Category Archives: Piercing

Why I pierced {part 3}

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Love.

What is it? What isn’t it?

As I was working through my past, I came to realize that my core belief about love is that it’s conditional.

It’s conditional in my marriage.

It’s conditional in my relationship with my children.

It’s conditional with my relationship with God.

Love is conditional with myself.

This is not a healthy way of living. It’s toxic. I doubt it is ever purposely taught by parents, however, by example it builds a faulty framework for children that over time can’t withstand the weight of so many conditions. At some point it collapses, as does the individual.

Building a new framework takes a lot of hard work and time. It takes examining the broken pieces and discarding the false beliefs and messages, and finding new materials to build a sturdy framework that will withstand the elements.

Thankfully when building anew, there are supports. My supports came in the way of an inspired therapist, a very patient husband, hours and hours of research, and a few key books.

I am still building and lean on my supports when I find an old broken piece of framework that I have unconsciously placed back in the new, because it is close by, easy, and familiar.

I am a work in progress.

And, this work is going to be messy.

The perfectionist in me rejects these truths and fights any and all emotions. However, I have learned that when I struggle with perfectionism, it’s in the areas where I feel the most vulnerable to shame (God bless Brené Brown). Brené says that perfectionism is a way of thinking that says this, “if I look perfect, live perfect, work perfect, I can avoid or minimize criticism, blame, and ridicule”.

In a simpler form, “what will people think?”

This is the story of my life. This is how I have lived my whole life. I made decisions based on what others would think of me, to the point that I had lost touch with who I really was. The weight of other’s perceived perceptions crippled me and ultimately broke me.

It was in that dark period of my life that I saw the hand of God, although, unrecognizable at the time. I knew I needed help, but didn’t know where to go, or who to ask. I was so ashamed of myself at this point, that I believed I couldn’t talk to anyone. And then one night on Facebook, I read a blog post written by an old friend titled “What I Have Learned in Therapy”. I knew right then that I needed to talk to her, so I reached out to say “hey”. We started messaging like long-lost BFF’s and I was able to open up a little and share the nature of my abuse in an effort to find the right therapist (because, let’s face it, finding a good therapist can be a crapshoot). I was terrified typing/telling about my childhood sexual abuse and my trembling hands and chattering teeth were a physiological testimony as I typed. She recommended a therapist that works specifically with sexual abuse and I looked her up online immediately. For the first time in years, I felt hope. I got on my knees and prayed to know if this was the right choice and the answer I got was undeniably yes. I cried. A lot. For the relief I felt, for the fear I felt, for the unexpected answer that I questioned I deserved, and for the unknown ahead.

Fast forward a couple of years and back to my core belief about love. It was conditional.

You know how when you fly on an airplane, you are supposed to secure your oxygen mask first, so that you can then help others? Or when you have to make sure you fill your bucket so that you can fill others? Same principle with love. I had to love myself before I could love anyone else. Like truly, unconditionally. But, how in the hell do I learn that??

We talked about shame, we talked about tools, and in the end I realized I needed a catalyst to make this shift. I needed a physical reminder of my work and I needed it staring me in the face every day. Literally, every single time I saw myself.

And I knew.

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“You can’t do anything brave if you’re wearing the straightjacket of ‘what will people think?'” – Brené Brown

 

Why I pierced {part 2}

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I am a rule-follower.

I am a people-pleaser.

I sacrifice my wants/needs/desires to avoid conflict.

I make the right choices.

I mind my manners.

I am always a good girl.

This was my façade; my coping mechanism. I tried to do everything right and grew up making decisions based on how I was supposed to be.

I couldn’t face my reality, so I hid it. And tried desperately to forget it.

I was pretty proud of myself because I had carried this out for so long; well into adulthood, in fact, and no one knew how ugly and damaged I was inside. Including myself.

Life though, started to catch me off-guard. Situations would arise and remind me of the abuse. Unknowingly, the fight or flight response would  then kick in and my response was always flight. Over the years, I began to think I was weak for not wanting to do hard things. This did not pair well with my perfectionism, which also increased over the years.

The tipping point came when the recurring memories and my “personality quirks” were more than I, or my family, could bear. By constantly trying to shove the memories and emotions away, I became “on-guard” all of the time. It was exhausting.

I grew angry.

Angry that I was still being affected. Angry that it was pervasive in virtually every aspect of my life. Angry that I couldn’t be intimate with my husband. Angry that it was ruining my relationship with my son. Angry that I was lonely. Angry that I couldn’t talk about it to anyone. Angry that I couldn’t control the memories and my life. Angry that I was angry. all.the.damn.time.

I remember one night after the kids were all asleep, laying on my bed, legs crossed, hands folded on my chest, staring at the ceiling, angry-quiet. My husband came in and laid down on his side of the bed and asked if we could talk. Sure. I didn’t care. He asked if I wanted to leave.

