Banishing Resentment (January 16, 2014)

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The theme of this week’s Al-Anon meeting was “Resentment.” It was examined and discussed from a variety of angles. But the larger lesson imparted was that holding onto it does no harm to anyone but thyself. As the great Nelson Mandela once said, “Resentment is like drinking poison and then hoping it will kill your enemies.”

Before the meeting started, I joked with a friend that resentment was my life’s work. How could I be expcted to give it up? Keeping score was one of the family’s favorite activities throughout my formative years. We were competitive on the athletic field, at the game board and most of all, during arguments. The rules confused my sister and I but we certainly internalized the need to try and follow. Satisfaction points were awarded to the aggressor who delivered the lowest blow, drew the quickest and most plentiful tears and generated the most enduring shame. On the other hand, earning the title of “Most Acutely Suffering” also seemed to possess its own appeal.

I never cared much for developing my skills as a verbal pugilist. The debilitating firsthand pain offered by domestic and external bullies alike led to resolution. I would not wittingly subject another to ritual humiliation. It’s cruel, bad karma. But oh how the martyr title fit just right. I often wore the cloak of the persecuted – and I wore it well. It provided excellent cover for withdrawing into my own little world, furiously journaling about how they’d all be sorry one day.

With very little consciousness, I carried this habit forward into adulthood. I found comfort in a familiar pattern. Step 1: Deplete my own energy by giving everything I had without consideration of the worthiness of the task or subject. Step 2: Experience the special kind of misery only available to those with a determined lack of self-respect and the good sense to say “Enough. I’m done.” Step 3: Bask in the masochistic glory of knowing I had been utterly wronged. Step 4: Wait vigilantly and patiently for my assailant to receive their comeuppance.

String 35 years or so of co-dependent, destructive relationships together however, and it becomes impossible to hide from the reality that for all your perceived virtue, you are definitely part of the problem. In the first place, Ms. Naïve Version of Social Justice, there is no mathematical certainty that someone who’s injured you will come to regret it, either through self-awareness or ironic retribution. It is in fact frequently the case that those who move through the world without conscience, remain untouchable. Life isn’t fair. And in the second place, if you’re repeatedly drawn to this dynamic, maybe you’re just as broken as the person you’ve deemed a horrible monster. Repeatedly casting yourself as a victim under circumstances designed to end up with that result, is nothing short of pathological.

While I have not been successful in knowing when to say, “Enough. I’m done.” to others, I figure the quickest way to improve is to start with myself. And so, I am taking off the cloak of matrydom. It’s scary but it must be. Recovery is of course a process and I am bound to risk a step backward now and again, but I am resolute. All those years of cocooning myself in bitter resentment has yielded insomnia, autoimmune diseases, depression and two divorces. Who is the bully in my world after all? Letting go and detaching with love is not a habit that comes naturally, and I can think of two people toward whom I’ve not evolved far enough yet to forgive and compartmentalize. But I’ve put the scoreboard away. The game is over. Team Martyr has lost repeatedly. It’s time to stop blaming my parents for impulses I now have a choice to control.

Saying Yes to Less (January 3, 2014)

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So it’s a New Year and I’ve been nursing a broken heart for a month. It’s getting a little easier everyday to wake up alone and accept the fact that my ex-partner was, in many ways, not who I thought he was. I knew enough to be wary of the drinking when we first got together (though ultimately, that spared me nothing) but he caught me by surprise in other areas where I expected more maturity and personal responsibility, perhaps wrongly. The losses I’ve been mourning are related to those disillusionments as much as his actual flight.

I am also coming to terms with the idea that when a relationship fails, there is always shared blame. I wanted to control and fix where letting go and letting be would have been healthier and saner. Furthermore, the Al-Anon meetings I am now attending do not solely revolve around my experiences with my ex – not by a long shot. Co-dependent relationships with addicts began in childhood but somehow, long after I had other choices and the cognitive ability to recognize the patterns of attraction, followed by self-esteem crushing rejection of me and my “help,” I stayed the course. Al-Anon is helping me figure out why, and since I’ve decided I no longer care to define insanity (performing the same action over and over, yet anticipating different outcomes), how to fortify myself against the natural draw to “projects.”

