Risk Taking Mistake Making

Since my ears react adversely to even the highest grade metals, on contact…like immediately, I had altogether stopped wearing earrings, for years– but suddenly I felt the need for earrings.  And, in the manner in which I do all things which I feel compelled to do, I went all in, fast and hard. After all– Fools Rush In.  I ordered several surgical grade titanium studs.  Once all holes were filled and void of itchy, red, inflammation, I wanted more holes for more earrings.  If two look nice, how great will 17 be?  If warm water is good for face washing, then super boiling hot must be even better.  This is genuinely my natural inclination. Extreme.  Flawed and sometimes disastrous.

The two earrings in my left ear look good, but the two in my right—not so much.  The first hole is too high and the second too low, forming an awkward horizontal line, rather than a diagonal sloping line matching the slope of my ear.  Ok then, so one earring in only the first hole of my right ear and two in the left.

UNTIL….Both Favorite and Sweet Greg informed me that two earrings are a lil 80s.  I promptly frittered hours googling local venues and prices for piercing.  After many bad reviews about crooked piercings, I knew I must do it myself (order supplies and wrangle Favorite or SG do it for me).  Both adamantly said NO.  Because they were afraid of doing it wrong.   Not afraid of hurting me and clearly not afraid of disappointing me (choosing to deny me their steady hands, good eyes, and spatial abilities).  I was like “but literally whoooo cares?  If you mess it up, we laugh and remove the earring.”  They cared. Each remained unswayable.

So, after reading reviews and watching videos about single use peircing guns, I ordered myself a set of self piercing supplies. 4 earrings and 4 pierecers for nine dollars.  Schweeeng!  I pierced my own third hole; easily and perfectly all by myself.  I literally never do a thing perfectly. Ever. I am more uncomfortable with not trying than I am of my own mistakes or imperfection.  For me, it would have been a hilarious experience for either of them to pierce me, especially if it went south.  Like I wanted it on video. So fun and funny. But Nope. I was on my own.

My neighbor’s middle school daughter then wanted me to pierce her.  Without hesitation, I did.  I pierced two well placed holes in her left ear.  She literally squealed the greatest squeal when she looked in the mirror at her new piercings (by me).  With still one more piercer in my possession, I decided I should pierce a 4th hole in my left ear.  Afterall, it was already sore from the third, so why not?  Right?

Pro-Tip:  If piercing an ear DO NOT pull and stretch the ear while piercing.  Because when you let go, the piercing will not be where you intended to place it.  I guess similar to how you can’t pull your eye lid while applying eyeliner because the line ends up in the wrong place.

Because the area higher on my ear is narrow, I pulled my ear away from my head for better access.  Deep sigh. And when I released it, the 4th earring was awkwardly perched on the rim of my ear.  As I removed it with mild disappointment, the darkest reddest blood seeped steadily down my ear and neck. Fuck.  I could not wait to report this. If I were less weird about pictures of myself, I would have loved to have captured and shared this as a silly and cautionary tale. I will probably try again.

I do like trying – and making mistakes pains me mostly when it affects someone else negatively.  I wonder if having felt completely out of control over how shameful and BAD I believed myself to be, at a cellular level, is what makes it possible for me to be this way.  It is not that I do not care, it is that I am more inspired by the process than the outcomes. I do enjoy when I get things right, obvi, but I definitely laugh and learn more in times of “fucking things up”. I would literally not leave my bed or house if I felt I needed to appear perfect, right, free from struggle, and in charge of outcomes and opionins of others.

In my recent performance evaluation, my manager kindly shared how much she appreciates my ability to own and correct my mistakes and that while I am quick to share about them, she would like to see me just as quick and comfortable in sharing my successes.

That will be awkward and I will try to do that.

Wrong Beliefs- A Mother’s Day Post

Nothing broke me down more than my own believing of wrong beliefs, issued to me by those I counted on to teach and raise me up.  The collectively held, shared, and freely communicated disdain within my family, was crushing.  

