Saturday, August 27, 2016
So there I was...: I found the broken pieces of my heart on the top o...
So there I was...: I found the broken pieces of my heart on the top o...: So there I was- sitting with three amazing women that I had gone to Bali with last year. It was as if we were still in that beautiful villa...
I found the broken pieces of my heart on the top of Big Bear
So there I was- sitting with three amazing women that I had gone to Bali with last year. It was as if we were still in that beautiful villa, cocooned in our vulnerable but safe haven in Kuta. A place that felt like the safe shelter of the covers that you hid under with your brother or sister when your parents were fighting. It's interesting that at the top of some random mountain (Big Bear, CA) the 3 of us could just start where we left off. It seemed as if I had just seen these sisters last week. As I had looked forward to this trip in August, even though I found out it ruined my 40th birthday surprise party, I felt so blessed to have worked through so many things with them in the past and would now enjoy the hysteria of our combined personalities. We were all pretty damn funny and entertaining! I'm not sure if it was my slight panic (is panic ever slight? ok.. not panic- maybe fear) of heights riding up the ski lift, or the altitude of 7400 ft- but for some reason our lunch at the top of the world unraveled me completely. Trust me when I tell you that I didn't see that coming.
Having lunch over the excitement of getting out of a stressful, life sucking job, celebrating the journey of starting a Master's program, even tiptoeing through the giddy anxiety producing new relationship and all of the hurdles these events required jumping, there was confidence in the path ahead - the 4 of us had all seen transformation after Bali. None of those 3 scenarios were me of course. No- from left field came, from a glued together, broken space, a barrage of pain. I believe I even said in stunned awareness, Holy Shit. As in Holy Shit, I need some serious therapy.
If you've read either of my blogs, the other being thriveingratitude.blogspot.com, I talked last fall about vulnerability. I had met a man that I saw wonderful things in and I hopped onto a ledge based on mutual verbalized thoughts and said that we should be exclusive. He said no. It was a crash landing that I NEVER want to experience again. Ever. On the top of our small space in California that afternoon- besides reliving that rejection, reliving, the now conscious understanding that my request for exclusivity was in fact a ploy to minimize my vulnerability, I allowed another devastating blow to escape my subconscious. Wait, make that plural- blows.
We all have events in our lives that help set the timeline of our lifespan- besides birth and death that is. Reaching puberty, first kisses, losing our virginity, graduation, marriages, children, divorces, deaths of relatives, maybe even our own health scares. We all go through these things for the most part. Some more, some less, but I am certain that we have all been scarred in some way shape or form. It makes an even playing field.
No.
No on so many levels, no. This idea of a "playing field"- some universal space that we are all destined to go through the same struggles of life, as if it is some 'rite of passage'. NO. (Sorry Mom- ya may wanna skip a few lines, I mean- paragraphs). My field has it's own land mines, and I would never minimize your land mines to make us even. Our fields are not equal. The pain each and every one of us carries is inescapably our own private anguish. Thankfully or not, the subconscious does a great job of hiding these unfortunate scars.
I gave my virginity to a guy that I loved and cherished, beyond measure. We waited until the timing was right and on a beautiful night together, it happened. Of course it was awkward for me because- well, it's sex. It wasn't the first time for him, and the shear anxiety I had about my naked body alone was enough to make me want to puke. As I shared this story on Big Bear last weekend, I felt like I was that young woman again. I felt the shame of it come to crumble my thin layer of self-esteem, all over again, because after "the sex" was done- he accused me of not being a virgin; The guy that I had on a pedestal put me 6 feet under. I had given all that I was, to him, and he called me a liar. I couldn't tell you anything about the rest of that night- his words left me with only one small memory. A memory to never give all of myself to anyone. I'm not sure if he believed my pleads of honesty about it, not that it mattered. When I gave him all of me, he left me feeling unworthy of being loved physically and emotionally. He was not intentionally planting these feelings in me. I can see from his point of view that he meant to believe that I was a virgin, but the act of sex itself didn't allow him to perceive that I was. There is more to it than even just that, but it's various other histories that are not mine to tell. What I can tell you though is that it was just a week ago that I realized that one night, 23 years, 13 days and 2 divorces ago, I broke a piece of my heart away and buried it so deep that I only found it on the top of a mountain.
