be relentless

Almost exactly 4 years ago I was sitting in this same house, taking in the changing colors, cheeks flushed from the crisp east coast air. It was a joyous week celebrating life – 50 years of one well lived, the union of two beautiful souls, and the anticipation of meeting the little one growing inside me. Family from near and far all converging with shared purpose and excitement. There were so many hugs and squeals – the air riddled with hope, elation, and that feeling – you know the one – where all just feels right in the world.

Weeks before our trek across the US, we learned our Little Bird may not be growing as she should. The messages were mixed and tests inconclusive. We kept the potential of her defect to ourselves – we wanted our ignorance to last as long as it could. The air was thick with joy and maybe selfishly we knew, this would be the last time we would breath with ease, the last time we could wear joy and know it was genuine. Surrounded by every face we’ve ever loved, receiving thoughtful gifts – some passed down through generations, and resting in the idea that life was good – it is something I will never forget.

As I sit in the same house, cheeks flushed from the crisp fall air, tears sneak quietly down my face. This isn’t how we were supposed to return here. Empty handed. Hearts deflated by pain and anger. Broken in every way. It feels as though we exist on the outside looking in. Always asking ourselves, is this our life – forever and ever? Does this state of devastation and grief ever lessen? Does it ever become something capable of sharing space with joy and happiness? I don’t have the answer. It is likely I never will. That has to be OK.

What I do know is this: even when I can’t see through the grey and the fog, life is still beautiful. It’s beautiful because even in this mess, this effed up brokenness, there is love. I know that love is so much bigger than me and my pain – it is the currency in which I should place all my investment. Without it – we would not have made it this far and neither would you. We all have a story – likely littered with pain and disappointments – that’s OK – it makes us human, it gives us common ground. We need to use that common ground to be there for one another. If you know someone in pain – sit outside their door – take them a meal – send them a text or email (snail mail is WAY cooler though) – love them in whatever way they let you, until they let you in. Once you’re in – don’t freaking screw it up! Don’t give unsolicited advice, ask them how long it will last, or lament about your own problems – JUST BE. 

I cannot stress or say this enough – if someone you know is grieving, the loss of a person or their life played out in depression, anger, isolation; maybe they’re struggling with family or lost in their own pain – don’t stop reaching out. Ever. Also, Don’t make it about you. If they don’t respond, do so harshly or coldly – don’t take it personally (well, try not to). It won’t be easy – there is an ugliness that stems from shame, loss and pain. It manifests as self preservation; the thickest and tallest emotional walls, and words sharper than knives. It generates visceral reactions to the simplest of things and strikes out of fear, loneliness, and exhaustion. Nine times outta ten, it has nothing to do with you. Chase them down and leave your expectations outside – try and try again, be relentless in loving them even if they only let you from very far away. One day your love will seep through, it will sit with them when they feel alone, it will tap them on the shoulder when they’re about to lose it, it will keep them going.

The house we live in

Big change tends to stir up those things we repress. It draws out any ugliness we try to cover with the “New” thing or the “New” experience. I guess the real adventure is embracing every part of the process – not just the shiny newness, but all the brokenness that brought you there in the first place. Since we moved I have been a lost and found box of emotion. I have tried detaching, scare tactics, distraction, numbing, close up magic (just kidding) – none of it works. At the end of the day I look like an out of control emotional crazy person, and basically, I am.

Over the last six or so months I have been a little obsessed with personalities. There is a part of me that always wants | needs to know the “whys” of things. Why things happen, why two people can look at the same situation and come to separate conclusions…etc. Back in September a friend introduced me to the Enneagram (read: diagnosed me). The nerdy researcher in me began reading everything and anything I could get my hands on. It’s an absolutely fascinating concept, and dare I say, spot on. I am familiar with various other methods of personality typing, but this one described me perfectly, to the point where I may have had a small identity crisis. If you aren’t familiar, and are willing to see yourself in the best and worst sense, I would encourage you to check it out.

