“And now that you don’t have to be perfect you can be good.” Steinbeck
I’m listening to a Codependent Mind, Brian and Stephanie talking about trauma and shame from a unique perspective.
I’m reading East of Eden. Sometimes novels are a lifetime of therapy all in one story depending on what you bring to it.
I’m working a Course in Miracle’s, albeit very small bites at a time and lots of reflection. See my tendency to explain my ability to produce. Would ya look at that 😉
Atonement. Atunenent. To self and other.
Slowing. Staying with me.
“Am I practicing what I preach” is my usual alignment question. Or preaching more than I practice. Preaching is easier, less vulnerable. Vulnerable is the heart opener: it must be exercised over and over.
A typical refrain lately is “it’s a practice not a perfect.” Annoying counselor isms for 500 please Alex.
Double or nothing.
I have returned from the shore. Restful bliss. How did I go so many years without? That is the question of the hour, the day, the week, the year, and my life in so many ways.
Along with how did I learn how to cope, and how has that impacted the trajectory of my fate.
Amor Fati
I’m on episode 7 of the first season of the co dependent mind and they are talking about how emotions become cut off and compartmentalization. Yep I’m in the right place.
I love the rainy ness of the day. I never understand why people don’t like the rain. I love how it feels on my skin just as much as the sun. Both are necessary.
The green is here and so also is the sounds of lawnmowers and gardeners alike. My hair is doing that wavy thing it does with moisture.
Plumbing work on the house. The deck is in finishing stages (finally, I hope). The pool will be opened soon.
A house continues to become a home: as does my heart. Parallel lines in my universe.
I’m here just swimming daily inside the depths of myself, and coming up more often for air than I have in the past.
I love that for me.
Long time coming.
If I’m a poet I’m a poet.
If I’m a song I’m a song .
Less obsessive thoughts about what’s right or wrong.
Where did that come from anyway….
You know
A story for another day.
For now all I have to do is walk.
I was finally ready, and chose a new piano teacher. The scar is more brown than pink now. So despite the argument of my nervous system best to get back on the horse and all of that.
Tally Ho !
I’m making some schedule changes I’m anxious and excited about. I’ll have significant more time for myself, and my god does that challenge all the programming cable car pathways.
I commandeer my own vehicle these days. Any mistakes are mine, and all victories large and small as well.
I’m no longer agonizing in so many of the ways I was, as if every step could be a land mine.
What life is this I often say.
Heaven really is a place on earth and make me a believer baby.
I am
It’s evening Christina. After six clients Christina. Walking again. Taking in the spring sights and smells. As the day winds down.
I just used foresight of regret as a motivation for change with a client and it’s giving me pause to contemplate my own. Because of course it is.
The trees are aglow. The clouds highlighted in the same.
I don’t have what I thought I did in the tank for writing. Only being for me this evening.
Good thing I got a little down during less wiped out Christina time.
I plan on writing here more. My follow through and consistency has improved in so many other areas, it’s time for it to be so in my relationship with me.
Oh but before I go a random but probably not thread. My piano teacher is the mother of the boyfriend of a favorite bartender at the place formerly known as Crave. She introduced me to East of Eden. She (my new teacher) just finished it.
I remember the day I sat at the bar with my books and drink exactly. She has quotes from the book tattooed and I was excited even to be in the presence of another lover of the written word and thought whatever makes a person feel so passionate to preserve this art on their body…. I want to read that.
And several years later here I am, with her boyfriend’s mother as my piano teacher.
I’m grieving my impulsivity, which I previously regarded as all things passion and therefore true.
Quick connections, assumptions….. firing squad quick. Life or death. Ride or die. I wasn’t wrong many times, but it wasn’t right for me either. It was always the one in my story. I was always so sure so fast. What I didn’t bargain on was how this was wired into me, and how little control I really had over it.
I have since learned to practice action over feeling. Actions tell the reality of any situations. And one foot in front of the other you can lay down stability and security with only your own, no need to scream about mistreatment, to panic, to drop to your knees.
Though when you do need to please allow yourself. There is beauty in the breakdown.
I’d need to know me to figure that out, not just how to present a presentable human to the outside world.
Shortcuts do not make for a whole person or experience.
All in Christina, one day at a time, crystal clear boundaries, let them figure it out.
Let go
You never had control anyway, all you ever had was anxiety.
My impulsivity has led me into more lies, more unsafe situations, and on and on, than are imaginable.
Let’s better understand what my history means my impulsivity truly is. Constant and desperately seeking feeling loveable, wanted, loved, desired, and as if I had the capacity to provide those things.
As if….
And to be able to feel it before I better understood my trauma it often, if not always needed to be intense.
To confuse feeling intensely wanted with being loved can lead to the stuff of nightmares I can tell you that.
Often in recovery people struggle with boredom and destructive thought patterns. I find it helpful to walk and to read and to keep things as simple as possible.
Total and utter presence with only the tasks at hand.
I now know you don’t have to respond to every battle you’re invited to, and I preached it long before I was able to practice it.
For me it helps to learn to divide my focus between the many important pillars of my life. Rather than getting caught in story traps, and painful regrettable all or nothing states.
I’m halfway through my second mile, it’s beginning to rain. I’ve been listening to Matthew Perry’s memoir, which my thoughts often trail to how I’d write my own.
A plan like many before them has taken shape as a way to organize. List every single influential character in my story and write as many sentences describing those experiences as comes naturally to me. No more or no less and see what weaves together just from that.
Lost in the rush but I pray you don’t hurt too much …..
How many years was I going to spend in an irritable disconnected state even after I’d done so much work to choose differently. Stuck in that state. It’s like the new software never uploaded, and I was the last to know.
I needed a reflection that wasn’t distorted, to be able to understand my true self differently.
I’m always trapped inside my fucking head on and on and on….
Last night I had to tell the Little Prince he needs to find his own place by 30 days time. Excruciating. Everyone says it’s the right thing. My heart says of course it’s not.
