Fury, part 1

Steps 8 and 9 of the AA manifesto urge the alcoholic to make a list of everyone they have harmed and be willing to make amends to them, and to make amends to them if possible as long as doing so doesn’t add to the damage or hurt someone else.

(I’m not an AA adherent, for several reasons. It’s an unwritten rule that I am now supposed to say “AA is great, it helps so many, it’s just not for me.” I’ll leave it at that for now, but this subject will probably come back around in the future.)

If you are or have ever been an addict, you’ve certainly heard from someone about how selfish you are. I’m here to tell you that early recovery is the time to get real selfish. (I don’t know what I mean by early recovery. Maybe it’s always early in recovery.) The most important person to make amends to is yourself. Many of the injuries will be ones that you allowed to be done to you by someone else, because it is unlikely that most, or even any, of the people who ever hurt you are putting your name on a list and calling you up to apologize. (It’s not because they don’t care, it’s because they don’t know, and in most cases* it’s not worth your time to enlighten them.) Your task is to figure out what direction an injury, real or perceived - - an unkind word, general thoughtlessness, a betrayal - - pushed you in, forgive yourself for not fully recognizing that you were being harmed, and make any necessary corrections in your life if possible.

*I want to be clear that I am not talking about actual crimes here—some kinds of injuries may be needful of legal intervention.

One of our favorite kinds of success stories are ones in which an underdog is kicked aside by a self-appointed gate-keeper, and rather than accepting this dismissal, they bravely and creatively overcome all the obstacles and become a star in their field. If the gods particularly favor this brave and creative creature, or if the story is made into a movie, a grand public humiliation of the gate-keeper may be part of the victory.

And when they are asked “How did you do it? What kept you going?” they always say something like “my grandma” or “god” or “the pithy words of encouragement in an inspiring font I keep taped to my bathroom mirror.”

And maybe those things ARE what kept them from cutting their wrists at 3 a.m. because they felt so hated and alone they couldn’t stand it, or getting in their car and driving to another town and changing their name and working in a diner til the end of their days, or marrying a virtual stranger and giving up on everything else.

I wouldn’t know, because one of my superpowers is internalizing rejection!

I dropped out of college, almost 3 1/2 years in, and I got in the habit, when asked why, of saying that I had a nervous breakdown, which isn’t untrue. There was no catastrophic moment when I finally came unglued and ran naked and screaming into a thunderstorm, went to live in a clean, quiet facility for a couple months and came out looking like Natalie Wood in Splendor in the Grass. (Shut up, I am aware that I’m more Randle McMurphy than Deanie Loomis…)

It was more of an arabesque tumble down a crooked flight of stairs toward the seventh circle of hell.

During my time at the university, my parents got divorced, and I accepted my position as arbitrator/negotiator/fixer without once wondering if I had a choice. I felt out of place with my peers. I started taking acid. I went to Europe for a study abroad program. I was in a relationship with a man, much older than I, who gaslit me and fucked around probably the entire time we were together. After that ended with someone else’s pregnancy, I hopscotched through an extended (lovely) hook-up and landed in a relationship with a depressed cynic who claimed he was sterile, and almost immediately had a pregnancy of my own to deal with. I accepted his proposal of an abortion, offered with the smoothness of someone who had been in this situation before, and with the promise that we would have plenty of time later. (I broke up with him over the phone the next summer so I could sleep with his friends. He was delighted, and that’s not sarcasm.) I ate more acid and engaged in risky sex as often as possible. I became less and less enamored with my plan of becoming a public school teacher (I was a NC Teaching Fellow) and then a professor at some elite liberal arts college. I carried a heavy course load every semester, sometimes through the summer, and it was still going to take 5 years to finish with a bachelor’s.

The best thing that happened during my third year was that I co-edited the university literary magazine with two of my best friends. I was reminded by one of them last evening what an inspired job we did - - along with a really wonderful staff, and a faculty advisor who supported us with everything he had through the whole process. (He will henceforth be called Professor Checkers.) We made changes to the format, and to the submission/selection processes. We added a musical component. We launched the publication at an exhibit of the included work. We wanted to produce a magazine that reflected and elevated the creative soul of the entire university. I will say, because there is no one to stop me, that we did that.

That spring, one of those friends graduated and moved away to go to school some more and live her life. I remember sort of not believing that she would really go away, maybe. I was to be the editor of the magazine the next year, and some of the others would return, and Professor Checkers, our beloved advisor agreed to stay on as well.

I was sad that my friend would be gone, and a little scared about being the editor without her, but I was also really excited to continue what she and I and the others had started, to hopefully improve on our model. I had loved it so much, the process and the thing we created, and it was the first time I felt like part of something important, a real collaboration, since probably my first years of marching band. Just to finish something and be able to physically hold it and share it proudly. It had MY name on it, and it wasn’t garbage!

I don’t know exactly when or how things went so wrong the next year, and I don’t have a lot of solid memories about it over thirty years later. But every time I have thought about it since, I have felt little but anger and humiliation.

Until yesterday, when I ran into… PROFESSOR CHECKERS.

Stay tuned and soon I’ll tell you all about it.

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I’m in love with my dental hygienist and other tales of self-care

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The Arc of Gardening Bends Toward Order