Like Useful Crying Over Spilled Milk...
"I just don't know why they're doing this to me..." I'm in the principal's office of my elementary school with my parents, and I'm listening to the adults talk about how to handle an ongoing bullying situation. I'm in the 6th grade...my bullies are in the 3rd. I know...it sounds ridiculous, but it's true: a group of 8-10 3rd graders would ambush me during recess as I wandered the playground alone. I never understood why they were so intent on shoving me around, tearing at my clothes, and screaming juvenile things at me. I wasn't a fighter, especially when pitted against kids so young; I was just trying to mind my own business. As the bullying became more exhausting and embarrassing (why was this my life?!), I determined I needed to do something. At first I tried joining up with another group of kids my age at recess...fail. The 3rd graders weren't intimidated by a group of older kids when they knew they could pick one off. Then I tried using my size to push them away as they rushed me...fail. I ended up being shoved down by one of my peers and yelled at for "beating up kids." As a last resort, I did the thing that all kids REALLY hate doing. I told on them. I felt so small in the chair of the principal's office as I heard the anger and embarrassment in my parents' voices. I felt the tears boiling over my eyelids and down my face to my heart, where they scorched my trust, love, and acceptance.
A watched pot never boils...and an ignored pot boils over. A couple of months ago, I was heating up milk on the stove for a soothing drink before bed. I flipped on the burner, poured milk into a saucepan, and let it do its magic. As I sat there looking down into the pot, my mind started to wander...to TV, my phone, anything else...When my memory kicked back in—don't forget the milk!—I hurriedly turned back, hoping to avoid any spillovers. But, the reminder came too late; I found the milk creeping over the sides of the pot to its new home on the stove top. Not again! I cried out inside, irritated with myself for overlooking what's right in front of my face. The bottom of the pan was burned, the stove top was charred from the milk that got too close to the searing heat, and my emotions boiled over...again. Irritation turned into embarrassment when I couldn't get the stain off of the burner, then guilt as I realized my mom would be the one forced to clean up my mess. Ultimately, I was ashamed of my stupidity and absent-mindedness. Why was this my life?
This is why we can't have nice things...like useful crying over spilled milk.
Avid readers will recall I admired several fictional characters as I grew up, but none captivated me quite like Mystique from X-Men. I was so jealous of her ability to shapeshift, often imagining my life with a different face, identity, and history. To me, it seemed like the ultimate power: having the opportunity to escape the sins of the past and start fresh in a more socially accepted form would rid me of all my shame, right? As mentioned in Like Reflective Surfaces, I've been taking time each day to be a goofball in the mirror; however, my expressions over the past few weeks have become more and more pained. Sometimes my mirror image lives in the past, reflecting moments of shame, terror, and anguish. Though I was doing my best to live my life in the present, the mirror kept reminding me what happened when I tried to forget about the spilled milk. Seth J. Gillihan, Ph.D. turns down the heat before I boil over, sharing via his article "Why Can't I Get Over My Painful Childhood?" that "Our reactions are always some blend of the present and our life history...Very traumatic life events can so overwhelm our nervous systems that our memories of the events are not fully processed. Our desire to avoid these painful memories further prevents us from facing—and ultimately making peace with—these haunting episodes" The past can boil over into our present by reminding us of the failures, the rejections, the pain we've inflicted, and the pain inflicted against us. When I see my reflection and the baggage I'm carrying from the past, I immediately want to turn away like I do when I'm waiting for the milk. Of course, in doing so, it threatens to boil up and over the surface of the pan at any given moment, leaving me a tearful mess.
When I consider my admiration of the villainous Mystique, I think about the deep shame I feel regarding who I am. Would I use my powers for good or evil? Well, much like Mystique, I used a false identity for much of my life to feel better though it separated me from myself. I figured that if I could be someone else, I wouldn't feel the overwhelming pain and fear from the past; I could feel some sort of integrity without being ashamed of it. Then, finally, I can confidently step out into the world and do the good work I was meant to do without the negative feelings.
Unfortunately, in my attempt to fool all those around me, I lost track of what was happening in front of me; I couldn't see the pain I was inflicting by failing to be myself—the boy who loved to learn, to engage in conversation, and to ask lots of questions. Each time I tried to be vulnerable with friends or family about the past, I would close off and stop them from sharing what they needed in order to heal. Isolation burned into my heart more and more as new shame and regret poured into the pot. Gillihan reels me in: "And yet despite our best efforts to bury these memories, they intrude on our awareness—popping into our minds out of nowhere, triggering panicked responses to trauma reminders, flooding our bodies with stress hormones, and affecting how we see ourselves, others, and the world." Shame keeps me away from my deepest passions—to explore, to express, to imagine—as well as from those I love; the weight of my core shame takes on new forms as further trauma, suffering, and reminders eat away at me, looking me right back in the tear-strained face.
Clearly, when I try to turn into someone else and forget my past, I only make matters worse for myself, but it seems like whenever I try to delve into the complexities of my memories, I overflow with even more emotion. This doesn't help me in my quest for authenticity and balance since I fall back into similar patterns of self-destruction when I'm too afraid to deal with the pain. This starts the cycle all over again as I ignore the milk that's ready to boil over; once it does, I feel powerless against the stream of tears that wash over my face. What's more troubling: when I open up about the emotions I feel to others, I'm met with a lot of resistance and anxiety. My isolation grows as I throw a pity party for myself, blaming those around me for not letting down their guard and allowing me to heal. Why is this my life?!?!?! The selfish question takes center stage until it seems like my only option is to turn into someone else.
Before I drown in my own sorrow, Gillihan throws me a life vest: "Thus a willingness to address the past doesn't mean refusing to take responsibility, wallowing in one's misery, blaming one's parents, or feeling sorry for oneself. In fact, quite the opposite is true—understanding our history is about recognizing and taking responsibility for longstanding patterns that probably trace back to our childhood because we're determined to change them. To deny the influence of our past means we never learn from it." It is true that as I've explored my past via this blog, I've been able to see how the threads of my web connect to my childhood; moreover, by sharing, I feel less ashamed, releasing me of some of the pressure that is built around my ego. I approach my soulful integrity that gently simmers on the inside, as much as it still might frighten me and lead me to some heavy tears.
Is the past the past, then? Can I confidently step forward without threat of boiling over or drowning in my own tears? Yes and no. As I enter my 32nd year of life, I want to explore my passion for growing together, helping others develop their strongest, most authentic voice. Sometimes, that will involve delving into the spilled milk of the past, and tears are bound to fall, but we don't need to be ashamed of the past. Borrowing on my X-Men comparison, by looking at the charred remains that stick to the top of the stove, we have an opportunity to rise like a Phoenix out of the ashes. The past serves as a reflection and guide; it's our teacher AND supporter. For me—the goofball—that means I need to thoroughly enjoy my time in front of the mirror. It's not about feeling ashamed when I make a mistake like burning the milk; after all.