Tag Archives: trauma

The phoenix

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I spent four hours lying in a tattoo studio yesterday. I’m turning 51 in a few weeks, and with each passing year, I notice I’m having more “F-it” moments. Like getting tattoos. Or getting divorced. Or changing jobs. Or speaking my mind. Or taking chances on myself. Or whatever else it is that I thought I was never allowed to do during my life.

This is my second go-around with my tattoo artist, Holly. I first sat with her in 2019, getting what I thought was the biggest tattoo ever. (Just wait till you see the one started yesterday!) Holly truly excels at what she does. 100% artistry. 20 years in the industry does that for a person.

What’s just as cool as her tattoos is the conversation we have during our sessions. Back in 2019, I was just starting out on my inner-child work, healing that generational trauma no one ever tells us about. She’d had her share of life shitting on her too, like we all do. That’s just what life does.

She tattooed a deer on me, which was just so symbolic of what I’d been through. And we talked about some deep stuff, which, as we all know, is what I do now. Go deep or go home. My philosophy is that we have all been so damn conditioned to not talk about the stuff we should be talking about. And when someone does talk about that stuff, it gives others permission to do the same. Holly’s on that same page…so we talk.

As of yesterday, I hadn’t seen her in over three years, and a HELL of a lot has happened, to all of us, in the past three years, right? I caught her up on all the progress I’d made in my life since then; continuing the work on myself, having more work published, hosting retreats with amazing women, taking on a new job, finding love…

And I caught her up on all the shit life dished out to me, too. Because that’s what life does.

And she had a LOT to fill me in on, too. Of course, she had to shut down during the pandemic. It’s a physically intimate setting; you’d be hard-pressed to find a tattoo artist who can ink someone from six feet away. And life handed her some shit, as well. But despite said shit, Holly being Holly, decided to have herself an “F-it” moment and start a cat rescue while the world was shut down. Thanks to Covid, the non-profit “Lucky Cats Rescue” was born in Watertown, MA. They provide “specialized foster homes to cats that need extra care and compassion and match cats with humans that need some love and light in dark times.”

These cats hit the jackpot. Follow Lucky Cats Rescue and see for yourself.

As the pandemic transitioned into our new normal, she started tattooing again, but life was different. Of course it was. This woman had survived as a small business owner when so many hadn’t. This woman had started a successful non-profit. This woman worked on healing the parts of her that needed healing and I’ll be damned if I didn’t feel the empowerment radiating from her as she worked. She shared her dreams with me. And, when you share your dreams out loud, they become a plan.

Holly’s plan is named “The Sanctuary.” It’s a place where people in need of healing, whether it’s trauma survivors, lonely elders or anyone who needs a place to just get away from it all and have a cat sit on their lap, can come and do just that. We hear so much about therapy dogs, or horses or even bunnies, but not so much about cats. And there’s a LOT of cat lovers out there, so why is this not a thing?

Actually, it was already a plan before she told me. She’s raised over 40k already! She needs help grant writing, and probably a million other things, but this woman is doing this, because it needs to be done. And the possibilities at The Sanctuary are endless. My mind was swirling with ideas, and still is. I’ll bet yours is, too…

She shared the story of a senior woman who was missing the love of having cats. She couldn’t make it up to the second floor of the tattoo studio to spend time with Holly’s cat, so she set up a small loveseat in the entryway downstairs for her. She comes to visit and lights up when this cat bounds down the stairs to see her. There’s a video of this on her IG page, and despite my not being a huge cat person, I just about teared up watching this in action. Her joy with this cat was so wholesome. And I swear, the cat enjoyed her equally as much! The woman laughed and smiled and exuded the emotional energy of a child. It was beautiful. She needed the joy of playing with this cat. As a nurse, I can completely understand the loneliness of being old and alone. I see it all the time. And as a trauma survivor and a trauma recovery coach, I also understand the need to have a place to go to where the shit of the world isn’t. We all need moments of joy.

