I go by feel. I go by signs. I go by experiences. I go by those things happening around me, brought to my attention, screaming to be heard. Screaming to be told, shared, passed on. I cannot deny the synchronicity that I have been gifted in this last few weeks. (never-mind my entire life) I have to share something and it's deep and heavy. This is for the ones who do not feel, or don't allow themselves to feel. This is for those who numb themselves. This is for the ones who feel so deeply and cannot shut it off. This is for me and this is for you.
Breakdown? Who Has The Time?
I don't have the time to bottle it all up. I can't. It's something I have tried to do: bottle up stuff, but that never serves me or those I love. There was a time I did and that time brought me to where I am now fully and I am thankful for that.
Every emotion I feel is full-on, 100% in my face. It always has been. I've been called a drama queen more than once in my life time. I can't deny that I feel things most people don't feel or don't acknowledge. I sense things, I catch things people have buried inside themselves, see it projected and want to understand why. There's a lot going on in this head of mine, my heart, well that is an absolute mind field of surprise bags!
While wading in the world of New Age I was told there was no room for negativity and that we are to concentrate on the positive. It never felt right. It felt like a big set up.
Picture the moth, attracted to the flame, attracted only to the light. It sees the candle and the light coming from it and it does not waver in its quest to reach the warmth of the light. So much so that once it reaches the light, it loses all reflexes and like Icarus, gets too close to the Sun, burns its wings, falls into the wax and perishes.
There is a time to fall and a time to pick one's self up. Every time you fall, you pick yourself back up. The catch is to let yourself fall! Allow it!
There was a time that I wouldn't allow myself to fall, to break. I even had an analogy for it. I had a wall of shelves with bottles on them, all corked. I would just keep building walls and shelves. Someone told me once that one day, all of those walls would topple over like dominoes, the shelves would collapse under themselves and the bottles would one day, all come crashing down.
And they did, not long after I turned 30.
Suddenly after too many heart aches, too much trauma, too much self-denial, and unnecessary forgiveness of bad behavior I knew was unacceptable, I cracked. The pegs that held my shelves up and each glass container secured and sealed, well they were sliding out of their holes. The glass jars we slipping, the walls were wobbling to and fro.
All it would take was one really awful event to plunge me into the abyss of the emotions I was denying. In true fashion to my life, not one event, but several from 29-33. One by one each event pushing me further from constraint, further from silence, from denial, from pretending that I was big, tough, strong and could handle it all on my own by tucking it all away.
I was 29, I had a tubal pregnancy (after 2 other miscarriages) and when attempting to claw said tube from my womb myself didn't work, I was rushed to the Emergency Room where they treated me like a junkie needing a fix. All they had to do was call the hospital in the next town to know that my last ultrasound had proved the affliction I was screaming in pain over. An hour later they apologized for thinking I was an addict, protocol and all that, and pumped me full of pain killers that didn't work. Until that last shot they had to administer with oxygen, because, you know, it might cause me to stop breathing and even though they were letting poisons run into my body over the last hour, they really didn't want to hear me complain anymore.
Surgery came and went. I was devastated, depressed and in need to talk with someone, anyone who could help. Instead I was in a ward with an elderly woman with what I was told was dementia, who routinely wailed and soiled herself. The nurses would not help her and when I would call on them they would yell at me to stop 'acting like a princess'. I went right into care-taker mode to help the old woman, c-section incision and all, barely able to get myself out of the bed, and all they could do was, again, call me a princess and shuffle me back to the bed because this was apparently not my job (or theirs). As I fell into despair and depression I asked for a therapist to come speak with me, but that never came to pass. All I was given was narcotics and told to sleep things away, time heals and other nonsense adages when I knew what I wanted and needed. What I needed was a maternal figure to talk with and make sense of things....wait, that's always what I had needed, and something I had very rarely gotten. And then my Grandmother's twin sister died. Oh no...here comes a wall, with a shelf, and a bunch of smashing is sure to ensue....nope, another distraction....I must heal by having this baby I was denied. I didn't have time to collapse and deal with any of that. Not the way it needed to be handled for my health and well being, not at all.
And so we conceived a beautiful baby boy who was born 11 months after my surgery. And life was good. It was a difficult pregnancy and I was on bed rest for most of it. The birth was amazing and was at home with midwives and my family.
A break down was averted only temporarily though.
Our son was 2 and suddenly I had no idea why I felt the way I was feeling but I just wanted to stop feeling altogether. No one understood me, I was too deep, too broody, too much. Of course I had my husband, who worked very hard, at jobs that rarely appreciated him. Who I needed to appreciate and make sure he knew how much he was worth, loved and needed because, goddamn it, no one else would!
I had a beautiful young daughter who needed her Mama to look up to and to be whole with. I had a 2 year old son who needed me to nurture and love him. I could not be sad!!! I could not feel depressed! I could not fall apart. So I began to rage out. I would scream and yell over the slightest things, and then cry and cry and cry. I had no way of letting out the pain but that, which I suppose I was doing for lack of being heard, by even myself. I was screaming on the inside and I had no way to listen. I had no way of understanding myself. I had denied so much for so long and just kept on building walls, slapping on the mortar, on goes another brick, fasten the shelf, cork the bottle.
Then I was introduced to lorazepam, even though I swore I never would go down the same pharmaceutical path of my parents, I caved, I was desperate, I just wanted to stop feeling! That decision was like putting up a vault door on the room of walls and shelved bottles. Then let's add a bottle of wine, and how about, I just sleep through the pain? Maybe I'll wake up and it will be gone. A year later, it was not gone. I thank my husband for all of those few very dark Friday night's that I would hide in the basement, while he tended to our children so that I could drown myself in my pain and denial of it. I'm not being sarcastic...he let me do what I needed to do and it killed him every minute. How could he help someone who had no clue what was even wrong? Who just wanted to shut it all off?