It still makes me want to puke just thinking about it. Now that it is being carried on my sleeve, with a few other pieces of my heart that I have uncovered, I want to drape myself in beautiful linens and never lose these pieces of my heart again.
Why am I showing you this shame? You may think- shame? Why is she calling it shame? Brene' Brown talks about shame and vulnerability and I'm sure I've mentioned her before. She defines shame as the belief of being inherently 'bad' (unworthy, less than..etc) and guilt she defines as doing bad. We've all felt guilty about something- hurting someone's feelings, lying to a friend, even calling out sick to work. But this? This is my shame. Even more- my shame is that I do not feel strong enough to to try again. Remember that ledge last fall I thought was a safe bet, but ended up being devastated once I got out there? That I was told in no uncertain terms, that I was amazing and such a great match, but that even with those qualities, I wasn't enough- yep, it's on my sleeve too.
To add insult to my vulnerability resilience- earlier this year I was told by someone that I love, someone that I would give my life for, that I was "fucking stupid for going to Greece because I was helping people that would come to the US and kill us."
I was shamed for being someone that I thought was good and decent, that I thought would make them proud of me.
These events, these happenings came out of me and flooded the air around us on the top of Big Bear. I started and couldn't stop and the wide eyes of my Bali sisters only made me think that my sleeves were bleeding and making a mess, and I never wanted to be thought of as a mess.
If this were you talking to me, I know what I would tell you- I would validate that those are some seriously heavy things to work through. I would tell you that one of the most difficult things has already been done- the realization of the self-protective walls that have been built, and acknowledging that those walls are keeping wonderful things from happening and need to be taken down. I would tell you that in all of those painful memories were people who reacted out of fear and misunderstanding on their part and not on the inherent truth of who you are as a person. I would tell you to stop carrying their projected pain around.
In this shirt of broken pieces, I feel safest with those arms wrapped closely to my body. There is less of a feeling of being vulnerable. Wearing this shirt, with the broken pieces of myself on it's sleeve, I do laundry, go grocery shopping, read, work, visit my family and friends, attend church, laugh, and stare off into the sunset. The view from Big Bear showed me that when I wear this shirt, I do not trust, date, care or even hope for those things. I can not bear it. I do not seek friendships with the new people I meet. Instead, I project onto others this emergent need for them to help the hurting children in this world. The children of Syria and South Sudan. I project onto others the belief that there should be no support for someone who shows contempt or disdain for women, this man who is so narcissistic and foul to my senses. Who would certainly call me names and belittle me if I were ever so unfortunate to be in a room with his ego maniac self. An arrogant, racist bigot running for president no less.
These uncovered pieces of my heart, that have taken rest on my sleeve, don't feel like they are bleeding so much anymore, but that they are fossilizing and shrinking, one sleeve on top of the other. At times I even find myself blaming men for all of the world's ailments. Women are not raping and pillaging African villages. Women are not beheading captives or burning children alive. Women are not beating refugees in the streets or at the borders. Women are not buying toddlers as sex slaves. I feel the bile in my throat and the anger in my heart. Which makes me realize that the security of my closely wrapped shirt is nothing but an illusion. Because when I look at myself in the mirror, I see that it has become a straight jacket. And it is heavy. I am weary of the prospect of healing these wounds. Opening scars of such caliber may even be more painful than the original injury. I ask myself what good it would do. That someday I may fall in love again- not worth it. To foster truly meaningful, deeply connected friendships- I've got as many friends as I need. To have faith and hope in the human race- have you seen our presidential candidates? To have hope that I am worthy, good, decent and lovable- and can trust others with my wounds- sounds good - but ultimately, I must heal these wounds because I want to be a light in this world. I want to be a smile and a loud laugh. I want to inspire others to do the same. I want to show the world that my scars exist but will not nail me to be an unmovable heart. I want to grin and say I have hurt much more deeply than this sweet child. I want to lean in and whisper- "Those pieces of your heart were not yours to keep. Now, it's time to let them go find their true owners, because sweet child, the more of your heart you give away the more you get in return."
