tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22750943477616604492024-02-19T07:17:07.088-06:00The Journey to ContentedJust a girl on a journey to find and keep her happiness. Shan Contentedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18243943975363421402noreply@blogger.comBlogger62125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2275094347761660449.post-50963692520425244452019-08-28T11:51:00.003-05:002019-08-28T12:56:37.367-05:00Still<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Here I am again. Frozen in a time that's both familiar and new. The merry go round has come around again and I am captured in another still moment of deja vu. Here I am again, all tears and defeat mixed with strength and upright spine. Here I am. Again. Like the recreation of an old photograph, spanned through time. Another still. Another moment. Frozen.<br />
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It's different, but it's the same. I'm different, but I'm the same. The same little girl lost with messy hair and secrets. The same willful child who demands of others that the madness stop to no avail. The same little girl who feels both responsible and innocent.<br />
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Here I am again. Frozen in a still on this merry go round that seems to have no exit. But each turn has given me something more. A little more wisdom. A little more skill. A few more tools. A little more constructive damage and destructive strength. I'm dizzy and tired and this child's game stopped being fun a long time ago.<br />
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But it is all necessary. I have to believe that. Each turn has its purpose. Each time I'm thrown headfirst into the ground below, I recover a little slower yet a little bolder. Somehow, the broken parts heal more elastic each time. Somehow, it teaches me something useful to me or others. Somehow, it always changes me for the better. And somehow, I always end up back on the merry go round even when I know I shouldn't.<br />
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The pinball keeps pinging around. The merry go round keeps spinning. Here I am again. All rage and dejection and defeat and vigor. Here I am again taking taste tests of freedom, but not quite embracing it yet. Here I am again, knowing how the story ends, but surviving inside it first. The protagonist and antagonist both for and against myself. The other side of the climax, hurling toward the inevitable resolution.<br />
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Again and again and again and again and again. I want it to stop because it's making everyone sick. It won't. It doesn't. It never does. I get back on without knowing or wanting to. Again and again and again.<br />
So here I am. Frozen. Dizzy. Unable to move. Catapulting toward the ground. Headfirst. Again.Shan Contentedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18243943975363421402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2275094347761660449.post-67275191488056067622019-08-10T12:38:00.000-05:002019-08-28T12:39:04.126-05:00Cleaning up the grafitti.. <div dir="ltr">
I can see him trying. I can see, in most moments, that he is making an effort to paint over all the old, ugly graffiti in our world with fresh, bright-colored paint. I can see that he is trying the best he can to keep the old words from bleeding through. I can see it. I'm watching. And I'm hesitantly, silently, cheering him on. He may not know it, but I am not a fairweather fan. I've been cheering him on even when he was having a losing season. </div>
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Sometimes he picks up the old spray paint can and starts to fall back into the familiar art of the graffiti. I speak up or walk away or just wait. And he picks up the paintbrush and goes back to work on the bright, new layer again. I can see it. I can feel it. I know it is happening. I cheer him on, in my way. </div>
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But I'm not ready to move back into his picture. I'm not washed of the graffiti. I can still feel it. Those words are still written on me. And I know the spray paint can is still within his reach. It isn't empty. It isn't discarded. It is still there and I'm not ready. I have lost my impatience. I can wait.</div>
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But, while he is in his own battle against which art he decides will be his future, I have my own part of the wall. I am painting my own picture. With hues of beautiful orange and red sunsets, turquoise water and deep blue seas, green and yellow turtles, bold colored dresses that flow in the sea breeze, and the smiling faces of the people I meet. And I am peeking at his work and hoping again, that somehow our two works can come back together. I thought I had lost that hope, given up on the idea because the art of us had diverged too much. But I find myself hoping again that somehow the ugly graffiti wall that is still between us is swallowed up by the connection of our separate bright, beautiful, new experiences. </div>
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And we can move back together. And our art can become a collage again. </div>
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But I'm not ready yet. </div>
Shan Contentedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18243943975363421402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2275094347761660449.post-74324689762039590022019-07-31T09:55:00.001-05:002019-07-31T09:55:21.160-05:00Honestly<p dir="ltr">It's been a very emotional last two weeks or so. It has probably been longer, but something in me broke a little bit the last couple of weeks. I'm not entirely sure what it was or why it happened when it did. I just hit a point that the tea pot I'd been trying to contain it all in started to whistle too loud. I didn't explode...much. Just a slowly rising whistle that got too loud to ignore. When I tried to turn the heat down underneath, the knob just wouldn't turn this time. Instead of pulling out my tools to fix it, I just let the whistling go on. And it was emotional. Angry, sad, crazy, loud. I just let it go on. Because it needed to boil over. </p>
<p dir="ltr">And it did. And now it's quiet again. And I have my tools out. The knob is moving again. The heat is bearable and the tea pot is intact. The whistling is just a haunting echo that is teaching me yet more wisdom. I suppose it was necessary. It always is. </p>
<p dir="ltr">But in the whistling, I learned. It's odd the things you learn in your most vulnerable moments. It's not what you expect to learn. It's not the big answers to the pressing stressors that caused the whistling to begin with. It's the subtle notes under the screaming high pitches that teach you. I don't know what to do about the big questions. Those are still simmering. But I did learn. </p>
<p dir="ltr">During the course of the last two weeks, I said some very honest things. If I wasn't so exhausted from all the noise and the heat and the lack of ability (or maybe will) to turn it down, I wouldn't have said them. I wouldn't have just blurted out the words. I'd have considered them taboo, or at least private enough that I only ever needed to say them to myself. I trust myself most of the time. But when the boiling starts, I'm not to be trusted. So, I said them out loud. </p>
<p dir="ltr">And it was scary and awkward. I expected to quickly regret it. I expected to be admonished or punished for letting my inside come outside. That's the way it's always been. Emotional honesty thrown at toxic people who answered with poison. Toxic people were all I had. And it was exhausting to try to detoxify myself onto people who didn't have any room to absorb it. They were too full of poison. </p>
<p dir="ltr">But, something has changed. Even some of the same people who were formally poisonous became absorbant. New friends, whom I feared wouldn't understand and therefore would not accept the beautiful swirling mess of me, saw my vulnerability. They didn't grimace or turn away or kick me when I was down. They didn't exploit it. They didn't criticize it. And when I admitted, far too honestly, that I was afraid they'd do just that, they comforted me. They acknowledged the mess and accepted it for what it was. Without judgment or anger or the all too familiar abandonment. They just comforted me. </p>
<p dir="ltr">No one told me what I wanted to hear just for the sake of it. No one laughed or ridiculed me. No one punched me in the gaping hole that I showed them in my character. No one was upset that I let the super hero cape fall off my shoulders. No one ran from my naked emotion. No one minded at all that I was so honest. They just comforted me. They cared. They expected nothing more than who I was at that moment. And it was incredible. </p>
<p dir="ltr">I often think about how easy things must be for people who haven't had the kinds of trauma and rich experiences that I've had. People who just move around with ease and never worry about whether they'll be attacked or derided or diminished simply for being. How does that feel? To not be on guard. To not have that nagging hypervigilence. I've only ever felt that way once when I was far away from everyone and everything familiar. But it came rushing back in any time I came within hearing distance of anyone I formerly knew.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I also wonder about people who just hold it all in. They've had the trauma and the rich experiences. They've heard the whistling so long that it's a part of every day life and they don't even hear it anymore. I wonder how those people survive every day with complete ignorance of their loud dysfunction. I guess ignorance is bliss. They seem ok with themselves, even if they don't seem ok to me. </p>
<p dir="ltr">But, I'm neither of those. I'm comprised almost entirely from a collection of my experiences and the wisdom gained from the acknowledgement of them. I'm acutely aware of the whistling. I've learned how to quiet it and learned that sometimes I might need to be driven a bit mad by it. I know me extremely well. And I know that I can trust me now, even when the heat gets too high and I go a little crazy. I know how to be honest with myself. </p>
<p dir="ltr">But there's something new I learned in the last couple of weeks of emotional rawness. It turns out that I can be honest with some other people too. I can spew out even those darker parts and still be accepted as more than just those parts. I can be vulnerable and not expect to have salt poured into the painful spots. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Maybe that's the wisdom of choosing people to have around me that are a bit safer. A bit better. A bit less toxic. Or maybe it's my perception that's changed. Maybe it's the world's. Maybe it's both or nether. All the same, I'm grateful. </p>
<p dir="ltr">And the whistling as subsided. The knob is fixed. Everything is being properly regulated again. Decisions need to be made, but they can be made in quiet, as slowly as they need to be. </p>
Shan Contentedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18243943975363421402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2275094347761660449.post-41653981344467329582019-03-05T10:11:00.000-06:002019-08-28T12:05:28.937-05:00<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-right: 17pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;">
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I've had stress on my mind a lot lately. Mainly because I've been stressed in a way that I haven't felt in a long time. A nagging way that makes my chest hurt and makes it hard to breathe. I have confronted that stress and have been trying to reconcile it with my faith and my promise to myself that I would never allow this kind of stress to overwhelm me again. It's not because it's unpleasant. I can deal with unpleasant. It is because this level of stress has only ever been an indication to me that change is necessary and has to occur. It's because my promise to me was to always embrace the internal freedom happiness Mexico Shano very often had. My promise to me was to control the things I could and let go of the things I could not. My promise to me was to walk away from stress and embrace calm happiness. And my decades-old promise to myself was to try, with all of my ability, to follow my faith, as it has never failed me when I mindfully embraced and learned from it. </div>
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So, I've had some burning questions about my recent stress. First, my stress is nothing to do with my life situation as a whole. My stress is related to a mid-stage change that ultimately will culminate into a much better situation that will bring a later positive and reduce a longer-term stress. It is temporary. But, in reality, all stress is temporary. So, why is the stress so necessary? Once I spent a bit of time with these questions, I realized my stress has almost always been necessary. And that this stress, too, is necessary. </div>
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Second, isn't it the general goal of my faith to recognize and then move past suffering, aka, eliminate stress? Aren't I suppose to be striving for living in the present moment and not spending needless time worrying about the future, which is what stress essentially is, isn't it? Aren't I betraying my own faith by not maintaining a constant calm and a steadfast belief that everything will work out just as it should? Shouldn't I be taking the "live in the moment" approach and just "going with the flow" with the blind faith that it'll all just work itself out? For this, I had to do some research. I had to look back into teachings and interpretations. I had to look to Buddha himself and to the many wise interpretations of his teachings. I had to look into the essences of suffering and what centuries of teachings made of it. I had to take some time. And, ultimately, I found an answer. The answer that, my stress is necessary and has a purpose. </div>
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Both answers jived together as the same answer. Some stress; this kind of stress; the stress I'm feeling now, is completely and fully necessary and has a purpose. It is not the same sort of purpose that other major stresses in my life have had. The stress is not related to needing a major life change or a full purge of current circumstances. It only means that I have things to do. Many, many things to do. And that I'm not doing them to the best of my ability.<br />
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There are a lot of factors to that. Mainly, I'm not the only person who is necessary to check things off my growing to do list. To borrow the old yet time-tested truth, I can only change what is in my control. I cannot control what others do and do not do. But, when others actions, or lack thereof, impede my own progress, I get a stressed. So, my necessary stress is partially unnecessary. Or, at the very least, prolonged. </div>
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Shan Contentedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18243943975363421402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2275094347761660449.post-68299347743117435472018-06-26T16:36:00.003-05:002019-08-28T12:02:48.872-05:00The Mysterious Universe I try to be a good person. I try to align my actions with who I am and what I believe. When I fail, I try to get back on track, forgive myself, and focus on the person I want to be. I keep my faith that everything happens for a reason and, in the grand scheme of things, everything is exactly as its meant to be. I believe wholeheartedly in karma. I reap what I sew and the universe gives me the message I'm supposed to get about how to right IT, whatever IT was. When I've been in bad situations, when it felt like everything was just falling to pieces, when it seemed everything was destructing, when it reached a fever pitch that was intolerable, I always knew what was wrong. Deep down underneath all the facades and lies and denials to myself and others, I knew what change needed to come. I knew what path I was supposed to be taking. I knew what I had to do. Whether I wanted to do it or felt strong enough to do it or not, I knew what IT was. I knew how to right the ship. I knew what the universe wanted me to do. And I did it.<br />
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But right now, I'm being signaled and I don't know why. There are things happening that are beyond my control. There are things going wrong that are nonsensical and unusual. Things that are small when they happen alone, but are collectively massive. They are a message. I'm supposed to learn something. Something is supposed to change. Something needs to be done. I know this. I know it as well as I know how to breathe and walk and smile and cry. I recognize that the universe talking to me. It always has. It always will. I recognize these feelings of stress, pain, anger and desperation. I recognize the symptoms of my world out of whack. For the first time in my life, I don't know what I have to do. I have no idea what IT is. I can't figure it out. I don't understand.<br />
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My life is not in shambles. Things aren't wrong. I'm not pretending to be a champion swimmer while I try not to drown as I've done so many times before. There's no secret horror happening behind closed doors. I'm not faking it. My life is peaceful. Calm. Happy. Good. It's right. In almost every way, I'm in a better place than I've ever been in my life. I've stumbled around in this safe cocoon of peace and normalcy and somehow managed to find forgiveness and healing. I've found a sort of strength I've never had before. The strength to stop being so strong. A strength to rest. A strength to ask for help. A strength to trust. A strength to believe that I am fundamentally ok now. And I am, fundamentally, ok. Nothing is wrong.<br />
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But the universe is throwing its message out there. It started in a low whisper. I heard it then but thought it was just hypervigilance. I was imagining a message where there was none. The message coincided perfectly with a change cycle that has been consistent throughout my adult life. Every few years, I finally stop ignoring the message from the universe and make the major change I know I am supposed to make. I thought I was just restless, but I have gained enough wisdom to know I can't ignore even a whisper from the universe. And I didn't.<br />
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I took a long road trip. I spent almost a month with no one but myself, all day, every day. I went places I'd never been. I got out of my comfort zone. I ate alone. I drove alone. I slept alone. I relied on no one but me. I sat. I walked. I listened. I thoroughly explored what the universe might be whispering to me and came up with nothing.<br />
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And then, I came home. I came back knowing with certainty that I was ok. I came back grateful that I didn't need a change. I came back with a certainty that I'd only felt one other time in my life, my time in Mexico. I came back from that trip and let myself be immersed in the peace I felt. I forgave myself for all the mistakes I've made. I forgave myself for the fumbling about I'd done in my life. I forgave everyone else as well. Everyone. People I didn't believe I'd ever be capable of handing my forgiveness. I decided that was what the universe wanted from me. It wanted me to know that I was truly ok. It wanted me to forgive.<br />
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But it didn't stop. The whispering became a low rumble. The low rumble became louder, then louder still, until it became a scream. And I don't understand. I don't know what the message is. There's no denial. There's nothing I've missed. There's no bigger picture problem that I'm avoiding by focusing on little things. There's no false facade I'm maintaining to hide the deeper problem. There's nothing. Everything is good. There is nothing wrong. So why isn't everything working like it should? Why are things crumbling like they do when a change is necessary for survival? What is happening? And WHY?<br />
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In my world, there's no such thing as a "run of bad luck." There's no such thing as coincidence. Everything happens for a reason. My path is exactly as it should be and always has been. Every decision I've made, good or bad, had a purpose and a reason. I was to learn something. I was to make an impact here or there. I was to become everything I am. I will continue to become more with every experience. This is how it works. This is what I call "the universe" because I have no other word or phrase for it. Most people I know call it "God."<br />
