Do You Have to Forgive?

Sometimes our spiritual traditions work against us, making us feel broken, sinful, or weak if we can't or won't follow their precepts. Often those precepts are offered as the only way to go or the only right way - even by people who say they embrace diversity and differences. One of the topics where this phenomenon occurs is forgiveness. I see all kinds of FB memes - especially in the wake of the new year - telling us we must forgive in order to set ourselves free. And while I agree that holding on to anger or resentment is damaging to the self, I don't agree that forgiveness is always THE path to freedom. It is one path. 

If you are finding it difficult to forgive, don't despair. If you feel bad or defective because you can't forgive, don't despair. Your grudge may be trying to tell you something important. Before you rush to get rid of your ill feelings, listen to them. What do they need you to know?

Recently, I found myself invaded by recurring thoughts of an injustice I experienced. I kept having fantasy conversations in which I would explain to the other person how they had wronged me. Yet I knew without a doubt that confronting this person would have no positive effect for either of us. In this situation, the serenity prayer was far more effective than forgiving. I needed to accept what I could not change (the other person) and change what I could (myself).

It's the story of the scorpion and the frog. If you don't know it, a scorpion asks a frog for a ride across a pond. The frog says, "But you'll sting me." The scorpion says, "No I won't. If I sting you, we'll both drown." The frog agrees. Half way across the pond, the scorpion stings the frog. The frog says, "Now we'll both die! Why did you do this?" The scorpion says, "It's my nature."

I didn't have to forgive my scorpion. I needed to stop giving it rides. 

I needed to look at why I had been forgiving the stings for so long. 

For me, it was about a deep fear, instilled when I was a child, that saying "no" would bring about retribution. It was about recognizing my fear as a post traumatic stress reaction, and taking the risk of showing myself that now, as an adult, I can say, "No more rides." Those who respect me will manage their disappointment. Those who don't will move on. If they throw tantrums, I can move on. 

When I worked my way through this process, my resentment disappeared. I didn't need forgiveness to let go. I needed to know I could and would protect myself. 

Often when we are hurt or violated in some way, we are left feeling powerless. If this is true for you, it might be important to reclaim your power. This doesn't mean holding power over others or taking vengeance. It just means knowing that you will love and protect yourself from relationships that feel depleting, diminishing, or disrespectful, even if it takes work and courage to get there. 

Befriending Your Inner Critic

So much has been written about the inner critic - that voice in your head that says you aren't good enough. Cognitive therapists use the term, "shame busting," to describe how they approach the inner critic. And many of the other psychological theories advocate some variation on this same theme - silence the inner critic, tame the gremlin, etc.

But most of my clients, like me, have inner critics that do not want to be killed off. Many therapists would call this "resistance," or some kind of self-sabotaging impulse. I disagree.

As an adult attachment therapist (I look at how early attachment in our families shapes our self-image and world-view), I learned that my inner critic developed to keep me in alignment with the values and needs of my family, peers, and teachers at a time when I was too little to survive in the world alone. Being so young, I could not know that many of the values and needs I was trying to conform to were unhealthy. They arose out of the insecurities of those around me, and they created insecurity inside of me.

I have written here about my dad and his abuse history, but my mom's insecurities were far more damaging. She is a classical narcissist, whose primary objective is to procure admiration from others. When I reflected well upon her, I was treated kindly, even celebrated. If I needed her (especially if I needed something she was not good at providing), I was ignored or rejected. I was constantly compared unfavorably to my sisters, cousins, even strangers. I spent a lot of my childhood depressed, but didn't know it. Depression was my normal. I turned to food for soothing, even though the price was more disapproval and rejection from mom, who needed thin daughters that people would admire.

As I began to understand this dynamic through my adult eyes, so did my inner critic. As soon as I stopped trying to kill her off (my inner critic, not my mother), she became my ally and took on a new job. Instead of keeping me in line with people who are not healthy for me, her job is to let me know when things don't feel right. Instead of yelling at me to conform or be "good enough," her job is to remind me that my life is for me, not others. I am no longer tiny and vulnerable. I can say "no" or walk away from anything that is depleting, diminishing, harmful - or even vaguely not-quite-right.

When I was little, I had no choice about who surrounded me. Today, I actively choose friends, clients, colleagues, and extended family who are healthy, safe, and loving. My inner critic is AWESOME at detecting narcissists, psychopaths, and other icky folk and sounding the alarm so I steer clear of them. I LOVE her in this role.

She also keeps me company now when I am alone. She knows this was the lynchpin for me - the thing that kept me stuck in one-sided relationships far too long. Now, instead of buying into the notion that my aloneness was my own fault, she reminds me that there are lots of people in the world who are compassionate and caring, who love and accept me as I am, warts and all. She also reminds me that she is with me now in the best of ways. I will always have her loving, supportive presence within. And that inner safety and sweetness is more than good enough.