It is owing to this drop of self-awareness and insight that my loyal and faithful therapist suggested that it was time I start casually dating. I know. I was as surprised by the recommendation as you are. But her thinking went like this: I’ve only been on dry dock for a month, but there’s a fine line between reflection and taking time for yourself, and becoming a hermit who stays in bed watching marathons of Law & Order (original recipe and SVU). She also theorized that I haven’t really ever done casual dating, at least not very well. Usually some form of pressure (self-inflicted or external) has led to quick decisions about whether or not to hitch myself to another’s wagon. I remain an undetermined length of time away from relationship-ready, but Dr. T challenged me to really make a go of disinterested acquaintance. See a bunch of new people. Enjoy fresh neighborhoods, places and activities. Maybe there is a second date, maybe not. Be ok with that and keep the mind focused on an individual’s potential compatibility with me, rather than fixating on intractable personal flaws that could lead to repudiation of my company. Historically, I have been famous for Sally Albright logic: “I knew [so and so] was all wrong, but why didn’t he want ME?!” That, as the great Saturday Night Live character Stuart Smalley might have said, is stinkin’, pointless thinkin’.

Well ok then. I am ready to cause a fulsome breach with the old habits of my past and to that end, what feels foreign and uncomfortable might be completely necessary. Challenge accepted Dr. T. So when I haven’t been working, at the gym or spending time with the fabulous circle of friends and family I’ve no desire to short change, I have gone on two very brief first “dates” with men I might have rejected in the past for various, self-defeating reasons. A couple of cocktails with a former U.S. Senatorial press secretary here, a cup of coffee (tea for me) with an environmental project consultant there. No immediate sparks flew and the best part was, I didn’t feel compelled to create them or cross the guys off the list for eternity. 2014 is all about the slow build.

I am being treated like a lady, enjoying diverse and enlightening conversation with…get this people: no internal or external pressure to turn the experience into more than a satisfying moment. Who knew? It still feels weird but a girl could definitely get used to this.

A Season of Creative Destruction (December 26, 2013)

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Over the year-end holidays, as a society, we tend to take a break from things. The endless rat race of work, household chores, dinner, sleep and repeat is interspersed with welcome down time to focus on the important things. Broadcast television programs go on hiatus in deference to the absent viewer, away from the idiot box living life. Children are granted a reprieve from the structured format of the school day, and many of us quite willfully bedeck our living spaces with items we’d never consider aesthetically desirable the rest of the year – like fake trees.

But for yours truly, there’s one habit that never falls out of favor, no matter what date is displayed on the calendar. And that is clumsiness, or to capture it more broadly and accurately, I am drawn like a magnet to the snafu, even if I’m not the explicit instigator. So as I review the lovely holiday gifts I received from friends, family and co-workers, I must also take stock of items and intangibles I’ll strive to replenish in 2014, all the victims of unforeseen calamity.

The Top Layer of Skin on My Hands

A combination of lackadaisical maintenance and epically shitty winter weather, even by Chicago’s infamous standards, has conspired to completely zombify the palms of both hands. Of course the only way to minimize the suffering of pompholyx eczema is dedication and consistency. Generally I do both of these things well, but since I no longer have anyone’s hand to hold or a body to snuggle at night, I let things slide. However I wish not to remain a tactile pariah in 2014. So I’m backing to working on management in earnest.

Widmer Brothers Tulip Glass

In April of 2011, I visited a friend of mine who was, at the time, living in Portland, Oregon. Big fan of the weird, liberal vibe of that town (and its art deco, vintage signage) and one of the activities planned that weekend by my pal – a tour of the Widmer Brewery. Most people acquainted with me understand I am normally Team Wine, but when beer is a) local and b) free, who am I to stay “no, thanks?” My buddy was kind enough to let me take both souvenir Tulip Glasses back to Chicago with me. They survived a ride in my suitcase, various types of beverages and a near-miss or two from the antics of my furry babies.

One of the set however was no match for my anger at last Sunday’s utterly deplorable play from the Chicago Bears in a 54-11 road loss against the Philadelphia Eagles. The long-gestating rage I have borne against limp quarterback Jay Cutler came to a head (again), resulting in an ill-timed arm flailing which sent the glass sailing from my nightstand, crashing against a wall. Were I the crafty sort (I am not), I might have considered a sentimental repair job. However the 5,001 pieces that littered the hardwood floor of my bedroom hinted that I should just grab a broom and dustpan and get on with it.

New Pair of Jeans

Early yesterday afternoon as I rolled up my cousin’s suburban Lincolnwood driveway, I thought briefly to myself: this is the year. 2013 will be the first when nothing unusually ghetto occurs at the extended family Christmas celebration. Certain problem people chose to abstain from the gathering. No one’s marriage was in trouble of which I was aware, and the litter of cousins in my generation has accrued careers, stable homes and in some cases, highly advanced degrees. There was every reason for optimism.

