FORGIVENESS - A RECIPE

Last week I was struggling with rage.

I don't like rage.  It makes me uncomfortable.

But it is usually a sign that I need to forgive something.

I'm committed to forgiveness.

I know that I am already forgiven.

That there is nothing I could do that would be truly unforgivable.

And if that is true for me, then that is true for everyone else.
#special #notspecial

Many of the things that I've needed to forgive

are obvious trauma

Some have been outright violence-perpetrated on me by someone else.
Those things are real...not to be minimized.

As I've walked this path though

I've realized that

 a lot of the things that I've need to forgive

were things that I did to myself.

I am learning to sit with my definitions

of a woman

of a mother

of 'good enough'

and understand that I've unwittingly been abusing myself

with those definitions

for my entire life.

So what is my recipe for forgiveness?  
This one is finicky....you can't skip any steps.
It's only got three....and they seem easy.
But each step needs proper attention.
If you add in embellishments...you also have to be careful.
Sometimes embellishments distract you from the next step.
To get it done..you have to go all the way to the end.
No backsies.

Recipe for Forgiveness:

1.  Name the Pain

2.  Define the Hurt

3.  Let it Die

Say what?
To forgive something...means I have to let something die.
(I got this from the brilliant Brene Brown.  Read Rising Strong.  It will explain.)
For something to die, it has to be fully alive.
(This part I think I got from myself but probably not.  I just don't remember the reference)

Step 1:  Name the Pain

So my recipe for forgiveness starts will a healthy dose of allowing myself to feel.
I'm an excellent avoider.

When there is something that I don't want to look at

I will find new and creative ways to avoid it.

I may even create an entire story

where I rationalize that the thing I need to forgive-

the thing that I need to STOP-

is actually needed and useful.

Or at least it might be one day.

So I will pack it away in the closet.

Like winter boots.

To bring out potentially in time of crisis.

When the sheer fact that I allow that thing to take up space in my life

ensures that I will feel the rage and be hurt by it again.

Step 2:  Define the Hurt

I have to go through the details-
look them full in the face.
Call the idea into being-
like Frankenstein's monster.
Give the thing life and depth and definition.
I have to be willing to admit to it.
Own it.
Understand that it was real and had an impact.
Understand that it has harmed me
and fixed me into a position
or allowed me to be different in some core way
by it's very existence.

I have to let go of all the things that I have told myself about it that 
allow me to pretend it wasn't as bad as it could have been.
All the diminishing words have to be removed.
It was hard.
It was scary.
It DID hurt.
Man did it hurt.

Usually, that is the hardest part.
The running away from the thing or myself is easy and ingrained.
To take a stand is hard.
To take a stand with yourself is the hardest.
And it requires that you sit with all the feelings.
Most especially the ones that hurt.

Step 3:  Let it Die

After the thing that needs forgiveness is fully formed.
Not hiding in the shadows anymore.
After I've named it, let it walk around in the light for a while,
hell...even loved it.
Or admitted to the love that I have harbored for it
then it is time to let it die.

Sounds violent.
Of course it seems violent...
that's why I've avoided it all along.
The finality and responsibility of mattering to myself
and of being enough
is terrifying.
Death is a hard boundary. 
It's very different than just putting something away
in case you need it again.
This is no storage pile of tools that you don't use often.
This is a ridding yourself of the THING.

So what has to die?
Sometimes it's the idea of what could have been.
Often...it's the hope that the past could have been different.
It's the person I was then or my idea of the person who hurt me.
It's the death of my naivete or the final throws of 
trying to make those winter boots 
look like spring sandals.
The death of whatever it is that's holding me back
is the only way to move forward to something new.
I can't hold on to both that me and this me.
When I'm looking back there...at that spot in the river
then I am NOT here in the now.

