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The Most Productive Hangover

Today, I’m nursing one hell of a hangover.

A vulnerability hangover, that is.

Two weeks from today, my husband and I will celebrate our fourth wedding anniversary and our sixth year together. This is the first truly healthy relationship I’ve ever been in. That means my husband gets the profound, terribly messy gift of access to the deepest, darkest parts of me.* Sometimes, at least.

For years, I’ve done increasingly deep work on my core issues: fear of abandonment, fear of being “too much,” fear that having needs and setting boundaries mean I become ineligible for love. Picture a spiral staircase descending slowly into the unlit, fortified vault of my earliest trauma. Sounds fun, yah?!

We tend to attract people whose neuroses perfectly align with ours—but not like beautifully interlocking puzzle pieces that make complete the whole. Wouldn’t that be lovely?! No, it’s more like our fingers are perfectly designed for pushing one another’s most sensitive buttons.* If I’m clingy, I will attract and be attracted to people who recoil from intimacy. If I’m terrified that my larger-than-life emotions will be too much and make people abandon me (cough), I will attract and be attracted to people who tend to recoil from larger-than-life emotions (very loud cough).

It’s a great system. Thanks, evolution.

This means that, as my loving, kind, gentle husband is invited farther down the spiral staircase into my personal abyss, he tends to drag his fingernails along the walls—not intentionally, not to hurt me, but because by inviting him into my own dread, I’ve also forced him into his own.

He’s not exactly kicking and screaming. He’s almost always down for this trek, and he’s certainly interested in both getting to know me more closely and helping me heal the wounds that keep me bleeding on the people around me. But that doesn’t make it easy. It’s hard for both of us. But we’re committed to it, anyway. It’s the best way we know to love ourselves and each other.

Healing those early-childhood wounds requires exposing them to the light, and one of the best ways to heal them is to recreate the situation that caused them—say, abandonment by a parent who can’t handle your big feelings—but with a happy ending* this time. Re-parent that inner child, baby.*

And so, yesterday, I took a deep breath, opened the next level down in my emotional oubliette, shared some difficult feelings, set a boundary, and held my breath. The fingernails dug in, and I lashed out. We reckoned with the fact that sometimes, what we most fear really is true. And then, the healing: even when what we most fear about ourselves is true, it doesn’t always mean abandonment.

My husband asked me to repeat these phrases several times, out loud:

I can have feelings that cause problems, and that’s okay.

I can be too much and still deserve love.

And I did, several times, though it was shockingly difficult and I had to do it through tears.

Today, I feel a bit like I was hit by a bus. It’s like when I got a cut that needed stitches, but before the doctor could treat it, he had to bust up the scab that had started forming there. It hurt like hell on wheels…but it was the only way to help me heal in a productive way.

Today, my husband and I both woke up feeling a little bit bruised…but together. And I believe just a little bit more that I really can be my fullest, most human self, and still be loved.

That’s almost enough to cure a hangover.

* Yes, I did notice the sex jokes I could make at each of these intervalsdeepest parts of me, sensitive buttons, happy endings, a myriad of potential “ooh daddy” comments. I’m far too grown up to make them…

in the main text, and far too immature not to make a footnote pointing them out. Cheers!

Learn more about attraction theory and how to heal childhood wounds with a partner: Getting the Love you Want by Harville Hendrix (yes, the title is terrible, just trust me that it’s an excellent resource!)

Learn more about vulnerability & vulnerability hangovers: The Power of Vulnerability (TED talk) by Brené Brown, or any of Brene Brown’s books

Severance: A Meditation

I keep trying to remove myself from love,
	extract ego like a mass, irradiate

	adoration to wither any lingering whiff of self
so I can see it clearly—what is facet,

what is fragment. I wore white shoes
	to my confirmation and now I hold everything

	to that standard of purity. I want love
so clean that when I put my self back into it, 

I can forego fear. Peel off every edge
	of need. Find love a fencepost, its root so deep

	and concrete I could never bend it 
to my aching will. If I could anoint

your feet with oil, would you find me right
	after the resurrection? Would you love me

	like a fencepost, manmade and immobile?
In all my mythology, there are only two

loves: selfish and selfless. Both 
	have fractured me. 

The Goldenrod are Dying

and you are sure you’re doing all this 
wrong. You commend yourself for stretching

deeper than the old women 
on either side, you admire the tendons rippling

in your foot and still, 
you can't figure out how

to love. You don't smell it yet, but next week,
if it’s still warm enough for bikes,

their dying will certainly 
reach you. Always

the grieving, even for the squirrels
who escape, who remember 

where their past is buried. 
Is this your mother’s
 
voice? Still overruling
your own? It’s cuffing 

season—everyone is knitting
their socks together, making sacrifices, waiting

for the sun to stop 
trying so hard. You pedal faster

past the browning 
flowers and hope

Curious, Not Judgmental

Be curious, not judgmental.

