstandings. This is because people with borderline personality disorder often have difficulty accepting gray areas — things seem to be either black or white.

If you identify with those characteristics, don’t panic.  As with everything in life, there are different degrees of everything.  It is to the DEGREE (length & severity) that these symptoms interfere with your life that points to whether or not you may have a problem.  I’ve had many years where the symptoms were so mild, I could chalk it up to being part of my alcoholism.  Spending countless hours in recovery meetings kept everything at bay and mostly under control.  So much so, that I believed it was a non-issue and hadn’t been for over a decade.  It took a fresh pair of eyes from a blog reader to alert me of the re-emergence of this particular problem.  I did not see it.  I could not have seen it without someone helping me.


When you’re presented with a problem, there is usually a couple of options.  You can ignore it and see if it goes away (which it rarely does), you can try to solve the problem on your own (which in this case, you can’t because a sick brain cannot fix its sick self), you can do nothing and let it get worse, or you can do something about it.  You can ask for help. *GASP*  So that’s what I did. I asked for help.  After a dozen phone calls to the insurance company and different providers, I finally found someone willing to accept my insurance and take me on as a client.  Then I told people about my decision and when my appointment was so I couldn’t rationalize my way back out of the decision by thinking I was over-reacting to the problem and that I didn’t REALLY need help after all.  For as hard as making the decision was, taking the action of GOING to the appointment was infinitely harder.  But I went.  I didn’t even throw up until AFTER the appointment was over!  Instead of resigning myself to a life of pain (metaphorical paper cuts), I was told that I deserve better (I’ll believe that someday) and went to someone who hopefully knows not only how to slap a band-aid on it, but deal with the root cause of the problem. 


It was painful and scary, but not as scary as looking at the future with little-to-no hope of it getting better any time soon.


 It might be scary and it might hurt like hell to do it, but you CAN do it.  Like they say in recovery, “Try our way and do the things that those of us who have been successful do.  If it doesn’t work, we’ll gladly refund your misery.”

Tuesday, August 5, 2014

Self-Worth (aka The Tale of Me Losing My Mind and Self)

How does one determine self-worth?  Is it based on results?  Competent  employee?  Good parent? Good partner? Who validates this?  Is the validation from another what “proves” our worthiness?  Perhaps some of you are saying, “The proof comes from within.”  How do you know that?  Is it a feeling?  Is it possible for others to SEE your worth, yet you FEEL none of it?  I’m not talking about feeling “unworthy”, just having no self-worth.  To me, there is a difference between the two.  Maybe that’s where I’m getting tripped up.

Perhaps I’ve always felt…screw it, let’s put it in the present tense, shall we, since this is what I’m wrestling with lately.

I think I feel like I am a body to be used by others.  My employers are mostly happy with my job performance on any given day.  They use me for my intellect, problem-solving abilities, common sense, and knowledge of all things financial in our small piece of the corporate world.  In return, I get paid and can walk around with a sense of having control over that piece of my life.  However, for as high up on the ladder as I am, I am replaceable.  It would be difficult for the company, but hiring two people with the correct skills is all it would take to replace me.

I am a mother.  My daughters use me for the fulfillment of their basic needs, guidance, a soft-spot to land (emotionally and physically), and a source of stress, humor, and love.  I am not a “great” mother, but I do what I can most days.  Some days I can only do the bare minimum.  I know that mothering is supposed to feel like my most important job, but I’ve always fallen short of that.  That’s MY reality.  That’s what they’ve grown up in.  That’s THEIR normal.  Unfortunately, their normal is a mom who doesn’t get up to make them breakfast (not since they’ve been old enough to do it for themselves).  Instead, they have a mom that would sleep all day and stay up most of the night if it wasn’t for that pesky job.  They know they have a mom that likes to be asked, or at least warned, before being touched.  And for as hard as I try to hide it and not let it happen, I’m pretty sure my 11-year old knows that it’s easier for her 10-year old sister to touch me and not have me tense up or recoil.  I feel bad for them growing up with a mom who on most days doesn’t want to be touched, but some days hugs them and never wants to let go.  I tell them all the time, “I love you, I just don’t want to be touched right now.”  They usually respect that and I try to ignore the fact that I feel like a bad mom.