"Coming out" with a mental health diagnosis

I love the art in this article in the Huffington post, but more than that, I love the message. SOOO many people have (or have had) a mental health diagnosis. The shame that often accompanies the diagnosis is, I think, one of the worst parts. Too many of my clients have refused or delayed seeking help because they feared the stigma. Let's make it safe for everyone to be who they are, warts and all. Ready, go!

What Bipolar Disorder Really Feels Like, By Sarah Klein in the Huffington Post

What to Do When the Difficult Person is a Narcissist or a Sociopath

Last month, I wrote about dealing with difficult people. Several of you wrote back or spoke to me off-line asking, "What if this person is really disturbed?"

Unfortunately about 4 to 8% of our fellow human beings have a serious personality disorder like narcissistic personality disorder or antisocial personality disorder (also known as psychopaths or sociopaths). When you have to deal with someone who has severe narcissism or antisocial personality disorder you will feel off-balance, anxious, and vaguely (or not so vaguely) threatened. It's not a fun experience.

Lucius Malfoy exemplifies a severe narcissist.
His primary aim is to feel better than others.

Severe Narcissism 

Both narcissists and psychopaths are controlling and manipulative. The narcissist seeks control in order to gain a steady supply of admiration. They need constant validation and support of their grandiose sense of self in order to defend against debilitating shame. Usually they begin by seducing others with charm and flattery. They may seem to understand you deeply. But this is not real. They have no felt sense of empathy.

Inevitably, you will fail them, because everyone does (their need is impossible to fill). Then their manipulation may turn to rage or withdrawal. Some narcissists can become vengeful, trying to turn others against you and moving into a position of grandiose victimhood. The narcissist wants others to see him or her as the best at everything, including being the most unjustly treated when in conflict.

Before he was Voldemort, Tom Riddle, the poster child
for anti-social personality disorder, was already
using people to gain power.

Anti-Social Personality Disorder (ASPD) 

The person with ASPD (also called psychopaths or sociopaths) wants control in order to feel powerful. Like narcissists, they begin relationships pouring on the charm and flattery. A sociopath can make you feel like you are part of a select and special group. They can make you feel special and important in ways that no one else ever has. They are also great at faking empathy. They are natural actors, and they study human behavior in order to manipulate others effectively and efficiently.

Often sociopaths are cult leaders, church leaders, and CEOs. Sociopaths are usually greedy, because money can be used to control or exert power over others. Psychopaths (at the more criminal or dangerous end of the antisocial spectrum) may use violence to control others. The more "high functioning" sociopaths will use vague threats as well as promises of great rewards that usually never materialize or those rewards come with a price tag - usually the feeling that you are betraying yourself.

Both narcissists and people with ASPD will leave you in a state of repetitive, anxious thinking known as rumination. Your thoughts will generally circle around to fantasies in which you teach the other person a lesson. This comes out of feelings of powerlessness and a normal, human a desire to be treated with respect and dignity. It is fueled by an underlying belief that if the other person could just "get it" they would change their ways. Letting go of this belief is the key to YOUR freedom and healing.

It is essential to know that people with these personality disorders almost never change. If they do, it is only with intensive, long-terms psychotherapy and usually only after a devastating experience in which their strategies for maintaining admiration or power completely fail.

Your Best Options 

Your best course of action is to have as little contact with a narcissist or psychopath as possible. Your energy will be far better spent doing other things. If possible, you may choose to cut off relationships with these people entirely. Technology can be a wonderful friend in this endeavor. Calls can be blocked. Emails can be deleted automatically so you never know that they were sent.

If you must interact with a narcissist or a sociopath, your best strategy is to become boring to them. Like cats playing with mice, they will lose interest when you stop being fun - which means when you stop being a source of admiration or wounding for the narcissist or stop being someone that the sociopath can use to feel powerful or gain money or other resources from.

Safety First 

Dealing with a sociopath or psychopath alone can be dangerous. They have no empathy and can't be reasoned with. Your safety is paramount. If these strategies don't work and you feel threatened, don't hesitate to get outside support from understanding friends, neighbors, coworkers, or if necessary, legal support from an attorney or the police.

If you grew up with a parent, sibling, or other influential person who had narcissistic or psychopathic tendencies, you may be more vulnerable to the seductions of these people. If this is true for you, then therapy to heal your own feelings of powerlessness and "not good enough-ness" will be invaluable in helping you to let go of these toxic relationships.

Missing Robin Williams

The thing I'm noticing most now, four days after  he died, is that everyone I've talked to, everyone who has written about him, whether we actually knew him or not, felt a sense of kinship with Robin Williams. I know, logically, I felt a kinship with the characters he played. If anything, I loved the writers who wrote those roles.

