so, what’s the score?

attachment SOM

Last night, I finished reading the book, The Body Keeps the Score by psychiatrist Bessel van der Kolk. If you want to learn about how trauma affects people and how people can overcome their painful wounds, then it’s worth reading (especially if you work closely with people, especially if you’re any type of healer or therapist).

I wanted to read this book because, if you’ve been following this blog for a bit, I’ve chronicled a lot of trauma here. I wanted to make sure that as someone who lives more in her head than in her body, that I was taking care of myself on my healing journey.

Well, the healing journey continues, but not in a way I was expecting.

With van der Kolk, his work impacted and shaped the work I had been supporting in psychology/psychiatry research. This book was published in 2014, the year I graduated from grad school.

And the book was, in part, a continuation of the research work I helped to support.

I’m not sure how I feel about it. I feel a lot of things.

I thought I was done mourning not becoming a child psychiatrist, which had been a dream career I had since I was a teenager. What had stopped me was some chronic anemia that had been plaguing me when I started my final push through pre-med classes.

So if that illness hadn’t happened, I would probably be a full-fledged doctor by now (and definitely not writing a blog about my spiritual journey).

While I was reading this book, it was like reading a career I could have had — or maybe should have had?

But also, it was like meeting the person who shape and inform how I view mental health. That’s because back when I lived in Chicago, our research group was a part of his larger national research group.

One of the goals of that group, along with other clinicians and researchers, was to help create a new diagnosis for trauma that involved children, called Developmental Trauma Disorder. The idea is that a lot of what children with behavior and psychiatric issues are most likely stemming from traumatic events, such as living in an abusive home.

A bit surprisingly but very disappointingly, this diagnosis didn’t make it into the DSM-V, the book that psychiatrists and other mental health professionals use to diagnose psychiatric disorders. It’s an important book to bill insurance for services. This was right around the time I was leaving for Florida.

I had become somewhat endeared to one of the directors of our research group. He was just a good guy and, in retrospect, I should have bent his ear more but I was focused on leaving Chicago. We actually had talked about this DSM-V/trauma issue while leaving the office one afternoon. I had gotten the sense it was a bit political (not like governmental political, like people political), and van der Kolk gives you that same sort of feeling.

Anyway, after one research meeting, because I had been so vocal about something (I can’t remember if it was how clinicians were being trained…?), the director asked me if I was ever interested in applying for the doctoral program at the university I worked at.

I said no.

Like I said, I was looking to leave Chicago. I had wanted a fresh start after so many friends had literally moved on, to Colorado, to Florida, to California.

Also, I had really wanted to be a psychiatrist, not a clinical psychologist. But I’m pretty sure if I had wanted to get in, it would have been pretty easy because I had worked in that group for years, knew a lot of the faculty…and that was my plan to get myself into medical school, not grad school.

So reading this book, it was a very bittersweet read, but it feels like a timely one. I’m just not exactly sure what it means yet.

Being a freelancer going on three years, there have been a lot of highs and lows. Today was definitely a low.

I had reached out to a former client this week and it seemed like we could work together. But for some reason, they didn’t want to sign a contract with me. That’s a dealbreaker, so unfortunately we couldn’t move forward to work together.

So yeah, it’s hard, or sometimes all too easy, to think about what could have been.

If I had decided to pursue clinical psychology, I definitely would have a doctorate by now and I probably would have a great job, helping kids and their families cope and heal.

So when there are hard days like today, or even hard days all strung in a row, it’s easy to ask this question and let it nag you for a while:

Did I take a wrong turn?

And being middle aged now, this is one of the classic mid-life crisis points, looking back at one’s life and wondering if it was all a waste, this whole pursuing your dream thing.

To tag back to the book, van der Kolk repeatedly emphasizes the importance of relationships for healing and for thriving, and how mental illness disrupts those vital connections.

If anything,  I was reminded of an ache inside of me that doesn’t seem to be easily soothed, even by success.

But even success requires connections.

