You know why I hate the word codependent?  (And although I have taken on that label, I still truly do.)  It has the word "dependent" right there in the word.  Weak, wussy little "dependent."  It practically whines at you: "I'm so helpless.  I can't do anything for myself.  Waaaa!  Someone do it all for me, I'm just not capable!"  And that's so not the way I've seen myself.  In fact, the only word with "dependent" in it that I've ever associated with myself is "independent," which adds that nice little "not" before its dependent.  I don't need help, no sir, not me.  I can (and have, and will) do it all myself.

In years past I would do anything rather than ask for help.  I'd spend countless hours pouring through books and scouring the Internet rather than ask someone else a question.  I'd wander through stores, frustrated, but determined to find that item on my own.  I'd drag myself out when I was sick (always hiding how bad I was feeling, of course) to get myself what I needed or follow through on work I'd committed to do.  I'd drag that furniture up the stairs; no team lifting for me, I'm strong enough.  Sometimes I'd get creative about breaking the furniture down if it truly was too heavy for me to carry on my own; I could manage those smaller pieces.  Independent.  That's been me.

Part of recovery has been coming to recognize the ways in which I am overly dependent (which I conveniently deny or mask with my I-don't-need-nobody hyper-independence) and the ways in which I'm overly independent.  I've had to learn that carrying furniture up the stairs by yourself is not necessarily a good kind of independence (ask my back how I learned that one) and that (gasp!) it's okay to ask for help when I need it.  I'm getting much better at remembering, and at helping my children learn that asking for help when we need it isn't a sign of weakness.  In fact, they are (thankfully) often better at it than I am.

This weekend, my son Austen and I went to a birthday party for a friend of his.  On the way to the party, we stopped to get a present and a card (because I'm organized and think ahead like that).  We had something in mind, but as we rushed through the store, we couldn't quite find it.

"Darn, buddy," I said, "I was pretty sure this place would carry it, but I don't see it.  Maybe we'll have to get him something else.  Can you think of anything else he might like?"

"Or we could ask for help," Austen suggested brightly.

Oh, true.  Out of the mouths of babes...

"You're right," I said, "That's an excellent idea.  We should ask for help."  And guess what?  We found what we needed.

My son Austen, like many other autistic individuals, does not like (or understand the purpose of) many of society's little pleasantries. He balks at words like hello, goodbye, please, sorry and thank you; anything that can appear in a conversation as part of a rote pattern rather than a unique communication. This can seem rude, especially when it comes to words like "sorry" and "thank you," which are supposed to convey emotions of regret or gratitude. It seems (at least to the neurotypical world) that if someone doesn't say "thank you," they don't feel thanks. That certainly may be the case at times, but Austen's difficulty in grasping the meaning of these stock phrases has made me realize how often I toss them out because it's what is expected, rather than because my own emotions are in line with the words.

A few days ago, Austen was picking up a bit of ribbon next to where our cat was sitting. The cat took this as an invitation to play, batted at the ribbon and scratched Austen's hand. It was a tiny scratch but Austen cried bitterly for fifteen minutes, stopping occasionally to inspect his finger and breaking into fresh tears each time he saw the thin red line on his finger. I sat next to him stroking his back and waited until he was composed enough to accept a bandaid. As soon as I had him settled, Janie and her friend Valerie came running into the room. Janie had fallen down and scraped the palms of her hands as she tried to catch herself. This was the time for saying neurotypical things like "oh, I'm sorry you hurt yourself" or "can I see your hand, please?" Austen's conversation didn't go that way, of course, but it was just as sincere.

"Let me see!" he said. Janie held out her palms. "Oh, you need two bandaids!  It's bad that you need two. See, I have a bandaid too. Kitty scratched me and I cried and cried. But good that you're not crying so much like I did. And you know what else is good? Valerie doesn't have any bandaids! Good that she didn't get hurt." I realized that all the things society wants to hear were there: "How are you? I'm sorry you got hurt. I empathize.  I'm glad to see you're going to be ok." But there was something else there that we don't usually celebrate: "You and I may be hurt, but let's be grateful that someone else we love is safe and well." In seeing the specific situation rather than tossing out the generic words I might have, Austen saw something that I would have missed: an opportunity for gratitude.