Yet he chose them, the roles. And he brought them to life in a way that no one else could. I've been binge-watching his movies. Today it was Good Will Hunting and Dead Poets Society. In both of these movies Robin Williams plays a role model for all of us who need to find a way to survive in a world where our individuality and vitality is shamed, where we are misunderstood, kept small with physical and emotional abuse.

The younger characters in these films learn to follow their own hearts, despite the threat of alienation. The teacher, Mr. Keating and the shrink, Sean Maguire provide a map. And more than even that, they offer themselves as safe havens, where it is okay to just be whoever you are. They offer unconditional love. They offer the understanding of a fellow outsider in a world where conformity is regarded above all else.

I love Robin Williams (and miss him like the father my own could never be) because I am a misfit. Growing up, I was told in so many ways that I did not fit, that my not fitting was wrong, and that I should feel ashamed. Mr. Keating gave me a desk to stand on, so I could see the world from a different perspective. Maybe being a misfit was not a bad thing. Maybe it was a gift. Sean Maguire looked at me with so much love and understanding and told me over and over again that the abuse I suffered was not my fault. It was not my fault. It was never my fault.

I keep finding articles and blogs that have used his death as a platform to raise consciousness about depression. That's a good thing. But it's not what I want right now. I just want to grieve what, for me, is a grave, personal loss. I never met him. But I desperately wish I could tell him how grateful I am for his courage in being the captain of the misfits, a team I am so proud to play on. I'm grateful that he was here for a short time. My heart is broken for his pain. And I already miss him so much.

Aging, Injuries, and Healing with Mindfulness

Getting older is a fine balance between the wisdom that can only come from experience and the frustration of not remembering what I was about to say or do a moment ago.

Going slowly and being fully in my body, moment by moment, have been among the greatest gifts of aging. I am still working on both of these practices, and I get distracted by busy-ness more than I would like. But the more I stop, and breathe, and feel, the easier it gets - mostly because it feels good.

Somatic Experiencing (SE) - which I mentioned a couple posts ago - has become an invaluable tool for settling in and noticing subtle energies and staying with them, just noticing and nothing more, as they transform just through the process of attending and watching.

Sadness becomes relief, then anger, then power, then excitement, then joy.

Fatigue becomes grounding, then settling, then calm, then alertness, then presence.

This may sound like meditation, but it's more than I've ever learned in meditation classes. There is no effort to stop thinking. Thoughts happen. There is no concentration on a meditative object. Sensation is the meditative object. And maybe that just works really well for me because I am at the super far end of the kinesthetic spectrum.

One of the main reasons I decided to learn SE was to see if it would help reduce physical pain, which I've long suspected my body holds as "emotional trauma in suspended form." In several of my SE experiences, I've noticed the feeling of my shoulders and back melting - as if old armor is gently falling away. It's a delicious feeling, and one that I hope will eventually become a new normal for me. What I didn't expect, is that SE would follow me out of the classroom, and out of my therapy office into my daily life. Specifically, it has shown up in my footsteps.

In March, I twisted my left knee, and it's felt twinge-y and wonky ever since - not painful, but not quite right. I don't think it's a coincidence that I also have bunion on my left big toe, and that my left foot has been growing progressively weaker over the last few years. So I did what we all seem to do these days; I scoured Google for everything ever written about knee injuries and bunions and muscle imbalances. Several articles recommended walking barefoot.

Then, in June, I ran into a friend who was wearing Vibram FiveFingers on her feet. I had a pair once. I got them right after reading Born to Run by Christopher McDougall. But I was much younger then (only 44). And I had only just begun learning about slow and gentle living. I didn't know that in my mid-forties, my body would begin to rebel against being pushed to hard. I didn't know the wear and tear that my earlier traumas, and the resulting tendency to dismiss and deny my body's pain and fatigue signals, was catching up to me. So I put on my new barefoot "shoes," and went for a run, giving myself a muscle spasm (in my left calf, of course) that lasted a month. I blamed the shoes, cursed the book, and went back to supportive, orthotically correct footwear. And I watched my bunion grow. And I felt my foot continue to weaken.

Fast forward to June. Now at the wise and sage age of 49 1/2, I listen to my friend describe the slow, gentle process of moving from shod feet to bare feet. She wore her FiveFingers an hour a day at first, only at home after work. Then on little trips, grocery shopping. Then, adding more time as her body grew accustomed, she eventually started wearing them all day, just walking, sitting, driving. Now, she says, she is "addicted to them."

There is no definitive information about whether barefoot living will fix my knee or my foot. Anecdotal evidence points both ways - it really helps or it really hurts. Though in scouring blogs and message boards, there is one theme that recurs over and over. If you transition to barefoot, go very, very slowly.

