Last week, my therapist prodded me (again) about my reticence to thinking about the future, what my life looks like when I complete this stage of my recovery and am ready to return to… what exactly? I’ve come to realize that there is no “going back” in the sense of resuming my pattern of existence exactly the way it was prior to January 13 of this year. For starters, the world we live in is radically different. There’s also the subject of me. I’ve changed. And, I’ve come to the realization that if I return to my old habits and reengage with my previous stressors without making any changes, the outcome will be worse than it was the first time.
For whatever reason, I am creating barriers to thinking about the future. It’s as if I can’t get my mind to focus on it. Perhaps it’s a manifestation of denial, but it doesn’t feel that way. It feels more like cowardice, driven by a fear of abject failure. That said, I’m not sure what I’m worried about failing at. Historically, my biggest worry has been disappointing others. I know there are things that I want to say, but I’m not even sure of what I’m holding back.
It is fear, fear that you will fail. Fear that you won’t satisfy whomever (or whatever) the implacable and invisible person(s) or thing(s) upon which your life depends, and which you can never satisfy because they (or it) don’t exist outside your brain.