What's Wrong With Me?
Self-inventory means self-hate. A poem by Russel Edson. Groovy quotes from the Tao Te Ching and Thich Nhat Hanh. A stunning story about being a mother with an unhoused son.
Just to check in:
Earlier this week, I thought about someone I hadn't thought about for a long time. I decided to reach out but remembered: no, don't do that.
I'd emailed this person a few years ago, hoping it would crack the door for a phone call or meet-up since we were both in LA, but I never received a response. After a week, I nudged a mutual friend to ask if my email was received, but there was no need to follow up: "They got it," my friend said. And? "That's all. I'm sorry, man."
When I presented this outcome to my sponsor, he said the only thing left to do is to make a living amends by respecting their silence and granting them peace.
It's been a few years, and I still don't have peace.
"I feel like I've become someone people don't want to associate with anymore because I'm too exhausting and give off such bad energy."
I took a long, unpleasant journey in my mind tallying up those in my life I have put on my own DO NOT REPLY list and discovered that it has shrunk to two people–just two people left who could pop into my inbox tonight and instantly give me the shivers.
But I can think of four people (maybe more) right away who probably never want to hear from me again. Even if I emailed them tomorrow with the subject line: I COME IN PEACE, I would instantly shatter their peace. (Hopefully, they have me blocked.)
As much as I'm happy that my absence could give other people peace, that is still…tough to process. Aren't I supposed to be different now? Better even? All these plastic coins tell me I am years away from the worst version of myself.
And yet, I'm still careless and unskillful in most of my human relationships. There is no past tense to that, unfortunately. Sobriety hasn't fixed everything inside me. Where are the rest of my wildest dreams?
I've been called a sociopath on more than one occasion, and not just by people online who thought my blogging decisions were despicable. There was enough evidence gathered by others who’ve had some unpleasant interactions with me that I thought it would be wise to look into it.
Thankfully, there are numerous online quizzes from various universities to help a budding murderer or terrorists with their self-diagnoses. When I was hungover and shame-filled, I used to take these quizzes all the time, mostly during the morning after I’d done something regretable, possibly unforgivable. I didn't want to be a sociopath, but I couldn't ignore a lifetime of behavior that suggested I could be.
The good news here was that if I was that concerned about my behavior and how I treated others, I probably was not all that terrible. And if I didn’t factor in the high-volume recreational drug use and the untreated mood disorder, I wasn't going to get a meaningful result anyway.
But I was so depressed last week, at one point I sat on the couch whining to my wife about my inability to hang on to friends—the smallness and loneliness of my life. "I feel like I've become someone people don't want to associate with anymore because I'm too exhausting and give off such bad energy."
How did this happen? How could I desperately want to make people feel good but fall so short?
I wondered again if I was just too psychologically unfit to participate in the world the way I wanted to. I took an online psychopath test to make sure:
You answered this quiz consistent with people who would not generally be considered a psychopath by research methods currently used to quickly screen for psychopathy in the population.
Great. Then what's wrong with me? — AJD
*****
And now…what’s wrong with you?
Would you like to be a part of February’s TSB Check-In?
Remember, anyone who contributes will get a Free Month of TSB Sundays. Share good things, awful things, milestones or meltdowns. Help others and you help you! That is the goal.
Here’s an example:
“I recently read a story about a woman who lived alone in a cave for 500 days, then emerged and told everyone how much she loved it in spite of well-documented evidence that the experience caused psychological and physical damage. It's a seductive story because a) who among us hasn't fantasized about running off to live in the wilderness and b) to do so as a woman in a world that tells you you'll be raped and murdered if you dare adventure alone is even more enticing. Of course living alone for over a year without daylight was going to fuck her up. But I unfairly found myself disappointed in her, both for not actually enjoying her solitude, and for seemingly lying about it.
I sometimes wonder how often I lie about the cave of my own making: my frequent chosen solitude, which I'm convinced I need to survive but which also comes with its own corrosive effects. Am I really enjoying myself when I shut out the world, turn down plans, stay in my cave, which is on the couch with my dog, mainlining bad TV? I know I need community—for sobriety, for survival—and I desperately want not to need any of it, or anyone.”
EMAIL ME HERE: ajd@thesmallbow.com subject FEBRUARY CHECK-IN
It will be published this Tuesday.
We also donate $25 to the Katal Center each month on behalf of TSB.
This week’s recovery log, gratitude list, reading recs, and the poem are below. Join in.
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