On my quest to gain a better understanding, I realized my biggest enemy, other than grief, is stress. When I am stressed I either get very sick or basically turn into a monster. I could be a monster to those closest to me, those within a 3 to 5,000 mile radius, or just to myself. I researched introvertedness, logical | critical thinking, sensing, feeling, judging; all the ways we as humans emotionally react to any given situation. I am incredibly hard on myself, the expectations I chase are more often than not impossible to catch. When I disappoint myself I take it out on others. When I am angry or lonely or sad or frustrated, but cannot put words or emotion to it – I project. It is a vicious cycle, one I am desperately attempting to correct. Stress inspires a way of acting/reacting that gives me visions of what I would have been like as a cavewoman – absolutely terrifying. If this were a sitcom we would flash to a scene: me in torn clothes, feeding on raw meat, blood trickling down my face, dirt smeared skin, and grunts and growls being my only form of communication. It also gives me an appreciation – like a deep tear inducing appreciation – for friends and family who love me in spite of my gnashing of teeth and/or disappearing acts.

Who we are and why we are those people is an important study. I was insulted at first by my personality typing and I was incredibly unkind to myself as a result. I am thankful for so many of the things that make me, me – but there are scary parts – there is a wildness that needs – not taming so much as love…self love. I read a quote the other day that basically said – the words you say to yourself, become the house you live in. Throat.Punch. The house I live in is weighed down by words of frustration, sadness, and weariness. Words of joy and gratefulness are certainly scattered in there – but self reflection is no joke. I need to strengthen my walls with encouragement, lower my expectations, accept my lack of control. I need to stop withholding grace – be OK with time: time for growth and healing.

I have been horrible at balancing life this last month. I have been difficult, cold, and ambivalent. Here’s to embracing all the messy broken parts – accepting responsibility and owning the process. Part of showing myself grace, is also a practice in showing it to others, better than I have in the past. Recognizing we are all works in progress – and the only way we can do this life is together is by simply loving ourselves and one another. Love has no expectations or pro and con lists; it is kindness, it is grace. And when we do a crappy job, which we ultimately will, love is owning that failure and trying again, over and over and over.

le divorce

I was married young, in what feels like another life (by my internal clock, very young). I got married the first time for all the wrong reasons. I got married because I was lonely, because I felt pressured, because I craved stability, because I was scared, because it was the right thing to do. I got married, well, because everyone else was doing it. 
 
It was a beautiful day; it was a perfect day, really. I looked adorable despite also looking malnourished. My best friends by my side, in the most beautiful garden, at the most beautiful time of year – cherry blossoms in full bloom, blanketing the grass with blush colored petals. I wore blue shoes and a purple orchid in my hair. I remember most of the day well. I remember my Grandma refusing to attend unless she could wear a magenta dress. She was stunning – her silver hair perfectly contrasting the blinding pink. I remember dancing with my best friends in an empty hall – a moment, that by design, calmed my fright or flight reaction. I remember walking across the vast garden and looking back at the mansion. I stood under a tree (because obviously I was getting sunburned in May) taking in my guests; the laughing and coming together of families and friends. It was beautiful yet it frightened me. I asked my friend, “Why, in this moment, does everything hurt? Why, on this day, this BIG day, am I not overjoyed?” She grabbed both my hands – smiled warmly – and told me I looked beautiful. She told me no matter what happened, I was going to be OK, and even if I wasn’t, she would be there, always. I remember cutting in line at the buffet and I remember not wanting to leave – not wanting to step out into forever. 
 
I know this makes me sound awful, damaged, sad, and broken – like deeply broken. If there was a receipt to be kept – it would have been mine: return policy indefinite. I’m OK with that reaction – I honestly, truly am. Because, for a very long time, I felt that way about myself. Not in some self deprecating way – but in a deep way. I felt toxic. I was fools gold personified, and soon, everyone would know. They would know I was permanently flawed and to run, not walk, in the opposite direction. 
 
Years later, on a day – just like any other – I made a decision to leave that marriage. Even now I have no idea what grabbed hold of me – but I decided that this, this was not my story. I was not going to be defined by whatever was broken inside me; I was going to overcome it. Being OK, being WHOLE, meant more to me than the fear of being alone. If I was going to fail, alienate myself from family and friends, be completely on my own – I was going to do it on my terms.  (Let me be clear – not because I care what you think – but in the context of reality – and I deal in reality: walking away from a marriage does not happen on a random Tuesday afternoon. Ending a marriage takes work and thought and conversation. For this basic, essay-style platform, it’s simplified in four sentences, but in real life – every part of it was shared. There was therapy, painful conversations, logic, lists…etc. I own all of it. There were no whims here – not a single whim).
 