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So, what am I to learn? What am I to change? I've explored every option. I went and talked to the ocean. I've meditated. I've even gotten good and drunk to let any pretenses or denials I might have had fall sloppily to the ground. Nothing. I am digging deep. And it's only made me surer that everything is as it is supposed to be. More positive that I am ok. But the universe keeps screaming louder and louder. It keeps throwing things in the way and refuses to stop.<br />
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I don't understand. I cannot understand. What does it want?Shan Contentedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18243943975363421402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2275094347761660449.post-72363480483018057842018-04-05T10:07:00.000-05:002019-08-28T12:22:13.180-05:00Am I?<div dir="ltr">
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Are we meant to be together with one person forever? Thats what we are taught. That's what society hands us. And isnt that the goal, socially and inherintly? Isnt that why we flirt and date and seek and marry? To find a mate. Procreate. Reproduce. Find love. So we can be with someone, forever. But does that work? Are there really any couples who are celebrating 50 years together that can say that theyve all been good ones? That they have no regrets? That they wanted to be there all that time? Or were they there because they honored a commitment society told them to make. </blockquote>
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I don't regret any relationship ending in my life. I only regret having promised not to end them. It was a lie. I knew it was a lie sometimes, didn't others, but it was always a lie. Is it a lie now? </div>
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He knows I'm up to something. He's even asked. Am I? I don't know. </div>
Shan Contentedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18243943975363421402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2275094347761660449.post-17670655821813165792017-11-03T16:41:00.000-05:002018-06-26T16:42:18.276-05:00Cracked<div dir="ltr">
I am covered in skin. And no one gets to come in. Its an awkward truth. One I lost somewhere and then regained again and then again. This has been a comfortable place. A cacoon. Somewhere safe to hide. No expectations. No requirements beyond my capabilities. I have just been. And that was good. That was necessary.</div>
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But have I felt? Have I experienced? What have I been doing? Just wrapping up in this spindley blanket of caterpillar spat safety? Am I to stay here? It's warm. And safe. And easy. But can I fly again? Is it worth it? Do my wings still spread? Do I still flutter and glide and land gracefully?</div>
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The cacoon is breaking open. What colors will I be this time? It is not ashes I rise from here. I did not burn to the ground and come up again with fierce, fiery might. It is a slow rebirth. A timid one. An unsure one.</div>
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What colors will I be? Bright? Black and White? Shades of gray? Will I be caught up in another net? Captured and contained? Or can I just fly? Flutter. Glide. Land gracefully.</div>
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The cacoon is cracking. The time is coming. Reborn again.</div>
Shan Contentedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18243943975363421402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2275094347761660449.post-44982324531894119102017-10-30T18:05:00.000-05:002017-10-30T18:05:57.030-05:00When I dieI don't expect to die any time soon but when I do someday, I have a few requests:<br />
1. Donate any possible part of me for organ donation, science, whatever. I'd prefer to be useful.<br />
2. If there is some cost effective way by then, press parts of me into 3 jewels and give one each to my sons so I can be forever with them.<br />
3. If those are not an option... do not embalm me! If I end up embalmed, I swear on all the soul I have left that Im coming back to haunt whoever made that decision! Ill figure out a way! DO NOT preserve my body in an unnatural state after I have left it and moved on! Just dont!<br />
*exception made if I'm donated to science. I get it. It'll be necessary to do something like that in that case. It's cool as long as I'm being useful. After I'm done being useful proceed to the other options.<br />
4. Return me to the Earth. My absolute preference is to be buried in an unsealed box (or no box at all) so that my body can do what all bodies are meant to do and become food and fuel for nature. Yeah. Yeah. You don't want to think of me all gross and getting eaten by worms and whatnot. Listen, I'm not going to be there anymore. I'll have moved on. My body will be food. As it should be. Don't think too much about it. Just remember I want to feed the flowers. Those flowers and grass and trees will be part me. And that is beautiful. And as it should be.<br />
5. Ok. So it's possible there are laws against that sort of thing. It's also possible that I was donated to science and/or all split up into worthy recipients of awesome parts of me. MAYBE I am all embalmed and hacked on and used up from being useful. No worries! Burn me! If you bury me now that I'm all preserved, I'm not natural food anymore. So Burn me! Cremate me and return me to Earth. Preferably half on a mountain and half in the sea. Just as long as I'm returning to the Earth, I won't be too picky. The yard is fine if that's all you can manage. No urns or trashbags or god forbid a tomb! Earth! Sea! Fish food! Yes please.<br />
6. Erect a memorial if you must but don't lay me down next to 1000 others in a sea of Grey markers that all look the same. Give me a memorial that says "THIS IS SHANO! She was unique." Make it small or big or whatever but make it unique. *Sparkles preferred.* And I've never been grey. Who would describe me as grey?? No one hopefully! I'm deep black or colorful blue or black and white checkered or vibrant red or neon pink! I'm not grey. Don't make my forever memorial grey either!<br />
7. Regardless of how anyone might feel about this statement, I am not a Christian. I am Buddhist. Please don't have a pastor/priest do my funeral service and quote bible verses and generally droll on about how I'm tromping up the Stairway to Heaven. I'm not. I've moved on. I'm already starting my next life and my soul is probably in or on its way to another living creature just beginning. Instead, please gather and laugh and celebrate this life I had and wish me luck in the next one. Maybe you'll cry and ok. I mean, I understand. But laugh more. That's an order! I want to be remembered with a smile and an eye roll and a laugh and stories that make me live on forever. Do Not remember me with somber tears and silly talk of my new castle in the sky. I don't even want to live in a castle! Remember me for my shiny moments and make guesses on where and in what form I've moved on to! (Hopefully I'll be reborn in Fiji. Fingers crossed!)<br />
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PS. If you happen to hate my guts and we are arch nemeses and all that life sort of stuff: I demand that you dance at or near my funeral. Show up and do it. It's only right. And I would totally do it to you! You know I would.Shan Contentedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18243943975363421402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2275094347761660449.post-22597486144618298402017-08-05T10:06:00.000-05:002019-08-28T12:30:10.717-05:00RestlessWhat am I doing?<br />
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I have no purpose. I'm so restless, I can't keep control of myself. I cannot blow up my life again. I have nothing to run from. Nothing to blame these feelings on. Nothing is wrong. Is this a midlife crisis? Didn't I already have one of those? Aren't I just wasting time? I've nothing to run from. Everything is peaceful and calm and good. And I feel useless and unfulfilled. There is no passion.<br />
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And it makes me angry. And sad. And empty. And uninspired. And restless. So restless.<br />
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What am I DOING? How do I do nothing? I cannot blow up my life again. I cannot. What am I doing? Why am I doing this to myself?<br />
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What do I need?Shan Contentedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18243943975363421402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2275094347761660449.post-65485311048803934572017-05-27T01:02:00.000-05:002019-08-28T12:33:42.441-05:00LuckySometimes, you cry. No, not cry. Beg. Sometime you beg for help; for support. For anything resembling support. For hope. For something in the neighborhood of love, even if it misses it by several blocks. Just a little bit of something resembling love and help. For something you have never really had. But it doesn't come. It doesn't come because you are so damaged that you don't even know how to find it. You don't know how to set yourself up for the very basis of what you might need. You don't know how to lay a foundation. And all you have ever really needed is a foundation. What a terrible Catch 22. And people don't understand why people commit suicide. Uh. Because of that terrible Catch 22. Because of old deep pain that never resolves itself and then the terrible choices you make after that that don't give you what you really need; even when you have enough self awareness to beg for it. Beg. Like a pathetic child. And that's what you are, isnt it? A pathetic child begging for help and shelter and a little peace. Ever elusive love.Shan Contentedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18243943975363421402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2275094347761660449.post-69839874881299164382017-04-29T07:27:00.003-05:002019-03-05T09:58:31.912-06:00On giving up the career I chose... <div dir="ltr">
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A long time ago, I fell in love with helping people. Years later, I realized through a mine field of good therapy that I had simply learned how to profit from my dysfunctional codependence. Whatever works. Two days ago, my boss asked me if I'd ever considered counseling (belly laughter) after I cried for about 4 hours straight the day after I sent my resignation letter. The day before that, my Mom had some side eye comment about how all jobs suck and that's why they pay you. The day before that, my guy looked at me with an amusing terror while simultaneously telling me that he was totally on board when I had a long talk with him about needing to quit my job. He hugged me and I imagined that while his face was out of view, he probably had the wide, gaping, fearful eyes of a man who just realized he'd coupled with someone who actually meant all those head-in-the-clouds, wander-lustful, Buddhist sorta things she says that made him sort of love her.</div>
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Three days ago, I officially put in my resignation notice on my career. It's not like this has never happened before. I've resigned. I've run off to Mexico to chase my dreams whilst losing my mind and finding myself. I've stayed home and raised kids and depended on someone else to make the money while I did whatever I did. But, I always knew I had my career in my back pocket. I always knew what I intended to be doing. I always knew that I'd return some day to the tumultuous, drama-filled, adrenaline rush of my career. It's addictive. I've always been well suited to it. It feels a bit ingrained in my me-ness. But, life throws some curve balls and I'm Babe Ruth reincarnate.</div>
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A few years ago, I got the diagnosis. I'd suspected the diagnosis for, sheesh, 12, 13, 15 years. I'd been afraid, no-- petrified, of the diagnosis since, well, as long as I can remember. But I got it. It became a reality. And somewhere in the back of my mind, I guess I've thought all this time that I was simply a fully crazed hypochondriac who had manifested these symptoms out of sheer projection and I was not, in fact, a sick girl. A crazy one, SURE, but not a sick one. And then, they gave me that damned test. Some marvel of modern medicine that keeps you from getting to pretend you're just nuts and instead, have to stare shit right in the face. Damn science. And that was that. I no longer got to pretend, I had to deal. And the doctors (plural. ugh) had a lot to tell me about how I couldn't fuck around anymore. Face sufficiently slapped once again by that asshole, reality. I hate that guy.</div>
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Sometime around the millennium, I was working in the basement of some insurance company where the CEO only knew me as "sweetie", and going home to a husband who liked to punch me in the face sometimes. I had two little babies and in hindsight, a horrifying lack of insight. I went to a psychotherapist and tried desperately to get him to tell me I was hopelessly mentally ill. He wouldn't do it. I think it frustrated him that I preferred having a diagnosis born of chemical imbalances or genetics instead of just a wretched string of circumstances that led me to feel like I did. You can just take a pill to deal with a clinical diagnosis. He was proposing that I had to, like, gain a bunch of awareness and work out my shit. Who the fuck wants to do that when your mind is fully occupied by your small children, your full time shitty, unsatisfying job, and a gem of a husband who thinks you are Mike--um...Mika Tyson. I preferred to be fully crazy in the clinical sense. So, I'd go to therapy. I'd get mad at him for saying I wasn't a giant fruit basket. And he'd get mad at me for saying I was. Probably the best therapy I ever had, for the record, and I've had a lot. (Have you thought about counseling. hahaha)</div>
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So, I did what any self respecting, barely 20something, screwed up gal would do. I divorced my therapist (not my husband) and decided to volunteer in a field that fights the very thing I came home to every day. I became a Court Appointed Special Advocate for abused and neglected children. Yes, I appreciate the irony of it now, and in a far less mature way, did then. </div>
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I fell in love. THIS was my calling. You just know when you find it; that THING that you're SUPPOSED to do. I wasted no time in stopping all that volunteer stuff, divorcing the asshole, and going back to school for the express purpose of becoming a Child Protective Services Investigator. There was no other goal. That was all the goal I had. 3 years later, I graduated. Two years after that, I finally got the job. Ironically, my husband (a different one) was in a mental hospital the day I started, but that's a story for another day.</div>
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I didn't quit that job the first time. I mean, I technically did, but I didn't want to. Life threw me more curve balls (Babe Ruth, baby) and it all just fell apart. I was pretty much forced out of the job by life, a bit of a mental breakdown, some hearty misunderstandings, a murder-suicide plot (I was the murder victim piece of that) and a trio of paranoid, bitchy bosses.</div>
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I did a lot of things in the interim, including running off to Mexico and getting that goddamned diagnosis, but I reapplied for the career I chose over and over again until finally, 8 months ago, I got the job again. And I was overjoyed. I truly was. I loved that job! I'd wanted it back for years. It was everything I liked about work. I'd have preferred to be back in Mexico sipping margaritas and not giving a shit about anything, but who wouldn't, right? But that wasn't the reality I was in.</div>
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Two months after I started my job, I missed a doctor's appointment. This may sound like nothing to most of the non-chronic-diseased world, but when you have that damned reality happening like I do, that's kind of a big deal. Because I missed that appointment, I ran out of medication. Because specialists in our lovely healthcare system are as they are, I couldn't get another appointment for almost 2 months.</div>
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Some PA I'd never seen before took mercy on me and gave me a few of my meds back because his wife had my particular diagnosis and he (and his polka dotted bow tie) were beautifully sympathetic. But I didn't get the important ones back. The ones that make you really sick when you start them and take 3 months to adjust to. I had to quit those. Cold turkey. That went pretty well for me. Two months later, I started them again. And so came the really sickness. Two months after that, I had to quit them again because I couldn't do my job. And I got sick from that, again. If you're keeping score, my 8 months is up. And I've spent 6 of it in health nightmare.</div>
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And then I took that damned test and had that damned Come to Jesus moment with my doctors (plural). And it all came crashing down, again. I was sucking at my job. I was sucking at my health. I was sucking at my happiness. All around, I was just sucking. And then the doctors (plural) tell me (in a nutshell) if I keep doing what I'm doing, I'm just going to die. Let's not mince words here. I will just fucking die. My disease will attack the important parts like those two flaps in your chest that make you breathe and that muscle that pumps your blood around with it's rhythmic thump thump thump. So, for all my denial, I mean strength (ahem), it was face slapping reality time. I had to give a shit. And I had to give a shit now.</div>
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So, I quit my job.</div>
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And the next day I went to my office and I was relieved and happy. Until about lunch. Then I cried for 4 hours. (Have you considered counseling. Bwhahaahaha).I didn't cry for the job, I guess. I mean, I hadn't particularly enjoyed it this time, given that I was doing it whilst feeling like I'd run a marathon, with the flu, after being run over by a truck, for 6 of 8 months.</div>
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I cried because I'd never had to quit a job because of this (far too many expletive pronouns) disease. I'd never had this dumb thing - a thing that I stayed in denial about, that sent me to Mexico, that made me throw my bucket list into high gear, that had caused more tears then all 47 or so of my failed marriages and abuses and traumas combined -- have any real effect on my career. What? My life, yeah. My relationships, fuck yes. My thought processes, uh huh. My ability to open a jar of pickles, damn skippy. My entire outlook on life, Oh yes sir. But my career, um. no. I guess I figured it wouldn't until it was straight up time to go on disability and rev up my electric, off-road, hybrid flotation device wheelchair. No, that didn't occur to me.</div>
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I never HAD to quit a job because I just couldn't DO IT. I had to leave my dive instructor course one day because I couldn't swim against the current towing a grown man in decent surf once. ONE DAY. Another day, I managed it. I had to take a leave of absence for a couple months once because life sucked too much. I've quit because I just didn't want to anymore. But I'd never had to quit a job so I didn't DIE. For fuck's sake, I'm 38 years old. I'm THIRTY EIGHT YEARS OLD.</div>
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And I am chronically broken and have to figure out how not to die.</div>
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And it was devastating. It IS devastating. This was my chosen career. This was my favorite job. This was my calling, my AHA job.</div>
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Not to brag or anything, but I'm the strongest bitch I know. What the fuck is happening?</div>
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Then I had to realize, it isn't just this job. I won't be able to do a lot of jobs in my profession. Stress is not allowed. Stress makes me sick. Stress will kill me. Wait. What? Stress is an integral part of my career. It's in the job description. It's like, the thing I like. I can't just not work as a CPS investigator, I can't work as a crisis counselor. I can't work as a case manager. I can't work as a social worker. I can't have a job that has my very favorite part of my career, DRAMA. I'm not allowed. Because I will fucking die. What the fuck?</div>
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What the hell do I do now? No, seriously, what do I do now?</div>
