"I don't like Agnes much," said my mother, "She's definitely no Aunt Gerty.  But it's because Gerty was so wonderful that I think Uncle Fred is marrying Agnes."

"What do you mean?" I asked.  Uncle Fred and Aunt Gerty had been married over fifty years when Gerty died.  I was in my early teens at the time and had always figured that the sign of a truly happy marriage was keeping that space in heart and home forever sacred, and never marrying again once you'd lost that one true love.  So it had seemed strange to me that, after a year or so of seeming lost in grief, Uncle Fred had started dating with so much enthusiasm.  He was over eighty and had a social life more active than mine.

"Well, Uncle Fred and Aunt Gerty loved each other a lot, but he not only misses her, he misses being married. He's had such good times being married, and he's used to living life with a partner. But then look at John, next door; he and Martha had a hard time. It's been years since she passed away, and he doesn't even have the slightest interest in dating.  I'm sure he doesn't want to go through that again."

Our elderly neighbor John seemed to love and care about his wife Martha, but her mental illness colored everything. She was depressed, addicted to prescription medications and could have been (if she had lived in today's reality TV world) featured on Hoarders. When she died, I assumed that John, a great, spunky man with a quick smile and a zest for life, would finally have the chance to find a partner who could make him happy.  But I'd been baffled to find that he preferred to spend his time alone, tending to his garden.  Maybe my mother was right: with no experience of marriage as happy, John had no incentive to get into a new relationship.

I find myself thinking of John from time to time, because (I know, never say never) I can't picture myself ever wanting to get into a romantic relationship again.  I'm happy in my marriage as it is now, but I can't imagine starting this all over again with someone new.  It's too dang much work.  And I have no illusions that the next time, if I somehow pick the "right guy" (you know, not a crazy sex addict), the journey would be an effortless dance on a carpet of rose petals rather than, well, more hard work.  It's similar to the way I love my kids and have found parenting rewarding beyond belief, but I have no desire to adopt more newborns when my children are grown.  (I don't even get nostalgic for that newborn scent and downy hair, because I know all too well it comes with dirty diapers and sleepless nights.)  If I lose Mark before he loses me, I fully plan to spend my golden years, ensconced in a house full of beautifully fragile and child unfriendly things, in happy retirement from both romantic relationships and young children.

But what if things happen the other way around?  I had a cancer scare recently, and while I was waiting for the biopsy results, I wavered between faith and fear.  I was firmly on the faith side for several days, knowing that whatever happened (whether it was, from my perspective, good or bad), I would be where I should be and I would be supported, loved and able to cope.  But thoughts of my own mortality would creep in, especially as time went on, and while I valiantly pushed out thoughts of what my kids would do should the absolute worst case be true (there was no way I was going there), I did find myself wondering which path my husband, still just in his forties, would choose.  And I found myself fighting back tears as I drove to an appointment, because I couldn't imagine Mark being alone and that thought hurt deeply and scared me as much as almost anything else.

Before the disclosure of sex addiction, I used to be comforted by the thought that, if I died, a remarriage would be, like it was for my Uncle Fred, a way of honoring the happiness we have and of finding (hopefully) a new loving partner to be there for the kids.  Besides, as Mark always says, "I don't care what you do after I'm dead.  I'll be dead, so I won't know the difference."  But now I found it brought up, not just echoes of abandonment and betrayal, but illusions of my own power and fears of the addiction surfacing anew in my absence.  I could hear the whisper in my mind, "I have to live, because if I'm gone, there's nothing to keep him from diving right back into insanity."  And that's the sound of me diving back into my insanity.

When my doctor called to tell me that all was well, it was a relief to know that my physical body is sound, but it was also a relief to know I have time to deal with those little demons in my mind that tell me that I'd be better at picking Mark's path than he would and that I'm the only thing standing between my family and disaster.  That kind of pressure is exhausting.  No wonder John's post-Martha puttering in the garden looks so attractive to me!

