My Story Is Not My Own

Though I have a draw, dare I say a calling, to talk about things I don't actually want to talk about, I'm still hesitant.  I've been bold, I've revealed secrets, I've been raw, but I'm holding back.  You see my story isn't my own.  My story, all of our stories, have other characters.  I'm facing that to speak my truth means talking about experiences others don't want shared.  This story isn't only about me.  

I'm the villain in other people's stories.  Though if they said the awful thing I did, I can fully justify it (to myself) that I had good reason for my actions.  But to tell about the bad people in my life, or at least poor responses and actions, means opening it up for them to speak about me. It's fair.  Am I prepared for the ramifications of sharing the stories where it's not all about me?

I hate confrontation.  I despise conflict.  No, I don't want to talk about it.  Though the real bottom line is I don't want to hurt anyone.  With the exceptions of a few evil monsters along the way, I'm not looking for retaliation.  What I say may bring embarrassment to others.  Would you want your worst mistakes told out loud?  

Now though all this is the complete truth there is one big thing I'm not saying: I fear critique.  The internet is a hard core place where people can hide behind a computer or phone and rip you to shreds.  I fully own I'm too insecure to face that kind of ridicule. Or worse...laughter.  

So just don't say anything, right?  But it's eating me up.  I'm no savior but I know I have important, and awful, experiences that someone needs to hear.  I have what...30-40 years left at best?  I don't believe in an after life, so why do I care?  Perhaps only the writers, creatives and empaths will understand....I need to say it.  

Scarcity

I realized a made a big financial mistake today.  The short version is I thought I was contributing to an HSA but it was an FSA (use it or lose it) and I missed the deadline and lost quite a bit of money.  OK, no one died, I'm fine but my fears of not having enough, not making it and survival are spinning out of control. Lesson learned, and it won't matter in the end, but it was my mistake.  My Mistake.  My Fault.  My Screw Up.  If you've read even a few of my posts you'll know that I'll get near ill at anything I don't do perfectly (which is pretty much everything).  

I won't say I grew up poor; we had food, clothing and vacations, but there was a scarcity mentality.  My father acted like we could be desolate at any moment and frequently said so.  There was never a comforting, "You don't need to worry because your parents will take care of you."  Money was something to be worried about and feared.  Once my parents divorced when I was 15 we were flat out poor  No new school clothes and cream of chicken soup with noodles every night for dinner.  I once stole a bra from JC Penneys because I knew my mother didn't have the money to get me a new one.  I came home sobbing and begging forgiveness to Jesus saying "What else could I do???". 

From then on life was about hustle.  I knew no one was going to take care of me and I was on my own.  I can't recall the last time I worked only 1 job.  My near constant thought was "What will happen to me if I don't have enough?"  And enough of what?  Money?  Food?  Clothes?  Shelter?  Any of it, all of it, even the unseen and unknown.  What bad thing might happen to me and would I be prepared to handle it?  

This lead to a life of a scarcity mindset.  I remember once trying to choose between a pretty sweater I loved and some cheap t-shirts on clearance.  I had the concern that if there was a war that I would need t-shirts to work in a machine shop and the beautiful sweater would be of no use.  Was a fucking war eminent?  NO!  Yet somehow I was in terror that I might not be properly attired to be Rosie the Riveter.  Anxiety doesn't always make sense.  I bought the cheap t-shirts.

I've had the overwhelming desire to get rid of all the shit I don't use.  Marie Kondo the hell out of my place.  Now while being a big task this is much more about the petrifying fear it will bring.  The shame of all the things I purchased and never used.  The breath stopping panic that I might get rid of something I'll need later and then won't have the means to get another.  

Back to my mistake.  Again, I'm fine but it was a doozie.  I'm livid at myself.  Not allowing myself any grace here.  But maybe, in going with my commitment to allow hope for a year, just maybe I can be OK.  

Exposure

ex·po·sure

/ikˈspōZHər/

noun

1. 1.

   the state of being exposed to contact with something.

   
   
2. 2.

   the revelation of an identity or fact, especially one that is concealed or likely to arouse disapproval.

This may be my rawest post to date if I can walk through the fires of fear and allow myself to get burned.  I can no longer be stagnant.  I need to keep moving through growth, through pain and through disappointment.  I know I'll never reach the other side, whatever that may be, but I need to keep looking in that direction.  Brutal self honesty is my only hope.  I fear who will leave in the process.  I worry about others not being able to take it.  But my movement towards peace in my life journey is more important than the thoughts and opinions of the weak. Was that a little judgey?  Yep.  And if weakness gives you happiness and joy then please revel in it.  But know that I'm not your people.

