Withdrawal

Withdrawal from caffeine wasn't as bad as I thought it would be; although I did have one hell of a day. By lunch time, I had a splitting headache and felt like I was moving through a dense fog--the kind where you can't see the tail lights of the car in front of you or the line dividing the lanes. This would have been all right except for the fact that I ended up having to train a new employee. Had I known about this before I came to work, I wouldn't have chosen this day to make such a radical change in my morning routine, but there I was barely holding it together, when "Mona" walked in. I had been told she was coming to observe and check out the office, but in fact, she had already been hired.

Before I go any further I should explain that I have only held my current job for a month; only work two days a week, and am doing the job to help out a friend who was desperate for assistance in his medical office. It was understood from the onset that I was temporary. I was between writing projects and thought it would be good for me to get away from my computer and see what it's like out in the real world. Generally, Mondays are slow, so I didn't anticipate any problems, but suddenly in the midst of stabbing pain and thick fog, I found myself face-to-face with one of the most annoying people I have ever met. Leave it to the universe to send in a messenger when I am in pain and vulnerable. Perhaps, if I had known she had already been hired to replace me, her behavior would have made more sense, but in less than five minutes, this woman was hovering over me demanding detailed information about every move I made. The pain in my head increased and spread down my neck like hot syrup. Every muscle in my body constricted with tension. I felt like a five year old with a hangover. After an hour of Mona, I was about to snap.

"Excuse me for a minute," I said. "Why don't you answer the phones while I take care of some personal business." Which was my polite way of saying excuse me while I step into the bathroom and scream. On the way there I spied a tin of fudge, which some grateful patient brought in for Christmas. My five year old self picked up the tin and carried it into the bathroom where she promptly picked out the biggest piece and inhaled it. By the time the second piece was gone, some of my pain had subsided and although my adult self was out of order, I managed to get through the rest of the day. I showed Mona what I could, and suggested she wait until the next day to get more comprehensive training from the real, i.e. experienced office person. At home my five year old self was still in charge. By the time I went to bed I had comforted myself with half a loaf of French bread, an enormous bowl of pasta, and way too many cookies.

Because I do other work for this doctor, yesterday afternoon, I was back at the office. The mere sight of Mona made me bristle. This time I knew it had nothing to do with her, and since I didn't have a headache, nothing to do with my withdrawal. She was definitely a messenger, but what was the message?

This morning I realized that Mona reminded me of my mother, who was often demanding and controlling. In my mother's presence, I never felt capable, respected, or appreciated. Mona's demands triggered me into feeling like I did when I was a child. Fortunately, I had enough presence of mind to contain my feelings and not project them on to Mona, who in short order will undoubtedly become the penultimate medical secretary; although because I was going through withdrawals, I might have gotten away with spewing my emotional debris as far as it would go. Of course, then I would have had to apologize, and no child likes to do that.

After I had a cup of licorice tea, my inner-child and I had a little talk about Mona, and then we went to a dance class and cleaned the house. Tonight we're going out for Mexican food.

Peace in the New Year.

Addiction

As a part of the boomer generation, and as an adoptee who has spent an inordinate amount of time numbing my feelings, I am no stranger to addiction. When I was in the throws of smoking Marlboros, drinking alcohol, and wasting my time in a desperate search for Mr. Right, I wouldn't have described my various coping mechanisms as addiction. They were just me. My emotional imprint was well established and I didn't have a clue about why I acted the way I did. Outspoken and generally angry, my addictions were merely tools for self-expression, and for the years that I indulged they served me well.

When, after graduate school, I got a job working in a smoke-free environment, I realized just how addicted I was. I tried quitting on my own, but the inevitable weight gain and emotional pain I experienced sent me right back to the security of the little red and white box. Knowing I wouldn't be able to indulge during the eight hours I spent at work, I smoked as many cigarettes as I could on the way, and did the same on the drive back home. To cover up the smell, I wore perfume and chewed gum. Although I felt guilty about my addiction, I wasn't able to stop on my own. Finally, I tried hypnosis and after one or two sessions, I simply lost my desire to inhale, but there were consequences.

Suddenly, I became brutally honest. Instead of calling me Jan, my co-worker called me Frank. At the time, I didn't understand what was going on, but thanks to the vision of hind-sight, I now understand that smoking enabled me to mask my feelings, to say yes when I meant no and no when I meant yes, to do what was expected of me, rather than what I wanted to do. To be the good adoptee, not the bad one. To avoid feeling, I simply lit up and inhaled. This was particularly useful in the case of the more uncomfortable emotions like: envy, jealousy, sadness, grief, shame, and fear; although my habit also saw me through times of transition from one activity to another, and kept me company while I was on the telephone or driving to work. Cigarettes provided a smoke screen of protection.

Of course, once I let go of the nasty weed, I clung to other methods of distraction--retail therapy, unhealthy relationships, mindless eating, and of course, drinking. When applied collectively, these tools were almost as effective as inhaling smoke, but they caused me varying degrees of pain and discomfort and so over time, as my collection of self-help books grew, I let up on them.

I have to say there are times when I miss being blissfully unconscious, but once my feet were firmly planted on this particular path, there was no turning back. This morning it occurred to me that my morning coffee ritual might just be an addiction. Well, OK, I know for certain that I am addicted to both the caffeine and the ritual. It's the way I begin every day and when the power went out recently, I spent forty-five minutes grinding my beans with a mortar and pestle until they were fine enough to drip through my Melita filter. As soon as the power went on, I ground several packets and put them in the freezer "for emergencies." Hello. My name is Jan and I am a coffee addict. It's 9:00 P.M. and I'm contemplating tomorrow morning and what it will be like to wake up and NOT smell the coffee. The truth is, I'm not entirely certain I have the ability to let this last habit go because a part of me is afraid of what negative emotion is hiding underneath. Or maybe I am free. There is only one way to find out...and so, tomorrow morning, I'll breathe and read and then who knows...