We all do it. We all compete with people in high school - sometimes very obviously and sometimes in ways that are completely unspoken, but we do it. We have people who we just cannot stand to see in the halls and especially outside them....and then we get out of high school. Life changes. Life gets real, and the world gets huge.
It has been my experience that, immediately upon entering the huge world, the first place we go to find haven is among those with whom we shared history....and probably way more than that. This has happened to me many times, but today it was addressed specifically. "I know we were not close in our younger years, so I may be an unlikely friend, at best, but know I care and pray for you often....". I was so struck by this. There were like 6 years where we were in competing cliques in junior high and high school, but after that, like I said, the rules changed.
My life has been extremely challenging, but so has this person's. We have had little face to face contact, but social networking and the blog world have left us at least partially informed as to the goings on in each others' lives, and let me tell you. This has not been the white picket fence life for this kid. I have watched from afar as her family grew at nearly exactly the same rate as mine did. I watched her grow into her personality and character and achieve dreams that she must have had for a long time. Then I watched life hit her in the face in a way that seems totally unfair - a little one with a very rare, chronic illness. In the time since the diagnosis, she has remained publicly positive and, I assume, privately honest even having the courage to share publicly some of the nitty gritty of her feelings. Not easy stuff. Uncharted waters amid which there is not a ton of camaraderie or support. Despite that, she's still praying for me and apparently feels some regret for crap we did to each other from high school. I would like to address these things right now. I would like to share the things that this person has actually added to my life.
So lady, here goes.
The first major thing I remember about us being adults is when I was about to get married. Though I was not a virgin, my experience in the world of sex was unhealthy at best. You must have known or been able to see that I was scared, so you sat me down and reassured me and explained to me things that you were suspicious that I didn't know. You were correct. You also gave me the prettiest little something to pack in my bag for my honeymoon. It was the prettiest one I received. I could tell you spent time picking it out, and it made me feel special that you did that.
You got pregnant just a few months before I did with our first children. We were in the first time moms club together. I was glad you were blazing the trail for me, and I felt a tiny bond that we were sharing the experience at the relatively same time.
My nephew was born early and had a few complications that worried our family. You were working in the NICU with him. When I remembered that you were there, I felt peace. I knew that he would be loved on and taken care of. I remember telling my family that you were there, so they should feel less worried.
You grew into someone that loved her husband and her children and other people. That is huge for me. Watching someone become a balanced follower in our faith is a hard thing to do given some of the rules that were drilled into our heads our entire growing up life. You figured it out - at least in part. Thanks for that. You probably don't realize what a safe place you have become for people that are still doing the figuring out.
My third baby was my chunkiest at birth, but things went a LOT wrong with her. Despite the fact that I did, in fact, know how to nurse and take care of a newborn, something did go terribly wrong. My chunky baby had turned skeletal, I was horrified and felt really unsure of what to do. You sent me a private message telling me to follow my mommy gut and just have her weighed. This was on a Monday, and she had an appointment on Friday, but you persisted that no one would think ill of me for wanting to make sure she was healthy. The weigh in revealed that she had dropped a third of her body weight. She was the medical mystery of "failure to thrive". She spent the next week in the hospital being poked and prodded and evaluated and scanned. On our first night in the hospital, the head peds physician came in to see her. He stood over her bassinet with a very defeated expression on his face. I said to him "She looks pretty bad, doesn't she?" expecting him to be doctor-diplomatic with me and say something ambiguously positive like "Hey, we're going to do everything we can" or "We are not done investigating ways to help this little gal", but he didn't. He shook his head and let out a giant sigh and said "Yeah." and then turned and left the room. She was in bad shape. It took a LOT of work and an extremely dedicated team to get her stable. Well after we were past this horrible time, her nurse told me that, when they cathed her, no liquid came out....not a drop. Had I waited until our Friday appointment - had you NOT SPOKEN UP, I would have woken up to a dead baby laying beside me. I would not have my Sal gal. Did you know you were the only person that suggested to me to just take her in and have her weighed? Did you know that you were the only person who told me ANYTHING?
I could stop there. That one thing is good enough for me for the rest of my life, but that's not all I've got.
My life got real hairy after that. My marriage went down the toilet and so did my health, but around that same time is when you received you little one's diagnosis. You have spent this time with a hopeful smile on your face when you could manage it and a persistently positive outlook. You have not abandoned your faith in times when I'm sure you felt you'd lost it. You have not stopped loving your family or those around you. I have watched you turn trips to out of town hospitals for exploratory procedures into adventures for your kids. Let me tell you - they were adventures for the rest of us too. You made lemonade from lemons, and boy was it sweet to savor. You took the recipe of your life (see bloggy title) and you made it something that ADDED to everyone's experience here. You have taught us lessons and given us encouragement.
With all that going on, my dear, you have also taken time to find me. You have bothered to care and pray.....for me. You will not know for a long time maybe what the effects of that have been, but every time you have come to me and offered love, it has given me strength. It has replenished some of what was so depleted. That's just me. Don't you know that there are others? So so many others. You are magic, dear girl.
So thanks for high school. Thanks for what are now really funny memories of our cliques spying on each other and making fun of stupid things that wouldn't matter later. Thank you for sharing with me our funny history. Thank you for choosing to include me in the group of people in your life that you deem as friends. It is my honor. "Unlikely at best". No maam. Beauty. It is beauty to get to be counted as your friend. The promises of friendship and prayer and solidarity go both ways. Know that my turn will come to be support for you - a friend for you. I will gladly snatch that up at any moment's notice.
Let's continue this. Let's continue to share with each other these stories. Let's grow together in the quirky way we have found to be effective for the lives we have individually. Let's grow in beauty. Let's......be friends.
Wednesday, December 17, 2014
Friday, December 12, 2014
It's a little bit funny...
Today I found myself in a terrible mood. I have felt it all day, and I just didn't know why. I wrestled with it covering a bunch of bases by asking myself questions like "Am I hungry?", "Am I mad about something?" or "Did I just not sleep well?". The answers to those questions did not seem to provide any relief for my funk. It was just there. It's been there for a couple days, I think, and as soon as I let myself be still enough for my heart to speak, I heard the answer......I am sad.
I have tried to not be sad because there are so many people doing such wonderful things for me - the primary being Dan. He is so endlessly loving to me that it makes me feel embarrassed sometimes. It is humbling to have someone be so sacrificial with every part of who they are. I have had people from different points of my life offer me amazing encouragement lately. I am healthy. I have the opportunity for the first time in my entire life to sort through all the crap that has happened with someone who went to school to learn how to help people navigate the confusing waters of life. I have a lot to be thankful for, so I felt bad for being sad as if my sadness would imply an ingratitude for the beauty that I have in my life. When my sadness peaked out of my arsenal of emotions, I did as I have done so many times before in my life - I covered it so I couldn't see it. It did not go away, though, because the truth of how we feel never does. Emotions are healthy and part of our humanity. We are entitled, nay, required to have them. I have come to grips with this entitlement this week, so at this point in my evening, I will no longer refuse to acknowledge that I am sad.
I am sad because my 6 year old son got sick in the bathroom at school yesterday and didn't feel the need or permission to tell his teacher. She found out another way. Then he went home to NOT his momma snuggling him in my arms and making him comfortable. I don't know who did that for him or if anyone did, but it wasn't me. It doesn't get to be me right now, and that makes me so sad. It also makes me sad that he might already be very used to the fact that his mommy doesn't do those kind of things so he doesn't miss it.
I have had some really tough conversations this week that, while they were extremely productive, were still so difficult. The need for them is rooted in a lot of sadness. Talking through those things made me sad because I am still feeling the sadness from the original source. Sadness on top of sadness.
In working with a therapist, I have been given homework. I did the homework. It was heart wrenchingly painful to me. So painful. I do not have human words (at least in this language) to articulate the depth of pain that I felt as I relived some of the most painful times in my life knowing full well that, while I was addressing some of them, they were just that - only some. I was instructed to go way far back in my life and live there for long enough to allow the pained person of that moment to speak. She still hurts so bad. I gave her tools to sort out the pain, but just because you can sort pain out does not mean that it goes away. Sometimes, after the anger is gone, after the confusion is gone, after the logic sets in, the sadness stays. It is a weird things when you reach the point of letting your heart break.....for yourself. Not in a self-pitying, perpetual victim kind of way. The kind of heart break that acknowledges the things that you KNOW you felt all along but, for whatever reason, did not feel permission to express the way you needed to. That you were left with damage, in this case, as a very young person. It all makes for some sadness.
I am lonely. I am such a social person by nature. I thrive around people. Cohabitating with someone who likes low to no lighting in a room and does not need interaction with people and who has hours and hours worth of end of semester grading to complete can leave an extrovert feeling a little lost. I even went out to lunch with someone this week - I should feel glad for new friends, right? Yes, and I am. There are just some of my old ones that I miss so desperately. There is something so wonderful to sit with someone or go somewhere with someone and snort-laugh over things drawn from your shared history. I miss those people.
I keep hearing about negative things happening to people for whom I care really deeply. I feel so helpless, and my empathetic nature bursts to the front of my brain and heart ready to love away all the hurts that people are experiencing. I am learning though, that I don't actually have the magic ability to erase people's hurts - just like nobody had the ability to erase mine.
I am still struggling with the fact that my weird recent life events have caused a lot of questions and undoubtedly a lot of hurts that I have no way to address. This makes me really sad too.
I don't know what I'm going to do with all of these things, but I know this much already. I am allowed to be sad. It doesn't mean that I'm dysfunctional or living in the past or being anxious about the future. It doesn't mean I'm being ungrateful or choosing to look past the blessings that I have in my life. It just means I'm sad.
I love you all. The only people who read this blog are most likely friends of mine. You are in my life because we chose each other. This journey of life is so crazy and weird. I love the thought that we're in it together.
I have tried to not be sad because there are so many people doing such wonderful things for me - the primary being Dan. He is so endlessly loving to me that it makes me feel embarrassed sometimes. It is humbling to have someone be so sacrificial with every part of who they are. I have had people from different points of my life offer me amazing encouragement lately. I am healthy. I have the opportunity for the first time in my entire life to sort through all the crap that has happened with someone who went to school to learn how to help people navigate the confusing waters of life. I have a lot to be thankful for, so I felt bad for being sad as if my sadness would imply an ingratitude for the beauty that I have in my life. When my sadness peaked out of my arsenal of emotions, I did as I have done so many times before in my life - I covered it so I couldn't see it. It did not go away, though, because the truth of how we feel never does. Emotions are healthy and part of our humanity. We are entitled, nay, required to have them. I have come to grips with this entitlement this week, so at this point in my evening, I will no longer refuse to acknowledge that I am sad.
I am sad because my 6 year old son got sick in the bathroom at school yesterday and didn't feel the need or permission to tell his teacher. She found out another way. Then he went home to NOT his momma snuggling him in my arms and making him comfortable. I don't know who did that for him or if anyone did, but it wasn't me. It doesn't get to be me right now, and that makes me so sad. It also makes me sad that he might already be very used to the fact that his mommy doesn't do those kind of things so he doesn't miss it.
I have had some really tough conversations this week that, while they were extremely productive, were still so difficult. The need for them is rooted in a lot of sadness. Talking through those things made me sad because I am still feeling the sadness from the original source. Sadness on top of sadness.
In working with a therapist, I have been given homework. I did the homework. It was heart wrenchingly painful to me. So painful. I do not have human words (at least in this language) to articulate the depth of pain that I felt as I relived some of the most painful times in my life knowing full well that, while I was addressing some of them, they were just that - only some. I was instructed to go way far back in my life and live there for long enough to allow the pained person of that moment to speak. She still hurts so bad. I gave her tools to sort out the pain, but just because you can sort pain out does not mean that it goes away. Sometimes, after the anger is gone, after the confusion is gone, after the logic sets in, the sadness stays. It is a weird things when you reach the point of letting your heart break.....for yourself. Not in a self-pitying, perpetual victim kind of way. The kind of heart break that acknowledges the things that you KNOW you felt all along but, for whatever reason, did not feel permission to express the way you needed to. That you were left with damage, in this case, as a very young person. It all makes for some sadness.
I am lonely. I am such a social person by nature. I thrive around people. Cohabitating with someone who likes low to no lighting in a room and does not need interaction with people and who has hours and hours worth of end of semester grading to complete can leave an extrovert feeling a little lost. I even went out to lunch with someone this week - I should feel glad for new friends, right? Yes, and I am. There are just some of my old ones that I miss so desperately. There is something so wonderful to sit with someone or go somewhere with someone and snort-laugh over things drawn from your shared history. I miss those people.
I keep hearing about negative things happening to people for whom I care really deeply. I feel so helpless, and my empathetic nature bursts to the front of my brain and heart ready to love away all the hurts that people are experiencing. I am learning though, that I don't actually have the magic ability to erase people's hurts - just like nobody had the ability to erase mine.
