Break On Through to the Other Side

Well, so much for an interesting week of posts ;)

Truth be told, I was far too busy actually doing things out in the world. Crazy, I know. I spent three days in a car, another day recovering, and then the weekend was spent playing catch up. Now, I am back to the daily grind: up before 7, daughter to day care, Starbucks, and blogging before class.

I am not quite sure what it is that I would like to pick out of this past week to blog about first. So many different things happened in such rapid succession that I am still sorting it all out. Yet, I think that the very first one is the most mind boggling and significant to those of you who are in recovery.

Just after my last post, I had to rush around and pack for my trip north. Now, what is it that every female does when she is packing for a trip?

She tries on her outfit(s).

Well, I had spoiled myself and purchased a cute top from Anthropologie to go and speak at my first group in. It was a bit billowy and would require me to wear every bloat day's worst nightmare: skinny jeans. Dun  Dun Duuuuuun.

I own two pairs of skinny jeans at this point in time. A super dark wash jegging and a more faded pair of Joe's. I know that none of my male readers have a clue what I am talking about, hang in there. Well, the top was really bright and I figured that the dark jeggings would really set it off. The thing about jeggings is that they are pretty much 70% legging and 30% jean. They just get the color and the zipper from their denim predecessors. You basically have to do that awful wiggle dance to get them up and then stand in the splits to stretch them out enough so that you don't feel like you are being strangled at the waist.

I don't understand whyyyy we do this to ourselves; but, we do.

I am doing the wiggle dance and then there is that dreaded *pop*

I hadn't zipped the zipper all the way down (zip is such a fun word) and it broke. I broke the zipper on my skinny jeans after having a nervous breakdown about the one year anniversary of my mother's death and trying to pack to go lead a group.... fucking figures.

Well, what do you think I did?

I'll give you 10 seconds....

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If you guessed that I collapsed in a heap on the floor, then you would be wrong.

If you guess that I grabbed my other pair of skinny jeans and wiggled them on with little effort, then you would be correct-a-mundo.

I got the pants on, put on my awesome peep toes, and looked in the mirror.

For the first time that I can really remember, I actually saw myself.

There was just this wonderful moment where I had this inner calm. I just looked in the mirror and I saw my face and my energy and my self.

It was as though the clothes and the body weren't even there. It was just me. The person within the body. The exterior just dropped away and I saw everything that I have done and everything that I am. The woman that I have become. That I have worked my ass off to become. Figuratively of course.

I just stood there. For about five minutes. Smiling like a dumbass and welling up like a wimp. Completely taken aback by what I was seeing. What I had been waiting years to see. Maybe even my whole life. It was wonderful. It is something that so few people can actually recognize the significance of. Yet, I know that every one of you can imagine how wondrous it must be for someone who once saw no worth but her body to finally see the worth in every thing else.

As a meaningful transition: I told my mom.

I stood there and I looked and I told her that I was going to be ok. That I had made it and that I was going to be just fine. That her daughter had kicked the kind of ass that she never quite could.

I bet she is damned proud.

I spent an hour and a half on the phone with my sister the next day as I drove to up the coast. She is still so hurt and full of rage and anger. I don't blame her. She saw a lot more of our mother's worst days. I cut mom out before she hit bottom. I knew where she was going and I couldn't go with her. My sister was too young to do that. My heart breaks for her every time I hear her telling me those stories. I tried to shield her from that side of our mom for most of our lives; but I had to shield myself at the end. I wish that I had kept at it for just a few more years. My sister didn't need to see or hear those things. No child should.

That is what has given me closure. My daughter. My child. My motherhood.

I have spent the last year wondering why I could not cry and sob over my own mother's death. It is not that it never happened; it is just that I could think about her without shedding a tear. At first, I will admit that it was because I had become cold and closed. Yet, that has changed somehow over recent months.

I think it is because I see my mother as a person, not as my mother. I don't know if that quite makes sense. Let me explain.

Every individual fills a multitude of roles: mother, wife, girlfriend, sister, daughter, co worker, friend, teacher, mentor, ex-wife, ex-girlfriend, cousin, aunt.... you get my drift. We all wear several hats. WE are not a single role. We are the person that fills them. Yet, the people for whom we fill those roles only see that part of us. It makes it difficult for them to accept and understand when we do things that do not fit into that preconceived notion of who we must be for them in their life.