A year later I fell apart. My body was not well. I was not eating properly, something I had always done. I was not treating my body as a temple in any half-assed way or otherwise. Suddenly, I was just robotic. I went through every motion I needed to and barely showed signs of there being an issue. Unless I was alone, or with John. I always fell apart with him, I had no problem with that. Doesn't mean that I was completely forthcoming with him. It just means I would cry and try to communicate feelings I had no idea about, that I didn't understand. I honestly believed that it would be fine to keep going this way.
I'd gotten away from the pills but not from the alcohol and that was crippling me. Was I an alcoholic? No. Was it easier to drink a bottle of wine once a week or month, than to deal with my emotions? Apparently.
Light began to poke through. I had visited a doctor and told him I was refusing meds and yet still wanted his help. He told me to stop drinking alcohol anywhere near my cycle, at least the week before and during. It was messing with my hormones. It brought out things in the hangover that I wouldn't deal with otherwise and it frustrated and angered me because I had no idea what to do with any of it. That's my understanding, not the doctor's teachings.
I began to sit with myself, to really sit with myself and meditate, learned how to cleanse my space better. It took a long while to quiet my mind. It actually took a weird event to really get me looking deep though. Someone invited me to a tarot card reading on Halloween at a hair salon. I never liked going to them, didn't trust them, I read my own cards, I was fine with that. Most tarot reader were just too much for me. That being said, sometimes it just takes a small message or word to change everything if you're in the right space to receive it.
This particular tarot reader, big, bold and very sassy, asked me a question I had no answer to. She asked me how many times the Goddess was supposed to knock on my door before I answered. How many times indeed?
How many times was I going to keep this up? How many times was the wild woman in me going to cry out for help and how many times was I going to put her into a cage? How many times was I going to seal up a wall? Wasn't it time to heal already? Wasn't it time to let go of it all? I'm not saying I was holding on to every last awful thing that had happened to me. I think it was all the major things that lead to the smaller things and they all added up. So when was I going to open the vault and face it all?
When was I going to allow? When exactly, was I going to step into my power and stop stepping away from it.
Truth Will Set You Free
It was always being worked on. I was always working towards healing myself. Day by day, misstep by misstep. Every single time I cried and every time I tried to make sense of it all, I was making headway and just had no idea. Over time it got easier to not deny myself anymore. When I realized I was doing most of the damage to myself, it all began to very slowly melt away. Truth? It still is. I know I have some crumbled walls left with broken shelving and leaky bottles. Every so once in a while I get a bit of a crashing down that comes over me and you know what? I embrace it. I allow it! I invite it to me to help wash over me and to let me see who it is that I am, who I was and who I am becoming. It's ok to fall apart and cry, and it's ok to let the need for this to melt away.
So much of what used to pain me, just doesn't anymore. I'm done blaming things, people, times, situations. I had bottled up emotions from deaths in my family, choices I'd made, trespasses against me from childhood forward. I explored everything as it came and I still do because yes, sometimes these feelings still come. I'm constantly going through metamorphosis and there is nothing wrong with that. In fact I am so blessed that I am able to feel and that I care about where these feelings come from. I am so grateful that I didn't find a way to permanently shut myself down. I am so grateful I didn't succeed in my quest to no longer feel the emotions I do.
I still have feelings that make me uncomfortable. I realize that they are usually intuitive and I need to listen to these feelings, assess them, find out why they are coming to me, not drown them out. Our world doesn't allow for such ways about life. I'm glad I didn't care enough to try it the 'world's way' long enough and that I lived in a slow stubborn denial of my own demise. Sooner or later I needed to just stop building excuses and reasons to not work at me. I needed to just be real with myself. That meant not pretending that my feelings and emotions were a bother, a distraction, a hindrance. If anything my emotions and feelings are what have saved my life and my passions. I am who I am because of them, not in spite of them.
Was The Fall Graceful?
Who cares? I am messy, emotions are messy. I am not perfect! Grace is for ballet and gymnastics!
Close friends have seen me fall apart, breakdown, cry my eyes out and I don't care! They care though! They don't fear me, or my tears, or my truth. They listen they love, they respect and they do not deny, probably because I don't. My husband has his hands full with me and he seems to be fairing rather well. 15 years of love and marriage. 15 years we, who came from broken homes and abuse, we are breaking the cycles.
How do you breakdown? You stop denying and you let yourself fall and trust that you can pick yourself back up again. You can! Each time we are presented with something that could harm us, we have a choice. We can use the lessons as crutches to limp upon in this life, or we can use them as steps to lift ourselves up. I have always been a strong, independent woman, even with all the walls, shelves and bottles. My strength was truly shown when I allowed the breaking to come though. In the breaking I saw how there was no break, only a bend, and that in creating that bend, my flexibility within myself was limitless. I believe we all have this power and strength within us. We just have to decide for ourselves when we're ready to stop bottling it up, and let it all come crashing down. It's freedom at it's best.
Author: Cari-Lee Miller
Understand this, dear reader:
This blog space is like a diary to which consent for my writings/feelings/expressions, is never needed or asked for. This is my space and if it brings you uncomfortable feelings, feel free to look no further and keep to the spaces that do you no harm.
I am a seed burst forth from its shell. I have mingled and fought in the dirt. I am ready to kiss the Sun. *CLM
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Your medicine is in the woods.
Your pharmacy is in your kitchen.