I am still struggling with the fact that my weird recent life events have caused a lot of questions and undoubtedly a lot of hurts that I have no way to address. This makes me really sad too.
I don't know what I'm going to do with all of these things, but I know this much already. I am allowed to be sad. It doesn't mean that I'm dysfunctional or living in the past or being anxious about the future. It doesn't mean I'm being ungrateful or choosing to look past the blessings that I have in my life. It just means I'm sad.
I love you all. The only people who read this blog are most likely friends of mine. You are in my life because we chose each other. This journey of life is so crazy and weird. I love the thought that we're in it together.
Saturday, December 6, 2014
On reinventing
I have started writing this post 4 times. This is time number 5. This is one of those days when I'm not sure exactly where to begin or about what thing I would like to write. I'm just at a loss. I have a lot of questions for people, and I'm not sure how to ask them. "Why did you do this?" "What did you want to tell me?" "Did I hurt you?" "Are you mad at me?" "Why does it seem like you erased me?" "Why does it seem like you are protecting yourself from me?" Some of these questions are valid and some of them hold emotions that I have projected onto the person or persons to whom I am asking these silent questions, but I'm not sure which questions fall into which category. It is, at best, confusing. It is, at worst, terrifying. I am terrified.
I once had a very critical heart ask me with a sneer on the lips "What do you WANT from life, SARAH?! I mean, what do you want to DO?!" I am not sure the sort of answer for which the inquirer was looking, but the question sort of blind sided me. Was this heart asking me what my career aspirations were as I sat there rocking my infant son to sleep? Was it asking me what sort of name I wanted to make for myself? Was it asking me what changes I felt needed to be made in my person? These questions fired through my brain in a moment's time, and I didn't really have a way to answer them so I just gave the only answer I had. "I just want to love as many people as possible, and I want to share the love of God with as many people as I possibly can." I looked back at the questioning heart and waited for some sort of response. There was nothing. Instantly it became like the conversation had never occurred, but that was my most honest answer. That is really all I want out of life.
So why would the questions in the opening paragraph invoke terror in me? Because every possible answer to each and every one of them has to mean that someone did not feel loved or did not, for whatever reason, return the love that I offered. Both of those are heartbreaking to me. What if my actions or the circumstances of my life leave someone or several someones with the question of whether or not I actually love them? How can I repair that? How hard should I work to do that? Do I ask that they meet me in the middle or do I go all the way to where they are? This is dependent on whether or not each person in question is a healthy part of my life or a toxic part of my life. The lines for those classifications are very, very blurry. They're more like an area of a really attractive shade of grey. I want to venture over to the grey to see beauty of the haze. Fogginess can bring out such beauty in some things. What if the beauty of restoration is just inside the fog? Why can't I just wander around in there for a bit and enjoy the glow of mist laden light?......because while this grey can offer some beauty in some cases, in others, it can be an indicator that a very dangerous dark is waiting for me just on the other side. In fact, a person can get lost in grey and find themselves much closer to the darkness than what they ever would have chosen in their right mind when they were still in the light. There could be, for all I can see at this moment, a really vicious trap laid by someone who does not care for my soul.
At this point, because my heart is still in such tumult, I am not a good judge of character. I think this has been the case for a long, long time with only short breaks of times of wisdom. This.....is why I am terrified. I have had people offer me what seemed like beautiful, selfless gifts only to realize that said gifts were fashioned with artfully attached Pinnochio-like strings. There have also been other people who gave gifts for which they never even asked to be thanked or repaid. While I have always TRIED to show gratitude for these, I'm sure I fell short mostly because I was so overcome with the love that I felt I had received that I never found a way worthy of showing what I truly felt.
The hard parts of this thing are these. Someone offering a gift most often refuses to believe that they are doing it for any other reason except the honest benevolence of their heart. They would never be willing to admit that they gave someone something with an agenda in mind. It is also very hard for me to differentiate between these hearts and the ones that have had love erupt in their souls and just want to let it spill over to me.
My first instinct in life is to offer love and the investment of my love to nearly everyone with whom I spend any length of time. If I receive what looks to me like love, I tend to throw myself into reciprocating that. This has not served me very well. There are people that I assumed would be in my life forever who have chosen to make their exit. This.....hurts. There are also people that I never expected to be a part of my life for the length of time that they have or to offer me completely unconditional love in the way that they have. This dichotomy is so frustrating.
I am living in a new place around new people until May. What investments do I make in that time? When we move back to Florida in May, I will not be able to deny that the invention of the life I created prior to nearly 4 weeks ago will not exist any longer. What do I do then?
Who am I today? Who should I be tomorrow? What am I supposed to be "when I grow up"? Don't think that the ultimate sources of these answers is lost on me. It's not the knowing of the answers or even the knowing where to find the answers that's the hard part. It's the getting to the sources that is the very hardest part. That is the part that has tripped up humanity since it began. While I wait for my next epiphany, I will rest. I will look at the afore mentioned "nails" in my hand and dream about what I would like to build. I will also choose to continue to love. It is hard right now. It is scary, but I will still do everything I can in this finite being of mine to offer to every person unconditional, judgement free love. As time passes, my ways of growing and giving to others will change, but for now, this is all I've got so that is what I will give.
Tuesday, November 25, 2014
"Let It Go"
I remember the movie "Frozen" coming out. I had friends go to see it in the theater and raving about what a great "sister movie" it was. It was Disney. It was hype. We all love Disney movies! Disney knows how to make a movie, but gosh, I've done Disney. It was just another Disney movie, right?
Well then I watched it with my kids.....and the song "Let it go" played. I felt waaaaaay embarrassed for choking up while it played. I identified with it so much. I felt so silly for being so deeply moved by the words, but I cannot help myself.
I am listening to it right now and tearing up.....like a lot. In fact, I've listened to it like 8 times today, and our neighbors are probably TIRED of my vocal rendition.
So I could go into a cheesy diatribe of the parallels that exist between Elsa and myself.....okay, forget it. That's exactly what I'm going to do.
As I mentioned in a previous post, I spent my young years caring for my younger siblings. I felt an incredible weight to be the example that they needed and to meet absolutely every expectation that my parents held for me. My failures were crushing to me absolutely every time I experienced one. I was sure that the scope of my shortcomings was very far reaching - that my little brother and sister were going to fall short in life because of my poor example or worse.....that I would break my parents' hearts and make them feel like they had wasted the work of their hearts and souls in raising me.
I carried this weight on into adulthood. I felt like walking a very tightly drawn line was exactly what it took to please everyone and show them my appreciation for who they were. I did this in every area of my life. I tried so hard to be.......that perfect girl....the one that everyone could look up to.
The sad part is that I was largely successful. I kept a smile on my face while I watched my brother and sister while everyone else was out pursuing "selfish" degrees that only promoted their personal dreams (such a warped perspective, huh). I helped around the house. I even helped pay a few things when it got tight for my parents. I never gave them reason to worry about anything that I was doing. I adopted every perspective they had for my life - even when that wasn't a requirement of theirs. I made it to my wedding day only mildly touched by sexual indiscretion. I married the son of our pastor - the American hero - pro baseball player turned Marine. We made a very quintessential looking church going American couple who then gave birth to a very perfect little baby. I did crafts. I cooked things. I headed up ministries at our church, and, if there was a vacant spot in the song service, the powers that be knew that I could belt out whatever they asked. Things were.....perfect.....until they weren't.
I had created a pedestal for myself built from the stuff of arrogance. I was so afraid of making a mistake that would hurt someone and so completely sure that my life of good behavior was going to exempt me from damage that I stuffed myself into the box of what other people expected. Then life happened. I have a lot of anger for mistreatment that I received from MULTIPLE people, but I have learned (or I'm learning) to be thankful for that. When you are mistreated, it bothers you because you reach the realization that you are now living in a box.....but not a box of YOUR design. It is one fashioned by someone else. Someone who does not dwell in the depths of your soul. Someone on the outside. When the realization struck me that I was trapped, I still had left enough righteous indignation that I broke out.
Let me tell you. The breaking out is not easy. Think about a literal breaking out of a box. You will get scraped up. You will get bruised. You may even......break....but you're gonna get out of that box because you know that you should not be there. The intent of the one or ones who put you in that box is not to watch you grow - it's to keep you from growing. The really humbling thing is when you learn that you were the one who handed these powers the hammer and nails and planks of wood....and that you even drove a few nails all on your own.
Since I first broke out of my "box", I have felt more weights at certain points - limits. I discovered that, though I had broken open the confines that had existed, I was still carrying around the pieces completely by my own choice. I would have moments where I would feel really strong and set these pieces down so I could flex the bulging muscles of my spirit to anyone that would look, but as soon as I was done, I would pick some of those pieces right back up again and lug them with me through the journey of my human life.
It is only very, very recently that I have decided that my arms are too tired for that. They are strong now, and to carry these pieces around with my any longer - to choose to bear the weight of other people's expectations - is.....a....waste.
I guess right now I don't yet feel like I'm walking in my journey. I sort of feel like I'm sitting down on a comfortable bench. I have set most of these figurative planks down at my side, and I'm kind of just holding a few nails these days. What am I going to do with those nails now? I'm going to build something new, but this time it's not going to be a box, and it's also not going to be a pedestal. Neither one of those worked for me. I'm going to build something else.....something that comes from the inside of me.
That may sound even more arrogant than my initial thoughts of building my past fixtures, but no. It's not. I was created to be THIS girl.....with no limits. I have been given life and breath to live a life of abundance and opportunities, and I have been given examples of love so I would have the right fuel. I have been given dreams of my very own in this brain and this soul.
It can be very cold in the world of pursuing what the true design of your life actually has for you. You end up pushing very far away the erectors of the box you used to occupy or of the pedestal atop which you sat. People judge you for making your own choices....every day, but let me tell you this if you ever thought of me as a "strong" person. I have learned how to travel my own path and ask for direction from those that truly care for my soul. I have learned how much I can take. I have learned how to battle through insurmountable things. I have learned how to stay alive in the "cold" of this world, and I have learned......
.....the cold never bothered me anyway.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L0MK7qz13bU
Well then I watched it with my kids.....and the song "Let it go" played. I felt waaaaaay embarrassed for choking up while it played. I identified with it so much. I felt so silly for being so deeply moved by the words, but I cannot help myself.
I am listening to it right now and tearing up.....like a lot. In fact, I've listened to it like 8 times today, and our neighbors are probably TIRED of my vocal rendition.
So I could go into a cheesy diatribe of the parallels that exist between Elsa and myself.....okay, forget it. That's exactly what I'm going to do.
As I mentioned in a previous post, I spent my young years caring for my younger siblings. I felt an incredible weight to be the example that they needed and to meet absolutely every expectation that my parents held for me. My failures were crushing to me absolutely every time I experienced one. I was sure that the scope of my shortcomings was very far reaching - that my little brother and sister were going to fall short in life because of my poor example or worse.....that I would break my parents' hearts and make them feel like they had wasted the work of their hearts and souls in raising me.
I carried this weight on into adulthood. I felt like walking a very tightly drawn line was exactly what it took to please everyone and show them my appreciation for who they were. I did this in every area of my life. I tried so hard to be.......that perfect girl....the one that everyone could look up to.
The sad part is that I was largely successful. I kept a smile on my face while I watched my brother and sister while everyone else was out pursuing "selfish" degrees that only promoted their personal dreams (such a warped perspective, huh). I helped around the house. I even helped pay a few things when it got tight for my parents. I never gave them reason to worry about anything that I was doing. I adopted every perspective they had for my life - even when that wasn't a requirement of theirs. I made it to my wedding day only mildly touched by sexual indiscretion. I married the son of our pastor - the American hero - pro baseball player turned Marine. We made a very quintessential looking church going American couple who then gave birth to a very perfect little baby. I did crafts. I cooked things. I headed up ministries at our church, and, if there was a vacant spot in the song service, the powers that be knew that I could belt out whatever they asked. Things were.....perfect.....until they weren't.
I had created a pedestal for myself built from the stuff of arrogance. I was so afraid of making a mistake that would hurt someone and so completely sure that my life of good behavior was going to exempt me from damage that I stuffed myself into the box of what other people expected. Then life happened. I have a lot of anger for mistreatment that I received from MULTIPLE people, but I have learned (or I'm learning) to be thankful for that. When you are mistreated, it bothers you because you reach the realization that you are now living in a box.....but not a box of YOUR design. It is one fashioned by someone else. Someone who does not dwell in the depths of your soul. Someone on the outside. When the realization struck me that I was trapped, I still had left enough righteous indignation that I broke out.
Let me tell you. The breaking out is not easy. Think about a literal breaking out of a box. You will get scraped up. You will get bruised. You may even......break....but you're gonna get out of that box because you know that you should not be there. The intent of the one or ones who put you in that box is not to watch you grow - it's to keep you from growing. The really humbling thing is when you learn that you were the one who handed these powers the hammer and nails and planks of wood....and that you even drove a few nails all on your own.