As I ventured out into the unknown I began to unpack those damaged feelings and ideals.  “She is tactless, brash, foul mouthed, and simply needs guidance and direction. She needs a man/a someone, to fix her.  Lies, lies, lies. I learned what I was conditioned to view as personality flaws, are what I now consider amazing qualities. I spent almost a decade convinced I needed to change. And this was by someone who “loved” me. That does a number on the psyche, let me tell you. There were fleeting moments of freedom where I felt adored for exactly who I was. Cherished moments where time stopped, expectations disappeared, and night drives solved all the world’s problems. I came back to these moments often. I re-played them, they gave me life. They reminded me not only who I was, but that I was worthy of so much more. They seem simple, but it was in their simplicity that I realized – it’s not meant to be this difficult. 
 
After some time in solitude, I surrounded myself in joy. For me, joy represented anyone and everyone who made being human, feel effortless. It felt this way because these people, my people, live in and act out love. Love in its most basic forms. I needed basics – I needed grace and acceptance. I needed reassurance that even if I showed up cynical and foul mouthed, I was loved. Period.
 
People have tried (and some still try) to fit me in a box- I let them struggle for bit, it’s an entertaining social experiment. But that box – that relational space where one person can control or manipulate another person – it’s a powerful box. It is not grounded in love or acceptance and can rob people of a joy filled life. It has taken me many years and much dedication to define who I am, and it’s ever evolving. I now have a partner who loves ALL of me – like he actually finds my foul mouth, erratic dance moves, and constant analyzing endearing. I did not need his acceptance or validation – but I am blessed and beyond thankful to have it. He has taught me so much, loved me so richly that now, being human, feels effortless. He is steady. He is kind. He is brave and honest. I am thankful my story remains fluid. I am thankful I play a role in defining it’s ending.

 

Image found via TheFickleTattoo on Etsy – hey, it’s a temporary tattoo if you’re in the market!

numbing

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Truth.

 

Hearing her say this, then reading it on paper – my mind was (and still is) blown. This describes so many years of my life, especially the last three. To see my life summed up, in thirty-one words, somehow made me feel normal – gave me a better understanding of myself – and the science behind it just makes sense to me. The last three years I existed in a constant state of numbing. I can barely give people hugs without wanting to crawl out of my skin – not because I think they have lice or smell bad or want to creepily smell my hair – but because hugging means you’ve missed someone – you’re happy to see them – you love them – you want to be close to them. Nope…sorry, I don’t want to feel ANY of those emotions, let alone all of them at once! I am safe in my Misie-sized bubble with a withering stare sending people at least five feet outside it. When I was in my twenties I had A LOT going on – 100% inside my head, locked away for no one to ever know – I maintained a state of numbness by working crazy hours, always being busy, over exercising, and disappearing into a life that required no commitment – at least not the stable kind.  [Disclaimer – because you know there’s always one or two – I loved my twenties in all their messiness; they shaped who I am today, significantly…but there was also a lot of pain and sadness that caused me to shut.it.down] I eventually became very ill and required some serious integrative intervention (liquid diets, therapy, new eating habits, sleep…the list goes on). Even with this help, these changes, my go to reaction to anything out of my control was to numb | is to numb.

When we lost Birdie I reached an entire other level of numbing – there is numbing for self preservation and then, there’s numbing for survival. My goal every single day was to survive – to wake up, get out of bed, eat something, have the guts to open the curtains and let light in. Laughter was a foreign sound; going to the store was the scariest thing because there were babies, toddlers, pregnant women there; friends were having babies left and right and it felt like the greatest insult. When you can see your dearest friends expanding their families and feel hate – this is the deepest darkest space for the soul. The thought of crying in front of people I loved, let alone some stranger in the check out line, instantly made me want to never ever leave the house (because crying is weakness apparently in my world). Numb. Numb. Numb. Shut it out, pretend it doesn’t exist. There was no joy, no gratitude, and no happiness. They are beginning to creep in every once in awhile, and this makes me appreciate time – how it allows us to soften, our eyes to widen, and lets light sneak past the darkness and seep through the cracks in our walls. I don’t believe time heals wounds, but I do believe, if we’re open to it, it will give us the space we need to process, to understand, to feel what needs to be felt before our wounds keep us locked in the house, never wanting a hug again.

words.

Do you ever feel like you wake up each and every day trying to catch where you’re supposed to be | where you thought you’d be; yet, as your head hits the pillow you feel the same weight of exhaustion and failure with which you awoke?

