When Boundaries are Crossed

Black hole to nowhere, you’re lost and you don’t care
But I’m still here fighting to breathe
Watching the world from atop your high tower
A fool calling himself a king
And I watched you change

Dead on arrival, you say its survival
A self-preservation technique
You raise your defenses, it’s stupid, it’s senseless
To turn into my enemy
But I watched you change

[Chorus]
When the walls come down
You got what you wanted
Now didn’t you?
You’ll never break me down
It’s killing you now
Killing you

Walls (You Changed) by Sick Puppies

“You’re lost and you don’t care”. That’s my family. Completely. I can’t imagine a better phrase to describe them. Following their stupidity into the nothing, and yet they think they are the only ones on the way to salvation and heaven. And I’m the fucked up one. The one who has walked away. Doesn’t believe in God.

I don’t think it is very God-like or loving to decide that people are evil because they drink or love who they love. You can’t decide someone must be a Christian because they did something kind. How about they did something nice because they are a wonderful and kind human being? Wait, aren’t all people kind? The meanest, judgmental, hateful people I have ever met are Christians. I do not believe in Christianity. I believe in God. I believe in some things that cause others to call me a Christian, but Christianity is a religion. And I can’t help but feel like religion is bullshit created by humans to create power and control. Broken humans breaking humans. Fuck. That’s a good band name.

I’m sad. This summer I broke up with my family. I’d cut my dad out a couple years back. He and my mom aren’t together, so it wasn’t weird to see the rest of my family. Until it was. I learned that I couldn’t handle it. The triggers were too great. The desperation to be a part of everything in my life was suffocating. The inability to let me have a life that was mine. So I broke it off. Three days later was my birthday. Texts start rolling in. I get it. It isn’t easy to be told to fuck off. So I very simply say that I know this is difficult, but even on birthdays and holidays I don’t want any communication. Including a response to that text. And I don’t get one. Phew. And then I talk to my wife.

Turns out my mom texted her. Long texts about how she had no idea and how sorry she is. The same things that were empty and false back when we had been talking. My wife responds in kind, being very gentle and loving. She is so kind. So amazing. But my mom doesn’t respect that.

Now without the full story, this might all sound a bit harsh. So far I have only talked about my dad. And that was because I hadn’t been ready to admit how damaging everything she had done was. I was so angry at my dad. But then I realized how hurt, angry, and fucking livid I was about this “relationship” my mom tried to make me believe we had. You know how you hear about kids who don’t cry? Yeah, that was me. Falling behind the couch when everyone is outside, me a 3-year-old that has chicken pox. Do I cry? No. I call a couple times to see if they can hear me. I try to get out when I realize no one can hear me. And then I sit. And wait. Once I hear them come in I start calling again. No crying. Just waiting patiently. I don’t want to be a burden.

How do I remember this. Seriously, why is this it. Well I didn’t use to remember it all. Then it hit me one day. And that is a big deal. Because I have less than 10 memories from before the age of 14. That number is slowly growing, and each time it is a little frightening. I thought I had a good childhood besides my father. And yes, I was actually quite privileged. I lived in Castle Rock, CO. A very nice place. I was able to eat. Not a lot, but definitely never starved. And once I learned I could leave whenever I wanted to, things got a lot better. I bought myself a bike and got the fuck away. I didn’t have friends that I could trust with any of the things going on, but I could totally numb my feelings. Forget all about reality.

So boundaries were broken early on. Over and over. And it never stopped. I never fought them. I thought that is how it was. I wasn’t safe in my room. I never knew if they were going to just walk in. Even if I locked the door. They had keys. All of them. I struggle sometimes to feel safe in my own home because of that. So I expected boundaries to be broken when I broke it off. And at first it was a little bit, but then it all ended. And then my wife is flipping through Facebook. She looks up… “Hey Brian… I think your Grandma died.”

I wasn’t very close to my Grandma. She was my dad’s mom. Not very kind, overbearing, and a massive gossip. But still, someone died. And I wasn’t told. That’s what I wanted, right? Sure. But also somehow wanted to be alerted if there was a death. That was the week before last. I just got a call today. I let it go to voicemail. It my sister that still lives at home. I didn’t think it would be this hard. I didn’t know what to do. Do I answer? Do I call back? The message was that she died on the 22nd, the funeral was on the 26th, and that is all. It was about as perfect as I could have planned it out. So why is this so hard? I don’t want to have no relationship with my family.

