Codependency & Reservations?

My sponsor had me read through "Recovery and Relapse" again out of the Basic Text and journal on it, and I put it off until after I went over my step work with her on Tuesday. I felt like it was super important to focus on my codependency, since I constantly struggle with it.

One of my biggest downfalls has always been this underlying need to control everything around me, especially people. I want everyone to act a certain way to provide the outcomes I want, with little regard to how I am affecting the same situations. I'm self-centered; it's all about me, my needs and wants. When things don't work out, I blame myself for my inability to do or say the exact thing that might have salvaged everything, especially in relationships. I beat myself up for months when IP left me because surely he didn't see how hard I was trying, how I got clean for him, how he was mistaken in assuming my future goals because I didn't properly communicate and only complained about my parents' failed marriage. I even considered offering to have his children to keep him around when I found out how important that was to him, even though he entered into a relationship with me knowing I didn't want kids, so it was he who was being deceptive, not me. But I am powerless over him and I lost control of the situation so I considered all of the ways I could manipulate it back in my favor. I reached out for a while until I allowed ML to dominate my mind. I got lax on meeting attendance, step work, and talking to my sponsor and other recovering addicts -- outside of his halfway house. Even before I knew he was using again, I blamed his shady behavior on myself. I did something wrong. I was undesirable and pushed him away. I'd try to cook for him, give gifts, hold him, any form of affection I could think of, but it was never received. He'd stop speaking to me all together for weeks at a time. If I talked to anyone, it was about him. He became my Higher Power. Once I did accept his using, I had to fix everything for him. My own recovery meant nothing, I hated myself, became suicidal, and relapsed. I put others ahead of myself because that's how I've always expressed love, but it's really more destructive and self-deprecating than selfless like I want to convince myself I'm being. I use other people, especially men, to validate myself and maybe it stems from feeling emotionally neglected by my father growing up or these grandiose expectations of romance and wanting to be this fragile thing to be saved, but I only end up disappointed and hurt in the long run. I love the idea of love and someone's potential more than who they really are. I have fun with someone I'm lusting after and mistake it for love, but it's always conditional. They're smart enough to leave after a while, but I will be miserable trying to make things work for as long as they'll allow me to. But feelings are not fact. I know that I truly love these people, but I am obviously capable of loving again, even though I don't want to admit it because the idea of going from one man to another makes me feel like a total whore, even if sex isn't involved. I also have the tendency to go for men who need to be taken care of, as if I'm fulfilling some weird mommy complex. I know that I'm instinctively nurturing despite how much I fight it, but I need someone who is responsible and self-supporting like I strive to be, but first I have to take care of myself and support my own emotional needs, not rely on them. I'll continue to project my insecurities onto every relationship I have and be miserable and alone and make a lot of people resentful of me in the process. I'll continue my destructive patterns because they're comfortable and it's how I know to cope. I have to work on my issues with food and internalizing everything, learn to reach out to the right people, stop reacting so heavily on my emotions, and get outside of myself. I must share in meetings and be more open to newcomers; I must continue journaling, talking to women, and being consistent with my step work; I must pray daily, sometimes many times a day, if only for willingness. I have to be grateful and remember that gratitude is an action. I want to be more involved with service and help others the way people help me, but to do so, I have to be emotionally available in ways I've not been. I have to find balance in my life and apply my recovery to everything I do, because while I can't progress if I'm using, quitting drugs is the smallest part of the process. If I have to devote a certain time out of my day to pray or food-prep or do something for me on top of step work, then so be it. I have to consistently turn things over to my Higher Power until I learn to relinquish all control, and to do so, I really have to work thorough second and third steps.

Throwbacks for emphasis...

01/23/2014

It really sucks for me to have to admit that I relapsed, again, almost immediately after starting this blog the other day. That would make it my third in two months. My original sobriety date, the day I was arrested, was October 3. I didn't even make it a full three months before I talked myself into drinking over stupid shit, and attempting to OD. See, while I was in jail, my boyfriend stood by me and was so supportive. When I got out, I had to move back in with my parents as I lost my apartment, and he moved back in with his mother. The plan was to save up and use the time that I was court-ordered to live here to catch up on bills that I'd fallen so far behind on and find a better place. I moved in right before Halloween, and by the beginning of December, he broke up with me. Told me he didn't love me anymore. I was distraught as it was, until a couple of weeks later, I discovered that he had slept with his friend's girlfriend a couple of weeks before breaking up with me and had no intentions of telling me. I confronted him about it that night, it was confirmed, and the next day I stayed in bed until the late afternoon when I was determined to get as drunk as possible as quickly as possible. Two bottles of wine, a very stout vodka drink, and twenty minutes later, I was buying heroin and having it delivered to me with the works. The people who brought it to me are friends that I had to seriously con into it, and their one stipulation was that they shoot me up because they knew what I was trying to do. I had talked my now-ex into bringing me the blankets I'd forgotten in his car, and everyone knew I was drunk and I thought I was being slick hiding how high I was, but he said he could tell that I was a nod away from possibly not waking back up. I'll admit that my biggest regret is not the anxiety I caused myself over potentially getting caught, what with it being the weekend before Christmas and drug screens being so intense, but the fact that in my drunk-high fog, I managed to lose the remaining drug and didn't finish it. That's a fucked up way of going about things, but that's how my mind works.  

