My parents are coming to visit. Even typing that sentence makes me want to cry. I'm terrified. Scared out of my wits with all of the what ifs and what could happens. My protective instincts are kicking in and I am fighting like a mad woman to hold onto this self that I've finally discovered this year. I've done too much healing to deal with their visit in the ways that I have in the past, but not enough yet to decide if I am ready to no longer have them in any part of my life.
My fear has been stealing my voice, my creativity. It's robbed me of sleep, of peace, of the ability to rest. I am frantic, anxious, restless, unfocused. And I'm still free to choose.
I haven't lost what I've learned, even though it's gone into hiding for the last week. Those lessons and those tools, I still have them, I still know how to use them. I haven't lost me, even though right now it feels like I have. I am stronger than I give myself credit for. Today I am standing up and fighting for myself, for my voice, for my creativity. I won't allow fear to rob me of what freedom has brought. Today I lean into my fear, to hear what it has to teach me, to honour it's voice. But it's no longer the deciding force behind my actions.
I'm printing my pictures and creating my wall of colours. I'm leaving my books on their shelves. I'm showing up scared and brave, using my voice even when, especially when it's shaking. I'm honouring the gift of words that my Muses give me. Today I'm standing up for myself, not with my parents, that will come one day. First I need to learn to stand up for myself to my fear.
Showing posts with label crazy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label crazy. Show all posts
Monday, June 9, 2014
Monday, May 19, 2014
Sobbing on the Kitchen Floor
It's one of those seasons again.
The ones where I'm his yo-yo,
never certain which way his fingers will flick me.
Will I go hurling towards the floor yet again?
Will this be the hit that shatters my heart,
or will it only be a dent, a scratching of paint?
Or will he stop half way down, and jerk me in a circle,
weaving me in intricate patterns and knots?
He filters what is told to others,
making me the bad guy,
the unreasonable wife,
the too-fragile one,
the ball-buster.
My words become his justification
to continue to toy with my heart -
my words,
yanked out of context,
thrown back in my face,
slightly twisted,
just a little bent.
He's learning to pull me close,
to hold me in his hand without having to hurl me back to the floor.
It's a learning though,
and my heart, MY heart bears
the consequences and scars of his progress.
I didn't think there was room on my heart for more scars.
Somehow he found the few unmarked places
and stabbed me clean through.
The ones where I'm his yo-yo,
never certain which way his fingers will flick me.
Will I go hurling towards the floor yet again?
Will this be the hit that shatters my heart,
or will it only be a dent, a scratching of paint?
Or will he stop half way down, and jerk me in a circle,
weaving me in intricate patterns and knots?
He filters what is told to others,
making me the bad guy,
the unreasonable wife,
the too-fragile one,
the ball-buster.
My words become his justification
to continue to toy with my heart -
my words,
yanked out of context,
thrown back in my face,
slightly twisted,
just a little bent.
He's learning to pull me close,
to hold me in his hand without having to hurl me back to the floor.
It's a learning though,
and my heart, MY heart bears
the consequences and scars of his progress.
I didn't think there was room on my heart for more scars.
Somehow he found the few unmarked places
and stabbed me clean through.
Monday, May 12, 2014
Allowing The Process or Living Life Without Boxes
In healing and recovery we talk often about how this is a journey, a process. There isn't a final "I have arrived" point. Living one day at a time is a mantra in living life without addiction. I only have today, this moment, this choice - medicate or feel.
It came up today in my writing group that this creative journey doesn't have a one and done. There isn't a way to pass. It infuriates me. It digs deep into mix of my perfectionism. I want to have a tantrum because I want for something, anything in my life that I can point to, that is tangible and real, that society says has value. Mother's Day brought up all of the feelings - that I'm not doing anything worthwhile with my life. It's crap. I know it's crap. On my saner days, I can value myself and the choices that I continue to make to walk forward in healing, in becoming human.
This digging into the heart of why I don't/won't/can't value my process circles back around to childhood. To a world where the only degrees that counted were in Math, Science, and Engineering. (or if we chose full time music). It was a world where there wasn't room for my creativity, for my way of seeing the world. There wasn't room for me. What counted, what mattered were the grades I got, the tangible accomplishments that I could point at and say "there, see I have value".
There's still his metric in my head, this way of measuring what counts. Yeah society and culture don't help, but they aren't the root of my insanity around this. The root is that I still want, maybe even need my father's approval of my life, my choices. I want to be as valued as my sibling who is parenting children and working part time from home in an acceptable profession. I want to be seen damn it. I want him to see me. I strove all my life to get his approval or to convince myself that his approval didn't matter to me. My comfort with being the black sheep of the family, the "bad" daughter came from allowing his view to still define my worth.
