The Risk of Speaking

When I was a child I don’t remember being comforted often when I would cry or was fearful. The few times I recall my Mother comforting me, would have been when my father was on a drunken tear, or we were on the run. When I was twelve and my Mother was dying I never really cried in front of anyone. Not even at her funeral. I tried hard to never complain. I was praised often for being strong.

Even before this, in my family, openly expressed emotion other than rage and anger was never safe. Rebuked for being pouty and weak, tears, pain and fear were to be kept hidden. Eggshells must be walked to keep this peace.

Then came the praise. ‘You’re so strong. We never have to worry about you, you just get on with it.’

No one helped me or showed me then, that sorrow, grief, fear and vulnerability are all acceptable and worthy of support.

This burying of emotion became a lifelong destructive habit.

Fast forward through added trauma of rape and abuse in my teens.

I can tell you with clear eyed accuracy what these events have done to me. But the open vulnerability, expressed pain, tears – that was only expressed alone, often late into the night. Curled in a ball, howling, searing pain, hot uncontrollable tears. The breaking moments often resulted in self harm, cutting, hitting myself until raw and bruised. Praying for death but not wanting to hurt anyone who might be affected by it. Eating until I was numb. Trying to gain control. Manic in achieving what no one believed I could.

But… ‘Hey, you’re so strong, look at you! You moved forward, away from it.’ Physically yes, but those monsters are beaten deep down into me.

No one saw me cry, or held me through the pain of giving my son up for adoption. Praised and congratulated for making such a wonderful decision, a needed and good decision. I’ve never regretted it, but as any mother knows the pain of separation from your child rips through you and you are not sure how you will survive.

More praise for my strength, my fortitude and my ability to make something of myself. This, I had read as, to not crack in front of anyone, to never really let anyone know that I don’t have it together, I am in pain or that I am unsure of what I can do.

Praise for my ability to be such a great open support for others. Always a shoulder, an ear, a firm unwavering hug as one would melt down and open up. I never blink, condemn or walk away from anyone in these moments. I give freely what I crave so deeply.

I cry in movies, tv shows, certain books have opened flood gates and being witness to other people’s tragedies can bring heartfelt tears quickly. I have the added good fortune of being an empath through and through. Often chided for being so affected by the things and people around me.

More praise for how open I am about trauma and my journey. The wonderment at what I’ve built, how far I’ve come, my ability to always have a survival plan when shit goes sideways.

Plaudits for being able to describe the inner battles with my mental demons and the hard painful darkness where my mental health battles take place. Yet- it is not allowable for anyone to see the physical release, the raw vulnerability of my emotions.

On the rare occasion the actual emotion bubbles out ( not the description, or the story after the fact), it is met often with

‘Don’t cry, I can’t handle that right now.’

‘You’ll figure it out, you always do.’

‘It’s not so bad.’

‘You’re strong, you’ll get through it.’

Well meaning most times, but reinforces in my head that I am not allowed this vulnerability, it (I) will be rejected.

My fear is that I will be abandoned, viewed as ugly, unhealed and unworthy.

The more praise I get for who I present that I am, what I do and my strength and compassion, the more stifled screaming in the shower, pinching and scratching takes place in the dark.

A few years back, there was a moment in time, that by circumstance and a series of things happened, triggered emotional responses I could not control. Significant losses coupled with burgeoning self realization cracked wide a firmly welded shut box of yuk. By some strange timing/alinement there happened to be a witness to these moments. It was someone I did not know well, but seemed to connect quickly to. At the time this person seemed to offer a non judgmental, safe friendship. I was not judged or stifled, I was validated and allowed the space to express. I felt like I had been heard and seen and not found to be disgusting. I had experienced a moment of safety.

This lasted a short time, as my fear was soon realized that this person, while kind at the time, eventually saw me as damaged and ugly… too much. I believe now, that in the instances I allowed my self the humanness, the vulnerability of raw expression in their presence, they felt trapped and forced to support.

There was a cold abrupt ending to this. I was too much. I had heard later from another, I had been actually seen as a triggering shrew. This was never said directly to me, just cold silence- no matter how I had tried to make amends. Falling into the old patterns of apologizing for my human failings and pain. Desperate to reclaim my value and worth despite the ugliness I could not hide. Again my monsters read this as proof, I am a helper not allowable to be helped. I have not openly wept in front of another person about how I am affected by life since then.