Since I first broke out of my "box", I have felt more weights at certain points - limits. I discovered that, though I had broken open the confines that had existed, I was still carrying around the pieces completely by my own choice. I would have moments where I would feel really strong and set these pieces down so I could flex the bulging muscles of my spirit to anyone that would look, but as soon as I was done, I would pick some of those pieces right back up again and lug them with me through the journey of my human life.
It is only very, very recently that I have decided that my arms are too tired for that. They are strong now, and to carry these pieces around with my any longer - to choose to bear the weight of other people's expectations - is.....a....waste.
I guess right now I don't yet feel like I'm walking in my journey. I sort of feel like I'm sitting down on a comfortable bench. I have set most of these figurative planks down at my side, and I'm kind of just holding a few nails these days. What am I going to do with those nails now? I'm going to build something new, but this time it's not going to be a box, and it's also not going to be a pedestal. Neither one of those worked for me. I'm going to build something else.....something that comes from the inside of me.
That may sound even more arrogant than my initial thoughts of building my past fixtures, but no. It's not. I was created to be THIS girl.....with no limits. I have been given life and breath to live a life of abundance and opportunities, and I have been given examples of love so I would have the right fuel. I have been given dreams of my very own in this brain and this soul.
It can be very cold in the world of pursuing what the true design of your life actually has for you. You end up pushing very far away the erectors of the box you used to occupy or of the pedestal atop which you sat. People judge you for making your own choices....every day, but let me tell you this if you ever thought of me as a "strong" person. I have learned how to travel my own path and ask for direction from those that truly care for my soul. I have learned how much I can take. I have learned how to battle through insurmountable things. I have learned how to stay alive in the "cold" of this world, and I have learned......
.....the cold never bothered me anyway.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L0MK7qz13bU
Sunday, November 23, 2014
The norm
I am making an effort to write with much more regularity than I have in the past. This means that some days I write for the sake of writing rather than waiting to be inspired with a theme. So today, I will just recount the journey of today.
We keep strange hours. Dan is a night owl as am I. We usually go to bed around 3 a.m. This means that we also rise after our bodies have fulfilled their need of rest. This is probably one of the healthiest things I have done for my physical body in a long, long while. I cannot even begin to address in this post the amount of distress I experienced at my years long battle with an inability to sleep. So sleep feels good. It's still strange to me to wake and think right off "Oh I'm still so sleepy" only to realize that I am not - that I am ready to face the day.
So on this day, I woke up at about 11:30 after going to sleep around 4. I got out of bed and went to the living room to scoop up my phone and see what was happening in the world of social networking. It was then that I saw comments from people requesting to have the address for this blog. Because I address things here and express things here so transparently, I prefer inviting people to look at it rather than just vomiting the address on everyone's newsfeed. I was pleasantly surprised at the amount of response. I wasn't inundated with scores of requests. I got a few, but some of them were from people who surprised me at their curiosity in regards to what my journey is right now.
Writing is cathartic for me. There is something scientifically founded about what it does for the mind to remove from that thoughtful cage the feelings that want so desperately to be freed. I have wondered, though, why do I blog it? What gratification does it offer me to post this semi-publicly?
When you go through something that scares you or hurts or leaves a scar of any kind, the pervading fear through all of that is that you are......alone. There are moments when humans enjoy solitude - some much more frequently than others, but not a single one of us enjoys feeling ostracized or exiled as the result of something that was not our fault. We experience things that leave damage, and our first thought is, at least a lot of times, that we will no longer be accepted because of our scars. We feel almost sure that they are ugly to others - unbearable to view - offensive.
There is something that I have learned in being in the beauty industry for almost a decade. There is no such thing as ugly. Skin can be evened out. Zits or marks can be covered. Eyes that one feels are too little can be made to look larger or cheekbones cushioned by more flesh than you'd like can be given a light dust of color to make them shine in all the glory you wished they'd have. You don't put a paper bag over your face. You don't hide. You find a way to present things about yourself that you very well may HATE, and you normalize them. You reveal slight parts of yourself to every observer to a level at which you feel comfortable. As you do this, you feel confident in your new appearance, but at the same time, you see the lack of necessity to do this. You realize that people aren't looking at the blush on your cheeks. They're looking at your dimples. They aren't looking at the shadows or contours on your eyelids. They're looking at the sparkle. They stop complimenting your lipstick, and they tell you instead how much they love your smile. You create a slight veil so you feel accepted.....and then you find yourself willing to make that veil lighter and lighter. Your mind reaches a point with those that you have learned to trust that your "blemishes" are okay. They reveal to you that they have the same ones. The things which you once hated because you were sure they would separate you from everyone become........normal.
That is what I am doing here. I have felt for so long that my scars were all that showed. I put on a THICK veil of personality and endless work, but the scars poked through. I would let certain feelings or sentiments slip through my teeth and then immediately regret it. I was found out. I had gone that moment with no cosmetic for the blemishes of my soul. I stopped being as normal as everyone who didn't openly bear their scars.
The jury is still out in my mind as to what people's opinions will be of me after I share such raw details. At this point, I have stopped caring because I HAVE to share these things for a couple reasons.
1. These things really happened to me. They shaped me. They made me who I am. They equipped me with wonderful tools or robbed from me the very same thing. If you cannot accept me in my angriest, most bitter state, then we are not friends, and you've got a lot to learn. Life will one day hit you in the face. Your turn will come. I hope that you don't erect too high of a pedestal for yourself because that's a long way to fall, but, when you do, come find me. We'll slop through your trenches together.
2. I am not the only one to whom these tragedies have happened. I want to normalize them. I want to use words with stigma like "rape" and "abuse" and "blood" and "anger". I want to use words that make people wince. They have to stop making people wince because there are our brothers and sisters in this world of humanity that need to know they have a safe place, but they won't seek it out because they are afraid to see someone wince at the ugliness of their scars.
3. I want to help. I want nothing more than for my thoughts here and the progress that I may or may not experience to offer you strength or at least a cautionary tale of what not to do. I don't want to waste a split second of what I have lived because it is just that - it is my life. I get ONE. This one. This is it, so let's use it up.
Thank you for every person that has chosen to read these usually very disjointed posts. You are making me feel accepted. You are letting me express things that had burrowed their biting mouths into my soul for a very, very long time. You are offering acceptance to the whole world of us that are hurting. You are doing something bigger.
Thank you.
We keep strange hours. Dan is a night owl as am I. We usually go to bed around 3 a.m. This means that we also rise after our bodies have fulfilled their need of rest. This is probably one of the healthiest things I have done for my physical body in a long, long while. I cannot even begin to address in this post the amount of distress I experienced at my years long battle with an inability to sleep. So sleep feels good. It's still strange to me to wake and think right off "Oh I'm still so sleepy" only to realize that I am not - that I am ready to face the day.
So on this day, I woke up at about 11:30 after going to sleep around 4. I got out of bed and went to the living room to scoop up my phone and see what was happening in the world of social networking. It was then that I saw comments from people requesting to have the address for this blog. Because I address things here and express things here so transparently, I prefer inviting people to look at it rather than just vomiting the address on everyone's newsfeed. I was pleasantly surprised at the amount of response. I wasn't inundated with scores of requests. I got a few, but some of them were from people who surprised me at their curiosity in regards to what my journey is right now.
Writing is cathartic for me. There is something scientifically founded about what it does for the mind to remove from that thoughtful cage the feelings that want so desperately to be freed. I have wondered, though, why do I blog it? What gratification does it offer me to post this semi-publicly?
When you go through something that scares you or hurts or leaves a scar of any kind, the pervading fear through all of that is that you are......alone. There are moments when humans enjoy solitude - some much more frequently than others, but not a single one of us enjoys feeling ostracized or exiled as the result of something that was not our fault. We experience things that leave damage, and our first thought is, at least a lot of times, that we will no longer be accepted because of our scars. We feel almost sure that they are ugly to others - unbearable to view - offensive.
There is something that I have learned in being in the beauty industry for almost a decade. There is no such thing as ugly. Skin can be evened out. Zits or marks can be covered. Eyes that one feels are too little can be made to look larger or cheekbones cushioned by more flesh than you'd like can be given a light dust of color to make them shine in all the glory you wished they'd have. You don't put a paper bag over your face. You don't hide. You find a way to present things about yourself that you very well may HATE, and you normalize them. You reveal slight parts of yourself to every observer to a level at which you feel comfortable. As you do this, you feel confident in your new appearance, but at the same time, you see the lack of necessity to do this. You realize that people aren't looking at the blush on your cheeks. They're looking at your dimples. They aren't looking at the shadows or contours on your eyelids. They're looking at the sparkle. They stop complimenting your lipstick, and they tell you instead how much they love your smile. You create a slight veil so you feel accepted.....and then you find yourself willing to make that veil lighter and lighter. Your mind reaches a point with those that you have learned to trust that your "blemishes" are okay. They reveal to you that they have the same ones. The things which you once hated because you were sure they would separate you from everyone become........normal.
That is what I am doing here. I have felt for so long that my scars were all that showed. I put on a THICK veil of personality and endless work, but the scars poked through. I would let certain feelings or sentiments slip through my teeth and then immediately regret it. I was found out. I had gone that moment with no cosmetic for the blemishes of my soul. I stopped being as normal as everyone who didn't openly bear their scars.
The jury is still out in my mind as to what people's opinions will be of me after I share such raw details. At this point, I have stopped caring because I HAVE to share these things for a couple reasons.
1. These things really happened to me. They shaped me. They made me who I am. They equipped me with wonderful tools or robbed from me the very same thing. If you cannot accept me in my angriest, most bitter state, then we are not friends, and you've got a lot to learn. Life will one day hit you in the face. Your turn will come. I hope that you don't erect too high of a pedestal for yourself because that's a long way to fall, but, when you do, come find me. We'll slop through your trenches together.
2. I am not the only one to whom these tragedies have happened. I want to normalize them. I want to use words with stigma like "rape" and "abuse" and "blood" and "anger". I want to use words that make people wince. They have to stop making people wince because there are our brothers and sisters in this world of humanity that need to know they have a safe place, but they won't seek it out because they are afraid to see someone wince at the ugliness of their scars.
3. I want to help. I want nothing more than for my thoughts here and the progress that I may or may not experience to offer you strength or at least a cautionary tale of what not to do. I don't want to waste a split second of what I have lived because it is just that - it is my life. I get ONE. This one. This is it, so let's use it up.
Thank you for every person that has chosen to read these usually very disjointed posts. You are making me feel accepted. You are letting me express things that had burrowed their biting mouths into my soul for a very, very long time. You are offering acceptance to the whole world of us that are hurting. You are doing something bigger.
Thank you.
Saturday, November 22, 2014
What would my dad do
I think I was a daddy's girl from the moment I entered the world. He was the strongest man I knew. His smile was the most handsome. He was always the funniest person in the room. He could do anything.....and I was his princess.
When I was a little girl, he would take my fingers and bend my wrist and kiss my hand. He did this so many times that I began to just go up to him with my hand extended for him to kiss it. He would smile his big dimpled smile and giggle but he would kiss it every single time.
My dad was DEFINITELY not a perfect parent. At the beginning of my life, my dad could hold a job about as well as you can hold air in your hand, so......not well. He was involved with terrible people as his friends. He made impulsive decisions regarding my parents' finances. He was a logistical train wreck, but that's not what I remember. I just remember love. I remember the kisses on the hand and on my cheek. I remember the laughter. I remember the strength.
My Nannie tells the story that her second born was "such a good baby". You could just sit him in the floor, and he wouldn't fuss or get into trouble. He would just stay right where you put him. When he was 18 months old, they discovered that his docile nature was actually because he couldn't see beyond his own nose to even explore anything. I also heard the story that, after my grandparents got his glasses, that my Grandpa John was holding him, and that baby boy just stared at his daddy - exploring every inch of his face. He reached up and touched all over that face. He was literally seeing it for the first time, and matching a face with the voice he'd heard all that time left him in a state nothing short of wonder.
My grandfather was not a warm parent to my dad and his older brother when they were little. Kind of absentee, but he would still take the boys on fishing trips or on errands and whatnot. Sometimes my dad would go on fishing trips just the two of them, and my Grandpa John would sing "Oh Danny Boy" to HIS Danny boy. Then came 2nd grade for my dad. The public school system in Arkansas started giving IQ tests to lower elementary school students. His family's financial limitations did not leave my dad with very updated glasses prescriptions. They had to drive from Forrest City, Arkansas to Memphis to get him glasses, and the glasses and the trips were a lot for their wallets to bear. My dad could not see well the questions on the IQ test, so the answers that he wrote earned him a qualification that he brought home to show his parents. "idiot". He was declared by the public school system of Arkansas in 1965 to be "an idiot". The fishing trips abruptly ended. The fun errands into town ended. Any shreds of affection that existed ended.....and my Grandpa John gave my dad a new name. No longer was he "Danny". From that day forward on into his adult life, when my Grandpa John would call my dad by his new name....."Dummy". "Git over here, Dummy!" "Go put that away, Dummy." "Go feed the dogs, Dummy". That was his new name.
