When it’s easier to hide, I step into the light. Bravely.
Pain can be comfortable, if it’s familiar. One can spend an entire lifetime choosing to live in pain, in that dark and familiar place, thinking they are avoiding it. Going about life, unconsciously playing whichever role has been assigned. Perpetuating cycles built on faulty programming, sleep-walking in a constant state of survival mode. We stay in this unconscious state because of fear. Fear truly is powerful enough to keep a soul from living. Waking up is hard work. Choosing to stay awake is brave. They say brave is the new beautiful, you know.
I stay awake by stepping right into the uncomfortable parts of fear. Head on, and scared like hell. Like jumping out of an airplane for the first time. Reprogramming faulty thought patterns, developing new coping skills, trusting myself, finding my voice, speaking my truth… even if my voice shakes. Falling down, getting hurt and picking myself up. I will not sleepwalk again. I will forever choose to step back into the arena, battle scars and all…and I will do so, bravely.
This post was written in response to Linda G. Hill’s Stream of Social Consciousness Saturday. Check out the link below.
Late night ride home from the city last night after a concert. It was 1am, and my friend and I were pleasantly exhausted after a great show. We easily kept each other awake talking about life. We are both 40-something single moms and the conversation inevitably turned to dating…no easy thing to do living on a peninsula, but makes for a great time-killing topic.
One of us asked the other about love. Something along the lines of “did you love him?” or “did he love you?” At first, we approached it as a simple yes or no answer, but soon discovered there’s a bit more to it. As I pondered the thought of “love”, I flatly stated, “I don’t think I know what love feels like”. I’ve read that the butterfly in the stomach, excited “chemistry” feeling I’ve often had at the start of relationships wasn’t the love that I assumed it was. It was really anxiety, a triggered attachment response, as I tended to choose men who were emotionally unavailable, and the chaos and instability/insecurity of the whole situation resulted in those triggered anxious attachment feelings. My deep rooted abandonment from my childhood spilled into every relationship I’ve had as an adult. I developed a pattern of clinging to people who were incapable of staying. I acknowledged that I probably wouldn’t know what love felt like, even if I had the real thing. My girlfriend told of a conversation she recently had where she asked a man about past love, and he replied, “love is just a word”. Love is just a word? I wondered what that meant, for a minute…and then it came to me. What if, instead of identifying love as a feeling, we talk about what love looks like? What actions demonstrate love?That made it easy…
To me, love looks like him going out of his way to do something for me, happily. It’s knowing I can count on him, without feeling like a burden. Love is him texting me, just to tell me he’s thinking of me, or to tell me something funny that he just thought of. It’s him pausing in the parking lot, telling me I’m beautiful. Love is me setting boundaries, and him respecting them. And love is him setting boundaries, just the same. Love looks like us making each other laugh, and laughing at ourselves. It’s a grateful caress. I think love looks like me lifting him up when he’s sinking in things I don’t understand…and him letting me. Or maybe I just sit there with him in that dark place, allowing him to sink for a bit, but with me by his side, so it’s not so isolating. It’s being comfortable enough to not hold back from each other to avoid being judged. Love is being able to share our emotions without fear of retribution or abandonment. Love is wanting to know how things are going with each other’s families, jobs, friends…love is asking questions and being inquisitive. Love is relaxed, and love is work…but not one sided work. Mutual work. It’s relaxed because we both have self love, because really…you can’t love someone else if you don’t carry it for the self. Love is being vulnerable, authentic and patient. It’s having realistic expectations. It’s the ability to argue, talk through things and make up. It’s knowing each other’s triggers and being willing to postpone a debate until those triggers are calm, and not taking it personally when our demons make us a bit unlovable. Love is equal, but not keeping score, and a willingness to learn from each other, instead of proving yourself right. Love is investing in each other. Love makes us a priority. Love is trust.
Wow, this reads as a list of affirmations. Love affirmations. It’s funny, because I’m still not sure that this is what love is, as I have yet to experience any of the things on this list, other than self love. For all I know, this is a fairy tale. That’s OK. I always likened my life to Cinderella…minus going to the ball. As unrealistic as fairy tales are, if you are already living a bad one, then it’s justifiable to hold out for that better ending. Even if that better ending is by myself.
