It’s Father’s Day weekend, and it’s coming in hot. Get ready for your social media pages to be flowing with photos of dads. Restaurants will be busy, car shows will be attended, grills will be smoking and fish will be getting caught. Many will spend tomorrow remembering fathers who are no longer here. Graves will be visited, stories will be told and hearts will ache a little, remembering days gone by.
There is nothing like the bond we have with our fathers.
This can be true even for those who don’t talk to their fathers anymore. It could be from setting a boundary with an abusive dad. Or, maybe it wasn’t so much a boundary being drawn but a distance which slowly grew further each year, without either one recognizing what was happening until it was too late. There could have been a big blow-out fight which resulted in hurt feelings, stubbornness and resentment. A controlling partner might be keeping you from him, or him from you. Or maybe he just didn’t know how to be a dad, and wasn’t there from the get-go. You could play the scapegoat role in a narcissistic family. He might have had demons that were just too strong, or died before you could reconcile… or maybe you don’t know why he’s not with you. The possibilities are as endless as the number of this weekend’s cookouts.
How can one feel a bond to a father who isn’t in their lives? Maybe some are holding on to memories of better times, while others might cling tightly to the idea of what a father should be or could have been. For some, the bond to resentment is all that is left of their father-child relationship.
So, to those who are swimming in the complex emotions surrounding this Father’s Day weekend: I see you. I see all of it. I see the tears. I see the heartache. I see the jealousy. I see the shame. But I also see the strength. I see the accomplishment. I see the empowerment. I see the love. I see the lovability.
That’s right. I see the lovability. Because your father’s inability to father is not a reflection of you. Not. One. Bit.
So go ahead and give yourself permission to feel the very normal feelings which occur in response to the very abnormal situation of an absent father. Whether it’s grief, anger, sadness, relief, joy or peace…feel it freely. Let yourself feel the things you need to feel, say the things you need to say and do the things you need to do in order to continue on your path of living your best damn life, despite what may or may not be missing from it.
You’ve got this.
This post was written in response to Linda G. Hill’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday
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 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
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 keep using the phrase, “ebb and flow” lately, when referring to my life…my healing…my whatever. I’m over a year and a half into this “work” I’ve been doing, and lately… I have more days than not where I feel I haven’t made much progress at all. I can’t even bring myself to read my posts from last year, back when I was badass. Back when I was fixing appliances and taking names. Back when I spoke my truth and became empowered. Back when I learned what brought me joy and I did it. Back when I knew my worth.
OK, I suppose that last sentence is a bit misleading. It’s not that I don’t know my worth. I know it. I’m just having a hard time feeling it. Yes, there’s a difference. Feeling it, (or not feeling it, in this case), is that inner voice. My inner critic. My superego. The one who laughs at my intellectual self, who is the one who tells me I’m worthy. My intellectual self uses all the new language I’ve learned, all the research and knowledge I’ve gained, and says it to my inner self. Over and over and over. But my inner self is ebbing….or is it flowing? I’m never sure which is which, when talking about life’s highs and lows. Anyway, my inner voice isn’t matching up to my intellectual voice anymore. And I hate it.
God, I was so freaking strong when they matched up. I was powerful. Even I wouldn’t have messed with me back then. Hell hath no fury like an empowered woman who knows her worth! I became that way by removing all of my triggers. Easy! Live in a bubble and all is well…tra, la la….
My bubble was so perfect, so believable…I didn’t think I needed it anymore. That’s a core dilemma, isn’t it? Stay in the bubble so you don’t get hurt, or go out of the bubble so you can attempt to live a real life? TOUGH decision! In the words of my future boyfriend, Garth Brooks,
“And now I’m glad I didn’t know The way it all would end the way it all would go Our lives are better left to chance I could have missed the pain But I’d of had to miss the dance”.
