I was asked today if I knew the meaning of friendship...
I thought I did, but apparently I do not know how to find true friends...or lasting friendships for that matter.
Inevitably I find myself, time after time, in parasitic relationships. Again and again I enter into friendships and/or dating relationships where I care and give more than the other person. I have very few friends, and even fewer people in my life who are true friends. People that would be there for me no matter what. That I could call at 3am just needing to talk, and they would listen. And let's not even mention how many of my "friends" would actually come to help me out if I needed help.
I wonder what the hell my problem is. Why is it that every damn time I pick someone to be my friend, or more than friends, I pick the people that are incapable of being true friends. And when in dating relationships why is it the guy that is emotionally unavailable that I decide to fall for.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Sunday, April 12, 2009
healing is hurting
The healing.
The hurting.
Both are necessary...and most times they are inextricably linked. It hurts and it must heal, but hurting is an indication of healing...
Working in healthcare I am no stranger to the fact that when a wound heals it will hurt. Sometimes the healing process is markedly more painful than the injury. The injurious pain felt was immediate and sharp. While the healing gives a dull ache with momentary stings that won't quit. Moment by moment you are reminded of your wound, and reminded of the healing that has begun but is no where near complete.
I have recently become aware of this being true for emotional injuries as well. The layers of hurts we gather over the years can fester and become an overwhelming infection if not dealt with. I had hurt for so long I became numb to it, I ignored the wound and denied the twinges of pain so many times that I led myself to believe the lie that I was fine...
Until one day. One day I acted horribly to someone I cared a great deal about. I was still hurting from something he did. And while I told him--and myself for that matter--that I would forgive him and continue on as his friend, I just could not be nice to him. I found myself being this heinous bitch to him over and over again, for no reason. One particular day after an outing with him I found myself in tears wondering what the hell was wrong with me. How was it that I cared for him so much, and wanted to spend time with him, yet I still could not shake this desire to be angry at him? Why couldn't I just let it go and move on?
I was punishing him for things he did not do. He was being made to pay penance for a sin he didn't commit. While he hurt me, he did not deserve my radioactive bitchiness. I was angry yes. But not with him. Turns out I was projecting the feelings from the ghosts of past hurts and disappointments on him.
The human psyche is a perplexing thing. How is it that we can lie to ourselves? We know the truth...we know what really happened. And yet we tell ourselves we are fine and "move on." Only to further entrap ourselves in the cycle of hurting. Never truly healing or really moving on. It's a protective mechanism. That's it. We must protect ourselves to carry on. We want to ensure no further pain ensues so we dodge all things that appear even remotely like that which caused our original pain. Even so much as to hide from the very thing that will help us.
Like the four-year old with the skinned knee. Screaming and crying. Wincing in pain. His mother tells him the wound must be cleaned before it is bandaged. He cries and screams, knowing full well the pain the warm soapy water will bring. He has heard dozens of times before "we have to clean it so it can heal." But cleaning hurts. It burns and stings like hell. Then the throbbing sets in. Every second a reminder of your injury. Throb. Throb. STING! Throb. Throb. Throb. STING! STTTIIIINNNGGG! Throb.
But then after a bit of time passes you realize your wound is no longer hurting. You are barely aware the injury even existed. You have a scar. A permanent mark of the injury. But the pain dissipates, and even dissolves completely. The scar will even fade away...
The hurting.
Both are necessary...and most times they are inextricably linked. It hurts and it must heal, but hurting is an indication of healing...
Working in healthcare I am no stranger to the fact that when a wound heals it will hurt. Sometimes the healing process is markedly more painful than the injury. The injurious pain felt was immediate and sharp. While the healing gives a dull ache with momentary stings that won't quit. Moment by moment you are reminded of your wound, and reminded of the healing that has begun but is no where near complete.
I have recently become aware of this being true for emotional injuries as well. The layers of hurts we gather over the years can fester and become an overwhelming infection if not dealt with. I had hurt for so long I became numb to it, I ignored the wound and denied the twinges of pain so many times that I led myself to believe the lie that I was fine...