But I can’t be around them. They don’t respect me. They don’t respect my boundaries. They are manipulative. And they refuse to admit they need help. Which is normal for people like that. I wish I could be around them. I wish I could go home again. But I hate home. That place is evil. So here I sit. Sad my family is broken. Sad it won’t change. And happy I don’t have to talk to them. Well isn’t that a mind trip.

The Anxiety of Champions

I’m tangled up in my own image
But I hate who’s staring back at me

If it’s the truth I seek
It’s the truth you’ll serve
If my soul is weak
Then I’ll make it up to you

You’re the only thing that gets me high
And I hate it and I hate it
You’re the only thing that gets me high
And I hate it and I hate it

ihateit by Underoath

Anxiety is a powerful drug. Once it starts, you hate the idea of it, but it makes you feel safe. You cozy into it. Thinking of living your life out with all the freedom of a toddler is scary. What if you fail? Or worse, what if you succeed? What if the next step is even harder and when you fail at that you fall even further than before? There never seems to be the thought of true success. They type of success that comes with failure and a rebuild.

I’ll show you my hurt. I’ll show you how painful it is to be trapped. To have a body yearning for release. Aching to truly feel again. So let’s talk it through. Head to toe.

My head feels numb, like someone removed all ability to dive deeper. Each time I try it pushes back. Harder. It squeezes my brain, pushing walls deeper into my conscious. The muscles in my neck release. The tightness reaches it’s devastating hand into my chest, gripping my chest and consuming my throat. I can feel the tears behind my eyes, burning, scratching for the exit.

My arms pulse. The blood pumps through these veins as it prepares them for the final fight. The one that could destroy all. But my brain suppresses their desire. My brain shuts them down, almost rendering them useless.

These pieces of my life stay constant. They provide security in know what comes next. And they allow me to remain a victim. To say, “This isn’t my fault. I can’t control this.” If I had control, it would be scary. I would be responsible for my actions. For my hurt. What a terrifying prospect.

But I am responsible. This is my hurt. These are my reactions. These are the stories I tell. Yes, I have been emotionally and verbally abused. No, I was not loved growing up. Yes, I am allowed to love myself. I am allowed to live.

I react quickly. I see or hear and then I respond. But what story did I tell before I responded? Was I a victim to my emotions or did I choose an action after considering my emotion? Emotions happen no matter what. But when someone makes a choice that you feel impacted you negatively, did they make you mad? Or did you choose to feel mad? For me, it is usually true that I am hurt because they don’t love me, sad because I’m unlovable, and shy because I am out there for people to see. But these are stories I’ve made up.

“They did something that wasn’t best for me, so they don’t love me.” How many people think that? For me growing up, that had some truth to it. People try their best with what they know. And for some people, they really don’t know how to love. That was my family. All of them. Parents and sisters. They didn’t love me. They didn’t know how. But their actions weren’t because they didn’t love me. Their actions were because they were also hurting and just didn’t know how to respond to their own issues.

“I make mistakes, therefore I am unlovable.” What a sad statement. It breaks my heart to know so many people in the world struggle to love themselves. I am one of them. Everyone is worthy of love. Just because humans don’t all know how to love or even show us the love we desire doesn’t mean we don’t deserve love. And that love can come straight from our own heart.

“Holy shit, they see me. Fuck, I can’t be seen. I’m not good enough. I have issues. I need to hide.” Right? These are real feelings. These are terrifying feelings. These feelings make you question your worth. But you don’t need to hide. I don’t need to hide. Most of the time, as it turns out, people don’t have any idea you are there. I get it. The world is scary sometimes. But the world is also filled with people making mistakes. Humans being, well, human… You know what makes it better? Love.

So here we are. Anxiety filled, fallible, lovable humans. For myself, I am heading out to be a more caring, loving human. I will listen. I will be quiet. I will love. Thank you World for cuddling me into the warmth of your grass, shading me with the shadow of your trees, and filling my lungs each day. And thank you God for surrounding me with millions just like me, who I get to share this incredible adventure with, loving each minute of it.

