Once we become a certain age, it is our responsibility to unlearn behaviors that hinder our growth as genuinely good humans

Fuck yoooooooooooooooo

My older son loves loves loves mountain bike riding (introduced to him and supported consistently by Sweet Greg for more than 5 years). He has gained almost 6 inches in height since the purchase of his current MT bike and has been researching new bikes and his earning possibilities for months, as the next bike will not only be larger but more specialized and costly…. and all bikes are difficult to come by due to the backlog created by Covid.  Both boys eagerly worked to tune up and clean THEIR bikes last week in preparation for sale.

Sunday morning,  within 10 minutes of posting the bikes for sale, 8 offers at top blue book value for our bikes, in good but not excellent condition, came in.  Before responding to offers–I texted the boys and their father.  Their father unsurprisingly, did not respond to me and was reported by my sons(via phone) to have become highly agitated with them…while saying nothing to me.

My older son called, in tears, begging me not to tell (what he was sharing) as he knows his father will, rather than correcting and amending his own menacing behavior, will school our children for reporting to their mother, snitching. Father is not wishing for privacy but attempting to impose a gag order, regarding things said and done in his home. 

There was a flood of frantic calls (more than 14 between the two) from my boys to me, reporting their dad escalating and demanding THAT they tell me to NOT SELL THE BIKEs. My younger son elected to wait to sell his bike to avoid dad-wrath and my older son decided with trepidation to still sell the bike but was shitting his pants over predictable blow back.

After more texts by only me, regarding conversations with the boys, their dad at last texted to express “his concern” about our older boy not having a bike and missing out.  Older Son group texted that he was ok with that and I shared that Sweet Greg had generously offered his bike in the interim.  Problem solved, right?   Nooooope. He was reported by both to be furious at the option to ride Greg’s bike. Because anything other than compliance is regarded as war. So my older son feels abandoned and like a pariah, while my younger son cried to me that he is allways put in the middle.

The boys father, ((I envision red face, maniacal laughter and spit flying from his mouth (because that is the vibe, though he is fantastic at holding composure)) then taunted our older son, the lover of mountain biking,  laughing his ragey passive aggressive laugh “Oh well,  I guess we now have someone to watch the dog while WE go mountain biking”, to our younger son… — to punish, to send the reminder of what happens when you displease a Master.  I am beyond sad for our children and the legacy of unwellness and trauma. But why—he will have a bike…oh right, the price to pay for being your own person.

Unrecovered me would like to say exactly this to boys’ father: 

Your behavior is mean and spiteful, immature and bad.  Dividing people is for monsters.  Triangulation and taunting is for hurt, broken, weak ass- losers.  The tension and stress you impose on our boys when you are displeased and your retaliations are super fucked up.  Grow up.  Get some help.  Go to a 12 Step meeting. Break the cycle of broken families like mine and just like yours also.  Just fkn stop.   Be a man!  A healthy grown ass man who can self reflect, change, grow, apologize, repair.  Do the goddam work.  There is a reason nobody in your family stays married and that you cannot sustain an ongoing close relationship with literally anyone.   The reason is you.  Change yourself.  You want to raise two depressed, lost, disconnected, addicted children, well then carry right on but I will resist you every step of the way.  I will die on this mountain.  Gladly.  I will not stop sharing, writing, trying for something better.  Fuck you!  (like I said—very unrecovered-  the recovery is that I do not share this message or any with him, that is not necessary.) And here is an idea: Instead of trying to hide shameful behavior, consider apologizing(to your sons) and changing it. Demanding that children deny, pretend, cover up difficult experiences it is very sick. Control yourself not them.

Recovering me- posts here instead- for anyone who might relate, benefit or care.  I will keep reminding my sons that certain types will resort to viciousness and cruelty when they feel confronted, challenged or defied.  That is an inappropriate response and deserves a lot of space. I just keep saying to them: You do not cause, imagine or deserve that. Other people’s behavior is on them. Mine on me. His on him. Yours on you. I used to do all of the things I reference here. Recovery changes people when they are willing. Highly Recommend.

Clearly

Me:  Pulls into second of two gas tanks at Costco.  Gets out of car and walks to pump as car at first tank pulls away.  Lady Woman behind me in her shiny Black Lexus sticks head out of window and asks/tells “please pull forward”.  With my car already off and reaching for the pump,  I say:  “Sorry. No.”

Lexus Driver grumbles, pulls forward to Tank#1, exits luxury vehicle, looks me in the eye and says “You are a real bitch, you know that?”

Me:  “OK”– My son lost his mind that I said “ok”. He thinks I should have told her to relax. hahahaha

OMGeeee.  Seriosuly.  Pre-recovery me wanted to tell her about herself, or at the very least defend why it made more sense for her to just pull TF in, like a normal human. Unrecovered me would have felt I should have, that she was more important/worthy than me, more white than me, more thin, less sweaty, better dressed, coiffed(but lame) hair, spotless and expensive vehicle.  

Me, gassing up my Pollen covered Subaru, in Cargo pants and tank, tattoos, sweat, whatever –wondering if I was wrong for not obliging (MY CAR WAS OFF AND I WAS AT THE PUMP THO). I may be difficult at times, but this was not that. On sight, she might appear the finer human.  Right?  Old me might have beleived so…and wanted to please or impress her. She was out of line, imposing by asking and N.A.S.T.Y. for feeling entitled to speak to me that way. Clearly, she felt wronged. I had to check in with Favorite to get her take. She said she might have pretended to not hear, and if that did not work– gotten back in the car and moved up, while feeling resentful and self-loathing.