Until one day. One day I acted horribly to someone I cared a great deal about. I was still hurting from something he did. And while I told him--and myself for that matter--that I would forgive him and continue on as his friend, I just could not be nice to him. I found myself being this heinous bitch to him over and over again, for no reason. One particular day after an outing with him I found myself in tears wondering what the hell was wrong with me. How was it that I cared for him so much, and wanted to spend time with him, yet I still could not shake this desire to be angry at him? Why couldn't I just let it go and move on?
I was punishing him for things he did not do. He was being made to pay penance for a sin he didn't commit. While he hurt me, he did not deserve my radioactive bitchiness. I was angry yes. But not with him. Turns out I was projecting the feelings from the ghosts of past hurts and disappointments on him.
The human psyche is a perplexing thing. How is it that we can lie to ourselves? We know the truth...we know what really happened. And yet we tell ourselves we are fine and "move on." Only to further entrap ourselves in the cycle of hurting. Never truly healing or really moving on. It's a protective mechanism. That's it. We must protect ourselves to carry on. We want to ensure no further pain ensues so we dodge all things that appear even remotely like that which caused our original pain. Even so much as to hide from the very thing that will help us.
Like the four-year old with the skinned knee. Screaming and crying. Wincing in pain. His mother tells him the wound must be cleaned before it is bandaged. He cries and screams, knowing full well the pain the warm soapy water will bring. He has heard dozens of times before "we have to clean it so it can heal." But cleaning hurts. It burns and stings like hell. Then the throbbing sets in. Every second a reminder of your injury. Throb. Throb. STING! Throb. Throb. Throb. STING! STTTIIIINNNGGG! Throb.
But then after a bit of time passes you realize your wound is no longer hurting. You are barely aware the injury even existed. You have a scar. A permanent mark of the injury. But the pain dissipates, and even dissolves completely. The scar will even fade away...
Friday, April 3, 2009
burried hurts, and misguided lies
The pain our parents can dole out upon our lives can be lasting. At one point I thought that the issues with my relationship with my father had been dealt with.
I was wrong.
My childhood is split in two. The chasm of drug addiction forever changed my relationship with my father. Before his addictions gained the upper hand in his life he was a fun-loving playful soul. My father was my buddy. I was a true blue daddy's girl. Everything my daddy did, I wanted to do. Wherever he went, I wanted to tag along. On construction sites, to the lumberyard, the junkyard, around town running errands, anywhere and everywhere my daddy went I wanted to go.
Then he changed.
In what feels like an instant, my daddy became another man. The daddy I adored so very much was dead and gone, and in his place stood a shell of a man. A man so gripped by his addiction that he was blinded to all the hurt he was causing. He states nowadays that he purposefully worked himself out of my life and became distant to protect me. Unaware--even still-- of the damage that action caused me.
It hurt so much. Time and time again I would find myself so disappointed and heartbroken. My father's addiction controls him. He wants so desperately to be free, and he has been, but he just cannot break the chains his addictions hold over his life. Even thinking of this breaks my heart yet again. I can't stand the fact that the daddy I so loved as a little girl is dead and gone, and in his place is a broken, lifeless man. The saddest part of all is that my father will likely die without ever having lived. He will likely lose this fight. I want so badly to see that light in those ice blue eyes of his. Just once more. What I would give just to see his face light up with that infectious smile and his piercing baby blues twinkle.
How do you mourn the loss of someone who you see every day? The paradox that is the life of my father. He is alive and well. And yet all the while he is dead and gone. Buried deep within the confines of crack addiction is my daddy. Will he ever see the light of day again? I am not sure. But I refuse to give up hope. I know that he is capable of being clean. He just has to want it bad enough.