Emotional Journal

[Verse 1]
I’ve been away, a little while, sometimes I just can’t help myself
When my mind’s runnin’ wild, I seem to lose grip on reality
An’ I try to disregard the crazy things the voices tell me to do
But it’s no use
I tried to own it, write songs about it
Believe me, I’ve tried; in the end, I needed to breathe
Find inspiration, some kind of purpose
To take a second to face the shit that makes me, me

[Chorus]
All I needed was the last thing I wanted
To sit alone in a room and say it all out loud
Every moment, every second, every trespass
Every awful thing, every broken dream
A couple o’ years back and forth with myself in a cage
Banging my head ‘gainst the wall, tryna put words on a page
All I needed was the last thing I wanted
To be alone in a room, alone in a room

Alone in a Room – Asking Alexandria

Wow.. It has been a long time. And a lot has happened. I keep thinking about this blog. Thinking about whether I should continue on with posting, quit altogether, or start a new one. And then I heard the most amazing podcast. Janet Lansbury’s episode “Losing It – Understanding What Makes Us Snap (With Elizabeth Corey)” talks about when you make decisions in parenting that you don’t realize why you made that decision, or you retreat, or you just flat out hurt during it. Listen to it. Again and again. Because holy fucking hell. That is some powerful shit. As I’m writing this I am freaking the fuck out. My arms are ready to fight, my head wants to hide in a hole, and my eyes can’t stop watering. The anxiety rises through my entire body while the fear controls the airspace around my mind. It closes it off like its the streets of New York after a murder. Whenever I begin to breathe and test the waters of believing I am safe, the muscles around my stomach ache with the realization that they have been gripping me so tightly. The digestion process that seems to have been stagnant roars into action, create a health in my body I haven’t noticed for some time now. And the it reverts.

So quickly I forget the intentionality I have been practicing. I fall into the desperation, the anxiety fueled lifestyle of shame. Where all my words, all my actions seem to stoke a fire of fear, consuming my hope. And it feels normal. Safe even. How can something so wrong feel safe? So terrifyingly ugly feel like what I need to survive?

For years it was necessary. It was the only way I could move forward. It was true survival. My childhood was traumatic. Not physically. Emotionally. Mentally. I have somewhere around 10 memories from before the age of 14. There is no way that is normal. And I can’t be alone. How many people out there feel just like I do? If you scroll Instagram, I’d say the majority of young adults. There are so many people posting about working through anxiety, sharing their stories of trauma. And then thousands like those posts. Thousands like me. Hundreds of thousands. All across the world. So here I go. No longer feeling alone. No longer scared to try. I care more about myself than my shame. And once I have poured enough into me, it will flow to others. I am so desperate for someone to love me. Well that someone is me. Man up. Live emotionally.

So here is the start of my journal to emotional health. My personal guide to recovery. My story of success. Because I will succeed. No fucking way am I going to quit. No fucking way am I going to lose. This is me. I am a fucked up human, working my way through fatherhood, married life, my career, and self care. I don’t know how to play. I don’t know how to be quiet and listen. I can’t seem to put my phone down. But here is the start. I can be a loving friend. And caring companion. An asshole.

The Truth in Silence

And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more
People talking without speaking
People hearing without listening
People writing songs that voices never share
And no one dared
Disturb the sound of silence

 

The Sound of Silence by Simon & Garfunkel

 

I love this song. I especially love the version by Disturbed. The build. The change from a soft, melodic voice to the heavy, ferocious growl of a true metal singer. I creates so much more emotion to this song. People talking without speaking, People hearing without listening. I feel like this has become an epidemic.

I fall into this category too often. I hear the words. I respond to those words. Blank. You have to listen to have a conversation.

 

Listen – Give one’s attention to a sound

 

I always believed listening to be the act of hearing. But you must give your attention to it. Not just hear the noise. Hear all that the noise is telling you. Process the story within the sound. This includes conversation. When someone speaks words, they are often sharing a story. A story from their life. If you only hear the words, you will lose the meaning.

We all talk. We babble. But how much is real? Are we sharing a story? Speak truth. Speak your truth. Speak love. Your love of your story. Listen to the life in someone’s words. Embrace their truth. Their love.

Embrace the sound of silence.

 

 

via Daily Prompt: Sound

Session 5 – Dear Father – Part 2

A summer drive away from dying: a broken heart nothing to lose.
I know it hurts so bad just trying to please the ones you hate to love.
And I wrote this note about someone I used to know
so I’d remember how life can be so short when your left alone to wonder
how it is someone opens and shuts the door.

