The skeletons in my closet(s) have been rattling around so loud lately, I’m sure they can be heard outside my own head. 😊 One never knows what’s going to get them movin’ and groovin’ in there. And I’m not even sure where to start with trying to get those bones sorted out and re-assembled. My skeletons might look more like a Toy Story revision than their former selves. 😉 Of course, there is always the consideration to just toss them; but something tells me that isn’t a viable option. I have to find out why they’re occupying mental closets to begin with before eviction notices can be served; otherwise, they’ll just be back like a bad case of a recurring infection.
At one point, I thought I was dealing with two separate skeletons. And then it was conjoined twins—with enmeshed siblings—which turned into conjoined triplets with siblings—to a mass grave of skeletons (and the horrors a mass grave implies). So many factors play into this mass grave that it is near impossible to tease them apart. Just one corner alone contains quite the scene: imagine the promo pic for the film Women Talking (making Oscar buzz right now) of the cast of characters (in “traditional” Mennonite attire) sitting on bales in a barn. Now add Marilyn Monroe, Jane Fonda, and Sally Field to the conversation they are having. That’s kinda what it’s been like in my head lately. Hence, I had to expand the skeleton crew to more than conjoined twins. 😉 Just Marilyn and her pals take up a whole closet! While on the subject of films, I highly recommend the documentary on Netflix called This Changes Everything which contributed greatly to this process.
Now my challenge is figuring out what to share with you about the process of skeleton identification and reassembly. I feel a bit like a forensics anthropologist—and not everything that goes into the report is needed by the detectives, journalists, or grieving family. There is also still such a thing as respecting privacy—my own and that of the key players—who, even though alive, have skeletons in my closet. Some belong to truly dead people. Most are associated with my life experiences as I internalized and remember them. And I certainly remember a lot of mixed messages, confusion, and shame.
Regardless of the bones that kept surfacing and begging for identification, I knew it was more important to find out the reason they were all there. As I was dealing with what surfaced while looking at a photo of my 18-yr-old self (that is a blog unto itself), I stumbled upon the concept of mirages and what I have in common with the actresses mentioned above. I identified with Sally Field because of the cute factor (I hated being called cute—especially when I was angry. Uh oh. That hit a nerve. Guess that skeleton has a live wire yet!). However, there is much more to both of us than cuteness; and we both struggled to be taken seriously.
In my journal, I noted that it’s like people are enamoured by a mirage and demand that’s all we be, yet expect the mirage to quench a deep thirst, and are disappointed when we’re not who’ve they’ve “imaged” us to be. That’s what male attention is for me—a mirage—that appears able to quench a deep thirst—but disappears upon closer inspection. That deep thirst (yet another void I’ve tried to fill) cannot be quenched. No male’s attention/validation/approval can replace or heal the deep wounding left by a father. That was a tough realization to make.
I used to think my abandonment issues were rooted in my birth mother’s death. Now I see they partly were, but maybe reinforced by my father’s daily abandonment. And mom thought we needed a better mother! We needed a better father. ☹ I was abandoned by my father long before my mother chose to leave (for those who don’t know, she died by suicide, which I don’t begrudge her if her horrific mental prison was anything like mine). She felt abandoned by my father, too. And her parents, her church, her sisters. Like me, I’m certain she experienced so much shame. I feel my mother’s pain, as well as my own, because it is in me on a cellular level. I have had to heal her wounding as well as my own thanks to generational trauma.
Unbeknownst to me, I have been searching my entire life for my dad—who was metaphorically never involved to begin with, but physically around. My dad is the mirage. And every bit of male attention has been similarly a mirage—just as I (like Marilyn, Jane, and Sally) have been a mirage to many males. But the mirage is not my True Self (my core, my divine spark or breath of life). I have spent my life chasing mirages as well as being one—and thinking there was something wrong with me rather than the perception—a trick of the eye and atmosphere.
A mirage is an illusion—it can’t satisfy. Mirages also aren’t safe. They are actually dangerous. In chasing mirages, I missed the oasis I was searching for. So, what to do about that unquenchable thirst? (aka unmet attachment need—not sure if I’ve explained that concept in a previous blog) How do I find an oasis? In talking with a client about this, we realized she already had an oasis within herself as well as within her “chosen family”—her circle of safe people. Of course, we can’t skip the grieving process either. We have to own what we needed and didn’t get in order to let it go of the pain and to be open to the oasis that surrounds us. In a sense, “we’re already there.”
But my journey doesn’t end here. I went from the mirage as the reason for the skeletons in my closet, to thinking it was the imbalance of power, to shame. My suspicion is that the relationship between shame, power, sex, and love/attachment is the lynch pin; which is far too intricately complex for one blog, more like several chapters in my book!
Suffice to say, what most of us with unmet attachment needs crave, is to be seen and heard. To be loved and cared for. To express our needs and have them met, without shame—and not to be shamed or pressured into meeting the needs of others. This blog can be viewed as an attempt to be seen and heard without shame. Maybe it is part of my oasis?
