Not Feeling Myself

I haven’t been feeling myself lately. I mean that in both the literal and metaphorical way. For weeks now, while engaging in activities I typically enjoy, I have found myself feeling flat and robotic. I’ve recently made decisions and matched them with actions that should have carried a sense of motivation and purpose. And yet, I could not seem to care one way or the other about what came of those choices. And perhaps most striking, I have felt uncharacteristically short tempered and distant from people.

All of this was happening quite subtly. In truth it was not until my brother came into town to attend my niece’s wedding that I finally realized I was feeling…NOTHING. I love my brother. Our relationship has an easy, breezy quality to it. We are remarkably similar in our preferences and personalities and neither of us are “high demand” of each other. We live our lives, care to stay connected to each other, and enjoy our time together when we get it. So normally this opportunity would have been met with some excitement. Yet…NOTHING. My mind knew how I usually felt and was eager to share its thoughts on the matter. But we gathered for lunch, exchanged lighthearted banter and I was emotionally vacant.

For someone who identifies as a deeply relational person…and, uh, consistently writes a blog about how to find and make connection…I was deeply TROUBLED and CONFUSED about what was happening…or more specifically, NOT happening within me.

I am not going to lie. Writing about this is going to be difficult. Everything inside of me wants to shut it down, keep it under wraps and safeguard myself from being judged. Which is precisely why I am going to endeavor through.

By now, you may have figured out, I am a bit of a self-development junkie. For as long as I can remember, I have been striving to be “my best self.”  Perfectionism is a dogged companion…and my loyal oppressor. All my favorite books are the ones that revealed some hidden truth inside of me. And the insights of healing professionals carry a good bit of weight in my life. So, when one of them told me several years ago I was raised in a culture of shame, the words caught my attention.

They knocked around my consciousness for a while as I tried to weigh their validity and discern if I recognized any truth to them. At the time, I chose to abandon them fairly quickly. The truth is I thought shame was reserved for those who committed criminal acts, had behaved out of character due to an addiction or who had the unfair burden of being bombarded with social injustice and messages that their presence carried less importance than others. I tried on her suggested garment of shame and concluded it was not a good fit.

I admit, I thought I was emotionally intelligent and possessed the vocabulary and self-awareness to recognize the full range of human emotional experience. But I was wrong. Something immense had evaded my detection.

What I am about to share is admittedly a deeply personal experience that may not serve my readers with new actionable skills or objective insight. I also recognize it represents my unique perspective and may not match how other family members experienced our shared life. I humbly offer it anyway, because it points to a universal human experience and is the painfully personal underpinnings of YOU.logy.

MY FAMILY HISTORY:

The word FAMILY carries profound weight. As the foundational building block of society, the family unit not only defines our identity, but it also sculpts our perceptions of the world and teaches us how to be in it. With so much influence and responsibility, it is not hard to understand why the word also carries a steamer trunk level of baggage in both societal value and personal expectation. There are many words in our vocabulary that represent uncomfortable things, and even words that feel ugly to say. But none carries more dissonance and burden to me than FAMILY.

I was raised by a mother who emerged from a challenging home life. I suspect she came into her marriage believing the love of a child would heal her inner parts that had not been well served in her parents’ home. When she and my father were initially unable to conceive, they made the choice to adopt two children. Eventually, they were successful in conceiving and birthing four more. She was a young mother who struggled with her responsibilities and when she experienced a mental health crisis, the government and medical professionals intervened. Ultimately, my parents made the impossible decision to surrender parental rights of one of their children and my adopted brother was removed from our home. As she clipped his presence out of every family photo, her painful truth was cast into the shadows of secrecy and her remaining children were unwittingly mandated into silence.

The tragic truth underlying all of this is I do not believe my mother ever fully plumbed or recognized her capacity to love. I don’t doubt the pain of that experience hemmed in her love as an unconscious attempt to safeguard herself from future suffering. But what emerged was a family system ruled by the laws of supply and demand and a distinct economy of love defined by scarcity. With her fullest expression of love being withheld, we all felt the risk of exclusion. And from a child’s perspective, we had already witnessed the reality that rejection could lead to banishment. As such, my siblings and I competed for a love that felt as if it had been calibrated at ‘not quite enough’ and we were willing to turn against each other to get it. This wicked game of musical chairs defined our family dynamics and while we all had our turn of being on the “outs” my oldest sister, Monica was the one who most often found herself without a seat of belonging.

From my perspective, Monica was easy company to be around. She was creative and had a fashion sense all her own. She loved music and animals and was radically independent within a family system that did not encourage such a thing. She also shared her heart and presence in a way that felt accepting and unconditional. I adored her and wanted to be just like her, which probably meant I was a “clingy, annoying little sis.”  But she never made me feel that way. She seemed to like sharing company with me. As we grew into our adult years, it didn’t matter how much time had passed between visits, picking up where we left off always felt easy and permissible.

