I just got home from my 30th high school reunion. I was a pretty shy and insecure kid in high school. I had my small group of friends, who I still keep around me today. But there’s a huge number of people who I’ve never even said hello to, in all the four years we were in that building together. I was mostly invisible. Although I put a lot of effort into being cool and fitting in, I also put a lot of effort into being invisible. I think I was torn with craving connection and fearing rejection. I didn’t have the words to put on it at the time, I just knew I was different. I think that’s a pretty common feeling for kids who grow up in a home like mine.
I was asked to be on the reunion committee this year. I wasn’t really sure why they chose me, and I was surprised, but I said yes. All summer, I kept wondering what my role was, as they seemed to have the logistics all figured out. I wasn’t really contributing much, and felt like they probably regretted asking me. As the date neared, we hadn’t sold very many tickets. I was thinking social media had pretty much ruined reunions, as we all know what everyone’s had for dinner and where their kids go to school and whatnot. What’s left to catch up on? I reached out to a few former classmates, asking if they were going. I was surprised, and saddened to hear a common response, something along the lines of, “I hated the reunion I went to before. All the popular people were still popular, and with alcohol added to the mix, were even more popular, while I sat alone.” That was the basic theme, and it struck a chord in me. We are all in our late 40s now, and many are still feeling like the insecure kids we used to be. It makes sense, as we carry around our inner child everywhere. That child guides our decisions, whether we realize it or not. Until we do something brave to heal him or her.
I decided to do something about it, which is pretty ironic, coming from the unpopular kid. But, I did it, anyway.
I wrote a post to our reunion Facebook wall, talking to the people who didn’t want to go. I told them about how hard I tried to fit in, which was dumb, because changing yourself to fit in means YOU aren’t really fitting in at all. You are just pretending. And I told them my biggest regret was spending energy on feeling different and unlikable, instead of getting to know the hundreds of kids around me who likely felt similar. And let’s face it…we are all the same. Sure, we are unique and different, but as human beings, we all crave connection. We are hard-wired for it. And we all, in one way or another, fear rejection. And the people who weren’t going to this reunion were likely afraid that the connection wouldn’t happen, and they would return to that insecure kid sitting alone.
I had found my role on the committee.
I put words on the elephant in the classroom. Because even though it’s 30 years later, the little kid in some of us is still afraid or uncomfortable. And we all know how I like to put words on the uncomfortable things inside us, because it takes it’s power away. If anyone knows about rejection and fear, it’s me. I’m sure half the people reading that post had no idea who I was. And if I’m being honest, I was a little nervous making that post to all those people who never even spoke to me in high school. It was so easy to slip back into that feeling of needing to be invisible so I wouldn’t feel rejection. But, I did it anyway. That’s my superpower now…being afraid, but doing it anyway. And do you know what? It worked. It took the power away from the insecurity of going to a high school reunion and gave it back to many people. People who weren’t going to attend ended up showing up. Even though they were nervous, they did it anyway. That’s pretty brave. I saw people talking to people they normally would have never spoken to…including myself. Also brave. I think everyone made some pretty great connections tonight. We seemed to have all matured enough to do this, and were grateful to just be there together. I introduced myself to so many former classmates, many not knowing who I was, yet they were all receptive…and I saw others doing the same. I have so many new friends now, and the people I was sure wouldn’t be interested in talking with me, they actually were! And the people I assumed were “snobs” back in the day, actually weren’t! And the one’s I thought were shady…well, some of them still kind of are, but that’s ok; it makes for a great “how was the reunion” story! (Being one of the few divorced singles at a high school reunion makes for some interesting stories…I’ll save them for another day.)
It makes me wonder what people thought of me back then, and who they learned I am now. Is it different? I realized you really can’t know who a person is by what they were like in high school, because really…that’s just your perception. Every experience you have in life is filtered by your perception, which is shaped by your own experiences. It’s different for everyone. I think we are starting to learn that. We were all cool and popular tonight, speaking from our hearts and from a place of honesty, respect and love. I felt like I fit in with everyone tonight, and I didn’t have to change a single thing about who I am. And I know others feel the same. That’s some pretty good stuff right there.
