Category: childhood trauma

The Peace In Bartleby’s “I Would Prefer Not To”

Photo by sarah richer on Unsplash

“Blessed are the high in agency for they have done enough already.” ~taken from The Book of the Firstborn, probably

Three weeks ago, my sister sent me this video about finding the high agency people in your life. In the video, one gentleman asks another whom he would call for help if he were trapped in a South American jail and were to be transferred in 24 hours to an undisclosed location. He explained a high-agency person is someone who can think on their own, without instructions, and solve problems at a very high level under pressure very quickly. My sister added this comment to the video: “You are this person. You should know that most of your friends would feel the same way. This is a high compliment and you should feel really good about yourself.” I watched the video, read her comment, and realized it didn’t sit with me the way I knew she intended it to. I responded with a laugh and then said, “I think that most of the people who would be chosen for this job would be first-born daughters.” Perhaps taking my comment as self-effacing and dismissive of my skills, she replied the “only response necessary is yep. I’m awesome.” I decided to let it go at that.

The exchange has been lodged in my mind ever since, though, due to my visceral, real-time reaction to that video. It was an emphatic inner voice saying, “Yes. I could be that person but no thank you.” There was a time in my not-too-distant past when I might have received that video and corresponding accolades and felt quite honored to be someone else’s chosen savior in a tough situation. I don’t feel that way anymore, though. Thousands of hours of therapy have helped me understand I have some deep-seated issues around constantly being called on to be the adult in the room, to be the one who makes things run smoothly, the one who steps back from her own tasks to ensure everyone else is taken care of and not inconvenienced. This is not to imply that I have never been selfish because I certainly have. Who hasn’t? But my reaction was inner me finally standing up and saying, “I’m finished looking out for others at my own expense.” I would most certainly help my sister if she called me from a South American jail. I’m simply now, more than ever, finding myself capable of telling others to be accountable for their choices and figure out their own shit. It’s a small measure of heretofore unimaginable success for me.

Some people who are high agency might be so because they were required at a young age to be the adult they were not. Some people who are high agency might be so because they were taught they had no intrinsic value outside of service to others. Not everyone who is high agency loves being called on to help in every situation. Some of us are struggling trying to deal with our own crap but aren’t skilled at saying no just yet. We may not yet have learned to channel Melville’s Bartleby-the-Scrivener-level attitude of “I would prefer not to.” It’s admirable to be high agency, but being high agency for others without being high agency for yourself first will lead to burn out, regret, and bitterness. Every mother who has survived a holiday season knows this.

So this holiday season, if you have high agency people in your life upon whom you call regularly, maybe consider giving them a break and not contacting them for assistance. Yes. The holidays are stressful and you could probably use their help, but maybe give them the gift of unburdening instead. And, all you high agency people, you know who you are. Please also know it’s okay for you not to respond to someone else’s emergency, especially when you are overwhelmed yourself. It’s not only acceptable but advisable to tell the relative who is flying out to see you for the holidays and asking a gazillion unnecessary questions of you to check tsa.gov for airport security information and weather.com for updated forecasts. You don’t have to take it all on. And if someone calls you from a South American prison, maybe you choose to help them or maybe you tell them perhaps they shouldn’t have ended up in one in the first place and wish them the best.

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When A Door Closes

Our oldest was not the easiest of infants. He didn’t sleep well from day one. He was impossible to keep on a schedule. While he was the sweetest little boy 95 percent of the time, that other 5 percent of the time was rough. When experts discuss the “terribles twos,” there is an expectation that around 3 years of age those episodes should be waning. We were not having that experience with our oldest. At nearly 4, while the tantrums were not a daily occurrence, when he did launch into one there was nothing we could do but let him rage until he ran out of steam. My mother regularly chided me for being too lenient, and we would feel so helpless when these tantrums reared in public. One time my son was acting up in a restaurant and a friend I was dining with reminded me of the biblical notion of, “Spare the rod, spoil the child.” While I had no plans of hitting my child, having been subject to multiple “spankings” with a belt, a wooden spoon, and a hairbrush myself, I knew physical punishment could work to quell outbursts. I began reading parenting books and attending seminars, convinced something I was doing wrong was allowing these tantrums to persist and worsen. A book called Parenting with Love and Logic was suggested. One fix I had heard was, when the child is having a tantrum, put them in their room, close them in there, and let them tantrum without you. If necessary to make this happen, you could install a lock on the outside of the door so the child could not escape during these time outs. This seemed rather extreme to me, but nothing else we had tried had worked. I was fresh out of ideas.

