Babadook

 I felt the familiar shame settle on me.  I circled it before deciding to take it on.  But when I did, it fit well. Like it had never been taken off.  The old people pleaser in me had rebelled and it was uncomfortable.  Shame was soothing this discomfort.

The dichotomies of my personality are subtly inappropriate.  I love social gatherings, but only in short spurts.  I love to be around others because they fascinate me, but I tire quickly of having to interact.  I'm opinionated and can't help but be confrontational, but I'm also overly concerned about disappointing people.  I'm impulsive and make decisions from my gut, but I overthink them until I have justified my behavior.  I'm recklessly logical and logically carefree.  Sigh.

 I have been the unhealthy, people pleasing version of myself most of my life.    I desperately needed people to tell me what to do ... even if I didn't listen, and mostly I didn't, I was desperate for their input. 

We all settled into our roles over the years.  Rebekah was the unhealthy, sick person in need of others' wisdom and care, and they were the strong ones who were always more "together".

But eventually, the gig is up.  And you realize that you are the only YOU in the world.  And you must make decisions that suit YOU.  Because other people's shoes just don't fit right.

I have shouldered a lot of shame about who I was most of my life.  Nothing is more of a buzzkill than shame.  It creates doubt when there should be none. It nurtures guilt and secrets.  Shame single-handedly dictates decisions and leaves the vessel marred and wounded.

My bestie sent me a podcast that she knew I would eat up.  Brene Brown was answering the question of how to handle shame in your children.  I have one who functions from a place of shame and one who is oblivious to it.  Her answer was to normalize failure and discomfort.  I love this.

Humans are the epitome of failure.  We're not supposed to get it right 100% of the time.  We are wired to need others to fill in where we are weak.  For some reason we continuously fight this.  But this should be our greatest accomplishment.  We need others and there is nothing more beautiful than connection with another human.  

But instead of celebrating our deficiencies, we shame them into submission.  Instead of proudly airing our imperfections, we hide them in the basement.  Like the Babadook.

Thankfully, old age is weeding out the inauthentic.  I no longer have the patience to pretend to be someone else. Nor do I have the time to feed the beast in the basement.

Love Yourself? How 'bout TOLERATE, Linda.

I stared at myself in the mirror, examining every wrinkle, every pore, every fat cell.   The differences between my body ten years ago and now screaming at me.  The counter littered with anti-aging, weight loss, and other and hopeful cosmetics stared intently at me.  A huge sigh escaped from my once wrinkle-free mouth.

I am aging.

It's easy to buy into the "love yourself regardless of what you look like" slogan when you somewhat LIKE your physical appearance.  But what about those of us who TOLERATE our physical appearance?  What about those of us who have to constantly throw clothing in "hopeful" bins or just throw them in the trash with a flick of the middle finger because they no longer fit and the chances of actually fitting. Into. Them. Ever. is like being woken with a kiss from a deep sleep surrounded by wood animals and dwarves by a hot prince who happens to also be your true love when you're 18 and you're set for life.

The scale shows a number I never thought I'd see.  And there are days when I weigh myself, and the horror of the result doesn't quite settle on me.  I just accept it like I do every other mundane detail.

Until I have a day where I drink only water and green tea, eat one meal, and still the damn thing hasn't moved.  (Perhaps it was the vodka/soda I consumed but we're ignoring that for now).  I flip my favorite finger at the inanimate object and go about my morning routine.  Seething.

I went to the doctor to discuss this weight gain that has settled on me in the past year.  I did all sorts of blood tests.  I was determined to find a culprit other than my eating/drinking habits.  Though there were signs that perhaps physically my body is not metabolizing the way it should, I also got the speech about how much I ate and was told to seek the help of Weight Watchers.

On my way home, with my amazing boyfriend who treats my health as his own, I downloaded the WW app and started perusing my new, hopeful task.  

By the second day, the app was deleted and I was disgusted.

Apparently, the way to lose weight by staying within your "point" range  is to eat only spinach and drink water.

No thank you, Linda.  I live with an amazing chef.  And I happen to like food.  Call me weird.

So now the trick in my newfound body is to achieve feeling beautiful by doing things that don't involve aging.  Or weight.  Cuz being in a bikini invokes a gag reflex.

I'll let you know when my personal love needle starts to creep out of the "TOLERATE" range.

Pain - Storm or Sunshine?

The wind blew around me.  My body was sore from sitting on the dirt road.  The sun enveloped me in what should have been a welcome embrace.  But my mood didn't match the weather.  It should have been storming.

