I’m in love with long soaks in the tub. Submerged and slippery, moist and memorable. Every time sinking deeper into existence, shielded from the sharp edges of life. Droplets rolling, streaming earthbound to join the masses.
Oh those discards, the misfit toys, traveling away from my body. The warm liquid purging the heaviest of baggage. Leaving it all out there. Effortless. My troubles lathered and cleansed. Cleansed and cleared. Draining slowly and methodically into the underworld.
This cleanse welcomed. Held in love and acceptance. No judgement, buoyant in the lovely liquid, wonderful waves wiping away the weary. I lose myself in this space humidifying my soul. A surround sound energy of contentment flooding, swirling. Im in love with long soaks in the tub.
I wish I could write like words tumbling out of an overcrowded elevator at 5pm. I wish I could write with the hype of soccer fans in Portugal. I wish I could write like my life depended on it. I wish I could write like a blizzard was delivering 3 feet of snow. I wish I could write like the excitement of Christmas morning. I wish I could write like none of my fears were awake yet. I wish I could write like I was brand new on this earth. I wish I could write smelling the salty air of a stormy sea. I wish I could write and couldn’t stop. I wish I could write like a flight to Ecuador. I wish I could write with the love of 10 hearts. I wish I could write until tomorrow morning. I wish I could write like the thundering paws of a black bear. I wish I could write with knowing. I wish I could write with visionary precision. I wish I could write like a kiss on the forehead after a long day. I wish I could write with inner child squeals of joy. I wish I could write with the power of jet engines. I wish I could write and see how I am helping others. I wish I could write with clarity and organization. I wish I could write feeling the encouragement of a good mother. I wish I could write and make it all right.
I will write like words tumbling out of an overcrowded elevator at 5pm. I will write with the hype of soccer fans in Portugal. I will write like my life depended on it. I will write like a blizzard delivering 3 feet of snow. I will write like it’s Christmas morning. I will write like my fears are still sleeping. I will write like I’m brand new on this earth. I will write smelling the salty air of a stormy sea. I will write and not stop. I will write like a non-stop flight to Ecuador. I will write like the love of 10 hearts. I will write until the sun comes up. I will write like the thundering paws of a black bear. I will write with a knowing. I will write with clear vision. I will write like a kiss on the forehead at the end of a long day. I will write to the squeals of joy from my inner child. I will write with the power of jet engines. I will write and notice how I am helping others. I will write with purpose and organization. I will write with the encouragement of a good mother. I will write and make it all right.
I think “she did her best” pushes a lot of buttons if we try to ingest those words TOO EARLY in our healing/unwrapping process. I am 20+ years into hardcore healing and I can just NOW try on this phrase “she did the best she could” without triggering the, Yeah but… So much would rise up – anger, disgust, hate, rage – in side of me. It felt as though this was said (by others) to somehow minimize or negate the damage done. To free her of any wrongdoing, to wipe the slate clean and suddenly she is Snow White and I’m the circus act Tasmanian devil with nowhere to land and be validated. Just me running frantically and trying to get people (mostly family) to believe me, to side with me, to leave her like me…but met with the exact opposite… Like – what is your problem?
This is a complete mind fuck and when finally free from this AND the people who hold you/us as the ones who “can’t move forward, are stuck in the past, want to make people pay…bla bla” we can separate enough to see that she couldn’t give/do/be anything different because of her disowned trauma.
We can still hold our experience but she had hers also. We had needs, but they weren’t met. We needed safety, unconditional love, to be seen, heard, cherished, held, etc.. it’s very possible that 2 experiences existed and that’s ok. It doesn’t wipe ours out. Our trauma is no less valid just because someone denies our experience.
Own it, and all it comes with because this is the catalyst for something greater. Accept the challenge of all challenges and unpack all the heavy. I promise you there is light interwoven on your healing journey. Tap into the body held memories, the stuffed feelings, the fires that burn inside…the body never forgets but with some focused work, will relinquish it’s pain, it’s frozen, it’s swirling, it’s heavy material for healing. It will all work out, you will survive and thrive. Do things differently than she did – Never stop, never give up on who you came here to be. You got this ❤️
Today’s got me like – what the hell is going on?! Meeting up with so many disgruntled ppl on my path lately. I check myself because I may be adding to the mix in some sort of way. We usually are…. Some folks come at me wanting to slay all the good, seeming like they want me to pay, to drive me down, want me to be miserable too. It can feel personal. Evil. Tricky. Messy. Well…no. I’m not havin it. It helps me to imagine their heartache, trauma and maltreatment they must endured as a child – because THAT’s why they act out on others. They have not been able, for a plethora of reasons, to rise out of the trauma mud. Most often it’s easier to vomit your self hate onto others rather than to sit and digest the feelings coursing through your body and contain them.
