I can't dance. Never could. In kindergarten. In dating days. In aerobics classes at age 30, 50 and almost 60. In furtive attempts to find company apart from the one I love. In clumsy attempts to enjoy the company of the one I love. I met her at a fraternity dance. She giggled and took pity. Dancing was not how we dated. There were weddings. One photo I can't get my hands on has me looking almost graceful dancing with my then-not-yet wife's sister. She was a kid. Dancing with kids I kinda loosen up.
Anyway -- this long neglected blog is a recovery blog, and dancing here leads to ruminations that I've tried somewhat to structure along 12-step lines. The last meeting I attended, the first week of the month is a 12&12 meeting -- the month being June, we read Step 6, from the OA book. An bit of interesting advice was in the book. There was -- go ahead and hit bottom with your character defects advice, and you gotta walk steps 1 to 3 with each of your character defects advice. I haven't done much in the way of walking those steps with the food.
Anyhow, at a recent aerobic dance class, there seemed to be a level of joy and silliness and energetic movement reached among all the folks, but not me. I was doing the usual tripping over my feet doing the simplest steps. Normally, when that happens I just amplify simple movements, of which I'm capable. Just couldn't do it this time around. I was pulled down, it seemed, in proportion to the uplift I witnessed around me. Tears began to flow. My response was to do stretching poses -- I can always find some stiffness to attend to. I kept active, if not energetic or engaged, until things came to an end. I even managed to try from time to time to re-engage, but not very heartily. -- And so I ruminated over thought mostly of anhedonia and autism and the partial success I have in much of life in being earnest in lieu of being adept. Some contexts, it just doesn't work.
This reliance on earnestness is something I pretty much take for granted as a good thing. A thing that keeps me engaged where no other quality or capacity seems adequate. But the Step 6 reading has me challenging this as a crutch. Though it is so inimical to my nature -- such things as Sir and Ma'am where rote politeness is hoped to soothe my lack of genuine consideration -- blame the autism...
Of course, I can conceive as how I'm not really Aspergers and I'm not really hypothymic or dysphoric. But I have to work to think that way. I take for granted that I'm all that. Though I've given up thinking myself schizo, though schitzo has been my nickname in various setting since high school. If I am all that, can I become not-that, or more closely identify myself with my departures from the labels than with my conformance to them? Close to 60, you just kind of get by with the compensatory behaviors that have served. And maybe find ways to shed ones that haven't. -- When I was younger, there was compensatory treatment, as well -- the 'he'll grow out of it' compensations. They're not so available. Anyhow -- the debate rages -- is habitual compensatory earnestness making me fat and making me sick and making me lonely and making me unhappy, or is it making me less so?
I've always presumed less so, but I've been nudged toward thinking perhaps there are other alternatives that a loving God can identify for me. I've not been too successful identifying my own, though I'm still fairly experiments. I might say, for one so close to the grave.
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