My husband Mark cannot take care of himself. Really, the man cannot even keep track of what he likes. I have to do it for him. I present as evidence the last few weeks of grocery shopping.

Last week, Mark was sick, and I (sweet and loving spouse that I am) asked him to make a list of anything special he wanted me to pick up for him during my grocery store run. So, he made a list of comfort foods, saying that if I was in a hurry, he really only wanted some Gatorade because he felt a little dehydrated. Still, I decided I was going to get him every darn thing on the list, because I loved him that much. I was going to make sure he wanted for nothing, including oatmeal, next to which he had written "cinnamon spice or plain." I hesitated, right there reading the list, because of course I wasn't going to just get him plain (that's so boring!), but I was pretty sure what he liked was maple brown sugar. Hm.

When I arrived in the cereal aisle of the grocery store, I encountered a tragedy of epic proportions: there were no individual boxes of cinnamon spice oatmeal, just combo packs that also included apple cinnamon (which no one in our house likes) and maple brown sugar. So now I was faced with a dilemma, one that I fully realized was retribution for not having clarified the all important cinnamon spice question before leaving the house: what would really make Mark happiest?

I mean, I know he said cinnamon spice, but I keep track of these things, you know, and I'm pretty sure that what he actually likes is maple brown sugar. But if I just get the maple brown sugar, then I'm specifically buying what he didn't ask for. Maybe he's in the mood for cinnamon spice and will be angry and disappointed if I substitute a more convenient flavor, even one he likes. But if I get the multi-pack, I'm going to have to eat all the damn apple cinnamon that no one likes or waste food and money by throwing it out. I was tempted to call him for clarification, but my phone was out of batteries.

So I stood in front of that oatmeal and ran through my various oatmeal purchasing choices for five minutes (I know. It's exhausting to be me.) before I finally settled on two variety packs and one package of plain oatmeal.

The next day, Mark paused, spoonful of oatmeal in hand and said, "You know what? I just realized it's actually maple brown sugar that I like better!" And I wanted to reach over and strangle him. What did he mean he liked maple brown sugar better? After all I'd gone through. I could well have gotten him the wrong thing! And now I was going to end up eating all the apple cinnamon for nothing. Damn it! And this was the second time in as many weeks something like this had happened.

You see, a while back, he had picked up a two pack of cleaning wipes at the store: a tub of "fresh scent" packaged in green and a tub of "lemon fresh" packaged in yellow. After cleaning the bathroom, he said, "You know. There's something I don't like about the way the green ones smell. I like the yellow ones better." Duly noted: Mark does not like the green ones; never buy them again. So, I assiduously bought only yellow packages of cleaning wipes, even when the green ones were on sale. After all, I couldn't subject Mark to the green ones that he didn't like. (The horror!)

The only problem was, the next time Mark had to pick up cleaning wipes from the store himself, he picked up a huge tub of... yes, the green ones. "But you don't like these!" I spluttered, furious that he'd bought the evil green wipes. He'd bought THE WRONG ONES! And I wasn't even angry because I don't like the green ones; I don't care. I was mad because he doesn't like the green ones.

"Oh," said Mark, "I don't?"

"You said you didn't like the way they smell!"

"Oh, yeah. I guess I did. Oh well."

Oh well? Was he serious? That's it? Oh well?! How dare he not even know what he likes! I take up precious mental real estate with this information! I can't follow my kids' math homework, and it's probably because all of my brain cells are being devoted to keeping track of important things like "Mark's favorite oatmeal flavor" and "Mark's preferred scent of cleaning wipes." Things that Mark... doesn't. even. think. are. important...

Oh.

So, it turns out Mark can take care of himself just fine. Mark isn't keeping track of that stuff because emit actually doesn't matter to him/em. He didn't ask me to go through all that trouble for the oatmeal or the wipes (or many of the other things I've done over the years). He didn't even say those things were important. In fact, in the case of the oatmeal, he explicitly told me it wasn't, and that something else was important to him instead.

