Is it just a clog?
Will all of the water flow right through once sufficient pressure has built behind the obstruction. Will the shit and wads of paper give out before the plumbing? Porcelain is tough, but prone to cracking. Do the stress fractures accumulate over time, weakening the structure further with each successive blockage, until a final catastrophic failure? or does the plumbing, given sufficient time, recover after each event.
Do I just need a plunger and dran-o this time, or do the pipes need to be replaced as well?
I don’t easily recall feelings of relief after previous clogs were freed. Thinking back, they were most often abandoned, and not fixed at all. Shame invariably followed. But because the clogs were never actually cleared, I don’t really have a basis to assume that the shame will still follow if this time it is.
What a crappy metaphor.
I couldn’t be good enough for me. Ever. The tragedy is I never tried.
Is that the only reason that I am in this hole? Obviously, emotional issues have exaggerated the issue, but is the solution just to fix the underlying problem? Would I feel the same way right now if I could complete my task?
Such an easy question to answer. A simple experiment. And yet, I can’t fucking do it. Five years I spent hiding because I couldn’t face someone and simply ask them a three word question. 30 seconds of awkwardness. Even abject shame perhaps, but still, I could not do it. I just spent all that fucking time fucking torturing myself. Two years no three years at least debating my own sanity. The next two spent accepting (alternately my sanity and my reality).
I know the answer. Removed from the chaos and self flagellation, I was still the same person. That was worse. Maybe that is what I am actually distracting myself from. Giving my mind something to obsess over to distract myself from the fact that I hate myself.
I can remember this behavior going back to fifth grade at least. Maybe fourth. What the fuck? Can a person really hate themselves at that age? I had surgery in 5th grade. I probably didn’t even need it. Was that part of it too? I remember thinking to myself, even at 10, that I would have to confess that sin eventually. Were we still going to church then? I don’t think so. My confession fantasies by that age took place in a therapist’s office and not a dark booth.
A couch is ok, but I think it’s the wrong approach. Are confessionals dark because the church understands shame, or because it cultivates it? I know that I would feel more comfortable talking to a therapist through a shade in a dark tight room than sitting on a couch in a room with bland artwork and a bit of natural light. What I don’t know is whether that was instilled in me, or is inherent.
If penance works, it has to be one of the greatest gifts of any religion. I gave up my true faith before I could put it to the test. I wonder if it really does offer relief. I don’t think it could.
I dismiss religion as a crutch. That makes me a hypocrite. It suggests that I can make it through without a crutch. Clearly I can barely muddle through it without one. It’s the dismissing that’s the problem.
So the theology is bullshit. Alcoholics acknowledge that there is a higher power because they can’t make it through without a crutch either. It’s an even trade. I don’t know why I never understood that before.
I don’t want to believe that that is the right crutch for me, but maybe it is. Not because it is ‘true’, but because that’s how my personality was created. If the solution to growing up (being happy even?) is acceptance of who you are, doesn’t it make sense that that would need to be part of it.
As much as I hate it, I have never been cool or hip or innovative. I have never done anything to stand outside of the shadow of my family, I have never been able to escape it, have had no success even in trying. The exception is moving 3000 miles, but even that is growing tired.
Maybe the only children who grow up different from their parents and their childhood influences are the ones whose parents were in their nature different. In that sense they are just as trapped by genetic and historical destiny as the rest of us.
Back to the distractions.