The important thing is that we maintain plausible deniability.

The Art of Plausible Deniability

Sometimes, what it looks like is all anyone (not looking too closely) will see.

Oh look, the wise benevolent docotor is helping so many girls. As I listend to one of Larry Nassar’s vicitm’s describe her repeated violations by him, with her mother often present in the room, I was equally comforted and distraught by the familiarity of her trauma. If your mother or the person you count on to protect you, does not protest or question a thing which compromises you, repeatedly…then it must be ok. Right?

I can now see why my female sibling would believe in the rightness of what she does/did, to me and to those who dare to inconvenience or challenge her. I am owning, claiming the things that I had been required to disown about myself and my lived experience. My authenticity and my voice are my win– fuck assimilation! I am actively learning about non-violent communication: when implemented– winning an argument at the expense of a realtionship is seen as a loss. My sister proudly brings out the biggest of guns to protect her identity. I am just now attempting to retrieve mine–all of it. I am taking extreme ownership over my story and my life. By her code, once you make certian people (primarily her (as an extension of my mother), my uncle, my grandmother) uncomfortable, your belonging is in jeopardy— You are a Jezebel and will be dealt with accordingly – a cautionary tale.

I finally comprehend that skillful use of rhetoric to dominate, out-maneuver, and even dismantle a person is not equivalent to being right, does not render your/my argument better, more true, or more correct. In fact…that type of behavior, those means of “winning” are abusive- even if done while dressed only in white and with your face arranged into a smile.

Let’s just say…. “I am a vile piece of shit”. I am willing to be wrong here, but I feel nearly certain that even if THAT were the case—-that– My sons nor I, nor even their father, deserved what was actively done to wreck and divide us, all.

I am not a POS— though for my first 30, I was a hot mess– raised with distorted beliefs about what is right, true, and just–and possessing little to no healthy relationship or coping skills. Thank gawd my most unwholesome behavior is more than two decades behind me. I am ever grateful that recovery and motherhood have prevented many instances of me saying or doing the thing that can never be taken back. The temptation has been immense.

Ugh- the anger and sadness are exhausting- but natural and required for healing. Healing takes work and time, so much time. Deep sigh.

Wish You Were Here

So Friday evening, after a long week with the boys, so much engagement and so many words, I was spent— and pleased to be draped across Favorite’s couch– with nothing needed or expected of me. Sweet Greg sent a text of his back patio & fire pit, along with the message “wish you were here” –and like a hot potato, — I tossed my phone to Favorite asking “What even am I supposed to say to that?” In under a second she offered me these words: “Looks nice”. It felt a lil assholey, but at least it was true.

The next day, while Greg was focusing intently on a new recipe, he was in the middle of counting out teaspoons of something when I asked; “Is there anything I can do?” He responded calmly – in a completely non-mean, no heat tone: “Yeh, shut the fuck up for a minute while I count these out.” And— I literally felt like dropping my pants.

Poor Sweet Greg. He knows I appreciate when he expresses a need or boundary without heat or anger. It makes me feel safe. We laughed at the insanity of me. I accept and forgive myself for not knowing how to comfortably recieve tender vulnerability and honest bids for connection. I am a work in progress. PS- Sweet Greg learned to say harsh things like STFU from me (over the course of our 5 years) and would probably not say that to any normal person who might feel more offended than charmed. Also, he may be mortified that I wrote about him speaking to me that way.

@ Flotuk The healing process is ugly as hell. It is not bubble baths and aromatherapy. It is accountability which brings guilt. It's getting to the root of your issues which is triggering and intense. Processing trauma often means you have to relive it which isn't easy but it's worth it.

Tell the Truth

Tell the Truth!!  

As a young and developing human, I had consistently recieved messaging that my body was wrong, too brown, too tall, too skinny, too sensitive, too clumsy-  not beautiful, not feminine—not to be desired or desirable. Same with my personality– too bold, too finicky, “overly” sensitive and emotional.

I carried, in this all wrong body, those heavy stories about my unlovability and irredeemability.    

