Chicken Fajitas 

Driving back home from picking up a new dining room set for the apartment, I stopped for some lunch at a taco place. Sifting through the menu they were advertising a special on chicken fajitas which immediately brought a smile. Yet as quickly as it brought a smile it was followed just as quickly by tears. All the tears I’ve been doing my very best to hold in these past few months. In the middle of this nearly empty taco place, on a Sunday evening. Oh it was the best. (Sarcasm) 

That’s where I’m at right now. I’ll be floating along doing just fine, carrying on with life and then out of the blue I get hit by a train of memory. This one is weird because it’s not a bad memory. It’s a funny story that still makes me smile. That’s where the struggle begins… It still makes me smile, the biggest, involuntary, cheesy grin no matter what else is happening. Then, I have this overwhelming sense of guilt. Like I’ve done something wrong by reliving a happy moment from my past. Like the sky will fall down around me and everyone else involved in my memories at any moment. Especially if I sit down and write it out to share. 

Guilt, leads to shame, shame leads to panic, panic leads to grief, and the culmination of ALL OF THAT just opens the flood gates of tears. Every. Single. Time. It’s not just the chicken fajita story either, but all of the quiet, tender moments. Moments that I took for granted when I was young and stupid, but looking back now mean so much more. Those moments that deserve to be here on display with the darker side of my youth as part of my recovery just as much as anything else.

But I can’t. I can’t write them out. I can’t share them here. Even this, as vague as it is, having nothing to do with anyone but myself, enables an abusive obsession. Everything I write really falls into that category at this point after so many years blindly feeding supply to a delusional sociopath. I didn’t realize it until recently (my husband, of all people, pointed it out to me) and by that time it was too late to turn back. More guilt.

Guilt, leads to shame, shame leads to panic, panic leads to grief. A revolving cycle that happens every three to six months. The really awful part in all of this is the usual tactics one can employ to rid yourself of these kind of abusers aren’t working on her. She’s a special kind of fucked up, and with the way my disorder works waxing and waning around traumatic anniversaries and such, my primary coping mechanism being blogging I’m her perfect victim. She’s not going to let me go.

But, I’m not going to give her what she wants anymore either. The rest of my secrets die with me, and the guilt I carry knowing I’m the cause of suffering for someone I love, even unwittingly, will haunt me for the rest of my life. 

Guilt, leads to shame, shame leads to panic, panic leads to grief. Repeat.