The abuse my dad endured after that test in 2nd grade is beyond what I can imagine doing to a child. My dad was routinely beaten (not spanked - beaten). When he was 11, he committed a fairly minor infraction. The punishment for this was being locked in his room - for a year. My dad was allowed to leave his room to use the bathroom and to go to school and to do his chores on their property. When these tasks were complete, he was sent to his room....alone....away from his siblings....with the door locked.....for an entire year. He was given his meals to eat on his bed while everyone else ate their meals together at the table on the other side of the same wall. He would just lay in bed alone for hours and hours. To pass the time, he got ahold of a record. It was a recording of the opera Madame Butterfly. This musical enjoyment would not have been allowed to him, and he knew that, so his 11 year old self gathered materials and figured out how to build a headset - earphones - to connect to the record player he had. No one had taught him how to make something like that. He just looked around at what he had and fashioned something to meet the need he had. He needed to listen to Madame Butterfly. That was his escape. He would lay in bed, night after night, with tears streaming down his face and listen to the silken voices belt out the music.
Things got so much worse. The older my dad got, the more severe the abuse got. I even had a conversation a couple years ago with one of my uncles just to fact check, and I realized my dad had been very conservative in describing the things that happened. Beatings on the back or the back of the legs became punches to the face. There was blood. There were bruises. There were things that couldn't be hidden. There was an incident where my grandfather grabbed my dad by the neck and shoved him up against a wall. He was choking him. Just as his vision began to narrow and go black, my Nannie screamed out "JOHN STOP!!!! You're gonna KILL HIM!!!!". He released his grip, and my dad could breathe again. I asked my dad once why he didn't ever punch back when these things would occur. His answer "Because I was bigger than he was, and I knew I could kill him. I didn't want to hurt him." I just thought "What?! Why would you CARE to not hurt someone that repeatedly damaged you?!" I never asked the question because I knew the answer - he loved him.
My whole childhood I knew that my Grandpa John had been horrible to my dad. I never remember my dad saying anything disparaging about his own father, but, though I did not know all the ugly truths until I was older, things must have come up in my parents' conversations that left me with that conclusion. One day, when visiting my grandfather, I actually asked him, very matter of factly "So how come you used to always beat my dad?" I wasn't being combative or bratty. I was just confused. I guess I figured I'd just get it straight from the horse's mouth.
I will never forget the day that my grandfather died. My dad sat in the chair in his office and sobbed like a little kid. It was so weird to me. I had the thought again "Why are you sad?! Aren't you relieved? That jerk can't ever hurt you or anyone else again.", but it didn't matter. My dad had lost his daddy. He loved him. He had forgiven him, and he was going to miss him. He WAS sad.
I don't know the exact moment that forgiveness happened, but I do know this. After I was adult, my dad told me a story.
When I was in first grade, my mother had begun to have debilitating panic attacks while my brother and I were at school. My dad immediately found a therapy program for her. At one of her appointments, my dad sat in and started asking questions in regard to his own life. The therapist finished the conversation with my mom and then gave my dad some instructions. She told him to go home and write a letter to "Little Danny" and to tell him that he was safe - that "Big Danny" was a big strong man now, and he knew that "Little Danny" was being hurt but that he wasn't going to let it happen ever again. He was going to protect "Little Danny" from John no matter what. He was safe forever.
Sitting in my dad's office (which we shared together for the business we had), he told me that when he finished writing the letter, he looked down at the paper and noticed something startling.....his handwriting was not the handwriting he used as an adult. He had literally channeled his 11 year old self to the point that his hand wrote each letter in the note as he would have penned it as an 11 year old child. His healing began at that point. He had halted the damage of the abuse from that moment until the end of his life. The abuse itself didn't end until the day my grandfather died, but the damage ceased. My dad spent the rest of his life successfully protecting "Little Danny".
In the therapy of unearthing all of this trauma I have experienced in my life, I am having many conversations - talking out absolutely everything. Last night I broke down crying on Dan's shoulder over something that I'm dealing with, and I felt these words spill out of my lips, "I just miss my dad. He would know what to tell me to do. He would know what to say, and I don't get to ask him because he isn't here."
We spent the next 3 hours talking about what my dad did with his pain. He didn't deny it. He acknowledged within himself and to a select few the severity of the pain he had endured. His pain was greater than mine. I was never abused by a parent that should innately love me. He lived that pain every single day of his life, but he stopped letting it cripple him. He forgave. He loved.
I am making my best effort at bullying past all my pain - all my injustices. Whatever I'm doing is not working. I am at a loss. I have a few answers, but I'm still at the stage of unearthing a lot of things that I have repressed. I find myself in moments that should be nothing but happy getting lost in "old ghosts" as I call them to Dan. I have some reminder or revelation of traumas or depths of traumas that I hadn't ever realized before. They are rearing their ugly heads and stealing from me still. I don't know what to do with them.
Normally in my posts, I reach some sort of epiphany about the greater meaning of my writings, and I share that in my best poetic voice. Today I am not able to do that. I have no idea what my journey of healing is going to look like. I am at the beginning. I am at a place where I don't even know what to call certain things. They don't have names, some of them. I just know they were off. I am actively seeking help to sort through all of this, but I feel myself becoming very private. By nature I am an over-sharer, but at this time of my life, I feel like holding my soul very close to my chest. I arch my shoulders over it to protect it in its battered state. That's all I have right now is the instinct to protect and defend.
I look at myself in the mirror, and I wonder what I will look like in a year or two years or five. I wonder how many more lines will trace around my eyes or how much of the light of happiness will ever return to them. Right now they look a bit vacant to me.
More later.
When I was a little girl, he would take my fingers and bend my wrist and kiss my hand. He did this so many times that I began to just go up to him with my hand extended for him to kiss it. He would smile his big dimpled smile and giggle but he would kiss it every single time.
My dad was DEFINITELY not a perfect parent. At the beginning of my life, my dad could hold a job about as well as you can hold air in your hand, so......not well. He was involved with terrible people as his friends. He made impulsive decisions regarding my parents' finances. He was a logistical train wreck, but that's not what I remember. I just remember love. I remember the kisses on the hand and on my cheek. I remember the laughter. I remember the strength.
My Nannie tells the story that her second born was "such a good baby". You could just sit him in the floor, and he wouldn't fuss or get into trouble. He would just stay right where you put him. When he was 18 months old, they discovered that his docile nature was actually because he couldn't see beyond his own nose to even explore anything. I also heard the story that, after my grandparents got his glasses, that my Grandpa John was holding him, and that baby boy just stared at his daddy - exploring every inch of his face. He reached up and touched all over that face. He was literally seeing it for the first time, and matching a face with the voice he'd heard all that time left him in a state nothing short of wonder.
My grandfather was not a warm parent to my dad and his older brother when they were little. Kind of absentee, but he would still take the boys on fishing trips or on errands and whatnot. Sometimes my dad would go on fishing trips just the two of them, and my Grandpa John would sing "Oh Danny Boy" to HIS Danny boy. Then came 2nd grade for my dad. The public school system in Arkansas started giving IQ tests to lower elementary school students. His family's financial limitations did not leave my dad with very updated glasses prescriptions. They had to drive from Forrest City, Arkansas to Memphis to get him glasses, and the glasses and the trips were a lot for their wallets to bear. My dad could not see well the questions on the IQ test, so the answers that he wrote earned him a qualification that he brought home to show his parents. "idiot". He was declared by the public school system of Arkansas in 1965 to be "an idiot". The fishing trips abruptly ended. The fun errands into town ended. Any shreds of affection that existed ended.....and my Grandpa John gave my dad a new name. No longer was he "Danny". From that day forward on into his adult life, when my Grandpa John would call my dad by his new name....."Dummy". "Git over here, Dummy!" "Go put that away, Dummy." "Go feed the dogs, Dummy". That was his new name.
The abuse my dad endured after that test in 2nd grade is beyond what I can imagine doing to a child. My dad was routinely beaten (not spanked - beaten). When he was 11, he committed a fairly minor infraction. The punishment for this was being locked in his room - for a year. My dad was allowed to leave his room to use the bathroom and to go to school and to do his chores on their property. When these tasks were complete, he was sent to his room....alone....away from his siblings....with the door locked.....for an entire year. He was given his meals to eat on his bed while everyone else ate their meals together at the table on the other side of the same wall. He would just lay in bed alone for hours and hours. To pass the time, he got ahold of a record. It was a recording of the opera Madame Butterfly. This musical enjoyment would not have been allowed to him, and he knew that, so his 11 year old self gathered materials and figured out how to build a headset - earphones - to connect to the record player he had. No one had taught him how to make something like that. He just looked around at what he had and fashioned something to meet the need he had. He needed to listen to Madame Butterfly. That was his escape. He would lay in bed, night after night, with tears streaming down his face and listen to the silken voices belt out the music.
Things got so much worse. The older my dad got, the more severe the abuse got. I even had a conversation a couple years ago with one of my uncles just to fact check, and I realized my dad had been very conservative in describing the things that happened. Beatings on the back or the back of the legs became punches to the face. There was blood. There were bruises. There were things that couldn't be hidden. There was an incident where my grandfather grabbed my dad by the neck and shoved him up against a wall. He was choking him. Just as his vision began to narrow and go black, my Nannie screamed out "JOHN STOP!!!! You're gonna KILL HIM!!!!". He released his grip, and my dad could breathe again. I asked my dad once why he didn't ever punch back when these things would occur. His answer "Because I was bigger than he was, and I knew I could kill him. I didn't want to hurt him." I just thought "What?! Why would you CARE to not hurt someone that repeatedly damaged you?!" I never asked the question because I knew the answer - he loved him.
My whole childhood I knew that my Grandpa John had been horrible to my dad. I never remember my dad saying anything disparaging about his own father, but, though I did not know all the ugly truths until I was older, things must have come up in my parents' conversations that left me with that conclusion. One day, when visiting my grandfather, I actually asked him, very matter of factly "So how come you used to always beat my dad?" I wasn't being combative or bratty. I was just confused. I guess I figured I'd just get it straight from the horse's mouth.
I will never forget the day that my grandfather died. My dad sat in the chair in his office and sobbed like a little kid. It was so weird to me. I had the thought again "Why are you sad?! Aren't you relieved? That jerk can't ever hurt you or anyone else again.", but it didn't matter. My dad had lost his daddy. He loved him. He had forgiven him, and he was going to miss him. He WAS sad.
I don't know the exact moment that forgiveness happened, but I do know this. After I was adult, my dad told me a story.
When I was in first grade, my mother had begun to have debilitating panic attacks while my brother and I were at school. My dad immediately found a therapy program for her. At one of her appointments, my dad sat in and started asking questions in regard to his own life. The therapist finished the conversation with my mom and then gave my dad some instructions. She told him to go home and write a letter to "Little Danny" and to tell him that he was safe - that "Big Danny" was a big strong man now, and he knew that "Little Danny" was being hurt but that he wasn't going to let it happen ever again. He was going to protect "Little Danny" from John no matter what. He was safe forever.
Sitting in my dad's office (which we shared together for the business we had), he told me that when he finished writing the letter, he looked down at the paper and noticed something startling.....his handwriting was not the handwriting he used as an adult. He had literally channeled his 11 year old self to the point that his hand wrote each letter in the note as he would have penned it as an 11 year old child. His healing began at that point. He had halted the damage of the abuse from that moment until the end of his life. The abuse itself didn't end until the day my grandfather died, but the damage ceased. My dad spent the rest of his life successfully protecting "Little Danny".
In the therapy of unearthing all of this trauma I have experienced in my life, I am having many conversations - talking out absolutely everything. Last night I broke down crying on Dan's shoulder over something that I'm dealing with, and I felt these words spill out of my lips, "I just miss my dad. He would know what to tell me to do. He would know what to say, and I don't get to ask him because he isn't here."
We spent the next 3 hours talking about what my dad did with his pain. He didn't deny it. He acknowledged within himself and to a select few the severity of the pain he had endured. His pain was greater than mine. I was never abused by a parent that should innately love me. He lived that pain every single day of his life, but he stopped letting it cripple him. He forgave. He loved.
I am making my best effort at bullying past all my pain - all my injustices. Whatever I'm doing is not working. I am at a loss. I have a few answers, but I'm still at the stage of unearthing a lot of things that I have repressed. I find myself in moments that should be nothing but happy getting lost in "old ghosts" as I call them to Dan. I have some reminder or revelation of traumas or depths of traumas that I hadn't ever realized before. They are rearing their ugly heads and stealing from me still. I don't know what to do with them.
