Category: resilient

human condition · resilient

Your Crazy’s Showing (part 1)

A Fish Named Karen9 Comments

ALL Psychologists are NOT equipped to handle clients with childhood trauma. Period. It takes a wise, awakened individual with the cultivated ability to 1) bear witness to a client’s inner world and 2) gracefully navigate back out, leaving the client with more than they went in with. Skill, deep INNER excavation. But more importantly, the awareness of being in WAY over your head (beyond your supports) as a therapist/counselor. 

A variety of scenarios keep psychologists, counselors, social workers from doing the best they are able, for this vulnerable population. As a client, myself, I remember the early days of my healing. I was just happy to have someone listen. A human witness to my sadness and anger. All psychologists are created equal, right? LOL.

Are there specific sexual abuse training modules for professionals in the counseling gig? Even continuing education classes for veteran professionals? I’d like to teach…“How to build a self” “Making sense of body memories”, “Dealing with frozen”, “How  my darkness impacts my clients” – hey, just for starters – Anything I can do to assist them in wreckognizing their own process. 

No cleaning and your home will be really dirty for your guests. How bout a food/drink container? Would you serve them from a dirty vessel? No, you’d make sure it was washed and scrubbed, the lighting in the room was adequate, not too cool or hot and that they felt supported and safe on the furniture. When in the helping world, overlooking your own energetic invitation to healing is the issue. I don’t think any provider woke up this morning thinking – who can I fuck up today? Who’s trauma can I add too? Who can I re-victimize this afternoon? 

Sound harsh? I am VERY hard on this profession. Having had some shocking experiences as client, I hope for better for humanity. I know the desperate search for relief. Anxiety, terror, depression, eating disorder, strange body symptoms, etc.. just to be met with blame, bizarre ideas, dismissal, odd reactions, endless scripts of ridiculous meds, feeling minimized as you bear your soul… The healing road is not without its potholes, sunday drivers, construction sites and engine failure. For sure.

My first therapist was a sweet middle-aged woman. I was bursting at the seams with my new realization of my abuse and I know a bit unusual, but I wanted everyone to know. First meeting. She seemed like a good enough listener. My expectations were low as I was just looking for some validation. After the 4th session, she thought it might be a good idea to inform me about her speciality…counselor to the abusers, the rapists, torturers, sexual deviants. Nice. Wait, what? But my starved – for someone to listen – self rationalized that SHE was the professional, after all, I’m a basket case, why would my opinion count here?

She continued, adding that they didn’t mean it and were usually good people. AYFKM? Floored, I felt powerless to question or protest or talk about how offended I was by her lack of judgement. Defending the behavior that has ruined my childhood… What’s next? Maybe I should just pity my abusers because they probably didn’t MEAN IT? Ewe WTF   So the young me just smiled and felt lucky to have such a professional therapist. Next session  we met in her new office. Much nicer. Maybe a new start. We could start over and I could pretend. Pretend she was a good therapist. 

Seated next to the window next to hanging and tallish plants, the sun streamed through the window onto her. We began. I felt an incredible emotional pressure coming forth. A torrent mix of anger and sadness surfacing. Years of tears, streaming. She was nodding and smiling, which I barely noticed, given how distraught I was. With a lap full of tissues, I looked up to see her reaction to what I was sharing and she was asleep. Head sagged down towards her chest and all. Shot through the heart and you’re to blame, you give therapists a bad name.Purging deepest secrets, finding my voice, in front of a witness and the fucker is asleep. Bored, disinterested, great. Never returned. Even my vulnerable, unassuming, naive, young self knew that she was a couple of sandwiches shy of a picnic. Purposefully unconschushed? Checked out? No words. Good thing I wasn’t suicidal. 

This is serious business. Again, If. You. Do. Not. Know. What. You. Are. Doing – Please, please do not gear your services towards the childhood trauma crowd. This hurts, deeply. At this rate, I might as well pay my neighbor, or my son’s busdriver or the nice lady at the deli counter – to be my therapist. .

I wish this were the extent of my pho-therapist encounters…not so much. My second therapist was a male, young guy, very professional. Little bowtie. Precious. Came with great recommendation. Yes! Finally, he’ll help. Can’t wait. First session, nice office, spacious. PROMISING. We began discussing why I was there. I told him what my childhood was like. 15 minutes in, he interrupts me, “Why aren’t you crying?” “What you’re telling me is very sad, yet you do not cry” We talked a little more and then he asked again. This went on 2 more times.

Today I might say – Listen, PAL…if I was in touch with my f-ing emotions, I probably would not need to be sitting with your critical ass!  But like a good little soldier, again, I say nothing, he’s the professional. So bought and paid for – I am so abnormal and wrong, I can’t even cry when I’m supposed to. Hmmmmm, yes, where DID I put all that sadness anyway?…Great, add that to the list of my dysfunction. Also, how much of what I said was heard as he was super focused on my dry eyes.

Second session (cause I’m young, impressionable, an idiot, desperate, feel like I’m REALLY A LOSER cause I can’t even cry like everyone else can, nice). Here, on the plaid couch. Cold words swirly twirling, “Why don’t you cry” in my head, they are fighting. I reached down and pinched the shit out of my inner thigh, so very hard that it made me cry. A little bloody, bruised, Ahhhhh, success – now he will be satisfied and we can move on from that -less than- bullshit. No joke, I was crying and when I went in. He was pleased. Impressed. Good-night. Never returned. 