Understanding and having Empathy for people who want to drive us down does not mean we are giving them a free pass to act out on us. NOT AT ALL !
We can be understanding and still have boundaries. We can be understanding and still have our power. We can decide to not take their attacks personally. Because It’s not personal. Be the pretty in a sea of ugly.
Putting our needs first is key. Walk away. Far away. Choose a different path, literally and figuratively. Say no. Don’t show up to fix it, you cannot fix them. Again, you can not fix them. Decline the invite to the anger party. There will be many.
The only thing we can change when purposeful/targeted conflict and aggression come our way – is our attention we give to it. And how we support ourselves. Pull yourself in. Pull your energy back to you, away from harm. Easy to visualize…Protect yourself, this is powerful shit. Jackwagons are everywhere.
Unravel what you may have learned about taking the blame… I deserve it I’m worthless It’s my fault, must be me I can fix them/this It will get better soon I feel sorry for them, I’ll just give in
Replace with… I am loved I can ask for help/validation I am protected I walk away from disrespect I am powerful There is nothing wrong with me, never was I will do what it takes to feel safe I can be content in a storm Breath in calm, exhale their angst back to them
So let’s stop talking about a kinder, gentler nation (and people)- – if we’re not kinder and gentler with ourselves first!!! Because we can spend ALL our energy on trying to CHANGE other people and none of that means a damn thing. It’s actually the recipe for great suffering. Wanting something for someone else makes us suffer. Because they’ll change on THEIR schedule but usually – not at all.
Love yourself harder…this is what thriving looks like. Thrive like someone left the life gate open ❤️ because it is. It is.
All our lives we just want others to make us feel whole. To save us to fill in for what we lack. When we get older we realize that we need to do that for ourselves. Grieve what you didn’t get and give that very thing to yourself.
The older I get I sink in to what’s now. Like a bird settling into a nest of hopeful. Accepting the upsets, the seemingly unfair aspects of my life. For they, too, are just as part of the story. Disowned or welcomed -all pieces visible, named. Nesting in the comfort of the familiar held together because I, like the bird, decided to take the time.
I wasn’t aware back then but I was preparing for my eggs. Prepping for my eventual birth which is now. The birth of Me. Stepping into my own power, the less traumatized version of myself. My presence secure, out of the scathing, scouring elements that shaped me. I
In a nest. A dwelling I’ve created, with the help of some really beautiful spiritual souls. Some winged no doubt. But this nest is a coveted solitary soft landing in a harsh world. A place of rest and birth.
Welcome home I whisper to the bird within. She smiles because she knows what home feels like. She knows the comfort of the familiar. She knows where she belongs. The older she gets.
Perfectionism………………………. Per-fect-shun-is-ummmm. Hmmm, shunning the perfect, the pressure, warped sense of acceptable. No more reliving what we’ve been taught. Release the grip on the torch we’ve carried to keep ourselves in check and appear flawless. Allow the cracks to happen…how else will the light get in?
Born into a family of dysfunction, I navigated my world the best I could, hoping to be loved, cherished, valued, held and heard. Instead I was met with disregard for my life, repeated, long-term invasion of my body, my innocence, violence disguised as love, safety/security masquerading as control. All at the hands of my parents and male siblings. I was doomed. A shell of a human. Existing in the dizzying cycle of being tossed around in the surf of life – only occasionally able to take a full breath, surface. Pieces of my personality chipped off, the tide taking them far off, away. Never feeling the ground beneath my feet. Becoming dead inside, broken. Accepting the abnormal as normal. As violence, invasion came over me again and again I became familiar with rage. The rage that was growing inside of me. Rage that would never be recognized. Undercover. A secret rage, thoughts of revenge that would bring a sweet, savory smile to my perfect little-girl face. Continue reading “Just A Shell”→
I want to hold you like a small helpless child. I want to wrap you and keep you safe. I want to stroke your cheek and tell you everything’s going to be ok. Mother you the way we should have been mothered. Love you for just your existence. Tell you it’s ok, you’re ok. I want to let you relax in a safe space, let you be needed, tolerated, loved, honored and heard. I don’t think anyone heard you, no one loved you and let you know that you were ok. That it was ok to make mistakes.