I let the tears fall.  I let my body respond without reserve.  I was racked with sobs and something resembling hiccups.  I got in my car to drive, to hide from my happy family.  I had to pull over because the road was blurry and treacherous in my state.  My broken heart no longer sat silent.

This.  This is what so many avoid.  This is what alcohol covers up and food silences.  This painful emotion that the world runs from.

It will eventually find you.

When I was in trauma counseling after the near death of my son, one of the exercises was to experience the trauma in your "safe place".  The idea is to allow your brain to unlock the hidden pain in the place where you are free from hindrances and fear.  A place where you can be fully yourself and fully accepted.  My safe place has always been my parents' living room.  Regardless of what house they are in, country or city, this is where I feel most safe.

During this quarantine, I have been in my safe place.  For 5+ weeks, I have let my soul rest and heal.  The deep anxiety that I have with me so heavily in New Orleans is on retreat.  Here, I am safe.

But there is no place safe from pain in this life.  It will find you.  Even if you're in your "safe place."

True self-discovery comes only when you allow yourself to feel your pain.  To fully submerge yourself in the stickiness of the grief until your fingers are all pruney...that's when the truth of who you are emerges.

I have spent the years since my divorce on guard.  I have had multiple superficial relationships with men that walked beside me for a brief time.  They were satisfied with the little I gave them.  They didn't require me to be vulnerable.  They only wanted someone to enjoy their free time with.  And that suited me just fine because I did not want to experience any more pain.

But my most recent relationship was different.  He saw through my tough exterior.  He pushed until I opened up.  He saw the side of me that very few have seen.  And eventually I became vulnerable.  The tough girl sat on the bench.

And homegirl cried.  Openly.  Ugly.  Frequently.  I cried.

I didn't love this new side of me.  I fought with her often.  I've equated vulnerability with weakness for as long as I can remember, so this show of tenderness was not a welcome party.  I wanted to tie her up and stash her away in a closet.

But once you've experienced vulnerability in relationship, you are not satisfied with small talk ever again.

So maybe instead of running from the vulnerability, it is smarter to embrace it.  And eventually the storm that we used to equate with pain becomes the sunlight.


https://youtu.be/i1HkUf0tXLU

A 7 yr. old in a 29 yr. old's body

https://youtu.be/X-7K2ElrI4o

"Just because you have an excuse for your behavior, it doesn't erase the fact that you behaved badly." I said to my 7 yr. old.  He was justifying why he threw a fit when he was told no.

I flashed back to the previous day where my boyfriend and I had a similar discussion.  I was explaining my behavior to him, and he responded with a disinterest in hearing my justification.

"I am not justifying it.  I am merely explaining it.  I understand that what I did was wrong."  I said, annoyed.

He loves it when I tell him he's right.

People always have reasons behind their actions.  We behave in certain ways because of a multitude of pre-programmed responses.  We get hurt when someone says a trigger word.  We lash out when someone presses on our insecurities.  We shut down when our fear kicks in.  The current situation perhaps has nothing to do with how these first became a part of our emotional make-up, but we still respond as if it is the original trespass.

And there are always consequences to our behavior.

The most infuriating part to me, as an incredibly (often uncomfortably so) direct person is when I am misunderstood.  I am emotionally repressed (sigh), so my logical brain is usually in control.  I can explain all of my behaviors...whether they are right or not.  And am usually greeted with a curiosity that I can foster into understanding.

Those who don't know me, however, don't have my endless explanations for my behavior.  They, rightly so, have only the action to base their judgement on.

Actions speak louder than words...as I have been known to say often.

As a Type 8 on the Enneagram, I am quick to think that emotions are stupid.  I act quickly and from my gut without taking time to think about how something makes me feel.  It takes me quite a while to acknowledge my feelings.  It takes me quite a while to even admit I have them.  But one of my besties is a Type 2 on the Enneagram.  She's a feeler.  So my lack of emotional knowledge is an enjoyable challenge for her.  She pushes me out of my area of comfortability from the land of action and into the vulnerable land of feeling.  This is thoroughly uncomfortable for me.  If I didn't trust and respect her, this exercise would be one in futility and angst.  And we likely would not be friends for long.

My intellectual mind knows that emotions are crucial.   I have read enough solid research to know that emotions are the landscape behind our actions.  They drive what we say and do.  To resist understanding them is to resist growth.  Because emotions are great deceivers.  They are masters at keeping us unhealthy.

