Verified by 
What a summer it has been.
When I came back from helping my parents in Arizona, I was a mess. The worst of it was the sense that I was trying to build my house on a tideline at ebb. My mother is fading, my next book seemed up in the air, no one was answering phone calls or emails, my favorite dog was moving, my food plan was in pieces. I didn't know "what" I was. Was I still a Writer? Had I become my parents' Aunt? With the loss of my favorite client, was I still a Dog Walker? Was I spiraling into being a Deep Depressive? Was I going to become a Really Fat Lady? Would I regain my concentration enough to Coach the writer I had signed on? As my brother assumed more responsibility for my parents' welfare, I had to ask if I was a Bad Aunt and a Bad Sister -- or merely Superfluous, Irresponsible, Unnecessary?
Falling apart has its uses. The pieces of myself that were scattered around me both scared me and informed me of what I considered myself to be. Writer, Dog Walker, Daughter, Sister, Writing Coach, Depressive, Aunt, Fat Lady, Frivolous. Some good, some not-so-good.
I came back to New York on July 13th. I had some OK days of weighing and measuring my food and abstaining from in-between meals eating, sugar, flour and wheat. Too often, and late at night, I would collapse into ice cream.
That late night eating is a killer, isn't it? It's when the less tangible definitions sneak out of the closet and start buzzing around my head. You've abandoned your parents. You didn't do a single proactive thing today. You need a shower. You've gained so much weight. You need to work on your novel but you're playing Farm Town instead. You're going to run out of money. You have no friends.
Those are the voices of Failure, Guilt, Shame, Self-disgust, Self-judgment, Fear, Loneliness -- and they, too, have their uses (at least when one stays away from the ice cream long enough to study them).
In the first place, who, exactly, is calling me "you"?
I am, of course. None of my clients, whether they're dog-owners or neophyte writers, are saying these things. My family isn't saying them -- they're deeply grateful that I am here to listen to the trauma, bounce ideas off of, write the loving email, send the turtles or plush Labrador puppy that my mother carries with her every moment in the nursing home.
To a large extent, I'm putting those accusations into mouths that say anything but negative things.
The self-accusations of procrastination, weight gain, personal hygeine, and ennui are another matter. They're true. I have to plead guilty. I also have to say that these feelings of failure, which I'm curious to know if you share late at night and eat over as well, are fleeting. If my depression has spiked, showering and writing and reading are going to be harder. If I take my meds, brush my teeth and walk the dogs, I've done something -- and those simple obligations were hard. Each one of them felt impossible at the moment of embarkations but I did them anyway.
Ergo, add Fighter to the list of "what" I am in the dark hours of the night.
There's a good chance I'll shower the next day. Maybe I can blog the next day or write a more substantial email than usual.
The world is as full of maybe's as it is of should-have's.
We all know that the ice cream only starts the next day in shame -- but that knowledge is flimsy in the moment of buzzing gremlins. "Nothing tastes as good as abstinence" they say in 12-step programs.
Yeah, right.
A simple thing has bought me six-and-a-half days of abstinence: I went to a 12-step meeting and wept quietly. Acquaintances held me back from leaving when the meeting was over and stroked my shoulders and arm while I wobbled about my parents. These were not good friends but they are my kin, my other family.
I was Cared About. I could take a shot at being Abstinent. I could finish the editing project I had on deck and I could take my dog out to play ball, making me a Writing Coach and a Loving Dog-Ma. I could take a nap and be less Exhausted; I could buy beef steak tomatoes at the farmer's market and be a Connoisseur.
I wish I could step off this computer screen and stroke your shoulders as you let go of enough of the gremlins that might talk to you tonight. Because I can't, I will settle for saying that there is information in the voices and the shames but that most of it is bad information. The truth in them is reversable -- especially when you find someone to care. For the split second that you are reading this, I care.
You don't have to do it tonight.