Yesterday my new (and surprisingly cute compared to the last pair) FiveFingers arrived. I wore them for two hours, mostly sitting. Today I wore them for three hours, sitting, sweeping the floor and taking a short trip to the store. When I took them off, the angle of my bunion-y toe was less pronounced. My knee is still wonky, but it also feels like the muscles of my foot, calf and thigh are more activated and more stabilizing.

What's really wonderful though is the mindfulness of each step. As I walk, I am keenly aware of the sensations in my feet and legs and knees and hips and back. I am feeling my gait from inside. I have no idea what this will lead to, if anything. And the blessing of SE and of getting older is that it's soooo okay with me not to know. I am happy watching, waiting, trusting my body's signals and discovering what the next step feels like, and then the next one, and the next.

And I am relishing the loving feelings that come with all of this self-care. The armor continues melting, and as it does, the love and joy that is my birthright (and yours too) grows full and bright, a little sun rising in my chest.

How to Stop Taking Things Personally - Removing Your Emotional Velcro™

First, let me acknowledge that what I'm about to say is not always easy. A lot of my clients spend weeks (sometimes longer) processing a painful interaction before they can understand and act on what I'm about to tell you. So feel free to bookmark this post and come back to it when you need the ideas reinforced.

We all have what I call "Emotional Velcro™" inside of us. This is the place where painful words, images, memories and experiences get stuck - where we take things personally. When someone says, "Jeez, you're so selfish!" and that comment keeps going around in your head, you know you have some Emotional Velcro™ there. 

You feel the desire to defend or explain, "I am NOT selfish! I just volunteered sixteen hours at the food bank! I did all of your laundry when you had that deadline! I am the least selfish person you will ever know!"

We take other people's comments and actions personally when we have a negative belief or interpretation about those words or actions. In other words, you get upset about being called selfish (or lazy or fat or frustrating) ONLY if you believe that it's bad or wrong to be selfish.

Now here's where a lot of people get stuck. They tell me, "But Julie, it IS bad to be selfish!" They don't realize that "good" and "bad" are interpretations, not absolutes. 

I don't like broccoli. I think broccoli is bad. But I realize that broccoli is not inherently bad (it's not personal, broccoli). A lot of people love it. I could go further and tell myself that those people are weird or have a strange sense of taste. None of this is objectively true. Similarly, what one person calls selfish, another person might call self-care, good boundaries, or lack of information. 

Usually when someone labels us, what they are really saying is, "I need something from you, and it feels too vulnerable and scary to tell you. I'm afraid of being needy (because I have an interpretation that neediness is bad), so I will just get angry and tell you that you're selfish."

While it can be enormously helpful to realize that people label you when they can't express their needs directly, it's even more useful to remove your own value judgements about yourself and others (the Velcro™). If you believe that selfishness is not inherently bad, then anyone can call you selfish, and you will not take it personally. You will have converted your Velcro™ into Teflon™. 

And this is where it can get hard. Changing our own beliefs takes work. Especially beliefs that were instilled in childhood, when learning how to fit into our family belief systems was essential to feeling loved, accepted, connected and safe. 

I had a client once who came to see me for anger problems. She felt irritable all the time and quick to snap at the people closest to her. After her boyfriend left her, she realized she had to change. When we looked at the source of her anger, we learned that she could not say no to anyone. She felt compelled to do whatever other people wanted to do. She believed that if she said "no," she was being rude. So she walked around with no ability to set reasonable boundaries. Then, when her resentment built, she would pop, and all her irritation would come out all over the people she loved the most. 

Where did she learn that "no" was rude? It was a lesson her mom taught her when she was little. Maybe this happened during the terrible twos, when those "No!" messages come out in ways that do sound rude. Mom didn't explain that "No" is a very important word. But sometimes it works better to say it gently. As a kid, my client learned that to feel loved and safe, she could not say no, and the belief stayed with her (along with the belief that it's never okay to be rude).

These are interpretations. They are not objectively or absolutely true. Often, it is essential to say "No." And sometimes it's useful to be rude. It's also okay to disappoint people. None of these things makes you a bad person. As an adult, you can stop judging yourself and eliminate your Velcro™ .

To find the beliefs you take personally - your Velcro™, finish the following sentence:

"I am bad (difficult, frustrating, etc) if I…"

To remove your Velcro™ use the following questions. 

What other interpretations of that behavior might there be? 

Is this true for everyone, or just me? 

How did I learn this? 

Is it still true today? 

If I violate this rule, what will happen?

Example:

I am rude if I say "no."