But I desperately want the never-ending list of things I keep track of to matter to him. I want him to bow down to me in everlasting gratitude to my hyper awareness of his wishes and my superior knowledge of his cleaning wipe scent preferences. I want to be officially crowned the nicest, most thoughtful, most caring, awesomest wife ever. Yes, sir. A woman who knows her cinnamon spice from her maple brown sugar is a keeper. He's gotta stick to me like glue if he wants to get his oatmeal (or his cleaning wipes or anything else in his life) right. But if I start making mistakes... Oh. I could lose my crown! He could find out I'm a mere mortal — just a regular old average wife — and skip right out. Which is what leads me to stand in a grocery store staring at oatmeal for five minutes in sheer panic at my inability to get it just the way he's going to want it.

I take care Mark and other people that I love, in a good, loving way, but I also do it in a bad way. (Although fortunately not bad in the cop drama bad guy kind of way, with my fedora tilted menacingly over one eye, as I bark to my hit man, "Take care of the snitch, Joey.") I can be some slapstick girl scout heroine: so focused on the merit badge I'm going to win for being helpful that I insistently try to help a perfectly capable, able-bodied person across the street, tripping them and myself, scattering their groceries and causing scrapes and bruises all around (although generally less hilarity).

In fact — especially if we all do make it to the other side of the street safely (thanks to me, of course) — I often remain blissfully unaware. Sometimes the realization that I'm doing the bad, codependent kind of helping doesn't hit me until I'm sitting there, knocked flat on my ass, with my literal and metaphorical groceries scattered around me, angry that emsomeone/em (ok, my husband Mark) hasn't appreciated my spectacular helpfulness the way he should.

I guess this will teach me I should dump Mark's grocery preferences out of my head so I can free up some space for more important things, like how to do elementary school math so I can help my kids with their homework. And hey! Maybe they'll appreciate me instead...*

It's been a long time since I nerdily reviewed a movie, but my husband and I went to see New Moon this weekend, and I just couldn't resist writing a post about it.  The movie is a vampire love story.  No, actually it's a vampire, werewolf, human love triangle.  Bella (a human teenage girl) is the object of affection of both Edward (the 109-year-old teenage-looking vampire) and Jacob (the teenage werewolf).  It's also a stunning portrait of codependent craziness...

Picture Mark and me, cuddled up in a dark theater, surrounded by shrieking teenage girls.  On screen, shimmers the image of Bella talking about how she can't be happy without Edward.  Mark leans over to me and whispers, "She's such an incredible codie!"  And I whisper back, "Totally."

Of course, as I was contemplating writing this post, I thought, "Is it going too far to call Bella codependent?  Maybe she's just a typical teenager."  And then I realized that I thought she was a typical teenager because she was just. like. me.  And I'm, um, codependent.  In fact, I realized that she's so much like me that if you substitute "pasty white addict" for "pasty white vampire" and "hot ethnic addict" for "hot ethnic werewolf," the movie is so startlingly close to a retelling of my own teen years that I had a fleeting thought that I should investigate whether or not the author knows me in real life and then sue her for stealing my story.  Only I eventually broke up with the vampire, because, seriously, have you seen the werewolf with his shirt off?

For your entertainment and enlightenment, I thought I'd list some of the codependent behaviors and characteristics that Bella (aka Teenage Me) exhibits:

• Attracted to men who are unavailable or unstable.  (One could argue that Jacob seems available and stable at first, but note that Bella isn't attracted to him when he is.  It's not until he seems to be abandoning her, she chases after him and even asks him to run away with her.  This is the part I'm certain Stephenie Meyer stole from my life.)
• Attracted to men with big, dangerous secrets.  (Come on, a werewolf and a vampire?  How much more stand in for an addict can you get?)
• Addicted to romantic partners.  (She almost kills herself several times to achieve the "rush" she needs simply to see a dream version of Edward.)
• Terrified of abandonment.
• Embarrassed to receive gifts.
• Unfulfilled, depressed and empty without external validation.  (At one point she says that she is ok emotionally as long as she is not alone.)
• Feels responsible for fixing other people's problems and taking care of other people's feelings.  (She tells Jacob she'll run away with him to make him feel better, then flies to another country to keep prevent Edward from killing himself and more importantly, to keep him from, "feeling guilty.")