There just wasn’t enough time to connect with everyone on the level I was hoping to, but we made a pretty good start. I’m proud of us…and I hope we continue choosing to be brave and taking our power back. The little kid in each of us deserves that.
Let me tell you about my friend, Nya. She lives in Nairobi, Kenya. I live in Massachusetts, so we haven’t actually seen each other, but she is my friend. We met in an endometriosis support group on Facebook called Nancy’s Nook. Facebook can drive you crazy sometimes, particularly around election season, but it can also provide you with some amazing connections. And sometimes, those connections can save your life.
Nya has spent the last few decades living in pain. From puberty onward, she’s had a multitude of gynecological, gastrointestinal, urological and pain issues. Years of visiting doctors to find answers left her with no answers at all. She was told that it wasn’t possible to be in that much pain, and wasn’t believed. Can you imagine how damaging it is to your soul to be told you are crazy for feeling the way you do? As her quality of life decreased, she began researching on her own. And this is what led her to Nancy’s Nook, a Facebook group run by a nurse (and a passionate endometriosis advocate) filled with files and research…basically an online encyclopedia for up to date endometriosis information. It was here that she spent two years learning that the standard treatment for endometriosis (hormone therapy, ablation, hysterectomy) doesn’t work. Just ask the generations of women who have been treated that way…most of whom have had over a dozen surgeries, after the endometriosis repeatedly “grows back.” She learned about the more recent data which proves that correct treatment consists of wide excision surgery…basically, removing every last speck of endometriosis. Finally, after 25 years, she had her answer.
Unfortunately, there were no doctors in Kenya who knew about this. Turns out, there were no doctors in her entire continent who knew about this. She had to advocate for herself, and travel to Romania in order to find an excision specialist. This past September, she finally had proper excision surgery for deep infiltrating endometriosis. It was removed from her pelvis, ureters, uterosacral ligaments, pelvic cul-de-sac and bowels. They removed bilateral endometriomas, which are large ovarian cysts filled with endometriosis tissue. She had a “frozen” pelvis, along with “kissing” ovaries from all the adhesions in her body, which were surgically corrected.
After surgery, she felt validated. The pain was not “in her head” as she had been told for over two decades. Can you imagine how difficult her life must have been, both physically and emotionally? Imagine no one believing you, or being told there’s nothing wrong with you, as you have days where you physically can not get out of bed? It’s so easy to think of her as one of many who live in areas where they don’t have the most up to date health care systems and medical advancements like we do in the United States. We Americans get to read this essay from a point of privilege, as we are lucky enough to live in a country that has the best medical care in the world. Or do we?
Remember, I met Nya in that support group. Why would I need to be in that type of group? I mean, I live in Massachusetts, and we are famous for having the top doctors and hospitals in the entire world, right? Yet, I was in that group. And even though I live here, surrounded by undoubtedly the best medical care, I have lived the same life as Nya. I too have suffered decades with pain and ailments no one believed. I started out with horrifically heavy and painful periods and incredible low back pain which kept me home from school at least one day each month. I had a host of gastrointestinal symptoms, fatigue and shortness of breath. As the years passed, my symptoms worsened, and I sought out specialist after specialist. Starting in my early twenties, I saw three GI doctors to seek relief from the chronic constipation, bloating, nausea and cramping, who performed colonoscopies and endoscopies with no findings. They diagnosed me with IBS and sent me on my way. I saw two pulmonologists for my persistent shortness of breath and had pulmonary function tests, which revealed nothing, and I was sent on my way. I saw a neurologist who performed muscle testing to determine why I was having searing pain with tingling down my legs. He found nothing and sent me on my way. I saw an electrophysiologist for my heart arrhythmia who performed a double ablation, which didn’t work, and he sent me on my way. I saw a physiatrist for my chronic back pain, who did trigger point injections, which didn’t work, and he sent me on my way. I became my chiropractors best patient, money-wise. I saw two rheumatologists who told me there was nothing wrong with me, and one of them suggested an anti-depressant, asking if maybe childhood trauma was causing me to think I had all these ailments. I had a great nurse practitioner, who sent me to most of these specialists, but once all the testing came back negative, she too suggested an antidepressant. That’s when I stopped complaining.
