Last night, as I was falling asleep, there were a few (interesting to me) thoughts galloping through my brain. “I’ll write about that tomorrow” said brain to me, but here I am in the morning with a mind like a crisp white sheet.

In the early days of writing this blog I wrote in a frenzy, the words tripping over themselves to make it onto the screen. But somedays now it feels like that flood has turned to a trickle. If I stopped writing for a day or two, it will definitely fill up high enough to make a rush of thoughts. There’s a lot more peace in my mind now, I guess.

And maybe it’s a bit of a calm before a storm (no fingers, not a clam before a storm!). I went through something similar with my therapist a few months ago. In fact I was really debating whether I would call a certain session our last or second to last, and then I ended up cracking the ice on some stuff that I didn’t even think was bothering me.

So, I guess what’s true for me is that I’ve mostly debrided my surface wounds – now those will need consistent care to keep them healthy – but there’s deep stuff which appears stable because it’s covered in such big scar tissue.

And I’m not trying to seem all mysterious and ominous here. I’m not saying there are big scary secrets in my past. It’s just that through force and habit of 40 years, there’s stuff in me that I’ve locked down tight in scar tissue and getting to that is going to be a bigger effort, maybe, than what I’ve done so far.

And maybe more of a careful effort. And I certainly question if I want to do anything more – after all things are (on the surface at least) calm and stable and well.

But then I think of what I’ve already written this week about guilt and how it permeates every decision and action in my life. I think of the anxiety that builds up slowly, or the fear that punches out of the blue and leaves me winded. I think of the dragging depression and the grey days that stretch over a certain percentage of my days each month and I think – this is not enough for me.

I want better.

I even think I deserve better.

And so we’re back to Fail Better because this is going to be a long process.

You know, I feel like there’s not been much movement on the habitual actions or inactions I take over the last few months. But I’m an unreliable narrator and I should possibly have a conversation with someone outside of myself. I think the next place for me to turn my attention, to learn more about myself is through my relationship with food, because it’s really kind of the same thing as was going on with alcohol, just not in such an immediately detrimental fashion.

  • I use it to “relax”
  • I use it for comfort and reward
  • I feel guilty about it
  • I feel “well fuckit I deserve it” about it
  • I make half-baked resolutions about change that I then don’t stick to because I’m just not that ready yet.

I signed up for a course that I listened through – and I think it would be useful. It necessitates one hour a week of uninterrupted alone time, and I couldn’t give that to myself. Not because it wouldn’t be possible, but because something inside me didn’t want to change. Yet.

Something inside me still doesn’t feel ready to change. I want to do it, superficially, but I want to get the changes without giving up the perceived support. There’s an inclination to try to change by replacing the food support with a different type of support, but I don’t think that works in the long run. I’ve got to just strengthen my own muscles.

I also don’t want to do the work required to change. I don’t want to have to think so hard. I don’t want to feel bad.

I don’t dare to disturb the universe.

But there’s a comment that Geneen Roth makes during this course, and in many of her writings too: Living as I am now is already painful, it’s already work. It’s just work and discomfort that I’ve become used to. (paraphrased)

So, yeah. I want to. I’m still thinking about it, like. The decision to change is slowly charging up in me, filling like water in a vessel – maybe it’s like up to my hips or something.

Watch this space.

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