“I don’t trust that people are going to accept all of me.”
“And yet you can’t even accept yourself.”
My counselor’s observation caught me off-guard, but before I could get defensive or wonder what she meant, the truth of her words seeped into my consciousness. I am hidden. There are parts of my identity that have been relegated to the shadows so I can pretend they don’t exist.
One holds all of my shame. He reminds me of the ways I’ve failed and is certain I don’t deserve to be loved. Another carries my overpowering fear. His head is on a swivel; constantly searching for danger and disappointment. Still others hold my rage, anxiety and doubt. These shadow-selves lurk in the backround of my awareness because I refuse to accept them as the real Ben Tapper.
They don’t align with the person I’m trying to be, and yet they are probably the most authentic parts of me. I want to be this bold, outgoing man who has healed from his childhood trauma. I want to wake up with no residue of the pain I’ve experienced. Yet as my eyes open each morning and I take that first conscious breath, I feel the same fragility that plagued me the night before. I’ve assumed this fragility was meant to be overcome, but perhaps it is meant to be embraced.
I can keep pretending, or I can face the discomfort of my invisible truths and invite my shadow-selves into the light. I reconize the shame, anxiety, doubt, rage and fear that are embedded within me. These aren’t defects I need to improve. They’re responses I hope to understand.
Photo by Mohamed Nohassi on Unsplash
Healing isn’t about becoming the ideal version of myself. Healing is about seeing and accepting my truths, so that I might love who I am in this moment. For better or worse, who I am includes shame, insecurity, anger and a host of other emotions I don’t want to acknowledge.
There is something especially terrifying about accepting my whole self. It triggers a miniature identity crisis as my true self comes face-to-face with the partial persona I’ve constructed and put on display. I feel vulnerable and exposed when all I want to do is feel safe and comfortable. However, the journey I’m on demands growth, and growth requires discomfort. So here I am.
I’m not who I want to be, and that is ok. This. Is. Me. Vulnerable and Resilient. Bold and Terrified. Confident and Insecure. I’ve been hiding from myself for years because I wasn’t ready to accept my complexities and shadows. Now I understand that there is no other to get where I’m trying to go. I have to tell the truth. If I don’t accept myself, I won’t ever now when someone else does.
What parts of yourself do you push into the shadows? What version of you are you working to keep others from discovering? Even if you’re not yet ready to take the step into acceptance, at least write down or name these shadow-selves. Once they’re named, they’re much more difficult to forget.
The work of Radical Self-Awareness is not easy by any means, but it is worth it. As much as we like the light, remember that the truth is often in the shadows.
The Mueller report came out last week, and according to the four-page summary written by the Attorney General, Mueller’s team found no evidence of collusion between the Russian government and Donald Trump during the 2016 Presidential campaign. While I’m disappointed, I’m not surprised. This is the outcome I expected.
There will likely be no impeachment proceedings which means we’ll be saying President Donald Trump until 2020 at the earliest. While he is a terrible, low-down, no good President, he is also as much a product of our history as is Barack Obama. If nothing else, the news that there was no collusion reinforces one of life’s bitter truths.
The past cannot be altered, undone or rewritten.
As challenging as this truth is to hold for our nation, I find it even more overwhelming when it comes to my personal life. The promise of healing, holds within it the hope that the damage of the past can be undone or reversed to some degree. At least it has for me, so accepting my past and its effects on me proves difficult. So difficult in fact, that I believe I’ve partitioned myself into separate personas.
I know this because I’ve spent much of the last month attempting to access my repressed rage and grief. They feel separate and distinct from me, as if there is another person holding them for me. Oftentimes, when I’m trying to focus on my emotions, I close my eyes and imagine falling into myself; breaking through layers of awareness until I approach the deepest levels of my being. I fall until I land in a dark void. I stand to my feet and suddenly see the face of my nine-year-old self looking back at me.
Yes…I’ve always loved the camera 🙂
As I approach him, I can both feel the tension that consumes his small frame. Years spent clenching his teeth and bracing for the next blow have taken their toll.
I draw closer and notice clenched fists hovering on either side of his body. His arms slightly bent at each elbow. This child is ready for a fight. Just as I step within reach of him, he jerks his head to the sky and a guttural scream explodes from his miniature body. Hot tears stream down his face as he continues to scream and shake.
I’m not startled by this display because I intuitively know what he means. He is communicating that life is not fair. His innocence has been compromised and his hope euthanized. He is emitting the deep holler present within everyone who has ever been a victim. As intuitively as I know the meaning of his behavior, I also know that I’m supposed to draw him into a deep embrace and sit with him in his pain…in my pain.