Other interpretations: 

• I might be rude if I say "no" like a snotty two year old, but I can also say "no" kindly and respectfully.
• Saying "no" when I need to is honest, and most people will appreciate knowing they can trust me to be real with them.
• Saying "no" with respect will prevent my anger from building.
• Everyone has the right to say "no" when they are asked something that doesn't feel right for them.

Is this true for everyone?

No. People say no to me all the time, and I don't reject them or think they are rude.

How did I learn this?

Mom said it was true, but I can see that she was overgeneralizing now.

Is it still true today? 

No. As an adult, I can say "no" and most people will respect my boundaries. If they don't, that's just information about who they are. I can then choose to spend less time with them.

If I violate this rule, what will happen?

It depends. If someone takes my "no" personally, they may get upset, but that's their Velcro™  to remove. I want to spend time with people who respect my boundaries.

Sometimes these steps are not enough. Deeply held beliefs take longer to change. Repetition can be helpful. So can processes like EMDR and Attachment Based Counseling (a process I've developed so clients can re-parent themselves more effectively. I will write more about this process next time). 

Remember, if you are taking something personally, it's an opportunity to let go of a belief or interpretation that makes you feel bad. Turn your focus away from the other person or event. Look inward using the questions above. Remove that Velcro™, and set yourself free!  

Disarming Difficult People

They are everywhere. People who refuse to listen. People who are manipulative. People who are easy to anger and slow to forgive. But if you have one at work - or worse, in your family - they can become the bane of your existence.

The thing to remember is that difficult people are stuck, often lonely, and usually, under the armor, feeling powerless.

Did your head just tilt to the side in confusion? Yes, the people who frighten you the most are the ones who feel powerless. I call it helpless rage. They lose control. They push others away. They know that even if they get compliance, they are not getting cooperation or genuine relationship.

But let's talk about YOU for a minute. Is it scary to confront a difficult person? Do you avoid saying or doing certain things with them? Are you walking on eggshells? Do you fume after they, once again, steamroll over you?

For most of us, the fear of anger or angry people is combination of biology and experience.

Biology:
Our bodies evolved to recognize a predator and run. And angry people can seem predatory. Though, in the wild, a predator rarely comes in growling or snarling. True predators sneak up on prey. Angry, snarling behavior is the behavior of an animal who feels threatened (powerless!).

Experience:
Many of us grew up with someone who was angry and scary. As kids, we were helpless to protect ourselves. And if the other adults were also afraid, they couldn't model for us what to do to feel safe. We may have decided that anger is bad or dangerous. We may repress our own anger so that we don't become the frightening adult we witnessed and feared.

So how do you disarm a difficult person - especially if you feel scared?

Having a plan and sticking to the plan is key. In the beginning, your fight-flight response will want to kick in and either attack, defend or run. Your plan will help you override these impulses. Later, as you have success disarming difficult people, your fight-flight reactions will calm down. Seeing that you have the skill and ability to 1) keep yourself safe and 2) calm the other person, will reinforce what you're learning.

So, here's the plan:

1. Stick to the plan. Don't take the bait. Have what you want to say rehearsed, memorized, or written down so that your own anger or fear-induced brain-fog does not take over.
2. Listen to the angry person's words and do your best to repeat them back accurately. For example: "You're saying that I should have sent this out last week. Am I hearing that right?" The person will agree or correct you. If they correct you, say the new words. "Oh, so you wanted me to send it within 24 hours of the request. Is that right?" Often this will feel like mincing words. No worries, keep refining till they tell you you got it right. The key here is to remain calm and keep letting go of any desire to defend or explain. You don't have to agree with the person. You are just checking to make sure you heard them correctly. As you do this, they should begin to feel more understood, which is what they really want.
3. Empathize. "It sounds like this is really important to you." Or "Wow, I really pissed you off!" No sarcasm or defensiveness can come through. You have to be offering true compassion for this to work. Remember, you are not agreeing that you're a jerk (even if this is what they are saying). You are understanding that they are intensely frustrated, and from their perspective you are the source of their irritation.
4. Ask for more. "Is there anything else I'm doing that's not working for you?" Give them space to vent. Use steps 2 and 3 when they offer up their laundry list.
5. Thank them. "I really appreciate you taking the time to let me know how I can help you better." Again, you are not agreeing. You are just appreciating that they explained what is making them so frustrated. You may decide to alter your behavior or not. That's secondary. 

The key to making this work is your own emotional reactions. If you take the other person's beliefs about you personally, it probably won't work. We take things personally when we already buy into some or all of what they are saying. I call this emotional Velcro. We all need to remove our Velcro by examining our self-talk, our embarrassment, our shame. When we can sit comfortably in our own imperfect skin and not judge ourselves, the judgement of others won't matter. In my next post, I'll talk more about removing the Velcro.

