I have had an interesting relationship with what is mine and what is not mine.
Yes. a a boundary issue.
A big one.
From a very early age, I confused who I was with another.
Which were my emotions, and which ones belonged to other people.
I became very good at carrying other people’s negative emotions for them, in hopes that I could take away their pain… and they would then be more able / capable of seeing and loving me.
I mastered face-reading, especially the eyes.
It was all there.
If someone was scared, angry, sad— basically anything but happy, I would swallow it. Take it in to my belly, and try my hardest to transform it into something fabulous.
Happy. Joyful. Fun.
I became an energy and emotion alchemist.
I took what was negative from another, and transformed it, through my body, into something beautiful.
People always said how happy I made them.
How good they felt to be around me.
How much lighter they felt being in my presence.
I prided myself in being the “positive” one.
The one who could make others smile.
Feel good.
Feel lighter.
The years passed, and I began having energy problems of my own.
My adrenals were getting weaker.
My thyroid was not functioning optimally.
My iron was low.
My blood pressure was always low.
My digestion was off. A LOT.
Finally things got so bad after a very prolonged, stressful event that my endocrine system did a full stop.
My blood pressure plummeted.
My blood sugar was off.
I had a bladder infection, and uterine pain.
My thinking was foggy.
And I was TIRED.
Bone-tired.
Oh— and my entire colon was impacted.
I felt terrible, and was crying almost daily.
No one knew what was going on… really.
It took months to get to the bottom— or, rather, the top— of it all.
Swimming upstream with a minuscule amount of support from the medical community.
But mostly, I was doing it alone.
With the help of my man.
I knew that my body was saying no.
I had been saying yes to the wrong things for too long.
Now I had no choice but to slow down.
Take a full pause.
And re-calibrate.
Everything.
My bladder was irritated.
Symbolic of being pissed off.
My body was not happy with my patterns.
Choosing others before me.
Making sure I served everyone else first
got me into this bind.
I now needed to serve me.
But how?
It has been a slow, arduous process.
I have had to practice daily the art of deciphering what is mine—and what is NOT mine— to do, to feel, to carry.
Caring for others has always equalled “carrying for others.”
Carrying their weights.
Their burdens. Their sorrows. Their grief. Their disappointments.
I needed to learn how to care for others without carrying them.
So much guilt.
So much self-deprecation.
So much to learn.
I no longer had the bandwidth to worry for, or about, my kids.
Nearly grown at this point, 18 and 19.
My body needed a full re-boot.
And during this time, I couldn’t, even if I wanted to,
carry their stuff any longer.
My body slowly began to feel better, and yet my brain scrambled to keep up.
It was used to running on fear, worry, anxiety, adrenaline.
My adrenal glands could no longer produce adrenaline.
I had to find a new way… out.
TRUST.
Shit.
I knew I needed a better relationship with that word.
That concept.
And yet, I had no idea of where or how to begin.
Trust what? Trust whom?
Trust the universe?
Fuck that.
My brother had died when I was three years old.
Trusting was for the stupid people who didn’t know enough.
Trusting was for people who had nothing to lose.
I had much to lose, and had already lost too much at age three.
And yet, I knew that I needed to hand over the parts that I could no longer carry to others, and to the universe.
But every time, I felt weak, like a failure.
Finally, I began to realize that “vulnerable and slow” really was the new “strong.”
I had taught it for so long, and now I finally believed it.
Leading, and “leaning into” my life, like a man would, had depleted me of oxytocin and serotonin.
I had plenty of dopamine.
Quiet and spacious days were healing and restorative.
Running around was no longer an option.
It was time to opt-in… to me.
I asked my man last month, “Do you miss the businesswoman, go-getter me?”
He said, “No. Actually, I never really liked that part of you.”
Funny.
I was trying to prove something with my crazy work ethic and super-mom status.
I ended up proving that “You can have it all” is a myth.
You can have it all, but it will cost you.
Nothing is for free.
It cost me my health, my creativity and my energy.
I now try to clearly look at, and calculate, as best I can, the real costs— in terms of time, money, and energy— to what I say “yes” to.
If life really is a kitchen renovation, which appliances can I afford?
I now think of my energy needs, and what I want, before I say yes.
I consider what part is mine, and then I break that down into parts.
What can I do today? Tomorrow? Next week? Next year?
Before, I would, as my mother say, “swallow things whole.” I would bite off far more than I could swallow, and certainly more than I could digest.
Now I try, as best I can, to bite off smaller amounts.
Do less.
Breathe more.
Sleep more.
And eat more.
For now.
This is mine.
This is my practice.
My gift to me.
My gift to those around me— although this one is hard to swallow, literally and figuratively.
I have always preached that we should not deplete principal,
and only take from interest. Interesting metaphor here for sure!
I did not listen to my own words.
I definitely spent principal, making sure everyone else was safe.
Making sure everyone else was happy.
Making sure everyone else was comfortable.
It was on my tab.
This year, it was time to settle the life-long tab.
I realized that you don’t pay it off altogether.
It has been a daily, weekly, debt re-payment— to myself.
Paying myself back, so to speak!
The paybacks come in times of quiet.
Long walks.
Swims and steams.
Watching comedians in cars having coffee
laughing
crying
lovemaking
eating… finally, I love eating!
sleeping
writing
thinking
pondering
reading
DOING LESS
Being more… of me
It is not complete.
It is not over.
But it is a great beginning…
Ducit Amore 