Faith (& Poly)

"Her wounds came from the same source as her power." Adrienne Rich - On Power

It has been an excruciating week...again. Last weekend Knight and I went to Harbin Hot Springs, which was a very healing experience on many levels. The first 24 hours was pure joy, feeling the love between us and the love that infuses the land and water of Harbin. Then because of a book I was reading, I had some significant insight into myself (I hope to write a separate post about that), which sent me on an emotional roller coaster for awhile, but Knight held amazing space for my process. As he held me, I recognized that I had been looking my whole life for someone to hold space for me to be the intensely emotional woman that I am. I've also been looking for someone willing to do the work of conscious relationship with me. Things were really, really good.

Until Monday. I had another significant insight that took me into some grief, right before I had to leave him so he could get ready for time with someone else that night. I had to go home with my pain while he went and had fun with another woman for the first time since our sort-of triad last year. That was really, really hard to sit with.

The next day, when I went to see him at lunch, he told me they had sex and my body went into immediate fight-or-flight response. My entire being buzzed with agitated energy and I felt like I just wanted to run and run and run away. I also became sick to my stomach. Knight tried to hold me in my heartache. He expressed every intention of being willing to bear through it with me, but I couldn't trust him.

I was triggered and once I am triggered, all I can see is the fear. For the next 24 hours the only option I could see was withdrawing from Knight as a lover. I told myself and him that I needed to listen to what my body was telling me (which was true, but I was misinterpreting the message). I told myself and him that I'm not ready for poly. I said I am too broken, maybe even too crazy. And I devastated him...again.

Then the fear-fog suddenly lifted and I started seeing clearly again. I paid attention to all the things I said to Knight and realized how caught up in the fear stories I had become. I was choosing fear all over again, but at least I am seeing more clearly what it is that I am afraid of.

I am afraid that I will die crazy and alone like my mother did. This is why I have been unable to find peace with my mother and her death. After years of struggle with depression, narcissism and addiction, my mother had a psychotic break in the months before she died. Constant pain issues that couldn't be resolved were part of her illness for many years. But then she believed that "fibers" were growing out of her skin and she created sores all over her body trying to remove them. It started on her head, so she shaved her head to pick at the sores and wore wigs out in public. It spread to the rest of her body, becoming more and more visible, and the school she worked for was about to make her go on leave because she looked so sick. My sister and I talked the week before she died about the possibility of having to take steps to take care of her because she was no longer able to take care of herself.

My mother died from an accidental prescription narcotic overdose. I can blame her mental illness for her death because it is the reason she was taking so many medications (although I also blame the irresponsible doctors who gave her meds to shut her up--sometimes meds that were actually contra-indicated and caused more harm).

I have a mental illness inside of me and I have healed myself; not only into functionality, but into a thriving, healthy and productive life. For years, rather than accept that my mother was mentally ill beyond help, I have told myself she just didn't try hard enough and didn't love herself or us enough to get better. I believed it was a choice for her just like it was for me. I have not been able to accept her crazy because if I do, I have to wonder if I might really be crazy in a way that can't get better, too.

I am so afraid of being crazy because crazy drives people away. My mother drove everyone in her life away with her crazy. We all gave up on her. I am afraid that my trigger events are a kind of crazy and that neither Knight nor my friends will want to continue holding me if they hear or see the truth of those experiences. I am afraid they will give up on me. So when a trigger event happens, I run away, telling myself and the other person that I am too broken and will only hurt them.

"...It's an act of faith to allow things to unfold and unfold and unfold, and to be willing to include in your life not just what makes you happy, but also your agitation, confusion, doubt, and personal displays of ridiculousness without drawing harsh conclusions. Actually, faith begins to look a lot like fearlessness. It looks a lot like genuine confidence." Susan Piver

I am not crazy.

I need to have faith and confidence that I am not crazy. Trigger events do not make me crazy, they just mean I still have wounds to heal. Getting lost in the fog of fear sometimes does not make me crazy, it makes me human. I always find my way out and experience more healing on the other side.

It is reasonable that my emotional evolution has been incredibly intense the last two years with the Imps, my mom dying, and trying to have the first truly healthy relationship of my life. I am in the midst of significant psychological and spiritual repair so that I can have a happier, healthier life. It will not always be this way. But I will heal faster if I stop resisting the experiences that feel crazy and learn to hold space for myself, which will allow me to trust others to hold space for me.

Healing comes from moving through the heartache, not resisting it. I need to have faith in my own strength. I need to have faith that the healing I have done is real and that more will come. It won't always be this hard and scary. It won't always hurt so much.

I need to have faith that Knight and my friends desire to hold all of me, including the most terrifying parts. I need to have faith that I am worthy of that kind of love. I don't think my friends realize just how scared I am that I will lose them or drive them away and why I try so incredibly hard to do relationship right (why it may seem like the only thing I talk about!). Emotional health is my mission (and obsession).

*

As far as polyamory is concerned, and Knight having another relationship, I need to have faith in our love. I need to trust in my knowings of what Knight and I share. What we have is unique. We cannot have it with anyone else. It doesn't matter what we call it. It doesn't matter what other relationships we have. What matters is that we remain committed to consciously growing into deeper love and healing with one another. What matters is experiencing the sacred purpose in our relationship.

