I always hated my birth month. September signified a new school year – the arrival of which I despised more and more as the years passed. I was expected to sit still and think thoughts that were no longer my own. My teachers reported that I was easily distracted by windows or daydreams. They compared me to a butterfly… darting from one flower to the next. They wanted to pin my wings inside a glass case.
When I didn’t understand the math problem or possess the necessary patience for hours of bland nightly reading, I felt stupid, angry, and worthless. I wanted to read a book that didn’t traumatize me with religious teachings beyond my developmental capacity to process. I wanted to mix mud and decaying plant matter into secret recipes of my own imagining. I wanted to climb trees and survey the world from behind a lush screen of pine. At those heights, I felt momentarily safe from all who wished to enslave my mind and crush my spirit. My only agenda was freedom. My only obligation was to execute my own self-directed curiosity.
September was physically uncomfortable, too. The mornings were bracingly chilly but, by the time afternoon recess passed, the classrooms reeked of sweating children. At days end, an open lunch box smelled slightly sour; hints of warm milk and stale peanut butter and jelly.
Not much has changed in thirty two years. I may no longer wish to live in a treehouse or a boxcar (and even that is only a half truth), but I am still resisting the glass case. I am still heeding the call of wild meadows, tangled with blooms of freedom and self-directed curiosity. I still dread the coming of September. I press each passing wildflower between gossamer pages and run my fingers longingly over the stationary. I know my ministrations won’t bestow the weight of permanence upon page nor plant, and yet I devoutly honor the ritual.
Dr. Gabor Maté – a man who possesses one of the most beautiful minds on our planet – describes this phenomenon as counterwill. I have spent most of my adult life hating this mysterious characteristic. “You need to fix it,” became my internalized mantra, born of years of external pressure. Much to my surprise, there is nothing to fix. The work is to accept my natural wildness and refrain from self-punishment. It is only from the safety of this space that authentic growth can occur.
Everything I know about healing is counterintuitive. The less I resist my own resistance, the more liberated I become.
September was somehow different this year. I never noticed it before, but everything looked so gold. The landscape was sun drenched and harvest-colored. Some website on color symbolism says that gold is “associated with higher ideals, wisdom, understanding and enlightenment. It inspires knowledge, spirituality and a deep understanding of the self and the soul”.
Maybe it’s not that September changed. After all, it was still cold in the morning and sweltering in the afternoon. School commenced as usual, congesting the highways with extra commuter traffic.
Maybe I have changed. Maybe I put down my sword and discarded layers of heavy armor. Maybe I grew weary of waging a war that had already been won.
Maybe the only thing left to do was surrender, propelled by easterly winds and the promise of foreign flowers.
The equator is middle ground. A halfway point between two extremes. Balance.
Maybe I am finally ready to drift in that direction.
When I woke up this morning, there was a coating of snow and ice on both the ground and my vehicle. It took me nearly thirty minutes to scrape off enough ice to complete my admittedly wasteful and compulsive drive-thru coffee ritual. I couldn’t get the ice off the hood of the car while safely parked in the driveway and, thinking it would still be solidly frozen for a three minute jaunt down the street, watched in alarm as it peeled off and smashed on the roadway. In my Monday morning misery, I had acted out one of my own greatest pet peeves.
Sitting down – coffee in hand – to begin my home-office work day, I felt the hot release of tears stream down my face. My seasonal affective depression reared its ugly head, trampling on my motivation.
Living in New England was never my ultimate goal. When I was younger, I dreamed of moving to San Francisco – a temperate climate where I thought I would be “safe”. Now I dream of beach town life, where there is never a shortage of vitamin D for my winter weary brain. But I have to be wary of this “grass is greener” syndrome. Just yesterday I wrote about how I don’t want to spend my life chasing the next thing; true contentment exists only in the now.
The two things that help me shake the “grass is greener” syndrome are playing out the tape and making a gratitude list. Let’s get real, even if I did live in Florida, I wouldn’t spend every waking hour on the beach. I’d be working and dealing with the same stuff I am responsible for in my much colder northern life.
At the end of the day, I am selfish. I want complete and utter freedom over my own brain. But that’s not how it works. I need to utilize my capabilities to contribute to this planet. Furthermore, my own brain is not a place I need to be hanging out 24/7. After all, my addictive wiring is what got me in trouble in the first place. I need to spend time giving to others and earning my place in society.
