Can you remember how old you were when you started putting things in the box?
I was nine. My parents divorced and I put the uncomfortable feelings of rejection and fear and insecurity in the box. I held on to the shame, though. It’s too bad you can’t control which ones you stuff and which ones you allow to permeate through your entire sense of self.
And no, I had no words, at the age of nine,to describe what I just wrote. I had no idea the box existed. Or the emotions. I just knew I felt horrible. Bad. That’s how the box works. No one ever taught me otherwise. There’s no manual for the box.
I stuffed some more in there when I was thirteen. Similar emotions to the ones from four years earlier. I used to say thirteen’s trauma was way worse than nine’s, but it doesn’t really matter. That box weighs the same, no matter what you put in it. No point in comparing stories. A heavy box is a heavy box.
I tossed a towel over the box so it wouldn’t be staring me in the face. Stuffed it deep into my soul and kept myself busy with other things so I wouldn’t notice it. I always knew it was there, but if I made my life busy enough, or hazy enough, I could forget it was right inside me, even if for a little bit. You don’t notice things so much if you’re numb.
I wasn’t even aware I was putting things in there. Only in hindsight can I tell you about this. That’s just how it goes. I don’t make the rules. No manual, remember? It just is what it is.
It’s no different than putting a box in the corner of your living room and leaving it there for a few decades. Eventually, you become so used to it being there, you don’t even notice it anymore. It becomes a normalized part of the scenery.
Until something happens, like maybe you rearrange your furniture. Then, it sticks out like a sore thumb, and you say, “That ugly box has been sitting there forever; I’m getting rid of it.” If only it were that easy with the soul box.
I rearranged my life a few years ago, and boy, did I suddenly notice the box. I couldn’t believe I’d normalized the weight of that thing for almost my entire life. I had become so used to it, I almost forgot what was in it. No wonder I was so tired. Lugging that thing around, letting it determine my life.
I had to rip it to get it open. I clawed it open till my fingers bled while walking through a firestorm. No, not really. That’s just an analogy for the pain one feels when opening the soul box. Everything I had stuffed in there oozed out, like a can of crescent rolls. Can’t fit that stuff back in there once you open it. It was everywhere. Messy.
I let the contents go. Sounds so simple. It’s not. But it is. It’s both.
I’m so light now, I can fly. Soar, really.
Sometimes, I catch myself tucking something in there again. I think it’s human nature. The key is to be aware it exists. Know we all have the box, and it’s OK that we want to put things in there. Learn how to walk inside there and learn how to get out. Be comfortable with the mess, so you aren’t afraid to clean it out. And instead of normalizing the weight of it all, we need to learn how to normalize the lightness of an empty box. Normalize the release of emotions. Experience them, and let them go instead of ignoring them and stuffing them down. Society needs to stop normalizing the stuffing of the soul box.
Wait, did I just write the manual?
This post was written in response to Linda G. Hill’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday
I’m one of those people who goes on vacation and doesn’t unpack their suitcase until the next trip. Or, until something essential is needed from the bag. I still haven’t unpacked two of my beach bags from last summer. At this point, we are getting close enough to the next summer, so why bother? Is it laziness? Maybe. Or maybe it’s efficiency. Maybe I’m just prioritizing. Some unpacking is more important than others. Like unpacking parts of my life that don’t belong with me anymore.
Have you ever unpacked your soul? I have. I didn’t realize how much baggage a person could hold on to throughout a lifetime, until I started unpacking. Emotions, resentments, unhealed childhood wounds, negative thought patterns, toxic relationships (friends OR family who just can’t seem to lift you up)…the list goes on and on. The soul is a hell of a big suitcase.
Unpacking your soul isn’t for the weak. You are so accustomed to the weight of it all, the heaviness becomes normalized. It’s difficult to let go, even when you can clearly see that what you’re holding on to, isn’t yours to hold. Prying your fingers open after a lifetime of gripping is painful, like they are breaking, so most of us change our minds and keep holding on, because carrying the weight around is a familiar pain that we are used to. Who wants to feel like they are breaking, just to let something go? Trust me…YOU do! I’ll tell ya… once you make the break, the lightness of it all is heavenly. Heavenly.
