I’m addicted to the Internet.
A friend emailed me yesterday to say she was cutting her Internet connection for the same reason. Brave lady. She thought it was contributing to her social phobia and reclusive behaviour. Snap.
I’ve more or less said as much in recent posts. I’m developing a problem here. I ‘should’ (that word!) probably do the same. But I don’t feel able to.
I suppose I still do get out to my support groups, shopping and the occasional coffee with a friend. But when it comes to contemplating voluntary work my anxiety levels get the better of me. I am beginning to live in a way that mirrors my son’s behaviour to a certain extent.
I took a trip down to Kent to see my Mum on Saturday evening, and stayed overnight, coming back yesterday evening. I am becoming increasingly unable to cope with Sundays. Still reeling from the news about M.
I know I’m depressed and therefore thinking negatively, but I mentally went through those people that I call friends, and realised I didn’t like any of them. Nor can I think of anyone I like enough to develop a new friendship with. That statement demands a caveat. This is not about the precious, infinitely valuable human beings I call my friends. This is about me. I don’t like myself. I don’t like the ‘me’ I’ve become.
This has been developing for a while. I constantly find reasons not to see my friends. I’m not coping well with human interactions. I avoid making and receiving phone calls. Real time conversations scare me, partly I guess, because of the loss of control. When I’m out I’m always on my Smartphone. This is my comfort zone, and I would be in denial to say it wasn’t a problem.
Even the dating sites, such an obsession to start with, have lost their appeal. I’m OK with swopping a few messages, but the prospect of meeting any of them sends me into fight or flight mode.
No wonder I’m lonely, folks.
What am I achieving through constant internet surfing? Even support groups only just about keep me ticking over. I avoid one to ones outside of the relative safety of the group.
Still not cleaning my house. Even M used to do that. He was always out and about. I miss the old days, prior to his relapse onto marijuana. He encouraged and motivated me through my protracted depression, and looked after me and kept me safe during my mini-mania. We’d go out in the car, take lengthy walks. I loved hearing his key in the front door. And he’s now incarcerated. And that makes me re-evaluate the whole nature of our relationship. He just couldn’t hack life in the outside world, and now I’m going the same way.
As his deteriorating behaviour after his relapse demonstrated, he was still very much an addict. Total self-sabotage. How he must have hated himself to commit such a thoroughly self-destructive act. Much worse than anything he’d done in the past, yet he is 46 with surely less testosterone coursing around his body. And not on crack, as in his younger days.
Then there’s the obsessive need for tea and coffee, far exceeding my actual thirst. Not to mention the e-cig, which I drag on constantly while at the computer, and clutch in my hand on my anxious forays outside. I’m drug and alcohol free, but in many ways I’m still an addict. Living for short term gratification, or should I say, existing. It’s really not much of a life.
If I was even tempted to start thinking ‘I could have saved him if I’d stuck with him’, I would have to admit that he had already become impossible and intolerable to live with. He had sunk deep into a self-centred, narcissistic, chaotic and addicted lifestyle that left no room for any other human being with needs and desires of their own. It had become increasingly obvious that he was only using me – another means to fill the hole where a soul should be. Which raises the question, what did I think I was doing with him, if not much the same?
Well, this morning I have to go out. I’ve got my depot injection, plus an appointment with the psych. I have to ask some sticky questions, one of which is to come off the depot, go on oral meds and change my current care coordinator, who is utterly useless. Another of which is to ask for a stay in one of the new Recovery Houses. I need help. This I know.
And this blog. It’s pretty self-centred, isn’t it, in all honesty? Emotionally I guess I’m still an adolescent.
Hard truths. When I become all misty-eyed over M, obsessively and endlessly search the web for God knows what. I’m still in flight from the harsh reality. But I’m not psychotic. I know it’s still there.
I know, I know, it’s serious.