Like Nya, I began researching on my own, as my symptoms were getting worse. Thank God someone invented the internet during all of this! One day, around ten years ago, I plugged in “painful bowel movements during menstruation” and bingo- “endometriosis” popped up everywhere! I was ecstatic to finally have an answer. I went straight to my gynecologist, the same one I reported painful sex to, years earlier, who told me there was nothing abnormal and sent me on my way. I showed him my search results and he casually said, “yes, you may very well have endo, but it can only be diagnosed by surgery, and then the treatment is just birth control pills. So, let’s just put you on them.” I was grateful the answer was so easy! And yes, the pills made the pain so much better…for a few years. All my symptoms then worsened, and I returned to him. He said it was time for a hysterectomy. I trusted him that this was the answer. Prior to the surgery, I asked him to please look at my bowels, particularly on the left side, and see if there was endometriosis on them. I knew something was wrong, and I knew exactly where it was. I could feel it. A month later, at my post op visit, I eagerly asked what he saw. He just stared at me blankly. He forgot to look. He checked the operative record and said, “You have mild endometriosis on the pelvic cul-de-sac,” and sent me on my way. That was five years ago.
Fast forward to this year, when my symptoms became debilitating. I began cyclically bleeding rectally and knew it had become serious. My bloating and abdominal pain was worse than ever. I legitimately looked six months pregnant two weeks each month. I referred myself to an endometriosis “specialist” at the Brigham and Women’s Hospital in Boston…one of the best hospitals in the country. He ordered a colonoscopy and it revealed a partially obstructing endometriosis mass in my colon. I learned it’s rare for the disease to progress this far into the colon, so I became scared. Terrified, actually. It’s at this point that I stumbled across Nancy’s Nook on Facebook, along with a few other groups. I learned about the current treatments and read the horror stories of countless numbers of women who have had dozens of failed surgeries and decreased quality of life on hormone therapy. And when I returned to this “specialist” in Boston, he told me he’s putting me on hormone therapy, having a colo-rectal surgeon remove the tumor and that he would then remove the endo from wherever else he saw it, yet would leave it on the outside of my bowel, because it’s too dangerous to remove it from there and “it’s just going to grow back, anyway.” He explained that endometriosis is caused by retrograde menstrual flow, which is an antique theory. I left there crying…hopeless.
I returned to Nancy’s Nook and found out there are three, maybe four excision specialists in Massachusetts. Only four? Are you kidding me? With the medical reputation this state has? That’s not right. Anyway, to make a long story, well…long, I found Dr. Malcolm Mackenzie, who performed excision surgery on me this past September, a day after Nya had hers in Romania. He removed endometriosis from my bilateral pelvic brims, bilateral pelvic sidewalls, bilateral abdominal sidewalls, anterior abdominal wall, bladder, ureters, diaphragm, liver, the scar from my previous hysterectomy, pelvic cul-de-sac and Fallopian tubes. In addition to removing the endometriosis tumor found on my colonoscopy, he removed a second one which wasn’t noted prior. He also noted thousands of black “tar-like” areas in my fat tissue, which represented a previously ruptured endometrioma. Surgery took six hours and six weeks later, I am still recovering…yet grateful. My leg pain is gone, and I haven’t felt the arrhythmia since. I do believe this man not only saved my life, but saved my sanity. He believed me.