One afternoon, for a reason I cannot recall, Joe launched into one of his screaming fits. I picked up my flailing child, told him that he was going in time out until he could calm down, and deposited him on his bedroom floor. I shut the door swiftly and stood there holding the handle firmly as he struggled to open it. I knew there was nothing in his room that could hurt him, so I was determined to win this battle and show him his poor behavior would get no audience from me. As I held the door, resolute this was the right thing to do, my son’s cries escalated. He pounded and he kicked the door. He screamed, “Mommy” repeatedly as I stood outside holding the door knob. His cries grew ever more frantic. An epic battle began between my well-meaning head and my momma’s heart. My head kept repeating comments my mother and others had said to me about how I was too lax and gave in too easily, which was why my child was ill-behaved. I repeated to myself that letting children “cry it out” was a time-honored practice. Meanwhile, my heart was bursting at the sound of my precious Joe so clearly sad and scared alone in his room. He was still calling my name through broken sobs when I looked down and saw his little fingers reaching under the door. My heart shattered.

I’d like to say I opened the door, picked him up, hugged him, and told him I was sorry for being cruel. I’d like to say I cradled him until he was calm and gave him the security he needed to know he was heard and understood. I can’t, though. I held on to the knob, quietly crying on the other side of that shitty, hollow-core, builder’s grade door until he was silent. Only then did I let go of the handle and nudge the door open to find him asleep, with a tear-stained, flushed face, on the floor where I had left him. I closed the door, sat down in the hallway and sobbed, afraid I had broken my child. Whether this event would cease the tantrums, I was not sure. What I was sure of, though, was that my son might not ever feel I was safe place for his emotions again.

Not long after that miserable afternoon, someone suggested that perhaps Joe wasn’t an ill-behaved child but a highly sensitive one. His tantrums might be growing worse not because he was becoming more intractable but because he was becoming more fearful. Perhaps Joe needed to be held tightly, reassured he was being heard, and given an opportunity to calm down while feeling secure. Once we started helping him to better handle his wild emotions, the tantrums ceased. I became a different mother than the one I grew up with. I stopped yelling at my sons when they acted unfavorably and started talking to them about why their behavior was not the best. We regularly discussed how you can be a good person and have bad moments. My husband and I pointed out times when we had meant well but acted poorly, and we apologized for them because we wanted the boys to know all human beings struggle emotionally on occasion and make less than optimal choices. And while I’m sure I did a dozen other things horribly wrong as a parent, one thing I did right was making it a point to talk with our children, not at them. I’ve apologized to Joe about a dozen times for that sobering afternoon when my actions were more cruel than my heart. He tells me he doesn’t remember it and it’s okay. I’ve forgiven myself for doing what I thought at the time might be the right thing, but I still can’t speak (or write) about it without the tears flowing.

Yesterday, Joe Facetimed us out of the blue. He’s a college senior and had been invited to a school banquet where he unexpectedly received an award for excellence in student leadership. And you know what? As proud of him as I am for being a kind and open-hearted person who sets a good example, I’m more proud that he’s the kind of person whose first action after winning an award is reaching out to his parents so we can share it with him. I mean, how cool was that?

Maybe it’s time to let go of the memory of those fingers reaching out to me under the door because he knows that door has never been closed once since.

Posted on by Me 2

Taylor Swift’s Positive Lesson In Negative Experiences

I’ve spent the past two and a half weeks absorbing Taylor Swift’s latest album, The Tortured Poets Department: The Anthology. With 31 tracks, it’s been a full-time job. One song, in particular, I cannot stop thinking about because of how true it feels for my life as well. thanK you aIMee is about a person (or persons) in Swift’s past whose cruel behavior pushed her to her breaking point and ultimately served as a catalyst for her extraordinary success.

