*Jazz Hands* Mom

I had a dream the other night that you were still alive. You told me you’d woken up right after I left the hospital, and it turned out they were wrong and you were all better.

And then I woke up. And reality hit.

Today I put away laundry…I went to hang your towel…and it hit me I don’t need two towels hanging anymore.

It’s these little things. Things I used to take for granted. Waking up. Doing chores. Driving passed a restaurant. Little things that happen every day, that make grief steal my breath away.

I miss you.

They said that it would come
At the time I'd least forsee
That if I just stopped looking
I'd find the heart meant for me

I never could believe
I never did expect
That in one person I'd find
Love, honor and respect

But there you were waiting
With the love I never thought I'd find
"You had to have made each other in labs"
Our people often opined. 

Joy, laughter, and love
Bickering and silly fights
Every second of our togetherness
A highlight of my life

But nothing perfect can last forever
And the same was true for our love
Now when I miss you
I have to look to heaven above

The dreams that we shared
The visions of our life
Knowing that I'll never 
Have the honor to be your wife

We'll never have the home 
Or the matching rocking chairs
We'll never get forever
As one of histories great pairs

Two imperfect people
Yet, perfection from the start
I'm left with visions of empty rocking chairs
And a completely shattered heart

Fair Warning to those who read my blog. My boyfriend passed away last week, so I foresee that I will be writing mostly about him for the foreseeable future. To be blunt, I wouldn’t wish this experience on my worst enemy.

Anyway, Part One of my wish to share how amazing he was with the whole world (or my little corner of it).

Part One is the story of how I met the love of my life…and the birth of Wicket Earp.

Back in early 2021, a couple of friends invited me to a nerd Facebook group. There I saw alllllll the nerdy things that make me happy. And this guy…I didn’t know him, but I enjoyed interacting with him (spoiler alert, it was Aaron).

So, this one day, I was looking at mouse pads for my new home office that was decorated in all things nerd. I came across one that had an Ewok with a gun riding at AT-AT. But Amazon had it listed as “Cute bear riding a wooden camel with gun.” I was outraged and took my outrage to the nerds.

Along came the guy that I had enjoyed talking to. He made a couple of anti-Amazon jokes with me. And that was that.

Until the next morning. I wake up and check Facebook. He had posted a 3D print design he had come up with the night before. Of a cowboy Ewok with a gun riding an AT-AT. He said he had gotten the idea from a friend and decided it needed to be real. I very excitedly replied, “OMG. I SHALL CALL HIM WICKET EARP!!”

Two weeks later, this was mailed to my work for me.

And so our friendship began.

Dear Future Sheri,

Your boyfriend died 2.5 days ago.

2.5 days ago.

And, yet, I just caught you lambasting yourself for being a drama queen and not getting up to clean the house.

Has it been long enough for you to see the idiocy of this?

Cause we’re going to talk about this later when we’re not so drained.

Love,

You

Randomness: I’ve been listening to a lot of Brene Brown’s shame research lately. It’s not the first time, but it’s hitting me differently now, as I work on my past. When I read her works before, my instant reaction was, “I don’t feel shame. I don’t believe in regrets, so how can I claim shame. I own my story. I share my story. I AM being vulnerable and shame resilient.” But…as I revisit the materials, I’m forced to admit…one of my defining personality traits is shame.

Things I rarely admit, especially to myself.

I feel shame that my parents were happily married…until I was born.

I feel shame that my mother didn’t take me because she loved me, but merely because she hated my father and loved my brother.

I feel shame that my mother never loved me, but could love my brothers.

I feel shame every time someone makes a joke to me about being on America’s Most Wanted or a joke about a wanted poster.

I feel shame when people joke about my mother going to jail.

I feel shame that I wasn’t what my father hoped to find.

I feel shame that I have too many feelings and can’t “just get over” things.

I feel shame that my stepfather loved me more than life itself…and then decided I wasn’t worthy.

I feel shame that there always seems to be a time limit on how long people can love me.

I feel shame that I don’t know HOW to be a mother and just wing it based on not doing what they would do.

I feel shame that I’m the only person in my family who doesn’t fit.

I feel shame that I couldn’t give Bella a two parent home.

I feel shame that I don’t know anyone else who has seen the things I’ve seen…so maybe I really am broken…maybe I really do deserve it.

I feel shame that I don’t get out and try to have a life.

I feel shame when I do try to have a life…and I feel more alone.

I feel shame that I’ve allowed my illnesses to win…that I’ve gained so much weight…and that I can’t find the energy to lose the weight again.

I feel shame that I don’t have much left to give people.

I feel shame.

Yes. I own my story and am willing to share it. And that IS vulnerable and it IS good because people need to share their stories and connect. But…I think sometimes I share it to avoid the shame…or to go ahead and get the uncomfortable silences and quick exits out of the way. I use my story as a shield against shame. Which can be good when done right…but I still feel the shame. So obviously my methods need to change.

Weirdly, I don’t feel shame that I’ve gotten this wrong so far. So…baby steps.