I was reading some short tweet thread last night about how success is really about knowing the right people. And, in this person’s opinion, it’s not just knowing them, but being friends with them.

I think about that idea with pursuing a graduate degree in writing. One main point of grad school is to create those connections, to find that community. It’s taken years for me to let go of the dream of finding my writing community here. It really seems like that wasn’t the point of me being here.

I’ve probably written about this before, here or on my Patreon, but it has been very hard to create long-lasting connections in my life. If they last longer than a year, the intensity wanes into a cool acquaintanceship. And that makes me sad and makes me start to question myself and sometimes my worth as a human being on this planet.

I know the astrological reasons (my 11th house of groups and friendships has this awakening, unstable planet called Uranus). Yet sometimes, that gives me cold comfort. So this is just the way life is for me? Is it truly unchangeable?

Yet I also know that since I turned 30, I’ve gone through some dramatic changes in my life — leaving the Church, moving to Florida, going to grad school, getting involved in the esoteric, many job and home changes. And mostly, it’s been all for the better.

But truly, it can be incredibly difficult to hold onto relationships as you change and as other people change.

The awakenings I’ve gone through with groups of people have been ones which remind me of old truths, such as white supremacy isn’t something to overcome but something to avoid.

van der Kolk reminded me that this need for connection is a primal and valid one. Human beings are social creatures, and that’s how we’ve survived for millennia.

Western society may think we’re all self-made, but that’s a complete lie. We’ve all gotten help from someone, multiple times.

Beyond that reassurance of my need to be connected to others being valid, another reason why I wanted to read this book was due to a nagging feeling of being too much and not enough — still.

I have wondered if all I went through as a child somehow invisibly repelled me from the right people or pushed me towards the wrong people.

Basically, how fucked up am I that I can’t hold onto people?

I believe that in the past, even the recent past, this was definitely true, that my coping mechanisms were acting like pulleys and levers.

But now, I know that it’s not even about being fucked up or not. There are people who have been more traumatized than me who have the proper support, the right connections, people who don’t leave.

I don’t have to be completely healed to get the support I need. In fact, the more broken you are, the more support you should be given.

So for now, this is just not a question I can answer beyond the “it’s capitalism, stupid!” answer which seems so unsatisfying. And that’s especially because even with the existential angst I’ve always carried, it wasn’t always like this.

The only thing that makes sense is also unsatisfying, like some convenient spiritual bypassing, that I’m being shaped by the losses and leavings, that these are just The Lonely Years.

The timing is just not right.

Oh, and a sidenote about timing! So the lovely Stacey B. from Tarot Pugs has been one of my tarot readers for years, and every year for the past few years, I’ve gotten an annual reading from her. This month’s card was the 6 of Swords reversed. Here’s the last part of the reading:

In either way, you’re ready for something new and the energy will shift from the way it has been for the last three months into a new direction. This may be the final month that after you have redone things, revisited relationship or situations, you’re ready to drop it all and move on – but first making sure if there’s anything you need to take with you and then leaving all the rest behind.

Basically the theme of this post, amirite?

When I was reading The Body Keeps the Score, it was so wonderful to read about trauma in a more intellectual way. I remember being so passionate about this stuff. Being trauma-informed about psychology and psychiatry made so much sense, like in a “I’ve found my life’s work” sense.

I still don’t want to become a psychologist, psychiatrist or a therapist. I really do feel like that ship has sailed, and it was a ship I wasn’t meant to be on. I’d prefer to write about this stuff…but it’s been difficult to find a way to market myself in that way. And maybe that’s just something I will have to work on.

In the meantime, this book caught me in a time when writing as a profession is at a low, when everything is at a low. I’ve spent years in this profession and it is just not clicking right now. And a lot of that is the human component that’s missing here. I’m trying to be successful by myself (not by choice) and that’s impossible.

I’m knocking on doors, looking for exits and entries…and I hear voices all around me, but I don’t see anyone.

