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My lack of postings has been bothering me for a couple weeks now.  This of course fits perfectly with my profile as that of an adult child of an alcoholic or other dysfunction in that in many ways it is hard for me to be consistent. It also fits with troubles with perfection, low self-esteem, difficulty with decision making, and in my own case, awful anxiety. Basically, so much has happened that I have gotten somewhat lost. The lessons have been coming so fast and furious that all I have time and energy to do is journal about them with pen and paper. Real life goes at such a break neck speed for me, that it is difficult to keep up with the minimum of work, home, and the activities of which I normally take part. Over all, I see all of this as positive growth and I am moving forward, but it frustrates me that I don’t post the ins and out, up and down, and lessons and discoveries as I make them, because that was my plan. Today thoughts of consistency, balance, middle ground, and finding my unique voice are in a tug-of-war with old habits of giving up, procrastination, self-criticism and flight. I feel like that friend who hangs around me when things are bad. You know that friend? The one who comes around bemoaning the injustices of everything from parental favoritism, to sexual politics, to work assignments, to domestic divisions of labor, and why the Kardashians are on television. The one who is actually quite smart and deep, but exhausting. That’s me.

Or that’s a part of me. In real life with real people I am usually not that way. Often I am the opposite. But here, I am short changing the positive, the fun, the peace, the small solid life I am painstakingly building for myself. This is a huge project that I have undertaken for myself. It is going surprisingly well. Enter fear of success. I am doing well and scared to death. This would be a good time for self sabotage. Or a health crisis. Drama? Anyone got any drama for me to get involved “helping”? I know, I’ll fill out a profile on a dating site and go on dates. I will wrap myself up in a search for an activity partner, a mate, a friend with benefits, a psycho to fix.

No. I will continue in my muddley way plunking along little by little one day at a time, as the recovery slogan says. Speaking of recovery, 12-step member that I have been in group with for 6 years, uncharacteristically hung out really late with me the other night. We frequently go out for ice cream after the meeting, for ‘the meeting after the meeting”. We were alone which is unusual. Him being out that late and engaged fully was unusual. It wasn’t raining. THAT was unusual. It was beautiful, warm, summer night on the patio of an ice cream place. There were even fireworks. (Why someone was setting off fireworks I have no clue). Anyway, upon further review I was apparently out of touch with the effect a warm summer night can have on a male in the presence of a female he admires. Upon further review, I do recall a few slight gestures of the hand that I ignored. Upon further review, his sudden directness in questions regarding where I live, now make sense. I erroneously thought that since I had been gone a month and had a lot growth to share, he was happy so see me and converse on ACOA issues as they applied in real life, with real people, over a holiday weekend while on vacation. Nope, he wanted to get laid.

It was both funny and sad. I was sad that he burst the bubble of the sanctity of our 12-step group by his lame attempt at whatever it was he was attempting. I felt betrayed that the evening was not about me, not about my wins, good plays, and development as a parent. It was a rouse to get close to me, perhaps to blurt his addictions in private to foster a bond just between us, rather than in a meeting as appropriate. Maybe it was a stab at acceptance or familiarity. Or both. It made me sad to lose what was there before. The unspoken attraction to me, but a boundary keeping it in. And it is even sadder because the urge was likely only for the physicality of it. Just to have sex.

I get the whole woman going “blabbity, blabbity, blit”; while the guy is like, “I want go go f***. When is she gonna shut-up so I can say let’s go have sex?” But I hate it. Even more so when sex is not part of the relational equation. I can laugh because it was a guy being a guy. I can accept it as part of being human. My 12-step member’s awkward play would make a good scene should Amy Schumer make a recovery comedy.

That will have to be good enough for now. I survived a trip to my hometown, negotiated a 5 day stay with my grown son, endured a holiday with people I didn’t know or have a stitch in common with, wrestled with my love of the outdoors juxtaposed to my city life while kayaking, and fought allergies while bonding with my son’s girlfriend. I returned home with my budget intact, drove my volunteer route, resumed swimming, and went back to work. All is good.

Something please save me.