In the early years of my marriage, fresh off my 4 year indoctrination in feminist sociological thinking, I believed (IN MY BONES) that a man could perform tasks traditionally designated to women and vice versa. Regardless of gender stigma, if you try hard enough...
Flash to now. That was a steep learning curve. Though, I still struggle with giving myself permission to create or do/speak/sing/fill in the blank to be satisfied with whatever comes out of me without judgement. I am CONSTANTLY what if-ing and should-ing and and and. I don't just want to survive my life, I want to enjoy it. I continue to create my own suffering and WHY? I want to be not only satisfied, but happy. H.A.P.P.Y.
I am capable of seeing beauty in the world, in imperfection, in the small moments throughout everyday. I just can't give myself a compliment. I only see what is lacking, how it could be better had I done this or not done that. My father wasn't the father I deserved, but he was the father I had. I was angry for so many years. I wanted him to work harder, notice more, pay attention to me, talk to me. Instead of realizing he was doing the best he could with what he had, I saw how he could have done so much more/better.
Similarly, my mother failed me on so many levels. I was so infuriated that no one could tell me about my early childhood. My mother simply could not but I punished her for it for years. I so badly wanted to know what it was like to be held and known through the eyes of my mother. I became so obsessed with this hole in my life--I had this insatiable thirst and she continually let me down. I wanted those memories, those pieces of our life together back. I was so blinded by her limitations, I could never be satisfied with the person she is now. I thought if I pushed her hard enough, she would unlock her secrets. I felt she wasn't working hard enough, that it was all there but she just wasn't invested enough.
Are you sensing a pattern?
While at therapy today my therapist had an interesting
observation. I was describing my fathers' internalized voice,
telling me nothing was ever good enough, etc.She stopped me cold. Jess said," I am hearing how your father wasn't good enough-didn't try hard enough; your mother could have worked harder, dug deeper to recall those memories. I also know you've been given that feedback from your father all your life."
I stole myself, feeling an ache that I didn't know existed. I never let myself grieve. I didn't have permission. And now, I measure myself against nothing less than perfection. I expected everyone to do more, do it better. Though I forgave them, rationalizing that they were doing their very best with what they had, I failed to forgive myself.
So I guess this is what they mean by an "AH HA" moment. What now?
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
Friday, March 1, 2013
a writer?
I'm at my laptop out to breakfast in a hip neighborhood coffee shop. I feel like Sara Jessica Parker, feigning thoughtfulness, staring into the middle distance, typing suspended, as she comes up with another pun.
While laboring with my second child a nurse asked if I was a writer. Apparently, I expressed the feeling of each contraction so exquisitely, it begged the question. Huh. I have been known to blather on. I was voted Most Annoying for my 8th grade superlative. Ouch. I'm over it, clearly.
I do tend to turn things over...and over and over and over and sometimes out loud. I crave detail. It's true. I feel the need to defend myself with that statement. Why is that? What's wrong with wanting to know more? Fill in the edges--give us some color. Expand damn it! My husband is one of those people. You know them. They come back from a meeting/day/fill in the blank and EVEN WHEN PRESSED by a wife in wait with rapt attention, has "nothing much" (NOTHING!) to say.
Really?
Then BAM! Four days later when you're super into a new novel/show/sleep/fill in the blank they start in about THAT day. You know, from FOUR days earlier. The one where "nothing much" happened. Now you're ready to chat? Drop a little 2 hour story in my lap.
REALLY!
Enough of my pet-peeves. Even I'm getting bored. The question I mean to answer is WHY ME? Why do I crave detail--need to know more just to see it in my mind? Just a bit more from every angle just to understand. Why do I want to understand? Why do I care what tone the barista used when asking, "foam or no foam? ".
I'm going to sound super cliched here, but it all goes back to my mother. Just before my 5th birthday she had an aneurism. She survived but not as my mother. My mom died that day and in her place sprung a perpetually younger sibling (say, 9ish) with developmental delays and traumatic brain injury. More on that another time. Needless to say, I don't remember much before the age of 5 or 6. Which astounds me, now. It wasn't until I had children and realized just how much happens in those precious years. My father never spoke of my mother. Ever. My grandparents could have filled me in some, but it didn't occur to me to even ask until there was no one left to answer. My grandmother, Junita, died in her nursing room bed after many years of gradually and then swiftly forgetting her whole life. I clung to her stiff, unresponsive hand. I was scared to touch her, though she was once the only voice that comforted me. So changed now. Stolen. Missing. Replaced.