I’ve been writing in this blog for over three years now. Processing. Growing. Healing. Taking two steps forward, one step back. Sometimes, a dozen steps back. Or sideways. I’ve been working out my “stuff” in here. Trying to figure it out. Trying to rewire. Trying to learn how to let go, let be. Sometimes, just trying without knowing what I was trying for, but doing it anyway. Sometimes, giving up. But always starting again.
I haven’t “had” to write in here too much lately. Do you know why? Because, I did it.
I figured it out.
The lightness of it all is most definitely heavenly. I’ve unpacked almost all of it. I’m not sure we are ever truly “done” with the unpacking… the healing. I don’t even think that’s the end goal, after all. I think our purpose for being here is to understand that the goal is to simply be aware enough to know what needs unpacking. Then, being brave enough to try.
I’ve unpacked a lot, and even though I’m not completely empty of it all, I’ve unpacked “enough.” Enough to allow peace into my life. To allow happiness into my life. To allow LOVE into my life. This is more than enough. My soul is smiling now. I am light.
Do you feel heavy, in places? Is your soul smiling? What do YOU need to unpack?
This post was written in response to Linda G Hill’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday. It’s funny, because I just recently realized I’ve been calling it Stream of “Social” Consciousness Saturday for years now. I suppose that’s fitting for most of what I write.
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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Linda asked us to write about our favorite word today. That’s a tough one, as there’s just SO many good ones out there. I suppose it all depends on my mood. Lately though, I’ve been enjoying the meaning of this certain word quite a bit. Vulnerability. I know, at first glance it reads like a bad word. Like describing someone who isn’t safe, or scared, maybe. It’s uncomfortable. I suppose that’s kind of true. When you are vulnerable, you are at risk. Sometimes, you get hurt. Or sad. Or scared. But those things are exactly what I like about vulnerability. I purposefully place myself in the position of being vulnerable as often as I can. It’s where I’m real. No walls up, no defensive coping mechanisms, no pretending. Just raw, honest, real…me.
When you step into the uncomfortable arena of vulnerability, it’s like being a seed which has been buried for weeks, germinating in the cold dirt, and finally the shell cracks open. It feels like total destruction, but really…that is the moment when you begin to grow. It really is quite beautiful to experience.
I’ve been published again. I’m in this month’s issue of Nursing 2018. This is my second article published in a nursing journal, but this one doesn’t seem to be getting quite the accolades from my friends as the first one. This one shines a light on uneasiness and vulnerability and shame…and that’s exactly what I love about it…
So far, I’m okay. It’s been over a year and a half since I told them about all the things that happened to me when I was a kid, and subsequently, an adult. Most difficult words I ever had to say. I knew the risk I was taking when I made that decision. But really, it wasn’t a decision. God lays out a plan for you and you can fight it or follow it. I spent most of my life ignoring it, and then I started fighting it for a bit, and finally I woke up, and eventually started following it. His plan was for me to tell my story, no matter what the outcome. I knew this in my soul to be true. I was warned by others that the outcome could be horrible… that I could potentially lose them. I was afraid of that scenario for sure. I love my family intensely. Losing them was not something I wanted to face. Still, I told.
Turns out, that outcome is exactly what happened. I’ll save the details of why for another day…they’re your typical dynamics of a co-dependent family combined with common responses to people reporting abuse. It’s funny, because at first, they were all so shocked at what I had to say, that I actually received genuine caring responses from them. For a week or so, I thought my decision to tell was actually bringing us all closer…what a great surprise! But, as all families like mine do, they quickly realized they did not have the capability to deal with it, and went back to easier ways of denial, avoidance, gas lighting, lying, shaming…you name it. Whatever it took to make the family “function” again, in it’s co-dependant dysfunctional way. I became the scapegoat. Let me tell you, that is the worst role in this type of family. Trust me. When this happened, I had a hard time. Hell, I still do. But it’s getting easier each day. The more I learn about how textbook we are, the less I cry. Knowledge is power. I actually feel sorry for them, most of the time. I’m not angry any more. I do still wish for things, though I know they are useless wishes. The fairy tale I’ve been dreaming of my entire life, I know in my head, and mostly in my heart, that it’s not reality. I’m actually finding that I’m starting to outgrow my family a bit. I miss them, but when I imagine seeing them, with them still stuck in this dynamic, it feels dark, and it doesn’t feel good. Still, I wish…and so far, I’m still okay.