As his screams are enveloped by darkness, I consider moving even closer toward him, but…
I don’t. I won’t. Honestly I can’t.
Doing that would mean forgiving the past and though I’ve been trying since I was ten, I’m still not ready. Forgiveness, as a concept has often alluded my understanding.
Does forgiving someone mean you don’t want them to suffer blow-back for their actions? Do you stop feeling angry or hurt? Is forgiveness a myth we’ve bought into or another religious saying without practical value like “let go and let God”?
Amidst these questions, I have found one definition of forgiveness that speaks to me. “Forgiveness is the process of letting go of the hope that the past will be different.” As I hold that definition, I feel what the rich young ruler must have felt when Jesus told him to sell everything and give it to the poor.
“I can’t even have hope that my past could’ve, would’ve or should’ve been different? Now you’re asking too much.”
I know people who believe that everything they’ve been through is being used for their betterment, and I’d like to be one of those people, but I’m not. Every time I feel the residue of physical abuse, I wish the past were different. When I’m being pulled into the inescapable darkness of depression, I wish the past were different. Each moment I’m barraged with doubt about my value, I wish the past were different.
Perhaps even moreso, I wish I could replace all that has been taken from me. I do more than wish though. I often try to fill in the gaps myself. As Lin Manuel Miranda sang in Hamilton, “I’m not satisfied…I have never been satisfied.”
For years I’ve always sought the next experience, job or relationship thinking it will bring the fulfillment, excitement or freedom I seek. I’ve spent so much time looking into the future that I’ve missed the beauty in front of me. Even more damning, I’ve exerted too much energy trying to fill the gaps with things external to me, when I’ve always had exactly what I needed within me.
The truth is that I can’t control + z my past. Nothing can be undone; no moment rewritten. My options are to swallow the lie, or embrace forgiveness. It feels like completely relinquishing the hope of a different past is the final act in my struggle to forgo control. As acceptance of what has been washes over me, I reach forward and pull my younger self into a deep embrace. He is still screaming while hot tears run down his cheeks, and I don’t try to stop him.
Photo by Cristian Palmer on Unsplash
If the past is to remain unaltered, so must his screams. So must MY screams, for he is the imagery I’ve created to distance myself from all I’ve repressed. As I lose my grip on this false reality, I feel myself falling again. This time I fall through the darkness, past the void and into the icy, yet refreshing, waters of the river of God. As I flow in this holy baptismal, I become weightless and my movements turn fluid. Like this coursing river, I too am present in this moment. Always connected to where I’ve been and where I will be, but responding to what is current. This is the nature of God, I Am.
The 2020 election is around the corner and it looks as though we’ll be stuck with President Twitter Fingers for the next 21 months. Even after that election, we will be grappling with the effects of this administration. Our past is what it is, so we can embrace the lie that the next election will change everything and negate the damage of her predecessor or we can face the uncomfortable truth. As our politicians have shown us, lies are often more palatable than the truth.
I’m not qualified to tell you that you should let go of the hope that your past will be different. I don’t know where you’ve been or how your journey has shaped you. No one gets to make this decision but you. Letting go will not mean you suddenly stop hurting. It won’t mean you feel warm and fuzzy feelings for the one who violated you. It sure as hell won’t mean you are done being affected by your trauma.
I can’t tell you what it will mean for you. What it has meant for me, is that I’m lifting the siege on myself and embracing aspects of my identity I’ve long kept hidden. In this embrace, I experience a kind of release. The weight of expectation is slowly lifting. As I settle into the river of God, I’m free to be. That is enough in and of itself.
The words lazily floated through my mind as I waited for the light to change. I was on my way home from a particularly intense counseling session, and as I sat at the stoplight, I lamented my perceived brokenness. Some counselling sessions leave me feeling happy and uplifted while others make me acutely aware of how much my trauma has shaped me. The more significant the trauma, the harder it is to heal. I’ve been trying to heal for two decades and sometimes I grow weary of the process and long for this faux state of being called normalcy.
I know that normal is as much a mythological construct as unicorns or Obama’s Kenyan birth certificate, but it is embedded in my psyche. Normal is an imagined state of being that allows me to get through a day without experiencing anxiety or depression. It is an unencumbered existence in which I can be in relationships without overthinking or putting up walls. This is what I imagine when I say I wish I were normal.
I know normal doesn’t exist, but I also know I’m not the only one who longs for it. Judging by my social media feeds, more than a few of you are carrying weights you shouldn’t have to and bearing scars you don’t deserve. Unfortunately for us, there is no easy button when it comes to personal healing. Instead we must do the hard, but beneficial work of being radically self-aware.