I want you to walk on the beach one more time. To pick wild flowers. To trap a snake with a forked stick. I want you to see outside to fill yourself with fragrance and sound and the sun on your skin. I want that for you. But your immobile. Physically unable. I can only want those sensory pleasures for you. That is just my dream. My painful dream.
You’re so lost and helpless, it makes me so sad for you. Tragic. 84 years worth of tragic. You never realized your potential. Never realized your personal power. You were so sick I wanted nothing to do with you. Insane. I needed to love myself instead. I needed to save myself.
A new kind of compassion is birthing today. A new kind of wisdom making everything ok. I can’t fill you, I can’t live for you. You’re so lost now, more than ever. Trapped in a body that has no way to live and express all that is your story – never to get resolve. Never to been seen and heard. The saddest thing ever. Ever. You’re going to die with that information held close. Those secrets about those who stole everything from you.
You are left with a haunting, lingering, fleeting remembrance of horrors only you know. They’re locked inside, the evil – your private hell. You wanted to tell me, I know that. And you’re right, I will find out someday. I will. I’ll get all that info when you pass away. When you’re more whole than you’ve ever been. On the other side of this.
You were afraid of me, the loose cannon, the lost sheep. I had the power all along. I wasn’t afraid to speak it to tell others. You wanted that for yourself secretly, but could never have it. Something you didn’t know how to harness. You only knew to silence me. To control me. And that you did well.
Now I see you degrade yourself. Over and over is surely heartbreaking. You’ve NEVER thought you were doing, saying, being the right thing. Your confidence stripped. I hurt deeply for you, because you can’t hurt. You can’t lean into the support and melt. Your brain is being taken from you – little by little. You never wanted to remember, so here it is. As you wish.
Dependent. Again. On those you don’t trust. Those who are strange. Strangers who get to decide what to do with your body. Others make decisions for you. Tossed about from place to place. More of the same tragedy for you. It’s heartbreaking. The one who controls ends up with no control. Terrifying I’m sure. I will hold you in my heart. That’s all either of us has now. Goodbye Mother.
My legs. They know. They No. They ache, whine, and protest for days after heavy exercise – biking, kickboxing, hours of garden. I awaken the beast with stimulation. Reaching into the container of stifled protest, the well hidden events of a traumatic past. Weighed down by old held trauma. Wanting to run away. To fight off unwanted advances. Secretly wishing my legs would have defied my abusers and be unmovable, thwarting someone’s plan. All that protest energy still taking up residence. A protest that wasn’t allowed. A fuck-you condensed by sad-mess. Yes, old grief, that hopeless bastard. Bringing me to my aching knees. Festering, swirling – wishing relief.
The pain is constant. I don’t know where to put my legs so they won’t ache, won’t wake me. Muscular pain that is tired of waiting for the green light to release. Tired of holding. Aching at 2,3,4 a.m. Restless toss and burn. Heavy burdened walking sticks. Demanding attention for what was ignored before. This body does not forget. Tissues pregnant with issues. A high-risk pregnancy that must be watched, monitored. Until the delivery of release.
The threat of physical harm a long-ago-reality. All of my unconscious, protective holding is no longer needed – but my legs never got the memo. A loving gesture of exercise to keep my body fit and healthy has some underlying “gifts”. This physical pain I feel delivers me to the doorway of my emotional pain. Pain rents space, usually safe, undisturbed – until I call it out. Then pain has a voice. When my legs speak, they sound desperate. With ex-hurt-sion they plead with me. Their quiet whispers they tell me they’re exhausted. To please do the work. We’re sad, broken and depressed, needing deep-rest.
My relationship with my body is tight. Tight as the terror still residing in my legs, hips and pelvis. I talk with her. Sending love to my tender, lovely, strung-out legs. They need love. I purposefully bring the darkness forward, into consciousness. Visualizing the eviction of fear, disgust, shame, etc.. calling in Spirit Animals or Angels or Spirit Guides. Sitting with strong emotions. Standing with the reality of it all outside the cage of existence I used to know.
As my legs begin to thaw from their frozen “normal”, it hurts. I’ve disturbed a whole latta dark. The darkness wants out and that’s always painful. Painful going in, painful coming out. The trapped is wrapped in an old worn out container. My container is falling apart. As it should. As I relax, letting my guard down physically, the expression of what WAS is free to flow. These muscles and bones have known no safe place. No downtime.