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In case anyone is wondering, travel the world and live on beans and rice in third world apartments has crossed my mind at least 374 times in the past 10 days or so. I'll let you know if I can work that out while maintaining my brand new car payment and raising the two kids I have left in the house. Somehow, I feel like maybe that time hasn't come yet. But, then again, I haven't had any Jack Daniels yet either.</div>
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(Maybe I should consider some counseling.)</div>
Shan Contentedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18243943975363421402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2275094347761660449.post-88349187976277422862016-08-21T16:41:00.003-05:002017-04-29T06:15:31.125-05:00Still my little blonde firecracker<div id="title" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #333333; margin: 0px 0px 20px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px;">
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<span style="font-family: georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And still... going into college. My little blonde firecracker.</span></div>
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Raising myself</h1>
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Updated on May 11, 2012</div>
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Paying for my raising more and more...</h2>
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I’ve learned that there is little that can help you learn about yourself more than raising your children.</div>
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My son. My darling little blond-haired firecracker. My sweet little man who inspired me more by his mere birth than anything ever has or will. My baby…</div>
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Is turning into a teenager.</div>
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He yells and screams. He says things to me that he knows will hurt me and he says them because he knows they will hurt me. He looks me in the eye and tells me, in his own way, that he thinks I am stupid and old and can’t understand. He looks at me as though I’ve slighted him. He looks at me like it hurts him somewhere inside to have to tolerate me. He looks at me like he wishes I would disappear so he could go on with his self. Talk to his girlfriend. Keep his secrets. Throw a football to his friend and use curse words. He looks at me like I can’t possibly understand.</div>
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I understand. Every scream that comes from his lips. Every jab he throws at my psyche. Every eye roll. Every secret. Every curse word. Every overly over reaction. I understand.</div>
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Because he is me. I am my mother and father. I can read his mind because it was my mind once. I know what is bubbling under the surface of his resistance.</div>
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It is reassuring. Reassuring because “I turned out OK.”</div>
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It is distressing. Distressing because it was a grueling, tumultuous road from the first bubbling to the OK I feel today.</div>
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My little blond firecracker with his over achievement and his maniacal passion. Will he have to endure the pain, the terrible mistakes, the lifelong repercussions? Will he survive and someday be strong, armored, self aware, open and closed, happy? Will it take so long? Will it be so hard? Will he survive? Will he learn and grow?</div>
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The hardest thing I’ve ever learned about the human mind is that knowing does not give an automatic answer to knowing how. I know my little firecracker. I know him from his pinky toe to his uncut hair. I know what’s bubbling there. I don’t know how to guide him. I had to guide myself. I resented anyone who tried to guide me then and now. I have my own compass. Can I be his? Will it drive him away if I try? Does he have to find his own way? Will he survive?</div>
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Will he be contented?</div>
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Shan Contentedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18243943975363421402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2275094347761660449.post-23084784276705515232016-08-21T14:46:00.002-05:002019-08-28T12:48:47.874-05:00Polar Bear in a Snowstorm<div id="title" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #333333; margin: 0px 0px 20px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px;">
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">So I was looking through an old blog and came across this post. I wrote this years ago.... It's interesting. I remember feeling this way pretty much all the time. Like I was too tired, too worn, too fuzzy to move forward. I wrote it in a time when I wasn't really battling with any real emotional things. It was just life that was wearing me out. So. Very. Tired. I know why now. And I don't feel like this anymore (or well, most days anyway). I remember distinctly telling my doctor; "Look. I just know something is wrong. Other people can get get up in the morning and do normal life things and still have energy. I don't. Haven't for a long time." Heh. There's a diagnosis for that. And although I'd always suspected it was some sort of manifestation of chemical depression, turns out, it was just two little asshole letters: R.A. </span></div>
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Polar Bear in a Snowstorm</h1>
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Some days it's hard doing it on your own</h2>
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On days like today, I just don’t know which way to face. I try to face to the north. To me, the north is looking up. Forward. I guess because on a map, north is up. It seems optimistic. If I face south, I’m looking down. But the beaches and sunshine and beauty are south. The places I’d like to be now, instead of where I am. The east has the sunrise and the west has the sunset. So I guess north is really a disadvantage. All the things I love are other directions. In any case, I’d like to be looking up.</div>
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I’m not.</div>
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I feel like I’m drowning in this cesspool of everyday things. Why does it seem like everyone else can handle these things and I cannot? Wake up, go to work, work all day, come home, cook dinner, go to a baseball game, watch TV, go to sleep. It all seems so simple.</div>
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It’s not.</div>
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I wake up feeling yesterday. That first waking moment, I’m confused. Every morning, I’m confused. What day is it? What am I supposed to be doing today? Where are the children and have I missed something already? What will my life be like today? Which hat do I need to put on first? Who am I this morning? Which Shannon? WHICH ONE?</div>
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Then comes the panic. Funny how I should wake up every morning in a panic. I reach for the phone or the appointment book or the kids school calendar. I reach to see what I’ve missed. What I’ve dropped. Who I’ve let down now. I look around to see if anyone is beside me and listen to see if my kids are making morning noises. I look at the clock. The clock. Every morning, without fail, I look at the clock and wish for it to rewind. I want more time. More sleep. More, more, more. Please. Just a little more.</div>
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I lay back down. Always. Why? Because that’s when the air around me gets really thick. Thick, soupy, oppressive air. It pushes down on my shoulders and legs, my hands and feet. It pushes and I concede. For those few minutes in the morning while I’m wishing at the clock, I let it hold me down. I just give in to the crushing, oppressive air and I lay there. I let it win. I let it hold me down. I wish for more time just to lay there and let it hold me down. I’m tired of fighting it. I’m tired of trying to beat it. I just want to stay there.</div>
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I can’t.</div>
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The thoughts of everything that is my reality bustle around me. I feel like I’m inside a TV with no reception. I am behind all those fuzzy white dots somewhere. I’m the image you can’t see. And all those fuzzy white dots are all things I need to care about, need to do, need to accomplish, need to say, feel. They’re swirling and churning and buzzing. I’m drowning under them. And the noise makes a pain in the back of my head and I want to turn it off. It’s a swarming mass, like gnats or fruit flies, hitting me in the face and blurring my everything. I catch little snippets of all of them as they pass by my ears. All at once yet one at a time. And I just lay down and wait for them to devour me.</div>
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They try.</div>
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And the urgency sets in. As much as I want to give up, I cannot. I think, every morning, that I could lay there and let it all just take over if not for the children. I must get up. I must work. I must eat. I must gather all of my eggs and begin juggling because I must maintain this life for my children. I must feed them and feed myself to stay alive so I can feed them. I must give them everything. I must maintain. I must. I must. I must.</div>
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And I get up and I go on. And I take ibuprofen to ease the ache of the world pushing down on me. And I look around for someone who can understand. Someone who can help. Someone who can turn off the TV. Someone who can help me juggle the eggs so that none of them break. And I drop a few here and there and they break.</div>
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But I go on </div>
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Shan Contentedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18243943975363421402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2275094347761660449.post-66057360935378208332016-07-16T10:07:00.001-05:002019-03-13T10:50:44.067-05:00Oh yeah? Well Im going to go live with my Dad then! <p dir="ltr">So often I find myself being kicked in the rear by karma. Even if it is a silly, simple declaration about how much I hate cats or that fibromyalgia is not a real disease, life has this way of taking my very strong, misinformed, declarative s and showing me how my words taste with Sunday dinner. And sometimes, karma has a really hard, painful lesson waiting for me that's years in the making. Lessons that inspire phrases like "If I knew then what I know now..."And my teenage son is the catalyst for one of the hardest lessons I have had to swallow. Wisdom, I've found, rarely comes with ease, but at the end of a long treacherous road of bad decisions and soul pain. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Im at an age where my friends are in varying stages of parenthood.  Some have planned carefully or maybe not and are becoming parents just now or have adorable little toddlers wrecking their sanity yet stealing their hearts 100 times a day. But many are like me. They find themselves with teenagers embarking on young adulthood and the image of those little pudgy babies and sticky hands are far in the past. (If they're a lot like me, they can't even imagine going back there at this point and don't know how all those middle aged new parents find the energy.) Teenagers. They'll teach you a thing or two. If you've never called your own parents and apologized for ever being a teenager, consider yourself lucky (or ignorant to reality). Either way, teenagers are a challenge under the best of circumstances. But I've never claimed to have the best of circumstances, now have I? </p>
<p dir="ltr">Back to karma. There's a trend I see with my peer teenager parents. It wrenches my heart every time. I feel for them. I feel for them because it has happened to me. I know how much it hurts. How terrifying it is. How it feels like a divorce only from someone you love far more deeply than a spouse. Someone you've literally poured all your energy and love and strength and care into. Someone you'd die for. </p>
<p dir="ltr">And then they say "Im going to live with my Dad/Mom/Grandparent/whoever because they love me more and you SUCK and I hate you." </p>
<p dir="ltr">Knife meet heart. Anger. Rage. Indignance. Tears upon tears upon tears. Paralyzing Fear. Self doubt. Depression. More anger. More fear. More rage. More tears. Determination. More self doubt. Mounds of regret. Blame. Shame. Guilt. More depression. More rage. More indignance. And then, if you're lucky, some clarity and acceptance. </p>
<p dir="ltr">But in all those feelings, 99 percent fail to realize the karma of it all. I haven't. My son has done the Dad thing more than once. And I blamed Dad as a "brainwasher." I was angry at my son for his hurtful words but I always managed to employ a self defense of believing my son was brainwashed and didn't REALLY feel that way about ME. He always came back, after all, when he realized that the grass on Dad's lawn wasn't made of gold and perfection either and maybe he didn't hate me so much after all. It was when he "ran away" and decided to demonize me and move in with my parents that I really had to soul search. That's when the knife cut deep. Because I can demonize his father all day, but did my parents brainwash him? They're not always my biggest fans but it was a far stretch to believe that my parents would do what I'd believed his father had done in the past years. I'm not saying my defenses didn't go there, they did, but it took a lot of stretching to believe they would intentionally try to take my son from me while my poor innocent son was simply a victim. No, this was on my son. He said and did the things to convince my parents that he was better off out of my house and influence. And even more of a shock to my reality, he'd probably done that with his Dad as well. And I'd pitied him. And coddled him. And helped him learn how to act this way. Hello karma. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Here's the mistake I made that makes ME responsible. Here's my karma. I taught him that it was ok to hide from his father in my arms. I taught him it was ok not to respect his parent. I taught him it was ok to demonize his parent in favor of ME. I even ENJOYED (yes.) when he demonized his father. I didnt do this when he was younger (regardless of what his father may believe) but when he became a teen and started to see what that grass was made of, I openly played along and was glad that he'd finally "figured out" what a (insert whatever here) his Father was. And we bonded over making fun and being disgusted by his parent. Sigh. Hindsight. If I'd known then and all that. </p>
<p dir="ltr">But guess what? It wasn't just his father I'd done that with. It was in other relationships as well. I'd let my sons participate in angry or petty or downright ugly sessions cursing and plotting imaginary fantasy revenge against other men I'd ended relationships with. As a disclaimer, I never did any of the things and I did DISCUSS with my sons that venting was ok and even necessary sometimes but that you shouldn't act on those things. But acting wasn't the problem. It was the disrespect for the human. The lesson I taught them about ending relationships and dealing with feeling wronged. I taught them that it was ok to hate, even for a little while. But more importantly, I taught them how to demonize and detach with total disrespect. </p>
<p dir="ltr">I taught my son how to treat people who he was hurt/disappointed/angered by or even just needed to healthily detach from. I did that. And karma showed me that it wasn't innocent. I was wrong. And that boomerang has now hit me square in the face.</p>
<p dir="ltr">My mother told me, when this all blew up: "You taught him to be this way." I was so angry she'd said that. There was so much she didnt understand at that moment. But, as with many things that truly infuriate me, it was because there was a recognition of truth to it. I had taught him a thing or two about how to be this way. There are a few things he did in this process that I didn't teach him. Those things are someone else's karma. I wont address those because thats just more fingers pointing away from me. And that's not the point here. </p>
<p dir="ltr">I taught him with no bad intentions. I taught him thinking all along that I was being fair to the other people involved. They "deserved" my anger and disrespect and hate. I taught him when I wasn't even trying to teach him, but was only trying to survive myself. I taught him how to treat ME right now. Because he needs to detach from me. (The hundred normal and abnormal reasons for that are for another time) And in his detaching, I am learning valuable lessons. Humbling lessons. Painful karmic lessons. </p>
<p dir="ltr">So, here's my advice to every mom and dad and otherwise child influencing person that's earlier in the process of learning than me. No matter how much you hate the other parent (or otherwise authority figures), pay attention to the lessons you're teaching them about how to deal with those feelings. Because when you find yourself with the inevitable "I hate you" teenager moment, they're going to treat you just the way you've taught them to. Coparenting will pay off in the long run no matter how much teeth gnashing you have to do to accomplish it. (And trust me, I get hating the other parent for immensely justifiable reasons. But that's between you and you only.) </p>
<p dir="ltr">As a caveat, I want to add that I think there's a significant societal problem that is being created by the prevalence of divorce and one parent households and all associated things that is creating a generation of children who can "get away with" running off to another parent/grandparent to avoid discipline or working out normal conflict and challenges. A problem we, as a society, need to overcome by learning to work better together and put our own feelings aside. I failed at that and even when I tried, the other parties failed at that. And now, my son is living with my parents and running away from BOTH of his parents. I cant speak for his father, but I can quell my self doubt enough to know that I dont need to be run away from. Im not perfect, but Ive been a good enough Mom. </p>
<p dir="ltr">But Karma. </p>
Shan Contentedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18243943975363421402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2275094347761660449.post-16553470637307287142016-06-23T11:30:00.001-05:002017-04-29T06:15:31.056-05:00Blanket Fuck You Letter<div class="MsoNormal">
My blanket Fuck you Letter: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dear ________, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This morning I drove to work smiling and listening to songs
that made me want to dance and laugh and run off to the beach instead of going
to work. I giggled at the people staring at me when they drove by because I was
singing loud and proud along with the radio. I felt heartily compelled not to
go to work today. But I went anyway. I felt compelled to pick up the phone and
yell at some people, but I didn’t. I felt compelled to go back home and crawl
in bed, but I didn’t. I felt compelled to go somewhere and throw things at
someone, but I didn’t. I felt compelled to keep driving and get on a plane at
DFW and disappear, but I didn’t. I turned up the radio and I sang loud and
laughed and giggled and went to work. Because, that’s what I do. I go on. I
move forward. I push those feelings aside and I smile and laugh and dance and
go to work and come home and do whatever it takes to make myself not do all
those other things. And you know what? FUCK YOU! For the shit you’ve said to
me. About me. For your judgment and disappointment and your BULLSHIT words and
your blaming and dwelling and resentment and disowning and backstabbing and
LYING. FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let me lay this shit out for you: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have been married to three abusive assholes and a mentally
ill drug addict and divorced FOUR fucking times. I have had to completely start
my life over from fucking scratch SIX times. I’ve had to “disappear” to get
away from someone who was threatening my life TWICE. I’ve had to leave everything
comfortable behind over and over and over again. I’ve had to let go of people,
places, things, jobs, money, husbands, security, family, EVERYTHING that people
hold on to with all their might OVER and OVER again. I’ve been beaten, raped,
abused in every manner even conceived by people who were supposed to “love” me.