Holly tattooed a phoenix on me yesterday. It symbolizes rising up anew from the ashes. It’s making something beautiful and strong out of something dark. It’s empowerment. It’s beauty. It’s strength. It’s me. It’s Holly. And it’s every dream and plan we have. Like the phoenix, we are unstoppable.

The Friday Reminder and Prompt for #SoCS Nov. 12, 2022 | (lindaghill.com)

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Father’s day coming in hot

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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

The Friday Reminder and Prompt for #SoCS June 19, 2021 | (lindaghill.com)

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Soul box

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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

The Friday Reminder and Prompt for #SoCS Dec. 26/2020
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Magnet for the marginalized

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I spent most of my younger years trying so hard to be cool. I desperately wanted to fit in, to feel normal. But, the harder I tried, the more different I felt. The other kids knew it. As much as I tried to keep my secret from them, and even from me, they knew it. I was different.

Life continued, with me watching from the sidelines. Marginalized. Things happened. Experiences shaped my perspective, and even changed the trajectory of my life. That’s what happens to all of us, our experiences become the filter through which we view life. Good experiences give you a great view. Bad experiences, well…

Eventually, I escaped the sidelines. Somehow, I fabricated a better version of me, and no one caught on that the old me was still inside. I finally appeared to fit in. No matter that it didn’t feel that way to me. I was fine with the illusion.

Fast forward a few decades: I dropped the illusion and uncovered the real me. I put in a shit ton of work on her, and didn’t care about fitting in anymore. Funny, because that’s when I developed the most authentic relationships of my life. Go figure.

Of course, we all know that letting my light shine was a bit too much for some, so again, I was marginalized. It stung. But that’s ok. I’d outgrown them, anyway. It’s just a sad story, now.

Revealing the real Jami meant she could do anything she wanted. That’s what authenticity is, right? On top of the world. Badass mom. Best friend. Superstar nurse. The sky’s the limit.

But what I found I wanted was to connect with people who were like the old me. Or, the current me, depending on who you are asking. The marginalized. I was drawn to them like a magnet. Volunteering for the most difficult to love patients in my work life. Connecting with lost souls, hoping my offering of validation would allow them to be seen.

People just want to be seen, without having to earn it.

I spent a good year caring for a patient named Bill. No one else wanted to. His house was dirty. He was dirty. He didn’t care. Well, he didn’t seem to. He swore at most of the nurses and turned a lot of them away. He was the kind of guy most would roll their eyes at when they got assigned to him. But, for some reason, he liked me. And even though he never did anything I instructed him to do, I enjoyed taking care of him. I pretended his house wasn’t a mess. I pretended he wasn’t a mess. Or more so, I overlooked those things. They didn’t define who he was. They were just symptoms of something else. Like a fever.

I looked him in the eye when we spoke. I complemented him on his taste in music. I laughed at his jokes. I didn’t rush through our visits. I treated him like a human being, not a burden. He felt seen.

I wasn’t pretending. I did see him. No one will ever feel unseen around me, because I know what it’s like to be invisible. I may be a badass mom and a superstar nurse, but I identify as marginalized. The people who made me feel this way did it to punish me, but the joke’s on them. It’s actually a gift. It keeps me humble while I change the world, one little interaction at a time.

This post was written in response to Linda G Hills Stream of Consciousness Saturday

The Friday Reminder and Prompt for #SoCS Dec. 19/2020
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R.A.D

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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, “You could have used this 40 years ago“. He was spot on. I almost thought, “why bother 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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I am

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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.

 

The Friday Reminder and Prompt for #SoCS Nov. 24/18

 

 

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Actually, I can

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You can’t go back thirty years and look at that awful stuff. It will be too painful for you.

Actually, I can.

OK then, if you do, you won’t be able to handle it. It will be painful.

Actually, I will… and it is.

Then you can’t tell anyone. It will be too embarrassing for you.

Actually, I can, and it is.

Well, if you do tell someone, just tell your close friends. No one wants to hear that kind of stuff.