Please note- I am not relaying this to paint the other as intentionally hurtful or cruel, they too are to be given the grace of being human. I realistically understand most reactions (as are mine) are personal and a preset in that own person’s journey and I am not belittling this. However this is told from my perception and with lack of communication to understand the other’s point of view I can only operate from my own experience.

Fast forward a little more. I still share my journey, analytical, smooth writing, story sharing, describing emotion in order to connect with others ( a safe, removed way of partial vulnerability). Still open and unblinking in my support of others. Ready with space, a hug, acceptance of their dark, steady while their tears flow. I champion that expression and vulnerability to be allowable, acceptable and supported.

Those who’ve known me longest still praise the stoic. I’ve set up cycles where if my live emotion is detected it must be solved immediately to avoid inconvenience and discomfort.

After my most recent experiences in trying to find acceptance for my human reactions I collapsed deeper into distrust that I could find that safe space. I have been working on changing this, on being ok to risk that openness, but trust is a gossamer thread. When you open up and allow your vulnerability to be see by anyone and it is rejected, ignored, derided or completely trampled on, intensionally or not, it is devastating.

I asked once, why, when I ask for support or help I feel that I’m often denied the space, or my need is minimized. I was told I am at fault because I have set up the view that I can move forward and get through anything on my own. So no one believes I may need more.

My own survival techniques have failed me here- but my acting must be stellar.

I know there are beautiful souls who would offer me this grace and have. But the minute I perceive that they may allow me this, I freeze, stiffen and do not allow more than dry words to express where/how I am. No tears, no confusion, no real time release. No chance of rejection if I don’t allow it.

I don’t know how to change this. I don’t know if I have it in me to risk that part again. Yet I know how vitally important this is.

I am unafraid of seeing another’s deep wounds, but deeply afraid of showing the live versions of my own. I am working on this. I am hoping to be better at choosing the places where I will be safe. But for now this is my safest place. Flat descriptive words for sharing. Loud music and the shower for expressing.

I’m grateful to those who see me as safe and are willing to share. It is an honour to be a part of the journey. I’m grateful to those who read, converse with me and tell me they have space for me, when and if I am ever ready. But for now the risk of speaking triggers an immediate danger response I have yet to figure out how to cut the wires to.

Loss Not Yet Done

How do we grieve?

I have asked this question once before, when faced with grieving a friendship.

Grieving the living is hard, death has a finality to it, that makes the loss feel different.

How do we grieve those who are at the entrance to the bridge to Summer land? Death not yet here but looming.

How do we grieve the living, when they go on?

How do we grieve the losses in a world not yet ready to come together?

How do we grieve when it feels so lonely, by distance and by heart?

How do we grieve when it feels the losses continue to mount?

How do we grieve when nothing feels right?

How do we grieve when there is nothing left?

We grieve in the moment because sometimes that is all there is. Someday fond remembrances will come. Some day to recall the face will not sting. Some day the sound of the person’s name will not cut. Some day the good that was, will fill the hollow that was left at the end.

This will be how we grieve, howling, silent, still, shaking, until we get to the other side.

I Am Not Ok

Today I broke.

It’s been along time coming, this is beyond the ‘ugly’ cry. This was pure unadulterated rage and disappointment.

Curled up in the corner of the tub, hot water running over me, mixing with the hot tears streaming down my face. The rhythm from the water providing a background to the guttural howl ripping through my throat

Today I can’t. Yet I have to.

Dangled carrot of some normality my brain is refusing, for fear of let down

Trying to reconcile how we treat each other vs the good game most of us talk

Crushed by the weight of constant uncertainty, distrust, disappointment

The chronic pain I thought I had a handle on, has been chipping away at my ability to do my self care, my life

Screaming into the void

Feeling like I’m saying the same thing over and over, on deafness it falls

Today wrap me in softness, sit with me, allow me to cry, allow me to rage, allow me to hurt and not feel guilty for it.

I’m not asking for a fix, I’m not wanting pity.