I know you’re cold but come home.
It’s a shame how short we all have come

 

Headlights by The Classic Crime

 

He wanted to hear his parents say they were proud of him. That’s what I came away from tonight’s session with. The desperate longing to hear the two people who are supposed to show you how to live life tell you they are proud of the choices you’ve made. I’ve always wanted to hear Bruce tell me that. But tonight it flipped.

Tonight, for the first time, I realized he has been waiting his entire life to hear his mom and dad say, “I’m proud of you.” To this day he is pouring his life into making them proud. He just turned 70.

That’s tough. Damn near impossible. Bruce did the best he knew how. What is most difficult about this idea is that he never pursued a better path. He never saw that his best wasn’t best. He may still have no idea he was wrong.

Sadness flows over me. I’ve spent so much time being frustrated with him. Disappointed with the way he treated me. I had all these pictures in my mind of how things should have been. Polaroids that never happened. Never will happen. And yet I still felt like the past could be changed. I clung to these images, false memories, hoping they’d become truth. That suddenly my dad would take me under his wing, after my first baseball game, and say, “You did great. Let’s help you get even better.” But I had to let it go. I had to release this impossible vision of my childhood. The images melted away. Boiled down to nothing. And that’s when it all became clear.

He’s hurting. He’s frustrated and saddened by the same hurt I grew up with. Worse. He didn’t even have the encouragement from his mom. She sent the same negative messages his way. And they were doing the best they could. This cold, vicious line of confusion and pain in parenting led to my life. He couldn’t break the cycle. He didn’t know how. He pushed his impossible standards, his frustration, his disappointment on us. His beautiful, impressionable children. The pain pushed deep. Our pain cycled around to become his pain again. It fed into my mother.

I’ve been asked many times by my family to enter back into his life. He needs me. He needs us. I want to help. I want to help heal his festering wounds. But I am more than just myself. I have a family. An incredible wife who has encouraged me and pushed me to break the cycle. I have two amazing toddlers that if I don’t put an end to this seemingly endless destruction of family, they will suffer my same fate. I truly don’t own him anything. I don’t own him my time. I don’t own him my attention. And through this, I can actually care for him.

I made the terrible assumption I hated him. That I was angry about my childhood. I have no anger. I have no hate. Those were the only words I knew for how I felt. But the more I dig, the more I explore, I only find sadness. For him. I love him. I care for him. That doesn’t mean I have to let his hurt consume my world.

I had put my father on a pedestal. I don’t even know how. I don’t remember looking up to him. I don’t remember thinking he was the best and I wanted to be like him. But there are other kinds of pedestals. Every little boy puts their dad up there. And it is only a matter of time until he comes down. I assumed I had obliterated this one a while ago. But I’ve been keeping him there. Hoping. Praying. Wishing something would change. All would be fixed. But he’s come down now. And not the giant, crashing drop I assumed it would be. It was a gentle, methodical deconstruction of the tower I’d put him in. He’s human. He sins. He hurts. He feels. Like me.

I don’t admire him. Honestly, I don’t respect him. These thoughts used to bring a lot of guilt with them. I’m opening up to a new way of thinking. And here I land. Solidly, perfectly in my body. Grounded. I am not he. I love him. I don’t respect him. I want to help him. I will break the cycle.

Session 4 – Dear Father – Part 1

Dear father, forgive me
‘Cause in your eyes, I just never added up
In my heart I know I failed you
But you left me here alone

If I could hold back the rain
Would you numb the pain
‘Cause I remember everything
If I could help you forget
Would you take my regrets
‘Cause I remember everything

 

Remember Everything by Five Finger Death Punch

 

I find myself in the song. Which is ironic, considering I remember nothing. I’ve been told that your brain files away your memories until you’re ready to deal with them. And here I am, on the verge of opening Pandora’s box.

I don’t know what to say about my father. I was asked tonight in my latest session to describe him. His characteristics, sins, faults, weaknesses, strengths. I drew a blank. I’ve spent the last 3 years excluding my dad from any piece of my life. Let’s start with some background.

My mother took my sisters and I to Colorado because she feared him. Emotionally. Mentally. He had never physically harmed her, but the emotional abuse was too much for her to take. She feared for her life. I’ve felt the emotional abuse from him before, but never on that level. And up until a couple years ago, I thought he left us. After all, he left the house first. Packed up and moved back in with his parents at the ripe age of 49. I was 7. And that, is my first true memory.