If this relationship fails, it will not be because of another person or relationship. It is not other people who are acting out in fear and creating rifts in our intimacy. Right now it is me. I can blame no one but myself for pushing him away and undermining the progress we've made the last four weeks. Now it is up to me to repair the damage I've caused and work to heal the parts of me that get triggered so that I don't cause more damage in the future.

I choose love.

Standing My Own Witness

There are so many things I desire to write about tonight. The ideas are flowing faster than I can keep up with them. I am titling future blog posts so I can remember the topics that inspire me and hope that when I get to them, it will be right timing and all I desire to say will be said.

But right now my heart tells me to write about this…

I received an anonymous love and gratitude note in my mailbox yesterday.

April, Thank you for everything you do and are. You share so much of yourself and I know sometimes you don’t feel appreciated, but you always are.

As you heal your heart, call on your creativity. Make something beautiful. Pour your love and disappointment, your joy and anguish into the art. Heal yourself through your joy of creating. You are an amazing woman, and have strengths that are admirable.

Love, A Sister on this Journey

I am deeply touched. I feel incredibly loved. The Universe is totally looking out for me right now. Many messengers of love and guidance are being sent my way.

One of the primary causes of my relationship strife has been a sense of not being fully supported, not always being held when I think or feel I need to be, and fear that I am not really seen or loved. It is so incredibly easy (and lazy) to believe such things. It takes work—diligence, intention, discipline—to consciously maintain an experience of abundance.

Right now, even in my grief, the abundance cannot be ignored. The Universe is showering me with blessings. I am experiencing being supported and held, witnessed and loved every single day. But it isn’t always so apparent. When visible, audible, and touchable experiences have spaces between them, it is easy to fall into the old stories. I start telling myself the stories of invisibility--the stories that say I am not seen, so I am not loved.

Rewriting the old stories is hard, hard work. I am the daughter of a mentally ill, narcissistic, addicted mother. My bio father disappeared before my birth, my adopted father had his own dysfunction and did not protect us from my mother’s sickness, and my stepfather was an alcoholic and drug addict. Instead of my needs being met for proper emotional development, I experienced trauma after trauma. Most of my existence was about surviving neglect or violence of some kind. My brain was programmed from birth to think that I am invisible – I am not seen, I always live in the shadow of others – and I do not deserve emotional support. I was also programmed to believe that violence—physical or verbal—and emotional manipulation is normal and acceptable behavior.

I have been consciously working on changing the stories for a long time. As a teenager I knew there was another way of being and I sought it. I started reading self-development books at 15. I read all of Leo Buscaglia’s books. I read Scott Peck’s The Road Less Traveled and Christina Baldwin’s Life’s Companion. I also took religion very seriously. I have been in love with God for as long as I can remember. I have always known that there is a place of healing for me in a combination of Psychology and Mysticism.

And then there was the writing. I have always been a writer. I wrote letters to my friends and started journaling in junior high. I wrote out all the heartache that I was experiencing at home. I wrote to connect with others. And eventually, I wrote myself sane.

I was diagnosable with Borderline Personality Disorder when I was a young adult (that is a whole story of its own that will come one day). I tried many approaches to mental health. I took medications. Zoloft for depression. Something else for panic attacks. And I went to therapy with a few different providers. Medication managed my symptoms but didn't change any stories. Therapy was intermittently effective. At least I was witnessed and I could talk myself into insights. But I needed more engagement and guidance than therapy offered. I needed to really understand myself. I didn’t just need to be listened to, I needed to learn.

I took my healing into my own hands. I read everything I could get my hands on about psychology, consciousness and various aspects of spirituality. And I wrote. I wrote a lot. I have a trunk full of journals. I wrote about everything I was experiencing and how I was evolving. I wrote about everything I dream I could be. I also wrote creatively. Poetry, creative nonfiction, and essays/articles.

I truly believe that writing saved my life and by extension my children’s lives. I believe I am a good mother with fairly healthy (not broken) children because I studied and wrote myself into enough emotional health to meet their developmental needs.

I stopped writing for most of my 7 year marriage. I didn’t have the time or solitary space for it. And I couldn’t risk what I would have to face about myself and the life I was choosing if I did wrote it down. I knew I wasn’t living an authentic life. I traded a sense of security (believing I was seen and loved) for an authentic expression of everything that I am. I did whatever I had to do to maintain the illusion. With him that meant making myself as small and afraid as him. I stopped doing nearly everything that really mattered to me. Until I met my mama-writers group and I wrote myself out of my marriage and into a significantly more authentic life.

Then the Imps happened and I stopped writing again. I have been so busy with being a hostess and developing a multitude of amazing relationships. I have immersed myself in relationship again. It’s a much healthier immersion than my marriage, but it’s still immersion and it has shadow. I am so hungry to be seen and loved that I try to spend every minute with someone else or doing Imps work that makes me visible in the community. I haven’t made the time and space for what I need – to write, to study, and to nurture a relationship with the Divine.