I’m not wanting to hear it will get better

I don’t want to hear how strong I am.

Today I’m asking to be heard, loved, validated as is. Because today I’m not ok.

15 Months

I see you.

It’s wearing on you. The things that have been emotionally and mentally pushing down on you are starting to seep out.

The mental exhaustion from not knowing from minute to minute what’s coming, what the right thing, the safe thing is to do.

The emotional weariness from bearing witness to the constant ignorance, violence and disconnect.

It is so full inside of you that you are numb, detached as a way of preservation.

Yet, there are dull headaches, your appetite is all over, sleep waivers between thick to nonexistent but no rest to be found. Restlessness but no drive.

And then the pain, this is a manifestation of the heart, soul and mind. Dull stiffness in the joints, a deep ache in the muscles, a sensitive tenderness woven into the skin.

Words can not replace soothing touch.

Electronics can not replace the energetic connections of being together. We are told ‘just a little longer’. Hollow sounds they’ve become

Some days are ok. Some days are hell.

I’m here with you. I see this. I feel this.

The Sixteenth Card

When do you call time?

Jam your hands and feet against the wall

Brace against the fall.

STOP

Enough now, it’s time.

From a distance what you’d have witness would be this.

A beautiful scene. Tall tower, blue sky-

The cracks began to show.

In a blink fire, explosion

The tower collapses

Ruble everywhere.

STOP

The destruction is done, no more

The air acrid with smoke- the tower has fallen

The sky blotted out, the tower is no more.

The landing was painful

I am not unscathed

There is blood, breaks, putrid wounds

Tears, fear, a heavy heart

STOP

Stillness, let it settle, let the pieces fall

Time to clean wounds, set the breaks

Wipe the soot from my eyes.

The lightening dark, clearing of smoke.

This hurts, but it’s purifying

Dissolve to ash.

STOP

Time to start again, from the elements

Air, Water, Fire, Earth,

Spirit

Weave together, first form the heart

Then breath.

Bone, nerve, muscle

Skin- sensation

Brain, thought, creative, memory

Ahh memory and wisdom

Those scars I’ll bear

BEGIN

Pressure

You would have been 80 tomorrow. Mother’s Day was yesterday. It has been 36 years.

This is my background noise. Grief, a longing for something I may never have had. The forefront is just a mass of confusion. One I would like to talk to you about.

I thought I had an idea of who I was. I thought I knew the trajectory I was on. And as I sit here, in the ‘day between’ reminders, the month before the 37th anniversary of loss, all I can think is I don’t know.

I don’t know what comes next

I don’t know if I will ever be rid of pain

I don’t know what will happen with my career

I don’t know where I am going

I don’t know if I am parenting adequately

I don’t know if I can heal some of these old wounds

I don’t know who I am

The picture I created in my heart and mind of what I would be when I passed ‘the date’ (you know, the one where I finally became my own adult, the one where I out lived you)

It lasted for a brief time.

I was in adventure mode- I felt strong, unlimited, interesting, amused.

And as fast as that fire was lit- poof- it was dampened

Fear? Pushback? Fall prey to old patterns? Punishment?

I blurred my edges to try to fit. I did not know how to temper my excitement at feeling the most like me I had ever felt. So I apologized. I blurred. I asked. I apologized some more- but it was empty, I had gotten too blurry to matter. I had created and allowed this.

To try to change, I have stripped bare my self- open to examination, picking through. There are more questions than answers. What will it take to sharpen my edges?

This is what I would ask you. I would ask you if you ever felt this? Would you have a story for me? A lesson or example to share. Would you tell me to find my muchness? This phantom conversation plays in the background, like a wish within the chaos.

Is this aging? Is this emerging? Is this crazy? Is this healing?

It is transforming, to what?

I don’t know

Anger and Shame and an Anxious Brain

Guided Shadow work has brought me to a place of reckoning. I am trying now to reconcile things within myself that were once survival mechanisms. Some I believed to be positive traits others are chains around me.

To survive as a child I needed to be helpful, good and quiet. I needed to read the people around me to anticipate their needs so it stayed safe and I would be welcome.

I learned that I could belong if I was kind, helpful and did what I could to aid others.

