I Don't Really Want To Be Seen In My Own Eyes

So its been a really long time right? But every now and again it seems like its good to get things off my chest, or to just write instead of micro-blog, which I do all the time on Tumblr, or to get distracted on Facebook or whatever it is that I'm normally up to when I should be in school and keeping on task. Fortunately for me, Kitten wanted to go to the library this afternoon to do some stuff for work and that leaves me here, in the library, on a snow day with not much to do but reflect. Its almost like its 2008 again....And since I had some recent food for thought...well, here I am. Again.

hello, old friends.

So we went to lunch with a friend of ours today and we were talking about working out at the gym. We're all pretty frequent work out partners, so its not uncommon to talk about it. We've started some new classes with them and I find I am much more challenged than I am by the other ones we're taking (not that my water classes and my cardio classes aren't killing me...I just never wish I was dead halfway though in them....) Anyway, the topic of what we think about while we're working out came up. Our friend was in the military and she said she always hears her drill instructors in her head. Kitten said she hears music- whether its what's on the radio or whatever she's earworming. She uses the beats to push herself. When the topic of what I heard came up, I answered, entirely honestly, that I hear myself. I've got a picture in my head of what I want from me, and I hear myself, over and over, saying that this- what I am now- is not good enough, its not what I want. It pushes me.

I was a little taken aback when our friend suggested that I might need to get help because of it. Her position is I'm like this all the time, with everything and it indicates I might need to get psychological help to fix it.

I want to preface this with what will seem like excuse: I don't think how I feel is unhealthy. I don't hate myself. I like myself better now than I think I ever have. But I want things from myself- a better, healthier body, perfect grades, a Masters in the next five years, a farm, a fistful of friends that care about me. I want to be more compassionate, more feeling, more humble. I want to be less angry and less afraid. I know myself. I've given myself too much slack, too much room to pity myself and too much time to wallow in my shortcomings. I don't think its wrong, now, to push myself as hard as I can. It makes me better.

Some people might see that as going overboard- but I know what I've accomplished. I've got perfect grades. I've been invited to join the honors fraternity, which was my goal last semester. I won our public speaking forum because I pushed myself to stop being afraid, to never rely on anything but myself when it came to my speaking ability. I'm at head of all my classes and I am learning, quickly, to love the subjects I feared. I'm in a degree program I started out knowing almost nothing about, and I'm already making huge leaps towards my career goals. I have a great marriage. I'm good at my job- hell, I'm good at every position in the restaurant I work at. All of them. The only person better than me is Kitten- and I'm never going to cook the way she does. I'm at peace with that. I've lost 12 pounds since December. I'm almost to the point of putting back on the muscle weight I'll need. That's huge. I'm not afraid to look in the mirror when I wake up anymore. Its because I'm doing the best I can for myself- and it has nothing to do with hating who I am. I am holding myself to my standard: to give myself the very best I can, including total commitment to being 100% honest and accountable to myself, all the time. I don't look at that as something that I need to fix. To me, its not weakness, is strength.

But all of that, all those things, in the light of who I am now may seem extreme. Because she's a new friend, I haven't had the time to tell her all the things that you know about me. What I know about myself. But if I did, I would have told her of all the progress I've made.

I don't see my body the way I  should. I know that. But I've overcome my eating disorder. I know what I see in the mirror isn't real. And I know that I'm always going to struggle with my weight, and my looks. But I also learned to set reasonable goals, to know what's healthy for a woman my height and age. To know what I want from myself and to learn to love and accept what I see. To accept the love that everyone around me gives me- just because I see something different doesn't mean they're wrong. And in spite of some of the terrible things that have happened to me, I don't see my body as damaged goods, or unworthy. I can see myself of something whole and beautiful and worthy of love and perfection. That's a gift only I can give me. And I know, always, that anyone who is allowed to see any part of my body is being given a gift from me.

I'm clean. I've kicked my addiction. That was a struggle, and every time I think of how I am not strong enough, or not good enough, I remember coming out of it and how hard it was for me. I remember how sick I felt, how afraid I felt.  I remember feeling weak, pathetic. I'm not that person anymore. I'm not a slave to anything in my life. That's a lot of freedom to give yourself.

In spite of that fact that I have what most people would call a terrible self esteem, I don't hate myself anymore. I've forgiven myself for my mistakes. I realize that I can't blame myself for everything that's happened to me. I also know that when I have to accept the blame for a bad decision, that doesn't make me a horrible person. I don't punish myself for things I've done. I don't allow myself to dwell on the past- as much as I possibly can- and I've finally stopped replaying in my head every mistake I make and every failure I've experienced as I go to bed each night. That's huge for me. I don't believe I owe anyone any part of who I am. I believe I deserve better than second best from anyone. Once, I would have accepted friendship and love that was half-assed or inattentive, thankful for anything anyone gave me. Not anymore. And I've stopped making apologies for who I am and what I love. No one gets to determine what's worthy of me but me.