Believing this way made it seem ok to be touched in ways which were unwholesome, unloving, confusing, traumatic—ways which I now recognize to be deeply wrong.  I feel 14 again, wondering: how could this all-wrong body have capacity for hope when it is full with pain, doubt, grief, shame, fear.  I am often stuck– feeling as though I am not nearly enough and simultaneously way more than too much: I am bad- incapable of and unworthy of love and connection.  This has literally been said to me directly and publicly. It went unchallenged, by even me- until…

I believed that my state of deeply and permanently damaged goods was my own doing.  Not only did I imagine, cause, invite, or deserve it—my uninformed reactions were equally sinful.  Self recrimination—seems an appropriate word to use here but I lack the savvy to effectively incorporate it into a meaningful sentence.

I was wretched and it was expressed in no uncertain terms, that I was neither good nor welcome—I did not belong-  I was unwanted–nothing but trouble.  For much of my life, I believed this terrible news, this lie.  Not only did I believe it, my reflexive behaviors affirmed and perpetuated the story of my non goodness.

Good news: I am loved and lovable but I had learned more about causing pain than about healing pain.  I knew how to hate and judge and until recovery, had not experienced healing, hope, or faith. Faith is not a belief system.  Faith is what was left after all of my beliefs were knocked down and I realized that I would still keep going.  I am ever grateful for a program of recovery to catch me and hold me and to offer me faith in something so much bigger than myself and those who elect to discard or diminish me.  

I recently learned that Rachel Held Evans had a sign above her desk which said: Tell the Truth. I definitely plan to order one for prominent display in our home. Being able to discover and to tell my truth, here, without attack, silencing, shaming, or smoke and mirror responses- continues to be essential to my healing and growth as a spiritually developing human and mother.

In this traditionally difficult season of holidays, my sweet son’s birthday and now the anniversary of my mother’s death (and the awful memory of how that was managed) I soothe myself by remembering what I know to be true as well as what I now know to be untrue. As for the holiday season, this too shall pass. hahaha- but seriously.

This week I again speculated what story could have been spun, to get buy in from all of my mother’s family and to justify the arrangements to exclude me. Then I think: Maybe this is how my mother did want it, me on the outside. If so, that is on her. If no, I am sad for the end of her life which was designed to keep us apart until her final days. My pathetically relentless efforts to connect and resolve were collectively ignored and denied. Truth: I did everything I knew to avail myself for the work of family healing. Nothing I did, suggested a desire for anything other. EVER. Healing together and looking at our issues was not mutually desired and never a legitimate possibility though.

Deep sigh–one day at a time, I will continue learning and healing—sharing my truth, my lived experience.

Just a reminder that we are no longer asking for permission and looking for validation from those who hurt us. We're declaring our truth and owning it.

No Deal!

In my family of origin and later my marriage, if there was a sure way to create tension, I did so effortlessly, though not deliberately, each time I openly experienced my feelings and needs. There seemed no space or allowance for a person(ality) like myself, wanting, even expecting to be truly seen and heard (and still safe).

There was a level of boldness in how willing I was, to be vulnerable and honest about my inner workings. This thing in me and about me– that was unacceptable— is literally now my favorite thing about myself .

My preferences for transparency and authenticity over pageantry and presentation were regarded as a breach. My overt non-reverence for silverback type chest pounding was and still is a deal breaker for certain types. Sorry, not sorry. No deal!!!

I recently read about four behaviors known to doom any relationship. Each of these four unhealthy and unproductive patterns were literally at the center of my family and marriage dynamics. You can click here to read how psychologist, John Gottman illuminates The Four Horsemen: Criticism, Contempt, Defensiveness, and Stonewalling– guaranteed to deteriorate relationships.

I will not carry on in this tradition with my own children. As a deviant, I will fuck them up in my own unique ways, and I will do so openly.

I recognize however, that sometimes I can be deeply critical and contemptuous. This is childish and I am not proud of it. I work hard to be honest about my attitude and behavior and to amend my bullshit promptly. As for defensiveness, there are people who make most anyone feel defensive, usually blameless martyrs. I now recognize my historical defensiveness as a red flag (not the problem, but the signal that there is in fact a problem) and I look closely at that or those which leave me feeling threatened. My program of recovery teaches me how to choose wholesome words and actions rather than just reacting.