On our last day in Florida, a young couple pulled up to the condo next to our rental and proceeded to move in. I seethed with resentment. As an older person, I should be in a position to move to a waterfront Florida condo. How dare they?
The real questions I needed to ask myself were “How dare you? What gives you the right to be so entitled? What gives you the right to presume to know anything about them? What gives you the right to think you deserve anything?”
This is a prime example of how dangerous it is for me to think I know best rather than trusting the timing of the Universe. If I think about it from an objective perspective, I know for a FACT that living in that condo would not be a good choice for me. I would go bananas living next to a weekly vacation rental property. I hate noise. I am also an ironically private person. A condo complex with shared walls and wide open patios is not an ideal set-up for a painfully introverted writer. It would be character-building… to put it nicely.
Walking the beach on our last afternoon, I recited a mantra as I sloshed through the water and perused the shallows for shells: “Thank you for my blessings. Please remove this selfishness from me. Thank you for my blessings. Please remove this selfishness from me. Thank you for my blessings. Please remove this selfishness from me.”
When I wrote about privilege, I talked about how I used to pray for a fraction of the things I have today. Moreover, I know there are many people who would love a week long vacation or a loving marriage, not to mention the luxury of working from home. Who am I to forget these things? It’s NOT okay… and a sign that I need to do some work on myself in the form of cultivating gratitude.
Luckily, I am plugged into my higher power – a power I choose to call “the Universe”. Even when I’m choosing to wallow in a swamp of selfishness, I’m still tapped in and willing to listen. That day on the beach, a woman walked by with a 12 Step triangle on her t-shirt. The shirt said: “Acceptance is the key”. I was flabbergasted.
Acceptance is the key! I need to spend less time obsessing over what I can’t change. The timing of my life has always worked out in my best interest.
It wasn’t just the woman with the t-shirt. That morning, Rhiannon came on the radio as soon as we started the car. Rhiannon comes on randomly whenever I need a sign. For example, it played when I pulled into the courthouse to face a dangerous man I had no desire to ever see again. It played when I was nervous about a photo shoot. It plays every time I need a little faith. The music that empowers me played for the rest of our trip. Stevie sang in the store. She sang on the highway. She sang in the airport. I haven’t heard her on the radio as much in the last six months as I did in the space of two days.
I am exactly where I need to be at this moment in my life. Most of the time, I can’t understand that until I see it in hindsight – and that’s unfortunate. It also doesn’t matter how many things I check off my bucket list. Those experiences will enrich my life but they will bring me neither serenity nor contentment. The only thing that can fill the gaping, insatiable void is connection. There is nothing else that can pull me out of the most dangerous neighborhood in my head. Believe me, I tried seeking out every other alternative. The only way I can quiet my mental malady is by connecting to the divine in others – and striving to channel that divinity for the benefit of those who are also in need of connection. The paradox of my freedom is that it doesn’t exist when I get my own way; it exists when I open myself to the flow of what is.
I will strive not to forget the strange angel who passed me on the beach: Acceptance is the key.
I’m not going to lie. One of my favorite things about vacation was not being completely saturated in recovery. Don’t get me wrong – my recovery is a priority. I wouldn’t have nice vacations or a nice life without it. But I eat, sleep, breathe recovery 24/7: I work in recovery, volunteer in recovery, and socialize in recovery. I even “think” in recovery – not in the cult-y sense – but in the sense that a helpful cliche is always right on the tip of my tongue.
The other week I ran a group about the masks we wear, i.e. the “tough guy”, the “class clown”, the “June Cleaver”, or the “people pleaser”. I think one of the things I’ve been struggling with lately is that recovery itself has become a type of mask. It’s like a stomach-turning competition to see who can be the “most spiritual”. People parade around with an air of manufactured genuinity and, yet, there isn’t a single shred of authenticity in sight. It leaves me feeling disillusioned and slightly disconnected.