Ah, memories!  I can't tell you how relieved I am to have those days behind me, to have found recovery, and to be married to a werewolf, I mean, sex addict who has found recovery too.

Image credit: Photo by DaveAustria.com on Flickr Licensed under Creative Commons

So, you know, I'm not really codependent.  (I hate that word anyway.  Sincerely I do.)  I just like to do nice things for people.  Really nice things.  Like that time in college when my boyfriend's parents were going to come for a visit and I helped out by vacuuming his carpet.  Only he wasn't actually my boyfriend, but I wanted him to be, and I didn't, technically, vacuum the carpet, I went a little overboard, which really was not my fault because I couldn't find a vacuum.

Ok, let me explain.  I was enamored of this guy I met my freshman year, and I was pretty sure that, if I just worked hard enough and did well enough, I could eventually get him to ride off into the sunset with me after which we'd live happily ever after, enjoying the ripeness of our golden years in our house with a dog and a white picket fence and grandchildren bouncing on our knees.  And one day just before his parents were due to arrive for a visit, I saw the perfect opportunity to prove my everlasting devotion and put him so deeply in my debt that he would have to consent to, if not ride off into the sunset, then at least go buy the horse.

He had tidied up his little ten foot by twelve foot room and was frowning down at the carpet remnant that covered the floor.  "Too bad I couldn't vacuum it," he said, "Oh well.  I have to leave for class.  What about you?"

"I don't have anything right now.  Is it ok if I hang out here for a little while?  I'll lock up when I leave," I said, slyly.

"Sure," he said and left for class.

After he left, I set off in search of a vacuum, thinking I'd quickly run it over his carpet as a surprise.  When I couldn't find any available (at least none that were working at the time; although I did hear tell of fabled vacuum cleaners that had been working just days before), I refused to give up.  I went back to his room, and as I surveyed it, I had a brilliant idea.  I might not be able to get up all the dirt, but I could at least make the carpet look better; I could clean the floor the way I sometimes took lint off a sweater: with tape.  So I wrapped tape, sticky side out, all around my hand, and on my hands and knees I got to work painstakingly clearing all visible debris from the carpet that no one asked me to clean.

When my soon-to-be boyfriend returned from class, I showed him the room with a flourish.  At first, he didn't notice anything, but given time (and sufficient prodding from me), he said, "Oh!  The carpet!  Great.  Thanks.  I guess you found a vacuum cleaner."  Suddenly ashamed to admit that I'd just spent the last hour all but licking his floor clean with my tongue as an act of devotion, I said, "Yes, I did.  Took like 10 seconds."

"Well, that was nice of you.  Thanks.  See you later."

Not the ticker tape parade in my honor it should have been, but I was laying that groundwork in my niceness.  (That wasn't codependent, right?  I'm pretty sure codependent would have been doing that on a much larger room he never asked me to clean.)  But folks, here's the important part: it sort of worked.  We dated for years.  And it's not my fault that we broke up because I couldn't sustain that level of working hard enough and doing well enough at things I was never asked to do or that he didn't work that hard or do that well in return.  Still, that's the kind of healthy, successful dating relationship that's totally going to get me published in Sexual Codependents Magazine Cosmo someday.

A few months after I first met Mark in college, we ran into each other in a campus dining hall. As we chatted, he admired my high school class ring. I held my hand out to let him see it more closely, and peering down at the ring, he said, "Would you mind taking it off?" So, I took off my ring and handed it to him, expecting that he wanted to look at it more closely still. To my utter astonishment, he simply said "thank you," pocketed the ring and walked away. I stood there in the lobby, open-mouthed and paralyzed with wonder, like a newly carved statue. Had this man just stolen my ring? Was this a joke? Had he taken it to show it to someone else? Was he intending to come back? What did he mean by it? What kind of person does something so odd and unexpected? And what on earth do I do now?