I think my wanting to fill in the details--the blanks, is because I feel like I have something missing. And I do.
I wonder if this craving will ever be satiated? I will never know my early years according to my mother. I thought that sentence would continue. But my heart feels struck. I don't have any more questions right now. No more stories to tell. Right now I'm struggling for air.
Just Breathe. In and out. Add hope this passes.
While laboring with my second child a nurse asked if I was a writer. Apparently, I expressed the feeling of each contraction so exquisitely, it begged the question. Huh. I have been known to blather on. I was voted Most Annoying for my 8th grade superlative. Ouch. I'm over it, clearly.
I do tend to turn things over...and over and over and over and sometimes out loud. I crave detail. It's true. I feel the need to defend myself with that statement. Why is that? What's wrong with wanting to know more? Fill in the edges--give us some color. Expand damn it! My husband is one of those people. You know them. They come back from a meeting/day/fill in the blank and EVEN WHEN PRESSED by a wife in wait with rapt attention, has "nothing much" (NOTHING!) to say.
Really?
Then BAM! Four days later when you're super into a new novel/show/sleep/fill in the blank they start in about THAT day. You know, from FOUR days earlier. The one where "nothing much" happened. Now you're ready to chat? Drop a little 2 hour story in my lap.
REALLY!
Enough of my pet-peeves. Even I'm getting bored. The question I mean to answer is WHY ME? Why do I crave detail--need to know more just to see it in my mind? Just a bit more from every angle just to understand. Why do I want to understand? Why do I care what tone the barista used when asking, "foam or no foam? ".
I'm going to sound super cliched here, but it all goes back to my mother. Just before my 5th birthday she had an aneurism. She survived but not as my mother. My mom died that day and in her place sprung a perpetually younger sibling (say, 9ish) with developmental delays and traumatic brain injury. More on that another time. Needless to say, I don't remember much before the age of 5 or 6. Which astounds me, now. It wasn't until I had children and realized just how much happens in those precious years. My father never spoke of my mother. Ever. My grandparents could have filled me in some, but it didn't occur to me to even ask until there was no one left to answer. My grandmother, Junita, died in her nursing room bed after many years of gradually and then swiftly forgetting her whole life. I clung to her stiff, unresponsive hand. I was scared to touch her, though she was once the only voice that comforted me. So changed now. Stolen. Missing. Replaced.
I think my wanting to fill in the details--the blanks, is because I feel like I have something missing. And I do.
I wonder if this craving will ever be satiated? I will never know my early years according to my mother. I thought that sentence would continue. But my heart feels struck. I don't have any more questions right now. No more stories to tell. Right now I'm struggling for air.
Just Breathe. In and out. Add hope this passes.
Thursday, February 28, 2013
phoning it in
I'm trying to make a commitment to writing. As close to every day as possible. This doesn't seem hard...in theory. However, in practice, I sort of hate "checking in" regularly. I can plumb the depths but it seems to take a toll. I'm not sure if that's actually true. I haven't ever taken myself to task in terms of daily writing. Here we go. I'm not saying it's a 365 project or anything, but I'm willing to give it a whirl. What a puss. Right? Here I am--shouting from the mountain tops about WRITING A BOOK and I can barely write a daily paragraph. Shit. Am I as lazy as I'm beginning to appear? Laziness is one of those qualities that I have always suspected, even known about myself but have not fessed up to--not until now. OK. So I haven't fully realized my potential, dug in and finished. I lack follow through with the slightest hiccup.
You get the idea.
So, I would like to write a collaborative book asking the question, "Are you where you expected?", to women of a certain age in the hopes of discovering a community of voices that serves to calm, enlighten, and possibly show a commonality that cuts right through, stringing us all together. Just what is that thread, through grief and loss, crippling depression and unprecedented joy, the inner stirring of a passion unexplored, the gnawing insomnia of a life unlived--missed opportunities, mistakes that haunt you, divorce, trauma, where are we in FAMILY life, loss of identity or finally feeling contented...and on and on, depending on the voice.