This post was written in response to Linda G Hill’s Stream of Social Consciousness Saturday
My friend, Linda G. Hill, runs a writing group here on WordPress. She actually has a few of them, but I take part in her Stream of Social Consciousness Saturday one. She gives us a word or phrase as a prompt, and we organically write about it. No edits allowed, other than fixing typos. It’s a pretty neat idea, and often interesting to see what comes out. Often, it’s not what you intend when you start the essay. I started writing in this blog as part of my healing process, though lately it seems I only write because I receive her prompt. Time gets away from me, and I’m grateful to have Linda gently kicking me in the butt, keeping me writing. I think sometimes I’m so busy being a mom and a nurse and wearing all the other hats I wear, that I forget that I’m a writer. Thankfully, she reminds me.
I’ve never met her, and only know her from her blog, so we’ll see how this comes out. I wrote a similar post a few weeks ago ( I am ) which was inspired by one of her own posts. I thought it might be neat to see what she is to me. This week’s prompt is “ask someone else”, meaning to ask someone else for the prompt. As she is tending to her sick child, I suggested she take that prompt and use it in her real life, asking someone else to manage the blogging world for a bit. One can only juggle so much, Linda. So, I’m taking it upon myself to write this week’s post for you, in case you find yourself with too much going on…
Who is Linda?
Linda is a writer.
Linda is a mom.
Linda is a woman.
Linda is a natural writer. She has a gift, and it flows freely. Read any one of her published books and you’ll feel her humor, her wit…her intelligence. Though it’s not difficult for her to write, she does put hard effort into getting it done, so the world can read it. Even with an ill child, she makes sure she takes care of her followers. Linda pursues big dreams, and that stirs something in me. I know I’m not the only one on here who looks up to her, who sees her as a mentor. Her passion for writing inspires me.
Linda is a mom. The kind of mom everyone should have. The kind who has to work harder than the other moms, just due to the hand she was dealt in life. We know all moms work hard, are loving and kind… but when medical concerns overshadow all the normal parts of child rearing, child rearing no longer becomes “normal”. It requires a badass mom. Luckily for her kids, that is exactly what they have. She finds strength when she’s not feeling strong. She finds patience when she’s seemingly at the end of her rope. I know this because she shares some of it with the world. I’m sure not all of it, but I get to glimpse enough to know. No matter how trying it can be, she somehow carries on, with a sense of humor and grace. Sometimes, after I read about one of her typical days, I exhale, and just want to hug her. I’ll bet some of you do, too.
Linda is a woman. A hilarious woman (I’ve seen the way her brain works in SOCS… sometimes, it’s more of a twisted hilariousness…). A woman who is not afraid to take chances and believe in herself, and others. A woman who is generous, compassionate and sharing…particularly to the hundreds of bloggers she’s never even met. Quick to offer advice, support, validation. Linda is authentic and vulnerable and brave. She reminds me if that quote, “she turned her can’ts into cans and her dreams into plans”.
I think my soul got a little tired these past few weeks. Initially, I thought maybe I was just giving up. It frustrated me, because there didn’t seem to be any specific reason why. I mean, no other reason than the obvious ones, which have been there all along. Nothing was different, except for me. It’s been a long time since I’ve cried every single day.
I likened it to an ant. I’ve heard an ant can carry like a thousand times it’s own body weight. Amazing strength, right? But I wonder, how long can they carry it for? I imagine if they carry the weight of the world for too long, eventually their legs buckle and it just crushes them. Or maybe they just lie down under it all, surrendering. After awhile, that weight just becomes painful. Or even excruciating.
I guess it makes sense. They say for a seed to achieve it’s greatest expression, it must come completely undone. The shell cracks, it’s insides come out and everything changes. To someone who doesn’t understand growth, it would look like complete destruction.
I’ve been known to have my best experiences of personal growth after periods of intense pain. I know this, so I allow myself to sit in the swamp during these times, as I have faith that I will find my way out. I always do.
I haven’t cried in two days. I can feel the change. The light is coming back. I’m looking forward to seeing which version of me emerges. Before you know it, I’ll be hanging by the sea with my tin cup chalice…content.
Don’t you wish life came with manuals? I mean, your car, your refrigerator and your television come with one. Why don’t life challenges have them?
