Category Archives: shame

Jul14

confusion has it’s cost

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7/11, 11:01am

And so, home now with the day ahead free of obligation, I can sit here and review my week. Something I have yet to define has me feeling like something big just happened. Something life changing, just in the past 72 hours. And I know what started it: the book I am reading – Permission by Elissa Altman. Specifically, the chapter titled The Magic in the Mundane. It – she – has given me permission to be mundane.

“In the most mundane stories lie humanity. It is where the magic is, where the stories lurk, where the most stunning and affecting art is waiting to be made. It is where joy and sorrow and the absurd and the human are plaited together in a tight braid…forget perfectionism: the mundane reeks of imperfection, and that imperfection is what makes for beauty of a human sort.”

If you read the last few days posts you’ll know that I walked out on my job last Thursday. There wasn’t anything wrong or bad happening there. There wasn’t much happening there at all. I didn’t need to be there. It was a distraction from what I need to be doing. I need to be here. It has taken me 73 years, 5 months and 4 days to get here.

You may begin to see a theme running through all the posts of this week. Perhaps it will continue, but I am not about to predict the future – I still have the rest of my life ahead of me, after all.

In January of 2012 I participated in a 13 week group study of The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron. It would prompt me to start this blog. A woman I had never met before sat across from me in the circle and commented on something I had said – or maybe written – in response to one of the exercises. She exclaimed, “Oh my gosh – you’re a writer.” For some reason I thought of that today, and what it meant to me at the time. I was shocked and somewhat confused. I didn’t believe her. Until this past Thursday. Fourteen years later. Is it too late? Apparently not. I’m still here. Or perhaps I should say, I’m here now.

Elissa Altman pulled me aside last Thursday in the bookstore, in that little back tarot-card-reading-room closet. Families of tourists scurried outside the mysterious curtain that provided no privacy for my tears. She let me know quietly that, yes, my family also taught me that perfectionism was the only way to avoid shame. And she let me know that it wasn’t working. It wasn’t keeping the shame at bay. Not the grief. Not the sorrow. “Go home,” I heard her whisper.

And so I am home now. I slept all day Friday. And all night, until the nightmares woke me. This morning, Saturday, my son asked if I had been having nightmares last night. “Why, yes. Why do you ask?” “Because you were standing outside my bedroom door early this morning calling out to me for help.” I wasn’t there physically. But my spirit was.

I used to write poetry. In high school my English teacher submitted one of my poems to a student contest with The Atlantic and it was published…I guess I could say I’m a published author. But I won’t. That same year I also won my second honorable mention in The Detroit News Scholastic Art Awards. And then I left school. A couple of college teachers acknowledged my writing, encouraged me. One invited me to skip a year. But then I left school again.

Schoolwork was too difficult to maintain with a full time job and a baby and a household to run. And an abusive husband who was closer to my abusive family than I had ever been. If I were to believe them, I was crazy still and again. That pattern had begun in the very early years of my life. And it would continue until last Thursday.

I’ve lost most of my family now. Divorced more than once. I’m estranged from most of my remaining family and many well-meaning friends. I am not easy to get along with. Most perfectionists aren’t, especially the ones wallowing in the shame of unexpressed creativity.

My father was not a good man. He was funny. Creative, charming. He was brilliant but uneducated, gay in a time and culture where it was never to be revealed, or even remotely tolerated. Permission was not granted him. And he was enormously gifted as a musician. He was also married at nineteen and had 5 children by the age of 29. He would enter the family business whether he liked it or not. All of his rage would come out sideways. It always does. Of his 5 children I have fared the best, with the least damage. I am the eldest by more than 3 years, first grandchild on both sides. Not only was I adored as a young tot, but my parents addictions were not yet in full swing. The dream was still intact.

The opposite of perfect is not flawed. The opposite of perfect is free. This is not a story about what could have been. It is a report about what is becoming. A PSA of sorts, a heads up. It is a story of endless curiosity and hope and never ending love. It’s my story. Maybe some part of it is also yours. I say we tell it, no matter how long it has taken us to get here.

