First, Your Spirit

Lately, I spend every moment possible reading and listening for comfort, from those who have openly navigated troublesome experiences, who possess the inner strength and courage to share–messages of hope alongside their deeply personal and  messy details.  I, personally, need to hear the mess.  The message without the mess can leave me feeling separated and alone.   And without the message, I find only a sick commiserative and temporary comfort.  I need both, together.  The mess and the message:  the shit before the shiFt.  Daily doses of Bob Goff and Glennon Doyle seem a perfect prescription for now.

I am both losing and finding myself in the teachings of those who who humbly share their hardships, missteps, mistakes, confusion and lessons.  It is through them, that God speaks to me and is guiding me—helping me to recover my spirit.

I seek their wisdom with the hope and intent to become a better guardian of the spirits of my sons.  They are intelligent, courageous, strong, able, and kind humans.  These things just are.  What they also are, is deeply faithful– and this, I know has something to do with my recovery and parenting.  In all of the many ways I fail and struggle, I am deeply comforted, if not proud of the ways in which I practice protecting and developing their spirits:  their senses of connection, belonging and their deep gut knowing of goodness and kindness.  Below, I share with you my daily dose of healing from Glennon.

The thing is that I’m not worried about my little man’s brain. I’m worried about his heart.

When I was in elementary school, all of these little teeny things happened to me that made me embarrassed, or confused, or sad. Like when I had to stand against the huge cafeteria wall with my nose pressed against the big purple painted grapes, or when all the girls teased me at my lunch table because my hair was greasy, you could start a car with all that grease, they said. Or when the boys never chased me at recess. Or when a classmate brought a Playboy to school, or when my friend Jennifer called me a gay wad. What’s a gay wad? But these things didn’t seem big enough to talk about, and I didn’t want my parents to know that all wasn’t perfect . . . so for whatever reason, I kept all these little sad and confusing things secrets. And keeping secrets became second nature to me. Which didn’t turn out so well for me for a couple decades.

So when it comes to how my kids are doing at school, I don’t worry about academics. I worry about social things. I worry about their time at lunch, at recess, on the bus. Mostly, children learn to read and add and sit still eventually. But not everybody learns that he deserves to be treated with respect and so do others. And not everybody learns that he is OKAY and loved and precious and that it’s all right to feel hurt and all right to hurt others, as long as he cleans up his messes. And not everybody learns that different is beautiful. And not everybody learns to stand up for himself, even when it’s scary. So I worry about that. Seven is young to navigate a big social sea all by oneself. I feel like thirty four is too young sometimes.

Last week, I snuggled in bed with Chase and told him all about the embarrassing, sad, scary little things that happened to me in elementary school. I told him that I never gave Bubba and Tisha a chance to help me, because I kept my worries in my heart. So my worries became problems. I told him that this was a shame. Because the beautiful things about being a kid, is that you don’t really have any problems. You might have worries, but if you share those worries with your parents, they don’t have to become problems. I told him that his daddy and I are his team. That his worries are really our worries. And that the most important thing in the world to us is his heart.

 

On Gossip

Unable to articulate all that is on my mind, I have decided to share another magical and medicinal post from Momastery.com 

I would like to pre-empt this by saying that this post, for me, relates to people with whom I have intimate and meaningful affiliations.   It is likely that I will continue to dabble in gossip about celebrities and other remote people.  If I have meaningful information or opinions, I will share them with the person whom they are relevant.  This is a tough habit and norm to breech.  It is a wildly unpopular way of being in the world.

Even if the gossip is given under the guise of “concern.” Because if a concern is big enough to talk about, then it is big enough to be addressed directly to the concern-ee. And if a concern is not big enough to be addressed directly to the concern-ee, then it’s not big enough to talk about.

I want to live in a world where women trust each other. Where people know where they stand with each other. Where women give each other the benefit of the doubt simply because they believe down deep that other people are doing the best they can. Where self control is valued. Where women don’t delight in evil. And so I am going to create that type of world for myself. Because we all create the world in which we live. That’s the secret. If you want the world to be different, then go ahead and make a different world for yourself.

Gossip is tricky. Not gossiping is even trickier. Because here’s the thing. There is something inside me that loves gossip so incredibly much. When someone shares something with me about someone else . . . a juicy little morsel, it makes me feel so IN. It just makes me feel so special and accepted and like if she’s talking to ME about HER than she must like ME more than HER and it just feels cozy and like we are in this little circle of trust.

But as my dear friend Adrianne says, (Earmuffs, Jesus) “That. Is Some Bullshit.”

