Six Steps: Part III

When I spoke with my friend Jean, who hasn’t let go of me despite my absence from social media, I told her about my reticence in blogging. I’m struggling, and I had the absurd idea that I should be much further recovered before I write anything. Well, I didn’t realize how absurd it was until we spoke. 🙂 She reminded me that you all, like me with you, would want to share in the struggle. We need to know we’re not alone.

Here, then, are the last two of the six steps.

5. Your choices are yours. It might be tempting to tell ourselves that we’re making a change to please someone else. That way, if it doesn’t work out the way we would like it to, we know where to place blame. “You happy now?” we shake our fists in frustration. It’s because it’s so hard, that’s my opinion. Withdrawing from my medications is the number one most difficult thing, next to my father’s death, that I’ve ever been through. Does my decision have wide consequences/rewards? Of course, it does. The difference in who I am off meds with who I was on them is like – well, like the difference between milk chocolate and dark. I’m dark chocolate now. I’m richer with my emotions, like eating the most expensive caviar, but there is a slightly bitter bit at the end. Dark chocolate is an acquired taste. I’m teary a lot, over silly movies and TV shows. And my emotions are all over the place. God bless my mother, as she accepts who I am now in all its nakedness, reassuring me I’m much better to be around without being literally sedated. I suppose in a way I’ve been sleepwalking through the last 28 years. Does my family’s happiness at my condition mean they want to see me struggle? Not at all. I think what I’m trying to say is that it’s my life and I made this choice. Whatever happens, good or bad, it’s my responsibility.

6. Practice loving kindness. Times like these, fraught with emotion, need lots of affection and tenderness. Everyone, including ourselves, needs our loving kindness or at least the benefit of the doubt that we are all doing our very best. My mind is sharper now, which I’ve decided is not necessarily a good thing. With no buffer between my mind and the memories of nearly thirty years, I grieve for all that was lost. I grieve the loss of who I might have been. I grieve at costing my family, especially my mother, so much sadness and fright over the years as they had to deal with a shell of a human being. So, yes, I need to practice loving kindness with myself as I try to keep myself mindful and free from the gaping maw of past defeat. I’ll never do it perfectly. All I can do is my very best, and sometimes be happy with half-efforts. That’s all we can do, any of us.

2 thoughts on “Six Steps: Part III

  1. You, did it, Chris! Thirty years is a long time to sort of lose from your life. On the bright side, you’re going to be fully present for the next thirty (or more) years, and that’s something to celebrate.

    I can’t begin to imagine how hard this is for you, but you’re doing it. You have a lot of grief and pain to work through, but you’re doing it. That’s what I think your family is proud of. Not that you’re in pain, but that you are choosing to live your life fully — and that to experience the heights of joy, there’s the other side of the spectrum, too.

    Never give up, my friend!

    Like

    • That’s true, Jean. I never used to be a hopeful person, but – well I got new glasses recently so everything’s a bit clearer. In fact, I’m thinking about taking an online class for creative nonfiction. 🙂 Who knows? Certainly can’t hurt.

      Like

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