I swear, sometimes I think Garth is the male country version of Oprah…speaks to my heart. Anyway, I’ll save you the details, but right now…I’m outside the bubble. I can’t even get back in, because the only way out is to pop it and hope for the best. And well, the best didn’t happen. I know, I know…that’s how life goes. Trust me, my intellectual self has been telling me that for weeks now. That’s what’s interesting about being outside the bubble this time. The first time, which just so happened to be right after I realized I had been living in a cocoon my entire life, well that first time was so raw and eye opening, I didn’t really mind it. I liked it. For the first time in my life, as painful as it was, I felt like I was living. I saw life and felt experiences, painful or not, with a new clarity…from a new perspective. My inner self and my intellectual self matched up quickly. The puzzle pieces started falling into place and my year of “work” paid off.
Of course, I didn’t completely realize that in order to stay in that place, I had to live in the bubble. Bubbles are transparent, and you don’t even notice them if you stay busy enough. But I’m not so busy anymore. I sold my company. I have a much less stressful job. I’ve been separated long enough that it feels normal now. The kids are busy and off conquering the world, now that one of them has a car. I don’t need to journal 10 times a day anymore. I have time. And when you’ve got time on your hands, and your inner voice is telling you you’re not worthy, life gets difficult.
So, I’m spending my time flip flopping between the two voices. One saying, “Other people get those things, Jami. You don’t. That’s just how it is.” And the other is saying, “You are worthy and things will come when they are supposed to. Trust the process.” They say a lot of other things, but I’m trying to make a long story a little less long (sorry). I spent my entire life listening to that first inner voice, the one who knew I wasn’t supposed to have the things I long for in life. I never even asked for them, because I knew. That’s toxic shame for ya…it’s a bitch. I had no clue that another voice even existed, let alone knew the things it would say to be true. And I feel blessed to have been able to figure out a way to listen to that second voice last year. Not only listen to it, but believe it. I believed it right up until about two months ago. That’s when I hit the ebb, (or flow?) and started to realize that I had been wrong all along. “Other people get those things, Jami. You don’t. That’s just how it is.” Right now, most of me feels like maybe I was just faking it all last year, because this is what feels real right now. My empowered self feels like an act. Fooled you, suckers! And guess what? Even admitting that makes me feel ashamed. Gosh! (read that like Napoleon Dynamite). Staying miserable is easier…
My saving grace in all of this is that the difference between this time…the difference between hearing that voice now and when I heard it my entire life before, is that I have that intellectual voice now. My tool box is at least over halfway full. I never had a counter voice before. I never flip flopped. I was just unworthy, plain and simple. No argument to be made, as the opposing side did not exist to me. At least now, I have an argument. And even though my inner voice is kicking ass right now, I am holding on to a thin thread of hope that if I focus on the process, my intellectual voice will prevail.
That’s what faith is, right?
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When you have a year like I just had, you learn to pay attention. Like, when my old friend Kara, who is not someone I regularly talk to, happens to send me a text with a link to a podcast, I pay attention. Even though listening to a podcast is something I’d never imagine myself doing. I always thought they’d be boring, which really isn’t fair of me, considering there’s about a million different ones out there, but it is what it is. Let me backtrack a few steps… I hadn’t spoken to Kara in months, when she crossed my mind the other day as I was buying theater tickets. I thought it would be a nice way for us to catch up, seeing a show and spending the night in Boston. I bought the tickets without asking her, and next thing you know, she’s texting me, telling me she’s listening to one of Brene Brown’s podcasts and thinking of me. I ignore the Brene Brown part, because I have no idea what she’s talking about, and I tell her how weird it is that she’s texting me the same day I’m thinking of asking her to get together. She says yes, and we chat a bit and the conversation ends.
A few hours later, she shoots me another text, letting me know she’s coming into town (she lives a good hour away) and asked if I had a free hour or so. Totally last-minute, and her text came as I was in an appointment, so I didn’t answer right away. By the time I answer her, 20 minutes had gone by. I tell her which town I’m in (which is a good half hour away from the town I live in, the town she expects me to be in) and she just so happens to be coming upon that exit that very minute. Ten minutes later, we are sitting having an unexpected dinner together in a town neither of us are normally in. The stars aligned perfectly, so I paid attention.