Then there’s my “love life”.  Perhaps calling it my “sexual life” is more accurate since the partners that have said they loved me have all changed their minds at some point.  If you’ve been reading my blog for awhile, you know that I’m a recovering alcoholic.  Simply stated, most women in recovery have a tumultuous past filled with sexual abuse, misconduct, and promiscuity for one reason or another.  I am no different.  In the past (in my active drinking days before I was married), sex (not just intercourse, I’m talking in the BROAD sense of the word) had many functions.  It was something to be bartered to get what I want, a type of “get out of jail free” card when I was in trouble, a way to control others (or at least granted me the illusion that I was in control), something to do for the hell of it, a form of self-punishment, and yes, sometimes it was a weapon used against me.  When you look at the entire scope of it, I guess it’s no wonder that my views on sex differ from “the norm”.
I’m not sure if I’ve ever been “made love to”, but I’ve had a lot of sex, and have been fucked a great deal.  I think the emotions behind the act are what is supposed to determine which category the act falls into, but like I said, when every partner that has claimed to love you eventually changes their mind, how can I be sure?

Putting that a side for a minute (it’s info you’ll need for the next part, so keep it in the back of your mind), let’s talk about what’s been going on over the last few weeks.  Again, if you are familiar with my facebook page (OrganizedPeopleAreJustTooLazyToLookForStuff), you know that my boyfriend broke up with me.  He was supposed to be THE ONE.  Promises were made and in my head the future was being planned out.  However, after a few short months, he changed his mind and left me.  To say it threw me for a loop is an understatement.  I went into a tailspin.  How do you go from “We should get married” to “I don’t have the energy for a relationship” in such a short time?  I was told it wasn’t my fault, but that didn’t make it any easier.  I think it made it worse because if felt just that much more unfair.  There was no way to gain closure.  I was hurting more than I had hurt in a long time, and I do not deal well with emotional pain.  Physical pain has always been easier for me to tolerate than emotion pain, and anger is ALWAYS preferable to hurt.  I know what to do with anger.  I act out.  When you’re pissed off you can yell and scream and swear and throw things and break shit and lash out and people (including myself) will usually excuse it by saying, “Ah, she’s just angry.  She’ll get over it.”  Anger is easy.  HURT, and I’m talking the deep-down, soul-crushing hurt is so much harder to deal with.  To admit I’m hurt is to admit I’m vulnerable.  To admit I’m vulnerable is to admit I’m weak.  To admit I’m weak is unacceptable.  I like to pretend I’m the Ice Queen with the cold, black heart that has no feelings and therefore can’t be hurt, but we all know better. 

If I DIDN’T feel, I wouldn’t have gone into that post-breakup tailspin.  It began with disbelief in what was happening and moved into a sadness like I had not felt in years.  Getting out of bed became nearly impossible. Moving around was such a chore you would have sworn I gained 200 pounds over night.   The nightmares came back in full force,I started having panic attacks daily, sometimes more than once a day, and I started cutting myself (a coping skill from long ago).  That’s when I started taking the anti-anxiety meds (benzos) the shrink had given me months ago to get through a couple of really long dental appointments.  I started with the suggested dose even though I knew it wouldn’t be enough (body size factors in and that dose is used on people ¼ of my weight).  When 1 didn’t work, I started taking them 2 at a time and that helped for a couple of days.  Unfortunately, former drug addicts build tolerances very quickly and before I knew it, I had to take 3 at a time to be ok (Note: even 3 at a time was a medically acceptable dose, I was not in danger of over-dosing).  I spent the next week or two in an emotional haze.  Going through the motions as best I could, but I was losing ground.  I sent the kids to live with their dad; the very man who I had to protect them from a few years ago due to HIS mental state.  That blow was almost as bad as the breakup itself, but it had to be done.  I couldn’t stomach them seeing me in that condition.