I have been told about TEN THOUSAND TIMES what a stupid, ugly, fat, horrible,
mean, psycho, disgusting, horrible, intolerable, mentally ill, et fucking
cetera. I’ve been called a bad mother more times than I could even begin to
count. I’ve been called a disgrace, an embarrassment, a shame, a failure, an
awful woman and human in every sense of the word. I’ve been blamed for things I
wouldn’t do, things I didn’t do, and things other people did. I’ve been shamed
for doing the right thing and praised for giving up and doing the wrong thing.
I’ve been stepped on and pushed aside and ignored and attacked. There are FEW
things that a woman can go through that I cannot say “been there.” And guess what?
I am in a happy, healthy relationship for the first time in my fucking life
with someone who is ACTUALLY NICE to me and would literally KILL anyone who did
any of the above things to me. So F U C K
Y O U! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have some godawful fucking diseases. This afternoon, after
I go home from work, I’m going to take a needle and inject it into my thigh
like I do every Thursday. This morning I took my 8 morning pills. Tomorrow, I’m
going to muster the strength I have and grab a cup of coffee and I’m going to
go to work packing up my house to move somewhere where I WANT TO BE with the
people I WANT TO BE WITH. I’ll hope that my FOUR DEBILATATING, CHRONIC,
LIFELONG, LIFE SUCKING diseases won’t act up too much and I can get at least
MOST of the shit I need to get done, DONE. And if they do act up. I will do
what I can and then I’ll go watch Netflix and NOT APOLOGIZE FOR IT. BECAUSE
FUCK YOU! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two years ago, I moved to Mexico. I didn’t DREAM about it.
Or WISH I could do it. I FUCKING DID IT. I went from envying people who did it
to BEING SOMEONE WHO DID IT. I’ve
crossed out over HALF of my Bucket List and COUNTING… I’ve EXPERIENCED things I
WANTED to experience and I intend to NOT STOP until I’m DEAD. So FUCK YOU! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Through all the shit that was going on in my life for the
past TWENTY YEARS, I managed THREE THINGS.<br />
<br />
I managed to get one HELL of an
education and collect at least 6 different career options. All of which I could
chuck out the window to work at Sea World if the mood struck me. Because that’s
WHO I AM!!!! And I FUCKING LIKE ME! So FUCK YOU! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
And I managed to
raise my sons despite it ALL. I was not a perfect mother. I was, as a matter of
fact, an extremely imperfect mother. And I continue to be. And THAT’S OK! But
you know what? I taught my kids right from wrong. I gave them an example of
what <b>STRENGTH </b>REALLY LOOKS LIKE. No
matter how much they may want to complain NOW, I took them to experience life
in another country. I have showed them how to ADAPT. I protected them so much
from the SHIT of my life that they actually BELIEVE that me yelling at them or
some man calling me a bitch ONE time is ABUSE. LET THAT FUCKING SINK IN. THIS
is what THEY believe is abuse. They have NO IDEA what abuse REALLY looks like…
They have NO IDEA how bad shit CAN BE Because I PROTECTED THEM FROM REAL ABUSE.
SO <span style="font-size: 18pt;">FUCK
YOU EXTRA!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
And GODDAMMIT. I managed to get in my car this morning, put
some happy songs on the radio and fucking smile and laugh NO MATTER WHAT.
Because I don’t give two fucks what happened to me yesterday or what disease I
have or what judgmental BULLSHIT I have to listen to OR that my 17 year old is
being a total teenage JERK right now. I don’t care WHO is pissed that I’m
moving WHEREVER I WANT and who is TOTALLY BUTTHURT that I won’t apologize for
it. I smiled. I laughed. I didn’t throw anything at anyone. I’m not in the
mental institution. I’m not a bitter bitch who hates all men, and people, and
lettuce and telephones and EVERY GODDAMNED THING. I could be. I have every GODDAMNED RIGHT to
be one of those people. But I AM NOT.
I’m one of those people who gets in the car, does whatever it takes to
smile and be positive, and then goes to work fully <i>contented.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
So, FUCK YOU! And<b> <span style="color: purple;">I forgive you. And I love you. And I wish
you everything good. Because, that’s WHO I AM.</span></b> Assholes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Namaste, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shano<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Shan Contentedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18243943975363421402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2275094347761660449.post-29393260276379370842016-05-25T20:23:00.004-05:002017-04-29T06:15:31.070-05:00What the heck Codependency?There's probably some reason you're reading this post. Maybe someone called you codependent? Maybe you've heard me call myself codependent. Maybe you internet searched it for some reason or another. And maybe you don't know what it is. Maybe you think you do.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
First, it's important to note that anyone who's codependent is going to be immediately irritated, if not enraged, by the label co-dependent. The first time it was suggested to me that I was co-DEPENDENT, I spit out some response to myself that I wasn't DEPENDENT on ANYONE! I was IN-DEPENDENT not CO-DEPENDENT. It's all THOSE mother #$#%@s that were DEPENDENT on ME. I was CERTAINLY NOT dependent on THEM! Heh. Um. Yeah. I was as codependent as they come. So, if your immediate response is similar to mine (including internal &*^#$^s), I hate to break it to you, but you need to keep reading.</div>
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<br /></div>
<h2>
What does Codependency mean? </h2>
<div>
What is it? Some describe it as an addiction. And in some ways it is. But your substance is not any drug or drink, it is relationships, love, a person or people. Some say it is less of an addiction and more of an obsession. If you were throwing expletives at the word dependent, you're probably throwing double expletives at the word addiction. Keep reading. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
These relationships, loves, people have some very specific characteristics, namely, you believe or perceive that they're "messed up" in some way and they NEED your help or they're completely unable to be emotionally available to you. And yes, you can detect this subconsciously and not realize that's what you're doing. Either way, these specific criteria are important to the codependent. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The term codependent was originally defined as a person in a close relationship with an alcoholic or addict that has developed certain maladaptive traits in order to maintain these relationships. There's a long history of these identified behaviors, even appearing in the Alcoholic's Anonymous Big Book under the heading "For the Wives." Al-Anon was formed for family members of addicts and alcoholics in 1951. But the label didn't really appear until The 1980's with the publication of a series of books that I'll discuss later.</div>
<div>
With research and time and the self report of people who identified with the "symptoms" of codependency, it has revised over time to be understood as a maladaptive, compulsive, self defeating set of behaviors that are learned, usually from childhood, in order to survive in a family system that is dysfunctional and distressed in some way. It is still quite common for a codependent person to have developed this as a family member of an alcoholic or addict, but this is no longer exclusive to addiction dysfunction. The family system may involve mental illness, chronic physical illness, abuse of all kinds, or even codependence itself. I've even encountered a (raging) codependent whose primary childhood dysfunction was religious zealousy. In any case, the codependent has developed this set of traits as a way to adapt to the environment they'd found themselves in and survive either physically or emotionally. Essentially, the codependent was originally a victim of some type of dysfunction. (If you're still reading, you stopped the expletives at that, didn't you? Well, you're not going to like the next sentence.) Once they've developed these traits, they take them into other relationships or family systems and become either a partner or the origin of dysfunction in this new place. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<h2>
What Do Codependents Do? </h2>
<div>
But what does a codependent DO? What are they like? And why do I keep using that (**$&* dependent word? As I've said, codependent seek out and become involved with people who are not (and cannot be) emotionally available to them; who have dysfunction; who need "saving"; who are addicts or alcoholics; who are abusers; who are "needy"; who are "messed up". No matter WHAT their dysfunction is (often all of these at once), there is one thing that persists; the person needs to be "fixed." And MAN OH MAN, codependents are the superheroes of "fixers." They have capes and go into phone booths and come out to get to work. Except.... </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Before I get to that, I want to say that codependents have the best intentions. Codependents really believe they are doing what is right, helping, taking care of, acting in the best interest of, and falling on the sword for their "person" or "persons." They believe they are needed and their help, even if not wanted, is warranted and necessary. Except.... </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Codependents are so focused on their person (or persons) that they address ONLY that person's needs and behavior and care (and flaws, and problems, and shirt, and hairstyle, and zipper). They do not address their own. Their entire life becomes about that person. As a client once said; "He swallowed me." Or as I've often described it, the person had so much dysfunction that there was no air left in the room for anyone else to breath. Except there was air. I chose to give it all to my person and leave none for myself. When I pressed that client, she admitted; "I guess I actually swallowed him." </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Codependent become martyrs who always focus on the other person. It makes sense, doesn't it? If you grew up with a dysfunctional parent, you always had to focus on that person to keep yourself safe or take care of that person, or accommodate that person. You had no time to address any of your own needs or develop any of your own coping skills. You were too busy. So when you got older, you sought out people who were familiar and you thought this was how it was supposed to be. You were the caretaker, they were the center of attention and their needs were the only needs that mattered. You try to save them the way you either tried, or were too helpless to, save your parent. Even if you were basically neglected as a child and were essentially invisible, you did everything you could to gain the approval or attention from that parent. You had to grow up and be the responsible person and care for yourself, you weren't given enough emotional security to develop into an emotionally healthy adult. You learned nothing about boundaries in any case. And as a codependent, you have none. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So, so far this sounds great. As a substance abuse counselor, I sometimes share the types of things I would do in my various relationships for alcoholics or addicts. They inevitably make jokes that they wish they'd have had someone like me in their lives when they were using! Someone only thinking of them and taking care of them. And I laugh and laugh and laugh and LAUGH. Because after that, I tell them the rest of the story. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Codependents are setting themselves up for failure on every level. First, they get involved with people who they want to meet a need for. They NEED to feel needed and important in order to feel worthy. Codependents generally have very low self esteem that they keep hidden under a strong, stable, and "in control" outward appearance. They begin to try to control the relationship and their person. They begin to do their much needed job of fixing that person, often right down to their shoe lace choices. They begin to do everything for this person. They may make excuses for their behavior. They may take over their duties. They may work and allow that person to stay home because they are just so "broken" that they can't work, but then come home and also take care of the home and children and responsibilities as well. They may pull strings to get their child out of legal trouble. They may hide the behavior of the other person from the persons family or employer. At one point, I was not only working 60 or more hours a week to support one of my (many) persons, but I was also doing all the paperwork for his unemployment, relentlessly pushing mental health treatment on him, spending all of my energy "keeping him sober" and making excuses to anyone who inquired about his behavior. And I created that situation. It was voluntary. I was doing what I wanted to.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Except I was angry. I was controlling. I was a total bitch. And I resented him immensely. I was angry that he never met my needs. I was angry that I was having to work so hard and monitor his every mood. I was angry I had to take care of him. And guess what, he never did get "fixed." Nothing changed. He'd do this or that to appease me, but it would last a moment and he'd go right back to what he was doing. I had set myself up for failure. And I became a completely horrible, angry, nagging, controlling bitch. I didn't like myself. I didn't like him. I also had no idea that I'd become this. So I'd dig even deeper to do it all MORE because he needed fixing MORE so that he could finally be good enough to make me happy. I finally hit my breaking point and left the relationship. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And I was destroyed. I was desperate. I felt like I had lost the love of my life. Because, codependents are "dependent" on being needed. They are "dependent: on dysfunction. They are "dependent" on controlling the other person. We mistake this for love. We are dependent on that other person. And when they're fully honest with themselves, they realize they were also terrified of the other person actually getting better and getting "fixed." And this is selfish. The codependent fears three things: 1. They will no longer have a purpose if they aren't needed. 2. Their person will no longer "love" them and abandon them if they do not need them anymore. 3. If they no longer have to focus on the other person, they have to look at themselves. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Essentially, codependents are controlling, angry, resentful, miserable people who essentially have a very limited sense of self, are terrified of being abandoned, and are inherently selfish. Yet, they have good intentions and have no idea they are these people and feel like martyrs. It's complicated. And painful. And extremely confusing. I know, I've been there. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<h2>
Ok. Can I get a list or something?<br />The Traits of Codependents: </h2>
<div>
There are 500 resources for finding lists of codependent traits. In my both professional and person opinion, there are two sources that nail it. These are two of those books I talked about earlier. Janet Woititz wrote a book in 1983 called "Adult Children of Alcoholics." In it, she creates the Laundry List for adult children of alcoholics (addicts/dysfunctional parents/narcissists/insert your own messed up type of parent). This list can also be used to describe behaviors/feelings of the founding dysfunction of codependents. Some ACOA (adult children of alcoholics) turn into addicts themselves, but in my personal estimation, 90% of them become codependents in one form or another. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The Laundry List (Woititz, 1983)</div>
<div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #29303b; margin-bottom: 1em; padding: 0px;">
</div>
<ol style="line-height: 1.5em;">
<li><span style="font-size: x-small; line-height: 1.5em;"><i>Adult children of alcoholics guess at what normal behavior is.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small; line-height: 1.5em;"><i>Adult children of alcoholics have difficulty following a project through from beginning to end.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small; line-height: 1.5em;"><i>Adult children of alcoholics lie when it would be just as easy to tell the truth.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small; line-height: 1.5em;"><i>Adult children of alcoholics judge themselves without mercy.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small; line-height: 1.5em;"><i>Adult children of alcoholics have difficulty having fun.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small; line-height: 1.5em;"><i>Adult children of alcoholics take themselves very seriously.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small; line-height: 1.5em;"><i>Adult children of alcoholics have difficulty with intimate relationships.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small; line-height: 1.5em;"><i>Adult children of alcoholics overreact to changes over which they have no control.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small; line-height: 1.5em;"><i>Adult children of alcoholics constantly seek approval and affirmation.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small; line-height: 1.5em;"><i>Adult children of alcoholics usually feel that they are different from other people.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small; line-height: 1.5em;"><i>Adult children of alcoholics are super responsible or super irresponsible.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small; line-height: 1.5em;"><i>Adult children of alcoholics are extremely loyal, even in the face of evidence that the loyalty is undeserved.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small; line-height: 1.5em;"><i>Adult children of alcoholics are impulsive. They tend to lock themselves into a course of action without giving serious consideration to alternative behaviors or possible consequences. This impulsively leads to confusion, self-loathing and loss of control over their environment. In addition, they spend an excessive amount of energy cleaning up the mess.</i></span></li>
</ol>
<div>
<span style="line-height: 18px;">But to get to the heart of codependency, I turn to my (and many other's) favorite expert on codependency, Melody Beattie. In her book, Codependent No More, she spends half of the pages defining and provided examples of codependency. She has an exhaustive list of codependent traits. I will include this list at the end of this article. She also developed a shorter checklist to determine if you are a codependent: </span><br />
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><b>Codependency Check List - Melody Beattie from Codependent No More. </b></i></span></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></span>
<br />
<ul style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 19.456px; list-style-image: url("/wp-content/themes/pub/mistylook/img/bullet.png"); margin: 1em; padding: 0px 1em;" type="disc">
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><i style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 19.456px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Do you feel responsible for other people–their feelings, thoughts, actions, choices, wants, needs, well-being and destiny?</span></i></i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><i style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 19.456px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Do you feel compelled to help people solve their problems or by trying to take care of their feelings?</span></i></i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><i style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 19.456px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Do you find it easier to feel and express anger about injustices done to others than about injustices done to you?</span></i></i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><i style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 19.456px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Do you feel safest and most comfortable when you are giving to others?</span></i></i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><i style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 19.456px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Do you feel insecure and guilty when someone gives to you?</span></i></i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><i style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 19.456px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Do you feel empty, bored and worthless if you don’t have someone else to take care of, a problem to solve, or a crisis to deal with?</span></i></i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><i style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 19.456px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Are you often unable to stop talking, thinking and worrying about other people and their problems?</span></i></i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><i style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 19.456px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Do you lose interest in your own life when you are in love?</span></i></i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><i style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 19.456px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Do you stay in relationships that don’t work and tolerate abuse in order to keep people loving you?</span></i></i></span></li>
<li style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;"><i>Do you leave bad relationships only to form new ones that don’t work, either?</i></span></i></span></li>
</ul>
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<div>
If you feel, after reading this that you might be a codependent, Codependent No More (and the following Language of Letting Go) are ESSENTIAL reading. If you can relate to the Laundry List, Adult Children of Alcoholics will change your life. Both of these books literally saved my life. And my copies are full of penned notes, highlights, tattered and worn. You can purchase both via amazon for five bucks or less.<br />
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<h2>
