Worthiness

I’m going to rat myself out. Tell on my bad self. Tattle, like that snotty little kid back in grade school who thought he was the boss of everybody.

Well, I AM the boss of me and I’m here to tell you—I struggled with Shame on Saturday. Big Time.

I have to fess up because we talk about shame so much on this blog—how on earth could I look at myself in the mirror if I acted like it never touched MYlife.
Of course, it does! It’s not on the menu everyday—but more often than I’d like to admit.

What kind of whatever I am (blogger, advice giver, sister, friend, wife, nosey posey) would I be if I kept this to myself?

Now, there are numerous types of shame, many which I’ve experienced and some, by the grace of God, I have not.

This was not registered sex-offender shame, nor was it young divorcee or I wore a penguin costume to work on the wrong day shame.

This was familiar to me. Similar to bathing suit dressing room shame, only different.
Oh yeah, I knew this Shame.

We became intimately acquainted ( it slept with me most nights) during the year or so my store struggled financially—and every year since then it comes around less and less, but there are exceptions.
Trigger situations.
Believe me, I can still recognize Shame even with a different face and better shoes because it continues to wear that same cheap cologne and shit-eating grin.

Let me explain.
I have a ten-year-old car with almost 95,000 miles on it. It is not some piece-of-shit clunker with a bumper held on with masking tape. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had one of those. But this is different. It’s been meticulously maintained by yours truly and it’s one of those German Imports, a classy tank.

I’ve mentioned several, well maybe not several, is several more than three? Okay, then three. I’ve mentioned maybe three times that I wish it had Bluetooth, you know, for my phone. There, I admit to a tinge of Bluetooth envy. But never in a million years did I ever say:
“God, I hate my car, what a colossal piece of shit, I wish it was better, I need a new car!”

So, are we clear?

My current car is perfectly lovely. I could even go out on a limb and say it would be a lot of people’s dream car.

Shame. Oof. I can smell its strong cologne already.

Being that my car was getting close to having one hundred thousand miles on it, my husband, the car guy, gear head numero uno, began to ask me what car I thought I’d like next. My answer most times was: the Same car just newer I guess. The other times I told him I was perfectly happy with my existing car.

“What color would you get IF you were to get a new car?” he baited me.
“Blue, dark blue with tan interior.”
I chose that combination mostly because it is almost impossible to find. It would take him months and months to come up with a car in that combination.

I kept the New Car Shame at bay—or so I thought.

Thursday he emailed me a car at a local dealership fitting that exact description.
Shit.
“Let’s go check it out on Saturday” he suggested.

That is my husband’s ideal day. Vehicle shopping. Add a steak dinner and a nice bottle of wine to that and he could die a happy man.
I loath shopping for a car, besides, I really thought the one I was driving was just fine, Thank you very much.
But my mouth overrode my brain—it does that a lot. “Okay,” I agreed.

Now you’re all thinking oh, boo-hoo, he wants to buy you a nice new car. Where’s the problem? Quit your whining!
Well, that’s what I told myself all the way down to the dealership. But as we all know, logic and reason are no match for Shame.
Shame kicks their asses every damn time.

After we looked at it and I sat in it and even gave it a test spin, my husband eyeballed me with that “Let’s take it” look I know so well.

I froze. I stammered and stuttered, staring off into space, my eyes spinning in their sockets and I’m sure it appeared to the gregarious salesman as if I’d suddenly suffered a stroke.
“Can you give us a few minutes,” my husband asked after he observed my bizarre behavior, sending the salesman back into the showroom to stew in suspense.

I could feel the hot river of shame burn in my veins as it replaced all the blood in my body.
I observed it. I named it. I even cursed it. Well, duh!

I wanted to shout I’m feeling Ashamed! at the top of my lungs so it would crawl out of the shadows and dissipate.
That’s what happens when you acknowledge Shame. It leaves. I can only exist if it’s kept a secret.
But it had inhabited me so completely at that point I could barely gather my thoughts. A sinister voice had taken over the Pollyanna Land that normally resides inside my brain, spoon-feeding me well-disguised bullshit.

It was a sickening, sad, and sorry case of New Car Shame.

