I’m typing this one-handed with a broken shoulder because I lacked the gumption to speak my truth the other day. Well, that and I stepped on the back of my own slipper while attempting to frenetically “skip” across my kitchen to diffuse the sexual tension I could not call out. It’s a long story. Let’s start with when I was born…
…into a dysfunctional alcoholic family where the unspoken rules were…
- Don’t talk
- Don’t trust
- Don’t feel
Details in my addiction memoir, but like all alcoholic families, mine was founded on NOT speaking our truths, NOT asking questions. “Why is Dad so goofy and playful at night while Mom seems grumpy, but then in the morning, Dad frowns and won’t talk and Mom seems mad about EVERYthing?” DON’T ASK.
Asking wouldn’ t just bring on anger, it would suggest something secretly wrong in our family and therefore be disloyal. And what would disloyalty bring on? SHAME! More shame, I should say, because I was already swimming in unnameable shame for unknowable faults and unidentified transgressions. It’s always easier and less scary to say nothing.
So I learned instead to steer people. Just think up something I might do that could maybe shift the other person more toward the way I wished they would be. Butter ’em up. Kill ’em with kindness. Take the high road and hope they notice. Set an example. Tell a related story. Anything but state clearly how I feel and ask for what I want.
And that seemed to work for me, so long as I found ways to not feel: addictions, avoidance, and, of course pretending – AKA denial — but let’s just deny it’s denial by calling it pretending, if we ever call it anything.
When at long last we begin recovery in AA, Al-Anon, or ACA, taking Steps 1 and 2, we begin the long process of becoming honest with ourselves, not just about about substance abuse, but about our fears, resentments, and character defects — namely, our egos, vanity, and selfishness. It’s an iterative process, because the more honest we get, the better we get at uncovering denial.
But this broken shoulder is showing me how, in some ways, I’m still living out my role from my family of origin, trying to steer people instead of stating my truth. I’m still trying to direct instead of fully showing up as myself.
Back in December, I wanted to spend Christmas with a severely injured relative on the opposite coast, but I live on a tight budget. I used air miles for the flight, but a hotel? Too much! I had a long-time acquaintance in that area, so I FB messengered to ask if he could maybe put me up for 2 nights.
I PRETENDED it was no big deal that this man had once, about 15 years ago when he lived nearby, asked me to coffee before a meeting and kinda made it weird. He had wanted it to be a date. But by now, of course, of course, he knew I had zero interest. My relative had suffered a horrible injury and was in a hospital far from family. I wanted to keep them company on Christmas day. There would be no steering necessary, especially since my acquaintance was spending the two nights at his girlfriend’s house.
His GIRLFRIEND’s. And besides, we’re all in our 60s.
THAT situation requires hardly any pretending to make okay, right? Why not save my pocketbook a few hundred bucks and bring my lonely relative some additional fellowship from to the two of them, when all I had to do was ignore the little voice that kept telling me this was a bad idea? Totally! And that’s what was playing out according to my arrangement of the lights, ballet, and scenery UNTIL the moment when the girlfriend wasn’t with us and my acquaintance, at a stoplight, turned to me and remarked pseudo-suavely,
“You know, you’re very dateable.”
Pulse: through the roof. Adrenaline; flooding my system. Brain: red alert! terrible mistake – this whole set-up!
My voice: “I feel really uncomfortable with your saying that – and on several levels.”
Except I didn’t SAY that! Of course not! I don’t SPEAK MY TRUTH for fear it will cause CONFLICT. Dreaded, horrible mean-lady conflict, which is of course so much worse than keeping silent through an ordeal of intense social/ sexual/ emotional mortification!
So I tried to steer. It works so well, you know. I babbled on rapidly about how I have zero interest in dating, have never been happier, etc. This strategy worked so well that he inquired, also pseudo-suavely,
“But what about… sex?”
I remember feeling like anything I could say to de-sauvify his ass would be worth it. So I said, “It’s the Sahara Desert down there! You have to mess with lube, you have to go find the tube first, and your hoo-hoo tears anyway, unless you keep it in shape with a dildo and shit, and I’m just done with all that! It’s a frickin’ waste of time!”
