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.
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.
Someone I love very much passed away a couple of weeks ago. I haven’t been ready to talk about my grief…I’m still not, tbh. But what I *am* ready to talk about is how important and wonderful he truly was. Because…I’m ashamed that I never told him this while he was alive…and I think we need to tell the world when someone is so important to us.
I met Johnny when I was 20. I met him because he was a friend of my older brother’s, but he almost immediately became my person.
Before Johnny…especially, back home…people didn’t see ME. They didn’t see SHERI. They saw Chris’s little sister…Michele and Tommy’s sister…Gino’s daughter.
They cared for me, but they didn’t love ME.
Partially because I could only seem to be seen as an extension of others. Others with bigger personalities…others who were cool…others who were popular…etc. In retrospect, partially because I was so used to not being seen, and I was so afraid of everything, I never let anyone see the real me.
Johnny changed that.
It all started in one of those, “We’re in our 20s. Let’s be stupid.” things. Lol I had gone to a small party with my brother…and…he (my brother) was wasted. Lol (Not a judgment…he was 22…everyone was wasted…lol) An acquaintance needed a ride home and I offered to drive him. (Funny story about the picture above…even back then, I wasn’t a drinker…but I had learned to carry around a beer so people would think I was drinking and get off my back. Lol) ANYWAYS, Johnny offered to go with me. As we’re driving back, he say, “Hey…I’m going to fuck with your brother…just go along with whatever I say…” *snort* An opportunity to mess with my drunk brother? I. Am. In. 😆 So…we walk back into the party. Obviously my brother had already passed out at some point, as he had a giant penis drawn on his face. 😆😆😆 Johnny looks at him.
Johnny: “Dude…Chris…I just fucked your sister.”
*my brother swaying and looking confused*
Chris: “Wait, what?”
Me: “Holy shit. It was the most amazing thing I’ve ever experienced…”
C: “What??”
J: “I’m trying to tell you I nailed your sister.”
Me: “I’ve never seen anything that big in my life.”
C: *still swaying* “Dude…you owe me money.”
*momentary crickets*
Me: “Are you trying to pimp me out????”
C: “I’m getting something out of this deal!”
You guys…from that moment, Johnny and I had our personal joke and our relationship only grew from there.
Johnny SAW ME. Johnny didn’t only hang out with me around those other people that I was an extension of. Johnny knew me…even the crazy antics I love being a part of…and liked ME. The more he knew me…the more I knew him…the closer we got.
In some ways, Johnny was the great love of my early 20s. He had his demons. So did I. So that part never could have worked. There were times we both wished it would. But, I understand now why it never could have. But…even then…we were still so freaking tight. I spent more time at his house than my own. We talked about EVERYTHING. When I got sick, he was there. When I had to get the picc line put in…he went with me and teased me about “allllll the blood!!!” (there wasn’t all the blood, he just enjoyed messing with me)…because he didn’t want me to have to go alone. When I broke my face (don’t ask lol), he came over every night and played board games with me. With Johnny…I was never alone.
And it wasn’t because of *what* I was…it was because of *who* I was. He saw me…the good and the bad…and still wanted to know ME.
I hadn’t really had that before. It meant…and still does…more than I ever told him.
Because of Johnny, I started letting the world see more of the real me. The funny me. The smart me. The parts of me that I thought no one cared to know. They did…Johnny had shown me that.
Because of Johnny, I also started to see that I didn’t have to hold ALL the sad thoughts in. I could talk to someone about them…and they wouldn’t leave.
Because of Johnny, I learned to allow others to know and love me.
And I never told him that.
He knew I loved him. I know that. But he never knew that he was the first one to give me the strength and confidence to let the world see me.
Over the years, we had less contact. That’s the way of life. I moved away, but I always went to try to see him and check on him when I went home…but I haven’t been home in years. The phone conversations slowed…social media happened, and we stayed in touch, but life keeps moving…and it did for both of us.
And…now he’s gone. And I can’t tell him these things.
But I needed to tell someone.
I needed someone to know…Johnny existed…Johnny mattered…SO MUCH…Johnny gave me strength and courage and confidence.
And when someone gives you all of that…you should really make sure you let them know…you should tell the whole world…I know this amazing person and you should know about him, too.
