So I have this thing. It's called major fear of intimacy and it rules my interpersonal relationships with an iron fist. Upon first meeting me, you'd never know that this was the case. I'm open and gregarious and if anything presumptively intimate. I'll tell you about the horrifying female ejaculation exploit when I was nineteen that has forever haunted my sexuality. (He was convinced I had peed all over his futon and I was ill equipped to argue with him seeing as I had never left that kind of tsunami in my orgasmic wake before. Awful, right? I didn't cum again until I was 21. I was completely traumatized.) I'll listen to your battle tales with an open and understanding mind. I come across as completely candid, fun, and non-judgemental.
And in that moment perhaps I am. But only for that moment, because in the moments that follow my overactive ego gets to work scrutinizing every single word, thought, and action you've put forth. And let me be the first to tell you, my new friend, you do not look good. This is where the crisis begins. You now think that I have no issue with our sudden closeness and your guard goes waaaay down. You start sharing vulnerable things with me. Your vulnerabliliy makes me feel vulnerable and I DO NOT LIKE TO FEEL VULNERABLE. I start inserting some distance and you start hanging around more trying to understand why the hell I'm acting like that. The more you cling, the more I withhold, and soon there's a big BOOM. You are now dead to me. I openly ignore you in public situations. You openly discuss the fact that I'm a misanthropic bitch.
It happens again and again and again in my male and female relationships. I find it deeply upsetting especially since it is just so evident now in my sobriety. I can't think of anything more pressurizing for a personality disorder of this magnitude than regular AA attendance. Jesus H. In six months of sobriety I've been through 4 BFF's and 3 Brothers From Another Mother. Clearly, I still see most of them on a daily basis. It's not as awkward as it may sound though. Ignoring their existence is modus operandi for me. I've been doing this since adolescense. I am, in fact, a pro.
Do I want to change this behavior? Absolutely. I've felt horrible and bitchy and un-spiritual for months now. But last night I decided to let myself off the hook a little bit. There appears to be a direct correllation between the co-dependent fellowship friendships I've been running through and relapse rates. Every one of the aforementioned folks has relapsed in the time we've known each other. And as tempting as it may be to pin the blame for that on my inherent bitchiness, I couldn't have kept them sober. The problem here is that I'm attracted to the dysfunction. I revel in it and encourage it, until I get scared for my own sobriety and then I get the FUCK out.
I haven't had a drink in six months. It has not been easy, pretty, or graceful, but I've done it. Every good thing that's come into my life has been a direct result of not picking up that first drink. Deeply held behaviors (fears of intimacy and the like) will have to be released but that's going to happen on HP's time, not mine. Until then, all I can do is live by example in my current state. Trying to be best friend to every sick and suffering chic that walks through the doors of Perry Street is not the answer. And I really have to look inward to find what I'm trying to validate surrounding myself with these folks. Quality not quantity right?
Hmmmm. Asking the Cosmic questions and humbly awaiting the Universal replies.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Monday, April 14, 2008
Spring Awakening.....
Color me humbled. My ass-getting (and subsequent morning after pill-popping) adventures have gone all awry. Self-will run riot? You think?
I took the reins back and it nearly landed me in a very messy situation. Those innocent little morning after pills really freaking put me through it. Freakish hormonal outbursts, two days of vomiting, and so much more. And was my partner in crime there to support me through this mayhem? Not so much.
Although this was a boy that I had counted days with and known as my friend since I first got sober, although he had no problem coming to find me whenever he was in need of a free dinner, when I wanted someone to watch movies with me through my isolation it was a rather douchey no.
"Well, if I came over there and took care of you, that would be, like, intimate, and I don't know, not physical."
"And? It's not like I created this vomiting situation all by myself, brother. You can't watch a movie with me anymore?"
"Not unless there's a hummer involved, no."
