More thoughts from that day I almost got shot

More on L almost shooting me. You know, I don't know why I'm protecting the dead fucker. Les. His name was Les.

So, as I've been processing this whole almost-getting-shot thing the latest Cracker-Jack prize is realizing this thing I do where not only do I feel like I have to take care of everyone else's feelings, I can have feelings for everyone else, but I'm not so good at having my own feelings. What the hell does that mean, you ask? Well, let me take you on the journey that got me to that revelation.

So when Les almost shot me, I didn't get to have a freak out. After a few seconds of shock, I had to "take care of" my mom's feelings of shock and terror that her child had almost gotten killed. I had to make sure that Les was okay...take care of his feelings he was having as a result of nearly shooting me. And every damn time I visited my mom when Les wasn't around I had to take care of her feelings while she processed over and over again, "that bullet would have gone right through your chest" as she poked the spot right about where my aorta lives. In case you're wondering she never asked how I felt, or said anything normal like, "Wow, that must have been scary for you."

As I processed this realization in therapy shot back (no pun intended) to when I was a kid, and I came home from school and my mom told me that my dad had run over my dog. And instructed me to give him a hug and tell him that I wasn't upset.

Then I jumped ahead to when my dad was in treatment and my mom and I were up for family week. One of the things we had to do during family week was to write a letter (to read during group) to our alcoholic, you know the one if you ever watched Intervention; "Your drinking had affected me in the following way...". The night before the reading my mother asked me to read mine, and told me I had to re-write the whole thing and talk about how his drinking, wait for it; affected her. (At the time she said that that is what the counselor had said for me to do; I realized very recently that that was all her.)

When the Les-incident happened I had had a lifetime of priming from my mother to not have my own feelings, and to take care of everyone else's. So here we are 28 years later...I'm just now having my own damn feelings about had I not gotten out of my chair 2 seconds earlier I would have had taken a .45 bullet through my chest at point-blank range.

So here is the person I am today: I read a sad story about a human or an animal and the rain pours out of my eyes. I look at the legit sad stories of my own life and I am detached and it takes 28-40 years to go, "Oh, I should probably have some feelings about that. And maybe if I had some feelings about that it would stop haunting me."

So, the good news is I am starting to have some feelings. I am starting to process some feelings. I am reclaiming my power one little bit at a time.

28 years ago

28 years ago November fell on a Saturday as well. I don't normally remember details like this, but that day stands out. I won't go into the details of why that date is burned into my brain; suffice it to say it was one of those pivotal in a not-good way moments. A moment that made me question my strength, my worth, my perception of the experience. It is a moment that I've gotten more clarity on over the last year.

As I remember this anniversary I wonder what it is I need. Maybe I don't "need" anything, or to do anything. Except heal. Not healing isn't an option.

But what does healing mean? What does healing look like? How do I celebrate my life, my body, my self? Self-help gurus and therapists are always telling us we have to love ourselves. I can't say that I hate myself, or hate my body anymore, but I definitely don't love either of those things either. I don't exactly like my body, but I think I can say that I like my self. That is an improvement. An improvement I feel like I can build on. Will I ever Love myself? Maybe, maybe not. But, it's the journey, right?