People who need to be right and look good do make me defensive. My experience has been consistently, that they will say or do literally anything to protect their idea/image of themselves as the innocent victim every time, often while counterattacking and escalating an already tough situation. There is no where good to go with that, but away. I will absolutley stay and do the work— when a good faith conversation toward resolution is mutally desired. As for stonewalling, I am not guilty of this. It is not in my wiring to behave that way. My longing for legitimate closure prevents that. When I exit or stop communicating, it is neither abrupt nor mysterious. I do so with full transparency and usually sadness– only after exhausting and humiliating myself with futile efforts to connect. The result of those efforts traditionally is me, wishing to dematerialize and resurface somewhere I feel ok, safe, worthy.

My JOB

“Mom, have you ever felt suicidal?”, asked my son. I admitted: “Yeh, but mostly only on special occasions when I was tethered to people who shunned and criticized me literally for who I was and how I felt. That began when I was very small and continued into adulthood.” I explained how those times were not only lonely but also felt humiliating–seemingly defining. I envisioned all of the good people enjoying being connected and included, celebrating with people, foods, and gifts which reflected some regard for them. The contrast made me want to not be here anymore. The pain of not being valued and welcomed by those closest to me, defies articulation.

I am doing the work & paying the price for freedom from unloving people, arrangements, beliefs, and practices which tolerate that.

NOTHING can make what happened, ok– and– my healing is the best I can do for myself and for those who value and count on me.

I have felt sure of so many things about love (and other stuff too) which have been incorrect or untrue- either because I misunderstood or because I was only partially or ill informed. One thing is for sure: As I know better, I do better. I had learned a lot of unhealthy attitudes and behaviors.

My favorite Number 1 Key Unlearning : It was never (and still is not) my job to be easy, pleasing, impressive, or interesting (to my parents or anyone, really). And equally, it is not my children’s job to please, be interesting, or impressive to me (or others). The right people will be interested and pleased when we live lives reflective of exactly who TF we genuinely are.

My job, as Mother, is to teach my children how to be fulfilled and kind humans.  This is challenging (particularly during the holiday season) as I am also learning these things for myself. None of this is to say that I don’t GAF what others think or feel, only that being fulfilled and kind matters more to me than being impressive, pleasing, or interesting in some sort of performative way.

Pretending to be, feel, or want as I do not is 100% the opposite of being fulfilled and leaves me too resentful to practice kindness. We are breaking these cycles. One Day At a Time.

Let Go or Be Dragged

I may spend all of my days seeking a way to forgive and emotionally release one who knowingly chooses to do harmful things to those who cross her or are no longer useful.

For now, this is the best I can do:

“I am truly sorry for whatever is going on in your life that makes you feel compelled to do these things.  I hope you find the healing you need.”

As the holidays approach, I worry for my sons that they will be dragged through things not meant for them…things which further divide their already divorced parents– because apparently harming them is less fun than letting them be.

Weird side note: My sons and I have become increasingly aware of weaponizing sensitivity(honest expression of discomfort), people using unwholesome tones to say things like: “What is wrong with you? Why are you so mad? Why are you so defensive? Why are you yelling? You are so sensitive. Lighten up. Chill out.” Each of these communicate something vastly different from “What is going on with you? What do you need? You seem upset, what can I do?” It is passive agressive and confusing when you are young and innocent, still. Here is to wishing an emotionally safe and wholesome, non-confsuing, non-traumatic and non-divisve holiday season for my sweet boys.

Caroline Myss Quote- Photo Text: Seeing and admitting the truth about ourselves, about our role in creating our own problems, and about how we relate to others is vital for healing.

Week Five

Unrelated things which I have thought or heard over the past five weeks:

Sometimes we need to explain or discuss things in order to gain a deeper understanding.  Explaining is not the same as excusing.  Some things will be unexplainable and some things, inexcusable.

An unspoken truth is still true.

