No Mud, No Lotus
How did it come to be this way? That question is one I ask every client at some point, usually fairly early in treatment. How did your system come to be afraid of judgement or failure or abandonment? To feel unsafe in the world or in relationship? How did it learn to protect itself by shutting down or pulling away or being guarded? Where did that critical voice learn to talk to you that way?
None of these are things that we come hard wired into the world with. They are patterns that we learned somewhere. And they are patterns that can be unlearned. But first we need to know their origin story. And since I ask this of every client I work with, it seems only fair to share my own.
A preface;
None of our stories occur in a vacuum. They exist within an unimaginably complex, intricate web of stories that make up our universe. My story is no different. It’s built on, overlaps with and plays out amongst other stories - stories of hurt hearts and wounded people. Stories of personal and intergenerational trauma. Stories of good intentions derailed by difficult realities. Those stories aren’t mine to tell, but know that they’re there.
I truly believe that we all do the best we can with what we have. And know that to be true of those that played a role in my story.
This is not the story. This is my story.
~
I was born.
A child had been wanted, but I was not that child. The child that was wanted was one that filled the holes in the hearts of those that brought me into the world, that made up for wounds from the past. A child that could heal, love, redeem. I couldn’t be that.
I fell short in every way.
Not affectionate enough, not smart enough, not easy enough, not compliant enough, not conscientious enough.
Not enough.
Too independent, too forgetful, too difficult, too bold, too questioning, too careless.
Too much.
I struggled to read and took too long to get dressed. I made messes when I was trying to help and didn’t know how to make myself breakfast. I couldn’t brush my hair properly or remember to bring the ziplock bags home from my lunch. I lost my mitts and put holes in my clothes. I pushed boundaries and talked back. The breadth of my failures was vast, and that they encompassed such seemingly insignificant and trivial things exposed a heart wrenching truth; I was deeply, inherently, viscerally flawed.
I wasn’t the child that was wanted.
And I was painfully aware of that.
“You look like me, but you’re all him.” That was code for I was good on the outside but vile on the inside.
I became ashamed of who I was, and I hid. I buried that unwanted child under lies and disguises and tried to be who I was supposed to be. I failed again and again and again, until I stopped trying and started rebelling.
I knew deep down that that unwanted child was the reason I was rejected and despised, the reason I was scorned and neglected.
It was because of her that I was ostracized and shunned, ignored for weeks at a time. Why hands that held me just as easily hit me. Why I was punished, controlled, denigrated, humiliated. Why no one came when I sobbed. Why I would go down to the kitchen at night and stare at the knives, sure no one would care if I used one on myself. Wondering if it might be welcomed.
Because of her that I was so hopelessly defective, so desperately alone. Because of her I felt abandoned, unloved and unwanted.
It was all because of her. She wasn’t wanted. And of course she wasn’t; she was contemptible.
So I rejected her. Just as others had. Just as I’d been taught to. I promised my myself that I wouldn’t be her. I would be better. I would be good. I would be worthy. I promised so many times.
I broke that promise every time.
I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t be different than I was. I couldn’t change who I was.
I spent years trying. Years cycling;
Rejecting what I was, who I was.
Trying, struggling, fighting to be better. Smarter. Politer. Nicer. Worthier. Worthy.
Seeking, searching, striving, chasing, achieving.
Failing.
Collapsing.
Giving into the reality of who and what I was.
Wallowing.
Hating.
Rejecting.
Trying again.
It went on for decades. The entire story of my life that far - what I’d achieved, where I’d failed, people I’d chased, people I’d pushed away, ways I’d loved, ways I’d hurt, things I’d said, done, thought, desired, dismissed, sought, avoided - could all be written to the rhythm of hating, rejecting, striving, failing, collapsing, and beginning again.
That rhythm haunted me. It thrummed in my head, pulsing to the anguished beat of despair and futility until it echoed through my entire being. Until I couldn’t avoid it, couldn’t distract from it, couldn’t run from it. Couldn’t resist it any longer.
And so I surrendered.
Powerlessly, at first, out of necessity and exhaustion.
Cautiously, at times, with trepidation, feeling like a battle-weary soldier trying to assess the enemy.
Suspiciously, at times, in the face of unexpected kindness, compassion and grace that contrasted so starkly with my reality.
Unwillingly, at times, and with mind numbing fear. Fear that surrendering meant succumbing, submitting, giving up. Fear that it meant acknowledging the reality that that child was me, and that I truly was deeply, inherently, fundamentally defective. Truly was contemptuous, hateful and vile. Fear that it meant I’d never be accepted, never be wanted, never be worth anything. That no one could ever or would ever love me.
If the old rhythm thrummed and pulsed and echoed, the fear screamed and howled and raged. It terrified me. Terrorized me. It was the tempest that lived underneath the old rhythm. The storm that necessitated the shelter those rhythms provided.
And so I surrendered more. Because what’s the point of an umbrella in a hurricane? And as I did, and the more I did, the winds calmed.
I could see clearly.
With surrender came the realization not that those things were the truth, but that the fear was the truth. Not that that little girl was or ever had been defective. Never had been contemptuous, hateful and unlovable. But that she had lived in fear of that her whole life. That had been her reality. Her truth.
My truth.
And there is freedom in truth.
She became my absolution. My redemption.
I had descended into the basement of my psyche, expecting to confront a monster, and instead found a hurt, wounded child. I had gone in and gone deep and bore witness to the darkest corners of my soul - and found a depth beneath that I’d never imagined.
And when I climbed out the other side, there was no more storm. No more need to fear it, no more need to live bracing against it.
Transcending… that had a different sound.
There is delight in it, at being free of a darkness I’d lived my whole life in fear of.
There is hope in it, at all the possibility the light brings.
There is grief in it, at having existed in the dark and believing that to be living.
There is joy in it, at having known the dark and the light, and in the contrast, finally experiencing what is to be wholly alive.
And there is profound peace in it, at truly, deeply knowing that there is beauty in the shadows. That there is purpose in pain. That there is grace in suffering.
It flows and dances to a melody that is rich and complex and achingly sweet.
I’m fairly sure it’s the song my soul sings.
And it’s through heartache that I found it.
So as Hafiz once extolled,
“Don’t surrender your loneliness so quickly.
Let it cut more deeply.
Let it ferment and season you
As few human
Or even divine ingredients can.”
Don’t surrender your loneliness so quickly.
Don’t be too quick to surrender your pain, your loss, your heartache.
Have faith.
Surrender to it, and let it open you.
Discover that it doesn’t break you down, it breaks you open.
Let it reveal the depths of your soul.
Let it bring to light the indescribable fullness of the human experience. The fullness, the exquisite richness, that is your birth right.
Let it show you the way to Grace.
Know you tread on sacred ground.