I underestimated the sudden, extreme microbursts of acrimony that often accompany sibling rivalry, however, and my relatively new, dark grey skinny jeans paid the price. My sister Jenny, a champion baker, contributed to the holiday table, among other goodies, some delicious vanilla cupcakes topped with fresh strawberry buttercream icing. They were as lovely to behold as they were tasty to consume. It turns out the cupcakes will also do as assault weapons in a pinch.

On a return to my chosen seat after victoriously scoring a bottle of red wine and a movie ticket in the annual white elephant gift exchange, I was caught in the wrong place at the wrong time between two first cousins waging sudden battle in an angry frosting fight. I heard the sickening tear of stressed denim on the left knee as I turned away. I was not quick enough. The elder of the dueling cousins stepped on my boot, causing my leg to lock. The battle yielded various admonitions, the loudest emanating from my 62 year-old Uncle, father to the warring cousins. As it happens, it was time for me to leave in order to return the rental car. Indeed.

Fresh Perspective

Early December witnessed the sudden (although perhaps not completely unpredictable) implosion of a long-term romantic relationship. The circumstances and details surrounding the breakup are murky, painful and in the end, largely inexplicable. I will never have the explanations and answers I desire.

Unfortunately, I succumbed to the logical fallacy into which I have habitually fallen in times of personal crisis: the inability to resolve serious conflict, the rejection from another wrestling with demons I will never fully understand means….there is something utterly, terribly wrong with ME. I put everything I had and more into this. I am unlovable. I am hopeless.

I am farther along in my learning in this regard, difficult as that may be to see, than I once was. I struggle to understand in a real way that I cannot control everything. Other people and their baggage are not my fault. There’s nothing I could have done “right” enough to make someone change if they are comfortable as they are. And most importantly: to be solo and experience pockets of loneliness is infinitely preferable to constant anxiety, dysfunction and drama. When I was a child growing up in a chaotic home, all I wished for was independence and a clean, quiet place to enjoy it. And now I have it. I won’t give that away on the cheap in 2014 – or ever again.

Al-Anon, Theater, Michael Jackson & Trivia (December 20, 2013)

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The experiences and diversions of which I availed myself this week, in an attempt to put back together the pieces of my shattered heart and move on with my life, were nothing if not diverse. As is the case with the dissolution of any toxic relationship, receding from crisis mode offers the benefit of perspective. I am slowly becoming aware of how many opportunities I declined or avoided in a futile effort to manage my partner’s temptations, to lavish him with enough attention and support to keep his thoughts and inclinations far from wasting time in a bottle. That these exertions of attempted control over an appetite and force larger than myself were destined to fail, now seems pitifully obvious. So much lost opportunity and energy.

Obviously, there’s nothing I can do to change the past, to rewrite history in order to let go when I should have. But I don’t have to keep making the same mistakes. I don’t have to remain in the fetal position lambasting myself for my time as “that girl,” the one who fell into the logical fallacy trap of believing that loving enough could foment change in one who made his choices years before our first encounter. And since I rarely do anything at half-throttle, I launched myself head first at every novel occasion.

Monday: The first of many Al-Anon meetings. As an atheist, I found myself more than a little uncomfortable with the recitation of the Serenity Prayer which opens and closes each meeting, as well as the frequent mentions of God or a “higher power.” But another friend of mine working the program gave me some great advice that I will endeavor to apply. Frame the “higher power” idea as the energy of the universe, your sponsor, or your own inner strength – whatever speaks to you. I can also see I’ll struggle with the forgiveness elements of the curriculum for the forseeable future, as well as the explicit instructions that what you place at the top of your priority pyramid should not be another person (obviously) or even the distracting intoxicants of work (dammit!). Somehow, some way, I’ll have to learn to put my own emotional and physical well-being there – a notion antithetical to my essence. I suppose that’s why I need to be in these meetings. I’m committed to change and that is never easy.

Tuesday: Back in my comfort zone taking in a production of Nina Raine’s Tribes at the legendary Steppenwolf Theatre. The play grapples with questions of communication and inclusiveness. Do we need spoken words to convey layered meaning or can we navigate the enormous depth and range of human emotion with visual symbols alone? What does it mean to be within or without a personal communication system, and what effect does that inclusion or exclusion have on one’s self-image?

This gets me thinking about my ex’s daughter and granddaughter. The friendships will be maintained but the terms of our relationships have changed and over time, shared experiences and inside jokes will accumulate without me. I will become more of an outsider, a “Somebody That I Used to Know.” This awareness fills me with bottomless sadness, but I don’t push it away. I take it in.