She talked of these podcasts she was listening to. She commutes to work, so has plenty of time for them. As she’s talking about it, I’m thinking, “I never have down time for listening to someone talk”, but of course, I don’t say that out loud. I listen, and honestly, they do sound kind of interesting. Dr. Brene Brown has spent her career studying shame and guilt. Sounds awful, doesn’t it? Anyway, she said one of them made her really think of me, because they spoke of how most people think that the worst part of sexual abuse/assault is the physical act itself, but really, the worst part is the shame that follows. People can get over the physical part, but the shame never leaves. I nodded my head, knowing all to well what she was talking about. I looked at my friend as she described how it affects people’s lives forever, especially relationships, because that shame doesn’t allow us to be vulnerable. And we don’t allow ourselves to become vulnerable by sort of walling ourselves off. It’s a protection type of thing. The gist of it, as I interpreted it, was that people who have relationships with me, platonic or romantic, don’t get the whole me, because I don’t allow that vulnerability. It’s too risky. Or I don’t deserve it. Or I know it’s never going to work out, so I don’t put myself in the position of being hurt. God, that was spot on. Not so much in regards to the me right now, but it sure as hell described me for most of my life. And honestly, it takes a lot of work even now to allow myself to be vulnerable, but I do. Of course, with vulnerability comes the risk of shame…
So, dinner ends and we hug and go our separate ways. She ends up sending me links to the ones she was talking about, where Brene Brown was on Super Soul Sunday with Oprah Winfrey, and even though I would never normally listen to them, I knew I was supposed to…because the stars don’t align things up for no reason, right? And plus, she had me at Oprah…
I listened to them. Twice. And then next thing you know, I’m asking her if she has the link to Brene’s TED talk podcast, which started it all…and my life shifted. Just like that. You see, I have been struggling with feelings of rejection, insecurity, shame and guilt…well, pretty much my entire life. But more recently, it’s been a struggle due to a few specific relationships in my life. The struggle has sort of come to a head in recent weeks and left me in one of my funks that’s pretty hard to shake. It’s the result of me allowing myself to become vulnerable, and the risks did not pay off, and I easily slipped back into the swamp of shame. It’s crazy how it’s not even a conscious effort to go back to shame. It just happens. You wake up and there it is. Like it never left. I am unworthy. It took me a bit to claw my way out of that dark area… in a sort of “fake it till you make it” kind of way. I still felt the feelings, but I made some decisions based on the knowledge I’d gained in my practice of therapy and mediation…my journey… and prayed I’d eventually get my heart to match up to this intellectual knowledge and decision. You know… when you know what you need to do, in your brain, but your heart yearns for something else. It’s tough, but the pain of it never working out for me was enough to make these decisions. And once I made them, I found myself wanting to wall off my heart so it wouldn’t be hurt again. Nope, I’m not ever going to put myself in that position again! But, listening to these podcasts, well, damn… I felt the shift that day! I don’t know if it’s because it’s coming from an analytical researcher or what, but Jesus…was it validating! And it opened my mind to a new perspective. Creativity, growth and joy breed from vulnerability. I think I just found the key to opening my heart without regret. Without shame. Without guilt. Yes, I think someday I just might put myself in that position again! I know I will not ever be able to do this subject justice, so please, if any of you have even a hint of wonder or recognition about this, just click here .
Because, if any of this resonates with you, then the stars are aligning right now by having you stumble across this post. Watch the podcast. You won’t be disappointed.
Sometimes, admitting something can be the hardest thing you ever have to do. Like on Dateline NBC, there’s always this regular, normal husband who ends up hiring someone to murder his wife because he’s afraid she’ll find out about him cheating on her or being a gambling addict or he lost his job. The guy actually thinks KILLING someone is easier than admitting to whatever crappy thing he’s done. Damn, that shows you just how powerful shame can be. Except those guys don’t get it, because really, the way to rid yourself of shame is by doing the opposite…not silencing it, but outing it.