So, getting paid to make people feel bad/wrong, less than, insane. My pinch myself move was my FU. My I’ll show you – even if it means I have to show my crazy. Skills. Get some. And throw in some compassion too. For the human condition. My walking-mess self, why on earth would someone, a professional yet, highlight just my resistance to deep emotional expression, frozen-ness and disassociation without telling me that these ARE COMPLETELY NORMAL SIDE EFFECTS OF BEING TRAUMATIZED??? Skills sir, knowledge, the self-awareness, the scare-with-all to feel the terror rise in you (as therapist) rendering you useless and even retraumatizing your client. This was not a safe place for me. Sweet Jesus, if I cried too much would that have been a prob too? 

A mystery as to why I kept going, kept looking for a terrorist, I mean therapist. It didn’t seem as though anyone could actually help me. But I didn’t give up. I couldn’t give up on myself. I felt so hyper-aware, so fragile, emotional, angry, anxious and in dissociation most of the time. Try some medicine, I heard. My well meaning gyno, set me up with a Dr. Ruth Westheimer type of little Austrian Psychiatrist. Barely visible over her enormous desk and feet on a milk crate underneath. She sounded like a female Arnold Schwarzenegger. LOL  She proceeded to tell me I had a mood disorder. Be Careerful. Docs love to pin crazy diagnoses on the many faces of trauma. Like 24 years of pent up trauma aint gunna look cray cray when the cage is cracked open? Jesus, I think one would fit into at least 7 different psychological disorders. Better off pulling that shit out of a hat. Don’t believe the garbage, find someone who tells you how WELL you are – despite how they tried to ruin you. MMMMMMMM, feel better already. 

She added that I should take this drug – name escapes me, maybe topomax? … is used with epileptic patients to decrease the activity between the brain hemispheres – insert gasp – like a young, compliant, obedient woman, I took the shit.Enter – “Well, they’re the professionals” This vile substance stole my processing. No sustained attention, comprehension – shot. She switched me to something that kept me up for 4 nights straight (Celexa?) If i didn’t feel like dying before, well now that’s a consideration. I told her I wouldn’t be coming back to her again. Like she was my grandmother and I just told her that her cookies sucked. She retaliated with some mumbled comment about how hellish Menopause was going to be for me (completely unprompted since I was 32 at the time) and I might have a breakdown! God’s honest truth. 

Ok, so now I’m 53, no breakdown (I think haha) and no menopause yet… she’s prob not alive today, so damn I can’t go visit her and have a chat. LOL  Education people, education. Skills. Compassion. Self awareness. Self work. 

I had every reason to shut up and stop searching for validation, a better life and normalcy. I surely was not going to let my abusers “win” My spirit would not allow that to happen. A full life was waiting for me, I HAD to put in the work. Surprisingly, I still had hope, faith in humanity that kept me asking around for therapists and physicians who claimed to be “good with trauma survivors”… Little did I know, I was about to meet a brand new breed of CRAZies. The ill and triggered trying to therapize the ill and triggered – not a good scenario. To be continued…

resilient

The Invitation

A Fish Named KarenLeave a comment

Rain gifts us an invitation to heal through our senses. Our shoulders, held high with unresolved fears, may drop a little lower as we imagine the raindrops as a shower of peace and tranquility enveloping our physicality. The smell of rain conjures up feelings of a warm summer day. Time stands still as we soak in the sun’s presents. On our thirsty skin, rain tastes like fresh ideas. Rich with aliveness and hope. Breathing in, taking in all life has to provide, we are brand new.

We hear rain as a familiar tune, beckoning us to listen to its intoxicating message “all is well”. We may see the rain but do we really SEE the rain? Observing the watery veil that forms at our feet, may we accept or decline the invitation to be present. In the space between our thoughts. If only…..when it rains.

Celebrate · resilient

Inside Job

A Fish Named KarenLeave a comment


The purging hurt so good. The expir-yay-tion of an antiquated pattern, I shed my dumb-suit. My beauty radiating blissfully in all directions North, South, East and Best. Camouflage now turned reflective. Reflecting on how different I am today. It hit me hard. Like my heart was cracking open to love – a long aweighted love for myself. Heavy Go-Found-Me realization. I am here. Voicing this. The badasst thing I’ve ever claimed.

Yes, out loud “I am very intelligent, my brain is astute, clear and perceptive. I have so much to offer. I deeply feel that I’ve always been this way but shrunk into my-cell-f to “fit”. To go unnoticed and be less trouble in my fam-ill-y. Fully realizing how I continued to play small. This really Hertz, renting out my Cadillac potential while I settled for the Hyundai.

Who damm-pens my light, my potenchill? I do! I willingly took the torch and waaa with it. Murdering myself once again. We do it to ourselves. When we’re ready to take responsibility for our own lives, we stop blaming others for screwing them up. An inside job folks. So in-crud-ibly painful, the journey, like peering through a thousand panes of shattered ass. My own. Pain is so often the back asswards crack through which profound personal growth enters us.

Ignore the crack, walk towards the crack and pretend we didn’t see it. Feel the crack with our fingers, wondering all thorts of sings. Flatten our eyeball against the crack in curiosity. Does crack kill? Curiosity killed the cat, the cat’s eyeball and the crack. The blind cat leading the cracked eyeball. Or something like that. All kinds of excuses and distractions conjure up rather than to just aloe pain and truth and light to illuminate our womb-dead parts. You know, those parts that never had the chance to freedom their way from the Geico.

An absolute vodka miracle, with all these choices, that any of us choose to – not only walk through the doorway of pain – but go back uh-gain and again because we know this is the only way to true healing. Despite the pain, despite our suffering, we strive for better lives, a better egg-sistence. The born-again -open up your pocketbooks-, best possible, newest version of ourselves.