Just putting this into words breaks my heart. Each year, during the holidays when every other family in the world was discussing ways they can all be together, we had our own demented tradition of figuring out “who among us is just too difficult to be around” and would land on the Not Invited List. I would adamantly fight for Monica’s inclusion. But as soon as my allegiance to Monica crossed a threshold that felt like betrayal to my mother, I would abandon my entreaty and submit to the mandated rules of engagement.

My complicity in these decisions is painful and makes Monica’s early and unexpected death not only a source of great regret; it is a devastating personal legacy that is impossible to deny. When my brother-in-law was trying to locate my mother’s phone number to let us know of her death, my niece implored, “Will they even care?”  To this day, her words haunt me.

So, when I received an engagement announcement and Save the Date card for my niece’s wedding, I was quick to mark my calendar. Several months later, when she alerted me that our invite had been returned in the mail, I hurriedly assured her we would be in attendance. Without any introspection or conversation about how this event may be experienced, I raced to RSVP and let her know Ken and I would be among those who would witness and support her on a day when she would undoubtedly be feeling the absence of her mother. I had no idea MY ACTUAL + 1 was SHAME and that the entire event would be festooned with it.

THE WEDDING

Within seconds of entering the event center, I was met with an enthusiastic and youthful greeting from a distant family member whom I had not seen sense my sister’s funeral. As we exchanged a saccharine hug, I felt the presence of a politely unspoken recrimination. As we attempted to make eye contact and exchange social courtesies, I heard my own voice as if it were underwater. A small fragment of my integrity seemed to float up and out of my body, exposing some tender part that would rather stay hidden.

We moved on quickly, motivated by both necessity and discomfort. Ken needed to hang his jacket, and I wanted to drop off our gift. As we surveyed the environment, we each splintered off in two directions. As I scanned the banquet room, I was struck at how empty it appeared and since we had arrived fairly close to the start of the ceremony, I did not feel like crowds were likely to amass. The gift table was another visual reminder of how scarcely the event was being shared.

Something like sadness started to wind its way inside of me, but it had a darker and heavier feel to it. Ken caught up with me at the same time I was feeling how sparsely the event was being attended and it felt important that our names be added to the blank canvas the couple had decided to use as their guest book. As we meandered our way back to the entrance, I turned the corner and ran into the sister who for decades has decided she cannot be in relationship with my husband and me.

Without warning, “Oh, hi!” excitedly dropped out of my mouth and I wondered what part of me could authentically greet her presence with such lighthearted welcome? And with it, another swatch of my wholeness got torn out of its inner hiding spot and pulled tight. With egos scrambling to catch up with what just happened, my sister and I each diverted our eyes, and I dramatically turned my body towards the table where a set of markers awaited my “much-needed” attention.

Although I had extracted myself from an awkward interaction with my estranged sister. I did not feel good about how I did it. For years, I have tried to understand my sister’s perspective and have made many failed attempts at reconciling. Would I prefer to have a relationship? Sure. At the very least, I would prefer to not be wrongly judged. But after trying so many times and realizing that a relationship requires the willingness and effort of TWO people, I have settled for the sage advice found in the Serenity Prayer. I accept what I cannot change.

Earlier this year, my mother made another appeal for my sister to reconcile with me. She became outraged, doubled down on her judgement of my marriage, hung up on my mother and eventually sent her a letter saying she could no longer be in a relationship with our family. I am not going to lie; it brings me a lot of pain to know my sister finds a relationship with me such an abhorrent idea that she would rather walk away from her entire family. But I have come to accept where she is and surrender to what I cannot change…

After fully leveraging the distraction that writing a thoughtful message to the newly wedded couple provided, I knew I had to face the “crowds.” And I found myself grappling with the confusing inner dialogue being exchanged between my heart and ego. As I slowly moved towards the double doors of the banquet room, I felt another loose end of my authenticity get yanked out of me and hoisted like a sail, catching the winds of discomfort blowing all throughout the room. Feeling desperate to anchor myself, I absentmindedly followed Ken as he tried to locate the table we had been assigned to sit at.

A myriad of strange faces approached me and talked to me as if I knew who they were and what was going on in their lives. Ken expressed some frustration that I was not introducing him, and he was not wrong. But to introduce him, I had to know who I was talking to and although everyone I was encountering fell under the auspices of “FAMILY” I had no relationship or connection with them. I knew the truth…so why were all these people pretending otherwise and expecting me to match their feigned affection?

My mind scrambled and I felt incapable of using my words. I was angry at how false everything felt and paralyzed by my own unwillingness to participate in what should have been an easy and enjoyable event. I looked around the room and noticed we were all wearing the same tight, rounded shoulders as if they were the current trending accessory. Eye contact was at a premium and each table seemed to be an island onto itself. I watched as people leaned over and said things like, “Now, is that the brother?”  There was some comfort knowing I was not the only one that felt like a bunch of disparate parts had been haphazardly woven into a grotesque facsimile of a “FAMILY” tapestry. And yet, we took our scripts in hand and delivered lines that made no sense at all.