What do I do about it? </h2>
Ok. You suspect you might be codependent. The answer to the above question is pretty straightforward. Unfortunately, there is no "treatment" specifically for codependency like there is for addiction. You'll need to seek out a therapist. Be forewarned, you'll need to shop around for a therapist that is competent in codependency and has resolved their OWN codependency! I recommend starting with addictions counselors and going from there. They will either be able to treat you themselves or be able to refer you to someone who knows what they're doing with a codependent. Alternatively, look for therapists that list addictions and codependency in their specialties. Some therapists, sadly, do not know what codependency is, much less how to treat it. And even more sadly, many therapists are codependents who have no idea that's what they are. (We are all HELPERS and FIXERS after all.) Having a codependent counselor treat a codependent is a disaster waiting to happen.<br />
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Second, find the appropriate self help group and GO. You may be afraid at first, but GO. Trust me. Al-Anon is magnificant, especially if your "person" is an addict of any kind. ACOA (Adult Children of Alcoholics) is also amazing even if your parent's dysfunction was not addiction. CODA (Codependents Anonymous) is IDEAL, but often difficult to find outside of metropolitan areas. You can find meetings in your area by visiting each of these groups web pages. You can also attend meeting only TRULY anonymously on websites like stepchat.com (my personal favorite).<br />
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And read those books I recommended.. ASAP!<br />
<h2>
<b>A few more notes on Codependency: </b></h2>
</div>
<div>
<h1>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">So there are a few more things I want to say about codependency before I turn you loose on the long, long list of characteristics below. </span></span></h1>
<div>
1. The treatment for codependency is debated. Some believe that it is a temporary condition that can be treated and moved past. Some (myself included) believe that it is more like addiction or a mental disorder that requires lifelong treatment, either through 12 step support or maintenance mental health support. You make your own choice. I have "relapsed" in my codependency when I stopped going to meetings and thought I was "cured." This convinced me I'll always need support. </div>
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<div>
2. The journey of recovery from Codependency is one of the most raw and painful things I've ever gone through. It takes guts, and humility, and open-mindedness, and a lot of self forgiveness. But it's the best thing I've ever done for myself. If you are truly codependent, it'll be the best thing you ever did for yourself. Trust me. </div>
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<div>
3. Codependency is complicated. Some characteristics won't apply to you. Some will. It's not definitive. We're all different. We all got it somehow. We weren't born with it. You may NOT have gotten it in childhood. It's possible that you didn't; rare, but possible. Keep an open mind, but realize that it is not one size fits all. </div>
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<div>
4. If you're reading this and thinking "MAN! That is JUST LIKE Julie (or whoever). I HAVE to tell HER about this to HELP HER"... you might want to re read this whole article and have a look in the mirror, then maybe share it with Julie (or whoever). </div>
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<div>
5. Codependency can be passed down through generations. If this resonates with you, but you're afraid to admit it or get help; think about whether you want your children to feel how you feel. (PS. Alateen is awesome!) </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Ok, here's the list I promised. Thanks for hanging in here with me through all these words. </div>
<h1>
<span style="font-size: small;">E</span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>xcerpted from <cite>Codependent No More: How to Stop Controlling Others and Start Caring for Yourself </cite>by Melody Beattie</i></span><i style="font-size: small;">Characteristics of Codependent People</i></h1>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Caretaking: Codependents may:</i></span><ul>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>think and feel responsible for other people for other people's feelings, actions, choices, wants, needs, well-being, lack of well-being, and ultimate destiny.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>feel anxiety, pity, and guilt when other people have a problem.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>feel compelled almost forced to help that person solve the problem, such as offering unwanted advice, giving a rapid-fire series of suggestions, or fixing feelings.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>feel angry when their help isn't effective.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>anticipate other people's needs.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>wonder why others don't do the same for them.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>find themselves saying yes when they mean no, doing things they don't really want to be doing, doing more than their fair share of the work, and doing things other people are capable of doing for themselves.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>not know what they want and need or, if they do, tell themselves what they want and need is not important.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>try to please others instead of themselves.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>find it easier to feel and express anger about injustices done to others, rather than injustices done to themselves.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>feel safest when giving.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>feel insecure and guilty when somebody gives to them.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>feel sad because the spend their whole lives giving to other people and nobody gives to them.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>find themselves attracted to needy people.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>find needy people attracted to them.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>feel bored, empty, and worthless if they don't have a crisis in their lives, a problem to solve, or someone to help.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>abandon their routine to respond to or do something for somebody else.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>overcommit themselves.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>feel harried and pressured.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>believe deep inside other people are somehow responsible for them.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>blame others for the spot the codependents are in.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>say other people make the codependents feel the way they do.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>believe other people are making them crazy.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>feel angry, victimized, unappreciated, and used.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>find other people become impatient or angry with them for all the preceding characteristics.</i></span></li>
</ul>
</li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Low Self-Worth: Codependents tend to:</i></span><ul>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>come from troubled, repressed, or dysfunctional families.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>deny their family was troubled, repressed, or dysfunctional.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>blame themselves for everything.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>pick on themselves for everything, including the way they think, feel , look, act, and behave.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>get angry, defensive, self-righteous, and indignant when others blame and criticize the codependents something codependents regularly do to themselves.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>reject compliments or praise.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>get depressed from a lack of compliments and praise (stroke deprivation).</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>feel different than the rest of the world.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>think they're not quite good enough.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>feel guilty about spending money on themselves or doing unnecessary or fun things for themselves.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>feel rejection.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>take things personally.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>have been victims of sexual, physical, or emotional abuse, neglect, abandonment, or alcoholism.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>feel like victims.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>tell themselves they can't do anything right.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>be afraid of making mistakes.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>wonder why they have a tough time making decisions.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>expect themselves to do everything perfectly.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>wonder why they can't get anything done to their satisfaction.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>have a lot of "shoulds."</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>feel a lot of guilt.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>feel ashamed of who they are.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>think their lives aren't worth living.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>try to help other people live their lives instead.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>artificial feelings of self-worth from helping others.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>get strong feelings of low self-worth embarrassment, failure, etc. from other people's failures and problems.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>wish good things would happen to them.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>believe good things never will happen.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>wish other people would like and love them.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>believe other people couldn't possibly like and love them.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>try to prove they're good enough for other people.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>settle for being needed.</i></span></li>
</ul>
</li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Repression: Many codependents:</i></span><ul>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>push their thoughts and feelings out of their awareness because of fear and guilt.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>become afraid to let themselves be who they are.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>appear rigid and controlled.</i></span></li>
</ul>
</li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Obsession: Codependents tend to:</i></span><ul>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>feel terribly anxious about problems and people.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>worry about the silliest things.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>think and talk a lot about other people.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>lose sleep over problems or other people's behavior.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>worry.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>never find answers.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>check on people.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>try to catch people in acts of misbehavior.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>feel unable to quit talking, thinking, and worrying about other people or problems.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>abandon their routine because they are so upset about somebody or something.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>focus all their energy on other people and problems.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>wonder why they never have any energy.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>wonder why they can't get things done.</i></span></li>
</ul>
</li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Controlling: Many codependents:</i></span><ul>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>have lived through events and with people that were out of control, causing the codependents sorrow and disappointment.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>become afraid to let other people be who they are and allow events to happen naturally.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>don't see or deal with their fear of loss of control.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>think they know best how things should turn out and how people should behave.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>try to control events and people through helplessness, guilt, coercion, threats, advice-giving, manipulation, or domination.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>eventually fail in their efforts or provoke people's anger.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>get frustrated and angry.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>feel controlled by events and people.</i></span></li>
</ul>
</li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Denial: Codependents tend to:</i></span><ul>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>ignore problems or pretend they aren't happening.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>pretend circumstances aren't as bad as they are.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>tell themselves things will be better tomorrow.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>stay busy so they don't have to think about things.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>get confused.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>get depressed or sick.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>go to doctors and get tranquilizers.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>became workaholics.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>spend money compulsively.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>overeat.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>pretend those things aren't happening, either.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>watch problems get worse.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>believe lies.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>lie to themselves.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>wonder why they feel like they're going crazy.</i></span></li>
</ul>
</li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Dependency: Many codependents:</i></span><ul>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>don't feel happy, content, or peaceful with themselves.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>look for happiness outside themselves.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>latch onto whoever or whatever they think can provide happiness.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>feel terribly threatened by the loss of any thing or person they think provides their happiness.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>didn't feel love and approval from their parents.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>don't love themselves.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>believe other people can't or don't love them.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>desperately seek love and approval.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>often seek love from people incapable of loving.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>believe other people are never there for them.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>equate love with pain.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>feel they need people more than they want them.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>try to prove they're good enough to be loved.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>don't take time to see if other people are good for them.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>worry whether other people love or like them.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>don't take time to figure out if they love or like other people.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>center their lives around other people.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>look to relationships to provide all their good feelings.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>lose interest in their own lives when they love.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>worry other people will leave them.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>don't believe they can take care of themselves.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>stay in relationships that don't work.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>tolerate abuse to keep people loving them.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>feel trapped in relationships.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>leave bad relationships and form new ones that don't work either.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>wonder if they will ever find love.</i></span></li>
</ul>
</li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Poor Communication: Codependents frequently:</i></span><ul>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>blame</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>threaten.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>coerce.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>beg.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>bribe.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>advise.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>don't say what they mean.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>don't mean what they say.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>don't know what they mean.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>don't take themselves seriously.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>think other people don't take the codependents seriously.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>take themselves too seriously.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>ask for what they want and need indirectly--sighing, for example</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>find it difficult to get to the point.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>aren't sure what the point is.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>gauge their words carefully to achieve a desired effect.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>try to say what they think will please people.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>try to say what they think will provoke people.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>try to say what they hope will make people do what they want them to do.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>eliminate the word "no" from their vocabulary</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>talk too much.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>talk about other people.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>avoid talking about themselves, their problems, feelings, and thoughts.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>say everything is their fault.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>say nothing is their fault.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>believe their opinions don't matter.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>wait to express their opinions until they know other people's opinions.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>lie to protect and cover up for people they love.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>lie to protect themselves.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>have a difficult time asserting their rights.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>have a difficult time expressing their emotions honestly, openly, and appropriately.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>think most of what they have to say is unimportant.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>begin to talk in cynical, self-degrading, or hostile ways.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>apologize for bothering people.</i></span></li>
</ul>
</li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Weak Boundaries: Codependents frequently:</i></span><ul>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>say they won't tolerate certain behaviors from other people.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>gradually increase their tolerance until they can tolerate and do things they said they never would.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>let others hurt them.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>keep letting people hurt them.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>wonder why they hurt so badly.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>complain, blame, and try to control while they continue to stand there.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>finally get angry.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>become totally intolerant.</i></span></li>
</ul>
</li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Lack Of Trust: Codependents:</i></span><ul>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>don't trust themselves.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>don't trust their feelings.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>don't trust their decisions.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>don't trust other people.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>try to trust untrustworthy people.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>think God has abandoned them.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>lose faith and trust in God.</i></span></li>
