In my heart, there’s a tiny fissure
Wedge your fingers, rip it open,
make me bleed
You know just what I need
My love is buried
beneath my bruised skin
and memories
of my father’s clenched fists
But it’s there
Cut me up like a pair of scissors
Hold me close and stab me
where I cannot reach
But you have to dig deep
You have to dig deep
Dig deep
DIG
The message was hidden so well, I may never be sure it was ever actually there.
I started a new job through a temp agency last November. I spend most of my shift sitting. This is in stark contrast to virtually any job I’ve ever had in my life. And there have been plenty.
My schedule at this job is consistent, as well. It was surprisingly difficult for me to get used to that. I had no idea how conditioned I was to hectic, inconsistent work environments until I started at Gater.
I come to work every day at the same time. I sit in the same chair and do the same thing. I listen to music. I’m rarely bothered by anyone, although I am sometimes asked how my day is going.
I feel respected and valued at this company. And I was terribly unprepared for how it would make me feel. It made me so uncomfortable in fact, that I started to wonder if I would be able to work the job long term.
Consistentcy, value, and respect? For me?
Thankfully, this was when life decided to heap a bit of chaos into my personal life. Topped with a dash of strangeness and perspective.
It was my first day as a full-time employee. I was awakened at 12:31 in the morning by the smell of smoke. It wasn’t heavy, but it was distinct. I walked around my apartment for a few minutes to see if I could find the source.
I was just approaching the front door when I heard yelling. Then I heard someone pounding on the neighbor’s door downstairs. I opened my door, taken aback by the thick smoke in our shared entryway.
In the span of a few seconds, everything became chaos. People were running and screaming. One of my other neighbor’s was arguing with 911 dispatch. I heard coughing, crying, and dogs barking.
Oddly, I was calm. I looked around my apartment, deciding what to take in the event everything burned to the ground. What was the most important? Out of everything I had here, what could I least afford to lose?
In the end, I walked out with a set of clothes, my car keys, and my cat. My car wasn’t starting at the time, but I needed a safe place for her. Thankfully, my mom answered the phone when I called. At least I didn’t have to stand out in the cold.
After a couple of hours, after the chaos of screams and sirens, we were allowed to go back inside. I didn’t want to miss my first real shift at my new job, so I gathered what I needed for work in the morning. By then it was around 2:30 in the morning. I called Kim and explained the situation. And with the patience and compassion that she has consistently shown me throughout our entire relationship, she gave me refuge.
I found out later that my neighbor had passed out drunk in his apartment with the stove on.
Now here’s where the strangeness comes in.
I’m sitting at my desk, four minutes into my shift. I hear one of my coworkers start a conversation with the person at the table next to him.
“Hey, did I ever tell you about the time my stepson passed out drunk in the basement and started the house on fire?”
Some people would call this a coincidence. Others would say there are no coincidences. If I’m being honest, I’m still not sure which group I fall under. I definitely think this is a strange way to start a conversation. Nevermind the fact that my neighbor had just started a fire in the basement apartment 7 hours earlier.
As I write this, it’s been 5 months. I’m still trying to wrap my mind around the timing of it all. Part of me wonders if there’s even anything there for me to wrap my mind around. Or what it could all mean.
Lucky for me, this wouldn’t be the only time I got a message from the sky.
The Laramie County Library held their annual local author celebration last week. I was both excited and nervous.
I was excited because, for the first time in 2 years, I have a new collection of poetry coming out. I worked hard to make it beautiful, and I think I did well.
And yet, that was the exact reason I was nervous. There are pieces of myself in that book that were incredibly difficult to share, much like this blog. I think humanity as a whole needs healing. I want others to know that it’s okay to talk about the events in our lives that have left us damaged.
But we can’t heal as a whole. We have to heal as individuals.
When I arrived, there was a crowd of authors at the library entrance waiting to be let in. I don’t like crowds. They make me feel like an organism. Or one salmon in a school, fighting my way upstream, searching for the place of my birth. I was once an animal driven by instinct. Now I’ve become self aware, and I don’t like it.
I’ve always had trouble making myself visible in a crowd. When I was in the cult, being visible meant being different. Being different often meant being in the wrong.
