Fear.

One of the biggest hurdles to writing is my intense and immeasurable fear of being vulnerable.  This has always been something I've struggled with.  Although it's been a repeating theme for me, it's only lately that I've noticed these fears have begun manifesting themselves in my life and my relationships.

I've built so many walls around myself as a measure of protection, that when I share a deeply personal piece of myself with someone---when I take off my armor and show off all of my soft spots--I immediately feel cornered.  I feel trapped.  I become hyper-aware of just how thin my skin is, how susceptible I am to any sort of attack.

And so I get scared.  I get protective.  I get defensive.  I get angry.

As a result, I find myself in a place of self preservation when I should be reveling in an intimate moment.  Instead of enjoying my husband's love and touch, I'm dissociating from the present, trying to think about anything but the fact that I'm unguarded.  Instead of basking in the glow of his adoration and existing in the moment, I'm lost.

In my mind, vulnerability and strength are mutually exclusive.

This causes a lot of friction in my life right now because I'm at such a fucked up, tender point of being.  I'm still reeling from the loss of my friend, from finding my grandmother's body, from seeing my MIL pass.....  I may be able to cope with these feelings and images some days, but I still have nightmares.  I still get sad. I'm more scared of the dark than I ever have been, because now I know exactly how terrifying it can be and what might be lingering there.  And I hate it, almost as much as I hate feeling weak because of it.

I made the conscious decision to sort through this madness--these feelings, these experiences.  To think about them, to meditate on them, to sort them out.  When I began this emotional cleaning process, I took it for granted that I would only be dealing with the issues that I wanted to work through, but soon realized that there is an ocean of repressed thoughts and feelings inside of me, spanning several years.  I realized that dealing with one pretty much meant dealing with all, and it's been a horrifying experience.

I'd much rather cherry-pick the wounds I heal and the wounds I ignore.  I'd much rather not think about why I did the things that I did, about how past relationships and abuse and abusers have shaped me and my life....but that's not an option.  Not if I want to come out on the other side of this a whole person, anyway.

Because that's what it's about, I think.  It's about becoming a whole person for possibly the first time in my life.  It's about realizing that not only do I have the tools, I am the tools.

All this time I really thought I was protecting myself from the world, from other people, from outside influence causing me pain, but I've really been trying to protect myself from my own experience.  The things that scare me the most are all things that have happened to me and if I can use that experience to grow and learn--if I can examine it and reflect on it--then maybe one day there won't be anything to be afraid of.

cursing the waters

I've been very quiet lately because I am in the midst of a tumultuous sea of emotions, and it's something that I'm feeling incredibly self conscious of.  See, for the majority of my life, I've reacted inwardly.  Typically, when something happens that makes me feel anxious or sad or scared or unhappy, I collapse into myself like a dying star.  I write, I examine, I hide.  Basically, I change the batteries on my confidence and move on.  I never used to be angry.....not that I remember, anyway,

Recently, I've been a volatile mess.  There's this unfamiliar and overwhelming anger that bubbles up inside of me for the most random and ridiculous reasons.  When I say it "bubbles up", I mean it quite literally.  It's a physical sensation unlike anything I've experienced.

I have no idea what it means or where it's coming from either.  I feel a lot of shame and guilt about these feelings, especially about my inability to identify the cause or process them in a way that is healthy.

I don't know where to start.  I'm just so ashamed and disgusted and annoyed and disappointed in myself for feeling these things.  For being this thing.  I hate it,

I am standing on the bow of a ship, screaming at the ocean and there's just no point to it.

Learning to be enough.

Have you ever gotten a compliment and had no idea how to take it?  It seems odd and a little ungrateful to just accept it, to say "Thank you" and move on, but it seems just as bad to deny it--to be bashful and coy.  It seems like the worst you can do is just agree.  If you're going to go that route, you may as well just start calling yourself Narcissus, find a nice little bit of standing water to stare into  and just commit. Whenever I receive a compliment, I get all wide-eyed and panicky, desperately searching the person sending it for something that I like about them, something to return the aesthetic appreciation they showed me.  I realize that this may come off as insincere, but it's the only way I really know of to accept a compliment.

This anecdote, now that I think about it, is surprisingly representative of why I have trouble talking to people and making friends.

See, it's not just compliments that I don't know how to deal with.  Generally speaking, I have a really difficult time with smart, nice, interesting and funny people.  I freeze up and get awkward; I fumble over words because my brain is moving at a thousand miles an hour trying to figure out something worthwhile or witty to say.  I start asking stupid questions like, "So, are you the type of person who eats breakfast?"  Basically, the minute I realize that I'm talking to an awesome person, everything goes tits up.