Now, a new confine-dents is mine. If ya try an lock my shit up ya might get lumped up. I own that shit. Not borrowed, rented or stolen. Permanent, home, comfort. A new normal. Clearer lens. A calmer presentation of me. No arming or bracing or caring what you think of me.

No apologeez. Your opinion of me filtered through your dysfucktion anyway. Love me. Hate me. None of my business. My emerging self doesn’t give a frog’s fat ass what you think you NO. If my bovine-size self-love makes you uncomfortable that is understandable. My bulls-y-ness has made me squirm for quite some time, too. Looks like I’ve made peace with that. When pain knocks, will you answer? Everytime.

connection · resilient · Trees

Safe Place

A Fish Named KarenLeave a comment

Surrounded, cloaked in decaying matter. Fresh smells of moist, decomposing life. The split center of a giant hickory. The trunk, cracked wide open in invitation, welcoming me home once again. Allowing. Allowing me in, like a generous neighbor, availing it’s wisdom. Without an entrance fee. Because I exist. I enter. Stepping out of my muted, insignificant existence, into this earthly goodness. The slow, methodical, rhythmic heartbeat of the earth echoes in the fresh rot. My exhales slowing to meet the offering.

Mother, I am home. I remove my coat and hang it on the rack. At the base of this Hickory, soft green Cedar fronds, border the huge Hickory in a semi-circle – concealing this sacred world from outsiders. Surely a magical thing. I shine brightly here in this dimly lit ins-tree-tution. I shine brighter. My secret safe palace, holding me sacred. I play. Alone, at peace. At once. Secluded from the jagged edges of life and dreaded doom. Stuffing myself into it’s humid warmth. All is lost in the wind circling, swirling.

Oh the cleansing wind. Blowing fantasy fulfillment. Take away everything, everybody. Dispose of them, I won’t mind. Discharging my death-wish fantasies into the open palms of these two grounded lovelies. Into these trees. Make it happen – I whisper. The howling winds, snow, rain, hail – experienced only as sound and sights. Destruction cannot touch me. I am only an observer. For once. I hunker into the safety of this energetic earth shield.

Hickory and Cedar, the finest bouncers, guard the entry like a rabid wolverine. I am grateful, if just for a moment. I am filled with wonder. What small creatures have also found solace here? I can’t be the only one… Under the watchful eye of Wise Woman. Mother Earth oversees this changing landscape, recording my fears, wonder, cries, rants, whispers. She never tells. She, for sure, can be trusted to hold and transmute all that ails. Offering me anonymity as I unload my bags. A long held fantasy, sleeping in here, energetically bathed in her light and love, protected, invincible. I will never leave.

I emerge so much more. Grown under the watchful eye of the elders.

anger · resilient · shadow

Anger’s Voice

A Fish Named KarenLeave a comment

When I’m angry, my words flood in scritch. Like scribing stone. So they may never disappear. So they may never leave. Writing gets less peak and vallyish and more jagged, bouncing above and below the lines. Words connecting in disconnection. Sorting through hot angry choices – ideas flow like lava into tiny cramped villages. Hear the screams? See the blood? Flowing blood of 14 murdered run-on sentences, double negatives. Just desperate to be heard, stealing your breath – all the while you barely notice you’re in a strange paragraph.

Anger speeds to keep the spotlight, arriving sideways on two wheels, smoking suffocating fumes. Pull up a chair – make room at the table of litter-al disgust, humiliation or just plain carnage. No napkins, no condiments, no apologies. This is straight up bite me. And it usually does. No questions or permission required, Anger spews and spills anyways. Anyways.

Yelling in caps, bold and underline. All or nothing. Live or die. My anger oblivious to pourameters. Taste the personal power, one syllable calorie at a time. The rage growler is full, no worries, just keep pouring. Anger grumbles…”pour yourself a glass of get the fuck to work. My milky words have come in, express me and fortify your inner child baby”. Anger laughs. Cause anger always laughs louder and longer. Longer and louder.

Tumbling out, a force of a thousand word winds. Rushing, gushing, flushing my pink skin once again. Words that stab at the page, armed with darkness to teach the light page a lesson. But Silence, Stuck, and Blank, the Ex-wives of anger arrive to block his best efforts. My writing calms, grounded saccharine sweetness once again ensues. My full power snuffed until the fault lines shift. Unseen, but still the lyrical fire smolders under the so pretty, dry compost. Soon to ignite in a risky rage, on an ink less page. Implode or willingly purge, it builds. Gather the poops, on the shit deck.

Once again Anger is victorious. I reach in and grab it, dirtying my hands with its wretched filth. Words arrive blunt, raw, real. No brakes, no wheels. Better write quick, before the richness fades. Shit, the good ones fade quickest – like breath on a mirror. Evaporation. The best worst thing that’s ever happened. Clearer energy, yet a cluster at the same time. This time it consumes my mind. Shit show. My only weapon, my keyboard.

Uppercase, lowercase, special characters squeezing out between wrinkled fingers. Letters morph into dripping hot metal, keyboard slippery, steaming. Begging, pleading to be used, fondled, tapped and fingered. Keys popping, huddled into one corner, safety in letters. Line the fuck up. Backspace, you too. Fingers purposely pouncing on keys, aching. A desire to rip something open, expose the beautiful guarded truth.

The killing, a channeled energy of precision. I slaughter, shred and shape syntax taking prisoners. It all sucks, it’s all brilliant. Anger doesn’t give a fuck if it doesn’t have a voice. Rage abides by no rules. Needs no direction. Bring it inward or vomit it onto others. Anger is never homeless. The seat of simmering lives in the golden land of swirling belly current. Solar Plexus real estate.

