So sad yesterday. Missing Bella, missing Erica if truth be told, and mourning for all the other wounds opened up. October in the rain, tho it wasn’t raining, just grey.
Met Lynelle in Hunger Mountain Co-op in Montpelier. I’d picked up a few things for supper, and was trying to figure out if I should get anything more, when I saw Lynelle in the produce section. I helped test what she’d got, and then — I’m sure she sensed something — she asked how I was and I said “I’m lost” and started to cry. She took charge, made me leave, said go sit in Karen’s office and write. So I left.
Karen was a big help. I cried and cried. I said I had spent my whole life trying to heal and never got any of the satisfactions of real life. She reminded me that there was Neskaya, that I did have good times dancing. I didn’t want to hear it. I saw my life as narrow and full of loss. I think I just needed to mourn, to honor the sadness. Then I talked about how she had said I was “worthwhile,” and Erica had said I was “extraordinary,” and surely if that were true I should have had a better life. Karen said that for a person who is aware and sensitive, our culture is toxic. A person who is “extraordinary” in these ways is not supported by the culture, more likely to be trashed by its insensitivity and violence. I saw the truth in what she was saying, I saw that it was painful not to be able to offer my gifts to the world in some bigger way. But it’s not due to weakness or lack of persistence as I usually tell myself. I’ve tried again and again and been disappointed again and again. I see that that’s something to mourn for. And I see that I HAVE been persistent, trying again and again in spite of disappointment.
Today I see that part of why I was “lost” and having a hard time, was that “worthwhile” and “extraordinary” were totally opposed to the person mother taught me I was: somebody selfish, conceited, not thoughtful, too sensitive (as though I acted sensitive to get special treatment), etc. This fit much better with my identity as a failure, a coward, and a weakling, names which I often called myself in my journal. The idea that I might be someone who was actually valuable was scary and disorienting. I did manage to wonder how my life would change if I believed that I was “worthwhile” and “extraordinary.” I wouldn’t be so scared of making a mistake, I’d trust myself more, I’d relax and do what came naturally.
The foliage is at a new state. Driving across Vermont, the flaming reds and green are gone, and there’s a more muted golden tone to the later leaves — oak and beech — that glow against the grey of the empty branches.