Random Musings of a Crazy Beautiful Insane Life
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.
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 I have 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.
*Jazz Hands* Mom