Most of all, I know I'm capable of love and compassion. For most people, that wouldn't seem like much of an accomplishment, but because of who I am, I know that's huge. I've faced the darkest parts of who I am and I know, in my soul, that part of me is very cold, very calculating. I know there's a detached, angry woman who lives inside me and I have to take her and use her to be stronger. I am better than the manipulation I am capable of. I am more than the motivations of my fear and anger. I have learned, finally, as a result of my former self-loathing, how to spot it in others, how to see the needs of the people around me; and I am able, now, to hurt and feel for people in a way I never was capable and really never wanted to. I'm not afraid to give myself away anymore, and I am capable of accepting love and compassion for others without the fear that I am pitied or thought less of.

I fight myself for control all the time. I know that. I push myself hard, maybe more than most people. But after all this time, after all I've been through, don't I deserve that? Don't I deserve to give myself, to demand from myself, only the very best? I don't want to let myself down. I want to be proud of my accomplishments. I want to be remarkable, because I am capable of it. I don't like failure but I can accept it- the only thing I cannot accept is that one day I will look back and see I didn't give myself every possible opportunity to be the most whole and happy person I can be because I didn't try hard enough. There's so much to this world. I want to see it all, I want to feel it all. I want to know everything there is to know. I won't get there by taking it easy.

After all this, though, I see that I am capable of forgiveness too. Because I inherently think if she thinks that, it could be true, right? I need to fix myself, right? But I know me, better than anyone else. I can forgive myself for the strain I feel. I can forgive her for hurting me by saying that, because it did hurt. But after all this time, I know, just the way you do...I'm much more. I've come so very far, and its not something that she can see, because she doesn't know that me yet. She hasn't seen me in that light. That, on its own, means I have to let that comment go and forgive. It does, though, give me a chance to see and reflect on my own progress and abilities and be thankful for what it is I've become.

I'm never going to be perfect, but I'll never stop trying. I don't think knowing I'll fail makes me foolish in pursuing that which is futile. I feel braver, stronger, knowing that I'm going to give myself the chance to be more than I ever thought I could be just a decade ago.

I'm worth that.

I love you. I'm glad you came by to listen. You're always welcome here.
AGxx

Memories of What You Can't Seem To Let Go

I am a pretty cautious person by nature, despite how it might seem, when it comes to protecting myself emotionally. I think everyone has those triggers that put them mentally in an unhealthy place that they want to avoid. I do everything I can to keep myself from those situations. I've done what I can to help myself heal from things that have hurt me in the past and by and large I feel like I am well adjusted given my fairly chaotic and occasionally awful past. And yet, there are days when it seems the past is inescapable and you find that you are much more vulnerable than you imagined you could be.

Let's rewind for a moment to about four or five months ago. I was just starting to work as a server at The Diner. Or, at least, I was finally comfortable enough with my surroundings that I didn't feel like every weekend was a battle. Its then that I first noticed this nice, quiet guy who read books and sat by himself. He came in every Saturday. He seemed nice enough. I noticed him enough that he eventually became That Nice Quiet Book-Reading Guy Who Always Orders a Breakfast Special (Take Three Creams with the Coffee). We would chat occasionally and I discovered he was an interesting person. He liked the outdoors. He seemed pretty well rounded. About two months ago I found out he's an Arborist. He then became (in all my references to Kitten when talking about work) That Nice Arborist Who Comes In On Saturdays and Reads. By luck or design he started landing in my section more often. It was then that I discovered two things 1- he does just about everything from play instruments to rock climbing to reading, in general that he is a person whom I would like to hang out with. 2- His name. We'll call him Jack here (short for Lumberjack, or Jack of all trades, you chose).

So I happened to have an extra ticket to the symphony this last weekend and I invited Jack along. I was both pleased and surprised when he said yes. Sakura and I go (well we try) every month. He has season tickets and I am almost always his date. Anyway, we went, we had dinner, Jack met Kitten and Sakura and things were nice.

Cue Sunday. Without airing Jack's dirty laundry I can say with a fair amount of certainty that he has, in most people's eyes, a personal history that would make him predisposed to dislike me. That he was not only comfortable but gracious and very open with me and my strange little family speaks to his strength of character, I think. I know, without him telling me, that he was putting himself out there when he joined us on Saturday. I took it as a compliment. Imagine my surprise when that morning when he was in eating breakfast that he invited me to come watch him play his instrument at his church that Sunday night. Once again, I'll reiterate that his character already shames mine because I don't know if I would be able to ask him to come, I don't know, watch me sing or read my writing or whatever. Not this early in our tentative friendship. Not especially considering those extenuating circumstances with would bother me considerably were I him. He was even kind enough to point out he was not proselytizing in inviting me- proving he was intuitive enough (or I scream NOT CHRISTIAN loudly enough) to see that might be something of a deterrent to me. Even though, once he gets to know me better, he'll understand that I really don't mind most Christians, or the religion itself, really. Its just not my cup of tea, and we've already discussed here my philosophical disagreements with the religion- I won't rehash it.)

