My Witness To Madness & the Definition of Love
Recently so many miracles have been occurring in my life, at the same time as a lot of drama. But the miracles are helping me flow through the drama, accept the scary or uncomfortable issues, detach from them, and to do what I can to help, or set boundaries when I need to most. It’s nothing short of amazing.
In mid-August I got re-acquainted with my former best friend in high school and college. So, my bff from when I was 16 years – 23 years or so. We hadn’t talked in more than 20 years. And it was just like old times, chatting nonstop from 9: 30 p.m. until 2 a.m. our first conversation. The next ran from 8 p.m. – nearly 4 a.m. These conversations were amazing, but also put me on edge too, as this person has a razor sharp, nearly photographic memory. I have selective memory. As a child of an alcoholic, highly functioning successful parent who see-sawed from random explosive violence—to razor-sharp focus on himself and work—I typically was not seen and ignored, or the witness to frightening episodes that I still do not clearly remember. I found letters outlining some of the most violent episodes when I was in the room as a child, and yet, I still don’t remember, but some day I likely will.
My bff remembered finding those letters with me, that were stuffed under a bed by an older sister for me to find. We read them together in college. He remembered all the times he tried to save me or rescue me over the years, too. The time in college when my roommate called him as I had stopped eating, stopped showering, stopped going to classes. He raced down from his school and slept on the floor by my bed. I barely remember that. He said a few times on the phone: “Why wouldn’t you love me? Why wouldn’t you want to be with your best friend? Let me take care of you?”
Hard to explain that to the best person I know. I didn’t love myself.
He reminded me of the time in college he drove to Georgia and realized I had no food in the apartment, and he shopped for me, held me all night, even though he always wanted more. I couldn’t let anyone touch me. Not back then. But I didn’t explain myself. Nor did I feel worthy of asking for help or of being the recipient of such constant love. We’ve talked about it all over this past month, he ‘sort of’ gets it now. He was so hurt when he begged me to move to Colorado after two of my best friends were killed my junior year (a super hard year), but I just couldn’t do it. No one had ever taken care of me. I drove myself up to college. No parents came to my graduations either. I had been alone for a very long time and because of the abuse and neglect, I didn’t feel worthy of being taken care of. He didn’t understand. I didn’t understand, so couldn’t explain it. So, I ran off to Europe at the end of my junior year. I was a good student. I got an internship with the BBC. I worked three- four jobs while in school my senior year too, the student paper, radio station and at a Japanese restaurant and as a lifeguard. All came in handy when my father forgot to pay room and board for a year while he was divorcing my mom and living with another woman. He was distracted. But, I could take care of myself. And I was trained at an early age not to make a fuss, not to complain, not to talk about my feelings, or I’d likely get screamed at or ignored— which is worse, much worse. So, I worked my ass off and paid my own way, even eating one potato a day for at least 2 months at one point because money was so tight. My bff came down for a weekend and saw that, tried to help, but I just wouldn’t let him fully in. See, his love was so unwavering. That had to be a mistake. I didn’t deserve that. If I had gained 15 pounds, he still thought I was beautiful. If I was down to 90 pounds with my hair falling out and so depressed I couldn’t get out of bed, he wanted to take care of me. If I wanted to just talk about everything but what really mattered and couldn’t let him make love to me, he listened and waited. And he waited for longer than anyone could imagine.
So, I was stubborn and wasn’t going to quit college and let someone who loved me, take care of me. Wasn’t I more comfortable being ignored and / or treated like pond scum? Wasn’t I more comfortable working my ass off and still never being enough or worthy of a phone call or a birthday card? See, abuse and neglect leave watermarks on our souls. And they are very hard to remove, even with yoga, therapy and mediation, if a person refuses to remember and just keeps going and going and saying intellectually that it’s all ok, but not feeling it. I know now that I have to feel to heal. I recall trying to confront my father and getting a three word reply: GET OVER IT.
And I thought I had. But maybe not. Maybe the watermarks of not feeling enough manifested in marrying someone who would leave me at the most vulnerable time in my life: with a baby and another child and a sick mother. Maybe it has manifested in me choosing men who are narcissistic and can never truly think I am enough: always looking for the younger or more hip model, trying to change me, or ignoring me. Maybe the Universe just kept putting people into my life to wake me up. To help me remember what I lived through so that I can so NO.
It’s taken me a long time to get that.
So, my former bff, who likely saved my life my junior year, came back into my life. Our long conversations have been healing but they sure dug up a lot of memories that I kept tucked deep down. And for a while I wasn’t sure why they needed to be resurrected. But maybe he came back solely to be a reminder to me of all that I’ve lived through and gone through and why I need to say no to all the men who will never be true to me, who will neglect me, who will think I’m not enough. And he has also reminded me, just from his example and his love, to set boundaries with those who will continue to dim my light, even if they are family members.
I’m more dedicated than ever to helping those with post-traumatic stress. I’m honored to be the editor of NEW KIND OF REBEL, an apparel company started by yogis who have experienced some sort of abuse, neglect, PTSD in war. We will provide free yoga to veterans and domestic abuse victims, as well as give a percentage of all proceeds to charities that provide assistance to all who are victims of abuse: abusers and victims. Both are in equal pain. I’m honored to teach my therapeutic yoga classes to cancer patients whose disease is sometimes a manifestation of deep wounds. I love bowing to their inner light, that they may not truly acknowledge. Their tears in savasana, when I apply lavender oil to their foreheads, wash away my own pain. We ignite more flame into our own heart lights when we give and receive. I love what I do.
The past few weeks have been challenging, yet I know these events are setting me on my path. My father is having heart surgery and called me twice, for the first time in maybe 20 years that has ever happened. I lit him a candle. I visualized his highest self healing. I said a prayer. I sent him a text. But didn’t call back. And, an ex-boyfriend who broke my heart twice, who I’m still attracted to, got in touch, wanting to see me again. I said no. Saying no to someone who will never truly love me—whose actions are contrary to his words—is saying yes to a better future for me. It’s allowing space for a future that is filled only with those who lift me up and accept me, rather than tear me down. From a place of support, I can continue to help others, and support my boys fully by being someone they can respect.
Sending love & light,