Expectations

Love is always bestowed as a gift - freely, willingly and without expectation. We don't love to be loved; we love to love. - Leo Buscaglia

 

True, but so hard to do. Expectations lead to disappointment. But is the lack of any expectation just an acceptance of the status quo?  Without expectations, how do we achieve goals, or build relationships, or succeed at anything?

 

I'm struggling today with the balance between expectation and acceptance. Is accepting something that is less than I want a good thing? Is lowering expectations to meet the lack of enthusiasm of another how I want to live?  Do I just settle for less than in order to remove all expectation of fulfillment?  And, why would I do that? But, what is going to happen if I don't do that?

 

Facing a future disappointment seems more frustrating and heartbreaking than having high expectations and getting disappointed until I can figure something else out.  Settling...is there a positive way to look at that?  It sounds to me like it lacks passion.  Fulfillment. Fun.  

 

No one has ever said life, or love, would be easy. 

In The Mirror

In the mirror I see the image of my mother

At times it is an extreme bother

At others, I realize

Moving on is what’s wise

Why ponder the past

Stop beating myself up at last

For fifty years pleasing you

Has kept from doing things I want to do

You are my kids, my work, my friend

The list, it has no end

I don’t want to please you any longer

Pleasing me is a need much stronger

I sleep with me

In the mirror, it’s me I see

Rejections, reflections,

Ideas and perceptions

Yours no longer take precedent

Time with me alone is well spent

I am leaving to somewhere new

By myself, with no you

My Sister Is My Reason

Sometimes the reasons we do things may not be so apparent.  The reasons are ours and not meant to be shared. A woman came to the shelter I was the director of straight from prison. She’d been incarcerated for well over a decade, a lot had changed and some things remained the same in her life.  Her first weekend of freedom, she relapsed.  The staff had failed her…I failed her. I hadn’t made a plan for her to get her through the weekend without someone there full time for her to lean on.  On Sunday night when she didn’t show up, I called a friend and we went in search of her.

My friend had nothing to do with social work; he was just a big guy who cared about me. When you’re about to go hit the streets and parks of Seattle in the middle of the night, a little backup is necessary.  We went to Freeway Park, we went to Broadway, we went to Victor Eckstein park…and we finally found her.  High, wet, cold and frightened.  We put her in the car, took her to the Hurricane Café, fed her and she very honestly said she had a little more and she wanted to finish it…it was gonna eat her alive to not. So, we made a plan to meet at the benches at 6 AM…just a few short hours away. My friend and I went home.  The next morning I went alone to the park, found ‘V’, took her back, fed her again, she took a shower and went to bed to sleep it off. She’d been out of prison for 5 days.

The powers that be fired me. Said I crossed boundaries, acted unprofessionally, told me it wasn’t my job to chase clients through the streets of Seattle.  They couldn’t understand my reasons.

My sister is my reason.  Today is her birthday and she tried to drink herself to death.  My gut couldn’t rest after our morning phone call, so I went to find her.  When I did find her, she was – literally – moments from death.  She was non-responsive, nearly over the edge.  We spent her birthday together at Harborview.  This isn’t the first time I’ve found her like this, isn’t the first time she’s drank so much she nearly died, not the first…or even twentieth or fiftieth….trip to the hospital.  It’s the third just this month.  And no matter how many more trips we take, no matter how many more drinks she takes, or where she lives, or how she lives, I’ll be there.  And when she’s lost, I’ll go find her. When she is covered in puke, I’ll hug her. When she’s scared, I’ll promise to never leave her.  She’s my sister.

My reasons for giving my all for mentally ill, incarcerated, addicted, homeless people? My sister. That person in front of me may not be my sister, but they’re someone’s sister, mother, daughter, brother, father, son, friend. 

You see a drunk, homeless, worthless person. I see my sister.  Look in her eyes…they look just like mine. 

A Crucible....

Can a human be a crucible? According to Webster, a crucible is "a heat resistant container in which material can be subjected to great heat". Let's ponder this one....Is holding other people's pain "heat"? I take in their stories, hold it, reform it, re-tell it, teach them to re-invent and then give them their material back. Maybe I'm a crucible.

If I Told You...

If I told you how scared I am sometimes, would it change your mind?
If you read my journals, would you be more kind?
If I told you about my mother,
Would you find it a bother?
If I told you I want you to know me,
It's the real me I want you to see,
Would you listen
Or just walk away pissin'?

Forgive: to cease to feel resentment against

Yesterday I asked forgiveness from someone, someone who my actions had offended. I didn’t sugar coat, didn’t minimize and didn’t blame. I stated forthrightly that what I had done had been outside the bounds of my agreement with them and I had been dishonest in my cover up of those actions.