Now, I could get lost in the minutia of this moment and how horrible it all felt. I could do that. It’s kinda what I do. How my right eyelid was twitching compulsively and it suddenly felt like all the saliva had left my mouth. How everything went into slow-motion, like walking through deep water on stilts.

What? I think he’s talking to me. What’s he saying?

“What’s wrong with you? Isn’t this what you want?” he asked, not used to seeing me frozen and silent.

This man is a good man.
He is incredibly generous with me. Probably too generous. (See there it is).

Here’s what I SAID—out loud—remember? No more secrets.

“I don’t currently have a job that brings in any money. I don’t pull my own weight. At the moment, our relationship is financially lopsided and unbalanced. You are literally supporting me—for now. ( I always have to add that). Who am I to have a new car? Such a nice new car? (the rabbit hole was in sight). This is all making me extremely uncomfortable. Why are we doing this? Why are YOU doing this?”

Now, here’s what I was THINKING—thanks to that piece of shit, Shame:
You shouldn’t reward me for not working. You don’t gift an unemployed writer a snazzy new car. That comes later. Let me PROVE my worth. Let me drive my existing car into the ground. Let me wait until the bumper is held on by masking tape. I don’t deserve a new car. Not one so nice. Not This car. Especially not this car.

That is a veritable Molotov cocktail of Shame. And I was throwing it back like a barfly.

So there. I’m ratting myself out. I went there, to that dark place of unworthiness. I was So freaking ashamed of myself.

“You are the hardest working unemployed person I know”, he said looking me straight in the eye which was made difficult by the fact that mine were spinning and I had started to wander, walking in circles to clear my head.

“You have manufactured a writing career out of thin air, which you work tirelessly on EVERYDAY. That has not gone unnoticed by me.”

He was right goddammit! I have so many irons in the fire these days that my fire is full. You couldn’t squeeze another iron in that fire if you tried.

“And explain to me what in God’s name any of this has to do with a car. You need a new car for MY peace of mind.”

Shame triggers. They make no sense.
They are ridiculous and if you try to sidestep them like I did, YOU look ridiculous.

So there you have it—my story of New Car Shame, and how it ALMOST won. I have named it so many times and now I’ve written about it so it must skulk away, back into the shadows, preferably back to hell— because it is my wish to be free.

Do you have a Shame story to share?

Carry on,

xox

“Suddenly at the next corner, came the craziest thing. About thirty women, all in golden crowns, were crossing Market Street. No, I wasn’t hallucinating, maybe they were heading to some trippy bridesmaid’s party. And there I was, utterly surrounded, crying and laughing in the midst of it all, as they passed by.”
~Tosha Silver — “On Crowns and Mars/Venus”

Yesterday morning Tosha Silver (whom I love), posted this and it prompted one of those out-of-body synchronistic moments; you know the ones where you shiver with goosebumps and break into a cold sweat all at the same time.

Or is that menopause? Nope. Sorry menopause you have never given me goosebumps. Not once, not EVER.

Besides, the serendipity lies in the fact that I had two really heartfelt and deeply intimate conversations with two completely different friends, at two separate times, in the past three days.

About friendship and CROWNS and feeling special.

“I’ve known I was special my whole life” we each confessed in a hushed whisper, as if admitting to a secret affair with Benedict Cumberbatch, or a third nipple.

One of my friends stands on the precipice of great success. Like change your life, slap your mama, kind of success. She confided that the other night she dreamt she was wearing a gold crown, or perhaps it was even (gasp) a halo…and the brightness of it made her so uncomfortable that she pulled up the hoodie she was so conveniently wearing—and covered it up.

Why? Why isn’t that a good thing? To feel special I mean.

Maybe the more important question we have to ask is this: Who killed this in us and why?

What is it with crowns anyway?
I suppose we’ve all agreed that they’re just a physical validation of how special someone is.
Gold and preferably jewel encrusted would suit me just fine, thank you very much.

Then we all laugh, hahaha, that’s so funny—wait, you know you’re not special—right? And just like the soup nazi in Seinfeld, someone shows up and yanks the crown right off of your head, bobby pins and all.

“NO crown for you!” He announces and the crowd applauds,”Who do you think you are? Show some humility!” they all chant.