As I grew I really bought into the idea of ‘be what you seek.’ Bought in so deeply that it is now a reflex.

I do not want this to come across as a complaint necessarily, it is a twisted mess at the moment, of roses and shit, as all gardens are.

I am an empath, I believe I would have been no matter my upbringing. Perhaps if things had been different I would have had better boundaries, better ways of guarding my energy, heart and spirit. But I had the upbringing I did. I was the youngest in a troubled family. I was easily lost or ignored, considered a blight. There was trauma (stories for another time), and there was some very normal childhood things.

I learned early on how to be a pleaser. If I did as my brother asked, he wouldn’t beat me up. If I did as my father asked maybe he wouldn’t drink and we could breath. If I did as my mother asked, maybe her pain would lessen.

I did not ask for much, although others in my family and their remembrances will tell you that I was a spoiled child who had everything.

My voice was encouraged by mentors in middle school- there were teachers who saw me, heard me through the words I wrote back then. The people who “loved me most’ weren’t interested. This has become a theme I have allowed through out my life.

I am not saying I do not have people around me who care and love me. I do.

But I have set up some ineffective communication.

I easily give up or make small, things that interest me to not upset the boat or make anyone uncomfortable.

I have a hard time with anger, I think long and hard about the why and my response, I want to be articulate about the issue and not fight dirty. To the point I will make up the other person’s reasoning about their part in things. Or I will throw myself on the proverbial sword and take the blame for everything.

I will forgive easily and more often than I should, especially to those who may have thrown me a moment of kindness, or momentarily seen something important to me, but then comes much more coolness and shade. So I work harder.

I had always believed that if I showed enough compassion, love, interest and support to those around me, that I would receive the same. This is not so.

The amusing part is that my professional life is also set up to be of service, offering solace, space, insight and care. And it works well, I feel fulfilled and successful here.

It is in, what I hoped was my tightest safety net, where I feel tired, depleted, sad and fearful.

In initially trying to teach myself new communication boundaries and skills, I have been told I am too much, too different, too needy, too opinionated and ‘why so many new things?”

After an initial rush of this new found moment of power, I shrank, I gave up so much of myself that I had just discovered.

Trying to find a voice to be firm has been one of the hardest things I have ever tried to do. To try to let it be known that there are things that have deeply wounded me is a place I dipped a toe into only to be cut off with cold silence. Reenforcing that worthlessness I felt when I was a child and was ignored or cast aside.

Am I a victim?

Only of myself, my expectations and my survival mechanisms.

I had always figured (as do most of us) that everyone else’s brain works like mine. That most people think of how their actions affect others before they act. That most people want to care for and see the best for those around them and be there to help. That people will put in the effort without being asked. That people would benefit from a collective (we all talk so much about finding our ‘tribe’, ‘village’ and ‘coven’), a place to feel safe, seen and be encouraged to grow.

I want(ed) this so much. I had put blinders on to the people themselves. I led with my heart. I thought that new adventures, learning and energy was coming. I thought I’d found my spiritual kin. I thought I had a foundation from which to spring. I thought/hoped that I could be enough to make it all fit because I craved it to be so.

I want to say that the disconnect was swift and unexpected. But in looking back, it was an illusion from the beginning. It wasn’t the party only crowd of my younger years. I believed that a mature, magical, creative community was going to come together. The kids would hang out- the adults could share and prepare meals together, lend a hand to whom ever needs it. Gently challenge each other to grow and learn. Times filled with laughter and conversation. But these are real people not characters that I write. The dream I had was never solid, it was after all a dream.

There was a short time with a mix of old and new that was of shared creative, shared meals, shared laughs, and for such a brief time I felt safe to share pieces of myself to people in the flesh, not the quasi anonymous internet or page. I say quasi anonymous because there are very few who intimately know me that will read this. Then came the shame.

Some did not like others, no matter how much I tried to show similarities, ways to connect and reassurance that all had a place. Some did not want to put in the effort. Some did not understand the place I come from, I had surpassed a point in my life I never thought I would get to and wanted to celebrate and bloom! My intentions were misread, misunderstood and found to be intense.

I did not know how to temper my joy, desire and excitement. Not since my days in theatre had I felt so inspired in a group of people.