Fortunately, Mark's roommate, who had witnessed the interaction, approached me. "Come on," he said wearily, as if this sort of thing happened all the time, "Let's go get your ring back." He led me, mute and meek, through the building until we finally found Mark in a game room, playing pool. "Mark," said his roommate, extending a palm, "the ring..." Mark smiled at me, looking both sly and awkward, as he handed over the ring, and I knew then that it had been a joke and that he was disappointed that I didn't (or didn't know how to) play along.

Eventually, I got used to Mark's odd tricks, spontaneous decisions, sudden new interests and chance conversations. He'd point over my shoulder and say brightly "Look over there!" while deftly swiping whatever was in front of me and seeing how long it took me to notice. We'd walk down the street, discussing what flavor we thought of when someone said "milkshake," and when we differed, he'd stop the next five random passersby to ask what they thought, as if he were Jay Leno and I were his camera. He'd decide he'd want to learn Russian or juggling or how to play the recorder. He'd strike up a conversation with a strange couple at the next table in a restaurant and leave with their phone numbers. I'd say I was thirsty, and he'd run out of the dormitory, returning with a plastic champagne glass from the cafeteria filled with soda and a flower from the nearest accessible blooming plant.

And I greeted it all with a mix of delighted awe and nagging discomfort. I loved that he did these crazy things that I was too scared, too shy, too bound by rules, too afraid of failure to do myself, and as I grew used to him, little by little, I started to feel more comfortable with spontaneity and novelty both in him and in myself, which I thought was a good thing. Yet I'd often find myself appalled and apologetic. "Yes, I'm sorry he took your coffee cup. It was a joke. He does those things," and like Mark's roommate had, I learned to take care of the people he startled or embarrassed or to tie up the loose ends he left straying behind him like jester's ribbons.

When, years later, he admitted to his sex addiction, much of that spontaneity didn't seem like fun anymore. I started to see that some of his tricks and jokes were ways to test people's limits, that collecting contact numbers wasn't always in the name of friendship and that he hadn't taken Russian so much from a sudden passion for the language as a sudden passion for a Russian classmate. And in an attempt to protect myself from more hurt, I started to wall off and become even more of a compulsive planner, even more rigid about rules, even more strict about structure, even more wedded to routine than I ever had been before.

Spontaneity is still extremely difficult for me. The other night Mark came home after the kids were asleep and said, "Honey, I'd like to take a shower and then make love to you." And as he showered, my mind raced: "That's not right! That's different. It's supposed to be make love first and then take a shower. That's the way it always has been. Has he been with someone else? Is that why he wants to take a shower first?" For a moment, I was as paralyzed as the first time he took my ring and walked away. What did he mean by it? What kind of person does something so odd and unexpected? And what on earth do I do now?

But I have a new guide within me now. One that gently led me to see that a shower was hardly a purloined ring, and not being able to tolerate even so small a change in routine without pain is the damage of disease. But it also led me to see that the gift of recovery is being able to talk to my husband honestly about it rather than pretending the fear and anxiety don't exist (because they "shouldn't"). And I trust that eventually, as my recovery continues, my need for that protective wall of structure will slowly slip away into balance with a new and healthy spontaneity.

I don't remember how it was I first noticed the little bird huddled at the edge of the sidewalk. Did I hear it cheep or see a faint movement? But there it was: a little chick that had fallen out of a nest somewhere. It was fuzzy grey with bulging blind eyes and one of its legs was twisted unnaturally out beside it. I stopped in the middle of my evening walk and stood there wondering how best to help it. I didn't think I could find its nest or return it there, and besides, it was injured. I certainly couldn't leave it there to fall prey to some other animal. So I scooped it up and carried it home.

Home at that time was in another part of the country entirely: an apartment I was sharing with my then-boyfriend. That relationship fell apart slowly, over a number of years, and it was passing through its own calm twilight just then. He was horrified that I'd brought home a potentially disease ridden little creature to our "no pets allowed" apartment, and I was horrified that he'd rather leave it to the neighborhood cats than take it in for a night.