I think when we are 12, we should be handed one about how to survive middle school. Those years can be pretty tough. Wouldn’t it have been helpful to read the section about how to handle being bullied? Or even more importantly, for the BULLY to read about how to not be a jerk. I would have benefited from both. Or, at the very least, “how to eat at the lunch table alone without feeling like a total loser”.
When we apply for a marriage license, they shouldn’t issue it without having us read the manual on communication, respect, sharing household chores, dealing with a snoring spouse, how to discuss finances, equally sharing child rearing duties…I bet some of us might decide against tying the knot if we really knew what we were in for.
There should be a manual for aging. No one ever tells you what to really expect once you get old. I suppose if they did fill you in on congestive heart failure, dementia and diabetic foot wounds, you’d spend the prime years of your life worrying about what’s ahead. How can you enjoy your youth when you know you won’t be able to afford home health care and will likely need to live in a facility? Maybe ignorance is bliss, sometimes.
I met a man this summer dealing with the shock of his teenage daughter’s sexual assault. I spent an evening helping him navigate through the roller coaster of emotions which is the result of this kind of trauma. He shared a conversation he had with her, where he was raising his voice, asking why she hadn’t fought back, or yelled or did something to stop it. He reminded her how he told her she shouldn’t be hanging around with older boys. In the same breath, he told me how he couldn’t understand why she now thinks he doesn’t want her living with him. I shook my head. “Your daughter is already beating herself up for these same exact things. Having her dad tell her she’s right is only adding to her shame”. I went on to tell him my own, very similar story, and the ramifications of having family members just not know how to respond. He looked at me, deflated, and said “I feel awful. I just didn’t know”. I responded, “Of course you didn’t know.Whywould you? There’s no manual on this subject”. We sat in silence for a bit, just sort of absorbing the gravity of it all. I remember sitting in the passenger seat of his truck, looking at him as he gripped that steering wheel so tightly. I was the adult version of his daughter, and he was the younger version of my dad. God, I wonder how differently things might have turned out for me if this conversation took place in my own life. I thought to myself, “There should be a manual”.
There should be a manual.
Stay tuned…
This post was written in response to Linda G Hill’s Stream of Social Consciousness Saturday
I read a blog post last week, a little list about the roles we play in life, and it’s been stuck in my mind ever since. It’s caused me to repeatedly ask myself, “Who am I?”. It’s quite a list…some easier to digest than others. Am I brave enough to write ALL of them?
Inspired by Linda G. Hill…
I am a mother.
I am a nurse.
I am a healer.
I am a writer.
I am a woman.
I am a mother. A single mother. A mother who grew up believing she would never be blessed with children, simply because it wasn’t her lot in life…almost like she knew she didn’t deserve them. A mother who would do anything in the world to not have her children feel like she did growing up, determined for them to not ever feel a lack of love. A mother who almost messed all of it up by not figuring out where she was broken and where she needed to heal. Don’t worry, she figured it out. And they feel loved. So very loved.
I am a nurse. A nurse who has her codependency needs satisfied by having people need her. A nurse who prefers caring for the marginalized and least tempting patients. A nurse who believes everyone is worthy…everyone. A nurse who almost seems to be working out her penance in life by servicing others, as if she just might redeem herself through these acts. Maybe she will.
I am a healer, yet I am broken. I believe those who are broken never truly heal to the perfect version of what they would have been, they heal enough to become who they are now supposed to be. Like that story of the ancient Japanese custom to add gold to the glue when fixing broken dishes. Seeing the gold along the cracks celebrates the beauty of the brokenness. Perfectly flawed. Healing never ends. I am healing myself every day. Some days I can’t see it at all, like I’m sliding backwards and there’s not enough strength to get back to where I was. Then I wonder if I really ever made any progress at all. But then, I learn that sliding backwards is part of the learning process, and if I’m lucky enough, I notice this and it works. If I’m not, I keep climbing then sliding then climbing then sliding, as many times as it takes me to notice why it’s happening. Then I stop sliding. I am a healer because I share my brokenness with the world. I share my climb. I share the sliding. Every once in a while, someone connects with my struggles, and they use it as a helping hand to start their own climb. Every once in a while.
