I have been living in anger for a very long time now. It’s comfortable, it’s familiar, it’s easier not to deal with how I really feel when everything’s a big, black blur of anger.
I was going to list the reasons why I’ve been angry and who I’ve been angry at but I realized that that is pointless. The main person I’ve been angry with is myself.
I have been angry that I have allowed myself to lose so much time and so many things by simply letting fear and insecurity take over my life. My anger is based so strongly in fear yet I rarely can see that that is the case.
It’s familiar because the main emotions in my family are anger and fear. We communicate in shouts, not whispers. We fight more than we hug. Raised voices are what I grew up with and it’s the way I learned to communicate. When you are unhappy, be angry. When you are uncertain, be angry. When you are afraid, be angry. It’s not your fault you feel this way, it’s everybody else’s. Everybody else is to blame.
My mother schooled me well in anger and self-righteousness. She is a fury when she feels out of control - which is very often, especially now. She is unreachable in that fury and she is devastated when the fury ceases but she has no tools to understand or deal with the aftermath, so she dives further into the fury.
More and more often as I get older, I hear my mother coming out of my mouth. I see myself echoing her self-preservation techniques - drive everyone away before they can hurt you, before they can reveal your flaws and your weaknesses. And if someone crosses you, cross them off the list and leave them behind. Live your life in a dark room, alone, empty, with alienation and loneliness your only friends.
I let go of a lot of anger last night. I realized how much energy and attention it takes to be that angry that much of the time. How it eats away at you, how it was eating away at me. How the anger and the fear were taking the joy out of things because I was allowing them to.
I reached out to my ex last night, one of the main sources of my anger. I realized that I am I control of my life and I can choose to let him in and how much to let him in. Despite all the pain and the fury, I miss him. And my anger was coming from the residual hurt and pain of our relationship and from fear that if I opened myself up to him at all, he would hurt me again in some way. But last night, I gently reached out, cautiously, fearfully, and he reached back just as tentatively. But we managed to meet in the middle, have a moment in time when we were gentle with each other, just to say, hey, hope you’re well, what’s going on, and leave it at that.
And it felt good to do that. To let that anger go, leave that fear by the side. I realize I can control how much access he has to me and how much information I give him. I can let him in to my life if I choose and in the way that I choose. And if I don’t like the way it’s going, I can choose to push him away.
I guess it comes with discovering that I am in control of my life, not him, not anyone else. When it comes to the other people who I have been angry at lately, I also realized that it accomplishes nothing to carry that anger around. It shuts me off from them, leaving them no choice but to stand at a distance and reflect that anger back at me. The only way to not live in that fury is to let the anger go, realize that I participated in creating that situation, and choose to step out of the fury and leave the hurricane behind.
I am a faux Buddhist. I say this because I know so little about Buddhism but I desire to embrace that philosophy. My grandfather was a Buddhist and I think I inherited that sensibility from him and from my father, who is maybe a little too passive within the fury but mostly seems to possess the best of that Eastern way of living. And in my moderate attempts to understand and to create a life of peace and contentment, I am slowly discovering that anger cannot exist within that life. That doesn’t mean I have to be a pansy and allow people to run over me and treat me like a doormat. Respect and dignity are a large part of the way I’d like to live my life. But in order to receive that respect and dignity, I must allow myself to be vulnerable enough to treat others that way, even if we don’t agree, even if they’ve hurt me or disrespected me in some way. I have to choose to not allow that anger to take over and color every moment of every relationship.
So this morning, I woke up relieved and relaxed, that ball of fury in my stomach gone, that pile of fear cut down significantly. I am still fearful of letting go of that familiarity of living in anger and fear. I am terrified that I am leaving myself open to truly being hurt and scarred and mangled by those I have been so angry at. But in living in that fury, I fear I have cut myself off from everyone else, not allowing someone who will treat me with dignity and respect and pride and love come through because of the wall of fury existing around me.
I know I am not done being angry and I know that the fury is going to be a battle every single day. But I also know that it was easier to sleep last night and my heart is at peace this morning. Let’s see how long I can hang on to that.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Thursday, December 04, 2008
Father to daughter
He sat on my bed today, holding my hand, telling me all the things a daughter wants to hear from her father.
His voice shook. He cried almost as hard as I did. He held my hand the entire time. He heard me in a way my mother never has.
He said that they weren’t deserting me, leaving me behind when they move. He heard me say I need to be acknowledged and treated with respect. He acknowledged my pain and was heartbroken to have been part of the cause.
He told me they didn’t want to burden me anymore with their care. That I had done enough and now it was time for my sister to take over.