I do know one thing for sure- just by allowing myself to write this, to show up and honor my ability to do the best I know how to do, then and now, I have gotten the love and support from the only person that makes a difference, and that's me.
Having lunch over the excitement of getting out of a stressful, life sucking job, celebrating the journey of starting a Master's program, even tiptoeing through the giddy anxiety producing new relationship and all of the hurdles these events required jumping, there was confidence in the path ahead - the 4 of us had all seen transformation after Bali. None of those 3 scenarios were me of course. No- from left field came, from a glued together, broken space, a barrage of pain. I believe I even said in stunned awareness, Holy Shit. As in Holy Shit, I need some serious therapy.
If you've read either of my blogs, the other being thriveingratitude.blogspot.com, I talked last fall about vulnerability. I had met a man that I saw wonderful things in and I hopped onto a ledge based on mutual verbalized thoughts and said that we should be exclusive. He said no. It was a crash landing that I NEVER want to experience again. Ever. On the top of our small space in California that afternoon- besides reliving that rejection, reliving, the now conscious understanding that my request for exclusivity was in fact a ploy to minimize my vulnerability, I allowed another devastating blow to escape my subconscious. Wait, make that plural- blows.
We all have events in our lives that help set the timeline of our lifespan- besides birth and death that is. Reaching puberty, first kisses, losing our virginity, graduation, marriages, children, divorces, deaths of relatives, maybe even our own health scares. We all go through these things for the most part. Some more, some less, but I am certain that we have all been scarred in some way shape or form. It makes an even playing field.
No.
No on so many levels, no. This idea of a "playing field"- some universal space that we are all destined to go through the same struggles of life, as if it is some 'rite of passage'. NO. (Sorry Mom- ya may wanna skip a few lines, I mean- paragraphs). My field has it's own land mines, and I would never minimize your land mines to make us even. Our fields are not equal. The pain each and every one of us carries is inescapably our own private anguish. Thankfully or not, the subconscious does a great job of hiding these unfortunate scars.
I gave my virginity to a guy that I loved and cherished, beyond measure. We waited until the timing was right and on a beautiful night together, it happened. Of course it was awkward for me because- well, it's sex. It wasn't the first time for him, and the shear anxiety I had about my naked body alone was enough to make me want to puke. As I shared this story on Big Bear last weekend, I felt like I was that young woman again. I felt the shame of it come to crumble my thin layer of self-esteem, all over again, because after "the sex" was done- he accused me of not being a virgin; The guy that I had on a pedestal put me 6 feet under. I had given all that I was, to him, and he called me a liar. I couldn't tell you anything about the rest of that night- his words left me with only one small memory. A memory to never give all of myself to anyone. I'm not sure if he believed my pleads of honesty about it, not that it mattered. When I gave him all of me, he left me feeling unworthy of being loved physically and emotionally. He was not intentionally planting these feelings in me. I can see from his point of view that he meant to believe that I was a virgin, but the act of sex itself didn't allow him to perceive that I was. There is more to it than even just that, but it's various other histories that are not mine to tell. What I can tell you though is that it was just a week ago that I realized that one night, 23 years, 13 days and 2 divorces ago, I broke a piece of my heart away and buried it so deep that I only found it on the top of a mountain.
It still makes me want to puke just thinking about it. Now that it is being carried on my sleeve, with a few other pieces of my heart that I have uncovered, I want to drape myself in beautiful linens and never lose these pieces of my heart again.