I have a choice. We all do. I can do nothing. And invite in fibro-your-algia…cause NO, it will never be MINE. Never. I can wallow in vic-dumb-hood or I can stand on my own two legs and fight for my best life. I choose to evict the darkness. The thick, strangled webs of dysfunctional energy. They ooze sadness. A sadness so great I am compelled to ask them what they need. To actually have a conversation with my legs. The held trauma, wishing to take away my mobility, my health, my drive and flexibility. No thank-you.
I don’t blame my legs for the pain. Instead, I treat them like old friends. Dry brushing them to direct the fluid and energy to my lymphnodes for proper drainage. I Reiki them. I give them baths with Epsom salts for detox and relaxation of the strained muscles. I wrap them in warmth and allow emotion to flow unabstructed. I cry for the return of painless.
In a miraculous body way, a brilliant way, it handled it. By shutting down. By tensing up in protection. By stuffing all the ugly into my tissues and muscles because it was too much for a little girl to handle. The body never forgets.
We can only blame others for what has “happened to us” for so long. I do believe it a necessary process tho. Absolutely. It keeps us separate. It puts the blame where it belongs. Cause come on, no child asks for pain, insanity, sexual abuse, abandonment, humiliation, neglect…As children we come by this honestly. Circumstantial.
But…I think we run with that bs and grow to treat ourselves the same. It’s learned. It’s what they wanted us to learn. The hate, the inability to accept help, the way we please others first, the way we deny our own needs…all learned. So many of us get stuck in- “they made me like this” and close that chapter. End of story.
But…for some amazingly brave souls, I for one, we came into this life knowing that we will eventually reclaim all that was lost, all that was surrendered, all that was taken. MOST people I have met on my healing path settle with giving their abuser(s) the free pass. MOST people. And that rips my heart to shreds.
A complete disaster -from where I’m sitting. I am watching the generations below mine imploding with dysfunction in worse ways than the original shit. It’s here now. The trauma is visible, palpable, begging to be transformed. It laughs, taunts.
When we forever get comfortable sitting in – they did this to me – and we do not tease apart the “this”, we never need to change or do things differently. We can even dismiss them and fake their non-existence. The hate and rage inside us continues to simmer. They are forever the villain and we get to stay forever the victim. Sounds cozy.
Don’t have any children please. Just don’t.
The action script unfolds something like this…
Repeat after me: I have a part in this problem play. I’m not the main character but I’ve been really good as a supporting actor. I have learned my lines, they are automatic. This is what they want for me, so I don’t upset the trauma cart.
But wait, I no longer need to be in this drama. Being actively involved in this show keeps me in a negative, regretful, low vibrational place. I will take the steps necessary to eventually exit stage left. I want aliveness. I want revenge. Getting better for yourself, yes, this is the ultimate revenge.
Put some tall boots on and trudge through the mud in your life. Sometimes you’ll be stuck, unable to move. Other times you’ll move swiftly like it’s your job. Well you really are self employed. It’s your business and your the only one with YOU skills. That’s either really good news or very bad news. But actually, you will completely OWN your own success. The pride and sense of complete accomplishment are yours. Forever. Now take that deep dive into who you most deeply are.
Your personal success will ripple outward to impact all around you and especially the generations to come. Show us your BRAVE.
This pic reminds me that everyday we are brand new like a fresh Spring morning.
Every year, I’m a stranger. An imposter in my own life. Who am I to not love my Mother? How dare I? On a day devoted to the devoted. The selfless and emotional pillar of the family unit. Who tf am I to not be honoring and swimming in the love and gratitude so many feel?
Or do they? Media would lead you to believe that everyone has/had a fairytale Mom. The loving, doting and encouraging Mom. The – I got you – Mom. The way these Mother’s Day cards are written… selling the story of perfection, sweet caring and unwavering love.
My guess is that a little truth and authenticity sprinkled amongst these card stock fancies is in order. I mean, come on! Just close your eyes, hold your breath and add your John Hancock. When your childhood experiences were not in the love basket at all, these well meaning cards can be triggering and upsetting. Card after 8$ card. Sparkles, music, hearts and swirling fonts.
Wouldn’t a little REAL give permission for aliveness and much needed deep breaths? I’d like to design cards with reality in mind. Illuminating the humanness in relationships. The struggles, the lessons, the growth, the separateness – all crafting something beautiful. An imperfect end product. A beautiful mess.