/randomness

*Jazz hands*

If you had asked me…well…basically…ever, I would have told you that my greatest weakness is that I have too many feelings.

I’ve heard it my whole life. “You’re too sensitive.” “You feel too much.” “You have too many feelings.” “You’re kind of a lot…”

I’ve heard it all. And I knew…the level of feelings that I have in me was…more…than most people around me.

It often leads me to a memory. I was around 21 and I went to a wake to support my friends. I didn’t even know the person who had passed. Never met him. But I was overtaken by very real grief. I cried like this person was my best friend. It wasn’t fake. It was very real emotion. Very real emotion that even I couldn’t understand.

As I got older, I started hearing the term “empath”. Someone who feels the feelings they’re surrounded by.

At first I latched onto that word. “YES! I FINALLY GET IT! THIS is why I feel it all! Why others’ sadness makes me sad. Why anger overwhelms me. Why I have to try so hard to surround myself with laughter. I get it!”

Then I started down rabbit holes with it…and was suddenly less enamored.

Wait a minute…the traits of being an empath sound an awful lot like being codependent…maybe it’s just a nice way of saying, “Gurl…you all kinds of fucked up…”

I definitely fell out of love with the word and have stayed that way for years.

So, last week, my therapist said something about me being an empath and that I have to protect my energy.

I had to ask: “Ok, but which came first? The empath or the codependent?”

She seemed surprised. I mean, she’s told me for years that I’ve battled some serious codependent habits…but she seemed surprised by the question because she also thinks I’ve gotten much better.

“It seems to me that empaths and codependents share the same traits. So…am I an empath because I’m codependent? Or did my being an empath lead me to being codependent?”

She laughed. “Empaths are born.”

Oh. Ok…

So, back down the rabbit hole I went. Apparently, some empaths are easily trained to be codependents, but not all are.

Ok. I can live with this.

Then…came the next phase. I was listening to a Brene Brown book…and she was talking about vulnerability. She was talking about how tempting it is, for all of us, to want to turn off our feelings. She talked about how it’s brave not to.

“Well…if an empath feels EVERYTHING others are feeling…and still doesn’t turn it off…wow. THAT’S bravery.”

Brave.

That label feels right.

In all the ways that the other labels never felt…RIGHT to me…

Too much. Too sensitive. Too many feelings. These labels never felt like ME.

But brave?

Brave feels like I was born with that label printed on me like Izod on a golf shirt.

Brave.

I like it.

I am it.

BECAUSE of all of those feelings.

./blog

*Jazz hands*

Unless you grew up under a rock (no offense to Fraggle children everywhere), you grew up on the Aesop Fable of The Boy Who Cried Wolf.

In case you ARE a Fraggle (say hi to Red for me!!), the general gist is that the boy kept lying and crying wolf so often that…when the wolf really DID attack…no one listened.

The obvious lesson to children was, “Don’t lie if you want to be believed later.”

Which is a solid lesson for kids.

But what if we revisited this story for adults on social media? Maybe there’s another lesson here.

If you’re always yelling about something, people stop listening.

I know…I know…where are you going with this, Sheri?!?

How many people do you know who use social media as a platform for outrage?

<insert topic> is happening and I am outraged!!

*next week* <insert new topic> I AM OUTRAGED. 

*next week* NEW TOPIC. I AM OUTRAGED.

75% of the time the topic is a legitimate world concern.

But…if you’re always outraged…your outrage shows zero societal impact because people stopped listening.

I have friends who keep their opinions to private discussions beyond the issues they are fully passionate about. When those people share outrage on social media, I listen. Others listen. Their words carry impact and wisdom…and maybe a new viewpoint and a chance for growth.

I have friends who are soldiers for ALLLLLLLLLL the world’s woes on social media. Their attention span is so all over the place…rather than feel like we can make a change, I feel like we need Adderall and earplugs…they complain so loudly about a new topic every week…I don’t hear a sincere desire to change anything over a sincere desire to just be heard and to feel “woke”.

The boy cried outraged so many times, the villagers never came out to help…and the boy and his causes are eaten up by cat memes.

The end.

Welp, never meant for this to be a two-part series, but here we go.

I shared the general gist of my Boxes & Eggshells blog with my therapist last week.

She asked, “Instead of putting things in a box with eggshells around it…shouldn’t you be putting the people who made you feel that way into the box? Label it as something bad for you that needs to be locked away.”

Basically, in therapist speak…”Shouldn’t that box be full of people and labeled ‘Bitches’?” lol

I thought about it for a minute…and I pushed back.

No.

“What do you mean no?”

“I mean…many of those topics come with their own eggshells. It doesn’t matter WHO I’m about to talk to…I am already on eggshells even considering talking about those topics.”

“Explain…”

“OK…reality check moment…As always, I maintain that my trauma was not “worse” than anyone else’s trauma. Trauma is trauma.”

“I’m familiar with your take on this…” (“Hurry up, Sheri…we only have an hour here…” lol)

“Ok. My trauma is not worse than anyone else’s trauma. HOWEVER…my trauma is more rare. I’ve said this before, and I’m still waiting to get shot for my take on this, but…The best example I can use is rape victims. They have been through something MUCH WORSE than what I went through.”

