Tuesday, June 26, 2018
As an author I'm big on social media. I work in marketing so these platforms are a daily necessity whether I like it or not. I'm someone who gets connected deeply - to networks and platforms - to people and places.
But, sometimes, in order to reset your own internal systems, which may have become corrupted by life's malware and cookies until we're ready to go all blue screen of death, we have to disconnect. Reset to factory settings and see how our machine runs then. And that's freaking hard.
Disconnecting from computers, from people or places or things that keep us down, whatever they are, often becomes necessary for the spirit not to drown. Drawing away from the cloud of confusion or negativity, those things that make us lose our own hearts, identities, sometimes even our sanity, is not a new human experience. We all have to do it from time to time, whether by force or by choice. Or both.
In all that obsessive connection, when we've too long held our breath under water, we can end up ignoring the solitary, organic world, the grass under our feet and the wind on our faces, our own hearts. From our tight clouds of non-perspective, we often lose ourselves. We lose our emotional well-being, and then, of course, there's unhappiness and pain. Being too connected to a microcosm and disconnecting from our own bodies and needs plus the larger world around us creates a nasty bubble effect, constricting our minds and our breath.
These days we can become so focused on a much smaller life in our heads, a vast but limited world. We get sidetracked easily by things that feel satisfying in a more strangling way. We fall into them and balance disappears. We create dense woods of our own unwitting creation. Then, when we pop our heads out of the trees for long enough, and if we dare to step outside them entirely, we have to relearn who we are all over again. This re-emerging from a kind of mental blindness is commonly called The Void...and I've known this state of transition from one place to another very intimately. It's a deeply uncomfortable, even gut-wrenching place to be. Ironically, when we disconnect from distractions, from comfortable emotional traps, from things that cause us pain or limit our lives, it can often feel completely awful. At first, anyway.
Disconnecting from whatever limits our hearts requires getting to the point of ferocious self-parenting, of disciplined choices where we have to fight our own fear to combat limitations and connections that constrict. Jumping into that dark disconnection from the old and expanding to the new takes massive loads of courage and faith. We want the woods that are familiar. We even want the angry bears and the poisonous nettles and the cold, stressful nights because the sense of emptiness that comes with a trek into The Void is a new kind of agony. We like our smaller, familiar sufferings. We remember that the sun felt great in the woods...sometimes. All that green we were drowning in was intoxicating... sometimes. But The Void offers all of that plus the rest of our lives.
Disconnecting hurts. It's a merciless growing pain. And it's entirely self-inflicted and self-sustained. On purpose of all things. The Void feels like crap. There's no way around it. And it takes ginormous dedication not to turn around and grope for a rope in the dark that would tie us to things that no longer serve us.
Disconnecting is a commitment to ourselves to connect again, in a bigger, stronger, wiser, healthier way, with the rest of the world.
Thursday, December 29, 2016
A lot of us would consider 2016 to be one of the worst years in memorable history. We've seen questionable election practices, questionable characters take power in shaping the new face of our government, war and turmoil and suffering all across the world in record numbers, and many iconic losses of beloved figures.
But I can't help noticing how these tribulations seem reflective of what is happening in a lot of our lives on a smaller, more personal scale. We have unemployment, debt, depression, anxiety, wars raging within our own worlds, major losses of loved ones, security and our senses of self...for so many people, 2016 has been one hell of a tumultuous year. And I cannot discount myself from that number. No matter how much I might wish I could. But the truth is, in retrospect, I don't think I would.
2016 has been hell for me. I'm not going to lie. I have struggled with some pretty hefty emotional pain, ridiculously stressful situations and violent adjustments to the way I have always functioned as a human being. If it could have gone wrong, if it could have ripped me open, it did.
When I really examine its effects, 2016 has rendered the impossible. It has managed to do something that no other year could accomplish for me - not even with the loss of my beloved little brother in 2012. And for those who know me, you'd think that would have done it. But no. The fact is, 2016 utterly broke me. Or maybe I should say it broke "Me"... as in the me that I was. The more invulnerable, less authentic me. The one ruled by fear masked in pride.
The one who, in all her years, had never really experienced being in love. Not really. The one who, in all her years, had never really, trustingly given in to her own passion. The "Me" who had never felt so low as to succumb to the admission of her own humanity, her mortal flaws and her deep need for others. The one who could never ask for help. The one who feared for the roof over her head. Before 2016, I was fortified by a costume wall. I thought I was open, I thought I was real, and I was - with and for the needs of others. But as for my own? That took the efforts of a powerful and raging year that followed on the heels of the pain come before it. It took a mighty, fiery angel of misery to make me cry out for help.