Becoming an alcoholic at such a young age prevented me from learning any real coping skills.  MY coping skills included drugs, alcohol, self-abuse, and/or sex; sometimes a combination of all of those.   I wasn’t drinking and the drugs (which stopped the cutting and the panic attacks) were running out (because my shrink is a fucker and wouldn’t listen to reason – or so I felt), so what’s next?  Yep, self-abuse and/or sex.  I needed to have physical pain to overshadow the emotional pain I couldn’t handle.  I didn’t want to hurt myself (because really, I don’t need any more fucking scars on my body), so the only other option is to let someone else do it, and that’s what I did.  I called a guy from a couple of years back (after weeks of talking it turned into a one-night stand) who had been VERY aggressive in bed and left me with bruises all over and a reactivated PTSD reaction.  Yep, in all of my “wisdom”, I got a hold of him, told him what was going on and told him what I wanted.  I would meet him in a hotel and told him to do whatever he wanted to me as long as it was enough to take my mind off of everything.  I didn’t want to feel the HURT anymore and if physical pain is what it would take, I was ok with that.

Here’s the bitch about being an addict – whatever we use as a method of escape, only grants TEMPORARY relief and once that relief starts to wear off, we need MORE of whatever we’re using so the feelings don’t come back.  We will use until we hit the gates of insanity and sometimes walk right through them just so we don’t have to FEEL any more.  That being said, the night in the motel was not ENOUGH.  Yes, it took my mind off of things temporarily, but it didn’t cure the emotional hurt.  I needed MORE.  Less than 6 hours after spending the night in a hotel room letting a man abuse me, I was laying on another old friend’s massage table getting a naked massage.  Why?  Because the physical sensation was enough to quiet my mind, and he was willing to give me a massage and not expect anything in return other than the joys of getting to rub down a naked chick on his massage table.  The massage was still not enough to fix the hurt.  I needed MORE.  MORE “something” to make the feelings stop.  I sent a text to a old boyfriend from high school (we’ve stayed in contact over the years and have hooked up a couple of times in the last 20 years), but he was busy.  SHIT.  Now what?  SOMETHING had to be done.  The panic attack was coming and I was out of benzos and didn’t want to drink.  That’s when I got on facebook and basically offered to drive 2 states a way to make out with a friend I have known for awhile but have never met face-to-face.  I was seriously out of control.

Please understand that although I try to lace some humor throughout the story, I am fully aware of how ashamed I should be…of how embarrassed I should be of my behavior.  This is not lost on me.  I share these things because more likely than not, there is someone else out there dealing with similar stuff and feels alone.  It is my hope that my story can help someone else.  As I sit here typing this, I have not taken any extra medication in 3 ½ days.  My daughters are back home.  I have been attending 12-Step meetings every couple of days, trying to get myself back on track.  I still want to crawl out of my skin, but have kept my pants on. 

This is where we return to the original topic of self-worth.  I don’t believe a person with a sense of self-worth would have done the things I have done in the last couple of weeks.  Would they?  I can’t attribute ALL of my behavior to my addictive tendencies, can I?  Would someone who feels like they have self-worth put their body through what I just did?  I had a moment of clarity (which always wrecks a good denial session) while I was laying on the massage table letting a man I had only seen once in the last 6 years fondle my boobs.  I thought, “Why am I letting him do this?”  He didn’t ask to; I stripped on my own accord.  I’m beginning to think I never got past seeing my body as something to be used by other people.  Shouldn’t I by now?  I mean, MOST people wouldn’t just get naked and let people do whatever they wanted to them, would they?  Don’t some people feel their bodies are THEIRS and feel like it’s a gift to share them with others intimately?  I’m sure I’ve heard that somewhere, but I don’t know.

I guess I’ll put this question out to the class:  How do YOU know (or show?) you have self-worth?  I hope that some people will leave comments, because I really don’t know.

Monday, July 14, 2014

The Fire That Burns.

