"..The same mind that has to fight everyone else to create a new life for me is also the mind that is persistently taking me back to the old life and fighting to see to it that I die there."
I didn't mean depression or obsessive thoughts, I meant the sheer habit of thought, like the tracks of an old wagon trail. I'm beginning to think some of those habits of my mind qualify as addiction #3.
I've got some particular recurring behaviors in my thinking that aren't just laziness, but act as dopamine producing dissociation, and if I am able to point them out to myself and recognize when I'm doing it, then it's an addiction.
But, I like them.
I really, really do.
I enjoy relaxing into all my addictions and just swimming in them with all the relaxation and freedom some people save for time at the ocean.
I can enjoy my addictions, one or two or three, or accept the miserable experience of fighting them. All of them. Addiction is a package. Sobriety or, eventually, nothing.
That mention of a wagon trail reminds me of this post which, upon reading again, is certainly on point, but not exhaustive.
I'm walking backward thru this blog, tracking to find the obvious that I don't want to see again and again. I don't mind admitting I do the very things that I see others do wrong, I heard the rhema of that watching Jesus preach in the scriptures when I was a teen. It doesn't mean I don't HATE knowing it's true, and it doesn't mean it's true every single time, but it's surely there.
So, anyway, I backed up into this (in a post I wrote FIVE YEARS AGO!!! Sheesh!):
"If she had given up her own artful creation years ago, or even ten years ago, God could have mad something solid and satisfying from all the remnants that were left. It wouldn't matter how few threads were left, He could have rewoven the cloth into a pattern of substance, something that would satisfy her and rectified so many injustices that still produce wounds decades later."
I'm not sure that I have an "artful creation" of myself that I'm trying make, certainly no one I know thinks I'm artful, more of a clunker that just keeps rolling along. The second sentence is very interesting, though - "it wouldn't matter how few threads were left."
I still get unspeakably upset at how few threads are left, at how few job options are conceivably left, at how many personal relationship options just aren't available due to age and common social templates, at my near total inability to focus mindfully on any goal whatsoever, and at the sheer paucity of threads I can even think of right now! Well, the statement of faith I wrote above says it doesn't matter how few threads, God can still make something "solid and satisfying," "a pattern of substance" that can answer my needs and put right so many things that still hurt me today.
Of course, I still have to deal with the later paragraph:
"The conclusion was that it would all end
the same anyway because she was who she was, and that's the thing that
needed to change. Not the events or the timeline, but the character of
the individuals involved, and that can't be done thru warning or
exhortation.* Only a willing humiliation combined with the redeeming
power of the Truth will change any of us."
So then, Sister Prophet, it would seem that my own character or who I am needs changing. It isn't that I just need to know who I am, but who I am
needs rebuilding, maybe like an old car pulled out of the weeds in the
barn. What I was was fine back then, but time and circumstance have had
their say, and now my only hope is the work of a creative genius as well
as a great mechanic.
looks like I'm going to have to undergo something like the focus of one
of those super rebuild car shows, you know, like where they disassemble
the thing into bits and make it into something new? I mean, if they
start with a '66 Impala, when they're done, it's still recognizable as a
'66 Impala, but... changed. Of a certainty not the same model that
rolled off the line, and not the same car that was pulled out of the
barn, but, yeah, still a '66 Impala, 'cause they are So Awesome.
learned to drive in a '66 Impala SS. I can still hear the steering
wheel click in the turn, feel the scalding heat of the bucket seat in
summer, see over that long, wide hood, rock with the sway of the
curves... I loved that car. I wanted that car. Dad gave it to my
brother, who walked away from it after it ran out of gas and we never
saw it again. What an asshole. But that's his life story, not mine.
Mine is about to get rebuilt.
Never seen a '66 Impala? Here you go. Pretty, eh?
*(I bolded that phrase for people who think you can talk/reason someone else out of addictions or psychopathy. Nope. The Person who is The Truth is not "correct information earnestly transmitted." That's not how it works. That's not how any of this works.)