Father's Day, Grief, and Healing

Not all of us have dads who were our heroes, our protectors, our cuddly-human-jungle-gyms. Some of us have dads who left. Some of us have dads who stayed but were scary, dismissive, judgmental. Some of us have dads who were unable or unwilling to stand up to scary mothers on our behalf. Not everyone is qualified to be a parent. But there are no tests to pass, no licenses to apply for.

For those of us with abusive or absent fathers, a forced, Hallmark holiday like Father's Day can be torturous. At the least, it's a reminder of what we didn't have. At the worst, it's a reminder of what we did have that wasn't so great. And if your dad is still living, you might be in the terribly uncomfortable position of having to (or feeling like you have to) get the obligatory card, do the obligatory celebration, even though you know (and he knows) it's not really true. Year after year, I call my sister from the greeting card section of the drug store and lament that there is no card that says, "So That Happened."

For many years, I soldiered on, as though having a painful relationship with my dad was just part of the package. More recently though, I've been unpacking the memories - good and bad. My dad made the best scrambled eggs and wore the best smelling aftershave. But he was (and is) also a lifelong alcoholic who could fly into terrible and unpredictable rages. My dad was a great hugger and the best back-rubber. But he was a racist and a sexist who basically looked down on everyone. He was highly intelligent and spoke many languages. But he alienated people all the time. He would take me bowling or miniature golfing, but we always had to stop at my grandparents house where he would have a loud, angry fight with them in Yiddish, while I sat on plastic-covered furniture and waited.

My dad comes by his addiction and anger honestly - tons of childhood abuse and neglect. But I didn't know this as a kid. The depth of humiliation he suffered made it impossible to reveal himself to anyone, including himself. So therapy was out of the question. Yet he managed some level of self control. Just before I was born, he and my mom decided to stop spanking (as they had my sisters). And he stuck to that (which, given his impulsivity, is rather miraculous).

Knowing that my dad's odd and scary behavior comes from trauma, helps me in the ongoing process of my own healing. I know more details of his abuse now than I used to. I can imagine how frightened he was as a kid. I get that being tough, feeling superior, and cutting people loose before they hurt him was the only way he knew to feel safe in a very unsafe world. And these days I can hold that compassion without letting him hurt me. I keep a safe distance. I call early in the day, before he has a chance to get high, when he is mostly clear-headed. I keep our talks short, and hang up before he can spin into a spiral of negative thinking.

What helps even more is healing my own trauma. This means grieving the fathering I never got to have. And then out of that grief finding within me the protective, fun, mentoring, fathering energy that I needed. I hold the younger parts of me close and let them know that my adult self is here now, to give them what dad couldn't. I will keep them safe. I will always be kind and respectful. I will speak to them gently. I will celebrate their successes and comfort them when things go wrong. I will lay in the grass with them and marvel at the shapes of clouds. I will provide, protect, and cherish.

Recently I've found that I can do this for the little boy inside my dad too. And that has proved amazingly healing. He never deserved to be abused. Under all the anger and emotional armor, he's really a very vulnerable and lonely child. It sucks to be him. I can love that kid. And I can hold the whole truth. Parts were wonderful. Parts were awful. Even though there is no Father's Day card for that.

A Little Poem

Before I was a therapist, I was a writer. In my twenties, I wrote a lot of poetry. As I approach fifty, I find myself returning to that form. Here is one I think fits the mission of this blog…

I traveled to the future,

and found you there.

We had lunch, turkey sandwiches

with delicious Swiss cheese.

And you said to me, waving

half a sandwich in the air for emphasis,

“Tell myself, when you get back,

that everything turns out fine.

Tell me not to worry so much, or,” you said,

swallowing a sip of iced tea,

“Not to worry at all, ever.

And to be kind to myself,

especially when naked.

This,” you said, making a circle with your finger,

indicating the whole of your body,

“will not get younger, stronger, or better looking

through self-contempt. Smile into the mirror,”

you told me to tell you.

“Oh,” you said, finishing the last bite of turkey,

sipping the last sip of tea,

“and tell me to take care of my knees.”

J. Levin 5/14

Works for Me

If you're an emotional eater, you may turn to food to stuff down some very important words - words that need saying, but feel scary or wrong to say. Words like "No" and "I don't want to."

One of the most important communication skills I've ever learned comes from my beloved mentor and therapist, Robyn Posin. From Robyn I learned these magic words:

"It just doesn't work for me."

This is all the reason any of us needs to say "no" or set a boundary.  What I love about this phrase is that it eliminates the good-bad, right-wrong, win-lose nature of many boundary setting conversations. It makes it okay for people to ask for what they need, and it makes it okay to say or be told "no." This fundamental okay-ness, creates safety. No one get's judged, criticized, or otherwise bashed. It also eliminates resentment. No one says yes out of fear of negative consequences.

