Don't Activate the Allergy

I've been attending more than my usual number of recovery meetings lately, for a lot of reasons - I've had some time, I've felt a need to be more present in for a couple of 'newcomers' and mostly because I know that I have an upcoming surgery (yes, my GD teeth again) that will require me to take some pain killers afterward.  This is scary for me.

My drug of choice was always alcohol - though really most addicts and alcoholics will tell you that at our core, our drug of choice actually boils down to one word: more.  I stayed away from illicit substances primarily because I was a legal type of gal.  Some part of my wet brain remained logical enough to keep me protected by staying on the right side of the law, but once the booze quit working for me, I've no doubt that if I hadn't found recovery, I would have gravitated to scrips next.  It was easy for me to justify my drinking by telling myself that I wasn't actually doing anything wrong, you see?  So, before I'd have ventured out to buy smack, I'm pretty sure I would have just used my health insurance to find some doctor-endorsed legal junk.

I've written before about NM's journey into drug-addled madness and the wreckage she created, and there are two good things that came out of the climax of that nightmare from me.  First, I removed myself from the Crazymaker Clan for the first time with real commitment.  Second, seeing that drug-fueled drama play out made me have to look within and spurred me on the road to my own recovery.

I believe that alcoholism and addiction are two-fold sicknesses, diseases if you will.  The first part is the physical reaction that an addict or alkie has when a substance is introduced to our systems; give me a mouthful of beer and my brain, stomach, nervous system, skin and mind all scream... MORE!  Seriously, I was two years sober when I had an epiphany while talking to a 'normie,' that went like this:
"So, let me get this straight," I said, "you can go to a bar, order a beer, focus on a conversation and have something to eat and when you finish your beer, you're just... satisfied?  You don't need to have another beer?  Really?"  I was mystified, cause let me tell you boys and girls, that's just not how it's ever worked for me.  Toward the end of my drinking when someone asked me how much I drank, I honestly answered - playing it off like it was a joke even though it wasn't - "All of it."  Once I started, all bets were off, and to this day I believe that the only drink I truly have a choice about is the first one.

The second part of the addiction involves an obsession of the mind.  At some point my entire life became about the booze.  If I didn't have a drink in my hand, I was planning for the earliest available opportunity when I would have a drink in my hand or I was getting over the last drink I had in my hand; normies call these moments hangovers, I called them mornings.  Toward the end I woke up every day either in physical withdrawal or with the thought of, "When can I have a drink?"  (And here's a funny sidebar glance into the mind of an alcoholic; there's an AA pamphlet called "44 Questions."  The idea of this pamphlet is that you ask yourself these 44 questions and answer yes or no and if you answer yes to more than X number, you might want to consider that you have a drinking problem.  The questions are things like, "Have you ever left work early in order to start drinking?" or "Do you ever intend to have only one drink but find you can't stop yourself after one?"  When I read this on my last day of drinking, I answered yes to all but one question; "Do you ever drink in the morning?"  To this I could honestly answer no - kids to school and all that, ya know?  I seriously got to the end of the pamphlet and looked at my answers and thought, "Well, I don't know if I'm really an alcoholic, I mean, I don't drink in the morning!"  Wowsers.)

I don't want to activate the allergy by introducing something into my system that's going to trigger either my physical compulsion to drink or my mental obsession to drink.

So, to sum up; I'm fucking terrified of pills.  That way thar be monsters, matey.

But, an interesting thing about true healing and recovery has been brought to light by this necessary but scary situation.  I was out of the doctor's office for all of thirty minutes and hadn't even truly recognized that I was terrified when I had already set a plan in place.  Before I could even acknowledge the depth of my fear, I'd talked to the doctor about my addiction - being very clear that I expect to receive exactly the bare minimum of absolutely necessary drugs in my post-op prescription, and I'd called two other recovering alkies and my husband to let them know what was going to happen, when it was going to happen and to ask them to help me monitor and stay accountable to my program and my sobriety.

I have a plan in place to stay safe and to make sure that nothing falls through the cracks, that I have support and that I am keeping honest and well internally and externally.  Before fear took hold, I'd reached out and taken action to prevent it.  Right action, it seems, is the antidote to fear.

Huh.  Who'd have thunk it?
I learned all of this in recovery from alcoholism, but I think it applies to separation from NFOOs that contain Narcs and Abusers as well.  If I have a plan in place and I am willing to follow it through, if I am vigilant about my boundaries and my need for respect, if I already know how I will refuse to be mistreated and I have a course of action laid out to ensure it, I can stay safe.

Relief of pain is necessary in order to facilitate healing.  Safety is necessary in order to facilitate healing.  A plan to allow no more pain from my NFOO and to keep myself safe from them is the best thing that I can possibly do for myself.

ACoNs and grown abused children all suffer from some form of hyper-vigilance, I think.  We weren't protected, so we develop an overly enlarged need to protect ourselves (at least once we wake up.)  Hyper-vigilance can be draining and if we live in a constant state of this ultra-sensitive anticipation of events, we can get sick.  Too much planning for the worst can put us in a position where we only expect that the worst will happen.