What he couldn't know (and what some of you who have been around for some time will recall ) is that I was sexually assaulted by my Pastor's son and some of his friends when I was a teenager. The resulting damage to my person, and my mental health and all of the horrible things that came after that when I foolishly sought help from my pastor, thinking he would do the right thing and want to help me (I was really, really naive) have had a profound effect on me as a person. He wouldn't know about the years of therapy. The drugs. The attempts on my own life. My blatant disregard for my own health and safety. My lack of personal value. The number or horrible relationships I ended up in that mirrored, in some sick way, that first really awful one. He wouldn't know this. And he shouldn't really. Because in the intervening years, as most of you are aware, I've gotten help, I've healed and in general I consider myself to be as well adjusted and happy as a person who has gone through what I did can be. I live a relatively open life. I have learned to cope with my anger and fear. I am in a successful, healthy relationship. I have friends who love and support me and help me when I feel weak. Any person who looks at me would not see those hidden scars. I don't want them to.

So imagine my surprise- after all these years of being well adjusted and happy- at finding myself in the parking lot of his church Sunday night, sitting in my truck, having an utter and complete panic attack. I never even saw it coming. You know, it occurred to me as I pulled in that outside of three funerals, one wedding and a couple of Midnight Masses at Christmas (and honestly, a Catholic church is a completely different animal from a tiny protestant church) I have not set foot inside a church building since the incident as a teenager. I certainly have not been to any church without having someone whom I might consider a security blanket with me. So there I was, sitting there, feeling one hundred percent out of sorts and a little bit terrified, trying desperately to talk myself off that panic ledge. I remember telling myself how big a step it must have been for Jack to be with my family. I remember telling myself that I could be a big person. I remember telling myself that I was not going to punk out. I was already there.

And honestly, as I sat there, I reminded myself that I am different now. I know who I am. I am stronger. I am braver. I know how to protect myself. As a priestess I speak with god more often than most of these people would ever in their lives. I never thought the day would come when my being a witch would be the thing that made me brave enough to walk into a church. But it was. If I can hear the voice of god, if the goddess comes to me in my dreams, if my Grandfather and Great Grandmother and all my sacred dead can sing me to sleep on my worst nights, there was really no reason I should be worried that they would not be there for me in that moment. And so I got out of my truck.

And Jack, thank god and goddess, came out of the church just then to get something out of his truck. And he spotted me. And promptly commented on how terrified I looked. Bless his heart, he asked me if I was afraid of combusting or being struck down by god when I went inside and he laughed. I managed a smile and told him with complete honestly that I was fine with God, it was his followers that had me anxious. Bless his heart, he put his hand on me and led me in and let me sit down and I could tell he felt bad when he had to go do other things. But he did come back, and when he wasn't playing he did sit with me. I felt bad about that, really, because I feel like he was babysitting me. I know he had people he probably would rather have been with.

Did you know that all churches smell the same? I swear they do, though I didn't recognize it until now. The voices sound the same. Its like the same picture, over and over, no matter where you are. I find it ironic. The sounds are the same. The church may be different- they may see themselves as completely unique- but I swear I had been to so many before...well, before. And it doesn't look like things have changed. Which is fine for them, of course, but for me was immensely uncomfortable.

I want to say this- Jack played beautifully and I am really glad I went. I really am. I might even go again because honestly, now that I am seeing my own fear I feel like I should face it. And it wasn't so bad really, even if I am on a different page spiritually. Their pastor is really, really nice. That said, I spent a lot of the evening jumping every time there was lightening (because of course there was a storm rolling in), twisting my rain jacket in my hands in an attempt to look like I was merely chilly and not fighting the impulse to white knuckle the seats (I was not leaving!) and struggling desperately to turn off my "witch eyes" which had suddenly decided to light up like The Plaza at Christmas (let me tell you how fun it is to be seeing auras and sensing emotions and have your psychic mail box go off while you're trying to focus on something else entirely.) Obviously something about the place or the situation put me in an Alpha state, which is great. Unfortunately, I was trying to torch my own personal demons.

I think I tripped over my own feet three times in the ten yards to the door (thank the lord that everyone already knows how clumsy I am). I managed to get out of the parking lot and home without wrecking my truck. I only had a little cry after I got into bed. I managed a whole night without nighmares, though, and that's got to count for something.

I suppose I am stuck in a strange place feeling like I am really weak because I had such a crushing panic attack and being proud that I got through it. I'm still sorting out how I feel. I am still trying to sift through the emotions I had and the ones I have now. I'm trying to give myself space and think about the whys and wherefores of a building being a trigger. I can't punish myself for it. I know that. But I feel disappointed in myself. I thought I was stronger.

Kitten says I am being unreasonable. That when traumatic things happen to us that we never really truly recover from them. I would never judge her for reacting to fire the way she does. I would never condemn a person who struggles with an eating disorder or addiction or any other thing that even slightly suggests less than sterling mental health. She's right, I wouldn't.

Is it wrong that I hold myself to a higher standard? Maybe, but it doesn't mean I don't.

AGxx