Picking Up the Pieces

So I’ve been doing a lot of ruminating over the events of the other night, and I’ve come to the conclusion that I really screwed the pooch on this one. It’s hitting me that I violated abstinence (as it’s called in 12-step circles) after almost TWENTY-TWO YEARS. And all over something as stupid as being smeared on Facebook.

Granted, the person doing the smearing was someone very close to me, and the betrayal still smarts. I don’t know how I’m going to ever be able to forgive this individual, although I know I will at some point because it’s my Christian duty, and….well, because I still care about them, no matter what they think. But Jesus never said that we have to hang out with those who bear false witness against us, and I’m reasonably certain He never said we have to trust them once they’ve dropped us on our heads.

Still, the fact remains: I fucked up. I can’t fix it, I can’t take it back, I can’t undo it. When I did it, I had NO idea of what it symbolized—an enormous step backwards in my recovery—all I cared about was numbing myself. Now that I’ve had a few days to assess what went wrong, the full impact of what I’ve done has gobsmacked me, and I am left with sadness and a great deal of disappointment in myself.

The one bright spot in all of this is that with my husband’s help, I know I don’t have to start completely over as I’d feared. There is definitely a lot to be learned from this episode, and the first thing is I can’t beat myself up over it for the rest of my life. Will’s forgiven me, and I think God and my kids will forgive me sooner or later; now it’s time to forgive myself and move forward. I can’t excuse it or try to minimize the seriousness of it just because I didn’t take a drink, but I can make sure I never do it again.

Of course, I’m telling myself this because I still feel like the world’s biggest loser and I know I’ve got to “fake it till I make it”. Eventually I’ll internalize it and be OK, but that time hasn’t arrived yet. I still have to go see my parish priest AND my psychiatrist, neither of whom will judge me or make me feel worse, but I care what they think and I know they’ll be at least a little disappointed in me too.

Meanwhile, I’m carrying on with my life and trying to figure out how—or even whether—to deal with the original problem. I have absolutely NO desire to communicate with this individual, especially since I’m still pissed and much of what I’d like to say right now isn’t fit for polite company. I know I’ll have to someday, but that day is definitely not today. And right now, tomorrow’s not looking too good either.

But soon…..

Published by bpnurse

I'm a retired registered nurse and writer who also happens to be street-rat crazy, if the DSM-IV.....oops, 5---is to be believed. I was diagnosed with bipolar I disorder at the age of 55, and am still sorting through the ashes of the flaming garbage pile that my life had become. Here, I'll share the lumps and bumps of a late-life journey toward sanity.... along with some rants, gripes, sour grapes and good old-fashioned whining from time to time. It's not easy being bipolar in a unipolar world; let's figure it out together.

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