Maybe a Longer Break, Or Address it

me

I texted my good friend today about how I was feeling after stepping away from social media for a bit. It’s a friend I met here on Substack, and one I cherish deeply. He’s the kind of friend I can send a bucket of brain junk to, and within seconds he’s sorted through the rubbish and compacted it all into a perfectly digestible morsel.

Everyone needs a friend like that.

I definitely need a friend like that.

What’s so interesting is that I am that person to all of my friends… yet I struggle with focusing my own thoughts that quickly. I told him I dipped my toe back in this morning, but immediately felt something off about it. And he responded:

Maybe a longer break

Or address it

And then he was gone. Which is also a thing he does.

But I’ve thought about those words all day. Maybe I came back too soon? That would explain the weight on my chest when I stepped onto the platform for the first time in several days. But I didn’t like the idea of something making me feel the need to hide. And that’s what taking more time felt like to me… hiding.

Quitting.

Caving.

That’s not me. I face my fears and attack them. I am not a quitter. And I cave to nobody.

But I also know those were learned behaviors based on how incorrectly I was raised.

I was raised by a coach and not a father. Fighting and sprint drills and stadium steps were both my punishment and my reward. Quitting was weak, and I was raised to be tough.

And I was raised by a selfish girl who never wanted me to have anything she didn’t have, instead of a mother. She needed me to be small for her to feel important.

I’ve gotten better. I am so much kinder to myself after the estrangement. I say No now. I have an excellent relationship with boundaries, and am more comfortable being vulnerable. And yet, the idea of taking a longer break still felt like hiding.

So, here I am addressing it instead.

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There are things I won’t talk about, but I think I can share enough of it that can be helpful.

I write about very personal things. I mean, not always. I’ve written about how much I’m distrustful of stickers and pie being superior to cake and that one time a yellow jacket stung me in the vagina.

One might argue writing about one’s vagina is, in fact, very personal. But I have a very different take on what ‘personal’ means. I have no issue showing or talking about my body. Anyone who’s followed me on Medium or Instagram has seen and heard a great deal of it. I don’t find the exposure of my body to be personal at all. And that’s probably my way to take the power back from the adults who abused it when I was too young to say no.

I’m talking about the stuff I have gone through. The stuff I have survived.

Every time I write about any of the familial trauma I went through, it’s never hard. It flows out of me like it was waiting for me to turn on the faucet. It’s not hard to edit. It’s not hard to publish. And it even provides a bit of medicine and healing for my younger self.

I don’t even find it hard to hold all of your comments about it. I find that we all get a little bit closer every time we do that. And I’m so grateful for that.

Please know I am so very grateful for that.

The part that gets hard for me is the energy I absorb every time I share something personal in that way. I’m not alone in sharing personal stories here, and I don’t mean to imply that I’m special.

But the people I write about are still living, except this guy and his wife. And even though we do not have contact (which more specifically means I do not have contact with, or respond to them), we still live in a very small town where everyone knows everyone and they all watched me grow up.

My family name is sort of a big deal around here. I used to joke that ‘my father’ was the unofficial mayor; everyone knows and admires this man. Or they did…I don’t keep up with town politics. But his reputation is that of a very warm and generous, everyman. And he is now dying. Or something. I don’t know, people feel the need to tell me stuff sometimes. I don’t fact check.

And I am the only one who has access to the real him. The abusive him. The drunk him. The selfish him. The angry him. The threatening him.

Because I am the only one who has ever said No to him.

And suffice it to say, all of this puts me in a highly difficult position now that we are not in a relationship.

Someone who has always had power will usually win over someone who speaks up with a new way of looking at something… or someone. A lot of people believe I am a terrible monster for leaving that family, and the fact that I write about it does not help matters.

It’s a pretty easy story to buy when a small town hero is dying of cancer and their only daughter isn’t by their side.

Every time I leave the house, it’s a bit Montague v Capulet.

It’s ridiculous, it’s silly, it is almost farcical, and yet… it is my life. There are people who have made it their life’s mission to make mine a living hell. And as strong as I am, and as much as I brush off their attacks… it still is something I have to deal with on a very regular basis. Every time I publish something, they come out of the woodwork in some way and the routine begins.

And as an energy sponge and highly intuitive person, I always know when there’s about to be a strike. So even after they’ve stopped their tactics to knock me down, I’m still feeling their darkness. It lingers and hovers because it is thick and heavy. Their energy is like late August in the South—a sticky wall of bug-infested heat that does not want to disperse.

And it takes me some time to clear it out.

It’s also incredibly taxing when it piles up.

And as much as I pride myself in being tough and able to handle anything you can throw at me… it’s just so much sometimes, y’all.

It’s just so much.

Even the sturdiest house starts to weather from years of shitty storms. So sometimes the only thing I can do to block out that wall of darkness is board up the windows and wait for the storm to pass. Even if that means I’m also blocking out the sun, it’s the only way to not be infiltrated. I shrink my world down into a controllable space, and shut out all the noise…. even the good noises like so many of you play for me here.

I can’t edit what energy comes my way, I can only control my part in certain things. And sometimes the smartest and healthiest thing for me to do is wait until the assholes have tired themselves out.

So, no. I’m not hiding. I’m not letting ‘them’ get to me. I still have my boundaries. And I don’t regret a single decision I made to not let the people who started my life stick around until the end of theirs.

But this is me following my friend’s advice and addressing it.

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I thought the energy had cleared this morning. And maybe it had, but there was still something in the way of me being able to show up for all of you the way you deserve. Maybe it felt like a lie. Or maybe this here is the missing piece to the puzzle and all will be well tomorrow. I’ve never tried to explain this in such detail before.

But I do know I trust this space, and the people I have found here. And it is a very fine line trying to protect your energy and also be open and vulnerable.

I’m not perfect. But I am trying my best to navigate a life I chose to live without the people who never accepted me for who I am, who just don’t seem to want to accept that as a truth. It’s not easy. But freedom with some storm clouds still tastes sweeter than a life in a fancy cage.

I love you beautiful people.