I didn’t do that. My sister is the only one who knew all of it…so, honestly, she was the only one who knew to reach out to me (I was on a social media break) because she knew how important it was that I know.
I should have told the whole world. And I didn’t. And for that, I’m ashamed.
So, I’m telling you now.
RIP Johnny. I hope that you knew how very much I love you and how very much I’m grieving you.
So…therapy homework…I’m supposed to compile a list of my personality traits, good and bad.
Not excited about this.
Not because it’s uncomfortable to list what’s wrong with me. The opposite, in fact. I’m highly uncomfortable trying to quantify what’s positive about me.
Why?
Am I afraid there’s nothing good about me? Hell no. I think I’m pretty amazing.
But I have never expected that most people would agree about the parts of me that I like.
I’m kind. I always try to be kind. But sometimes I’m afraid that my kindness is considered a weakness by others, because I don’t WANT to turn it off even if it’s not reciprocated.
I’m freaking funny, y’all. For those who’s cup of tea I am…they’ll tell you I’m freaking funny. Buuuuttt…there are plenty others who find me annoying and don’t like my brand of humor.
I’m smart. That much I know about myself. But…does that make me come off as a know it all?
I’m introspective, which I think is a highly positive trait that leads to growth. It can also be neurotic.
So…the point being…I can’t say anything nice about myself without it *feeling* self serving or like I need to acknowledge that not everyone considers that a good thing. Which is RIDICULOUS because…this is MY homework, not the homework of people who don’t like me.
And maybe that should be my number one flaw. (Trust me, I’ll list plenty. I’m not in therapy because I’m not FULLY in touch with what I need to work on. I’m in therapy because I’m quite aware of what I need to work on.)
But…number one…I can’t even be nice to myself without hearing the voices of those who wouldn’t agree…who don’t like me…and, thus, who’s opinions should not matter THAT much to me in the grand scheme of things.
The fun side of this homework, though, is that she fully supports me throwing in as many jokes (self deprecating or otherwise). As possible So…this WILL end up being a fun list…but Hella daunting. 😆
I’ve been doing a lot of internal work lately. Truly internal. It’s hard. I’m not going to lie. But…what I’ve come to realize…FINALLY…is that MY feelings are MY problem. Not that people don’t care. They do. But my feelings aren’t something anyone else has any control over…only I do. And Ihave to feel them and process them enough to decide what to do with them…change them if they’re wrong, accept them if they’re not…but they’re still mine.
See…the thing is this. None of us want to feel like people think they need to fix us. But…there isn’t a way to share the scary, sad, dark feelings…and expect people to not want to fix them. Either because they feel attacked (as is sometimes the case with these things)…or because they don’t want us to hurt…or a mixture of both because they feel attacked because they can’t fix it. But…some feelings can’t be fixed. Nor do any of us need to be fixed. We want to be understood…not fixed…very different.
Especially when there is trauma involved. Those feelings…those triggers…it’s not fair to expect them to go away….it’s also not fair for us to expect people who care about us to not want them to go away.
But people also feel shut out when you don’t talk to them about your feelings. It’s this catch 22.
The reality is…AND THIS ISN’T A BAD THING…people want to feel loved and trusted enough that you’ll talk to them…but they also REALLY want you to be ok so that everything you talk to them about is sunshine and roses. Not because they don’t care about the sadness, but because they desperately want you to not feel it.
So…you hole up more…you start trying to handle things internally….and you hurt people more by trying not to hurt them.
And it’s so scary and confusing because…the reality is this…it’s not that people don’t want you to talk about feelings…it’s that it’s too much for them. It’s not fair to them. And, instead of hurting alone, you start to hurt them with you. Whether you keep it in or let it out…because you can’t just choose not to feel. You can’t just turn every feeling off. There’s no humanity switch (although I’ve wished there was ever since I was addicted to Vampire Diaries. Lol)
So…the feelings will come…and maybe they’re too much…but imagine how very much they are to me, too.
I’m trying. I’m trying to heal. I’m trying to be the strong person everyone wants me to be.
I just have to learn..
God, grant me the serenity to accept the feelings I cannot change, the courage to change the feelings I can, and the wisdom to make those decisions internally.