No man left behind. And I never have, not really. I can see now that if I was met even halfway with effort it would have gotten figured out. I’ve only ever left people who weren’t able to show up for themselves, and I never stopped loving them.
One of the most egregious of my self misunderstandings. That I wasn’t loving or lovable.
Devastating. It has harmed so many years of my life.
Saving myself was never anything to do with love.
We all need our stories until we are ready to confront them.
As in many dysfunctional family systems no man is left behind. Blood is thicker than water. I have to separate this from the cord cutting I’ve done with toxic situations and place it in the healthy boundaries category. That’s not easy.
What’s the difference anyway? There is one, and I can almost feel it now. Can you feel it?!
I’m listening to Lewis Capaldi today, he was a frequent during one of the darkest times of my life. His voice goes straight to my bones, like Pink, lady Gaga, Adele, and so many others. Straight to my core. Comfort.
Emotional identification and then manipulation of self and other ensues. You must be able to separate and look at things objectively too. A step outside, some rationality included. Who knew? No one taught me that.
So I learned to teach myself. No victim stories, only tales of survival becoming thriving.
A vibrant life!
I can step back now and the obfuscation dwindles. What a difference. You wouldn’t even recognize it. You couldn’t unless you’ve learned it. Less splitting, integration. Integrity.
Even the dust of emotional manipulation, the residue makes me ill on contact. It’s a way of life untangling my own. That’s what I was trying to do.
I thought that’s what you wanted too.
I was wrong.
I’ve been wrong so many times, but I no longer sweat that the same.
Mistakes are the portals to discovery.
I’m finally taking all the scraps and quilting. Threads to the tapestry.
At least I had the courage to make them, or the naïve dissociation, I guess probably both.
So before you go…. Was there something…..it kills me how your mind can make you feel so worthless. I was the storm to weather.
It has subsided to pure presence. So many less triggers. I can breathe now. It’s a different life again, and there’s no fault in it.
This morning I had an intrusive thought. We got these crazy sharp and expensive cutco knives from a friend of the girls selling them. It’s a cute and funny memory. But one slip of one of those suckers and like butter your finger will be gone.
My kids like me, can be ultra sensitive about things. It’s a product of trauma and also innate. A double whammy if you will. Anyhow she understood me as laughing at her for the way she was cutting an apple and got angry, just a little compared to before family therapy. I knew if I said anything about how to cut differently I’d be met with an anger that shrivels my soul immediately and makes me want to run for cover.
The only threat present here is misunderstanding, and being misunderstood. It’s the biggest threat present in our family. And finally with a healthier clinician than in the past, the tangles are becoming a little bit undone.
I’ve been hungry to write, but also overwhelmed about gathering and organizing my thoughts. The story of my life. It will be on my headstone. Many years later of course which I now might actually be able to believe. Instead of the story about the shooting star lifespan, bright and gone as quickly as it came.
We all are most likely shooting stars in the scheme of things.
I’ve been having clarity and connection and moments which are all part of a natural ebb and a flow I never thought I’d have a part in. My triggers and coping mechanisms felt as if they swept me up and gave me little choice in the matter.
I know better now.
How to find the delicious sweet spot of acknowledgment of symptoms and experiences and also the compelling why driven reasons to keep moving forward.
You, my loved ones, will always be my why.
I am emotional and open and atoning.
“Everyone is the narcissist but you Christina” plays and re-plays, until I shake it clear of my head and remember the hurt that propels such statements and how deeply misunderstanding I was of myself, which invited energies that would misunderstand me.
I am too aware and too motivated for change to consistently employ such a defense mechanism. Do I have layers of protection that can emit projection and all the other beautiful aspects of control and hiding that that involves.? Absolutely I do.
I am committed to breaking generational curses. Yours, mine, and ours. It is my steadfast promise. I become steady, courageous, accepting, gentle, open, and loving.
It is possible.
I am de programming myself. Shaking off all of the abuse replaying, mine, as well as my transgressions. Enough internal secure ground laid to face the heat of the truth.
The truth has legs. All the things she said playing in my head. All the things I said and did. How outlandish and ridiculous I sounded when I was a walking, talking, coping mechanism. How sad the pain that can be inflicted.
And it’s not over unless life is. I will still make mistakes, and have misunderstandings. But I am here and I show up and I am sturdy and proud of the life I have lived, and the one I’m creating now.
I watched the Glass Castle the other night. Wow. Poignant. Devastating. Relevant. Just incredible.
I watched it through a lens of seeing my transgressions. The worst is the freeze. It’s worse than screwing up. Because I couldn’t be loving either. I admire the fucked up families that stay I always have. Would the children have been better off or not?!
I held back so much, held myself so carefully so I couldn’t be damaging from my damage until I better learned, that for a time I barely existed at all. I couldn’t be fun or playful and I now think rather than only how hard for them, how hard also that was for me. I couldn’t express. No wonder writing felt so important. I had to find some way.
Now I get the privilege of becoming who I’ve always been, and being able to feel it and be connected to it. I am awestruck at this possibility and genuinely compassionate as the suffering involved from my almost entire separation from myself and purely external functionality for enough years I could have become a pillar of stone.
Now I try not to look back lest I become a pillar of salt.
I want to enjoy being a pillar of stability and wisdom and love for my loved ones. It is my daily prayer and mission no longer impossible.
I can say unequivocally that my departure from my own was necessary. I’ve since stopped watching others grief process and wronging myself.
It’s been so exhausting weighing every movement I make, and anyone near me, for good or bad, right or wrong, safe or unsafe. It has been one of my greatest burdens and taken up so much space. But it has also made a conscientious and grateful human being who appreciates even a crumb.
I no longer desperately subsist on scrambling for them, but a little glimmer never hurt anyone. The words often rise. All that glitters is not gold. That memory is sharp, pungent. Control. It worked.