The result? I have been out of control emotionally and now I have lost a life-partner relationship with the love of my life because of it. This is my wake up call. I am going to heal myself through writing. I am going to meet my own needs through acts of self-care. I am going to find my Center again and consciously strive to maintain it.

My “Sister of the Journey” has affirmed that I am on the right path. Right now my creativity is writing, telling my story. I am “pouring my love and disappointment, my joy and anguish” into this blog. I am believing that my own story is beautiful.

As I’ve thought about the growth of the Imps and my desire to do work-of-my-heart, I’ve considered turning this blog into part of our/my marketing strategy. I've been reading about the business of blogging so that I can sell myself. But that’s not what I need right now. I just need to write for my healing so that I don’t ever have to experience giving up the love of my life again. And so that I never hurt another human being like I have hurt him…and myself. It doesn’t matter how many people read this or if some people don’t like that my posts are so long and personal. The people who are meant to will read it. What matters is that I tell my truth and witness my own experience.

Wow! More serendipitous support. A friend of mine asked me the other day, “How can you stand as your own witness?” I see now that this blog is the answer. I can trust that I have a story to tell, a story worthy of being documented and witnessed, if only by myself.

Significant Piece of the Puzzle

where you came from
(poem for my daughter)

i.
the words came home today
unexpected, though i knew
they were inevitable

they didn’t knock at the door
they stumbled in
awkward and young

“I want to know about my dad,”
you said , six years old
unable to know what you are really asking

ii.
i tell you...

the thin but short legs
the round little butt
the Buddha belly

they are his

the rosebud lips
the soft brown hair
the swirl of ear

they are mine

the golden skin
the gray-blue eyes
the spirals of curls

they are yours

iii.
i tell you...

the remarkable temper
the bug-eyed glare
the exaggerated sins against you

they are his


the need to please
the easy tears
the ability to lie with a smile

they are mine

the screechy whine
the hypochondria
the desire to be center stage

they are yours

iv.
i tell you...

the charm
the leadership
the ability to inspire

they are his

the intelligence
the fierce independence
the obsession to learn and create

they are mine

the natural comedy
the gymnast tendencies
the touch that can heal

they are yours

v.
i do not tell you...

the prison walls
the ability to rape
and to murder

they are his
and he will not give them to you

the invisible scar
the gun against forehead
on the night you were made

they are mine
and i will not give them to you

the innocent smile
the easy laughter
the life free of violence

they are yours
and we will not take them from you

* * *

I wrote this poem as a hypothetical rather than literal handling of the situation. I told her what was age appropriate at the time, knowing that I would tell her the full truth one day. She is 14 now, has seen this poem and is aware. She is secure in knowing that I have no negative feelings about her presence in my life.

I will tell more of this story, and how it has influenced my evolution towards the Imps, in the near future.

Autobiography by Poetry

I Know (For Virginia Woolf)

I.

“Five hundred a year stands for the power to contemplate,…”

when you grow up
eating white beans
and ham-hocks,
peeing off the back porch
of a condemned house
without plumbing,
and wearing your mother’s
wedding dress
for eighth grade graduation,
self confidence
is as unattainable
as your own room

when you birth
your first child
at the age of seventeen,
learn neither friendship
nor romance will
play in your sandbox,
and survive on three hundred
a month and food stamps
to earn your diploma,
the dream of composing poetry
is as impractical
as a prom date

when madness
creeps in to take
your wits hostage,
a naïve choice in a lover
leads to his gun
in your bedroom,
and your second child
is conceived in rape
rather than love,
freedom of mind
is as hopeless
as a safe place to sleep

when your days become
blurred snapshots,
writing research papers
while nursing at midnight,
picking lice from your
daughter’s corkscrew curls,
and crumpling into bed
alone and weeping,
the power to contemplate
is as unlikely
as finding a devoted father
for your children

when winning bread
means struggling
to keep poverty
from possessing your family,
success entices you
to give up your imagination,
and the american dream
attempts corporate
conquest of your heart,
your greatest power
lies in your courage
to pick up a pen and write


II.

“…a lock on the door means the power to think for oneself.”

my stories are not
hidden behind wiggling
door handles,
my insights strut between
silly songs and giggles
with my babies

my stories are not
opened with brass keys
tinkling on a silver ring,
my brainstorms swirl and burst
among homemade bubbles
in the back yard

my stories are not
bound by scrawls on paper
or pixels on a computer screen,
my tragedies bleed from
tiny fingers with splinters
and paper cuts

my stories do not
wait for a quiet room
to reveal themselves,
they run naked through
my house and office
when least expected

my stories learn with me
that privacy is a luxury
a mother must demand
after so many years of interrupted
movies, meals, showers,
and sexual tanglings

my stories gather in my lap
each day as the sun sets,
where I kiss them one by one,
tuck them in a pocket
of my heart and whisper,
“Our time will come."

* * *

This poem was written as part of a submission to a competition for a writing grant for women, in response to Virginia Woolf's quote about a woman needing a room of her own and an independent income in order to be able to write.