Normally in my posts, I reach some sort of epiphany about the greater meaning of my writings, and I share that in my best poetic voice. Today I am not able to do that. I have no idea what my journey of healing is going to look like. I am at the beginning. I am at a place where I don't even know what to call certain things. They don't have names, some of them. I just know they were off. I am actively seeking help to sort through all of this, but I feel myself becoming very private. By nature I am an over-sharer, but at this time of my life, I feel like holding my soul very close to my chest. I arch my shoulders over it to protect it in its battered state. That's all I have right now is the instinct to protect and defend.
I look at myself in the mirror, and I wonder what I will look like in a year or two years or five. I wonder how many more lines will trace around my eyes or how much of the light of happiness will ever return to them. Right now they look a bit vacant to me.
More later.
Sunday, November 16, 2014
To the one who made me a mother,
Dear Natalie,
I wish I could sit you down and tell you absolutely everything about you that I admire. The other day I told Pirate "You know, people tell me that I'm the strongest person they've ever met, but I'm not the strongest person I have ever met. The strongest person I have ever met is Natalie."
Just 8 days ago I had to look you in the eye and rip away from you something that is divinely, unequivocally your right to have - a mother. I sat on your friend's front steps and looked up into your stunning little face and told you that I was going to have to go away and live with Pirate until the end of the school year. I watched your eyes well up with tears and then I watched a resolve lock into your eyes that is unrivaled by any human that I have ever seen in this earth. I tried to read into it to see if you were just burying your hurt - like I do, but that wasn't it - at least in that moment. At that moment, it was purpose. You decided in your little 8 year old heart that you were going to get through this - that you were going to survive.......and that you were going to beat this. I was blown away because you are 8. You are a kid, and I count myself really, really lucky.....because you are my kid.
Almost exactly 9 years ago I saw your heartbeat on a screen for the first time. I knew that I was pregnant because I'd taken tests that said "+", and I'd even started to get sick, but the moment that I saw that life pumping organ on the screen and knew it was yours, I was immediately filled with wonder. Every mother feels this. It's one of those moments that you realize is bigger than you, and you're just so grateful that you get to be a part of that moment. That was just the beginning.
Your daddy left for a deployment when I was about 9 weeks pregnant with you, so there were many moments that were just yours and mine. I will never forget the first time I felt you move. I will never forget feeling so incredibly beautiful my entire pregnancy because I was carrying a miracle - I was carrying and growing you. I will never forget getting my first stretch marks and then realizing that it didn't bother me to have them because it meant that this body of mine did its job. It nourished you and grew you and then came the day for me to get to hold you in my arms.
Only 5 percent of babies are actually born on their due dates. You, my dear, are in that 5 percent. At about 3:00 in the morning I woke up thinking I just had to pee really, really, really bad, but as soon as I got to the bathroom, I realized that the cramping I felt was not just a full bladder. It meant you wanted out. You were ready to take this world on.
I had raised (or helped raise) a number of babies since I was 9 years old. I felt so ready to embrace the task of having my own child. I knew how to teach a little person how to do absolutely everything, so I felt really confident that motherhood was actually just going to spoil me because I would enjoy getting to do all of these things and never have to hand you back to anyone else. You would be mine, and I would be yours. I felt so ready.....until they handed you to me. At that moment it was like I became a baby raising amnesiac. You were so perfect. You had these amazing spidery little hands and long feet and your skin was perfect. Right out the gate every single person that looked at you looked right back at me and said "Yeah she looks exactly like you." Then they would look at your daddy and say "Sorry dude. I don't see you in here at all." and then everyone would laugh a little.
You immediately proved to be an extremely smart little person. You soaked up every bit of learning that you could. You spent HOURS looking at books. Most of the time when parents miss the fact that their toddler has wandered out of the room and has found a silent spot to dwell for a while, that means something crazy is happening and there will be a mess to clean up. Not for you. That just meant that you'd found your books again. If I took 18 month old you to the toy aisle, you would disinterestedly look through the plastic windows of doll boxes, but when we got to the books, you would go crazy. "I want booksh. I want dat one, Mawmy." I caved all the time. I would buy books for you at the store. I would sign you up for free books through the mail. I would borrow them.....however I could get them, I would get them, and you would love them.
You were also very in tune with me. You seemed to understand my heart even before you were adequately able to articulate your understanding. After I got pregnant with your little brother, life for me got very heavy. It got very sad. There was someone who was being very mean to my heart. I tried to stay strong in front of you or not yell back until I knew you were asleep, but one day, I broke. I sat down on the couch with my big pregnant belly and buried my face in my hands while that mean person couldn't see me be broken. I didn't realize that you were smart enough to know that, though my face was covered, my slumped, trembling shoulders meant that I was sad. Your pixyish little self delicately stepped over to me and you placed one of your dimpled hands on my knee and said "Don't cy, Mawmy." My head rose from my hands. You had witnessed and absorbed the meaning of abuse, and instead of acting afraid or retreating to your books, you balled up and offered me your strength since you knew mine was gone in that moment. I got mad and went back to that person and screamed at "Don't you EVER make me cry AGAIN! NATALIE saw that! Don't you ever make me cry in front of my child AGAIN!". I shook my finger and had a snarl on my face. I felt a rush of strength that overcame my temporary grief. The strength had come from you. You weren't even 2 years old.
There were so, so, so many moments after that when I saw this same strength exhibited, and sometimes it made me mad again. The amount of strength that you showed was so beyond what was appropriate for your age - including a week ago. That day makes me mad too. You are losing your childhood piece by piece and some of that robbery is my fault. Some of it is not, but, as your mother, that does not matter to me. One of the last things I said before I left you was for you to go be a kid. I begged your best friend's parents to take care of you - asked her mother to be what I couldn't be right now, to hug you and to love you. They will try their very hardest. There will be other people that notice the void, and they will try to help too, but a lot of people won't see because you are just that strong. You won't let them see. You will place this trial in a little cabinet in your heart and let in sit there until you have time to open it back up and sort through it. You will absolutely lose part of your childhood, and that will cause you trouble later. You will spend years being confused about exactly who you are and what the right thing is to do with your life and your time.
That will be where I come in again. I promise to be in your life far before that day comes, but when it does, I will be there. Except I won't tell you not to cry. I will not tell you to be strong and not be a victim. I will let you be a jerk to me and everyone else, and I will tell you to celebrate absolutely anything that makes your heart smile. I will love who you love and do things with you that make no sense to me whatsoever. ......and I will help you. I will be YOUR strength when you need it. I will. I will........be your mother.
Love,
Mommy
*Though this post is written to my daughter who is now 8 years old, it is not actually something that I have any intention of her reading at this point in time or any near point in the future. Please remember that this blog is for my own catharsis, and I reserve the right to express what is actually in my heart.
I wish I could sit you down and tell you absolutely everything about you that I admire. The other day I told Pirate "You know, people tell me that I'm the strongest person they've ever met, but I'm not the strongest person I have ever met. The strongest person I have ever met is Natalie."
Just 8 days ago I had to look you in the eye and rip away from you something that is divinely, unequivocally your right to have - a mother. I sat on your friend's front steps and looked up into your stunning little face and told you that I was going to have to go away and live with Pirate until the end of the school year. I watched your eyes well up with tears and then I watched a resolve lock into your eyes that is unrivaled by any human that I have ever seen in this earth. I tried to read into it to see if you were just burying your hurt - like I do, but that wasn't it - at least in that moment. At that moment, it was purpose. You decided in your little 8 year old heart that you were going to get through this - that you were going to survive.......and that you were going to beat this. I was blown away because you are 8. You are a kid, and I count myself really, really lucky.....because you are my kid.
Almost exactly 9 years ago I saw your heartbeat on a screen for the first time. I knew that I was pregnant because I'd taken tests that said "+", and I'd even started to get sick, but the moment that I saw that life pumping organ on the screen and knew it was yours, I was immediately filled with wonder. Every mother feels this. It's one of those moments that you realize is bigger than you, and you're just so grateful that you get to be a part of that moment. That was just the beginning.
Your daddy left for a deployment when I was about 9 weeks pregnant with you, so there were many moments that were just yours and mine. I will never forget the first time I felt you move. I will never forget feeling so incredibly beautiful my entire pregnancy because I was carrying a miracle - I was carrying and growing you. I will never forget getting my first stretch marks and then realizing that it didn't bother me to have them because it meant that this body of mine did its job. It nourished you and grew you and then came the day for me to get to hold you in my arms.
Only 5 percent of babies are actually born on their due dates. You, my dear, are in that 5 percent. At about 3:00 in the morning I woke up thinking I just had to pee really, really, really bad, but as soon as I got to the bathroom, I realized that the cramping I felt was not just a full bladder. It meant you wanted out. You were ready to take this world on.
I had raised (or helped raise) a number of babies since I was 9 years old. I felt so ready to embrace the task of having my own child. I knew how to teach a little person how to do absolutely everything, so I felt really confident that motherhood was actually just going to spoil me because I would enjoy getting to do all of these things and never have to hand you back to anyone else. You would be mine, and I would be yours. I felt so ready.....until they handed you to me. At that moment it was like I became a baby raising amnesiac. You were so perfect. You had these amazing spidery little hands and long feet and your skin was perfect. Right out the gate every single person that looked at you looked right back at me and said "Yeah she looks exactly like you." Then they would look at your daddy and say "Sorry dude. I don't see you in here at all." and then everyone would laugh a little.
You immediately proved to be an extremely smart little person. You soaked up every bit of learning that you could. You spent HOURS looking at books. Most of the time when parents miss the fact that their toddler has wandered out of the room and has found a silent spot to dwell for a while, that means something crazy is happening and there will be a mess to clean up. Not for you. That just meant that you'd found your books again. If I took 18 month old you to the toy aisle, you would disinterestedly look through the plastic windows of doll boxes, but when we got to the books, you would go crazy. "I want booksh. I want dat one, Mawmy." I caved all the time. I would buy books for you at the store. I would sign you up for free books through the mail. I would borrow them.....however I could get them, I would get them, and you would love them.
You were also very in tune with me. You seemed to understand my heart even before you were adequately able to articulate your understanding. After I got pregnant with your little brother, life for me got very heavy. It got very sad. There was someone who was being very mean to my heart. I tried to stay strong in front of you or not yell back until I knew you were asleep, but one day, I broke. I sat down on the couch with my big pregnant belly and buried my face in my hands while that mean person couldn't see me be broken. I didn't realize that you were smart enough to know that, though my face was covered, my slumped, trembling shoulders meant that I was sad. Your pixyish little self delicately stepped over to me and you placed one of your dimpled hands on my knee and said "Don't cy, Mawmy." My head rose from my hands. You had witnessed and absorbed the meaning of abuse, and instead of acting afraid or retreating to your books, you balled up and offered me your strength since you knew mine was gone in that moment. I got mad and went back to that person and screamed at "Don't you EVER make me cry AGAIN! NATALIE saw that! Don't you ever make me cry in front of my child AGAIN!". I shook my finger and had a snarl on my face. I felt a rush of strength that overcame my temporary grief. The strength had come from you. You weren't even 2 years old.
There were so, so, so many moments after that when I saw this same strength exhibited, and sometimes it made me mad again. The amount of strength that you showed was so beyond what was appropriate for your age - including a week ago. That day makes me mad too. You are losing your childhood piece by piece and some of that robbery is my fault. Some of it is not, but, as your mother, that does not matter to me. One of the last things I said before I left you was for you to go be a kid. I begged your best friend's parents to take care of you - asked her mother to be what I couldn't be right now, to hug you and to love you. They will try their very hardest. There will be other people that notice the void, and they will try to help too, but a lot of people won't see because you are just that strong. You won't let them see. You will place this trial in a little cabinet in your heart and let in sit there until you have time to open it back up and sort through it. You will absolutely lose part of your childhood, and that will cause you trouble later. You will spend years being confused about exactly who you are and what the right thing is to do with your life and your time.
That will be where I come in again. I promise to be in your life far before that day comes, but when it does, I will be there. Except I won't tell you not to cry. I will not tell you to be strong and not be a victim. I will let you be a jerk to me and everyone else, and I will tell you to celebrate absolutely anything that makes your heart smile. I will love who you love and do things with you that make no sense to me whatsoever. ......and I will help you. I will be YOUR strength when you need it. I will. I will........be your mother.
Love,
Mommy
*Though this post is written to my daughter who is now 8 years old, it is not actually something that I have any intention of her reading at this point in time or any near point in the future. Please remember that this blog is for my own catharsis, and I reserve the right to express what is actually in my heart.
Tuesday, March 4, 2014
Conversations with God
First of all, part 2 for "The Wounds of My Heart" will come at a different time. Tonight, I must share what is on my heart and mind.
I am in such a strange state right now. My heart is heavy with the very real prospect of a loss greater than any I could have imagined. This trial is something that is never out of my mind. I am exhausted. I am sad. I am confused. The time will come when I will share all the little details of what this trial in my life actually means, but, for now, I will express less specific thoughts.
