Today in the garden I got caught up in a ridiculous activity: trying several different methods, manual and electric, to remove a splitting wedge that I had foolishly and needlessly pounded into a stump, because I had set it in a place too thick to split. I wasted over an hour on this endeavor, and the wedge is still there. I gathered and bagged up the chips and sawdust for mulch, just to have something to show for my efforts.
Thing is, I didn't really need the wedge or the wood I would have gotten, and that kind of time-wasting usually bugs me. But this time I noticed a certain clarity and calmness of mind afterwards and realized that I had lost myself in the activity, in a healthy processing sort of way, exercising my creativity. Sometimes when this happens, especially in the garden, I think that this is my way of learning to play as an adult, and not only play, but reap the psychic benefits of it.
I think I made a minor breakthrough in my CPTSD recovery today. I was thinking about my emotionally immature parents' particular style of neglect, which involved providing for all of my physical needs while completely ignoring a child's need to be guided through developmental stages and to be taught age-appropriate skills. I was thinking especially about the very basic skills that my parents never bothered to teach me at a young age, like tying my shoes. I spent many years embarrassedly asking peers or teachers to tie my shoes when they came untied, sometimes pretending some reason I couldn't do it myself. As I got older, these missed skills, like cooking, doing laundry, dishes, etc., piled up, and I became adept at avoiding doing or talking about skills that my peers had but I didn't.
This isn't the breakthrough. I'd been thinking about that for some time, and I knew that I had some trauma around issues of competency and intelligence because of it. Of course it's hard for a kid to deal with that vulnerability, even more so completely alone, so that aspect is traumatic enough in itself.
The breakthrough today came when I realized that childhood me must have wondered why his peers had these skills and he didn't, and I wondered what childhood me thought the explanation was.
Of course, what childhood me actually thought is less important than what my inner child spontaneously blurted out when I first pondered the question, which was, “I wasn't good enough for my parents to teach me.” That is probably what childhood me thought. Now another thing I was thinking about today is how children can lose their sense of humanity when a parent is extremely neglectful or hurtful, because the parent's perspective defines the young child's world and sense of self. And then it hit me. By avoiding revealing my ignorance of those skills (which is the same as pretending I had them), I was doing much more than avoiding uncomfortable embarrassment. I was defending, or perhaps faking, my human dignity, which my parents' neglect seemed to confirm I never had. So my sensitivity about competence is really about this anxiety about falling out of the human community out of ignorance.
I haven't yet figured out how to really process this realization, but I feel I connected some important dots.
As I approach my 40th birthday, I happen to find myself also desperately needing to quit drinking, so this has been a reflective time for me. I feel like the past 20 years have been tainted and partially lost to my drinking, and I'd like to pass this benchmark looking forward to a very different 20 years (god willing).
And so I want this to be my mantra every time I consider reaching for a drink. I like it because it boils the matter down in a way that makes sense to me. I can't deny that alcohol has stolen months, possibly years, from my early adulthood. I count as stolen all the days I was too hungover to function, all the days I spent hating myself, all the days I spent frantically fixing or covering up some drunken fuckup.
Definitely years.
It is a fact that alcohol has only subtracted from and never added to my life. By never drinking again, I'm virtually adding days to my life and losing nothing. Never touching a drink again adds everything and subtracts nothing.
How many days will I gain? Probably even more than I lost. I find the thought encouraging, anyway.
I hate the fact that I'm returning to this blog because of another fuckup in my marriage caused by CPTSD and drinking. I'm too disgusted with myself to continue writing, actually.
Later: I'm trying to keep things in perspective. I'm trying to remember that I became this way because of my parents' severe emotional neglect and that the impulses and flashbacks I have aren't my fault.
I have a hard time writing about these things. Probably because my emotions themselves are so conflicted. Sometimes I feel doomed to repeating old habits, like all my efforts at recovery can do nothing but space out my breakdowns a little more and make my misery a little less constant. Other times I feel recovered, like I've truly turned over a new leaf (like when I came up with the title for this blog); or at least that I have no choice but to keep moving forward. But moving forward like this is disheartening and terrifying. Am I fooling myself by thinking I can change? How many times can I disappoint myself and get back up again?
I don't know what to do. I wish it were enough for me to get up in the morning and do the things I need to do without some other part of me getting in the way. I need to do parts work. But I also knew that I needed to do visualization and grieving, which I did, only to screw up again later on.
It's a strange thought, but I would rather experience constant failure from a healthy person's perspective than live my current, somewhat successful life with my damaged perspective. Why is my own head such an enemy to the very many good things in my life? It makes me feel like I don't deserve them.
I'm writing pretty much just to check in and honor my intention to use this account creatively and cathartically. I really don't intend to continue on with low-effort posts like this. I don't know how people who write every day manage to do it. I'm tired.
I come to this blank page feeling a great deal of relief, that the reason I haven't been writing is because I've been busy living, having fun, and doing my life's work. My wife has also been more supportive of my independent, scholarly-type pursuits than she used to be (I think having accepted the state of the job market), so I've been taking advantage of the opportunities she's been offering and haven't been in any sulky writing moods.
I really had planned to get more of a running start on this blog, but I just happen to have started it during a busy week preparing for an overseas trip, so poor planning on my part. On the other hand, I probably wouldn't have started it without the sudden impulse, so I'm glad it will be here waiting for me when I get back.
I have Complex PTSD and have lately been doing a lot of emotional processing involving visualization, cathartic grieving, reliving past states, etc. It never ceases to amaze me how some maladaptive compulsions and attitudes of mine almost completely disappear after a particularly strong processing session. I think I have a lot more of these things left to go, but I'm encouraged with the change I've been able to cultivate so far.
I'm really glad I quit smoking cigarettes (still working on weed) almost four months ago now. Cravings tend to drag on for weeks when I try to quit, and I think I'm finally past that terrible initial phase.
This is at least my fourth or fifth attempt at starting a blog. Probably won't be my last. But that's ok. I've always tried to establish some sort of theme or persona to it, but I think this time I'll keep it simple, stick to just a few broad parameters, and see what happens. I want to become more comfortable with writing.
I'm going to try to write one post every day, no matter how short. My only requirements will be that they be earnest but not coming from a place of fear.
“I'm Here” is a mantra that popped into my head recently as I was processing some childhood trauma. Much of the impetus for this blog is this sense of turning a new page in my life, and I feel like I'm arriving in the real world for the first time. I'm here. Finally, I'm here.