And that’s so weird for me. One of the things I’ve had to learn to do with having narcissistic parents was be my own advocate. Seeking and obtaining help and support, I’ve become an expert.

I’m a fucking scrapper. But this is just not one of those times.

This is a sentiment I’m pretty sure I repeated in my Patreon, but I feel very close to everything I want and need, but yet at the same time, very far away (that’s also a theme that’s repeated in my annual reading from Stacey, funny enough!).

That book reminded me of a time (which I must have taken for granted) when I was seen and valued (and also of when I wasn’t seen and valued by a terribly racist manager), of when I felt like what I did mattered — even if it was data collection and analysis. I was a part of something much bigger than myself. I was able to advocate for kids in the child welfare system, to help researchers affect state and national policy.

What I do now is intermittent and on a smaller scale. I’m still helping people help others, but it’s not necessarily making my heart go pitter patter. The stuff that makes my heart beat faster isn’t apparently what I should be doing full-time.

And hey — very few of us get that beautiful Venn diagram of a perfect circle of doing what we love for pay. I’m OK with that.

I had been so concerned about being really numbed out from what I gone through as a teenager (it’s still a bit of a concern — is it extreme resilience or extreme numbing?), I wasn’t expecting to get teary about my career trajectory.

Again — I don’t think this was some clarion call to go back into the mental health industry as a mental health professional, even though I know I would be really fucking good at it, just like I know I would have been a fucking great lawyer (another profession that I wanted to pursue when I was a tweener).

Astrologically this month, there’s a lot going on that applies to healing and letting go, including a bit of a releasing the old going on within my 1st house of identity and self. So I feel like this book has asked me to grieve this other life I could have had, a life I wasn’t guaranteed to have.

And here’s the thing: I haven’t gotten any guidance this year that says to switch back. Writing is it (for now), even if it looks like I’ve made a very costly mistake.

What this time in my life reminds me of is when I was 18 and I had to stay at home for a year because my father was suffering from paranoid delusions. And that whole year was a traumatic event.

I’m pretty sure I was depressed, if not just dysthymic. I lost 15 pounds and I wasn’t really that big to begin with. I wrote a little about this time in my latest Patreon post.

It was a very spiritual time, and I’m in a similar one right now.

One thing that I have to remind myself as I try not to beat myself up for being a loner by default is that leaving a religion is not only traumatic, but it also means that you have to learn how to create your own community.

And, welp — I’m not really that great at it! (although, in a sense, all of you reading this are a part of my community) It’s something I have to keep trying to accomplish, even if there’s been a lot of failure — just like with my writing biz.

Another sidenote! This week I learned about this astrological technique called zodiacal releasing, which basically is like an astrological book of major life events with the chapter being certain times in your life.

So, for example, even though for the longest time, I resented not being able to start my college career on time, zodiacal releasing showed within days of the first time I met my best friend for the first couple of years of college, a guy who basically changed my whole worldview.

And maybe if I had gone to college on time, it still would have happened, but not likely because the date was during college orientation, which started a couple of weeks before classes starts.

With zodiacal releasing, I also saw that right now I’m in a career peak and that started right around I was truly a freelancer/right before I left a dream job because of a terrible manager. It’s an eight-year stretch, so even if my career looks like poop right now, I know I’m in the right place at the right time.

If you ever want me do zodiacal releasing for you, make sure you have a great memory of your life and then book a reading with me.

I’m still not 100% sure what I will do with the feelings this book brought up for me, besides blog about it. It really caught me off guard, the work van der Kolk has done and how personal it is to me — yet not really in a clinical sense.

What it has done is helped me to (again) face my frustration and sorrow as someone who has been through a lot and is tired of having that define her while currently going through a lot.

In the beginning, I had wanted this blog to be a chronicle of all the weird things that have happened to me spiritually. But it has been a chronicle of grief and suffering, too.

And sometimes, very frustratingly so, it seems like I’m walking in circles as I grieve not having some basic emotional needs met, and I can see that I really just needed them to be validated.