In those pre-Internet days, I spent all the next morning on the phone looking both for instructions on how to care for the bird as well as searching for anyone who might take it; I called the Humane Society who put me in touch with the Audubon Society who put me in touch with a bird sanctuary who put in me in touch with a man who took in and rehabilitated local wildlife. Then (since this was also before I owned a car) the bird took a bus ride in a cardboard box to meet the man. He identified it as a songbird common to that area, nothing special, but promised nonetheless to do his best to save it, because he was the kind of person who did such things, just like I was the kind of person who went to great lengths to make sure my little charge made it to him so that he could.

In the years since, veterinarians and the Humane Society have been recipients of my frequent phone calls, as I've learned how to play foster mama to everything from injured birds to baby squirrels to feral kittens. Anything small, abandoned and in need of protection that shows up in my path (or attic or yard or general vicinity) gets appropriate interim food and lodging, followed by expert care and medical treatment. My husband, like my boyfriend before, if left to his own devices, would let survival of the fittest play out, but (having heard the little bird story before we started dating) did at least know what he was getting into marrying me.

Still, the contrast between my method and that of those closest to me made me wonder for years (in that self-doubting way of mine) "Who's right?" Each time I would throw myself wholeheartedly into saving some little animal that would hardly be missed (really is anyone of the opinion that we need more pigeons?), I would wonder if my time and money and energy shouldn't be directed elsewhere. (With so many problems in the world, I'm choosing to go at fixing them by staying up late at night swaddling a squirrel?) Then when I began working my recovery, I uneasily wondered if my desire to take in strays, to heal and fix them, was just more codependent caretaking. Would it be healthier for me and better for the natural order of things to leave stray dogs where they lie?

I've spent a good portion of my time today providing and procuring care for the latest in the series of helpless creatures to cross my path. And these questions popped up again, but rather than trying to think my way out of them and find some rational way to measure the worth of a songbird, I checked in with my Higher Power. And I found that regardless of whether or not I can see the importance in what I'm doing, it feels right. It feels right even when the universe doesn't bend to my will and little animals die (as they sometimes do) in spite of my efforts. It feels right even if they live in a world already seemingly overpopulated by their kind. It feels right whether I'm praised for my kindness or maligned for my concern with things that appear so inconsequential. And even though some of my character defects do come up around it (as around nearly everything) it doesn't feel like an act of codependency, but an act of love and kindness.

And I realized today that I've been holding a resentment against my ex-boyfriend, from the days before the Internet all the way down to a time when I can blog about it. I've seen him as a cold, cruel person who didn't want to help a little bird, all while fearing that (without the validation of his actions) that there was something not quite right with the path I'd chosen. Today, as my husband was displaying his usual loving tolerance of antics he clearly didn't quite understand, I saw clearly that some people, people I love, would see a baby songbird on the sidewalk and let the crows and cats have at it. And that's the right thing for them to do; after all, the crows need to eat too, and the universe needs people who will let them. But that doesn't change the fact that I do believe it's also the right thing to wrap the bird in one's shirt and stay up hand feeding it, because the world also seems to need people who are willing to do that for no reason other than that they feel moved to.

Yesterday, I took my kids out to the park and watched my son, long and lanky, swing his way to the top of a climbing structure formed from a maze of ropes. Like many autistic individuals, mastering motor skills can be a challenge for him. He was late to walk and it took months of assistance before he could learn to use a playground ladder. Now he jumps and hangs and grasps in a way that's astonishing to me and is the result of hours of single-minded and obsessive climbing. His hands are roughly calloused, as if through a lifetime of heavy labor, from spending the entirety of his recess time each day hanging and swinging, monkey-like, from various ropes and bars.

