I recently changed jobs. I now work at a library—the finance manager: budgeting, analysis, accounting. My office, with it’s dark-stained wooden doors and frosted transom windows, is massive: 14’ x 14’ x 14’. It’s true, my office ceiling is fourteen feet high. Susan says I suffer from TMF—that’s too much furniture: three desks, five filing cabinets, a couple of bookshelves, boxes and boxes of historical data stacked any place they will fit. It will take a while to get things settled, but despite the clutter, I find my job relaxing.
My prior job was never relaxing. More financial management, this time for a domestic violence shelter. I tried my hand at fundraising too. Limited success, we never had any money. One of our fundraising tactics was to invite potential donors to a “Vision Encounter.” It’s hard to say Vision Encounter without thinking about the 1985 movie Vision Quest—the coming of age drama of a high school wrestler who falls in love with an adult. This is something we now call child molestation, but in the eighties, it was simply romantic. A Vision Encounter is nothing like that.
The Vision Encounter is a series of stories read by staff members recounting domestic violence victims’ experiences with abuse. The part I read was a first-person account written by the woman who organizes the sexual assault support group. Once my portion was done, we always ended with a harrowing story of a woman who endured physical and sexual assault at the hands of her husband for more than a decade. At the end of her story, she–along with her kids–are living in a small apartment, scraping to get by, but finally free from abuse. I listened to this story a dozen times, and each time I heard it, the same feeling washed over me. Jealousy.
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Do you have a clear understanding of why you blog? I’ve been at this for five years, I’ve had time to figure it out. Yes, there’s a longing for attention and a craving for applause, but I view these as unfortunate byproducts of being a blogger. The reason that I write, and then blog, is because it helps me work out my problems.
Long ago, I found that exploring my most private thoughts and then sharing them with the world reduced the power and the impact of those thoughts. In the movie Crocodile Dundee, the lead character, Mick, a small-town backwoodsman from the Australian Outback asks big-city Sue why someone would want to see a therapist. Sue says “sometimes people need to talk out their intimate problems.” Mick thinks about this and replies “Where I come from, if you have a problem, you just tell Wally, and Wally tells everyone else. Once everyone knows, it isn’t a problem anymore.”
This is exactly what I get from blogging.
Is it distasteful that I’m envious of a domestic violence survivor who’s lost everything? I’ve written about worse subjects, I’m sure of that. Plus, I’m not envious of the violence. I’m envious of the raw simplicity of having one goal: climbing out of the bottom of a deep, deep, hole.
Like many alcoholics, I never had a rock-bottom event. Or at least I didn’t have any that caused me to quit drinking, I supposed I had several rock-bottoms a couple of decades ago that I simply ignored. But three years ago, when I gave up alcohol, it wasn’t because I crashed my car or lost my job or received an ultimatum from my family, I quit drinking because I didn’t like the hold alcohol had over me. I thought about alcohol, literally, all the time.
I thought about how my drinking would be disrupted if my family went to a restaurant without a liquor license. Or if someone suggested we have pancakes for dinner (can’t drink Merlot with pancakes, you just can’t do it). I worried about drinking too much even though I didn’t. I worried about having to wait until after five o’clock to drink. I lamented finishing up my second glass of wine each night and needing to wait twenty-two hours for my next one. You get the idea.
So I quit. But the truth is, alcohol still has a hold on me because I often wonder if quitting was the right thing to do. Is my life better or worse without alcohol? Because life without alcohol definitely isn’t easy.
And now alcohol is just one more item on my endless list of concerns. Tourette Syndrome, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, anxiety, social anxiety, depression, retirement, parenting, home repair, friendships, career, hearing impairment, dental repair, blah, blah, blah. This is a complex list of problems, and all need to be managed simultaneously.
I’ve just discovered a new blogger. She’s a good writer and a good storyteller. And the story she’s telling, parenting a teenager with OCD, is compelling to me. I jumped into her story in a post where she was picking up her son at the end of his first college semester. She wasn’t just collecting her kid, she was moving him out. He was dropping out of school. Depression and OCD were too much to overcome.
In her most recent post she describes a kid who is unreasonably thin because he skipped so many meals due to mental illness. This post chronicles his rebirth as an engaged eater. It’s a small step, and undoubtedly an important step, but what I read into the story is that he’s well into his recovery from this rock-bottom experience.
It’s ridiculous for me to think these two examples of hitting the bottom represent something for me to emulate. I spend my life in binary thinking. In my mind, things are good or they are bad. I look at my long list of areas to work on, and I think BAD. I believe I can’t be happy until my list is fully resolved. So when I see a person who has bottomed out in the bad and has started their route to good, my visceral reaction is envy.
Yesterday I blogged a post where I said I wouldn’t change a single thing about my life. This was BS. I was trying to be upbeat, trying to get into the spirit of New Year’s Eve. There are plenty of areas I want to make improvements, and possibly the first one should be to stop seeing those around me as two-dimensional beings. People who have only one problem to solve to achieve happiness. Like me, everyone has a list of areas they hope to improve. By writing this post, I’m hoping to remind myself that things aren’t only good or bad. There is no black and white, there are only shades of gray.
More on binary thinking in Fragments – a memoir.