Uck. I have started this post 3 different times. This is another hard one to write.
If I were a professional wisher, I would wish away all the stress that presently weighs on me. But I am not a professional wisher. Those don't exist, so tonight, I came to terms with some of these difficulties. This is a little bit of how my conversation went with God:
Me: GOD! PLEASE! Please answer my prayer the way I want it answered. This is too hard for me. I cannot bear this!
God: Delight yourself in Me, and I will give you the desires of your heart
Me: Am I not delighting in you?
God: no answer
Me: Please God. I am so sad! This hurt is too great! I was mistreated! I was stolen from! What has happened is not right!
God: Yes. I know. I will never leave you or forsake you.
Me: God! This is too heavy! This is too hard! I don't want this to be my story!
God: I am still showing you what your story is. Do you remember when you had nothing?
Me: Yes. It was terrible
God: What did you do about it?
Me: I went to you. I had no one else....but God, PLEASE! Please grant my request!
God: Look around you right now. Look into the eye of your memory. What do you see?
Me: I see Your faithfulness
God: What else do you see?
Me: I see your provision
God: Do you believe Me when I promise something to you?
Me: Sometimes
God: Why do you doubt me?
Me: Because I am afraid. I don't want any more pain. I don't want any more difficulty or heartache.
God: I know about injustice and heartache. Come to me little child. Come again into the arms of My comfort.
Me: But what will I do if this atrocity continues?
God: I will show you what steps to take. Do you remember how much you have grown? Do you remember how many times you have had the opportunity to share the story of My great love for people because of all this?
Me: Yes....BUT I'M SCARED! I want things to just fall into place the way I have it in my head!
God: Do you remember how you've grown? Do you remember how I was faithful to you - how I always stayed with you just like I promised?
Me: yes......I do
God: My Son did not want the heartbreaks of His life either.......but He loves you, so He embraced them
Me: I remember
God: Do you think you would still see me as closely or clearly if I worked everything out just how you want?
Me: No. I really don't. I just don't want to be sad
God: I heal the brokenness. I restore what has been robbed away
Me: Yes. I remember.
God: Do you trust me that I will direct every one of your steps?
Me: I do. I have to. You have been faithful to show me for always.
God: Do you remember that I can heal brokenness and restore what is missing out of your heart?
Me: Yes.
God: Give them to me. I love them more than you do. I am writing their stories too.
Me: Will you show me how to help them no matter what?
God: Yes
Me: Will you give me grace to go through all of this?
God: Yes. And I will give you strength. Do you want to have things in your life be so that you don't see me as clearly?
Me: No. I don't. I just don't want this pain anymore.
God: Give the pain to me. Give me the weight of your worry. My burden for you is light. The amount that you will have to carry will be light. You just have to give it to me.
Me: I don't want to!!!!!
God: My burden for you is light. My shoulders are stronger. My heart loves you. I cherish you and them.
Me: I know. I can see your hand in every little thing in my life.
God: Will you give me the burden to carry? I love you.
Me: Yes. Will you show me what steps to take?
God: Of course.
Me: This road isn't veering off to the side any time soon, is it?
God: No. It is not, but though it is treacherous and painful, I will be right there with you. I will never leave you or forsake you, and I have a plan for your life that will show others how much I love all of you.
Me: Okay........I place this at your feet. Show me what steps to take, and give me strength and grace for the way. I am still hurting so bad, but I know you feel what my heart feels.
God: I promise.
So I sit here with a burden that has made me literally sick, but I have peace. I know more pain in life is on its way. I am not looking forward to it, but I have been so gently reminded that I am not alone. I do not have to equate being unsure of what is to come to being confused. I am not the writer of this story, but I know Who is. I will feel pain, but I will not be forced to succumb to it. I will never HAVE to carry a burdensome load heavier than what I am able. When things in life get to where they are bigger than me (which is a lot), then I have permission from the God of the universe to lay them at His feet and then crawl up in His lap to be comforted by His promises.
This is a weird one, but I have to tell you about how I have survived. It is not through my own merit. It is through the faithfulness of the God who knows me. It is through the wisdom of someone who sees more than I can see.
I am in such a strange state right now. My heart is heavy with the very real prospect of a loss greater than any I could have imagined. This trial is something that is never out of my mind. I am exhausted. I am sad. I am confused. The time will come when I will share all the little details of what this trial in my life actually means, but, for now, I will express less specific thoughts.
Uck. I have started this post 3 different times. This is another hard one to write.
If I were a professional wisher, I would wish away all the stress that presently weighs on me. But I am not a professional wisher. Those don't exist, so tonight, I came to terms with some of these difficulties. This is a little bit of how my conversation went with God:
Me: GOD! PLEASE! Please answer my prayer the way I want it answered. This is too hard for me. I cannot bear this!
God: Delight yourself in Me, and I will give you the desires of your heart
Me: Am I not delighting in you?
God: no answer
Me: Please God. I am so sad! This hurt is too great! I was mistreated! I was stolen from! What has happened is not right!
God: Yes. I know. I will never leave you or forsake you.
Me: God! This is too heavy! This is too hard! I don't want this to be my story!
God: I am still showing you what your story is. Do you remember when you had nothing?
Me: Yes. It was terrible
God: What did you do about it?
Me: I went to you. I had no one else....but God, PLEASE! Please grant my request!
God: Look around you right now. Look into the eye of your memory. What do you see?
Me: I see Your faithfulness
God: What else do you see?
Me: I see your provision
God: Do you believe Me when I promise something to you?
Me: Sometimes
God: Why do you doubt me?
Me: Because I am afraid. I don't want any more pain. I don't want any more difficulty or heartache.
God: I know about injustice and heartache. Come to me little child. Come again into the arms of My comfort.
Me: But what will I do if this atrocity continues?
God: I will show you what steps to take. Do you remember how much you have grown? Do you remember how many times you have had the opportunity to share the story of My great love for people because of all this?
Me: Yes....BUT I'M SCARED! I want things to just fall into place the way I have it in my head!
God: Do you remember how you've grown? Do you remember how I was faithful to you - how I always stayed with you just like I promised?
Me: yes......I do
God: My Son did not want the heartbreaks of His life either.......but He loves you, so He embraced them
Me: I remember
God: Do you think you would still see me as closely or clearly if I worked everything out just how you want?
Me: No. I really don't. I just don't want to be sad
God: I heal the brokenness. I restore what has been robbed away
Me: Yes. I remember.
God: Do you trust me that I will direct every one of your steps?
Me: I do. I have to. You have been faithful to show me for always.
God: Do you remember that I can heal brokenness and restore what is missing out of your heart?
Me: Yes.
God: Give them to me. I love them more than you do. I am writing their stories too.
Me: Will you show me how to help them no matter what?
God: Yes
Me: Will you give me grace to go through all of this?
God: Yes. And I will give you strength. Do you want to have things in your life be so that you don't see me as clearly?
Me: No. I don't. I just don't want this pain anymore.
God: Give the pain to me. Give me the weight of your worry. My burden for you is light. The amount that you will have to carry will be light. You just have to give it to me.
Me: I don't want to!!!!!
God: My burden for you is light. My shoulders are stronger. My heart loves you. I cherish you and them.
Me: I know. I can see your hand in every little thing in my life.
God: Will you give me the burden to carry? I love you.
Me: Yes. Will you show me what steps to take?
God: Of course.
Me: This road isn't veering off to the side any time soon, is it?
God: No. It is not, but though it is treacherous and painful, I will be right there with you. I will never leave you or forsake you, and I have a plan for your life that will show others how much I love all of you.
Me: Okay........I place this at your feet. Show me what steps to take, and give me strength and grace for the way. I am still hurting so bad, but I know you feel what my heart feels.
God: I promise.
So I sit here with a burden that has made me literally sick, but I have peace. I know more pain in life is on its way. I am not looking forward to it, but I have been so gently reminded that I am not alone. I do not have to equate being unsure of what is to come to being confused. I am not the writer of this story, but I know Who is. I will feel pain, but I will not be forced to succumb to it. I will never HAVE to carry a burdensome load heavier than what I am able. When things in life get to where they are bigger than me (which is a lot), then I have permission from the God of the universe to lay them at His feet and then crawl up in His lap to be comforted by His promises.
This is a weird one, but I have to tell you about how I have survived. It is not through my own merit. It is through the faithfulness of the God who knows me. It is through the wisdom of someone who sees more than I can see.
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
The wounds of my heart
I don't want to write this post. I don't want to, but I need to. I don't want to investigate my pain, but I must. It is there. I must acknowledge it. Bear with me.
I went home to Chattanooga for Christmas of 2012. We put our children in the car and made the 8 hour drive to my home. I was so glad to see the mountains. The beach is nice, but the mountains always speak to me. I see them, and I know.....I'm home.
I knew I looked altered. I looked bad. I texted my mom and sister and my brother's wife and asked that they just not say anything because I already knew. I just wanted to have a nice Christmas. They obliged at first, but then they sat me down. The questions started. The admonitions began. I listened to them and did my best to appease them - or at least satisfy myself into believing that I'd appeased them.
I had missed my best friend so much, so we jumped at the chance to go out to breakfast. It amazed me at the concessions I had to make to accomplish a simple breakfast date to which I brought my baby - baby Sally. My friend and I hugged in the restaurant and then sat down to eat. We picked at our food and then HER questions started. She did not seem at all satisfied with anything that came out of my mouth. I can still see the look on her face as I tried to sugar coat everything. I knew she didn't buy a bit of it. Then it came. The truth. She said "THIS is not the Sarah I know. I mean, LOOK at you! You look like shit!" That seems harsh, but it was the kindest thing she could have done. The truest friend she could have been. Pardon the saltiness of the word, but I really did look just as she said. I knew it. I actually didn't even try to gussy up and hide it from her. I think I needed her to see it, and once those words flew across the table, I knew. I was destroyed.
What is it like to be destroyed? What does that mean? It means this. I'd stopped believing my dreams. I'd stopped believing that I had any autonomous worth. I would always be somebody's wife or somebody's daughter or somebody's mother. I was not content, but I was empty. I was a shell of what a person should be.....and everyone who loved me saw it. Their brows furrowed in concern. My friend looked disgusted - not at me - at my hurts. My wounds. They had consumed me.
I was raised by Christian parents who were also feminists. (No that is not an oxymoron) My sister and I used to joke that, if my parents had told us that we could fly, we would have found a cliff and spread our arms. I was raised watching my dad cook and fix a rip in his own pants while my mom was out shopping for power tools or mowing the yard and then watch my mom put on a dress and heels and my dad a suit and be the quintessential American couple. I was always told that I could do or be anything and that I SHOULD do or be whatever life dictated that I need to be.....so how did I become this shell?
I knew I was bad off, but I did not feel strong enough to rebuild. I packed my little people back up into the car and made the long drive home. The memories of my conversations rang in my head, but I did not feel the freedom to do anything about it......until March 13th of 2013. The events surrounding that day are details for later, but I found my strength. I looked at three sets of eyes looking back at me and knew that, if they were going to have any shot, I had to make a move. Life's circumstances forced me to do it. Had they not, I would probably be living the same life I had lived for years, so I packed my three babies and our cat into my car with the clothes on our backs and 5 favorite toys for each of the kids and set out.
I was horrified. I had been told for years that I was not hireable by a reputable employer, so I was worried about finding a job. I was told for years that I had a poor work ethic and that I was lazy. Was that really true? I was told that I was weird and that no one really wanted to be my friend. That must be why I didn't have any, so who could I rely on? I was told that I only made friends with people that I could change so that I had the satisfaction of manipulating someone. Really? I had been told that I was a completely negative person....that one hurt. I didn't want to be a negative person or to be known as a negative person. I just wanted to have permission to feel things, and I had been ostracized by a particular people group for a long time. It confused me for that to never be viewed as valid.
These thoughts sort of flashed through my mind. I didn't dwell on them as I drove. I just drove. I mostly thought about what I was leaving and that I was scared. I had no idea what I was going to do - especially if all of these things - or even one or two of them - were true.
I got to my destination and started a little life. I DID get a job. I found old friends again. I found a church. I found a funny Sunday school class of little old ladies who treated me like I was worth something - as much as they were, but I still felt very scared. In fact, these feelings of pain and unrest are rearing their head as I type. My eyes are full of tears. It hurts to relive this.
I had to leave that job and that church and that Sunday school class of little old ladies. There was more driving involved. (More on that later) I found a place to stay. It was not what I had dreamed for myself, but I curled my hair, put on a dress and heels and put on my lipstick. I squared my shoulders and entered the door of my new but temporary home........a homeless shelter for battered women - without my children. I followed a woman to the linen and supply closet and was given some sheets and toiletries. She looked around for a minute and then said "I.....don't see a pillow, but there should be one on your bed." And then I was taken to my room.