I feel shame that people are angry with me. I feel shame that others begun to see me as an intrusive monster. I feel shame that I was so easy to walk away from. I feel shame that I withdrew my interests and creativity from my focus. I feel shame now, that I am the only one who misses what was, could have been. At least the only one who has expressed it. I feel shame that I believed this could have been a reality. I feel shame that no one seems to think it matters that I am hurting and grieving these things I believed could be. I feel shame that I believed I held high importance as myself and worthy of understanding and patience. I feel shame I can’t articulate my anger. I feel shame that I have anger. I feel shame my anger only gets turned on myself. I feel shame I don’t trust that I am worthy and forgivable for having human strong emotions. I feel shame that I seem ungrateful for the support I get, because there is some, and it is beautiful, but the imbalance within leads me to focus on the imbalance outside. I feel shame that I worry that being angry will drive people away. I feel shame that I am lonely anyway because I am not being true to me. I feel shame that I worry about this so much.

No toxic positivity here. This shit is dark. This shit is painful. This shit needs to be spoken. This shit is not to be pitied, but worked through, embraced and accepted .

And here I am (not)

There was a young child whose start in life had a hand over her mouth.

Be a good girl and don’t cause problems

Be a good girl and do what you are told

There was a young girl whose entry into puberty had a hand over her mouth

Be a good girl and don’t rock the boat

Be a good girl and stop talking so much

There was a young woman whose entry into young adulthood had a hand around her neck

Be a good girl and it won’t hurt so much

Be a good girl and just be what you are told

There was a woman whose entry into full bloom is being marked by tearing at the hand shaped scars that conceal her voice

She is a good woman

She listens closely

She has ridden the wave and broke through the surface

She whispers when she should scream

She bears the scars of the wounds seen and unseen

She tried to be everything that she was asked

and found she was nothing, it did not make her worthy

The Heart of an Empath

My wounds are such, that when I see them reflected in you, my response is one to want to heal you. To shelter you and let you know there is better.

My desire for connection and the mutual exploration of the deep does not fit.

I am to be taken in doses, as I see I am too much, or is it not enough?

I am told my need to help is not normal, by some even unwelcome- no matter the intent.

Do we not all have the desire to help each other? To care for and nourish each other?

To bathe the wounds in kindness, love and acceptance?

I do not understand why I don’t fit here.

It’s coming….. pre birthday thoughts

Have you ever been nervous? Not that little bit of jittery catch my breath kind of nervous, but the kind that parallels anxiety so deeply you don’t know if you’re experiencing exhilaration or just an abject ripping apart of your heart and soul.

Every year as my birthday rolls around, this seems to be the overwhelming feeling growing as each year passes.

I try to distract myself with people, places, activities.

But Covid has seen to the fact that I don’t have my distractions, the shut down not only of the world at large, but of peoples minds and hearts because they’re overwhelmed, can at times make it feel like I’m adrift calling out to empty echoes.

I don’t say this for pity, I say this is fact. We are all on survival and I am not special.

Most think that each birthday I have lived should be a victory lap, for the cycles I have tried to break, for making it to an age that I hadn’t really pictured.

I do see each year as a gift, a gift of time with my family, a gift of time to be able to have purpose in the world, to do good things, to help people as best as I can.

But this year, this godforsaken year has been so hard. So many right things to be trying to do, Politic, health and relationship building. Trying to adapt and adjust my own career to what comes next, what I’ll find fulfillment with, where I’ll find my spark.

And today as I sit and look out at the blue sky, and try to fill the landscape of my day with something to make my heart happy, all I can really feel is exhaustion with the underlying electric current of nervousness.

I’m not sure what comes next, I really don’t think anybody is. I just don’t want to lose my drive to get there. Give in to the pain my body feels as I’m trying to coax it to strength and flexibility. Give in to the high anxiety I have been battling. To keep to the positive things I’m trying to do. Who do I want to be, where will I be and who will be with me, this next turn of the wheel? The dogs that are my coffee dates this morning hold no answers.

These are the thoughts I have over coffee before my day begins, I will go to nature, I will touch the ground, I will be thankful for what I have, and remind myself of the joy of curiosity of what’s to come.