Always

He first came to me during meditation about two years ago.

Alone, in the silence of my room, I'd been posing one of life's questions to the great beyond without any expectation of an answer. Suddenly this being seemed to just be there. He was right beside me. His presence was profoundly real.

My first thought was not, how is this possible? It was, why is he male? For a very long time I'd proclaimed to anyone who seemed willing to listen that God - however one defines God - was certainly around before genders. I could see no reason an infinite entity would feel the need to be limited to one gender or another. Yet, here before me was a being that seemed to exist beyond the physical world and I couldn't deny that he was a he.

The question--the all consuming life-journey question I'd been posing to the Universe--was an ussue I'd been struggling with for years. I felt desperate and pushed resistance aside. 

"Are you really there?"

"I am here."

And right then and there, this being showed me the way through. A new understanding unfolded around me and my issue resolved.

Since then, he's come to me again and again. I came to think of him as my guide, and whenever I sought him out, 

"Are you there?"

He'd appear.

"I am here."

Sometimes I'd forget. I'd struggle on my own until I couldn't stand it anymore and then suddenly I'd remember and ask, "Are you there?"

"I'm here." 

As trust grew between me and this seemingly all-knowing one, I called on him more and more. 

"Are you there?" 

He began to answer, "Always." 

And recently, I've come to call him with a single questioning word. 

"Always?"

"Always."

I've just returned from a women's retreat. We shared songs and strength,  deep connection and gentleness. The experience filled me up with love as I bonded with fifty spirit-filled women. On the last night, I had the opportunity to read something I'd written to the whole group. 

But I didn't. 
Out of nowhere, I suddenly found myself filled with fear. This was much more than stage-fright. I was in a full-blown panic and this brought such anger--anger at myself--that it brought me to tears.As far as I've come, despite all my hard work, I was so full of fear that I could not even speak.

I was crying from anger at my fear and embarrassed that I was crying. It was all so confusing! I ran outside and found a dark place to hide my tears far from the rest of the group.  

I walked aimlessly until I saw the labyrinth. I'd walked it the night before with several others, but it was empty this time. I paused at the entrance and wiped my face on the backs of my hands. 

"Always?" 

"Always."

I stepped onto the path. My guide matched my pace around the curves and bends while I gathered my thoughts. Through gritted teeth I finally called into the night, "Am I ever going to be rid of this fear?"

"Yes."

The word was so clear and true in my mind, but my anger wasn't finished. It bubbled up and I spat out, "I've worked so hard! It isn't fair! I could have read to the whole group and I wanted to. I wanted to share with them, and it was safe to share with them and I've worked so hard! But this fear... this fear! Why haven't you taken it away?"

He smiled as I seethed, exuding a gentleness that seemed to stroke my hair. He said, "You've never asked."

I stopped still, gasping at that truth. 
A breath. 
Another breath. 

I started forward again, my pace slower as I ran over all the things I'd tried to rid myself of fear. Doctors and therapists, massage and reiki, meditations and medications... I've struggled through so much of my past but the one thing I'd never done was ask to have my fear taken away. 

It had never occurred to me.

And so, through a fresh layer of tears and in a much softer voice, I asked, "Can you take this fear away? Because I am 
so 
tired 
of living with it...
in it... 
through it...
Will you please please take it away?" 

"I will."

We walked into the center of the labyrinth where I paused, eyes closed, to reflect on the simplicity of asking. In time, I began the journey back through the labyrinth's tracks and turns. Since another question was right inside me and my ever-present guide seemed also ever-willing, I asked, "When?"

And the answer, of course, was, "Always."

Summer-Blue

Small and new to the world, she looked up and found that the sky was summer-blue. The brilliance of it took her breath away. 

Such a vibrant, living sky! 

She stared at it with wonder, knowing this was where she was meant to be. All day she played in the azure glow.

And then it was night and the sky grew cold and black. 

She went inside and closed the door against the longing, mourning the summer-blue.

A little bigger and a little less new, she opened the door. She took just one step beyond the door, but nowhere was the summer-blue. A vast storm covered the world, horizon to horizon.

Gray and swirling.

Anger rumbling.

A flash of terror!

She slammed the door.

But she remembered the summer-blue.

In dreams and reverie, the warm memory of the azure glow ached inside her.  She pushed it aside, aside, aside and then, one day, she opened the door again. She wasn't so brave as to step outside, but even from the doorway she saw no summer-blue. Instead, the sky was dressed in white, attended by a frigid wind. Snow swirled and blew so hard she could barely close the door to its frantic appeal.