Jul13

unemployable

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7/11, 9:05 am

My dear fiend has been ill. I texted her yesterday and she responded to tell me she was in the ER. It’s that horrible parasitic yuk going around western Michigan right now. Kinda scary. She called me back later once she was home and feeling better, after a few hours on a gurney with IV fluids. And sick as she was, she still managed to be her usual gracious self. I admire her so for that. I am not that, especially when I am sick. Or stressed, which has been much too often lately.

She always seems to have a gift for me. Yesterday it was a great big juicy gift. Infinitely useful. I told her I was losing my wits, and she assured me I will be okay. Told me I have “hippie wits.” “What?” Did she just make that up? Yes, yes she did. How wonderful. I will always have my wits about me now; I can keep those. I’m not crazy. I’m just a hippie. Which is to say that I have solid values. Trustworthy values.

And then, just coincidently (if you believe in those) Terry Tempest Williams shows up in my feed. Talkin’ about how we – women of a certain age – have been culturally programmed to think we are crazy. Witless. For most of my life it was the most powerful word used against me as a gaslighting technique. No…no no no no…anything but crazy. Crazy people are unacceptable. Weird. Never okay. Unloveable. Broken.

But it turns out that not only are we not crazy, we are fabulous. Smart. Creative. Genius. And spectacularly alive. We are good, we are beautiful, and we are true. We are very certainly sane and we are transforming an insane world. It turns out we are the holy ordinary. Albeit, unemployable.

Jul12

the ethics of soul saving

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“Perhaps all the dragons in our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us act, just once, with beauty and courage.” – Rilke

7/11, 7:38 am.

Just once. Maybe that’s all it takes. I was at my recent workplace taking a break. Sitting in a back room, I opened the book I had been reading to the next chapter, The Magic in the Mundane. I would finish those twelve pages and pack up my things, say my goodbye as graciously as possible and leave. Sure, I’d been thinking about it, but I hadn’t realized that today would be my last day until I read about it just then. Elissa Altman was speaking to me, and I happened to be listening.

This week I will be making a series of posts here that include some longer videos. Because healing. Maybe healing requires longer videos. I can promise you one thing this week – there is a consistent theme. I am a consistent theme these days: no matter your age, there is no time to waste. Forgive me my sudden sense of urgency. It might be my age, or maybe my rebellious nature. What a good friend calls my hippie wits. I don’t care. I fucking love my hippie wits. I’m no longer explaining myself or dissecting my psyche. My reality no longer requires justification nor explanation – and neither does yours. I am giving us permission. We are a lot of things, crazy is not among them. That’s tomorrow’s conversation, however. Today we visit with Anne Lamott and Elissa Altman. Because healing.

And healing means that I am no longer treating my grief as a pathology. Grief, fear, shame..whatever. Let’s build an altar for all the angels and demons. Let’s honor it all. And then let’s burn that candle and go live.

Sep2

I don’t clean up for less.

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Okay, I admit, I am easily entertained. Although I’ve become increasingly pickier with age. Want my money, my time, my attention? That bar is high these days; it will remain so. My standards have been raised. Some people have the gall to tell me that my standards are too high. Others might say they had nowhere to go but up. However, I don’t much care what some might say anymore…

My criteria for acceptable entertainment (as well as information) has been refined, taste aside. I expect high quality in everything I take in, whether that be news, movies, television, music…or our relationship. And by quality, I mean on every level. My senses are going to be bombarded with the culture of sensationalism every day, so bring it. If I am going to watch, I want high quality cinematography. Listening? Crisp high quality sound while I’m weeding out the crap. No more perfumey candles to smell or scratchy fabrics against my skin. I’ve had to improve the quality of the food I eat if I want to be healthy – and isn’t that work these days?! Read the labels, research – and then pay more to have them leave the chemicals and the seed oils out. Even my cat deserves nothing less than the best quality food I can possibly afford.