Of course, there are situations in which he does use the expected words (if in unexpected ways), and they're all the more meaningful for their rarity. A few months ago, I caught a stomach virus from Janie. I started to feel ill at the end of the day; Mark was on his way home and both kids were with me. On my way to the bathroom as the first wave of cramps and nausea hit me, I let the kids know that I was feeling sick like Janie had been, but that I was going to be ok and that Daddy would be home soon to help me take care of them. When Austen heard me vomiting, he asked from outside the bathroom door, "Do you have the throw ups, Mama?"

"Yep. I sure do, sweetie," I said.

"Oh, bad that you do," he said, and I heard him walk off. A few moments later, he wedged something into the door frame. It was a card from the board game Sorry!.

He said, "I put a Sorry card there for you, because I'm sorry you have the throw ups."

"Oh, I love that! Thank you so much, Austen." And that thank you, as I think Austen knows, didn't really feel sufficient to express my gratitude.

In a recent business meeting at my COSA group, we gathered to discuss a possible change in our meeting script. The script had been adapted from scripts from other meetings, including meetings for addicts, and contained a portion where we have a moment of silence and prayer for the "addicts" in and out of these rooms. And the question came up, "If we are supposed to be focusing on our own codependency and our own recovery, why is the focus in the script on addicts rather than the friends and family members affected by addiction?" It was interesting problem to consider.

Some people thought we should add "codependents" to the script to keep it clear that we were focusing on our own recovery. Some people thought addicts covered us anyway, since they saw codependency as a form of relationship addiction. Some people didn't consider themselves codependents or addicts, but were in the meetings to heal from the effects of someone else's addiction. Some people preferred the term co-addict, since it addressed both the codependent and addictive aspects of their own issues. The one thing that was clear was that, while we are all working on our own issues, the common bond that holds us together is how we are dealing with those issues as they relate to someone else's sexually compulsive behavior. In the end, the script changed to "addicts and codependents," although that still was not universally satisfactory.

I had a similar issue come up recently on my blog when a reader asked why I bill it as being "married to a sex addict" if I should be focusing on myself and my own recovery. And that's actually something that's occurred to me as well. But I struggle with the same problems of language and identification that my group struggled with when discussing our script. In order for me to accurately describe my problems in a way that will allow me to reach out to others who are struggling through the same things that I am, I have to define myself, in part, by my husband's issues.

If I simply say that I'm codependent, I don't provide enough information to help people who are struggling specifically with issues related to their relationship with a sex addict. In fact, if I define myself as codependent, a lot of people who are new to (or completely unfamiliar with) recovery won't have any idea what that means. However, if I define myself through my husband's problems, it puts the focus on his addiction in a way that seems, well, actively codependent. In recovery from codependency, we're stuck in a bit of a circular trap: we try to move away from using other people to define us, but because the problem is that we have used other people to define us, in some way other people will always be part of the definition of our problem. In the end, I've left my tag line as is, because it's brief, descriptive, clear and accurate. I am married to a sex addict, and it is that relationship that informs my own recovery.

Image credit: Photo by kasiaeryn on Flickr Licensed under Creative Commons

If there's a word in all the English language that I absolutely hate, it's the word "excuses." When I hear that word, I cringe and wave my hands in the air and make inarticulate sounds of dismay -- like "Uh ba ba ba!" -- to ward off its evil mojo.

It's not that I resent people making excuses, it's that I simply don't find the concept helpful to me. Excuses are like distracting little invisible sprites, who sit on my shoulders, somehow managing to pinch my ears with their insubstantial fingers in spite of the fact that my attempts to grab them meet with nothing but thin air. But if I say, "Pah! I don't believe in you! I believe in Reasons," they promptly coalesce into Reasons I can pick off to reach the rock solid Real Problems at the heart of it all.

Now, I hear you. If you're anything like the other folks I've shared my crazy hatred of "excuses" with, you're saying, "But how can you say that? People make excuses all the time. Why I make excuses and for goodness sake, you must too!" And to that I'll reply, "Uh ba ba ba! I don't use that word!"