Writing, just a vehicle for my seethe. My ugly. Words dancing on hot coal paper. Jumbled, scratchy and ashy. Fuck punctuation. Use.them.all. Use-them-none. Hyphen-loving head case. I’ll keep writing till there’s none left. Fuck all your rules. Ju,s!t t)r.y and fi?gu!re this Sh(i’t O;u”t. Not listening to your linguistic lalala. Yer haphazzard hipee hooplah.

My angry words burn the coating off a smile. Wicked words, siracha sentences, putrid paragraphs. A remedy in the making. My darling Anger, have I represented your likeness a-cure-late-ly?

resilient

Two sides of the same coin

A Fish Named KarenLeave a comment

Just where tf do you think you’re going?

I can go wherever I want, I answer to no one, I’m grown now.

Who are you kidding? you need a God Damn chaperone, you’re never on time and so incredibly wishy-washy.

I am a grown woman, capable of anything I put my mind to. I’m working on my organization and everyday I make strides.

Smh, mutters under breath, probably don’t even know where the keys are….

What was that? squints eyes…. I heard you, but I’m not listening, your opinion doesn’t matter anymore. There was a time when I listened to you, you kept me out of harm’s way by suggesting I play small. For that, I am thankful but your services will no longer be required.

Oh? Oh? Who thinks she’s the baddest ass around? Aren’t you so special, special little Karen, entitled to everything life has to offer. Needs NO help, isn’t she incredibly special. eye roll.

Well, I am very special, I was born with so much to say and do. I have great wisdom. Every day I retrieve more of what had to be surrendered, what was lost. I have made it out of the depths of hell despite your constant chatter and sharpened teeth at my heels.

Me? Meeeee? I’m not the evil one, my sweetie, you are evil – the way you dismiss people from your life? like flushing the toilet! Good people too, people in your own family who love you so much.

What? now you have completely gone off the tracks! Let me tell you about those “good” people. They do not deserve any piece of me. They wish nothing but to silence me, disown my authentic parts and smile while shoving the knife of betrayal into my aliveness. They fantasize about silencing me and erasing all that has occurred.

I think you are not thinking clearly, they seem nice to me, they have lots of friends and make good money and they are very attractive. Maybe you’ve got it all wrong, they seem pretty normal and like they’re living life freely – seems like they’ve moved on and you’re still wallowing in what was.

Well, let me tell you, it is not my duty to make them “see” like I do. For a long time I was hell bent on getting some well deserved validation for the hurt, invasion, violence, crazy, and damaging ways I was treated. Validation no longer interests me – I know the truth and that is enough. They don’t have to believe me or be sad with me or be angry with me for the injustice and trampling of rights, personal freedom or dignity. They “look” as though they’ve got amazing lives because we all perfected the art of “AS IF”. As if we had a perfect family, as if we were loved, as if we were safe.

Well, that sounds like psycho-babble, who tf gives you the right to interpret how their lives have or have not turned out? You’re not a professional, a therapist, a doctor…you are not them.

Listen here buttercup, I grew up with these birds. I know what each one of my siblings is made up of, the denial, the blame, the betrayal – I don’t have to have a degree in psychology to tell you how crazy it was in that stupid, fucked up house. The old patterns are still alive and well in each of them. The eating disorders, alcohol and drugs, self loathing, gambling, cheating, non-existent boundaries, lack of emotion, loyalty to a narcissistic, crazy Mother…. My eyes are wide open to the old ways of existing. Just existing. I am well schooled in energy healing and have availed myself to wisdom filled Spirit Guides who lavish me with support and encourage me stepping into my aliveness.

But wait one minute, Princess, you had a good childhood, lots of day trips, hand me down toys, clothes, food from the church, a bike to share amongst yourselves, a dog, a cat, one house that you never moved from. Wtf are you complaining for? your childhood was just like everyone else’s. What about all those pictures you’re smiling in? Huh? What about that? Enstein!

Children will do whatever it takes to get love, attention and to have safety. Whatever it takes. If I had to smile, I smiled. If I needed to act appreciative, I did. The last thing I needed was to be abandoned or disowned or starved or ignored. I needed to stay alive. I made the best decisions I could as a small child with a child brain. The same reason I stopped telling about the abuse.

Oh, THAT again, ugh. You’re so dramatic. Nobody hurt you. You were always friends afterward. It was just part of being in the family. When you say “abuse” that’s kind of harsh, I didn’t see anything like that happening. It looked like curiosity and play.

I don’t need your approval or understanding. I know in my body and mind what happened. It was my experience, my history.

Well, you just look crazy. I wouldn’t tell anyone. No-one will ever back you up or support you. You’ll look like a fool, AGAIN.

I have an army of Spirit Guides and Angels who are always with me for support and guidance. They communicate with me in a variety of ways. This team of mine lavishes me with support and encourages me to live into my aliveness.

abuse · resilient

Some Deaths Have a Life of Their Own

A Fish Named KarenLeave a comment

“Shut the door”, “Don’t let her leave” Scurrying. Frantic. Sisters. Tall, dark, blond, petite, squatty, thin, round. All shapes and attitudes. These were my 5 besties. My clothes borrowing, fist fighting, room sharing, pinky swear – sisters. Through bad and worse still, we had a bond. A loose one with frayed strings and dry rotted fabric, but we had one. A bond of secrecy you form when your leader is a bat-shit crazy devouring control freak. In a humid August minute, the fabric unravelled just the way no-one could have predicted. In both a horrifying and glorious purge fest – our fragile lives would never be the same. I purposefully held all the cards, balls and dice. I walked into that house 5ft 3in and needed to watch my head on the way out. Literally, there was soon to be a bounty on it, specifically my mouth.