“ Mom, I know you did the best you could and I honor your Spirit for that” “Mom, even though it’s been tough, know that I have learned so much from our relationship” Mom, thank you for bringing me into this world for the opportunity to do great things”.
Even when (especially when) we don’t have a relationship with our Mom – and or it is tumultuous – we gaining valuable insights. We become seekers of truth and who we came here to be. Because. Because we kind of have to. Because the pain is huge. The scars of not being seen, heard, validated, honored and cherished as a child are ever reaching. This is fertile healing ground for a Wisdom harvest.
This is the gift. To ourselves. The quest for wholeness. Without support from the most obvious source, our Mother. For whatever reason that source may have dried up or was never available. Or love was a trick or a performance in front of others. Whatever the situation. I don’t think I am alone by any means this Mother’s Day (or any other day)
We can live and honor and nurture each other. Anyways. There are so many of you in this same seat. I feel you. I see you. I support your mixed feelings on this day and everyday you feel like you’re missing something you think every other person has. They do not. I think many people have a high tolerance for trauma/abuse. Keeping them loyal to that which insults the rest of us. My tolerance is low which is why I chose to live and remain separate. And sane.
Every Mother’s Day I write a letter to myself. Expressing my gratitude to my higher self for never giving up on me. I talk about the partnership and unconditional love I have for my body, my mistakes, my humanness. I’ve got my own back. This is where I MOTHER myself. Turns out I’m very good at it. I suspect you all are too. Happy Mother’s Day to the amazing Mother in you.
How do I know? How can I not know? Miles from what I thought was me. She’s gone now. My old self. Gone is the pleaser, the “it must’ve been me” girl, the girl who stayed quiet. The one who allowed others to overrule her thoughts. The girl who believed that she didn’t have needs. How could she ever get needs met? Having needs somehow took away from others and was self centered. Mean. That’s what they told me. That’s what I believed. She’s gone now.
The girl who just wanted to be happy- no matter the cost. The young lady who kept secrets so vile – so others wouldn’t deny her truth or be moved to action, or, worse yet…think SHE was the problem. Swallowing shards of pain for too many moons, too many seasons. The young miss who starved herself in an attempt to kill the beast within. She who flirted with ending her own life as a second grader. Yes, my warrior was hidden deep.
She who finishes last hurts most. The suffering stuffed inside her little body, tucked in every crevice, tissue, every body system. The mini me opening and reaching for support. Then retreating when the flames scorched her opening heart. She was likened to an invasive weed, her desire to live fully anyways. Gathering my scattered pieces, discards, the parts of me that could not stay. Then. Now held in the safety of truth, she’s crawled back, taking back.
Adding to my healing resume, I was. My ground. My worth. This felt right, felt write. Healing through the pen. Words reflecting misery and agony of emotions held. Yet, these words were the very voice I so greatly needed to mend the soul of me. A healing prescription, wrapping the ugly in gorgeous gift boxes. Gifting earned resilience, grace and perseverance – to myself. This is me, the warrior. Yes, please.
I didn’t know this was correct. Following what felt right, I was my own healing mentor. I didn’t know I had the power to change my own life. Excising those who disrespected my essence. Eradicating those who used me for their own pleasure. Ejecting those who snuff my fire. Evicting those who will never be allowed in again. Gates closed. Admission revoked. This is how I know. I am warrior.
Old trauma meeting Wisdom. War. War within myself. Me doing battle with the invisible. The parts of me that knew better – speaking at last. Hard work keeping my inner wisdom silent. The knowing, the wisdom, became the boss of me, eventually. This is how I live my warrior.
Onions can make you cry but so can a heart opening. So many layers so many lessons.
It would have annoyed most people. I should have been annoyed. I wasn’t. My anger would have hijacked the most profound moment. Her anger could have ruined everything. But instead, a life changing moment, a nudge from Spirit. I met a teacher, an angel…Marilyn.
While attempting to park my car I was met with a snow plow clearing the lot. I pulled to the side to let him clear where I wanted to park. Nosed in and put it in park. When he cleared the area, I put it in reverse and started to back up. I heard a beep and realized that someone was right behind me. I quickly pulled back to where I was and put it in park.