It’s impossible not to be visible when you’re expected to go door-to-door on Saturday mornings.
I took 15 copies of my books to the author celebration. I left with 13, having sold 2 copies to my grandmother. I felt disappointed, of course. But to wallow in my own self-pity isn’t who I choose to be anymore. I have a journey. I have a story. I just need to figure out how to tell it.
Once the event was over, I left the library. I went to a bookstore with a handful of books and marketing materials. I asked the owner if he would let me leave a few of my books with him.
“Sure,” he said, taking the poster I had printed at Fedex. It was a 12×17 with the upcoming book cover and release date. He turned to face the sales counter.
“Let’s put it here up front.”
I was a bit surprised at first. I had dropped off materials only once before, and they had been relegated to a bookshelf near the back. It confused me, but I was willing to accept his kindness without any questions.
“I wanted to thank you,” he said.
My brow furrowed. Why would the owner of a bookstore want to thank an author whose books didn’t sell?
“You used to work a drive-thru window,” he continued. “My dad would come through every two weeks with the same coupon. You liked to joke around and call him your ‘arch nemesis.’”
I instantly knew who he was talking about but had no idea they were related. He was using the past tense. I knew where he was headed, and I wasn’t ready for it.
“He passed away a month ago. Thank you for always being so nice to him.”
He didn’t cry. His voice never cracked or wavered. He just looked me dead in the eye, calmly, and said the words he wanted to say.
It’s strange to me, the way events are sometimes returned to me. To be honest, I hadn’t thought about his father since the day I quit that job. From my perspective, he was one of many. A nice man, never disrespectful. And yet, he never did or said anything memorable. He was at my drive thru window for just a few minutes every other week.
It was different for him and his son. I won’t speculate as to how, because I don’t know what their lives were like outside of that twice-monthly interaction. I don’t know how they were treated by anyone besides me.
You can affect someone’s life drastically without ever realizing it. I’m sure I’ve done so a thousand times without knowing, because the Universe didn’t return it to me.
My sales at the author celebration were dismal. I lost my job two days after. My car broke down a week later.
The closer I look at my life, the less coincidence I see. What I see is a design with purpose. Although I hesitate to give it a label.
I’m sure we don’t all feel that way. There was a time I didn’t, either.
But the more I look, the more I notice.
Maybe it would help us all to take a look.
Image by Christa Regina from Pixabay
A strange thing happened to me on the way to my grave…
I began to heal. But the truth is, I don’t really have any idea where it’s coming from. In fact, for most of my life, I didn’t even know I needed healing. I was just a broken shell walking around, trying in vain to hold myself together, without realizing it.
Here’s the thing about my healing. First, I had to learn that I was broken. Then I had to understand that it was OKAY.
It’s okay to break once in a while. Break down and cry. Break apart and curse. Scream. Fall to pieces.
It took time for me. It’s still taking time. I finally realized it was okay to be broken. After that, I had to come to a belief that 1) I could heal, and 2) that I deserved to.
That was tough. Telling myself that I deserved to be happy, that I deserved love, and that all those people from my childhood were wrong.
But I also had to forgive them, and myself, for being broken, too. The only way I could do this was to show my broken self to somebody who was less broken than me. I had to lay out all my broken thoughts and beliefs.
And I had to be open to the possibility that they could do better than I had.
Forgiveness is by far the most difficult part. Nevertheless, I don’t think we can truly start to heal unless we can focus on our wounds, rather than the things that caused them.
If you forever curse the blade, you will forever bleed.
Go ahead and be broken for a while. Go through your process of grief. Or abandonment. Or whatever it is that you’re going through.
And take 👏 your 👏 time 👏 my fellow human.
Never STAY broken. Whoever or whatever has put you in this place of sadness. Don’t let it become who you are. You absolutely deserve to heal.
If no one else has told you they love you today, I love you. And I believe you will make it out of the darkness.
Image by Pietro Merola from Pixabay
I have an answer for today’s writing prompt, but it isn’t the one I expected.
”Tell us one thing you hope people say about you.”