This convoluted mess is “my book,” my life story—right from day one: attachment needs twisted into the web of power, shame, sex, and love. Imagine my surprise to find that it’s a web that keeps the skeletons in the closet. How apropos! Cobwebs and skeletons inside my spooky psyche! 😊 There is much work to be done yet in processing this mass grave of skeletons. This is just a mid point on a long journey through the desert (my apologies for the mixed metaphors, but they do lend to each other well). Hopefully I will find an oasis whenever I need refreshment—being ever mindful of the role shame plays in preventing me from quenching my thirst at a legitimate source. And as each skeleton is seen and acknowledged, maybe the associated ghosts will be able to find peace.
As a PS: I am sorry for the delay in reading and responding to comments. The program no longer sends me an email, and I forget to log in to check. As well, the program doesn’t email you to let you know when I respond. But I do love people interacting with what I write. Please keep doing so.
For this month’s blog entry and healing journey update, I have decided to go with a journal entry from earlier this month. It was rather poignant at the time; and I’m sure it will be revisited. As such, the verb tense will shift, but you’ll get the drift. In the first few days of this month, I found myself once again grieving the loss of wellness, getting stuck in the bargaining stage.
For those not familiar with the five stages of grief, which are not linear by the way but more of a spiral, they are: shock/denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. We can experience all of these in a single day or even a moment and cycle through them at various times in our lives and/or be triggered by other losses. Active grieving means spending time observing what is happening rather than fighting or ignoring it. As such, here are my observances.
In my bargaining stage, I found myself asking: What if I could work a “real job”? What if I had steady employment [aka income]? What if… and If only… My options in life would be much different. I think I have also been in the grieving stage of depression: sad that my options are so limited; feeling helpless and powerless. Abandoned.
Then Gaia [another name for Mother Earth or the Divine Feminine] reminded me that I’m not alone nor completely powerless or helpless. After all, I am part of the Great Goddess Sisterhood [a feminine reframing of the masculine Trinity Godhead]. I think I need to let that sink into my bones. What does that mean for me to be part of this Sisterhood? But I feel I’m digressing as I haven’t properly addressed the bargaining stage issues.
Obviously, there is a part of me that resists having a chronic, physical illness, let alone the mental ones. There is some piece of radical acceptance I am missing. In my mind, I cannot have a full life if I have a chronic illness, or two, or three. Now that I see that written down, I think that’s absurd! But there it is none-the-less. A self-limiting belief that I am less-than and certain aspects of life are out of reach. In some regards, yes—like mobility and energy—but that doesn’t mean “everything” is off limits. Adaptations may be required. Compromise: give a little to get a little -or- give a lot to get a lot.
Perspective. I can have a full and satisfying life. Just this morning, I was musing that I have had a good/full life. A hard life, but a good life. I have endured much to experience much. My life has not been empty or even boring! My life isn’t perfect nor idyllic; but it is pretty good. A quiet life, yet a full life. I have to remain open and hopeful and receptive to what is all yet to come…
I have to let go the “what if’s” to embrace the “what’s next.” Just because my life hasn’t followed a “normal” trajectory does not make it less meaningful or worthwhile. I was dealt a very unique hand in life—and I like to think I’ve played the hell out of it.
Watching old episodes of “Who Do You Think You Are?” has prompted me to consider the job of professional genealogist. I would have loved that! Following clues, putting pieces together, connecting the dots. Another “what if.” What if I had known about that option when I was considering careers? Maybe I could’ve had a “normal” life of a livable career. A profession that didn’t take too much out of me but could still pay the bills.
However, I did feel called to counselling. A calling is a difficult thing to resist! There is something to that. But I think genealogy would’ve been fun. Not sure what training is involved. Maybe it’s still an option? But I saw myself in rather limited ways back in the day. I did not see my options as limitless. I didn’t have exposure to all the ways we can earn a living. Life was suffering. It wasn’t meant to be fun. And then there was the silence about my birth mother. Obviously my life wasn’t meant to go any other direction than what it did. Doesn’t mean it can’t change direction now. Something to look into. Didn’t’ see that one coming! To do what I love, live within my means, and within my limitations.
I have lived my life for other people—making them happy. I have given very little consideration to what makes me happy. I think that’s what these past five years have been about. What do I want? What brings me joy? What is pleasurable for me? And I think it’s been a bit of shock for certain members of my family to not have this same dedication—to in fact have the opposite approach: I don’t care what makes you happy.
My life has been about duty, service, keeping the peace, accepting suffering, relieving the suffering of others. My life has not been about me per se—as per my indoctrination/upbringing. So, it is new for me to consider what makes me happy, what is my life all about. What do I want to do with my time, and energy, and money, and gifts, and abilities, and skills. Hmmm. That last line. My gifts, abilities, and skills. I don’t think I’ve taken ownership of them before. They’ve always been for the use and benefit of other people or systems.
…As I reflect back on what I wrote in my journal earlier this month, I am intrigued how my observance of the bargaining and depression stages of grief led to musing about what makes me happy, what brings me joy. I am still spending time with this. But I have certainly sensed an internal shift which is difficult to explain. What comes to mind is the healing journey from fragmentation of Self towards integration. I actually feel less fragmented, as weird as that may sound.