Wednesday: Major gear shift to attend the holiday party of my employer for the first time. Decent conversation, good food and drink and OH SHIT IS THAT A MICHAEL JACKSON IMPERSONATOR!? I jump on the seat of the nearest booth, so I can witness every crotch grab and moonwalk over the heads of my colleagues and everything else disappears. I don’t care that I am singing at the top of my lungs along with someone who only approximates the King of Pop, or that the wait staff gives me strange looks when I bend down from my perch for a wine refill. I am lost in the moment. Right now, right here, I am joy.

Later Wednesday Evening: As the great Ernest Hemingway would have observed, I am a little “tight” when I meet two of my best galpals for an Illinois Woman’s Press Association strategy session followed by a round of bar trivia. Fortunately I am 35 and appear to have learned a lesson or two about pacing. I switch to water, sip the half-price wine slowly and intermittently take mental steps back to appreciate the fact that I am out and about using my brain alongside two women I love, respect and admire. A broken, competitive and abusive relationship with my mother controlled my interactions with the other members of my sex for many years, and time was I could count close female confidantes on one hand with a couple fingers left over. No more.

These musings inspire me. I am capable of learning through a combination of self-awareness and frustration. Maybe that is my “higher power.”

Open Letter to the Alcoholic Who Broke My Heart (December 12, 2013)

Becky Sarwate4 Comments

This may seem like an odd post right on the heels of so much Thanksgiving happiness and gratitude, but life is full of twists and turns that way. I did not write this material as a blog post. I actually wrote and sent this to my now former flame earlier this week. It will never be responded to and I am not likely to ever have the answers I need to help me make sense of it all and move on cleanly. But my life and voice matter and in order to try to minimize what is already a huge pile of sorrow and waste, I am reprinting the letter here.

I realize that certain portions of it may be shocking, embarassing, perhaps even anger-inducing to certain people who have come know and respect me. Clearly I am an imperfect being with a lot of work to do on herself. I am one who lived a life (prior to age 30) mostly in the shadows – secrets, hidden pain, truths almost too awful to speak. In a sense, though there was much love, serious portions of the last 18 months have been a lived lie as well. I just didn’t see how clearly that was so and it’s time to throw the doors open so that maybe, just maybe, I can find some peace.

Dear Sir-

For reasons I will never fully comprehend or understand, I am sitting here thinking about and viewing the wreckage that was our life and home together. As the entire Facebook world knows now, you went out last Friday night on one of your famous benders, came home later than promised and nearly burned the house down for the second time in a month – all this when I had the flu and needed security and care. The next morning, I woke up understandably incensed but instead of apologizing, you mocked me, told me you were tired of my shit and said you were going for a walk. Yes, I threw your coat and sweatshirt into the hallway and invited you to walk it off and return when you had some sense of responsibility. Who wouldn’t? I am not a doormat and this had happened too many times

As you know I never saw you again despite many, many pitiful begging outreaches for you to return, let me apologize (when I had done nothing wrong) and work things out. Instead you chose the situation we have now. What I regret more than the loss of you and I is the way I let your disease control me. I degraded myself convinced that your logic, grasp of right and wrong and love for me would lead you back to sanity. I was arrogant. I never understood until now that I was never a match for alcohol.

I was so confused, depressed and desperate, I put myself in harm’s way on Saturday and it is quite fortunate I am sitting here typing this message today. I took way too much (apparently overdosing is harder than it looks) and I woke up vomiting, hating myself for my weakness and giving you the satisfaction. You never looked back at me despite 18 months of love, family, experiences, intimacy and life planning. I will never be sure or be able to prove it, but will always suspect that something angry and destructive clicked in your head Saturday and you wanted to definitively punish me for my inability to accept your disease and commitment to drinking, knew we could never come to agreement about it. Perhaps you were right, but I am a human being who took good care of you: invested in you, your dreams, your child and grandchild, believed the best in you. You were and still are the love of my life but if there is any justice for me it will not remain that way forever. 

Your ongoing flight from reality has allowed you to hide from the harm you’ve caused, the fact that I am terribly, terribly hurt when you know well from my history that I am a person who can ill afford another disillusionment. You’ve taken advantage of that as you have so many other elements of me. I remember when we started dating, you predicted it. You told me more than once: “My drinking is the source of all my problems: financial, career, relationships. If I lose you, it will be my fault and everyone will know it. Know that I blew it with a woman who loved the shit out of me that I probably never deserved anyway.” I should have taken you more seriously, clearly, but another one of your tricks is to always straddle the line between “humor” and reality so that no one ever knows what matters to you or how serious you are.

