So
often I read and listen to other people's voices – what do they
say, think, feel? Do other
people feel what I feel? Think like I think? I lived with so much
invalidation that I thought I was crazy. People were angry but told
me they weren't. I felt hurt and sad, but I was told I shouldn't be (it
was the “you're too sensitive” line). I was scared but was told
there was nothing to be afraid of (oh, were they soooo wrong!). It's
as if I lived in a world where the reality that I experienced was
the opposite of the world of everyone else. Like Pleasantville – wasn't that the
movie where Jim Carey lived in a bubble town and was basically
brainwashed but had a sense that something was awry? Yeah, that's it
except my experience was far from pleasant. But the brainwashing –
up is down, right is wrong, forwards is backwards, hurt is pleasure,
pleasure is bad, caring for my own needs is selfish, caring for those
who were supposed to be the caregivers is my job – that I know
well. I grieve that it has taken – and still takes – so long to
see clearly. Sometimes I just get so tired of fighting and it's
easier to believe the lies.
So
I walk around asking others if I am okay. You know, loveable,
wanted, accepted, desired, worthy. The irony is that as long as I
give my power away by asking everyone else that question the answer
is no. But when I stop to sit with myself and listen to what I
think, feel, want and need, I find that indeed, I am okay. I am
loved and I am loveable (okay, so I don't have this settled in my
soul, but I have experienced being loved and delighted in enough that
I can hold onto those experiences to remind me what's true). I have
deep brokenness and wounds that paralyze me more often than I'd like.
And I am self-righteous, proud and angry. Yet when I sit with
others in the stories of their lives, I'm also compassionate, passionate and humble
(if you can claim humility at all, then I have a teeny bit in that I am a little willing
to receive and learn from others). It is true of me that I am
willing to have open heart surgery on a fairly regular basis...if you
know what I mean. The kind of surgery that peels off the layers of
gunk to get to the real heart – the one God gave me – not the one
I've so meticulously crafted.
But
mostly I'm afraid to let you see me – both the mess and the glory.
The power I give others to reject me – define me and tell me I'm
worthy of love – is tremendous. I'd like to say after so many
years of therapy, a few healing prayer conferences, and countless
books on healing trauma that I am further along on this journey of
self-acceptance, of standing firmly in my own skin with the knowledge
that I am deeply, profoundly loved. But I'm not where I want to be.
They say awareness is the first step...I say great, let's move on to
living it! Neither is patience one of my virtues – yet! Having
compassion on myself does not come easily – I tend to whip myself
like horse trainers who know no other way to get a horse to move.
But whipping a horse only breeds fear – not cooperation, not
choice, not love. I fear even now as I write that anyone who reads
these words will see right through me, judge me, criticize me, or
perhaps even worse, evoke my shame by calling me
sweetie, hon (OMG I HATE that one!), or some other name that comes
across dismissively. The truth is that I'm terrified of being vulnerable. Being
vulnerable – especially with my heart, my voice – has so often
meant being alone, not responded to (definitely not delighted in),
and therefore, ashamed...there must be something wrong with me that
no one is paying attention to me. Right? Hmmm...WRONG! My
boundaries were so often violated as a child and young person that I
am still learning what's appropriate to share and what's not. I'm
still learning what feels good to me and what doesn't. And in this I
am vulnerable and I can feel shame oh so quickly. It's like I take
my clothes off and I'm standing there in my bra and underwear and
you're fully clothed looking at me with shock and horror. Only I
didn't know that I took off my clothes. Or that taking off my
clothes is inappropriate. Or maybe it's just that I don't know what
it feels like to be clothed and connected. Connection so often meant being violated, enmeshed,
overridden. And I long for true connection – life giving,
honoring, respectful, mutual – open hearts and honest feelings with
other human beings. I was made for that.
At
the same time that I write these words speaking of my fear of vulnerability, of being seen, exposed, of being found less than and unloveable, I can tell you that the only reason
I can write it is because I have experienced profound acceptance from
my husband and a few dear friends along the way. They have loved me,
seen me, delighted in me, encouraged me, told me the truth, wept with
me, laughed with me, held up mirrors to me. They have been my family
– a safe place to fall and occasionally jump with joy (oh, I want more of this!). I have taken off my clothes with them –
been vulnerable and writhing in my shame – and they have gently
covered me with the warmth of gracious love and acceptance. Without
these ones who have loved me, I couldn't tell you the truth about me
– I'd still believe the lies.
The truth of me for now is that I hold all of these experiences - and sometimes I live out of the lack and other times I live out of the abundance of love. More often scarcity and her lies still prevail, but I've felt a new wind blowing since we moved to Asheville.
I sign off with these words that stir hope in my soul from the song
Beautiful Things by Gungor:
"You make beautiful things out of the dust.
You make beautiful things out of us.
You make me new. You are making me new."
Out of the dust she rises,
Kristie
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