All that time you were throwin’ punches, I was building somethin’, and I couldn’t wait to show you it was real…I pushed each boulder up the hill, your words are still ringin’ in my head…I wrote a thousand songs that you find uncool, I built a legacy that you can’t undo, but when I count the scars there’s a moment of truth, that there wouldn’t be this if there hadn’t been you. ~Taylor Swift, thanK you aIMee

People have spent a lot of time surmising whom the song is about. The identity of the bully/bullies makes no difference to me as a listener. I simply appreciate the emotional intelligence Taylor exhibits in knowing that sometimes the people who were the worst to you and caused you the most heartbreak and stress were actually the ones who offered you the opportunity for the most auspicious growth. I suspect everyone, at one point or another, had someone whose negativity, crappy behavior, or downright bullying abuse became the catalyst for growth. In those moments of anguish, did you fold or did you find a way forward? Do you have someone who you, perhaps somewhat regrettably, owe at least a mental debt of gratitude for the pain they caused you?

I’m 15 days away from the ten year anniversary of the day I woke up and saw my life clearly for the first time. That day changed me irrevocably for the better. Yes. For a while I was reeling, spinning through anger, pain, frustration, and confusion. Then I realized I couldn’t live where I had been, so I needed to find my way forward to a new reality. I’ve been in weekly therapy since. I’m still slaying my dragons, but every single day I wake up grateful I’m no longer living unconsciously. This doesn’t mean I behave well all the time. I don’t. It’s hard to break old, deeply worn patterns. That said, I’m awake now and that is only because of one huge argument on my front porch right after our youngest’s 11th birthday party. Every single day, however, I am grateful to that person for helping me see what I had never seen before. It shook me in the best way possible. I would not go back and undo that hurtful moment for all the money in the world. No matter how much pain and work have gone into the last ten years, I’m a healthier me now for the struggles I’ve endured. Not quite out of the woods yet, but definitely better armed and more at peace.

‘Cause I’m a real tough kid, I can handle my shit, they said “Babe, you gotta fake it ’til you make it” and I did. ~Taylor Swift, I Can Do It With a Broken Heart

(PS…I also have to shout out Taylor Swift for writing songs with a huge range and depth of human emotions. She’s teaching this old dog all the feels I never knew how to feel.)

Posted on by Me 2

From The Ashes Rises The Phoenix

Photo by Tobias Rademacher on Unsplash

I haven’t been writing much lately. When asked, I’ve struggled to understand or explain why. Writing has always been my go-to, the place I land when I need to work through feelings. Last year I went under, and many times I thought I might turn to writing to get me through it. I didn’t though because I was weary from hearing myself lament about my myriad demons and why they were there and why I didn’t think I could let them go. In the end, extricating myself from long-term relationships, relationships that had swept me up and held me like remnants of roofing swirling in a tornado, brought me to the peace I had sought for years. Sometimes you have to walk away from people to find yourself. I knew what I needed to do. I wasn’t sure I could do it until I did. Every day since those disentanglements, my world has grown clearer, my heart happier.

I find I am not the person I thought I was. Never thought it was possible, but now I openly cry when I listen to a song that reaches my heart. I dance around and act silly, even when people are watching. I say no when I feel I should. I attempt new things despite knowing I might fail. I’m no longer paralyzed by fear of ridicule or disdain. I’m honest, all the time. I don’t take myself seriously because I’m not worried about being palatable to people. It took me far too long to appreciate that anyone I care about who wants me to be different, smaller, or less isn’t worth keeping, no matter what our relationship is or how long we’ve been in each other’s lives. I have no regrets about cutting those ties, and I don’t care who judges me for walking away to save myself. I see and appreciate my value now. There is nothing that could make me go back.

Last weekend I went with some friends to the symphony for a performance of the soundtrack to Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. The movie played on a screen above the orchestra. During the speaking parts, the orchestra was silent. Then they played John Williams’ moving soundtrack in perfect time to make the movie experience seamless.

One scene has stuck with me since that viewing last weekend, a scene I had long forgotten about. Harry is in Professor Dumbledore’s office and is the only one in the room when a rather scraggly-looking Fawkes, Dumbledore’s phoenix, bursts into flames. Harry is beside himself, wondering what he did to cause the bird’s demise. Dumbledore tells Harry:

“Phoenixes burst into flames when it’s time for them to die and are reborn from the ashes. Fascinating creatures, phoenixes. They can carry immensely heavy burdens. Their tears have healing powers.”

And that is when I realized where I am now and why I haven’t been writing. I’m in my Phoenix Era. I carried immensely heavy burdens in my heart since my childhood. Eventually, I got to the place where I couldn’t shoulder them anymore. Like Fawkes, I was withered and scraggly and needed to die to be reborn again. So I set my life on fire and ended in a pile of ashes full of possibility. My tears fall readily now as I heal myself. I haven’t been writing because I’ve been experiencing my regrowth. I’m rising from the ashes. There will be plenty to write about when I’m whole again and take flight.