Life is a treasure. It no longer matters.
I was so tired of being misunderstood even before that began. All I needed was to be understanding of myself. I am that now. Soft when I can be, as often as I can be because that’s my preference.
I love Sundays. I love walks. I love reading. I love writing. I love learning. I love connecting. I love warm hearted open people, the ones who mean well and do things ultimately for the right reasons to the best of their ability, according to their awareness at the time.
I believe whole heartedly in no man left behind and I never have, they live on in my mind.
Love is not an emotion, it doesn’t behave as emotions do, it is steadfast promise. Karen McLaren. The language of emotions. It exists whether it is present and practiced or not. In memories, in moments. In the wonderful Brutiful trap that is the mind. The door is open you may come and go as you please.
I am at peace.
Oh and also I’ll be attending a getaway at Omega again finally. Haven’t been since 2015. Elizabeth Gilbert and Rob Bell. Be still my heart. Their article why do we Thank our heroes was printed and given to as many clients as possible around that same time. The first time I saw Liz in person. Those are such intimate memories.
I have more I want to write but for now I broke the silent spell and that is enough for the moment.
I was never going to be able to write unless I got safe.
Felt safe
I was never safe with you and you made that about me not staying, when the truth is I had stayed past any logical point that any human would endure.
Any human that wasn’t wired with love being harmful, inconsistent and dangerous.
My ideas of love and my wiring are all crossed. I’m so angry about this. This is so painful.
They probably look like cords behind an entertainment stand, or underneath a computer desk did in the 80’s. Or still do for me because I tend to be old fashioned about things.
With my mom I was always responsible for her pain and not abandoning her. But the relationship was a one way street. Love was expected from me. Unconditional affection, acceptance, supply. But I was given nothing of the sort in return.
(To this day she pops up curious about my life, and ashamed because of how other people see her not having a relationship with her daughter. She and her boyfriend try and find pictures to print and display, from the internet. I do my best to shield all of us from that. To live far enough away.)
I was given terror.
Then when normal things would happen. Teenage moods being unpredictable I reacted like a feral animal, and not the steadfast parent I wanted to see myself as. Another life sentence inside my head of shame. I crawl out a little at a time now.
I am programmed for pain, when it comes to love. So now when I am loved it feels odd, suffocating sometimes, scary. I feel responsible to return it right away and scattered about how I should do that. What’s the formula.
I was rendered only able to think, never safe to feel.
So when I do feel now in real time, the moments become sealed forever to be replayed for survival. A reel of pictures in my own mind to survive off of when inevitably the same exile over and over will occur.
It’s hard to say these things, because if you say something it’s more true right?! Maybe if you just don’t acknowledge it, it will go away. Freeze and hide.
Once you say how you feel it could be a life sentence. Someone could take it out of context and once again misunderstand you so egregiously. I’ve served several of these after a desperate bought of honesty begging to be loved. And I never thought it could happen later in life after I’d worked so hard.
What I mean about a life sentence is having been so alone when it comes to relationship, you develop only an inner dialogue about what you’re doing right or wrong, and usually it’s wrong and why. And that’s your primary companion.
This companion serves the purpose of trying to make sure if you have even a shot at love, that you aren’t abandoned. So it critiques and controls your every move via your thoughts.
I was alone with all the things she said, running through my head, she was me. I was alone with how bad I was because I was the one who exploded right. The other is calm cool and collected. Yes Taylor, the problem was me.
I often pair love and food together. If I have felt love when I have eaten a meal, I have a photographic memory of that time. Every single detail and the taste I can recall. I crave that food. I try and recreate it, but it’s never the same.
I can only imagine this as a product of the scarcity of both I once had in my life.
I can finally speak about it without my inner roommate telling me I’m whiny, going to be judged, being a victim, manipulating, it wasn’t that bad Christina. You’re so dramatic. And the like…..
When I talk about my past my breath quickens to short gasps, my chest tightens, it feels like I’m choking. The fear is as if snakes were crawling all over my body. My ears get red and hot and I feel like I’m burning alive. Sometimes just for fun, this happens unprovoked when I’m just trying to live my life.
I felt this way the last time my mother touched me, which ironically was over my grandfather’s deathbed. Talk about confusing.
The words released were always an act of treason, my truth always caused me trouble. No where to turn but inward.
Like my love with my grandfather wasn’t complicated already. A harsh authoritarian constantly telling me I’d be a slut like my mother if I preferred the company of boys, at the ripe age somewhere between 10 and 12. Constantly commenting on my body, those long legs Chris you have to fill them up. Always comments on my body.
I was a Tom boy. I preferred the company of boys and their clothes and that was wrong and bad for so many reasons in that household. So was talking too much, and being enthusiastic, and taking up too much space.
I wore strange clothing because grandmother always tried to find things on sale. One year my wardrobe consisted of those Mc hammer workout pants popular with muscly work out men in California. They were cheap so I got every pair of a different design. Neon black and yellow lightning patterns, t shirts with kittens on them and Fanny packs.
I never stood a chance.
I was a walking target of weird. Including the bargain haircuts my aunt gave me while she was in beauty school. Nails were her gift. Not hair. My haircuts looked like a Lego man hair cap.
I’m terribly lucky I got braces. One of the only things that turned around how I felt about myself later was having nice teeth.
And paying for things for my moms bastard child came under hot scrutiny and loud verbal opinions by my aunt, and others. The welfare bitches welp is taking my inheritance again.
Every time I got a gift or something uniquely for me, it caused a terrible fight between my mom and my aunt. Every time I received I was punished. See anything familiar here.
Not a thought about how the child felt in the scenario. I heard all of it.
I tried again and again to shrink to fit, but my humanity ending up bursting forth in the form of behavioral outbursts and undesirable traits at school. Begging to be loved and seen as something good or at all, at all the inappropriate times.