So…I think this is the first time I’ve written in almost a year. Lol This year has been…insane and quiet, all at the same time. I have a lot to say…but, possibly for the first time in my life, I struggle finding the words.
Don’t get me wrong…I have words…some of them four letters in length…some of them a confused jumble of feelings, both hopeful and afraid.
But I don’t have the eloquent, witty words that I feel like people expect of me.
So…I actually almost gave up my domain. My daughter was actually the one who told me to keep it…the one who pushed me to keep my place to write…both because she’s (silently) proud of my writing and because she knows that writing brings me joy and helps my stress.
Have we talked about this? No. Words weren’t needed. She just knew.
With no words.
And that reminded me…the people who love and know us most…they don’t need words…they just know. They know our hopes. They know our dreams. They know our fears. And they WANT to know us on that level.
I know I don’t write much these days. This year has just been…a lot.
A lot of work.
A lot of fear.
A lot of stress.
Watching the love of my life battle cancer…battling my own health issues…working nonstop…
And, on top of it…I’ve finally really been digging in and dealing with my trauma and facing things long left unfaced.
Yesterday I broke.
Not in the crying hysterically way. That would have been slightly normal at least.
Nope. I was utterly calm.
I woke up.
I deactivated all social media.
I got in the bathtub thinking, “I should have clean hair for this…”
And I sat in the bath and planned out the best way to end it. I settled on drinking a giant cup of coffee and going into anaphylactic shock. That way it could be considered an accident and Bella would still get the life insurance. I, so calmly, thought of all the ways it would be better for everyone.
Weirdly…the one person that I couldn’t find a way to convince myself it would be better for is my boss. I’ve put all the stress of the years into work…and we don’t have the people right now for me to not be here doing that.
That was the thought that made me keep going. That work would suffer.
Which is a whole extra layer of my fucked up brain…the only reason to keep going when things get that bad…is so I don’t inconvenience people.
So…I got out of the tub…got back in the bed…pulled the blanket over my face…and snuggled with my puppies and worked all day. Once again…buried myself in work.
I’m a little better today. Still numb. But more in control of, “Can’t do anything permanent. Total inconvenience to other people.”
But I just want to sleep. And I want to wake up and find out that FINALLY my life will stop falling down around me.
I’ll flat out say it. Christianity and Karaoke are the same. There. Are you mad? Are you confused? Are you intrigued? Good.
Yesterday a man walked into church. He had an afro that a 70s movie character would have been proud of. His clothes were purposely shredded. His earring dangled wildly from his ear, as did the extra shirts tied to his waist. He sat in the front row and he yelled in agreement. He danced when the worship team sang. Moves that would have made my old cheerleaders jealous. He. Was. On. Fire.
So, of course…we slyly looked at each other and giggled. We tried not to watch, but we couldn’t look away. We tried not to judge, but we judged ourselves to be better.
We weren’t. None of us are.
As my favorite religious quote states, “Church is not a museum for saints, it’s a hospital for sinners.”
Every. Single. One. Of. Us. There. Is. A. Sinner.
We’re just too afraid to show ourselves as bravely and vulnerably as that man.
In this way…Church and Karaoke are one and the same.
I remember, a long time ago, my dad told me he didn’t want to sing at Karaoke, “because people like you are actually good.” I told him, “I’m professionally trained. That’s not fair. Karaoke isn’t meant for people who can sing perfectly, it’s meant for people who love to sing no matter how badly they carry a tune.”
There’s the truth. How many love going to karaoke but are never brave enough to get on stage? How many go and laugh at others, as though they are better because they hide their lack of talent…their lack of confidence? How many go and think, “Look at that idiot.” without ever thinking, “How brave are you to stand there…in all your glory…in all your imperfection…and share your love of the power of music?”?
How many of us walk into a church? Sit there quietly and meekly….sit there saying our appropriate amens and singing our hymns? How many of us are afraid to stand up in all of our imperfect glory and revel PROUDLY in our love of the power of God?
I’m ashamed that I judged, even for a moment, someone who could proudly be himself in a way that I sometimes fear to be. I’m ashamed that I can’t let go in the way that he could.
Was he a sinner? Probably. Am I? Definitely.
Which is why we both belong in that hospital for sinners.
Why we ALL belong. The question is…are we willing to pick up the mic and sing?
*Jazz Hands* Mom 