Sunday, August 29, 2010

GOOD MORNING FROM IT TAKES TWO TO TANGO

Earlier tonight I dealt with some emotions and thoughts I haven't had to face in some bit of time. I started missing my boyfriend (I saw him yesterday, for heaven's sake!), and I got very anxious about this. I felt like a failure for letting the needy, borderline part of me resurface. I tried to suppress it, took my meds remembering that I had forgotten to take my 2nd and 3rd doses of Seroquel (oops), hoped that would help, and tried to distract myself with my online world. It may seem petty, but the situation brought back many unwanted memories of my last relationship and how I was always blamed for being "too much to handle" and "too demanding" or "too _____."

Which leads me to the main point of this entry. I recalled an excerpt from a book I read recently, after having my mini borderline moment.

The following is an excerpt from Marya Hornbacher's Wasted. I related to it and wanted to share it with those who might be going through a similar situation or has gone through it in the past. I can't and shouldn't say what to do with it. But it helps to know you're not the only one going through this. But most of all, something I kept forgetting while I was living it -- it takes two to tango.

"But no matter how many times we make up, there's the fact of me and my mood swings and my drinking. Even if Jeremy were perfect, even if we weren't trying to destroy each other's lives, my mood swings would still be there. And I'd be drinking myself to death.

The fact of the matter is that Jeremy likes my drinking. And he likes the fact that I'm crazier than hell. This pattern is now an old one with the guys I get involved with, most recently, before Jeremy, with Julian. For one thing, when it's good, life with me is a constant party. We drink all the time. He fills my glass as fast as I can empty it. I'm excited, exciting, full of ideas and energy, great to be around. And then I go too far -- I drink too much, he holds me up, laughing, as I stagger, go into deep funks, and he comforts me and makes it all go away. My drinking and my crazies are my weakness. He exploits this to the hilt. It gives him something on me. When he comes home from work to find me lying in bed, Oh, honey, are you all right? And he strokes my hair. Why don't you have some Klonopin. Here. Even better, when he's not playing the savior, he's playing the saint: whenever we fight, it's my fault. I was drunk, or I was crazy, or I was both. He's untouchable. He screams at me until I'm a crumpled mass on the floor. I give in. He's right. I'm a fuckup. I'm sorry, I say. I'll get better, I say. And suddenly he's all care and kindness, bent over me, picking me up, rocking me in his arms. There, there, I cling to him, pathetic, humiliated, grateful that he's still there. I don't deserve him. He's too good.

I put my head down on the table and cry. Because it's happened again. I'm found out. I'm damaged. Fucked up. Broken. A fraud. I knew he would figure out sooner or later that I was impossible to love. And now he has, and I love him, and I'm certain he has tried, really tried, to love me back. But trying to love me is too much for any sane person to bear. I watch their backs, one by one, as they walk away."

On the lighter side, this is codependency at its dirtiest. On the darker side, emotional abuse in all its shining glory.

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