*therapist interrupts me* “I’m not sure I would agree it’s worse than what you went through…”

“OK. Either way. Whether I’m right or you’re right, it’s a moot point. I say that because sexually is the one way I was never violated.

The point is this…a woman who has been a victim of rape… *I believe* is worse than what I went through. But, sadly, she can walk into any room of 20 women. Based on statistics, 10 of them will have been through the same. She can, if she chooses to be vulnerable, talk about her trauma and she WILL find other women who understand. Again, that’s not a good thing. BUT…the point is…I can’t do that. The only time I’ve walked into a room, where even ONE person had experienced what I’ve experienced, was when I was part of an adult research group for parentally abducted children.”

“OK…I think I see where you’re going with this…”

“Probably. Most people with trauma can find a safe place to talk about it where they won’t be questioned or…probably…judged. For me, those topics will always come with eggshells. They have always come with shock, questions, judgment, or all of the above. Hell, you’re the only therapist I’ve ever had who didn’t make the surprised guppy face when I told you my story. In short…the eggshells are not the fault of the person I’m talking to. They are already there. En masse.”

After that, she agreed. In part. But she still wants me to also address my habit of letting the wrong people in. She keeps telling me that I hope to rewrite my childhood by having someone, usually emotionally unavailable, finally understand…and tell me I’m still worthy and loveable, despite my cracks.

AND she wants me to acknowledge that I can’t just box up the feelings that make people uncomfortable. They are my truth…and they are valid. They can be in a box that is for special people at special times…but not untouchable.

And…apparently, I need to add a 4th box. “Bitches”. That box doesn’t even get eggshells…it gets a combination lock…where someone else holds the combination…and I can’t ask for the combo so that I’m not tempted to take the bitches out of the box.

Which sounds like a great catchphrase… “Don’t take the bitches out da box.” #OnIt

An ear worm attacked tonight, but led me to a musical ephipany (my favorite kind of epiphany…you know…if I were the kind of person who would rank epiphanies…*innocent whistle* )

ANYWAYS…the epiphany:

🎵You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here🎵

Isn’t that what we should really be doing to those people who live rent free in our heads? 

What do we do when a tenant stops paying rent? Boot their asses out. 

What should we do with people who live in our heads for free? Boot their asses out. 

Not in a dramatic way. Wish them no harm. Carry no ill will. Send them on with wishes that they find happiness. But where they go? Not your problem. “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.” 

I mentioned this recently, but I’m working really hard at figuring out how to share feelings that need to be shared…but also learn that some are for me to figure out alone.

Again, this isn’t a bad thing. It’s something I need to learn to grow on. That’s all.

Last night, I had an epiphany.

Boxes and eggshells, y’all.  What do I mean by that? Let me tell you. 

Realistically, we all mentally categorize items. Some use those categories wisely…some (*cough* me) don’t know how to use those categories.

So…I’m going slightly beyond categorizing, to having a mental image of what I need to do. BOXES. Pretty, pretty, blue BOXES.

• BOX 1: This is something I’m thinking/feeling that I should probably share immediately with the appropriate person. These are mostly informational items or items that need to be addressed while they’re fresh.
  • (Truly Hypothetical) Examples:
    • I just found out I have a terminal illness. I should talk to the important people.
    • A friend/whatever severely ignores a boundary. Before it’s cold, and seems unimportant to them due to timing, explain why that hurt.
• BOX 2: These are items that it’s not BAD to talk to someone about, but it can wait for an appropriate person and timing.
  • Examples:
    • I’m really struggling because XYZ happened, and I’m not handling it well alone. It would help me to process.
    • I saw my best friend’s husband with another woman (I didn’t, Gale. Let’s be clear! Lol) and now I need to talk to someone trusted so I can plan an alibi. (Actually that’s a bad idea…always keep your revenge plans to yourself…save your friends some culpability. 😆)
• BOX 3- THIS IS THE MOST IMPORTANT BOX. This box stays in my brain with eggshells surrounding it as a warning system.
  • This is the box for the feelings, mostly from the past, that no one can help me with.
  • These are the items that when I discuss them…I have this instant feeling of eggshells under my feet as I instantly feel like I have to find the absolute right wording so that I don’t upset anyone.
  • These are the items that other people hurt because they can’t fix them/me.
  • Examples:
    • My family
    • Old friends that still hurt when I think about them.
    • Anxieties over things that aren’t mine to control. (Doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be anxious…just that I can’t control them and that usually means that someone else will be frustrated/hurt if I talk about the item.)

See…pretty…easily visualized boxes. AND a built in warning system of eggshells when I get too close to opening BOX 3. Because, those eggshells have always been there…I just stomp on them thinking, “IF I JUST FIND THE RIGHT WORDS they’ll understand.”

No more stomping.

Share now.

Share later.

Watch that eggshell crack you felt as you considered talking about it…and…don’t. Lol

I feel like this is a good step. Or I’m regressing. Who the hell knows. But now I have a plan. And I can do anything with a good plan.