It's loaded. That's the point.
I love stories. REAL LIFE. I want to hear and savor the stories of the women living in this time. I want to feel connected. Is there anybody else who feels this way? I dream of feeling the presence of so many, giving the parameters, giving me permission to live on my own terms. I would like help navigating by the very nature of sharing in each other's inner-lives. To see where you've been and where you are now. That's what I crave.
You get the idea.
So, I would like to write a collaborative book asking the question, "Are you where you expected?", to women of a certain age in the hopes of discovering a community of voices that serves to calm, enlighten, and possibly show a commonality that cuts right through, stringing us all together. Just what is that thread, through grief and loss, crippling depression and unprecedented joy, the inner stirring of a passion unexplored, the gnawing insomnia of a life unlived--missed opportunities, mistakes that haunt you, divorce, trauma, where are we in FAMILY life, loss of identity or finally feeling contented...and on and on, depending on the voice.
It's loaded. That's the point.
I love stories. REAL LIFE. I want to hear and savor the stories of the women living in this time. I want to feel connected. Is there anybody else who feels this way? I dream of feeling the presence of so many, giving the parameters, giving me permission to live on my own terms. I would like help navigating by the very nature of sharing in each other's inner-lives. To see where you've been and where you are now. That's what I crave.
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
coming out
I am struggling with motivation. Note: see date of last post.
My stamina is subject to all things, especially those relating to being visible. When I say visible, I mean ME, in caps. First, who am I?
Fuck. Simple question but the answer. Oh, the answer stirs old dust in my lungs that catches in my throat and sends me into isolation for weeks. In my cell I catalog the laundry list of how everything around me, in fact, defines my identity. When you're a hop skip & a tipsy fall to 40 and you judge every decision by the hypothetical 9 person demographic running on that proverbial squeaky hamster wheel in what's left of the teensy bit of head space in your brain that actually belongs to you (or does it?)--- n wait. Now I lost my direction entirely because my thoughts are now crowded with images of all the people that I know elbowing one another to get on my wheel.
GET OFF THE WHEEL!
One thing is clear, abundantly CRYSTAL clear- I don't trust my own instincts enough to own who I am. I want to please. I want to be liked. I want people to see me and think, she's got it together. And why? For what? WHO really cares and just WHO are these people I constantly measure and weigh myself against? It's interesting. I find myself tongue-tied and sweaty palmed in the presence of some derelict from high school, manic inner-dialogue and all (SQUEAK SQUEAK, oh GOD!) wondering what he's thinking about me. I start a list of "shoulds" and round it out with 42 new resolutions. Can you say, exhausting? I sabotage everything. And for what? I want to be known. How can I let people in, let them know the real me if I'm too concerned with providing them the perfect shade of me, colored in their honor.
I want to live and breathe without all the pressure. How can I look around me and and feel accomplished without measuring myself against all the assholes running on my wheel? It's time to evict. The question is, how? I will never be a perfect image because it's not real. I am not a reflection of someone else's idea of who I should be. If I am to believe what I tell my children, then I have to concede I was created and imagined by God, a unique irreplaceable person with purpose. If I am meant to give voice to that purpose, how will I discover it if I'm constantly preoccupied with self editing?
How, exactly, did I learn to place such emphasis on how other people see me, on being liked? Where does all this shame come from and how do I begin to pull it's roots from my bones? In truth, I am incredibly depressed and feel more hopeless with each year. I have started and stopped the process of living authentically, plumbing for direction, finding my purpose with so many incarnations. I am scared. I want to pull up the covers and be done with it. It's easier to sit on the sidelines, living vicariously. But nothing hurts more. I don't want to read any more novels or delve into one more fucking vampire series. Well, I do want to. I want to escape. I fight the desire to escape every, every minute. I don't want to admit that I've wasted my life just watching. I want to be the author of my own life that I myself am living on my terms.