My desk was always next to the teacher. I picked physical fights with boys. I was always rescuing the hurt and drawn to staying so close to them. I’ll never leave you. I know it’s unsafe at home. For me too it is, but yours is probably worse and definitely more legitimate.
You have a family. One of those unicorn things.
So anytime I was welcomed into a family circle, inside, the experience is always powerfully compelling and at the same time repelling. Terror and confusion, mixed with beginning to feel loved and seen.
Spoiler alert: it’s only a matter of time until you see how bad I am. This will always be in there, the pain of it, even if the cognition can be expelled via emdr.
Dance with the humans you belong. In childhood dancing was a sign of sexual wrongdoing. You did not do it it was dirty in every sense of the word.
Which makes sense the strong attachment I felt to my childhood best friend whose family while also Seventh Day Adventist, was a “little more progressive” and I learned so many things I loved.
She had older brothers with cool cars, and bad habits and it was so exciting, like being at the zoo seeing how other families functioned. Those real ones with moms and dads and siblings where things were not so incredibly fucked up (but still were).
I borrowed dirty dancing and faked sick from school the next day. I paused all the sexy parts and felt dirty and shameful and alive. To this day I could probably quote the whole movie by heart, and also never need to watch it again because I see it in my mind.
You could have thought it would be Footloose, but no it was dirty dancing. I probably related a lot more to Jennifer gray, her mousiness and child like demeanor, good girl persona.
Good bad good bad. Pick a side like the movies and it will play out like a movie. There is no real life. Only the one in my head.
I wanted to be good and do good, but I also craved to be cool so I would be…. You guessed it loveable.
So I could be loved.
Who knew that later in life the pairing of the offering of a family that wasn’t real, or theirs to offer, and …. I lost my thought. So painful when this happens, this is what happens when you write in communal space, and have teens lol, sigh.
I only ever could dance with alcohol and the sting of the comments by people when I looked awkward doing it, nearly too much to bear.
So that day when I danced sober with a family and a young child I loved, was magical for me.
I was only there because of something else that felt magical for me.
When something feels magical and then turns to immense suffering because I couldn’t even trust my own mind….
Not being able to trust your own mind is a special kind of hell.
My own mind is so often all there was. I was so alone with my own mind sometimes I thought I would never emerge a person.
It was the beginning of the end.
A soul death.
I am here in recovery trying to balance closing up the wounds and moving forward with my life in a way that for the first time can feel whole.
It is a gargantuan undertaking.
Recovery can be brutal and is also beautiful. Brutiful Glennon would call it. Make no mistake it’s a full time job and anyone who has to spend most of their life recovering from their childhood should be compensated appropriately so they can live out the rest of their days in peace.
If ever I am in a position to do so I would use funds to make this a thing.
I thank God, the windows, and the walls for the enthusiasm I was blessed with, that has me never giving up. Because it has hurt enough to make anyone want to.
I have more peace than enthusiasm these days and sometimes that is painful, it’s temping to feel less alive in it.
One should not have to come to great harm to feel alive or to feel love.
💜
I’ve outdone myself this Sunday. It ripped wide open. Just the beginning….
There are whole schools of thought around whether this type of introspection is helpful or not. Let alone sharing it. Allowing myself permission to exist as I am with all my parts and all my thoughts is cathartic. This is my vehicle.
*I used talk to text a lot, so this is probably an editing nightmare, and since I realize how life short is these days who has time to edit. We will do that when the finished product exists.
We are on the right side of rock bottom….
On lap three. A post started to formulate and if I continue to explain; during that time I’ll lose my actual thought. It’s that easy, to lose it, for me.
I’m walking to the rhythm. Feeling my ass strengthen, and the back of my legs. In this moment I could be a prize athlete, but only in my imagination and current empowerment.
Then though I’d look in the mirror and see the slightly overly well insulated forty two year old who in so many ways is just meeting herself for the first time.
I feel very different on the inside than I could be judged for on the outside. Hmm what a thought. And that how I actually feel about having stripped away all these layers of self and other expectations, is free.
Free
There’s a certain corner you turn with recovery when it just starts getting good, and I mean capital G ood. It’s not like there isn’t still all the other things. Memories, pain, pleasure all of it, all the time.
Time and trust are essential to this 💜
With the right (a good) formula life can get good (great). Feel good. Far from perfect, but just good. Yeah you get the idea.
Good is perfect
Euphoria was so last season, except still my favorite perfume for my chemistry. It’s mine, and so am I.
And I am the world’s.
And you were my Achilles heal and my kryptonite.
I hold the memories and the story. They intertwine like our fingers.
Push me, pull me, taste me. I dare you to erase me. It will never be real, just coping.
Cope this
Exercise makes me fiesty and a few other things. Fiesta. Foreva: silly playful.
I’m listening to A Million Dreams. It never gets old. I’m thinking about the restlessness inside of me, and how I don’t tell stories about what it means anymore. About how now I understand it as pain. I understand the irritable moods so much differently.
Yesterday I drove to Fairfield to get a B12 injection. I do this usually on Fridays once a month. Sometimes I have to have them as often as weekly, but right now we are in a maintenance phase.
I went to Barnes & Noble, to get a hard cover leather bound journal that is my favorite. Spoiler alert: Ended up with a Hamsa one, called to me, Italian leather mmm the smell.
I’d hate my sensory stuff so much, if I didn’t have so many other reasons to love it.
I might actually be ready to just write my story in it, not worrying about not having the ability to edit….
just write Christina
I will also look at the sale journals, as there are often many gems in there, I have been tasked to get the book, Come as you are, by my therapist.
Sex didn’t really have anything to do with it, she told me that the woman who wrote it, describes the cycle of trauma, in a way that, even through all of her training, that has not been matched, so I am going to read a sex, trauma book, to gather more helpful information about the rest of the trauma.
The content I’ve been with lately is so good ! What I’m reading and studying I mean.