Compassion and sympathy are rooted in the belief that we are all similar in that we each equally deserve to have our most basic human needs met and protected.

Some people will be obsessed with and offended by otherness.

My voice gets loud quickly and often without my awareness.  I am terrible at modulating.  I yell (raise my voice-get loud) without knowing or meaning- when I feel afraid. I was afraid for most of my life.

Who was your constant ally?  Who unfailingly believed in you and made you feel seen, safe, and connected? If you can name someone, you are blessed. In recovery I have learned to discern who is safe and wanting only the best for me and to give space to everyone else, when possible.

It is not possible to solve a problem you will not name, recognize, acknowledge.

Pessimists are always very certain that THEY ARE RIGHT.  Genuinely Optimistic people believe and accept that the future is uncertain.

I have recently learned and would like to remember the term obsequious. Remembering things has been a challenge.

Obsequious people are usually not being genuine; they resort to flattery and other fawning ways to stay in the good graces of those they are desperate to impress. I never knew the name for this type of vibe, only that it was unsafe and yucky in my gut to be near.

It is possible to give and to still not be generous.  Generosity is when I give to those who can do nothing for me and also giving without need for thanks, recognition or payback.

People lacking in empathy, compassion, and courage will insist the oppressed are responsible for their own oppression.  These same people assert that the absence of openly expressed discord is satisfactory evidence of cohesion, peace, and justice.  

This will not get any different if we continue to do what we are doing.

People lacking a power greater than themselves and their possessions are often hurtful and feel deeply guilty for things they have done with no one to forgive them.

I will literally obsess about and overindulge in nearly anything if I think it will make me feel different (with the exceptions of effective grocery shopping, cleaning ,and exercise—deep sigh)

This is week 5 Post-Op and I have now finished with all medications.  Surgery inconveniences me more than it frightens or upsets me.  However —the spinning and nausea from most every single medication I have ever taken, is terrifying–I have felt too spinny to legit rest/sleep, watch TV, or even check out with my phone.  Today is my first lucid day. And, I still feel unable to expand on a single one of these thoughts.  Today’s Goals: shower, put on fresh clothes, and walk for 20, maybe 30 minutes.  Having been up for 5 hours and not yet felt inclined to do those things, I will pray for some self discipline. Staying horizontal for 35 days has zapped whatever motivation I may have once had.

A Different Kind of Life

As a child and young adult I had not known that I possessed any agency over the trajectory of my life. It seemed pre-determined.  In the place of connection and purpose, I felt helpless and hopeless shame & guilt– for things over which I had no control – and – which burdened and agitated others(which also apparently justified unkindness):

  • My extreme sensitivity (to emotional and sensory stimulus) with no guidance or support in times of overwhelm
  • My skin color and shape of my nose
  • Our non-Christian-ness
  • My name, my sister’s name, my parents’ names:  Magda, Jilan, Nabil, Judith
  • My mother’s and father’s-  overall appearance and everything about them
  • The constant rage and fighting in our home
  • My height, foot size, awkward skinniness
  • My clothing
  • My clear lack of belonging and direction
  • The food, music, aesthetic, and smells of our house
  • The effects of my older sister’s relentless unpunished mocking and gaslighting—I was literally hysterical from having my reality denied- by the person whom I needed most.
  • The way my family spoke to and of me

I am certain that my life experience would have differed greatly, if I’d felt even the slightest sense positive regard for myself. From a very early age, I was informed to believe: I am a bad person and therefore what I say and do is bad.  ALL People are either good or bad. What is a child even supposed to do with that???  My family insisted I could have improved my station if I had wanted to. If only I would just smile more, lighten up, grow thicker skin, and have a better attitude–oh while liking, wanting, and feeling the correct things as they did.  Oh, Okay.

Here is the upside. Without extreme self hatred, I would have not married the man (I literally married my sister) I did and therefore not have the exact children whom I have. I would not trade them for the world. But I am tired AF from it all. Not tired like I need sleep, but deperate for some internal peace. I look forward to going off the grid for a few hours this week for a surgical procedure.

