How I Keep From Losing My Shit For Good

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. 

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.

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.
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. 

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.

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.

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.

Fourth through whatever

Write.
Write some more.
Drink too much occasionally and make a fool of myself.
Forgive.
Forgive some more.
Get in water as much as possible.
Embrace some sort of music.
Paint some bad art and let the brushstrokes sooth me.
Hang with an actual friend and unload some shit.
Hot baths.
Long, quiet dives.
Sunshine.
Forgive some more. 

Write some more. 

Go somewhere. Just run away for a while to somewhere, anywhere, really. 

Keep trying. 

Keep learning.

Cry as liberally as I want and feel no shame in it.
Let someone compliment me and really enjoy it.
Talk to the ocean. (Some people call this meditation. Some prayer. Same thing except I require the actual ocean.)

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. 

Things I did not know...

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.

I did not know that I'd never want to be naked in front of a man again because of the systematic deprication by one.

I did not know that I could not so easily recover.

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.

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.

I didn't know I'd not believe I could be liked again.  I didn't know how much damage was really done.

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.

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.

I didn't know how hard any of this would be. 

Precipice

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?

Will it be a synonym of my cumulative past misconceptions or will it finally, celestially, be the long desired antonym?

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?

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?

White knuckle toes, centimeters over the edge, weakening hands and heightening desire. Every nerve ending pulsating and beseeching I 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.

Angelou and tall shoes

It is one of those days when I need to remember and forget all the knives thrown.
When I need to accept that the motivations weren't doing of my own.
One of those days I forgot for a moment that I am Beautiful and Free.
That I really am truly happy just being the me that's Me.

It's one of those days where memories are wretchedly searing through.
And causing me to wonder how people can do the things they do.
And why I can't forget or even if I should.
And whether I really need to sit around and brood.

It's one of those days where yesterday intrudes on my afternoon.
And makes me forget the present is all there is to do.
And tomorrow gets all clouded by the words that have passed.
And I keep from finding that joy of having peace at last.

So, Im listening to Maya Angelou
And slipping on some tall shoes
Letting this man adore me
Without questioning his sanity.

Dear Potential Suitors

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Oh yeah. And I have a chronic disease that'll end up putting me in a wheelchair someday and has to already be managed.
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. 

Im flattered. Seriously. I am. It's lovely. But really. Come on. What the fuck are you THINKING???

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. 

The path

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 something. 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...

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.

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.

But what a strange little path I just found myself on. Never say never. I learned that a long time ago too.

Not a victim...

I often have a lot to say about what has or is happening in my world. The hurts and disappointments and even the cruelties and abuses. And yes, I talk about them. I talk about my feelings about them; the way they hurt me. I talk and write and cry and purge. But I also take blame. No human deserves many of the things I divulge have happened to me. None of it is right. Most of it is unacceptable. But I have not just been "unlucky." It isn't all by chance. I chose it one way or another.

Here's the thing. I got a lot of messages in my early life. And even if you have only ever stratched the surface of psychology, you probably know that those messages stick and are hard to remove. And when they removed, something has to replace them. It isn't like putting a new version of software on your conputer and the old one is erased and gone in one simple step and 1 minute reamining until the bar reaches 100%. No, it is more like the programmer having to go in, troubleshoot, sort through all the code, find the specific errors and delete them. But then, that programmer also has to go in and rewrite new code to replace the deleted errors. Then he has to go through a whole series of debugging and testing and debugging and testing until everything is functioning correctly and better than it was before. Then it is ready to release. After a while, new problems show up or new information comes along and the process starts all over again to make the program better and better. It's a long process. And it goes on as long as the program exists. The mind is the same.

So, these messages I received and the ones that have stacked on top of them since have to be deleted and reprogrammed. Every time I go through the process of reprogramming, I miss things or new messages come along and create new things that need troubleshooting. Some problems have been overlooked. Or, more correctly, I thought I fixed them but I only identified them and they weren't properly deleted and reprogrammed. They came up again. And new things came on top of them.

So, what's my point? I have issues just like everyone else. Everyone has some baggage of some kind. Some people were programmed better than others in the first place and their issues are easy to solve. But some, like me, weren't. And the program is complicated and messy and requires more.

Am I just an unlucky victim? No. I chose people in my life who act a certain way and do certain things.  Not on purpose. I didnt go to the people store and look for these features on purpose. No, some backdoor in my subconscious picked them for me. I chose to be treated this way. I can cry and whine and complain and ask for sympathy all I want. But somewhere in my programming, I have a section of code that requests people that do these things to me. And I thought I fixed that. I really did. But I didn't. I chose it again, however naively. However subconsciously. I chose it and I stayed with it. And the program worked just as I coded it to. And it was vulnerable to the same viruses.

I am not a victim. I am responsible for the things that have happened. I chose them. And there's little to do about what HAS happened. All I can do is go back in,  find the bad code, try to delete it, and try again to recode it. And until I do, I shouldn't allow that part of me to be released.

In other words, maybe I shouldn't try this relationship thing anymore. Maybe never again. Because I may never get that programming right. That part of me may just always be shut down for maintenance. All the same, I take responsibility. I know I am faulty. I know I'm imperfect and can't run smoothly. I know. And that's ok. I'll keep trying to get to those messages and dump them. I'll keep trying to reprogram them. That's the best I can do.