Finding the Words

It would seem as if though I have spent much of my life finding the right words. Often speaking the wrong ones in an attempt to feel heard. It's taken me most of my life to start to find my true voice, the one that I know I have been born to use.

I am part of a big family, one of five children. This had distinct advantages and I wouldn't have changed it for anything. But, that said, there is a certain difficulty in finding expression when you are 'sandwiched' between brothers and sisters. 'Sandwiched' worked well for the most part. Being one of five did not always work as well. Five, is after all an uneven number. I was the 'uneven' one. The one who didn't have a 'pair' so to speak. I was the one who didn't 'partner' up with a sibling. I was in plain English, the 'odd one out'.

I always had plenty to say as a younger child. Spirited and outspoken, I was my sister's advocate (she was eleven months older than me). I often took on the protective role. I still have memories of these years as being some of the best in my life.

Things changed as we moved countries. I didn't feel in as safe as I had in my small Irish home-town, in my small Catholic school. I had really belonged there. Suddenly, I felt out of my depth. I think I retreated somewhat and did not express myself as much as I used to. I remember being spoken to in French by a teacher in the International School I attended. I lost my nerve. She asked me to reply in French. At all of seven years old, I couldn't. Well, I could. But I experienced for the first time, feeling inadequate and not quite sure of myself. It was a humiliating experience and I carried it with me for some years to come.

A couple of years later, I had the same experience when we moved to South Africa. A very insensitive nun demanded that I read Afrikaans in front of the class, despite the fact that I had never even seen the language. The other children obviously laughed and made fun of me.

I was only nine years old I know, but somehow I never felt really 'heard' after that. My voice (the one that speaks to you from the inside) was seemingly lost. I lost along with it, much of my confidence and abiity to express myself well.

Within my family unit, I felt that I somehow had to 'fight' to be heard. I learnt to do what has followed me down the years - get defensive and protect myself against, what were sometimes imagined attacks, sometimes not so imagined. I learnt to be the one who would go to bat to have my feelings understood. It often spelt disaster for me and isolated me somewhat. I supposed I earned my title of "The Problem Child" or the "Difficult One" in many respects. But in many others, I was simply trying to express who I was and this was my coping mechanism.

Around the same period of time, I began to have terrible nightmares, which I wouldn't remember, but had the rest of my family fairly terrified! I had a trademark "scream" which would wake the dead (but not me)! Perhaps this was a way in which to express my frustration at not being totally understood?

Funny thing is, later in life, much later, I did a class on Chakras. The Chakras are the seven areas of the body which, speaking in Yogic or Eastern terms, define certain channels of energy. Doing breathing into the different Chakras is supposed to open up those areas of energy and release tension and things that are "held" there. Which Chakra would you guess was the troubled one in me? Yes, the throat chakra, or communication chakra. The lady who evaluated me said that I had blockages there and had always struggled with expressing myself in a way in which I could be truely heard. Now, this might seem crazy to some, but to me it was more than a co-incidence.

I became the one who would cause arguments in the family. I took on the role of speaking up for those who did not always want to do it themselves. And it did not always pay. It lead to much confrontation and negative energy, which I think I took into my present relationships, often causing heartache for both myself, and sometimes others.

One thing that I never knew how to do was ask for help. I still struggle with this, but I am so much better today than in the past. It is a lifelong lesson for me. Asking for what I need. Being honest, without being negative. Allowing myself to be heard without hurting anyone in the process. It all comes out of that feeling that I had to protect myself at all times. Asking for help made it all feel way too vulnerable.

My voice is returning and it has taken me quite a few years to learn how to communicate better. It is one of the reasons for starting this blog. I know now, with some years behind me, that my truth is honourable, but how I express it, is open to negotiation. I can still be passionate without yelling. I can still express myself without taking offense. I can simply be heard.

Recently, I have learned from a group of very wise women that I meet with, the power of "restraint of pen and tongue". How I can sit with something and not feel the need to respond defensively. How I can quietly express myself with much more power than trying to control everyone with my thoughts and ideas. And yes, it takes practice, but I am doing it more and more. And, in the process, feeling HEARD, really heard for the first time in my entire life.

I am learning to say no. I am learning to say yes. I am learning to be passionate about what I believe in without feeling that everyone else has to be too. I am proud that I am able to understand this now. I feel calmer. I feel like a better listener. But mostly, I am no longer wasting so much precious energy in defending myself. I have no reason to do that. I am getting comfortable with the fact that I am quite fine the way I am.

