trust

Trust This

What is trust I ask. Show me trust.

I trust that I will see beauty.

I trust that I will reap the benefits of a healthy lifestyle. Then trust must be hope but with a little force applied. A self-assuredness. A smugness. A belief? I think _____, therefore, It probably, most likely, sure-thing, will happen?! Maybe trust, with a sprinkle of tentativeness, or doubt? 

Trust  – a surrender of sorts, laying down arms with a goal in mind. Even a soft goal, a cushy, mushy wanting, served with a side of lazer beam attainment. This. This must be trust.

Or we can think of how we trust in other humans. Well, which humans? The ones I knew, certainly trust-me-nots. Then there’s trust in known humans vs. strangers? Is there a difference? I trust not.  

I wanted to trust. To believe in the words as they dripped out of your mouth. Tumbling like meaningless wilted petals, landing just short of reality. They were so pretty though, those words. I was a machine, trying to digest them. An initial smoothness followed by poison. I was a hopeful little blossom, full of wish and happy. Like a dog at the junkyard, nameless, I waded in garbage looking for scraps to nourish my wanting soul. Only your version of truth. Crafty fabrications that slipped past my ineffective, weakened little girl defences. 

With crooked, bony, witch fingers your stories poked, prodded and pried your way into my fabric. Shredding, tearing any semblance of sanity from my life bubble. Quietly, relentlessly grooming me to trust your insanity. I clearly remember the conflict and internal frustration. Homeless frustration. She cared about me, she loved me, she believed me, she protected me, right? Right?  What I knew and felt, my truth had to be forfeited, stuffed deeply inside or (the worst) denied by me. Truth choked out then molded and transformed into something “a little more pleasant” or “that looked more appropriate” or “wasn’t so angry”…..aka a foreign substance. Just for being truth. Then she served it up as a “suitable” side dish on a pretty, delicate lunch plate with edible borage and nasturtiums. Here, dear, this non-reality entree is more digestible now.  


Like it was my job, I turned my back on myself, to honor you dear Mother. To honor that which held me down. I stopped trying to correct the denial of truth. I stopped trusting my gut as my thinking was flawed and only brought misery (vomit).  I joined forces with the sleeping, the walking dead. The carbon copy siblings. The smiling, performing idiots. She seemed to be pleased with them. Fuck it. Congagulations to me! You won Mother. I swallowed the glass and hid all the bloody evidence. Just to honor you. Just to have a Mother. I played the fucking game. Of survival. You crafted me into a beautifully obedient servant. Hand delivered to my abusers. Circle of thrust. Excellent job. I no longer tried to be understood, I no longer shared my opinion, I no longer challenged or tried, or fought, or lived.

At 12 years old, the years had steamrolled me to a 70 lb flat stanley frame. Starved for truth, integrity. I was. Everything that was real, stuffed, crammed. Every thought, body sensation, feeling… I stuffed it, crammed it down sideways. Crushed, jammed, damned. Fuck my intuition. It was pure trickery, you were right. I had no rights to my own wisdom, it was flawed, extreme, exaggerated, outrageous, too this or that. And it’s got to be true, my Mother told me so. I was living as if I was alive. I had learned how to pretend and was pretty fucking good at it. I wasn’t worthy of my own wisdom. My own life. The beast within was growing tired, restless. Fantasies arriving. Hope. Something I could hold onto that was real. Maybe I could be someone. Someone outside of your knowing. Someone free with no surrendering or merging to your drum beat. Maybe I wouldn’t have to give myself up so I could have a Mother. Maybe I could hold onto my own diamond wisdom and not have it replaced by a cubic zirconia, then told it was still a diamond.

Trust was about to be redefined. The beginning of the end. Trusting my inner wisdom…

anyways · awareness · Celebrate · childhood · Christmas · Comfort · fun · healing · healthy · heart · Holiday · human condition · Human Spirit · inner work · intention · Joy · old patterns · persevere · Reframe · Satisfied · self love · soul · survival · Thoughts · triggers · validation

The Unlikely Christmas Card

Here we are, Christmas quickly approaching. So of course I have no plans to spend time with my family on Christmas Eve. Flirting with attending vs. not attending family gatherings for 15 years, Continue reading “The Unlikely Christmas Card”

abuse · anxiety · anyways · awareness · Celebrate · challenge · childhood · Comfort · connection · fun · gratitude · healing · Holiday · human condition · Human Spirit · intention · Joy · light in the darkness · Manifest · Moving On · need · old patterns · persevere · Play · Satisfied · self love · self talk · survival · Thoughts · Trees · triggers · Universe

