I am Al-anon through and through. I was trained, probably from birth, to be the family enabler / caretaker. I learned well.
I started going to al-anon some time ago. I even got a sponsor. I gave it a shot...sort-of.
But life got in the way. Or, to be perfectly honest, my disease got in the way. It fought back with a vengeance beyond just my years of training; it fought back with generations worth of unhealthy learned behavior and dangerous thought processes. And, for a time, it won.
I stopped going to meetings. I didn't call my sponsor. I didn't tell anybody how bad it was getting for me. (I didn't want to bother them, of course.) I kept the secrets. I told the little lies to spare people's feelings, to justify enabling, to maintain a facade of calm and order.
The one person who truly saw what was happening -my wife- , I accused of not understanding, of exaggerating. I kept her in the dark on some matters, for the sake of not arguing, not having a confrontation, not having to look at what I was doing to myself and everyone else through someone else's eyes. I stopped talking to key people. They would know. They would call me on it, too. Even with my teenage daughter, when she pointed out some of the things I put myself through in the name of "fixing things" and "taking care of everyone", I told her she just didn't understand. And that much is true. I have not raised her to have to please people, do what's expected of her, or take responsibilities that aren't hers. (Hopefully, we can break the cycle.)
My doctor told me months ago that, at the ripe old age of 33, I was headed for a heart attack or stroke if I didn't make some changes, especially regarding my stress level, but also including eating better and getting some rest. My therapist warned of an impending break down if I didn't slow down and take some "me" time and start setting "healthy boundaries". My sponsor, the last time I talked to him, told me that he saw a lot of himself in me, at least, the way he was before he had to have open heart surgery when he was in his 30s, before he found the program.
I didn't listen. They were just trying to scare me, after all. It wasn't really that bad.
For months I was nauseated, sometimes vomiting, but more often gagging and retching for long periods of time with no relief. I developed a rash; the doctor said it was a histamine reaction to stress. I started having panic attacks again, even in my sleep. I was so anemic that I needed a blood transfusion, which I refused. I got bronchitis and, by the time I went to the doctor, I was on the brink of pneumonia. Between the coughing and the nausea, I couldn't hold down my meds. My sleep schedule was so erratic anyway that I just stopped trying to figure out which meds I should be taking and when;I just quit taking them altogether. The panic attacks got worse. I was constantly fighting dark thoughts and the urge to self harm.
At about 4am on December 2nd, I had a major panic attack. In my desperation and need for some relief, I picked up a pocket knife. The screams welling up inside me were rivaled only by the negative words spinning in my head. I threw the knife down. I picked it up. I looked towards the ceiling, as if in prayer, though I was far beyond being able to pray, and I ripped my belly open.
My wife says she heard the sickening sound of my skin giving way under the blade. I laid down on the bed, with no intention of going anywhere. My wife declared that I needed to go to the hospital. I argued briefly before she insisted that I get up and look in the mirror. What I saw terrified me. (At first, my wife thought she saw my intestines. It wasn't quite that bad, but not far from it.) I agreed to go to the hospital.
It took 24 staples to put me back together. An ambulance was called to transport me to another hospital with a behavioral medicine unit. I refused to go. The police were called. My wife had the presence of mind to call my therapist and case worker. Strings were pulled. I signed myself out of the hospital "against medical advice" and walked the block to my therapist's office. It was decided that I should go home, take my meds, and rest. And that any other sign of being a danger to myself would result in a little vacation in the hospital, and there would be no way around it.
I came home, took my meds, and laid on the couch. My wife tried her best to take care of me. In less than 24 hours, however, I was working on the budget, worrying over my relatives, and getting online to pay bills and look for work. She was exasperated. She told me she couldn't watch me kill myself any longer. We argued. We had a rough few days. There were a lot of tears, a lot of realizations, and a lot of explanations. Finally, there was hope, there was a plan, and there was an understanding.
My wife will rededicate herself to her (AA) program. She will help me in ways that I can accept, while I work on being able to accept more. I will go back to Al-anon. I will go back into therapy and be honest with my therapist, for a change. I will learn to let others help me and take some responsibilities so that I don't get so overwhelmed. I will learn to talk through things. I will be more vigilant about taking my meds. I will learn to delegate. I will let other people handle their own situations. I will learn to feel my feelings, know that they are okay, and let them pass. I will let go. I don't have to do it all. I don't have to fix everything. I do have to breathe and stay safe.
So now, just days later, I am doing my level best to hang on to that hope and understanding and to implement our plans.
My mother is now in the hospital, on the psych ward. It is unfortunate, but it is where she needs to be right now. She needs rest. She needs to get her medication issues sorted out. And she needs to know that, while I care very much, I can not and will not "fix" everything for her...anymore. It is damaging to her quality of life to depend on me for everything. It will do her good to live her own life.