One of my greatest fears is being forced to expose information about myself that's not on my terms.  I've written before about how I overshare to avoid vulnerability, and use performances in the same way, to give you the illusion I've said a lot when it's all a diversion tactic.  Opening up and sharing intimate details about myself, my fears, my insecurities, things I've done; has been used against me many times.  Even with those closest to me, who love me unconditionally (yeah, there's a few), I still fear there is some dealbreaker lurking, so I need to be careful about what I say.  I don't like being laughed at unless I'm telling the joke with myself as the punchline.  I don't like the feeling that someone has something on me.  I want to be in control of everything about me. 

Yet I'm not in control at all.  This past week I came home to a note on my door saying I had to get rid of my cat, Teddy, because it was against the rules to have pets. Now being the hyper vigilant freak that I am, I of course had read the rules.  Reread them and it said cats were allowed.  I called the board president, who left the note on my door, and started a rant about what the rules said.  What we ultimately figured out is that when I bought my place they gave me the rules for the wrong condo.  The building next to me allows cats and mine does not.  Of course if I could prove Teddy was my emotional support animal I could keep him.  It would mean having my doctor fill out a form stating my diagnosis, why I need him, and then the board has to approve or deny.  The board president hates me and has spent the last year and a half ready to pounce if I breathe wrong.  She truly does it with glee.  I consider her my arch enemy and now I have to let her know my shit in order to keep my cat.  Fuck.  

So my doctor filled out their form (which had questionable language) and my therapist is writing a letter.  I feel confident I'll be approved and a back up plan (big ass lawsuit) is in place if they dare deny me.  But now strangers get to know I have PTSD.  That bitch who can't stand me gets to know where I am weak.  I didn't want this and I can't even speak for myself as it calls for "professional opinion".  It's making me ill.  No control.

Lots of people have PTSD so what's the big deal, right?  It's not the diagnosis but more all the reasons I have PTSD. I work so hard to maintain this facade of being powerful and unshakable.  I don't want anyone know how to get to me.  While I work hard, intensely responsible, and have my shit together....keeping control of this information feels vital to survival.  

I'm pretty certain that my path is actually all about exposure.  I know and believe that if I can allow true vulnerability, and see that another can hold my trauma and still stay, that I could truly heal.  I know I have experiences that others need to hear.  I believe someone needs to hear the goriest of details of my worst shame so they can find their way out too.  I was given this big ass mouth for a reason.  (And nobody had better dare say "everything happens for a reason" or I'll cut you).  I need to be able to expose myself with my head held high and not shaking with terror.  I'm close.

“I was going to die, sooner or later, whether or not I had even spoken myself. My silences had not protected me. Your silences will not protect you.... What are the words you do not yet have? What are the tyrannies you swallow day by day and attempt to make your own, until you will sicken and die of them, still in silence? We have been socialized to respect fear more than our own need for language.

Next time, ask: What's the worst that will happen? Then push yourself a little further than you dare. Once you start to speak, people will yell at you. They will interrupt you, put you down and suggest it's personal. And the world won't end.

And the speaking will get easier and easier. And you will find you have discovered your own vision, which you may never have realized you had. And at last you'll know with surpassing certainty that only one thing is more frightening than speaking your truth. And that is not speaking.”

― Audre Lorde

I Get Derailed Easily

I get derailed easily and fast.  Relatively minor events can send me into a tailspin that spirals me into a dark and lonely place.  Small moments send me back to terrible times and I make associations with the present and past that do not exist.  

I've been looking for a cat for a few months.  I adore cats, and due to my ex-husband hating them, I've been without a cat for many years.  I'm also late 40's, and single AF, so cat lady felt appropriate. I really wanted a black cat.  And I found my perfect little panther named Vixen.  She was shiny black with sparkling blue eyes.  I submitted to adopt her and a home visit was planned.  I started looking at pink cat beds and towers.  I planned where her play area would be.  I dreamed up the Facebook post I would do about her.  I believed I would get her any day. 

The day before the home visit I received a text saying my kitty, Vixen, had been adopted by someone else.  I was never given a heads up that others were in the running before me and I could lose her.  I started out angry but this morphed into hurt.  Friends were trying to comfort me sending me cat pictures of other adoptable cats.  It was just a cat, right?  Yet losing this cat got bigger in my head.  The cat became every major loss I'd experienced.  Not getting her became every situation where I crumbled from disappointment.  "Why?" turned into "Why me?" which descended into "Why is it always me?"  Loneliness overtook me.  I shut off the lights, took a scalding bath, and sobbed for a loss of something I never had.

When this kind of spiral happens it amplifies anything in my life I see as off or wrong.  Headlight out, drain in the bathroom sink is messed up, taxes aren't together, medical procedure I'm scared about. None of these are life-ending things.  Life fucks up every day and these are truly minor inconveniences.  Yet my nervous system was in full survival mode.  Logic couldn't override the feelings.