When you meet someone online, it's intense. There is so little anxiety. No "Will he think I'm cute?", no "Will he think I'm too fat/tall/short/skinny(insert your source of insecurity here); just words.  When only words are involved, pretense gets stripped away rather quickly and you get to know a person's heart and soul much quicker than if it was someone you were meeting on a first date.  When two people who are somewhat skilled writers start something online, it is even more intense. Pointed queries littered with idyllic declarations of bliss and a handful of quick witticism sprinkled in makes for smoldering conversations that can leave you weak in the knees.  As time goes on and communication continues you begin to piece together the beginnings of a future. Anything this incendiary MUST point toward a future together, right?  Finding this other being who seemingly understands you like no one else ever has, makes you tingle to your very core. You think, "Finally. I finally got it right." You exhale the breath you didn't even know you were holding and let this fire consume you.

The tricky thing about fire is that it's ever-changing. It wavers and flickers and without the proper fuel, it will start to dim. Why wouldn't it? Who would dare assume that such a hot, magnificent flame could keep burning at such a majestic level?

Me. I would. I have.

I have had a few of these relationships. The kind that burn so brightly that you would be willing to sacrifice anything you had just to keep it burning at that initial intensity. Your friends, your family, your soul. Only you can decide what lengths you're willing to go to to keep the flame alive.  As time spent physically together increases, it becomes clear whether or not you want to stoke the fire. Sometimes the person's personality differs greatly from their words and it's easy, if not a relief, to let the fire snuff out. Other times, it's not as clear, or you want it to work out so badly that you hang in there for awhile, hoping to get more than a glimpse of the person that ignited your soul.  However, as time progresses, you may find this person's personality "quirks" are intolerable and you decide it's better to end things.

The most painful scenario occurs when you find that while you're willing to do almost anything to keep the fire going, the other person seems to be happy letting the flames for down and just let the embers smolder. There's enough heat to be noticeable, but it is only a shadow of the brilliance it was just a short time ago. If the other person is happy, they may not notice you scrambling for ways to reignite the blaze. They may perceive your desire to rekindle the flame as neediness or insecurity. They don't seem to understand that you feel left out in the cold. They don't understand that what they feel as "we're happy" makes you feel like they've ripped the brass ring back out of your hands, as if to say that while you were worth it in the beginning, now that the thrill of the chase has worn off,  you should settle for what you get and deal with it.  Unexpected winds of change can blow through a fire, breaking apart the foundation.  Once that happens, you need to figure out whether the foundation can be re-stacked, if it needs to be rebuilt all together, or if it's time to just let the flames die, knowing full well that you can't do any of that all by yourself.

Saturday, May 3, 2014

Why is it so effing hard to accept help?

I have never been good at asking for help.  Never.  Needing help was always a sign of weakness. Needing help was an out and out admission that I don’t know how to do everything, or worse,  am UNABLE to do whatever needs to be done.  To be clear, it’s ok for OTHER people to need help.  It’s ok for OTHER people to not know everything or be able to do everything themselves.  That’s normal.  That’s human.  I, however, still like to think I’m better than that.  I’m pretty intelligent, so I should be able to see the problem, assess it, come up with a logical solution, and then carry it out with ease.  Right?  RIGHT?  I mean, I give great advice to OTHER people.  Just ask them.  I’ve helped countless people through a variety of tough situations and seen most of them come out the other end better off.  If I can do it for THEM, I damn well better be able to do it for me, right?  RIGHT?  Any rational person should be able think their way through a situation and solve the problem, and I am rational, so therefore, I shouldn’t need help.

That kind of thinking is dangerous for me.  For anyone, really, but especially for me because I am an alcoholic and have alcoholic thinking.  In the recovery world, part of this rationale is called “terminal uniqueness”.  In layman’s terms, it means I am different than everyone else and my situation is different (i.e. worse) than anyone else’s and therefore, standard rules don’t apply to me (or the normal solution won’t work for me because I am “different”).  This “uniqueness” is called terminal because when we think like this, we don’t accept the help that is available to us because we think it won’t work or we won’t be successful at it.  Refusal to get and/or accept help keeps many of us drunk until we die.

