I'm sitting at the coffee shop, drinking Ethiopian Harrar. I do believe I am the only English speaking person here and it's kind of fun. I love my coffee shop. So eclectic. And it's only five blocks from my house. How convenient is that?
Therapy Tuesday was a little shocking, actually. One of the players on this blog has, I believe, a terrible eating disorder. It's addiction taking on another form to control the pain and unmanageability of life. And it's hard to watch. Because I am helpless to do anything about it. As with any addiction, you can say anything you want, but it falls on deaf ears until someone is willing to hear you. So, I say what I have to say for me, knowing that it is unheard.
But Miss M drew a terrible connection for me on Saturday night that needed to be explored with Carolyn. She said, "Isn't loving her and watching her slowly killing herself a lot like loving and watching The Dead Guy kill himself?" And it gave me great pause. Because yes. It's almost exactly the same thing. I make excuses for her, I shield her from other's concern, I censor my own thoughts about what's going on so I can still stand to be around her. And I've given up saying anything because I know it will do no good. And I just wait. Wait for her to come back to me.
And she may or may not. Come back. She may die just like he did. And I have a choice here. To do the same thing - wait around for her to recognize what she's doing to herself, or to do something else. And I don't know what that something else is yet.
But I do know one thing. I am a different woman than the one I was five years ago. I no longer believe in giving refuge to addiction. And I get to make choices today. Better ones. Even if I don't know what those choices are quite yet.