We were forced to talk on the phone with our dad every Sunday, for at least an hour. I hated Sundays. Instead of coming home from church, reading the comics, and lounging about all day, I had to prep. Prepare for the hardest, most emotional time of my life. I would often just stop talking when that hour hit until he asked me to pass to phone on to one of my sisters. I remember bits and pieces of these conversations. Every week during school it was the same thing. Unless my grade was 100%, he would spend the next hour telling me how I failed completely because I didn’t study enough. If I had actually cared about school I would have studied to make sure I got every question right. The problem is, he was right. But I had this insane desire. A longing. Friends. I wanted friends. I wanted to be a kid. Play sports. Ride bikes. Laugh and play with other people my age.

Bruce came to live in Colorado for a while. Claimed he wanted to be near us. But when the weather didn’t clear up his “illnesses” he decided to move back to Illinois. I was 11. And this is the first time I truly saw my dad as the manipulative liar he is. He took me out to talk. Asked if I wanted big fries or small fries. I had never had fast food in my life, and I longed to try French Fries. So in my childlike innocence, I shouted with all the glee of a 3-year-old, “Big!” Enter KFC. Potato Wedges. Which leads to a new half-hour lecture about how unhealthy French Fries are and I should never eat them. Which is why he chose the ever-healthy KFC.

He then proceeds to talk about our future. Of how when he gets back to Illinois, he is going to file for divorce. Because he is tired of living alone. Because my mom won’t come to her senses and move back in with him. How he is going to file for custody of me because my mom knows nothing of how to raise a son. Unlike him. Mr. Perfect. The man with all the answers. My savior.

I then go back home, shaking. Trembling because I must prepare myself for some time in the next couple of years when I will be ripped from my family, friends, everything I know, to go live with an asshole who will raise me to be just like him. My dream of dreams. And I wait.

For years I wait. Expecting this to happen at any time. But it never comes. No divorce. No custody battle. No update. And yet I continue to talk to this wretched man every week. And then it happens.

But it’s not what you think. I grew up. I realized I didn’t have to talk to this man. I longed for a relationship with him. I longed to make him proud. I had foolishly continued to share my successes with him. I was shipped off to spend a couple weeks with him each year. Weeks filled with failed attempts to play catch. Hours spent listening to lectures on the hazards of listening to rock music. For what? Why did I continue to pour my soul out to him? So I cut back. I didn’t talk to him every week. I didn’t share my entire life. I shoved my feelings down deep. I created vague answers. Life turned from color to grey.

Life changed. I made friends. I was less angry. On the surface. When I shoved my feelings away to get through an hour with him, I learned to shut my feelings out in all my life. I became less like myself. I formed a deep-seated depression. Curse words became more prevalent in my thoughts. I let the hurt and anger fester. Bury itself deep within. My entire life became a lie. I felt no emotion.

I wore masks. I knew exactly how to fake love. Care. Happiness. I even fooled myself. I thought it was all real. But all I felt was anger. Sadness. The overwhelming urge to cry. But no. I couldn’t let myself cry. Men don’t cry. Men don’t feel sadness. Christians don’t feel sadness. Joy. Only joy.

I soon stopped talking to Bruce on Sundays. I spoke with him occasionally, typically on holidays. And not for very long. Just enough to appease my mother’s desire for us to have a relationship. I’m not sure she ever realized how dysfunctional it was. My sisters would often curl up in their beds and cry for hours after speaking with him. But I showed no emotion. I never spoke of such things. I think she actually believed we had a relationship.

Over the years I’ve tried to mend my relationship with that man. To this day I still long to have a loving relationship. To be able to call him for advice. To learn how to be a real man from him. I went to college in Missouri. Only 6 hours from him. He hadn’t come to my high school graduation. He’d come when both of my sisters had graduated. But I justified it. That had been years earlier. He went to my sister’s college graduation. The same year I graduated high school. But I justified that too. She was in Missouri after all. That is much closer than Colorado. So I traveled far away for college. I had hopes of reconciliation. I visited him on the short holidays. 3-day weekends. And each one was just as painful as those summers growing up. And then came graduation day. No dad…

He claimed he had to stay in Illinois to help mow the yard. Sure, large farm yard. Takes a full day on a riding mower. But for your son’s only college graduation? Ok, maybe he doesn’t care. But I still tried. I still believed it could change.

