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Life falls apart. That’s what it does on a regular basis for all of us and yet, every time it happens to me I’m shocked and dismayed. I’m launched into the groundlessness that part of me knows can be a huge opportunity for growth but most of me is simply scared of. The unknown is such a boogieman!
When I’m not busy shaking in my boots, it can be fascinating to observe the various strategies that the different parts of me employ in the service of trying to protect me from the feeling of terror. While I can intellectually identify that the level of fear I’m experiencing isn’t commensurate with the event that’s causing it, the feeling of extreme danger persists so my system goes to work to try to get me feeling safe.
My inner personal growth junkie has collected many pithy little pieces of wisdom designed to counter the fear. I mantra: “this too shall pass” and “pain is the touch stone of spiritual progress” along with, “everything is fine right this minute.” I employ lots of deep breathing and regularly attempt to shift my focus to what I’m grateful for. These things do help but I still feel the undercurrent of deep anxiety.
In the face of this fear I feel the part of me that longs to be rescued. The little girl inside who just wants someone to tell her that they’ll take care of everything, that I don’t have to worry about a thing. She cries, “Where is my knight in shining armor – my Mommy and Daddy – my benevolent powerful God to save the day?”
My inner critic generally jumps in around now. “That’s enough whining. You need to be your own knight – your own parent – your own deity. Get over it and grow up.” I know the critic thinks she’s helping – that she can shame my little girl into piping down – but it’s not a helpful strategy and I try to practice self-compassion when my critic makes an appearance. That scared little part of me that wants to be saved needs love and understanding, not criticism. Of course she wants someone to provide that for her!
At some point the practical part of me jumps in and begins to strategize. I gather information. Knowledge is power and this part of me knows that the more intel I have about what I’m facing, the better I can determine what I can control and what I cannot. The serenity prayer is a strategy that is best applied with lots of information that helps me to know the difference between what I must accept and what I need to muster the courage to try and change.
As you can imagine, all these competing strategies can be so exhausting so let’s say hello to the part of me that thinks that the best way to get everyone to relax is to eat something delicious. A lot of something delicious, preferably while watching a soothing show on Netflix like The Great British Bake Off or Anne with an E. It’s a surprisingly effective game plan and works for as long as I can keep the inner critic from reappearing to shame me for escapist behavior, “unhealthy” eating habits, and oh yes, fat. She will always tell me I’m fat. Fortunately, her body shaming has lost most of its power (with the help of my personal growth junkie!) but she can still successfully nail me about being a coward or being “unhealthy”. Sigh. It’s time for more self-compassion. It’s hard to be a person.
My parents were not particularly present or available as I grew up so I developed a fiercely self-sufficient part that doesn’t ever want to ask for help. She’s there to protect me from feeling rejected or abandoned. If I don’t ask, I can’t be told no or even worse, receive a begrudging yes. It’s much safer to figure everything out on my own and the side benefit to this strategy is that I’ve become an extremely competent person. I’m good at many things and generally available to help others with a wide array of issues. But it can be so lonely and when the shit hits the fan, as it is wont to do every now and then, going it alone can feel like a very heavy load. Wise mantras, mad skills, a can-do attitude, and cookies and TV don’t really help that scared little one inside of me. For that I really need other people.
Self-compassion is such an important practice and can calm the inner critic and curb the urge to sink into anxiety or depression but receiving compassion from others is what really helps. To allow another person to really see me and to have them hold my pain with loving kindness is the most valuable gift. My decision to be vulnerable and the other person’s decision to respond with compassion creates the intimacy that I believe we all crave in our deepest selves and what truly heals.
I can only echo the words of my incredible teacher Pema Chodrin: “The human experience is an experience of nothing to hang on to, nothing that’s set once and for all. Reality is always falling apart. In this fleeting situation, the only thing that makes sense is for us to reach out to one another.” Thank you to the people I have reached out to and those who have reached out to me. My heart is filled with gratitude. May we all hold each other with love and compassion as we make our way through these difficult times.
As my 40th high school reunion approaches, I have so many mixed feelings. I’m looking forward to being with so many of the people who grew up alongside me; people who shared the experience of living in the “All American” town of Bloomfield during the same period of history. These are people who I went to Hebrew school with; people who had the same developmental milestones at the same time as me; people who listened to the same music, wore the same style clothes, and went to the same local restaurants and movie theaters that I did. And yet, these were not my friends.
It’s still bizarre to me that I’m “friends” on Facebook with so many school-mates that were not my friends during my high school years. I see photos of their lives, and their kids, and grand-kids. I celebrate their successes and feel compassion for their struggles. I “like” their posts and they “like” mine but I’m always aware that these virtual relationships are far deeper than any connection I had with any of them when we went to school together.
In 7th grade, the first year all the elementary schools came together, I struggled to fit in, wanting so much to be part of the “popular” crowd. I could never understand why some kids seemed to be accepted, invited to all the parties, clustering together in the hallways and sitting together and laughing at lunch. I spent most of the year sitting at the popular kids’ table with no one even acknowledging my presence. I was lonely and sad but I remember thinking that at least the rest of the kids in school would think I was part of the “in” crowd since they saw me at their table. Was I wearing the wrong clothes? What was it about me that made those kids decide that I just wasn’t going to be accepted? And what was it about me that made me want it so badly that I couldn’t seem to let it go and make an effort to find a group where I would fit in?
I eventually dealt with my feelings of rejection and loneliness by deciding I just didn’t care. I would march to the beat of my own drum and numb any feelings about it by smoking as much pot as I could get my hands on. By the time we got to high school, I had a boyfriend who was 6 years older and I wanted to be just about anywhere other than at Bloomfield High. I was the classic under-achiever, getting A’s in English and Art and C’s in almost everything else. I can remember sitting in the back of Mr. Cunningham’s math class and reading a novel while he taught algebra. I skipped more school than I attended and I almost didn’t graduate because I had missed so many gym classes I didn’t have the PE credits I needed.
While I had one Bloomfield friend that I occasionally spent time with and there were a few people I partied with if we happened to run into each other at Penwood Park for sunset, I was basically friendless and without any real social life with my age peers during high school. I didn’t participate in any extracurricular activities, didn’t attend my prom, and was not once invited to anything by fellow students at BHS. Everyone else seemed to have tons of friends and a group where they belonged. If you had asked me, I would have sworn that I really didn’t care but still, I felt like there was something wrong with me, always on the outside looking in. I suspect that I didn’t appear that way to others, but the truth is I have no idea what anyone else thought about me if they thought about me at all.
Happily, I’ve grown from that wounded, lonely, angsty, teenager into a secure and confident woman. I understand myself at very deep level and carry deep compassion for my own painful experiences and know that there were others who also felt lost during that time. In my life today, I have a close-knit circle of friends, rich and satisfying work, and a loving family. I like and accept myself just as I am.
As our 40th reunion approaches, classmates are posting old photos and reminiscing about the halcyon days of friendship, fun, and feeling like family at our school in our very special town. But for me, those were not golden years and I’m not going to the reunion to re-connect with old friends. I’m going to meet up with some new friends and to reaffirm to myself that these are the shining years and that the best is yet to come.
Progress, not Perfection 
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