“And just as the Phoenix rose from the ashes, she too will rise. Returning from the flames, clothed in nothing but her strength, more beautiful than ever before.” — Shannen Heartzs

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My Life The Cone Zone

Depression is your body saying “I don’t want to be this character anymore. I don’t want to hold up this avatar you’ve created in a world that’s too much for me.” Deep rest. Deep rest. Your body needs to be depressed. It needs deep rest from the character that you’ve been trying to play. ~Jim Carrey

Photo by Robert Linder on Unsplash

I have been on a journey for a number of years now, sorting through my past, coming to terms with the reality of it, and working to find a better way forward. Along the way, I’ve written about it here, in my not-so-private confessional. I’ve written about it enough that I got sick of hearing myself, and I figured anyone who reads this probably was getting sick of it too. So I took a break. I spent years in depression without being able to (or willing to) recognize it. Last December, I hit rock bottom. I acknowledged that I was, and had been, living in a high-functioning depression for years. I suppose it began sometime around summer 2018 when my youngest sister was diagnosed with breast cancer. Today she received news that her 5-year MRI was clear. So I guess we’re both breathing a little easier now, slowly clawing our way to some greater sense of peace.

In late January, I began taking an antidepressant. I haven’t written as often about my mental health since then, partially to give everyone a break from my whinging and partially to focus on pulling myself up out of the hole I’d fallen into. The antidepressant has most certainly helped. It didn’t make everything instantly better, but I didn’t expect it to. It’s been like getting on an e-bike. I am capable of pedaling on my own, but having an assist makes climbing the hills much easier and faster.

Through the weekly EMDR and cognitive behavioral therapy sessions I’ve been doing for years, I’ve learned how to set boundaries. I’ve walked away from people and relationships that were stalling my forward progress. I’ve reduced my tendency to overthink. I’m becoming kinder to myself. And the compassion I’ve been giving to myself is creating more space for compassion for others. I’m also allowing others to sit with their disappointment about my choices (adults can do that, I’m told) rather than sacrificing my own mental well being to placate them. I am more level now, more present in the moment. None of this is meant to imply I’m fully out of my depression or no longer need my assist. I’m not there yet. I have, however, entered a new phase, one where I can accept my shortcomings and mistakes without letting the knowledge of their existence break me. It’s not easy, but it’s happening. I’ve found some room for rational thought in situations that would have sent me into a downward spiral in the past. I’ve reduced the number of quixotic battles I willingly take up. My duffle bag of fucks has become a change purse. I care less what other people think about my life because I understand they have no business having an opinion on something they know nothing about. I feel much lighter.

While my wistful heart wishes I could have arrived at this place decades ago, I’m happy to be here now. I’m grateful I was born with a penchant for self-improvement. I’m grateful for the challenges of my youth because they made me curious enough to seek another path and strong enough to fight my way here. My mind is still a construction zone with cones and signs marking potholes and uneven pavement. I know the work I continue will be not unlike the never-ending road construction in Denver. But now I appreciate that the road work, while frustrating and slow, means change is happening.

My struggles have been well documented here over the years. We could map my stops and starts, highs and lows, chart my progress and wonder at it together. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but it is something for sure.

You have to stop apologizing for being who you are because someone may not like it. You were not created to water yourself down to fit the molds of other’s expectations. Nor were you born into this world to follow everyone else without making your own waves. The powerful thing about you is that no one else is like you or could ever be you. So stand out in that. Be everything that you are, and don’t you dare apologize for it. ~Kayil York

Posted on by Me 3

Making Some Returns

“Everything is made up. It’s all just whatever, and we’re allowed to make up new better stuff. You can be whoever you want to be and you can change your mind every single day. There’s no rules against it. Don’t forget your brain doesn’t even have arms so stop letting it push you into stuff or hold you back.” ~Anna Przy

Last weekend I went shopping with my sister. I loathe shopping in person because it involves dealing with too many people, but I asked her to go to the mall with me so she could select her birthday present.

Maybe if I close my eyes I will wake up back home?

