…Or 8, For That Matter

September 8, 2008

I want to start today’s blog with a bit of an apology – despite quite clearly stating last time out that apologies for what I write here is not on my agenda. Today it is.

 

On Friday night, I came home from an evening out absolutely wracked with guilt for what I had just done – gasp! – had some casual sex.

 

I came home, feeling awful, fully immersed in the dark side, and wrote what must have sounded like a borderline suicide note, calling myself every name under the sun, and daring to suggest that I was a sex addict, a user, a manipulator, and everything else.

 

Of course, like all great untruths, there was some basis in truth. Pre-process, there was quite a lot of manipulation, using, and impulsive behaviour around sex. Post-process, I recognised this pattern, and tried to give myself a break whenever the issue/prospect of sex would come up. I most certainly do not indulge in that same behaviour as I once did.

 

But Friday night, at about… oh… 3am, I was having a lovely old time beating myself to shit and rather enjoying it. So my apology to you, dear readers, is if you happened to have read my entry, which would have been up for about 12 hours. I am sure it made for quite distressing reading, and I want to assure you that it was not representative of the real me, but rather evidence that even the happiest of souls – something I think I may very well be these days – have moments where the shit hits the fan.

 

It isn’t available now to anyone but myself – this is my blog, and I have that sort of power, you see – as I have decided to keep it as a stark reminder of what happens, and the person I become, when these dark thoughts cloud my otherwise happy skies.

 

My thanks to my friend Zein, then, who sent me a text during the mire of her own crappy day to remind me that ‘Rome wasn’t built in a day.’ ‘Or 8, for that matter’ thinks I.

 

The more I think about it, the more I realise what a marvel the process was, and how silly it is to expect a ‘quick fix’ – how 8 days can rid you of the demons of (in my case) 28 years, and then set you up for what I hope is a figure about the same number. Perhaps I should be thankful that occasionally I feel like crap on a stick. If everything was rosy, as it was once awash with shit, then perhaps I wouldn’t be authentic in what I was feeling; perhaps I would be deluded.

 

Those 8 days irreversibly changed my life. But leaving Florence House as I did that Saturday did not mark the end of my process – if anything, it was the start. My amplified self-awareness will occasionally mean that when something goes wrong, I feel it with the volume turned right up, but it is a necessary sacrifice for the opportunities to walk around with my eyes wide open, and a new appreciation for myself, my family, and the world around me. We live in a cynical but beautiful world, filled with limitless opportunity and wonder, and an infinite possibility for education and richness of the heart, and though everything is relative, and this matters not at 3am when I’m in the middle of a dark side attack, I am pleased to be aware of this in my clearer moments.

 

Rome most certainly was not built in a day, and neither was I in 8. Stay tuned. I am sure there are more adventures ahead.

 

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