What I Should Care About, But Don't
It is possible to care too much.
I know, because I did.
My loved one has struggled with substance abuse. They would get caught in the cycle: Use, deny, recover, relapse. Only during the last big relapse did I realize what a disservice I was doing the person I love by caring so much about their recovery that I over-involved myself.
I learned that in order for us both to be healthy, I had to detach myself from the other person with love. Though it went against everything I ever learned growing up, I had to resist my urge to advise, protect, and help at every turn. My loved one was an adult. And I had to allow them the dignity to recover at their own pace, and realize that a person's recovery is ultimately their own. Others can be there in a healthy manner along the way, but I could no longer wish my loved one healthy, or impose my desire or pressure on them.
I still feel very much like it's backward to not be there at every step, at every single bump in the road, (though honestly, I never was in the first place.) I feel I should have been. But I don't allow myself to.
My loved one is an addict. And I should have known better.
Because I'm one, too.
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My addiction is not a substance or a drink. It's pain.
When I tell people, which is rare, I tell them it started when I was 20. But the reality is, I buried the first couple times, when I was ten, and then thirteen. Probably because my method was different. My reasons were random and childish:
To see if it would really hurt, or if it wouldn’t be that bad.
Just to see if I could stand it.
Now, with hindsight and knowledge, I can say none of my reasons were why I did it.
I read in a friend’s nursing textbook that in addition to being survivors of things like childhood abuse, people who self-injure often have a history of having multiple surgeries as children. I can count at least eight major surgical procedures (requiring anesthetic) that I had between the ages of three days and eleven years old.
I wanted, instead of having massive pain inflicted on me, to be in control of it somehow.
Though my urge to harm myself lie apparently dormant for seven years, when I was 20, it came back with a vengeance. Over the next year-and-a-half it was a constant battle. I hurt myself in a car, with a friend driving, and my sister in the back seat. Neither one had a clue, and I didn’t want them to.
Less than a year later, I did it again.
Six months later, again.
The turning point was discovering those I dearly loved in similar circumstances. My closest friend dealing with bulimia. The eight-year-old little girl that I babysat for her foster parents on occasion, beating her head against any available hard surface when she was frustrated…
I also saw a counselor.
I got brave enough to learn better ways to cope with the emotions I was feeling. I made lists of other things I could do. People I could call. I told my sister and a few close friends, taking the secrecy aspect away. I wore long sleeves, or a watch and bracelets to protect myself, and to remind me to treat myself well.
Today, again, it’s been seven years since I have done anything to hurt myself. My addiction has evolved from a desire to control pain, to a battle against certain visual triggers.
Happening upon something on TV (even an unexpected Lanacane commercial) can lead to literal sensations that I have to wait out, while keeping my hands busy with something else. Reading something without a proper warning and then being faced with a few too many details can lead to obsessive thoughts about it, and even, a twisted desire to go back and read or watch again - to feed the addiction.
It can be months, or even years between triggers. And, I suspect, it will always be a battle.
But it is my battle to fight.
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Just like my loved one’s battle with substance abuse is their own.
It is so tempting to want to pull the addicts we love away from an edge they are hovering too near. Trust me, I know. I want to ask, “Are you okay?” and “How are you really doing?” a million times a day, but I don’t. Because I know how much remarks like that would hinder me in my own recovery.
If I’m feeling vulnerable, I know how to reach out. If I need help, I know how to ask for it. Whether I do or not is ultimately up to me. But now, I do my best to be honest.
If I’m struggling, I’ll let somebody know. Every time I admit I’m having trouble, or stop myself from doing something I know I’ll regret, it’s a victory. It’s a moment for me to take back the control that I didn’t have as a child, to turn that powerlessness into power.
Today, I will hang onto that resolve with both hands.
And trust that my loved one has found the same.