Flash forward to this month. I started hanging out with a friend of mine who is also in the program, and he's literally been the biggest inspiration I could ever hope to find. He was so much worse off than I've ever been, and he was resistant at first, but now seems to flourish. We have so much more in common than I could have ever imagined to find in another human being, and really I'm surprised at how much I can't seem to get enough of someone so similar to me. He's the easiest person to talk to and doesn't seem to judge me (that I can tell). I admitted to him the other day that since my first relapse, I've been drinking on and off for a straight month. His birthday was the twenty-second (the day after my first post), and I spent the night before blogging, making him cupcakes, and chugging rum. I realized after the fact that not only could I easily get into this place where I feel like I'm able to successfully sneak around and get away with things and get eventually caught, but really it was all pointless. What good did it do me to drink? I wasn't any happier during or after. I constantly crave a drink, but it's really the dope I want. Alcohol is just safer because it's out of your system faster. Thinking things like this makes me realize how badly I really do need to be in this program, and that's a huge step for me to admit. The problem is, the longer I go without using, the worse my bulimia gets. I'm so fucked in the head in more ways than one, and I don't honestly know which is worse. I can stay clean from drugs, but I'll always find some way to hurt myself.

After typing up all of this, I logged onto Facebook to see my sister's friend tagged me in a post.

She seems to think I'd be qualified to speak? I hate speaking in front of people, but it probably wouldn't be a bad idea. Does it count as service work? It's not affiliated with any twelve-step programs, obviously, so I wouldn't really incorporate any of that, and would have to watch my language while still trying to focus on strength and hope. Experience is good especially as a scare tactic, but I feel like if it's going to prevent someone from picking up, or leading someone to find help, I need only use enough to get the point across and follow it up as positively as possible. Something to think on, I suppose.

Anyway, when I'm uninspired to blog, oftentimes just a prompt or a topic helps to jump start the process, so feel free to throw in any suggestions of things you'd like to read!

NEDAwareness Week 2017

So this is a big one, and I've really struggled with the concept of making a post about it at all, but I feel like it needs to be discussed, and my mission was to be more open, after all. So it's coming to the end of the National Eating Disorders Awareness week, brought about by NEDA, and this year's theme is It's Time to Talk About It; basically, the drive to end the stigma around eating disorders. They do not discriminate based on age, sexuality, gender, ethnicity, whatever. They can manifest at any time, suddenly or gradually, and can take on many different forms. My experience has shown that the secrets I keep are what keep me sick, and since I am actively working toward recovery in all areas of my life, my issues with food and body image must be addressed or I will continue to destroy myself. 

Not all addicts have eating disorders, just like not all disordered people abuse drugs. Some people have issues with self and/or food, but do not have eating disorders. (Here's a cool resource!) What's the difference? The NEDAwareness site has a self-check screen that encourages anyone with questions to take to better help them get started, as everyone who suffers has a different experience. But an eating disorder is a mental illness, and is not actually about food! It is a warped perception of self and -- in my case -- a means of control. Eating disorders are also the most lethal of all mental illnesses, caused not only by the immediate or long-term affects, but often by suicide. It is common for even non-addicted people to abuse substances to control weight, self-harm, overexercise, go from one extreme (such as restricting or binge eating) to another, etc. I've read quite a few memoirs and biographies of people in recovery to compare, but the easiest way for me to illustrate this is by using myself as an example. Proceed with caution, could be triggering.

I always felt very different from everyone around me, especially kids my own age, beginning when I was very young. My parents always talk about how I was such a happy child, and then one day it was like a switch went off, and I was different. I began overeating in early elementary school; looking back, I believe it had something to do with the stress of moving to a new house, having a new sibling, dynamics changing in school, whatever. The point is, I used food to comfort myself. I played sports on and off all throughout my school years, but otherwise was not very active. I was in the best shape when I swam year 'round in middle school, because I was finally putting all of those extras carbs to good use! I was always very down on myself about my fluctuating weight and began cutting myself around age eleven, but rather than make an effort to change, I would usually cope by eating more. It was also at eleven that I had my first drink, but it wasn't until high school that it became a frequent weekend thing to binge drink, and I began smoking cigarettes which immediately affected my lung capacity and my ability to swim long distances. I had the tendency to isolate and hide junk foods, especially when I went away to my first year of college. I was in a new town where I hardly knew anyone that I didn't graduate high school with, and they all made new friends, so I was alone a lot. I walked around town quite a bit, but I spent most of my free time in my dorm room bingeing, cutting, and smoking weed. I thought it would be a good idea to try to overdose on Aspirin one time, too, but it only left me with tinnitus for a couple days. I was horribly lonely, bored, started skipping classes to sink further into myself, and ended up coming back home for my second year. Once I was back at my parents' home with my truck, I went to school and found a job, but college was becoming less and less of a priority as I realized art was not the field I wanted to pursue, so in my fourth semester, I simply quit going and failed all of my classes as a result. I was drinking and smoking regularly, and began experimenting with any and every drug I could find. It was at nineteen after I had my wisdom teeth removed that I fell in love with opiate painkillers.