I had met a girl while in college. A girl from back home. I was in love. I proposed. I called my dad to tell him. I don’t remember him saying congratulations. We spent 25 minutes of that 30-minute call talking about his health and fixing the lawn mower. I remember him asking why he hadn’t met her yet. I invited him to our wedding. He couldn’t come. He didn’t think his health would allow it. 3 years later we find out we’re having a child. I call him. I joyfully, excitedly tell him. He starts talking about logistics. It’s his way of showing he cares. Of dispatching wisdom. But there is no joy in his voice. No excitement. For his first grandchild. But ok, I decide to give him time.

My sister gets engaged. She plans her wedding for September. The month before our daughter is to be born. He comes. Because it is an important life event. He wants to be there for his child. We speak. It is more pleasant than usual. I have a greater hope that things will change.

Our daughter is born. Our beautiful baby girl. I call him. With more joy than I have ever felt in my life. I want to share the most incredible and exciting news with him. We then have a conversation for the next half-hour about why our name choice is ridiculous. How she will hate us for the rest of her life because of our name choice. He gives a list of names that we should change it to. I hang up.

And that is the last time I spoke to my dad.

So now we’re back at today. There I am, sitting on a couch. Thinking of how to describe this man who has hurt me so deeply that I’m afraid of exploring who I am. I want to dive in. I’m ready to dive it. And I’m terrified.

Selfish. Caring. In his own way. Lazy. Hard-working. In his own way. Jackass. Hurtful. Arrogant. Fake. Conceited. Did I say hurtful? Sad. Lost.

I hate him. I love him. I cry for him. I long for him. I need him. But I have shut him out of my life. The moment he decided to spend his time ridiculing my daughter’s name, that is the moment I had to act. I would not allow him into my daughter’s life. I would not allow him to hurt her the way he has hurt me. To destroy the life of my wife and daughter. I would not let him touch their hearts. He can be a fun man to be around. But when you let him in, shit gets real. You see the hurt in him. You see the pain passed down from generations before him. I want desperately to have him be a part of my life. But I will not choose to put my family at risk. He has shown over and over again he will hurt us.

I have spent my life trying to not be like him. Petrified to move forward in life from the fear of being his duplicate. His disciple. Ignoring my own life, my own desires, because I’m afraid they may be similar to his. Denying myself the pleasure of knowing who I am. Of pursuing my own hopes and dreams. Of making my own decisions because they might turn out to be his decisions. No more. Tonight, it ends. Tonight, I become.

Tonight, I am.

A Love Story to Self

I’ll find repose in new ways
Though I haven’t slept in two days
‘Cause cold nostalgia chills me to the bone
But drenched in vanilla twilight
I’ll sit on the front porch all night
Waist deep in thought because when
I think of you I don’t feel so alone

 

Vanilla Twilight by Owl City

 

Lovingly he cherishes the thought of her being there with him. No disturbed belief that life is a loss. Instead of falling into the deep state of depression that can be brought on by not having someone you dearly love close by, he remembers wonderfully and beautifully what it is like to hold her near, and doesn’t feel so alone. That is love.

So often love becomes distorted. We think of obsession. We think of attachment. But that isn’t love. That is dependence.

 

Love – an intense feeling of deep affection (Synonyms for affection include; fondness, tenderness, warmth)

 

Now this isn’t to say that these other feelings can sometimes be included in love. But love, the ultimate love, is a feeling rooted in the cellar of your heart. I always believed love is caring more about someone else’s feelings than your own. But how does that translate into life? Be yourself.

That is the best possible thing you can do for anyone. Be yourself. If you try anything else, you are living a lie. Both you and your loved one will be miserable. Trust me. I’ve tried it. I spent years trying to make everything perfect for my loved ones. Do exactly what they wanted. Forget my own feelings. And now I’m lost. I am just barely scratching the surface of who I really am. Tapping into the feelings of my own heart. I became depressed. Felt like I could never quite add up. And that is true. I would never add up.

My standard had become perfection. But not even my perfection. It was my interpretation of their perfect. And I was wrong. I’ll never be right when trying to decide what someone else believes for themselves. There is no truth there. They make their own decisions. I need to make my own decisions. But what if they don’t like my decisions? So be it.

I base my entire life off of what people think of me. Trying to be my own person and make my own decisions is a living nightmare. I’m terrified every day thinking of how they’ll view me. What if they don’t like who I truly am? If they do, I guess we weren’t great friends. If someone is going to love you for some fairytale version of yourself, then it wasn’t true love. You weren’t their Prince Charming. I’d rather have someone love me for my true self than for who I created.