How To Survive (The Family) Holidays – 13 Joyful Hacks

 

So, the Holidays, hmmmmm. I’m guessing that some of my readers may be very excited for Holidays. I am also knowing that there’s a whole other section of the general pop who are digging themselves a large hole, preparing to jump in to escape all things “family celebration”. Continue reading “How To Survive (The Family) Holidays – 13 Joyful Hacks”

acceptance · Uncategorized

As The Smoke Dissipates

Oh the opportunity to feel, when no-one’s looking. Today I took my sad ass outside to sit by the fire pit. Sweet Grass, Sage, Palo Santo, healing wand in hand. All with the intention to purge, to sit in the fresh air and sunshine. Handing myself over to the earth, to the powers that be. To bear my sadness, grief and hate to the trees and listen for their wisdom.

I light the Sweet Grass, quickly the fire spreads to the Sage and engulfs the Palo Santo. Sweet ceremonial earthy fragrance circles around my tear streamed face. With a turkey feather I assist the plumes around my head and body intending to bebseen in my grief and hate. With the intention of healing the deepest sadness I carry. With the intention of Bird Medicine supporting my use of a home-made healing wand, dispersing the smoke with Hawk, Turkey, Crow and Peacock plumes. The smoke making its way to my body’s energetic centers. Bird medicine feels so right, calling on Hawk or Crow to watch over me as I present my latest emotional garbage for renewal and healing.

I am hit with a wall of grief, to the solar plexus (navel area) with the likeness of being gutted. It arrives in waves of rage and sorrow, guilt and shock. She’s getting ready to die. My Mother. I feel the disruption, the frantic, the reaching. I am questioning my platform, my truth. Am I too selfish? Mean? Demonic? Am I self-protective to a fault? Am I stuck in a battle that is long past? Is there self hate for the parts of myself that are unyielding? Is there love for my unhealed, rough parts?

There are no right answers. There are, though, many haters on this path. When we choose to do the right thing and live our truth those closest to us seem to lose their fucking minds. It’s like you are being asked to live everyone else’s guilt and have to’s and should have’s. Like I don’t have enough of that shit myself. Eye roll. I think that people lose sight of “mind your own fucking business” when someone is suffering. I think it’s “normal” to want to take action and ease someone’s suffering. But stay in your own lane and do your thing. The second you expect anyone to join in on your next best idea this is when you fail.

I am not here to alleviate anyone’s suffering – mental or physical. Period. I am no lifeline or Savior. Lately I feel so distant from my Mother’s situation. I am done attempting to fulfill her needs at the expense of my own mental health. I’ve spent 34 years of my precious life doing that. Fuck that. I vow to my inner child to not give up on her (inner child) and to put her safety and sanity first. I refuse to continue giving up this precious little child inside of me -handing her over to be slaughtered and used. She’s way too precious. EVEN if the slaughter-er is dying. Even if. The threat of death doesn’t change anything for me. Nothing changes. Which shocks the shit out of those around me. It remains me, living my truth. Even if no-one supports me. Even if.

Please let me live with the consequences of not seeing her one last time. Let me feel it. Let me feel the wide open freedom of knowing she won’t show up and stalk me and whisper in my ear “You’re trapped”. Let me know that I will never feel her seductive touch. Let me feel the reality of this world rather than be told lies about everything and anything. Let me be fabulous, and smart, and worthy and just right in my body without someone putting the doubt in my head that I’m too much and should dumb down my glory or that someone ELSE deserves the credit for what I’VE accomplished.

So as the smoke dissipates and my tears subside, feelings of satisfaction and completeness arise. I fill my lungs with fresh Winter air, imagining the breath traveling down to my Winter boots and into the earth. SHE supports me, Mother Earth. Supports my journey and the beautiful mess that I am. I’ve accomplished a whole lot, Mother, without you, despite you. Anyways. Because of your self-hate and baggage. Because of your traumatic disowned past. Because of generational mental illness and sexual abuse.

And what a wonderful existence was waiting for me. Without you. Without thinking of you, without remembering that I even have a Mother. Thank-you for all you’ve taught me about my worth, my ability to see reality and my love for my body. Anyway. Anyway.

As the smoke dissipates. You were wrong. I am amazing.