Usually (for me)
when the end is here
I've come to the acceptance of all that awful
and also...all I enabled myself to be BECAUSE of that trauma
and the end of my rope doesn't feel like a place to fall from
but instead a place to fly.
The end of my bargaining power
or the cage that is holding me back.
When it's time to forgive
I can usually let the end breathe its last breath.
So that something new can live.

And if I can't....then I go back to see what I did wrong in the recipe.
It works if I follow it.

RAGE

I've recently had a little bit of a breakdown.

And by little bit....I mean, a big fricking cluster.

I am dealing with a veritable mountain of rage.

I keep trying to avoid it but....the truth is...I'm just pissed off.

This is not new.

 I have long known that I could burn the world down around me if I sat in my rage.

It is a part of me and it is powerful.

I have been afraid of using it.

Loosing it.

Looking at it.

Acknowledging it.

For fear of what will happen if I do.

But like all true things..my rage has refused to go away.

Most especially because I have refused to acknowledge it.

So I am forcing myself to sit in the grief and acknowledge the rage.

It's pretty hot in here.

After all of this....why do I still avoid some feelings?

I feel as though this rage is somewhat of my birthright.

An ugly part of my birthright but...mine even so.

My rage is a consequence of something that seems....positive.

Essential.

Necessary.

It's the residue of a coping strategy I've honed.

It is what i have leftover after I deny myself to take care of others.

When they refuse to take care of me.

It's a residue of a commitment to honor, obey, cherish that is not reciprocated.

The Expectors of my childhood got switched for Expectors of my adulthood.

I have inherited a deep, bottomless well of rage because I am a smoother.  

I am comfortable with abuse and disrespect of myself because that is familiar.

I want to get credit for all my hard work and have that mean success.

I want to seem rather than to be.

I want to give because that is all that I am worth.

My lineage is filled with smooth talking posers.

Facilitators of dysfunction.

Enablers of pretending.

Sin-eaters.

This path is my birthright.

I have got to reject it before it kills me.

This rage is a thing unto itself.

I am just not sure what to do with it.

Since my legacy is to help everyone else (except myself)-

I am habitually drawn to people who want me to 'help' them.

Help them pretend to be functioning.

Help them pretend to be honest.

Help them pretend to be enough.

In spite of their own fears that they are worthless.

I am so good at that shit.

Saving everyone around me while I die.

Why do I have such rage when I am so good at doing this?

When I've proven to myself that this is what I want?

The problem is...I've been too understanding.

Of all the reasons.

All the whys.

That it is totally ok for someone to lie or use me.

I've been diminishing.

Of myself.

And my value.

My actions tell my soul 

that it's completely ok for anyone to lash out at me, 

to hide important information from me.

To bury me in the lies of comfort.

To hand me their fears so that they can be free.

That I am supposed to stay behind in the dark,

taking care of everyone's fear

so that they can go into the light.

While I stay stuck in the company of my rage.

I've believed that by playing small,

by staying little,

by squishing myself...

I am therefore lovable

and will in consequence be loved.

I've been hell bent on keeping it together.

I want to be kind.

Most.

But I have to be kind to myself.

First.

And kindness to MYSELF looks an awful lot like rage.

Outrage.

Offense.

Snarling and protective.

Unbound.

Unlabeled.

Without a safe port.

I do not know how to do this thing.

Where I put myself and my value in it's proper place.

Not up high on a pedestal where no one can touch me.

Not down low where everyone can spit on me and walk on me as long as they say they love me.

But in a healthy, valued place.

I don't know that place.

I can't see my way to it clearly.

But I am not going back in the box

where I play it small

so someone else can feel big.

And I am not making excuses for everyone else,

waiting around for them to realize that I am worthy

so that I can believe that I am worthy.

I am going to find a way to have my own back.

To hear my own truth-

even when it makes me uncomfortable.

Or changes my circumstances.

Or my status.

Even if it means that I fail at everything I've tried to do so far in this life.

I've got to choose the hot mess.

Not the cold, logical compartmentalization.