When other people gross me out, I have to take a look at myself. First of all, as human beings, we wear masks because we are afraid people will really see us. So, by that logic, I should have compassion for people hiding behind masks. It’s not like I haven’t worn them before. I could probably take a moment to dismount my royally bitchy throne of self-righteousness. Second of all, as much as I try to “keep it real” (yes, even on social media), I’m sure people have perceptions about my life that may not be accurate. Therefore my perceptions may not be accurate. When I have one finger pointed at someone else, there are three pointing right back at me. (There’s one of those cliches!) Finally, it is my responsibility to connect with “my kind of people” – the people who share similar values and aren’t perfectly fucking zen 100% of the time. The truth is, I like to be alone. If I need to plug in to my (fantastic!) tribe, it’s my responsibility to cultivate the connection.
One of the things I’ve learned about life – an article of wisdom that is increasingly defining who I am – is that the external doesn’t make humans happy. I’m not rich, but I have a great marriage, my dream job, and (almost) everything I want (still wouldn’t mind the classic car/truck and the dog). And yes, I derive great joy and satisfaction from those things, but they are not responsible for my happiness. It always irritates people when you say “happiness is an inside job”. And so they chase the next thing, and the next thing, and the next thing, until one day they wake up and realize they spent their whole lives chasing. I am determined to step out of the race to nothingness. My little family has goals we are working toward, but I am not going to anesthetize myself with bullshit until we reach them. And sometimes the present moment hurts. It hurts to come back from vacation to a cold, gray, troubled city. It hurts when the squirrel in my brain steps back onto the wheel and starts spinning. I have an idyllic life, but that doesn’t mean that it’s perfect. Sometimes I need a break. Sometimes the only decision I should be making is where to set up my beach towel.
I recently read a quote that said “the meaning of life is to be alive”. It’s so simple. It’s not to find the “one” and pop out 2.5 children. It’s not to drive a luxury vehicle emblazoned with a status symbol. It’s not to fill a storage unit with bullshit. It’s not to turn piousness into a competition. Yet that is what we spend our lives chasing – the gauge we use to measure our success. My heart aches for all those who are measuring themselves against that empty standard and coming up short. You are perfect just the way you are, whether you have those things or not.
I’ve said this before, but I am so grateful I am slowly learning not to place so much emphasis on how things look on the outside. There was a period in my life when “things” were hard to come by. I wanted those material commodities; I thought they would make me happy. I also wanted to project an image. I wanted to “look successful”… and also “tough”.
Someone at work approached me one day and said: “You have a very gentle spirit”.
“Thank you,” I responded wistfully, “but some people think I should be more aggressive”.
“No,” he said. “That’s not who you are”.
It was one of the most validating things anyone has ever said to me. Vulnerability isn’t a weakness. It’s the one thing I should be pursuing.
It helps me immensely to witness other people being vulnerable. There have been times when I think it has even saved my life. I’d like to think that I’m pretty candid, but if it would help to witness some of my imperfections, I am only too happy to share within reason (gotta have some healthy boundaries, right?): While traveling, I struggle with tummy troubles and binge eating. I have terrible skin and a myriad of other minor to moderate health issues. I am chronically anxious. When I complete a task, I spend twice as long as the average person – either because I can’t focus or I need it to be perfect. Math makes me cry. So does attempting exercise poses. I have no eye-hand coordination. Due to being traumatized by various instructors/peers, I don’t like doing things I’m not good at in front of others (see math, exercise). One of my biggest fears is getting lost. I go through periods of extreme germaphobia and hypochondria (my wife once had to disinfect every doorknob in the house and my steering wheel). I have trouble saying no to things I don’t want to do.
In short, I am perfectly imperfect. I am growing. Some of these things will always be a part of me, and others will diminish as I continue to change.
You are perfectly imperfect, too. Let’s take off our masks together. Let’s step off the consumer carousel – the maddening merry-go-round that spins us into a frenzy of buying our way out of “not good enough”. We are all good enough. Let’s talk about our joys and our sorrows. Let’s hold each other accountable when we rejoin the race (goodness knows I sometimes find myself running a few miles).
Last weekend, I was standing in line outside the Paradise Rock Club with my wife, brother-in-law, and sister-in-law. For the first time – possibly ever – I felt the totality of my thirty-one and a half years hit me like a ton of bricks. The temperature had dipped into the low thirties, and I was shivering in a light winter jacket and a beanie hat. Many of the girls in front of me were lacking coats, and some were wearing belly shirts and cropped jeans rolled high above their precariously heeled ankle boots. Their chatter grated on my nerves. I not-so-secretly pined for the warmth of a snowsuit. Looking at my family, I was relieved to see that we were all sharing the same thought: Please let this line move quickly!