The only bed available was a twin sized top bunk in a room with two other women and a baby. There was indeed NOT a pillow on my bed, so I just made it up and laid on the crook of my arm. Strangely enough, they had Wi-Fi, so I hacked into my mom's online tv account and put in my earbuds and started a movie while I choked back tears and succumbed to sleep's welcoming embrace.
I think I spent the next week in bed. Other than a 4 hour visit with my children, I felt so hopeless - so low - so overcome. I had no job. No place to live. No friends in this town. I was far from everything I knew and anyone who could help me. I was alone.
...............................................................................................................................................................
I went home to Chattanooga for Christmas of 2012. We put our children in the car and made the 8 hour drive to my home. I was so glad to see the mountains. The beach is nice, but the mountains always speak to me. I see them, and I know.....I'm home.
I knew I looked altered. I looked bad. I texted my mom and sister and my brother's wife and asked that they just not say anything because I already knew. I just wanted to have a nice Christmas. They obliged at first, but then they sat me down. The questions started. The admonitions began. I listened to them and did my best to appease them - or at least satisfy myself into believing that I'd appeased them.
I had missed my best friend so much, so we jumped at the chance to go out to breakfast. It amazed me at the concessions I had to make to accomplish a simple breakfast date to which I brought my baby - baby Sally. My friend and I hugged in the restaurant and then sat down to eat. We picked at our food and then HER questions started. She did not seem at all satisfied with anything that came out of my mouth. I can still see the look on her face as I tried to sugar coat everything. I knew she didn't buy a bit of it. Then it came. The truth. She said "THIS is not the Sarah I know. I mean, LOOK at you! You look like shit!" That seems harsh, but it was the kindest thing she could have done. The truest friend she could have been. Pardon the saltiness of the word, but I really did look just as she said. I knew it. I actually didn't even try to gussy up and hide it from her. I think I needed her to see it, and once those words flew across the table, I knew. I was destroyed.
What is it like to be destroyed? What does that mean? It means this. I'd stopped believing my dreams. I'd stopped believing that I had any autonomous worth. I would always be somebody's wife or somebody's daughter or somebody's mother. I was not content, but I was empty. I was a shell of what a person should be.....and everyone who loved me saw it. Their brows furrowed in concern. My friend looked disgusted - not at me - at my hurts. My wounds. They had consumed me.
I was raised by Christian parents who were also feminists. (No that is not an oxymoron) My sister and I used to joke that, if my parents had told us that we could fly, we would have found a cliff and spread our arms. I was raised watching my dad cook and fix a rip in his own pants while my mom was out shopping for power tools or mowing the yard and then watch my mom put on a dress and heels and my dad a suit and be the quintessential American couple. I was always told that I could do or be anything and that I SHOULD do or be whatever life dictated that I need to be.....so how did I become this shell?
I knew I was bad off, but I did not feel strong enough to rebuild. I packed my little people back up into the car and made the long drive home. The memories of my conversations rang in my head, but I did not feel the freedom to do anything about it......until March 13th of 2013. The events surrounding that day are details for later, but I found my strength. I looked at three sets of eyes looking back at me and knew that, if they were going to have any shot, I had to make a move. Life's circumstances forced me to do it. Had they not, I would probably be living the same life I had lived for years, so I packed my three babies and our cat into my car with the clothes on our backs and 5 favorite toys for each of the kids and set out.
I was horrified. I had been told for years that I was not hireable by a reputable employer, so I was worried about finding a job. I was told for years that I had a poor work ethic and that I was lazy. Was that really true? I was told that I was weird and that no one really wanted to be my friend. That must be why I didn't have any, so who could I rely on? I was told that I only made friends with people that I could change so that I had the satisfaction of manipulating someone. Really? I had been told that I was a completely negative person....that one hurt. I didn't want to be a negative person or to be known as a negative person. I just wanted to have permission to feel things, and I had been ostracized by a particular people group for a long time. It confused me for that to never be viewed as valid.
These thoughts sort of flashed through my mind. I didn't dwell on them as I drove. I just drove. I mostly thought about what I was leaving and that I was scared. I had no idea what I was going to do - especially if all of these things - or even one or two of them - were true.
I got to my destination and started a little life. I DID get a job. I found old friends again. I found a church. I found a funny Sunday school class of little old ladies who treated me like I was worth something - as much as they were, but I still felt very scared. In fact, these feelings of pain and unrest are rearing their head as I type. My eyes are full of tears. It hurts to relive this.
I had to leave that job and that church and that Sunday school class of little old ladies. There was more driving involved. (More on that later) I found a place to stay. It was not what I had dreamed for myself, but I curled my hair, put on a dress and heels and put on my lipstick. I squared my shoulders and entered the door of my new but temporary home........a homeless shelter for battered women - without my children. I followed a woman to the linen and supply closet and was given some sheets and toiletries. She looked around for a minute and then said "I.....don't see a pillow, but there should be one on your bed." And then I was taken to my room.
The only bed available was a twin sized top bunk in a room with two other women and a baby. There was indeed NOT a pillow on my bed, so I just made it up and laid on the crook of my arm. Strangely enough, they had Wi-Fi, so I hacked into my mom's online tv account and put in my earbuds and started a movie while I choked back tears and succumbed to sleep's welcoming embrace.
I think I spent the next week in bed. Other than a 4 hour visit with my children, I felt so hopeless - so low - so overcome. I had no job. No place to live. No friends in this town. I was far from everything I knew and anyone who could help me. I was alone.
...............................................................................................................................................................
Saturday, February 1, 2014
Happy my birthday to you
Today is my birthday, and gosh, I just felt adored. I'm not sure I have ever felt this loved on my birthday in my entire adult life - maybe my whole life. All day people have surprised me with tokens of their appreciation for the fact that I was born into this world. Some of these tokens were actual gifts and some of them were little notes on my Facebook or just the spoken word, but they ALL made me feel loved, actually....adored.
My birthday is always weird for me because my dad died so near to my birthday, and because I spent a long time being fed the impression that I'm not really worth celebrating. So every year I try to just sort of squeeze around my birthday without being noticed, I guess, so that I don't have to deal with the issues that make me hate it so much. Three years ago, I actually allowed Facebook to post my birth date. That was a big deal. Either way, I usually ask for there to be no parties or cards or whatnot.
This year, no one listened.
This morning, I went out to my car, and there was a bag from my friend sitting on the front hood. I gasped and walked over to it. I picked it up, read the tag and started opening......standing there in my carport.....and then I started to cry. I was so moved. Then I started to see all the nice things people were posting on Facebook to wish me a happy day.
I went to cut a friend's hair today, and when I arrived, I saw that she had decorated her door with signs and balloons. Inside she had flowers and cake and coffee waiting for me.
My boyfriend sent me my birthday present a week ago. It was a bag and a card. The purse made me smile. It has his school's logo on it so I can represent every where I go. The card made me cry because this man is incredibly romantic.
Yesterday I got a handmade card from a friend. It was beautiful. Inside it said "May you have everything your heart desires". I leaked some tears over that one too. If you knew who this person was and what all was represented with those words, you would fall to pieces.
On Sunday, my daughter Natalie gave me a ring that she made out of those rubber band things and then made me a lovely card with a picture of she and I standing near my birthday cake while I blew out its candles. My son, who is 5, gave me $2.00 of his own money so that I "would have some dollars to spend".
So I'm skipping around, but when I got to work today, my friend threw here arms around my neck and squealed at her chance to tell me happy birthday and then asked me if I liked red velvet. When I got to my counter, my manager handed me a gift card from herself and another counter manager. Underneath that was a GIANT red velvet cupcake from my friend that had hugged me earlier.
Then, throughout the day, I had soooooo many people tell me happy birthday on Facebook and some in person. When people told me in person, something struck me every time. There was a something in their eyes - a softness, a tenderness, a happiness. It kept happening, so I kept thinking about it trying to figure out exactly what it was that I was seeing, and then it hit me. It was adoration.
I felt like such a jerk when that word popped into my mind, but then I forced myself to think that through. There are people that I genuinely adore. I look at them, and I just think "Gosh I am so glad they are in my life. I just don't know what I would have done if that piece of the puzzle had been missing in this picture", so what is so far fetched about someone thinking that about me? I had this realization, and then I began to cry. I am someone's "that". I am someone's puzzle piece, and by the looks of it today, I might be several people's puzzle piece.
I have tears sneaking down my cheeks right now because I remember so well what it feels like to think that you don't matter, so to realize that I just might matter to a whole bunch of people - that all of that was a lie and even that I've healed enough to realize that.......makes me feel really lucky.
If you are reading this, chances are, you have felt insignificant. You have felt like you aren't someone's puzzle piece. You're just the cellophane on the outside of the box that people throw away. You're clear, as far as you're concerned. You're not though. You're not clear. You have depth and substance in there *points to your heart. You matter. You are someone's puzzle piece, and, like I realized today, you might be a BUNCH of people's puzzle piece. You fit right in to this beautiful picture of their life, and, without you, something would be glaringly missing. In fact, if you are friends with me, I just bet you are MY puzzle piece. (So funny. I have one person on my mind right now. I wonder if they will realize who they are.) I hope beyond hope that something allows you respite from your struggles enough to see your importance. I hope you feel as adored as you are - at least for a minute. I hope you get to feel what I feel right now - grateful, humbled, loved.
So happy MY birthday to YOU. (I'm sharing it. It's my own birthday. I can do that.) Happy life to you.
My birthday is always weird for me because my dad died so near to my birthday, and because I spent a long time being fed the impression that I'm not really worth celebrating. So every year I try to just sort of squeeze around my birthday without being noticed, I guess, so that I don't have to deal with the issues that make me hate it so much. Three years ago, I actually allowed Facebook to post my birth date. That was a big deal. Either way, I usually ask for there to be no parties or cards or whatnot.
This year, no one listened.
This morning, I went out to my car, and there was a bag from my friend sitting on the front hood. I gasped and walked over to it. I picked it up, read the tag and started opening......standing there in my carport.....and then I started to cry. I was so moved. Then I started to see all the nice things people were posting on Facebook to wish me a happy day.
I went to cut a friend's hair today, and when I arrived, I saw that she had decorated her door with signs and balloons. Inside she had flowers and cake and coffee waiting for me.
My boyfriend sent me my birthday present a week ago. It was a bag and a card. The purse made me smile. It has his school's logo on it so I can represent every where I go. The card made me cry because this man is incredibly romantic.
Yesterday I got a handmade card from a friend. It was beautiful. Inside it said "May you have everything your heart desires". I leaked some tears over that one too. If you knew who this person was and what all was represented with those words, you would fall to pieces.
On Sunday, my daughter Natalie gave me a ring that she made out of those rubber band things and then made me a lovely card with a picture of she and I standing near my birthday cake while I blew out its candles. My son, who is 5, gave me $2.00 of his own money so that I "would have some dollars to spend".
So I'm skipping around, but when I got to work today, my friend threw here arms around my neck and squealed at her chance to tell me happy birthday and then asked me if I liked red velvet. When I got to my counter, my manager handed me a gift card from herself and another counter manager. Underneath that was a GIANT red velvet cupcake from my friend that had hugged me earlier.
Then, throughout the day, I had soooooo many people tell me happy birthday on Facebook and some in person. When people told me in person, something struck me every time. There was a something in their eyes - a softness, a tenderness, a happiness. It kept happening, so I kept thinking about it trying to figure out exactly what it was that I was seeing, and then it hit me. It was adoration.
I felt like such a jerk when that word popped into my mind, but then I forced myself to think that through. There are people that I genuinely adore. I look at them, and I just think "Gosh I am so glad they are in my life. I just don't know what I would have done if that piece of the puzzle had been missing in this picture", so what is so far fetched about someone thinking that about me? I had this realization, and then I began to cry. I am someone's "that". I am someone's puzzle piece, and by the looks of it today, I might be several people's puzzle piece.
I have tears sneaking down my cheeks right now because I remember so well what it feels like to think that you don't matter, so to realize that I just might matter to a whole bunch of people - that all of that was a lie and even that I've healed enough to realize that.......makes me feel really lucky.
If you are reading this, chances are, you have felt insignificant. You have felt like you aren't someone's puzzle piece. You're just the cellophane on the outside of the box that people throw away. You're clear, as far as you're concerned. You're not though. You're not clear. You have depth and substance in there *points to your heart. You matter. You are someone's puzzle piece, and, like I realized today, you might be a BUNCH of people's puzzle piece. You fit right in to this beautiful picture of their life, and, without you, something would be glaringly missing. In fact, if you are friends with me, I just bet you are MY puzzle piece. (So funny. I have one person on my mind right now. I wonder if they will realize who they are.) I hope beyond hope that something allows you respite from your struggles enough to see your importance. I hope you feel as adored as you are - at least for a minute. I hope you get to feel what I feel right now - grateful, humbled, loved.
So happy MY birthday to YOU. (I'm sharing it. It's my own birthday. I can do that.) Happy life to you.
