My Brain Bothers Me

            My sponsor asked me if I had any old journals and I told her I didn’t, as I was paranoid anyone would read them.  I did, however, have old blogs.  After a few days of being unable to remember the login for my oldest xanga page, I found it and began reading old posts only to find I am entirely the same person I was ten years ago.  That concerns me.  I am the same, only, ten years ago I was more in touch with my feelings.  I seemed to accept them better.  Somewhere between then and now, I found that alcohol was a substitute for feelings, and that frustrates me immensely. 

I stunted myself, my own development, without knowing.  I spent nearly ten years stuffing down the parts of me that make me who I am.  I don’t understand how I could have done that- lost so much time.  It’s as though alcohol were a black hole for me.  They say if you were able to enter a black hole and spiral back out, a large period of time would have passed but you won’t have felt it.  That’s what alcohol has been for me.  Time has passed, and I haven’t developed.  I opted out of feelings and development in exchange for a shut off switch.  In the past couple of years, when alcohol ceased working, parts of me did begin to eek out.  I did begin painting and blogging a bit, but it was droplets off a dam.  I wish I could say that dam has broken, but it hasn’t; instead, chunk by chunk, it’s being worn down.

            I’m frustrated at my ability to wear myself out all by mental exertion.  I wage these constant battles with myself.  I don’t do the things I should do, I don’t give myself lazy days, instead I spend entire days thinking of what I should be doing and loathing myself for not doing it.  It’s these strange habits that I can’t yet kick.  I want to write, but I don’t know what to write about.  My mind loops continuously, but it’s all old ideas.  No ideas, just desire and frustration.  I want different, but I feel like I lack the skills at this point to get different.

            I’m frustrated that ten years ago I had the same go to’s, the same coping mechanisms, but by adding alcohol to the mix, I severely amplified them.  Rather than a period of time in which I could have grown and evolved, instead I trudged deeper in my own mud.  The longer I went without dealing with feelings, the more afraid of them I grew, all the while pursuing arts as an outlet.  An outlet for what, though?  Simultaneously tramping on feelings while trying to express them is a self defeating cycle.  The benefit is that I’m aware of these things and can work to change them.  The drawback is that my constant internal analysis can be exhausting.  Seriously.  Wouldn’t you be tired if your mind whirred like this all day?