And everyone's emotional lies are different.

(Side Note: I had to google "List of Emotions" ... this is how emotionally retarded I am.)

My Emotion:  Sadness
My Lie:  I am unloveable.

My Emotion:  Anger
My Lie:  I am helpless.

My Emotion:  Fear
My Lie:  I am alone.

 My Emotion:  Disgust
My Lie:  I am better than you.

If I did not grow past reacting to my unknown emotion, I would behave as my 7 yr. old did.  I would throw an adult tantrum and refuse to stop screaming.

Though this may sound tempting as an adult to just let it all hang out, it is a behavior that would not entice people to hang around you.  The emotional lies that you have told yourself will manifest and you would indeed end up being unloveable, helpless, alone, and arrogant.

So as much as it pains me to say, I am finding it necessary to pay attention to my emotion.  Without acknowledging them, I am a 7 yr. old in the body of a 29 yr. old.

You. Are. Good. So, So, So Good.

Purpose yourself to become perfect at failing.  
So you can remember that you are never actually any of your own names.  
So you can remember that you are free.  
You are no more and no less 
than every single one of your rebirths, 
and you can't be afraid to light it all on fire. 
-- Jamie Lee Finch

I listened with intensity.  My palms started sweating.  My heart beat a bit faster.  Warmth enveloped me.  Every word she spoke landed in a place I hadn't nurtured for fear of total obliteration.

But she spoke them.  And I was home.

Being a Southern Baptist has never sat right with me.  The narrowness of the ideals, the convoluted messages, the judgment of ourselves and others was something I could not sign up for.  I always felt disconnected and estranged.  I was living something I did not believe.  But my questions remained dormant.

Enter Nadia Bolz-Weber.  My friend introduced her to me. Little did she know she had just started a nuclear war in my soul.

From the time I was little, I was told I was a sinner.  I was given the message loud and clear that I was inherently bad and needed to confess repeatedly for my shortcomings.  I was told the world was lost, save our small religious group.  I was encouraged to witness to my "lost" friends.  I memorized scripture.  I prayed without ceasing.  I denied myself.  By all accounts, I was a Christian who was saved from the fiery furnace because I prayed the Sinner's Prayer.  I had this under lock.

I married a man who "became a Christian" while we were dating.  That box was checked, so surely our marriage would be wonderful.  When he slept on the couch the night of our honeymoon and I cried myself to sleep, the nagging feeling that I had made a grave error became my companion.  For three long years I read the Bible.  I wept.  I memorized scripture.  I read books about being a Christian wife.  I did Bible Studies about being a virtuous woman.

And filled my journals with anguish.

I prayed consistently that God would give me a clear sign...that I was to stay or I was to go.  I lived in limbo for three years until one morning I woke up and clearly saw that the door was open.  I walked through it and shot up my middle finger to the words in the Bible that some saw fit to repeat to me...

"God hates divorce."

Being a twice divorced daughter of a Southern Baptist preacher who got pregnant with my beautiful boy out of wedlock is a hilarious combination.  Not only was I a woman, but now I was divorced.  My chances of rising in leadership in my church were pathetically fantastical.  So I took my sad, scorned soul and sat in the back.  Mostly seething.

Nadia opened the box of the dormant questions.  They flooded my soul and carried away all my maddeningly damaging narratives.  How radically life changing would it have been for me had I been given the message that I was inherently good from the beginning?  How life changing it would have been if I had been told that I didn't need a Savior to make me good...I only needed a Savior to save me from the false story I told myself...that I was bad, broken, incomplete, crippled, damaged, flawed, unlovable, lacking, feeble. 

The truth is..

You are good.   You have always been good.  Right from the beginning.  
And I'm sorry if anyone told you otherwise.
This breath, these hands, those feet, that smile, those ears, that heart, this heart, this beating heart, this breath...it's good.  It's all good.  So so so good.
You are loved.  You are so loved.  You are lovable.  
You have been working so hard.  I don't have to know how to know that it's true.
You are precious.  You are not a mistake.
You are very on purpose.
You are not broken.  You never were.
I'm sorry that you might've thought that.
I'm sorry anyone made you think that.
That wasn't about you.  
But you, you are enough.
You are totally enough.
You don't have to earn your enoughness.
You don't have to grovel for value, for love, for goodness.
You already have it.
You already are it.
You are loved.
You. Are. Loved.
And you ... you are good.  So, so good.
Hilary McBride
The Liturgist Podcast