It is almost indescribable the hurt that I feel knowing that my daddy, the one I miss so dearly is here, just hidden away. That the one I spent my days with, the one I palled around with is missing. But yet a very similar man is ever-present in my life. This man looks exactly like my beloved daddy, only aged. He sounds like him, it's all the same man...only he is empty. His eyes no longer sparkle, they cry out with the anguish of a man so full of life caught in the death grip of addiction. He sits there in his room with crack rock after crack rock, day in and day out. Living the life of a dead man. He tells me he loves me more than I know. He loves me more than anything... But how do I believe this? How when I would ask him to come to my school functions, or see me sing at church...or just talk to me, and he chose to get high instead. I want to be angry about this. But while he lit that pipe and smoked it every time on his own volition, he is also controlled by it. It is there screaming in his ear ever louder, a near brute force twisting his arm, his will and ultimately controlling his entire life.
Heartbreaking.
I learned as a young girl to just turn off my feelings of hurt. And when it was really bad, I would just flip that feeling of hurt into fuel for anger. I got to where it hurt too much to hurt. I refused to be hurt, I just chose to either turn it off and bury it within, or get angry. It became so much of my daily life with my father that it translated into my relationships with others. I thought that this was a great solution. I was wrong. It was fine and dandy while I was in the situation. Because frankly it was a day to day thing. It was seemingly more worthwhile to just act as though it weren't happening rather than attempt to heal from hurts every single day. Especially when those hurts would not end, nor would my need for restitution be satiated. It was one of my many auto-protect mechanisms.
I am now discovering the many facets of my childhood need to protect my heart, and the seemingly brash and harsh ways I deal with those who hurt me. I am realizing that I need to allow people to be people. I cannot protect myself from further hurts. People do not live up to our expectations, they disappoint, upset and annoy us, and they break our hearts. But these are all the plot twists that create the great novels of our human existence.
I have realized that I attempt to force anyone who crosses me to pay for the hurts my father caused (and still causes). This is no one's debt to pay. My father could have apologized all the times he hurt me, but he didn't. And now the damage is done. I choose to forgive him. And now I need to allow myself to heal. So that is my mission right now. To fix me...
I am the fixer. The one who must fix it...whatever it is I must make an attempt to make it better. So here goes. No matter the multitude of tears and personal wrangling, and contemplation I will fix this. I will find the way to fix me. And thus fix my relationships both current and future.
The woman I want to be is not a harsh volatile person who causes people to tread with fear and trepidation around her. I want to be exactly the opposite of that. I want to be an approachable kind woman who instills a feeling of trust in all the souls she encounters.
Obviously I want this fix to be permanent. And I would love to be able to just flip a switch and be that woman...but healing and retraining yourself takes time. A dear friend (one of the most influential friends I have made, and one who wounded me deeply...a previous blog is written on this topic) who knows me more than I know myself at times, gave me some of the best words of encouragement: "Val you need to be patient with yourself. You cannot unlearn something you have done your entire life in one day. You worked hard to protect yourself in that way, and that is the way you know. " That is what I will tell myself. Continue on...press in and fix this. I will heal from this deep set wound from my childhood, and be the woman I long to be.
I was wrong.
My childhood is split in two. The chasm of drug addiction forever changed my relationship with my father. Before his addictions gained the upper hand in his life he was a fun-loving playful soul. My father was my buddy. I was a true blue daddy's girl. Everything my daddy did, I wanted to do. Wherever he went, I wanted to tag along. On construction sites, to the lumberyard, the junkyard, around town running errands, anywhere and everywhere my daddy went I wanted to go.
Then he changed.
In what feels like an instant, my daddy became another man. The daddy I adored so very much was dead and gone, and in his place stood a shell of a man. A man so gripped by his addiction that he was blinded to all the hurt he was causing. He states nowadays that he purposefully worked himself out of my life and became distant to protect me. Unaware--even still-- of the damage that action caused me.