Still staring at the ceiling I muttered “no.”

He clarified, “do you want to leave me?” Again I replied, “no.”

He asked me what I wanted, what I was feeling, and I said, “I don’t know. If I didn’t care what people thought, I’d be tempted to run away right now and be done with all of you.”

That was the first truth I had spoken out loud and as horrible as it was to say, it felt equally good. This troubled me. Was this “good feeling” a sign that I really did want to go? What did I really feel? What did I really want??

We sat in silence for a bit. I’m sure I hurt him. I’m sure he was sad. I didn’t care.

He asked if I wanted a divorce and I said that I didn’t know.

With genuine sincerity, he asked if I wanted to go live with my sister for as long as I wanted and have time to think about it. Six months, one year, however long. I could take the baby, or leave all the children with him. He was willing to wait.

I wanted so badly to run away and go. Not necessarily to my sister’s, but away away. Somewhere new. But, we couldn’t afford it. I was mentally calculating it. I told him.

He knew me and said he would find a way to make it work. He knew I didn’t choose to fight or do hard things. But, life had now become harder and this was my flight pattern. He would support my choice.

I asked him if he wanted a divorce, and he said “no.” I couldn’t understand why. I was making his life a living hell. It would be so much easier if he asked for a divorce so that I didn’t look bad; it would have been a perfect out. damn.

I told him that I would figure it out and asked to be left alone.

I don’t remember if he suggested therapy or if I finally realized this was something I needed to look into, but deep down I knew it was the next step. I didn’t like where this was headed.

 

Why I pierced {part 1}

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15 months ago I pierced my eyebrow. I loved it. Like really, really loved it. All the way home, all day long, and into the next day. At school, they loved it and I loved it more. I had a soccer game the next day and because it was newly pierced, I didn’t dare take it out, so I put a band-aid over it before I got to the field. I played more cautiously, and while I still loved my new eyebrow piercing, doubt started to enter because for the first time I realized my limitations with the piercing. After the game I took the band-aid off and I got mixed reviews, but nothing negative. I’m sure some were thinking “mid-life crisis” right about then.

Then, on day 3, I didn’t love it anymore. With the weekend approaching (namely church), fear gripped my soul and I began to second guess everything. I couldn’t move. I was paralyzed with fear and stayed holed up in my house.

What are people going to say?

What are people going to think??

In fact, it occupied my thoughts so much, anxiety became my new best friend. It consumed me and permeated my dreams. I dreamt that I was in the hallway at church and  all of our dirty clothes were sorted in piles, chest-high, taking up the entire hallway. The bell was about to ring to dismiss the congregation and there was no where to hide; they were coming my way and my dirty laundry would be visible to all. And then I woke up. My eyebrow hurt. I looked up and my hand was clutching the skin around my eyebrow ring, with my fingernails dug deep into my skin leaving quite the impression. Figuratively and quite literally.

All day Saturday I struggled with the decision to take it out, or leave it in and skip church and decide next week what to do. My internal thoughts went something like this…

“you are a coward”

“my family (parents, siblings, in-laws) will be so disappointed in me”

“you will lose friends/family over this”

“you will be judged harshly”

“you’re a sinner”

and on and on…

And then my husband listened to my tearful sentiments, held me, consoled me, and offered this, “you pierced purposefully, you can do it. you are stronger than you know.”

I decided to keep it in and attend church, but just to be safe I parted my hair on the other side so it covered the piercing. I taught the 17/18 year old Sunday School class and tried to think of what I would say if they caught glimpse of my eyebrow ring. I couldn’t think of how to answer so I prayed that they wouldn’t notice. I made it home with nary a murmur or second glance. Relief washed over me.

On Monday I loved my piercing once again. Maybe even more than the week before because I was back at school where I felt accepted and loved. No.Matter.What. The university was my home away from home. I was in my element and truly happy both at school and at home where I felt safe.

I kept parting my hair on the other side for another month. Just on Sundays.

It was hard for me to not tuck my hair behind my ear because 1-it’s a nervous habit, and 2-I don’t like hair in my face. I felt I needed some kind of sign to know when it was “safe” to relax and not worry about hiding the piercing anymore.

We were sitting in the back row at church when I absentmindedly tucked my hair behind my ear. Some time had passed and as I was glancing over at my children, a parent of a student in my Sunday School class caught my attention and pointed at his eyebrow with a questioning look. My face flushed. I was caught. I felt like a child again, caught doing something terrible. I nodded in acknowledgment, what else could I do?? He gave me a thumbs-up sign, smiled, and sat back. I nervously smiled and felt a little more at ease. I kept my hair tucked back.