My daughter Janie, like any younger sibling, has been tagging along after him almost since she was born. The walking that had taken him so long to learn, she mastered confidently without ever stopping to crawl and she was behind him on those playground ladders, making her way up the rungs without having to be guided hand and foot, time after time, like her brother. So, when she saw him reach the top of the structure, even though he was older and his ascent was born of years of practice, she was determined to do the same.

He had tromped off, sweaty and tired, to the car with my husband as she wavered, unsure of the of the best path up through the maze of ropes to the top. She would climb up for a bit, then find a point where she was stuck, too small to reach the next handhold. She'd try going straight up again, only to find herself again in the position of having to back down. Finally, she called out, "Mama, can you help? I can't figure out how to get up."

I stepped closer and could see a path, something like a spiral staircase, by which I thought she could make it, slowly and indirectly revolving around to the top. So, instead of straight up, I told her to go sideways a bit. She did. The next big step up she'd have to take was straight in front of her, and I pointed to it. She made a grasp and missed. I could see (too late) that she'd have to go sideways again a step to get closer, but instead, focused on the goal I'd pointed out, she leaned further forward, lost her balance, did a spectacular flip around a rope, scraping her arm as she went before deftly catching herself.

I felt terrible. In trying to help and figuring things out for Janie, I hadn't made her journey easier; I'd made it more precarious. I'd jumped further ahead of her than she was ready to go. I'd forgotten that although she learned to walk or climb a ladder more quickly than her brother, they both had to learn to put one foot in front of the other or one hand over the next. I'd gotten caught up in the goal, rather than trying to be with her where she was in the process.

And it struck me that this was so much like my tendency to help other people in other areas, the helping that's tied to my codependency. I focus on the goal: newcomers want to sweep past the anger and hurt and I want to help sweep them there. Sometimes I can see a path, one that looks promising or like one I followed. And rather than letting them be where they are and climb as far as they are ready, I point them on a little too far ahead, in a direction that's actually not the right one for them at all. If Austen got to the top of the play structure, Janie will too. It took practice for him, and it will take practice for her. And it will take practice for me to help her (and others) in a way that respects both where she wants to go and where she is now.

My subconscious has been spinning up lovely blog posts for me lately. Having held the mirror up to my own self-doubt, it decided to move on to my magical power to heal others.

In the dream, I was out at a restaurant with a group of women and a good friend who has been going through a hard time lately. In the restaurant with us was a fascinating and radiant woman sitting with her back toward me. I very much wanted to to meet her, but couldn't pay attention to her yet. My friend was sitting in a corner sobbing and I had to soothe her. The chorus of women surrounding me urged me on, "Look how badly she's hurting. You have to do something! Do something to make her feel better. Do something!" So I approached my friend who sobbed to me, "I just want to feel normal again. I don't want to feel so sad anymore." I gave her a kiss and through the magic of my caring friendship, she perked right up, forgot her recent losses and said with a smile, "Thanks! I feel so much better now!" I woke up with this feeling that I ought to have been pleased for solving the problem, but was instead ashamed for having ignored the radiant stranger.

Even before I knew we had addiction in our lives, I knew that my husband was hurt and vulnerable; that's part of what I found attractive about him. Because I knew that I was going to place the healing kiss on his fevered brow. It was going to be my divine fabulousness that was going to fill his empty ache and ensure that he'd never be unhappy or insecure. If he didn't believe he was lovable, I was going to love him harder. If he was afraid I would leave, I would prove to him how tenaciously I'd stay. If he felt lost, I was going to show him the way. I was going to keep him so enthralled with me he'd never need to look at anywhere else for a high. That would fix what ailed him, right?

Only for all I gave and as hard as I tried, I didn't possess that longed for dream power to heal him. I had the illusion for a time that I did, but when the reality of his addiction came crashing in, I saw that my single kiss wasn't ever going to fix addiction any more than it could have healed a gunshot wound. And in the process of trying to love him well enough to cure him, I was shamefully ignoring someone radiant and divine that I ought to have been seeking out instead.