The power of truth colliding with audible gasps and frantic bickering. mmmmmm. The glorious sounds of human reaction. Just looking for a little validation, that’s all. Crickets. Crickets prob get more validation from their families of origin. Truth didn’t exist. Truth meant that someone might have notice reality. And reality, fully realized, would have you retreating into the safe corner of your psyche and summoning an alter persona to return to the front lines in your place. Our Mother had the corner on ‘Truth” we weren’t allowed to consider our own, or think for ourselves. Bathed in, Clothed in and Fed HER version of truth Fucking our little minds. Pretending to be content and satisfied, hiding our shaking bones. Smiling was always allowed. Perfect smiles, perfect little girl heads, what a great Momma we must have! Beautiful religious family. Beauty queens – couple of pageant winners. UGH

Truth could be held in the corners of a smile. My truth always took a considerable amount of tension to keep it contained in the corners. Today there was no smiling. In Miriam’s living room…I was pregnant with Truth. Water breaking all over, suddenly releasing long held accounts of trauma, in waves of relief. Our brothers sexually abused me. With this “news” (eye roll) each sister fired their own brand of pebbles, stones and boulders. Public stoning style. Yelling in disbelief, anger and terror. Mostly hurtful shit, meant to shut me down. Most protecting our brothers. “You can’t tell anyone”, “They’ll kill themselves”, “They’ll get a divorce”, “You can’t leave”. “Don’t tell Mom”. “You never were into family anyway”… Not one pinch of validation or comfort, support or empathy. Not even a hint of human compassion or solace. Why was I surprised? I felt compelled to add, “but you, and you, and you were abused also” was met with rage and shock. The FACT that each of them was involved was so highly guarded, classified and ultimately denied. (and still is) I probably wouldn’t have gone THERE had there been a speck of connection or a flash of warmth for my road-rash heart, on that August afternoon. I know what I saw, who went with whom. I witnessed and was made to be part of “things”. I’ve been successfully talked out of many things, but this? death seemed more likely.

It was a slow death. A death of a family unit. Scrounging, scraping and slipping their way around what I kept exposing. They wanted me to shut the fuck up. Why was I so angry? Why did I have to keep going? Why did I have to ruin everything? Why do I still have to think about it? If I was such a great healer then why have I not healed them? How long would I stay away from family? How did I know that I was handling my healing correctly and knew what I was doing? Why was I choosing to make such a big deal out of nothing if everyone else is moving on? Too many loaded questions to keep track of. Cheap shots, well placed digs, casting me as unfeeling, cold hearted bitch. Who would walk away from their loving, sweet family, who? Boinging back and forth between shock, self doubt, anguish, depression, grieving over what I don’t and never did have. Grieving. Hard core grieving. Over the years, softening just enough and trusting in some of them. Elated I was, maybe they finally get it. They understand. Yay! validation… just to be tricked and exposed, made a mockery of. All dead.

I’ve been the catalyst, the reaper. Beheading lies and crazy. My shield dented and dinged by assaults wrapped in decorative, unassuming boxes with pretty polka-dot ribbons. My years of battle/defense slaying the army of loyal soldiers, my siblings. Loyal to cover-ups, story telling, eyes closed, stoicism, blankness, bonded together in denial and defense. A solid Bond of Spiritual death. They’ve had to let me go because they couldn’t silence me. My presence, a reminder of a past they refuse to acknowledge. One they’d rather have dead and buried. Pretty disheartening when you fully get – that it’s easier for people to turn their back on you, for exposing the family secret – than it is to have love and compassion for everyone involved and move towards wellness and sanity together. They find me dangerous and unpredictable. They don’t know exactly what to make of me. Truth is, neither do I. One out of 9 fighting to be seen. Horrible odds.

Truth is, over the last 23 years I’ve lost my tribe in order to find myself. Turns out some deaths have a life of their own.

resilient

Your Life Is Calling

A Fish Named Karen4 Comments

I heard the call. The call to run. But first I must stand still. Still enough to know just how far and fast I’d have to run. My boys, 5 and 2. So sweet, so innocent, so loyal. Hanging onto my legs, my every word. Looking deeply into my presence to feel the safety only their momma could muster. They love me, they need me. All of this. Triggering the vision of an engulfing, suffocating beast. Stealing all but a sip of untainted oxygen for itself. From the depths of middle earth this beast, slithering, watching, waiting. Safety was away from my family of origin. My inner child was bathed in muck and lies and deception. Hypervigilance, dissociation was living… this felt safe, ground. I was thawing from THIS freeze. Coming alive, breaking the surface, just the way they wouldn’t want me to. All of my abusers.

My true self attempting to surface, the bubbling wouldn’t stop. The dirty water no longer able to hold my buoyancy down. In dreamland, I was orchestrating this violence, killing for revenge. Long held rage and helplessness thawing from my frozen petite veins. Graphic scenes of stabbing, blood soaked, lifeless bodies, ripping knives through flesh. Ripping, like orgasmic, primal release. Always protecting myself from being wiped out – like I NEVER could. I could fuck you over just like you did to me. Kill or be killed. The delicious, giddy power of a knife, gutting as I was gutted, tearing at my power center. My aliveness gushing out like a shaken soda bottle. And you drank every drop. I felt justified, powerful, alive. You like me now? Does this feel good? just like you’d ask me.

Saving my sanity overnight, everynight. Revenge on those who want to hurt me for their own pleasure. I’ll show you what it’s like to have your guts ripped out. I can show you what it’s like to feel like an object, an option, a toy. Killing people without killing people. The dead I felt inside brought to life one REM cycle after the next.

