As I type I am in the midst of death and I’m scared. I worry I am taking the wrong turn.
For decades all I’ve known is self-abandonment, codependence and attachment troubles. I was what is called a serial monogamist, jumping from one relationship to the next without much break between, if at all. On each pillow I would gaze into my lovers eyes, reaching into their soul to see if I could find what I needed. But I didn’t really know what I was looking for, and as such I was blind to my needs. I began to embody the archetype of the saviour – giving as much care as I could in an unconscious attempt to have it returned because, unbeknown to me, I desperately craved being nurtured, held, seen, validated. Loved. And I became really good at it, too.
I now find myself in a landscape very unknown to me. Like I’m stepping away from a dark, dusty dystopian terrain into a space I can breathe in, hear birdsong and admire the acres of green land and watch the butterflies surreptitiously sketch past. I look down and realise I still have on the clothes from the world I’m leaving behind. Comfortingly familiar yet no longer comfortable; the dust has made the material too stiff and heavy and doesn’t feel nice on my skin. It’s not that the clothing has changed, the dust is noticeable now the air is clean.
Although this new world is beautiful, I can’t help but look back at the division between it and the grey, murky, baron skies and feel a sense of loss. It might not contain anything with much colour but it’s been my home for as long as I can remember. And although I’m walking barefoot on this soft, green grass, my clothing still connects me to that place and instills in me a sense of grief because the clothes haven’t changed, yet I am not the same person they rest upon.
Stepping into authenticity is a bold move. But it doesn’t come without sacrifice. Without its own pain and sorrow. It’s confusing. It’s scary. At times it’s very lonely indeed. So I close my eyes and feel the grunt and breath of Bear as he exhales into my ear through his cold, wet nose. I smile, I welcome and feel my sorrow and I embrace the nothingness where control and chaos once lived. I now seek something new. But instead of searching for it, I’m building it from the ground up. A new relational template that relies not on dependency or control, but on Self – for the first time in over three decades I feel like I belong in my skin. For the first time in my life I feel the source of my love and it is stunning. I can see the horizon of a new way of relating and a new way of connecting with people.
I am becoming. I am returning home. I feel it when I walk, my head held very high. I am no heavier than the butterflies in my new world. And as I type, I feel the same fear, and I may indeed be taking a wrong turn, but I’m ok with that and my fears are very welcome here. And maybe the dust on my clothes will eventually be taken by the winds back into dystopia. And maybe it won’t. It’s not something I am willing to control. It’s not something I’m able to control. Nothing is.