After browsing in Athleta for her gift, we moved next door to Nordstrom to look. I also needed some clothing for an upcoming trip. Shopping is a challenge for me because, being a rule follower, I am well aware there are established fashion guidelines for people of a certain age and, being raised a people pleaser, I must uphold them. And yet it’s impossible for me to follow all the rules. Where do I find flattering, age-appropriate clothing? I need something not too short, too matronly, too pricey, too tight, too baggy, too sparkly, too young, or too revealing, that will also disguise my belly and still make me appear svelte when I inadvertently ingest something my body chooses to reject, rendering me as plump as blueberry Violet Beauregard. I have no Oompa Loompas to fix that.

Knowing that I am an abysmal shopper who avoids malls, browses catalogs, then guesses at sizing and purchases only off the internet so I can avoid asking for help, I told Kathy I needed a personal shopper. She said she could be that for me and set about finding items she thought might be fun and cute.

Bonus:This one has pockets!

We brought everything into a huge dressing room, and she served as wardrobe assistant, shuffling clothes from hangers, handing them to me, and then assessing them for their relative cuteness. I tried on a couple things that were not quite right. Then I tried on a loose-fitting white dress I would never have picked for myself because I imagined I would get lost in it. We took photos of the outfits, and Kathy insisted I try to look like I was having fun and owning it. She had also selected one complete renegade I would have strolled right past as quickly as possible, a Barbie-pink, mini-skirt short, off-the-shoulder romper. My parameter-violation meter exploded. Still, I was honor bound to try on whatever she picked out. I put it on, looked in the mirror, and cringed. She thought it was adorable. Unconvinced, I sought backup opinions, but those reviewers came back positive as well.

Choosing not to listen to all my inner critics, I purchased the pink romper, solely because I’m working toward being okay with being seen. Scientists on the Space Station could see me in that romper. Still, the tags have not been removed. The receipt is in a safe place, in case I chicken out.

The socks really add something special and the face says it all

Yesterday, I told my therapist about my shopping experience. We started discussing when I came to understand I was only acceptable under specific conditions. Truth is I don’t remember a time when I didn’t live under the weight of other’s expectations of me. There has been a narrow limit of what is appropriate for me to do and be and say versus a broad spectrum of what is perfectly acceptable for other people. We spent most of the session deconstructing this mindset.

In the end, I understood I didn’t ask for the baggage I’ve carried all these years, nor did I choose it. It was handed to me when I was too young to understand what I was picking up. I carried it around out of habit and grew to believe it was mine. It was not. But I didn’t know how to set it down without becoming unacceptable and unlovable. I do now. I visualized dropping those bags right where I was standing and telling the universe I’m finished carrying other people’s shit. I’m not a dung beetle. I then imagined picking up a new bag, an empty one with plenty of room for what I want to carry. I can put anything in it I want. Anything that makes sense to me and feels authentic. Anything that brings me joy. Anything that will become part of the individual I want to foster, accept, and love. And if someone attempts to empty their bag by tossing some of their items into mine, I will recognize it and remove them. The space in that bag is mine alone, and I have a choices, not rules or parameters assigned by anyone else. So I’ll be returning the expectations, negative opinions, judgments, and stress I didn’t request and don’t need. You can keep your junk, thank you very much.

Now I need to find cute shoes to wear with that romper when we are in Europe. I wonder if my sister wants to go back to Nordstrom this weekend for Round Two?

Posted on by Me 3

Disappointment Is A Growth Opportunity

I’ve reached an important but difficult stage in my journey to reclaim my life story, the one where you start living your truth. When you’re used to a life where you make decisions based on what others want or what will keep you out of “trouble” with them, it’s a scary step. And when you decide you no longer want to be a people pleaser, the people who have benefitted by your remaining in your role and doing what they would prefer aren’t fans. While I am not 100% clear what I want from my life, I am resolute regarding things I do not want. I’m finished living someone else’s playbook.

My middle sister called yesterday to invite me to her birthday party. I love my sister. We have our differences and we’ve had our struggles due to the dynamic that was set up for us in our childhood. That said, she is a kind, loving, thoughtful person with many friends and a deep love of her family. When she told me that my parents would be at the party, I winced. I knew that was coming. I wasn’t sure I was ready to deal with this moment now, but it was here. I took a deep breath and told her plainly, while I would love to celebrate with her on her birthday, if our mother and father would be present then I would not be. It was the first time I’ve faced one of these moments with my family of origin. While I haven’t had any direct contact with my parents in well over a year, I’ve accomplished that by having excuses not to see them rather than by directly expressing it was my conscious choice not to see them. I knew she was disappointed, but she respected my boundary, which I appreciated.

