There is a Part of Me that Wants to Survive

We recently got a new car.

I should say a “new-to-us” car.

It’s a 1999 Honda CRV complete with peeling paint, slugglish A/C and in desperate need of rotors. It also intermittently doesn’t start.

But other than that…

We like it.

It’s been a long summer without a car. So even though its not my top choice of vehicles, its also not my last. I’m thankful. I mean, when you go without a car for seven months, then you sort of naturally become a recluse. It will be nice to, you know…. Go SOMEWHERE!

School starts Monday and with the end of the summer came a need for a babysitter. We really hired her because I thought I was losing my mind and felt I could NOT do one more day of summer.

My first act of freedom was to visit the dump (because this is what a person does as their first act of freedom?!?!). You see, our lovely acre of land is located so far from civilization that no trash pickup companies will service us. It’s {not} great. In my eagerness to be rid of the nastiness residing on our front porch, I forgot my cellphone.

Of course, I didn’t remember this until my car wouldn’t start at the dump.

Stranded. At the dump. Of all places.

It was smelly, hot and I didn’t have anything to do but wait the 1.5 hours it would take my husband to return his state vehicle and then drive to me.

So I waited and waited some more. And there was a great deal of time to think.

I remembered my therapist offering up the suggestion that when faced with bad circumstances, we can ask ourselves, “What can I learn from this?”

And so I closed my eyes in the sweltering heat and  prayed, “What can I learn from this, God?”

I’ll be honest. “Don’t buy sh*t cars!” was the first thing that came to mind.

I’m pretty sure that wasn’t God’s answer.

Opening my eyes again, I looked at the words scrawled on a bright red sign.

Take the time or pay the fine.

A cantankerous snort may have emerged from me at this point. I knew the sign was my answer, but I didn’t really like it.

You see, I didn’t take the time to grab my cellphone or leave the babysitter with Jesse’s number. I also didn’t take the time to fix a problem with the vehicle when I certainly should have.

Yes, I could go on and on about all of the procrastination that occurs in my daily life, but it felt like there was more to the message on the sign. Something deeper.

My car did eventually start – an hour later. As I drove, I was immeasurably thankful. I also felt, deep in my soul, that the car – faults and all – was the car we are meant to have right now. I felt peace.

And I felt something else that I ignored for the rest of the week.

Sad.

I had felt sad for a number of weeks – very, very bone wearily sad. The kind that comes from caring for a person that may never get better. The kind of sadness that comes from witnessing diminished capacity. The kind of sadness that mourns simultaneously for the life that a person could have and the life they actually have.

I barely made it to the end of the week and even once I did, the sadness was still there. Only it had now festered into anger turned inward.

I was crippled by what I thought was self-hatred today. Only to find myself digging underneath all of the anger to discover this deep, deep sadness –

A sadness I had not taken time to feel. Take the time or pay the fine.

And the fine?

Crippling self-hatred and thoughts of self-harm.

So I sat down today, knowing the page could be the canvas for my sadness and I started to write about my jank CRV and a bright red sign that I had thought I understood, but actually ignored.

And I’m here to tell you some things that aren’t pretty and are deeply discouraging. They suck the will from within me. These are those things:

I surpassed my ability to take care of Evan years ago. We are now living in a season of sacrifice. I’m so tired. My therapist says that my responses to Evan’s aggressive behaviors are similar to what can be seen in abusive relationships.

The problem is the abuser isn’t an abuser at all. He is a disabled child who is growing stronger in body and emotion. He has hurt me and meant it. He has hurt me and not been in control of himself. I love him. I can’t stop loving him. He is my child.

But when is enough going to happen that someone can save us from him? I’m not the only one bleeding out here. There are six people in this family. Five of them are held hostage to the whims and moods of another.

Each day, I must choose my response to those moods and whims. I’m very tired. I would rather just die than keep on like this.

But…

There is a part of me that wants to survive.

That part is the one here making confessional, feeling all of this pent up pain. She pays the fine when I don’t take the time to feel.

She hurts worse than words can express.

And I’d like to take this moment in time to honor her for her strength. I honor her for her honesty. I honor her for her sacrifice. And for what it’s worth….

I’m so, so sorry that it is this way.

Candidly,

Ash

 

Let the Pain Move through You

I didn’t know adulthood would be this way.  I didn’t know there would be so much pain, so much less for which to live. Sure, there ARE so many beauties to behold, so many paths to walk, so many dreams to dream. Yet, there are just so many bills and crying children and lots of holding the space for people, for myself.

It’s a challenge – the holding of space. When I dreamed of homeschooling, I followed a lovely mother who had so much knowledge about “teach-moming”. She talked about holding the space like it was a sacred thing. Her idea appealed to me so much that I bought every printable, curriculum, book thingy she could possibly create.

The idea of “holding the space” was that sometimes the small people simply need people to be quiet. They need adults to be calm. They need others to pause. The instinct, when the shrill screaming of a small one rents the atmosphere, is to rush to them and say words, to instruct. I am instantly in their face and fixing/breaking things. I mean to fix things, but most of the time I break things instead. I break small spirits. I crush opportunities for growth and decimate plains of open feeling.

I found this principle, combined with assertiveness and observation, to be the most altering of any parenting technique. When I stopped and held the space, the small people could do all that they needed to do and so could I. The pause, the observance, the stillness allowed them to calm themselves. Sometimes they didn’t, but the holding of space also allowed me to calm myself. I always responded better when I was calm and still do today.

I found the idea of holding space to be similar to holding the note at the end of a song. In choir or band, we would look to the conductor and just hold the note, waiting for her to signal the stop. Similarly, in parenting a climax or crescendo might erupt from the small people and I would be the conductor to whom they were looking. If I cut the note short, then everyone was less satisfied. If I let it resonate, echo and dissipate, then the satisfaction of an ending could occur.

Pain is like a small child too. It needs me to hold the space – to pause, observe, resonate and diminish. It needs the process, the movement, the freedom to be the place where time and meaning great each other. The problem is that I didn’t have enough people holding the space for me while I was growing up. The eruption of pain was a geyser of uncontrollable proportions.

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Like a geyser with hot steaming water shooting into the air, my pain shot into the atmosphere spreading its deluge of scalding energy. It makes me imagine the person who discovered geysers. Frantically, they must have sought cover, desperately trying to reshape a world where water poured endlessly from the ground. Water from the ground – mind boggling.

This is the way I viewed pain my whole life, because the space was so rarely held for me. I needed someone to pause and watch, noticing the diminishing of the onslaught of scalding water from the ground. To show me that the geyser would come and go. Pausing to watch the magnificent spectacle was all that I needed. Watching it rise higher and higher, then temper to a small spray easing itself into a trickle that I could touch without being harmed.

This is the process of pain.

I need only let it move through me. Maybe through deep breaths or tears, perhaps pounding pillows or squeezing them tight, stepping into the heat or the cold and closing my eyes, walking the path in a nearby park, standing or dancing in the rain, listening to the music or holding the pregnant pause – these are things pain needs from me. These are the things I need from myself

“Surrender to the grief, despair, fear, loneliness, or whatever form the suffering takes. Witness it without labeling it mentally. Allow it to be there. Embrace it. Then see how the miracle of surrender transmutes deep suffering into deep peace.” Eckhart Tolle