Blocks

I am never sure where the boundary is between living out loud and authentically and stupid oversharing.  I might be crossing the line.

I went to bed late last night because I was trying to solve my problems without actually doing much constructive.  That is to say, I finished watching the third season of Grantchester while quilting and drinking a small amount of whiskey.  I made the mistake of checking my email and social media before crawling under the covers.

My ex commented on one of my Instagram posts.

He said something totally innocuous.

It took me until this morning to figure out what to do.

I blocked him.

This may sound extreme.  But it isn’t.

My kid said something incredibly useful to me once.  He said that it is totally possible to believe in redemption, but that redemption doesn’t mean that we have to be the agents for any particular person’s redemption.  I’m sure he said it more elegantly than that.  His point was that we can want someone who is hurt and has hurt us to get better, but that we might not be the best ones to help with that process.  We might not be able to help at all, in fact.  We do not need to hurt ourselves more in trying.  Other people with more distance can be more useful.

It is entirely possible that my ex has figured things out.  He may be happy and healthy and sober.  He may have made contact in a spirit of reconciliation or friendliness or some other good thing.

I can’t risk it.

Sometimes an innocuous first step leads to despair.  I am not strong enough to go there again.

I would like to imagine it possible that there would be the kind of peace between us that could allow conversation, but I don’t believe in it.  I don’t like the person I become when I am in relation to him.  For me to be healthy, it has to be a total break.  The kids seem to feel the same way about the break, if less generally optimistic even about the possibility of peace.

There are many, many layers of irony here.

My ex has pointed out, as recently as the last time I foolishly engaged in an email conversation, that I was the one who said he should try to mend relations with his father many years ago.  That yes, his father was an alcoholic and difficult, but that he was the only father he had.  That the hate he was carrying was not good for him.  He listened to me.  They built a workable, if not fabulous, relationship.  He thinks I have not given the same advice to the kids.  He is partly wrong.

I have told the kids that forgiveness is good for them.  I want them to be free of the bad times.  But I fiercely defend their decisions not to allow themselves to be hurt again.  They have learned to set appropriate boundaries and to shun people who do not respect those boundaries.

Another irony is that I can drink a little whiskey, but I can’t have a little contact with an alcoholic.  Maybe we all have drugs we can’t handle and dysfunctional relationship is mine.  It is so easy for me to agree that I am the problem.  After all, it is almost always at least partially true.  The elegant solution turns out to be removing me, but not in the way I used to think.  When the dysfunction met up with my depression, I was sure that the solution was suicide, but it’s really just not playing.

I made the right decision.

Now if I can just figure out how to block my brain feed…