Here’s the thing: I don’t think the three of us can stay covered very much longer. We seem to have all reached a place in our lives where we are being asked to remove the hoodie and shine!

To spit polish the crown and wear it.
Everyday.
Even with yoga pants. Especially with yoga pants!

We’re called to OWN OUR HALO.

And I know in my kishkis we are not alone.
I’ve seen you in your hoodies, walkin’ around thinkin’ I can’t see the glow underneath. But I can.

We’ll lose friends over it, sure. Family too. Maybe even mates. But that’s old news, it’s already happening.

And just like Tosha asks in the rest of her essay, are you ready to “Own your OWN worthiness, own your own divinity, crown YOURSELF. No one else can do it, no partner, no friend, no teacher. NO one.” Well…are you?

I love that there are a group of us women (& men), at this time in history, that are coming into our own. I love that we are pulling down our hoodies, and shining brightly for all to behold.

You are special too—make no mistake about that! So…are you ready to crown yourselves?

Much love and carry on,
xox

http://toshasilver.com

Quit listening to the “experts”.
Stop tying to conform.
Finally realize how one-of-a-fucking-kind you are!
Make like a unicorn and believe in the unbelievable.
Believe in yourself and be the best you,you can be!
Happy Sunday you guys!
xox

Hi you guys,
Below is a recent blog post from Dr. Brene Brown who studies and writes about vulnerably, courage, worthiness and shame.
With the energy that’s been circulating around us lately, clutching at our hearts, bringing up past hurts to be healed, and in the process fucking with the stories we’ve made up about ourselves, our lives, who we’ve been, and who we’re becoming; well,this feels apropos.
Carry on,
xox

As we enter the Rising Strong launch countdown, I thought I’d share one of my favorite passages from the new book with you. Even though this is something I know in my head, it remains something I have to practice in my heart.

From Rising Strong:

The most dangerous stories we make up are the narratives that diminish our inherent worthiness. We must reclaim the truth about our lovability, divinity, and creativity

Lovability: Many of my research participants who had gone through a painful breakup or divorce, been betrayed by a partner, or experienced a distant or uncaring relationship with a parent or family member spoke about responding to their pain with a story about being unlovable—a narrative questioning if they were worthy of being loved.

This may be the most dangerous conspiracy theory of all. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past thirteen years, it’s this:

Divinity: Research participants who shared stories of shame around religion had less in common than most people guess. No specific denomination has emerged as more shaming in my work; however, there is a strong pattern worth noting. Over half of the participants who talked about experiencing shame in their faith histories also found resilience and healing through spirituality.

The majority of them changed their churches or their beliefs, but spirituality and faith remain important parts of their lives. They believed that the sources of shame arose from the earthly, man-made, human-interpreted rules or regulations and the social/community expectations of religion rather than their personal relationships with God or the divine.

Our faith narratives must be protected, and we must remember that no person is ordained to judge our divinity or to write the story of our spiritual worthiness.

Creativity and Ability: In Daring Greatly, I write, “One reason that I’m confident that shame exists in schools is simply because 85 percent of the men and women we interviewed for the shame research could recall a school incident from their childhood that was so shaming that it changed how they thought of themselves as learners. What makes this even more haunting is that approximately half of those recollections were what I refer to as creativity scars. The research participants could point to a specific incident where they were told or shown that they weren’t good writers, artists, musicians, dancers, or something creative. This helps explain why the gremlins are so powerful when it comes to creativity and innovation.”

Like our lovability and divinity, we must care for and nurture the stories we tell ourselves about our creativity and ability. Just because we didn’t measure up to some standard of achievement doesn’t mean that we don’t possess gifts and talents that only we can bring to the world.

Just because someone failed to see the value in what we can create or achieve doesn’t change its worth or ours.

~Brene Brown
http://brenebrown.com/about/

I wrote this back in February, but with all the changes afoot and mercury retrograde, and the fact that change is MESSY, I decided hat we all needed a little reminder that things often look awful just before they get good, so let’s celebrate that, okay?
On the private Facebook page of that kick-ass online business school I took last year, a post caught my eye.

