Category: Healing

San Francisco 2021

by Ashley filed under Alanon, Dad, Healing, Travel

I’m 41 years old today. I feel indifferent, which is how I feel most every year on my birthday. This year, I’m excusing that feeling knowing that this time, last year, I was racing home in hopes of getting to say goodbye to my dad for the last time.

In recovery we learn about God’s will versus our will. Because we get to choose a God of our understanding, I refer to mine as the Universe. This trip was a lesson in me pushing my will and the Universe reminding me I’m not in charge.

The night before, on the 4th of July, we were in San Francisco, on a boat, watching fireworks. I had splurged and spent more money than usual under the pretense that it was my 40th birthday and watching fireworks from a boat in the Bay of my favorite city with my three favorite people seemed like the best gift I could give myself. I knew my dad wasn’t doing well and up until that point I didn’t know if I wanted to be there for his passing. Watching his decline was hard enough and the speed of which it was all happening didn’t even leave space for the denial that (arguably) got me through other hard times of my life, like my marriage.

By the time the fireworks started, Sonny and Van were already fast asleep. Wanting to get what I paid for, I tried to wake them up a few times and hoped the few explosions they might have seen would be downloaded into their memory banks. When the show was over, we found ourselves stranded at the tip of a city that had only one way in and one way out and we became small fish in a big sea of people all waiting for the same thing: uber. I carried Sonny as we walked blocks, moving faster than the gridlock traffic, in a frenzy to get to a location where an uber could pick us up. We waited over an hour; it was nearly midnight before we got a ride. We made the short drive, which resulted in a huge bill, and I scooped Sonny’s limp body up as we left, recognizing the puddle of urine he left behind. Walking up the steps to our rental with a sleeping, urine-soaked child over my shoulder, I started to wonder what it was I was doing and why. Why did I do this to myself? I was in constant contact with my mom and sister, getting updates on my dad. Even while watching the fireworks blast off into the air, I wondered if he was still alive.

I wondered why we were in San Francisco at all. I still can’t answer that question. I don’t know if it was denial that my dad was dying, or me pushing my own will by forcing my life to continue as it was, or a mix of both. All I knew at that time was that it didn’t make logical sense to get on the road to see my dad before the fireworks because the 7-hour drive ahead of us we would get us there after dark, the kids would need to be put to bed, and we’d likely be sharing the road with people who had been drinking. I made the decision to cut our trip early and leave the following morning, on my 40th birthday.

I set my alarm for a few hours past our usual 4am departure time when we’re on the road and decided that the extra sleep was needed. I asked my sister and mom to not include me in the play-by-play texts, recognizing that there was nothing I could do.

I loaded up the truck in the morning all the while wondering if my dad was still alive, or not. For the entire 7-hour drive home, I wondered that. I just wanted to get there. Tears rolled down my cheeks, a mixture of no longer being able to deny what was happening mixed with that harsh inner critic that was telling me I’m a piece of shit for not even knowing if I wanted to be there for his passing. In those 7 hours, I was solid in my inner knowing: I wanted to be there. I hated myself for not being there. The thought of not being there was torturing me. My inner critic was handed an infinite amount of free passes to destroy myself with and I beat myself up that entire drive home.

We drove directly to my parents’ house and I rushed up the steps, flung open the front door, asked my sister if he was still there and I broke down in her arms when she told me he was. I kept saying “I hate that I didn’t know how bad I wanted to be here” and she just held me. My mom came up behind my sister and suggested that the kids not go in the room; my dad had changed a lot over the course of the preceding months and the boys were witness to it all. But in this last phase the change was so drastic and my mom wanted to protect the boys. I felt it was important for the boys to make the decision for themselves so I pulled them aside and explained that this would be a final goodbye and that he was going to look different than he had before. They all chose to say goodbye, in person, facing a reality I had been desperate to avoid. Kids are magical like that… they haven’t found all the rocks to hide under yet. The only way they know is through.

My sister and I sat in the bed with my dad. She told me that she’d told him I was coming. She told me she thought he was waiting for me and on a visceral level, I knew that to be true. His eyes were closed, his mouth was open, and his chest looked like it strained to make each breath. At one point a roadrunner appeared outside the window. My sister and I googled what roadrunners symbolize:

“The spiritual meaning of roadrunners is magic and good luck while also symbolizing transitions. Whether it’s a life change, epiphany or physical transformation, the spiritual meaning of a roadrunner is about moving forward and embracing the coming changes that your life will inevitably face.”

We went to bed that night wondering what it was he was holding onto or holding on for. My sister laughed and said, “he wouldn’t leave on your birthday, he’d want you to have that day.”

It’s true, that’s precisely who my dad was; never one to overshadow and always one to shine the light on someone else. And so it made sense when my birthday came and went and we were awoken that night by the hospice nurse and told it was time.

