Today I recognize the difference between letting go and not caring. Letting go is not giving up, nor giving in. As long as my alcoholism equates turning things over to a higher power with becoming a sucker for everyone to walk on, I shall achieve zero peace.
In order for me to let go, back in my full-on diseased days, I needed to hate. A “Fine, see if I care” attitude needed to be cultivated in order for me to let go. I needed to practice my interior monologue in case I ever got to give it: my prepared speech on what’s wrong with this person for this thing or this situation. Mentally, the noun was put in a box, labeled, and stuck away on my shelf of resentments. These weren’t things I was letting go of; they were things that I chose to ignore, occasionally opening a random box to be reminded of my character defects and shortcomings.
Gratitude Week, Day Six: the serenity prayer, properly applied.
The whole point of that prayer is to not be miserable. If I’m letting go of something with attitude, then I’m not truly letting go. See, if I’m not happy about something, I’m not accepting of it, but since it’s something I can’t change, I’ll just stuff it deep down in my belly, where it can slowly burn a hole in my gut.
Having to repeatedly bring things up that I buried yesterday only to rebury them (hopefully) again today seems like failure. I thought I dealt with that, what gives? I’m sure success happens when I no longer have unpleasant thoughts. Until then, I guess everything’s crap.
The best way to handle it, as far as I’ve been figure out, to date: See my disease for what it is: a spoiled, mentally deformed four-hundred pound child that needs to be constantly calmed down. Name it, claim it, and step away. Distancing myself from what my alcoholic brain has created is the only place I’ve found peace.