So, what triggered this tonight?  It’s a culmination of a few things I guess.  Most recently, it’s the condition of my surroundings.  I will freely admit that I am not a neat person.  I have always lived in clutter and mess.  When I was a kid, cleaning was done as a punishment or if people were coming over.  I got to the point where I HATED “people coming over” because I knew what that entailed.  Everyone at each other’s throats until the job was done.  My bedroom often had a path from the doorway to my bed, and the rest was a collection of clothes and other “stuff” strewn about.  The only time I cleaned was if I wanted to have friends over and then it was a 3-4 day process or if I really had a bug up my ass, I’d spend 12 hours straight cleaning like a madwoman. 

I’m 38 years old, have 2 daughters, a house of my own, and sadly, things haven’t improved a whole lot.  My bedroom is still always a mess.  There is a stack of clothes baskets full of clean clothes in front of my closet door; a closet I haven’t been in since before Christmas.  The rest of the house is cluttered and it seems no matter how hard I try, it stays that way.  It’s a disservice to me and a disservice to the daughters I am raising.  We clean before people come over or when I’ve had it and can’t take it anymore.  Then I go on the warpath, barking orders at my daughters to pick up their crap and put it away.

The truth is, that while clutter and clean laundry laying everywhere stresses me out, the prospect of cleaning it all up nearly paralyzes me.  So much to be done, with no end in sight.  I have tried all the little tricks.  “Just clean for 5 minutes at a time.” “Just pick a 2’x2’ area, clean that, then move on to the next.”  “Every time you bring something new into the house, throw out something old.” “Just focus on one room at a time.”  You might as well cover me in oil and ask me to scale the Eiffel Tower while it’s raining.  It’s just not going to happen.

I’ve hired people to clean before and it helped, but how can I expect someone else to a good job, when I can’t even tell them where to put shit?  I have next to no organizational skills.  “Everything has a place and everything IN its place.”  I hear organized people say that and I roll my eyes so hard I risk dislocating my neck.  If I had a place for everything, I’d PUT IT THERE!  I don’t even know where to begin.

So why has this come to a head all of the sudden?  Well…because I fell in love with a man who was raised in a hoarder’s household and is now freaked out by clutter.  Fuck. Me.  His house is neat and barely looks lived in.  I go there and wonder, “Where’s all of his shit?”  It blows my mind.  His place is like a sanctuary to me.  Everything seems to have a place.  I can even put things back where they belong because there’s a designated place for stuff!  Weird, huh?  My house is the antithesis of his.  I invited him over this week and hired a friend to come over and clean first.  She canceled, so the girls and I were left to fend for ourselves.  Once again, I turned into a madwoman and was crazy for 2 days trying to get the house in order.  At one point, I had to throw up the white flag and call it good enough.  I couldn’t do any more without totally losing my mind or permanently scarring my children with the crazy person I had become.

While he was at my house, I could sense that the state of affairs was making him anxious.  I tried to deny it (because denial feels SO good), but I knew it was there.  I know he loves me.  HE LOVES ME.  I want that to be very clear.   He loves me for me, good and bad.  He loves me completely, yet clutter is a trigger for him.  We did what grownups do and discussed it.  With no judgment on his part, he said that he wouldn’t be able to live in this house in the condition it is in (not that he’s planning on moving in anytime soon).  My fears were coming true.  Once again, a man that I love is going to change his mind about me because I’m some kind of “wrong”.  Or at least that’s where my head went.  Again, to be clear, he never said anything of the sort.  That’s all on me.  The fact that he will probably read this makes me want to throw up.  I don’t want him to think that any of this emotional angst of mine is his fault, because it isn’t.  In fact, I’m just going to pretend that he ISN’T going to read this so I can keep writing.  See, I TOLD you denial can be a beautiful thing!