Monday, January 27, 2014
Compliments
This writing is meant to be therapy for me. I am supposed to do it every day - expression of my feelings every day so that I can eventually sort through the things that impede me. I poured out a lot of feeling this morning as I wrote so this evening, I don't know that I have much to write.
This thought just struck me. I can't receive compliments well. I'm always suspicious that the giver of the compliment is actually making fun of me. I colored my hair red. I always end up coloring my hair red. My mother is a natural red-head, and she always spoke of it with a sort of elegant vanity so maybe that's where I get my equation of red hair being most beautiful on me. Since I have colored it red this most recent time, I have gotten many compliments. It has been a good month and a half since I colored it, so it is faded. In the last couple of days, I have gotten several comments on the color. Instead of thinking "Oh wow. Red must work for me really well.", I have thought "This crap must look really faded and people are complimenting me to my face and making fun of my sad faded hair behind my back." I wore different pants to work. People told me they were cute. Instead of thinking "I am so glad I was able to find clothes that fit me nicely", I think "Gosh those other pants must have looked so bad that everyone is relieved to see me in something more current looking" or "There's probably something wrong with what I have on but people like me enough as a person to try to validate what they think is redeemable." Someone said to me the other day "Sarah, you're so pretty. You're such a pretty girl. That face you made was just so, I don't know - just pretty". Instead of thinking "You know what? I have come a long way from the buck toothed bucket of awkwardness that I was in high school.", I think "People are so nice about things when they think you're pleasant to be around. They just reinforce you with something that may not even be true just so they can make you feel good." I curled my hair for work last week. One of the guys at work said "You're hair looks really pretty like that. I like curls." Instead of saying "Thank you" and throwing a winning smile at him for such a sweet compliment, I said "Are you kidding?! I have old lady hair today! I think it looks terrible!" He literally stood there and just said "No. It really looks nice. Just take the compliment."
What of that?! Is it the American culture I grew up in? Was there something in my nuclear family that has left me so insecure? Is it from scars from ill-intended men during the course of my life? Is is all of these or none of them? Is this just part of our deficiency as imperfect humans that we tear ourselves apart from the inside out? I just don't have the answer to that. It's terrible though.
Would I ever want my daughters or my son to feel suspicious when someone encourages them? I'm sure my mom will read this. What must that make her feel to know that I can't believe any positive feedback when it is given to me? I spent my childhood and time in her house growing up being told that I was so beautiful and that I could do anything I wanted. Why does this plague me?
Should I even need positive feedback? Where is the line of health where that is concerned?
I have just spent so much time in self doubt trying to save myself from moments of embarrassing self inflation that I have created a complex for myself. I don't supposed it really matter from whence it came. It only matters what I do with it now. The thing is, I'm just not sure where exactly to go.
I do know this. I have value. That cannot be taken away. I have beauty. I know that I CAN see that. Not many people love as deeply and fiercely as I do. That is something that cannot change with time. Circumstances can change that, but only if you let them, and I have fought to keep that.
What if people do think that I'm actually pretty? What if someone really did like my new pants or the way I curled my hair? What would be so wrong with enjoying those compliments? I guess nothing.
This thought just struck me. I can't receive compliments well. I'm always suspicious that the giver of the compliment is actually making fun of me. I colored my hair red. I always end up coloring my hair red. My mother is a natural red-head, and she always spoke of it with a sort of elegant vanity so maybe that's where I get my equation of red hair being most beautiful on me. Since I have colored it red this most recent time, I have gotten many compliments. It has been a good month and a half since I colored it, so it is faded. In the last couple of days, I have gotten several comments on the color. Instead of thinking "Oh wow. Red must work for me really well.", I have thought "This crap must look really faded and people are complimenting me to my face and making fun of my sad faded hair behind my back." I wore different pants to work. People told me they were cute. Instead of thinking "I am so glad I was able to find clothes that fit me nicely", I think "Gosh those other pants must have looked so bad that everyone is relieved to see me in something more current looking" or "There's probably something wrong with what I have on but people like me enough as a person to try to validate what they think is redeemable." Someone said to me the other day "Sarah, you're so pretty. You're such a pretty girl. That face you made was just so, I don't know - just pretty". Instead of thinking "You know what? I have come a long way from the buck toothed bucket of awkwardness that I was in high school.", I think "People are so nice about things when they think you're pleasant to be around. They just reinforce you with something that may not even be true just so they can make you feel good." I curled my hair for work last week. One of the guys at work said "You're hair looks really pretty like that. I like curls." Instead of saying "Thank you" and throwing a winning smile at him for such a sweet compliment, I said "Are you kidding?! I have old lady hair today! I think it looks terrible!" He literally stood there and just said "No. It really looks nice. Just take the compliment."
What of that?! Is it the American culture I grew up in? Was there something in my nuclear family that has left me so insecure? Is it from scars from ill-intended men during the course of my life? Is is all of these or none of them? Is this just part of our deficiency as imperfect humans that we tear ourselves apart from the inside out? I just don't have the answer to that. It's terrible though.
Would I ever want my daughters or my son to feel suspicious when someone encourages them? I'm sure my mom will read this. What must that make her feel to know that I can't believe any positive feedback when it is given to me? I spent my childhood and time in her house growing up being told that I was so beautiful and that I could do anything I wanted. Why does this plague me?
Should I even need positive feedback? Where is the line of health where that is concerned?
I have just spent so much time in self doubt trying to save myself from moments of embarrassing self inflation that I have created a complex for myself. I don't supposed it really matter from whence it came. It only matters what I do with it now. The thing is, I'm just not sure where exactly to go.
I do know this. I have value. That cannot be taken away. I have beauty. I know that I CAN see that. Not many people love as deeply and fiercely as I do. That is something that cannot change with time. Circumstances can change that, but only if you let them, and I have fought to keep that.
What if people do think that I'm actually pretty? What if someone really did like my new pants or the way I curled my hair? What would be so wrong with enjoying those compliments? I guess nothing.
On being loved
In my adult life I have grown accustomed to not being loved - or at least perceiving that I could not accept love. I have believed that the ugliness of my human experience was too much for others to bear - that it would reveal the conditions of their love.
My dad died almost 7 years ago. I would lay awake at night and quietly weep or i would close my eyes and see visions of him laying on the bathroom floor dead. He was my best friend. My dad always seemed able to shoulder the burden of my hurts or my confusions. Nothing was off limits in talking with my dad. This is what made us excellent partners in business and friendship. It always made me feel so secure to know that , if no one else understood or cared to listen - my dad always would - with no judgments . He always made time for me, and I always made time for him. I stopped feeling that security when he died.
All of our lives and roles in our lives changed when he died. That is not unique to our family, but that is the reality that I lived, so that is the only one to which I can speak.
Anyway, I became, more than ever, the fixer kid. I was the one who would help however I could - take on the big tasks that no one else could handle. I would rescue situations and people. I would "talk sense" into unreasonable people or scenarios. I was never allowed to grieve....and I stopped feeling unconditionally loved. This is not to say that I actually stopped BEING unconditionally loved. It's just what I felt. I had to be this or that for people. I lost my identity.....until last March.
Last March I left a culture of abusiveness. Immediately after that, I reunited with an old boyfriend - the one that always felt like unfinished business - the one that I knew had never stopped loving me and that accepted everything about me. the one that was never afraid to call me out on my misbehaviors but then give me a loving embrace right after. It did not take any time at all after our initial reconnection for me to realize that his character had not changed. He still loved me and was willing to shoulder up every bit of baggage that I couldn't carry....and then help me set it down at the appropriate "tomb" so that it could stay there and no longer encumber me.
It has been a very strange experience for me for someone to be so focused on my grief so that I could actually experience it. I have often felt that I have received much more than I have given, and I have felt so much guilt over that. Despite his constant reassurance that the scales were not tipped inappropriately in one direction, I have felt built.
He came to stay with me over the month of December. He stayed for an entire month - well, 27 days. Close enough. It was like a dream. After years of chronic insomnia, I found myself falling asleep at 10 at night and waking up at 7 in the morning. . I was no longer alone when I left work. My house, instead of being cold and lonely when I got home from work, was warm and inviting with a hug and kiss at the door and scents of delicious food cooking in my previously unused kitchen. We developed a routine for each evening and then found new things to do on my off days in this town where I have lived for 2 years but had never felt the freedom or had the company to explore.
.......and then he went home. I have felt grief over his absence. I knew I would, but the reality hit me nevertheless. I cried tears a short time or two, but I did not embrace my sadness - my loss - my loneliness. Instead, I pushed him away and blamed busyness. I said vague things about things between us not being normal, but I refused to even allow my own mind to admit what exactly it was because then I would have to reveal to him what I was afraid would actually make him feel badly for something that was outside his control. I didn't want to push him there....because I am a pusher. I am a "salesman". I didn't want to do that to him or even make him feel that's what I was doing. So....I just pushed him away. Not far. Just far enough that he couldn't get close to my heart to see the pain but not so far that I pushed him out of my life. It didn't work though, because when someone loves you - truly loves you - they see through those things, and he did.
We had a long talk this morning, and I had to admit my feelings. I had to apologize for pushing him away. It was horrible and embarrassing, but then.....I felt loved. He reminded me that embracing my pain with me does not tax him beyond what he is able. It does not deplete him. What depletes him is being pushed away being left alone and confused. Then he used the word "partners". He could not see me, but tears welled up in my eyes and then spilled over. I have a partner. Come what may, I have a partner. Until death do us part, I have someone to travel this human journey with me. I have someone who loves me. I have someone to love.
I am a lucky girl.
My dad died almost 7 years ago. I would lay awake at night and quietly weep or i would close my eyes and see visions of him laying on the bathroom floor dead. He was my best friend. My dad always seemed able to shoulder the burden of my hurts or my confusions. Nothing was off limits in talking with my dad. This is what made us excellent partners in business and friendship. It always made me feel so secure to know that , if no one else understood or cared to listen - my dad always would - with no judgments . He always made time for me, and I always made time for him. I stopped feeling that security when he died.
All of our lives and roles in our lives changed when he died. That is not unique to our family, but that is the reality that I lived, so that is the only one to which I can speak.
Anyway, I became, more than ever, the fixer kid. I was the one who would help however I could - take on the big tasks that no one else could handle. I would rescue situations and people. I would "talk sense" into unreasonable people or scenarios. I was never allowed to grieve....and I stopped feeling unconditionally loved. This is not to say that I actually stopped BEING unconditionally loved. It's just what I felt. I had to be this or that for people. I lost my identity.....until last March.
Last March I left a culture of abusiveness. Immediately after that, I reunited with an old boyfriend - the one that always felt like unfinished business - the one that I knew had never stopped loving me and that accepted everything about me. the one that was never afraid to call me out on my misbehaviors but then give me a loving embrace right after. It did not take any time at all after our initial reconnection for me to realize that his character had not changed. He still loved me and was willing to shoulder up every bit of baggage that I couldn't carry....and then help me set it down at the appropriate "tomb" so that it could stay there and no longer encumber me.
It has been a very strange experience for me for someone to be so focused on my grief so that I could actually experience it. I have often felt that I have received much more than I have given, and I have felt so much guilt over that. Despite his constant reassurance that the scales were not tipped inappropriately in one direction, I have felt built.
He came to stay with me over the month of December. He stayed for an entire month - well, 27 days. Close enough. It was like a dream. After years of chronic insomnia, I found myself falling asleep at 10 at night and waking up at 7 in the morning. . I was no longer alone when I left work. My house, instead of being cold and lonely when I got home from work, was warm and inviting with a hug and kiss at the door and scents of delicious food cooking in my previously unused kitchen. We developed a routine for each evening and then found new things to do on my off days in this town where I have lived for 2 years but had never felt the freedom or had the company to explore.
.......and then he went home. I have felt grief over his absence. I knew I would, but the reality hit me nevertheless. I cried tears a short time or two, but I did not embrace my sadness - my loss - my loneliness. Instead, I pushed him away and blamed busyness. I said vague things about things between us not being normal, but I refused to even allow my own mind to admit what exactly it was because then I would have to reveal to him what I was afraid would actually make him feel badly for something that was outside his control. I didn't want to push him there....because I am a pusher. I am a "salesman". I didn't want to do that to him or even make him feel that's what I was doing. So....I just pushed him away. Not far. Just far enough that he couldn't get close to my heart to see the pain but not so far that I pushed him out of my life. It didn't work though, because when someone loves you - truly loves you - they see through those things, and he did.
We had a long talk this morning, and I had to admit my feelings. I had to apologize for pushing him away. It was horrible and embarrassing, but then.....I felt loved. He reminded me that embracing my pain with me does not tax him beyond what he is able. It does not deplete him. What depletes him is being pushed away being left alone and confused. Then he used the word "partners". He could not see me, but tears welled up in my eyes and then spilled over. I have a partner. Come what may, I have a partner. Until death do us part, I have someone to travel this human journey with me. I have someone who loves me. I have someone to love.
I am a lucky girl.
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