Prompt #52: Diaries or Journals

Journaling Got Me out of Denial and into Sex and Love Addiction Recovery

Thanks to a lifelong habit that started with my eleventh-grade English teacher

“I’ve got a book in me!”

That was what I told myself time and time again as I sat at the bar in Club Elegante, drinking Black Russians and listening to an over-coked dancer practice his English on me, as sweat dripped off his chin and soaked his tie.

He was more than practicing.

“Mary…” He didn’t get all the syllables of my name. “Mary, I see your face when I…” Here he hesitated as his mind searched for the English word. When it didn’t come, he resorted to Spanish. “When I…masturbo.”

“This goes in my book”

Bless his heart for not gesturing with his hands right there at the bar. He didn’t need to. I got it.

He looked at me for a reaction.

So did I.

Expecting to be totally grossed out, I was more, like, Wow, that’s a bold thing to say to a woman you want to sleep with. But Buddy, you blew it. Besides I can barely dance with you without getting drenched. Go easy on the coke if you want to get to first base with me.

And why did he insist on wearing a three-piece suit and tie when he had dark circles of sweat not just under his arms but all over? That was the ew gross for me.

I went home and documented this in my journal.

Along with the trysts I did have with young Latino men I met dancing.

At first, it was sensuous details. “Beto put his tongue in my mouth and it darted in and out like a lizard catching a fly. And felt just as skinny.”

Or with Mario.

“He shares a bedroom with his younger siblings. So we put a mattress on the bathroom floor and made love there. All too fast for my taste, but over before anyone had to pee.”

But when I got sexually involved for any length of time, the entries got more reflective. “Is it time to leave my husband, and if so, why? It can’t be to be with Ricardo. He’s already married. With a nine-month-old baby who’s the spitting image of his dad.

“Xiomara is jealous and suspicious. How many private Palo de Mayo lessons do I need, really? Besides he yells at her and sleeps with his best bro friend, too. I can taste Eduardo when I kiss him.”

Again, you’d think I’d be grossed out. Instead, I was fascinated. Or so I told myself, with my usual excuse/refrain, “This goes in my book.” And to that end, I was doing tons of research. Compulsively so.

It took a while for those journal entries to get past what I saw and did to what I felt. Almost two years.

“Would I really leave Simon for a Mario or a Ricardo?”

“If I understood more Spanish, I’d be bored at best and horrified on a regular basis. Yes, they find me cute. They love hearing me speak my rudimentary Spanish with an American accent. They laugh when I make a pun and say, “Estoy Nicoya,” with the lisp of a native speaker. Our little in-joke since I dance in their troupe.

“But really, they love me for my status. As a white woman with a car and a union job, I’m a ticket out of poverty. But do any of them save? Or stay home with their wives and kids? Or study?”

“If they did, I wouldn’t be meeting them here, and having midnight quickies before going home to Simon. And work the next day. Why am I so hooked on men who would turn me off if their lives were in English? And what am I doing with my life? Wasting my best energy dancing and effing my ass off instead of writing the Great American Novel.”

But wait, I am writing my GAN. Or at least taking notes. All this goes in my book.

But what if Simon were to pick up my journal and read it? He’d be devastated. But if he’s oblivious, does that mean I haven’t hurt him?

Of course not.

The writing was there in black and white.

There was a word for people like me. Well, plenty of them, actually. Words like homewrecker, slut, or sleazy gringa. None of them flattering.

The one that got my attention was addict.

Sex and love addict to be exact. A dear friend gave me the big book of SLAA — Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous. She’d seen me on the prowl but wasn’t sure what I was up to. Her hunch was right.

The shoe fit. But it took a while to wear it.

All that time, I kept journaling. The more I read, the more I saw how needy and desperate I was to pretend what I gave sex for was anything like love. Whatever love was, this was not it.

I tried to quit.

But when I did, I sunk into a deep pit of depression and despair. The world went from vibrant colors to shades of gray. Nothing made sense and everything pissed me off or made me cry. Only dancing brought me joy and got me moving.

But I couldn’t just dance. The evening wasn’t complete without that nightcap. That sexual thank you, or maybe the adrenaline rush from thinking I was getting away with it. Or getting back with Simon for not becoming the dance partner I wanted him to be. I’ll show him!

I moaned and groaned on the page. Had an existential crisis.

Without my drugs, life wasn’t worth living.

The day that our roommate Joel came up the porch steps with a huge bouquet that wasn’t for me, I bawled my eyes out. He’d been a lovely buffer between me and Simon, but he was moving in with his lover. I’d be alone with my husband. The one I treated like sh*t.

It was too much.

That night I went to my first SLAA meeting.

And heard my story echoed all around the room, with different names and faces, told by men as well as women, gays as well as straights. I fit right in. I belonged here. This was my tribe.

And has been for lo these many years.

My journaling evolved as did I

It transformed. Now it was the container for my step work. On those same pages where I documented my dastardly deeds, I charted my explorations into spirituality. Instead of looking for a dancer-lover, I sought a Higher Power that accepted me without judgment. And Who would guide me to the sobriety my new friends enjoyed.

That led me to the Newman Center first, then to the Unitarian Universalist Church, both of which were known for their social activism. One of my sponsors introduced me to A Course In Miracles, and I even joined a group studying that deep work.

More important than which church fit the best, I learned to meditate and pray in the pages of my journal. I got so used to writing, I wouldn’t close my eyes without a pen nearby. And if an insight came, I’d open my eyes and write it down right quick.

The church I go to now teaches a practice called Inner Listening where we ask the Spirit a question, listen inwardly for answers and guidance, and write down what comes. Since I was doing something similar, it was a good fit. I put the shoes on and wear them proudly.

Today I also do a variation of Inner listening I learned from Mike Dooley and Michael Sandler. It’s called AWE Journaling. Automatic Writing Experience.

Looking back I’d say all the writing I did over the years, however rough and raw, was authentic. Recording my escapades forced me out of denial into mindfulness with many fits and stops along the way. The slogan, progress, not perfection, never applied to anyone more than it did to me.

But I made it.

Simon is happily remarried to a woman who loves him dearly.

My life is back in my own hands. And my mindful heart. Integrity and dignity are words that describe me. Of course, getting here was a gift of grace from God. But without my rusty trusty journals, God and I would still be strangers. Now we’re inseparable beloveds going everywhere together.

And writing has brought me blessing after blessing after blessing.

Will I ever write that book I seemed hell-bent on taking notes for?

In many ways I did. It’s called, my life.

Thanks go to Robin James for this writerly prompt!

Marilyn Flower is a sacred fool who writes fiction, poetry, and blogs, inspired by the practice of SoulCollage®. Her books: Developing Characters: Fun Ways to Cast Your Fiction, Creative Blogging, Bucket Listers. Follow her Sacred Foolishness or SoulCollage® for Writers, and Stay in touch!

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