Do you ever feel like happiness is a concept, not an experience? You’re constantly clocking in and out of life but never embracing all its parts? You get so beat down with the day to day you settle for what was once thought temporary. You begin to convince yourself that your dreams, those magical gems that gave your soul fire, they’re just that, dreams, not tangible things.

Stick with me here – and no, this is not an infomercial for some emotional support group or self-help book that I read last month, or even a judgment of your current state. It’s more a free flowing thought process that has been tapping my shoulder, whispering – what the hell are you doing with your life…do you even know…do you even see yourself? I arrive to this blank page with zero answers, however, this deserves a conversation even if a conclusion is far from reach.

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This is what I know to be true based on my experience and my observation of many I know and love. Living a reactionary life is no life at all. If we are always reacting, we will never be in front of life, we will never dictate our futures; we will exist hopelessly. Be in charge, create your own path, take responsibility and ownership of your decisions. We all have ugliness and failures but, what if, just once, we viewed them as triumphs? Without them we would not grow, we would not evolve into better versions of ourselves. Obviously, we have to make that choice; choose to embrace the struggle, choose to walk up a mountain because, at the top, is a view we could never imagine. It’s a vast openness of possibility. 

I am IN THIS right now – I do not speak from a superior place, this is not a life hack. This is hard work, it is dedication, it is stepping out into the unknown. If you fail…ok. So what. Get up. Try Again. Take the risk. Do not apologize for being bold, being honest, or being an individual. I know I have a unique personality – I am not saying be like me or that fear is for suckers. I am afraid all of the time, but I do not let it define me, I will not let it dictate my future. I want authenticity, I want joy, I want a life well-lived, one I can look back on and think – holy crap – at all times, my cup overflowed, I was true to myself, I fought hard for what I have, and I am loved greatly.

So…I leave you with this – because let’s be honest, I’m just dissecting this and applying it to my life – because it’s brilliant:
“If you want to live an authentic, meaningful life, you need to master the art of disappointing and upsetting others, hurting feelings, and living with the reality that some people just won’t like you. It may not be easy, but it’s essential if you want your life to reflect your deepest desires, values, and needs.” | Cheryl Richardson

Image | quote found via Pinterest 

the middle

I have anxiety when in between things. Not physically speaking – I walk through doors, or between furniture and people just fine. That’s not true. I always feel awkward walking in between people. There are way too many weird things that can go wrong. You could touch someone’s butt or boob, your hair could get caught on their clothing, they could smell god awful and you’re the girl with an uncontrollable gag reflex [my childhood dental file read: King, Melissa – gagger]. OR what if someone grabs you, thinking they know you – instead of accepting their awkward, “sorry, I thought you were someone else,” you instantly karate chop them in the throat and scream, “MY BODY IS NOT A COMMODITY!

Anyways, back to being in between things; I have a difficult time relaxing when I know something is scheduled. I want to fast forward through the space and time where nothing occurs and get to the something. I am constantly planning: vacations, home remodels and what happens when my three year old Subaru dies. Do I buy a used car or a new car? what size vehicle will I need twelve years from now? I constantly write grocery lists, even when our fridge is stocked. I write to do lists of items already accomplished and these lists occur in multiple places and formats. It’s who I am, it’s my brain, it’s my neurosis.

I am a five minutes from now person – I want/need to know what’s next. I am constantly asking Mick, “what’s the plan Phil?” It drives him nuts and NOT in an endearing way. There is little that can calm my busy mind. I am always half present and five minutes ahead. My approach to life is like reading a fantastic book, I want to know what happens so badly but I never want it to end. I fight the urge to rush through; I want to absorb the language and how it makes me feel, but cannot resist reading ahead. TV shows are the same – Friday Night Lights, anyone?! In wanting so badly to know the end, I miss a lot of the middle. I skim over little things that eventually make the big things BIG. I often look backwards and realize amazing things I missed or neglected all because of expectation or theory. My entire twenties existed entirely of chasing ghosts. I wanted so badly to cross off items that fit into a learned ideal – college, job, marriage, house, kids. Unfortunately, for that list and those involved, I am not a contortionist and you cannot force those things. If I learned anything these last two years, let alone decade, it’s this: the middle, no matter how messy and overwhelming it can be, the middle is the best part. I haven’t reached the middle of my life, at least I hope not, and so many amazing things have already happened. I need to spend less time caring about the left side of my face aging faster than the right, and more time enjoying the in between. 

I will likely publish this and in ten minutes put together a to do list for the remainder of our three-day weekend…baby steps.