Ahhh. There you have it. The anatomy of a 13th step fuck-off. To be fair, we had discussed the whole no-strings aspect, but we hadn't taken into consideration the inherent fallibility of prophylactics. Life on life's terms will undo the best laid plans, yeah? Is there some sort of human compassion quotient involved here?
It's a moot point anyways. The sheer rage and powerlessness I felt in the moments getting off the phone with him propelled me through my nausea and straight into a meeting. I sat through one (only wretched twice) and then another (no wretching) and then the third. By the third meeting, he had shown up and was witness to my single rolfing session.
Somewhere in between the puking, the two days w/o food, the three meetings, and the sheer unmanageability of the consequences of my actions, I started to feel better. Not just better from the weirdness of this last week, better in my program. Better in my life. I feel peaceful now. Something really shitty happened, and I don't want to drink. Someone that used to be my friend totally disappointed me and I don't feel any resentment. And as a wise man once said to me:
"You better pray for God's will, girl."
"Why?"
"Because that's what you're going to end up with anyway."
LIFE!
Ingenue
P.S. T- I'm praying for you. I pray that you have the amazing sex life that I want for myself. I pray that you only have requited attraction in your affairs. I pray that you be free from rejection and emotional trauma. I pray that you feel loved, respected, and envied at all times. Don't say I never did anything for you, man.
I took the reins back and it nearly landed me in a very messy situation. Those innocent little morning after pills really freaking put me through it. Freakish hormonal outbursts, two days of vomiting, and so much more. And was my partner in crime there to support me through this mayhem? Not so much.
Although this was a boy that I had counted days with and known as my friend since I first got sober, although he had no problem coming to find me whenever he was in need of a free dinner, when I wanted someone to watch movies with me through my isolation it was a rather douchey no.
"Well, if I came over there and took care of you, that would be, like, intimate, and I don't know, not physical."
"And? It's not like I created this vomiting situation all by myself, brother. You can't watch a movie with me anymore?"
"Not unless there's a hummer involved, no."
Ahhh. There you have it. The anatomy of a 13th step fuck-off. To be fair, we had discussed the whole no-strings aspect, but we hadn't taken into consideration the inherent fallibility of prophylactics. Life on life's terms will undo the best laid plans, yeah? Is there some sort of human compassion quotient involved here?
It's a moot point anyways. The sheer rage and powerlessness I felt in the moments getting off the phone with him propelled me through my nausea and straight into a meeting. I sat through one (only wretched twice) and then another (no wretching) and then the third. By the third meeting, he had shown up and was witness to my single rolfing session.
Somewhere in between the puking, the two days w/o food, the three meetings, and the sheer unmanageability of the consequences of my actions, I started to feel better. Not just better from the weirdness of this last week, better in my program. Better in my life. I feel peaceful now. Something really shitty happened, and I don't want to drink. Someone that used to be my friend totally disappointed me and I don't feel any resentment. And as a wise man once said to me:
"You better pray for God's will, girl."
"Why?"
"Because that's what you're going to end up with anyway."
LIFE!
Ingenue
P.S. T- I'm praying for you. I pray that you have the amazing sex life that I want for myself. I pray that you only have requited attraction in your affairs. I pray that you be free from rejection and emotional trauma. I pray that you feel loved, respected, and envied at all times. Don't say I never did anything for you, man.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
I got some!
Ass that is. And it was much fun. We had the preliminary "no strings" convo before we got to business (I've had enough of dating expectations and disappointments for a minute. I want to close out my first year sober in peace...) Then we got to it! SO. MUCH. FUN. Right up until the moment we discovered the condom had exploded. Sigh. What are you trying to tell me here, HP?
So seeing as birth control Plan A had thoroughly failed us, the next morning Lover and I moved on to Plan B. This was my first experience with the morning after pill. I can't say I'm thrilled with the exploding condom scenario BUT it is refreshing to be sober and ready to take a responsible, decisive action here. And that is where I become extremely grateful that Plan B is available to me.