What is radical self-awareness? It is the practice of discovering your unique self which includes your defining values, core beliefs and innate characteristics. It allows you to see yourself as you are without pretense or expectation. To be radically self-aware is to be open to loving self-criticism, intentional self-evaluation and total self-acceptance.
Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash
How does one become radically self-aware? It starts with curiosity, patience and openness. Be curious about yourself. Take time throughout the day to check in and ask:
What am I feeling right now? Why is this important to me? What do I need?
Once you become comfortable with these questions, you might become aware of deeper wonderings that were previously hidden. Such as:
Where do I belong? Who are my people? Where does it hurt? (for more on this question, click the link)
Questions act as emotional seismographs that help key us into the shifting of our heart’s tectonic plates. As we allow our curiosity to develop, we begin to find answers that lead to more questions, and the string of Q&A continues until we find the root of the issue. Each time we are able to uncover the roots that lie deep within, we uncover a hidden piece of ourselves.
This work of asking questions and seeking answers requires patience. The process of self-awareness, like the President’s twitter account, can’t be controlled. Answers come when the time is right and we’re ready. All you can do is position yourself, hold the question and wait. Waiting when you want to be healing is incredibly difficult. I’ve felt frustration so intense it turned to despair, but the answers have always come. I’ve found that one reason for the delay has been my own lack of openness.
Photo by Julie Kwak on Unsplash
Openness completes the trinity of radical self-awareness. When I think of openness, I think of the soil beneath a maple tree. Not every helicopter seed that haphazardly cascades from the tree branch to the ground takes hold and sprouts, but a select few do. That is how openness should function within this context. Every Tom, Tricky Dick, and Harry will have opinions on what you need to do, so you’ll be bombarded with seeds. However, the seeds you need to receive and let take root are those that come from your inner circle.
They offer seeds of perspective, challenge and insight that can lead to breakthroughs. Some of my most fruitful conversations have been with friends, mentors or counselors who have pushed and challenged my way of thinking. If I’m honest, I will tell you that my ego hasn’t always allowed me to receive what they’ve offerred, but when I have, I’ve been grateful.
Though I have moments when I long for normalcy, they are few and far between. It is natural to grow “weary of doing good” as the scripture says. Healing is hard work, and those of us tasked with it don’t get to take days off. Wherever you find yourself on your own journey of restoration, may you remain curious, patient and open. I don’t expect that I’ll ever be healed, but I’ll always be healing. I hope the same for you. Be radical!
Truth is uncomfortable. It shatters our preconceived notions about right and wrong and must be uncovered intentionally. It must be sought out, or at the very least, invited. It doesn’t stand in plain sight shouting at us. Like wisdom personified, it gently knocks and waits for us to open the door. We’re often able to distract ourselves from truth’s subtle call until the norms we comfortably depend upon are shaken by the inevitability of death. It is the reminder that control is an illusion and time is not our servant.
This past Wednesday, the U.S. observed a national day of mourning to commemorate the life and death of the 41st president George H. W. Bush. As soon as news of his passing broke out, articles touting his conservative credentials and strong leadership style emerged. In contrast, others asserted that the president put political expediency over the common good and that his policies did lasting damage to the lgbtq+ community.
Which perspectives are true? As most of our childhood stories have taught us, you’re either a hero or a villain. There is no room for complicated legacies or nuanced understandings of history. We’re an either/or society. However, in death, we have the opportunity to hold competing perspectives with grace.
One of my dissonant truths emerged slowly but forcefully one evening several weeks ago. I sat on the back steps and intentionally took in the crisp autumn air. With each slow breath, I gathered and held my anxious thoughts, before releasing them into the atmosphere as I exhaled. With every cycle of breath, I became lighter, clearer and more still.
Soon, I was still enough that the truth washed over me like the first waves of high tide, steady and unsettling. Instead of stepping back from the waves, I remained in that moment, allowing myself to be rocked back then gently but firmly drawn into the depths. This truth was deep, unsettling, and challenged long-held narratives about my childhood, my family and my own identity. The truth I was faced with on my back steps was that…
I love my mom.
Mind-blowing right? If you don’t know my history, you’ll likely think I’ve just wasted your time, so allow me to take you back to 1997. You remember ‘97? I didn’t, so I had to do some research. Turns out, it was quite a year. Princess Diana, Mother Teresa, and Notorious B.I.G died. Mike Tyson bit off a chunk of someone’s ear, O.J. Simpson was finally convicted, and the cinematic world was set ablaze by such classics as Flubber, George of the Jungle, Austin Powers, Liar Liar, Men in Black, Hercules, and a lesser-known film you may not have heard of called Titanic. What a time to be alive!
I wasn’t aware of any of this because I was nine-years-old and living in a homeless shelter. I have my own memories of that year, but one, in particular, stands out above the rest.