When I got off the phone, I realized my pulse was rapid. I was anxious. I felt guilty for letting my sister down. She is collateral damage in this situation. She and I were parented differently. We have different relationships with our parents and different demons as a result. I had to remind myself that, although my sister is likely frustrated about the situation between my parents and I and what that means for the family at large, she is an adult and she will be fine. I had to remind myself that even if people become upset with me for my choices, that doesn’t mean I don’t have the right to make those choices. And I had to tell myself this will take practice. With time, expecting other people to deal with their disappointment rather than disappointing myself to preserve their happiness will become a habit for me and bring me greater peace. I can only imagine how freeing it would be to say to someone, “I won’t be attending,” full stop, rather than concocting some excuse to avoid their judgment.

Many people cannot accept that someone might be so traumatized by their childhood experiences that they need to abandon their parents to heal. When I tell people I don’t communicate with my parents because of childhood wounds, they tell me all parents of that generation were not the best or I will be sorry when they are gone that I didn’t try harder with them. They tell me I should forgive and forget and move on. These comments, well meaning or not, invalidate my experience. But I no longer am triggered when people don’t understand my choice regarding my parents. I’m at the place now where I can hear these comments and let them roll off me. Those people don’t have the full story and, even if they did, they don’t get to tell me what I should do because it is what they would do or what they feel is right.

It’s my life. You don’t have to understand it. You don’t have to approve of it. You don’t have to comment on it without my request. You don’t have to tell me how I can make it better. You don’t have to do or say anything about my life because it’s not your concern. Despite what I was told in my youth, taking care of yourself and your mental health needs is not selfish. It’s imperative to living authentically. While disappointment is part of life’s experience, I’ve mercilessly disappointed myself for too long. Allowing others to manage their disappointment offers them a growth opportunity. And so I begin letting others grow too.

Posted on by Me 4

Shame: The Best Secret Keeper Of All

“We desperately don’t want to experience shame, and we’re not willing to talk about it. Yet the only way to resolve shame is to talk about it.” ~Brené Brown

Me in sixth grade, 11 years old

Most of my childhood memories are vague and hazy, more of a feeling or a sense about an event than something I remember vividly. They are sad, anxiety inducing, and filled with shame, though, so it’s probably better I don’t remember them distinctly. I’ve spent my life unsure whether the limited number of fuzzy memories I have, reminiscent of a show that keeps bouncing to static on a 1960’s television without an antenna, even occurred. There have been many times when I would mention one of these memories to my mother only to be told it never happened or it happened differently or told it to another family member or friend who would tell me it couldn’t have been as bad as what I was recalling. So I stopped trusting my mind. This might explain why my memories are so few and so unclear I’m only about 50% certain they actually happened, despite there being no reason for me to have invented them.

This morning, I’m assuming because it’s Girl Scout cookie season, a memory popped back into my head. I have spent my life ashamed of this particular memory. I’m not sure I’ve spoken of it to anyone other than my therapists and my husband. But I’ve been thinking a lot about Brené Brown’s work on shame, and how important she says it is to bring shame into the open to neutralize its sting.

“If we can share our story with someone who responds with empathy and understanding, shame can’t survive.” ~Brene Brown

So, I’m hoping my readers will be empathetic here and try to avoid shaming me for not being able to do better for myself that day.

I was around 11 or 12 at the time. I went to bed on a hot, still, summer night, and must not have been able to sleep because we didn’t have air conditioning and the night was not cooling off as they usually did. I am unable to sleep without covers, and it was too hot in my pajamas. So I had undressed and slept naked under the covers, something I rarely did because I didn’t want to risk getting called out by my strict, Catholic parents for doing it. In the morning, my mom burst into my room to wake me up. A troop of older Girl Scouts were kidnapping our troop for a come-as-you-are breakfast. Hiding under the covers, I told my mom I didn’t want to go. She insisted that the girls were downstairs waiting for me and she had told them I would be right down. Risking a berating, I told her I wasn’t wearing pajamas. She handed me a robe. I asked her if I could put my pajamas on instead. She told me to put the robe on and get downstairs because it wasn’t fair to keep the other girls waiting. Dutifully, like the good girl I so wanted to be, I slipped into the robe wearing nothing underneath, put a pair of slippers on my feet, and went downstairs to go to a breakfast I did not want to attend.