Years and years titled The Rebirth of Me, Me Taking My Power Back, Who I Came Here To Be, Anyways. No Fucking Apologies. Me speaking my truth to anyone who would 1/2 listen. Me opening up to my experience, reaching, for the first time, for validation. My body thawing from habitual anxiety, chronic muscular tension, sinus infections, sore throats, sciatic, neck pain, gall bladder attacks, anorexia… the list goes on, long. I must be dying. I know I have a tumor. This is what they wanted. Every medical test known to man, negative. My body was trying to express and keep us healthy. Now it was time to listen. Only I could do this for myself. For my first 30 years I ran. I kept busy, I shoved it down. The souls of my children, showing me how it should have been, showing me the pure innocence, trust and love of a child. Just BEing. How it should have been. 23 years now. Standing up. Standing Tall. Standing with. Standing in. In my pain, my anxiety, my reflux, my vertigo -asking the ________ what it’s here for. What’s the message…cause there is ALWAYS a message.

anyways · appreciation · healthy · human condition · old patterns · resilient · Transformation · triggers · worthy

What’s Right With Me

A Fish Named KarenLeave a comment

Everywhere we go, what we see on social media, TV, magazines, pod casts, seminars, etc – is like a billboard showcasing how we are flawed. They are talking to us, right? Or just me? Ugh. At least this is how it feels…How we are doing it all wrong. What we should be doing. What could we be doing better, faster, cheaper, more efficiently, with less effort…How we are not doing enough. How we don’t know enough. That we’re not buying the right products. Not doing, trying, learning, relaxing, or efforting enough to make our lives “right”.

No shortage of messages. They might as well add, “ What the fuck are you doing with your life? You dumb ass. You are ___ years old and look at you, you’re doing it all wrong. You haven’t figured anything out. Where have you fucking been? Here, listen to me and I will FIX you.” Well, at least that’s what I hear.

So what do we do? We buy the supplements, the gadgets, the memberships, the subscriptions – just to terrorize ourselves more. To drive home how idiotic we feel. Perpetuating how ignorant, oblivious, unaware, unconscious, unenlightened, uninformed, unwitting and in-the-dark our existence is. Thanks a bunch. Thanks a fucking bunch. Love you, thank you for helping me to move further away from my true self, into an external, more aesthetically pleasing version of my existence.

Ever stop and think about the billions of dollars we flush down the “I suck at life” toilet? This nonsense has to stop. Such a brilliant business tho. Aren’t we all programmed to get on the self improvement bus? From a very young age 99% of us are told we do not measure up. We’re not someone else’s idea of perfection. Hearing this message loud and clear…Projected onto us by very unhappy adults, older siblings, well meaning aunts, uncles, grandparents, neighbors, coaches, teachers and even religious groups.

All this buy-in to self doubt was never ours to begin with. It was never part of our early fabric. I’ve never met a toddler who said, I’m not going to wear this cause it makes my arms look too fat or dance this way cause it’s weird or draw this picture cause it won’t come out perfectly and someone might laugh at me. Nope.

Before we got the message that we are flawed beyond fucking repair – we were happy-go-lucky beings, living by trial and error, as the wind blows, trying life out, discovering what makes us happy and healthy. We Experimented, made mistakes and got feedback that we JUST MIGHT fit in in our tribes. All without the crushing self judgement, without the feeling of “lack” or self blame if we got ill or came upon some troubles.

Do we really need repair? Or do we just need to fall in love with all our imperfections? All our FU’s? All the ways in which we give up, phone it in? Leave too soon? Stay too long? Take too much? Don’t take any? Don’t try? Try too much? Start many things? Finish nothing? We are the managers of our own programs.

There is nothing wrong with you. Never was. Tell those naysayer head voices to go F themselves. Their time in your life has expired. Feel good about recognizing their lies. All day long. Call them out. You are a beautiful mess. Allow yourself to know this.

light in the darkness · resilient

Surprise Snow

A Fish Named KarenLeave a comment

It snowed last night. Surprise! After two weeks of solid Spring 50’s and 60’s. I immediately made the connection.

Remember the scene in the Wizard of Oz where Dorothy, Scarecrow, the Cowardly Lion and the Tin Man run through the field of Poppies on the way to the Castle of the Great Wizard? And in and around the poppies, the Wicked Witch of the West casts a spell (Covid19) which slows them all down from their goal/life…. But Glinda, the Good Witch/Fairy Godmother, makes it SNOW, covering the poppies and reversing the spell/Covid19. They are all well and set out once again on their journey with renewed faith in an excellent outcome.

Hoping for this for all of us🤞we need a Fairy Godmother right about now.

resilient

We Will Meet Again

A Fish Named KarenLeave a comment

One of my favorites – with gratitude Jeff Foster

WE WILL MEET AGAIN

I see you through the plane window as we descend. You have exploded into colour.

We met as the camps were liberated, didn’t we, in the rubble and the ash and the bone we met, we had lost everything but we had found each other, I saw your lioness heart and it pulled me in.

You stamped my ticket at a vaudeville show. An awkward moment of small talk, we could barely keep eye contact through the discomfort. Creation and destruction in your eyes. I looked for you afterwards but you were gone.

We followed Moses to the promised land. We had faith then. Great seas parted, unspeakable miracles. We built a family on new earth, raised our children.

Bright eyed, seventeen years of age, hope aflame, we marched off to war together and we never came home. We had wanted to save the world. I imagine our parents waiting there at the station, breathless, red-eyed, scanning all the young faces. They wait for us still.

I moistened your lips in a hospital room one evening. You were dying, the cancer was slowly eating away at your lungs. I recited Bible verse and you squeezed my hand.

“Bind me as a seal upon thy heart, love is as strong as death.”