A gift from the Universe to have been there for him. Especially because I pushed my own will so hard. There’s so many lessons embedded in pain, I think that’s why I’ve learned to turn into it instead of away from it. A lesson in the Universe being the only one in control, in transformations, and in impermanence.

My birthday will always be a time for me to reflect on that one time I rushed home to be where I should have been but didn’t know I wanted to be and allowed space for the not knowing. A time when I heard my inner critic put me down and chose grace instead. A time to reflect on my coming into this world and my dad leaving this world and a time to be grateful for all that happened in between the two to bring me to where I am today, on my birthday, surrendering to it all.

 

 

Note to self

by Ashley filed under Healing

Sometimes people want to hand you the end of a rope so you can play tug of war with them. They know just the buttons to push. They pick on the things important to you, they pick on the things they know that will elicit a response. They want your attention, they want you to tug the rope.

They shift blame onto you and they project their own bad feelings about themselves (feelings they’re not even necessarily aware of; feelings they’ve worked really hard to numb, to hide, to forget, to drown) and they throw them onto you.

Some people will forever see themselves as the victim of the consequences you give them for their own behavior but they will never acknowledge or be accountable for their behavior; they will only acknowledge themselves as the victim of your consequence. Relationships with these people are not relationships with another person, they are relationships with another person’s ego.

You want to justify, to argue, to defend, to explain. You want to believe it’s simply an issue of misunderstanding. You think* you can save them.

The narrative of some rests on not seeing the reality of others. No matter how much evidence you have, no matter how clear your argument is, no matter how many people can validate your experience, it will never get through a wall that has no door. The person barricaded on the other side has to protect their ego.

They want to kick you when you’re down. I’d even go so far as to say that they wait until you’re down and then they throw you a rope they want you to tug; So they can be reminded they’re alive, important, and powerful enough to penetrate your thoughts, to take up real estate in your head. They feel entitled to space and they take up a lot of it to feel big, powerful.

They use statements like “we both know ____” and you now know that any statement that follows “we both know” is a form of gaslighting. Of emotional abuse.

Sometimes not taking the bait is the most loving thing you can do for yourself.

Choose you.

Note to self: Never justify, argue, defend, or explain anything, ever, to someone whose own reality is dependent on not seeing yours. No response is a response and sometimes it’s the most loving action you can take.

*You can’t.

Meditation

by Ashley filed under Healing

Meditating has helped me realize that I was living my life at the front of the line. The front of the line usually has a positive condonation but there’s also a frenzied alertness that comes when you’re next in line — there’s that wide eyed, almost frantic concentration that comes with knowing you’re about to be called on, that you’re almost “up”.

Meditation has helped me move to the back of the line, where I can see what’s in front of me and what’s around me more clearly.

A way of not only zooming out but also surrendering to the wait, to the present.

With this exhale and new vantage-point comes clarity. Not only can I see what’s in front of me, I can name it; like I’m on the side of the road watching cars speed by — there’s my anger, there’s my joy, there’s my resentment, there’s my hope, there’s my grief.

I’m not immersed in any of it, just taking notice and letting it move along at its own pace, not mine.

My meditation the other day drew the comparison of feelings to the weather. When it’s raining, we don’t go outside and plead with the sky — we rest knowing that we may get wet but that we can also dry off and that the rain, like everything, will eventually stop. Impermanence. In Al-anon we say “feelings are visitors”. Just like the weather.

And so I’m noticing, observing, taking notes, witnessing. Not making any judgments, not grasping at any one thing, welcoming all of it like I would a new day. Like I would a visitor.

New Years Day

by Ashley filed under Divorce, Healing

We spent New Years Day strolling along the harbor, dipping our toes in the cool winter sea, the sun resting ever-so-gently on our shoulders. As I walked past the boats, I was filled – more like flooded – with hope. No one feeling ever sticks around forever (and isn’t that, at times,  a blessing?). I have my fair share of grief that’s deserving of it’s own post; a loss of what I envisioned my family to be, my partner to be. And yet in that moment, on the first day of a new year, walking along those boats, I had the feeling that anything is possible. That my life can still match my vision. That maybe my vision was never dependent on another; only on myself. I got lost for a moment in a fantasy of owning a boat and hanging with my boys out on the water. What followed was the realization that I could. A realization that I don’t need to share my dreams with anyone nor do I need to rely on anyone other than myself to make my dreams come to life. Perhaps some may read that as painful, I read it as liberating.

I used to hold onto hope in a self-defeating way; hoping for another to change… focusing only on the potential while denying my reality. That kind of hope kept me stuck in an empty waiting room where no one was ever going to call on me, except – well – me. It’s a relief to know that hope can still exist and that it can have nothing to do with anyone other than myself. I am the one I’ve been waiting for. It’s an interesting dichotomy how I can be so far away from what I had envisioned my life to be but also closer to what I always wanted it to be.  I thought that could only exist in the company of another. Turns out I’m happy doing life and raising my boys on my own.

Here’s to 2021 being filled with hope, in myself.