Growing up, people said a lot of things about me. Much of it was behind my back. I was a shy, awkward child who belonged to one of those offshoot, crackpot religions. You know, the ones that like to knock on your front door or try to stop you on the sidewalk. I was never comfortable with my religion, but I was a child and I was stuck.
My father was abusive, to say the least. Between him and my religion, I was programmed fairly well. Help them. Serve them. Conform to them. I wasn’t supposed to think for myself. My father and my religion told me what to do.
Throughout my process of growing from child to man-child, I learned much about how to keep others happy. I measured most of my self worth by the feedback and acceptance of others, particularly those people I valued.
I did this to the point where I couldn’t really tell who I was anymore. I had no idea where I was at in life, or what I actually wanted. I was without direction. I was unable to love myself.
I cared WAY too much about what other people said about me.
It went beyond that, still. I cared what they thought. I played tapes in my head of what I thought they thought. Quick, casual interactions with strangers would turn into huge events in my head, and soon I would know, without any shred of doubt, that this person (or that person) thought I was a creep because I said hi weird.
Then of course I discovered alcohol, and for years I did my best to drown it all out*.
That worked until it didn’t. But I kept doing it. I did it because it was what I knew. I did it until someone finally came into my life who was patient enough to show me there was something better, and that I was good enough to have it.
Or maybe I was simply ready to listen, and she just happened to walk into my life at the right time. I suspect the real answer doesn’t matter so much as the healing itself.
Part of my healing process is learning to put less of my self worth on what people think or say about me. It involves getting back in touch with myself, listening to myself, and above all learning to love myself.
What do I hope you say about me? Not a damn thing. I just hope you can read my words and be inspired.
* Please read 002 – I’m a Survivor, I’m Gonna Make It (And So Are You) for more on substance abuse.
Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay
I decided I’m going to
Sell all of my belongings
And move to Japan
So I can live in
One of those
Micro-apartments
That they show on YouTube
Where the kitchens are so small
They can barely hold
A hot plate
And a mini fridge
And the bed is
Little more than
A cupboard with a ladder
What a joy it would be
To stand on my
Two-foot wide balcony
Watching the traffic alone
Because there isn’t enough room
For a visitor
Oh, the peace I would have
In my tiny shower stall
By myself with
My one bar of soap
And my bottle of shampoo
Knowing there was no one
Waiting for me
To hurry up and finish
I would cook simple meals
Of veggies and noodles
And I would have fish on Friday nights
I would sit
In front of my only TV tray
And watch what I wanted
And when the smell of
Warm supper
Wafted through the building
No knock would come to the door
Because truly,
Nobody would care to join me
And when the steady thrum
Of outside noise
Became too much
And the demons from my past
Came a tap tap tapping
I would crawl into my cupboard,
Close the door
And cover my head
Because there is no room
In my Japanese micro-apartment
For anxiety and sorrow
Image by Masashi Wakui from Pixabay
I have an app on my phone that pays me to walk. I’ve made almost $200 using it. Here’s why I’ve chosen to delete it:
I’ve been using the app for over 3 years. It also pays me to play games, and watch a few ads every day. It even has a scratch off lottery where I can win coins (usually one, but they can pay up to a thousand at a time).
Once I earn enough coins, I can exchange them for any of dozens of gift cards, including Amazon.
But, I’ve realized it’s holding me back. So I’ve decided to remove it.
Most of these activities pay just a small handful of coins, even if I grind. 200 coins a day for walking. 25 for watching ads. Generally 1 coin per scratch off. And the games have this neat little trick where they slowly pay you less and less the more you play. There is a limit on every activity.
Sure, it’s a fun little app, but I often find myself getting hyper-focused on it. I want to get 20,000 steps a day, scratch all my lotto tickets, watch all the ads, and play some games. I get a nice little endorphin boost each time I earn a gift card. Plus, it’s good to set goals.
Right?
What started off as a fun little way to earn gift cards eventually became a chore. It turned into something I had to do every day. If I didn’t, I felt guilty for not achieving my daily goals.
But what about my other daily goals?
I can’t write while I’m walking. If I’m playing scratch offs, I can’t work on my books. And I’d be hard pressed to make an Instagram post if I’m grinding Match Masters for 64 coins in 1 minute, (then 2 minutes, then 3 minutes. Do you see their trick?).