“Magda is wrong, bad, broken, crazy, incapable and unworthy of kindness, consideration, care, belonging, acceptance, protection, connection……”  Her high sensitivity to everything makes it impossible to love or even listen to her.  If she would just eradicate or hide that, maybe, just maybe, she can one day participate in the family and the world in a way that matters.

Obviously, this is my composite translation of my experience and not a direct quote, but I would be willing to bet big money that these sentiments are still openly and repeatedly expressed – used to mandate how I am to be treated/handled/denied–by those wishing to remain in-group.

“Little one– You may at any time, trade your voice, truths, and needs– for a place at our table though.  Abandon your feelings, desires and intuitions so that we can be together….like a family.  If you would just go ahead and do that, now, like a good girl”

These root beliefs – I do not wish to keep.  I utterly reject them and those relying on them to prop up their illusions of identity and rightness. (What my program teaches: A person’s inability to be kind, honest, loving, and loyal, is proof only of their defect, the things they have not yet learned. For the decades before recovery/ reparenting myself, I lacked knowledge and skill in things not modelled for me.)

Feeling and developing like THAT with people called family, did leave me broken, insane, desperate(Desperation did make me behave in ways that were cruel and dishonest), defect-ive AF.

I am so grateful for recovery which allows me to now live different experiences of family and love. I crumble at the idea of possibly having parented my sweet boys through the devastating and untrue convictions. It stops here. I am unlearning and letting go of some toxic shame. Amen. Fk that hustle and those lies.

I was deeply triggered by my reflections on mother’s day, as a failed daughter/human, along with the passing of another of my niece’s birthdays. While I am aware of how sad and angry I felt at times over the weekend, I am clear now that my awareness alone, will not relieve me of the pain. The work continues, but only for those unable to forget or pretend.

Depression and Sex

Without religion, spirituality, or even first hand experience, my Sweet Greg demonstrates wizardry level acceptance and unconditional love.  He never expects or demands that I show gratitude in the form of joy, happiness, ease, physical or emotional availability.  

He is able to accept without any real ability to relate or understand that my depression has little if anything to do with the circumstances of the present moment or him.  Depression is not anger, a mood, sadness, or lack of gratitude.  Though it would be easy to assume otherwise and then dismiss or judge.  But Sweet Greg does not. Depression is a matter of brain chemistry.

For me, depression robs me of wanting or enjoying much of anything.  Not foods or activities or engagement of any sort. I am most comfortable when I am alone without anybody counting on me for anything.  When I played beach volleyball, people asked why I only liked to play doubles and laughing but serious, I would explain  “That way, I only have one teammate to disappoint.”

Depression makes it difficult to sustain genuine and deep connection and emotional presence.  It is exhausting – but at least no longer shameful—having extricated myself  from those judging or demanding the impossible of me.  Those dynamics always left me feeling either guilty for taking care of myself or resentful for having felt forced to deny my limits.  There was no safe easy place of acceptance with those who require what they want and retaliate against anyone or anything they perceive as impeding them.

Understanding that children with depressed parents will be affected negatively if they come to believe they are the cause, my sons and I have regular discussions about my mental health and how they do not cause or imagine it and how they cannot cure it. Life and love are difficult when you have trouble sleeping and waking and eating and doing all of the things that non-depressed people do without effort.

Sweet Greg gives the best gifts, hugs, help, space….. and literally DEMANDS nothing.  It is uncomfortable to be loved in this way.  No matter how lovely he is, my depression begs for silence and space—disconnection.  I do not want disconnection but often feel paralyzed, unable to engage.  I suppose the fact that I am honest and open about it helps.  He never is left wondering if IT is because of something he has done, not done, said or not said.

Here is a legit snippet of some weekend dialog.  

Me:  Hey Greg

Him:  Yeh?

Me:  I just took a bath and I think I could maybe have sex without feeling resentful or violent (laughing — because this is fkn outrageous and only half jokey-and not an unusual exchange)

Him:  Seems like a solid yes to me.  Let’s go!

