I sometimes refer to myself as not only a recovering alcoholic, but a recovering Catholic. And I've always blamed my Catholic schooling as a reason for the guilt I carry for ridiculous things. But I think it's also a habit of an alcoholic or any addictive personality. For the Catholics, its the ritual of going to confession. The idea that another person has to voice their wrongs to another human being (AA's 5th Step)
Take tonight for example. I'm sitting here feeling guilty that I've not worked on any of my "home" work. Creating the breach/incident procedures. Finishing the ENS guide. Developing the patrol syllabus. Why should I create an emotional stress burden because I have chosen to not do work at home that I won't get paid for.
In the past I always took work home. I remember Monday nights when I lived with Amy. I worked six days a week-Ground Round & Helicopter Flight. We'd drink Miller Genuine Draft, vodka & shots of Rumplemintz. and watch football. Then at Leg Affairs. And at Westwind. Not when I was just a dispatcher at the Comm Center. The whole time I was married, Brian hated it. Always said I chose work over family. And it was true.
Now that I live alone, I don't have as much desire to be a workaholic. I just want to waste my time watching tv online and playing stupid computer games. So I then I feel guilty for being unproductive, for wasting time. But it's my time to do with as I desire. So many things I could accomplish. My book of poetography. My master's degree. Service and volunteer work.
The guilt about the foods eaten or not eaten. The steps not walked. The weights not lifted. Friends and family not called. The guilt of potential failures. Risks not taken. Paths not chosen. The guilt of what if. The guilt of the imagination. The insidious ethical concept that becomes the pit in the stomach and reaching its thorny tendrils to the brain triggering the voice. The voice that criticizes. The voice that mocks and denigrates. The voice that says you'll never get there or be that.
The guilt that become a physical presence in the cells that created a body suit of armor made not of chain mail but of fat and toxins. The fat and the fear of alcoholic venues that make it easier to stay in a one bedroom apartment and play mindless color matching computer games that somehow turn down the volume on the guilt. Until the hands of the clock sweep in ever widening circles of time passed and wasted.
Take tonight for example. I'm sitting here feeling guilty that I've not worked on any of my "home" work. Creating the breach/incident procedures. Finishing the ENS guide. Developing the patrol syllabus. Why should I create an emotional stress burden because I have chosen to not do work at home that I won't get paid for.
In the past I always took work home. I remember Monday nights when I lived with Amy. I worked six days a week-Ground Round & Helicopter Flight. We'd drink Miller Genuine Draft, vodka & shots of Rumplemintz. and watch football. Then at Leg Affairs. And at Westwind. Not when I was just a dispatcher at the Comm Center. The whole time I was married, Brian hated it. Always said I chose work over family. And it was true.
Now that I live alone, I don't have as much desire to be a workaholic. I just want to waste my time watching tv online and playing stupid computer games. So I then I feel guilty for being unproductive, for wasting time. But it's my time to do with as I desire. So many things I could accomplish. My book of poetography. My master's degree. Service and volunteer work.
The guilt about the foods eaten or not eaten. The steps not walked. The weights not lifted. Friends and family not called. The guilt of potential failures. Risks not taken. Paths not chosen. The guilt of what if. The guilt of the imagination. The insidious ethical concept that becomes the pit in the stomach and reaching its thorny tendrils to the brain triggering the voice. The voice that criticizes. The voice that mocks and denigrates. The voice that says you'll never get there or be that.
The guilt that become a physical presence in the cells that created a body suit of armor made not of chain mail but of fat and toxins. The fat and the fear of alcoholic venues that make it easier to stay in a one bedroom apartment and play mindless color matching computer games that somehow turn down the volume on the guilt. Until the hands of the clock sweep in ever widening circles of time passed and wasted.
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