When someone shares a secret or complaint or judgment of another with me, all it proves it that she’ll do the same thing to me. It offers a false sense of security, this gossiping. No time for false things during this beautiful short life. We’re looking for the Truth.

It’s going to be hard. This new Love Experiment is likely to put a damper on some friendships. It might make certain get-togethers a little less fun and I might be left out of some juicy conversations. I probably won’t be as funny or exciting. I might be a bit of a wet blanket. That’s okay. Because I want to be a woman who can be trusted. More than I want to be funny or envied or admired or IN, I want to be trusted. I want to be a safe place for friends to land. I want to be honorable.

“I used to be afraid of failing at something that really mattered to me, but now I’m more afraid of succeeding at things that don’t matter”  

Bob Goff

The Tightrope

You struggle to keep your balance- to not jump- but you just keep putting one foot in front of the other.  You are walking a tight rope held by those you are bound to.  They plan to let go,  you know it in your gut, and you keep going.  What else to do?  People watch, helplessly, silently–some judging.  You put one foot in front of the other.

Cuz-faith.  Faith that it will be what it is and you will be ok.  You have been down this rope before.

 

Get Well Soon

My recovery is a wildly unpopular choice, extremely agitating to those who need to be feel in control, play God, the judge, the jury, the punisher, the rewarder.  I am also reminded daily that recovery is the ONLY way– and it divides me further and permanently from those feeling displeased(harmed) by it.    They are not yet ready and will literally do anything to get in the way of recovery life.  Annneeething!  I carry on with fervor, not ease, but fervor.

Sometimes we have to sacrifice what we want now, which is war, to get what we ultimately want, which is peace.  And not everyone defines peace the same way.  For some people can only find peace in winning, which requires a war and a loser.  Well people do not make sick people well, but unwell people can make well people sick.  I seek wellness, illumination, peace.  Progress not perfection.  One Day at a time.

There is always a right way to say what we need to say and a wrong way to say it. There is a way that will invite more light and reconciliation and a way that will invite more darkness and polarization. The latter is often the result of mental unwellness and cycles and dynamics of addiction plaguing a community or family system, usually through generations.  Break the cycle, I say!  

And, sometimes doing what we really want to do, if it’s going to add more anger, isn’t the right thing to do. Even if it feels good at the time.  Recovery has offered me the tool of pausing and acting rather than reacting.  I am emotionally triggered in under a nano-second, this I cannot help.  Recovery taught me to pause long enough to decide what I can do to acknowledge the feeling and then to practice self care and self preservation without harming another.  In sick systems, there is no distinction between being displeasing or making a mistake AND being harmful.  Recovery teaches me that –it is not my job to please and it is not mean or a crime to displease or make mistakes.  I do not choose any systems that have reliance on people pleasing OR paying the price.

a little bit soap box and ranty–oh well–

Emergencies and Celebrations

Looking back, I see that the only times my mother and sister had anything to do with me, were for emergencies and celebrations/scheduled gatherings.  I guess those times made them feel, maybe, benevolent, by showing up as rescuers, hosts, or gift givers.  But I think life, for me, is what happens in between the events.

Relationships, as I experience them, are strengthened and clarified by day to day showing up and connecting, for no reason at all.   I stopped accepting gifts and help from anyone who can easily live without me.  That is not love.  It feels icky and confusing.

I suspect that if they could honestly express their sentiments with words, they might say “Who the fuck do you think you are, going off script?”.  My marriage was similar.  Big efforts toward planned gatherings and crisis, little attention in between.  It died a natural death once it became clear that only sustained connection would lead to physical intimacy.  Again, off script.  Why am I not more grateful and indebted and willing to throw myself away, feigning closeness?  I will not accept any more opportunities to show gratitude in the from of submission.

The Opposite of Love

Because of intense and atypical sensitivity to both physical and emotional stimulus, I have felt humiliated, not only for being wired differently but for having been shamed and shunned for it– never taught to manage the frequent and difficult emotions.  Naturally, I came to envy those  unaffected, composed— indifferent to others.  I think it is boasted as thick skinned.  As if that is strength.  But I realize today, that I would not prefer to be that way.  Feeling deeply is difficult and a gift, and requires inner strength.  Yesterday, on our way to camp, a homeless woman approached our car for money, Having just gone to the ATM, and having no singles, I was pleased to have no choice but to offer her more than I typically would.  What I also did, was make and hold intentional eye contact as I told her to take care.  And then I wept as we drove away,  explaining to my sons–that if the suffering and need of a woman whom I do not know causes me pain, imagine what I feel  when a person behaves with unkindness to me.