God created each one of us. Individually. He didn’t mold someone just to look at them and say, “Yeah, I’m hoping they choose to be who that person wants them to be.” He wants us all to seek out ourselves. To find they pieces he put together to make us into His perfection. The world is one big puzzle. We are the pieces that need to be put together to see the picture He so lovingly imagined. There is only one way to do so.

 

Love yourself.

 

 

 

via Daily Prompt: Lovingly

When Solitude Awakens

But I found in you what was lost in me
In a world so cold and empty
I could lie awake just to watch you breathe
In the dead of night, you went dark on me

Dark on Me by Starset

 

You went dark on me. That is a tough line. We’ve all felt it. We’ve all done it.  When you spend time with someone, eventually there will be a separation. It might not last, but you will separate. A fight. Betrayal. A shift in interests. And you will feel alone.

 

Solitude – the state or situation of being alone

 

Solitude. It sounds daunting. It sounds like so much more than just alone. Cut off. Forcibly secluded. But the definition shows so much more. It can also be a choice. No matter how much we love people, we all need our time to be alone. To rest our minds. Review our choices and recoup our losses.

When someone goes dark on us, we tend to dive into their darkness. Focus on the hurt and pain from their removal. Destroy our self-worth by owning their choices as our existence. We may not be aware of these feelings, but they are there. Deep inside. Haunting.

 

Well it’s time to wake up,
And separate feelings
That I keep falling into.
Each seem like good reasons,
I’m gonna break down,
I don’t care if it shows up,
I’m praying this for you,
‘Til it’s answered I’ll say.

Am I alone in here?

 

One Lonely Visitor by Chevelle

 

It’s time to wake up and separate feelings. We are defined by what we choose. Nothing more, nothing less. We have feelings that bring us joy, happiness, anger, and sadness. Separate feelings. We need to take the time to understand what we’re feeling. Why we’re feeling it. Embrace the solitude. Take the time apart to explore yourself. Renew yourself. Be yourself.

The Art of Cleanliness

 

I’m wasting away
It’s part of my instinct
I’ll run away
From everything I hate
Take this away
Help me escape
Take this away
I confess

Innocence
Innocence
Innocence

 

Confession (What’s Inside My Head) by Red

 

Clean. Two things pop into my mind when I think of the word clean. Free from dirt. Pure. And those just happen to be the two most common definitions. I had never thought of diving deeper into the meaning of this word. How does this affect me?

 

Clean – morally uncontaminated; pure; innocent

 

Innocent. Pure. Untouched by the immoral insanity of this world. I hear this most often referring to children. Babies. Entering into a world of despair. A world filled with desire. Longing for more. A world that believe innocence is lost. Unattainable.

 

Innocent – not responsible for or directly involved in an event yet suffering its consequences

 

This is an imperfect world. Daily we are pushed in directions we can’t see. I’m wasting away, it’s part of my instinct. What an incredible thought. Instinctively, we waste away. We run, hide, protect ourselves from imagination. From the terrifying thoughts that fill our minds, enticing us to proceed. Where do we feel safe? Where can we hide away to feel pure? We each long to feel clean. Untouched by the lies breathing down our necks.

 

Well, I’ve heard that the devil’s walking around

I sold my soul way down in the dirt

But stole it back and forever in debt

 

And for a moment I don’t even care

Until I feel his breath at my neck

And maybe even you can feel it too

He’s on a strike and looking at you

 

Heaven nor Hell by Volbeat

 

This one lie chases us all. Each day it tries to break us. To force us to the edge. There is no way out. Mistakes make us unclean. There is no changing that. We try to steal back our soul, but it doesn’t matter. The deed has already been done.

But we change. We evolve into someone different every day. The changes are subtle, but profound. They will have a life changing effect. Forget the past. Forget the mistakes. That wasn’t you. Not you today. Cleanliness is achievable. At times it won’t be your truth. At times you won’t see your innocence. You will fail. And then your soul will mutate. But how it changes is up to you.