It hurt so much. Time and time again I would find myself so disappointed and heartbroken. My father's addiction controls him. He wants so desperately to be free, and he has been, but he just cannot break the chains his addictions hold over his life. Even thinking of this breaks my heart yet again. I can't stand the fact that the daddy I so loved as a little girl is dead and gone, and in his place is a broken, lifeless man. The saddest part of all is that my father will likely die without ever having lived. He will likely lose this fight. I want so badly to see that light in those ice blue eyes of his. Just once more. What I would give just to see his face light up with that infectious smile and his piercing baby blues twinkle.
How do you mourn the loss of someone who you see every day? The paradox that is the life of my father. He is alive and well. And yet all the while he is dead and gone. Buried deep within the confines of crack addiction is my daddy. Will he ever see the light of day again? I am not sure. But I refuse to give up hope. I know that he is capable of being clean. He just has to want it bad enough.
It is almost indescribable the hurt that I feel knowing that my daddy, the one I miss so dearly is here, just hidden away. That the one I spent my days with, the one I palled around with is missing. But yet a very similar man is ever-present in my life. This man looks exactly like my beloved daddy, only aged. He sounds like him, it's all the same man...only he is empty. His eyes no longer sparkle, they cry out with the anguish of a man so full of life caught in the death grip of addiction. He sits there in his room with crack rock after crack rock, day in and day out. Living the life of a dead man. He tells me he loves me more than I know. He loves me more than anything... But how do I believe this? How when I would ask him to come to my school functions, or see me sing at church...or just talk to me, and he chose to get high instead. I want to be angry about this. But while he lit that pipe and smoked it every time on his own volition, he is also controlled by it. It is there screaming in his ear ever louder, a near brute force twisting his arm, his will and ultimately controlling his entire life.
Heartbreaking.
I learned as a young girl to just turn off my feelings of hurt. And when it was really bad, I would just flip that feeling of hurt into fuel for anger. I got to where it hurt too much to hurt. I refused to be hurt, I just chose to either turn it off and bury it within, or get angry. It became so much of my daily life with my father that it translated into my relationships with others. I thought that this was a great solution. I was wrong. It was fine and dandy while I was in the situation. Because frankly it was a day to day thing. It was seemingly more worthwhile to just act as though it weren't happening rather than attempt to heal from hurts every single day. Especially when those hurts would not end, nor would my need for restitution be satiated. It was one of my many auto-protect mechanisms.
I am now discovering the many facets of my childhood need to protect my heart, and the seemingly brash and harsh ways I deal with those who hurt me. I am realizing that I need to allow people to be people. I cannot protect myself from further hurts. People do not live up to our expectations, they disappoint, upset and annoy us, and they break our hearts. But these are all the plot twists that create the great novels of our human existence.
I have realized that I attempt to force anyone who crosses me to pay for the hurts my father caused (and still causes). This is no one's debt to pay. My father could have apologized all the times he hurt me, but he didn't. And now the damage is done. I choose to forgive him. And now I need to allow myself to heal. So that is my mission right now. To fix me...
I am the fixer. The one who must fix it...whatever it is I must make an attempt to make it better. So here goes. No matter the multitude of tears and personal wrangling, and contemplation I will fix this. I will find the way to fix me. And thus fix my relationships both current and future.
The woman I want to be is not a harsh volatile person who causes people to tread with fear and trepidation around her. I want to be exactly the opposite of that. I want to be an approachable kind woman who instills a feeling of trust in all the souls she encounters.
Obviously I want this fix to be permanent. And I would love to be able to just flip a switch and be that woman...but healing and retraining yourself takes time. A dear friend (one of the most influential friends I have made, and one who wounded me deeply...a previous blog is written on this topic) who knows me more than I know myself at times, gave me some of the best words of encouragement: "Val you need to be patient with yourself. You cannot unlearn something you have done your entire life in one day. You worked hard to protect yourself in that way, and that is the way you know. " That is what I will tell myself. Continue on...press in and fix this. I will heal from this deep set wound from my childhood, and be the woman I long to be.
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