It is true that I cry in the presence of a new baby person or animal, children singing, weddings, homeless or hurt people or animals.  I am powerless to change this, though life would be more manageable and less painful if I could.  This is the same me that cannot just move on and let go as my family has for decades done with me–the ability to individually and collectively go on as if my existence does not matter in the least.  I do not wish to be that way.  Ever. My sons have plenty of models of indifference in their lives and I am grateful to have something different to offer and model for them.

I will say it again.  The opposite of sensitivity is not strength, but insensitivity.  I married the person I did because he was so good at composure and indifference and I had been taught that was the measure of strength, maturity, and rightness hoping that I might learn from him or receive validation by proxy and association with such valor.  Emotional stoicism/vacancy are things I would no longer wish for myself or my children.  I am slowly learning to manage my feelings.  They are deep and many, but they are not crimes or defects.  I offer generous space to anyone suggesting otherwise.  Compassion and empathy are the most wholesome badass ways of being.  All of the people whom I respect most, are leading in this way.  Leading people to understand and connect rather than shame, judge, distance, and  punish for differences of skin, orientation, or opinion.

Feeling less pain would be nice but I am blessed to feel what is meant to be felt.  My program and spiritual striving suggest nowhere, that indifference and thick skin will help me to become my best self.  For appearances only, I would like to be less affected.  But my heart is big and open and for that I am learning boundaries and healthy coping.  I am a work in progress– a love warrior.  I unapologetically feel it all–openly pained by diminishing or dehumanizing words and behaviors.

A Letter for Children

Today, my sweet boys embark on their first week ever, of sleep away camp- away from mom, dad, and each other.  What I feel even more acutely than my anxiety, is pride (for lack of better word) for how kind, courageous, compassionate, and faithful these guys are.  AND–I, as their mother and primary care giver,  have something to do with that!  When I shared with Sweet Greg this overwhelming feeling of how fragile everything is, he gently reminded me that my boys are very self reliant.  True– and comforting with regards to physical safety…however my concern is their spiritual and emotional wellness and growth.  Physical stuff is easy to observe,manage, and address.  The camp is a faith based center for spiritual development, recommended by a mother whom I trust. At an intellectual level, I know, and even believe it will be great. I am longing for another mother/person to come with me, like a mother or sister of my own who would understand and faithfully support these values and concerns.

Before bed last night, we read this letter from Glennon Doyle to her son.  THIS speaks my heart’s truth, better than any words of my own.  I could tell, as they listened, that it spoke to their hearts.  So beautiful that we get to have this shared language and example of “Adam”–compassion and courage.

Hey Baby.

Tomorrow is a big day. Third Grade – wow.

Chase – When I was in third grade, there was a little boy in my class named Adam.

Adam looked a little different and he wore funny clothes and sometimes he even smelled a little bit. Adam didn’t smile. He hung his head low and he never looked at anyone at all. Adam never did his homework. I don’t think his parents reminded him like yours do. The other kids teased Adam a lot. Whenever they did, his head hung lower and lower and lower. I never teased him, but I never told the other kids to stop, either.

And I never talked to Adam, not once. I never invited him to sit next to me at lunch, or to play with me at recess. Instead, he sat and played by himself. He must have been very lonely.

I still think about Adam every day. I wonder if Adam remembers me? Probably not. I bet if I’d asked him to play, just once, he’d still remember me.

I think that God puts people in our lives as gifts to us. The children in your class this year, they are some of God’s gifts to you.

So please treat each one like a gift from God. Every single one.

Baby, if you see a child being left out, or hurt, or teased, a little part of your heart will hurt a little. Your daddy and I want you to trust that heart- ache. Your whole life, we want you to notice and trust your heart-ache. That heart ache is called compassion, and it is God’s signal to you to do something. It is God saying, Chase! Wake up! One of my babies is hurting! Do something to help! Whenever you feel compassion – be thrilled! It means God is speaking to you, and that is magic. It means He trusts you and needs you.

Sometimes the magic of compassion will make you step into the middle of a bad situation right away.

Compassion might lead you to tell a teaser to stop it and then ask the teased kid to play. You might invite a left-out kid to sit next to you at lunch. You might choose a kid for your team first who usually gets chosen last. These things will be hard to do, but you can do hard things.

Sometimes you will feel compassion but you won’t step in right away. That’s okay, too. You might choose instead to tell your teacher and then tell us. We are on your team – we are on your whole class’ team. Asking for help for someone who is hurting is not tattling, it is doing the right thing. If someone in your class needs help, please tell me, baby. We will make a plan to help together.