This free-flowing, organic post was in response to Linda G Hill’s Stream of Social Consciousness Saturday
“I’m fine”. Wow. Crazy how those two words can mean such different things, depending on where you’re at in life. “Hey, your mom and I are getting divorced, and she’s moving across the country…OK?” “I’m fine”, replied the little 9-year-old girl. Except she wasn’t fine. She wasn’t sure what she was, but it definitely was not “fine”. She just said that because she knew it was the expected answer. She knew better than to say otherwise. She knew her role, without even being instructed, or handed a script. Her role was to be “fine”, and I’ll be damned if she didn’t play that role with perfection. She rarely even had to say the words…as long as she acted fine, that was all that counted. Acting fine kind of comes easy, after a while. Even when things couldn’t be more opposite of “fine”. She acted just fine during that period of time when that hormone fueled teenager effectively ended her childhood. No one had a clue. She acted just fine when she was treated like Cinderella…that is, Cinderella before the ball. You know, when she was the despised step-child and made to do all the work and was unloved, while the golden children lived a life of adoration? Yeah, that Cinderella. She acted just fine when no one blinked an eye at her being that Cinderella step-child. Just fine. Not one person blinked a damn eye. I suppose she acted that way because it’s all she knew. If it’s just fine to everyone else, then it must be just fine, right?
She played that role right through high school and into adulthood. Boys and men doing things…it’s just fine, right? I mean, it was just fine when she was a kid, so…
She played it to Golden Globe status as an adult. She was sleep walking by this time. Just sleep walking through life, through that script written out for her. No improv. All script. At this point, it wasn’t even her anymore. Just some typecast actress, playing the same old role, over and over and over, until one day…she woke up. When you wake up while sleep walking, it can be pretty jarring. You most definitely are NOT fine. Everything you thought was real turns out to not be real, and you realize there’s some real shit in your life you pretended didn’t exist. Or you didn’t understand, because you were never taught to think otherwise. She absolutely became not fine. She started to speak about how not fine she really was, and all the people who expected her to play that fine role became nervous. They were playing roles, too…and now they didn’t know how to act. God, NO ONE ever steps out of character! Who did she think she was??? They tried to force her to say the lines that narcissistic director demanded, but she just didn’t have it in her anymore. She realized she just might love her new role a bit more than she needed that conditional love from her co-stars. She asked if she could just play her new role, and let them continue to play their roles, and still be in the same movie…because she did love them, regardless of the conditions. But those character actors are sticklers for routine, you know? So, they kicked her out of the movie. Just like that. No getting together for coffee, no catching up. No “it’s not you, it’s me”. Just out. She found herself alone, sad… and not fine. Sounds horrible, doesn’t it? Well, it’s not, I swear…
Even though she loved her co-stars more than anything, she really hated the endless movie they were all acting in. Seriously, it was a movie with NO ending. Who would sit through a movie like that? No one. It’s exhausting. Her sadness eased as she realized that them kicking her out of the movie was not a reflection of her, but a reflection of them. It was actually textbook behavior of a co-dependent family. Textbook. She began to feel sad for that 9-year-old girl, and the teenager she became, and learned how to nurture that inner child. She learned how to nurture herself, as an adult. I mean, God…SOMEONE had to do it, right? She learned how to nurture others, in a healthy way. She learned so much, and continues the learning process to this day. Definitely not perfect at any of it, but at least she’s wide awake now, and is following her own script. And though she misses her old co-stars more than anything, she can sleep at night with her decision. She’ll always be waiting, with open arms, for them to wake up and join her. She can do this because she’s been touched with grace for traveling the path of the awakened. She experiences everyday miracles. Who do you know that you can say that about? Not too many, I think. It really is quite magnificent. Healing is quite magnificent. Now, for the first time in her life, she means it when she says, “I’m fine”.
This post was written in response to Linda G. Hill’s Stream of Social Consciousness Saturday. Check out her page at the link below. Anyone can join…
I started writing as a way to process trauma and other difficult things that found their way into my life. It never lets me down. I’ve been doing some journaling over the past few weeks to deal with some family stuff, and each time I write, I have a cathartic cry and end up feeling lighter. Every single time! You should try it!
Over the past few months, the need to write has decreased. Sure, life continues to shit on me whenever it gets the urge, but I’m kind of OK when life shits on me. I chalk it up to life sometimes being shitty, maybe have a cry about it, and go on about my day. Does this happen every time life shits on me? Nope. But way more than it used to, so I’ll take it.
