Leaving yourself to find your Self

Im thinking about how we misrepresent ourselves to one another and then wonder we can never truly connect. People are more worried about their image than the actual quality of their life. Maybe if we worried more about the quality of our relationships and communicating authentically, our images would follow suit, and in the process, our whole society would grow and flourish in real community.

You first.

I’m working on this today!

Today, I glided confidently across the room, ready for anything. After thirty years of teaching I was confident in my lessons, poised in my stature, but wait…what was that small bunchy thing in the bottom of my pant leg?? One more step and BOOM! Out fell a tiny pair of lacy panties that had been trapped in there since Sunday’s load of wash. I quickly stepped on it and stayed fixed in that position until my 3rd period class was dismissed. As soon as the last student filed out, I bent down and snatched them up, bundling them into my front pocket before 4th period began. Jeesh-close call!!

By the time lunch rolled around I was famished. I wanted to get to the cafeteria before the students so I wouldn’t have to wait in that endless line which usually left me with only ten minutes to eat my salad, but I needed to make a quick stop into the ladies room on my way. “Hurry, hurry, hurry, my brain kept telling my body, but when I hurry, I tend to make mistakes. As I let loose, feeling the sweet relief of an emptying bladder, I realized something fatal. I had forgotten to pull down my undies, and so a stream of pee was filtering awkwardly through them into the potty.

“What will I do,” I asked myself, exasperated? And then I remembered the spare of underskippers in my pocket.

“HA,”I gloated!! The Universe really does have my back❤️

I even made it to lunch on time to discover they were serving my favorite: Chicken Caesar Wraps. I love you dear Universe! xoxo

THE ROAD TO REAL

The journey begins...again...

I really suck at following through!  If I were applying for a job, and you were my interviewer, I’d reframe it and tell you that I’m the idea person.  I’d go on to tell you that ideas come at me so quickly, that I need to write each one down lest it be eclipsed by the next bigger, even better, one.

Really, that’s just me being full of shit!

The truth, as I previously stated, is that I truly suck at following through.  

I have started this journey so many times, I can’t even begin to remember them all.  I think it all began in the eighties with punk rock.  My struggle was rooted in the “autonomy vs. shame and doubt” stage.  I never had the luxury of making choices as a child.  My whole life was decided for me, so it made perfect sense that you’d find me embroiled in a power struggle from the very beginning.  Aww, poor you, you might be thinking.  I know, there are so many people who had no guidance or support.  People who were neglected, beaten,  or lived in complete poverty with nothing handed to them.  People who struggled to find opportunities, or who were denied them based on superficial markers of status, such as socioeconomic status, skin color, or geographic location.  It’s rare that anyone wants to listen to someone complain about any of the white, suburban difficulties that accompany the fabricated lives designed solely for appearances. Even if, by all definitions, it was emotional abuse.

Tough crap!

I’m going to wax on, for my own healing purposes, and there’s very little, if anything, that you can do to stop me. 

It was sixth grade when I decided that I was done tolerating bullshit.  That adults were stupid liars with fragile egos, embroiled in an eternal pissing contest.  They said one thing to one group, and something completely different to another. Truthfully, my observations were cumulative, though.  As young as 3-4 years old, I noticed that something wasn’t quite right.  That I was expected to live outwardly in a way that did not coincide authentically with my inner being. I’d comment on something that didn’t add up and the response was, “that never happened.  You must have misheard.”   

My parents seemed to hate each other.  They called each other names like “stupid sonofabitch,” “shitty cunt,” and “fucking asshole.”  Then publicly were affectionate and telling untruths to explain why we were late to the picnic after tumbling down the stairs together in a heap, armed with kitchen knives and cast iron fry pans.  The stress, as a child was overwhelming, and at some point, I developed severe issues with anxiety. While most kids were praying for their parents to stay together, I begged God to please make them divorce.  I had a small, pink piece of satin that I carried everywhere with me for security long past the “blanky phase.” Then inevitably, as kids like me often do, I developed IBS issues and difficulties at school.  Music was always my safe house. Music was my escape to freedom-My Underground Railroad.

When punk rock became an option for me as a fashionable form of rebellion, I was quick to jump on the bandwagon.  Anything I could do to say “fuck off Mom and Dad,” without actually saying it was my brand of passive aggression.