Me:  Ok, but do everything right and don’t fuck it up.

We laugh and go for it. True Story. Enjoying even the greatest and most favorite of things is challenging 24/7.

Alien

There have been no times when I have felt more bored and lonely than when I am trying to fit in.  Being with people who are not interested to see, know, or hear the actual me, requires little of my interest and all of my energy.  Recovery is teaching me about appropriate and healthy trying.

Trying is suitable for things which are difficult and in which growth and improvement are the natural and desired outcomes.  Is there even a good reason to get good and pretending to belong, at the expense of actual belonging? Trying to fit in, be cool, be liked, to be perceived a certain way or to be heard (in places where I am consistently not) now serves as an indicator that it is time to move on— to people and places where I will be seen, welcome, free, safe, and expected to show up as myself, when and for as long as I am able.

Where my being has been perceived as too much, too different, difficult, subversive, or direct- my being was not the problem.  I have never been wrong for being.  Though, admittedly, I have absolutely had wrong behavior — when I held wrong beliefs about connection, belonging, and truth.  As I know better, I do better.  I am a work in progress.  Today, after a full 24 hours of self-imposed solitary confinement, I feel rested and able.  And, I am enjoying more being, connecting, and doing than tryyyyying.

Trying

Trying to not feel hot, cold, anxious, or hungry since nobody else is and it is clearly the wrong way to feel.  Trying to be like others.  Trying to not be me.  Trying to figure out who I am without all of the trying. Trying to love me.  Trying to love you.  I am so fucking tired.  Trying to gratitude my pain away.  Trying constantly to feel or not feel a thing has been a direct route to depression-numbness.  I made it. I feel nothing. My favorite thing to now do is to not feel.  This is depression, not sadness, not a bad mood.  It is no longer circumstantial or situational.  It is my brain chemistry.  I would be fine with it, if not for how it takes me out of good parenting, partnering, dog having, and friending.  Fortunately, it does not seem to affect my work performance.  My job is one place where I feel good(ish), productive, useful, dedicated, focused, and protected by protocol, routine, and scheduling.  I wholeheartedly commit to that role and script.

Trying to feel happy because it is my birthday or your birthday or whatever special occasion the calendar says it is.  Trying not to feel hurt or scared by unspeakable tension.  Trying to be oblivious to the unspeakable tension. Trying to not feel repulsed by meat, strong smells, the scent of your breath, perfume, or cologne.  Trying to not feel hurt by gifts for me, which indicate no regard for who I am and what I like.  Trying to look and feel relaxed so I don’t bother anyone.  Trying not to deny or judge how easily I become overwhelmed.  Trying to avoid all emotional and sensory stimulus.  Trying to forgive and accept that when a person in my family asked what was wrong, it was not out of concern but out of a need to debate the (in)validity of my feelings.  Trying to engage. Trying to disengage. Trying to stay when all I want is to get TF out.  Trying to listen when I don’t care.  Trying to shut up when I have something to say or feel a desire to be heard– by people who will not hear.  Trying to like what I do not. Trying to forget or remember how many people I let use me for sex because being used seemed less shitty than being non-usable.  

Trying to stop trying to understand what will never make sense to me about my primary models of truth and trust.  Trying to feel ok about being tall and skinny or not so skinny.  Trying to deny my discomfort and needs.  Trying to deny my rage for those who discount or judge my comfort and needs.  Trying to appear mellow. Trying to exercise boundaries. Trying to be tender and gentle when it is so unnatural.  Trying to stay checked in.  Trying to check TF out.  

It is a beautiful day out side. All I feel like doing is staying under my weighted blanket. Blinds drawn. No sounds, smells, sensations or interactions. I am getting the help I need for this. Because there are those who count on me to show up, be present, engaged, and interested. Anyone needing/requiring for me to “be happy” though, can go fuck themselves. I don’t even strive for happiness, just serenity. Numbness feels a lot like what I imagine peace might be like. Inner peace. Maybe the closeset I will ever know. I have never done a thing perfectly but one thing I know I do damn well is TRYING. I will continue trying. Trying to be here for those I love, with total acceptance for all of my awkward behaviors and questionable choices.

