Making a connection
One of my very favorite humans on the planet is a nurse I’ve worked with for years. She was one of the first I thought of when I knew I was going to need to hire an army of warriors with humongous hearts and empathetic spirits. She’s the person I most aspire to be like when I grow up. She’s in her 70s, looks like she’s in her 50s, acts like she’s in her 30s and loves like today could be her last. One of my favorite things about her is the purple streak of hair she maintains – a stark contrast to the gorgeous silver/white she so gracefully earned. Oh. And her brand new nose ring. She’s quite possibly the coolest chick I’ll ever know.
The nose ring was intentional, although the purple hair started as an accident. We all know how easy it is for colorless hair to find its way to a toned lavender/blue hue. That’s kinda what happened to my friend. She was a little self-conscious about it initially but - in true rock star fashion - she owned it, assuming it would only be temporary. A funny thing happened on the way back to her hairdresser, however. She found people were more relaxed around her. She was approached more by strangers and acquaintances. There was a new vulnerability to the conversations that she was privy to. A random purple shock of hair opened up a whole new world for my regal, ageless friend and she embraced it.
It’s been a couple of years now and the vibrant purple shock of hair is as natural as the twinkle in her eye and warmth in her smile. In a community of sometimes rigid “norms”, she is the poster child for acceptance and love. I proudly wear a bracelet she hand stamped for me with the words “Love All Serve All” as a reminder to step out of myself and focus on others more often.
So much meaning on one little wrist.
A couple of my nurses asked me what happened to my blog the other day. They were trying to share it and realized it was gone. When they asked why, it was really easy for me to spit out the rehearsed answers about being too busy, being in a good place and not really needing to process things by writing, simply forgetting to update my payment info, etc. But when I really stopped to think about it, none of those were true. I’m in a weird place lately. I’m sober…don’t worry. But in all reality, I’m kinda going through a “dry drunk” phase the last couple of months. For all of you “normies” out there, a dry drunk is a dangerous place to be. It’s a close cousin to relapse and if I’m being honest, the best thing I can do for myself and those around me is to talk about it. So, here I am. Again.
The opposite of addiction is connection. This is a scientific fact. And if you know me, you know that my go-to coping strategy is isolation. I’m a hard person to stay close to. Ask any of my close friends or family. A lot of people – and I mean A LOT, have given up on trying. For the most part, there was no falling out and there are no hard feelings but there is an understanding that Amy isn’t interested, so don’t try. I emphasize for the most part. There are plenty of people who took my behavior personally and are hurt/offended and that breaks my heart. But not quite enough to make me try any harder right now. I’m sure that sounds crazy to a lot of you and I get that. You’re healthy people with healthy connections and relationships and you understand the need to feed your soul in that way. I am an addict. And I’m not just talking about alcohol. I am an addict and I struggle with an addict mentality in almost every facet of my life. Until very recently, I had no idea that I had taken on a new drug of choice. A situation within my family broke open a part of me that I had built a fortress to protect and I withdrew further into myself than I ever had outside of a full-blown relapse. It scared me. And, thank the Lord, it motivated me. For the first time in my life, I sought help before I sought the bottle.
My latest addiction isn’t a substance. In a way, it’s even scarier for me because it’s so easy for me to indulge. It feels safe. It gives the illusion of preventing heartache or disappointment. I justify it by telling myself that I spend all week caring for and connecting with others at work, therefore my time off the clock is mine. It’s hard to explain how a coping mechanism flared into a full-blown addiction but that’s what happened. By withdrawing deeper and deeper into my fortress, I came to depend on my solitude. It starts to make you feel a little crazy to be honest, but that only reinforces the need to dive a little deeper into your safe space.
In the same conversation where my nurses asked about my blog, several of us were sitting around talking about our staff and the connection we all have with each other. One of my nurses mentioned how amazing it is to have a facility where not only is there no gossip or backbiting, we genuinely support and uplift each other. Another nurse mentioned how incredible it is that our conversations are real, raw and honest; how we share our vulnerabilities and shortcomings with each other and how quick we are to rally when one of us is struggling. It’s because of these people that I found a therapist that has been able to guide me down a very dark and scary road to uncover the why behind so many of my behaviors. It’s because of these people that I started to emerge from my cave and socialize outside of work again. It’s because of these people that I realized I have a story to tell…a story that I need to keep telling, regardless of what others might think of me.
My blog has been my purple streak of hair. By writing my struggles and my triumphs, I have inadvertently invited others to share their struggles with me. When I am vulnerable, others share their vulnerabilities with me. I often have thoughts or ah-ha moments that I think would make a good blog post but I hesitate just long enough to talk myself out of it again because it’s scary to be vulnerable. I know there are people who dislike me. I know there are people that I have done wrong by or hurt or disappointed and because of that I feel like a fraud when I write. It’s a vicious cycle. I seal up the little cracks that want to bleed vulnerability and retreat further into my isolation and safe space. No sharing means no judgement. No conversation means no disappointment. No caring means no hurt. It’s so messed up.
A week ago, a few of us from work went to get matching tattoos. If you knew the stories that each of us keep locked away, it would make your toes curl. Each of these women is a warrior and they are the people I look up to the most. They give me strength when I need it and a soft place to land when I fall. Our tattoos say “rise up” and there is so much more meaning behind those two words than I can share here. But it’s a reminder to me that connection squashes addiction, that I need relationships as much as I need air, and that my story might help someone else feeling the same thing right now.
I’ve failed a lot of people along the way and I know that, all too acutely. If I haven’t failed you, give it time. (Wink, wink.) This I know: it’s not how many times we fall, but how many times we get back up. Today, I rise.
One day at a time…
XOXO ~
ames