I used to, of course. I'd have "excuses" for not exercising or finishing paperwork or cooking healthy meals or volunteering or going to parties. And I had a million excuses for never having written that novel I was always planning. But when I said I had "excuses," what I really meant was that I thought I was just "weak willed" or "being lazy" or "not trying hard enough" to do what I "should" be doing.

And what's the solution for not trying hard enough? Why work harder. Do better. Just do it. I simply had to force myself, through power of will, to do the dreaded deed and then the problem would be solved, right? But I found that, at best, that would work in the short term and fail in the long term, because it didn't address the Real Problem, and at worst, it would fail immediately, because I still couldn't muster the resources to get the task done. Either way it would leave me depressed and disheartened at my supposed "laziness," when the truth was that I was working very hard at entirely the wrong thing.

A few years ago, I decided that just doing yoga, housework and walks around the neighborhood wasn't enough; I ought to exercise more. But I found I was always "making excuses" for why I couldn't do it: I didn't have childcare, I couldn't work it around the kids' schedules, I was too busy with a home improvement project, I had guests visiting...

So, I worked harder. I signed up for other exercise classes in addition to yoga. I got a gym membership with childcare. I rearranged schedules. I canceled projects. I shared my exercise plans with visitors and told them I wouldn't be able to spend as much time with them. And I went to the gym once. Maybe twice. I wasted hundreds of dollars on that gym membership I didn't use. I hung onto it for months believing I was just lazy and sooner or later I'd work up the willpower to go. But once the first few "excuses" were removed, I made more and more. Invisible sprites kept popping up on my shoulders, multiplying and tauting me by the millions.

Then I started looking at the "excuses" as reasons instead, and things changed for me. Instead of saying, "I'm making excuses for not going to the gym, I should work harder," and then beating myself up when I (inevitably) failed, I'd say, "The reason I'm not going to the gym is because I am watching Law and Order instead." That led me to see I was making a choice: in this case, consciously prioritizing TV watching over trips to the gym. And yet, I never miss yoga. So I started to think about why I was making those choices and I realized three things:

1. There are certain types of exercise that fit better than others with my personality type and physical skills, so rather than trying to force myself to do things that aren't a good fit, I should try to stick with and expand the things that are a good fit and that I do enjoy. (And believe me, it does sadden me that turning pages, typing and working a remote apparently don't count as physical activity.)

2. Going to the gym makes me feel out of place, anxious and judged. I don't even enjoy yoga at the gym, simply because it's, well, at a gym. Rather than continue to try to ignore, stifle and deny these feelings, I should work on the social anxiety issues and need for the approval of others that makes the gym a stressful, triggering place to be. I wanted to be able to handle it, but had to admit I wasn't ready yet.
3. I didn't really want to get more exercise and was not in poor health, I just felt like I should do more. I still didn't see exercise as something truly important, only as something I thought I should see as important. I had no internal motivation for exercising, only the external approval that would come from other people saying, "Good job! You're going to the gym instead of wasting your time doing, um, whatever it is you do all day."

Once my reasons had led me to the Real Problems, I saw it was time to stop kicking for myself for rearranging my bookshelves instead of playing a fierce game of racquetball. (Yes, not only have I never played racquetball in my life, I had to look up how to spell it). I canceled my gym membership. I signed up for another yoga class, and I started walking my daughter to school. I'm much happier, and I don't get physically ill when I drive past the gym anymore.

I've found when I get upset with myself for making "excuses," what I'm really upset about is my own imperfection, my own fallibility, my own humanness and my fear of judgment and rejection for not doing what I "should" be doing. Believing in the fairy tale of excuses helps me hide from that and keeps me from owning my choices, taking responsibility for my own behavior and working on real change. So, goodbye, Excuses. I'm so done with you that I'm banishing your name from my vocabulary forever. Go disrupt someone else's recovery.

Originally published at the Second Road.