We Love Jilan

We recently survived a tragic and highly traumatic event, with our most precious, best girl, an Albino Boa, named Goldie.  My older son adored and cared for Goldie in a way that stoked my unyielding awareness over having been regarded and cared for so differently. Absolutely thoughtful, unquestionably enamored, faithful, and dutiful.  He was endlessly researching best practices and provisions for the care and enrichment of his Goldie.

Before the event, my older son had been working for months to demonstrate sustained routinized household responsibility and commitment with an October 1 deadline. (Ok- it is not yet Ocotber 1, but I will be out of commisssion (for medical stuff ) for a few months, as of Wednesday, September 30 and my son’s dedication built so much trust – I wanted to reward his achievement: level 1 responsibility/privelge, which allows him to have another creature, an insect. Level 1 is an insect. Yup. It took us more than a year to string together 3 months of daily intentional and responsible practices. WE will need to discuss Level 2 expectations and rewards. His long term goal is to have and care for many reptiles. Thank goodness, we can do this one day at a time, striving toward responsiblity and an expansive reptile collection and expert husbandry.

While my son’s care for precious Goldie was impeccable, nothing else about his life was well tended to. N.O.T.H.I.N.G.  He circumvented Level 1 Responisbility requirements with me, for getting a snake, by arranging with his father. Finally though, achievement unlocked and yesterday he bought and set up a beautiful enclosure and all of the enrichment and accessories-  substrate, two climbing walls(for molting), a special dish for food and a heating pad.  He is saving for an apparently very special light fixture, which cost $75.00, for this new pet. Seventy five dollars!  For a light- for a bug. What a sweet little planner, organizer, and enthusiastic student of husbandry.

We picked up his pet India Domino Roach (click link to see–it is not gross at all) and WE are thrilled with her, (his brother and I) mostly with his joy over having her.  His younger brother bought IT for him. It wont be possible to discern the gender of our new friend, for maybe a year, so we needed a sort of androgynous type name.  Currently, we are calling it Jilan.  Last night my son immediately, following a long-ass game of Clue, raced to check on her, and reported back to me, whispering: “Jilan is busy exploring her new home” and a little later:  “Jilan ate some of her banana.”  He whispered about her because Sweet Greg wants to know and hear nothing of the bugs we are willingly collecting and housing, with potential breeding ambition.

My boys and I are getting a ton of pleasure and laughter off this lil bug that cost $10 and for now, looks like a rolly polly.  When it matures, it will resemble a ladybug but with a beautiful black and white design on it’s back. Who knew how much I would enjoy bugs and snakes and even a pet named after my sister?  Hating my sister is the worst. And forgiving and forgetting what she did, has not been possible. I think hearing and saying her name with love, is healing.  The name Jilan reminds me of a sister who also struggled in the same difficult environment and learned to cope— the ways that she did.  While Jilan was never particularly kind to me, I think that in her striving to become a Catherine Whitney, her attempts to demonstrate authority, superiority, and differentiation just happened to be damaging AF.  

I believe that if ever I had a sister who would have openly related to me, it was Jilan.  Again, ours was not a kind relationship, well before her name/shape shift.  It is hard to know-  she is 6 – 7 years older and we are indeed quite different, but similar, also.  I know we each have a lot of pain.

Cover Up!

As part of my practice of recovery, I do take daily personal inventory and sadly, I am not so recovered that I resist also taking my sister’s and my ex’s.  I yearn to enlighten them:  “What you did was irresponsible and mean and can not be excused, not by your mood, need, age or not knowing better.”

This obsession is unwholesome, but it is real and it is my truth- I want to tell them all about themselves.  SO- My sister arranged to have this blog scrubbed last week, of all but two (I think they were missed on this first round) of the links and tags to her name so that they no longer pull for an internet search, the content remains in tact, but links and tags have been disabled and de-indexed.  Classic maneuver—the silencing and erasing.   It would be nice to be able to just pay money or really anything to have the damage by her, minimized…erased.  If only….

I don’t love my anger but I sure appreciate knowing that it is real, it is not irrational or criminal for me to feel this way or to openly share.