I'm really looking forward to meeting with my therapist tomorrow. (Never thought I'd say that.) I haven't made as much progress this week as I would have liked but I'm still here. I'm still trying. That counts. I can't weed out all the dandelions in one go.
I'm also looking forward to my Mom's visit for Christmas. Remember when I was scared? It's still new and new is often scary. But the genuine love and concern from my Mom is a life jacket when I'm lost at sea.
I still want to run. I still want to hide. Wish the pain away instead of leaning into it. I've tried it. Doesn't work so well. I end up crumpled in front of the fireplace waiting for a miracle.
I do see miracles all around me.
I am blessed beyond my capacity to truly comprehend.
And yet.
I yearn for something more. I know in the 12 step groups one of the biggest things is letting things go. Letting Go and Letting God. Recognizing what I can control and what I cannot. I find that it is easy to say and very hard to do. If I let go what if I get hurt again?
To which I hear Wolf from The 10th Kingdom say, "Well, maybe you won't get hurt. But, huff-puff, you won't get loved either."
It's been a long day. And I am grateful, SO grateful, for new friends I have found along this way.
Sorry there's not much more to the post. I don't have much to offer at the moment.
This is my reality.
Doughty means "marked by fearless resolution". Daffodils are a favorite of mine. Cheery. Bright. Welcoming.
Showing posts with label mom. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mom. Show all posts
Thursday, December 12, 2013
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
Little Man Complex
Revelation comes line upon line as we are ready for it.
That is what the negative tape in my head has been saying for... I don't know, my whole life? I don't think I can pinpoint why I feel this way. Maybe it's a second born thing. There's not an experience that sticks out in my mind that says, "YES! That's it! The root of my shame and self-loathing." There are particular experiences over the years that stand out in reaffirming my own belief, unbeknownst to anyone involved. But for a long time I remember feeling this way.
Mind you, as a child I was bubbly. Happy. Always smiling. People remember me as a jovial, carefree child. I do remember being happy and care free. But I don't know if I learned to wear the mask well as a child or if that was a skill acquired later in life to hide my pain from people who might hurt me further.
Being a teen was rough, as it often is. My family life was flipped when my parents divorced. I never felt accepted among the kids at church, except for the rare few who are still precious friends to this day. So I hung out with people who accepted me. I showed them the real, raw, broken me and they held me close and loved me anyway. It always saddens me to think that we've somewhat parted ways but I will always treasure the genuine feedback and support I received from them. My relationship with my Dad fell apart (what was left to fall apart) when my parents divorced and he quickly remarried. It was messy. For years. It's better now, but mostly because I have come to accept it for what it is, not that much has changed over the years. Some, yes, but not much. There are so many incidents that come to mind in my broken relationship with my Dad that reinforced my mentality that I was inferior, lesser. Wounded, I would return to the safety of my Mom's house (or just her voice) and she would tell me what my core knew: I am worthy and worth loving. I am important. I belong. That's not to paint my Mom as a saint and my Dad as a devil but more often than not Mom was safe and Dad was not, emotionally.
When I was a junior in high school (parents split the summer before) my Dad remarried. The mom of one of my friends then became my stepmom. We weren't very close but had been when we were younger. Did you ever dream of your parents marrying your best friend's parents so you could be sisters? I did. Parent Trap. Thanks Disney. Reality didn't work like that for us. It became a forced blending of families and none of us were allowed to have any opinions contrary to what the parents had decided. Or we would be met with huge amounts of guilt. And more infusions of "I am not worthy. I am inferior." I never felt like I had a right to say anything at church because our family wasn't one of the "old" families of First Ward. I didn't have an in with the ones who were. We were friends, but only superficially. We were poor. Talk about feeling "I am not worthy. I am inferior." Society chalks that one up to a given, except for the few who fought and worked their tails off and didn't believe that nonsense to make something of themselves. But I was not one of them.
