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This old Bantu folk tale is about a great hunger a long, long time ago in Africa. A drought had left the land dry and fallow and no food could easily be found for the animals. One day, all the animals, except the lion, decided to leave the jungle to scour the landscape in search of something to eat. The lion, who was king of the jungle, chose to remain behind and rule over his kingdom. And so, the elephants, the giraffe, the rabbit, the tortoise, the monkey, the zebra, and the gazelle set out together to scour the landscape for food to eat. They crossed the great river, and walked and walked across the flat land for many days, not knowing where their journey would take them.
After some time, as they approached the edge of the plain, the animals began to make out the figure of what appeared to be a tall tree, the only one that stood for miles around. And as their journey drew them closer to this tree they saw that it was laden with the most luscious fruit they had ever seen! Fruit as red as pomegranates, and orange as mangoes, as yellow as bananas, as purple as plums, and as fragrant as all the fruits of the world.
But, for all its beauty and promise, the tree left the animals crying in frustration and despair. For it was so tall and its branches so high off the ground that even the neck of the giant giraffe was not long enough to reach even the bottom-most fruit. And the trunk of the tree was so smooth that even the agile monkey could not climb it.
The famished animals collapsed on the ground beneath the tree. “What are we going to do?” they lamented. An old tortoise spoke: “My great-great-grandmother once told me about a tree such as this one, with beautiful and delicious fruit. But only those who knew the name of the tree could reach the fruit.”
“How can we find the name of the tree?” the animals asked in unison.
The old tortoise answered, “The lion knows the name. Someone must travel back to the jungle to ask him.”
It was decided that the gazelle, who was the fastest runner of all, should go. The gazelle, proud of his swiftness, raced to the jungle and to the place near the river that the lion king called home. “What do you want?” questioned the lion when the gazelle arrived.
“Great King,” said the gazelle, “all the animals are so very hungry. We have been searching for days for something to eat. We have finally found the most beautiful tree, filled with wondrous, colourful fruit. But until we find the name of the tree, the fruit will remain out of our reach, and all the animals will continue to starve.”
The lion thought quietly for a moment and then said, “I will tell you what you need to know. I do not wish to see the animals of my kingdom suffer amy more. But I will only tell you once, for I do not wish to repeat myself or to tell anyone else this special name. You must listen carefully and remember. The name of the tree is Ungalli.”
“Ungalli,” said the gazelle. He thanked the lion and ran through the jungle and then back across the flat land thinking about how clever the other animals were to send an animal as swift as he and how happy and grateful they would be when he returned with the name of the tree. Lost in his thoughts, he did not see the rabbit hole that was near to where the animals lay waiting. He stepped in the hole and flipped head over hoof through the air until he landed with a thud at the foot of the tree.
The animals gathered around him. “What is the name of the tree?” they shouted with great hope and expectation.
But the gazelle just stared at the animals with a dazed look in his eyes. “What is the name of the tree?” the desperate animals shouted again and again.
“I cant remember,” he uttered, in a voice barely above a whisper. “I cant remember.”
The animals moaned. “We have no choice. We will just have to send someone else, someone who will remember no matter what,” they said.
It was decided that the elephant should go since it was well known that she did not forget anything. And so the elephant strode off across the flat, empty plain, feeling quite proud of her excellent memory. When the elephant arrived at the place near the river where the lion king lived, the lion growled, “What do you want?”
“Oh, king,” said the elephant, “the animals are all so hungry and I ... ”
“I know, I know,” said the lion impatiently. “I will tell you the name of the tree with the wonderful fruit, but don’t you forget because I absolutely will not tell anyone else. The name of the tree is Ungalli.”
“I will not forget,” said the elephant with arrogance, “I never forget anything.”
She made her way out of the jungle and across the plain thinking to herself, “How could I forget! I can remember the names of all the trees in this jungle.” And she began to name them. Quite impressed with her memory, she began naming all the trees in Africa and then began to recall the names of all the trees in the world. Lost in her thoughts, she carelessly stepped in the same hole in the ground that had spoiled the gazelle’s journey just the day before. But unlike the gazelle, the elephant’s foot was so big and fit so tightly in to the hole that she could not so easily get it out.
The elephant pulled and tugged but her foot wouldn’t budge. Those animals who were not too weak from hunger ran toward the elephant shouting, “What is the name of the tree?”
Angrily, she pulled and tugged at her foot again and again until at last she was able to free it from the hole. “What is the name of the tree?” the animals shouted again.
“I cant remember,” she said crossly, as she rubbed her sore foot, “and I don’t care.”
The animals were too tired and too hungry to complain. Some began to cry. They didn’t know what to do. Then a very young tortoise said, “I will go and find the name of the tree.”