But, for me, when it comes to the NFOO, I put them in the same category as I do those pills.  I will conscientiously work to keep them completely out of my life, and in the event that I do have to cross paths with them for some reason beyond my control, I'll be ready with an exit plan and a support group to meet me at the door.

Love,
Vanci

External Proof of Inner Turmoil

** Warning: this post is dark and likely contains some triggers for some people.  Read at your own risk.

This post is about teeth.  Yes, teeth, again.
Why with the teeth, Vanci?  Well, I have 'bad teeth.'

Really, I do.  I take care of my teeth and I always have, but they just don't take care of me back.  Whether it's due to the lack of flouride in the water when I was kid as has been speculated or due to the fact that at one point in my early adulthood I worked between 16-18 hours per day as a waitress and lived primarily on Marlboro Reds, free soda and the occasional breadstick, I don't know.  (I was 22 and had two daughters to support while battling in court to get my psycho abusive husband out of my life.  It was a rough time, and to add to the stress, the FOO would only 'help' me so long as I tolerated their bad behavior.)

So, I have bad teeth.  They like to rot willy-nilly and I trudge to the dentist to repair the worst of the damage as I can.  But, money's been tight for a few years and there's only a limited amount of 'tooth' funding to spead around.  So, the kids teeth come first, and then DH and I take turns getting work done based on the very simple equation of; he/she who is in the most pain goes to the dentist next.

The whole dental question fascinates me, though, in the context of the twisted narcissistic order of preference that I grew up with.  I worked really hard to find a dentist that DH, DDs and I would all feel comfortable with, and we all go in every 6 months for our cleanings and whatever check ups the dentist recommends.  The rule is that if the DDs need anything done, we schedule it, do it and figure out how to make the money work.  If DH or I need something done, well, back to the pain question. 

I don't remember ever seeing a dentist when I was a kid unless I had a toothache.  No regular cleanings, no trips to the hygenist, no xrays, certainly no orthodontia.  Part of this, I'm sure, is because we moved so flippin much - who can keep up with cleaning dates when you're barely even unpacked in a house before you're packing back up?  That logic would fly under normal circumstances, but we're dealing with narcs here, so of course, there's more.

OS did go to the dentist on a regular basis.  She had orthodontic retainers, too, for her slight overbite and slightly crooked teeth as a teen.  She also had a tooth die due to trauma in her early 20's.  NM and EF willingly shelled out the money for that dental work too.  
It's just yet another example of exactly how screwed up the Crazymaker Clan was and is.

I woke up this morning with a shooting pain in one of my molars - it's been on the list for repair for awhile - and I knew right away what was going on.  I've been struggling for a couple of weeks.

Six weeks ago NM finally (after four years) called and made an appointment with my therapist.  We met.  Everything was exactly the same as it's always been on their end, but I could see where I've evolved.  They still dish the shit, but none of it gets on me anymore.  Even though we didn't resolve anything, that knowledge was a win. 
I've struggled since with acceptance of what that counseling session taught me: I'm willing to create safe parameters to have a healthy relationship with them, or to have none at all.  They are only willing to seek a way to have the same relationship that we used to.  And, really, why wouldn't they want that?  It was a lose-lose deal for me, but it was a win-win for them.  That realization of knowledge has  been keeping me up at night, because it's a game-changer for me. 

It made it clear that my NC boundaries need to change, that I need to take away their ability to contact me, even through a therapist, and make it so that NC will continue until (if) I choose to contact them.  I was working on how to accomplish this.

But then...
Two weeks ago one of my DDs revealed to me that she had been abused in a way I was previously unaware of by one of the members of the FOO, and another member of the FOO knew about it and covered it up.  I was able to take my experience with severe dysfunction and use it to help DD by validating her, believeing in her, protecting her and seeking the help that she needs with her.  It will be an ongoing process, no doubt, but she'll be fine, we'll be fine.  We'll walk through it together and we'll make it to the other side and we'll find ways to grow and learn through this painful process.

The anger, no, rage, that I feel is overwhelming right now.  I'm resisting the urge to direct that rage at myself - conditioning, conditioning, conditioning - for not protecting her, for not getting her out sooner, because I know two things: I really did the best I could with what I had at the time, which wasn't much, and at least I did finally wake up.  Was it soon enough?  No.  But at least I did make it happen.

Most of the rage is directed at the Crazymakers, because of the pain they cause(d) but also because, after all this time, all the work I've done to create space, to protect, to establish and maintain sanity and serenity, when it comes to them and their actions nothing fucking changed.  They're the same sick fucks that they were when I was a child, that they were when my DD's were younger and that they were six weeks ago in a counselor's office.

I can't change it, I can't change them, but I can change me.