When God speaks to you by making your heart hurt for another, by giving you compassion, just do something. Please do not ignore God whispering to you. I so wish I had not ignored God when He spoke to me about Adam. I remember Him trying, I remember feeling compassion, but I chose fear over compassion. I wish I hadn’t. Adam could have used a friend and I could have, too.

Chase – We do not care if you are the smartest or fastest or coolest or funniest. There will be lots of contests at school, and we don’t care if you win a single one of them. We don’t care if you get straight As. We don’t care if the girls think you’re cute or whether you’re picked first or last for kickball at recess. We don’t care if you are your teacher’s favorite or not. We don’t care if you have the best clothes or most Pokemon cards or coolest gadgets. We just don’t care.

We don’t send you to school to become the best at anything at all. We already love you as much as we possibly could. You do not have to earn our love or pride and you can’t lose it. That’s done.

We send you to school to practice being brave and kind.

Kind people are brave people. Because brave is not a feeling that you should wait for. It is a decision. It is a decision that compassion is more important than fear, than fitting in, than following the crowd.

Trust me, baby, it is. It is more important.

Don’t try to be the best this year, honey.

Just be grateful and kind and brave. That’s all you ever need to be.

Take care of those classmates of yours, and your teacher, too. You Belong to Each Other. You are one lucky boy . . . with all of these new gifts to unwrap this year.

I love you so much that my heart might explode.

Enjoy and cherish your gifts.

And thank you for being my favorite gift of all time.

Love,
Mama

Life and Death

I am not there yet. I never not notice. Still mentally stuck like a barnacle. #workinprogress #lettinggo #odaat

A friend of mine, whose family of origin experience is frightfully similar, has just learned, second-hand, of her mother’s passing.  Her mother, throughout her life, consistently NOT chose her…  In a state of No Contact with her mother for most of her adult life, her mother’s will nominates her as the executor.  Fortunately, the document states that a nominee may decline for any reason at all–which she has.  The attorney, whom her mother selected, is intent on carrying out HER MOTHER’S WILL.   It seems truly her mother’s will to manipulate and shame her daughter, even from the grave.  The attorney asserted a moral obligation to serve as executor.  WTF?  You do not shame a person who has lost their mother, for the last time, into serving in this capacity.  His job would be easier if she would accept.  But it is not unreasonable to ask:  “if I am not needed or wanted in her life, why am I needed upon her passing?  Let someone she was close to handle her affairs and belongings with the love and respect they hold for her”  For the record, my friend had been notified  years ago of her removal from the will.  Bittersweet, and a lie.

I often wake to scenarios of what deaths of people in my  family of origin will call from me.  Since memorial services are intended for mourners to celebrate, recall, and commune, it makes sense that I honor the purpose–hence:  that gathering is not for me.  I cannot contribute in those ways.  To attend any gathering of those whom have elected to live as if I don’t exist, matter, count, belong —would, literally, be for what purpose?  By going, who/what am I serving—the illusion that we were/are ______???  There is no WE, here.

People concerned with perception management may feel strongly that I MUST GO unless I am a complete asshole.  BUT, Why?  So, I can be retruamatized by heart breaking disconnection some more?  So people can awkwardly tell me they are sorry for my loss or how wonderful  the person who discarded me was?   If I am not a part of your life, it makes no sense to be a part of your death.  My showing up or not showing up is a reflection of only my experience and my responsibility to choose people, places, and things to which I belong and am connected by a higher and loving purpose.

Managing these scenarios with consideration for my sons, will be delicate.  What lessons will they learn from my choice??  I will do nothing to place them in the midst of conflict and sickness, which has nothing to do with them.  Their serenity and innocence top of the list of things to consider.  Getting hugged or cried on by people with whom they have no real connection and who diminished and disposed of their mother is not appearing as a sane or wholesome choice.  Maybe tomorrow it will look  different.  Good news is I don’t need to know today how I might handle tomorrow.

 

Independence Day

Surprisingly, it was a very good day.   I forced myself to go sweat it out in the yard, pruning, mowing, weeding.  I always feel better when I do something that elevates the overall quality of life.  The daily and repetitive tasks offer no satisfaction, only the threat of greater stress if not addressed.  My yard now looks more respectable and I respect myself more, for having managed to do something I didn’t feeeeel like doing.  The truth is, I do not feeeeel like doing most things, this is part of depression, avoiding life.

