I’ve spent most of my adult life thinking I was crazy. Not being sure. Whether I am crazy or others are. Maybe all of us are crazy. If others are, I must be crazy too to keep being in relationship with them.
That’s why I don’t write to you as often. Because I want to make sure, that what I write is well thought through and that it makes sense. I try to do my best not to mislead people. I don’t want to write something in the heap of emotion that I would regret later. or even worse, something that would have a negative impact on someone.
In the last few years I often held myself back from writing, because my interests, muse (that body of work that wants to be created through me because I am the right person to create it according to my interest, experiences, questions, musings and passion) and what I saw as missing in my life and lives of fellow people/artists/customers/clients/creators were all propelling me to put my foot down in this area.
In the area of the impact of the family of origin on who we are as people and how we play the roles we consciously or unconsciously choose to play (or feel forced to play).
My writing has always been super honest. Even when I was keeping things I would rather not share to myself, or self-censored myself out of fear of oversharing, I believe there was this sense of being a fellow human being on their journey through life in my work. The readers had a sense that they know me. And I must admit they often did. The messages I got from people on the internet on my birthdays were usually way more in sync with what I really want and heart-touching than greetings from most of my family members.
It was always hard for me to write about this, even though I deeply wanted to express it, because I felt dis-loyal to my family. And ungrateful for all-that-they-did-for-me.
Writing about this felt terrifying.
If I stay true to my style of writing (honest and personal with a more or less universal lesson that I am trying to convey to the audience) I might say things that my family members would disagree with. Of course that’s not a big deal to the most of the world as I am not Meghan Markle. And my family members don’t read my blog (maybe mother of my partner here and then, and I rather not imagine the things she would say and think about me, as I cringe in discomfort at the mere thought of it). But they do have conversations with other people who might read my blog. And in my world mostly is kind of a big deal what people have to say about me, especially when those people are people I will meet at the next party (khm, party, when was the last time I attended one?), while running errands in town or even while walking my dog through the village.
So, there were a lot of questions:
How to stay true to my writing style (and true to my truth), without coming across as though I am ungrateful to my family for what they gave me?
How to talk about the things I want to talk about (because they need to be spoken about because they shape our identity and therefore shape our (in)actions in the world) without blaming my family for the things they did not know?
How to protect their privacy while being honest?
Should I ask them for permission? How to ask them for permission? What would be consequences of that?
Should I write about my own examples as though they are stories from my clients?
Where is the line between using story from my life as an example and washing dirty laundry?
Wounded and confused part of me is asking: Should I really care that much about their feelings and ask for their permission to share my side of the story and the lessons I learned from it, when they did not care much about my feelings and just expected to keep up with their behavior, not even being aware of the impact it has and certainly not wanting to hear about it, because they would feel bad about themselves, when they were actually trying so hard to be good (enough), live their life more or less normally and be accepted in society?
Next reason I was holding myself back from writing was this one:
I am not perfect, yet. Well, I actually believe we are all perfect. Perfectly equipped to be ourselves, to live and grow (and perfectly equipped to fall apart, die and be reborn). But what is actually behind this is this: I don’t have final answers. There are things I cannot say for sure.
In my quest to figure out who I am and how who I am was impacted by my family I came in touch with different theories, schools of thoughts, techniques, different authors, authorities, mystics, academic researches, psychologists, therapists… And what I can say for sure is this: the family of origin and the culture the author was born into and raised in had an impact on what was author conveying to the audience. Even (and maybe especially) if they were trying to be as objective as possible (because they might be aware their objectiveness is subjective to their culture and unconscious biases).
I am work in progress. On a journey. What I am seeing as truth today might change tomorrow. What if something I say today influences the tomorrow of someone else and tomorrow I am already seeing things differently?
The next reason for holding myself back:
I don’t have a psychology degree. In fact I don’t have any official degree. I left university early on, eager to learn from life, experiences, people, eager to see what actually works in real life. I was always a knowledge addict and passionate reader and I trusted myself and Life that if I have a question I will find an answer.
But I had a chip on my shoulder because of not having a degree, because I felt like my words don’t carry as much weight as they would if I had an official paper to back them up.
I can more or less take that chip off my shoulder now, as I came to realise that what helped me most on my journey was not whether those who helped me either in person or via books/courses/art were certified by any institution or not, but whether I felt understood and seen by them and how I incorporated the new (or renewed) awareness into my life. [Side note to myself: write a post about how we can feel seen and witnessed in different ways.]
So I can allow myself to take up space and speak about the topics close to my heart and let them resonate with those with whom they will resonate.
But, if I had a degree (or if I would at least had a writing style where I would sound as an authority on a certain subject), then I could hide myself behind my carefully crafted academic persona [maybe I have a carefully crafted persona anyway] and not share anything too personal.
Arrrgh. It is scary being vulnerable.
You could be misunderstood, you could be accused of something you did not intend at all, you could be disregarded, you could be seen as weak, you could be patronised and seen and treated as a subordinate, you could be labeled as too emotional, childish, as a pussy... You could be seen as unprofessional.
And you could also experience people taking there masks of, as you took of yours and you could have that wonderful moment of recognition with each other… Shared moment. Spark of connection… Radiating beauty.
Love found in what you feared is the most hopeless place.
How divine it feels to be a human. So unique and individual, so like everyone else.
Anywhere you go, you’ll see
People are just like you and me
All the things I’ve done and seen
Still, I don’t know what life means
All the people living in, living in the world today
Reunited by our love, reunited by our pain
All the things that I’ve done and I’ve seen
Still I don’t know, don’t know what it means
To be human
Still, I don’t know, don’t know what it means
To be human, a real human being. – Marina
I hope you will join me on my continues journey of figuring out what it means to be a human and how it co-relates to unknown numbers of things and factors, (one of those things/factors for sure being family). I will express it through writing, sketching, and whatever else I will feel like and I will show you a lot of my crazy.
With Love,
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