I was looking at the online guides to the Codependent’s Anonymous meeting handbook when it occurred to me: there’s no truth here for me. Reading line after line of self diagnosis as to why i have problems and why it didn’t work isn’t going to shit out a golden brick of “here is the solution to everything that’s wrong with you.” It will just be me, feeling lonely, in the back of some room filled with other broken people, wishing that I were spending my time watching TV in bed rather than actively finding uneasy half answers for why things aren’t working out for me.
After twenty minutes of fidgeting around in my chair feeling like I might be a bit too overdressed to be sitting in the basement room of the Fabiola building at 9am, I make the damned decision to surreptitiously slither out the back door, hoping that no one notices that I think this bullshit is too much exactly that (i.e., bullshit) for me to spend any more minutes feeling my ass bones grind uncomfortably against these blue plastic chairs beneath these blinking bright lights. I haven’t heard a word that any of these other people have said, so I snatch my bag and tip toe on high heels back outside into the sunshine. Unlock my bike and ride away in the freedom sunshine and wind in hair, having accomplished nothing more than the desire to eat pizza at 10 am and sulk to my friends about how unrewarding self improvement can be.
I guess this is just a good excuse to slip slowly back into the bad habits and routines of someone hell bent on self destruction. Refusal to even accept the tools of the possibility that I can improve things for myself is a good way to avoid – no, actually, it’s more of an excellent way to ensure that I keep on making the same mistakes over and over again, but those mistakes. I love the mistakes I make. They’ve become so comfortable. They’ve become reliable mistakes, not predictable, still exciting, but the consistency of my bad decisions has given me a certain sense of security. They’re dependable.
And then I wonder what he’d say. What he’d say if he knew that I had actually gone. Had actually taken the effort to look up the materials online, find the time of the meeting, leave my house and show up only five minutes late. I wonder what he’d say, if he’d be relieved, like I was for a few minutes, or if he’d laugh at me, like I’m laughing at myself now for leaving before the risk of finding actual help became realized. Maybe it’s the wondering what he’d say part that is the true problem, so I shake it off, but I still wonder if the wounded look in my eyes when I tell him that I’m seeking help would in any way sway some sort of pitying emotion from his stoic heart. And with that pity would come some level of vulnerability, and it’s at that point that I would say something stupid referencing the number of new people I’m sleeping with (3), after which a mutual spiral into anger and aggression would result in yet another screaming match, and that glimmer of pity that twinkled in his eyes would be yet another mere memory of how my failure to properly manipulate his emotions into anything productive or resembling of love has yet again left me cold and in the dust, sucking my thumb and feeling sorry for myself. And that’s probably why I went to CoDA in the first place. So I could feel sorry for myself. So I guess that it’s achieved its purpose, and as I wheel out into the sun and the city, I vaguely wonder when will be the next time I see him, and when will be the next time that another systemic breakdown in communication will result in yet another week’s worth of tears and stuttering emotions and rabid text messages and crying into my best friend’s bosom while simultaneously and silently plotting yet another way to chokehold his emotions and sabotage my emotional security.
Ah, young love.