I’ve spent the past year outing all of my shame, and let me tell you…it’s NOT easy! I can’t say I’d rather kill someone instead, but there were definitely plenty of other things I would rather have been doing. I didn’t do them, though. I’m pretty sure sharing my shame was the most difficult, yet most freeing and empowering thing I’ve ever done. Once you admit something, out loud…something that’s been eating away at your soul even though you’ve been ignoring the shit out of it…it doesn’t own you anymore. No one can shame you for something you OWN, you know? I kept saying, “No one can be harsher than my own inner critic, so BRING IT ON!”
I’ve poured the contents of my soul all over this blog, shared them with family, friends and strangers…and I’m talking HEAVY stuff. I figured go big or go home. It’s funny, though…now that I’m moving into new territories in my life, I’m finding I still have things inside me that are hard to admit to. And I’m realizing it’s not because they are shame based. It’s because I feel vulnerable. Being vulnerable is scary. It’s so scary, I don’t even want to admit to the vulnerability. That “pink cloud” effect of last year’s epic sharing has started to wear off. I don’t feel so much like Wonder Woman anymore. I feel like a regular woman, whatever that is…
This post was written in response to Linda G Hill’s Stream of Social Consciousness Saturday
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I can remember when we were deciding to buy this house. It was about 8 years ago, and as we toured the open floor plan, we both kept saying how great of a house it would be to throw parties in…and we were right. I’ve hosted so many birthday parties, Christmas parties, craft-night parties, baby showers… you name it. I love entertaining. If I was not out doing something fun with my friends, I was having them over to do it here. Social butterfly, always something going on. I was a good time!
I was not consciously aware that by constantly socializing and developing new friendships, I was covering up the “real me”…the me that I hoped no one would ever see. The me that was insecure, and unlovable. The me that had done so many shameful things in the past. The unworthy me. I was desperately trying to fill the hole inside me and create that feeling of emotional intimacy I didn’t even realize I was craving. I was trying to create a feeling of being needed and wanted… “worthy”… the feelings I never felt in my marriage, or from any boyfriend, or from my parents, or really from anyone other than my children. It fascinates me that I was oblivious to all of this as I went about my socialization. I knew it was an accomplishment that I went from being that “loser me” to the “popular me”. I had worked hard on changing it, but honestly never thought in a million years it would work. I slipped into this dream role so effortlessly, no one had a clue. I was so good at it, even I didn’t have a clue.
Fast forward to earlier this year. I started therapy and the journey of processing my entire life. Opening up Pandora’s box was painful and raw, and made me realize the role I had been playing was not the “real me”. I felt like a fraud, and knew that if my friends found out who the “real me” was, they would know I’m a fraud, too. I couldn’t imagine keeping the act up with them, now that I had acknowledged who I really was. I dropped out of the public eye for a few months. I couldn’t face anyone. I didn’t feel like I belonged anywhere… except my therapist’s office. This is when I realized where I was my entire life…in a cocoon. It’s one thing to live in a cocoon, blissfully unaware. Sure, it’s uncomfortable, but when it’s all you know, it’s not so bad. It’s a whole other thing to be aware… to realize you are trapped inside. It’s crazy how shame can be such a bully. Trauma causes your brain to protect you in the most bizarre ways. Blaming and shaming yourself is so much easier than acknowledging the horror of what really happened to you. I became my own worst enemy. No one could judge me harder than I was judging myself, but I couldn’t understand that at the time. I understand now.
I understand now, because I spent the past 9 months working hard to rewire the thought processes in my brain. It took me 9 months to crack through the layers of that cocoon and start my real life. I’m now on the outside, with the cocoon pieces surrounding me, admiring these beautiful new wings amidst the dark remnants. I think it will take me some time to figure out how to use them to their full potential, but that’s ok…I’ve got my whole life ahead of me.