Actually, I can, and you’re right…they don’t.

OK, well… you definitely can’t tell your family. It will be too embarrassing for them. They won’t be able to handle it.

Actually, I can, and you’re right. It was, and they can’t.

But, you might lose them. You need them.

Actually, I did. Turns out, I don’t.       But, I miss them…

 

 

This post was written in response to Linda G. Hill’s Stream of Social Consciousness Saturday

The Friday Reminder and Prompt for #SoCS Oct. 20/18

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All the more precious

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I write about love a lot on here. Not so much love stories, or being in love…more like the struggle of love. Which is ironic, because real love should not be a struggle at all.  It is for me, though. Not as much, lately, but something I’ll probably be working on for the rest of my life…and likely during the next life, too.

Last year, I wrote a blog post about a really difficult, yet amazing time in my life. These difficult, amazing times make for the best writing from me, if I do say so myself. I often go back and read this particular story about the deer, it’s that amazing. You can read it here.

The reason I’m sharing this post from last year is not to promote it, or get out of writing something worthy tonight. I received a decent amount of comments on that post, considering I’m not well-known in the blogging world. One comment in particular has stuck with me all this time. I reference a phrase from it almost weekly, at times…in my mind. I’ve never said it out loud or written it down. It just plays in my mind, like someone softly speaking it to me when I least expect it. I don’t really know why it’s stuck with me. Must be part of God’s plan. That’s what I tend to say when I can’t figure something out, “It must be God’s plan for me to fall in love with emotionally unavailable men”. It’s a great way to deflect responsibility. But sometimes, I think it’s true. Sometimes, you just gotta give it to God, or you’ll drive yourself crazy trying to figure it out.

Anyway, I’ve been repeating this phrase from that one comment a lot lately. Dealing with love, or more accurately, the loss of love. More like the loss of the idea of love…my expectations of love. God, there was a period of time during the past few years where I didn’t think I was capable of even feeling love, let alone worthy of receiving love. I’ve grown past those feelings, a bit. Not by experiencing love, per say…but by facing the loss of my expectations, I’ve been able to grieve the love I thought I should have had. Well, I’m still grieving, to be honest. Does grief ever truly end? I’m not sure it does. I think you just learn to live around it. Or through it. You spend your life fluidly dancing around it then diving right in and sinking a bit. I never even knew you could grieve a feeling or emotion, did you? I also didn’t realize you could grieve a person when he was still alive. Trust me, you can.

Anyway, back to this comment I was talking about. It was from Finding A Sober Miracle on WordPress. We didn’t know each other at all when she wrote this. Since then, we’ve developed a connection. Another part of God’s plan I haven’t quite figured out just yet. So, she reads my post about the deer and my fears and trauma and confusion and she just opens up her heart and speaks to me….

“Please know that nothing could ever change y our worth in the slightest. If anything, you are all the more precious for being the lost lamb.”

Why do I keep repeating “you are all the more precious for being the lost lamb”? Over and over and over…for a good year and a half now.

I suppose I really am a lost lamb. I’ve had the people I love most in this world walk away from me this year. I know it’s them, and not me. I get it all. I understand their capabilities. I realize my value is not lessened because other’s can’t see it.  But I’m still the lost lamb. Understanding someone’s behavior doesn’t make the tears go away. Knowing why you can’t be in a family any longer doesn’t make you feel any less lost. Overcoming a life of trauma does not mean you won’t be traumatized as an adult, and overcoming abandonment issues is challenging when you are currently being abandoned. Does this make me more precious to God? I hope so. I hope there’s some divine reason for it…

I’m giving it to God.

 

The Friday Reminder and Prompt for #SoCS Oct. 13/18

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It Never Goes Away

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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…

 

 

The Friday Reminder and Prompt for #SoCS June 2/18Facebooktwitterredditpinterestlinkedinmail

Gratitude

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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.

  1. 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.
  2. 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.
  3. 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…
  4. 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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