Why am I showing you this shame? You may think- shame? Why is she calling it shame? Brene' Brown talks about shame and vulnerability and I'm sure I've mentioned her before. She defines shame as the belief of being inherently 'bad' (unworthy, less than..etc) and guilt she defines as doing bad. We've all felt guilty about something- hurting someone's feelings, lying to a friend, even calling out sick to work. But this? This is my shame. Even more- my shame is that I do not feel strong enough to to try again. Remember that ledge last fall I thought was a safe bet, but ended up being devastated once I got out there? That I was told in no uncertain terms, that I was amazing and such a great match, but that even with those qualities, I wasn't enough- yep, it's on my sleeve too.
To add insult to my vulnerability resilience- earlier this year I was told by someone that I love, someone that I would give my life for, that I was "fucking stupid for going to Greece because I was helping people that would come to the US and kill us."
I was shamed for being someone that I thought was good and decent, that I thought would make them proud of me.
These events, these happenings came out of me and flooded the air around us on the top of Big Bear. I started and couldn't stop and the wide eyes of my Bali sisters only made me think that my sleeves were bleeding and making a mess, and I never wanted to be thought of as a mess.
If this were you talking to me, I know what I would tell you- I would validate that those are some seriously heavy things to work through. I would tell you that one of the most difficult things has already been done- the realization of the self-protective walls that have been built, and acknowledging that those walls are keeping wonderful things from happening and need to be taken down. I would tell you that in all of those painful memories were people who reacted out of fear and misunderstanding on their part and not on the inherent truth of who you are as a person. I would tell you to stop carrying their projected pain around.
In this shirt of broken pieces, I feel safest with those arms wrapped closely to my body. There is less of a feeling of being vulnerable. Wearing this shirt, with the broken pieces of myself on it's sleeve, I do laundry, go grocery shopping, read, work, visit my family and friends, attend church, laugh, and stare off into the sunset. The view from Big Bear showed me that when I wear this shirt, I do not trust, date, care or even hope for those things. I can not bear it. I do not seek friendships with the new people I meet. Instead, I project onto others this emergent need for them to help the hurting children in this world. The children of Syria and South Sudan. I project onto others the belief that there should be no support for someone who shows contempt or disdain for women, this man who is so narcissistic and foul to my senses. Who would certainly call me names and belittle me if I were ever so unfortunate to be in a room with his ego maniac self. An arrogant, racist bigot running for president no less.
These uncovered pieces of my heart, that have taken rest on my sleeve, don't feel like they are bleeding so much anymore, but that they are fossilizing and shrinking, one sleeve on top of the other. At times I even find myself blaming men for all of the world's ailments. Women are not raping and pillaging African villages. Women are not beheading captives or burning children alive. Women are not beating refugees in the streets or at the borders. Women are not buying toddlers as sex slaves. I feel the bile in my throat and the anger in my heart. Which makes me realize that the security of my closely wrapped shirt is nothing but an illusion. Because when I look at myself in the mirror, I see that it has become a straight jacket. And it is heavy. I am weary of the prospect of healing these wounds. Opening scars of such caliber may even be more painful than the original injury. I ask myself what good it would do. That someday I may fall in love again- not worth it. To foster truly meaningful, deeply connected friendships- I've got as many friends as I need. To have faith and hope in the human race- have you seen our presidential candidates? To have hope that I am worthy, good, decent and lovable- and can trust others with my wounds- sounds good - but ultimately, I must heal these wounds because I want to be a light in this world. I want to be a smile and a loud laugh. I want to inspire others to do the same. I want to show the world that my scars exist but will not nail me to be an unmovable heart. I want to grin and say I have hurt much more deeply than this sweet child. I want to lean in and whisper- "Those pieces of your heart were not yours to keep. Now, it's time to let them go find their true owners, because sweet child, the more of your heart you give away the more you get in return."
I do know one thing for sure- just by allowing myself to write this, to show up and honor my ability to do the best I know how to do, then and now, I have gotten the love and support from the only person that makes a difference, and that's me.
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