A little over a year ago, I read an article in the New York Times that focused on the difficulties faced by typically developing siblings of autistic children, which was of interest to me because I have two children: one autistic and one neurotypical. One issue the article brought up was the challenge children have forming a concept of what autism is. When therapists asked the neurotypical siblings to give a general definition of autism, they weren't able to do it. They could name specific behaviors -- say, that autism was what made Johnny unable to talk -- but they couldn't give a quick general definition. And the problem, of course, when you name specific behaviors is that autism encompasses such a broad range of traits that none of them will be true for all autistic children: some are unable to speak at all, while some speak with a vocabulary and articulation far beyond their peers.

I found myself facing the same difficulty when asked what codependency is.  Like autism, codependency manifests itself differently in different people, yet is still identifiable, to those with experience, as part of the same spectrum. And like autism, codependency affects our experience of the world and our interactions with others. So, I could say what my codependency looks like or what the codependency of others I know looks like; I could name specific behaviors, but I found it hard to articulate an overarching definition. We as a culture, it seems, don't seem to have a language readily available to describe different perceptions of the world or different internal experiences.

And that lack of a simple, recognizable definition makes life mired in denial all the more confusing. The criteria are vague and lots of people fit some but not others, right? Couldn't anyone be autistic or codependent or not? I remember, when my son was a toddler, reading about how autistic children don't like to be touched, and thinking, "Well, my son can't possibly be autistic, because he wants to be held and cuddled all the time." And I remember reading about codependency, and how codependents have difficulty making decisions, and thinking, "Well, I can't possibly be codependent because I have taken on the role of decision maker in my family of origin and every relationship I've ever had." Then, of course, I'd read other parts of the description that did seem to fit, but enough didn't to leave me in doubt for a long time.

I imagine this is what it must have to define cancer before humankind had a concept of cells. If you describe cancer by its symptoms alone, it's hard to say what it is. One person might describe it as diseased patches of skin, while another would describe it as a hard lump in the breast, while someone else might say it caused prostate swelling and trouble urinating. And maybe women would hear the prostate definition and claim they couldn't possibly have this thing called cancer because they didn't have a prostate.

Somewhere in our language of human behavior we don't have the equivalent of the concept of a cell, so we are stuck describing the manifestations of the behavior rather than the root of the difference.

Image credit: Photo by MFinChina on Flickr

The Codependent language is one with which many of you are already familiar. While there are numerous variations and dialects, the lyrical nuances of Codependent itself are preferred by many in the Codependent tribe. Derived from the ancient Passive-Aggressive, it contains elements of Veiled Criticism, Judgmental Subtext, Implied Requests and Ritualistic Inducement of Guilt, and is spoken by millions of Codies every day.

Codependent uses context and shared emotional understanding in much the same way that tonal languages, such as Chinese, use intonation; Codependent words may share a phonetic sound with common English words but have a vastly different meaning. Unfortunately, confusion and miscommunication can arise when native speakers of this language assume that everyone is, in fact, speaking the same language.

For a better understanding of the intricacies of this language, I present two hypothetical conversations, with my translation in italics:

TWO CODIES IN FRIENDLY CONVERSATION IN THEIR NATIVE TONGUE

Joan: Hi, Jane. I just thought I'd call because I haven't heard from you in a while.
I think you don't love me any more. If you really loved me, you would have called sooner.

Jane: I'm so sorry. I know I should have called sooner. How are you?
My house burned to the ground. My car was stolen. I responded to one of those Nigerian e-mail scams and now the FBI has a hold on my life savings because I am under suspicion for funding terrorists. I have been making calls to the insurance company and my lawyer by walking 3 miles to the nearest pay phone and licking people's shoes clean for quarters to pay for the calls. But I know that if I really loved you, I should have worked harder and done better. I'm ashamed that I haven't done more to take care of you. I'm selfish. I promise I'll work harder and do better. Please love me!*

Joan: I'm doing ok. How about you?
Things have been terrible. Why don't you love me more? Where were you? Why did you abandon me? Maybe it's because I haven't been working hard enough and doing well enough. I'll work harder and do better! Please love me!

Jane: Things are ok.
Terrible, but I don't want to upset you. I'm so ashamed by how selfish I've been so far. I need to work harder and do better. Please love me!

Joan: Well, I should let you go now.
I needed to have left five minutes ago but didn't want to hurt your feelings. Now I will make it seem like, in leaving, I'm still taking care of your needs, because I know mine aren't important.

