Monday, October 17, 2016

What is your source of information?

"I'm afraid I'm going to flunk out of university," my daughter confessed to me, her face masked by the darkness but her voice shaking. She lay in her bed and I sat beside her. She's home for her fall reading week, sick with strep throat, sick with worry.
Her grades have been great so far, even with her clinical anxiety acting up, even with her doctor weaning her off her anti-anxiety meds because they're not doing the job. Even with moving to a huge new city, two hours from home, from family, from friends, from everything that's familiar.
"What is your source of information," a friend used to ask the newly sober poet and memoirist Mary Karr, whenever she confided some fear that she was a failure, a fraud, not worth anyone's love or affection.
How many of us ask ourselves that question when we're awake in bed at 3 a.m. telling ourselves stories about how superior the Other Woman was sexually, or how much prettier she was, or smarter. Do we ask ourselves that when we imagine our husband and the Other Woman/Women laughing at our ignorance of the affair? Do we ask ourselves that when we freeze socially, convinced that everyone around us is secretly rolling their eyes at us?
I didn't. I believed every soul-destroying lie I told myself.
What is your source of information?
It's tricky ground. Betrayal creates enormous doubt in ourselves, in our ability to judge for ourselves what's safe, who can be trusted. But even as we begin to doubt our judgement, we nonetheless believe every conspiracy theory we tell ourselves.
What is your source of information?
If it's you and it casts you in an unforgiving light, then don't believe a word of it.
If it's you and it's based on the midnight wanderings of a battle-weary brain, don't believe a word of it.
If it's you and it leads only to self-doubt, self-blame and shame, then don't believe a word of it.
If your friends would look at you as if you were crazy for believing it, don't. If you're afraid to say it out loud because you know it would sound crazy, then don't believe it.
What is your source of information?
If your response is, "I thought it up", know what to do with it.

Thursday, October 13, 2016

The story of your pain

"Blessed are they who just aren't ready to be 'over it yet'," Nadia Bolz-Weber spoke from the pulpit. The stand-up comic-turned-pastor and author was offering up her list of blessings, which also included "blessed is the teenage girl who wonders how, again, she's going to cover the new cuts on her arms" and "blessed are the addicts", from the front of a dazzling Episcopal church in Michigan.
Her blessing stopped me.
"Blessed are they who just aren't ready to be 'over it yet'."
What a difference, huh?
What a difference from our usual response. The exasperation. The eye-rolling. The gritted teeth, fist-clenched frustration with those – including, especially, ourselves – who just 'aren't over it yet'.
Pain makes us horribly uncomfortable. So we try to make it go away by finding the right words. Reading the right book. Hitting on the right response. Discovering the magical solution that makes the pain dissolve.
And so we read. And we run. And we downward dog. And we write. And we treat ourselves to pedicures and new shoes. And we pour ourselves another glass of wine.
And it works.
And then it doesn't.
The pain is still there.
We're not 'over it yet'.
So we chastise ourselves. Or we believe others when they chastise us. "It's been six months," we/they say. "It's been three years."
Aren't you over it yet? 
What's wrong with you?
"Blessed are they who just aren't ready to be 'over it yet'."
Nothing. There is nothing 'wrong' with you.
You're not 'over it yet' because you're not over it yet.
Bolz-Weber isn't speaking about an unwillingness to be 'over it.' She's speaking to an unreadiness. The wound is deep. Healing will happen in layers. Layers over layers over layers of mercy. 
Your pain isn't a tumour to be removed. It is a message written on our hearts. It tells a story. And right now, that story is still unfolding. Right now, you're not 'over it yet'.
I'm not 'over it yet'. I don't ever anticipate being 'over it'.
I am past it. The worst of it, anyway.
But the story of my pain is still visible on my heart. It's visible when I learn about another one of us cast into this club we never wanted to be a part of. It's audible when I speak the words "me too" into another ear. It's visceral when I pull someone into a hug, when I look into her eyes and see the story of pain on her heart.
It's different now, my pain. The story on my heart is still written there but the edges aren't so sharp. It reads more like poetry now.
And it tells about a woman who was shattered by betrayal. A woman who, guided and supported by other women, found the strength to get back on her feet. A woman who refused to 'get over it' on anyone's schedule but her own. Who trusted her own heart, over time, to lead the way.
It's a story of you too. And it's not over.