Speak your truth. When people ty to shame or silence you. Double TF down.

Anne Lamott – Recovery Badass

After reading and rereading Anne Lamott’s most recent treasure: Dusk, Night, Dawn, I feel almost close to being able to fully and deeply breathe. Engaging with my ex, for the smallest thing, leaves me drained and triggered AF. His mere existence and our permanence of division, is something I never get to forget. Life is unecessarily complicated and uncomfortable for our children. These words by Anne Lamott, so perfectly express what it was like, in my family of origin and then in my marriage.

“Being or expecting to be fully seen along with seeing who the people in your family were, was ill advised. In fact the first rule of being the young child to unwell parents is to agree not to see what is going on.”

That gaslighty bullshit is toxic and the effects lasting. Ok, so I can only learn from the past AND still not change or forget it. Anne also references repentance: as to change directions so that we do not end up where we are heading. To change our minds in the deepest center of ourselves in a way that changes us and the course of our lives.

I think I can say with confidence that I do and have repented. My mind has been changed and open to recovery and retrieval of my spirit and truth. I hope to preserve my boys’ spirits and unique truths, or at the very least not diminish them. I am a work in progress. When I returned to this side of the country, I had unfounded hope for healing that could be possible. I was foolish. Hoping and trying was risky and difficult and right. My requests to do the work were punished, mocked and misrepresented.

Mistakes Were Made But Not By Me

I am still obssessed with the toxic and commonly held sentiments (not specifically aimed at me, just in general) and messaging of: You are the last, the least and the lowest: inferior and undeserving. Do not expect change and do not ask for more. If you are excluded, it is ONLY because you do not have what it takes. When people are diminished and forced to the margins, they have only gotten what they deserve and were asking for. They will just have to GET OVER IT.

I am currently reading Mistakes Were Made (but Not by Me) and I just cannot even…

The pathology of abusing, lying, and deflecting responsibility for doing damage is rampant and nearly normalized. It is unrealistic to expect abusers to acknowledge or take responisiblity, to apologize or to make amends.  The greater the effort to call for accountability, the more they will blame others for their own actions, while at the same time denying their actions. And then wonder —why can’t they get over it yet?

Happy Valentine’s Day, Sweet Greg. I wished I were already healed and ooozing with joy and pink hearts on this day. I am still me. Healing. Recovering. Exhausted. Thank you for loving me. Being loved and treated unconditionally with kindness and acceptance is still unnatural and even uncomfortable, for me. Even after 5 beautiful years. I am a work in progress.

Thank you for accepting that depression and PTSD do not break for special occasions.

Big Shot

In Nothing Like I imagined, Mindy Kaling shares her delicious confession about an attempt to be a Big Shot. While out with her celeb buddy in L.A., a big time producer picked up their check (as a gesture to her friend). Mindy was blown away. She found that to be the most impressive move- evidence of being a true big shot. SO THEN– A few months later, while on vacation in Hawaii, at a high brow restaurant with her family, she proudly paid an immense dinner bill for a Hollywood Giant, whom she had never met— and was left feeling bitter and lame as a result of having received no acknowledgement by him.

Paying that bill, she realized, had nothing to do with generosity (The producer was a bazillionaire and completely untouched by having his check picked up- something he is used to, and does not need), but her own admitted desire for attention/acknowledgement, and hopes to appear as a big shot. She has since declared herself officially not a big shot, in this way, and is able to laugh at herself for foolishly throwing 2k$ at a stranger’s Christmas dinner. Gawd, I adore her. She totally owns (and charms us with) her madness. Mindy Kaling is Wholesome Badass 100%. I can never hear enough, from good people who are glad to openly learn from, share, and laugh at life’s lessons. I have always been pretty good at laughing at and sharing my most horrifying choices and behaviors. It used to be maybe because of a lack of esteem. But now, I think I am appreciating the gifts and freedom of humility—not humiliation, just knowing my size in this world. I am no longer fooled into believing that I might be hot shit or a piece of shit. Practicing humility is allowing me to live as a kinder person— to myself and to others. I learned all about it, for the first time, where? In Recovery, of course!