It’s been along time since I’ve done any in office therapy, just because of how my schedule works. But I happen to be going on Tuesday, and I asked my therapist if we would do any EMDR.
We discussed that if I am going to do you will work around the negative cognition that I am unlovable.
So I’m sitting here thinking about this now. The rough around the edges of it all and I’m thinking about how, that’s not my identity, that is my pain.
The pain that lives inside me at all times.
I thought about conceptualizing it as the pain I carry, but that seems like way too much responsibility for things I had no part in. It just lives in there and I’m trying to make it a hospitable roommate. .. bend it to my iron will.
That’s an interesting way to conceptualize pain, right? I thought so.
I’m not responsible for so many things I carried and was willing to carry.
I am toggling back-and-forth between a million dreams and talk to write.
I am thinking about how curiosity killed the cat, and sometimes we see things that burn with a white hot inferno of pain.
In the need to sort out truth from all of the lies, your own experience.
And I think about how the most important things, true intimacy are the things that are not seen. They are not the flashy gatherings, the professional photographs, the websites, the events, because often times beneath those things are very different tale is told.
I think about how I am no longer duped, by outward images, and I have a much greater wisdom around that. That is safety.
I have been watching the show Away.
I always did love Hillary Swank. Thinking about how I have a passion and a family, and where does it all fit.?!
What I like most about the show so far, is the couple’s support for one another’s passion, the type of way that one knows who the other person is, no matter what, and how important that is. I love that kind of love, the kind driven by a deep understanding and loyalty for the other.
I have dreamt about that kind of love. I thought I had tasted it, and that turned out to be a rotten lie, the most egregious of which I told myself and allowed myself to believe. I was all in, and despite it hurting people I loved, I chose.
Now I allow myself to feel everything.
I have not cut off a single part of me to survive. Because the cycle must be complete. I must discharge the demons from my mind. There is no ruthless creature here. Only a beautiful human interested in helping and healing.
It isn’t something that can be sold. It isn’t something that can be manufactured, it is naturally forged through time, and staying.
Stay. Ironically I was wearing a t- shirt that said that during my last therapy session.
The word stay came up in my therapy session today, and what happens after you stay, the goal, the good. Not some benchmark for how many years you have under your belt together, or a flashy show, the real and indisposed of it all.
Stay not as a taunt or a gaslight, but the real kind. The kind where it can get good inside of the trust and warmth.
I am learning that is the formula of writing. I never needed to sacrifice to have what I wanted, only to allow and let go of what hurts.
That’s it 😉 like it’s easy?! Lol
Anyway, I’m going to walk into Barnes & Noble for now, and then I’m going to take myself on a lunch date where I spend time with my best friends, the book I am reading, and the begging to be inked upon journal.
And that was Friday and now it’s Saturday. Finishing this and a walk at the same time. Motion sick is a real thing. Maybe less walking and writing?! Maybe not.
Maybe I’ll fall in love with today.
Watched About Time yesterday and realized how much in it I am about. Learning why it’s my favorite. Every song. Especially into my arms. Oh the dreams I’ve had to that song. And the movie Life Itself. Connection. Emotional safety. Love. These are the things I’m about.
There’s no perfect in here, only good. And now that that’s softer life can really begin. Open heart and mind, kick ass boundaries. Self support and love. I deserve them all.
Dreams become reality. And I can hold space for all of it, my pain too, and the uncertainty.
I watched Stutz last night. So so good!
I have so much more to say but it will have to wait. ….
Stay Tuned
Oh ps I’m mostly keeping my no buying books 2023 goal. I had a gift card and occasionally find a way to cheat the system a little, but it’s been greatly reduced and that’s the point right. To lay down roots with the ones I already have, pay them the attention they deserve.
All the selves and stories I used to be, gathering the fragments, becoming whole…..
I miss my writing like I miss a lover. I’m always writing inside my mind, and these days I like what I see so much more. A great beginning, and another and another.
The other day I felt heavy and this is where I wanted to come. When I feel light this is where I want to come. This is home.
There are so many thoughts I don’t get down. Will they come back around? You never know and that’s the hardest part.
Knowing might be arguably harder.
How to ask a survivor to be open and contend with the unknown, when it takes so much energy.
This morning I saw a Sylvia Plath quote I liked and went down a Christina research hole. So now I know her whole life, and yet nothing at all. What struck me the most are the similarities in so many ways. Minus the suicide attempts thankfully.
Time to read the Bell Jar and actually finished this time. I was 80 percent there. What even is that?! How can you not finish?! Maybe unfinished is better?
Who knows if I had had her life at that time in the world. I think of the censorship and lack of support at that time. And how at any time this is the thing that often makes all the difference, being able to tell our stories.
Gunn street is closed today. The bright fuchsia car is in sight. I go down Peck anyway, that’s the mile loop.
Speaking of telling stories The Healing Power of Storytelling, Annie Brewster. I forget which podcast I heard her on. Will this help with another layer? Lately the sense is that while I enjoy consuming this material, being with these writers, outside is not where it’s at.
It’s time. I can’t resist much longer. Layers of self doubt and fear have sloughed away. It’s time. Don’t hold back.
Writing is like oxygen. I’m breathing. It’s warm and the sky is beautiful this morning.
Working on birthday plans for twin a and b. Nineteen years old. These benchmarks make me incredibly emotional, and reflective. I remember the girl who shared and shared with no off switch and very little consideration for how that person responded. I understand much more now. Time does that. And also there’s a lot I don’t.
What I found in Sylvia Plath this morning was a commonality to which we feel things. And look what that lent for her. But outcome is not the measure of a life. She felt more in her short life than many in a long one do.
And had the courage to capture it….
She was blessed. Blessed with depression and an abusive relationship some might say?! But she felt the heartbeat of the world and wrote it. Who did she serve ultimately? The muse ? Depression ? Societal expectations?! All of the above is usually the most sure answer.
It’s not black and white Christina.
