Deb: “You're going to be hungover in the morning!”
Mike: “I DON'T CARE!”
Deb: *just smiles*
Mike: “I think the situation demands another refill”
Deb: “I'm not waddling out there again”
Mike: “Waddle away baby, waddle away!”
I'm drunk. In a wonderful way.
So I'm seeing a psychologist because I fucked up. In a way that I have before. The repitition of a pattern that's been played out over the past few years. And there was nothing different about that. Same old shit.
I've always been too scared to go to a counsellor before. It would have meant admitting I couldn't help myself. That I wasn't in control. That I needed help. That's what's different this time. That I can admit that. That I can seek help.
I've probably visited her 8 times now. We've looked at what I did, yes, but more importantly we've looked at why I've done it. And what I've done? In a sense it's fucking trivial, and in a sense it's a huge betrayal. An online relationship. Addicted to chatting. Same old, same old.
What it is, is an addiction. It happens for a number of reasons. And once it happens, it's self-perpetuating. It's an illness. It fucks with your brain. It wants you to keep going. So, yeah, trivial — jesus, it's chatting online for godsakes! Get a grip. Except, you know, it's not. It screws you up. It fucks things up. Again and again and again.
So, we've been looking at why I do it, and some underlying causes, and some ways to cope. Some ways to heal. Some ways to get better. None of which is an excuse. It's happened and I need to be responsible. But … it *is* an illness, and I *can* accept help for it.
I've got problems with self-esteem. I've got problems with wanting to please, with not wanting to show weakness, with wanting to put on a brave face. I've got problems with putting my needs first. I've got problems with not accepting that things happen, and, so, you're not perfect, but, what the fuck, you just gotta get on and live life. I've got problems, it seems, with being unable to find a replacement word for the verb ‘fuck’.
But. But. This isn't how it has to be. It's not be perfect or fuck up. It's not get stressed and slip into the ‘coping mechanisms’ I've developed.
All of which is leading up to something like this.
Next week I'll be handing in my notice at work. Being a “Senior Staff member” with appropriate responsibilities (and yes I got a formal letter concerning my lack of performance as such two days ago) is *not* something that's important to me. Working in a job that I don't really enjoy is not important to me.
What is important? Kissing my wife. Having time for a cup of tea in bed in the morning. Laughing with my son. Drinking wine and listening to music. Working in an environment that I like. Taking time to relax. Laughing. Realising that my self-worth comes from me and not others. Making love. Hoping my wife will share her chocolate ice-cream with me. (ok, so she didn't!) Making a real go of what I want to do in my life and knowing I can do it. Writing in my damn journal. Accepting my mistakes and moving on from them. Not fucking worrying what others think. Realising that you only live life once, and that there's no way you want to go to your grave thinking you've passed up the richness of life for the pallid fantasy of online chatrooms.
I was going to write “wish me luck”. But it's not luck. It's hard work. It's love. It's forgiveness and compassion. But keep reading. That helps. That means a lot.
last | nextLink of the day
Di's journal
Because she's got a funky new haircut. Oh, and updated for the first time in about a year!
Journals and blogs that I read regularly
Raising Hell
Feral Living
Hippycritical
Udder
My Life in 12 Point Font
Journal of a Writing Man
Some Jingle Jangle Morning
The Last Girl Scout
Potatoe.com
Journallife.com
Window to my Soul
Chickybabe
Sorabji.com
Yesterday's Makeup
Fifteen Milliliters
Fly Away
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Photo of tunnel copyright Bernd Klumpp, available from istockphoto.com