It's probably something that's rooted in low self-esteem, at least that's where I'd put my money if life was like a roulette board.  The thing is, I don't like myself very much. Don't get me wrong, I can see that I have good qualities--I am a good cook, a fantastic baker, I can be funny sometimes, I know a little bit about a couple things and I can type really fast--but I'm also incredibly hard on myself.  I mean, nobody can see my flaws as obviously as I see them!  I know that I can be flaky and irrational, moody and lazy.  I know that I often make excuses rather than taking action; I know that I'm not the best that I can be.  Because of that, because I'm so in touch with some of the darker, less pleasant sides of myself, I just assume that everyone else is probably MORE in touch with and put off by these traits as I am.

I am blessed in life to have some truly remarkable friends.  I know that everyone has a bit of a superiority complex about the people they love, but trust me, my friends are incredible.  They are insightful and strong and smart and funny, generally speaking, some of the most intimidating people in the entire world.  Sometimes I can't bring myself to follow through on plans with them because I just feel so unworthy of their presence.  Sometimes I don't text back or don't show up to a party simply because in my ridiculously skewed through process, I'm doing them a favor.  I'm saving them the hassle of dealing with me.

You're probably thinking, "That's just plain backwards!"  And, you're right.  Also, logically, I know this.  I know that my friends love me and think I'm great, but I'm always wondering how long they will think that.  I'm always wondering, "Is this going to be the day when they stop?"  And I'm always bracing for it.

This fear of abandonment--this feeling that I'm unworthy of love or friendship--has cost me dearly.  I've lost great friends and I've missed out on potential friendships.  I push people away before they can leave me...  And while I think that I'm protecting myself, I still end up alone...

The thing I'm most afraid of still appears.

Throughout my life, most of the people I've been surrounded by told me that I was worthless.  They told me that I wasn't special, that I was ugly, that I couldn't do this and that I couldn't be that, and at some point I started believing it.  Then I started preaching it.  I became the leader in the anti-me movement and for a long time, I thought I was being empowering.  I thought that by saying all of the horrible things about myself that other people said, they would stop talking.  Then I grew up.

The people who pushed me down and made me feel awful about myself didn't care anymore (thank God).  They had lives to lead and shit to do and suddenly, it was just me against myself--locked in the stupidest, most imbecilic battle to have ever been waged.  And the longer it continues, the more people get hurt.

So now that I'm able to identify the problem--able to point to it and say, "That right there!  That's what's mucking everything up!", what's the next step?  How do you build confidence?  How do you realize that you're worthy of love?  How do you accept that you are enough?

I really have no idea, to be honest, but I'm playing around with a few different things.  Meditating has proved to be helpful, though I still can't shut my ego up all the way and worry that I'm doing something wrong.  It helps because it's quiet, because it's an escape into myself.  Also, it's one of the only times I am truly able to be gentle with myself.  When I'm repeating my mantra or singing or whispering a prayer, it's all kindness.  It's all light and love and positivity.

Because of the way I was treated for so long--because of the abuse I endured both with intimate partners and with friends, acquaintances and peers--I try to treat everyone I come across with kindness.  I always try to be reverent to the fact that everyone is struggling, that the intrinsic worth and value and fragility of everyone should be recognized, but I cannot seem to extend it to myself.  In fact, I would never speak to another person the way I speak to myself.  It's actually hard for me to even think about looking someone in the eyes and saying some of the things that I say to/about myself.  I don't understand that.

I read a quote once that really inspired me, it went something like, "You, as much as anyone in the universe, deserve your love and affection."  I think it's true, and  I want it to be my truth.  I'm just not sure how to get there yet.

Regret.

Facebook is kind of like a philosophical dumping ground where quotes by famous thinkers and feelers go to be misinterpreted until they fade into irrelevance.  Not a lot of topics make this more clear than the one of regret.  It seems like someone is always talking about how life is too short to have regrets.... And while that's all great in theory, I think that we can learn a lot from our regrets.  I know I have.

When you lose someone you love, regret is kind of an instant reaction.  Your mind starts spiraling as you wonder about the last things you said, the last things you did, the last thoughts you had....  In the case of my grandmother, this is a particularly difficult subject.