I am a writer. Fiction is impossible. Authenticity is my niche. I uncovered the story which was buried in my soul and I release it by using the written word. Sharing my story is how the climb is possible, and I will not ever stop.
I am a woman. I am a child and a crone. A daughter, a sister, an aunt, a mother, a cousin, a friend. A woman who carries her inner child along with the burdens which come with her. A woman who has been violated, unloved, abandoned, abused, scapegoated, outcast…shunned. A woman who can feel alone while surrounded by a hundred friends. A woman who can feel unloved while immersed in it. A woman who cries, often. A woman who craves intimacy yet never quite allows it in. A woman who still feels broken, in places. I am also a woman who has started to heal her inner child. A woman who has turned into a warrior, overcoming the shadows of her past, shedding the heavy weight of shame and insecurity, and replacing them with vulnerability and authenticity. A woman who has slowly learned that she is outcast and shunned because of the brokenness of others, not hers. A woman who has gratitude for so many authentic friends who choose her. They choose her. A woman who rejoices in her tears, as she knows emotions were meant to be felt, experienced… and then released. Not stuffed. Life is sad, and being violated, unloved, abandoned, abused, scapegoated, outcast and shunned are cry-worthy things. There is no shame in feeling sad about these things. A woman who is slowly understanding why she craves intimacy, and how no man will ever fill that void until she fills it herself. How abandonment issues run into every facet of her life, and no one can make her feel worthy, except for herself. I am a woman who has realized that love should never be painful, or have to be earned or worked for. There should not be conditions or one-sided sacrifices. I am a woman who is so very slowly learning to not take it personally when people don’t love her. Some climbs take longer than others.
I am vulnerable, authentic, full of love and light. I am a woman who is strong in the broken places. I am perfectly flawed. My cracks are filled with gold.
I was 44 when I first identified the role I’d been playing my entire life. Or, that I even realized I was playing a role. We all are. You know this, right? The role you are assigned depends on so many variables outside of your control. The country you live in, the schools you attend, the religion you practice, your gender, the television you watch…all contribute to determining what your role is. Right down to the family you are born in to… it all conditions you to play the role you are assigned. It starts from day one, so you don’t even realize it’s not your decision. It just is.
I think my role was mostly determined by the family I was raised in. And my gender. The role was of a quiet, submissive, obedient “seen and not heard” good girl. It’s a pretty easy role to play. All I had to do was keep my mouth shut for most of my days and I was all set. No questioning anything, no arguing…just keep quiet, don’t make waves and all will be well. If someone tells you to do something, you do it. Simple. That’s all I knew. Not to brag, but I was pretty damn good at it. I mean, even through abandonment, emotional neglect, abuse…I stuck to that role, dammit! I wasn’t happy, I struggled, and I certainly didn’t feel like a “good girl”…but I played that role. I think the struggle was because all of those things happened to me, and made me realize I was actually a bad girl. Playing the role became even more important. Maybe it would keep people from finding out just how bad I really was.
I became an adult, moved out and continued to struggle. BUT, when you can play the role like I can, no one really sees it. Not even me. I repeated cycles of bad relationships, tolerating bad behavior, never believing in myself, because hey…what else was there? Nothing I had ever known. When my husband eventually found out, he told me I should win the Academy Award. I’m THAT good!!!
At least I was good at something.
Fast forward to age 44: I went to therapy. Hallelujah! I peeled off a few layers and realized I had been typecast in a very bad, bad role. I kept playing the same shitty character in the same shitty movie, over and over and over again. The movie was so shitty, no one ever watched it. It went straight to Blue Ray. The plot was kind of like Cinderella…minus her getting to go to the ball. Can you imagine Cinderella ending with her just staying at home, being bullied and unloved? Who wants to watch a movie with a horrible plot that never ends? Not me. Not any longer, at least. I couldn’t even remember my lines anymore.
Brene Brown says vulnerability is the birthplace of courage. She didn’t study shame and vulnerability for 20 years for nothing, you know. So, here’s what I did: I dove into the vulnerability swamp, which was full of my shame, of all that “badness”, and I became brave for the very first time in my life. That’s right…I stepped out of that role.
I just…stepped…out.