I’m standing in a homeless shelter kitchen. My is mom walking towards me, but something is wrong. She looks upset, and my gut initiates that slow and steady lurch which tells me something bad is about to happen. As I’ve done many times before, I brace myself. My mom kneels down in front of me, so we’re looking eye to eye, and says what I imagine are the hardest words of her life.
“Ben, I have to go away right now. You’re going to stay here, with your brothers and sisters, but don’t worry. I’ll get a lawyer and come back to get you.”
With that, she hugs me, turns and walks out the door. I stand there struggling to comprehend what has just happened.
Why does she have to leave? Who is making her go? Why can’t we come with? Who is gonna take care of us? Will we have to move again?
The anxiety surges through my thin, nine-year-old body, causing question after question to race through my mind faster than I can comprehend. I stand there for a moment searching for answers and desperately trying to make sense of the life that is shifting beneath my feet. As I watch the only constant thing in my life walk out the door, I feel rejected, alone and abandoned.
Then, right on cue, my coping mechanisms, which have been tested by years of abuse and neglect, kick in and I feel the familiar resolve to survive. I will not let these feelings overcome me. I can’t. I have to it keep it together for my brothers and sisters. I don’t know what is coming, but I know we must survive.
While we did indeed survive, and at times thrive in our new home, the pain from that moment remained. One night my foster mom was tucking me into bed, and I laid there overwhelmed by a sadness, maybe even a deadness within me. She asked what was wrong, and my eyes immediately filled with tears. I laid there in my bed, fighting back the deep, dark sorrow that threatened to take over and I said:
“I miss my mom. It feels like there is a hole in my chest where my heart used to be.”
Over the years, that pain continued to present itself as anger, depression, and longing. The more I processed my childhood experiences, the more betrayed I felt by my mom. Before that moment in the homeless shelter kitchen, I never would have questioned her, but after that, I started to see things through a different lens.
It occurred to me that she not only left us, but she never protected us from our stepdad. Every time he punched or kicked, she stood to the side and allowed it to happen. Every chance she had to get away and start over, she refused to take. She kept letting him back into our lives after every arrest and separation. With these realizations, the illusions I had of my mother began to crumble. She not only caused deep emotional hurt, but she allowed us to be hurt physically as well.
I love my mom.
Do you feel the dissonance of those words now? They trigger a flurry of questions and unleash a torrent of anxiety. If I admit I love her, does that let her off the hook? Will it make my adoptive mom feel less appreciated? Will my brothers and sisters feel betrayed by my admission?
I’ve spent twenty-one years carrying the scars, trying to forgive, and hoping I’ll stop being affected by her. I’ve spent twenty-one years trying not to be that vulnerable ever again, yet here I am.
I love my mom.
As I sat on my back steps allowing the weight of this realization to wash over me, I experienced the warmth of healing slowly emerge as the first light of the sun at dawn. I was swimming in both the discomfort and the release; truth embedded in dissonance.
Within this dissonant truth, I’m finding a restoration. In some way I can’t fully articulate, I am more fully myself today than I was two weeks ago. The pain has not gone away. That homeless shelter kitchen still brings tears to my eyes and anxiety to my heart. However, I know that I don’t have to protect myself anymore.
I’ve lived my whole life waiting for people to hurt me. Which means I never let them in, or I emotionally detach at a moment’s notice. These are coping techniques designed to keep me from experiencing vulnerability and pain. While I will remain discerning about who I trust, I will also trust God enough to know that I can be deeply hurt, and still be restored. Healing is always possible.
Truth can be present in dissonance. We have to be willing to remain in the discomfort long enough for it to emerge. Once it presents itself, do your best not to judge it. Give it space to be validated. Let it be, and feel how it begins to change you. The process of remaining in the dissonance and holding your truth will be uncomfortable or even painful for some of you. Some truths are shrouded in shame while others are shackled with pain or regret. Allow your truth to exist without the shrouds or shackles and listen for what it will tell you. Not every truth will make you suddenly feel more whole, but each one will help you experience more of your true self. There is freedom in that.
Find space this weekend to get into a quiet place. Through your own practice of centering, find that stillness which makes room for dissonance. When your truth emerges, invite it in without judgment or condition. Hold it gently and trust that it will do the work it set out to do, even if that work is not immediately evident to you. Then, as you’re ready, share your truth with someone you trust so that they too might see more of who you are.
More will be written about the dissonance in President Bush’s life and legacy. His death has given the nation an opportunity to choose how much discomfort we’re willing to hold for the sake of restoration. As you formulate your own opinions on our 41st president, remember that truth is knocking. Be still and open the door.
Invisible Truths 