21st birthday

I began cosmetology school part time a few months after dropping out of college, hoping a skill would save me from a lifetime of working retail, and went at night part time where I spent every lunch break drinking 2x4's, smoking bowls, and when I could get ahold of any, taking pills and doing lines of coke. My "partying" began to take a toll on school again and my ability to work, and I switched to school full-time in an attempt to make up all of the hours I'd missed and still graduate in a decent amount of time. I was living with a friend in our own apartment for the majority of this time, drinking beer excessively and overeating, and when my twenty-first birthday rolled around, I was at my highest weight. I was so disgusted with myself and everything about my appearance that I was determined to finally do something about it, even though it took a few months for me to finally put those plans into action. The following spring, as I was nearing the end of cosmetology school, I began waking up early before class to do simple exercises to start my day, and severely restricting. My first rock bottom was the day I realized I'd eaten only fast food all day, for all three meals, and I finally committed to totally cutting out meat, not only for ethical reasons, but to severely limit my food options. I joined a gym and began working out for hours at a time every day, heavy on the cardio, and in the month between clocking in my final hour and actually picking up my certificate for graduation, had dropped thirty pounds. The night of graduation, my friends, boyfriend, and I decided to go out to a club, where there was a foam party. I had changed out of my heels into wedged flip-flops, slipped in the wet shoes walking down steps, and broke my foot; my bones had become so brittle from being malnourished.

Graduation

Being in a walking boot for a month greatly impacted my ability to work out, which had quickly become an addiction. I was obsessed with burning every calorie I took in and then some, so I was terrified of suddenly being unable to move like I wanted to. I'd toyed with the idea of vomiting on and off for most of my life, but was never able to force it, until one day my boyfriend and I ordered pizza after I'd been heavily restricting for so long on strictly healthy foods and I ate two slices. I was doing laundry in the on-site laundry room at our apartment, went to change the clothes from the washer and dryer, and proceeded to purge in the trash can. From that day on, for months, I continued to restrict and purge everything I ate. When my boyfriend confronted me about it, I only became more secretive. We worked differing schedules, so it was easy enough to hide when he wasn't around, or so I thought. My drinking was increasing at the same time, and I'd chose alcohol over food for my caloric intake most days. Once my boot was off, I was back in the gym every morning. I was constantly dizzy and light-headed, my face and neck were swollen, my digestive system was fucked, my gums and the enamel on my teeth were eroding from stomach acid, etc. My self-harm was also increasing, as I'd black out on a nightly basis, and I put myself in countless dangerous situations being totally unaware of what I was doing.

"Chipmunk cheeks"

I went to visit my Grandmother in Florida with my family and boyfriend the summer of 2011, and fearing discovery, I had to limit my vomiting, but was still terrified of food to an irrational degree. I began abusing laxatives and diuretics, because any little thing I did keep down would sit and rot in my stomach for what felt like days, and I just wanted it all out. I was so hungry all the time, and would dream about bingeing so intensely at night that I would wake up believing it had happened, and try to purge nothing. My exercising decreased once I began working in a salon and my substance abuse continued to progress. I was restricting all day, bingeing at night, and purging as much as possible. I began putting weight back as my metabolism shut down, trying to conserve whatever it could get. I was either out at the bar every night trying to get my mind of things and drinking my sorrows away with friends, or drowning in self-hatred at home alone with bottles of liquor and pills, curled in a ball on my couch. Grocery stores were terrifying places for me, because I couldn't focus on the necessities to make meals or even snack normally, it was all about the binge foods. I'd stop daily to stock up, hit the liquor store, and lock myself away at home while my boyfriend was at work. I was belligerent usually by the time he came home, but I was so absorbed in the cycle of self-destruction that no matter how much I convinced myself that I needed to stop, that I had to quit taking it out on him, that I was only getting worse, I just wasn't ready to ask for help. I was diagnosed with all of these food allergies and digestive issues as a direct result, and still continued.