Tell me, how is it possible that a woman in Kenya and a woman in Massachusetts share the same story of a lifetime of misdiagnosis and medical mistreatment? How is it that we both suffered almost a lifetime of debilitating physical symptoms and were repeatedly not believed and sent on our way? How is it that only a handful of doctors across the world care enough to try and figure out why the traditional endometriosis treatments don’t work? Why are gynecologists not required to have specialized credentials for performing advanced endometriosis surgery…or even stage one surgery? That’s not right. Why aren’t there different medical codes for advanced endometriosis? As it is now, a surgeon gets reimbursed the same for an outpatient surgery as he or she would for an eight hour surgery. Of course so few of them want to spend their time learning to perform this surgery correctly! That’s not right. And how is it that no one talks about this? Every single person I tell this story to has the same response, “I had no idea this is what endometriosis is.” Even I didn’t know that this is what endometriosis is, and I’m a nurse. That’s not right. This affects millions of women, and no one is talking about it. That’s not right. My gynecologist, who let this grow through my colon for ten years, had no idea that this is what endometriosis is. That’s not right. As Dr. Mackenzie says, it’s a social injustice. He’s spot on. If this disease was affecting men this way, if it caused debilitating pain, affected their sex life and had anything to do with their reproductive system, you can be damn well sure there would be a cure by now. But, it doesn’t affect men. And no one is talking about it. I did not learn any of this while I was in nursing school. And Dr. Mackenzie and my original gynecologist and the “specialist” at Brigham and Women’s did not learn any of this while in medical school. It’s a silent epidemic that no one is talking about, and that’s not right. If left untreated, the endometriosis on my ureter could have cut off my kidney. I wonder how many women have died from kidney disease when it was really just untreated endometriosis? If left untreated, it would have obliterated my bowels. Endometriosis is one of the leading causes of infertility. Why is no one talking about this???
Well, I’m talking about this. And Nya’s talking about this. And so are my other endo warriors. We’re going to make it right. And we’re just getting started…
You can drive yourself nuts trying to avoid the things that trigger you; though you can drive yourself nuts trying to face them, too. Most of us just hide, or pretend it’s not happening. We are all born these little loved babies…so perfect, so pure, but we rarely are able to see it. Our pureness gets buried under all the conditioning piled on us by our parents, our siblings, our friends, our teachers…by society. We gain shame, guilt and fear from events that happen to us that are often completely out of our control. Shame is heavy, and it’s damaging as hell. Some damage is obvious, such as abuse and the like. Other types, not so noticeable. Words, or lack of them. Unworthy. Not good enough. Ignored. Compared. Different. Unwanted. Unpopular. Any of these words ring a bell? Damaged little children. All of us. And the next thing you know, we’ve got generations of damaged little children walking around in adult bodies, trying to pretend the shame doesn’t still exist inside us. Those hurt kids stick around, unknowingly guiding our decisions, because they need to heal in order to transform us into healthy adults. Till then, we bleed on people who didn’t even cut us. It’s sad, eh?
Makes me think of Tim McGraw. Tell me, how do you want to spend your next thirty years? Hiding? Facing? Pretending? Unable to breathe? Afraid? I suppose that answer might differ, depending on how old you are. Or where you are in life. Or what your conditioning was or still is. Or how many layers of shame and guilt is piled on your chest, sometimes making it feel like you can’t even breathe. Let’s say you’re fifty. Thirty years puts you at eighty, if you’re lucky. How about we skip the thirty years and just ask, how do you want to spend this year? Or this week? Or this day? Or even, this one night? Do you want to spend it hiding? Driving yourself nuts avoiding that unhealed little kid inside you? Letting his or her pain hurt you, and everyone you come in contact with? You don’t have to wait until you’re fifty or sixty or seventy, or even your deathbed, to decide to cut that kid a little slack. You may never fully heal that kid, but damn, give a kid a break every once in awhile. Let the child play. A day of play, of smiling, of feeling good. Can you imagine it? Maybe if you do, even for just one night, you might be able to start the shift. All you need to do is start it. Who cares when you finish it, or even if you do finish it? That’s what life is really about, just the journey of trying, and forgiving. It’s about random moments of joy and living, amidst the chaos. And maybe, if you take enough chances on yourself, if you give yourself enough of those moments…you just might slide on from Tim McGraw and into the great Jimmy Buffett, who says, “Some of it’s magic, some of it’s tragic, but I’ve had a good life all the way.”