</ul>
</li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Anger: Many codependents:</i></span><ul>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>feel very scared, hurt, and angry.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>live with people who are very scared, hurt, and angry.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>are afraid of their own anger.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>are frightened of other people's anger.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>think people will go away if anger enters the picture.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>think other people make them feel angry.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>are afraid to make other people feel anger.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>feel controlled by other people's anger.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>repress their angry feelings.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>cry a lot, get depressed, overeat, get sick, do mean and nasty things to get even, act hostile, or have violent temper outbursts.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>punish other people for making the codependents angry.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>have been shamed for feeling angry.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>place guilt and shame on themselves for feeling angry.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>feel increasing amounts of anger, resentment, and bitterness.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>feel safer with their anger than with hurt feelings.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>wonder if they'll ever not be angry.</i></span></li>
</ul>
</li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Sex Problems: Some codependents:</i></span><ul>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>are caretakers in the bedroom.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>have sex when they don't want to.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>have sex when they'd rather be held, nurtured, and loved.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>try to have sex when they're angry or hurt.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>refuse to enjoy sex because they're so angry at their partner.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>are afraid of losing control.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>have a difficult time asking for what they need in bed.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>withdraw emotionally from their partner.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>feel sexual revulsion toward their partner.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>don't talk about it.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>force themselves to have sex, anyway.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>reduce sex to a technical act.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>wonder why they don't enjoy sex.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>lose interest in sex.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>make up reasons to abstain.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>wish their sex partner would die, go away, or sense the codependent's feelings.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>have strong sexual fantasies about other people.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>consider or have an extramarital affair.</i></span></li>
</ul>
</li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Miscellaneous: Codependents tend to:</i></span><ul>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>be extremely responsible.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>be extremely irresponsible.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>become martyrs, sacrificing their happiness and that of others for causes that don't require sacrifice.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>find it difficult to feel close to people.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>find it difficult to have fun and be spontaneous.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>have an overall passive response to codependency--crying, hurt, helplessness.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>have and overall aggressive response to codependency--violence, anger, dominance.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>combine passive and aggressive responses.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>vacillate in decisions and emotions.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>laugh when they feel like crying.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>stay loyal to their compulsions and people even when it hurts.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>be ashamed about family, personal, or relationship problems.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>be confused about the nature of the problem.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>cover up, lie, and protect the problem.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>not seek help because they tell themselves the problem isn't bad enough, or they aren't important enough.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>wonder why the problem doesn't go away.</i></span></li>
</ul>
</li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Progressive: In the later stages of codependency, codependents may:</i></span><ul>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>feel lethargic.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>feel depressed.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>become withdrawn and isolated.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>experience a complete loss of daily routine and structure.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>abuse or neglect their children and other responsibilities.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>feel hopeless.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>begin to plan their escape from a relationship they feel trapped in.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>think about suicide.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>become violent.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>become seriously emotionally, mentally, or physically ill.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>experience an eating disorder (over- or undereating).</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>become addicted to alcohol and other drugs.</i></span></li>
</ul>
</li>
</ul>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The preceding checklist is long but not all-inclusive. Like other people, codependents do, feel, and think many things. There are not a certain number of traits that guarantees whether a person is or isn't codependent. Each person is different; each person has his or her way of doing things. I'm just trying to paint a picture. The interpretation, or decision, is up to you. What's most important is that you first identify behaviors or areas that cause you problems, and then decide what you want to do.</i></span></div>
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Shan Contentedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18243943975363421402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2275094347761660449.post-2029005254719219302016-05-19T11:04:00.001-05:002019-03-13T10:49:41.983-05:00God, as I understand Him... <div dir="ltr">
<br />
There are a lot of things I know. When I am sitting silently across from a client and they try to find the words to share some experience with me, I know. Those experiences resonate. I know what it feels like to be desperate. I know what it is to feel so alone that you’d cling to anything just to make the feeling stop. I know the crumpled in a heap on the bathroom floor, writhing in soul pain, screaming from the agony of it. I know the point where there is no more air for screams, only silent attempts turning to breathless gasps into the tear puddle. I know the confusion of shame-guilt-obligation-intense-fear, maybe even some version of love-but how can it be-I can’t leave-I can’t stay-I feel INSANE, I’m so ALONE feeling of a woman who has been beaten with fists or words or devastating emotional warfare. I know the conditioned submissiveness that holds that rage of injustice so far down that you no longer know which way the surface is; slowly, miserably drowning. I know what it feels like to do anything to stay alive, survive, hold on for one more day, hour, minute, second, to keep from finally just drowning completely. I know the desperation of sitting and pondering whether to just tie a rock to your ankles and end the misery. I know that low when you truly feel that would be a better choice for everyone. And I know what it is to muster all that you have left to stand up and fight for your life. For your children's lives. For survival. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br />
I know how silly it feels to to know that you're far too old and should not still cry like a child over something your parents have said to you. And I know how those words still sometimes dig straight into the deep wound you’ve covered with bandages all your life that you hoped would have healed by now. But it hasn’t and it hurts like it was freshly cut. I know what it feels like to hate. Truly hate, with the venom of a thousand snakes, where your lip curls, your teeth bare instinctively every time you think of it. I know what it is to truly understand how someone can sadistically rip apart another human being with their bare hands in a primal rage. I understand that rage. And I know the deep shame and guilt of blaming it all on yourself. Being unsure if you haven't, in fact, been to blame for every bit of everything. To feel fundamentally bad, broken, unlovable. I know it deep inside me. My chest hurts when I think about it. Any of it. All of it. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
I hold back tears sometimes when people sit across from me and try to find words to describe it. They look at the floor because they’re sure I won’t understand. They’re sure no one will understand. How could anyone understand? But I just reassure them that I know. I truly, deeply know. I don’t just pretend to know as a show of support. I really know. Sometimes I give them some of the words and then a flood of adjective and adverbs come out of their mouth like a good vomit that they’ve held back for too long. And I understand. Their relief is palpable. I know. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
Yes, there are a lot of things I know. I know what a bad relationship feels like. I know the nagging little tug of that voice in the back of your head just whispering “something isn’t right” and “don’t do this” no matter how hard you try to ignore it. I know how it feels to just call yourself damaged or paranoid or unable to trust and say that it must be the reason that that voice is trying to talk to you. But you know. That voice is the truth that you know no matter what anyone else out THERE, outside of you says otherwise. I know what it feels like to be so desperate for love or attention or not being alone or just ANYTHING to give you ANY hope again that you stifle that voice. And reason with that voice. And tell that voice to shut the fuck UP because you are GOING to be happy THIS time! I know. Lord knows that I know! I know how that voice taunts you later with “I told you so” and you feel so ashamed, so wrong, so utterly STUPID for not listening to it. I know what a bad relationship feels like from beginning to end. I know every version of it. I know all the variables. More than anyone I've ever met, I KNOW a bad relationship. <br />
<br />
And I am not in one.<br />
<br />
Why would anyone believe that? I realize that I’ve become incredibly untrustworthy in that regard. I wouldn’t believe me either. And interestingly, I don’t really care. Because that voice, that one in the back of my head, is telling me “this is right” and “do this” and “this is what you’ve been trying to find” no matter how hard I tried to ignore it. And trust me, I tried to ignore it. I tried to beat it into submission with a baseball bat whittled out of all my scars, stab it with the thousands of blades of all my past mistakes, drown it the sea of regret that lives inside me, but it didn’t shut up. It never does, does it? It just gets louder the longer you don't listen. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
I also know what it feels like to listen to it and do what it says. It feels a lot like laying in a lazy river and letting the current drift you forward while you lay back and feel the sunshine; relax into the tranquil calm that you longed for on the harder days. I know a lot of things. I know enough to listen to that voice. I know enough to not listen to anyone else more than that voice. That voice has a lot of experience. That voice knows much more than I do. It certainly knows much more than all those people out there, outside of me. It knows more than people who don’t KNOW. It never shuts up, not really. It always has something to say. You can’t reason with it and convince it that it’s wrong. It’s never wrong. You can just ignore it and feel the uncomfortableness of it when you do, but it always wins eventually. It KNOWS. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
Some people call that voice God. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
I call it something else. It doesn’t matter what you call it, it’s never been wrong. All you have to do is shut up and listen.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
So, I understand that I am not trustworthy. I understand why there is so much doubt and why I am to be regarded as an idiot who has no idea what is good and bad and certainly cannot make good decisions for myself. I do, completely, undeniably, inarguably understand. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
But, I’m not trusting me. I’m trusting that voice. It’s never lied to me before. It's never wrong. It has no other motive.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
I’ve never listened to it from the beginning before, only after I’ve become desperate from defying it. I trusted it to take me to Mexico and I trusted it to bring me back. So, I will continue to trust it because the calm warm sunshine on the lazy river feels a lot better than all those other things I know. It’s time to know more than hurt and shame and guilt and rage and soul pain. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
And the only guidance I can trust is right inside me. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
Namaste. </div>
Shan Contentedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18243943975363421402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2275094347761660449.post-30362065959951098572016-05-10T07:20:00.000-05:002019-03-13T12:22:08.911-05:00Im a Goddamned Starburst! <div dir="ltr">
April to October 2015 - <br />
It's funny. Not in the way things used to be funny to me. The uncontrollable laughter fit way that literally gave me a bit of a high inside me. That joy seems a bit far away right now. But in the Dr. Suess way; curious, odd, peculiar. It's a bit funny. The way I feel. The way sitting down and finally deciding to write about this subject now that I'm back in the land of reality and no longer running away. I feel ashamed, and guilty, and terrified, but also indignant, angry, and obligated . </div>
<div dir="ltr">
A significant person who probably knows me better than anyone these days said something to me a couple of days ago; "You're so full of fear and worry all the time." And I had to just admit that I was. I've never really been here before. I've felt some of the things I'm feeling, but my false ego and fake defenses kicked in so much better back then. I was more outspoken. I was able to more easily bounce back, move forward, move ONward and UPward. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
But it's funny. I'm so much smarter about these things now. So much more aware of myself. So much more accepting of the reality of it. My defenses, walls and false ego and pride were intentionally and systematically stripped from me BY me.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
I got "better" or so I thought. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
That was awkward and sometimes a little crazy, but I did it. I made myself raw and open and honest about every little feeling, and I probably seemed a little nuts to some people. But that ended up backfiring on me. And I guess I developed one new defense I'd never had before; avoidance. Reluctantly, I have to admit, it's time to stop avoiding now.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
Several months ago a friend of mine had been talking to this new girl he was interested in. He had just barely met her and she noticed that we were friends. She asked him what "team" he was on and then said she'd "heard" that I was "psycho." She'd "heard" that the person on the other "team" was "the nicest guy in the world." She made it clear she was on his "team." She also said that the opposing "team" wouldn't say a word to anyone about what had happened between us and remained silent about it to at least most people. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
When I heard this, I laughed. Truly. I laughed. I had never even heard this woman's name. I had no idea who she was. And my thoughts wandered to how happy he would be to hear that his name was still in the clear. How proud he'd be that I was being regarded as a "psycho" and he was being regarded as an innocent. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
And I thought it interesting that he was not widely discussing his failure. And I knew why. And he knows why. He knew it was possible that I might tell the truth if pushed too far. He knew I'd eventually stand up and defend myself. He knew there was evidence out there. So much in writing, photographs, narrative. He knew and he knows. And he knew I was vocal and unafraid of what others might think of me. He knew I'd want and even need to tell my story. But, I didn't. Not really. Not right away. Maybe never.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
I guess he'd so succeeded in shaming and conditioning me that even over a year after we separated, I'm still afraid and feel guilty and wrong for telling the truth. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
His precious ego and "appearances" are still something I subconsciously feel a strong compulsion to protect. I'm still terrified of what will publicly or privately be said or done to discredit, humiliate, and shame me to protect that delicate and fragile person on the other side. So afraid that it makes my chest hurt and my face hot and my hands shake a little. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
And it's funny. And embarrassing. I really am ashamed. I'm ashamed I let it happen. I'm ashamed I got so entrenched. I'm ashamed of my own behavior. I'm ashamed of the realization of how much I let him control me. I'm ashamed of some of the things I did to avoid. I'm ashamed of being afraid and I'm ashamed of being quiet. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
That's what he wanted when it was all said and done. To shame me, guilt me, break me down so I could be controlled and pliable and afraid. And he succeeded. Kudos to him. He'll be very proud under his mask to know that.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
Another friend told me that they'd talked to him and he'd said "I would have done anything for her and those boys." That didn't make me laugh. That made my skin crawl. That made me feel nauseous. There it was, that theater mask. That ridiculous face he put on of being such a sweet, innocent, giving guy who was nothing but wonderful to this "awful woman." He was playing heartbroken? He was playing at being the good guy and throwing that implication around like he'd just exhausted every resource to make these unpleasable people stick around. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
It would be laughable, if it wasn't so disgusting. But it wasn't surprising. Hadn't this been the game all along? To appear as the guy who was sickeningly sweet to the woman he adored and the family he wanted to project to the world. To appear as the guy who showered gifts and "took care" of us. Hadn't that always been the face he wanted the world to see. Hadn't he threatened and coerced and demanded that that be the face that I showed to everyone as well. The reflection of what he wanted the world to think he was. And I complied. At first because I believed it was his true face, later out of pity and compassion, and even later because it was easier to comply than to bear the punishment of not complying.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
There were cracks in his reflection. People saw glimpses of the other side of his Jekyll and Hyde behavior. Occassionally, he'd get too drunk and have an outburst in public. Other times, he'd consider some people "safe" enough to do these things in front of them. And I wasn't exactly an easy target; it took him a long time to condition me enough to not just spill out the truth in the beginning. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
Granted, it sort of made me look like a "psycho" because I was reacting to crazy-making by being crazy, but the truth was still being told. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
And I did stick around after I saw the mask drop. That was my fault. The thing that causes me the most shame. I didn't leave. I got sucked in. I fell for the gaslighting and the compensating and the cycle. I'm quite shocked at myself that I did, but I did. I guess I thought I was immune. But for someone who, quite frankly, seems very unintelligent, he was an expert at that. I'd defend anyone who said he seemed "stupid" and say that he was deceptively smart. He was. He was a master at one particular form of manipulation. And interestingly, I pitied him. I sincerely felt actual pity for him because I knew where those skills had come from. And I know how, deep down, he is a fragile hurt little boy. I still pity him a little. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
So I pitied him. And goddamn me, I wanted to help him. That is the worst thing of all. That isn't his fault. That isn't what he wanted from me. That was my ugly codependence rearing its head. That was something I thought I'd overcome and thought I had totally avoided.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