My therapeutic writing transitioned into writing about amazing experiences I’ve had that had nothing to do with trauma at all..still things I needed help processing/understanding, I suppose. All I know is, when my soul tells me to write about something, I listen.
Tonight, my soul is telling me to write about gratitude. Not processing anything, not pages of angst, no questions…just gratitude for what I have, what I am, what is.
I am grateful for my health. Even though I have two chronic illnesses which cause chronic pain, annoying discomforts and require time, effort, money…and I can’t eat bread, for crying out loud…I’m grateful for my health. I’m alive. I can work. I can drive my boat. I can love.
I am grateful for my family. Of course, my sons…my reasons for going through all this shit. God, I am blessed with those guys. But, when I say I’m grateful for my family, I’m also referring to the members of my family that have been a part of the whole “life shitting on me” crap. Despite all the heartache…and let me tell you, it’s a LOT of heartache… I’ve learned some valuable life lessons from them, and I think going through what I’ve gone through with them over this past year has allowed me to become something akin to angelic. I’ve learned to love when I’m not being loved. I’ve learned to forgive when I haven’t been asked for forgiveness. I know a lot of people know how to do these things, but for me…it took a lot of work. I think it’s a little harder when you have to give this love and forgiveness to people you’ve been craving love from your entire life. To be able to love them, and be OK with them not loving you back, well… that’s just something bigger than any words I can come up with, so I’ll stop here.
I am grateful for failed relationships. Who would’ve guessed it? Well, not really all of them. Most of them I could do without. Maybe because they’re all really the same guy. But, the last couple, I’m grateful for those ones. With them, I was able to accomplish things I never could figure out how to do with the other guys. With one of them, I’ve learned how to stand up for myself, how to value myself. How to feel worthy…at least, for a little bit. At least, until I met the next guy, ha ha. Hey, that’s a pretty big deal when you haven’t done that before. And that next guy? Well… I can’t say the lesson is 100% complete, but I think I’m pretty close. The lesson I’m finally learning, the same lesson all the other guys came into my life to teach me…I’m learning how to let go of people I’m attached to. I’m learning to not take things personally if someone can’t love me. This is so important, because by learning this lesson in a relationship, I’m also learning how to do it with the people in my family. It all comes full circle. You know, you keep unconsciously seeking out the same situations you’re struggling with, in order to resolve them. Except you don’t KNOW that’s what you’re doing, so all you do is keep repeating the same pattern over and over and over, wondering why the hell you’re so unlovable…until something clicks (really, just therapy….just go to therapy. Everyone. Just go.) and you understand that saying, “Remember that time you confused a life lesson with a soul mate?” You learn that some people aren’t going to love you, and it doesn’t have a damn thing to do with how lovable you are. Yeah. That. I’m so close…
I’m grateful for my practice. “Practice” is the word I use to put all of my “work” into a nice, neat little package. Therapy (which I don’t go to anymore, but don’t want to leave out how important of a piece it was in solving my puzzle), writing, meditation, going to church, surrounding myself with people who empower me and lift me up, consciously validating myself, not seeking validation from others, service to others…all of this is my practice. And my practice is what connects me to “source”…which is a long-winded way of saying I’m grateful for my connection to God. Without it, I’d be the lost lamb again. I’m not lost anymore. I am grateful… I am touched by grace… I am love… I am light… I am.
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I’m nearing the two-year anniversary of what I affectionately call the “Shock and Awe” part of my journey. Back when the shit hit the fan in my life and I basically cracked open and let the pieces fall where they may. “Traumatic” is one of many words that easily comes to mind when I think of those times. Wow. Two years. So weird how it seems like the blink of an eye, while at the same time, an eternity. A lifetime. Can a lifetime really fit into just two short years? I think so. I feel like a completely different person compared to two years ago. Except I didn’t change into someone different. I just became more myself.
Settling into myself feels good. I wish I knew this version of me a long time ago, but that just wasn’t the plan. I don’t think it would feel the same, if I had always been this version of me. I don’t think I would appreciate it nearly as much. No, I think one has to go through the shock and awe of it all in order to appreciate the value in finding one’s “self”. Funny, I never even realized I had no sense of self, until I found it. Until I found her. And damn, she’s amazing. I love her…
Isn’t it funny what the brain decides to hold on to from the past? As you get older, the memories become more faded, sometimes disappearing altogether.