He’s not asking me to change.  He’s not asking me to do anything I don’t already want to do.  I WANT a clean house.  I HATE having a messy house.  A messy house is chaotic and chaos doesn’t work for me.  I avoid my house whenever I can because it is too overwhelming and I can’t “fix it.”  He is a sweet man and offered to help me.  He’s very good at organizing things and throwing stuff out.  He didn’t offer to help to push me into something I don’t want to do.  He was very clear about that.  Again, I WANT a clean house.  I WISH it was organized.  I WISH I didn’t get so freaked out by all of this, but I do.  As we talked more about it, I actually got EXCITED about getting rid of all the extra stuff we don’t need.  I got excited about packing up all of the extra clothes to donate and boxing up all of the books and sending them off to the library so other people could enjoy them too.  I kept thinking of the day my house would be tidy and he would be happy to move in with me and the girls and we’d be happily ever after.  I love him.  I’m not trying to clean up my house FOR him.  I want it clean for ME.  I want my house to become a place of peace again; a place where I can relax.  The fact that he would be more comfortable here is just the icing on the cake.

Every Friday night I go to my best friend & sponsor’s house and get together with a group of women in recovery.  Tonight we were talking about our biggest fears and how we get through them and I found myself talking about the state of my house and how it affects my emotional well-being and how it will be a sticking point in my new relationship and how I’m not teaching my kids a valuable skill.  You know what happened?  Three of the other ladies OFFERED TO HELP.  WHAT?!?!?!?!?!  I dare say they were EXCITED about the prospect of coming over and helping to get rid of everything and organize what’s left until things are in order and comfortable.  

I sat there in disbelief.  WHY would someone (let alone THREE someones) seem so excited about cleaning someone else’s house?  Are they crazy?  I reiterated how I have NO IDEA of how to do it and how it stresses me out and makes me want to throw up and then curl up in a ball and weep.  They didn’t care.  They asked me to pick a date so they could come over and help.  That’s when the panic set in.  I quickly changed the subject and got the next person talking about what HER fears were so the focus would be off me.  Unfortunately, the wheels had already started grinding in my head and I was starting to lose it.  As the next girl was sharing, I could feel myself starting to shake and rock back and forth in my chair (an old self-comforting behavior).  Why would they want to help?  Could I actually let them in?  Could I REALLY let them see how I live?  How would they judge me?  Would they change their minds about me?  Again, they never said ANYTHING other than, “When can we come over and help?”  I am the one who took it to a dark place.

The meeting ended and I hung around to talk to my sponsor.  I was still shaking and she wanted me to spill it and tell her what was going on.  I told her that after I finished talking, the panic started rising and all I could do was sit and stare that that fucking shiny knife sitting on top of the pie on the table.  Why?  Because along with being an alcoholic, I’m a former cutter.  If you know anything about cutters, they use physical pain to relieve emotional pain and turmoil.  Physical pain kicks in the endorphin response (your body’s natural pain killers) and for a little while, you feel better.  I haven’t cut in YEARS, and all I could think about was that stupid, shiny fucking knife and how using it would make the hamster wheel in my head STOP.  I’m 38 years old and was so spun out by the idea of letting other people help me clean my house that I was seriously considering injuring myself over it.  WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?  Cutting is as bad as drinking or using drugs for someone like me.  It’s something used to escape a reality that seems too painful to deal with.

You know what?  The cat’s out of the bag.  I’m admitting it.  I DON’T have it all under control.  I DO need help.  The thought of that still makes me want to puke.  The thought of accepting help from these loving women makes me sick to my stomach.

So what’s the plan?  I guess I’ll spend the weekend telling myself I can handle it alone and will attempt to do the job myself.  By Monday I will be resigned to the fact that if I ever want to get better, I’ll have to suck it up and accept their offer and pick a date when they can come over.  Then I will have fits of panic and want to change my mind until that day comes when they descend on my house.  I know it will be good for me.  It will get my house in order and will be a hell of a growing experience. The end result will be the big payoff.  I’ll have a home that I’m excited to go to.  My daughters and I will learn how to keep things picked up.  I won’t be as stressed out and the man I love will feel more at home here.  The payoff will be great, but the journey to it scares the crap out of me.

I’m choosing hope.  I have to keep choosing hope.