I try not to read them.  I barely understand them.  I’m neither “cool” enough nor smart enough to be a part of this group.  I slid in through the side door, the “blogger” who created her own website and then limped off to throw up. I just barely recovered, my brain hurting from the overexertion.

Anyhow..
It was written by a young man, an aspiring entrepreneur, whose boyfriend had booked a fancy, shmancy weekend away.
They were headed to a beautiful warm weather resort, with massages, fine dining – the whole shebang.

The intention behind the trip, his boyfriend told him, was to celebrate his best year EVER.

In his endearing, aw shucks way, he admitted to us, his tribe of up and coming internet movers and shakers, that this had been less than a stellar year for him.

“I didn’t hob knob with the rich and famous this year” he said. “No high level meetings, no mastermind groups, no Ted talk or speaking engagements at all. Instead of multiple six figures, I lived off savings.”

He went on to explain that 2014 had been a year of reinvention for him.

He took what appeared to be a thriving business and changed it up, downsizing some things, while reinvesting in others. He went on to explain that he’d spent the whole year at his desk with his hands in the clay. “If anyone wanted to find me I wasn’t on the road as usual, running from event to event, I was at my desk, from dawn to dusk, and I have never grown and changed, and worked harder in all my fucking life.”

Would he have labeled it his best year EVER? Probably not. Because the yardstick we all use for that doesn’t take into account anything besides the money and fame.
The outside trappings of success.

But his boyfriend could see it. He understood. And he knew it needed to be celebrated. Don’t you just love that?

I could SOOOO relate!
I too have had the best/worst year of my life. By the standards set by society at large – it sucked.
But in laying the foundation, the hard work, the networking, perseverance, personal growth and general all around richness – it was my best year EVER!

My husband has witnessed the changes and repeatedly suggested that we celebrate them.

How lucky am I?

Wouldn’t it be great to pay homage to those years that don’t look so great from the outside but change us forever on the inside?
Because isn’t that what makes a person a true success?

Thoughts please?

Carry on,
xox

I don’t think this needs any explanation.
Love you guys, Carry on,
xox

openingtothepossibiltiy.com

*Below is a post from last year that got a lot of play. I like the story and I stick with my observation about people in LA. I should know, I was born here after all.
Watcha think?

I heard this story recently, about a woman who went home for the holidays.

Don’t twitch with anxiety, this isn’t about family hijinks – it’s about worthiness.

While she was in Ohio, Illinois or Iowa, you know – the cradle of civilization for transplanted Californians – she met with friends who were also there serving their sentence – I mean visiting family.

Inside one of those knotty pine kitchens with the avocado appliances, we all know the ones, they haven’t been touched since 1970; they all sat around the table catching up. Life it seems, had been good to this cross-section of her friends. They had kids in college, long-standing careers, minimal health issues, at least one living parent, and all their teeth; yet, the entire first hour was a bitch session.

It was as if the Complaining Olympics had come to town. She got so caught up in it, hoping to at least medal, (she could picture herself atop the podium, National Anthem playing) that she embellished her story about a car insurance claim gone south.
In actuality she had a pretty good life, would they judge her for it if she just said so?

Meanwhile, the host made a pot of coffee in a percolator, and cut up a Sara Lee pound cake to give them just the right amount of caffeine and sugar to maintain their energy – in order to keep the complaints coming.

It was the house he’d lived in since he was four, a two-story colonial, which since his mom had passed was occupied solely by his dad, who by all accounts continued to be robust and health -– but apparently clumsy as shit.

“Sorry guys, I can’t find any cups that match” he said sounding embarrassed as he laid out the cake with a selection of several random cups.

There was a mug from the local University, a flowered porcelain teacup with a tiny chip on the rim, a green Pottery Barn ceramic mug that looked as if it had once been part of a set, a plain, clear, glass cup, a tall, white, fancy looking cup that was fluted and flared at the top, and a large styrofoam cup from a stack on top of the fridge.

He, being the gracious host he was, poured his coffee into the styrofoam cup, everyone else jockeyed around, silently sizing up the remaining cups.

The one friend, a mom with five kids, took the plain glass one, handing the nice white one to her friend the attorney. “Oh, that’s too nice” her friend said, putting it back on the table, taking the dainty teacup even after she noticed the chip.