Once inside, someone promptly vomited on the floor. Gazing around the venue, I yearned for chairs to cushion my now-aching back and wished the din of talking would cease while the headlining musician played. I had to laugh at myself: These mostly-college-aged kids weren’t doing anything college-aged kids haven’t been doing since the advent of the club circuit. I had, without really noticing the magnitude of the change, simply aged.
Some women talk about their thirties as a kind of revelation, and I would have to agree with that sentiment. I have a very clear idea of who I am and what I want, but I also know that both of those things are fluid. I have arrived at this place via years of painful lessons and regret. My high school days – and almost half my twenties – were spent in mortifying pursuits, far removed from my well adjusted peers, who were successfully attending college and enjoying chilly chatter outside teeming concert venues. I may not want those early twenty experiences anymore, but I robbed myself of them at the time.
A lot of my regret is driven by the commonly accepted perception of how one’s youth is “supposed” to look – what I “should” have done and how I “should” have acted. But I needed my mistakes, failures, and abysmal abnormalities to deliver me to the doorstep of my successes. I can confidently say that my thirties will not be plagued by “shoulds”. I already know that many of the things I value go against the grain…and I’m alright with that.
Not unlike one’s twenties, society has this idea of what constitutes success in one’s thirties. I don’t want the 2,500 sq ft house, the designer handbag, or the kids. I shunned the large and expensive wedding. I don’t even want the Master’s degree (instead, I would love to bring back the practice of apprenticeship). People say: “you could go back to school,” or “you’d be a great mom,” or “you could _____________”. I’m flattered, but that’s not who I am today.
Simplicity seems to be synonymous with mediocrity. I couldn’t disagree more. Just because I crave simplicity doesn’t mean I don’t strive for success. Rather than juggling more than I can handle (or just enough to make me miserable), I want to fulfill my carefully chosen responsibilities with dazzling efficiency. Furthermore, as far as I’m concerned, there is nothing mediocre about breathing room. There is nothing mediocre about spending a luxurious morning baking muffins from scratch and draping oneself – coffee in hand – over a sun warmed lawn chair. There is nothing mediocre about coming home at a reasonable time and enjoying the evening with your spouse. That, to me, is the quintessence of freedom. Time and choice are man’s most valuable currencies. Rather than pursuing material status symbols – and avoiding my own skin with an overbooked schedule – I want to spend those precious currencies checking off the items on my bucket list.
Visit Zion National Park, the Grand Canyon, and Sedona (next year?!?!?!)
Road trip the USA and blog about it. Take a picture on Route 66.
Become an advocate for teaching police officers healthy coping skills. Lobby for changes to academy curriculum to include comprehensive courses on coping skills and building community bridges.
Help open a dry bar and use the space to foster genuine human connection
Photograph a temple in Bhutan
Work entirely for myself
Become a master of discipline
Have at least 2 dogs in the family – but one will suffice.
Finish tattooing sleeves on both arms… and then keep going.
Take another looooooong vacation from social media.
Finish our scrapbooks
Visit Disney World at Christmas and eat all the treats and see all the lights.
Procure an indoor, natural light studio for Human Too.
Go back to attending the symphony
See all the Cirque Du Soleil Shows
Renew our wedding vows
Become a life coach
Help make a documentary
Grow a little garden
Spend the day with alpacas
See the cherry blossoms in D.C. Visit all the museums.
Also visit famous treasure/shipwreck museums. Go on a real buried treasure hunt.
See a Mucha exhibit
Drastically reduce or completely eliminate our consumption of single use plastic
That’s it – for now! In recent weeks, I’ve vicariously witnessed what it’s like to approach the late stages of life. I know that everyone inevitably has regrets, but I don’t want to look back and realize I lived someone else’s vision. The one thing every decade seems to have in common is the human drive to seek validation from outside things. I think an important part of my recovery has been slowly breaking free from that. I still get caught in the trap. Addiction magnifies the validation drive. While I still love certain external things – like tattoos and muscle cars (and don’t get me started on the Viva Terra catalog!) – it’s because I enjoy self-expression and the rumble of engines…not because I want someone to like me. The less time, energy, and money I spend on people pleasing – or some gossamer definition of prosperity – the more I invest in myself and my freedom.