2016 has exposed me to the point of no return. It's transformative in all its terrible glory, the way it has shaped - or maybe just forcibly uncovered me from under "Me". When I'm sad, I cry. I do that a lot in fact. And when I am angry, I show it. When I need to be held - I ask. And when I am jealous, and insecure, and afraid - I show those as well. Because 2016 has forced me to feel these things in great measure. It's ripped open my skin and tipped out my insides. And some things, once they are out, can never go back in. Some guts will always be exposed. There are a few beloved souls I trust to really see my heart now in all of its bleeding, beating imperfection. I need people. 2016 has broken my spirit enough that I can no longer get by the same way. It has presented me with villains and saviors one in the same. It has presented me with the raw, the real, and the undiluted me. And it is frightening, SO frightening. It requires giving up control, it requires vulnerable trust. Its rewards are risky and awful and shocking and beautiful.
If 2016 hadn't taken away every means of hiding it, I would still be encasing my truest humanity in a suit of armor. But then I wouldn't have been loved. Not the way I needed to feel it. And I wouldn't have met the me that I'm not always so crazy about. The real me. I wouldn't have met her so I could make peace with her. And ask her forgiveness for hiding her away so long.
In all dark and painful things they say there is a gift beyond measure. I think I'm just starting to unravel mine. So thanks, 2016. You merciless bastard. I am wrecked, I am uncovered, and I am changed.
Tuesday, June 28, 2016
Some say life's greatest teacher is pain. Others say you can learn from either pain or joy, just that pain is the most common path to human wisdom. The hardest won lessons seem to be in matters of love. Love of every kind.
Empathic folks, otherwise known as Highly Sensitive People, (HSPs...and a term I'm not a fan of), have a lot of self protection to develop. And even more to put into play with the people in their lives. I can guarantee that most of us have not developed sufficient protections, at least not for the many instances of relationships and interactions that lead to said wisdom... oftentimes the hard way.
Dating, for me, continues to be a constant teacher. It has taught me confidence in speaking my needs and my mind with passion, It's taught me the accuracy of my intuition and the price of ignoring it in favor of powerful emotion, but most of all, it's taught me how my greatest strengths can be my greatest weaknesses. This will sound ridiculous, but I figured something out about myself in the last few years that's probably obvious to everyone else-- something I sincerely didn't comprehend before (though God knows why, as all the signs were blazing). I realize that when I love, I love hard.
No, I don't mean a lot. Not even a whole lot. I mean hard, people. Deep. Completely. I don't love like that OFTEN...not even close, because my self protections are strong enough to limit my circle of trust that much. In truth,I think intuitively, my spirit has known to make me slow to trust--even if my heart can't always obey. Because love is no small matter for me. Love comes with vulnerability that can empty an empathic person. It leads to sacrifice, to outpourings of compassion that are often drained dry. Vulnerability takes a leap of faith, but it should be one that is examined first, tested and earned. Unfortunately, as meticulous as I've been, sometimes, even my careful heart gets overwhelmed. Because it is, at root, a heart that seeks to give itself to those it loves. And by the time that's occurred, I'm invested--soul deep. By then I have resolved to give everything my heart can offer, and it's so rare that it's frightening to contemplate its loss. The piece of myself that goes with it can never be retrieved. Empathic people know that they were not born to love in a flat line, or a shallow pool. When we love and choose to trust, you get our loyalty, our forgiveness, our passion, our protection, our time, our anger, our whole selves. When we love that much, it is no small thing to navigate. It's life altering. And if it betrays us, if it falls to pieces... so do we. It takes a chunk of us that can never be returned. Romantically, familialy....if you reach the point where you're a part of me, you have the potential to rip me to shreds. And it'll take a long time to recover., And even then, I'll do everything in my power to somehow make it better for everyone. Because once I love, I cannot unlove. And that's where it gets painful.