My heart broke as he said they thought they were holding me back from doing and being what I should do and be. That he hoped that my taking care of them wasn’t why I haven’t been able to get further. And that he knows that I am following a difficult path, one that they both don’t want me to abandon. In fact, he assured me that I never need to worry financially, that what I was doing was special and difficult and that they want to see me continue. Then he said he wants me to keep going because he wants to be able to point up at the screen and, as his eyes overflowed with tears, be able to say, “That’s my girl.”
He shared with me the difficulties with my mother, but then told me how she takes care of him and how he loves her for that. Not in those words but it was clear in his eyes that she is the one he will be with till his last day, whether it’s six months from now or another 30 years from now. He shared my pain in how she communicates - or how she fails to. He acknowledged how difficult she is but without diminishing either of us. But talked gently and quietly, making it okay to say, yeah, she makes me crazy but with a smile, not a scream.
And he never let go of my hand.
He talked about the life they’ll have in the Great North and how it’ll be good for them and again assured me that they aren’t leaving me behind, just moving forward.
Then he stopped, his eyes unable to look at me because I would see his heart in them. He said, “We’re breaking up.” I was confused until he explained that it felt like our family was breaking up because I wouldn’t be there with them. He told me how hard it was when I left Winnipeg all those years ago, to find my way while they stayed behind at home. That one of the main reasons they moved down here was because of me.
He squeezed my hand as he assured me that we would talk a lot, that we should talk a lot. That they would always be there, no matter what I needed. And that my sister and her husband also would be there, so I could continue to walk my path and be the person I’ve been trying to be without having to worry about being burdened with their care.
He acknowledged how much I’ve done and how proud he is of me. He wanted me to know that they never meant to hurt me or disrespect me. They were afraid I would be hurt and feel that they were deserting me so they didn’t want to talk about it. He heard me when I said that I needed to talk about it and that I needed them to share this with me, not cut me out and leave me standing at the side of the road.
Through numerous interruptions by both my mother and my cat, he never let go of my hand.
In the end, it wasn’t his words but his eyes and his gentle grip that told me all I needed to know. My father loves me more than he can ever express. He respects me and understands me in a way that no one else in my family does or ever will. He told me that I am his daughter and that’s enough for him. That what I do has value, that who I am has value, that, to him, I will always have value.
All because he sat on my bed today, holding my hand, telling me all the things a daughter wants to hear from her father.
His voice shook. He cried almost as hard as I did. He held my hand the entire time. He heard me in a way my mother never has.
He said that they weren’t deserting me, leaving me behind when they move. He heard me say I need to be acknowledged and treated with respect. He acknowledged my pain and was heartbroken to have been part of the cause.
He told me they didn’t want to burden me anymore with their care. That I had done enough and now it was time for my sister to take over.
My heart broke as he said they thought they were holding me back from doing and being what I should do and be. That he hoped that my taking care of them wasn’t why I haven’t been able to get further. And that he knows that I am following a difficult path, one that they both don’t want me to abandon. In fact, he assured me that I never need to worry financially, that what I was doing was special and difficult and that they want to see me continue. Then he said he wants me to keep going because he wants to be able to point up at the screen and, as his eyes overflowed with tears, be able to say, “That’s my girl.”
He shared with me the difficulties with my mother, but then told me how she takes care of him and how he loves her for that. Not in those words but it was clear in his eyes that she is the one he will be with till his last day, whether it’s six months from now or another 30 years from now. He shared my pain in how she communicates - or how she fails to. He acknowledged how difficult she is but without diminishing either of us. But talked gently and quietly, making it okay to say, yeah, she makes me crazy but with a smile, not a scream.
And he never let go of my hand.
He talked about the life they’ll have in the Great North and how it’ll be good for them and again assured me that they aren’t leaving me behind, just moving forward.
Then he stopped, his eyes unable to look at me because I would see his heart in them. He said, “We’re breaking up.” I was confused until he explained that it felt like our family was breaking up because I wouldn’t be there with them. He told me how hard it was when I left Winnipeg all those years ago, to find my way while they stayed behind at home. That one of the main reasons they moved down here was because of me.
He squeezed my hand as he assured me that we would talk a lot, that we should talk a lot. That they would always be there, no matter what I needed. And that my sister and her husband also would be there, so I could continue to walk my path and be the person I’ve been trying to be without having to worry about being burdened with their care.
He acknowledged how much I’ve done and how proud he is of me. He wanted me to know that they never meant to hurt me or disrespect me. They were afraid I would be hurt and feel that they were deserting me so they didn’t want to talk about it. He heard me when I said that I needed to talk about it and that I needed them to share this with me, not cut me out and leave me standing at the side of the road.