College was an interesting time. I felt some of this negativity early on, but I also learned that I was worthy. I could do great things. I could do hard things. This confidence is probably part of what my husband was attracted to (I hope.) I had my moments of self doubt. "Does he really like me?" which I think are normal. I decided that he did and I was thrilled. The rest is history, as they say. I do find that old enemy around though. Driving, I always think other people are judging me of how I drive. (Why are we so critical of people's driving anyway?) I find myself giving in to this thinking more often than I realized. Lately it's been worse with coming to grips with the massive amounts of pain I have been avoiding. I'm hurt. Raw. Bleeding. I don't show many for fear that they'll stick their fingers in the wound or point out that it's oozing and infected (like I didn't already know). I hide. I don't think many of my inlaws even know many of my real opinions on things because I'm so afraid of the rejection or talking behind my back (as they often do about others so why not me) that I either shut up or find myself agreeing with them because (I think) they think I am unworthy of holding my own opinion that might be contrary to their own.
My inner voice tells me not to believe that "I am not worthy. I am inferior." My inner voice says that's bullschnit. It's hard to hear sometimes. That inner voice. She's getting stronger though. And now that I recognize the faulty thinking maybe I can break past it. Thank heaven's for Addo. What a beautiful blessing. (One of the lessons brought all this to the forefront.)
As the wonderful, Brene Brown points out, "I am worthy of love and belonging."
And the great Dr. Skinner reminds, "I am good. I am strong and I have much to offer."
And from dear Scabs, "I am brave."
And one altered from What About Bob, "I am good. I am great. I am wonderful."
I sure hope having it here in written form will help me remember.
I'm not worthy. I am inferior.
That is what the negative tape in my head has been saying for... I don't know, my whole life? I don't think I can pinpoint why I feel this way. Maybe it's a second born thing. There's not an experience that sticks out in my mind that says, "YES! That's it! The root of my shame and self-loathing." There are particular experiences over the years that stand out in reaffirming my own belief, unbeknownst to anyone involved. But for a long time I remember feeling this way.
Mind you, as a child I was bubbly. Happy. Always smiling. People remember me as a jovial, carefree child. I do remember being happy and care free. But I don't know if I learned to wear the mask well as a child or if that was a skill acquired later in life to hide my pain from people who might hurt me further.
Being a teen was rough, as it often is. My family life was flipped when my parents divorced. I never felt accepted among the kids at church, except for the rare few who are still precious friends to this day. So I hung out with people who accepted me. I showed them the real, raw, broken me and they held me close and loved me anyway. It always saddens me to think that we've somewhat parted ways but I will always treasure the genuine feedback and support I received from them. My relationship with my Dad fell apart (what was left to fall apart) when my parents divorced and he quickly remarried. It was messy. For years. It's better now, but mostly because I have come to accept it for what it is, not that much has changed over the years. Some, yes, but not much. There are so many incidents that come to mind in my broken relationship with my Dad that reinforced my mentality that I was inferior, lesser. Wounded, I would return to the safety of my Mom's house (or just her voice) and she would tell me what my core knew: I am worthy and worth loving. I am important. I belong. That's not to paint my Mom as a saint and my Dad as a devil but more often than not Mom was safe and Dad was not, emotionally.
When I was a junior in high school (parents split the summer before) my Dad remarried. The mom of one of my friends then became my stepmom. We weren't very close but had been when we were younger. Did you ever dream of your parents marrying your best friend's parents so you could be sisters? I did. Parent Trap. Thanks Disney. Reality didn't work like that for us. It became a forced blending of families and none of us were allowed to have any opinions contrary to what the parents had decided. Or we would be met with huge amounts of guilt. And more infusions of "I am not worthy. I am inferior." I never felt like I had a right to say anything at church because our family wasn't one of the "old" families of First Ward. I didn't have an in with the ones who were. We were friends, but only superficially. We were poor. Talk about feeling "I am not worthy. I am inferior." Society chalks that one up to a given, except for the few who fought and worked their tails off and didn't believe that nonsense to make something of themselves. But I was not one of them.