Liberation from the conventional interpretation of success looks different for everyone. My “breaking free” will surely look different from yours. Perhaps your idea of “breaking free” is a return to so-called convention. There’s nothing wrong with that. What matters is acknowledging that you are worth the fulfillment of your vision – and the determination to stick to that recognition with unwavering commitment.
What’s on your bucket list? Write it. Chase it. Don’t let anyone (especially yourself) sway you with “should” or “could”. In the words of Fleetwood Mac: Go your own way.
I write every day now. This is both a blessing and a curse. When my body violently rejected medication prescribed to keep me focused and functioning, I wasn’t sure how I was going to maintain or progress in the workforce. It’s not an understatement to say that getting a new job saved my life. Not in the “literally going to die” sense, but in the “if something doesn’t change, I don’t know what I’m going to do” sense.
The flip side of doing what I love is that it poses new hurdles in my ongoing quest to take care of myself. Most days, I hermit myself away in my home office, and spend hours staring at a screen. This, in and of itself, isn’t the problem; millions of people spend their days staring at screens. In re-reading that statement, I guess I could digress on how that is, in fact, the problem…but more on that shortly. My issue is that I struggle to separate from the screen. When I’m not working, it’s either attached to my body like an appendage or I’m using some variation for my entertainment. I also have difficulty setting limits and designating days for myself. It’s not about a lack of time, it’s about poorly managed time.
I am making a concerted effort to foster better habits. In the past ten days, I’ve gone to (part two) of a wellness visit, obtained a blood work-up, consulted with a podiatrist, and chopped off my unruly hair. Truth be told, that’s more than I typically accomplish in a year. The screen time, however, continues to evade modification. My favorite excuse is that the weather is bad – which isn’t entirely inaccurate. When it isn’t twenty-five below zero, it’s fifty degrees and pouring. Right now, it’s snowing. You’ve gotta love (hate) New England.
The other afternoon, I determinedly shut my laptop and, disgusted with the heaviness behind my eyes, snuggled up with Patti Smith’s latest book, Devotion. I honestly can’t remember the last time I read something that was just for me. Even though I had to pause and research the poets and philosophers she referenced, I devoured it. I learned (or re-learned) about Simone Weil, Rimbaud, Baudelaire, and Camus.
When I was finished, I felt like a different person but, ever the creature of habit, I logged online to check work notifications. The first thing that appeared in my line of vision was someone’s selfie. I was dismayed.
In that moment, it dawned on me that I needed Wikipedia to inadequately grasp the nuances of a ninety three page book. I reflected on how Simone Weil knew Ancient Greek by the time she was twelve. She also fasted and denounced romantic relationships because she was passionate about the disadvantaged. Less than a century later, what are we doing? Taking selfies?
I scrolled by an article called “Social Media is Making Us Dumber” a dozen times before I finally caved and skimmed it. The premise was more political than anything (surprise, surprise), but the title holds validity. How many hours do we spend in pursuit of absolutely nothing? A century ago, people were enlightening themselves by learning extinct languages. One could (rightly) make the argument that this was a luxury reserved for the bourgeoisie but, today, most of us are well appointed enough to honor our precious time with more reverence. At the end of life, I doubt anyone is going to say “Gee, I wish I had played more Candy Crush!”
As I sit here typing on an exceptionally accessible platform for creatives, listening to free music, I am struck by how tragic it is that we are using these miracle devices to destroy ourselves. I know I perseverate on this topic frequently, but I’m confident that technology has sealed our common fate. I feel pity for people who look down on addicts; with few exceptions, we are all addicts. The only thing that separates us is variety of vice. Tech is unquestionably the last frontier in my own personal battle with addiction. If I’m honest, it’s probably where my journey began nearly twenty years ago.
As an empath, it takes daily effort not to focus on how broken everything is. In addition to the far-reaching ramifications of technology, our food, economic, legal, and healthcare systems are malfunctioning on an abysmal scale. And our overarching political system? That, too, is a sham.