I do have a few childhood memories locked in the vault. For some random reason, these ones aren’t going anywhere. And they pop up in my mind, off and on, with no rhyme or reason. And for the most part, they all suck. Like the time someone ran over a yellow lab in front of my bus stop. We arrived in the morning to see its guts all over the side of the road, and no one cleaned it up for days, I think. I remember waiting for the owners to tearfully come, but it never happened. Or maybe it did happen, and my brain doesn’t feel like remembering that part. That’s the thing about these old memories…I think the brain fills in the blanks when it can’t remember something, even if the filling in part isn’t true. Then, you end up second guessing yourself. “Am I remembering this right?”
Another memory that’s been locked in the vault comes from around 1st grade. Let me tell you, I might have well been invisible in 1st grade. I did not say a peep. I had no friends. I sat by myself at recess, leaning against the wall with my head in my lap, hoping no one would approach me, while simultaneously hoping someone would approach me. And this was years before any of my childhood trauma! God, it’s not easy being a painfully shy child. Anyway, this memory had nothing to do with me. This one girl brought something in for show and tell. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t even show and tell day. I think she just found something cool and wanted to share it with us. Her name was Catherine Wilson. She held this magical mystery item cupped in her hands, carefully walking to the front of the class. I can remember the teacher telling us to be careful when we looked. It seemed like a BIG deal, whatever it was. I could not wait to see it! Everyone was buzzing with anticipation and crowded around her like paparazzi. I was last in line, of course. The kids were pointing and commenting and even though I was standing like a statue in the back of the room, I was filled with anticipation, too. I was dying to see what was in there. Finally, after everyone had gotten their fill of seeing “it”… “it” was right in front of me. I hesitantly peered over the little Dixie cup she was holding, and nestled gently on top of some Kleenex was a tiny, delicate, sky blue Robin’s egg. I’d never seen anything like it. So fragile looking. So amazing. The only eggs I’d ever seen were the ones in my refrigerator. Gosh, Catherine Wilson was so lucky. Nothing this magical ever happens to me…
The teacher had us settle down and we went about whatever it was that 1st graders did back in the early 70’s. Catherine put the cup on the corner of her desk as she did her work. At some point, we all got up from our seats for something. Maybe lunch, or to get books, or recess or something that doesn’t really matter to this story. What matters is what happened when we returned to our seats. Or more correctly, when Catherine returned to her seat. Someone broke her Robin’s egg. I think time stood still for a minute. We all took turns looking in the paper cup. The pastel blue shell was crushed. No one was saying anything. She started crying. I can remember her face like it was yesterday. It wasn’t a typical six-year-old kid’s whiny cry. I don’t remember any sound coming from her at all, actually. But her face, and the sorrow it conveyed….well, that’s stayed with me for almost forty years.
I’ve reminisced about this egg tragedy off and on ever since. No rhyme or reason to why I thought about it. I never had any emotional feelings when I thought of it. I mean sure, it was a sad story, but forty years later, it just kind of became the “Oh, that was the time Catherine Wilson brought the Robin’s egg to school and some kid crushed it”. Not that I told that to anyone. I guess that’s just the conversation I have in my head, with myself, when I remember random things. Yes, I have conversations with myself in my head…don’t judge.
OK, now fast forward to a few weeks ago. I’m scrolling through Facebook and see a photo of someone I know with someone else I don’t know and I click on something and next thing you know, I’m on someone elses page, who I don’t know, knee-deep in their photos. Like I said earlier, don’t judge…you know you do it, too. Anyway, it’s the page of a local radio personality and I happen to come across a photo of her 7th grade yearbook. I look at the names on the page and realize it’s my grade. At my school. Puzzled, I thought “Wow, I didn’t know I went to school with Cat Wilson”. It took my 45-year-old brain a few moments to process that “Cat” is short for “Catherine”… duh… and the next thing you know, I can see that little blue Robin’s egg, clear as day. I stared at her 7th grade photo. Yup, even 6 years later, I’m sure that’s the face I’d been remembering all these years. Or had I? What if it was never Catherine Wilson at all? What if it was some other random classmate. I honestly couldn’t remember any of the other girls in that class. It very well could have been one of them, and my brain filled in the blanks for me. Or, maybe it wasn’t a memory at all and just a crappy dream. I had to find out.