Dealing with difficult and controlling people will always be a part of my life. It's just the way life is. There is always someone who will try and bully you and make you feel like you don't matter. There are always people who chose to be negative about everything and take no responsibilty for their words or actions. There will always be mean people who will interact by spilling their own hurt and venom onto others.

I am also learning that there will always be those who do not like the truth. They cannot handle the truth. Their truth may be different to yours and that will never change. The difference now is, that I don't need to hide my own truth because of this. I have the basic human right to that truth. But how I express it, has to be carefully considered.

I have the choice to do the right thing. I have the choice to walk away and not give my precious energy to that person. I can choose to realise that they are hurting maybe this is their way of dealing with things that they don't want to face, or be honest about.

I guess you could call this growth. In my forties, I am finally getting to grow up. But more importantly, I am feeling heard, because I am choosing to believe in what I have to say. I don't have to constantly apologise for what I'm not, because I am worth more than that. And it's the most liberating feeling on earth! It's brought with it humility and quietness and even a little serenity at times. It's taught me to listen to myself as well. To tune into that small voice that knows what it is I need to do. How I need to react. What needs to be said. Or not said at all. A powerful concept indeed.

Superglue can't fix this Broken Heart

I tried. To fix my heart with superglue I mean. Superglue being in the form of several different options, none of which worked. You see a heart is really hard to fix, especially when it's really broken. And mine is. Broken. No quick- fix is going to heal this one.

I've tried them all. Denial. Too much food. Too much drink. No prayer. Too much reflection. Too little reflection. Too little food. Too little companionship. Too much companionship. Beating myself up. Beating the one who broke my heart up. It simply doesn't work. There is just no glue that will suffice.

There is however a solution. Prayer. Time. Trust. Patience. Forgiveness. I cling to those words like mantras of hope. Things that seem almost impossible to attain at a time like this. But, it can and has to be done.

You see, living in the world with a broken heart, is like not living at all. It is like being blinded by a pain that has no words to encapsulate it's depth. It's like the part of you that is your very spirit ceases to exist and in it's place is an emptiness you think you'll never fill again. Trying all the aforementioned temporary fixes in an attempt to glue it all together again, holds it for a while, but it's just not permanent enough.

My heart, to me, represents my centre, my goodness and my being. It is where God and all good things reside in me. It might be an organ, but it has a soul too. It is a living, beating part of the rhythm that makes up me. Unique, quirky, difficult, imperfect maybe, but me nevertheless.

I never handed my heart out to anyone unless I really believed they deserved it. Then again, I guess I was never a person who trusted very easily. And yes, I gave away 'parts' of my heart and myself, but never gave it fully. Except once. And twice and three times when my children came into this world. They still have my heart and they always will. They might break it too, but it won't be the same as this broken. It can't be the same.

I am grieving the loss of my heart, but I still have my heartbeat. I am grieving the loss of a best friend, with whom I shared everything. I am grieving a part of me that I thought I could never lose without dying. But it happened, and I did lose it. And the crack is split as wide as a river, with emotion flowing from every vein and artery as a result. Glue may hold it together temporarily, but only life can heal it totally.

Life is funny like that. It gives and it takes too. It weakens and it strengthens in the same breath sometimes. It makes you strong through adversity. It picks you up and carries you when you think you cannot bear another moment of what is being asked of you.

Inside my heart (where my light is temporarily faded) I know that I am strong. I know that I will get up and live again and trust again. I know that my life will have renewed hope and my heartbeat a new rhythm that will define a different kind of melody.

I vascillate between strength and vulnerability. I am like a leaf being tossed about by the winds on one day and the roots of a strong oak the next. I have children to care about and that gives me purpose and resolve.

And yes, my heart will heal. It will always bear a scar, but no-one but me will be the wiser. I have the capability to let go and learn from this grievious fracture that feels so unbearable to me now. Grieving is a process and has no short-cuts. Grief will ebb and flow as days turn to night. More importantly within this quiet grief, is the inner knowledge that life will go on and must.

So, my broken heart, you will be well again. You still beat with life. You still have things to accomplish, not least to keep my spirit alive and growing. It's a process, but it can be done. God is there, helping you and I to move on together.
I think we will be ready soon.