Although I’m an empath, I’m also a problem solver. I’m proficient at assessing how systems could be improved and brainstorming solutions. But the trouble isn’t that the world lacks problem solvers… the trouble is fear, greed, and ego.
For years, I’ve recognized that my task is to operate (and contribute) peacefully within the trouble and the brokenness… but I’ve resisted, not unlike a fish flopping and writhing until it runs out of air. The ending doesn’t change and the only person I’m really hurting is myself. After all, isn’t presuming to know best the grandest egotistical gesture of all?
In my post Love and Wonder, I talked about finding an unshakable sense of purpose in the brokenness. I’m continuing to work on executing said purpose through mindful and intentional living. There are times when I feel like the only way to live with pure intention is to throw my phone and laptop out the window. Unfortunately, that is not a reasonable solution.
The idea of creating a morning ritual keeps popping up in my life. Several people have espoused the benefits of starting the day with habitual meditation, positive visualization, and other healthful routines. I am an “emergency meditater”, i.e. I only meditate when I’m in extreme emotional distress. Meditation is very effective, but I need a fire under my ass to practice. Before I went to court last month to confront a sexual predator , I immersed myself in such a deep state of meditation that I was able to pull from the guided visualization hours later. Since I infrequently experience this level of agitation, I need to start small in order to cultivate new habits. My current goal is to start my morning with a short reading and, if I anticipate any stress in my schedule, to spend ten minutes working on a meditative coloring page. I’m embracing the fact that my ritual doesn’t need to look like a guru’s in order to have a positive impact on my day.
January is as much a month for reflection as it is for manifestation. At this time last year, I was eating peanut butter M&M’s for lunch. Today, there are no meat or dairy products in my household… and I don’t eat candy for lunch. It took a year to accomplish this small shift. Likewise, it has taken well over a decade for me to visit the dentist every six months. In order to follow through with my podiatry appointment, I had to pick a podiatrist two blocks from my house. If I had made any other choice, I would have failed to schedule a consult.
A friend of mine gently pointed out that I can’t expect to rewire my brain without accountability. I am slowly – and I mean very slowly – learning how to structure accountability for myself. I’ve managed to do so with drugs, alcohol, spending, relationships, food, and healthcare. Now, I just need to figure out a source of accountability for screen time. I would love suggestions!
Learning to love myself enough to safeguard my mind, body, and spirit has not been an easy process. It still isn’t. In fact, it has been one of the longest running themes of this blog. But I guess recovery, in a nutshell, is self-improvement.
I chose “worthiness” as my word for 2018. In my experience, people fail to take care of themselves because they don’t feel deserving. As I immerse myself deeper in this journey, there are times when I don’t feel deserving. For instance, when I saw an x-ray of my foot, I was possessed by the urge to both cry and vomit. I wanted to blame someone else but, at the end of the day, I allowed myself to get to a point of no return. Since my stride has been incorrect for years, I now have terrible hip discomfort. Sometimes it’s so bad I can’t sleep at night. At thirty-one, my body is irreversibly damaged. What would be different if I had intervened when I finally got health insurance in 2014? This line of questioning ultimately doesn’t serve me. I have to forgive myself. Pursuing treatment is self-forgiveness in action. Descending into an avoidant reality is not.
I have a vision for my life… and it’s a simple one. I want to share a small home in a southern seaside town with my wife – perhaps a little cottage or a two bedroom condo. I want a dog and, if I’m particularly lucky, a vintage muscle car from which he can happily slobber. And I want the three of us to explore every nook and cranny of this country. Along the way, I hope that my willingness to be unabashedly vulnerable will help someone. And that’s it. That’s all I want. But I can’t manifest this vision if I treat myself like I’m unworthy. I have to propel myself forward with self-compassion.
Talking about sexual misconduct makes people uncomfortable. Within the first twelve hours of publishing my last blog, I got the sense that my story wasn’t going to be any different.
“Why put your life on blast on social media?” Here’s the thing (and I know I repeat this like a broken record): I’m a recovering addict. Social media is one of the many things I can abuse. I’ve made the choice to use it – both personally and professionally – as a tool for positivity. We have a collective decision to make about technology; it can be used for good or it can be used for destruction. When I post something, it generally falls into one of two categories – I’m either preserving precious memories or aiming to help another human being. I’ve even started assessing the way I document memories. I had an interesting discussion with one of my best friends on the subject of pride.