I did feel the annoyance rising in me. But then again, by beeping this person, this lovely woman, saved me from smashing her car. Upon entering the store there she stood. Sizing her up, I prepared to be yelled at, I deserved it obviously. “I’m sorry I beeped at you” she blurted out. Wow
Holy shit! SHE’S sorry? shocking. For what, for being alive? I told her I was GLAD she beeped and stopped me – I was totally going to wreck both our cars. “Always beep and don’t be sorry!” She thought that was a funny thing for me to say. We began to talk about things. Families, jobs, why we were at this store…the normal bla bla bla. Until
Until she disclosed her daughter’s situation. Somehow, by the grace of God, I found myself in a very private and profound conversation with a complete stranger. I was deeply moved by her sharing. I didn’t deserve to be privy to any of this. I was the jackass who made a dumb move in the parking lot! Still, she shared with me. Still. I was deeply moved by her daughters will to live. I was deeply moved that she died repeatedly only to be revived again and again.
All because she made the choice to have compassion for me instead of anger for me so close to wrecking her car. She not only forgot about HOW she met me, she trusted that it was ok to tell me about her life’s recent tragic events, in detail. Every detail. I’m still in shock but strangely honored.
Again. I was blown away that her daughter coded several times during her C-section. Several times. Was clinically dead seven times. That hits hard. Even when it’s a stranger. I didn’t want to cry but it was already there. I was crying inside. Profound. It was a miracle mom and baby survived.
Marilyn’s daughter has some complications because of these events and continues to recover.
I was ready to be scolded, degraded, sneered at for being dumb and assuming no one was behind me. Instead, I was met with compassion and understanding. That’s what Marilyn had waiting for me. Understanding and Compassion. How sweet. What an incredible woman that Marilyn. What an awesome day with the chance meeting with my latest teacher. Teaching love, trust, compassion and understanding even for strangers. Even for someone who nearly caused you more angst and worries.
Can’t we all try to BE the compassion and understanding. You never know who you’ll impact and how far the ripples will go. It may be life saving, life changing. We all struggle. We need to trust and see each other. I think it was Rumi who said, We’re all just humans, walking each other home.
I’ll be talking the long way. Past some lovely strangers.
This has got to be the best and the worst time of my life. I am realizing the fruits of my hard, excruciating labor. Everyone’s imploding around me – I stand tall n steady. Dead nuts steady as an island in a tormented sea. Waves, winds crashing from all sides – yet I breathe. Because I know. That it’s all just. Temporary. And I’m fine. Finally.
I’m an observer. A family of origin- tornado observer. As life fucks the unhealed. Numerous family members who’ve passed up every opportunity to dive deep. Their Spirits, their Higher Selves wanting them to finally swim in the healing waters…they claimed they didn’t know how to swim, the water was too cold, too deep…Excuses. Now they’re drowning, slowly. Publicly.
I should be that – but if not for for the grace of God – I would be that. I should be crushed by the weight of the dark history. But yet I wear survival gear and cling to a life vest. As a result, I am unscathed by the shredding winds. I am whole. As I have already seen many-a-horrendous storms and been sucked up in the torrent – 20+ years fighting for my right to be here, to be seen, be victorious.
The worst part, watching as the trauma screams for acknowledgment, validation, to be seen and heard. The wall being built higher, more reinforcement needed to close it out, shut it up. Fortify the fortress of Denial Palace. My family of origin lives here. It’s occupants smile, gladly welcoming amnesia, loss of sight and hearing as insurance/loyalty to the fairytale. The once upon a slime childhood.
Guests are welcome in the Palace – butlers offer tall glasses of shut the fuck up with a side of “smile even when you’re dying inside” crackers and “let everyone know how loving your mother is” cheese. Secrets guarded as my siblings and maternal influence, inside, are imploding. Keeping the beast quiet and alive and salivating. The old evil licking it’s lips, eyes locked on the newest generation. Ready to feed off the misery, hiding from daylight.
The best and worst playing simultaneously. On the same reel. Sadness and elation. Devastation and joy. No longer experiencing but observing. I cannot go to the Palace. MY acceptance of fake and shallow and control has expired. I don’t fit. Maybe I never did. I can see. I can see the ugly beyond it’s fancy decor. My heart breaks for all of them yet rejoices for ME…
My heart. Wasn’t always tender. It couldn’t be. It had to hide out of sight. Huddled up next to my breath and closed eyes. Corner cozy. Middle of the room too exposed, heavy with anticipation of slaughter. When I was sure no-one was looking, I’d let it out, on a short leash. But never to fully let go. Never to fully catch my breath or settle into deep ones. Never to allow my eyes to be seen actually seeing anything.