Then, Sweet Greg arrived and together we he hung a picture, but only after he made an unforgivably large hole in my bedroom wall, which disturbed him greatly, and made him lose his shit a little.  He is adorable this way.  I thought it was funny and I love working together with him, feeling how much it matters to him, that he do things nicely for me.  He swears the GIANT hole is my fault, for making him hang the picture.  But that piece of shit art has been sitting on my floor waiting to be hung since December and see, I needed to pack the boys for camp and felt that I could not begin– until that thing got hung.  Make sense?  To him, it did not make sense at all, but he went along.  And we made a fun memory, not just a hole large enough to plug with your finger.  But whaev, the picture covers it.  And now we get to enjoy the project of patching and painting another day.  And camp packing is 81% complete..so there.

This reminded me how much I crave and respect genuine unity, a mutually shared cause or purpose.  For me, it is at the root of connection.  I realized that I cannot recall the last time my boys and I worked together for a common purpose and that we would benefit from some unification.  Cuz–connection.  It also reminds me of– that as long as I was showing up to care for and support my mother, we were able to sustain connection….and as soon as she was well and my service was no longer needed, we fell apart.   I will always have the memory and pleasure of knowing I showed up 100% and served with a glad heart.

So, back to the beautiful day.  After giant hole making and partial packing, Greg and I agreed that we were too tired to socialize and celebrate.  And then we decided that showing up to great people who love and want us, is a beautiful and important thing to do.  We enjoyed an evening with my best friend and all of her peeps.  It was a sweet night of yummy food in abundance and easy connection.  Nobody was forcing or trying too hard, people were just together as themselves, for as long as they liked.  Depression and apathy could have easily robbed me of this night.  We not only made a great memory, but this reminded me of so many other laughs and memories with MA and her family, who are always there for us and with us-never treating us as extra.

It was a beautiful 4th of July.  Very grateful for wholesome badass people in my life teaching my boys and I the TRUTH about love, belonging, connection.

No Laughing Matter

The more I try to outrun (debating whether lying on the couch or in my bed is considered outrunning) the pain, the less I am able to experience laughter and joy.  I am reminded again, how I can not selectively numb my feelings.  And– understanding my pain has not removed it….possibly I need some help with that.

There are times, in which I have been known for having a great sense of humor and for being fun.  But, since fun happens only in the present moment– and I always have one, if not both feet in the past…Very little feels fun.  I miss fun and laughter.  I no longer recognize  what  “fun” means for me.  In survival mode for too long, I have forgotten.

Even if someone cleared my schedule and responsibilities to grant me A Day of Fun and Creativity, I have only one  idea—“not this”.  Okay– today’s vision: wholesome large quantities of prepared food available to me, minimal stimulus, and a variety of places to sit comfortably, exercise and take in a sunset.  Physical comfort and serenity are my constant cravings.

Self soothing has not translated into enjoyment of life.  Many people seem to avoid and manage pain through intentional fun and thrill seeking.  I seem to be stuck in survival mode.  While survival and recovery are miracles, they are not fun and clearly differ from legitimate thriving.

Things I used to do for pleasure and my reasons for not doing:

  • beach volleyball, doubles, so that I had only one teammate to disappoint (weak unexercised body and no access to beach)
  • teaching (too peopley and demanding)
  • learning (too self obsessed with the idea of healing to do anything that would heal me)
  • reading (see below)
  • book club (cannot focus well enough to read books and clashes with my need to avoid others)
  • walking at the beach (too far and too expensive to go)
  • small outdoor concerts or a dark , nearly empty bar with a solo musician playing acoustic guitar while singing mellow songs (??)
  • swimming in the ocean (too far from beach, even though when I lived 12 miles from ocean, I still didn’t cuz- kids, job,work)
  • trying to draw (just can’t)
  • watching the sunset (no excuse–it just feels impossible)
  • sitting around with (two or less) friends (sometimes I can wrangle one)
  • shopping (too broke)
  • garage saling (too early)
  • working in the yard (too hot, buggy, and muggy)
  • marathon gambling in Vegas at the same low stakes black jack table (whatever)
  • sitting in the sun (now makes me feel ill)

I am lost.  Keeping our home paid for, cleanish, and stocked with food we like, are freakin’ miracles.  If I would do all the things I want done, that would make me feel better about myself. My list would look like this:

  • Finish unpacking, for the love of God.
  • Paint living room
  • Frame and thoughtfully hang meaningful prints an photos around the house
  • Spray and pull the weeds
  • Fill planters with colorful plants
  • Purge and organize the garage
  • Train my dog–it would be both fun and beneficial for all
  • Take a vacation with my sons
  • Do an actual freaking activity with Greg…we enjoy a lot of eating and watching tv and avoiding stimulus and working around the house, may be time to step that up.