College was an interesting time. I felt some of this negativity early on, but I also learned that I was worthy. I could do great things. I could do hard things. This confidence is probably part of what my husband was attracted to (I hope.) I had my moments of self doubt. "Does he really like me?" which I think are normal. I decided that he did and I was thrilled. The rest is history, as they say. I do find that old enemy around though. Driving, I always think other people are judging me of how I drive. (Why are we so critical of people's driving anyway?) I find myself giving in to this thinking more often than I realized. Lately it's been worse with coming to grips with the massive amounts of pain I have been avoiding. I'm hurt. Raw. Bleeding. I don't show many for fear that they'll stick their fingers in the wound or point out that it's oozing and infected (like I didn't already know). I hide. I don't think many of my inlaws even know many of my real opinions on things because I'm so afraid of the rejection or talking behind my back (as they often do about others so why not me) that I either shut up or find myself agreeing with them because (I think) they think I am unworthy of holding my own opinion that might be contrary to their own.
My inner voice tells me not to believe that "I am not worthy. I am inferior." My inner voice says that's bullschnit. It's hard to hear sometimes. That inner voice. She's getting stronger though. And now that I recognize the faulty thinking maybe I can break past it. Thank heaven's for Addo. What a beautiful blessing. (One of the lessons brought all this to the forefront.)
As the wonderful, Brene Brown points out, "I am worthy of love and belonging."
And the great Dr. Skinner reminds, "I am good. I am strong and I have much to offer."
And from dear Scabs, "I am brave."
And one altered from What About Bob, "I am good. I am great. I am wonderful."
I sure hope having it here in written form will help me remember.
Monday, October 14, 2013
Hearts in a Mailbox
My heart is on paper in a mailbox waiting.
Just waiting.
To be opened.
To be read.
To be splashed on by the tears of my mother.
My mom. Who doesn't know. Not yet.
And I'm scared. And anxious. And sad.
So my heart is in a mailbox and my bum is on pins and needles.
Waiting.
Waiting.
It's very uncomfortable.
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
Soul Showers
Pitter patter of raindrops on leaves and the roof. Crack of thunder. Cool breeze flowing through the open window. The rumble of the thunderstorm outside my window seems to match my thoughts lately. I keep thinking about all of the things that I have to work on, to figure out. Maybe the rain will cleanse my canvas and help to erase my mistakes. This rainfall is an answer to prayer in our drought stricken land. Maybe my own storm is the answer to my pleas for help and healing.
The rain fills our reservoir. Hopefully we will have enough to sustain further hard times. In the middle of my own drought I have depleted my own source of nourishment. My soul reservoir has been low for a while now. I could use this storm to help replenish me.
I am trying to walk the line of being true to myself while being scared that if I am truly myself I will be rejected. My mom always tells me to feel the fear and do it anyway. Sometimes that's the hardest thing to do.
The rain fills our reservoir. Hopefully we will have enough to sustain further hard times. In the middle of my own drought I have depleted my own source of nourishment. My soul reservoir has been low for a while now. I could use this storm to help replenish me.
I am trying to walk the line of being true to myself while being scared that if I am truly myself I will be rejected. My mom always tells me to feel the fear and do it anyway. Sometimes that's the hardest thing to do.
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
The Monster Under My Bed
Yellow walls. Pink and purple and yellow bedspread. White dressers covered with Lisa Frank stickers. If one is fun, why not two hundred? My red haired cabbage patch doll, Tina sitting with my blankie on my pillow. A whole corner full of bears from my teddy bear themed birthday party when I was 9. But no monsters. When I was little I never thought there was a monster under my bed. I didn't buy into it. It couldn't fit in there with all my clothes/toys/junk shoved under there in the guise of cleaning my bedroom.
But there is a monster I live with now. No, no. Not my husband. He's anything but a monster. This one is sinister and tricky and mean. She bullies me day in, day out, no matter what I do. She nags. In the worst way. Nothing is good enough for her. I certainly am not- and she has no qualms about telling me exactly what I'm doing wrong (everything).