Let me tell you about this person: they are a strong advocate for prison reform, they work diligently to provide opportunities for people who are incarcerated, they espouse publicly that everyone deserves a second chance, that people shouldn’t be defined by their mistakes. They align themselves with folks who most of society would deem reprehensible and deserving to be locked away for life. This is a person who offers compassion, opportunity and understanding to folks who have committed egregious acts that most other individuals couldn’t look past. These are qualities I’ve always admired in this person.

Their response was startling and hurtful. Their response was full of anger, lack of forgiveness, saying that as far as they were concerned the bridge was burnt and no forgiveness would be extended. And in fact, told me that they thought I should have nothing to do with anyone involved in any sort of advocacy work. Ever.

It took my breath away. It knocked me on my heels, I was reeling for hours from it. Maybe still am a little.

What did happen is that it offered me the opportunity to see that folks rarely actually live the values they espouse publicly. This person obviously has some sort of rescue mission and deems the population they work with as needing compensation the rest of the world doesn’t. Forgiveness and compassion are offered in a public arena but not lived values in their private life.

Thanks to my friend Anthony I have a new word for that: hyposhit. A hypocrite espousing bullshit.

Let me tell you something: even middle class, highly educated women get involved with abusive men and make poor decisions. Even a wickedly smart woman can be duped into a façade and make poor decisions based on that façade. In the end, I got my ass beat, lost my job and clearly have spent the last year trying to recover and make amends. In my family, we worked through my absurd behavior and know that it will never happen again.

As I begin to emerge from my shell, I am finding that victim blaming goes far beyond what happens in a court room or a doctor’s office or within families.

I was used, manipulated, deceived, controlled and eventually physically assaulted. I own my part in those events. I own that I made poor choices based on false information and trickery. I don’t own that I did anything to have the shit beat out of me when I finally started coming to my senses and found courage to walk away.

Am I embarrassed? Fuck yes. Do I want a do ever? Fuck yes. Do you have the right to judge me when you have limited and likely false information? Fuck no. Are you entitled to tell me who I can or cannot talk to now? Fuck no. Are you in a position to tell me who I can advocate for and who I can’t? Fuck no.

So, let me put this out there. I believe in change. I believe that education changes lives. I am not going to judge an entire population of people by what one person did to me. I believe that when a person is truly remorseful for their actions and willing to be held accountable, change does happen. I also believe that no one is better or worse than me…just different with different experiences. I also believe in forgiveness, compassion and second chances – for everyone. My experiences haven’t changed my core values. It’s not just a public performance; it’s how I live my life.

There Is A Before And After

I normally ride the bus to work, today I drove so that I could drop the dog off at Becki’s house.  I turned on music that I like, up loud and sang along. I’ve forgotten how joyful it is start my day with music.   9 ½ months ago I was brutally assaulted and then spent several months after that being mind fucked into believing that somehow I was to blame.  There is scar on my lip, a dent in my face…the outward scars that reveal nothing of the inward hurts. 

There is a before and after.

Before, I used to walk around with an Ipod and head phones in my ears. After, I am too nervous that I won’t hear danger coming. Today I walked from 15th and Yesler to 4th and Jackson…I wanted so much to continue listening to music I like…but I’m living in the after.

There is a before and after.

 Before, I did powerful work with folks who had experienced some of their own trauma. Work that challenged me, changed my life and changed the lives of those around me. After, I work in a fucking cube surrounded by shallow people who are completely defined by the amount of their paycheck. People who look sideways at my tattoos and gossip when they think I can’t hear them.

There is a before and after.

Before I used to talk to people and listen to what they were saying. After, I talk to people and listen for what they’re not saying. I look for the game…the mind fuck. I listen with suspicion instead of anticipation.

There is a before and after.

Before I was easily tricked, couldn’t always say what was on my mind, didn’t demand respect. After, I say exactly what I think, demand respect and have the ability to walk away when it’s not there. 

Before, I spent a great deal of time with other people. After, I spend a great deal of time with me. 

Before, I knew a lot of people. After, I know a few.  A few really good friends who put up with my tears, questions, anger, confusion and struggles. A few who know me and love me. Believe in me and don't believe the stories they hear from others.

Before, I was unhealthy in so many aspects. After, I’m healthier than I’ve ever been – mentally, physically and emotionally.  When your soul is laid bare and the wounds gaping, there’s no choice but to examine them.

After, I started going to the gym.  I thought it would be a good way to relieve stress, work out some tension and do something positive.  For the first month, I couldn’t make it through a workout without crying.  The trainer stuck with me, pushed me harder than I’ve ever been pushed physically and understood that the tears were not physical pain but the release of long held memories in muscles.  He didn’t baby me through the tears but instead showed me how deep the wounds were and how hard I was going to have to work to excavate them. Now, I work equally as hard, with no tears, a ton of joy and my body looks and feels much better.  I sleep through the night, think about what I’m putting in my body and am learning how to ‘have a proud chest’ all the time. 

Before, I processed alone. After, I have an amazing female friend who calls me on my shit, points to the right path and makes me laugh at myself through the tears. 

Before was 9 ½ months ago. After is forever.