OWNING MY LIFE

Like most issues, to speak up about my own beliefs, opinions, or feelings is gruelingly difficult. Taught to keep mum about atrocities against me, even little issues tend to stay inside me.

A friend who is religious, Christian like the other four in our women’s group, is overly so. The Lord this, the Lord that. I respect her beliefs and do not scorn them, in fact am sometimes a bit envious of the strength it seems to provide her and others.

It doesn’t for me. At a very young age that collapsed and as with most things shame about that eroded me even more. Now in my sixties the right to claim my own spirituality slowly rises. If it were to have a face it would be feminine.

Yet it is more a belief that we are all connected throughout the planet no matter what we believe. In writing back to her as she once again speaks of god as HE, my response gently outlines my views.

In this life what is there if we cannot be who we are? If it is sometimes a ball of worries and anxiety, then that is me at that time. If my beliefs encompass something different that yours, can you respect them as I do you yours?

In this life, before it’s over, the craving and wholeness comes from owning who I am. It feels risky, scary, and often impossible, but is worth the exploration and effort.

My Best Friend is Me

Like a monkey swinging tree to tree, so are my emotions when sleep evades me, and this past week has been so very tough. Do I do things purposely to upset myself, unable to allow peace and happiness? That sounds absurd, yet why then invite Don and his wife for New Years Day dinner after all those pie reminders… having the gall to serve grape instead of apple.

And then adding to my email to Don that I’d make the promised apple pie if he let me know soon enough. Well, no answer from either of them despite two email invites. Nothing.

The reasoning in my head isn’t about them, it’s about my being a jerk, and not enough of a person for someone to bother to answer me. That is what has been keeping me up unable to sleep.

Is it wintertime causing this upheaval in reasoning and lack of control over keeping to healthy relationships, and healthy people? Is it my continuing hope to relate to the origin group because it is my doing or undoing that makes it a success or failure, and at my death bed I’d have regrets for not joining in? (yes)

But I know the answers. I know it is unhealthy. And it is also unhealthy to beat myself up over it. Start fresh. Start again. Find long periods of peaceful living without this part of me upsetting all that is gratifying. Be assertive. SAY NO, that thought a wonderous revelation. Can I really?

Again, and again like a moth to flame…

STAY

Practically begging others to help guide me or make decisions for much of my life because my insides were so broken, has evolved in to relying on myself.

How would anyone know what is right for me but me? But me, where or where was she? Broken, shattered right down to my core, all the pieces biting and tearing at each other.

Hate for self was all there was. It did take shoring up by therapists to succeed at just about anything. Once believing in even a scrap of self-worth, great achievements occurred.

Finishing that last course so long ago to receive an Associates degree. Completing a Chemistry course in adulthood that was failed miserably in high school. Then moving on to nursing school, and with nurse’s cap and gown handed a diploma as a Registered nurse.

Jobs offered and stuck with. But then a therapist would leave the state, or become completely caught up in their own life problems- there, left on my own when my insides were still so cold to myself, failure occurred.

Without a therapist to boost me up, job interviews were as iffy as my ragged self-esteem. Finally after too many let-downs, I stopped interviewing accepting that so much damage was done that I’d need more therapy if I wanted to work.

I didn’t want either. My being still reacted as if on hot coals needing this or that to take me from myself. But over time, with patience, meditation, and traveling deep within my core, (only the intrepid might try) growth occurred, that of knowing myself, accepting myself, and accepting real feelings and letting them travel through and out.

Daring to dive deep comes with rewards, it isn’t all painful… peace, safety and self-reliance softly soothed the bloodied corners of my soul.

Settling into my being each morning. Just stay and see what’s there. It’s OK.

Journey To The Core

The journey to my core is arduous, sometimes lighting upon it for moments, most other times unable to reach that place of strength and wholeness.

In those moments a worthy, valuable being is found. But so many traps along the way, gnarly vast chasms with a continuous freefall scaring every atom in me. Abandonment? A freefall without end.

How to persuade that little girl so terrified that she/me is worthwhile? She shivers in anticipation of aloneness, an aloneness that demonized her all her life because no came to save her.

And no one will except one, the adult me. But the path is treacherous without tools to find my way. Hatchets, machetes, axes? Or love…

FALL INTO FALL

Amends were made to the three brothers pressing me to join in explaining why it’s not possible for me do so. Now they are placed beyond daily thoughts so much because the ones who really are interested in me and my life are my real family, Samuel, sons, grand-children, a sister-in-law, and friends.

These brothers act as if they are caring, but aren’t interested enough to answer emails or interact in a way other than what serves their own needs. OK. My situation has been put forth plainly without their decades of gagging me. That took enormous effort. Maybe once again going forward can occur without so much angst.

The ups and downs of being drawn to the fire of origin family… all it’s memories, the secrets forced on me to keep, the ravages of expecting me to be someone I’m not (pleasing doormat), getting burned, cooling off, then doing it all over again, over and over… well, maybe sufficient mental beatings have occurred to stop doing that. It is challenging enough to keep my sanity.

My mood dropped like a rock, forgetting how severely the change of season affects me. The warmer mornings called me onto the porch to watch the sun rise, rather than hunkering down under the full spectrum lights to improve mood. So that has begun again.

The usual meditation routine went by the wayside for months after years of hardly missing it, but that too is needed and room must be made for it once again. And the pot oil, no wonder sleep wouldn’t come.

When sleep issues arose the dose kept going up and up, doubling over time. No wonder my head felt manic with thoughts. Too much causes problems instead of curing them. Backing down to a modest does has helped a great deal.

And the simple work of being with me begins again. How hard it is to be in my body and be OK. To not run. To breathe, and be OK.

Hole in the Floor

Negative thoughts about myself cave in devouring me as much as I devour whatever foods I can find in the middle of night. The next day a tear falls in pity for the ever present ghosts from the past interfering with a peaceful sleep filled life.

The ravages of chronic PTSD are here to stay no matter how hard the effort is to sway them from their path, rooted within without a cure.  That could have been cured had shame not made the family embarrassed to seek help for me, the victim injured so critically had it been a physical injury someone would have had to sop up the torrents of blood. Someone would have HAD to help!

Once the tsunami of sleeplessness passes, it is back to basics; persuade my negative tendencies about blaming myself for just about every little thing that doesn’t seem right, and when in that mode, every little thing seems wrong, and work on countering those beliefs.

Really? Are you as bad as that devil on your shoulder says you are? This badness, kicked to the curb over and over, comes seeping back in because it became part of my being at age 8. And it is fall after all, the time when mood plummets no matter how hard you don’t want it to. So acceptance is also a work in progress.

No one came to tell me otherwise, I was left alone except the attacks. My childhood beliefs about being bad cemented into my self-view as an adult. It is daily work, constant work sometimes. Back to happier moments of being OK to be me…