The sky looks like purple snow this morning. Smelling and tasting the colors.
It’s a four client day, that’s a mini day for me. Hell it’s a vacation. But then there’s also room for restlessness.
I had a day the other day where I understood ocd more than I ever have. The need for control. The need for routine as a means for comfort. Routine is also the death of creativity and emotion, but so soothing. What a rub.
I felt close
I felt far
I was just thinking of how intimate it is someone’s rituals. How they get dressed, which order, in what way. And those last moments they are yours, indisposed. The last article goes on and then they are the world’s.
A different kind of intimacy. A smile a gesture: but so much unknown underneath those clothes.
If I could live in that in between always: the half dressed messy middle.
And just like that I put Shakira on….. I always loved this song. Her voice pierces me skin and resides underneath. Those are my favorites, the ones who can do that.
Spanish lyrics and piano, be still my heart.
Every mole, every curve, hairline at the neck, the pattern that is only hers. Hovering lips and breath at particular spots: what they look like. The world stops. The world turns. The skin of those places it burns.
Music touches my body and my soul. As I walk the earth.
These days I find myself grieving my life. The years I was dissociated from my self, essentially the entire first half. And the painful awakening.
And now I can find a miracle in laying in the grass and staring at the sky. Everything is emotional. And when I’m locked away from myself in an episode it’s excruciating, because I know what I know now.
So I crawl back to her and kiss her better, admire her strength, adore her smile.
The trees are magic. Stop and look at just one. The ability to see all the fine details, where each branch naturally lies.
Noticing is love. I notice everything.
Faith and peace and mercy and ground. My memories are always with me. I savor so many daily.
So many new to make. This in between exquisite connection as the default and all the old ways of disconnection. They sit and stare across the playground at each other, wondering are we friend or foe. Who do we align with?!
Disconnected her is as worthy and valued as connected her. We no longer cut off parts of ourselves for survival.
It’s safe. Now someone just please tell me nervous system that please. Re wiring is another matter entirely.
A new style of writing has emerged for me and it’s nearly terrifying. I recognize now this far down that I had no idea any of this would come out. In fact I had so many other intentions over the past few weeks.
I know how to let go now. Of control. And really that’s been my journey a very long time. To be able to cry when I felt that way. To have an orgasm.
I would describe it like having this emotional delay. Usually I have to be alone to access them, but there have been moments and times they happen organically and freely. Those are magic.
Maybe someday this is the body I will inhabit forever, fully connected. Will I still write, will I still be me? If that happens? Is it possible? So many unknowns.
C’est la vie
All my love,
C
Ps. hallelujah just came on and the sun began to shine, just now.
I joined Nicole lepera inner circle so I’ll be watching her and Jenna this evening and then a massage. Thank god. Please melt these stresses of everyday life and breathe energy back into my soul.
How Do You Block the Sound of a Voice You’d Know Anywhere….
Lisa Loeb Wishing Heart and Jan Arden Insensitive are taking me back today….
I have a bad sinus cold. I woke up this morning with my head pounding, sensitive to light and sound and essentially everything. I debated strongly what course of action to take, ie migraine pill because it feels like that, but I know it’s sinus pressure.
I opted for severe sinus med and it definitely lightened the suffering though it’s there behind the pill. I don’t want to take an antibiotic if I don’t have to. It wipes out any good gut bacteria I manage to have and causes whole other issues. So there’s that.
I’m seriously reflective right now. Very within. Integrating the changes from these past years. The holidays brought forth lots of grief. All of the lost dreams. It’s not as doom and gloom as it sounds, well it is and isn’t.
It isn’t because I am faithful these days to a belief that all of these are threads in a tapestry of my life and all are sacred, even the more coarse fibers.
I am understanding my self better, which helps me to understand others better. I’m doing this in all areas and in past and present relationships.
It’s a softening.
Will I be thawing forever?
The answer in so many ways is a resounding yes. What’s different is the resentment. I no long resent this as much, that is becoming a holding it sacred as part of my path. Who even am I?! Oh hey heyoka. If that’s the name for a deep spiritual being that can hardly believe that’s a real thing and not some grandiose fantasy. It sounds ridiculous and self aggrandizing. We only believe what we can see and touch, because anything else never showed up.
I’m not behaving as if I’m living in a fantasy. My feet are firmly planted and I’m addressing myself and my needs and learning to communicate. I am learning. It’s not easy for me. Yep it’s not the other person, it’s me, just as much. Humble pie. I own my things, and own them specifically and follow through with change however and I was always capable of that. That was always possible under the right conditions and I am not responsible for the right conditions. I made my hard decisions.
I can trust that because when push comes to shove afraid or not I act with integrity. Scared or not. That is trustworthy. So when am I going to start valuing myself in that way?! Love HER Christina, choose her. She deserves and is worthy of your love. Stop fearing her, she has always meant well and tried hard and course corrected when it has been necessary without relying on manipulation.
I never relied on manipulation. When I recognized that’s what I was doing I owned it and changed and had empathy for those hurt.
Empathy without boundaries is self destruction. Yes it is. Never again. Boundaries are king and everything will be as it should because those are water tight. Crystal clear boundaries she said, a therapist from another life. Able to protect even when that was a difficult balance. Crystal clear boundaries Christina.
I remember every single thing that is important to know. Not protected by a narrative, but cloaked in taking the time I need to make the decisions that are best for me and learning how to be more than a coping strategy.
Meeting myself. Falling in love, or at least like. Sometimes love can be very overwhelming.
I am observing myself in absolute shut downs and freezes and then watching what brings me back and what shuts me down further.
I have slowed down enough that I am able to be seen, only because I am seeing myself, not only in that terrible polarity of good or bad, right or wrong. But in all of the richness and complexity I deserve. Did you hear that?! Wow.
I did. And my eyes are wet.
They thaw over and over as my heart does as well.
