To Thine Own Self Be True

and it must follow, as the night to day, thou cannot then be false to any man. (Polonius, Hamlet, Act I, scene 3). 

On many AA medallions that mark sobriety anniversaries, "To Thine Own Self Be True" is printed. Apparently, the history of the adoption of this saying by AA and its inscription on medallions is not known. (it's not in the Big Book). 

But I've been thinking about the puzzle of my not letting go of U and the thinking recently that it must be that I do not want to- and wondering why that would be. But I have arrived at nothing convincing, other than inherited likely stories and guesses. I am feeling more like it's just the way I am right now, and I don't need to know why, and I may not be able to determine why, and I am not sure I would even benefit from knowing why. It's become much more important to accept myself the way I am right now. By this, I am reminded of Mary Oliver's line from Wild Geese: "let the soft animal of your body love what it loves." 

Along these lines, I'm also regularly impressed by this passage from the CoDA welcome:

"We attempted to use others - our mates, friends, and even our children, as our sole source of identity, value and well being, and as a way of trying to restore within us the emotional losses from our childhoods."

Yes, indeed- that is one of the compulsive tendencies present in my codependent behavior. Of course, it's a futile enterprise- the way to restore the emotional losses from our childhoods, to whatever degree such restoration is even possible, is to delve into them, respect the pain and work with the story, re-parent ourselves and change our behavior from the present forward (for me, with the "help" of a higher power, on a spiritual basis). There is no person (or drug, or behavior) on the planet who can be a suitable substitute for that work. For me, if I don't do the work, I am left with compulsively seeking to restore those losses yet again from external sources, and, when it comes to others, usually women. 

On the one hand, of course, it's important to keep moving through the work at a reasonable pace. "If you're going through hell, keep going." On the other hand- what's the hurry? In our emotional climate, it feels like we are generally urged to "get over" things as quickly as possible. I understand the need when our grief and brokenness is interfering with our legitimate responsibilities and our ability to show up for commitments we have made. But what if we tended, instead, a garden of brokenness- while "functioning" reasonably well at the same time?



What if we honored the truth of our experience enough to take it seriously, and, consequently, take our suffering seriously? When I first started practicing the compassion meditation in Refuge Recovery, I didn't understand the phrase: "May I learn to care about suffering and confusion." But as I've practiced more and gotten to know myself more, of course it makes perfect sense. The core of compassion and respecting oneself is learning to care about suffering and confusion- one's own, to begin with. We pretend to care, a lot- and then behave quite contrary to that pretense. I can say I care about my own suffering and confusion all I want, but if I am ripping myself off by denying my suffering, trying spiritual bypass, looking for numbing and distraction, shutting down, diminishing my experience, mocking myself or judging myself, then I am not walking that talk. 

This is the bare skeleton of the narrative: I fell in love with someone, allowed myself to experience a sense of destiny with it, wanted to spend life with that person, chose to allow mutual expressions of "it-ness" and profound compatibility, and allowed myself to imagine a future. Chose to continue as that diminished, chose to stay open and vulnerable with an unavailable person, in an impossible situation. Reveled in it, and felt a deep, lasting soul connection. Then for necessary and fitting reasons, it ended. 

What is the proportional response? What constitutes emotional sobriety and emotional intelligence as a response? It seems to me that the proportional response to the loss of a profoundly important connection is a profound experience of loss. And it was a life changing experience- so it feels fitting that it will have very real, very persistent effects over time. I feel like accepting the way I have been with all of it. I feel like the pressures (real or imagined) to "let go and move on and protect yourself" are all external, all of them. My soft animal knows exactly how to heal (I just got the image of an injured cat, hiding under a porch- the way animals often do, when they are healing- is the cat in a hurry?)- 

One of the lessons here is that I allow other people's opinions to hit me pretty hard. "You have to get over this thing quickly. There are great experiences waiting for you. Move on. Protect yourself. You deserve better." Etc. The plain fact is that I don't need anyone's permission to be having the experience I am having. I don't need anyone's approval, or the opposite. I know the impulse from friends is a loving one- the intention is for me to take care of myself. But I'm realizing that the best way to take care of myself is to be true to myself. Exactly how deep should the sense of loss be and how long should letting go take? That, my friends, is a rhetorical question. It is as deep as it is. It takes the amount of time it takes. 

I am reminded that I just recently opened up the box that contained the Lovejoy- 40 years after the events- and discovered love, anger, resentment, self hatred, pity, rattled sexual confidence, grief. So you tell me- how deep was the loss? How long should it take? 

The truth is, I am in no hurry. I am not skilled at forgetting. I am having the experience I am having for however long I am having it.

I am having the experience I am having for however long I am having it. 

Another meditation we did last week in Refuge contained the phrase: "May you be at ease with whatever your experience is at this time." Instead of struggling with a sense of grief "taking too long" or judging myself as being emotionally unskilled and "too sensitive," or some other rather harsh self-judgments rooted in shame, I'm going to practice simply accepting the experience I am having. 

Probably the hardest part of meditation is the very beginning- because in those few minutes, the experience is one of entering back into my authentic feelings. Going back into the suffering and welcoming it home. All the distractions disappear- the sense is that my heart is closed and wooden, at first. There's a feeling of fear of opening it up again, "Ugh, not this again." But then the petals of it slowly unfold, so to speak, and it's okay. It's not okay and that's okay, as they say. 

I do things the way I do things. At the rate I do them. And to myself, that's the truth.