Last night, I entertained friends for the first time in over a year. I just turned 45, so I threw myself a party. It seemed fitting, as it’s been 9 months since I started this journey. Sometimes, you have to die a little bit inside in order to be reborn. I called it my “Re-Birth Party” and invited my tribe. My tribe consists of friends who have met the “real me” and didn’t think I was a fraud at all. Friends who didn’t judge me one bit (something I still occasionally have to remind myself to believe) for those horrible things “I did” over the years. Friends who saw me feeling unworthy and unlovable and instead of running away like I assumed they would, stayed and valued me and loved me. Still, I have had a hard time feeling that love, even though I now know it exists. This work takes time, I guess. I actually have quite an extended tribe, which is pretty amazing. I couldn’t have all of them here… you gotta start in baby steps. Anyway, this party was perfect. We ate and drank and laughed and danced, and even had a disco ball! It lasted till 1am, which is pretty late for a group of 40 and 50-somethings! Everyone was happy. I was happy. I was surrounded by empowering, uplifting, loving friends, and it was real. Towards the end of the night, we linked arms and sang along with “Danny’s Song”. I ended up in the middle, with me singing to them and them singing to me. “And in the morning when I rise, bring a tear of joy to my eyes and tell me everything is gonna be alright…” and that’s exactly what happened. I was moved to tears, but for the first time since I started this journey, they were tears of joy. I was worthy. I was lovable. I was happy.
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I’m attending a Halloween party tonight and bringing my signature party dish, Jag. I love bringing this to parties because I can be pretty sure no one else will be making it. I cringe when I show up with something that someone else brought…it always makes me feel bad for the other person, like I ruined their contribution. I don’t like carrying that kind of guilt around all night. One time, I brought a Mexican dip to a party and sneaked it back into the car, because I didn’t want the owners of the two other Mexican dips to feel bad when they see no one eating it. With this dish, I know I’ll never hear, “Oh, you can just put it on the table next to the other Jags”. More often than not, I have to explain to the guests just exactly what Jag is. I live on Cape Cod, home of clam chowder and lobster rolls. Jag is a Cape Verde beans and rice dish, though often thought of as Portuguese, as it’s full of delicious linguica. Everyone’s recipe is a bit different, but it really doesn’t matter, because on Cape Cod, in my circle of friends, you can be pretty sure no place I’m going to has even heard of it. Mine is full of bacon, linguica, butter…(do NOT tell my cardiologist I eat this stuff!) I’m not the type to brag…unless it’s about my Jag. (Damn, the poetry just kinda flowed right there).I’m sorry, but my Jag is the bomb! My friends at this party are expecting it. I can’t show up with paltry cheese and crackers anymore. That’s so beneath me. People are depending on me! Tonight, as I walk in, the crowd will part to create a path for us. “It’s here” they’ll whisper. I’ll cradle the pot in my arms, smiling… holding it out towards the food table like Rashiki holding up baby Simba in the Lion King. “Behold…the Jag!” Yes, that’s right…my Jag is as good as a royal newborn son.
I wrote about my Jag once, in my journal. I know I’ve mentioned in my other posts about going to therapy. My therapist got me started on writing in a journal as a way to process things when I wasn’t in her office. Most who know me know how fortunate I am to have found the perfect match in a therapist. Let’s be real here… she is the best therapist on Cape Cod. I know, I haven’t actually been to any other therapists on Cape Cod… or anywhere, but it’s pretty obvious. Her name is Susan and she is a compassionate, badass, confident, empowering LISCW. She’s the kind of woman who’s not afraid to tell you when you’re off track, but also the first to validate you when it’s right. She has a way of planting seeds in my insecurities that grow into confidence. It’s really hard for me to give an accurate description of her, other than to say that I am 100% sure I would have ended up stuck in that dark, uncomfortable, cold cocoon for the rest of my life if I hadn’t met her. I wouldn’t have even known I was in a cocoon. I just would have died in there, never knowing I could have fought my way out. She’s given me the tools I needed to chip away at my shell and progress in my transformation to the butterfly. I always kind of feel bad for people when I hear them say they are going to therapy. I think, “gee, it’s too bad they are going to such a mediocre therapist”, which is funny, because I have no idea who they are even seeing. All I know is it’s not Susan, so they must at least be a little sucky. Even when they talk about how much their therapist has helped them, I think “Aw, poor thing. It’s too bad that you think this is good help. Imagine how much better you would be if you went to Susan”. If Susan ever retires, I’m screwed.