This post was written in response to Linda G Hill’s Stream of Social Consciousness Saturday. Some free flowing organic thoughts straight from my brain to the keyboard. Hope it makes at least a little bit of sense, at least to someone!
Oh boy, I haven’t been the best blogger lately, eh? Well, I have an excellent excuse: I had a 6 hour surgery 3 weeks ago. Stage 4 endometriosis excision surgery. They removed 2 tumors from my colon, and endo implants from my bilateral pelvic brims, bilateral pelvic and abdominal walls, bladder, ureters, liver and diaphragm…along with removing my Fallopian tubes. Yeah, it’s been quite the 3 weeks around here. I feel like shit, but less shitty than when I first got home. Your diaphragm is a muscle, so breathing was pretty painful the first 2 weeks. I imagine this might be what it feels like to be run over by a van. Just guessing.
I’m also taking 9 credits online at UMASS Boston. I know. I’m crazy. I’m way behind, but they are working with me, thank God. Today, I came down with a sore throat, headache and chills. Yay.
Tired of hearing me moan and groan? I am.
A great thing that happened this month, and also a funny thing, is that I got published again. What’s funny about it is that I have been so damn sick, I forgot all about it! I remembered TWO weeks after it came out! Ha! It’s in the American Journal of Nursing. If you’re interested, click here.
I’m hoping to feel better enough tomorrow to start catching up on my homework, but I have a feeling I’ll be plopped on the couch. Sometimes, you just gotta roll with the punches and let go of what you can’t control…something I’m working on in many areas of my life.
This post was written in response to Linda G Hill’s Stream of Social Consciousness Saturday
Here I am, lying on the couch on Labor Day weekend, realizing I haven’t logged into my blog since May. Damn. I’m supposed to be better than this.
I guess I’ve got some pretty valid excuses. I just moved my oldest son up to college yesterday. I tried holding on to each minute with him over the past year, and this summer I could see the last few drops of sand falling through the hourglass. I spent every moment with him that I could. That he would allow. I cried yesterday. Of course, my 18 years of work..the love, the lost sleep, the money, the driving, the setting of examples, the cuddling, the nurturing…it was all for this moment. Fly, little bird…fly.
I’ve also been distracted by a tumor growing in my colon. Don’t fret, it’s not cancer. It’s endometriosis. A funky disease that not too many people talk about. Hell, I’m a hospital trained nurse and even I never knew how nasty this can be. It’s invasive, like a weed. It multiplies, forms adhesions, invades organs and sticks organs together. It affects urinary function, bowel function…basically fucks up anything it touches. It causes excruciating pain and debilitating loss of organ function, and symptoms are cyclical, meaning they vary, depending on your hormones. Did I mention loss of function yet? Fun! And it’s incurable. Many women in my online support group have had over 20 surgeries. It just keeps growing back. Mine’s invaded the wall of my colon, causing a partially obstructing mass. I’ll be having it removed, along with as much as they can get of the other endometriosis all over my pelvic cavity. Surgery is in 26 days. Send me good vibes, people.
I start my 3rd semester of school in 9 days. Taking 9 credits this time around, so it should be interesting to see how I’m going to pull it off while recovering from this big surgery. I’m supposed to be getting a head start on reading a book for my “Women of Modern China” course, but hey…why not blog instead? Why not do ANYTHING instead?
In my defense, I have been writing. Just not here. I started a second blog www.storytellerscapecod.com There’s only two posts on it. As you can see, I’ve been a bit distracted lately. Not to mention, I live on Cape Cod, and it’s boating season.