One of the guys took the college mug, after picking up the green cup from the set, and putting it back. After the other two got their cake, deferring the cup choice until everyone else had picked, one grabbed the Pottery Barn mug and the other reached up and got a styrofoam cup off the pile on the fridge.

No one chose the nice, white cup.

She was sure no one else noticed, but she did.

It was so interesting for her to observe what cups people chose.
It was like a small social experiment. Everyone left the fanciest cup for the other guy, until it stood alone, un chosen.

One of the men would rather drink from styrofoam than a fancy white cup. One of the women put it back and chose one with a chip.

What was all that about?

Worthiness. Apparently no one felt they deserved the nice cup.

Now, I’m gonna level a HUGE generalization here – that is SO Midwest.

If this little kitchen scene had taken place in LA – people would have pushed each other down to get the nicest cup; the chipped teacup would have been thrown in the trash, “That’s just dangerous” –– and NO ONE would have dared drink a hot beverage from styrofoam! “Studies have shown styrofoam to be carcinogenic and bad for the environment,” I can hear the attorney saying, citing a current class action suit that’s pending.

So, two questions: do you find yourself competing in a bitchfest when you reconnect with old friends, not being able to admit that you’re actually…happy? AND which cup would you have picked and why?

Don’t say you don’t drink coffee, this story works for you tea drinkers as well.

Xox

*A reader remembered this and requested a re-post and I’m always happy to oblige.

If you can believe it, and I know you can – I had a dream last night about being a snowflake.
I was with all the other snowflakes, waiting in line to fall to earth.

It was very noisy, because us snowflakes are a chatty bunch.
We have to get it all out before we jump. 
All the gossip the complaining and the bad snowflake jokes,(and trust me, they are the worst), because after we leave the cloud – we are required to remain silent.

Everyone was laughing, chewing gum and eating Red Vines, as snowflakes do. Man! there was a lot of excitement in the air.

What I can remember the most, is looking around and admiring, well, really, I was envying everyone else’s designs.
There was such a display of creativity and individuality that it blew my little snowflake mind!

Every flake seemed to be showing their best crystals.
One was really pointed, with great right angles, and deep cuts.
Another had more rounded edges, with huge cut out sections.
(Someone had obviously been running with scissors).

But what I noticed above all else, was that the designs matched their personalities perfectly.

The outside totally matched what was inside.

What strikes me now, as I’m thinking about it, was that I was unable to see MY design. I could not get a glimpse of myself.
There are apparently no full length mirrors at that point in line.

As I looked for a shiny surface, to catch my reflection; I began to notice I was being looked at with the same degree of admiration by the other flakes – but of course, even though I had no idea what they saw, I liked THEIR designs better than my own.

I wanted to go back to the “snowflake drawing board” and make just a couple of revisions. I had been inspired. No one told me we could make a nip there, or a tuck there.

I had no idea we could be as bold as what I was observing around me.

As I got closer to the front of the line, I suddenly had this realization:

I WAS special,
I had done this many times,
I had fallen as rain,
I had pelted the earth as hail and sleet,
But now, HA! I got to be creative – I got to be a snowflake!

All of the sudden there was a hush, we all became more present and very serious. Everybody ditched their gum under a table, gave each other big hugs, making sure not to smear our sparkles, and with a minimum of fanfare, but filled with great pride,

…We jumped. Look for me!

Merry Christmas Loves,

Xox

*It’s always so interesting (as in weird) to go back into the archives and pull up an old post. You can really see the evolution of my writing. No F-bombs, no conversational tone, just…(yawn) advise.

Anyhow, this is from a year and a half ago, and it seems relevant to right this minute, since I’m hearing that a lot of you are being bitch-slapped around by your kids, your customers, your spouse, or the guy at the post office.
ENOUGH!
Take this advise 😉

By setting boundaries, being appreciative, and showing by example, you teach the people in your life how to treat you.

Will you accept not being treated with love and respect?
or will you stand tall and say “hey, that’s not okay”!
It can even be telling a friend you will not tolerate their chronic
lateness.