 

via Daily Prompt: Clean

Session 3 – Remorse

In the jet city of love
Northwest in the evergreen state
People can’t get enough
Of living in the darkness and the rain
But when the sun comes up
The streets are filled with songs
Of people playing it loud
So the whole world can sing along
Yeah
And the cops go screaming by on the 99
And there’s a man with a smile and his guitar on
And he’s holding a sign
And it says

Vagabonds and troubadours
Built this city on punk rock chords
And I for one cannot ignore the facts
Yeah
So we will make music
’til no one refuses
We will take our airwaves back

 

Vagabonds by The Classic Crime
Remorse. Guilt. They always went hand in hand for me. They do for most people.

 

Remorse – deep and painful regret for wrongdoing

 

The definition itself disagrees with the guilt connection. Regret.

 

Regret – to think of with a sense of loss

 

This is incredibly different from how I defined this feeling I had so often. Guilt. A downward spiral of eternal frustration and disappointment with past decisions. I feel remorse in regards to my former self. To the choices I made that have shaped where I am now. A deep and painful sense of loss for wrongdoing. So often I find myself trying desperately to reach a hand out of this powerful despair I’ve sunk down into. Grasping desperately for a low hanging branch, giving hope for release. But I sink. Scratch that. I dive. Down I go, taking the shovel and creating a pit deeper than any light can penetrate. Away from all hope. Away from all sense of peace.

Lies. I believed all of this because I was willing to believe the worst about myself. I was willing to believe I could never succeed. So why try? I can be anything. That line didn’t belong to me. I was too imperfect to live in such a fantasy. Others have the opening to press forward into where they want to be. Not today.

Over the last month I have seen an incredible change. A complete revamping of my self-worth. Through no fault of my own, I believe in myself. In this life that happened to begin the same night I was born. There is an actual light to the world I haven’t seen in a long time. And I didn’t find it in church.

I’ve had a recurring dream over the last couple of years. A group of friends. A light brighter, clearer than this dark, misty existence I’ve called home. My wife and I are surrounded by a collection of people who speak their truth with an understanding of true imperfect perfection. I always believed this must be found at church. So far, no dice. I believe in fellowship. I believe in a gathering for the enrichment of ourselves and each other. I believe in people. To this day, I have yet to enter a church with a true fellowship of believers. I’ve caught glimpses. A brief flicker of God’s love.

I love the idea of Seattle. Music in the streets. Coffee. Rain. What could be better? But I’ve never been there. All I have to go off of is rumors and song lyrics. Vagabonds.

 

Vagabond – leading an unsettled or carefree life

 

Carefree. Relaxed. Trusting in yourself. How can you relax if you don’t trust that you’ll catch yourself? You can’t relax unless you know you’ll land softly. It’s a big fall. Cascading down the flow of life. If you let yourself drop into relaxation, you might break. That’s a chance you have to take. I want music. Surrounding the lives passing throughout the city. Brightness resounding off the strings. Rejuvenating the dead. Pulling heartache from their chests. Transforming into poetry.

I don’t love my city. And I can’t place why. Too much history? I’m seeing my life differently. My world has shifted. It makes sense I would be uncomfortable here. That I would also want a change of scenery. But to leave those who I love my dear? My family. My wife’s family. My small collection of friends. No. I can’t. Not now. But maybe….

Maybe. A death word. A dream smasher. Maybe. A hypothetical yes to deceive your desperate soul that you might follow through on a dream that scares the shit out of you. Planning a route while you escape in the opposite direction. Maybe.

There’s a fire. It burns in everyone. That one hope, dream, desire that you just can’t quite make happen. My desire? To succeed. And I don’t just mean at work. I mean to win life. Full confidence in every aspect of what I pursue. My wife. My children. My work. No second-guessing my choices. Accept that I am solid. That I am able to choose wisely and follow through. That I will do my best with what I know.

Does this mean taking a fresh start? I’m heading where I want right now. Why rush? If I uproot now, I might lose it all. I have no idea where to go. I’d be running. Again. But that doesn’t mean I’m giving up on my dream. I’m planning. Focus on my life. Plan for the future. Nothing wrong with that.

My belief growing up was that planning for the future meant you weren’t trusting God. You were making your own destiny. Not following God’s plan for your life. What a ridiculous idea. I’m not going to sit on the couch and expect God to move me. I stand up. I start moving and trust He’ll select the angle. Plan for the future. Be open to changes.

Remorse. It comes from a place of seeing the paths and not trusting in yourself. Selecting a direction that goes away from where you wanted. But you won’t always know what is best. Take what you choose and own it. Be open to changes. You don’t always have to get it right. You won’t always get it right. Own it.