Every time we choose what to do with the time we have, it comes at the expense of something else.
Do you get your steps or write?
Do you watch ads or clean the house?
Do you play a mobile game or visit family?
It can be argued that one can do both at the same time. But in doing so, are you truly vested in either?
Granted, sometimes you need a break, and playing a mindless mobile game while droning Harry Potter and flicking Frito crumbs off your chest is exactly what you need to do. You deserve to be happy, and you should do what makes you happy. Within reason, of course.
I’m choosing to do what makes me happy. As time goes on, I’m learning how to discard the rest.
Today, it’s a mobile app.
But who knows what tomorrow holds?
Have you ever given up something because it was holding you back? Let us know in the comments.
Image by Pete Linforth
I was raised in a cult.
At the time, I didn’t know that’s what it was. I knew I was different. I felt abnormal. And I accepted it. My life was my life, and that’s just the way it was supposed to be.
I was taught to listen and follow. From a very young age, my entire sense of self worth was measured by the approval of my religion and my parents. And if they weren’t happy with me, then I wasn’t happy with me. I needed to do better.
My religion didn’t celebrate holidays. They were considered worldly. Because of this, I wasn’t allowed to attend birthday parties or sing Christmas songs in choir. If another child in my class brought cupcakes for their birthday, I would sit at my desk quietly. I tried to ignore the curious stares of the other children as they ate.
I knew I was different, and they knew it, too.
In choir, the music teacher would have all the kids stand on a small set of bleachers. She would stand in front of them and conduct. She put me in a chair behind her, near the center of the room, where I sat quietly. This happened for a few weeks every year. Sometimes she let me go to the library. Sometimes she made me sit.
The other children watched me the entire time, trying to understand why I wasn’t practicing Christmas songs with them. Maybe the music teacher didn’t notice. Maybe she didn’t care.
I knew I was different, and they knew it, too.
I was different at home, too. My father made sure I knew who his favorite child was. And it wasn’t me. After my parents divorced, he built my brother a bedroom in his new house. I had to sleep in the camper out back. Some weekends I didn’t get to go over at all. My brother did, but I didn’t.
The rest of my father’s new family got to sleep inside, but I didn’t. My childhood was spent being separated from others.
I knew I was different, and they knew it, too.
I internalized these feelings of being different at a very young age. Over time, I began to revel in them. On the surface, anyway.
Fast forward to adulthood, and I’m still trying to belong. I’m still learning to allow myself to be loved.
It’s difficult and scary to say the least. I’m learning I don’t have to belong. If I am true to myself, then the right people will accept me. I don’t need to fight for anyone’s approval.
And that is such a liberating feeling.
I am no longer in the cult, but the psychological effects are still very much prevalent in my life. I struggle with codependency. If Kim changes plans, I wonder what I did wrong. If we go more than a day without talking, I begin to worry she might leave me.
Sometimes I give too much of myself. I ignore my writing because I need her to know I’m there for her. I ignore my family and friends because I need her to validate my worth. And I have trouble allowing myself to believe my wants and needs are valid, and not just selfish. I try to accomplish so much, I become overwhelmed and burned out. Then I feel like a failure when I’m truly an amazing human being.
I am not a failure. As long as I get back up and keep moving forward.
And every day, I’m getting better. I’m not there yet, but I’m getting better.
I’m not going to be relegated to anyone’s camper anymore. I’m learning to accept myself and be happy. I will sing whatever songs I want.
And if I want a birthday cupcake, I’m eating the damn cupcake.
What is something you have had to overcome? Let us know at the bottom of the page.
Image by Goran Horvat from Pixabay
You are allowed to heal.
My fear, and a desire for control, are the symptoms of my drinking disease. A disease that was brought on by consistent, constant, and repetitive childhood trauma. Which was a symptom of my dad’s disease, and the collective spiritual sickness of a whole group of people.
The things my father did to me are not my fault. Just like the things his father did to him are not my father’s fault. However, this understanding doesn’t make the trauma, and its resulting symptoms, any less real.