To my delight, those words stunned him. He dropped the suave crap entirely, and even seemed a tad flustered. In any event, he changed his tune and the subject! Hooray! I do want to clarify that when not flirting he was extremely kind and patient and went out of his way to help me visit and cheer my hospitalized relative. But I was still really, really, really glad when my plane took off!
So last week, what did I do when this same guy texted that he was on a road trip west and wanted to stay a night at MY place?
I attempted, of course, to steer him toward any of the charming hotels, motels, and airbnbs nearby. I pointed out that I have 2 shedding cats, an overly-affectionate dog, and a trauma-surviving dog who barks A LOT. His response?
“I want to crash at your place,” he stated clearly. And in the same text, noted that he’d broken up with his girlfriend.
So I responded, “No, I’m not comfortable with that.” NOT.
Actually I responded, “Okay, but I need to tell you I was very uncomfortable with some things you said in December.” NOT.
No, I steered some more. I sent a long, babbling text about how I have zero interest in dating, have never been happier, etc. Surely, he would get it by now?
He arrived. We went straight to an old folks lunch at the church, to which my neighbor had invited me. I showed him the town. At home I made a dinner while he was away charging his car, then left it for him along with the wifi at my house and took off for play rehearsal. All good. When I got home, I made sure he had everything he needed in the guest room and went to sleep. Phew!
BUT.
What does the guy do in the morning? Out of the guest room he saunters in short-shorts — I’m 95% sure boxers, though I tried not to look — showing oddly sleek legs, maybe shaved? lotioned? I tried not to look. On top he’s in a tight, cap-sleeved black T-shirt that I think, despite trying not to look, was intended to emphasize any alleged contours in his arms rather than the more obvious round of his big gut. And he’s leaning back on my kitchen counter like it’s a Van Halen record machine with one ankle crossed over the other, shooting me yet another of those — need I say it? — pseudo-suave looks.
So I said, “Dude, I guess I should be grateful that you’ve got on shorts at all, but could you please go back in there and put on some frickin’ sweatpants and a hoody? It’s 49° out, fer chrissakes, and I don’t wanna see it!!”
NOT. That would have meant conflict, mean-lady conflict, and conflict is what I, at any cost to myself, avoid. So, instead, I broke my shoulder.
I thought of the most UN-sexy topic I could possibly talk about — our mutual friend dealing with cancer. Frenetically, I described how, when she’d been here, she’d defied her prognosis with joy by cranking Alexa, perching my tea cozy on her head, and skipping around my kitchen LIKE THIS!
And down I went, having stepped, in the midst of my efforts to skip no closer to what I perceived as his side of the kitchen, on the back of my own mule-style slipper, stopping my forward momentum so abruptly that down I went, arms flailing uselessly.
I heard my shoulder hit the tiled edge of the counter, heard a huge CRACK inside my skull as the top of my humerus broke off. I thought…
- This is really, really bad.
- At least now he’ll quit flirting!
Which he did. And before driving me to the ER, he put on some god damn pants. And a hoody.
So I got what wanted, right?
I know I’m pathetic, but I’m also pretty confident my story will resonate with a lot of women out there as well as men who have trouble finding their voices. Ahead of me, I have 2 weeks of major pain, 6-8 weeks of doctor-supervised healing, and several months of physical therapy — plenty of time to think about all that money I saved last Christmas by not staying at a hotel and paying for Xmas Uber rides and all the discomfort I avoided by NOT saying, “No, you can’t stay here,” or at least, “Why the hell are you dressed like that?!”
The first step in finding my voice is to come up with the non-accusing words I should have said on both occasions, run them by my sponsor, and convey them to this person, with whom, despite the kindnesses he’s shown me, I don’t really want any continued acquaintance. My speaking up will probably trigger a conflict. But I’m finally fine with that. And I’m not mean.
A Spiritual Evolution 