Finding Myself - the Journey

Most people know who they are before they hit the age of 40. I'm still searching.

I first learned the term "adult child [of an alcoholic]" in 1997 when I was in therapy after finding my then-husband in bed with another woman. My therapist suggested a book on the subject and I read it, cover to cover in one day--and was overwhelmed. I wasn't ready. I could only deal with one thing at a time--and my marriage was failing. A couple of months later we separated, he continued to see the other woman, I started divorce papers... then I found out my father had pancreatic cancer. Divorce and death in the same year.

Fast forward twelve years. After a year of "dating adventures", I found myself in a desperate place. I was distraught. I cried most of my waking hours and the number of hours I slept was drastically increasing. My life had become unmanageable. I wanted out. I wanted a new life. It was one year ago in March when I went to my first Adult Children of Alcoholics (ACA) meeting. It was then I heard the "ACA 12 steps" and "The Laundry List." It was then I began to see myself more clearly. It was then I began to heal.

"The term "adult child" means that we respond to adult interactions with the fear and self-doubt learned as children. This undercurrent of hidden fear can sabotage our choices and relationships. We can appear outwardly confident while living with a constant question of our worth." (taken from the ACA "red book" by ACAWSO)

After going to my first ACA meeting, it was as if a whole new world opened up to me. For the first time in my life, I was awake. I could see. Although chaotic, my life made more sense. I had answers. Answers about the choices I made; the jobs I have; the emotions I feel; my thoughts; my relationships, especially with men... everything was clear.

It was then I started to find myself.

(I must digress: the original blog was nearly complete when a computer glitch deleted everything but the first two sentences. I'm still irked by it, however, the deletion now allows me to go in another direction, so maybe, as I believe, it happened for a reason.)

Abandonment.

Abandonment is at the core of everything for me. If I only knew then what I know now...
I remember a couple of very telling dreams I had when I was about 14 years old. In the first dream I was kidnapped and thrown into the trunk of a car. Inside I had paper and a pen and I was drawing smiley faces on the paper, ripping it & throwing it outside, leaving a trail of smiley faces behind me in the hopes that my mother would follow the trail and find me. I woke up the next morning and told her about the dream; I expressed fear that she wouldn't be able to find me because she wasn't aware of the "special" smiley face I drew.

The second dream had a more obvious sign of abandonment. In this dream I was walking home from school. Once I got there I found the house empty. Empty and quiet. The floorboards creaked beneath my feet as I walked into the house in disbelief. They moved away without me.

Abandonment means more than being left alone. It can take many forms. Being left alone is the most obvious. It can involve parnetal perfectionism in which the child's behavior never measures up. Parents abandon their children when they fail to praise or recognize a child's effort to please the parent. Instead, as my father was, parents are quick to criticize and correct "bad" behavior. My "bad bahevior" was being a child. Talking wasn't accepted. Laughing wasn't good either. Nor was running, especially in the house. And slamming doors? Absolutely not. Quiet was what he wanted. Silence. In fact, I recently shared a story about watching home movies as children. We didn't have sound on our movies, so my brother and I would talk and laugh while we watched the films. My father would get angry and tell us to be quiet. Quiet. That's what I learned to be when I was around my father. Quiet. If I wasn't, I'd get yelled at...or worse. He'd be angry. He was always angry with me. I was never quiet enough. I wasn't good enough. I was bad.

Abandonment. As a child you learn to adjust. You learn to be quiet. You learn to avoid your father. Instead, you read; you write; you go to a friend's house; you play outside. You learn to people please. And in the process, you lose yourself.

By being a people pleaser, you avoid criticism. You avoid abandonment. You believe you won't be abandoned if you are "nice" and if you don't show anger. You will do anything to not be abandoned. You avoid learning who you are...and you hurt yourself and your relationships.

SEX

That's right, I said it. Sex.

Last night I went through old journals of my "dating" days. And today I spent most of the afternoon & evening reading a book I just got called Loose Girl, a memoir of promiscuity by Kerry Cohen, a true story about her life. Although our lives were different, the feelings we both had (and have) really hit home. I am now left deeply saddened...

Saddened because I feel that part of me creeping up again. That lonely feeling, the emptiness, the gaping hole in my being that I desparately need to fill... with something... someone... as if having sex will make someone want me, want to be with me, love me...