My head is exploding I’m going to freak out! No I’m not. My adult self will take myself to the walk in later and get on some antibiotics and trust the rest. I’ve had this pain for three days. I rearranged my day to only have a 12, and 1 and moved the rest. So I can just crawl in bed and relax. I think it’s time to also take the migraine pill. I think it’s both 🙁
It’s so painful these realizations of the way I’ve seen things so backwards and tangled with my kids and how misunderstood I’ve felt, and not being able to clear those up. I can’t believe how I’ve lived like this all this time. So separate from myself and those I love and just as a harsh executioner. Reactive, ready to jump on any sign of dissension.
I was reacting to my children all the time, when I didn’t feel in control. And shocker I’m not in control of anything, but myself now. Jesus it was about time. In the immortal words of Elizabeth Gilbert. You never really had control anyway, all you had was anxiety. Yes Liz. Thank you for being a beacon when I am lost.
How I have needed to be in control for safety. I am the things I’ve accused of and I see so much more softly now. Of myself and others and the glaciers just thaw and thaw.
What will emerge ? As I no longer reside in a story or rely on the same coping mechanisms.
It’s absolutely terrifying being in a transformation. Dying over and over. Things are so clear at least and that is a relief. and there is also so much to sit with. To make friends with.
I’m fighting to trust myself. That is my biggest area of work right now. My perception, my own ability to feel my feelings in real time, rather than a year later. That the things I say and do will not hurt me let alone another. I’m juggling so many plates in the air all the time and working at being entirely different when overwhelmed.
The tool I’m employing most often is empathy and having been so far removed from my own for myself for so long I’m wondering how the new fresh oxygen will integrate: was I without it for too long? Is the damage too great?
I’m only just beginning to peel back the layers. To not use usual coping strategies and patterns. To know what is and what is not that.
My heart is opening and softening, but I’m still an anemone. At the slightest sign of danger I close up tightly and it’s frustrating feeling so emotionally handicapped. Stunted, frozen, cold.
I am going through those things, but I am not those things. This is quite possibly one of the biggest changes inside to date.
I’ve misunderstood myself so catastrophically for so long, that finding understanding now is almost unbearable. It’s unbearably different than what I am used to.
To stop misunderstanding others, my children. My SELF.
The one safe space I understand well contained into an hour long appointment with my acute and honed ability focused and objectivity at my disposal I cling tightly to my gift to keep me steady, and it does.
Then I adjust my narrative not to pathologize that somehow, and then I do that in every other area of my life.
I am naked right now.
And I’ve never been like this before. My eyes are wet again.
The breaking and building.
My bones are powder….
At least I am not a powder keg anymore.
My heart is an ocean
One of those lovely ones that are clear blue and contain no sharks. A safe ocean.
It used to be safe for others, but not for me….
That is different now. I am different now. I am soft and scared and sacred and new and old at the same time.
My head hurts so bad…..
I just want to snuggle into my covers and cry and listen to the last two hours of Evelyn Hugo. But first a bath, a rally and showtime for two hours.
My sessions deepen as I do, and as my understanding of myself does, and my forgiveness of myself….
Onward
Ps one moment of truly being seen to the core, I have found, can thaw the thickest ice. The person opens right back up and becomes present in that safety. The person so often lately doing that, is me.
I am told I am that for so many others, but I wasn’t doing that for myself. I’m so surprised when someone sees me and so used to living without it.
You gave me oxygen then removed it, over and over until I begged for an end. In the end I made it myself.
That was just the beginning, as often is with transformations. Now the integration and not knowing whether the organ will be accepted or rejected.
I’m having a rainy morning walk. I love it. I feel alive.
Found The Little Prince’s Rose this morning
I had a scary episode last night. I’ve had very little focus on any health anxiety and very few symptoms. But last night in a therapy session I was talking about my mom, and my trauma. My heart started to feel like it was stopping and flipping over, but for much longer than just one beat.
So I looked at my heart rate, it was 114 bpm. I took a few deep breaths and it immediately went to 70. My usual is a fib or palpitations but this was different. I consulted “the google” I like to call it this because it makes me feel my actual age and not my chronological one, which is around 90 years or so.
The Google says it was an SVT, maybe of course as neither of us have a PhD. I’m so grateful for no longer going down rabbit holes, but I also want to find the line of not ignoring something serious either. Sigh.
What’s indisputable is how trauma has ravaged my body. I’m angry. I’m angry!
Anger can be restorative. It restores our boundaries. It’s not to be dismissed as merely a negative emotion. A good lesson from The Language of Emotions and this past couple of years.
So I’m thinking about that girl that was plagued with terror and health symptoms. About how I understand now that’s what my body thought it had to do to get any needs met. Until it didn’t make any sense and I became discredited in my health anxiety, and had to figure out how to internalize less and ground more. Find new ways to meet my need, that didn’t require me to be sick.
This morning I was talking about how once upon a time I loved a little girl with my whole heart. That happening so naturally changed something in me. It was the beginning of some important lessons in love.
Children really are our greatest teachers.
Listening to my guy Teddy, sing about find something you can hold on to, find someone who will be there for you, because that’s all that really matters in the end. It’s hard to tell the truth when you lie to yourself, always give too much of yourself to someone else…..
Yes Teddy! That’s all that really matters in the end….
I feel alive and awake. Something that used to be a rare moment that often led me to dark places when I didn’t understand the full picture.
Now I take the time to do that. You take and make time, you don’t find it.
In my head my memoir is taking shape, as I read more, I hear more hints and glimmers of what my story will look like on the page. And why it’s important that I tell it. Made a difference to that one.
And mostly for my children because my story is also their story. A Life Itself reference.
Should I do another lap? I want to it feels so good, but it’s wet and cold, which isn’t bothering me, but I don’t need to increase my odds of getting sick. They are already high.
I need breakfast. I don’t want to interrupt this flow. Story of my life, except now I don’t drown in fear it won’t all be there when I need it.