So yesterday I got the pills and took them. This was after some worry that I may not be able to procur them, seeing as I possess no legal identification. It was a non issue then but it prompted me into overdue action. See, I haven't had an ID since LAST MAY. I left it in the back of a cab after a drunken spree and I have lived under the radar ever since. I'm like Jason Bourne. I have no identity. Booyah!
I have my ss card, my bank card, and a picture work ID. I've flown across the country with these! Its been real but its time for me to get legal again. And that, my friends, is why I am blogging to you from the DMV. Otherwise known as Satans Asshole. I've been here for 3 hours and I believe I may be here for 2 more. I've mentally recited the Serenity Prayer 85 times and I am running STRAIGHT to a meeting when the finally set me free. There is a homeless chic standing in front of me who reeks of fried pickles. I've been breathing in fried pickle smell for three fucking hours. Oh lord. Deliver me.
Life on lifes terms can be a dull, dull affair.
Sober nonetheless,
Ingenue
So seeing as birth control Plan A had thoroughly failed us, the next morning Lover and I moved on to Plan B. This was my first experience with the morning after pill. I can't say I'm thrilled with the exploding condom scenario BUT it is refreshing to be sober and ready to take a responsible, decisive action here. And that is where I become extremely grateful that Plan B is available to me.
So yesterday I got the pills and took them. This was after some worry that I may not be able to procur them, seeing as I possess no legal identification. It was a non issue then but it prompted me into overdue action. See, I haven't had an ID since LAST MAY. I left it in the back of a cab after a drunken spree and I have lived under the radar ever since. I'm like Jason Bourne. I have no identity. Booyah!
I have my ss card, my bank card, and a picture work ID. I've flown across the country with these! Its been real but its time for me to get legal again. And that, my friends, is why I am blogging to you from the DMV. Otherwise known as Satans Asshole. I've been here for 3 hours and I believe I may be here for 2 more. I've mentally recited the Serenity Prayer 85 times and I am running STRAIGHT to a meeting when the finally set me free. There is a homeless chic standing in front of me who reeks of fried pickles. I've been breathing in fried pickle smell for three fucking hours. Oh lord. Deliver me.
Life on lifes terms can be a dull, dull affair.
Sober nonetheless,
Ingenue
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Little in the middle? Meh, not so much.
I've gone chunky my friends. It was to be expected, and yet. Sugar Keeps You Sober and If You Want a Drink, Drink a Milkshake. If You Still Want to Drink, Have Another and fuck off already! I did some mental calculations when I first quit drinking. I added up all of the calories in a fifth of Jamesons and subtracted it from daily total of calories consumed. I then subtracted the calories burned from the nervous pacing and fidgeting so prevalent in early sobriety. By my calculations I should have lost 35 pounds already. What the eff gives? HUH?!?!?
I'll tell you what gives. Just when you think it's lifted it's shifted (Yes this will be a highly sloganized posting. It pleases me.). Meaning, while my alcoholism is now lying dormant, that addict obsession has shifted over to my relationship with food. This leaves me with nights like last night. I lost a major battle with a Family Size Box of Velveeta Shells and Cheese. Sigh.
Most of the time, I feel like absolute poo, as well. I am very, very sensitive to sugar and my sugar addiction is raging right now which leaves me in an icky state. Inside and outside. My digestion is fucking whack, my moods are uncontrollable, and my love handles are bulbous. Again, sigh.
I need to get this out, because I have deep emotional trauma connected to weight fluxuations. Here and now, I should probably qualify that although I feel fat, and I beat myself up for being fat, I am most definitely not fat. I'm 5'10" and a size 8. But just a scant year ago I was a size 6 and I adored that. I adored that because my beloved (and deeply overweight) mother has had me convinced since Infancy that BAD THINGS DO NOT BEFALL SKINNY PEOPLE. The reason my father abandoned us? My mother's unsightly saddle bags of course! The reason we lived in abject poverty? Fat people do not, as a general rule, get good jobs. This was (is) my mother's dogma. So when I blossomed out of my chubby childhood into a tall and lanky adolescence my mother was certain that this was a divine sign that I (unlike her) was destined for happiness.