When we were instructed to take our seats, I discovered just how committed my sister was to remaining separate from our family unit. She settled into her assigned seat at a table on the opposite side of the room. And when I discovered she was not accompanied by her husband and three sons, it became clear, this was not a seating arrangement out of necessity, this was a placement that actively reflected her preference. I felt another painful constriction within my heart as she sat alone, among a group of people who I could not name or identify. Our family’s brokenness sat in my gut like a cold, wet boulder. And yet, we all played our socially appropriate parts of ignoring how ugly our TRUTH was.

As I sat among an incomplete group of people I had once shared a childhood home with, I ceased to be inhabiting my body. Like a cairn, my fractured being precariously perched on a chair as an odd collection of dissociation, profound uneasiness, and hypervigilance. With stubbornly unresponsive lips, I remember watching my mother’s lips move, as her words floated past full comprehension. With an all too familiar tone, I could tell she was trying to prompt me into some sort of judgement about my sister’s presence at the other table. I remember hearing my own voice say, “Honestly, I don’t even know why she invited us, other than the fact that we are her mother’s sisters.”  I could feel how incongruent my words met my mother’s, but they reflected my truth. I honestly felt I had no right to be here and every part of me wanted to hide and make myself disappear.

With so many topics off limits, my immediate family chose to sit together in relative silence. I recognized and appreciated it was their safest option, but their choice curdled Ken’s nervous system and he sought humor to ease his discomfort. Clearly aware of the two options being exercised, I found Ken’s words an antagonist to the well-established fortification my family always used. As minutes carried the weight of years, I grew increasingly edgy and combatant. I felt mired at the table, fully aware that no part of my authentic self was present. Ken was growing agitated by my unresponsiveness and despite his efforts, my lips remained stalwart to silence.

Given the choice of “playing family” and remaining silent, silence felt like the more honest option. But it also harbored a complicated, painful reality that I could not name. I had no idea or word for how I was feeling.  I just knew it was AWFUL. As I sat in siloed solidarity with a group of people who had taught me to consistently abandon myself and insulate from all forms of self-accountability; I couldn’t evade the immense discomfort I was feeling among them.  As it works out…sometimes we need to feel the contrast of what we are NOT to recognize what we ARE. This profound truth of disconnection sat like a centerpiece at our table. Eventually I could not hold space with it any longer.

Despite all the socially approved props and performances in place, nothing masked the palpable presence of shame. Like carbon monoxide it wound its way through the room, imperceivable but toxically suffocating. Both light and heavy, it escaped being named and remained equally impossible to deny.

And as I cried myself to sleep that night, I said to Ken “I don’t even know who I am! Am I the person who has no connection with the very people our society says holds the greatest value in our life? Or am I the person who easily makes connections with people in every other aspect of life? Which one is real and true? And what business do I have writing a blog and acting like I know anything at all about connection?!” 

With patience and loving wisdom, Ken said your pain has become your purpose and IT is exactly why you ARE the expert. You have lived both sides of the coin of connection. That night, I still could not find words for what I was feeling. And just as I finished writing about this experience and wondering if it had any place in the public eye, the lovely synchronicity of computer algorithms delivered me to the word and clarity that had been evading me.

“Shame feels like a deep, painful sense of unworthiness, like we are fundamentally bad or flawed, often accompanied by feelings of wanting to shrink or hide, a desire to disappear, and a sense of being exposed or judged by others. It can manifest physically with tightness in the chest or stomach and create a sense of being disconnected from yourself and others.”

Well, there you have it. While I usually find clarity helpful, I assure you, I take no pleasure in having experienced a picture-perfect definition of SHAME.

Brene Brown says shame grows with three ingredients, secrecy, silence, and judgement. These three things were my unnamed siblings. When my brother was removed from our home, their presence filled the void. And with no awareness at all, I have been battling the pain of their presence by assembling a myriad of small personal choices around how I want to be in the world.

I am a deeply relational person precisely because I could not experience it in my family. I seek to understand what is under the surface of people because so much lurked in secrecy within my home. I choose to use my words to spread joy and provide insight because so much of mine was sequestered in silence. And I meet people with curiosity and tolerance to counterbalance the judgement and fear of rejection I grew up with.

The truth is our lives are driven either by conscious choice or unconscious conditioning. Our families, schools and work environments place a lot of “rules” upon us. As social beings, we are compelled to learn and abide by them out of nothing more than survival instinct. But these unexamined rules are not always in alignment with our highest functioning. And often we will not know that until we become curious about what we are experiencing in relation to others.

Our relationships serve as reflections. And when we choose to understand ourselves and others better, we get practice in recognizing when we are acting in alignment with our true self, or operating under the spell of some unconscious fear. Each interaction with another human being is an opportunity for personal growth, introspection, the development of compassion and the possibility to see ourselves differently.

The truth is my family is not particularly different than many others. And the painful patterns of shame can be seen all throughout our current culture. David Hawkins said, “shame is perilously proximate to death.”  If that is true, then YOU.logy is not just a clever pun, it is an urgent call to an incredibly accessible spiritual practice that invites us to discover the essence within each one of us. While a traditional eulogy is something we perform because a connection has been lost…YOU.logy is a vital, “living” practice we could choose – so a connection can be found, felt, and shared.