Sometimes my subconscious likes to be really mysterious in its messages to me (so, why, exactly, did a frog hop on the big pink bubble gum bubble I was blowing?). Sometimes it likes to tell jokes. Sometimes it (like many a subconscious) likes to play on my fears (hm, what would those be?). And sometimes it likes to tell really obviously metaphorical stories that I can turn into blog posts about living with addiction.

My sister came to visit me in my dream. I don't have a sister, but you know dreams, so in this one, I did. I hadn't seen her for a long time and when she arrived, I was horrified. Her body was grotesquely bloated and her flushed, blotchy cheeks were distended, like the cheeks of a chipmunk hoarding nuts. I worried that the huge lumps were tumors and that her bloated body was filled with cancer. But she seemed not to notice that her appearance had changed so dramatically at all, and she sat down and chatted cheerfully with me.

And I chatted cheerfully back. After all, I couldn't tell her she looked awful. If she didn't see herself as looking terrible, I ought not to either. I should see her the way she wanted me to, through the eyes of love. Telling her she looked bad might hurt her feelings. Or scare her. Or insult her. She might get angry and leave. I had to take care of her and keep what I saw from her. And really, was it even true? Maybe I was wrong. Maybe she was perfectly fine. She certainly seemed fine. Maybe I was crazy and projecting my own hypochondria on her. Maybe I misremembered how she used to look. So I kept smiling and chatting and wondering when she would leave so that I could look at old pictures of her and confirm that she really had changed and I could google things like "bloating and distended cheeks" to see if cancer came up.

That interaction with my dream sister was like my interactions with so many of the active addicts I've been close to during my life. I'll sense something wrong, but they'll seem perfectly fine, which leaves me wondering if I'm crazy. I don't feel safe telling them what I see my truth and my reality, not theirs, for fear of hurting or angering them. I don't feel confident saying that my truth and my reality are valid. I woke up thinking, "Ok, I get it subconscious!" And that was something in itself. If I'd had that dream years ago, I would have missed the metaphor entirely. Or maybe just wondered if I was crazy to see it.

Like many people, I walked into my first 12 Step meeting never expecting to wind up there, with no clue what to expect other than what Hollywood had taught me (which I soon learned was nothing accurate). The meetings I first started attending were for friends and family members of sex addicts, and they were tiny, just four or five women sitting in a circle in a church meeting room. After lengthy, scripted readings (those fifteen to twenty minutes certainly never make it into the movies), there would be time for "sharing."

Because our group was small, sharing was less structured than in larger groups. Anyone who wanted to speak would simply pipe up, "Hi, my name is..." followed by her name, and would talk, uninterrupted, until she was done or a timer beeped to signal her few minutes were up, whichever came first. Then there would generally be a long silence. I don't know what everyone else was doing during that time, whether they were thinking about what to say or taking in what had been said, but I know what I was doing: feeling breathless under the oppressive weight of the silence and struggling to figure out how I could break it. The silence was like an invisible telephone call from some 12 Step collection agency; the imaginary phone would ring and ring for an hour while I tried to ignore it, "Come on, pick me up! Come on, talk! If you don't, this is just going to go on forever." Wasn't someone going to pick that dang thing up? Did it have to be me?

And then there were the rules against crosstalk (which are rarely obeyed in dramatized 12 Step meetings because they make things so, well, undramatic) making the whole situation even more challenging. I couldn't open a conversation with the person who just spoke. I couldn't ask questions or give advice. I had to come up with something to say about emme/em (of all things). And to this whole room of strangers, sitting there without a word, thinking who knows what about me.

I gradually became more comfortable speaking up, and I even grew to like and appreciate the rules against crosstalk, but the silence, for a much longer time, continued to feel awkward and tense, something it was someone's job to fix. It's only recently that I've noticed how little I hear that invisible phone ringing for me now and how I've started to see those silences differently: as spaces that just are, like natural pauses between breaths. And while I'll still check in with myself to see whether or not there's anything I want to say, it will usually be just that: a quick check in, not a desperate scramble for words. If I find I don't have anything to share, I'll try to use my time wisely and join in the silence.