I deserve some sort of conversation, closure, some taking of the responsibility that you haven’t been able to assume while I propped up the relationship and gave you a great Facebook love story.

Almost everyone who knows us, even those who don’t like me much, know I was good for you. They also know you’re a drunk and that at your age, there’s not too many chances left for health and happiness like we had (because really, at the end of the day, every problem we faced stemmed from your drinking – the embarassing episodes, the womanizing, the fights and police activity, the damaged ribs, the broken promises, my hysterical confusion – all had genesis in your bottle). The same couple that could build a Run for Fun and the family we were forming is thoughtlessly and effortlessly brought down by one man’s refusal to be well for himself and the person he claimed to love and cherish. This is an epic tragedy and one I will just never understand. I have to believe somewhere that you did love me, that what we had was real, but it’s so hard to grasp given your heartless behavior.

What I wanted Saturday was a loving, calm partner who could see what his patterns were doing and work with me on finding solutions. Only a completely blind person could miss that this dream is now impossible and I have to find another. It will be hard but I will do it.

What I won’t be anymore is a dehumanized warehouse for your belongings and the remnants of our life, left to come home to an empty apartment each night to look at what was: the only adult who seems to be wondering how we’ll end our storage lease, whether you have enough clothes and toiletries, or if you’re drinking yourself to death. It has been clear for several days that you are not wondering about or missing me. The fact that I haven’t eaten since Friday night, can’t sleep and feel a gnawing pit in my stomach probably means nothing to you. My sister advised me not to tell you these things but I have nothing to hide. It is you who should be ashamed. I am proud of the effort I gave us. I was my best partner with you. 

So here it is. If I don’t hear anything from you by Sunday evening, this is what I am doing: I will have friends help me remove your belongings from the storage place and my apartment and put them somewhere, anywhere out of my sight so that I am no longer burdened with the pain of having to see them. Both the apartment lease and the storage space are in my name and it is my legal right to do so in the absence of some accountability from your end. I have said this to you in a voicemail but I am also typing it out for posterity with witnesses so there’s no later confusion: I do not want you in my apartment moving and packing things when I am not present. I no longer trust you with anything.

All this said, you do not have to let it come to that and any wise person would probably encourage you to act like the 42 year-old man you are supposed to be. You can collect your belongings at a mutually agreeable time and it doesn’t have to be by the close of Sunday, but if you’d like to take advantage of my patience in that regard, you are going to have to communicate. You don’t make all the rules. This is not your world with me just gratefully living in it. I want to leave no room for being misquoted. 

The storage lease is due December 28th and the rent on the first. I will not pay the former out of my own pocket just because you refuse to make a transition plan with me. The rent I will deal with as it would be mine whether you lived there or not. If you need to leave things in storage beyond the 28th, you will have to pay me half the fee. Not negotiable and silence is not a response. If that is what you choose, I will revert to Plan A which I delineated several paragraphs up.

I have advised my building super that you have a key but are not welcome in my apartment so again, I must fervently discourage you from trying to go there without my presence. I cannot believe I am having to type any of this. I have been through divorces that were more adult and caring and amicable. One of the only comforts left to me at this point is the absolute certainty that somewhere in your confused brain you are well aware of the mistakes you are making, and will regret them long after I have ceased to feel pain. I would have loved to say all of this in person but you will not grant me any courtesies. So this is what I have.

In my secret dreams, I will nourish a fantasy of you showing up at my door, 30-day sobriety chip in hand, saying all the words you couldn’t say when you had the chance and vowing to take care of me for the rest of your life to atone for everything. Of course that will never happen but it’s a lot more plesant to ponder than the sick and awful events you have intermittently subjected me to over the course of 18 months. I will do my best to always remember the good in you, your humor and your potential. I also promise to always be there for your child and grandchild, as well as treasure the bonds I formed with other members of your family. I do not have to lose all of that just because I am nothing to you.

Above all, I will always live in fear of that call – the one that says you’re in jail, the hospital or dead, the outcome of some terrible drunken tragedy. You deserve better than that. I hope you see that, believe it and take action one day. You are letting alcohol do your living for you. It’s not the choice you pretend to yourself that it is.

I await your response – or not. Then I will follow-through with Plan A with a very heavy heart, simply because you’ve left me no other option. Through it all, I love you. I always will. I also thank you. You were really the man who brought my heart back to life after my divorce two years ago. My sister will tell you she’d never seen me happier with a man, for however long that lasted. I know better than to expect you to say anything kind in return, no matter how true. It’s safer to keep to yourself, I’m sure. So I will have to learn not to need it and hold onto my own truth.