So, I am curious to find out if you have spent any time paying attention to what brings you joy. And if so, what sets your heart alight? What makes the day more bearable? What is worth exerting your precious energy? Or spending your hard-earned dollars upon? Feel free to share in the comments, or any other anecdote about becoming an Integrated Self.
Happy Trails! Or as the dogs would say, Happy Tails! 🙂
The year 2023 has had a rough start for me. My trauma triggers have been tested; and I haven’t passed with flying colours. However, this has led to a few self-realizations and a reverse validation of sorts.
I work with trauma clients on a regular basis. I see the signs in others, put puzzle pieces together, connect the dots. I introduce alternate coping strategies, mainly ones I have tried myself and found helpful.
Sometimes I forget, or minimize, or deny my own trauma as a well-worn coping mechanism. When it comes to internal work, I feel I’m pretty good at resolving trauma and healing from abuse. My weak point seems to be interpersonal.
So, how do I unravel this for you?
There was a whole Christmas family fiasco (escalated by my runaway PTSD anger) that is associated with how my new year started, but not the main feature. When I opened my front curtains January 1st, I was met by frozen egg caught in time as it oozed down my window. My amygdala did not know what to make of this. Was I targeted? Was it random? Who could be out to get me? Why would anyone do this? And so the process began to get answers to these questions. I knew I would not be able to calm my amygdala until it knew if I had made a personal enemy somehow, or it was pranksters.
When I talked with others about it (in person or online), the general response was that it was kids which proved to be true thanks to the neighbour’s security cameras. The RCMP couldn’t do anything with said footage, but at least there is a record of this activity for any future incidents. I was grateful that I hadn’t also been hit in October like a few folks online. And I wasn’t the only one whose first Google search of 2023 was how to get frozen egg off your window.
Once I had enough information, I was able to talk myself down. The most interesting part for me was seeing the impact of my trauma “full on.” The first assumption by others was that it was childish pranksters. My amygdala automatically went into high-alert danger mode. The threat was real even though there wasn’t reality to back it up. It’s first assumption was: “uh oh, I’m in trouble.”
This was the reverse validation—evidence that I have, indeed, been traumatized. There is no denying how my brain initially processed events. To make matters worse, the unfriendly dogs across the street escaped their house, while their owners have been away, and terrorized the neighbourhood. Just another in a bizarre series of unfortunate events. Due to their antics, the better footage of the eggers was erased from the neighbour’s motion-sensor dash cam. Dogs were eventually contained, but I think it was three or four days of “gong show.” In amongst the dog drama, an emaciated stray with a sweetheart personality met me when I was walking home from downtown. He greeted everyone who came by, evidently in need of attention.
Another lesson. I wanted to let the dog into my porch (he came right up to the door, practically rang the bell), yet felt I needed to defer to the male in the house. By the time he got outside, the stray had run off; and wouldn’t you know it, the dangerous dogs got out again. I felt immense guilt for not helping a fellow creature in dire need. Why didn’t I simply invite the dog inside when I entered my porch? Why did I feel the need to check first? It’s my house. I can invite whomever I want inside. Just because all the other neighbours who also saw the dog didn’t do anything doesn’t mean I had to follow suit.
Then, just yesterday, there was communication confusion with an established client (meaning they weren’t new and “impressionable”) due to time zone differences and my brain fog (it wasn’t a good Chronic Fatigue day). My sense of failure/guilt has been immense and disproportionate to the circumstances. It would appear I have lost my ability to give myself permission to disappoint others.
It would also seem that my first (repeat) recovery lesson of 2023 is self-forgiveness. Strange given the meditations/journalling I completed last summer/fall on the subject. It’s one thing to forgive yourself for unmet childhood needs and long-ago choices. It’s quite another to forgive yourself for disappointing others (animals or people) in the here-and-now.
I think on some level, my subconscious is stuck in trauma mode from Christmas. After the fiasco, my brain went into “uh oh, I’m in trouble” mode; and it took awhile to realize nothing bad was actually going to happen. Or more accurately, my latent “I’m in trouble” mode surfaces as an automatic response to (potential) trauma triggers. It has become my working theory that we can never truly reprogram our trauma brains, only learn to manage it better. The fiasco at Christmas also removed a veil to the reality of damaging patterns. Almost an ah-ha moment of “no wonder I _______ all the time.”
I just finished watching a TV series that ended up being about simulations; and it occurred to me, I wish the trauma brain was a simulation. A simple reset, and off we go again. But reality check says trauma is real and that ‘inconsiderate’ people are real. We can’t avoid pain by living in an alternate reality (although some of us do try). Being human means experiencing suffering whether in a simulation or real life. There is no reset button. The best I can do is reset my thinking until the next trigger; and hope that one day it won’t be necessary anymore. In the meantime, the goal is to get better at resets.
This leads me back to what I chose as a framework for my blog entries for 2023. It is my intention that I will provide monthly updates on my own healing journey. I realize that there has always been an element of this in my blog entries; but this year, I plan to be more mindful of it. The hope is that something I experience along my healing journey will be offered as a breadcrumb for your own.
