Early Morning Coffee

Well, I was rather annoyed because - being the nice mother I am - I offered to drive my daughter to the bus stop in the pouring rain this morning. The annoying part was, she was so slow-moving, that she managed to miss the bus and I ended up driving her to school. But that’s okay. I made a point of getting out of bed on the right foot this morning (which in my case happens to be my left foot), so I came home, had breakfast, and am settled with a cup of coffee at the computer.

As I said, it’s raining and dreary outside, which makes it a wonderful day for keyboard rambling. I have hesitated to mention this in more detail, because in a sense I started this blog to tell people about my book. You know: “Look at me, I am healthy. Read my story and you can recover, too.” I am 100% convinced about the story, but the catch is: I didn’t live happily ever after. In fact, as I’ve already mentioned, things have been building up inside recently.

This is what happened. I wrote my book, and in that process a lot of stuff came up again. The book is comprised of nearly 50 journals, which I wrote between the ages of 10 and 31 years. Most of it I had completely forgotten. So that first round was quite heavy, including a depressive break of a few months. Rather, I took a few months off, otherwise I would have become seriously depressed. Still, I managed.
I live in a German-speaking country, so during the past year I translated the book. I don’t know why, but through the process of translating, it all hit me even harder. Perhaps because in my mother language, it was all rather automated and I read it more as an editor. Whereas translating it into a different language really made me think.

I know, I am meandering, but that is my style, and this is difficult besides. I finished this round of work on the book with a lot of sadness, because I realized a few things. First of all, my heart has always been elsewhere, but I never pursued it honestly, because I was convinced that I am not loveable. Ouch! Second, I never really had anything in common with my husband, except that he was willing to put up with me. Ouch again!

This past Christmas I went home to New York City for one week. What does one do with so little time? Of course - I went to Barnes & Noble. And there I was looking for 2 specific books. I didn’t find either one, but I ended up with three wonderful books: one on Arthur Rimbaud & Jim Morrison, one compiled collection of sample writings from the beat generation, and one on verbally abusive men (by Patricia Evans). It took me nearly half an hour of leafing through before I could convince myself that the third book might be applicable. I read that book on a train ride along the Hudson River and time and again felt tears of relief brimming. “Oh, it’s not all me! It’s not my fault! He really is not behaving appropriately!” I hate to admit it, but it took me 23 years in this relationship to accept the gut feeling that I am not happy with him nor will I ever be.

Don’t get me wrong! He’s wonderful - kind, reliable, faithful, generous, isn’t an alcoholic, doesn’t hit me, doesn’t smoke, gives me my freedom to do as I please. But from the beginning, I loved him most when we were separated, and always breathed a sigh of relief when he went away on business. And he knew enough not to be too nice to me. I’ve already mentioned that - because if he were too nice, I would have considered him a jerk like all the rest and left him early on. The bad part is, he’s neat and I’m sloppy - and that’s just the beginning. He makes me feel stupid, can be very condescending, looks at me like I am a jerk. Sometimes I have difficulty with the language, which doesn’t help. If I say “What?” three times, he often says, “Oh, forget it.” But after all these years, he hasn’t learned to speak loudly or clearly enough to avoid that, as some of my other friends do.

I am still not completely sure how much of the problems have to do with my acting out patterns that I learned as a child. I consider this situation an opportunity to grow. Perhaps I’m crazy, scared, or maybe just procrastinating, but at the moment, I am changing the interaction, and then I’ll see what happens. To leave now, I feel like I would be setting a bad example for my children, and probably pick up the same problems with the next relationship (after the honeymoon, of course). I want to work things through, so that we can separate as two mature adults. That may be wishful thinking. In fact, we might even change our relating to such an extent that we get along better, and according to the book I read, some men can change. Either way, I believe this relationship is an opportunity to learn, and perhaps it’s lasted so long because I’ve been too afraid to learn. Instead of speaking out, I hid in my room and cried alone.

At this point I am focussing on growth within the present situation. I am also focussing on getting my life together. I am not in a position (yet) to simply leave. Actually, I feel a certain elative thrill as I learn to stick up for myself. If he gives me a “stupid” look, I don’t accept it. I give it back and clearly explain what I did/said, etc. and why it makes sense. That also takes a lot of energy and awareness, but I feel better than I do expending the energy to suffer quietly, anticipate his every reaction, or try to keep harmony at all costs. While other people were “walking on sunshine” as Katrina sang, I was walking on eggshells. Now I’m trampling the eggshells, scooping them up and scattering them on the compost heap, convinced that something better will grow, and I’m ready to walk on sunshine!
So, I hope I’m not disappointing anybody by not sticking to the “I am recovered and holier than thou” routine, but that just wouldn’t be authentic. And right now, authenticity is what it’s all about. Just through blogging I have come across some wonderful people, and it warms my heart. In the long run, that’s really what it’s about - sharing and participating in a community. And from what I’ve heard, abusive relationships are no rarity! Especially among people who have/had eating disorders!
Today’s message in a nutshell: Let’s talk about this stuff! And like I said the other day: Recovery is life, so it’s an ongoing process. I thought my book would close one chapter of my life, but it turned around on me and opened a new one!