My shattered and scattered mind. I see it more and more clearly every day. S. King would have suggested one less more there. Oh I also need to finish his book too.
I’m standing on my porch remembering. Remembering the pain all the times I tried to yell to be seen. All the days I sat here and cried and felt deeply. All the friends who were here to soothe. All the visits with my stand in father bringing groceries and unconditional consistency. I doubt he will ever know the depths of what he has meant to my story.
The difference between life and soul death is a fine line. I’ve walked it many years.
Love never goes anywhere…. It always exists as do all the moments. That’s what I’ve learned. You keep them, download them. It can be bitter sweet you aren’t able to make more, but we are all responsible for our choices.
I’m listening to the Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo and I am captured. My full attention. And let’s be honest we all know how rare that is. I’m laughing heartily on my front porch. We are friends now.
I remember an old post about can you fall in love with a house. And the answer is yes, but that girl at that time knew very little about real love. Only an idea of love. Trapped in a coping mechanism that required creating fantasies and then attempting to occupy them.
Over and over I rode that haunted roller coaster.
Now I just sit here and observe, and I DECIDE what I absorb and what I don’t let it.
I was looking in an old journal of mine, I had written those letters large DECIDE. I learned about the power of our choices and Senja Foster taught my to have crystal clear boundaries and only participate as a whole person, with another person who had done that work themselves.
I show up and I always will, and I promise myself to never believe those rotten stories about her again. It makes me sad and sick to think of my relationship with me, it was the most abusive.
I made amends to myself when I walk and it’s changing me.
And I am fucking grateful! For every single moment, even the hard and bad ones, because I can walk back through them in my mind, and because I can now see where my boundaries are.
I was borderless. My phone tried to change that to borderline how funny. That’s how that type of crazy feels. It’s not a good feeling.
I choose peace now, and I live in it, and no one can take that, and I made it out of nothing.
Fierce and loving ….
I won’t settle for anything less…. Melissa Etheridge sings. That’s the energy I was writing the last few minutes in, her song Fearless Love.
I love feeling myself getting stronger. Trimming the fat in so many ways. Building self. I feel my muscles strengthening and celebrating the movement. I definitely want to stretch more though as I move forward.
On my walk this morning I am thinking about the kinds of being alone. There’s the kind where all your thoughts echo it’s so empty, and you’re at their mercy. If you want to grow you just sit with them until you understand. There are mean time’s. There’s temporary alone, when a loved on travels and it’s a short time.
There is the alone in your head that you are every single day. With your own thoughts that no one else knows. Unless you’re reading this blog 😉
There’s alone after a spouse has passed away. An empty cavern, with the crushing weight of figuring out how to re-draft every day processes. Lost.
And then there’s another kind. The kind I’m thinking about today. There’s the violent kind of being alone.
This is when you don’t expect to be alone, but you find that’s the case over and over. The kind where the words don’t match the actions. The kind that causes illness, despair, and for some people even tragedy. The kind where the dishonesty makes you feel crazy. Your mind wants to believe in the love you thought you felt. The love you were continuously sold.
The kind where the person doesn’t know how to relate in a healthy way. Lost souls. So they manipulate others to meet their need.
I’ve never been lost like that, but very close to it. I do understand. There’s never been anything wrong with my understanding.
I’m a lucky one, but I worked hard for it. So luck is probably not the right word.
Not swathed in a story, I sat in my stuff.
I sit in my stuff.
And you know what it has made me a better human being. Most importantly a better parent. With much more space and awareness for empathy for the experience of others.
A far stretch from a perfect one, but better each day.
That’s what I chose to do with that. And to only forget as much as is necessary to do my work and live a fulfilling life. But never enough to be naive like that again.
I miss that naïveté. In some ways I wish it was never taken in such a manner, but then I can’t, because I wouldn’t be here now feeling what I am.
Presence. Peace. Love. Connection.
The alone melts away and with it the anger and pain.
Love is not an emotion. It’s sturdy. It is a choice and a promise.
I’ve never been very good at the consistent aspects of love. So built for survival I am. The only moment is now. A men and black reset each day.
So I’m working on my consistency and sturdiness of self, also not an emotion. I work on them by being consistent with my every day small behaviors and choices. Those are building a solid ground inside me.
This way emotions are allowed to do their work to keep the balance between my head and my heart. To protect and serve, rather than turn against me. Karen McLaren The Language of Emotions, a Bible of mine lately. The passage love is a steadfast promise around page 120 or so.
This is literally a manual for healing trauma. I bought many copies to give to those in need this Christmas. Clients and friends alike. That and Letting Go by David Hawkins. Those are my go to sources right now.
I’ve been reading that passage in sessions, when warranted, and I get goosebumps and usually both parties tear up.
For all the pain and suffering in the world there is always the possibility of healing.
Choose
It’s a choice, not a feeling. You can’t feel better without the choice and commitment.
Now excuse me while I sit here and enjoy how my coffee tastes after the walk. It tastes better, more satisfying. And try not to fret about my baby having surgery this morning, far away. I sent her a “fever frog” from 1800 flowers. That thing is so damn cute. It sings and dances and comes with chicken soup. It was the only option that stopped me from buying a plane ticket and being there. That silly singing frog. Sigh.
Trying to care less about being cool these days and hip. Never really was in the cards anyway lol. I want to play. To help people in my presence feel lighter when they are heavy. Rather than going to their place automatically with them and then freaking out about it.
The above I’m working on a lot. As a recovering chameleon. Thinking of The Luckiest Girl Alive in this moment.
Balance
Lighter by Yung Pueblo is another good one.
I don’t want to sell anything to anyone. I want to align myself with those who prioritize their own healing and the ones that understand love is a choice and show up consistently.
My vow is that if I want this I will also be it.
I must
Good morning on this beautiful fall day! Finally a chill in the air. It’s extra delicious this year, with the warmth in my heart maintaining my temperature.