The thing about stepping out of character in a movie is, the directors get PISSED. It throws off the entire equilibrium of the set. No one knows what to do when the actor ad libs. It becomes awkward and uncomfortable and all the directors want to do is get the actor back in that role so no one can see they aren’t in control of their film. Except it’s not their film. It’s life. And they can’t control my life any more than I can control theirs. And seriously, no one gives a SHIT about this shitty movie…no one is even WATCHING!
I’ll give you one guess as to what happened next. Yep. I got kicked off the set. Was told I’d never work in town again. My new role was an exaggerated version of my childhood role… scapegoat. All of the production problems were now being blamed on me. Even the ones that had nothing to do with me. I guess it’s just easier that way. Kinda stinks, because I loved that crew. It was like the Truman show…been with some of them since day one. Don’t get me wrong, there’s not enough fame or money in the world to get me to play that sad character again. It makes me sad that they won’t let me play a different role, one that’s more suited for me. I don’t need to play a princess that gets to go to the ball and meet her Prince Charming. I’d settle for them just letting me be the authentic me, and loving me anyway. Not sure they know what that means, though.
(This updated scapegoat role sucks. If you’re not careful, it might drive you crazy. Or literally crack your heart into pieces)
Anyway, life is not a fairy tale. So I’m moving on, trying to manage my own production company. It’s not too complicated. There’s only one actor to manage. And no script. However, the entire world is my audience…
This post was written in response to Linda G. Hill’s Stream of Social Consciousness Saturday
Linda’s prompt this week is “point”, except we aren’t using the word “point”…we are opening a random book and randomly pointing a finger on a random word, and then writing randomly about the random word. So random.
Anyhoo, I’m doing this live…so hold on a sec while I go pick out a book…
OK, I’m back. I chose Marianne Williamson’s “A Return to Love”. My finger randomly landed on the word “cosmically”. Well, that’s a tough one, I think. Let me put the entire sentence out here for context. “When we outgrow our immature preoccupation with the small self, we transcend our selfishness and become cosmically mature”. Oh, that’s better. This is actually an interesting sentence for me to randomly land upon, although I am quite aware that nothing on this Earth occurs at random. Let me tell you why…
I did not have a lot of friends growing up. We all know the story, and if you don’t, then feel free to browse my posts and catch up. Anyway, I have since evolved, matured and stopped my “preoccupation with the small self”. Through the power of Facebook, I have since become acquainted with some former classmates I never had the joy of knowing back then. None of it is random at all. I just sent one of these pure energy souls a lovely little Jeff Brown snippet to a few days ago.
“The soul has a no-return policy. Once we cross a certain point in our expansion, we can’t go back. As we honor our calling, we grant it more space inside of us. Light begets light–at a certain point, there is no way to escape the inner beacon. Our calling begins to soak every aspect of our lives, whatever the cost or inconvenience. We can not live without our call because our call has become us”.
Marianne goes on to describe “childishness” as “when we’re so preoccupied with things that ultimately don’t matter, that we lose our essential connection with things that do”. Yes, Marianne…yes. I find myself shedding my childishness, over and over and over again. Just when I think I’ve matured, I find yet another thing I’ve worried about that really just does not matter. I’m working hard at focusing on what’s important, letting go of expectations and control, and letting things simply “be”. Am I successful? Sometimes.
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I was recently told by someone that I “confuse love for other things”. At first, I almost became defensive, but that feeling passed quickly. If I’ve learned anything these past few years, it’s to not take anything personally…and that anything is possible, even learning something new about myself. I do it all the time, yet sometimes, I feel like I don’t know me at all.
I supposed I’ve known for some time now that I confuse love for other things. I think the struggle lately has been to figure out what those “other things” are. I’ve read enough about what they are to have an idea, but to apply it in real life, well, that’s tricky. But hey, I am on a journey to self-discovery, so this stuff takes time.
I’ve become a firm believer of the philosophy that if you just quiet your soul a bit and be still…observe…what you seek will find you. God, it’s SO much easier when what you seek finds you, rather than chasing that shit all over the place. My soul is exhausted. I’ve been searching for love everywhere. We all know this. I started searching last year, which is funny, because before that, I was ECSTATIC about the thought of spending my life alone, never to see man-parts again! I had broken free from my shackles of shitty life circumstances and I was free, baby! Bye Felicia! Quite unstoppable, actually. Remember how I fixed my washing machine? How about when I changed the freaking motherboard on my refrigerator? Hell yeah! I was a strong, independent woman who didn’t need no man…till I met one. That’s all it took, was meeting one single random man who stirred something in me when I was least expecting it. Next thing you know, I’m spending my days waiting for a text. What the hell happened there?