There is always room for improvement but, in general, I feel like I have good boundaries. The content I share only scratches the surface of the breadth of my life. There are definitely things that are none of anyone’s business. There are also things I will only share in a memoir somewhere down the line. The measuring stick I use for disclosure is the question: “Can my experience with this situation benefit someone else?” I shared my experience as a woman who moved from victimhood to empowerment in the hope that it would cultivate strength and solidarity.
One of the greatest gifts of my recovery is that I have grown increasingly comfortable in my own skin. While people’s judgement mystifies me, it doesn’t dissuade me from standing unabashed in my raw truth. I feel sincere sadness for those who think I should be quiet. It says more about their life than it does about mine. It must be hard to be so unhappy that you have to put down someone who is spreading their wings in freedom. This distinct class of judgement denotes fear, envy, and self-loathing. And let’s face it: the perpetuation of silence is a gigantic part of the problem. For centuries, women and men alike have been forced to endure sexual abuse with no way to safely vocalize their pain and suffering. Furthermore, women grow up with the expectation that we will quietly accept our lot in life… even if it is intolerable.
I firmly believe that storytelling is the way to healing. I used to think that making a forceful argument or engaging in a debate could lead to change. I haven’t found that to be accurate. In fact, I have found that it repulses people, burns bridges to understanding, and invites rigidity in opposing stances. I used to go on tirades and rants on Facebook about various things I found to be unjust, especially when people advocated for violence against police officers. My diatribe didn’t change anything and, because I was operating from a place of fear for my law enforcement spouse and friends, it made it look like I didn’t care about my brothers and sisters of color. When I operate from a place of fear, it turns me into a person I don’t particularly like. At the core of my being – in a divine place untouched by fear and anger – I have unconditional compassion for other beings. My responsibility as a human is to try and live from that place as much as possible.
I do my best not to argue anymore. I share my personal experience instead. If you don’t like it, that’s fine. You have your truth. This is mine. I do not need to feel guilty or ashamed. I am a writer. It’s just who I am. But I’m not meant for fiction or poetry; I’m meant for exploring and reflecting on life from my singular perspective. After my experience this summer, I certainly have a strong perspective on how things could be improved. In conveying my interpretation of events, I tried my best not to wish anyone harm or ill will.
Today I also try to distance myself from those who are domineering and abusive with their opinions. I have been that person- even in the context of this blog – and I don’t want to be anymore. I recognize that I become like the people with whom I surround myself the most. I can have compassion without accepting negative energy in my space.
We are all walking, talking anthologies of our beliefs. I’d posit that it’s impossible to craft a genuine narrative without betraying a worldview. I want my beliefs to look less like an arsenal of weapons and more like an invitation to collaboratively create peace. I am flawed in my practice, but this is the ideal toward which I strive. It benefits me to constantly evaluate what I bring to the table. How can I connect with someone if they bring an invitation and I bring a sword? These days, I find myself asking the opposite question. Most of the time, all I can do is hold space at the table, invitation in hand.
Reading – or listening to – other people’s stories with an open heart has saved my life and shaped the woman I’ve become. I am grateful to each person who has shared their recovery experience and provided a roadmap for me to follow in their footsteps. I am equally grateful to the people who have shared intimate pieces of themselves in order that I might challenge myself and grow. Each human narrative is an archway through which we can enter our unexamined minds and extract previously undiscovered insight. Socrates said that “the unexamined life is not worth living”. Several millennia later, the profound value of his wisdom remains unchanged.
I’m writing a book. Well, co-writing a book, to be more accurate. We started the process over the summer. I haven’t really talked about it outside my closest circle because I feel like it’s one of those things you should do and then clap for your own damn self. Some people need to talk about their greatest endeavors. Lately, I only need to discuss them insofar as it’s necessary to stay accountable. Truth be told, it’s probably because this is one of the scariest things I’ve ever done. Talking about it makes it “real”. As a (recovering) addict, I am inclined to tiptoe as far away from “real” as reasonably possible. When it’s not real, it’s safe to fail.