Now I'm finding me for myself. I'm lost. I want a metric to tell me that I've arrived, or at least what arrival could look like. I want a different box, one with windows in the sides, but still a box because there has always been one. Even though I've left his box behind, I only searched to find a box less constrictive than the one I left behind. My box is getting soggy and crumpled. It's got holes in it now. I'm holding onto my tantrum because that allows me to clutch the failing walls tighter around my heart. This tantrum is the only thing holding my box together now.
I want the world outside my box - and I'm scared. Scared of what it would be like to live without a box, without needing something external to point towards that proves my value. Scared that letting go of this box is simply embracing a slightly bigger box. Scared that I'm not ready to live in a world bigger than the one that I've learned to inhabit these past 8 years. It's time. Time to let his rules and his values go just a little bit more. Time to stop clutching my box walls. Time to open my hands to receive something new.
It came up today in my writing group that this creative journey doesn't have a one and done. There isn't a way to pass. It infuriates me. It digs deep into mix of my perfectionism. I want to have a tantrum because I want for something, anything in my life that I can point to, that is tangible and real, that society says has value. Mother's Day brought up all of the feelings - that I'm not doing anything worthwhile with my life. It's crap. I know it's crap. On my saner days, I can value myself and the choices that I continue to make to walk forward in healing, in becoming human.
This digging into the heart of why I don't/won't/can't value my process circles back around to childhood. To a world where the only degrees that counted were in Math, Science, and Engineering. (or if we chose full time music). It was a world where there wasn't room for my creativity, for my way of seeing the world. There wasn't room for me. What counted, what mattered were the grades I got, the tangible accomplishments that I could point at and say "there, see I have value".
There's still his metric in my head, this way of measuring what counts. Yeah society and culture don't help, but they aren't the root of my insanity around this. The root is that I still want, maybe even need my father's approval of my life, my choices. I want to be as valued as my sibling who is parenting children and working part time from home in an acceptable profession. I want to be seen damn it. I want him to see me. I strove all my life to get his approval or to convince myself that his approval didn't matter to me. My comfort with being the black sheep of the family, the "bad" daughter came from allowing his view to still define my worth.
Now I'm finding me for myself. I'm lost. I want a metric to tell me that I've arrived, or at least what arrival could look like. I want a different box, one with windows in the sides, but still a box because there has always been one. Even though I've left his box behind, I only searched to find a box less constrictive than the one I left behind. My box is getting soggy and crumpled. It's got holes in it now. I'm holding onto my tantrum because that allows me to clutch the failing walls tighter around my heart. This tantrum is the only thing holding my box together now.
I want the world outside my box - and I'm scared. Scared of what it would be like to live without a box, without needing something external to point towards that proves my value. Scared that letting go of this box is simply embracing a slightly bigger box. Scared that I'm not ready to live in a world bigger than the one that I've learned to inhabit these past 8 years. It's time. Time to let his rules and his values go just a little bit more. Time to stop clutching my box walls. Time to open my hands to receive something new.
Sunday, March 30, 2014
Dark Days
{Good Lord this post sounds melodramatic. It's not meant to be. It's honest. As honest as I know how to be right now. I'll be back to a more balanced place in a little while. Too often I don't acknowledge my own dark days. I'm trying that here, with this.}
Some days my broken gets too big. It eclipses every thing else in my life. I sink down, mesmerized with my own pain, sucked into the aching hole of my own private dark places. When I say some days, I mean at least once a week. Introspection is a good thing. At times I go overboard and know myself a little too well. I forget to look around. I've spent long years believing I was other and alone. I was told to get over my broken, to see that others suffer more than I can imagine.
I've heard the platitudes and comparisons with a little Jesus sprinkled on to make those who offer such filth feel righteous. They ring in my mind, in my memories. Some are etched in my soul. Other still block my ears and blind my eyes, tricking me into believing that what was is still now.
My voice is panicked, defiant, and silently screaming. There is no objectivity. Things that I know are right for me are called back into question once more. I back into the corner, desperate for protection, needing permission to choose for myself, to function, to breathe.
This is the fallout I hate. I hate my brokenness at times. I hate the way it dominates everything, that THIS, this is what I know. It's all I know. Trauma and recovery. I wish I could rip my heart out of my chest, to find some way to let all the darkness pour out of me once and for all. Darkness I never invited, never wanted, never deserved yet that darkness haunts me, torments me, taints me.
I lost the first 22 years of my life to abuse and I've spent the last 8 finding myself and healing from all the damage. I don't know anything else. The only beauty that I possess comes from ashes. Most days I embrace the mystery along with the pain - the mystery of why this was allowed in my life. The mystery of the purpose that it may one day serve. The mystery of abuse done in the name of a holy merciful God.