Do you show others that same love and respect that you seek?<
Boundaries are difficult for some people to enforce, for they fear they will lose something if they do.
If a love or a job or a friend evaporates because you 
ask to be treated a certain way, then it was not grounded in
any way that could have been sustained over time.
In other words, they was not REALLY a friend, or a lover 
and the cost was too high.

When you treat others with respect and fairness,
kindness, empathy, and love, it is returned to you ten fold.
It boils down to your self worth, and whether you will let 
any person or situation chip away at that.
It also shows you if you are recognizing the worth of 
those around you, and if you value it equally, 
or more than your own.

If you are nurturing, you will be nurtured.
Generosity brings you generous acts,
Thoughtfulness will be rewarded,

Always show your appreciation when someone treats you
wonderfully, for they may be teaching YOU ways you 
should be treated that you hadn’t even imagined.

And then return the favor!

love you you little boundary-setters! Now get back behind the glass!
xox

I heard this story recently, about a woman who went home for the holidays.

Don’t twitch with anxiety, this isn’t about family hijinks – it’s about worthiness.

While she was in Ohio, Illinois or Iowa, you know – the cradle of civilization for transplanted Californians – she met with friends who were also there serving their sentence – I mean visiting family.

Inside one of those knotty pine kitchens with the avocado appliances, we all know the ones, they haven’t been touched since 1970; they all sat around the table catching up. Life it seems, had been good to this cross-section of her friends. They had kids in college, long-standing careers, minimal health issues, at least one living parent, and all their teeth; yet, the entire first hour was a bitch session.

It was as if the Complaining Olympics had come to town. She got so caught up in it, hoping to at least medal, (she could picture herself atop the podium, National Anthem playing) that she embellished her story about a car insurance claim gone south.
In actuality she had a pretty good life, would they judge her for it if she just said so?

Meanwhile, the host made a pot of coffee in a percolator, and cut up a Sara Lee pound cake to give them just the right amount of caffeine and sugar to maintain their energy – in order to keep the complaints coming.

It was the house he’d lived in since he was four, a two-story colonial, which since his mom had passed was occupied solely by his dad, who by all accounts continued to be robust and health -– but apparently clumsy as shit.

“Sorry guys, I can’t find any cups that match” he said sounding embarrassed as he laid out the cake with a selection of several random cups.

There was a mug from the local University, a flowered porcelain teacup with a tiny chip on the rim, a green Pottery Barn ceramic mug that looked as if it had once been part of a set, a plain, clear, glass cup, a tall, white, fancy looking cup that was fluted and flared at the top, and a large styrofoam cup from a stack on top of the fridge.

He, being the gracious host he was, poured his coffee into the styrofoam cup, everyone else jockeyed around, silently sizing up the remaining cups.

The one friend, a mom with five kids, took the plain glass one, handing the nice white one to her friend the attorney. “Oh, that’s too nice” her friend said, putting it back on the table, taking the dainty teacup even after she noticed the chip.

One of the guys took the college mug, after picking up the green cup from the set, and putting it back. After the other two got their cake, deferring the cup choice until everyone else had picked, one grabbed the Pottery Barn mug and the other reached up and got a styrofoam cup off the pile on the fridge.

No one chose the nice, white cup.

She was sure no one else noticed, but she did.

It was so interesting for her to observe what cups people chose.
It was like a small social experiment. Everyone left the fanciest cup for the other guy, until it stood alone, un chosen.

One of the men would rather drink from styrofoam than a fancy white cup. One of the women put it back and chose one with a chip.

What was all that about?

Worthiness. Apparently no one felt they deserved the nice cup.

Now, I’m gonna level a HUGE generalization here – that is SO Midwest.

If this little kitchen scene had taken place in LA – people would have pushed each other down to get the nicest cup; the chipped teacup would have been thrown in the trash, “That’s just dangerous” –– and NO ONE would have dared drink a hot beverage from styrofoam! “Studies have shown styrofoam to be carcinogenic and bad for the environment,” I can hear the attorney saying, citing a current class action suit that’s pending.

So, two questions: do you find yourself competing in a bitchfest when you reconnect with old friends, not being able to admit that you’re actually…happy? AND which cup would you have picked and why?

Don’t say you don’t drink coffee, this story works for you tea drinkers as well.

Xox