I had no idea he would even need help for a long time. I didn't chose a man who needed fixing. I didn't know, consciously anyway. But by the time I realized it, I was entrenched. I was already pretty broken. And the big stuff started to surface. The codependence. The fear of abandonment. The toxic "caring" that has destroyed me before. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
When I realized, I tried to stop it. I tried to send him to someone else to deal with himself. I tried to distance myself. I tried to keep my mouth shut. I tried not to pity him. I tried to understand for myself and deal only with myself.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
But, in all that time, he never stopped trying to "fix" me. The thing was, there was nothing wrong with me. I viewed him as a human being with human feelings that I could understand and even support him in trying to navigate. He viewed me as an object that needed to be continually improved and changed to meet an impossible ever-changing standard that would gain him acceptance from, well, anyone and everyone. (I'm going to resist my urge to go full psychoanalytic mode and explain who he really needed acceptance from, maybe another day). </div>
<div dir="ltr">
I was nothing more to him than his big "impressive" house and his big "impressive" vehicle and his big "impressive" array of things. I was a thing. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
And like his house and his vehicle and his "things," I was never good enough to fill the need inside him.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
He needed a better house, to make his vehicle bigger and better, to get more and more and better and better things. He admitted to me, more than once, that he thought I "looked good" to other people. He even called me his trophy once or twice. And I almost found that flattering, until I realized that he believed he could keep upgrading me. Until I realized that he viewed me as an object. Until I realized I'd not only never be a human to him, but that I would also never be good ENOUGH. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
Our entire relationship had been, for him, a tool to advance his "appearance." And when he'd start feeling like I wasn't serving that purpose or I was making him "look bad", he'd tried to put a new bumper on me or get me in the body shop to perfect some dents. He'd try to shine me up to meet whatever it was he'd decided wasn't giving the right impression to others.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
Except I wasn't an object. I was a sensitive, deeply feeling, emotional, and yes, fairly previously damaged human being. And I wasn't prepared for that shit. I'd never quite had this kind of experience before. I'd been torn down. I'd been abused. I'd been devalued. I'd even been loved. But I'd never been treated as an object with no human feelings. I'd been in highly emotionally fueled relationships. I'd been in highly abusive relationships. I'd been in highly emotionally manipulative relationships. I was pretty sure I'd experienced everything. But I'd never been a trophy. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
It's laughable to use the word trophy to me. He spent a great deal of time and energy making sure I felt like I was less than nothing. Completely the opposite of a shiny trophy. I certainly was never the kind of girl who anyone would ever characterize as a "trophy wife." But that's what he wanted. And I filled that need for a while, until he realized that I wasn't as shiny as he thought. Until someone told him this or that or he got some idea in his head that "impressive" was something different. It changed all the time.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
At first, my reaction wasn't good. He would make comments or attempt to control what I wore, said, did, looked like, etc and I would react appropriately. I would inform him that I was who I was. I liked who I was. I was awesome the way I was. And that it was not only not OK for him to say/do these thing, but it was just wrong. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
I'd break up with him over it and then he'd come apologetically and feign ignorance. Maybe he just genuinely did not know he couldn't do these things then. I don't know, to be honest. I think it is possible that he really had no idea those things were not ok. And I'd say ok and I'd continue the relationship and let it slide. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
But it kept happening and I kept correcting and eventually, I started doubting myself. He had learned the things that would hit my most vulnerable places. He had learned how to manipulate me to get the biggest possible emotional response and break me down into the floor. He began to use those to get what he wanted. He readily admitted that he'd do absolutely anything to get his way. I'd have a major breakdown. He'd play on my abandonment issues like a maestro. He was good at that. And that would send me reeling for his approval and acceptance. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
Somewhere along the way, I started to lose myself. Then I started to be embarrassed by my emotional reactions. The crazy-making made me feel crazy and yes, act crazy. He was pretty good at doing and saying things in the background and then letting me spin out of control in the foreground. Then he'd look on with a bewildered face or play a victim or do whatever he needed to do to make sure that I looked like the lunatic and he could claim nothing he did was behind it.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
The day he proposed to me, he'd told me that morning and regularly for a month before that he'd never marry me. No one would want to marry "someone like that." "Look at you. Who would want THAT?" He called me THAT a lot. I think he thought it was my nickname. The entire time he was planning the proposal with a friend of mine, he was telling me adamantly that he'd never propose and a magnificent list of reasons why. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
But my friend had, out of sheer pity, told me what he was doing all along the way. She wasn't trying to betray him, I had just come to her in one of my heavy emotional states he'd crazy-made and tried to get some perspective on the things he was saying. I felt like a lunatic. And she'd told me what he was doing. And I was even more bewildered by his behavior. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
That behavior continued and got worse leading up the moment he proposed. And I cried and said yes when he did. Abandonment issues. I was honestly relieved that he apparently hadn't meant the things he'd said. I later asked him about this several times, his enduring response was "I wanted to throw you off. I wanted it to be a surprise. I wanted to feel afraid you'd say no." (Brain explosion). When I pointed out to him how cruel that had been and how extreme he'd gone playing with my emotions for his own game, he'd tell me not to dwell on the past. I'd make it ok in my head. Somehow.</div>
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And that's when things started to get really insane. I'd moved me and my children into a house with him. He'd bought me a car in his name that I couldn't pay for myself. I'd given up my house. I had become entrenched in a way that wouldn't be easy to get out from under. </div>
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That's what he wanted. </div>
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I had tried to buy a car myself that was affordable for me alone. He'd told me that he couldn't have me "seen" in a car that was below his standard. When we moved into the house, he threw away quite a lot of my things and replaced them with his things or new things. He'd tell me my things were "shit" and not good enough. </div>
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I tried to talk him into a normal sized house. That was out of the question. And I needed to adore and appreciate what he was giving me. So I just did. It made me uncomfortable, but I decided to view in a positive way and be optimistic. Other women wanted all this shit, right?!? I was SUPPOSED to want all this shit, RIGHT?!? This was supposed to feel like a Cinderella moment. Sometimes it did. But I was entrenched and I knew and would verbally express that he could throw me and my children on the street and we'd have nothing.</div>
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Occasionally, he'd threaten me with that. Most of the time he'd swore he'd never do that to us. After we moved in, bought the car, and I was still working, he'd told me that I was required to pay exactly half of the bills. Except, I made in a year what he made in a month. And paying half the bills on these expensive things he'd insisted on (and I'd participated in) was more than I made in a month. </div>
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I was also suddenly expected to keep everything perfect. When he'd come home from working, he'd go through the house and do insane things like wipe his finger across something and inspect for dust. Who the fuck actually does that? And how was I supposed to be expected to work 60 hours a week AND keep a 4000 square foot house fully spot-and-dust-less. He refused to get a housekeeper. He could afford one, but... Anyway, that stopped eventually, then came back, then stopped again.</div>
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But he started expecting me to be perfect as well. I'm going to give one example of the craziness. One of many, but one of the most emotionally impactful ones for me. One random day, I'd gotten dressed. I have no idea what I was wearing, but he told me that it was unacceptable, to burn the clothes and change. This wasn't the first time he'd done this and not the first time I'd fought back. </div>
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But this time, I asked some questions. I asked him what was wrong with what I had on. I asked him why he thought he could do that. The fight that ensued after that is blur to me right up until the point that I was standing in my bedroom and he looked me straight in the face and said "Yes, ok. You are not attractive. You are fucking disgusting, but I love you and I'll marry you anyway." That was devastating enough. All the pain that I'd been bottling in my little vial crashed down on me right then. It was like a culmination of every perfectionistic, abandonment-fear-fueled, low self esteem fear I'd ever had and worked so HARD in therapy and 12 step groups and self help and meditation just exploded. Right then. And he knew it would. He knew me well enough by then. And I tell my truth. Always. I gave him that fuel. </div>
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I didn't get angry. I got hurt. I finally realized that this man thought I was outwardly disgusting to look at and he'd compromised with himself to marry me ANYWAY. All the things he'd said to me that I'd been able to push aside or explain away just crashed down on me hard. I fell in the floor in that lifetime movie dramatic way and just crumbled.</div>
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His reaction was to walk away and start shampooing the carpet downstairs. I don't know how to explain that. It's just what he did. It was like a punctuation mark on how little my hurt mattered to him. </div>
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So I did something hard. Something the still strong me would do. I took off all my clothes. I walked down stairs. I stood in front of him completely naked and said "This is me. This is what I look like. Do you really think I am disgusting?" I was vulnerable in that moment in every sense of the word. A kind of vulnerable that I am unsure I will ever be able to be again. The kind of vulnerable that I worked hard to be able to be. He said "Do I really have to say it again?"</div>
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For the next 3 hours, I sat in the room next to him with tears rolling down my face researching plastic surgery. When I would try to talk to him, he wouldn't speak. When he finally did speak, he told me I should get some advice from a friend of ours that had had a lot of plastic surgery on where I should go to get "fixed." </div>
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It helps to understand how vehemently opposed to plastic surgery I am and have always been. This was a Shannon that I didn't know. A broken Shannon that was willing to compromise long held, deeply entrenched beliefs to gain the approval of a man who she knew didn't love her. A Shannon who was just a lost little girl trying to be good enough. </div>
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At some point, the same friend who'd help plan my proposal called me. She could tell something was wrong and with a lot of shame, I told her what he'd said and what he was doing. She spoke to him, or yelled at him. She told him exactly what I would want anyone to tell him at that point. She told him what he said and was doing was unacceptable. Cruel. Abusive. </div>
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He told HER he knew he was wrong and he would apologize and he loved me just the way I was and didn't "mean" it. Then he hung up the phone, said something to shame me for embarrassing him and telling people what he'd said and went back to shampooing the carpets. </div>
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He developed a porn addiction after that and had sex with me about 3 times over the next 6 months or so. I eventually went and got a plastic surgery consult. That's another story. A terrible, ugly story. But, in the end, a story about strength and the integrity of a plastic surgeon who saw exactly what was happening. The good news is, I decided to eat a cheeseburger, flip him off, and refuse to get any surgery. Because, somewhere deep inside, the real Shannon still existed, and always won. </div>
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Things just kept going and going like this. Up, down, good then bad, love then hate. Crazy making. So many stories. I tried to please him. I tried to talk to him. I tried to reach out to him. He would say and do thing after thing and for a while I got numb to it. Then I'd react. Then I'd be numb. </div>
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Our friends knew about some of it. I stopped eating. I lost some more weight. It was never enough. I tried to be what he wanted that day every day. It was different all the time. </div>
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I stopped having needs. I stopped asking for anything. I praised him when he'd do something ridiculous to keep up appearances. I found ways to keep busy. I made a bunch of money in the stock market. I started a business. I looked for ways to support me and the kids when he'd go on a control kick and refuse to give us any money to survive on because, by then, I couldn't afford to go anywhere or do anything when he wasn't around. </div>
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I guess I skipped the part where I had quit my job to "be available to him anytime." When I'd get job offers, he would tell me that being with him was more important than money. Well, unless I could make over 100 grand a year. Then it wasn't. But I couldnt do that because I was worthless and my education was worthless and etc, etc. So many things. They still play on loop inside my head like a torture chamber anthem. All of them. </div>
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He tried to make me lose all my friends. He succeeded with some and didn't succeed with others. I met his increasing demands that I put on a happy face and appreciate him and tell the world how wonderful he was ESPECIALLY on social media. Appearance was everything. I did it for him sometimes. And sometimes I did it out of some desperate, delusional belief that if I appreciated him enough or stroked his ego enough, he might not need so much approval from everyone else and would just STOP. It didn't work. It seemed to make it worse, really. It was food for the monster inside him. </div>
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And I tried to talk to him. I tried to "help" him see what he was doing. I tried. Boy did I try. That was stupid. But that's who I was. That's who I will always be. </div>
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When it was finally time to get married, I told him the night before the wedding that I couldn't. He guilted me, shamed me. I felt obligated. He'd spent 14 THOUSAND dollars on a trip to my number one bucket list destination. He'd reminded me of that.</div>
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I married him. He burned our marriage license on our weddimg night, after he'd told me to take off the lingerie I'd gotten and, of course, burn it. Why? I don't know. Be aide he was cruel. Because hurting me gave him a thrill. Because he couldn't get it up. I don't know. That's just what he did. </div>
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I refused to not enjoy my dream trip regardless. I hung in for another year of increasingly bad crazy making and abuse. I simultaneously became more broken and used the rage of that to become stronger. </div>
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Then, we got an apartment in Mexico. We separated a month later. He came and went a few times from that apartment. He didn't accept that we were separated but more importantly, I was to tell NO ONE of our separation. My children didn't even know for a while. As far as anyone knew, I was staying in our beach house and he was working a lot. He even manipulated me into going "home" for Thanksgiving and keeping up appearances to our families. But we stayed in a hotel room by ourselves one night of that. We fought insanely and then went back to the family with our masks on. </div>
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He gave me a fierce black eye a few weeks later, right before Christmas. Back in Mexico. I guess that was the LITERAL slap in the face (or more correctly.. Violent headbutt to the face) that I needed. I stopped pretending. I told him I wanted a divorce. My parents got angry. My kids were happy. I lost my mind a little. I even got suicidal one day, for about two hours. Nobody really cared but my brother. Thank you for that, bro. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
I also became a dive master and then a dive instructor. I sewed some very, very long overdue wild oats. I did some things Im not particularly proud of and some things I am. I did a lot of things. </div>
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But most importantly, I took every tool I'd ever learned. I took every ounce of strength I'd ever had and I ENJOYED myself. By that, I mean, I enjoyed being ME. I enjoyed being WITH me. I found myself again and became better than I'd ever been. I got to know me. I discovered how good it felt to just live for me. I reveled in the joy of not having to answer to anyone but myself. I forgave myself and walked around being unabashedly Shannon.</div>
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And boy did I sparkle! </div>
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A man walking down the beach came up and sat next to me at my little beach bar one day. He later said to me: "You were just sitting there. I had to come and talk to you. I couldn't help it. You were like a starburst." (I'll forever have affection for that guy, who turned out to be an awesome and fascinating dude.) I remind myself of that every time I start to remember and feel bad about myself.</div>
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I am a GODDAMNED STARBURST! </div>
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Updated: April 2016</div>
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I suppose I was running away. I suppose the entirety of my almost year in Mexico was more of an escape than anything else. But it was the best thing I'd ever done. It changed me in ways I can't even describe in words. It gave me strength to leave. To be alone. To know I could be alone. To chuck a LOT of issues. I wouldn't trade it for anything. I'll be forever grateful for that time. Another time, in better words, I'll explain why. </div>
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Once he realized I was serious about leaving, he took everything. He made sure I lost my apartment in Mexico and everything else. I left with what I came with materially or what was left of what he threw away. He made sure I'd have less than nothing. All the while being silent and playing the victim. When we finally got around to the actual divorce, I didn't get a lawyer. I knew he'd take everything. I honestly didn't care. I wanted my car, but I didn't fight for it. He could have it. I had everything I needed and none of it cost money. I had more than I'd ever had. I had strength, wisdom, peace. </div>
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I got a job and a little house back in Texas. I started dating a man who was NICE to me and didn't think I was at all perfect or a trophy, but absolutely adored the perfection of all my flaws. I scrutinized him to no end for at least 6 months. I went through some harsh PTSD-style stuff once I was back in Texas and there was no ocean to drown my memories in. I am still going through them. It will take a long time to get past it. </div>
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I didn't believe my guy for a long time. I waited, and sometimes still wait for the bad guy to come out. For the fantasy to be over. To see what an idiot I was for not seeing whatever was wrong with HIM. </div>
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But, you know what, it just keeps getting better. Fuck the big house and the big car and the big lie. Maybe I was SUPPOSED to want that. Maybe other girls DO want that but I never did. Not in my life. And I never would. </div>
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I wanted love and respect and commitment and acceptance. And I have it. I keep more and more being shown that I'm no trophy. I'm a woman deserving of a man who treats me like the perfectly imperfect human I am. And who does so with an imperfectly perfect amount of dignity and love and respect and acceptance. He's perfectly imperfect too.</div>
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Now THAT is some Cinderella shit in my world. </div>
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Love, <br />
A goddamned starburst. </div>
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Shan Contentedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18243943975363421402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2275094347761660449.post-24565974643983311962016-04-04T21:27:00.000-05:002019-08-28T12:45:08.785-05:00How to Life when You Don't Want To<div dir="ltr">