The Body Keeps the Score finally said the words I needed to hear in the way I needed to hear them.

So. If the support hasn’t yet arrived, all I can do is be compassionate with myself until it does. Worrying and self-abnegation aren’t helpful here.

And one thing I’ve been really loath to do is get into that super spiritual space where I just surrender everything to God/Spirit/the Universe and ask for divine intervention. Why? Because it takes a lot of energy and concentration.

But also? I’m tired of feeling helpless. It’s a very scary, alone feeling which I haven’t felt in decades.

What’s beautiful about now is that when I was 18, I definitely was depressed and now, I’m not. I’m still a fucking scrapper and I have 23 years of life experience and wisdom that I didn’t have back then.

(Somehow, living with squirrels running in the eaves and living with someone with a chronic mental illness are still true, so the Universe has some cruel jokes there.)

But really, in a time of confusion and struggle, there’s nothing wrong with asking for guidance on the guidance I’ve already received. And what I’ve gotten is be patient. Hang in there.

Today for my tarot card of the day, I drew The Star. It’s a symbol of hope after the awakening chaos of The Tower.

I’ll end with this cartoon from Nathan W. Pyle. It’s a very hump day cartoon, and I was feeling like this when I started, but somehow, by reminding myself of how I’ve gotten through tough times, I feel a little more encouraged.

small setback


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back on the couch 🛋️

therapy SOM

The last time I was in therapy, it was the summer, 2016, nearing the end of my contract job where I was miserable.

Almost 18 months later, I’m back. Now I’m miserable because of this guy, the housemate.

I need to move.

I gave a long explanation of what happened at my Patreon for my subscribers, but TL;DR, my housemate has decompensated (clinical for lost his shit) twice since the full moon eclipse (once before and once after). He has untreated schizophrenia along with some Axis II/personality disorder stuff.

So all the bitching and accommodating and complaining I’ve done has because of that.

I should really refocus the misery towards the owners of this house. This housemate is only symptomatic of their neglect and passivity.

When I had made the appointment with my therapist who reminds me of a hippie, nicer version of Carrie Bradshaw, the psychotic breaks hadn’t occurred yet.

If you want to say that my higher self was prescient and knew I’d need therapy because serious shit was about the kick off, I wouldn’t bar you from saying it.

I arrived early after I returned a shitty memoir that’s getting some public acclaim. I scheduled the ride home that I’d miss because I was too afraid to be rude and look at the time on my phone, with its ringer set on silent.

My therapist was running late, which she explained later that since I was her last client and she had a yoga class later, and because hadn’t spoken in a while, she thought it’d be OK to run late.

Hey man, first white person I’ve heard say that to me. It did cost me $10 as a no-show. I have some weird hang ups with my Lyft score.

Meanwhile, as I waited, I was tweeting folks and feeling pretty whole and cohesive as a person. Last time, I was really worried about my social life. That hasn’t even changed–it’s probably gotten worse.

The circumstances I was currently in weren’t defining me.

For once! For once.

Anyway, her office, which is in this holistic multi-use office, had moved across the hall to a smaller space. I sat down on the smaller couch as I waited for her to bring a cup of water.

When she came back, I was ready to get into it, and she was too.

But I had to backtrack, amend what I was going to say. I couldn’t just say, ugh, this guy I live with is icky and I want to live by myself. Now it became, wow, I don’t feel safe in my own home because this guy completely lost his shit, twice, in less than a week.

And…those episodes wasn’t traumatizing, really. My clinical background somehow saved me and also helped me to connect the dots–>

forgetting my name multiple times–>poor dishwashing habits –>smoking inside many times –>ashing on our green porch –>yelling at himself or someone a few times–>having poor personal boundaries with my things–>wanting to talk to me all the time–>responding with verbal abuse–>schizophrenia.

That knowledge let 9 months of annoyance and energy drain collapse into relief and anger. Relief that this guy isn’t just evil and clueless. He’s unwell and unmedicated.