This is not to say that it's always easy to use this skill. There are those who will never be able to hear "no" in any form and take it well. Again, the good news is that if they can't even handle hearing "no," then there is no point in trying to convince or explain. You can save your breath and your energy and walk away.

Many of us feel afraid to set such clear and clean boundaries. We fear losing the people in our lives or hurting them. If you lose someone for honoring your true needs, your life may be better without them. If someone is hurt by your honesty, especially when phrased in a non-critical, non-shaming way, then they were already hurting before you got there. It's their job to heal whatever is injured in them, not yours.

Who is Your Body FOR? (a little saturday morning rant)

Guess what? Your body is for you. Your life is for you too. If the word, "selfish" is flashing in your mind? Brush it away. Don't let it distract you from what I'm about to say.

My friend and fellow therapist, Valerie Torres, posted this article on Facebook today:

Waxing: Damned if you Do an Damned if you Don't: How Pubic Hair Became Political

Which then launched us into a conversation about how sad it is that teenagers are still being indoctrinated into self-mutilation in one form or another to conform to an artificial standard of beauty that is neither healthy nor in their best interest.

This is true of a host of culturally encouraged behaviors from crazy diets, to walking in torturous shoes, to plastic surgery, to hair removal (which often results in cuts, ingrown hairs, and weirdly unattractive 5pm shadow - akin to plucked chicken skin). Pain is not sexy. Neither are sexual partners that objectify us or our body parts.

What I find most painful about this ongoing historical and multi-cultural phenomenon is how sad it is that anyone has to choose between feeling valued, wanted, included, etc. and feeling like who they are is just fine without one iota of alteration.

When one person is deemed "less than" based on appearance, taste, beliefs, choices, etc., we all suffer. We could be next. And the mammalian drive to be part of a pair, a family, a group is powerful. It's evolved over millions of years to ensure our safety. So we will betray ourselves to be part of the larger social structure - especially to be sexy, and pass our genes down to the next generation.

Yet, changing your appearance (or really anything about you) to please other people is a betrayal of your very own self. Do you really want to live inside the body of someone who will sell you out to fit in? It's a crazy making thing. I'm sure there's a German word to describe the dilemma. If anyone knows what it is, please post it in the comments.

Our only recourse is to commit to each others' safety by practicing acceptance and teaching acceptance. Don't get all hyperbolic and ask if this means we have to accept axe murderers. That's not what I'm saying. I'm saying we all need to be loved and accepted, hairy or smooth, tall or short, fat or thin.

Your body is for YOU. Your life is for YOU. If the people in your circles need you to be different from who you are, please find new people.

Helpless Humiliation and Wondrous Healing

So in my last post I mentioned that out of my year of difficulty, I gained some wonderful wisdom that I might not have been open to had I not been in serious emotional pain. So here's one of the most important things I've learned.

First, the world is not always a safe place. Neither is it always a dangerous place. For me it has been mostly safe physically, and often times, not so safe emotionally. Anger, sadness, pain, loneliness and fear were not welcomed in my family. My mother regularly let me know I was "too sensitive." My father loved to provoke me to anger and then laugh, leaving me feeling helpless and humiliated.  I stayed small, quiet, and ate away my feelings and needs, since neither of my parents had the capacity to provide safety or soothing.

Yet over the years I have discovered that in the presence of people who are kind and respectful, I thrive. I am resilient. Even in the midst of a stinker of a year, I can lift up my head and feel awe watching bees drinking from flowers (especially knowing that bees are struggling to stay alive these days). I still believe in miracles like butter, redwood trees, sweat pants, and being held close by someone who loves me.

I am deeply aware that I am not alone. There is no way to get through this life unscathed. The trick is to remain open hearted or "whole-hearted" as Brené Brown likes to say. For me, keeping an open heart requires feeling safe in the company of other people. In this past year, I have been battered by people who, I'm sure, have been battered themselves.

The insurance rep, who I mentioned last time, was like a stern school principal, certain that every client is going to attempt insurance fraud. The contractor who was fond of bending the truth, I'm sure feels tossed around by the whims of the economy, trying to make as much money as possible while there is work available. With these pressures, it's easy to lose integrity and become untrustworthy.

For me, dealing with these personalities daily felt like I was being ground into fine dust - an apt metaphor since most of my house was covered in plaster dust. What was being ground away was my civility, my politeness, my calm. The raw nerves underneath were angry. And not just any kind of anger, but the most poisonous type: helpless rage.

At the time I didn't know that my armor (civility, politeness and calm) was about to be cracked open so I would have to heal that old wound inside - humiliation.