I’m also having my 3rd article published in a nursing journal this October. It’s been awesome working with the editors, learning how to trim without losing the essence of the story.
OK, ya’ll are caught up. I’m transferring from the couch to bed, bringing the heating pad with me. My abdomen feels like it’s being torn into pieces tonight. Never thought I’d be looking forward to a surgery, but here we are. I’m sure once I start school and have the operation, I’ll be missing from WordPress again. I do hope to catch up on everyone’s posts soon. Such a great community here on wordpress. I love you guys, even when I don’t show up.
This post was written in response to Linda G Hill’s Stream of Social Consciousness Saturday
Sometimes, my heart feels drained. It’s weird, because at the same time, it feels overflowing. I’m trying to learn how to regulate it. It’s a work in progress.
Learning how to not let it overflow where it doesn’t belong…will I ever learn how? My brain knows, but not my heart. My heart thinks if it just flows freely enough, it will heal strained relationships. Spunky lil fella, eh? Good intentions, for sure. Not so much good outcomes.
All the love in the world isn’t enough if there’s none there to receive it. But I keep trying. Maybe I’m really just going through the motions now.
There’s something about strained relationships… the loss of love is tough. Or maybe it’s the loss of what could be. I’m learning it’s possible to grieve the loss of what could have been. Knowing there will be no more memories made. The loss of hope.
Hope is my savior. And my downfall. It keeps me in places I have no business being in. But it also keeps me living wholeheartedly. It powers my climb.
For a long time, I thought there was something inherently wrong with me. Everyone said, “It’s not you, it’s them”. But there’s so many of them. I’m the common denominator. It has to be me.
Yes, it is me. But it’s not anything that’s wrong with me. I’m growing. Evolving. Outgrowing.
I’m learning. Sometimes, I confuse triggers for love. And sometimes, my love is really just a trigger for someone else. We are all doing the best we can. A bunch of scared little kids walking around in grown up bodies. Pretending until we can’t pretend any longer.
Hope. I’m setting an intention to stop holding on. I can’t climb any mountains when I’m holding on to them.
I have hope I’m going to figure this all out someday. Actually, I know I will.
This post was written in response to Linda G Hill’s Stream of Social Consciousness Saturday
I just came home from the second of four RAD classes being offered at the local police department. RAD stands for “Rape, Aggression, Defense”-a basic self-defense course for women. It’s free and instructed by police officers. They run us through various scenarios, teach us some basic moves…how to block, kick, punch etc. Most of us felt a little awkward tonight. The first night was just classroom stuff. Tonight we actually punched and kicked, which are things most of us haven’t done before. The awkwardness wore off after a bit of practice. It really doesn’t take long for muscle memory to kick in. After this first night of action, I can say I feel fairly confident in my physical skills, all things considered. My arm is probably going to hurt tomorrow, though. I’ll be whining at work “I punched a freaking BAG last night, you know”.
Honestly, the most challenging part of the night wasn’t even the physical parts. It was the shouting. Each time we punched or set up in a defensive stance, we had to aggressively shout, “NO!”. Every single time I was up, I would forget to say it. Even in my head, as my turn neared, I would repeat to myself “Say no. Say no. Say no.” I’d get up in front of the instructor, square off, and go through the motions…silently. “Sorry” I’d sheepishly say, and then I was able to do it correctly, yelling “NO!” I’d walk back to the end of the line, feeling a weird mix of empowerment and shame. Empowered because my throat chakra was open and protecting me. Ashamed because I had never in my life yelled the word “no” at a man. It’s foreign to me. Damn.
I mentioned to my ex-husband that I was taking this class. He replied, “Youcould have used this 40 years ago“. He was spot on. I almost thought, “whybother now?” I wonder how differently my life would have turned out had I learned how to say the word “no”? What if I wasn’t raised to be quiet and obedient, and instead learned to speak up? Imagine if I actually grew up believing I mattered? I’ll never know for sure, but I feel safe assuming something would be different.
