Seeing Myself

Feeling grounded, at peace and totally badass — before inviting anyone else to the party

Note: this is part two of His Getaway Car had Red Leather Seats.

We left off with the questions the DJ experience left me asking:

What was I getting from these interactions that was worth swallowing my truth and betraying myself? What was standing between this silenced me and the strong, secure self I thought I was and so badly wanted to be? 

I thought I could come up with a tidy answer in one week (ha!), and even after three, I know that what follows is only the beginning. But it is a beginning…

I began by trying to find the root: when had I started denying my own wants/needs for a guy’s attention?

I zeroed in on early high school. Around that time, my family was going through it. My grandpa died about a year after my grandma was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and shortly before we learned my uncle had pancreatic cancer. Uncle Jim moved in and we witnessed his agonizing pain — they goofy, big-hearted drummer suffering immensely.  

In one of my last memories of him, the whole family is gathered in the living room, my dad and brother playing guitar, mom singing, me on this mini kid’s steel drum, Uncle Jim on the bongos. He led us in the first and last jam session our family ever had.

We played just one song, among the few we all knew well enough: Jane Says by Jane’s Addiction. The belting, trancey anthem about the woman the band is named after was a family favorite.

Jane’s Addiction lead singer, Perry Farrell

I didn’t think much about the lyrics back then, but when this memory surfaced, I got curious and looked them up.  

Jane says, ‘I’m done with Sergio
he treat me like a rag doll’

…

But if he come back again, tell him
wait right here for me
or try again tomoooorrrooowww

I got chills.

Jane says, ‘I ain’t never been in love, I don’t know what it is’
She only knows if someone wants her

I want them if they waaaaant meeeee,
I only know they waaaaant meeeee

It wasn’t long after the jam session that I first hooked up with a guy I didn’t get to know in any real way, nor was super attracted to. I met him at a folk music festival; he was about 10 years older than me and I vaguely remember not loving his hair. And yet we ended up back at my car where I let him kiss me like an eager puppy. He started taking off my clothes and I enjoyed the rush — until the parts of me that felt scared and icky finally took over.

I didn’t know or even like this person. He needed to zip up his pants and I needed to get back to the warmth of the stage lights.

After my uncle died, we took turns staying with my grandma across town as she became devastatingly more confused and less consolable. Meanwhile, my brother, recently sober, struggled with severe depression.

I didn’t have wise counsel to go to. I wasn’t even conscious that I wasn’t okay. Actually, I was determined to be okay so as not to add to my parents’ stress. But looking back I can see that I was pretty under resourced to deal with all this hard shit.

So I tried using men to find a way out of it. It didn’t really matter if we had a genuine connection; I could escape the pain with an endorphin rush while feeling seen and appreciated, even if only for my physical body.

I became more concerned with whether a guy liked me than how much I liked them. It’s not like I dated guys I didn’t like (well, occasionally I did). It was more like I ignored those little feelings of we’re not really clicking or that’s not a great sign — preferring to stay caught up in his attention. I want them if they waaaaant meeeee.

I also started a conquest habit: I’d find a guy I thought was out of my league (usually based on appearance, age or talent, often musicians) and I’d basically see if I could seduce him, not really caring whether or not we actually vibed. The more I thought I might not be able to “get” the guy, the bigger the reward when I actually did. My validation grew increasingly dependent on the attention of men.

I had a major aha moment a couple years ago, coming out of a loving but difficult relationship. It didn’t take long for me to get back to my old ways and I ended up in bed with a silver fox I’d long had a crush on. The following morning he told me he was in a relationship. She was living abroad and they weren’t even all that happy together, he said. With all the courage I can muster I’ll admit that I slept with him one last time several hours later.

I’d crossed a major line and I finally had to ask myself: what the fuck was I doing?

I was trying to escape loneliness, but more than that I was chasing the high of a man’s interest, his desire. That magic little buoy that could lift me out of my self-doubt and insecurity. I started noticing how I fed on attention, even from random men checking me out on the street as I walked around my neighborhood.

My friend Alyssa (of Pussy Empowered Dance) has helped me see that wanting attention isn’t inherently a bad thing. “Being witnessed, feeling seen for who you are is really powerful,” she wrote in a recent post I loved. But, she points out, that starts with you — you gotta see yourself first. See, love and accept the You you really are so deeply that you feel filled up, grounded, at peace and badass before you invite anyone else to the party.

I’d skipped a few steps. And finally I felt done with the shallow shortcuts. I focused on me, tuned into what I wanted. I leaned harder into supportive friendships, found more fulfilling work. I began to build a healthier foundation grounded in seeing and appreciating myself.

This is something I didn’t learn from my parents, who didn’t learn it from their parents. (The lyrics of Jane Says reverberates through many generations of my family.)

Both my parents did believe in me; I felt their pride and love and it’s become a strong part of my foundation. I know now, though, that children learn more from what they see modeled by their parents than what is told to them (thanks, Brené). If a mother tells a child she is strong, capable and worthy of love, but this child doesn’t see her mother treating herself with compassion, surrounding herself with people who value and respect her, she’s not learning how to reinforce the message with her actions.

A couple years into my journey of untangling my self-worth from men’s attention, what happened with the DJ felt like a bit of a relapse. I’d found him the week I returned from visiting my family in Michigan; my therapist/spiritual guide suggested that the stress had caused me to revert to past coping strategies.

My parents were in the midst of a separation. I stayed with each of them for a short time and I couldn’t help but slip back into my old role.

For so long, I had been the confidant, the messenger. When the word separation was first uttered it was like sweet relief. Finally. This is play is going to be over. We can shut the theater doors and burn our costumes.

But during that visit, I saw that the show hadn’t quite closed. I couldn’t help but pick up my old costume and try to end it for good (rather than taking the harder step of simply quitting the play — if only it were simple).

When I’m in that costume, I feel exhausted, heavy. My digestive issues creep back. I forget what I want — to eat for breakfast and to do next, the plans/goals/visions that were clear just a week ago. I have recurring dreams of shipwrecks, sinking in a punctured raft, being pulled underwater by mysterious beings.

It’s like who I am gets swallowed up by these hungry emotions I’m so used to trying to feed.

I headed back to the island feeling spent and lost. Rather than leaning into the emotions that had come up, processing and finding my ground again, I decided I wanted to blow off steam with a sexy man who makes his living setting the vibe of the party.

I felt like I deserved it, to go out and have fun. I was fed up with the injustice of what I’d been put through as a kid and just last week; it’s unfair — I didn’t and don’t deserve this hard shit. I subconsciously wanted to spite my parents, who I was blaming.

But it’s pointless to blame them, or their parents, or even myself — it’s both everyone’s fault and no one’s.

Accepting what is and choosing to take on the responsibility of breaking patterns you didn’t start is where the healing happens.

This requires time to pause and grieve. Grieve the lack of quality attention we endured at times in childhood; the healthy relationships we didn’t get to have; the years we lived without seeing our own gifts; the parts of our parents and grandparents they couldn’t accept; generations of compromised self-worth.

No wonder I went to the club instead.

Even after the nightmare, I was tempted to see the DJ again. Luckily, I hosted a women’s circle with a friend that week and visited my wise abuelita adoptada, Teresa, that weekend. I felt supported by women who could relate, who shared their hard-won lessons.

So when the “hey strangerrr” text came, rather than walking the worn path to the same old destination of misery, I looked to the cards of guidance I had pulled during the women’s circle.

Shout out to my friend Shadman for the bday gift.

Hold on: you can do this.

Rise up, stand stronger and true.