She was also certain that pulling me out of high school and getting me started modeling at the age of 13 was going to save us both. I won't even go into how much that colored my current relationship with my weight. Shit, I won't go into how that colored my current relationship with drugs and alcohol! It sent me off to the races. We can leave it at that. Oh, Mama. She really believed that I (skinny-minny me) would have peace and abundance that she never had. Which means to this day, I feel like I'm failing her when I find myself edging up into the next dress size.
So is the answer me going on another diet? Nah. I naturally really do dig healthy, vegan food. I eat the other shit to be self destructive. It doesn't even taste like food to me! I like to workout (although I don't because I have a big issue with showing up for things that are good for me.). I need to start healing some of this stuff, and I don't know how. It hurts to feel this way, it really does. It hurts to look in the mirror and feel disgusted by a spare tire that's not even that big. It hurts to not approach boys I like because the thought of getting naked in front of them makes me nauseous. It hurts to feel like I need to be locked away because I've got 7 lbs of back fat. To be fair, some of the 7 pounds seems to have been distributed to my boobage. Which is, admittedly, a plus.
Lighter inside, if not outside.
Ingenue
I'll tell you what gives. Just when you think it's lifted it's shifted (Yes this will be a highly sloganized posting. It pleases me.). Meaning, while my alcoholism is now lying dormant, that addict obsession has shifted over to my relationship with food. This leaves me with nights like last night. I lost a major battle with a Family Size Box of Velveeta Shells and Cheese. Sigh.
Most of the time, I feel like absolute poo, as well. I am very, very sensitive to sugar and my sugar addiction is raging right now which leaves me in an icky state. Inside and outside. My digestion is fucking whack, my moods are uncontrollable, and my love handles are bulbous. Again, sigh.
I need to get this out, because I have deep emotional trauma connected to weight fluxuations. Here and now, I should probably qualify that although I feel fat, and I beat myself up for being fat, I am most definitely not fat. I'm 5'10" and a size 8. But just a scant year ago I was a size 6 and I adored that. I adored that because my beloved (and deeply overweight) mother has had me convinced since Infancy that BAD THINGS DO NOT BEFALL SKINNY PEOPLE. The reason my father abandoned us? My mother's unsightly saddle bags of course! The reason we lived in abject poverty? Fat people do not, as a general rule, get good jobs. This was (is) my mother's dogma. So when I blossomed out of my chubby childhood into a tall and lanky adolescence my mother was certain that this was a divine sign that I (unlike her) was destined for happiness.
She was also certain that pulling me out of high school and getting me started modeling at the age of 13 was going to save us both. I won't even go into how much that colored my current relationship with my weight. Shit, I won't go into how that colored my current relationship with drugs and alcohol! It sent me off to the races. We can leave it at that. Oh, Mama. She really believed that I (skinny-minny me) would have peace and abundance that she never had. Which means to this day, I feel like I'm failing her when I find myself edging up into the next dress size.
So is the answer me going on another diet? Nah. I naturally really do dig healthy, vegan food. I eat the other shit to be self destructive. It doesn't even taste like food to me! I like to workout (although I don't because I have a big issue with showing up for things that are good for me.). I need to start healing some of this stuff, and I don't know how. It hurts to feel this way, it really does. It hurts to look in the mirror and feel disgusted by a spare tire that's not even that big. It hurts to not approach boys I like because the thought of getting naked in front of them makes me nauseous. It hurts to feel like I need to be locked away because I've got 7 lbs of back fat. To be fair, some of the 7 pounds seems to have been distributed to my boobage. Which is, admittedly, a plus.
Lighter inside, if not outside.
Ingenue
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