It's 7:30am. My alarm has been going off for an hour. It stops giving me the option to put it off at 7:30 and puts a big red X on the screen to remind my sleepy brain that I can't procrastinate any longer. I have to get up and Life. Except, I know how to get around that mean little X. So, I punch the X in its big fat red face and I set a stop watch for 10 minutes. I just can't do it yet. I've been awake for the last hour laying here in my oasis I created for myself. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I don't want to Life today. Life feels too oppressive today. I want to stay here wrapped in my 5 pillow 2 blankets head to toe cocoon and hide from all that big, mean, scary stuff out THERE. In another year, another version of my life, I could have. I would have. I'd have stayed wrapped up in this safe hiding place until I had the courage to go out THERE. </div>
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<br /></div>
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But it is not another year. I have to come out. I have to life. Probation is waiting for that fax from me to send a client to jail and probably save their life in the process. CPS is waiting for that progress report to take to court and give to the judge to help decide the fate of a family. Five people are on my schedule today to rely on ME to help them with Life-ing. How can I do that today? How can I help someone else Life if I can't even listen to that big red X and unwrap myself from this warm womb of safety? I don't know. I guess I just will. I have to.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I'll tell them about that time I didn't want to come out from under the covers because I was afraid and exhausted and Life-ing seemed like just too much. I'll tell them I got up. I made coffee. I'll tell them that it seemed impossible to me to even consider using a hairbrush or a curling iron or putting my legs into my pants. I'll tell them that I took some deep breaths and I pulled out all of my courage and energy and stood up.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I'll tell them that sometimes Life-ing occurs one minute at a time, one small decision at a time. One courageous moment at a time. I'll tell them that Life can be a big, mean, scary place where people and feelings and words and memories and guilt and shame and regret are flying like bullets at you and seem to be trying to keep you from surviving. But you can't hide forever because then you'll miss the sound of the birds chirping and the smell of morning on the grass and the way your dog follows you around the house and your kitten jumps on your lap. </div>
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<br /></div>
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You'll miss the chance to tell someone else about that time you didn't want to come out and Life but did it anyway. And how it all turned out okay. </div>
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So, here goes. I'm coming out now and shedding my safe, warm cocoon. I'm making coffee and turning on my curling iron and putting my legs into my my pants. 10 minutes late. And it will all turn out okay. At least for the next courageous minute. </div>
Shan Contentedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18243943975363421402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2275094347761660449.post-69888449539046207772016-01-04T21:21:00.000-06:002019-08-28T12:45:50.012-05:00How I Keep From Losing My Shit For Good<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br />
Sometimes people ask me how I find my Zen, keep out of the mental hospital, don't off myself, manage to not hate everyone, etc. after all the crap I've been through (or rather, put myself through) in my life. So, here's a quick note on that. </div>
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<br /></div>
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First of all, I allow myself to lose my shit every now and then. I don't feel guilty about it. I don't try to restrain it when it comes. I scream or collapse or spend a couple of days in bed or whatever the situation calls for. It's like cleaning your gutters. I have to unclog now and then so the calm waters can flow the rest of the time. I used to do this more often but I'd say I'm down to doing this once or twice every 6 months. As a caveat, there have been times, even in recent years, that I was dug deep into some (seriously fucked up) situations (that I take non-victim responsibility for) that made me lose my shit quite a bit more often. Escalating shit losing. But the source was usually purposefully attempting to rid me of my shit and was fairly successful. So, point to them for their win. </div>
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The rest of the time, I engage compassion and detachment. It took me a long, long, long, LONG time to figure out how much better this works for me than losing my shit or hanging on to shit. Instead, I look at the other person like I would a client and examine why they are the way they are; why they do the things they do. I have to dig really deep sometimes to pull out empathy/sympathy for some people, but I have to all the same. I have to see that person's motive to depersonalize it from me. It's not me, it's them and all that. I have to do that for me. It's more than essential. Because, to be honest, it's never about me, is it? No one walks around and centers their lives or thoughts on how they can personally destroy me because I'm such a terrible human. No, that's insane.<br />
It's not about me. It is, and always has been, and always will be about them. And the best hindsight-turned-wisdom example of this is that most of the people who have done horrible things to me did them to someone else before, during and/or after me. It wasn't/isn't/will never be about me. So compassion is essential. </div>
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Sometimes I go too far in my compassion and want to help them. There's a word for that. It's codependence. That makes me lose my shit big time. Codependence is an asshole. That's where the detachment comes in. Ok, I tell myself, this person is a flawed person who was constructed by their own circumstances. And that person is not me. I'm not responsible for that person or their shit. I'm responsible for my shit. I'm responsible for keeping myself together no matter what might be falling apart over there. Detachment. Depersonalization. It's an art form I intend to perfect some day. I certainly haven't yet. I stumble about sometimes for a while until the rubber band snaps back and stings the shit out of my forehead and I remember what I'm supposed to be doing. But I get better at it all the time. And that's better than most people do, so point for me for that win.</div>
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Third, I clean up. I take toxic people out of my life. Usually not soon enough but again; I haven't perfected anything. This also took me a long time to do. I longed for acceptance for so long and so hard that it was difficult to throw anyone out who didn't accept me as I was. In other words, people who were toxic. I've had to lose friends who ended up just making me feel like shit instead of losing my shit; husbands who I had no business marrying in the first place; the gossips and the backstabbers and the users and the abusers; the too pushy and the shady; the sociopaths and the over-whiners. I've had to throw out a lot of those guys.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I don't have any of those friends anymore. Maybe some acquaintances but no one I'd tell any real life, deep down, vulnerable-making shit too. There's one exception, my family. I can distance myself but I can't bring myself to rid any toxins in that area. I'm still reeling for their approval, therapy never quite cleaned up that shit. Tie game. </blockquote>
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<br /></div>
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Fourth through whatever</div>
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Write. <br />
Write some more. <br />
Drink too much occasionally and make a fool of myself. <br />
Forgive. <br />
Forgive some more. <br />
Get in water as much as possible.<br />
Embrace some sort of music. <br />
Paint some bad art and let the brushstrokes sooth me. <br />
Hang with an actual friend and unload some shit. <br />
Hot baths. <br />
Long, quiet dives. <br />
Sunshine.<br />
Forgive some more. </div>
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Write some more. </div>
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Go somewhere. Just run away for a while to somewhere, anywhere, really. </div>
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Keep trying. </div>
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Keep learning.</div>
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Cry as liberally as I want and feel no shame in it.<br />
Let someone compliment me and really enjoy it.<br />
Talk to the ocean. (Some people call this meditation. Some prayer. Same thing except I require the actual ocean.)<br />
<br />
I'm not exactly the Buddha of Texas but again, it's more than most people do. I've never been committed (though I probably should have been a few times) or offed myself. I only can use the word hate toward one human (yeah.. trust me..trying to not hate that one is a losing battle, but my bucket list says I have to forgive him someday, so I'll have to...some day). I can find my Zen more and more often, I have most of my shit together most of the time. So, something is working. Perfectly imperfectly. I'll keep practicing. Maybe someday I'll never lose my shit at all. Maybe not. Either way, I forgive me. </div>
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Shan Contentedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18243943975363421402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2275094347761660449.post-64017454826899708932015-06-02T02:09:00.001-05:002017-04-29T06:15:31.111-05:00Things I did not know... <div dir="ltr">
I didnt know that years of being told how hideous and fucking disgusting my body was by one man would sincerely make me never believe any man when they said I was beautiful or attractive with or without clothes on again. </div>
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I did not know that I'd never want to be naked in front of a man again because of the systematic deprication <u>by</u> one. </div>
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I did not know that I could not so easily recover. </div>
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I did not know that I would ever flinch again thinking a man would hit me. I did not know that I would ever be hit again. And I certainly never thought I would be criticized for leaving a man who broke my face. Face breaking is a deal breaker. And I had no idea there were people who didn't agree with that. </div>
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I didn't know I'd be so insecure and need so much self talk after I finally left when I knew what was happening was wrong all along. When I THOUGHT stood strong. </div>
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I didn't know I'd not believe I could be liked again. I didn't know how much damage was really done. </div>
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I had no idea people would be so angry and frustrated with me for refusing to stoop and destroy and go for the throat because I am so tired and done with ugliness and hatred and bad bad things. I didn't know there were very few that understood that I just want to stay kind and true to my OWN self and not revenge or harm or be unkind out of spite. </div>
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I didn't know that I would be unable to open up. To trust that anyone would or could approach me with any true anything because it had been so long since anyone had. </div>
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I didn't know how hard any of this would be. </div>
Shan Contentedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18243943975363421402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2275094347761660449.post-53769064879370706242015-05-02T11:04:00.000-05:002019-02-14T13:08:38.778-06:00Precipice<div dir="ltr">
I am at the precipice. That point where the cliff is below my white knuckle toes; centimeters over the edge. My grip on the safety rope is weakening with every word, every kiss, every familiarity, every act of love, every revelation of who he really is. The synapses are slowly migrating from fear to bravery, denial to decision, paralysis to dance. My body is tingling; every nerve ending urging me to move a few more inches over the threshold. I can't see the bottom. Not this time. I don't know what's down there. I can usually see the bottom; the end; the torment that is in the eventuality. But I can't see what's down there. Is it cool water that I will dive into and finally find a peaceful, easy calm? Is it another boulder that will crack my bones and leave me paralyzed for a while or forever this time? Will it be exhilarating? Will it be the most painful of all? I don't know what lies at the basement of that seductive and terrifying depth. Will it paradisaical or tragically tortuous?</div>
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Will it be a synonym of my cumulative past misconceptions or will it finally, celestially, be the long desired antonym?</div>
<div dir="ltr">
But my hands are weakening from being inside his. My tense muscles are becoming warm and relaxed. My resolve to run from the cliff is fading with each perfect word. Is this a delusion? Is my subconscious manifesting the deep desire to just finally find refuge in a seemingly safe, warm, beautiful abyss of ever-elusive love and projecting it into his every move? Or is it an authenticity after I no longer believed such collective substance could actually be?</div>
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White knuckle toes, centimeters over the edge, weakening hands and heightening desire, why are you betraying my resolve? Why is he pulling me from my isolated cave where I could happily camp in solitude and not have to brave any unknown abysses? What is this urge? Why do I want to dive, head first, into it? Why does it seem so easy? If there is a hard rock bottom, can you stop me? Can you tell me to gather my strength and pull myself away from the precipice; go back to the safe shelter? Can you push me away from the cliff and give me a firm and heavy-handed NO. Because my feet have been on the ground, and he is making me believe I can fly, safely and without fear, and dive into something exhilarating and beautiful. Something intellectually fulfilling, yet magically fantastical, yet safe and impervious, resonating on every passion, desire, concupiscence my imagination has ever conjured. But can I really fly? Will he keep me safe? Is there a rock bottom? Will this be the fatal fall?</div>
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White knuckle toes, centimeters over the edge, weakening hands and heightening desire. Every nerve ending pulsating and beseeching <u>I</u> jump, plunge, spring myself over that alluring edge into him. But I will not fall. I will dive, willfully and without reservation. I am at the precipice. I think I am ready. In spite of myself.</div>
Shan Contentedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18243943975363421402noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2275094347761660449.post-88214737953551678892015-04-26T14:42:00.001-05:002017-10-09T01:09:37.273-05:00Angelou and tall shoes<p dir="ltr">It is one of those days when I need to remember and forget all the knives thrown. <br>
When I need to accept that the motivations weren't doing of my own. <br>
One of those days I forgot for a moment that I am Beautiful and Free. <br>
That I really am truly happy just being the me that's Me.</p>
<p dir="ltr">It's one of those days where memories are wretchedly searing through.<br>
And causing me to wonder how people can do the things they do. <br>
And why I can't forget or even if I should.<br>
And whether I really need to sit around and brood. </p>
<p dir="ltr">It's one of those days where yesterday intrudes on my afternoon. <br>
And makes me forget the present is all there is to do. <br>
And tomorrow gets all clouded by the words that have passed. <br>
And I keep from finding that joy of having peace at last. </p>
<p dir="ltr">So, Im listening to Maya Angelou <br>
And slipping on some tall shoes<br>
Letting this man adore me<br>
Without questioning his sanity. </p>
Shan Contentedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18243943975363421402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2275094347761660449.post-42174962888065840102015-04-17T12:11:00.002-05:002020-11-08T12:22:47.653-06:00Dear Potential Suitors<div dir="ltr">
Look. Ok. I seem cool. I got some sparkle or something sometimes. Im educated and can laugh with the best of them. You may like to hang with me. I'm a cool chick. I get that. I get it. Really. I might seem like a pretty good catch. Ok. Alright. Let's chat for a second. </div>
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You know how they x-ray your baggage in customs at the airport? Here's what you see in my suitcase. I have been married FOUR times. I was divorced twice by 23. Four times before 40. I have 3 sons who are, admittedly, the only things I have somehow managed to not completely screw up. But I have 3 sons by 2 men. I have gone through the ringer with men and been through everything you can think of. Really. Ask me. Theres not much that isnt on my list. I refuse to ever get married again. My trust issues need their own set of luggage. My ability to believe any man will just be nice to me for any significant period of time is basically null. I'm a bit jaded. And a bit worn out. Ive had to fight my way back up on top way too many times. Im doing that again NOW.</div>
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I havent given up completely but Im going to make you prove yourself over and over again. Im not going to believe what you say about being nice to me. I definitely won't believe you if you start throwing feelings around. Im going to just take it for granted that you want to take me down and kill my sparkle. Im going to be a tough nut to crack. No. Seriously. Tough. </div>
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I talk too much. I can't let go of an issue unless it is resolved. I yell really loud in a scary and wholly authoritarian way when I get really angry. Men can rarely handle it. Sometimes I have full emotional meltdowns for a while and crumble in the floor and seem completely and totally batshit nuts for about an hour. I get my feelings hurt easier than expected sometimes. I have cellulite and stretch marks and scars. I chew my fingernails and my feet are always dirty and calloused. I dream big and can't stand routine.</div>
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Oh, and it's just flat a deal breaker for me if you aren't willing to chuck it all someday (sooner is better than later) and live on a beach somewhere. Because I WILL do that. </div>
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I am loud when I get drunk and totally make an ass out of myself and don't care. I mean, I REALLY don't care. I might blog about you. I tell my friends and children everything. I don't do drugs but sober people need not apply. I need someone to get a little crazy with. Addicts and alcoholics can move on down the line. I smoke cigarettes. Thats the only addiction I want in my life. I'm not interested in being your babysitter or doctor or your mother. Live with it. </div>
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Oh yeah. And I have a chronic disease that'll end up putting me in a wheelchair someday and has to already be managed. <br />
I'm a hot mess. No, really, I'm a HOT FREAKING MESS. I cant imagine a single man who'd want THIS on their to-do list. But HEY, the suitors keep calling. Like vultures, really. Trying to scoop up the road kill. Oh yes, I said that. I meant it too. Road. Kill. </div>
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Im flattered. Seriously. I am. It's lovely. But really. Come on. What the fuck are you THINKING??? </div>
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If you've read all this and still think you want to call, go for it. Just know what you're getting into. Hot. Fucking. Mess. </div>
Shan Contentedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18243943975363421402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2275094347761660449.post-61735784324646425872015-04-10T14:19:00.001-05:002017-04-29T06:15:31.107-05:00The path<p dir="ltr">I cant say much these days. Mostly because what I say out here, to the world, can and probably will be used against me in a court of law... or civil law... or <u>something</u>. But I can't keep the muzzle on too much. It makes me a little crazy. I need my voice. So here's what I think I can say... </p>
<p dir="ltr">I have this belief that we are all always on the path we are supposed to be on. I don't know if that's God or fate or divinity of some other kind or whatever, but I do believe strongly that we are always on the path to where we are meant to go. Right now, my path is curving in a weird direction. Almost backward. Around in a circle. And it seems... odd. I certainly didnt believe I'd be on this path. I never thought I'd be tromping around in my hometown and it actually feeling a little too comfortable and home-like. I didn't think I'd be exploring possibilities of being around that way for any length of time. It's odd but the path is taking me there right now. Taking me to lots of things long past. And I'm just trusting it. </p>
<p dir="ltr">I think I have a lot less control over my path than I'd like. So many outside forces you have to manage to truly control your own path. And I gave up control of all that a long time ago. Im just trusting that this is all how it is supposed to go. There is some reason. It will all make sense later. I'll get back to the ocean in time and they'll be a reason I stuck around in nowhere, Texas for a while. They'll be a reason for that particular job response and that particular magnetism to an unmagnetic place. They'll be a reason. It will all makes sense. </p>
<p dir="ltr">But what a strange little path I just found myself on. Never say never. I learned that a long time ago too. </p>
Shan Contentedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18243943975363421402noreply@blogger.com1