"Care" is a tough word for me. The way I experienced being cared for was haphazard, to say the least. Sometimes my needs were met, a lot of times not. As a dependent child I was treated as a third-rate, lower class citizen. Just in the way and another mouth to feed. Someone to be bothered by, irritating, and to be ignored. I was "bad" if I didn't comply, if I wanted something different, if I spoke my mind, etc. so in consequence I was taught "lessons". Those lessons consisted of either ridiculed, talked about in front of my face, spankings, being screamed, threatened, cussed or withdrawals of love, attention and support. My therapist assures me it's amazing I have the capacity to love and care for others. I believe him.
There were people in my young life that stepped-up and extended a warm, loving, caring hand. I am truly grateful. My grandmother on my dad's side of the family seemed to really love me. She glowed with pride and affection as she introduced me to others. There were many times I went to stay with her because my mother threatened to kill me otherwise. I must have been really hard on my mom. Celia, another therapist, told me it was like a little Chihuahua dog had birthed a Great Dane. I felt impressed with the description because in a way, it was like that. My mom was 4'11" and 85 pounds wet. While I was much taller and bigger than her by the time I was 8 years old. I was growing like a beansprout, towering over the others. I was a big girl. Not obese. Just a big girl compared to my mom and two older brothers who were much smaller, diminutive in size.
I used to love to read the comic books of Little Lotta. I could really love and relate to her. Little Lotta Little Dot, Richie Rich, Superman, etc. were so fun to read and fantasize, imagine being in their world. Then back to reality.
But those brief escapes had the quality of a reprieve, a small space in time where I experienced a taste of freedom.
When I grew up, I found that substances like alcohol, food, etc. seemed to give me that same kind of exhilaration, brief respite, escape. But what started in small doses soon lost their impact and I needed more, more, more in efforts to get the initial "high" without ever really achieving that same level of thrill again. A bunch of "almost" highs that felt good enough but not quite like the very first time. Near misses or so it seemed to me. I settled for what I could get. Those multiple efforts turned into habit and spun tighter and tighter into obsessive, compulsive behavior. This became "normal". My playgrounds, playmates, and playthings revolved around this need to feel "normal". No big deal. I was surrounded by people who pretty much were in the same boat as me. We all okayed each other. High five.
But even there, in the middle of the nebulous Nether lands of Addiction, I didn't fit in. Something was missing. I wasn't free.
And it wasn't until I came into the rooms of the 12 Steps that freedom became a greater possibility. Where I was surrounded by people like me who were sick and tired of being sick and tired. Who shared the same horror of "The Grip", the despair, frustration of doing the same thing over and over while expecting different results. Who had the desire to stop the maddening, insane whirl. Who wanted freedom. Who were willing to do whatever it took. Who were ready. Anything was better than the pain of the hellhole. I wasn't alone.
It's been suggested to me, to get down on my knees, and say out loud, the 3rd Step prayer on page 63 of "Alcoholics Anonymous" or words kind of like that. Hand it all over. Let Go and Let GOD. Trust, rely, believe, have faith in a power greater than myself to take care of things. Like I heard, I don't have to know how electricity works so I can flip a light switch to get light in a room. I just got to turn it on. I believe that's what happens when I Let Go and Let GOD. I turn it "on". I just need to get out of the way of the Sunlight of the Spirit. Let it shine. Let it shine. Let it shine.
...and remember to stay out of the way! Sincerely, Carol xoxox
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