The Pink Elephant in the Room

The doc says I have health anxiety. Really? That’s good though, at least I am not dying. I’ve been spending time with Shell and Miss Carry at the beach these days.

{Although not enough time AT the beach}

Shell has quite a bit of medical issues and she decompress’ by telling us all about them. Inevitably I catch at least one disease in my mind every time She speaks. I KNOW this can’t be true, but it takes a whole lot of energy and Oreos to get back to, “I’m not dying.”

The first time I thought I was dying I was very anorexic and consuming at least a box of laxatives a day. My mother walked by me on the couch in the middle of the night and asked if I couldn’t sleep because I thought I might die. She was right on target. I would lie there and wonder if I could make it through another day of the torture from my own mind. If my body would say enough. Cry uncle. I did not die from an eating disorder thank God.

Doc is more concerned about my anxiety than she is about my athletic body. One of Sweet Dee’s Heathers’ has some serious anxiety. She basically stopped going out six months ago. Good lord I don’t need to be in that bucket. Poor thing. Sweet Dee wants to go dancing and Heather can’t get past taking Romeo for a walk to pee.

Sometimes Dee can’t get a break. However, maybe I could use a break from beach life.

{Spontaneously remembered dropping my gas card beside my seat a couple of weeks ago…}

I was fine with life until Sunday’s family bridal shower. I dealt with the Husband #3’s family for the afternoon. The pressure and heartache the pink elephant in the room causes me is undeniable. The stress of being the All-American couple to some and the Thoroughly Modern couple to others is complex.

The heartache of losing my husband and keeping him so close to my center inevitably overwhelms me often, more glaringly in social situations.

Quite honestly, I do not like change or confrontation.  Who does? Really? Most adults do not. It fucks with our groove no matter how off beat we are. Along with my recent diagnosis of Health Anxiety; I am and have been more so recently, codependent. Some might say it is evironmental given our living situation and how it all came to be.  I have been identifying this behavior and the ramifictions of both my actions and in actions and find I am frustrated.

My codependency started as a child when I wanted so desperately to be liked. I always took the dares, had dumb asses in my parent’s house and played with kids I really didn’t like. In my teens and twenties, it was more of the same; only then to include all the guys I slept with cause I didn’t want anybody to feel bad. I collected people that I ultimately did not want – but thought they needed me.

{Urban dictionary says I am a megglepuff; emotional attachment to the point of stupidity.}

Codependency and life in my early twenties revolved around needing a Mother figure. I was divorced, waitressing and working full time at a college cleaning and moving furniture for functions. I partied heavily and was basically on a downward spiral. I could be described as melancholy. Listening to Sinead O’Connor and The Cranberries way too often; I was sad, call it depressed if you need to.

I already felt like a failure and I hadn’t even started living.

The common denominator in many of my codependent relationships I have formed over these years is that the men and women (mostly) are older and amazing and talented in some form or fashion. More often than not these people that took me under their wings somehow become parental figures in my life.

Perhaps, when this dynamic is reciprocated universally, it opens one up to the inherent advice and criticisms that come with human nature, nurturing and parenting.

Here lie the problems with the codependent relationships I have found myself in over the years. More often than not, typically, I am done with people long before they are done with me. Not because they are bad— I just have a knack for getting what I need out of a relationship and then detaching.

{Unfortunately I can’t tell them I have detached or why.}

I recognize immediatley that this statement and behavior is seemingly callous and cowardly. But I have identified my need for detachment happens largely because being around the person becomes unbearable. Unbearable due to the fact that I do not approach the person I am in a relationship with and discuss the disturbing behavior and or actions that I find hurtful or unacceptable. Over time my boundaries are encroached and I become resentful.

Meanwhile, all too often the fucking pink elephant in the room shows up. Again and again. I keep telling myself I am ok. I am beginning to question that too. Somedays, I can’t even identify my feelings. I do know that I can not keep all of this information bottled up inside; I am working daily on ways to continue to find my voice.

{Overwhelmed is all–I guess. Makes me want to hide. I feel almost totally dysfunctional.}

Yesterday, I told Miss Carry that I was overwhelmed and choking. I am glad that I am able to be so honest with her. It just happens that both our lives are busy or weird right now. Probably always will be. That’s why we deal with each other. We both smile and say we are fucked. Or, maybe not?

“I can be me, You can be you. We can be us. I can grow, You can grow. We can grow together.”  These are steps from The Struggle for Intimacy, by Janet Geringer Woititz.

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