The One Where I Do Not Let Go

I am a ten year old girl sitting on the floor of my bedroom closet. It is the middle of the night. I wish I could sleep, but I cannot. I have penned poems, my favorite nocturnal activity. I have even created my own well-organized file box so I can easily refer to my hidden writings. They are my secret, my treasure, my key to survival. Without a pen I wouldn’t last. I’m a closet writer in every sense.

Tonight the poems don’t resolve my slumber though. Something is weighing on me. I feel unsettled. My future is hanging in the balance. I think of the last time I sat on the stairs leading up to my bedroom, perfectly situated above the kitchen, the venue of my parents’ arguments that are within earshot. I like to journal their heated discussions and later dissect them. I look for themes, then I look for solutions. Money, travel, adultery. I can find trends, but can I solve them? I will give my best effort.

Their marriage is so important to me. I am willing to sacrifice my well-being for it. I have a vision of family. I know what I hope for in my parents’ marriage, but the execution of those objectives seems harder than my youthful understanding conceives it to be.

If the pieces of the puzzle don’t match up correctly, what does one do? Do you rearrange, or do you decide the puzzle never would have become a clean, clear picture, regardless of all attempts at restructuring? I am not sure, but I search for answers in a song called “What’s Forever For?” by John Michael Montgomery. It’s become a favorite for this ten-year-old. I evaluate the words: “What’s the glory in living? Doesn’t anybody ever stay together anymore? And if love never lasts forever, what’s forever for? ... I see love hungry people trying their best to survive when right there in their hands is a dying romance and they’re not even trying to keep it alive.” Is that my parents? I wonder and consider that maybe it could be. I vow that I will find someone to love forever. And in the meantime, maybe I can help my parents somehow.

But I don’t know how to do either tonight. There are the fights. There are the romantic greeting cards I found tucked away in my dad’s closet. They were signed his adulteress, always with only one initial. They say personal things and I often replay the words in my mind.

Can you keep love alive when a marriage seems so crowded?

Eventually, life will move on, but even when it does, I will long remain that ten-year-old sitting on the closet floor seeking solutions.

My parents never gave me that job. They probably didn’t even know I was doing it. I got stuck troubleshooting and it would later become so hard for me to walk away when things turned badly.

I had developed a habit. I would try and try and try to make things work out. Look for the silver lining, press for the happy ending by making sure every stone was unturned. That role would create one in which I would make myself a prisoner of a bad situation, not leaving when I should.

When the relationship turned sour. When the circumstance would never work out. When the environment became toxic. When… when… when… all those whens I would not walk away from.

I rewind and can see it started even earlier in my life than age ten. I was the three year old whose hair fell out when her dad left. At that age I was not trying to solve; I was trying to merely survive.  My foundation was broken before it was formed.

I would later be labeled as having a fear of abandonment. It took me a long time (still does) to believe that’s right. But when I slow down and see my choice – to unnecessarily make myself captive – I can also see that fear of abandonment can cause codependence.

Codependence looks like me clasping my hands another around the ankles of a person who is trying to run away. For me in that pathetic moment, it feels like everything is at stake. Behaviors and words of the one trying to flee are rationalized, even distorted. I focus on the person’s potential, not the abusiveness that became habitual in the relationship. When poor logic replaces reality, fantasy reigns. The truth is that pain from childhood was not resolved during it, and I moved forward with bad habits.

It has been a long road to address it. But I try. I cannot change people. God changes people, and I am no one’s Holy Spirt. I need to bless and release them.

With this opportunity to move on, I ask myself:
- What has me stuck?
- Do I want to be stuck?
- Am I ready to make a different choice?
- If so, what is the next right choice to make?

- Will I exercise the courage to act on it?

And because I don’t do this well on my own, I pray that God will help me win this battle.

I think that’s the best I can do. I know I don’t see the whole picture, but I can find the next right choice and take my next step in faith. I can develop new habits. I can remember that even if I am scarred, I am still standing. And moving on in faith.

Love,
Clarity Mint

The One Where I Got it All Wrong

Kindergarten was pretty sweet. We had a great big colorful rug where the day started in community. We took turns singing how we were doing every day. The beauty was we all got to hear how others were when they shared and we each shared how we were doing as well. I love community. I guess I love it even when it’s pushed rather than unconsciously chosen.

I still recall many days that year sitting in a circle on that rug taking turns trying to learn to tie a shoe. Good memories.

Another day I took a test with a white cardboard constructed box outlining the edges of my desk. I could only look at the paper in front of me. I could only look at the paper in front of me! For once my active mind was overwhelmed with a sense of focus. It was much simpler to complete the task at hand when I could address only it. What a gift.

And yet it still has taken most of my life to process how helpful that mandate to focus can be. I only remember that mind protector coming out once for a test, but I liked it a lot. It stuck with me.

Kindergarten left one dark day etched in my memory though. I call the event: “Corduroy.”  When I think back to that year, I think I was indifferent about my intellect. I didn’t think I was particularly bright nor particularly daft. I knew there was a lot I didn’t understand, but I also liked to learn and I liked to work hard. When things clicked in my mind, I liked that.

I sat at my seat that day and listened to the instructions for the test. We were being tested over placement, such as left and right. The instructions were one must answer each question according to what was located where directionally, i.e. in this picture, what is the toy to Corduroy’s left or what is the item to Corduroy’s right?

I took the test in earnest. I remember studying the picture as I sat in my seat and completed questions. I was not nervous. This is something I understood.

When we were advised of test results, I missed every one of those questions. Every. Single. One.

Have you ever thought you were 100% right and you were completely wrong? That was me that day. Obviously, I haven’t forgotten.

Here’s what I came to understand. When those questions were asked, they were asked under the presumption that I am looking at Corduroy.

When I heard those questions, I operated under the presumption that I was putting myself in Corduroy’s shoes, knowing what is to his left, to his right. I answered according to how he was experiencing life.

I still see why I did what I did, and I see why the teacher had her outlook.

I was answering the wrong way; I was operating with the wrong approach. This test was given by the teacher, and according to the teacher, I was all wrong.

My test result or grade is not what mattered to me that day. It was kindergarten; it was not about the grade.

If you ask me to this day about something to my left or right, I will still have my Corduroy mental moment where I’m taking a split second – or three seconds – to decipher how you are approaching that question. And I still call it “Corduroy.”

I learned a few things that day:

• Sometimes you think you have it all right and you have it all wrong. You can be completely confident, but that doesn’t always mean you have the right answers. It matters to whom you are answering; know your audience.
  
• Some people don’t put themselves in others’ shoes. In this case, they actually weren’t supposed to do so. However, they may not anyway.
  
  I see value in considering even if for a split second – or three seconds – “if that were me, how would things look? What would I think? What would I feel?”
  
  I don’t regret my answers because they helped me realize that I want to think of others and put myself in their shoes. I think being able to see how people are similar to us, rather than how they are different, helps a lot in life.
  
• Perception matters. You get to choose how you see things. It helps to understand the lens through which you look. Our opinions are biased. They come from our experiences, from what we were taught, from what we have seen occur, from what we have read. It’s important to understand that our own perception of life plays a role in what we are processing.
  
• Because everyone sees something one way doesn’t mean it’s bad if you see it another. It can be helpful, even groundbreaking, to look at things differently than others. It probably is good to realize at some point that you are doing so, and it also helps to know why you are doing so.
  
  I get that I didn't answer correctly that day, but I understand my responses.
  
  If Corduroy actually needed that ball next to him, which perspective would make the most impact?
  
  Does it matter if I can see things from only my perspective or also can see from another's?

Love,

Clarity Mint