I know I do this, and I know what experiences happened in my past to trigger these responses.  Awareness helps as I take active steps to pull it together instead of allowing a free fall into despair.  I get exasperated at myself that these "everything is awful" feelings still spring up.  Yet I can't control them.  I can manage them but I haven't found a way to make the thoughts not happen.

Maybe my hope of being a person that can shrug things off and smile is fully unrealistic.  Would any ESFJ, Leo, Type A, PTSD person ever think the glass is half full?  I'm a realist.  Perhaps I can get to a place where I'm content to have the glass at all and not feeling like it's almost empty and I'm dying of thirst.  

Will I ever be healed?

“healing comes in waves, and I'm allowed to feel every rise and every fall of my tide.” ~ Alexandra Elle

Will I ever be healed?  Or perhaps the question is really; will I ever not be broken?  At the end of yoga class today, lying on my mat, I started to cry.  I felt old trauma coming up, issues I've dealt with repeatedly over the years, yet at that moment they were as fresh as when they happened.  This occurs frequently when processing your past, especially a past with a shit ton of nightmares, but it comes in waves.  No two waves are the same in the ocean and it's the same for healing from memories that come back.  Yes, same old fucking issue but taken from a new vantage point, a place of greater strength, a more supportive time.  

I'm not the person I was when these painful instances happened.  I'm new daily.  I'm stronger than I've ever been and see nothing but power on my horizon.  Power over my future, power over my voice, power over who I surround myself with....yet power over the memories, that can bitch slap you out of nowhere, still feels impossible for me to escape.  I've done the therapy, I've done the hard work, but some things run so deep through my soul, truly the core of all I am, that I fear I'll never fully have freedom from the pain.

My yoga teacher spoke about fear in a pose and looking for the escape plan.  I can only feel so much before anxiety and agony overwhelm me and I run for some perceived safety.  On good days I go to yoga, meditate, call a friend, write and get outside a breath.  Good days.  But most days aren't good days.  I also online shop, waste hours on Facebook, drink too much wine, smoke too much weed and stuff myself with sugar.  Don't get worried, my shit is together.  I'm known far and wide for my high level of responsibility.  Yet looking out my window, alone, once I've taken care of the day's tasks, it all comes rushing back.  

As I've said before, I know my words heal.  I know my vulnerability, though truly so limited right now, is what someone needs.  I'm using my suffering for good.  But I'm so pissed.  I'm livid I have to do this.  In the 80's there was a popular song by Moving Pictures called "What about me?" and I felt it was my life's song.  Still do. 

And now I'm standing on the corner, all the world's gone home
Nobody's changed, nobody's been saved
And I'm feeling cold and alone
I guess I'm lucky, I smile a lot
But sometimes I wish for more than I've got

What about me? It isn't fair
I've had enough, now I want my share
Can't you see, I want to live
But you just take more than you give

What about me?
What about me?
What about....me

I feel like I need to put focus on accepting that some things aren't repairable.  Though I can cry the tears and face the world with a smile to mask the pain; some memories will always hurt.  I'm OK though.  Perhaps being broken actually helps weed out the weak people who can't handle adversity and struggle.  Either way....I'll go on.

Finding my voice

If you've ever spent even the smallest amount of time with me, a few things become clear right away.  I'm loud, I'm funny and both of these will increase with each glass of wine I drink.  I've been told repeatedly, especially in work situations, that upon meeting me it was believed that I was intimidating and someone you wouldn't want to mess with.  All the people that have had that impression laugh hysterically once they got to know me and realize I'm actually a bit of a pushover.  My passion and intensity can make me appear angry and mean, when I'm really just expressing myself in big ways.  

All this said; I hate confrontation and rarely will tell someone "You hurt me" "Don't speak to me that way" "What you said isn't OK".  I have a deep fear that they will say something hurtful to me if I'm ever not agreeable and nice.  It's a form of self protection.  Now I will speak boldly and forcefully when I'm defending others.  Just not me.

I had a conversation with a friend recently, can't remember context, but she asked me "And what did he say when you told him you didn't like that?"  I howled laughing and said, "Have you forgotten who you are speaking to?  I didn't say a thing!"  The panic rises in me quickly at the thought of asking for what I need.  You could dare me to do just about anything and it would be easier for me than letting a person know how I need to be treated.

Sure I could therapy this into the next century; but do I really have that kind of time?  I'm so tired of being silent.  It's suffocating me.