Anytime I put the baby (toddler now really) down for a nap I hear her.
"Why can't you be good enough to play with him? At the very least find a spot in your house where he can play and not get hurt."
"It's not my fault," I argue back, "He gets into EVERYTHING no matter what I do."
"Yeah, but if you were a better mom, he'd be a better behaved child."
When the kids tell me, yet again, that they are hungry despite eating a meal not an hour and a half ago she barges in.
"If you'd fed them more a nutritious meal with lots of choices they wouldn't be grumpy about the food you made that they didn't like and wouldn't eat and then they wouldn't be hungry now."
"And if I had a chef they could have whatever they want. As it is I have limited resources and limited patience for cooking. They should just eat what I make them if they are really hungry. They've never truly known what it is to starve."
"But you should buy more of the foods they like- or go more out of your way to create fun meals and disguise the things they don't like."
When I was a kid my mom suffered from depression. I would find her on her bed or in her room crying again. She told me it wasn't anything I did, she was just sad. I wanted to help her. I wanted her to help me. I knew one thing for sure. I did NOT want to end up like her. She doesn't struggle with depression anymore. Her life is stable but she also doesn't have kids to take care of day in and day out. My littlest sister is 21. Now I'm in Mom's shoes from twenty years ago and I'm scared. I struggle to get out of bed- but I do it. I don't want to be like she was. I feed my children because that is my responsibility. They are not gourmet. They are not cute. But no one in our home goes hungry. I don't want to ask for help because that is admitting I have a problem and even if I do- I'll find a way out.
That's what I tell myself anyway.
Meanwhile the monster tells me, "You're worthless. Give up. They'd be better with a numb drugged up Mom on Prozac or Celexa than the angry/sad mom they have now."
Monsters are real. I didn't realize they don't haunt children- they wait to prey on the grownups.
But there is a monster I live with now. No, no. Not my husband. He's anything but a monster. This one is sinister and tricky and mean. She bullies me day in, day out, no matter what I do. She nags. In the worst way. Nothing is good enough for her. I certainly am not- and she has no qualms about telling me exactly what I'm doing wrong (everything).
Anytime I put the baby (toddler now really) down for a nap I hear her.
"Why can't you be good enough to play with him? At the very least find a spot in your house where he can play and not get hurt."
"It's not my fault," I argue back, "He gets into EVERYTHING no matter what I do."
"Yeah, but if you were a better mom, he'd be a better behaved child."
When the kids tell me, yet again, that they are hungry despite eating a meal not an hour and a half ago she barges in.
"If you'd fed them more a nutritious meal with lots of choices they wouldn't be grumpy about the food you made that they didn't like and wouldn't eat and then they wouldn't be hungry now."
"And if I had a chef they could have whatever they want. As it is I have limited resources and limited patience for cooking. They should just eat what I make them if they are really hungry. They've never truly known what it is to starve."
"But you should buy more of the foods they like- or go more out of your way to create fun meals and disguise the things they don't like."
When I was a kid my mom suffered from depression. I would find her on her bed or in her room crying again. She told me it wasn't anything I did, she was just sad. I wanted to help her. I wanted her to help me. I knew one thing for sure. I did NOT want to end up like her. She doesn't struggle with depression anymore. Her life is stable but she also doesn't have kids to take care of day in and day out. My littlest sister is 21. Now I'm in Mom's shoes from twenty years ago and I'm scared. I struggle to get out of bed- but I do it. I don't want to be like she was. I feed my children because that is my responsibility. They are not gourmet. They are not cute. But no one in our home goes hungry. I don't want to ask for help because that is admitting I have a problem and even if I do- I'll find a way out.
That's what I tell myself anyway.
Meanwhile the monster tells me, "You're worthless. Give up. They'd be better with a numb drugged up Mom on Prozac or Celexa than the angry/sad mom they have now."
Monsters are real. I didn't realize they don't haunt children- they wait to prey on the grownups.
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