My grandmother was the strongest human being I've ever met.  She may have been "past her prime" when I knew her, but I don't think anybody had bothered to mention that to her--probably because they were scared.  She grew up on a homestead, so growing up she was a bit of a tom-boy.  Her favorite toy was her BB gun, followed by a shotgun when she was old enough to upgrade.  She raised chickens and pigs and cows and goats, she planted and picked vegetables in the garden.  When she grew up, she became a nurse.  I think out of all of the things she saw and went through, that may have hardened her the most  She used to tell me stories about working in the neo-natal unit of a hospital early in her career.  She didn't get to work with the beautiful little cherubs who had all their fingers and toes; my grandma took care of premature babies, ones with birth defects and abnormalities. (I think it left a mark on her, because one of the only things I knew about her for a long time was that she wasn't entirely fond of children....)  My grandmother went on to get married to the man who would become my grandfather.  I don't know much about my grandfather, really, since he died when my father and uncle were children.  I know that he was received a Presidential Pardon from Nixon that allowed him to work at the Post Office, and I know that he was very fond of the booze.  I also know that, on occasion, he would get drunk and mean and abusive with my grandmother.  Being that she was a strong, independent, woman that didn't sit well with her...  She didn't believe in divorce, and she had a great deal of love for my grandfather, so instead of leaving him or going to counseling, she started hiding baseball bats in corners.  My grandfather would get drunk and go to hit her and my grandma would have a baseball bat in her arms, ready to come at him swinging.....

That story always makes me smile.  I mean, it's a horrible, unhealthy situation and abuse isn't a laughing matter, but it just shows the woman's tenacity.  She was fearless.  She was strong.  She was willing and able to defend herself and her family, regardless of what or who she was up against....  When I think about my grandma, that is what I like to think about.

I suppose it's because the realities of our relationship were kind of harsh and severe.  I don't want to make it sound like there wasn't love there, but the way my grandmother showed her love was difficult for a child to understand.  She could be cold and cruel, sharp and cutting.  I remember being very scared of her when I was a kid because she was incredibly hard on me.  She always seemed to favor my brother, and it showed.   I think a little girl may have just been out of her wheelhouse because she grew up in a rougher, tougher time and then raised a family of boys...  I suppose the reasons don't matter.  I never cared enough to look for them when I was younger, and now that I'm capable of understanding, I can only take guesses.....

What I'm trying to say is that the foundation for our relationship wasn't necessarily sturdy or solid.  There was more love in the relationship than I could ever understand, but there was always this distance between us.

That faded away quite a bit when I grew up and got married.  During that time, she also moved in with my Aunt and Uncle because she couldn't live on her own anymore (she was capable of mobility, but suffered from dizzy spells that would cause her to lose her balance, fall and bruise the entire length of her body.)  When they would go on dates or on day trips, they would call me and ask me to come sit with her for a few hours in case she needed anything.  I didn't dig the idea, but I did it.   I figured, "Hey, she probably had better things to do than baby sit me when I was a kid."  So I sucked it up.

Sometimes it was enjoyable, sometimes it wasn't.

Her health and mobility started to decline fairly rapidly after that.  I didn't see it at the time.  I mean, I noticed certain limitations but I didn't realize what they implied and how much alarm they should cause.  Suddenly it wasn't just sitting with her anymore....suddenly it was meal prep and planning, runs to the store, preparing her medications, taking her to doctors appointments, helping her shower, helping her change her adult diapers...  I did it.  Knowing my grandma, I figured that it was worse for her to have to ask for help than it was for me to have to help her.  I sat with her, I helped her, I hung out with her, but I didn't appreciate any of it....

I was always checking the clock--checking to see how much time was left on my sentence.  I was always rolling my eyes when she asked for a third cup of coffee or another piece of cake.

When my aunt and uncle called to have me check on my grandma the night I found her body, I didn't want to go.  I'd already changed into my pajamas, I'd taken my shoes and bra off.  I remember, very clearly, thinking to myself, "I don't want to deal with this," when I hung up the phone.  Then I sat on the couch and watched TV for a few minutes---not feeling any sense of urgency.  And that was the last thought I had about my grandmother in the present tense.....

I know those weren't the last minutes of her life; they were the last minutes of my perception of her life.  I know that, but it doesn't make anything easier.  It doesn't change anything.

I live with that regret every day--knowing that I was more concerned with having a lazy night in than with making sure my grandmother was taken care of and tucked in for the evening. It hurts me to know I was that selfish--that concerned about myself, that preoccupied with my own shit....  But it has taught me how valuable time is.

I may not have enjoyed every second spent taking care of my grandma or helping her, but I got to hear so many stories.  I got to learn so much about her and her life and her marriage and the way she saw the world.  I got to know her in a way that I doubt many get to know their grandparents.... And I cherish it.