This time she shuttered the windows, closing herself more securely in her safe little room. She painted the ceiling blue. This is the sky, she told herself. Here, it will never change. I will always be safe.

She closed her eyes and waited for the warmth of that still-remembered glow. When it didn't come, she became one with the ache and told herself there was nothing beyond the door.

She became an adult within the shuttered windows and a closed door. Even as the seasons passed, she was safe. Even as her inner sky yellowed and pealed around the edges, she was safe. Even as the longing grew, she was safe.

And desperately miserable.

And wondered why?

Wasn't her inner sky every bit as good as that distant memory?
Didn't she have everything she required to survive?

Wasn't this room with its perfectly shuttered windows and impenetrable door exactly what she needed?

“Outside isn’t safe,” she told herself. “I have blue right here. Right here in my safe little room.”

She scowled at the dull and lifeless ceiling and then at her own reflection growing 

Anger

Longing

Despair

And it filled her up and her misery grew and finally she said, “Fine!" She flung the door wide and stepped through her fear, through her gritted teeth, through her resolve. She walked through the cold and through the darkness and through the constant barrage of her own misleading mind and then she saw it.
Had it been there all along?
The sky was summer-blue. And she remembered 

Light

Warmth

Life

And fear.
Fear was the illusion that kept her safe and she was so afraid to see. Too afraid to know know the summer-blue. For knowing it was to risk a return of the cold and the dark and the painful wind.

She returned to her safe little room and closed the door, falling deep into her delusion of safety in the one place where nothing would ever truly be safe... in her own private and unidentified hell. 

Feeling Everything: Working Through Depression

As I was writing a comment on another blog, this morning, I became aware of one of the most important things I’ve learned. In the last four years, as I’ve been working through my issues in therapy and in CoDA, I’ve had many lessons, but one very important one is accepting and acknowledging my feelings.

In the past, I was often depressed. Things which should have been enjoyable were waded through with a sense of obligation. Things which should have been minor agitations infuriated me. Regardless, I would paste on a smile and work very hard at not feeling anger, fear, pain or sadness. This seemed to be what everyone expected and so that's what I tried to do. I felt miserable all the time and had no idea why. 

What I've learned is that my feelings do not go away until I’ve worked through them. If I make myself look at the feelings - dive into them instead of trying to push them away - I will eventually work my way through. Working through feelings means allowing myself to feel them, acknowledging their worth, and then expressing my anger and grief as needed. 

Acknowledging and giving voice to my feelings and the reasons they're there really works. Falling into addictive, compulsive or obsessive behaviors does not.

I tried alll kinds of medications, but they don’t make the feelings go away.  Sometimes they can mask pain, for a while, but they do not fix the problem. It's like taking a pain-killer for a broken bone. It will help the pain for a while, but the brokenness is still there. I don’t want to limp through life in a drug-induced state of ignorance. As hard as it is, I know I need to take the time to fix the problem properly.

If I don’t allow myself to feel all my feelings, the reality is I don’t get to feel anything.

Masking pain means masking pleasure.

Masking fear means masking peacefulness.

Masking grief means masking joy.

Masking anger means masking gratitude.

I'm not advocating for anyone to stop taking prescribed medications. If you had that broken bone, it would be perfectly okay to take a pain killer, but it is not the ONLY thing you should do. Take the medications to get you through, when you need to, but don't rely on them - or anything else - to solve the problem for you. The only way to solve a problem is to look at it, figure out what's broken, and then put the pieces back together.

I’m no longer willing to live without pleasure, peace, joy and gratitude. Instead, I've learned to acknowledge that I am not meant to only feel these wonderful aspects of life, all the time. Happiness is not a given and being sad is not wrong. It's okay to feel sad, angry, and hurt and it is our inability to accept that fact that makes it impossible to get past these perfectly normal reactions to life.



Such Wild Wild

I was cleaning out a closet and found a box on a high shelf that held my past. It's a box that's been moved with me from place to place, without my opening it, for decades. 

On the top were love-letters written by my husband more than 30 years ago, ticket stubs for concerts and amusement parks and campgrounds and baseball games. There were birthday cards from long-gone grandparents and notes passed in school from a best friend who has been missing since 1989.

