(started January 17, 2018)

(finished May 8, 2018)

 

January 17, 2018

It’s been really hard for me to get the motivation to write lately. Having my Grateful Sunday blogs, my Motivational Monday blogs, and my Wednesday Share Day blogs have kept things current on my website, but I haven’t continued on my own personal journey of self-reflection.

 

I kind of just stopped.

 

I don’t want to hear what I’m going tell myself.

 

Even though I’ve been doing well with self-care, I’ve realized that I’ve been avoiding writing from an observer perspective. I’ve also noticed that I’ve struggled being honest with Rafiki (both my friend and my own internal voice).

 

In a way, I’ve sorta went back into my story.

 

Today, it’s time to stop resisting and find out what it is I’m avoiding. Although, I think I already know the answer .

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A week and a half ago was really tough. I relived the complete story about my marriage, my addiction, and my recovery with a fellow peer. It’d been a while since I re-experienced the full, detailed history of how my addiction shattered the three people closest to me.

 

As I remembered who I was and what I’d done, I could not understand why my former spouse and I still had as strong a friendship that we still do. I had to battle the shame and guilt that once again threatened to tear down my self-worth and self-esteem.

 

Using my tools, I was able to ground myself and stop the stories lies I kept making up.

 

That’s not always an easy process.

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My daughter stands posed, feet shoulder width apart, knees slightly bent, with her softball bat pointing upwards at an angle over her shoulder. She faces me, eyes staring at my hand, patiently waiting. Underhand, I toss the orange object towards her.

 

Her arms swing the bat and the momentum spins her around in a circle. Strike!

 

She laughs, raises the bat once again, anticipating the next pitch.

 

I bend over and pick up another coral colored piece of fruit. She swings. WHACK!

 

A pumpkin chunk explodes into tiny pieces, guts filling the air, seeds flying in different directions, and I get sprayed with a slimy mass of strings and pumpkin juice.

 

A couple of minutes earlier she was standing over a pumpkin, pounding it with the bat she’s “had since I was six years old. Remember, it was bigger than me. Look at how small it is now.”

 

She was hitting it over and over again. Breathing hard she had stopped, leaned on the bat, and commented, “Dad, I can’t even make a dent in this pumpkin. This is good therapy!”

 

She’s right. This is good therapy. I pitch the next chunk.

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