10.21.13

Violence IS the answer

ejlemptyMe, back in my thuglet days
Flourish in Progress on Instagram

Even though violence is a lot easier, I still try to use my words. But that rule only applies to me. Words Before Shoving is the exact opposite of what I’ve been teaching my daughter. We’ve had multiple conversations about what bullying looks like and why it’s unacceptable for anyone to shame, violate, or exert pressure over another person with words or actions. When Cal asked for an action plan to defend herself, I told her to punch that motherfucker in the face and then run to the nearest adult. If the bully is a tall adult, her reach could be an issue, so I offered other options like a shin or a kneecap.

Cal didn’t thank me for my tips. Obviously, our next serious conversation is going to address her appreciation skills. Instead, she asked if adults really bullied kids. “Come on, mommy, be real.”

“Adults bully everybody.”

That totally didn’t sound right. I can’t use my fists and, clearly, words aren’t really my thing, so I’ve been thinking a lot about relocating. To a cave. “Wait, back up. What I meant is that you shouldn’t accept cruelty or abuse from an adult just because they are an adult. Some adults aren’t nice to anyone, including kids.”

“If I hit, doesn’t that make me a bully too?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“BECAUSE.”

“I don’t think that counts as an answer.”

When a situation becomes too confrontational, I take a moment to step back and gain clarity. I have to do that a lot with Cal because children who ask too many questions make parenting extremely difficult. You know what? I’m not giving up because I’m not a quitter. Also, I’ve already put in fourteen years, so I might as well just go the distance. The more time you put in, the more money your kids have to give you when you’re old. I’m not going to stop shopping at Whole Foods just because I turn 80 and/or Harv dies, so I let the eventual cash reward be my motivator.

The more I thought about Cal’s questions, the more I realized how difficult it is to explain the intricacies of conflict and reaction. I wish I could write resolution instead of reaction, but I reserve resolution for matters that have a clear ending, a solution that either brings peace of mind or, at the very least, enough closure to move away from the situation.

Sometimes, when we are faced with a bully, all we can do is react.

I am very familiar with conflict. Someone once told me that I am to blame for all of the conflict in my life. That every single badness I have ever crossed paths with is my own doing. That I have experienced more pain and drama than most people my age because I allow broken people into my sphere and tether them to my own darkness. I do not disagree.

Those words affected me deeply, but I understand now that bullies are paralyzed by their own brokenness. The density of their self-hate makes it impossible for them to shine, so they don’t want anyone else to sparkle either. He wanted to keep me dull and jagged and rough…I ain’t about that life. Checkmate, bitch.

As a kid, I didn’t question adult bullies because I thought that adults could do whatever they wanted and it was, like, totally legit. I didn’t use my fists OR my words with kid bullies when they threw gum in my hair or ching-chonged their way past me. Bullies always seem to know who to target because water seeks its own level. Weakness can always spot weakness.

My weakness turned into rage. I overreacted to everything and everyone because I was never, ever, ever going to let anyone fuck me over again. And…I became a bully. I just want to take this opportunity to apologize to the barista at Starbucks on Beverly Dr. for that time I lost my shit cuz it was dairy instead of soy. I’m so sorry.

I couldn’t condense all of these thoughts and experiences into one simple answer, so I sat with Cal and shared the unedited version.

I repeated over and over again that violence is never the answer. Except for those times when it is. “So I’m pushing them away with my hands more for a boundary than to give them a black eye?”

“YES. And if you did give them a black eye, at least it would match the color of their soul.” I didn’t say that last part even though I really wanted to. Part of using your words is knowing when to shut up.

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October 21, 2013
09.02.13

Ghetto University (Notes on Getting Over the Past)

EJLgoodintentionsImage: Flourish in Progress on Instagram

The first time I landed in rehab, I met a woman who’s addiction ended up saving her life. She had two children, a husband, a home in the country, and a small apartment near the Ivy League university where she taught (for late nights when she was too exhausted to make the long drive home).

A few months before voluntarily checking into rehab, she sunk into a low place where she felt broken beyond repair and decided that what she wanted most was to kill herself. But before doing it, she wanted everything around her to be perfect, because she hated the thought of inconveniencing anyone. She deep cleaned the carpets and laid liners in drawers and responded to student emails and wrote letters to her daughters. No matter how many tasks she completed to tie up all of the loose ends, the list just seemed to grow. To numb her exhaustion, she started doing meth. What began as an occasional boost quickly grew into a raging addiction.

When she realized that she had spiraled from “just” suicidal to suicidal addict, she was forced to admit that what she had previously defined as her rock bottom wasn’t really the bottom. This inability to determine just how fucked up her life could become comforted her. She decided that leaving would be so much worse than staying and that she was, in fact, NOT broken beyond repair.

I’ve thought about her a lot over the years.

I turned 33 yesterday. If someone had told me on my last birthday what the year ahead would look like, I would have started drinking immediately and stayed shitfaced for the entire twelve months. Unfortunately, I don’t have any psychic friends, and I don’t keep alcoholic beverages in my home.  (Side note: My mother still brings up that one time in 1992 I called the Psychic Friends Network for eleven minutes at a rate of $3.99/min. Please let it go, ma.)

I allowed myself to feel dirty emotions like grief and regret and shame. I sunk into a deep depression. On days when I spent the majority of my time in bed, hiding away under the masses of pillows and blankets, I agonized over the poor life choices I’ve made since becoming a teen, and I realized that I hadn’t ever carefully considered what it is that would make me feel like a whole person.

And because I am not yet whole, I am afraid that my pockets of emptiness will swallow anyone that crosses my path. I don’t hug my daughter as much as I want to. A very large part of me believes that my dirtiness will rub off on her and sully her remarkable sheen.

Processing my past took me to Ghetto University. I’ve known for some time that by holding on to the ghosts of people and places and moments that are no longer part of my present experience, I’ve relinquished my right to enjoy life. But still, letting go seemed like such a waste- all the effort I had put into obsessing about what could have been or what I was owed or what I still owed others.

I stayed away from blogging. Everything I wrote looked exactly the same, week after week. I was waiting to be perfect to start again. Which is, like, totally fucking weird, because I’ve never been perfect before. The probability of stumbling into perfection while eating Kit Kats in bed and then throwing the empty wrappers on the floor is extremely low.

Because I have lived for so long suspended in the belief that I’m not equipped to make smart decisions for myself and that I don’t really deserve forgiveness, I didn’t know how to step out of that pit at first. Peace seemed foreign. But strange places can be wonderful.

I’m still working my way out, but all of it, every ugly crack I’ve tripped over, has been worth it.

I must remember: I do not have to be perfect to be good. This applies to you too.

FiPghetto

P.S. Yesterday also marked the 3rd anniversary of this blog. I had no idea when I started that this would bring so much goodness into my life. For between-post updates and random (t)hug life thoughts, “like” the Flourish in Progress Facebook page or follow along on the Instagram (username: flourishinprogress) grind.

September 2, 2013