May 28, 2017

Constantly being consumed by my emotions. Unexpected moments, taken by my thoughts. On a massage table, at the end of a movie; just one thought that leads to another.  An overwhelming since of regret or disappointment.  A fear of who I almost became. I fear of not being as strong as I want to be. A guilt. A battered woman’s mentality. Settling into a life that would be picturesque on the outside, and filled with daily grief. Grief, of the woman I could have been.  Guilt that I wasn’t strong enough to stand up for myself. Disappointment at speaking what should be done, but living a life that I would have questioned in someone else.  I need to forgive myself for this chapter and continue moving forward.

It’s hard to grieve something that doesn’t leave a mark.  It’s not tangible. It’s the same issue with my dad, relived as a 30 year old adult. Someone who should have known better.  Being slowly shoved into a box. Walking on eggshells. The feeling that nothing is ever enough.  Moving in bed causes you a lack of a good night sleep. Missing a turn leads to a lack of efficiency and an unappreciated view of the importance of time.  I was slowly chipping away. I finally decided to open my heart to someone and I chose a man just like my dad.  How the hell does that happen?

The good news is I will not, under any circumstances, lose my voice again.  I have learned what I want, bare bones. I know what I can live with and without. Even as I write “the good news is”, I question if I would allow that same behavior.  Growing up the way I did, I always promised myself that I would be strong. I would speak up. I would walk away. I would do all the things I wish I could have done when I was little.  I never would have thought that I would succumb to a lesser version of self, and perhaps more importantly, be so willing to do life that way.

I have lived my whole life trying to overcome the sadness, fear, shame of my childhood with my dad. In a lot of ways, my relationship with him was the reminder, a rekindling of my childhood wounds in the worst way.

The first sign was early  – the night of the Christmas party. It was our first real night out as a new couple.  It was the perfect evening, until it wasn’t. A sudden burst of rage. Unexpected, unexplainable. Yet he apologized, I ignored it or tried to pretend it would be a one time thing. Certainly a man with such grace, let alone rank, could manage emotion.

I have always been seeking unconditional love. The kind of love I learned from my mom. No matter what I did, I knew my mom always had my back. My mom has always been my knight and shining armor; my light when the world seemed dark. She was the one I called when I was frightened of my dad.  She was my angel – the woman who saved me.  It’s hard to wrap my mind around the fear of a little kid. I wasn’t hurt and many, unfortunately, have pasts so much worse than mine. I think that’s why I’ve never dealt with it.  The denial. The idea that it could be worse doesn’t make the behavior okay, and certainly doesn’t minimize the impact of the pain and fear.

As a little kid, I feared my dad. I feared of the day that the rage overcame him and the escalation of the behavior.  I remember the day he hit me in the head with a brush because my hair was too knotty. It was that day that the idea of physical abuse became a true threat. I lived on egg shells trying to be the perfect daughter and then here I was again, trying to be the perfect girlfriend.  Exhausting.

Rationalizing. Taking blame. It’s my fault my dad exploded. It was my fault that he exploded. Certainly I knew that wasn’t the case, yet I still tried to manage the behavior. I tried doing things differently to ensure it didn’t happen again. Then when it did, I felt like I wasn’t doing it well enough. I wasn’t good enough.  I knew on a level I wasn’t to blame. His outrage is his issue. YET I found myself trying to be the rescuer, a better partner to help in not get to that place. Ridiculous.

My only “unconditional love” friend has been Tara.  She lives her life as an open book, or at least more than I do, which is something I’ve always admired. Because she was open with me, I knew I could be open with her. She’s the person that knows me, my secrets. She knows the inner workings of my heart.  I am grateful for her in ways that she’ll never quite understand. She allows me to be who I am – demons, mistakes and all.  It’s a lot easier to live life with someone like that in your corner. Yet within that unconditional love, I still share the narrative I want.

I have come to accept that I haven’t lived a fully open, honest, genuine life, ever. I have been vulnerable to a point, and then that’s it. Audra pointed this out to me when we were in the UK, I think driving through the hills of Scotland. It was hilarious because I’ve always known my limits. I would speak to certain things all day, but not others. Audra was the first person that I think genuinely tried (or perhaps that I allowed in enough) to break a barrier, and overtime she has helped me become a more open person, not only with her but with myself.  This doesn’t mean I plan to be open to everyone. I’m trying to actually shut this down. I have my core, which has always felt like a larger group of people.  It is now 3 and then layers from there.

Stepping away from your typical/daily life certainly brings forth moments of reflection. I left for 70+ days and now am coming home with the ability to rebuild.

I left my job, my apartment, boyfriend, and friends behind. I could come back, or not. I have full authority to make the same choices or entirely different ones.  I know this is a rare opportunity and I’m not willing to go back to the life I left.  It seems radical and some may find it unjust. Some will feel like casualties of this change and I have to accept that it’s okay. I have to do what’s best for me and take care of this life for me.