I send a text to our mutual friend, telling of the sad, sad day at Hyannis West Elementary school in the early 70s. He relays the story and sure enough, it’s her. She hadn’t thought of that story in a long, long time. I think maybe she forgot. Or put it away someplace where she didn’t have to look at it. Can you blame her? That story sucks. Luckily, we just randomly crossed paths and I was able to bring that shit right back up to the surface! We end up connecting on Facebook (legitimately, this time) and go back and forth a few times, reminiscing about it.
Turns out, she’s a blogger, too. She wrote about this same story today, which you can read here.
So, at this point, we all know this is a tragic, sad story about the brutal demise of an already dead Robin’s egg. A tragic story that sort of became “just” a story, as the years passed. Until I read her blog. You see, now it’s not just a story about some rambunctious 6-year-old poking his thumb into some other kid’s pastel egg. It’s about bullying. It’s about not liking part of your childhood. It’s about kids making other kids feel bad for not fitting in to whatever is considered “normal”. God, this little girl got picked on for loving butterflies…
As soon as I read about her tormentors, my heart went into my throat for a second….“Oh God, please don’t tell me I bullied her”. Yeah, I had my spurts of being one of those asshole kids. At the time, I never knew why I acted that way. The behavior just sort of oozed out of me. All I knew was I felt terribly ashamed afterwards. Which, at the time, was confusing…because I hated that feeling, yet I bullied more than once. Of course, as an adult, I can now see why I acted that way. Trauma creates trauma. Luckily, I was fairly confident I only ruined a few kids lives back then, and was pretty sure she wasn’t on the list. But it doesn’t matter. I might as well have bullied her. I made other girls feel the way she did, so what difference does it make?
I’ve spent the past few days thinking about this. Of course, I’m now a completely different person than that damaged kid I used to be. I think I’ve spent most of my adult life trying to make up for being that kid. Not just to the girls I picked on during those few difficult years, but also to the girl I treated the worst…me. I’ve been thinking how when a child grows up knowing inherently that they are bad, they eventually end up acting out that role. I can’t speak for the other bullies out there, but for me it was almost like a way to have some sort of control over at least something in my life. No, I wasn’t consciously aware of that at the time I was being a jerk, but I’m pretty aware of it now. I had no control over anything back then. Not the feelings of abandonment, not the emotional neglect, not the sexual and physical abuse…nothing. I just absorbed it all, like a sponge. Total acceptance. This is just how my life is. This is all I get.
Forty years and tons of therapy later, I’m slowly learning that this is not just how my life is. I do have control over things (well, some things) And I am compassionate. I am not a bully, and frequently bend over backwards to prove otherwise. Well, not really to prove otherwise. I sincerely find joy in bringing peace to others. It helps me on my own journey to peace. You just never know what people are going through…who spent part their lives being tormented, whether it was by a school bully or a sibling or a husband or a stranger. You never know who has a voice in the back of their head, telling them “this is all I get”. Sometimes, all it takes is a small act of compassion, or more commonly…a small act of validation…to quiet that voice, or to change the words to “I am worth more”. And that’s something we all should be saying.
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A year ago this month, I was filling in my family on my childhood trauma. A story I’d held inside for over 30 years. A story that shaped every aspect of my being, without me even knowing it. A story I turned around in my brain all those years to make it more bearable, without even knowing it. A story that guided my actions, my choices, my partners…without me even knowing it. A story that I was terrified to tell, ashamed to tell…yet knew I had to tell, all at the same time. A story that, once told, left me in pieces. Broken, jagged, seemingly irreparable pieces. It’s funny to read that, because I was obviously broken and jagged well before telling. I just didn’t notice. Well, no, that’s not true, either. I always noticed I was broken, I guess I just didn’t know why. I never knew how to connect the dots. Now I know.