Near the bottom of the box were drawings and poetry I created when I was very young. There were many - far too many to even read, much less post - but I chose a few to put up here and share. Most of the drawings I chose were self-portraits that I either remembered or could identify by a date on the back. I think all the poems are also self-portraits... but then, maybe poetry always is?

Age 12

I had a velvet day
Forever my day smiled
And then you took my day away
And the whole world became wild
Poor child
Poor child
Living in such wild wild

What strikes me about this self-portrait

- dated from just after my twelfth birthday -

 is the cloth she is holding.

It seems like a small portion of what it could be

when it is compared to the large cloth hanging next to her.

Age 13

Devoured
Like a leafless flower
He reached in for the heart
And took only certain parts
Broken away
He left me only the three selves
And threw out the ones he didn’t like
He forced me to deny three parts
And killed them
Murderer
In the process
Murdered
I’ve been murdered
Piece by piece
Self by self
He’s destroyed three important people that hid in me
And they will never be for anyone to see
I’ve lost myself in this death
And I will never be whole
And alive
Again
And all these things I have him to blame for
But still there is no blame
The part of me that blames is gone
With all the other feelings

When I was fourteen, I had a hard time seeing myself in the mirror. I never looked quite like I expected and often parts seemed to be missing. I remember doing this drawing when I was in a particularly strange state of mind. I really felt that I was a freak and often told people I was from another planet.

I think I believed it.

Age 14

To us all
Two sides must be
And through us all
Dimensions three
We can't be just one self
Although there is one body
There are always at least two consciousnesses
And me and my reflection
We walk around the land
And we see the denied other selves
We see the slower hand
Me and my idealist
My freedom self
And my bound self
We see all of the flat ones walking everywhere
We wonder how they can be
So alone
To all of us there have to be
Two sides and dimensions, three

I was very fond of drawing and painting roads that led nowhere,

 stairs that ended at nothing and empty corners.

Age 15

Leaving Them Behind

Old songs and memories
Playing on the shore
Naked in the sunlight
Diapered on the floor

Now you see the children
Aren’t you anymore
The children naked on the beach
Are on the other side of the door

As you pass the brightest days
The kids you were come through
You remember what you thought of them
And how it was when they were you


Age 15

Cut Deep

The answers are only temporary
And that was me tonight
Temporary solutions cut deep and bleed
Sometimes when I'm alone
Within myself
Without myself
And sometimes I have to cry
Beyond myself
About myself
And when I leave my home
And when I am alone
And when he’s gone to work
And I feel so uncertain
I find a tear that’s falling
And the answer’s still not calling
And I'm lost
So lost
Denied myself
Outside myself
And now I lost the fight
For the answer is only temporary

I remember showing this drawing to a school counselor, in high school. She asked me, doubtfully, if I really thought this is how I looked. I said yes, and wondered why she asked. Then I decided it was probably my lack of skill that was the problem.

I really saw nothing odd about this drawing at all.

Age 16 (? I remember writing this but it isn't dated)

Little Girl

The shouts get louder in the other room
Little girl doesn’t cry
She sits by the window, holding a doll
In one hand
She sits in a daydream, holding off the world
With the other
And no hand left to hold the future.

The shouts climax and finish in a sudden silence.
Little girl doesn’t cry
She lies in her bed, biting her lip
With lies in her head, biding her time
With both hands full of things she can’t use
And her mouth so full with more than she will ever chew

The silence is muffled behind the door
Little girl can’t cry
She waits in the darkness for nothing, for everything
Living less life than she thought she would
Giving less love that it takes to live

The silent world screams obscenities
Little girl doesn’t cry
She stands, awake, smiling sadly to herself
Living only for herself
Giving less of herself every day
Getting less in return than it takes to live
Nothing for nothing is all she can give


Age 16

I came out for a while and looked around
I didn't like what I found.
I’m fading back into the dream again
I’m backing up over the blue-jean den
The cigarettes, the gold corvettes
The thumb-out imitation of the girl
Who is me
Or maybe only wants to be

And I know I must live it
And I know I can’t top it
And I can’t hold it off
And there's no way to stop it
The smoke from the tube
Will fill me
And with any luck at all
It may kill me
But for now,
The change overcomes, overwhelms me
And I am only an illustration of the girl
Who is me
Or maybe doesn't want to be

This one is dated from shortly before my seventeenth birthday.

No doubt about this one... it's a little cracked.

It was one in a series of four, all self-portraits, and all broken in some way.

I never finished the fourth one.