Earlier this year, as I started to peel off the layers of trauma, I started to have a spiritual awakening. It’s really a whole other story for another time. Though one interesting part of it was the synchronicity I suddenly became keenly aware of. It felt as if the Universe was trying to show me that I was on the right path. Coincidences and signs everywhere I turned. Some major, some small, but they happened all the time. Even Susan noticed it. Guess what her signature party dish is? Yep….Jag!
The awakening came at a time when I was doubting so much in my life….doubting myself, mostly, but also the entire process of my therapeutic journey. When you start peeling off those layers you’ve been carrying around all these years, it can get pretty ugly. You begin to wonder if you are doing the right thing. “Hmmm…I’m paying Susan one hundred dollars an hour to make me feel like I’m dying inside?” It seems like the process is taking forever and you begin to think that this might be as good as it gets.
It was an emotionally charged day when I had finally mustered up the courage to tell a friend for the first time about my childhood sexual abuse. I had only told Susan and my husband, and never imagined telling another soul. I honestly couldn’t even believe that I had told them about it. I thought I was taking that shit to the grave. You don’t just go around sharing your shame with people, you know? That’s the whole reason I kept it inside me for 30 years….if anyone ever found out, they would know how dirty and disgusting I was, and realize I was a fraud. As I pulled up to her driveway, overflowing with anxiety and considering turning around and going home, a family of four deer walked out of her back yard, crossing my path on the street. NOT a regular occurrence around here! I’d never seen anything like it. I couldn’t stop thinking about those deer, and how they appeared as I was about to share the most shameful secret of my childhood. Later that day, I looked up the meaning of a deer visit. It symbolizes “the innocence of the inner child”. Whoa. I told my husband, in disbelief. He was not impressed. How could he not see the connection between the innocence of the inner child and me telling the story of losing my childhood innocence? Come ON!! That man just does not get anything about me. Those next few weeks were dark for me. There were way too many puzzle pieces swirling around in my brain. I was confused and depressed, for sure. I had been working hard on figuring out how to forgive 13 year old Jami (I was 13 when the sexual abuse started) and I just couldn’t find a way to do it. I thought 13 year old Jami was shameful, dirty and disgusting. I just couldn’t shake it. I was discouraged and felt like giving up on all this therapy. It wasn’t working. I was more miserable than when I started. I remember lying on the couch one day, staring at the TV. My husband and youngest son came home. I could hear my husband say something to my son about “tell Mom what happened this morning”. I pulled myself up to a sitting position for the first time in hours. I knew I was just going through the motions for my family, but it was the best I could do. I looked over at my son, who was just 3 days shy of his 13th birthday. His face lit up as he started to share with me…“Mom, I was getting ready for school this morning and I looked out the window in the back yard and there was a deer looking at me!” I stared at him. It was like I had cleaned the dirt of my glasses and could see clear, for the first time in weeks… no, months. As I stared at him, it happened. I understood the significance of what was going on. God, it was right there, in plain sight, this whole time! It just took the coincidence of the deer to get me to notice. My son was turning 13. My sweet, innocent son. The son who still gives me tender kisses goodnight. The son who plays video games and hasn’t even gotten his braces yet. The son who feels excitement about a deer being in our yard. My inner voice spoke loudly, “He’s 13, just like you were. If that happened to him, would you forgive him?” I got up and went into my room so he wouldn’t see me crying. He’s only 13. If someone molested him, he wouldn’t be dirty. He wouldn’t be guilty. It wouldn’t be his fault. I would not think he was disgusting, shameful or unworthy. 13 year old Eric is pure. So why do I feel those things about 13 year old Jami? And just like that, the dark cloud lifted.
I just might wear this costume all year long.
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