20 Years of Wondering: a different kind of book excerpt

I wonder if I’ll be in this house 2 months from now. I am so scared. I need a shoulder to cry on. I am so upset, I don’t know what to think.

I wonder if there is so much to sex after all.

I wonder what’s wrong with me – why I ask for so much. He didn’t say much.

I wonder what her first impression was. I’ve been dying all day long to gorge and puke, and it’s been really hard, because Mom’s been around constantly – watching everything I eat, and so suspiciously!

I was just talking to Mom, and said that I wonder if Desmond is attracted to me.

Mom said she doesn’t agree with all I say, but has faith because I believe in me. I wonder what I wrote to spark that off?

I wonder if people still know right away that I’m a foreigner.

I wonder what expression I have on my face when I pass a bum/beggar and pretend not to notice?

I wonder if there’s something lacking in my diet? Maybe it’s simply a lack of sleep.

I’ve been in the tunnel for so long – I wonder if there really is a light? I keep thinking I see it – but it’s only an illusion, or perhaps a crack in the roof – because darkness sweeps over me again and still again to successfully obliterate any gleam of light or hope. There is none. I am destined to struggle. To be scared, miserable and sad. Oh, so lonely.

I wonder if everyone has gone through this? Ah, the ultimate of inner peace – unplug the fucking phone. There is so much pressure, so much bother, I need to get out of it. Fear – what if I’m really stupid? I am a fuck-up and nobody knows it yet?

Young people at Jim Morrison’s grave - I wonder if they hang out there every day? One guy had a guitar and was playing unusual, soothing, music.

At one point, he said something about my health being good. I wonder if he knew.

I wonder about Doug. Mom said if we’re meant to be in love, it’ll take many years. I believe that.

Funny, when the idea of OA first came, I wondered what to do until it was time to go. And now, the meeting has already begun.

It really is so different from anything I’ve ever known – that in itself scares me sometimes, as I wonder if it’s really true – really happening.

I wonder if it’s because I’ve stopped smoking? It really is strange. But then, there are so many possibilities – strange air in the new office, the bus ride. Maybe it’s the cockroaches. They keep multiplying and I’m feeling defeated.

Feel so young and stupid. At times like this I wonder if it hasn’t been frozen - a Polaroid shot that’s taken 5 years to develop – of stupid adolescence. Need something to wake me up. Pushing hard to open eyes. And, God, that’s why I started this letter.

When I got here, my travel bag was on the floor. I wondered where I’d been, since I must have just got back from somewhere far away. But the light was on – and I heard a moan. Goldilocks (Stacey) caught in the act – in bed with her boots on. She ate too much porridge, and fell asleep.

Such a strong feeling of being in love on the one hand, while on the other I wonder how I would ever get out of here.

Maybe I should rethink it anyway? I wonder if it might not be such a bad idea to take it easy now – take the time to build up my strength?

It all seems so harmless, but then I wonder. I’m 24 – not 10 – so it sounds strange to think I’m going to see him to play – but that’s the way I feel.

I wonder if maybe I’m too busy comparing instead of making an effort. Observed us tonight – when I’m not so bitter, it is also fun.

At times I still can’t believe he loves me so much, then I wonder why, and wonder if I should hold on to him? That implies the fear of not being loved again – very improbable.

Probably right – comfort is NOT a good reason to get married. More and more, I wonder what a “good” reason could be – other than children. (And is that really good?)

I wonder if the bulimia is the reason behind the cramps all those years. As far as I can remember, I didn’t have cramps in the very beginning. I’m sure the psyche also played an important role, but the constant nutritional deprivation was surely a major factor. Was functioning for so long on so little energy.

The change bothers me – and I wonder if the focus on sex is a means of avoiding shyness and openness to love.

Creativity in life – as I please, how I choose – don’t have to prove anything, or provide evidence of worthy existence. I’m here. And I wonder how it all came to be. How we all got to be as we are, why, how different we all are from each other. Or is the actual difference less than the varying degrees of courage of expression? Still trapped, not kidding anybody. But working towards at least a taste of that luxurious creative freedom of life – of days gone by.

I wonder if I chose a similarly difficult marriage to that of my parents, in order to prove that divorce is not necessary. I also wonder if I chose someone to whom I could never totally give my heart – as a protective mechanism. I’ve always secretly hoped that he would leave me, since we are so incompatible. But, not wanting to abandon someone, I never had the heart to leave him. Yet I am so grateful to him. I wonder if things had to be so difficult so that I could enjoy my present life as much as I now do.

We’ve made so many mistakes, had so many critical misunderstandings. Sometimes I wonder if the damage done is too destructive to be corrected. Then I feel helpless, like we’re doomed, stuck together with no way out and no way to improve the situation.

I wondered why he asked – did he feel guilty or what. I said he’s free and doesn’t have to feel responsible for keeping me busy. If he’s out having fun, that’s fine.

I wonder if something else happened as well, although that really was traumatic enough.

From a distance, I wonder if it will really help. It certainly was a help last year – and towards the end it felt like I was just beginning to open up. My gut feeling is – therapy would be good.

I wonder if my hurt soul didn’t need that more than stage lights.

Contrary to habit, I am NOT going to explain this! Thank you.

(Excerpts from my book: "Diary of a Recovered Bulimic")