And enabled. By the other roommate and by the inactivity of the owners who are just fine with taking money from an SSDI recipient because they know the money will be stable.

They can assuage the pain beating in their pink liberal hearts and take pity on the man who lived in the woods for 12 years, but not pump any blood to actually help him.

And, well–armed with this clinical revelation, I tried to make a change. He was supposed to admit himself into the hospital by yesterday. This leathery bag of chronic coughs is still in this house.

When I came back from therapy and saw that I had gotten a package, he was outside, on the porch, smoking and ashing on it.

“You have a package,” he lowly bellowed. It was the first thing I saw, sitting on the marble pedestal by the door. If he was actually looking me, instead of looking for his next Axis II fix, he would have seen me look at that first as I silently walked to the mailbox to get the (mostly junk) mail.

“You-you have a package!” he said more loudly as I pursed my look in my mother’s look of part annoyance-part-I-guess-I-need-to-honor-your-presence-sack-of-carbon.

I took my package and walked inside.

This guy, who had called me a piece of shit and god knows what other epithets, had the everloving gall to speak to me.

He’s one sick motherfucker.

I’ll be honest, about therapy–because I have a BA in psychology, because I wanted to be a child psychiatrist, because I was social worker, because I researched kids in child welfare, because I’ve been doing therapy on and off since I was 21–I tend to love talking shop in a meta way. To talk about my own clinical make-up, about the clinical make-up of others, it’s almost like I’m doing the job of the therapist.

When I had come to my therapist the last time, I realized that I didn’t really need her for clinical insight. I already knew the answers. I just needed her support.

Today was similar. I had told her that moving was going to stepwise–first out of this house, and then out-of-state, most likely to that place which continues to call me, like incessant sirens, trying to guide me away from certain shipwreck.

Besides her support, I wanted her to give some practical insight about moving, and she did give a town that I could possibly move to. But she told me how my eyes lit up when I told her about the beach.

Either way, it’s probably best I get the fuck out of the Dodge.

I came away with a couple of practical things and a few insights.

  1. I need to go work elsewhere more often. I know this, but I don’t want to spend the money. But I need to do it.
  2. Something I need to do more of–look for housing every day, 30 to 60 minutes.
  3. An insight about the landlady–from my therapist’s experience, younger social workers, such as the landlady, seem to be more skittish around actual clinical work. So she is not surprised that she didn’t pick up on those manipulative Axis II vibes that this person is exuding out of his tan-skinned pores.
  4. It was interesting how I kept talking about poverty when I have some money–right now, anyway. A client later today asked me to invoice him for the writing I need to do while he’ll be on vacation. I know that my time in Florida has been marked with housing hardship, but it’s hard to see how things are getting better, better enough to start over, even with a shitty credit score.
  5. And then there’s the pattern of saving the day. When I realized last night that I was probably not going to get a follow-up from the landlady on the schizophrenic anymore, that there would only be more enabling and excusing, I gave up–and my therapist gave me permission to do just that, to hang up my cape, to be a fierce advocate for myself, like I was for my clients years ago.

So after, my therapist sat with me for a couple minutes as we waited for my ride to arrive, which was nice for her to do. And then my ride took me to Wawa–was this an accidental Eagles celebration? I just wanted carbs. I got some Valentine’s doughnuts and other things.

And then, I made it home.

The rest of the day isn’t that important to write about, but I’m just glad one person in this town gives a shit about what happens to me.

And, there’s really some solid hope here now. There’s the hope that I’ll leave here, sooner than later. But there’s the hope that I won’t be dealing with terrible roommates ever again. Even bigger than that, there’s the hope that my new normal will not have anymore crazy, tragic stories.

What’s been strange about this week, and last week too, is watching things start to blossom, things that were dormant for months. In the midst of barely contained chaos is some real beauty, some real connection, some real longevity.

And well, I thought for year that when I was 40, things would start come together. I never knew how or why, but only that they would.

And now, they are.

All the things. Coming together. For good.