But how? How to mute the voices of shame, the "shoulds"? How to wipe out this deeply held belief that where I live and what I possess defines me? Deeply held belief? Wow. It's really true. I have clung to this lie for so long that it has become the truth. The lies I hear and then internalize, bury deep to a place that will never reach the ears of those who can dispel these myths. Not my closest friends. Not my husband. Not an anonymous stranger. How have I protected these lies as if they themselves are sacred?
Fucking FEAR. It creeps up, spinning me in circles until I doubt everything.
The shame cuts so deep, the evil gets into places you would never let it go if you only knew. I look into the eyes of women all around me and I see that same fear--the hiding, not wanting to be found out, wondering what the other is thinking and praying for relief. Trying and striving all the while not ever measuring up, not ever good enough.
This is evil.
Recognize it. Seize it with both hands and rip it out as if your very life depends on it. Because it does. Every minute I spend doubting is a waste of my contribution. Just writing that sentence is hard because I have to own that I am worth something. I am important. If what I tell my children is true, I am beautiful and smart and brave. The third floor apartment with peeling paint, second hand wardrobe and 3 credits short of my bachelors degree doesn't define me. There. I've said it. But do I believe it?
So I have a list: Write some eviction notices, cull the shame weeds (from everything?), remind myself of what is really true, pretend to be my own mother and listen to advice.
check.
disclaimer: I am not proofreading. I am not editing (much). I am writing and trying to do it without shame. no simple task. You see, editing makes the hamsters run faster, currently anyway. As for the future, who knows.
My stamina is subject to all things, especially those relating to being visible. When I say visible, I mean ME, in caps. First, who am I?
Fuck. Simple question but the answer. Oh, the answer stirs old dust in my lungs that catches in my throat and sends me into isolation for weeks. In my cell I catalog the laundry list of how everything around me, in fact, defines my identity. When you're a hop skip & a tipsy fall to 40 and you judge every decision by the hypothetical 9 person demographic running on that proverbial squeaky hamster wheel in what's left of the teensy bit of head space in your brain that actually belongs to you (or does it?)--- n wait. Now I lost my direction entirely because my thoughts are now crowded with images of all the people that I know elbowing one another to get on my wheel.
GET OFF THE WHEEL!
One thing is clear, abundantly CRYSTAL clear- I don't trust my own instincts enough to own who I am. I want to please. I want to be liked. I want people to see me and think, she's got it together. And why? For what? WHO really cares and just WHO are these people I constantly measure and weigh myself against? It's interesting. I find myself tongue-tied and sweaty palmed in the presence of some derelict from high school, manic inner-dialogue and all (SQUEAK SQUEAK, oh GOD!) wondering what he's thinking about me. I start a list of "shoulds" and round it out with 42 new resolutions. Can you say, exhausting? I sabotage everything. And for what? I want to be known. How can I let people in, let them know the real me if I'm too concerned with providing them the perfect shade of me, colored in their honor.
I want to live and breathe without all the pressure. How can I look around me and and feel accomplished without measuring myself against all the assholes running on my wheel? It's time to evict. The question is, how? I will never be a perfect image because it's not real. I am not a reflection of someone else's idea of who I should be. If I am to believe what I tell my children, then I have to concede I was created and imagined by God, a unique irreplaceable person with purpose. If I am meant to give voice to that purpose, how will I discover it if I'm constantly preoccupied with self editing?
How, exactly, did I learn to place such emphasis on how other people see me, on being liked? Where does all this shame come from and how do I begin to pull it's roots from my bones? In truth, I am incredibly depressed and feel more hopeless with each year. I have started and stopped the process of living authentically, plumbing for direction, finding my purpose with so many incarnations. I am scared. I want to pull up the covers and be done with it. It's easier to sit on the sidelines, living vicariously. But nothing hurts more. I don't want to read any more novels or delve into one more fucking vampire series. Well, I do want to. I want to escape. I fight the desire to escape every, every minute. I don't want to admit that I've wasted my life just watching. I want to be the author of my own life that I myself am living on my terms.
But how? How to mute the voices of shame, the "shoulds"? How to wipe out this deeply held belief that where I live and what I possess defines me? Deeply held belief? Wow. It's really true. I have clung to this lie for so long that it has become the truth. The lies I hear and then internalize, bury deep to a place that will never reach the ears of those who can dispel these myths. Not my closest friends. Not my husband. Not an anonymous stranger. How have I protected these lies as if they themselves are sacred?