I think it’s great they offer this class to women for free. There was only 15 of us there. I looked around the room, wondering who else might be like me. Statistics tell me I’m not the only one in that group, but it’s such an invisible scar, there’s no way of knowing. As we learned more and more, the narrative in my head kept talking, “we’ve already been sexually assaulted, you’re too late”.
Maybe I can put this on my ever-growing to-do list. You know, the one I have that lists the ways I’m going to change the world. #3: teach our girls to say “no”. And then teach them to kick some ass.
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They say your vibe attracts your tribe. Like attracts like. I guess I’ve still got some work to do, because I don’t always see this.
Don’t get me wrong. I’ve got some kick-ass people in my life. There’s actually quite a few Jami-tribes around here. I’m good. I laugh. I smile. I belong. I’m surrounded by love.
But…
There’s those few. I might work on this the rest of my life and never truly understand how anyone can so easily walk away from love. Friend love. Romantic love. Family love. My love. Yes, I understand how our experiences affect how we respond to things. I get it.
But no, I don’t really get it. Despite shitty experiences or faulty conditioning or lack of emotional toolboxes, how fear can be so strong, miscommunication…I just don’t understand. Life is so fleeting. We get this one brief blip, one shot, and then we are gone.
Or maybe you are still here, but I’m gone.
I believe there will be regrets.
My attachments are fading. As much as I’ve been praying for this, part of me doesn’t want to lose them. I don’t want to get used to letting go of love so easily. I ache letting go of love. Love is a gift, a blessing… but I don’t think you realize this. Maybe like doesn’t really attract like, after all.
My tribe is strong. Solid. I’m good. But I’m holding space for you, just in case.
This post was written in response to Linda G Hill’s Stream of Social Consciousness Saturday, found at the link below. I’m grateful for the weekly writing nudge.
I can remember when I quit smoking over 20 years ago. Of course, I knew cigarettes were bad for me. “Bad” is such a minimizing word. I knew they could kill me. And still, it was so hard to stop smoking. I wanted to be healthy. I knew I would feel better without them. I was at the point where I didn’t even like how they made me feel. I felt dirty and ashamed after sneaking “just one more” when I was trying to quit. Eventually, I was successful. Though not after trying and failing multiple times. Cravings are no joke. Even for the strongest of the strong, addiction is hard. And changing your behavior is painful. No one likes feeling pain, right? Eventually, I missed them less and less, until the feeling went away.
I haven’t had a cigarette since I was 24. I rarely drink alcohol. I don’t use recreational drugs. I don’t spend hours numbing out in front of the tv or go shopping instead of thinking about uncomfortable things. I don’t eat to feel safe and comforted. I don’t keep my needs and opinions to myself. I don’t do any of the things I used to do to avoid feeling my emotions. The things shame taught me to do.
Oh, don’t get me wrong. I still have shame. I think we all do. Maybe sometimes we don’t recognize it, or maybe some of us have more of it than others. It’s sneaky. Like a chameleon. You never see it coming. Just when you think you’ve purged it all from your soul, it manifests in unrecognizable ways. Like, why am I crying about my credit score? Or, I wonder if that guy stopped calling me because he discovered my blog?
Old habits. I’ve learned the reason I keep playing out the same pattern in my relationships is because there’s this “false narrative” running in my brain. Leftover from my childhood. A bunch of crap that’s been brainwashing me my entire life. When you grow up being taught to feel this way, you have no idea it’s false. It’s all you know. You hear that voice in your head from day one. You think you ARE the voice. But you’re not. It’s just a narrative your brain came up with. I’m slowly learning that this voice in my head is just that…a voice. It’s not me. It does not define me. I’m in the process of teaching myself how to mindfully listen to what it has to say, and then make my own decision. Well, I do this when I remember.