That relationship ended abruptly and I continued to act out on my own, ending in a suicide attempt that landed me in the ER and locked in a psychiatric ward for over a week, where I went through DTs and was first diagnosed with bulimia. Upon release I was instructed to move back in with my mother, take my psych meds, and see a therapist, but I went back to my apartment after the first night and was drinking again almost immediately. I began hanging out with a guy who was shooting up, so I did too. My eating disorder and substance addiction go so hand in hand that it's often difficult to separate the two. I stopped drinking almost entirely because all I wanted to do was get high. Food didn't matter, and work was only to make money to keep going. Eventually I got arrested, spent a month in jail where I went through withdrawals, and was put on drug court. I was sentenced to eighteen months of random drug screens, intensive outpatient, regular court dates, and attending AA and NA meetings, but ended up doing twenty-two months because I was sanctioned three times for relapsing. Trying to stay clean kicked my bulimia back into overdrive, and I was bingeing and purging constantly again, to the point that it was affecting the creatine levels in my urine screens, and the court thought I was diluting them to hide drugs, so I eventually told on myself. The center where I was doing outpatient created a special group for me and a few other clients who struggled with food, but everyone was eventually kicked out of the group and a few people graduated, and when I couldn't stop getting, I was sent to the relapse group. I managed to stop vomiting for the duration of drug court under threat of being kicked off, but I continued to use laxatives and binged. When I finally graduated the program, I began getting high again that night, and the past couple of years have just been a cycle of relapse after relapse, in every area of my life.

This last high, I had to be forced to eat anything. It wasn't even a conscious attempt to starve myself, I had just gotten to the point of wanting to die and when I couldn't successfully overdose ever, I lost interest in doing anything. I got down to my lowest weight ever, but I have no idea what that was because I was so sick that I didn't even care about the numbers on the scale anymore. I knew everything was out of my control, and I wanted to succumb to my disease. I worked and would eat every few days just so I could keep getting high, and when I'd wake up still alive, I had to keep doing it. I didn't even realize how awful I looked, or else I really didn't care. I ended up nodding off or overdosing while behind the wheel and totaled my car, and the officer who showed up should have given me a DUI and arrested me, but instead let me leave with my Mom and I vaguely remember him looking me dead in the eye and basically telling me to get help. I had promised my sponsor and my family that if I got high again, I'd try inpatient treatment for the first time, so I kept my word. I went to my judge the next day, and he set me up at a detox facility and rehab, and I went that afternoon.

I didn't fully grasp what I had done to myself with my eating until I completed detox and was sent to rehab, and I can remember hiding in layers of clothes because first off, it was the beginning of winter, and secondly, that's just what you do when you detox. Your body can't properly regulate its own temperature, so the cold sweats become unbearable. I was chilled to the bone all the time. I was getting out of the shower one night and looked at my reflection and was shocked. I've always aspired to be this fragile, skeletal thing, and would revel anytime I could see or feel a new bone protruding where it was once covered in layers of fat, but for once I didn't recognize what was in the mirror. I felt almost as if I'd finally overdone it, and was overcome with this sick sense of pride, but also fear. Was I actually dying? Did I want to live? I knew I needed help, and told my counselor the day I did intake that I was bulimic and had to stop in order to succeed in staying clean, but suddenly I wasn't so sure that's what I wanted. I knew I didn't want to purge anymore, I certainly didn't want to binge, but none of that would ever end if I continued to restrict like I always wanted to. The cycle would simply begin all over again, and if experience taught me nothing else, it was that it always got worse with time. So I tried to stick to a diet that accommodated my allergies and eat as best as possible, was compliant with my medication, and agreed to continue outpatient and therapy beyond my release. So far, I've continued to do all of those things.

I've had a few slips, but I try to work through them rather than beat myself up or give in completely. One thing I've discovered is that I won't be happy with myself no matter my weight if I don't work on myself from the inside out. Exercise is a major component to my recovery, but I have to maintain a balance in that area as well as how I'm eating because I can abuse it, too. My medication has thus far helped keep me stable enough to not feel the need to harm myself in anyway, even when the thought crosses my mind. I have people to talk to through it all. I have healthier coping mechanisms that I just need to put into action. Recovery is not a straight line, but it's worth pursuing. I am not happy with my body, but I'm working on accepting it for me, and not relying on outside validation or drugs to affect the way that I feel. I want to be happy and healthy so that I can better contribute to the people that I love in my life and be there for them, because when I'm consumed with my disease, I'm no good to anyone. I used to be terribly embarrassed of admitting my problems, but there's no message without the mess. Whether I'm leaning on one end of the ED spectrum or the other, it's all the same sickness. You don't have to fit certain physical criteria to have one. You can appear perfectly healthy but be falling apart on the inside, as I've been most of my life. This began for me at a very young age, and has been going on for nearly twenty years, and I'm ready to take action and end it. I want to be happy. I am worthy and I deserve recovery. Everyone does. You do, too.