Telling Stories

When you meet someone new, or get to know someone a little better, you inevitably begin to reveal parts of yourself, your life and your story, to that person. This is a natural process, and usually a fun, explorational and intimate experience. What happens, then, when a large chunk of your 'story' - perhaps your past - is in direct contrast to the 'you' that the world now recognises? When is the correct time or the appropriate moment to slip the words "when I was in rehab..." into the conversation?

This information is met with mixed reactions. The preferred is immediate acceptance, one of the least desired is probably disgust, but the absolute worst is the 10 second gap between the words leaving your mouth and any verbal reaction, when the person you are telling momentarily thinks you are joking. My experience has found that the latter is the most common initial response.

The fear, for me, is that my history - that kind of history - is the last thing a person (particularly a man) wants to hear. Either they'll think I must be weak and unreliable and scatty and unpredictable, and so shy away in favour or something - or someone - more 'together'; or they'll think I've been through something so immense that they can never possibly live up or top it, and it threatens their own idea of manly strength and of the male of the species as the 'survivor'. Or something. With this information also comes the burden of suspicion and intrigue. The person you are telling might want to KNOW the person to whom you are referring (your past self), although - trust me - you really don't want to mix with her. Some people say "why don't you ever drink?" to which I find the easiest response is, "honestly, you really wouldn't want me to." And the world continues to turn in its funny way.

With understanding of one addiction comes the universal ability (or burden?) to recognise such behaviours around other potential addictions. Yesterday I had a piece of carrot cake. I DO NOT do cake, or carbs, or calories, or anything else that might suggest the surrender of control to an outside force. Outrageous! The realisation struck, the self-absorbed and self-indulgent guilt of addiction hit, and I realised that, actually, most people don't feel dizzy after one piece of carrot cake, followed by, most people can eat this piece of carrot cake on a semi-regular basis, and it probably won't affect their mindset for the whole week.

Another addiction? Additional addiction? Addictional additional addiction? For the most part, it's all about control in a world full of chaos. Rational or irrational thinking plays little part when an addiction comes that close, intensifies to x degree, because the concepts of rationality or irrationality simply cease to exist. This is where I am lucky to have my mother, someone to whom these concepts still do exist, and rationale-based wisdom petulantly pierces my addictive vacuum: Surely, you must realise that a) there is only so much weight you can gain from eating one piece of carrot cake (Me: and four croutons, though?), and b) wearing (uk) size 8 top and (uk) size 10 jeans, there really is no way in the world anyone could, or would, describe you as 'fat'.

Thanks, mum. And thus, rationale prevails.

As with everyday thinking, this post seems to have drifted off topic. I think what I wanted to put across was the gift of realisation, of self-understanding followed by acceptance followed by restoration to sanity. As for the fear of judgement and consequences? I'm not entirely there, yet.