I remember nothing about that breakfast. Not one single detail. I don’t know what we ate or who was there. I don’t remember talking to anyone. I don’t remember where I was or whose car I got into or what was said. I don’t know if we played games or if we simply ate and were driven home. I am certain I did not have fun. My only souvenirs from that morning are memories of the fear I had of my robe accidentally opening and revealing no nightgown or even underwear underneath, the horrific awkwardness I felt sitting around in a stranger’s house wearing nothing but my birthday suit and a flimsy shell, and the shame I continue to associate with that event.

I’ve pondered why I have kept this anecdote to myself and why it still holds power for me. There is a lot of shame for me to unpack here. I’m ashamed to admit my mother put me in that position. I’m ashamed to admit as a young girl I went to a party with friends very nearly naked. I’m ashamed to admit I wasn’t brave enough or smart enough to figure out a way to put on some damn pajamas despite my mother’s protests. I’m ashamed to admit this memory still brings me to tears. I’m ashamed I can’t laugh about it yet. Mostly, I’m ashamed I’ve doubted myself that this event was real. And I can’t decide if I feel worse that my mother would put me through what she must have known would be an excruciating, shame-inducing event or that at around eleven years of age I had already learned what I wanted and felt was right didn’t matter. Perhaps now that I’ve exposed my dirty little secret, I can be at peace with it or at least forgive myself for the crime of being human on a hot summer’s night and choosing to sleep au naturel.

I decided to tell this story today to cement for myself that it did happen, that my memory (blurred though it may be) is real and I didn’t make it up to hurt someone else or live with it this long in shame because I am a person who not only invents misery but prefers to wallow in it alone for decades. My memories, sparse though they are, matter to me. My stories matter to me, and I’m finished permitting others (including shame) to control my narrative.

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside of you.” ~Maya Angelou

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The Long And Winding Road To Self-Acceptance

I have this app on my phone called Timehop. It collates the experiences you shared on social media on that particular date in previous years. Most days, happy memories populate my Timehop feed. I love when the app shows me photos of my much younger sons or of me traveling or participating in an event or hanging out with friends. For the most part, it is a positive way to check in on my progress through this life.

Today, one of the photos was a shot I captured in my therapist’s office three years ago. I remember that session well. She handed me a deck of cards with colorful, emotive drawings on them and asked me to sift through the deck and pull out any cards that resonated with me somehow. There were some fifty cards in the deck. When I finished, I had four cards in my hands. She asked me to show them to her and tell her why I had chosen them. It was one of the most eye-opening sessions I’ve ever had. Here are the cards:

My life in four depressing cards

The first card shows a little girl standing on a table while people around her, presumably family and friends, mock her. The second card presents a stern-faced judge issuing an admonishment. The third one is of a person alone, backed into a corner. The final one depicts a child running on a hamster wheel surrounded by scary and sad thoughts. Oof.

I explained the first card represented how I felt as a child. I was that girl on the table, red-faced, awkward, and singled out as wrong simply for being me. The second card represented the result of being that little girl in the first card. I am constantly afraid to do something wrong, to draw negative attention, to be chastised or called out. I’ve lived my life trying to fly under the radar, to not be seen lest someone catch me making an honest, human mistake or appearing naive or uneducated or imperfect and pointing it out. The third card told the story of how I usually feel on the inside as a result of the experiences I related from the two previous cards. I feel isolated, inherently broken. The final card represented the usual state of my mind. I’m a perpetual over-thinker. I spend most days in my busy brain either ruminating on past mistakes that come up because of a more recent, similar mistake or trying to figure out how to just be better because it’s obvious there is something wrong with the way I am. Yikes.

If you’d asked me when she handed me the cards what I thought was going to come of this exercise, I would have told you probably not much. I was so wrong. The feelings that came up for me when I saw those four cards explained where I came from, what that past created for me, how I felt around other people now, and how I lived my daily life. It was all negative and it was a lot to take in. As the session closed, I asked if I could take a photo of the cards I had chosen. I guess I thought I might want to reflect on them again at some other point. Apparently today was that point.

