Standing Up For Myself

In this instance, I don’t mean that you are witnessing a physical altercation and not moving a muscle.  I don’t mean that you hear someone insulting me, yet say nothing.  Coming off of a night surrounded by triggering foods and feeling isolated in my recovery from an eating disorder, I mean that standing up for me can mean that you know something is hard for me, and you take a time out to acknowledge that it’s hard.  It can mean that you know I am scared, and that you come over and hold my hand and tell me that it’s OK and that you’re proud of me.  It can mean that you don’t know what you’re doing, because I don’t either, but that together we will make it work and figure it out.

Standing up for me in this way is probably tricky.  I present a front that I am not easily offended.  I present a person that is extremely confident, competent, and independent – even in the face of fear and the unknown.  While I am confident, competent and fiercely independent, what lies behind this presentation is an extremely sensitive, emotionally intuitive woman that needs validation and appreciation and support just like anybody else.  This presentation originated from survival at a young age in order to protect myself, but the continuation into adulthood doesn’t seem to warrant much growth.  I’m not trying to sport a shirt that says “hey!  I’m emotionally aware and vulnerable.  How are you?” so I find it easier to present “I don’t give a fuck and you can’t wreck all that I have going”.

Except that I do, and on some days – you could.  I give a lot of fucks.  I give a lot about you and how you are doing.  I give a lot about me what I am doing.  I give a lot about your feelings, your intentions, and your energy.  I give even more about my own feelings, my own intentions, and my own energy.  Because I give so much, the right array of words or actions (or inaction) can tear down my little tent and leave me on the floor.  Words are my love language.  Writing and speaking and articulating come naturally for me.  So, it goes to say, that your words go a long way with me, too.  The words that you say and the words that you don’t.

The truth is that I am one of the more easily offended people I know.  Not because I am stuck-up or prude, but because I was blessed with having the uncanny traits of being both sensitive and blunt.  This particular combo can be hard to navigate cleanly, as is continued to be unveiled.  I have learned a little bit over the years on how to temper my bluntness, and am still learning how to channel a directness that says what I mean, without saying it mean.  I am learning how to style my communication so that I keep the focus on me and how I feel, and not tell you about yourself and how I want you to feel.  It can be difficult to articulate the seemingly simple phrase “I am hurt” when it feels like my insides are on fire and my stomach might burst.  It can be frustrating and almost paralyzing to try and tell someone how to tell them to support me, because I don’t always feel worth being supported.  There are days, like anybody’s, when my humanness is so raw that I’d rather just not.  I’d rather not talk to you, I’d rather not tell you how I feel, and I definitely don’t want to keep admit that supporting Alison feels burdensome and too big. 

Because some days, it does.  Some days, supporting me feels burdensome and exhausting.  It can feel overwhelming.  The exposure stings.  It leaves me hurting.  Not permanently or even unmanageably, but consistently.  And I am withdrawing.  I don’t know how not to tell someone I think they can do better, when inside I know that the only person who really needs to do better is me.  I want to deflect outward and make the pain stop, instead of looking at the source of the pain.  My dis-ease tells me that I’m overdramatic, over-feeling, and over-doing.  “You’re too much” is the same bullshit that I have found hiding on the other side of “you’re not enough.”  It’s the same story, just a different chapter.  It’s self-sabotaging.  It’s familiar.  And I’m learning – it’s untrue.

And when I am hurting, I have a tendency to analyze it and personalize it, assuming I am wrong or did something to deserve the energy choking me out.  I look inward, which by itself in practice is an incredible tool.  It is not a valuable tool; however, when used constantly to berate one’s self and to withdraw into a space where it feels narrow, dark, and undeserving. 

I am told that despite my wants and wishes to have someone protect me and stand up for me when I cower, that it is no one else’s job.  I think that makes me feel even worse, because it is hard to stand up for myself when I don’t think I deserve to do so.  It is hard to stand up for myself when UI want people to like me and respect me.  It is hard to admit flaw and fear and sensitivity, especially when everyone thinks I’ve got it – and on some days, I just don’t.

News flash: nobody’s got it.  That’s why so many heads nod when we listen to a podcast or a Ted Talk on vulnerability or connection.  That’s why so many of our hearts break open when somebody we really care about takes notice of our pain, and just reaches for our hand.  That’s why so much of our sorrow is killed when we just admit that we have it, when we take the risk to share it, and when we come together.  It is our weakness that binds us together, not our strength.

And right now, I feel weak.