Had a situation come up this week which challenged me to speak up.  An old boyfriend made an accusation that I said something and told a friend of mine.  What he said was a complete lie. Now most people would say let it go, silence is a statement, he's not worth it.  All good advice and initially I did nothing.  But it started eating at me.  I wanted to speak.  I wanted to say that what he did wasn't OK.  So I texted him today, and boldly said what he did was wrong and would not be tolerated.  I then blocked him on all social media as his response wasn't needed by me.  Had a panic attack for maybe and minute and then felt strength rising up in me.  I felt more mature, I felt in control and I felt free.  

So I spoke up for myself and the planet kept spinning.  You've been warned....I won't be taking shit any longer. 

Tori Amos Lyrics

Play "Silent All These Ye…" on Amazon Music

"Silent All These Years"

Excuse me but can I be you for a while
My dog won't bite if you sit real still
I got the anti-Christ in the kitchen yellin' at me again
Yeah I can hear that

Been saved again by the garbage truck
I got something to say you know
But nothing comes
Yes I know what you think of me
You never shut up
Yeah I can hear that

But what if I'm a mermaid
In these jeans of his
With her name still on it
Hey but I don't care
'Cause sometimes
I said sometimes
I hear my voice
And it's been here
Silent all these years

So you found a girl
Who thinks really deep thoughts
What's so amazing about really deep thoughts
Boy you best pray that I bleed real soon
How's that thought for you

My scream got lost in a paper cup
Do you think there's a heaven
Where the screams have gone
I got 25 bucks and a cracker
Do you think it's enough
To get us there

'Cause what if I'm a mermaid
In these jeans of his
With her name still on it
Hey but I don't care
'Cause sometimes
I said sometimes
I hear my voice
And it's been here
Silent all these...

Years go by
Will I still be waiting
For somebody else to understand
Years go by
If I'm stripped of my beauty
And the orange clouds
Raining in my head

Years go by
Will I choke on my tears
'Til finally there is nothing left
One more casualty
You know we're too easy easy easy

Well I love the way we communicate
Your eyes focus on my funny lip shape
Let's hear what you think of me now
But baby don't look up
The sky is falling

Your mother shows up in a nasty dress
And it's your turn now to stand where I stand
Everybody lookin' at you
Here take hold of my hand
Yeah I can hear them

But what if I'm a mermaid
In these jeans of yours
With her name still on it
Hey but I don't care
'Cause sometimes
I said sometimes
I hear my voice
I hear my voice
I hear my voice

And it's been here
Silent all these years
I've been here
Silent all these years

Performative Vulnerability

I was seen recently in a way I didn't want.  At a friend's house I went into one of my stories of my life and he said, "I've heard this one.  You tell it the same way every time.  It's performative vulnerability.  I know...I do it too."  FUCK!  At first I felt embarrassed and hurt, but when I dug further I realized it was actually shame (Thanks, Brene Brown!).  He was dead on accurate; as I'd said in a previous post about vulnerability, I will tell you what seems to be an overshare but it's actually calculated so you don't know what I truly feel.  

What I hated more than feeling called out (though he did it in love....sure wasn't trying to hurt me) was that I saw my father in these performances.  My father loved to tell a dramatic story, same inflection, same pauses, though sometimes enhanced through the years.  I hated these stories.  I could imitate them word for word and would eye roll each time I heard it being retold.  He would say, "Stop me if you've heard this one!" and I would immediately reply, "Stop."  When his Alzheimer's progressed, the stories seemed to be all he'd remember, so once he began a story you couldn't stop him.  I would say, "Yes, I know this one well." and he'd keep on going, sometimes even starting over.  I see my future and I'm not amused.  

What would I be without my performances? (tears are welling up typing this)  My stories make me less ordinary.  My dramatic playbacks of my life are what make some horrible things now laughable.  What I heard when he said this to me was "You are way too fucking much.  No one wants to listen to you."  I fully acknowledge that his intentions and my skewed perception of it are worlds apart.  I don't believe that's what he was saying yet the feelings remain.

Because I am too much for most people.  I'm funny.  I'm entertaining.  I'm a riot to hang out with.  But damn....could you just tone it down a few thousand notches.  And I can't do it.  I leave most every interaction I have (parties, gatherings, work events, etc...) replaying all the ways I got too loud, said too much and went too far.  I've tried.  I've tried so hard and believe it or not what you see is actually very toned down from what's going on inside.  I'm not sure this world could handle me being fully myself. Not sure I could handle it.  

Yet blunt, boisterous, loud and in your face isn't being vulnerable.  I don't trust vulnerability and I sure don't trust your ability to handle it if I exposed myself.  Even this blog, Raw Bleach, the whole point is "not toning it down", but I do.  I'm scared.  I have received numerous private messages of people telling me they've read my pieces and were moved and encouraged me not to stop.  And in those moments I do take a tiny step forward, maybe reveal a little thing, and see that I'm not abandoned.  Admitting all this is vulnerable for me.  I'm truly giving all I can right now.

Raw Bleach