The regret I feel for my actions--the way I thought about things, the way I was out for myself--has helped me see what wonderful gifts I received from my grandmother.  It's also taught me not to make the same mistakes with others....to cherish every second I get to spend with my loved ones and to be thankful that, out of all the people in the world, they asked for my help and my time....

So I don't hope for a life free of regrets because they are valuable.  If you're willing to take an honest look at yourself and make some changes in your life, regret can be the one of the most valuable emotions you feel because it'll light a fire inside of you.

And I think we all need that sometimes.

Marital Relations.

The end of last year--losing so many people we cared about in such a small time frame--was incredibly difficult on my marriage.  Despite the fact that we have been together and present for each other's traumas, it is difficult to understand the individualized experience of another person.  I often find myself trying to push my grief aside, thinking "Well, no matter what happened, you didn't lose your mother...You need to be strong for your husband."  My husband, meanwhile, told me his thought process is similar; he finds himself pushing aside his emotions, thinking "She just lost two people, now she has to hold your hand through this.  You need to be stronger for her."

While this is a form of distraction--an easy way not to focus on the barrage of insane emotions these losses have brought up--it has also made me open my eyes to one of the most difficult conflicts I've ever faced: how to balance my need for support with my marital oath to be a supporter.

In the beginning, when our wounds were still fresh and we were flitting in and out of denial, we encountered a level of tension that we'd never felt in our relationship before.  We were each in a highly emotional, vulnerable state.  We each felt as though we'd been locked in dark rooms, and as we searched for a way out, we became more and more frantic....  Unable to handle our own feelings, we put all of our effort into ignoring them.   My husband withdrew emotionally--thinking that refusing to acknowledge his grief might prevent him from experiencing it--and I threw myself into my every day life with a vigor, trying to wrap myself up in a blanket of routine and monotony.

Suddenly, and for the first time in our relationship, it felt like we were no longer partners.  It was as if he was standing a few feet away from me, but I was unable to reach him because the earth was splitting apart between us.  I felt scared and helpless and powerless as I watched this great divide grow into the grand canyon.

I wish I could say that we recognized the need to communicate immediately, but we were both so wrapped up in our own experience of loss that we were unable to see clearly or think rationally.  Instead of turning to each other for support, we turned inward.

We each found ourselves in a place of righteous indignation; each of us bitter with the other for failing to see our desperation and misery, for being unable to save each other.  Our home, usually filled with laughter, was quiet.  We each clung to our side of the bed at night, making the distance between us palpable.

We went on that way for a couple of the most miserable months of our marriage until one day it all just came out.  I don't remember exactly what spurred the conversation, but all of a sudden we were speaking to each other again and finally saying things that mattered.  Instead of talking about what to make for dinner or what had happened at work or what we'd heard on the news that day, we began talking about what we were feeling--what we were experiencing.

It turned out to be the the same.

We discussed how hurt and lost and unsupported and alone we felt; how scared we were about the growing space between us.  We talked about how we had no idea how to proceed--how to sort through everything and heal.  We were finally able to take off our bandages and be vulnerable with each other.

I wish I could say that every day since that conversation has been perfect, that we've figured out how to balance our personal needs with the needs of the other, but the truth is that this is new territory and we still stumble frequently.  What I've learned, however, is that I need to take my husband's hand when I'm falling.  I've learned that I need to share with him in order to create safe space for him to share.

Yes, the earth is still cracked between us and there still is some distance to overcome, but now that we've built the bridge, it's just a matter of making our way across...

We probably should have went with a more sturdy model, huh?

I'm not sure how long it'll take us, but I do know that we'll get there.  While I wish things could've played out differently---that we had more time with our loved ones, that we'd been able to process each experience individually instead of sifting through a pile of grief--but I can't get hung up on all of that.  I have an obligation to myself and my husband to get through this in a way that is healthy.  I have no choice but to accept life despite the terms and conditions in the fine print.

I've learned that our love is stronger than we ever knew and that honesty, vulnerability, empathy and compassion have a lot to do with that.  I've learned that grief makes you do and feel some fucked up things--things that aren't even close to the scope of reality.  I've also gained a lot of perspective; I've realized that every day my loved ones are breathing is a day to celebrate.  I've realized that in the scope of life and death, not a whole lot really matters....  The important things are the people you are surrounded by--the people who let you lean on them when the world gets dark, the people who love you despite the fact that humans can be pretty unlovable sometimes. Cherish them.  Appreciate them.  Don't take them for granted.  Everything and everyone is finite.