So today, the tenderest of hearts is bleeding. And I won’t stop it. That would be more of the same. Instead, I encourage it to hurt, to grieve. It’s safe now. I craft the sweetest, loving alter. For it. Holding it with all my love pouring forth to strengthen its fabric. To nourish its lack. To wish its wholeness into existence. It’s on me. It’s in me.
But it just wants to bleed. So I let it leak and gush. Whenever it gets touched. Mostly in grief these days. Tragedy is so abundant around me. Right now. Still. My family of origin struggling, finally. The long term effects of unhealed, ancient sexual abuse. They’re drowning, not fighting to survive. Not stirring to action. Wallowing in tragedy disguised by addiction, co-dependency and self hate and so much more. My heart physically hurts for them. So I turn to self healing. Only for me. My 20+ yrs of intensive deep dive finally coming to fruition. A stocked toolkit I have gathered. Dipping into my spiritual 401K.
As peoples lives implode around me, I am standing in my center. Compassionate yet separate. My heart whispers, yes, this is it. This. My heart has so much to say. And I listen. And I listen. She’s kept it all in and now she can’t stop expressing. When I sit and check in, she oozes with sadness. Decades of betrayal, shame, loneliness, no right to exist, gaslighting, control – absorbed and stored in my body. The thaw is now.
I put my hand gently to my heart space. Letting her know that I will never leave her. That I will always protect us. And make time for her to express and ease the heaviness. My tender heart. For this awareness I am forever grateful. I am gifted a greater awareness and appreciation of why I’m here. Alive. A greater knowing of what life is about and how I can be there for others without losing myself in the process. Like a tree that is flexible in the storm. An observer, not a victim.
I know how to run. For years. On empty. I’m so very familiar. Wishing, planning to move, transform into some other profession. Maybe when I’m a healer. I can be who I really am. Maybe when I’m an author life will be simple. Seamless. Less of a struggle. I will be fabulous.
Then the voices…This is not what I’m supposed to be doing. If only I could disappear, mold , morph into my surroundings so as not to stand out. Just live out my days until I can retire. My interests are different than my co-workers. I don’t fit in. Here. Idgaf about deadlines, schedules.
Relentless voices from within…this present career. I can’t show heart here. Too sensitive, too opinionated, and intuitive. I don’t fit in with these academics. Tough shell, (as my broken Mother would say) you need to toughen up so you don’t get eaten alive here. Head down, carry on.
I was a great AS IF actress as a kid. Pretend that you’re invested. You know how (the voices are encouraging me) Fake it till you make it. Like they all seem to be. Just go through the motions. Act like you care. Show no emotions, no heart. Play small WTF is wrong with you? Shut up and just act like everyone else.
Tragic truth tho…. Not trying, still I’m excellent in what I do, truly good at it. Imagine if I tried? Autopilot looks great on me. So the Lies. Lies I’ve told myself so I could play small. Survive feeling different. All lies for a long time. Years. Fooled even me.
I’ve spent years running from my present career. Running while standing still. Turmoil and angst kept just under the surface. Functioning just enough to get by. In it but not fully in it. Sweating even the small stuff. Because it all felt too big. Survival. I’m so great at Surviving. Fucking warrior. Beast.
Hmmmmm. Now that sounds amazingly familiar. The fuck it does! CHILDHOOD rears it’s brilliantly tragic head again. Always feeling like I was meant for greater things. Angry. So pissed that I wasn’t over THERE. Wherever “there” was. The distance I created from myself, excelling at not being present, going through the mundane motions of not giving all of myself…just existing.
After all I’d be exiting soon – so I told myself. Right? I need to GET AWAY from this meaninglessness. I was meant for greater things – my inner dialogue carried on. Years, years of contempt. Functioning day after day after year pushing away. Having a large fuck you for any chance to grow and learn and expand my expertise. Shadow fanning the self-sabotage fire.
But slowly, over the past 6 months. Slowly, as I age in this career and in years, things are shifting. The fog lifting.
In a profound way I am living more from center. I am sitting back, settling into my worthy. The gold is RIGHT here, and there and even there. As a human being, I realize my depth. And I don’t have to dumb myself down in anger. No killing what is emerging. No withholding my potential or heart or intelligence or intuition.
I realize that within the running is the lesson. I don’t have to BE or HAVE or DO ______ to realize the wisdom of me. There’s nowhere to be that is more fabulous or evolved than right here. Now. I can be who I came here to be REGARDLESS of where I find myself physically. This is true authenticity. Without the struggle, guarding or fearing aliveness.