Wednesday, October 5, 2016

Wednesday Word Hug

by Victoria Safford
Our mission is to plant ourselves at the gates of Hope—
Not the prudent gates of Optimism,
Which are somewhat narrower.
Not the stalwart, boring gates of Common Sense;
Nor the strident gates of Self-Righteousness,
Which creak on shrill and angry hinges
Nor the cheerful, flimsy garden gate of
“Everything is gonna’ be all right.”
But a different, sometimes lonely place,
The place of truth-telling,
About your own soul first of all and its condition.
The place of resistance and defiance,
The piece of ground from which you see the world
Both as it is and as it could be
As it will be;
The place from which you glimpse not only struggle,
But the joy of the struggle.
And we stand there, all of us, beckoning and calling,
Telling people what we are seeing
Asking people what they see.

Monday, October 3, 2016

Shame on Me? Not Anymore.

Shame strengthens our identity with our most harmful relationships because we believe we have something to hide and it is always what remains hidden that has the strongest hold over our lives. ~Wendy Strgar, Good Clean Love

So there's this serial adulterer in the news who has decided it's clever strategy to attack the wife of another serial adulterer for being an "enabler" of her husband's affairs and being "too stupid" to even realize the affairs were going on.
I don't know about you but my shame sensor is going off big-time. Because, really, what is this guy saying that we don't say to ourselves? And if I hadn't done a whole lotta work over the past decade to challenge my shame, I just might be swallowing this bullshit whole. Instead I'm able to recognize misogyny with a hefty dose of delusion.
In other words...nope. Not buying it. 
Not anymore.
Thing is, too many of us do.
We believe that smart women don't get blindsided like we did. We think that women who are able to "please their man" don't get cheated on. We believe that strong women throw him out. That men cheat when they're not getting it at home, that women must know on some level what's happening, that true feminists don't ever disparage the Other Woman, not even in a private e-mail to a dear friend.
Shame of those of us who get cheated on. Shame on those of us who didn't know. Shame on those of us who give our marriages another chance.
Shame. Shame. Shame.
Nope. Not buying it. Not anymore.
Shame is toxic. Shame is that sinister whisper at 3 a.m. that we let ourselves get too fat. It's that stomach-clench when we imagine how much sexier she must have been than us. How much more fun. How they must have laughed at our ignorance, our blithe conviction that, no, he wouldn't do that. 
Shame keeps us small and quiet. It keeps us – and our pain – hidden. 
It lies. 
The way out of shame is to tell our stories. Here. In our journals. To our most trusted friends. To ourselves. Tell our stories over and over again. Not the lies about how we should have known. Not the lies about our weight or our age or our depression or our career or...or...or.... That's not why he cheated. 
He cheated because he was broken somewhere deep inside and he didn't know how to heal himself. He cheated because it's easier to find something new and shiny to distract ourselves than it is to feel old and dull. He cheated because our culture encourages us to discard what isn't working rather than fix it. He cheated for any number of reasons, none of which are that there's something wrong with us. 
That's shame talking. 
Pull shame out of the shadows and examine it. It will likely look pretty pathetic in the cold light of day. It will sound like your mother or a teacher or a coach or whomever else in your life convinced you that you weren't enough. It will look like a culture that says beautiful women don't get cheated on. It will echo like a sexist old man who cheats on his wives as he discards each for the next and blames them for his empty soul. 
Nope. Don't buy it. 
Not anymore. 

Thursday, September 29, 2016

Therapy isn't always from a therapist

My friend Jamie found rebirth in the water. As her marriage fell apart in the wake of her husband's affair, she swam. And in the pool, with rhythmic strokes, she found herself again, along with the strength to walk away.
Scabs, who hosts the Love Rice podcasts, found it playing with her dogs. Tossing a ball, watching them leap and run, tails wagging, tongues hanging, she tapped into a dormant joy that gave her the strength to keep fighting for herself.
Others of you have written of running, of yoga, of shooting hoops, of writing and knitting. Of healing by rediscovering something that we love, that nourishes us, that reminds us that we are not what he did.
Longtime BWC sisters know that I'm a huge fan of therapy. I can't imagine how I would have walked out of the darkness without my therapist helping me navigate my way. But therapy isn't always what happens inside of office walls. And sometimes, walking away from a therapist who isn't helping us, who seems to have his or her own agenda, is the wisest choice we can make.
We know what's best for ourselves. Even when we think we don't. It's there, sometimes so deeply buried that we'll have to dig.
But it's there. And sometimes we can access it in the swimming pool. Or on the running path. Or with the click, click, click of knitting needles as background music.


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