So, I'm going to be slamming the doors.  I'll be taking my 'relationship' with the FOO from NC to a state of completely severed ties.  I've been struggling with the correct way to effect this while still keeping my side of the street clean, for my own health and benefit. 

In the meantime, while I try to 'do normal' during the day and allow myself time to process all this, apparently my body has decided to add a little fuel to the fire.  I had a toothache today because I clenched my jaw so hard in my sleep last night that I actually cracked one of my molars.  To cop an Alice Millerism, the body doesn't lie.  This is urgent.

The sooner I close those doors and put up the iron curtain, the better.  A girl's only got so many teeth.

Sorry for the darkess of this post, but darkness is what they have brought into my life and what they will always bring.  Once I get those doors shut I'll be working hard to open up my own windows and let the sunshine back into my soul.  Thanks for being on this journey with me.

Love,
Vanci

So That's Why They're Called Wisdom Teeth

When I was nineteen years old, I was scheduled to have my wisdom teeth removed.  It had been necessary for some time as there had never been room in my mouth for the extra molars and they'd caused me discomfort.  It was bad timing, as I was about to marry - as it would happen, I was conceding to my family's wishes and marrying the man of whom they approved, rather than man whose child I'd just delivered into the world, but that's a longer story for another day.  The marriage precipitated the push for me to finally have the teeth taken out, though, as I wouldn't be eligible for my NM's dental insurance after they'd 'given me away.' 

So, I was sent to the family dentist and told that he'd only be taking two of the four teeth in the first appointment.  He was an old-school dental doc, which means that there was no gas or anesthesia beyond localized novacain.  My mouth was crowded enough that the teeth had barely erupted and had sideways-looking roots.  It was, to be concise, awful.  Half a day in the dental chair later, I had two gaping holes in the back right side of my gums, and was sent home with a scrip for painkillers that I couldn't use as I was nursing my oldest daughter at the time.

It was a horrible enough experience that I cancelled the appointment to have the left side teeth removed.  I got married and lost dental coverage, but I didn't care. No amount of love or money could have gotten my butt back into that dentist's chair of horror. 

A few weeks later, my newly minted spouse and I moved across the country and transplanted ourselves to the deep South.  I was sitting at the kitchen table looking forward to a nice big bite of the fresh tomato sandwich I'd anticipated enjoying while my baby girl napped.  I opened up my mouth wide and snap!  My jaw cracked hard on the right side and locked up with my mouth open.  I can't remember how badly I freaked out, but I know it hurt and it scared me.  My jaw has cracked like that ever since - every time I open my mouth wide enough to take a bite of a sandwich or apple, snap! 

I've adapted and learned over the years how to position my jaw just so to avoid the loud crack and how to keep my jaw from locking up.  I'm sure there's a way to get rid of the problem entirely, but I don't really notice it much most of the time so this particular issue in my life tends to be constantly shifted to the bottom of the priority list.

The only time it truly hurts, though, is after I've spent a fair amount of time in the dental chair.  Repeatedly opening wide causes some discomfort, mostly after I've departed the dental office and been home for a while.  I think it stresses out my delicate jaw and I clamp down as a defense afterward. 

My dentist, whose office I've been loyal to for many years, recently sold his practice to a young dentist who moved into our area to assume the business.  This meant that a couple of the dental assistants left and were replaced.  Dr. New Guy and the DA's weren't familiar with my jaw, so witnessing their reactions over the last few visits has been amusing.  Every time I open my mouth and that snap! happens, they flinch and squirm in their chairs.  "Doesn't that hurt?" they ask every time.  As I'm usually sitting there with my jaw cracked open awaiting the pokes and prods, I generally just shake my head in a silent 'no.'

The last time I was in, though, and we went through the 'does it hurt?' routine, Dr. New Guy, who is pretty young and outspoken for a dentist, lowered his mask and replied in all sincerety, "Well, it should hurt!"

Huh.

He's right, you know, it should.  And if I'm honest in the truest sense of the word, well, it does hurt.  As much as pounding a nail through my hand?  No.  As much as being raped?  No.  As much as... well, the list could increase exponentially and I'd still be able to say that, no, cracking my jaw doesn't hurt as much as a lot of things that have happened to me.  But... it should, and it would without the intense conditioning against expressing any type of pain that I received as a small child. 

My ability to bear pain was one of the prime character traits that I possess that made me such a well-suited scapegoat in my FOO.  I was, from the start, the strongest of all the members in the sense of the load I was able to carry. 

I remember NM and EF bragging to other adults that 'poor Vanci had ear infections constantly for the first two years of her life, but she was always such a love and she hardly ever cried.'  It's taken me a couple of decades to process that and other statements, and some of my breakthrough on it is directly related to the dentist's chair and my damned popping jaw. 

In a nutshell; it should fucking hurt, and I should be able to fucking cry when it does. 

Maybe next time I go to the dentist and they ask the question, I'll bob my head the other direction and ask what can be done to fix the problem once and for all. 

Love,
Vanci