True (Blog #1091)

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Today has been go, go, go. This morning, from a very safe distance, I saw my therapist. Then this afternoon I went for a walk while listening to an interview with Chris Voss, the former lead hostage negotiator for the FBI. About negotiating. Then when I got home I put on some sunscreen and–for the first time this year–mowed my parents’ lawn. And whereas the lawn currently looks great, my face and shoulders do not. Apparently I was a little late on that sunscreen. The sun during my walk did me in. Y’all, I am SO red. So uncomfortable. I want to jump out of my skin. But only from the neck up.

So that’s something.

This evening I listened to another interview (about the opportunities for growth we all have thanks to COVID-19), and now here I am. It’s eleven at night, and–simply put–I’m ready for a break. First, from the day, which has been full of both physical and mental work. (Learning is a brain strain.) Secondly, from this pandemic situation. Seriously, it’s taking its toll on everyone. Sure, we’re at home, but we’re stressed out, tired, worried, fearful. So many generous people are offering online classes for free to keep us entertained and better us, but I for one can’t keep up with all of them. Hell, I couldn’t keep up with all the information in my life before. Who cares if I have a little more time on my hands now? There are only so many hours in the day. And now that spring is here, unless my parents’ grass gets the coronavirus, more and more of my time is about to be spent knocking weeds over.

All this to say that not everything stops during a quarantine. You still have to take care of your lawn (although some people clearly don’t), and you still have to take care of yourself (although some people clearly don’t). Perhaps more than ever, this is THE time to take care of yourself, to really make sure you have the internal foundation required to weather a storm. Because, Buddy, it’s pouring. And whereas you can’t stop the rain, you can do everything in your power to keep it from drenching you. Alas, all too often we stand in the middle of a storm, being soaked through and through, and tell ourselves and our friends, “I’m fine. Really I am. Nothing to see here.”

This morning Facebook reminded me of two quotes I posted on this day several years ago. The first quote, by Cooper Edens said, “If your friends don’t recognize you, throw away your disguises.” Along the same lines, the second quote, by Paul Laurence Dunbar, said (in part), “We wear the mask that grins and lies, It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes. This debt we pay to human guile, With torn and bleeding hearts we smile.” With torn and bleeding hearts we smile. How true, how true. Later in the poem Dunbar says, “Let them [the world] only see us, while we wear the mask.”

Standing in the middle of a storm, we say, “I’m fine. Really I am. Nothing to see here.”

Yesterday was my six-year therapy anniversary, my shrink-iversary. So today my therapist and I discussed how  much I’ve grown, how different and better my life is now than it was six years ago. And how different it might have been. “I think you’d still own the dance studio,” she said, “and be surrounded by unhealthy relationships.” Amen. “But I want you to know that for as much as you’ve changed, the person you are today is the person who walked into my office six years ago. I mean, deep down, he was in there. You haven’t become someone new. You’ve simply peeled away the layers that were covering up who you really are.”

In other words, I’ve taken off my mask.

This getting-real process, of course, is a process, and it’s not like I think I’m done, or as authentic as I ever will be. I’ve just made some important strides. And whereas I could talk every day for three years about the specifics of The Path (and have), I believe it starts with getting honest. It starts with admitting to yourself that you’re standing in the middle of a storm getting absolutely drenched and, in fact, you are not fine. Really you’re not. Granted, there’s not an answer in this admission, but there is a relief that comes in letting go of your old story. In letting down your mask, if even for a moment.

This is a scary thing to do, I grant. When you’ve spent decades with walls up, the thought of bringing them down is terrifying. In the interview I listened to today Chris Voss said that when he’s in negotiations with someone and they have their walls up, he says, “Sounds like you don’t trust me yet.” Later he explained, “State the obvious. Tell the truth. It has a profound effect on people.” Amen. Start where you are. I’m scared, I’m nervous, I don’t know what to do. I’m soaked. Whatever.

The truth will set you free.

The last thing my therapist and I discussed today was something I wrote about here several days ago, that part of me is scared to stop this blog next week because it’s been such a good thing for me, because it’s been a healing place for me to meet myself in any given storm. “It’s given me myself back,” I told her, “and I don’t want to lose that.” But she said, “You can’t lose that. It’s inside of you.” Indeed, what I’ve gained from this practice of daily introspection hasn’t come from without, it’s come from within. And I’m convinced it’s been there my entire life, just waiting for me to find it, to find me. What’s more, I’m convinced this is the case for all of us, that there’s a part of us, behind the mask, that is, in a word–

true.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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What are you really running away from?