Through numerous interruptions by both my mother and my cat, he never let go of my hand.
In the end, it wasn’t his words but his eyes and his gentle grip that told me all I needed to know. My father loves me more than he can ever express. He respects me and understands me in a way that no one else in my family does or ever will. He told me that I am his daughter and that’s enough for him. That what I do has value, that who I am has value, that, to him, I will always have value.
All because he sat on my bed today, holding my hand, telling me all the things a daughter wants to hear from her father.
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
Thank you, I'm fine.
I had a couple of late-breaking epiphanies today.
I’ve been struggling the past couple of weeks with changes and holidays and parents and flooded apartment and have barely been able to keep my head above water emotionally. However, I know after a bleak period like this there tends to be insight. Here’s what I’ve gotten this time.
1. I’m just fine as I am, thank you very much. There is nothing wrong with me. I am still thinking about why the OOMA (Object of My Affection, for those of you new to this blog) didn’t choose to be with me. I’ve intellectually been able to say, oh, well, too bad, his choice. But today, it hit me. It was his choice. It had nothing to do with me and everything to do with him. There is nothing wrong with me. Nothing. He didn’t not choose me because I gained some weight or I showed him my raw emotional side or any of the other million things that have gone through my head since that night that I saw him realize he had a choice. We were out for his birthday, we were seeing his friends play at a bar. I looked fantastic. I went to the ladies room and came back. He put his arm out and I slid comfortably under it, snuggling close to him and felt like a million bucks. And he went to introduce me. He said, “This is my…” Then he stopped and looked at me. In that moment, he chose. He could have said my girlfriend and changed my life. He could have not paused and just said my friend, Susan, and we would have gone on just fine. But he looked at me and saw a girlfriend. And he was not able to accept that. He was not able to make that transition because he chose not to. Not because there was anything wrong with me, or with him, for that matter. Just because he wasn’t ready or chose not to be ready or whatever. It was not me. I am fine. There is nothing wrong with me.
That sounds simple but it hit me like a freight train today. I had found some pictures of us from some wonderful times we had and it really broke my heart that nothing ever went further than friends. Then, while driving and going over every single second of our recent friendship, a tiny, quiet, sane, beautiful voice said, “It’s not you. You’re just fine. It’s him. He chose not to have you. He chose for his own reasons. It has nothing to do with you. You’re fine.” And there was a quiet peace that followed.
I’m just fine as I am, thank you very much.
2. I’m just fine as I am, thank you very much. I am proud of what I have done with my life. Taking control and leaving a very miserable, abusive, controlled and suffocating marriage. I haven’t always done well financially, I haven’t always done well emotionally. But I’ve taken those steps to get there financially and emotionally and I have been true to myself. I am proud of the work I have done, no matter what others have said in cruel, vicious, mean ways, striking out at me where I am most vulnerable - my ability to create. I am a long way from the artist I want to be, whether as a painter or as a writer or as a director. But I pour my heart and soul into every single piece of work I do and I do the best I can with what I have. I have created so much in just under four years that sometimes, it’s hard to believe. But I have allowed others to taint that accomplishment with their bitterness and their smallness. I saw myself through blurred eyes and thought their criticisms were true, despite the fact that my work has gotten more and more recognition as time has gone by. I don’t have to make you happy. I am making me happy. I know I am a great writer. I know I am a solid director, getting better and better. I know I am a strong artist who is learning and growing and discovering. I know I am fine and I know who I am creatively.
3. I’m just fine as I am, thank you. My family still sees me as a struggling, uncertain, baby girl of 12 who doesn’t know what she wants because she’s living in a family she doesn’t understand. They see me as not knowing anything, as not capable of anything, because I’m the baby and my sister and brother are older and have achieved so much more, so therefore, I really don’t matter because I don’t contribute anything to the family. I don’t have a wall of trophies. I don’t have newspaper articles about me. I don’t have a six figure a year job. I don’t exist. I don’t matter enough to even deserve more than four minutes on the phone on Thanksgiving while my folks are staying with my sister. I am invisible. To them. But I am not invisible to me. I cannot change their impression. If I won Oscars for best writer, best director and best picture, there would still be criticism of what I said in my acceptance speech or how I stood at the podium or what dress I wore. Or, in reality, they would never even notice. But I notice. And I am not invisible to myself. I am solid and strong and worthy. I can’t change them and I have to stop trying. My success isn’t six figures but it’s doing a job I love. It’s writing pieces I am proud of and that people want to perform. It’s directing award-winning plays and short films. It’s success in creating my life, not just flowing along, doing what makes me visible to those who aren’t living their life. I am visible, I am capable, and I am acknowledged and I exist for those who can truly see the qualities that are intangible and invisible and underneath. I am just fine as I am, thank you. Invisible to you but not invisible to myself.