Fucking FEAR. It creeps up, spinning me in circles until I doubt everything.
The shame cuts so deep, the evil gets into places you would never let it go if you only knew. I look into the eyes of women all around me and I see that same fear--the hiding, not wanting to be found out, wondering what the other is thinking and praying for relief. Trying and striving all the while not ever measuring up, not ever good enough.
This is evil.
Recognize it. Seize it with both hands and rip it out as if your very life depends on it. Because it does. Every minute I spend doubting is a waste of my contribution. Just writing that sentence is hard because I have to own that I am worth something. I am important. If what I tell my children is true, I am beautiful and smart and brave. The third floor apartment with peeling paint, second hand wardrobe and 3 credits short of my bachelors degree doesn't define me. There. I've said it. But do I believe it?
So I have a list: Write some eviction notices, cull the shame weeds (from everything?), remind myself of what is really true, pretend to be my own mother and listen to advice.
check.
disclaimer: I am not proofreading. I am not editing (much). I am writing and trying to do it without shame. no simple task. You see, editing makes the hamsters run faster, currently anyway. As for the future, who knows.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Just Write.
I was given some advice when I announced,"I'm writing a book!".
The advice: Just Write. Write a total flaming turd and then give it to someone you trust to read, someone who will be honest. Just write a chapter...or even a page.If you can do that, you can write the book.
Here goes.
I am a giant mess. Each day I take prozac in the morning with a lorazapam chaser, drive the kids to their charter schools, play the part of gracious volunteer, doting parent, magical homemaker/domestic artisan, church goer, yoga girl, runner, bawdy, go the extra 26 miles, artist, in on the joke, in the know, in control but always edgy. In don't know who the fuck I am. A bunch of adjectives strung together by others? Why can't I decide? I am so concerned with being the person who everybody else wants me to be. I feel like a child, though I have four of my own. I feel orphaned though I have a "mother" and "father". I feel like a failure because I continue to make it happen. I am mid-sabotage constantly. I can't make sense of my own ideas, wants, desires because I'm too afraid to own them. I'm terrified to put something out thereof my own. What if it sucks, not good enough, too derivative? What is my talent? My passion? How did I get here when I expected to be there? Why is the shame so tight on my skin? I try so hard yet I am so lazy. I watch from my window, above it all. I have been in the world. Many times. I can feel it slipping away as the world turns cold, silhouetted in white. I lead a secret life. One I never share. One that insulates me from the world. Little by little I come back to where it's safe--enveloped by my force-field. Safe...from living. I'm hiding and I don't know how to come out. I wonder, will someone find me?
The advice: Just Write. Write a total flaming turd and then give it to someone you trust to read, someone who will be honest. Just write a chapter...or even a page.If you can do that, you can write the book.
Here goes.
I am a giant mess. Each day I take prozac in the morning with a lorazapam chaser, drive the kids to their charter schools, play the part of gracious volunteer, doting parent, magical homemaker/domestic artisan, church goer, yoga girl, runner, bawdy, go the extra 26 miles, artist, in on the joke, in the know, in control but always edgy. In don't know who the fuck I am. A bunch of adjectives strung together by others? Why can't I decide? I am so concerned with being the person who everybody else wants me to be. I feel like a child, though I have four of my own. I feel orphaned though I have a "mother" and "father". I feel like a failure because I continue to make it happen. I am mid-sabotage constantly. I can't make sense of my own ideas, wants, desires because I'm too afraid to own them. I'm terrified to put something out thereof my own. What if it sucks, not good enough, too derivative? What is my talent? My passion? How did I get here when I expected to be there? Why is the shame so tight on my skin? I try so hard yet I am so lazy. I watch from my window, above it all. I have been in the world. Many times. I can feel it slipping away as the world turns cold, silhouetted in white. I lead a secret life. One I never share. One that insulates me from the world. Little by little I come back to where it's safe--enveloped by my force-field. Safe...from living. I'm hiding and I don't know how to come out. I wonder, will someone find me?
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