On these types of days, I loath the mystery. I demand answers. My heart's voice screams "why?!" until it's hoarse. There are still no answers. No more of a response now than there was back then. My pain swallows me and everything I know, all that I have learned is once more lost in the howls of a soul in agony.
Some days my broken gets too big. It eclipses every thing else in my life. I sink down, mesmerized with my own pain, sucked into the aching hole of my own private dark places. When I say some days, I mean at least once a week. Introspection is a good thing. At times I go overboard and know myself a little too well. I forget to look around. I've spent long years believing I was other and alone. I was told to get over my broken, to see that others suffer more than I can imagine.
I've heard the platitudes and comparisons with a little Jesus sprinkled on to make those who offer such filth feel righteous. They ring in my mind, in my memories. Some are etched in my soul. Other still block my ears and blind my eyes, tricking me into believing that what was is still now.
My voice is panicked, defiant, and silently screaming. There is no objectivity. Things that I know are right for me are called back into question once more. I back into the corner, desperate for protection, needing permission to choose for myself, to function, to breathe.
This is the fallout I hate. I hate my brokenness at times. I hate the way it dominates everything, that THIS, this is what I know. It's all I know. Trauma and recovery. I wish I could rip my heart out of my chest, to find some way to let all the darkness pour out of me once and for all. Darkness I never invited, never wanted, never deserved yet that darkness haunts me, torments me, taints me.
I lost the first 22 years of my life to abuse and I've spent the last 8 finding myself and healing from all the damage. I don't know anything else. The only beauty that I possess comes from ashes. Most days I embrace the mystery along with the pain - the mystery of why this was allowed in my life. The mystery of the purpose that it may one day serve. The mystery of abuse done in the name of a holy merciful God.
On these types of days, I loath the mystery. I demand answers. My heart's voice screams "why?!" until it's hoarse. There are still no answers. No more of a response now than there was back then. My pain swallows me and everything I know, all that I have learned is once more lost in the howls of a soul in agony.
How long will you forget me, Lord? Forever? How long will you look the other way when I am in need? How long must I be hiding daily anguish in my heart? How long shall my enemy have the upper hand?Answer me, O Lord my God; give me light in my darkness lest I die.
Psalm 13:1-3
Friday, March 28, 2014
Fragmented Fridays
Today was one of those days where by the time I got up, I was already behind. I ran from one thing to the next. Good things, things I love, and yet for most they got at best half my attention and focus.
Days like today remind me of the girl I used to be and the life I used to live. I ran from school, to work, to relationship, to homework, to healing work with barely any sleep and never any rest. I survived on caffeine, nicotine, alcohol, sugar, and self-harm. I was a mess. Everyone told me to slow down, that it was okay to take things off my plate. I couldn't hear them. I couldn't imagine a world where I wasn't constantly busy. I was the girl who lived her life always running, running from herself - her past and her pain.
Life now is rather different. Between living with an inner ear condition that causes vertigo episodes and recovery, I don't live my life at a dead run. I have to be vigilant, to practice mindfulness and balance. I'm learning to live my life in the present, to honour my need to not live at a dead run.
Today I felt those shadows of that old way of life. It was there in the way I didn't feel fully present. There in the running to the next thing because I had finished the last. There in the frenzied, frazzle that was my brain all day long.
For tonight I'm setting down my unfinished to do list. I'm remembering the woman I am now. The one who honours her need for rest, even when it feels like she's wasting time she doesn't have to spare. I am the woman who knows she doesn't have to do it all. The one who knows there is grace and that tomorrow has more than enough time for the things that I didn't finish from today.
Days like today remind me of the girl I used to be and the life I used to live. I ran from school, to work, to relationship, to homework, to healing work with barely any sleep and never any rest. I survived on caffeine, nicotine, alcohol, sugar, and self-harm. I was a mess. Everyone told me to slow down, that it was okay to take things off my plate. I couldn't hear them. I couldn't imagine a world where I wasn't constantly busy. I was the girl who lived her life always running, running from herself - her past and her pain.
Life now is rather different. Between living with an inner ear condition that causes vertigo episodes and recovery, I don't live my life at a dead run. I have to be vigilant, to practice mindfulness and balance. I'm learning to live my life in the present, to honour my need to not live at a dead run.
Today I felt those shadows of that old way of life. It was there in the way I didn't feel fully present. There in the running to the next thing because I had finished the last. There in the frenzied, frazzle that was my brain all day long.
For tonight I'm setting down my unfinished to do list. I'm remembering the woman I am now. The one who honours her need for rest, even when it feels like she's wasting time she doesn't have to spare. I am the woman who knows she doesn't have to do it all. The one who knows there is grace and that tomorrow has more than enough time for the things that I didn't finish from today.
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