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the greatest wound, the greatest healing

site of greatest wound SOM

The above quote is from a book I found yesterday called The Journey from Abandonment to Healing by Susan Anderson, a psychotherapist who specializes in abandonment, grief, loss, and trauma.

I was looking for something about this topic because I had felt stymied yesterday when I was trying to do this marketing homework for my business–writing an email series for potential and current clients to get to know me better. It was writing about my origin story–basically, how did I get in this biz of writing.

This month hasn’t been that fruitful, despite a lot of effort in connecting with prospects. Lots of “sure things” in terms of projects became very unsure. There’s been a steep and expensive learning curve with having my own business–let alone saying and really embracing that I have my own business.

But the issue wasn’t the lull in business, or even getting out of the lull. It was writing about this journey. It’s been hell, albeit a now stabilized version of hell. I hit a wall of deep shame when I tried to think about how I became a writer, let alone a freelance writer. It’s something I’m not really proud of yet.

As I sat in immobilizing emotional pain, I started to look back on just this year. One pattern that really started to emerge was how I had opened up deeply to so many people, but how most had bailed, mainly to tend their own shadow work and growth (and maybe I was a trigger for that impulse, too). But I took it personally–and still kind of do.

I then just started thinking about my whole adult life and looked at all the dropouts from my life. This was indeed a long-term pattern, and I was tired of it. As whiny and pouty as this may sound, I know I have helped a lot of people in the way I wish I could have been helped. But it really hasn’t been fully returned to me in the ways I needed, in the magnitude that I needed.

I felt, and still feel, that I have a blindspot when it comes to my relationships. It could probably be explained astrologically, or even in some Big Picture way about the journey I’m on and what I’m being prepared for in my future. But to make it even more brass tacks, as someone who has studied psychology formally, as well as someone who’s a bit into the “woo”–this seemed like something I was perpetuating, since it was cyclical. To borrow from a Caedmon’s Call’s song, I had a long line of leavers.

I’ve known about my fear of abandonment for some time and some events still stick out in my mind, like when my mom left me at school as a teenager and I sat there waiting for her for over an hour as dusk started to fall, not knowing why she hadn’t picked me up. And this was in the age before cell phones were widely used. The wondering as darkness fell, although my mom was very apologetic about it. It’s still a feeling of abandonment that I will never forget.

Years ago, I visited now former friends and going out to see the husband play with his band at a show. The wife was standing with me–and then she just wasn’t. I was an out-of-towner. I didn’t really know anyone except some members of the band and my friends, this couple.

After the show, my friend just disappeared and I was just standing there, in this sort of warehouse space, surrounded by people. I was in a panic, trying to look for her. I’m an introvert and I’m not one to just start chatting up random people.

It felt like an inhospitable act, ditching a friend who had come to visit you, not even telling her what she was doing or introducing her to people you knew. She had wanted to talk to other people but decided she didn’t want to bring me along.

I don’t remember what I did, but I did bring it up to my friend. She kind of blew it off–I don’t even remember her giving me an apology. But it was a bit traumatic for me. It was probably also a good sign that our friendship wasn’t as great as I thought. These same friends came to a theme park near me and never even mentioned being in town. Although that’s a pet peeve for me, this friendship was years long.

We had gone to church together, done Bible studies together, worshipped and sang together, had ridden out emotional upheaval (read: panic attacks), had long talks. These were not just friends but companions. Somehow, though, I had missed the signs of unraveling and just kept pushing forward, trying to be the friend I wanted (which apparently meant ignoring the actions of others).

This isn’t the first time I’ve had that happen, where I’ve been blown off and I’ve ignored the signs leading up to it. Another long-time friend, a woman I grew up with in church, blew me off when I decided to visit her for Thanksgiving almost two years ago. I had bought an expensive plane ticket to fly out to where she lived, which I had to cancel, and not in enough time to get a full refund. We had made plans in August and then she said almost near when I was going to fly out–oops, we’re visiting in-laws out of state, sorry. Also, no offer to cover the cancellation fee.

