If you’re anything like me, I had heard the term “codependent” hundreds of times.

Whenever I’d hear that word, I’d picture two people who neeeeeeeeeeed each other, like a pair of mutually parasitic leeches sucking the life out of one another, “plus drama.”

Thelma and Louise, driving off a cliff.

[how powerful and profound.  i almost forget they’re driving off to kill themselves.]

Romeo and Juliet, as she stabbed herself while clinging to his lifeless body.

Two weak, whiney, teenage kids making sad, crying suckface with each other, covered in emo makeup, grasping black fingernailed hands.

“I can’t live without you, I LOVE YOU SO HARD that I have to kill you and then kill myself.  I DIE ONE THOUSAND TIMES”

Me, to myself:  “Lame.  No way I’m THAT.  I’m stronger than that.  I’m independent and smart.  No way, no way.”

In 2014, I found a therapist.  I was fighting my way back from rock bottom, recovering from addiction, and healing from a marriage that uprooted truckfulls of rotting garbage when divorce yanked it from my life.

At the time, I was pretty proud of myself for seeking help. Now I think, “omg DUH, mental garbage all over the furniture, I needed a crew of help.”Read More