As Elaine Benis says, “yada, yada, yada….” and our relationship ended as quickly as it began. Typical, really. This is how it’s been my entire life. Me falling hard for someone who is unlikely to fall for me. I never did it intentionally. I just thought I had shitty luck in love. You know, one of those girls who only wants what she can’t have. The nice guys, who would’ve treated me like gold, worshiped me and put me on a pedestal, well…they stirred nothing within me. Pure Vanilla. Don’t get me wrong, I wanted those things. (I still do) I just only seemed to feel chemistry with guys who never seemed to be able to love me (I still do)…but dammit, I tried. I tried hard (I still do), because that chemistry, well…you can’t control that shit, you know? They say the heart wants what the heart wants.
Now that I’ve done more and more (and more!) work on myself, I’ve learned about attachment types and triggered responses and such, and it’s helped me a LOT. It’s helped me learn how my free-flowing communication and intimacy triggers that kind of guy’s anxiety and avoidance behavior, and how his avoidance behavior triggers MY anxiety. I don’t blame anyone anymore. It’s not his fault he’s not where I am. It just is what it is. I’ve also learned that a man’s inability to love me or be emotionally intimate with me is not a reflection of who I am. I know this, I truly do. I know this shit inside and out. It has helped me intellectually accept why things never seem to work out for me. Intellectually, I say.
Here’s the thing: I am confident of my lovability. Is that a word? It is now. I am also confident that I bring joy into peoples lives, because I’m all amazing and shit. Seriously, get to know me and you’ll see. I wore a full faced Kim Jong Un sweatshirt to an ugly Christmas sweater party with plastic tiny Trump hands. I AM a good time, dammit! I know this. I believe this. I am extremely secure in this. It wasn’t always this way, but it is now, and that’s all that counts. Herein lies the struggle: how to turn of that “chemistry” with the wrong people and turn it on with the right people. Seemingly impossible! All year, I’ve been working on how to let go of the unwilling and let in the willing, and God, it is NOT as easy as it sounds. And I’m not just talking potential romantic interests. This also includes the men in my family (the root of most of my dysfunction, but that’s a story for another day). Funny how spot on they are when they relate how you choose men to how your family relationships are. So damn funny. Effin riot.
So, on my journey to self-discovery, I came across this tidbit the other day. You can read it here...
“People of the emotionally unavailable species are always seemingly impossible to quit because of their ‘unpredictability’, which we mistake for ‘chemistry’ or ‘true love'”.
Oh. I see…
“These are the mysterious, ambiguous guys that will always keep you guessing and keep you ‘on your toes’ (aka in a perpetual state of mixed signals, mind fucking and the questioning-everything-kind-of-insecurity, insanity, WTF-is-wrong-with-me-I-must-be-going-crazy, miserable existence that you’d rather be in and try to ‘fix’ than be out and alone”
Interesting…
“You know you can’t fully have all of him, and there lies the ‘chemistry’. Emotionally unavailable guys are so luring because even when you ‘have’ them, it never really feels like you do. It gets all your validation seeking antennae all amped up because you’re addicted to this perpetual cycle of tying your worth to trying to turn the reluctant project into an emotionally reformed, responsible guy that’s capable of an authentic connection”.
Bingo! And there we have it, folks. Of course I confuse love with other things. Of course I do. This perpetual cycle started when I was 9 years old with the man I loved the most and it hasn’t stopped. Each man I encounter with his energy keeps it going. Even when I have him, it never really feels like I do. Yes. This is it. This is how I have always felt. Always. I have no idea what love is. I only know how to chase love. And I certainly know enough to not trust love. That shit can be yanked away at any time, with no warning. Hence, the chase. It doesn’t matter who. I gotta be on my toes…
I only know how to chase love.
I confuse love with trying to make the unavailable available. It’s all I know.
Scratch that. It’s all I knew. Just wait.
I’m still unstoppable.
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