We had a long Facebook conversation about it which ended with her taking a rather hard line: my relationship and my job come first. And that was that. I told her that she knew what she had to do to restore the relationship, and that she’s chosen her path. We haven’t spoken since. Over 20 years of friendships came to an unexpected, but totally predictable, hard pause.

That event didn’t just come up out of the blue. I had been the one initiating a lot of our conversations and visits (she had never visited me). I said as much, that I had been holding a lot of the space for our friendship–and I owned it. That was on me and I should not have been doing that. I deserved reciprocity.

My tenacity and drive may work really well for overcoming obstacles, but it seems to overlook since of wear and tear in a relationship. It makes me wonder how I came to where I am this year, what I was ignoring and avoiding.

With the friends who have taken leave and have somewhat come back in my life, it’s been strange and strained. It’s not the same and it never will be. Something (beautiful and real) got lost in the interim and it’s most likely irretrievable. And I want to know what part I played in the demise of all these friendships.

My transparency, along with my almost chosen ignorance of how the other person really feels about me and the relationship through their actions, have become huge liabilities in terms of how I relate to myself and to others.

So how do I stop this cycle of prematurely undressing emotionally as well as holding onto dead things for too long?

I have to go back to the beginning.

When I think about my mother, I don’t feel anything. That’s another good sign of trauma. And trauma here isn’t about abuse, but about neglect. I may feel more of a motherly bond towards her, as if I’m her mother and I’m looking out for her, than the other way around.

This fear of abandonment goes back to my birth. My entry into the world was a rough one. My mom thinks we both nearly died thanks to a jonesing-for-a-malpractice-suit anesthesiologist. I just don’t think she and I really bonded.

I know when I was four years old, I got lost in a mall or shopping center. That may have been another traumatic incident, but I don’t remember it.

And not to get too psychological, but when a person doesn’t have a bond to their mother, that’s a big ole hill to climb in terms of developing one’s own sense of self. I don’t know if I have anyone to individuate from, or to mourn that they weren’t there. It’s eerie and unsettling, but that’s been my life.

So I am pretty darn sure I have repeated this dynamic by choosing people as friends and lovers who aren’t that interested in intimacy or I push them away somehow if they are. Yesterday, I hit what I hope is that final wall with that Sisyphean journey.

It is so exhausting to chase, to spurn and be spurned, to yearn and wonder, to leave and to be left.

Desperation is never an attractant.

I got all this from some homework that I didn’t feel ready to do (and still haven’t done– yet).

This is also to say: a trigger can be an invitation to healing, not something to avoid. I RSVPed yes yesterday and googled about abandonment and found Susan Anderson. And now I’m reading her book.

Today, I woke up to overcast skies, but later on in the morning, the skies became brilliantly clear. That transformation is how I feel about dealing with this core wound and my hope that it can be healed. There’s an alarming and amusing alacrity I have about it–like this time, I really am gonna get this right.

I’m sure it’s been hijacking my happiness, causing my business to be a bit halted, and has prevented me from being truly successful. It’s like being stuck in survival mode, no matter what the circumstances are. That is truly exhausting and not really living.

So as I heal, I will focus on the friends who aren’t leaving, and really work on my emotional self-reliance–and I won’t resent having to re-create it.

As Susan Anderson says in her book, a lot of our lives are lived alone. I don’t mean that in some dystopian, post-modern way. Even in community, we still have our own individual lives and journeys.

Through all of my harrowing circumstances, I’ve become a highly resilient person, but yesterday reminded me that I have to learn new, healthier ways of being, and loving, myself.

Coping mechanisms are just that–for coping. For thriving, we have to learn how to find our inner grit, to loosen the grip of codependence, and be fully ourselves as whole and healthy, interdependent people.

I don’t have to feel doomed with existential loneliness. I can now choose to learn differently so I can be a better friend to myself and others.

It’s time for this long line of leavers to end. It’s time for me, and for others, to stick around.

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