When the cards showed up in my feed today, they hit differently. Yes. I still recognize that little girl in the first card but, instead of feeling there is something wrong with her, I feel there is something wrong with the rest of the people in the scene. Yes. I sometimes still shrink when someone close to me points out my flaws, but other people’s opinions about my choices in my life mean much less to me now. Others don’t hold the map for my journey, and I know they are out of their lane. Sometimes I still feel alone and different, but I recognize the feeling will pass. I know we are all struggling and lost. It’s nothing unusual. And yes, I still run that damn hamster wheel in my head. These days, though, the thoughts are more appreciative of the me I am now rather than reproachful of the me I was.

The past three years have been something else for us all. They’ve been a little extra for me too, but I’m so stinking proud of myself. The work I put in is paying off. And I kinda kick ass.

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The One Where She Finally Asks For Help

Rabbit Ears Pass Winter Wonderland, taken by my talented husband, Steve

Forgive me readers, for I have sinned. It’s been five weeks and change since I bothered to post anything here. While I couldn’t get my shit together to write, you may be relieved to know I literally couldn’t get my shit together for much of anything else either. It’s been fits and starts for me for years now, and I’m spent from trying to figure out how to start my engine again. It seems as the rest of the world is beginning to bounce back into some sort of trial, post-pandemic life and get going again, I’m still standing in the starting gate questioning whether I heard the gun go off. It might have. I probably wasn’t paying attention. I don’t know. What day is today anyway? What am I going to make for dinner? I’ve got no clue. Will I actually put on something other than pajama pants today? Probably not. I’m too tired to put in the effort for myself and I’m too tired to care about it.

What’s the point. It’s not even a question anymore. It’s just a statement.

I’ve come so far in my emotional journey, breaking down my life’s components, decade by decade, to help me understand how I got to be 54 without having any idea who I am. Still I am coming up short of knowing myself honestly and without filters. I understand how I got this way. I know exactly what led me here. There’s no undoing it. First I had to accept that my childhood was run by emotionally immature adults who used me as a foil for all their issues. Then I had to grieve the loss of the childhood I wished I’d had. Then I had to work my way through the traumatic memories to take away their sting. Then I had to accept my own part in remaining that lost little girl. Then I had to begin to make amends to myself and to others who I used to bolster up my assumed identity. And, well, it was all worth it, but I’m spent and I’ve been spent for years.

I found this today in an Instagram post by The Holistic Psychologist. I wish I had written it. I couldn’t find the words, but I am grateful she did.

A Letter of Forgiveness to My Younger Self

I forgive myself for the time I spent in survival mode. I forgive myself for the times I used other people, alcohol, and other destructive behaviors to avoid the pain I felt within. I forgive myself because I learned that closeness meant chaos and dysfunction, and I re-enacted that dysfunction over and over again. I forgive myself because I witnessed adults who couldn’t self-regulate, so I dissociated to not feel and not connect to other people. I forgive myself because I was left alone to deal with my emotions, so I became fixed on not being abandoned by other people. In the process, I abandoned myself. I forgive myself because I learned my role was to be easy and to be liked, so I betrayed my own values to gain that approval. I forgive myself because I allowed my mother wound to impact every relationship I ever had, then avoided responsibility and blamed other people for issues they didn’t create. I forgive myself for my past and know that through taking responsibility for my life, I give the younger version of myself a new future.

That sums up where I am now. That is how far I’ve come. I get it. I see everything. How I became lost and how I kept myself lost is no longer a mystery. But I’ve remained stuck here in this place, biding my time and hoping I would snap out of it. Here I still stand, waist deep in a quicksand of exhaustion and apathy. Going NOWHERE.

Because of this, I determined that if I can’t move forward on my own, I’m going to have to ask for help. This week I did something I never thought I would do (back in the old days when I was 100% certain I was someone I was not). I started taking an antidepressant because I need a push to start living again. Not just breathing and going through the motions, but actually living my life. Being present. Being invested. Being enthusiastic. Being healthful. Being observant. Being open. Being brave. It’s too early to tell if they are helping yet and, indeed, I might need a higher dose to stop my stalling and get on with it. But, it’s a step. A step I desperately needed to take. And I am hopeful. Hopeful that I will find that lost little girl and tell her to go for it, all of it, and stop apologizing to everyone for existing in her skin. Hopeful that someday soon I will be writing again, and through my writing I will find my way to the beautiful me I’ve never known yet long to meet.

Posted on by Me 8