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Talk about a Serious Gain (Blog #362)

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It’s two in the morning, it’s been a long but good day, and I don’t know what to write about. Tonight’s blog is number 362, the first of “the final four” that will complete “year one,” so it feels like it should be profound. But–chances are–it won’t be. Still, at least I’m here writing. Barring something catastrophic, I’ll soon be celebrating having written every day for a year, at which point it won’t matter which posts were profound and which weren’t. At that point what will matter is that each post, just like each piece of a puzzle, has contributed to the entirety or the wholeness of this project.

Today my therapist and I celebrated the anniversary of our first session together, which was technically four years ago this last Saturday. (My friend Bonnie refers to this date as my “psycho-versary.”) Granted, the “party” wasn’t a huge deal–like, Zac Efron didn’t jump out of a cake or anything. We didn’t even have streamers. But we did take a few moments to acknowledge all the progress I’ve made and all the work that both of us have done these last several years. This is something I hope to do more often–stop and recognize how far I’ve come, rather than simply thinking, But I have so much further to go.

Tonight I taught a dance lesson at a friend’s house, and this afternoon she sent me a message that said, “If you show up early, the boys (her young sons) would like to show you the Legos they put together over spring break.” Y’all, these kids are adorable. For maybe twenty minutes they showed me their all the toys and gadgets they’ve put together recently. And despite the fact that most the toys were recommended for children below the age of ten, I was fascinated. I used to play with similar toys when I was their age, and I still love figuring out how one thing connects to another.

As the boys were showing me their treasures, they kept using a phrase I’ve never heard children use before. They’d say, “One new thing we gained is this robot” or “One other thing we gained is this dinosaur.” That word–gained–is something I’ve been chewing on tonight. First, I’ve been thinking about the fact that gain implies something positive and worthwhile, something you’re proud to have. Like, I’d never say, “I gained another sinus infection.” But I’ve also been thinking that in order to gain something, you have to lose something else. In order to gain something, you have to pay a price. The boys, for example, may not have had to purchase their toys, but somebody did, and the boys at least had to spend their time putting the toys together.

As I think about it now, I realize that how a person spends their time and resources is a dead giveaway as to what they value. Like, I can look at the boys’ room and tell they LOVE building things, creating things, and learning. Personally, I love these things too. Also, I love and value writing, which is why I write this blog every day (every damn day). Granted, I lose or give up plenty in order to do so–hours of my time, hundreds of my dollars (for web hosting and design), and missed opportunities (time with friends, etc.). Sometimes, I’m sure I have bitched about these losses. Just tonight I told my friend Bonnie that I was “still” living with my parents. But I’m reminded that for every thing I’ve (willingly) given up in order to write this blog and practice my craft, I’ve GAINED so much more in return.

For one thing, I love, like, and accept myself a hell of a lot more than I used to.

Big gains come at a high price.

Naturally, this same line of thinking could be applied to my time in therapy. Today I told my therapist that of all the good things that have come out of four years of therapy, the very best–like, above and beyond all the others–has been reconnecting with my authentic self, my truth. Talk about a serious gain. The more authentic I am (the more I share myself “warts and all”), the more comfortable I am in my skin and in the world around me and the less anxiety, stress, and nervousness I feel. Sounds great, right? Well, it is. But big gains, naturally, come at a high price. In my case, I’ve spent countless hours and dollars on therapy, books, and other personal growth material. I’ve shed a lot of tears and had a lot of hard conversations.

Still, every minute, every cent, and every challenging thing has been worth it because I’ve gained me. (Now I think, What a terrible thing, to live without yourself.) In this sense, just like I think every blog post is important because each is a link in an unbroken chain, I’m starting to think that every good, bad, and ugly thing in my life is important, perhaps even necessary, because each has somehow brought me to where I am now, this place where I’m meeting myself. I’m always saying that I don’t recommend this inward journey (because it’s hard), but that’s not true. It is hard, but I absolutely recommend this inward journey because in my experience it’s the only way to really put the pieces of your life together, to see how one thing connects to another, to finally become whole.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Things are only important because we think they are.

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