One would think that writing a book is a solo project. It’s not. I am growing accustomed to the fact that things, in general, tend to be better when they are the result of collaborative effort. As it happens, I am currently sending the Universe strong mentorship vibes. I need someone to look at the skeleton of our work and show me how to animate it into the best possible version of itself.
At any rate, I’ve been missing this blog and the process of writing just for me. It’s not that I don’t have time – it’s that some of the stories I am poised to tell haven’t played themselves out to completion. Sometimes I’ll start a post and be unable to finish because I simply don’t know the ending. Unfortunately, they are big stories, and not telling them makes me feel a bit like I’m choking. At work, I tell my clients that looking at things in the present is just as important as examining them from the other side. It creates a measuring stick for progress. This situation is a little different. I fully believe that some things happen because we are meant to be instruments of change. In order to be an effective advocate, I need to keep my progress under lock and key for a short time.
It’s funny – when I was active in my addictive behaviors, I could only write about things in metaphor. Today, it pains me to be ambiguous. I think it’s a sign of significant growth that I prefer to be unequivocally raw. I’d rather be in my own skin than hiding beneath a veil of mystery. I can’t wait until the last pages of these stories unfurl and I can share my discoveries with you. In the meantime, I am standing my ground and letting the words take shape.
A ‘voice’ motif keeps popping up this year. My purpose in life seems to be – among other things – helping to give people a voice. The whole premise of the Human Too campaign is to provide a platform for people’s narratives. The book I am co-writing isn’t my story, either. In a roundabout way, the Universe has my best interest at heart. The ego is a particularly complex animal for alcoholics and addicts. By and large, we tend to be egomaniacs with inferiority issues. When I focus more on other people, the world stops revolving around me. I have less time to ask “What do people think of me?” On the other hand, I think it’s important to make sure I don’t let my own story get lost. It’s important to come home to myself. When I go within and reflect on my own narrative, I grow.
The reason I share my reflections so publicly (and help others to do the same) is because I think it’s a matter of life or death for us to vocalize and celebrate our flawed humanity. Many recovery programs are rooted in the power of the shared narrative. But, looking at things from outside the scope of recovery, it’s clear we are losing touch with ourselves and each other. Social media, for example, is about creating some kind of perfectly filtered ideal. Or, on the opposite end of the spectrum, it becomes a shield behind which we can treat our fellows inhumanely. How do we form and maintain genuine connections under these conditions? In either scenario, we are moving further and further away from the very things we should be striving toward.
We don’t, however, have to label technology as good or bad. It’s a neutral thing. We choose its significance. My aim is to be part of a societal shift in significance. For every idyllic vacation photo or sickeningly sweet ode to my wife (can’t stop, won’t stop), there is also evidence of the flawed nature of my life. I set goals and partially or completely fail to meet them. I quit drinking coffee and now I’m back in the damn Dunkin’s drive thru every day. I set bottom lines around Facebook and food, and I don’t always stick to them. (Those are my “F” words!) Sometimes, when I’m not at home, I eat cheese. Sometimes, when I see a cute dog video, I post it. I am undisciplined and I struggle to form healthy habits. That’s precisely why I needed help to kick my most dangerous predilections. I still need help. And I will use every resource available to let people know that it is perfectly okay to ask for it.
My other writing ventures notwithstanding, I haven’t been making time for my own blog because I feel like I don’t have anything new to say (or, more accurately, I’m not quite ready to say it). Upon further consideration, I’m realizing that I don’t need to say anything new. In fact, I think it’s good to repeat some of the same things. Repetition has been a cornerstone of my recovery. I can only speak for myself, but my brain is addictively wired. In order to rewire it, I need to hear the same things over and over. I need to hear that it’s okay to ask for help. I need to hear that it’s okay not to be perfect. I need to be reminded of the simple solutions. Otherwise, my old circuitry kicks in and I’m on the crazy bus to trouble town.
I don’t like the crazy bus to trouble town. It smells like stale beer and ashtray, and I can never shake the feeling that I’m careening toward certain doom. Today, I’m grateful to be cruising around on the Carpathia looking for other survivors (yes, I just jumped from a bus analogy to a ship analogy). Regardless of your figurative vessel of choice, it’s going to be okay. We’re all doing this messy thing together. If you don’t like where you’re going, you can change your means of transportation at any time.