I grew up inherently knowing I was damaged. I knew I was not like other kids. I knew that joy, popularity, adoration, attention, love and the like went to other kids and didn’t come to me. I think it’s a little strange now, but I never wondered why it didn’t come to me. I just knew it wasn’t in the cards. It wasn’t my lot in life and I sort of accepted it as “It is what it is”. Wow, writing this now, and knowing a child felt this way is actually quite sad. I still have a hard time connecting that child to me. I wonder why I wasn’t sad about it? Maybe I was and I don’t remember. It’s easy to block things out that don’t feel good, especially being a kid like I was. I can remember trying to be invisible… a lot. Whether it was around kids I knew I didn’t belong with, or at family gatherings, or even when I was by myself…I tried to be invisible. Maybe it’s because if I became invisible on my own, it wouldn’t be as sad as the reality of being invisible to others? I know I always felt like a burden, and being invisible is probably the best way to not be a burden, right? I can’t say I’ll ever find the answer to that one…
I carried that inherent knowledge of being damaged right up to adulthood. And when you know you’re damaged, you are ashamed of it. Not sure why, but they seem to go hand in hand. Not fair, but what is? By then, I had learned how to character play. From the outside, it looked like I had it going on! Friends, outgoing, social…complete opposite of that invisible girl. Just on the outside, though. Hell, I carried that shit right up until last year. I dropped the charade and was honest about who I was for the first time in my life. It wasn’t pretty. But it was real. God, it was downright ugly. I can vividly remember people’s look of disgust when I got to the juicy part. Not so much my friends, because they didn’t personally know the players, but definitely for my family. It was like a “shock and awe” campaign. Most of them looked down and away, with what looked like a slight wave of nausea across their faces. Geez, no wonder I felt ashamed. They only had to hear the story…I had to live it. Makes sense, doesn’t it? I can remember waiting, terrified, to hear what they would say. Waiting for them to judge me. No one did. At least, no out loud. I’ll never know for sure what they think inside. The looks on their faces, though…
Everyone seemed pretty supportive, which helped ease that heavy load of shame. How one can spend their entire life carrying that shit around and not know it, I have no idea. But you sure as hell notice when it’s gone! The more I told the story, the more it became just that… a story. I was eventually able to tell it without crying, without trembling, without fearing being judged, without feeling nausea. I removed thoughts, scenarios and people from my life that triggered me and things started falling into place. The shame and doubt slowly became replaced with feelings of worth and confidence. I became empowered. I accepted things for what they were. No one was ever going to make me feel used or unworthy again! It suddenly seemed easy. And there, my friends, lies the mistake….
The problem with my technique is, you can’t remove thoughts, scenarios and people who trigger you. Sure, you can temporarily avoid them, but you can’t remove them. And when your triggers involve family, forget about it. And when your triggers involve family, you might as well forget about it. They find their way back, in one form or another. Some are more camouflaged than others, but they all find their way back in, eventually. Sometimes, they hide in people you would never guess. Removing the triggers is not what’s easy at all. It’s them sneaking back to you, that’s what’s easy. I didn’t even realize that’s what was happening. How could I not realize it? These feelings of angst, shame, rejection, fear… they are supposed to be gone. Empowered people don’t feel those things, right? For me, emotions almost seem like a trigger. When people or scenarios result in me feeling a certain way (typically unworthy or unimportant), I start to spiral. Weird, isn’t it?
I had a nightmare last night. The first one since last summer. I was home alone and I was getting robbed. Masked men were at each window. I can usually tell when I’m dreaming, but not with this one. Just like the ones I had last summer. Scary as shit and so freaking real. In the dream, I knew they were going to kill me. I could see a scene of my father’s house, and all of my family was over there for a birthday party. I was trying to figure out how to get out of my house before the men got to me, and I could somehow hear my family talking at the party at the same time, about how dramatic I was being. Even though I was scared to death of these men about to attack me, I also questioned myself. “WAS I making too big of a deal about this?” Jesus, I was embarrassed and ashamed, at the same time I was about to get killed. Sounds about right…
So, now I have to figure out how to get rid of this stuff….these feelings. I don’t want my head to be swirling anymore. I did enough of that last year. Intellectually, I understand all of this. I understand that I need to reduce my expectations and learn to accept things for what they are. I need to learn I can’t make people act or feel the way I need them to. That sounds easy enough. I actually have been able to do that for most of the past year. Suddenly, though, I’m finding that talent to be missing. I DO have expectations. I DO need people to treat me the way I need to be treated. It DOES affect me when they don’t. Shit. How do I get back to where those things don’t happen? I don’t want those needs. I had acceptance, and it’s gone. I felt lovable and now it’s gone. And it hurts. And it’s confusing. And it’s scary. And it’s sad…
And the most ironic part of all this? If I heard this story coming from someone else, I would have the answers. Why is it so much easier to heal others and not myself?
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