Focusing on the symptoms is like focusing on the smoke when you have a grease fire in your kitchen. The smoke is merely a symptom of the actual problem. The trauma. Sure, you can open a window. Maybe set up a fan. But is that REALLY what you’re going to do?
No! You’re going to turn off the stove and pour baking soda on the pan. But not water. Water will only make it worse.
I didn’t know how to deal with the problem, so I instead focused on my symptoms.
When we focus on our symptoms, we often end up making the actual problem even worse. I chose to ignore my fire and drown out the smoke. Unsurprisingly, I made it worse.
Throughout my drinking career, I neglected my health, my finances, and my responsibilities. I put liquor before my loved ones. All of this out of fear. Fear of abandonment. Fear of failure. Fear of rejection. And a whole fat list of other fears. I constantly felt guilt and shame, because I wasn’t able to live life like a normal, responsible human being.
Well to hell with normal. I’m healing. And I am ALLOWED to heal.
I am tired of dealing with the smoke. It’s high time I started dealing with the fire.
But what exactly IS this fire I’m supposed to be dealing with? For me, it starts with identifying what happened to me and accepting it. This doesn’t mean AGREEING with it. Far from it.
“This is the thing that happened. This is how it made me feel. It wasn’t my fault. And I am allowed to heal.”
You are ALLOWED to heal.
I am not ashamed to be in therapy and sobriety. Quite the opposite. I am proud. And I will talk about it openly.
So I invite you to pack up all your mental baggage, lay it out neatly for everyone to see, and burn it to ash.
YOU. ARE. ALLOWED. TO. HEAL.
Are you healing? Share your experience with us at the bottom of the page.
You deserve healing. You deserve to be loved. And you deserve to be happy.
For some, those words can be incredibly difficult to hear, and nearly impossible to believe.
I used to struggle heavily with drinking. I drank daily. Even when I began to make an honest effort, I struggled. Over time, I began to notice the signs that I was about to drink. I never understood the reasons behind those signs, but I recognized them nonetheless.
There were days when I gave as much of myself to others as I could. I would be more outgoing at work. My customer service was phenomenal. I was there for my friends and family. I gave absolutely anything I thought they needed, and offered even more that they never asked for.
When I was in this mode on my days off, I would come home and deep clean. Dishes, walls, floors, the toilet. I was a machine. Sometimes I would spend hours rearranging the furniture, or placing new decorations I had purchased.
Then I would sit on my clean floor with nothing to do. I had distracted myself, but I hadn’t actually dealt with anything. Almost inevitably, I would drink. Even though I didn’t actually want to. And I couldn’t understand why.
I considered the possibility I was “rewarding” myself for a job well done. Something about that conclusion never quite felt right, but I couldn’t come up with anything else. It took four months of sobriety and therapy for me to figure it out.
I’m sharing this with you because I don’t want you to go through the same struggle of realization that I did.
Alcohol wasn’t a reward for taking care of others and cleaning my house. Taking care of others and cleaning my house was a substitute for processing a trigger.
Something, somewhere along the line had happened to me in the days or weeks leading up to drinking. And although I recognized the signs, I could never understand them. I didn’t know how to PROCESS them. But I did know how to take care of others and clean. So I did that instead.
The things my father did to me as a child aren’t my fault. They were never my fault. His actions were the symptoms of a sick man, who himself did not know how to process.
What his father did to him isn’t his fault either. Those actions were the symptoms of another sick man who didn’t know how to process.
I’m learning how to process and understand. It’s been a tough road, sometimes joyous, sometimes tragic.
But it has been FULFILLING.
There are times it feels like I’m walking through a pitch black forest alone. There are threats all around, waiting to pounce on me the moment I take one step off the path.
But they can’t get me. Not as long as I stay on my path.
There ARE patches of light, however. Beacons in the blackness to guide me. In the form of compassionate friends, sympathetic family, and professionals who can truly understand.
I am learning to use my light.
And for the first time in my life, I’m excited to see where it takes me.
I deserve healing. I deserve to be loved. And I deserve to be happy. I have the right to be okay. And so do you.
Do you have a recovery story? Let us know at the bottom of the page.
Image by Piyapong Saydaung from Pixabay
A Healing Journey by neverstaybroken 