-Not actually Walt Whitman, so I guess Ted Lasso gets credit?

In Ted Lasso, the titular character uses this prescription—be curious, not judgmental—to advise against judgments and assumptions about others. It’s solid advice, and has served me well, especially in difficult conversations that are likely to veer into defensiveness. When I feel the urge to defend myself or lob an accusation, instead, I try to ask a question. Perhaps, Are you saying… followed by a paraphrase of what they said, to make sure I understand. Maybe a question that probes deeper into what they’re saying, a reach at its roots. Sometimes, asking about the feelings underlying their words increases empathy enough to defuse my explosive feelings.

But you know where I always struggle to be curious rather than judgmental? With myself.

By way of example: At any point in the past two decades, if you’d asked me what my greatest fear is, I’d reply invisibility. Not being seen, not being valued, not having my needs met. In short, not mattering. This, to me, feels like death.

And when I feel that fear, usually because nobody is actively paying attention to me at any given moment, I don’t get curious. I get angry.

How stupid and needy I am! How ridiculous to be a grown, independent woman and still want someone validating me 100% of the time. Why can’t I just meet my own need for visibility? Why can’t I just heal whatever stupid wound causes this feeling, already!? Pathetic.

In case it’s not immediately obvious, this is judgy as shit. And unkind, and unhelpful, and I would literally never say anything remotely like that to someone I cared about. Except me. Because I do care about myself! I’ve worked really hard to care about myself.

It’s just that, sometimes, that gap between the way I want to be and the way I actually am is frustrating as all hell. I want to be someone who doesn’t need validation from others in order to be okay. I want to be someone who has healed the deep wounds that cause the anxiety about not mattering.

But when I actually get curious about that feeling, its origins, and the meta-feelings I have about that feeling—like, when I decide to focus on them long enough to write a blog post about them—here’s what happens in my brain:

What’s this feeling really about? Hmm…it’s not invisibility, it’s not a bid for validation…Oh! It’s a desire for connection!

Is that bad? No, no, that’s just human.

So why does it feel bad?? Well, because I’m probably not going to get it. I probably don’t even deserve it.

Where does that idea come from?? Oof. Childhood.

And the thought of not deserving connection, or never getting it, makes you feel angry? Well, yes, but also, I get angry at myself because I don’t want to need anybody. If you need people, they can let you down, and then you feel bad. And I don’t want to feel bad. I don’t want to be a human person with a need for connection and unavoidable bad feelings. I want to be perfect, untouchable, invulnerable, and magic. I’m a unicorn.

Can you hear it? The voice answering the questions? It’s her:

It’s Krista, she’s 5, and she’s a unicorn, because unicorns don’t need anybody, because by 5 years old, Krista had already learned that needing people hurts.

Are you gonna judge her for it?? I’m not. Nobody should have to learn that by 5 years old.

Interestingly, what 5 year-old Krista feels when adult Krista gets curious about her feelings (instead of judgmental) is seen. Acknowledged. Understood. Validated. Held. Loved. Safe.

Like she matters. Huh. Curious.

What we Owe Ourselves

What do we owe each other? More than we usually give; see the chasms everywhere, the violent individualism.

Individualism demands we rely on ourselves, each an island. Be special, be strong, be capable. Need is a failure of individualism. Failures of individualism are gifted contempt.

Since we are called to be self-reliant, are we given tools to meet our own needs? Deeper than lavender candles, bubble baths, yoga and massages? Do we know how to see ourselves? Or only the gap between ourselves and how the world wants us? Are we taught to tend a circle around ourselves, define and assert where we and others may not overrun? Everyone loves a border, until they want to cross. Are we allowed? We are, but, are we?

I’m the child of an alcoholic, the eldest of three. Independence is safety, self-sacrifice is love. Untangling that is a full life’s work.

As I untangle, threads of imperfect questions: Want, or need? Selfish, or necessary? Reasonable, or dramatic? Mine, or others’? Over and over, How? Ultimately, What do I owe myself?

Sometimes, there is no avoiding hurt, and we can only try to mitigate. I owe myself consideration. But oh, it is so much easier to hurt myself to mitigate the hurt of others.

This is not clean: sometimes, we should—must—hurt to mitigate the hurt of others. Privilege, the discomfort of its end. But I know what I owe others, inside a lifetime of that relentless education. What do I owe myself?

I am drawing circles so I can give myself without losing myself. I owe myself protection. I am bad at making them round, at keeping lines unbroken, at speaking in italics. Untangling is a practice. Self is an untangling. I am trying to black my ledger, so long and so bright red. It is messy. I owe myself grace. It is tangled. I owe myself patience. It catches others in its threads. I owe myself forgiveness. Kindness. Tenderness. Love.

I owe us both the truth of my circles. I am teaching you how to love me. I owe myself those lessons.