Nothing is changing yet EVERYTHING has changed. There it is again, that movement yet standing still. Suddenly I am aware that there IS nowhere to get to. No final destination (physically anyway). The destination is satisfaction with who you are in any given moment. That private joke pleasantness that spreads over your existence like warm Winter pajamas.
The where’s why’s how’s when’s – become irrelevant. Once we are completely accepting and embrace our present situation – NO MATTER what that is… you realize that it’s not the actual career, environment, $, fame, or recognition that matters. What really REALLY matters is that you are undeniably YOU wherever you may find yourself.
I once heard a Spiritual Teacher say – we can’t expect to get “there” if we’re not comfortable with where we are. I thought, well that’s a bunch of hot bull shit. I’ll be happier once I rid myself of the misery “here”. What I could never take in was that the misery is INSIDE of me. Not created by outside circumstances.
Me: Unpacking my bags.
My mantra: Good news today – Authenticity has no known address.
Sometimes I find myself wishing a day would move faster. Hoping I just make it. Through. Without too much turmoil. Then I’ll be home, able to breath and do more relaxing, choice activities. Or even breathe easy and space out. Whatever I do, it’ll be better once I’m out of _____ situation. 🤷🏻♀️
Sometimes there’s fear and apprehension around the events I will soon face. I can imagine terrifying scenarios. None of which ever materialize. Ever. You think I’d know by now, not to obsess and ruminate about the imagined catastrophe awaiting my arrival. Fear bags packed, ready to go. You think I’d be able to dismiss those thoughts and worries.
But not always. Fear is relentless. It has a way of taking over and pressuring us to minimally function in our power. Someone didn’t want us to realize our power. Now we carry that torch. We do it to ourselves. Dumb ourselves down.
As if, to be fabulous and centered and relaxed was dangerous to our existence…because it was. As if success was frowned upon …because it was. As if being a beacon of light would cause us to stand out in a negative, gloating way… because it did. No more AS IF. I’m making friends with fabulous, power, center – I’m making friends with fear. As one of my favorite teachers once told me, “I’m frightened and I’m alive. Do it afraid!”
I’m in love with long soaks in the tub. The luxurious idea of it all. Water validating what I bring, who I am. Enveloping me in connection and acceptance. She loves this, my inner Aquarian child. Effective recharge, soaking in simplicity.
Celebrating the solitude in the deep warm. Drowning pressure, responsibility, have-to heaviness and shouldoves, I become lighter. For they cannot swim. A beautiful death, they scatter on the surface until I can no longer hear their voices. Silence. Detaching from their grip, I sink deeper into this best life.
Deeper into aliveness and existence I swim. And I’m a swimmer. Upstream usually, so this is easy. But wait! static waters trigger my busy. My efforting. My reaching for reasons I can’t stay. Reasons I’m not worthy to receive and allow the warm hug, the pleasant and loving warm embrace. All just voices and stories with anxious, ancient roots.
Submerged in sanity, I play. Anyway. Fragrance and texture, old friends we are. I begin again. Cleanse and clean. Brushing, I evict expired drama from my loins. The clarity of the liquid accepting and assimilating all of it. Holding me. Holding separate, my discards. I ride out the calm.
Float until I live. I agree to be alive and transformed. Again. Drained of my “no longer” needs. If just for today. Now I rise, a newborn. Tub drain uncomfortable and grouchy with heavy content. It groans. Hear it? But no one’s there to witness the suck-age. The ancestral bla-bla-bla. It is silenced in defeat, today.
I emerge wet and new, full of possibility. Empty then full. Soak then woke. Tub’s got me dry and deranged to sane and sassy. I love long soaks in the tub.
Born into a family of dysfunction, I navigated my world the best I could, hoping to be loved, cherished, valued, held and heard. Instead I was met with disregard for my life, repeated, long-term invasion of my body, my innocence, violence disguised as love, safety/security masquerading as control. All at the hands of my parents and male siblings. I was doomed. A shell of a human. Existing in the dizzying cycle of being tossed around in the surf of life – only occasionally able to take a full breath, surface. Pieces of my personality chipped off, the tide taking them far off, away. Never feeling the ground beneath my feet. Becoming dead inside, broken. Accepting the abnormal as normal. As violence, invasion came over me again and again I became familiar with rage. The rage that was growing inside of me. Rage that would never be recognized. Undercover. A secret rage, thoughts of revenge that would bring a sweet, savory smile to my perfect little-girl face. 
A Fish Named Karen 