I've long understood that the pairing of anger and fear in me was connected to how my anger was treated when I was little. I didn't fully understand that it was a fear of being humiliated. I didn't know yet that the brain registers humiliation as a traumatic experience. As social creatures, humiliation, which separates us from the safety of others, is a threat. It turns out that sticks, stones AND words can all hurt us.

So enter insurance guy who treats me like a naughty child. Slightly humiliating. Enter contractor who keeps "forgetting" that he needed another day's work for this and another list of supplies for that. Mix in a husband who is worried that we won't be able to find anyone else to do the work (another long story of how difficult it was to find this guy in the first place). And I don't feel like I have any power - like the power to fire the guy - in our negotiations. Mix in a few personal attacks from a family member who has his own abuse history and tends toward abusive behavior when he's stressed out. And it's the perfect storm.

I lose my composure. I lose my cool. I lose my shit.
And it's about time.

At first my anger comes mixed in with the humiliation and the fear. I hate this kind of anger - hard to feel strong when your voice is shaking and you're sweaty and half your thoughts disappear in a fine, red mist before you can say them aloud. This is the vagus nerve, shutting down the body in the expectation that you're about to be eaten. Sucks when you're trying to stand up for yourself.

But over the next few weeks, through an amazing process called Somatic Experiencing, I start to embrace my healthy, strong, no-one-can-mess-with-me, anger. I like to call this Big Cat anger. The image in my mind is of a lioness, lying in tall grass, peaceful and alert. Muscles relaxed but also ready, if needed, at any moment. This calm is so different from the suffocating armor of being small and quiet and eating instead of biting in anger. It's a peace that comes from knowing that with one roar, one swipe of my claws, I can take down any of life's hyenas. And in that knowing, not needing to take anyone down. Just raising an eyebrow when someone is being a jerk, as if to say, "Really? Do you know who I am?"

In this state of empowerment, the world looks brighter, sharper, clearer. My body feels stronger, more agile, and my mind feels awake, open. My heart is open too. Safe to love even more deeply.

This is how healing from attachment trauma goes. We use the best and only defenses available as kids to keep ourselves safe and connected to family that should, but can't, protect and cherish us. For most of us, the defense involves being what our families needed us to be - the good one, the bad one, the skinny one, the fat one. And then those defenses fail. At first it can be terrifying. But moving through the process consciously, with the help of someone who gets it and cares allows for transformation - new strengths, new awareness and a deepening feeling of grounding, and centering. We become our Big Cat selves.

So, that was a year

It's more than a year since my last post. And honestly there is a tiny twinge of guilt from the Should committee in my head. But it's tiny, and it's being hugged and loved by the Breathe committee and the Everything's Okay committee.

And then, WOW! I have a Breathe and Everything's okay committee!!!! I didn't always. So it feels kind of miraculous that they are here, so very present and available when I need them. Ahhhh.

It's been quite a year. My mom, now 80-something, has had some form of dementia - memory problems, concentration problems, and her anxiety has finally caught up to her now that she can't escape it through busy-ness, self-distraction and overwork. My dad had a little cancer - really a little, thank goodness. But still enough for some surgery which is hard on any body, but especially one that is 85.

My sisters fortunately handled the bulk of the care-giving duties, but they got soooo burned out. In the easiest of families, aging is hard. In my very dysfunctional family, it's mayhem. Several trips to Los Angeles, many phone calls, lots of conversations with doctors and hand-holding at various appointments, and everything I've ever learned as a therapist and a therapy client was tested to the limits.

In late July, a water hose in my kitchen failed while I was at work, and the whole first floor of my house flooded. The contents of the first floor - furniture, dishes, appliances, rugs - basically everything - was relocated to the upstairs bedrooms and garage. Kitchen cabinets were removed. Portions of the walls cut out or studded with drill-holes so that giant dryers could dry the walls and insulation, avoiding future mold problems. The insurance representative was more like a stern school principal (certain that everyone is committing insurance fraud) than a helpful partner. The contractor (as I've learned is common) was painfully slow, expensive, and a bit of lying liar.

I had an immediate trauma response - shock, followed by intense anxiety and then a near-complete shut-down of my emotional-relational system.

Miraculously, I was able to work, compartmentalizing my personal trauma somehow. Work was a kind of life-line. I knew that if I could show up and be present for my clients, parts of me were still resilient enough to come back on-line when the time was right. I am still in the process of thawing out. My parents are mostly stable. My house is functional and in many ways, much nicer and newer than before. And the Breathe and Everything's Okay committees are here with lots of hugs, walks in the woods and mugs of hot cocoa and tea.

I would not wish this year on anyone. Yet, I have come out of it with precious, delicious and soul-feeding wisdom I may not have otherwise been open to receiving. In my next posts I will share more of this. Today I just wanted to say Hi again. It's been so long.