trust January 27, 2008

My throat has been bothering me for almost a week. I hate having a sore throat. I used to lose my voice all the time years ago before I realized I had allergies and started taking the appropriate medications. Still my allergies can go too far even with drugs, and I get post-nasal drip irritating my throat, and occasionally, still I lose my voice.

I started thinking in terms of SHBs and what they would say. Authors like Caroline Myss and Louise Hay come to mind immediately, any book on chakras, and really any mind-body-spirit SHB that links sickness to something specific, something you need to let go of, or a wound you need to stop scratching.  What does it mean when I lose my voice? How does the literal loss highlight the figurative loss? What is it I’m not saying?  What do I want to say but feel unable to speak?

When I think about this I keep coming back to trust. Trusting myself. On some fundamental level I do not trust myself. I don’t trust my instincts, my opinions, my abilities, my work, my very own voice.

At work I’ve been doing these online seminars; I facilitate discussions between presenters and participants and I control the whole thing. I’ve done most of these alone, but I’ve had someone sitting in with me for the last few and I’ve noticed that I ask her opinion about what I should say or ask all the time. I also realized that when other people have sat in with me I do the same thing, constantly asking for feedback. It must seem that I can barely manage alone. But it’s just the opposite: I manage brilliantly alone. When I’m all alone I have little doubt what to say, what questions to ask. I just do it, follow my instincts. It works.

My distrust in myself, in my own voice, seems to be present when someone else is around. When someone else is present, I trust, value, his or her opinion before my own. Why do I do that? Well… low self-esteem, the mighty catch-all? Trust issues? Clearly. Honestly, I don’t know what’s at the root of it, but now I know it’s there, now I’m aware of it. In her book Why People Don’t Heal and How They Can, Caroline Myss says “The greatest illusion of the New Age is that awareness alone heals… Relying on intellectual awareness alone to heal your body is wishful thinking.”  Will I speak and heal my voice? Or will I continue to act the same way, with my voice stuck in my throat clawing at me to get out.

20 Years January 20, 2008

My father died 20 years ago today (January 19). It’s been a long 20 years, but still, somehow, unproductive. I still miss him. I’m still angry that he died when he did. I’m still adrift in some ways since then.

When he died I was a senior in college about to start my last semester. This is a pivotal point in a person’s life. Especially a person like me who can just sort of, go with the flow. I had no real goals, although I applied to graduate school. (That was one of the last things my father helped me do, get out those applications, edit my essay, help me decide where to apply.)  Not really thinking about it. I just thought graduate school would be a safe bet, a continuation of school, which was pretty much all I knew after 16 years. And I’m great at doing what I’m told.

When he died I just floated, not with lightness, but without any sort of grounding. I went through the motions, again without really thinking about what I wanted, whatever was easiest, whatever caused the least stress for everyone. So I went to graduate school. Again with no goal in mind for the education or the degree.

Real goals, things I really really really want to do, rest at the back of my mind, waiting for me to pick them up and do something with them. I never do. Let me restate that: I often let them continue to rest, until they fade away, and I forget them completely. Because as I sit here now, I can’t think of a single real goal from graduate school. Everything I did was along the path of least resistance. Everything I chose required little action from me, little choice.  Somehow hoping my stillness would bring great change.

I was left with this wanting, this feeling of incompleteness and joylessness. I wanted more, but not only did I not know how to go after it, I didn’t even how to think of it. I would try something and hope it would magically change my life. At the first sign that it would not, or the changes I would have to make would be too great, I would drop it and move on to something else. I’ve done this with hobbies, sports, cities, people.  I’m constantly starting over, beginning again. And I’m a fabulous beginner. I can go from absolutely no knowledge to low intermediate in the time it takes others to figure out how to pronounce the thing. But I leave. I always have.

Yoga will be the challenge to this. I’ve been doing yoga for a year now and I don’t see giving it up any time soon.  Just when I think it’s routine and just an exercise, I’ll have to leave a class in a hurry racing to my car before I burst into tears. Holding it in the parking lot. Then safely away at the first stop light, I Sob. Sob for whatever feeling that came up in whatever asana. Sob for my life. Sob for my fatherless family. Sob that I still feel lost after all these years.

I Am Legend January 6, 2008

Friday after work I  wanted something to do so I went to the movies and saw I Am Legend. I did not sleep that night. I would turn off the light, but I would be wide awake and immediately I would think of the head zombie, the screamer, the one with the plaid shirt (Really.  They’re still covering their privates after 3 years of zombiehood?). Then I would turn on the light and keep reading. I did this until about 4:30am when sleep finally took over; then I would up on my own 3 hours later.

One of the things I do as a recovering SHA is to really explore why something keeps coming up. The movie was not that scary (actually I was a wreck, but as I age I seem to be less tolerant of horror movies), so I had to assume something deeper was going on. In the morning, I let myself just think of the head zombie, what he looked like, why he in particular was in my head. I realized this: I was not afraid that he would jump into my bedroom and get me. I kept thinking about him because I was afraid of becoming him.

Huh? You ask. Well when I really thought about it, he didn’t seem as scary as he seemed… familiar. Close. Reasonable even. He’s stuck in a dead-end job and he’s hungry all the time.  How is it I went to this movie and identified more with the zombie than the Hero, or even the Tough Chick, or the Kid — or even the dog for crying out loud?!?!! Then it hit me: 5 days into it, I realized it was another year and I still hated my life.

The head zombie with that primal, loose-jawed, desperate scream could be me. Going back to work, alone, fat, unfulfilled, still. Another year and my life it still basically the same as the year before, and the year before that, and the year before that ad nauseum. That started a crying jag that lasted at least 30 minutes.

I have big changes planned for this year, although I’m too chicken to say they are my resolutions. Because I remember having big changes planned for previous years. Change is terrifying. You never really know what you will become.  So much energy and hope are put into becoming this new thing, so if it doesn’t work out it’s incredibly depressing. Not changing, however, is even more terrifying. I have a hint of the desperation I hold and I don’t like it one bit.