Now in my 70’s, I’ve survived more than most people can imagine. A lifetime of narcissistic abuse and neglect, sexual abuse, physical abuse, financial abuse. I have walked through hell. I’ve watched – and felt – almost every person I’ve ever loved suffer through cancer and addiction. Now I watch my beloved child struggle from decades of absent adults, never present enough to protect him from the same ravages. My gorgeous, brilliant nieces and nephews – and their children now; living out the 4th generation of trauma. To say I have paid my dues is an understatement. The only thing I’m sorry for are all the years I wasted making compromises. Repeat after me: “All my debts are paid, seen and unseen.” And be absolutely certain of it.

Now – just now!, am I really getting to the good stuff of life. Droppin’ off the shame. I’m not made for that. Neither are you. So, no more apologies. No more begging to belong. We are everything we are meant to be.

“Be kind to me, or treat me mean. I’ll make the most of it; I’m an extraordinary machine.” – Fiona Apple

Aug24

the reframing

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“Enough is abundance to the wise.” – Euripides

Money has been tight for too long. We’re starting to atrophy over here. Not just physically (the house is falling apart,) but spiritually. Horse and cart issues…so, back to the old drawing board as the saying goes. As I want to practice living curiously, I am exploring what appears to be my poverty. It brings up paralyzing fear, especially in tandem with age and health issues. Talk about scary, wow. As I said to my physician recently: “if you are likely to become old and poor at the same time, you’d better hope you are smart.” I am certainly not alone in this conundrum. Family and friends are all coming to terms with it. It’s a reality of our time and culture now; the elimination of the middle class is almost complete. And make no mistake, the poor will not be welcomed here.

A conversation has opened among us about the shame we are feeling. Because this feels like failure. HOW did I get here? This was not the plan. And it is not for lack of working hard, or giving life and my relationships everything I possibly had to give. I want to be generous and kind; I have never wanted to give up on anyone, no matter how damaged or dysfunctional. While I’ve grown to understand it was not meant to work as I was taught to believe, I appreciate that I had to learn to be selfish. It did not come naturally. I was my codependent Mother’s child, after all. The repressed shame that came with her poverty would eventually kill her – but I loved every molecule of her just the way she was. As she used to say to me, “we’re alright, Sue – the world’s all wrong.”

And so, I will face my shame monster, look her dead in the eye, and open my heart to her. I will give her a seat at the table. We will keep the conversation going as long as need be. Meanwhile, these conversations serve to remind me that money does not define me. There is no denial here – no pretending it wouldn’t help. But my difficulties will never define me. And certainly not the difficulties of someone else’s invention.

“I decided that the most subversive, revolutionary thing I could do was to show up for my life and not be ashamed.” – Anne Lamott

What is wealth, really? What is it for? What would you do with it? What is luxury? Isn’t it all relative? As I age, I am beginning to redefine priorities that I once accepted as given. They aren’t given – they are taught. Now I question everything, and if I accept it as part of me, I accept it unconditionally.

As but one example, throughout my life many have suggested that my obsession with interior design is superficial. Oh, but it isn’t at all. It’s an art form, a genre. Your home is your altar, your inner sanctum; meant to be revered. Done as an honest expression of your spirit, it nourishes health and well being on every level.

I’m particularly drawn to the homes of artists. They are messy, like life is messy. And if you know where to look, and more importantly, how to look – homes are remarkably rich with the beauty of life. They are an endless source of color and inspiration. I used to joke that I am so grateful to have been born in the time of shelter magazines. And many magazines are now online. What a magnificent and endless resource we have at our fingertips.

And here I am, reminded that I would actually rather sit in my comfortable home and watch videos than suffer the hassle that travel has become. It seldom interests me anymore. I love my age. I love the times I live in. I love my life. It doesn’t require money to be healthy and happy. It requires attention.

“Ninety percent of success is showing up and smelling good.” – Cary Grant