I am just fine. I am learning the truth behind that simple statement. I am just fine. The rest doesn’t matter.
I’ve been struggling the past couple of weeks with changes and holidays and parents and flooded apartment and have barely been able to keep my head above water emotionally. However, I know after a bleak period like this there tends to be insight. Here’s what I’ve gotten this time.
1. I’m just fine as I am, thank you very much. There is nothing wrong with me. I am still thinking about why the OOMA (Object of My Affection, for those of you new to this blog) didn’t choose to be with me. I’ve intellectually been able to say, oh, well, too bad, his choice. But today, it hit me. It was his choice. It had nothing to do with me and everything to do with him. There is nothing wrong with me. Nothing. He didn’t not choose me because I gained some weight or I showed him my raw emotional side or any of the other million things that have gone through my head since that night that I saw him realize he had a choice. We were out for his birthday, we were seeing his friends play at a bar. I looked fantastic. I went to the ladies room and came back. He put his arm out and I slid comfortably under it, snuggling close to him and felt like a million bucks. And he went to introduce me. He said, “This is my…” Then he stopped and looked at me. In that moment, he chose. He could have said my girlfriend and changed my life. He could have not paused and just said my friend, Susan, and we would have gone on just fine. But he looked at me and saw a girlfriend. And he was not able to accept that. He was not able to make that transition because he chose not to. Not because there was anything wrong with me, or with him, for that matter. Just because he wasn’t ready or chose not to be ready or whatever. It was not me. I am fine. There is nothing wrong with me.
That sounds simple but it hit me like a freight train today. I had found some pictures of us from some wonderful times we had and it really broke my heart that nothing ever went further than friends. Then, while driving and going over every single second of our recent friendship, a tiny, quiet, sane, beautiful voice said, “It’s not you. You’re just fine. It’s him. He chose not to have you. He chose for his own reasons. It has nothing to do with you. You’re fine.” And there was a quiet peace that followed.
I’m just fine as I am, thank you very much.
2. I’m just fine as I am, thank you very much. I am proud of what I have done with my life. Taking control and leaving a very miserable, abusive, controlled and suffocating marriage. I haven’t always done well financially, I haven’t always done well emotionally. But I’ve taken those steps to get there financially and emotionally and I have been true to myself. I am proud of the work I have done, no matter what others have said in cruel, vicious, mean ways, striking out at me where I am most vulnerable - my ability to create. I am a long way from the artist I want to be, whether as a painter or as a writer or as a director. But I pour my heart and soul into every single piece of work I do and I do the best I can with what I have. I have created so much in just under four years that sometimes, it’s hard to believe. But I have allowed others to taint that accomplishment with their bitterness and their smallness. I saw myself through blurred eyes and thought their criticisms were true, despite the fact that my work has gotten more and more recognition as time has gone by. I don’t have to make you happy. I am making me happy. I know I am a great writer. I know I am a solid director, getting better and better. I know I am a strong artist who is learning and growing and discovering. I know I am fine and I know who I am creatively.
3. I’m just fine as I am, thank you. My family still sees me as a struggling, uncertain, baby girl of 12 who doesn’t know what she wants because she’s living in a family she doesn’t understand. They see me as not knowing anything, as not capable of anything, because I’m the baby and my sister and brother are older and have achieved so much more, so therefore, I really don’t matter because I don’t contribute anything to the family. I don’t have a wall of trophies. I don’t have newspaper articles about me. I don’t have a six figure a year job. I don’t exist. I don’t matter enough to even deserve more than four minutes on the phone on Thanksgiving while my folks are staying with my sister. I am invisible. To them. But I am not invisible to me. I cannot change their impression. If I won Oscars for best writer, best director and best picture, there would still be criticism of what I said in my acceptance speech or how I stood at the podium or what dress I wore. Or, in reality, they would never even notice. But I notice. And I am not invisible to myself. I am solid and strong and worthy. I can’t change them and I have to stop trying. My success isn’t six figures but it’s doing a job I love. It’s writing pieces I am proud of and that people want to perform. It’s directing award-winning plays and short films. It’s success in creating my life, not just flowing along, doing what makes me visible to those who aren’t living their life. I am visible, I am capable, and I am acknowledged and I exist for those who can truly see the qualities that are intangible and invisible and underneath. I am just fine as I am, thank you. Invisible to you but not invisible to myself.
I am just fine. I am learning the truth behind that simple statement. I am just fine. The rest doesn’t matter.
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