Age 17

The reality appears again
Dragging in with it the cold air
And cold words of February

Hiding in a book
Sneaking a look every so often
Just to keep her head ready
She scurries through her life
Another slice of deprivation
Piled high with the pangs
Of emotion, kept alive
As she strives
To continue through this continuity
To finish this finality
To sever this severity

Sever
Sever
Now there's a word
Like cutting off a leg to save a body
She slices into her limbs and cuts the world from her reality

I began to draw in a more free style by the end of high-school. (It was the '70s, after all)

This self-portrait was one I did my junior year for art class. That was the year I went to the catholic school (where I was sent as a punishment since things weren't going very well in public school.) I only stayed one year - they kind of invited me not to come back.

I remember my teacher was not impressed. She told me this was not a self-portrait. I still disagree.

Age 18

Freedom’s child
Dressed in white
The premonition of birds in flight
Standing in the waters of good and light
Reflecting the day and the starry night

Frightened child
Dressed in black
Demolition and dead birds stacked
In piles of left debris and facts
That lead us from the proper track

Somber child
Dressed in gray
Can’t tell me the time of day
Combined night and starry day
Child of light who’s lead astray

Tell me children
Good and bad
Tell me of the lives you’ve had
Let me feel the brave and sad
Don’t let the sorrow drive you mad
And drop the cloth in which you’re clad

I was very fond of putting hands, cages and eyes in my artwork.

This represents many like it.

Age 19

It's clear, now, that those inside

Must remain and always hide

Nobody wants to know the madness

Horrific fear, horrendous sadness

Close the door, and lock the cage

Keep the world safe from rage

That has no boudaries, never ends

Just smile sweetly and pretend

Until it all begins again

I think I did this one the summer between high-school and college. I'm gauging that by the style, level of skill and also the paper it's drawn on, which is cheap paper my father always had in the house. Once I started at the Art Institute in Chicago, I learned what it was like to draw on decent paper, and I did so whenever I could afford it.

On the back, it says only, "Me".

Grace in My Garden

From people in the meetings, and in books on Co-Dependency, three terms seemed to be used as synonyms:
Acceptance,
Letting go,
and
Forgiveness.
When I first came to CoDA, I heard people speak these words and my heart would immediately close. I would hear that these things were things we needed to do.
It was explained that forgiveness was not for the person who had committed the offense.
Forgiveness was for the victim.
I’d think, “How is that possible? It makes no sense!”

Over time, I began to object to the way people used these terms interchangably.
Acceptance seemed like something I might be able to achieve. Letting go was still out of reach, but the idea that I could accept that my life was how it was and move forward from there was very different from forgiving those who I blamed for putting me on the course I'd been following. To me, it felt like forgiving was the same as saying what had happened to me was okay. It was like saying, “I’m not that important. It’s okay if you hurt me.”

I told my sponsor, last summer, that I would never forgive my father. A defiant child inside me screamed, “You can’t make me!”

In the garden of our lives, the wounds of the past are barren places. Many of us avoid looking into these dark deserts of despair. Fear of these bleak, infertile spaces haunts our thoughts, dreams, actions and aspirations. No one showed us how to care for our garden. We allow ourselves to be victimized and avoid the things we need most. As the sterile darkness spreads, we find ourselves in smaller and smaller cages of denial, but still we refuse to face that which is preventing us from becoming what we can be - what we are meant to be.
It feels hopeless.

In our hands, we hold the seeds to Acceptance, Letting Go, and Forgiveness, but until we take the time to step into the barren places, push the dirt aside, and place the seeds in the ground, there is no hope for them to grow.

For me, I believe I began to bury those seeds in March of last year.
If I had a bottom, that was it.

I recently heard this question asked at a CoDA meeting:
When does one hit bottom?
The answer: When one stops digging.

I looked at the holes I’d been burying myself in and decided, instead, to plant those seeds I’d been hanging onto. Continuing my Inner Child work in therapy has let sunlight in my garden. Working the steps in CoDA has been the much needed rain. In the last year, I believe the seeds have grown into something tangible, something I can almost taste, but still there is something missing.

Acceptance.
In my garden, acceptance is a tangy, not quite ripe orange. It is hard to peal, but I have been working at it for some time. The sections I have free are not as sweet as I would like, but I can get them down without too much discomfort.

Letting go.
With the first sections of orange inside me, the green limes of letting go have become thin-skinned and ripe. I can open them up and breathe in the citrus smell, but the tartness puckers my mouth before I can swallow a mouthful.