My aunt is very upset with me because, believe it or not, I did what she asked and what I said I was going to do. She wanted to "handle things". I let her. I said I had things that I had to do. I did them. I was not there to get caught up in the drama. There were problems so I offered what possible solutions I could think of to help out, then I let her deal with her own situation. I did not argue or cry or even get upset. I refused to feel the guilt that she was throwing my way. I told her that I was sorry that she felt slighted and that perhaps there was some misunderstanding, but that I did just what I said I was going to do. Then I told her that I needed to get to a meeting and it was time for me to go. I probably won't be hearing from her for quite some time. I'm okay with that.
My wife has been helping me with a lot these past few days. If I get a phone call that I don't feel up to dealing with at the moment, she answers and tells the person that I can't talk right then. I have turned over the housework, or more importantly, the allocating of chores, to her. The children, so far, are adjusting just fine. My wife is finding things that she can do, things that give her some small sense of pride or purpose, things that are helpful to me, and that don't cause me to panic because "I should be doing it". I hope that list of such things grows, that she begins to feel more like a partner to me and a worthwhile person in her own right, and that I can learn to depend on her and love her without feeling the need to protect her from life. She deserves life, as well as respect and self-worth. I never meant to deprive her of those things, but I did. And I cheated both of us out of a lot of chances to grow together because I couldn't just let go of things that aren't even that important in the long run, or at least aren't mine to deal with, and just be fully present. I don't want to be that way anymore.
I am now looking for a sponsor or co-sponsor, locally or online, who can guide me through the steps, with some understanding of me, or my circumstances, or at least an open mind to my "differences" or things outside "the norm".
I am transgender. I am getting to the point where I can be honest about that and explain it and then, wonder of wonders, actually expect people to honor and respect my identity, whether they like it or not. I am a person and I am deserving of the same considerations as anyone else. My identity is not up for debate, nor is it contingent on anyone's acceptance. I am who and what I am. And that's okay. And anyone who refuses to acknowledge and respect that, I don't have to associate with and I don't have to feel guilty about that either.
I am a Lifestyle Daddi Dominant. I live in a 24/7 D/s marriage. That is our dynamic. That is not up for critique. It just is. No one else has to agree with it, or even understand it. It is not inherently unhealthy. It is not abuse. It is not sick or weird or wrong. It is our relationship and, though it may be different from the societal "norm", it is no less valid.
I am a recovering self-harmer. My self-harming behaviors have run the gamut from eating disorders to burning myself, from punching or kicking things that I know aren't going to give (like brick walls) to scratching or rubbing my skin off, from allowing unwanted sexual contact to depriving myself of sleep, comfort and even communication. But the most common self-harming behavior for me, the one I seem to have the hardest time letting go, is cutting. It is a coping mechanism, it just isn't a healthy one. The blood, the sensation, even the scar, have helped me to feel, to not feel, to calm down, to not remember, to find some relief from situations and/or feelings that I couldn't otherwise handle at the time. I don't want to do that anymore. I must find other, healthier ways to cope...but I must also try to gentle with myself when the urge comes, recognizing it for what it is: a tool of desperation, a tool that I have used in the past to get me through some really tough situations and some really overwhelming emotions, but one that I no longer need because I can reach out for help now, I can feel things and let them go, I can find a better way. The urge does not mean that I am weak or stupid or crazy, it just means that something is bothering me, that I am feeling, or refusing to feel, something strong and I need to examine what that is and find a more constructive way to work through it. I don't have to be desperate. I can just be human.
I come from a family of alcoholics, addicts, and mentally ill people. I have witness and suffered various forms of abuse, neglect and manipulation. There is no way that I could have gone through all that unaffected. It has shaped me. But it doesn't have to define me. I am not a victim, I am a survivor. I can use those experiences as examples of what I don't want to be, what I don't want in my life. I can also use them as learning aids in my quest to be a compassionate, understanding and uplifting person. And I can even use those experiences to help me remember that, while I want to help and understand and support, it is not wise to blindly trust or to expect that people will always do the right thing. I have learned valuable lessons from unfortunate circumstances. But all that is not without a flip side. I can be paranoid. I can over-compensate. I can be cynical. I can allow myself to over-invest in a person, thing, or situation very quickly. These are things that I have to be aware of. They are not good things or bad things in and of themselves, I just have to monitor them closely.
I have a lot to work on. I have a lot to accept and I have a lot to let go of. I have a lot to learn. I also have a lot to teach...when I get to that point.
One day, with enough work and Divine help, I will know, not just in my head, but with all my being, that I am a worthwhile person. That I deserve to be loved and treated with compassion and kindness. That I do not have to earn the right to Be, that it is mine because I Am.
The journey awaits and I am ready to begin. 