Night-Time

Even with 10+ years of recovery and spiritual retrieval work (though lately, the doing of the work is minimal and I find myself  right back in survival mode), I continue to lose hours and nights of sleep- rehashing theories on why my sister did what she did, TO me.  I recognize that my neeeeed to understand is a clever way of owning that I will not fully surrender/accept what has happened, repeatedly.  Mentally, I am ready to move TF on, but emotionally, I am bound more tightly to the pain– each time I must interact with my greatest reminder of her—(my boys’ father–my sister’s emotional and moral/soul equivalent).

According to these wise words of Rumi:  “The cure for the pain is in the pain.”  By this measure, I might be quite close to the cure.  I want to learn, grow, and expand from heartache, the most amount, and maybe I already have and and maybe the letting go makes it all too final.  Perhaps I will feel empty and lost without all of my pain. Who would I even be without it? I want to resolve the conflict (within myself—but also pathetically and most unrealistically with my ex husband) and not bypass it. I want peace most especially for our children. I must make peace with some hard shit.

Reminder to Myself:  I do not cause others to do things.  My words and choices certainly may inspire feelings– but cause behaviors, nope.  As I reflect on the few short  honeymoon reunions with my sister between 1992 and 2015, I recall in horrifying detail, her descriptions of (handling) undercutting and icing each of the women and girls in her family, with the exception of one.  Why did she boast those things to me– about sisters in laws, aunts, nieces, cousins, roommates, co-workers too?  Was she flexing at me, warning me to stand down?  I cannot help but marvel at the volumes of unfortunate details (my sister’s justification for demenaing them) I know about females with whom I have had little, if any contact.

She did the things to others.   But nobody ever checked her on it.  Nobody but me.  I wonder how many more ways and times I will need to remind myself of what I now, as an adult, with a program of recovery, am able to understand and articulate — and still not accept. Does acceptance really need to be so challenging and continuous, tho?

Please don't tell me to smile. Photo Text

Smile GDI!

I will not be a person who instructs another to smile.  What even is that? To me, that feels unwholesome— unsafe. I prefer an authentically non-plussed person over a curated smile-wearer or a tone policing controller, directing people on how to arrange their faces. That behavior is not unlike insisting a person wear a jacket when they are not cold. It is aggressive and inappropriate, not happy and not mellow-chill, at all. Also, I do not trust a person who is always wearing a smile. That is not normal, honest, or sane…. says the rarely smiling person who makes no claims to being normal or sane, only to healing and unlearning…practicing Letting Go.

AND—a) Forced or pasted on smiles are not proof of happiness or goodness. b) Happiness isn’t a requirement in honest healthy places.  Happiness IS certainly preferred to the alternative but, like all feelings, it comes and it goes.  Mine—- IT literally vaporizes in the presence of those who demand it.  Poof! Gone in under a second. Just let people be how and who they are. Right?

“You would be so pretty if you smiled more“… Really, because you would be so pretty if you STFU and back off. HAAAAAATE IT. And it’s typically not “suggested” in the gentle, caring way. 

When someone says “smile” because it is what they need , it’s ok if you just can’t. Not all of us aspire to excel at performing happiness. Some of us just need to feel our feelings.

Rant over.

A little Mythological Enrichment for those whom have read this far (You’re welcome):

According to Greek legend, Procrustes had an iron bed on which he compelled his victims to lie. Here, if a victim was shorter than the bed, he stretched him by hammering or racking the body to fit. Alternatively, if the victim was longer than the bed, he cut off the legs to make the body fit the bed’s length. In either event the victim died. 

The “bed of Procrustes,” or “Procrustean bed,” has become proverbial for arbitrarily—and perhaps ruthlessly—forcing someone or something to fit into an unnatural scheme or pattern.