Jane: I'm so glad you called. It's been so nice talking to you.
I'm still ashamed. I promise I will walk 3 miles to the pay phone tomorrow and lick someone's shoes just to call you.

Joan: You too. Keep in touch.
I'll be really hurt if you don't call and will know you don't love me enough. I know I've done a terrible job as a friend, but at least I made this phone call, which puts me one up on you and should induce the guilt necessary to get you to call.

A CODIE ATTEMPTING TO GET HER NEEDS MET**

Joan: Wow, the trash sure is full. Are there any more trash bags?
You sloppy pig. I can't believe you didn't already take the trash out. I bet you're going to use the "there are no more trash bags" excuse again. You could damn well go to the store for once and get some. But no, I have to do freaking everything. I want you to take the trash out NOW and if we're out of trash bags, I want you to go get them.

Jean: I don't know.

Joan: I guess I'll check. Oh, here they are.
Ok, here are the trash bags. I checked, even though you were supposed to. I'm doing all your freaking work for you again. Now I've said the trash bags are here, take out the trash like you're supposed to!

Jean: Great.

Joan: Well, I guess I'll just take the trash out now.
I can't believe I have to take the trash out again. I can't believe I ask Jean for help all the time and I still have to do everything.

Jean: Ok.

[Note: Joan believes that she did ask in English when in fact she was speaking Codependent, leading Jean to misunderstand her intent.]

* Thanks to my CF crew for the codie battle cry "I'll work harder. I'll do better. Please love me."

** Conversation where a codie tries to get her needs met was inspired by watching a video tape of myself in which I was really angry and thought I was stating my wants and needs forcefully enough to be rude. Ha!

When I was younger, my best friend Vickie and I used to hide under the stairs in the basement of my house and whisper curse words to each other in an elementary school act of defiance.

"Asshole," I would say, and giggle.

"Shit," she would whisper back, covering her mouth to stifle the laughter.

"Fuck," I'd return, snorting with silent mirth.

There was a glee in being together and saying things we could not say to anyone else. The words were forbidden and somehow dangerous and powerful, but they didn't carry the same meaning for us that they did for adults. We couldn't speak them in front of others in the light of day, so we whispered them to each other and the spiders, bonding in the dark safety of our secret clubhouse under the stairs.

As I grew, I learned what the words meant and saw the power they had to shock and offend, to convey a violence and passion that scared me and the rest of society. And I stopped saying them, even whispered in secret. They were bad words, dirty words, that only stupid and morally bankrupt people (my father exempted, of course) said. And I was a good girl.

But gradually, I began to find a balance. I'm a writer, so I don't want to say I realized that these words are "just" words, but I did realize that they are not "bad" words; they are words. In banning them from my own life, in remaining silent or whispering them under the stairs, I was giving them undue power over me. I could recognize the power they have to shock and offend others, but I wanted to own the words, and to make the decision of when and whether it was appropriate to use them without myself giving moral weight to their use.

I've been thinking about those words recently in relation to some of the new words I've come to use in my life and in my writing: addict, autistic, codependent, special education. I've found that society at large has come to see these words as shameful, dirty and imbued with a negative meaning. And in a way, this blog has become something between my balancing point and my modern adult hideaway, my safe place under the stairs. I can use the words here to bond with other people who, for the most part, understand them the way I do, without the same moral weight or judgment that society brings. I can say the words I can't always say out loud in my own life and feel not only less alone, but distinctly closer to others. And sometimes I can even giggle about them.

And it makes me think of some of the other words that people used to whisper under the stairs: words like breast cancer or left handed or interracial marriage. Maybe someday we as a society won't "accuse" people of being alcoholics any more than we accuse people of having cancer, because alcoholism truly won't be seen as a moral failing but as a neurological disease caused by an interaction of genes and environment. Maybe someday we won't see autism as uniformly sad and pitiable, but as diverse and individual in its liabilities and benefits as any other aspect of the human race. Maybe someday the world at large will grow up and learn to use the words as words: as a way to communicate and understand. Until then, I'll gleefully shout them here, and I won't be alone.