Of course, that stupid voice does control me most of the time. I can’t help it. If I’m not actively focusing on not listening to it, I just default and do what it says. My current problem with what it has me just “instinctively” doing is forcing connections where there are none. Well, that’s not true. It’s more like trying to reconnect after the connection has been lost. Yes, that’s better. Though, if you ask some of the people on the receiving end, they might think “forcing” is the perfect word. Oh, there’s that chameleon again.
I love fiercely. I’ve been told it’s intense. I cherish my emotional connections and I work extremely hard to reconnect when I’ve lost someone I love. I suppose this comes from growing up associating love with having to earn it. From being taught that fierce love like mine will never belong to me. A lifetime of chasing love and validation from those who were expected to give it to me and just weren’t able to. I tend to love people who are just like that…unable to give it to me. Well, that’s not true either. I tend to love people who give it to me briefly, and then spend an eternity trying to get it back. And I have spent a lifetime doing this and beating myself up for it. Feeling ashamed and unlovable. Silly, when you think about it. I choose these incapable, emotionally unavailable people and then feel ashamed because they can’t love me. Of course they can’t love me. They can’t love anyone. Even when I thought they loved me, it wasn’t real. And as soon as I figured out how to shine my light, they left. Sometimes, the light shines on things no one wants to see. If only they knew that the way to the light is THROUGH those places you don’t want to see. They say you can only love someone as much as you love yourself. Maybe all this fierce “love” I’ve been giving people really isn’t love at all. Maybe I confuse it for something else…like anxiety. Well, that’s not really true. It used to be true, but it’s not anymore. My love feels differently now, now that I have the light in me. I do love myself. I do think I’m worthy of great, fierce love. I do not think I should have to earn it. Or change my ways to deserve it. Or lower my standards or needs or wants or desires. I know this. The right love will fit perfectly. Like my boys. Their love fits perfectly with mine. That is where I am setting the bar. Mutual fierceness only.
But, old habits die hard. I still get caught up in the idea that if I just love them enough, the light will draw them back, and help them heal and not be the human equivalent of cigarettes to me. Kind of a dreamer attitude. And highly unlikely. The people who truly love me think I’m crazy for not walking away from those who have hurt me. Maybe they are right. Codependency at it’s best, but at least I’m aware of it. And honestly, I like the idea of forgiveness and unconditional love and shining my light for them. I like having hope. I like the idea of everyone deserving love. Everyone. So, I keep trying. I can’t seem to quit it just yet. Cravings are no joke, remember? Eventually, I think I will miss them less and less, until the feelings just go away.
And shame? Fuck shame. It can only live in silence and secrecy. It can not survive if you identify it and talk about it. Put it on a blog and it disappears. You should try it.
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My inner critic is a bitch. She’s strong. And she’s smart. She knows exactly how to play the game, waiting for just the right time to open her mouth. Right when I’m feeling I’m about to do something good or have something amazing happen to me. “Hold on a minute, Jami…who do you think you are?”
This inner critic has run the show for the better part of my 47 years. I didn’t even realize she existed until recently. I always thought she was just me. That’s how good she is.
I’m sure you all know what I’m talking about. We all have one. That voice of self-doubt, shame, uncertainty, negativity…it’s like a chameleon, able to change it’s tactics on a whim and keep you wondering. So smart.
But I’m smart, too. And if I’m going to be brutally honest here, I can be a pretty spectacular bitch, or so I’ve been told. I’m on to her now. Yes, it might take me a few days, but I’ve learned her tricks, and all of the stealthy ways she camouflages herself. And I shut her down. Because really, all she is composed of is fear. Fear, along with old coping mechanisms and faulty childhood wiring. Turns out, her strength was fed by my ignorance. Now that I know who she is and what she’s made of, and I know who I am and what I’m made of, she’s not so strong anymore…but I am. My strength feeds off her weakness.
Excellent plot twist.
This post was written in response to Linda G. Hill’s Stream of Social Consciousness Saturday