Two thousand years later, a colony on Mars. I see you here in the dirt and the rock and the sunrise.

I have seen you in a million places.
I have met you in a million forms.

You were there at the formation of our solar system, you whispered to me something about love everlasting and then you fell from my grasp and everything turned to fire.

All the myths were always pointing to you. All the stories I told my children as they grew.
“Tell us that one again, Daddy. The one about the sweet friends who kept meeting.”
“Okay,” I say. “Okay.”

We have been male and female, vegetable and stone, formless and form, the swallow and the eagle, the snake and the gazelle, fantastic creatures of the deep. We have been crucified, whipped, tied to posts and burnt, draped in gold and silver jewels and lauded by the world and derided in turn. We have faced the firing squad together, our bodies pressed close one last time, flesh to flesh as we became vessels for spirit.

You have been my brother, my sister, my child. I have mothered you from infancy, and you have mothered me in return. We have been lovers and friends, we have recognised each other in countless disguises, here on the same side and there on different sides. And in the end there were no sides at all, only this magnificent Loop, this One Circle – majestic, resplendent, regal, unbroken through time, utterly mysterious, and towering over all things.

These pages are wet with tears now, thinking of you, remembering your many faces, the ink is running, the words are fading, I will lose this poem if I do not stop writing.

No matter. You are in me, and I in you.

We will meet again.

  • Jeff Foster
resilient

I Fear Me, I Fear Me Not

A Fish Named KarenLeave a comment

After all this time. After all these years. I still feel like a problem. I still fear the future. Fearing things that will probably never happen. I still fear being inadequate. I still fear losing everything. I still fear bodily injury. I still fear being physically unable to protect myself. I still fear not being worthy. I still fear that there’s more abuse to remember.


Not run n hide fear. Not shuddering, shaking, shivering fear. This is a different, insidious terror that habitually shortens my exhale. That lives in my chest wall, drawing my left shoulder up. That creeps inside of my lower facial muscles, adding tone and twitches and tight. The terror that steals the white of my eyes, their vibrant sparkle, absent once more. Replacing the white with a dryer, dusty pink.

Fear of not measuring up, of being found out for not being the best, not being in the know, of not being brilliant, not being happy, fear of having fear… Fear that others might see my imperfection, my angry, my jealousy, my procrastination, disgust, my light, my compassion, my heart, my gratitude, my self love. Fear that others might see my HUMAN.

exploration · Human Spirit · resilient

Alive Underneath

A Fish Named KarenLeave a comment

Looking for some inspiration today I stumbled upon this Wintery scene. Quiet, frozen and crunchy. Alive underneath but who would know? Who could tell? My desire for inspiration, stirring. Alive, underneath these Winter layers. We sit. Simmering, planning, fantasizing about the greatest of possibilities. Maybe adding some sparkle and intrigue to our lives, our existence. What rubbish can we dispose of? Can we be doing more? What’s really important? What’s fluff in our lives? What do we keep? Feed? What do we watch die off? Freeze? These cold, crunchy layers of Winter-ness masking, the ME, the YOU, the US. But yet the seduction of mid-Winter hibernation, stagnation, complacency is victorious. For ME? I’m still spying for some inspiration, the ME I aspire to be. Underneath it all.

resilient

I scare the shit out of me

A Fish Named Karen2 Comments

I can fabricate the scariest circumstances as possible outcomes in my life. And it’s all in my mind.

So why don’t I know this? Why don’t I stop myself before I get on the 3 a.m. terror train? This is something I learned as a young child and perfected as I got older- we are all good at something, right? Lol. In sitting and observing, noticing how I do this to myself today, I realized that although at one time (the scaring) was useful as a motivator to be prepared, organized, have a plan and keep me safe from harm, this is of absolutely no use to me as an adult and actually has me functioning from “fight or flight” response.

None of it EVER transpires anything like the scenario I’ve created! None of it EVER will! Things always work out for the best in the end. Things always work out for me – yet when I’m faced with difficult circumstances …I scare the shit out of myself.

Just watching. Noticing. Remembering that everything always works out, everything. Every time, over n over. But for some reason I need to scare the shit out of Me so I can prepare all the possible scenarios that MIGHT transpire. This is no longer a useful pattern today. I need to lean into this is scary and watch myself be scared and also be a witness to myself preparing and controlling NOTHING. I’ll wait it out and know that everything will be just fine.

Dear ME,

STOP scaring the shit out of us!!! preparing for an ancient, silent battle that no longer needs to be fought. You know things always work out. Cut the shit and know we are ok. Sometimes just naming the fear lessons it’s grip on us. Call that fucker out, it’ll be less potent once named and seen. As many times a day as you need to, call on your breath to replace the need to “do”.

Love your guts babe, ME

resilient

What’s A Little Pressure?

A Fish Named Karen2 Comments

Pressure can create magnificence, like this Amethyst. I wonder if, facing constant, imposed pressure, this gem ever thought:

OMG, how much longer?, What’s the use?, When will it happen?, Is it ever gunna happen for me?, Everyone else is accomplished, why am I not there yet?, What am I doing wrong?
Or did it just acknowledge the presence of pressure? Welcoming, inviting, pausing for as long as it takes to settle into something fabulous…

addiction · resilient

When A Cricket Sings

A Fish Named Karen5 Comments

My ringtone is crickets. No accident. Yes, I do love insects but this was different. Healing past wounds- the devastating kind- CHANGES who you most deeply are. Much of your old life falls away, an unavoidable side effect, sometimes feels like a mean trick. I assumed my life would improve, things would get better, people would support me, my efforts, right? CRICKETS. Slowly, everything I knew melted away – some with the stench of hot garbage on an August afternoon – ok, a thousand August afternoons. Transformation was mine…my mistrust, anxiety, terror, shame and anger – making way for new levels of aliveness and renewed sense that the world is so much more than what I was led to believe. My family of origin supportive of this? Crickets.