Forgiveness.
Yellow lemons grow in my garden. They are forgiveness; beautiful to look at, but impossible to digest. Just opening them makes my eyes water.

I am writing out my eighth step, this weekend. This step is:
“Made a list of all persons we have harmed and became willing to make amends to them all.”

The timing on this seems perfect. My “Acceptance Ceremony” is only ten days away. What better time to begin to take responsibility for my part in it all?

I have not been perfect. As Melody Beattie says in “Codependents’ Guide to the Twelve Steps”:

“It is hard to be nurturing, loving nonshaming and present to...if we have never been nurtured or if all we know is control and shame, and if we ourselves are doubled over in pain. Being without boundaries, not being able to set appropriate limits… is doing harm.”

I could continue to play the victim and relieve myself of all responsibility because of what has happened to me in the past, but does that really serve me? Even if it did, wouldn’t this kind of attitude mean that I also have to relieve those who have harmed me of responsibility? Surely their behavior has stemmed from unmet needs and abuse in their own lives….

As suggested in the Beattie book, I am taking breaks to “find peace” when it feels overwhelming. I wrote the first part of this blog post during the first break, and now I am coming back to finish it.

I think I understand what was once missing in my garden.

I believe there is more to creating life than sunlight, water and earth. For my seeds to grow into something I can ingest, something nourishing and sweet, I need divine intervention.

As I said, I have not been perfect. How unbelievably lucky I am that there is a thing called “unconditional love”. If there is anyone who can love unconditionally, it would have to be God. Since I feel the presence of God in my life anytime I sincerely look for it, and since I believe in unconditional love, I know that God loves me unconditionally.
I am not meant to live in shame, anger and fear.
I am not alone.
I have been forgiven.
This kind of presence, forgiveness and unconditional love has a name.
It’s called Grace.

Grace is the final ingredient I need to make my garden flourish. Grace is like sugar, sprinkled generously on the tart and tangy fruit I am finally harvesting. Sweetened, watered and warmed by the sun, what was once impossible to swallow is becoming something too sweet to resist.

Door in the Floor

This video is short and powerful. The person who shared it with me called it, "The door in the floor", which of course I had to look into. Doors have been an integral part of my healing recently. I swear I saw that title somewhere when I first went to see the video, as well, but now I can't find any word around it except "forgiveness". So, if you can clear that up for me, I would appreciate it!

I suppose there are a multitude of possible doors, and my goal is to open them all.

Update

I had a remarkable session with my therapist this afternoon. I needed it. Yesterday was a lost day. I was in and out of myself all day, and it felt like the world was closing in.

A lot of my anxiety was being triggered by my therapist leaving town. It isn't the first time she's left town since I've been seeing her. It isn't the first time I've totally freaked out about it, either, but I think she and I both thought that I was in good enough shape that I wouldn't havesuch a tremendous melt-down this time.

So along with the anxiety, I felt like a complete failure all day because I wasn't able to pull myself out of the downward spiral. Everyone I talked to was telling me I needed to be more self-sufficient, that I couldn't always be dependent on someone else. Every time I heard that I felt more anxious, more like a failure and steadily grew more angry.

Can't they see that I am more self sufficient?
Does anyone realize that it is really hard all the time and that ninety percent of the time I am doing it on my own??

I don't know what I wanted as I wandered from one source to another looking for comfort, yesterday. What can anyone else do to pull me out of that hole? I can say that the one thing that I found the most reassuring was when I talked to a friend on a support site and told her how I was feeling. I said I was doing it a lot, but I just couldn't do it all the time.

She said, "I understand that. Nobody can do it all the time."

I think my anxiety level dropped about fifty percent just to hear someone tell me that I really was not expected to do it on my own all the time.

Thanks to everyone who was around for me yesterday. It meant a lot.

I Was a Child

.
I feel bad that I felt so alone, when I was a child, that my adolescent years were so confused and that my first sexual experiences were so far from they should have been. I feel angry. I'm working hard not to turn that anger on myself, and to remember I was a child.

At two and six and twelve and even seventeen, I was a child.

There were a lot of reasons why I continually put myself in danger, and why I assumed that everything that happened TO me was my fault. These reasons are still unfolding for me now. But right now, I am seeing that I was a child, and like all children, I passed through lessons to learn, not to be punished.

I can forgive myself.