As a young girl, I lost my father and, shortly afterward, my innocence. After that, I was on red alert for danger. I spent all my energy trying to stay safe and avoid pain. The result was that I didn’t learn what other girls learned as I grew up. My growth was stunted. At 20, I lacked the ability to set boundaries, speak up for myself, and stay safe. I was terrified and vulnerable. I built flimsy armor to compensate. I tried to stop the pain before it could get to me. I was a fresh-faced, naïve 20-something. I didn’t know armor is permanent. I opted to chain smoke, swear, and wear black clothes, leather jackets, and boots. I rounded out the outfit by walking tall and tough with an I-won’t-take-your-shit attitude. I was a young-looking 20. I’m sure I looked like a pissed-off baby hedgehog.
My armor is a ruse. I put a leather jacket on my vulnerability. I’m not scary, and I most certainly will take your shit. My friends call me a badass, but I’m a pretender. Taking armor off is painful. Mine was rusty and corroded, fused to my skin. It’s taken years to learn the skills I missed. I have enough experience now to know I can better care of myself. Nothing traumatic has happened to me since I was 19. At some point, I had to choose whether to change or suffer the pain of loneliness and isolation, continuing a long, slow emotional and spiritual death. I can’t shake the armor completely. I put it back on when I can’t maintain enough space between myself and others. I build artificial barriers.
I’ve mellowed with age. I haven’t smoked in 20 years, and I say the F-word less. If you scare me, I don’t growl and spit. I practice kindness and listen more. I fall short more than I succeed, but I practice. I tell my kids, “To be good at anything, you must practice. To be great, practice more.” I need loads of practice to erase the defensive character I built. I pay attention to my reactions. Whenever I experience instantaneous hatred for someone, I look to see where the hate comes from. Most of the time, the recipient reminds me of someone that traumatized me.
For example, during my freshman year in college, I overindulged and ended up in a very bad situation. A situation I wasn’t equipped to deal with in that physical state. In a perfect world, I should not have been forced to deal with the situation at all, but we don’t live in a perfect world. I was taken advantage of by people who were ill-equipped to behave responsibly. The consequences of my bad decision still haunt me today. My psyche stores the characteristics of all the people who hurt me. It tries to protect me with warnings and alarm bells. But I’m not protected. Instead, I’m isolated and alone. I don’t want to be the person who hates people today based on experiences that happened thirty years ago.
In the past, my mind would snap shut with even a hint of religion. But a connection with God, or whatever label you put on it, has been my answer. I’m not religious. I’m not saying this is the path you need to follow or the only path. I’m saying this was my path. It led me to a quieter place.
I grew up in the Bible Belt. I was taught to pray every day as a child. When my father died, I was five years old. After that, I talked to my dad and God. I don’t have a problem with God. But I’ve always had a problem with religion. As a child, I heard, not from my parents, that anything I did was going to send me straight to the fiery gates of Hell. I can tell you that, for me, this was not the way to instill faith. If I was going to Hell for squirming in church, short hair, wearing jeans instead of dresses, to name but a few, I was going to Hell. I knew I couldn’t be perfect. Why try? I started to wonder what was wrong with God. Shouldn’t a Supreme Being be smarter than me? The rules seemed stupid, rigged for failure. Why did it matter if I wore jeans? At fourteen, I gave up. I decided that if I was going to Hell, I would earn my seat.
It’s not comfortable believing in nothing. I wanted to believe. I just didn’t think I was worthy. It took many years for me to believe that God was concerned about me. Instead of smiting me for the wrong hairstyle, I now believe this Power wants me to be at peace. I found this out over time. When I talk to this Power, how I feel on the inside changes.
I must pay attention to my physical body, spiritual and emotional state, and stress level to stay healthy. If I only use medicine to treat stress, the underlying cause doesn’t go away, and I don’t heal. I need to look at all of me. I watch my negative reactions. Instead of shutting out the people I dislike, I speak to them and make a joke. My actions take the power out of my thoughts, out of the past. If I want to change, I have to do something different now. I have to practice. I can’t start out as an expert. If I want to change, I can only change myself. I have to pray for the strength to act differently. Connecting with God has been the final step for me.
When I write, I fight demons―doubt, insecurity, and fear. “Why would anyone want to read this crap?” “Someone else has already said this.” “Is there a point here?” I falter with no confidence. I’ve dreamed of being a “real” writer for a long time. I’ve done everything but “real” writing. The urge to write is not going away. I waited two decades to be sure.
I like the person I am today. I love the life I have. It was a long, arduous road to get here. If I can help a fellow sufferer, I think I’m morally bound to do so. I want to help, which was the point, after all.