Then, I took a long hard look at who I had chosen to surround myself with. Oh boy. Tough to realize most around me were asleep, not fully living. I had attracted folks who wouldn’t expect more from ME. I was safe, I didn’t have to change. I was just existing, functioning. And so were they. We all were doing the best we could with what we knew at the time. Living on autopilot. Autopilot, for most my friends, was running on substance. Not to be judgy, cause substance is a great support, an essential life-saver for many- but as I moved further from that, as I began healing, I ached for people to be better, do better. I suffered FOR them, for their emptiness. The baggage they continued to carry around, slowly killing them. Yet I could see their potential, I could see the beautiful hearts, the generous souls, the depth of their story, the way they let someone else dictate how their life turned out. Still honoring the hand that continued to hold them down…Living? NO. Existing? Yes. Crickets.

Crickets. Deafening. It’s my fault. I’ve basically swapped one hell for another. Healing deeply has it’s potholes. I wanted more. More from those who were unaware and unable to be present. Suffrage central. I wanted connection with people who have no connection with themselves. I wanted to be heard and seen. With invisible friends. I wanted them to be present, feeling, deep. Too much to ask. Way too much to get from those who just cannot function where I am. Way too much to ask from those who just cannot function where they are. I was never victorious in the war against their love for substance, I never would be – with them fighting against me. Such a great fantasy tho. I watched them cycle – the distractions, numbing, dumbing down their light with food, alcohol, busyness, shopping, gaming, cleaning and playing victim – work for them. No way in hell can I compete with that…Who am I to want more from them? Who am I for wanting more love, more of their time? They are doing their best.

But yet, I am so worthy. Worthy of closeness, being cherished, being leaned on, trusted, loved, seen, heard. You know, all the things friends do, have and are. So I suck. I lose. I am alone. Crickets. Free from so much of my weighty baggage. Yay, but wasn’t I always alone? From the very beginning, I have been on my own. Surrounded by so many, I guess I never knew, never felt it. I would have denied that I felt lonely. Apparently fine with minimal connection. I was fine with taking the back seat to alcohol. If I had only remained asleep. If only I had not broken out of my family unit. If only I could live in the non-reality of it all. I might not be an option in so many people’s lives.

Who the fuck am I kidding? Crickets… Maybe the crickets have the answer. They sing at night, alone at first and eventually, there are many. Some singing in unison, some continue their own tune. All respectful of each other’s voice, creating beauty wherever they land. Staying true to themselves, hopping away to find comfort, staying only where it’s safe and pleasant. No asking other crickets for permission, just crickets, doing their crickety thing. Every day a new day – maybe going it alone, maybe having some company to sing their life song. This, I wish for all.

resilient

Need For The Sake of Need

A Fish Named KarenLeave a comment

Need. Having needs is part of the human experience. Most of us were taught that expressing a “need” was/is weird, sappy, weak, even selfish or mean. We also may stand in our own way of getting what is needed due to low self worth, not being able to express/form a need or feel humiliated for “needing” in the first place. The need for a quiet space, the need for someone to help us lift or move something heavy, the need to be listened to, acknowledged, the need to show emotion without it being a problem, the need for rest, the need to be honest and real without being cast as negative, the need to be who we are without apology.
Many of us stop ourselves from reaching out in need. As children we learn not to ask, we learn to handle things ourselves, be ultra-independent, stuff our hurts, emotions, fears, ignore bodily functions, even pass up food and drink – too avoid looking like we are too much work for our parents. In our little minds, it makes perfect sense to play and live small. Don’t appear weak, act like you know things that you possibly couldn’t know (no one has to spend the time on us, we are less of a burden) be self sufficient, keep everyone happy with us cause we are no trouble at all, no one will laugh at our needs if we keep them secret and deny that we have any. Everyone will love me and not think I’m a pain in the patootie.
As we grow into adults, away from our families of origin, We may never be met with ANY of this shaming responses around our need..

REMEMBER the world is not our family of origin.
We are most likely NOT going to be met with the attitude of our “family”. But sometimes it does feel as though we don’t want to stick our neck out with others for fear we will be humiliated (like we were as small children) all over again – just for having a simple need.
I think on some unconscious level we assume that others will negate our needs or ignore our expression of need. But to the contrary, in my experience, non-family members are not poised to fuck with our “need”. Take a chance. Take notice of what you say or do to stop yourself from getting your needs met cause now we’re just doing this to ourselves. WE are the snuffers of our own need, the dark blanket dimming our own light , the doubters of our own worth. Take notice of how you place the blame elsewhere.

anxiety · childhood · expectation · healing · healthy · human condition · Human Spirit · inner work · resilient · Uncategorized

The Beginning of Our Goodbye

A Fish Named Karen6 Comments

Hello my darling ANXIETY.

What is it you want to tell me?

I promise I won’t curse you or otherwise chase you away today.

The fact that you’re here now – a good indication that I’m ready now and finally prepared to hear your message.

You’re here anyway, so I might as well, lend you an ear.

I let you in many years ago, I guess it’s only natural that you’d want to be set free.

You kept me safe and on guard when I needed to be.

You are no longer needed to the extent that you were.

I’ll keep checking in with you over the course of today.

Maybe we can get to know each other better when we’re not triggered.

Maybe we can craft an easy transition to a more peaceful existence.

Maybe I can get to know where you begin and I end.

This is just the beginning of our goodbye.

Maybe I can, ANXIETY, maybe I can.