*cry* It's so fucking humilitaing, these feelings of inadequacy. I look at my friends and their marraiges, and envy what they have. They see my "freedom" and envy my life. What they don't see though, are long nights, lying in bed alone, wishing for someone, anyone, to take away the lonely empty feeling inside. They don't see the tears on my face, in my pillow, my stuffy nose, my lips, now bright red from crying, my eyes bloodshot... they don't see that in my waking hours all I really want to do is go back to sleep, to go to my alternate life, where I'm happy and fulfilled. They don't see that I fill my waking hours with work and activities so that I don't have to admit to myself how lonely I really am.

The sad part is that I KNOW that having sex with someone won't make me feel better; it won't make someone want to be with me, want me, love me... but my heart aches to be loved. My heart literally hurts. When I am loved, I am someone important. Can't you see that? When I am loved, I am important; I am worthy.

I think back and recall my dating antics. Man, did I find some weirdos! Soon it became kind of a game with my significantly younger non-married friends to give each weirdo a fitting nickname based on their "unique" qualities. The first one given a name was "Drunky McGayerson". Many others followed, and included men with whom I never met in person. There was "diaper boy", "bondage guy", "best guy ever", "second best guy ever", "used to be best guy ever", "fat boy", "creepy man", "vampire guy", "[para]medic", "cuddle buddy", "RoBo", "the guy who says 'baby' every other word", and "Mr. Michigan" who I later found out actually lives in Africa. I slept with so many men I kept a calendar of my "conquests".

Soon I gave up on meeting Mr. Right and decided to focus on myself. This is when my timeline gets fuzzy. Everything blurred together. I don't remember what happened first...

I reconnected with a former high school classmate/former boyfriend. Neither one of us remembered why we broke up. Independently we each blamed ourselves. And we each thought of the other quite often in the last twenty-four years. I was vulnerable. He was married. His wife, amazing. Yet another reminder of what I did not have... what I wanted. He was kind, loving, soft spoken. He listened to me without judgement. I felt alive. And I fell in love. I fell hard. It was amazing. It was awful. I longed for his touch, to feel his lips on mine, to run my fingers through his hair, to hold his hand... But he wasn't mine to have. I was in love with him anyway. And he with me. We texted and talked--a lot. I also talked with his wife. Sometimes I'd be on the phone with one of them and instant messaging the other, at the same time. She trusted him implicitly.

I decided again to focus on myself. I got more involved in the gym and joined their "Look Good Naked Bootcamp." It seemed appropriate and somewhat ironic. Because of my hectic gym schedule, I stopped sleeping with random strangers, although I kept in touch with "best guy ever", "second best guy ever", and "cuddle buddy" as back-ups, because afterall, they weren't "strangers" so they didn't count. I "hooked up" with them each once more in the two year span of "bettering myself." And of course I was still talking to my former high school flame. And his wife.

After five months of intense boot camp, I was fried. Four months later I turned 40 and threw myself a party. Three months after that I had a complete emotional and mental melt-down and began therapy and attending ACA meetings, each once a week.

It was during this breakdown when I called former flame's wife and, through my sobbing, told her that later that day, I was telling him, her husband, that I could no longer see or speak with him; that I was in love with him and that wasn't a good thing. She consoled me; said she understood; and then she thanked me. She said she would be there to help me get through this. I was beside myself. She really is amazing. She's a better person than I. And she has the love of an amazing man.

My transformation began. Slowly. I had so much to say. I thought I'd be in weekly therapy sessions for the rest of my life. Once I realized I could trust him with my deepest and darkest "secrets", everything came rushing out. Anger I bottled up when I was a third grader at Roosevelt Elementary. Sadness I felt at names my father called me. Confusion about m y recent actions. My fear of being abandoned. Of being hurt. Fear of the future, of the unknown. Fear. Fear of not being good enough. The fear I felt the morning my father died. The utter emptiness I felt immediately following his death. Embarrassment of the things I did to keep a man, any man, in my life. The humiliation of knowing that what I was doing was wrong and not listening to myself. The humiliation of being that needy, that desparate, that alone... that pathetic.

I let it all out. I let go.

Then I met someone.

He treated me with kindness and respect, always. He knew about my recent past with other men. He still treated me with kindness and respect. His words were sweet, endearing, caring...

When I saw him, I didn't have that longing desire to immediately rip off his clothes. Instead I was extremely nervous. This feeling was different. Unfamiliar. I'm not used to being treated nicely. As odd as it sounds, it's uncomfortable; it doesn't seem natural. So I revert to sex. I *know* sex. It's after one in the morning. We lay in bed together, him spooning me, holding me close. I reach my hand behind me and find his rock hard cock. This, I think, this is familiar. I am in control now. He wants me...