I guess I assumed everyone was like this. I was wrong, though. Sometimes I worry I feel too deeply....that for all the zen I put out to people, they don't realize that inside I'm something else completely. A stormy mountain or a deep sea full of roiling water. Like the universe made me very wrong....or very right...just in the wrong paradigm. Probably why I write and sing. Maybe the heft of what I feel is meant to be bursting at the seams, because the overflow means creation. It means I can feel what others feel, I can understand what others can't admit to themselves, let alone each other, and I can relate those things in ways that touch the human heart. At least, that's what I hope this HSP thing is for, otherwise it's like nature just punched a hole too deep in my heart at the human factory and sent me out to market without fixing its error. All those feelings....mine, others', all of it, leaks out. It leaks out in lyrics, it leaks out in dotted half notes and crescendos and sleepless nights, it leaks out in rhyme....and in tears. And in compassion. A lot of that.
My hope is that I love people who aren't afraid to be loved like that. And where falling in love is concerned, someone who proves himself worthy, because I'll be watching, and waiting, ten times more cautiously than before, to understand their intent. To believe what my soul wants to tell me about their heart. And their comprehension of who I am.
Empathic people have a world to give....and a world to lose. I suspect, though, that the right people will always and forever refill what they take.
Friday, January 22, 2016
Tuesday, January 12, 2016
Wednesday, December 30, 2015
This graphic keeps proving true. God/He/She/It...however you want to define life or the Universe, really does push us painfully forward sometimes. Before I moved to Washington, my life was a period of intense discomfort. I can say now with some confidence that those emotions were fundamental in propelling me forward. Had I been too comfortable where I was, had the feelings been satisfactory and my sense of self solid, I’d probably still be there. But none of that was the case.
It’s been easier and harder and easier and harder in the almost five years since I left the Midwest, but it's never just been easy. I can remember feeling completely lost at first. I didn’t know who I was for a while there. My sense of identity was bizarrely absent. The girl who had always been sure of what she wanted, what she loved and what her dreams were had completely drifted into no-man’s-land, and it didn’t matter how much I hated it or wanted out of the situation, I was stuck there until I wasn't. No family around, no friends yet, an island. Which is exactly what the Universe wanted me to be, I think. My backbone required honing, my Self (as always) required reflection. Even now, when I think I’m strong again, things keep happening to completely up my game in the area of sanity-testing situations. It makes me wonder what exactly the Universe wants from me anyway. It’s kind of mystifying and hair-pulling. I don’t get to see the big picture, so, faith in the portrait is all I’ve got.
This whole hard-stuff-is-necessary thing isn’t bunk. I am unequivocally a different human being than I was in my twenties. Present me knows things, man…and stuff. Emotions and losses that younger me -- who had already seen a lot – had yet to learn. A decade ago I was still incubating in my oven a much safer person. At 25, I was idealistic, relentlessly optimistic, less vulnerable, more certain, less broken open. I’d escaped the dysfunction of my youth and was comfortably cocooned (healing? hiding? both) from the next leg. But I guess that wasn’t satisfying for my adventurously masochistic inner consciousness. Twenty-five-year-old-Jen wasn’t as tough. She hadn’t been jaded. She believed in fairy tale endings and everyone’s good character. She hadn’t been introduced to the gut-wrenching, heart-stabbing face of death, the unnerving terror of utter self-reliance, or life's varied, soul-shrinking forms of rejection. And a hundred other things. I wasn’t at all prepared for the next decade. But the Universe continued (continues) to push me through my thirties with merciless abandon because it’s always time for an overhaul. Currently, I’m pending the release of Jen Version 10.0. I feel like I’m riiiight in the middle of another (massive) system rebuild. It’s a lot like Windows – my software won’t stop updating, and it’s gotten disorienting. Just when I think I’ve familiarized myself with the new interface, everything reboots and throws me into catastrophe. I realize how much self-work I have to do. More layers of learning, more unraveling of an old self. More unbecoming before becoming. It never really ends, but sometimes you reach an oasis when all the previous bits fall into order and you can rest on the beach and sip a drink for a while. I can promise you I’ll appreciate those rest stops a lot more in future.
Either I’m going to become a super star Dali Lama mastermind amazeballs Wonder Woman or a muttering, rocking homeless lady with a grocery cart full of soda cans. I’m gunning for the first one, but if anybody wants to start hoarding aluminum cans for me just in case….points for being proactive.
Ain’t life a sadistic little miracle of a bitch? Wonder what kinda shit she’ll throw at me the next decade. Maybe some of it’ll be awesome. Maybe I'll shock myself. Maybe I’ll find Candy Mountain and sell a million books and travel the world. Yeah. With my aluminum can collection. I think this could happen. I really do.