This woman’s nastiness made ME doubt MYSELF.  It is triggering AF to be bullied… by this type….and in her mind I bet she thinks I bullied her by saying no.  Dude, pull your car around.  It is not a big deal.  Bullying someone for not doing what as you wish, is a big deal.  I feel sorry for those dealing with her regularly — guessing that she is highly vocal in her HOA, church, kids’ school or whatever. 

While I did nothing wrong, I am unnerved by this–the familiar irony of hostile aggression along side upright appearance.  Why must I still feel responsible for someone else’s abusive and inappropriate behavior? I did not make her be, say, or do anything. That is who she is. Unrecovered me wants to excuse her and blame myself. And also tell her to go fk herself.

I am a work in progress.

PTSD and Insanity

My recognition of my own trauma helps me to see how my reactions served well as proof of insanity and lack of credibility–for those who needed me to be seen as such, and even those who did not. A non-emoting unreactive person could literally do anything to me and then deny–saying I was crazy and or lying. I forfeitted my credibility with each of my reflexive meltdowns to things nobody observed first hand, and frequently my responses were to things which had already happened and not clearly relevant to the present moment. I found immense comfort in hearing this labelled as “Boxing With Ghosts”. I can experience intense emotional responses to a particular smell, sound, sight, or touch- anything reminiscent of something I previously experienced as unresolved trauma. In recovery I learned that there are two parts to trauma. The traumatic event itself and then the way in which it is handled(or not handled). And that nobody gets to decide how deeply and for how long a person feels affected by a thing. In a safe relationship a person would ask “What happened?” instead of “What is wrong with you?”

I am grateful to recognize my triggers and to now have the freedom, offered only by adulthood and recovery, to choose distance from abusers and shamers who weaponize sensitivity. To now be able to say “No and I don’t like that and that won’t work for me.” Abuse, denial, shaming—were all traumatizing and alienating for me and would persist to this day if I remained in relationships which relied on my insane reactions, offering up proof by comparison, of another’s sanity, resilience, and uprightness. I was neither upright nor resilient, ever, within those dynamics. I was spinning or curled up fetal style. AND It was needed(and resented) for me to be exactly like that.

When I learned to speak truth, calling out what could be seen and easily observed, without volume or profanity, it was treated an act of war. And then things from my life, only from long ago, could be used to discredit my personhood, sanity, and honor.

I am crazy in some very good and lovable ways, and also in some ways which are more difficult —but still not punishable-unless you tend to be a punisher. I became deranged from not understanding how to effectively deny or deal with impossible pain- and from having not a single witness or ally, from my earliest days. MY Pain was strictly designated in one of the follwing ways: imagined, made up, or deserved—There was no comfort, safety, peace inside the system. That did actually fuck me up and make me an insane person. I will take crazy any day over sneaky, mean, pretending, entitled. Nothing in the way I live my life suggests that I am any of those ways, with any body. Though I had learned and practiced all that nasty shit for years before recovery. We learn what we live. I own it all.

Today, I am considering how I am too much for some people. Too direct, too intense, too sensitive, too hungry, too picky, too demanding, too controlling, too awkard and into my space and quiet time. This, none of this is a problem, unless you need for me to be different. I accept these things about myself and choose relationships only with those with whom I am safe to be- how I am. Should a person pretend or change to forge unsafe relationships? Recovery tells me no. I am going with that. Should I be punished for that—Abusers will unanimously, but perhaps not openly, agree yes.

You know what is insane? Remaining in optional relationships with people who need to diminish you for any reason at all. I still have some difficult to extinguish ways of being diminishing in response to things that bother me. I am working on that, no longer justifying it.

Me Tooooo

Me tooooo. Not necessarily like hashtag me too but “me also” and maybe sometimes #metoo. Since I no longer attend live face to face 12 step meetings, THIS is my meeting. What I get most from live meetings is listening to others detail feelings or encounters which for me, previously and painfully defied articulation. It is a pivotal moment, when you realize you are not terminally unique and alone with the pain and confusion that permeates every realtionship involving someone who has been affected by addiction, abuse, neglect or mental unwellness. Before recovery, as my family would have it, I thought it was just me. But, turns out it is not. It may have been me, but it was never just me…that shit began before I was even born. Scapegoating and having a black sheep relieves a group from having to acknowledge or address the sickenss of the family. It would have been preferable to not have to choose between genetic family and wellness. As the black sheep, I saw no other healthy option.

I continue reading of others who are aware and courageous enough to openly offer their Me Toos. From them, I am learning to and practicing sharing in ways intended to create connection, affirmation, of lived and shared similar experiences. I write ONLY for those needing and willing to connect in this sacred place called vulnerability. Some people insist that speaking of an awful thing is the same as speaking the thing inot existence, giving the THING power. But naming IT and speaking IT out loud, actually gives us power over THE THING.

I avoid anyone whose vibe is suggestive of “EW, not me, those things do not happen to people like me/us(the royal we)”. The EW, not me- people, are the ones who tend to kiss up and to kick down, with their condescension and desperate need to feel superior and above discomfort, awkwardness, disconnection, and struggle. If pain, awkwardness and struggle are limited to weak losers, then… just be the cause of pain and struggle in order to secure your sense that you are rightly above IT. There are people like that. Thankfully, we need not stay married or closely bound to them.

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.