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

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.

Holes in My Own Loving

Now sewing brings the pain back, eases it. It reveals holes in my
own loving.

– Stephanie Sauer, Almonds are Members of the Peach Family

When I first loved, there were no holes, save for myself. I gave everything, kept nothing, a firehose emptying every well. I was the hole, and I wore it well.

When I noticed the whole of my emptiness and its longing, I found another firehose, and we collapsed together every night, soaked and wholly hollow.

I called this life without holes.

(It was not.)

There is no avoiding holes. I am a mess of holes, so there is a mess of holes in my loving.

I learned to love people who see my holes and see me through their own. The stinging bliss of love is seeing yourself through someone else’s holes—that is to say, an accounting of every lack, a negotiation of our respective failures.

I want to love both others and myself wholly and with minimal failing, so this accounting is a thorny gift we open tenderly together.

Loving reveals holes in my own loving. I cannot fill them. In my wholeness, I move them somewhere safer, and hold them somewhat gentler.