A shift has occurred in the last few months. I think that it started several years ago when I tried to understand why my mother had left my sister and I. There was no way to reconcile her behavior with who she was in my life. It was not the behavior of my mother. My mommy would never have done those things. Yet, she was. So, I split her. She became my mom or my mother. Ironically, I called her my mother when she did the things that didn't fill that role. She never liked being called mother. I found it fitting.

Well, as I have begun to fill the role of a mom, I have recognized the reality of who and what a mom is. A mom is a woman. She is not just the one that washes your hair, packs your lunch, cuts your sandwiches into squares, and kisses your boo boos. She has friends, lovers, family, responsibilities, hopes, dreams, insecurities, fears, and pain. A mom is not perfect. She is not only there for you. She will try to be. Yet, it is not possible. A mom cannot be only a mom. She must be herself. For that is what makes her your mom.

When I look at how challenging it is for me to do what I do for my daughter, it helps me to realize how difficult it must have been for my mom to do what she did for us. As broken as I was, I was not nearly as broken as she was. I was not beyond my own saving. I had my problems (I still do). Thankfully, they were not outside my realm of control. They were not due to innate and internal imbalances. My mom's were. Yet, she did more things with my sister and I than I do with my daughter.

I can't help but to feel as though that was part of her problem. She tried so hard to be the perfect wife and mother. Yet, she was going through so much internal pain and fear. She was alone and isolated and depressed. She did not do for herself. She did not care for her self. She lost the person that filled the roles. Eventually, she lost the roles as well.

That is the thing that we all must realize: we are not who we are to others, we are who we are to ourselves.

You cannot be there for those you love, if you are not there for yourself first. You must speak your truth. You must communicate your needs. You must nurture your heart and your soul. That is what makes you who you are to those you love.

They do not love you for what you are, they love you for who you are.

The reality is that a nanny or a step-mother can pack lunches and kiss boo boos. However, only the person that makes up your mom can do it just like she does. It is the little details about us that makes us precious to those we love. It is not the big things that we do, it is how we do them.

Recognizing all of this has helped me to come to terms with the loss of my mother. It was not just the loss of my mom. It was the loss of the person who filled that role. She had her own demons and insecurities. She had her own hopes and dreams. She had her own worries and fears. She was a person. Not just my mom. I can have so much compassion for who she was. Even if that meant that she could not be what I needed her to be.

She did her best. It was not enough; but, she did her best. She loved us as best as she could. She tried for years to be the what and lost the who. It breaks my heart to know that she could probably have made it if she did the hard work. If she didn't turn away from who she was for so long. It broke her when the what fell apart.

This realization has lead me to the acknowledgement of my final self-improvement project. I comforted myself for the last eight years in the way that my mother tried to comfort me. I gathered and kept things. I attributed worth to things. I was afraid that I would lose the memory if I lost the things. I kept that which reminded me of what I could not bear to think of on my own.

I avoided thinking about things that were unpleasant. My avoidance required distraction. Sometimes it was healthily. Usually, it was not.

When I have something on my mind, I tend to run errands or go shopping. I tend to get pretty things to become excited about. It will cheer me up momentarily; but, then I will look at all of it and feel ashamed that it represents my avoidance of my issues. It represents my refusal to see things for what they are. It was my "healthy binge".

People could leave; but, I could keep the things that reminded me of them. This is fine in small treasures; but, not in a plethora of outfits and scraps of paper. I would weed things out every few months. Yet, I never actually got rid of the things that had any memory attached to it. Sadly, their presence has become unnecessary and toxic.

So, I got rid of all of it.

I spent most of sunday afternoon going through all of my drawers, closets, bags, shoes, and linens. I still have to sort them out to sell, donate, or trash. I still have the garage to tackle. Yet, I no longer fear the loss of things or people. I recognize the impermanence of life. I see the beauty in its changes and fluctuations.

I just want to be the person that I am proud to be through all of these changes. I want to meet everything head on. I want to face them. I don't just want to duck and charge anymore. I want to walk with my head facing forward. I want my heart to follow my head and my head to obey my heart. I want to take every decision and do what it is that makes me feel right about it. I don't want the guilt or the shame or the false comforts. I want the legitimate satisfaction of doing what is right for the sake of it being right. Not easy, not safe, not comfortable. Right.

Life will always toss us shit. If you spend enough time in the presence of other living things, then you will inevitably find yourself covered in shit.

Wear it proudly. Be who you are. Not what you feel you must be.

If you don't see the difference, then you need to start working on that.


Then, you will be who you want to be and do what you want to do.



Chew on that for a while.