“You are too young, too small, and too slow,” replied the animals.
“Yes,” said the very young tortoise, “but my great-great-great-grandmother, the one who knew about the tree, taught me how to remember.”
Without waiting for the animals to respond, the little tortoise headed out slowly across the great plain. Step by step she made her way to the place near the river in the jungle where the lion king lived.
The king was not at all pleased to see the tortoise and roared, “If you have come for the name of the tree, forget it! I’ve told it twice before. And I warned the gazelle and the elephant that I would not tell anyone else the name of the tree is Ungalli so I will not tell you.”
The young tortoise politely thanked the lion for his time. As she walked out of the jungle she repeated to herself over and over, “Ungalli, Ungalli, the name of the tree is Ungalli.” She crossed the great plain, saying over and over, “Ungalli, Ungalli, the name of the tree is Ungalli. Ungalli, Ungalli, the name of the tree is Ungalli.”
Even when feeling tired and thirsty, the young tortoise never stopped saying, “Ungalli, Ungalli, the name of the tree is Ungalli,” because great-great-great-grandmother has said this was what one should do to remember. Falling to the bottom the same rabbit hole that had tripped the gazelle and trapped the elephant, the young tortoise just climbed out saying, “Ungalli, Ungalli, the name of the tree is Ungalli.”
None of the animals noticed as the young tortoise approached them. They were lying under the tree preoccupied with their great misfortune when she walked straight up to them and announced in a loud voice, ” Ungalli, Ungalli, the name of the tree is Ungalli.”
The startled animals looked up. They saw the branches of the tree bend down so low that they could reach the wonderful fruit that was as red as pomegranates, and orange as mangoes, as yellow as bananas, as purple as plums, and as fragrant as all the fruits of the world.
The animals ate until their bellies were full. With great joy and merriment, they lifted the very young tortoise high up in the air. They paraded around and around the tree singing and chanting, over and over, “Ungalli, Ungalli, the name of the tree is Ungalli” because they did not want to forget. And they never did.
Transcribed from Anita Johnston’s book on eating disorders, Eating in the Light of the Moon.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Centre Stage
I recently misunderstood a friend’s email communication and, without checking in with her, took it as a personal affront. The next time I saw her, I reacted quite defensively and she asked what was wrong. When the truth finally came out (amazing how the truth can hide behind self righteousness) and the misunderstanding was cleared she asked, “you know that’s a sign of codependency, don’t you?” As I looked up in surprise with not a little chagrin she continued, “you were making it all about you.”
Well, besides the fact that the world does revolve around me (… doesn’t it?) she had a point. In centre stage, our codependent parts seek the spotlight for both our own and other people’s dramas. They take responsibility for things that have nothing to do with them and try to fix people and situations that are out of their control. Our codependent parts make us believe that we have more power than we do, not in our life, but in other people’s lives. With our own life we feel powerless and we try to gain some control by either taking an over interest in others or believing, as I did above, they have an over interest in us. The rescuing and martyring codependent parts take more blame than they should – it is my fault that the situation is as it is – and the bullying codependent parts take not enough blame and see it as their duty to remedy the situation by making others change. It comes down to boundaries: knowledge of where we begin and where we end. As Charles Whitfield says, the codependent “cannot see the other as separate from self; [or does not see] self as separate from the other”. In the former, the rescuer/martyr come through and takes responsibility for others; in the latter, the bully takes over, trying to control others. Both are codependent, both take centre stage.
With this recent misunderstanding, I took a friend’s authentic concern about me to be a statement about my abilities or lack thereof. I did this because of my own self doubt: I believe that I am not good enough, therefore everyone else must also agree. In other words, I was not seeing the other as separate from myself. My codependent parts are always on the look out for conspirators in this endeavor and will tap into the subtlest remark and make it a critique about me.
How could I have handled it differently? Well, it started with my friend stating concern about me. I could have responded with: “thank you for caring about me but I am okay. However, when you state your concern in that way, I feel you don’t trust me to handle the situation”. Simple, eh? I give my friend the benefit of the doubt, that is, she is a caring and not judgmental person, and then name how I feel when she shows care in that way. There is no judgment, nor blame, as in “you made me feel bad,” and I take responsibility for my feelings by expressing them in a healthy manner. In this way I don’t create stories about what she believes: I respect myself, I respect my friend and my codependent parts get to experience another, more healthy, reality that shares centre stage with other people and perspectives.
Well, besides the fact that the world does revolve around me (… doesn’t it?) she had a point. In centre stage, our codependent parts seek the spotlight for both our own and other people’s dramas. They take responsibility for things that have nothing to do with them and try to fix people and situations that are out of their control. Our codependent parts make us believe that we have more power than we do, not in our life, but in other people’s lives. With our own life we feel powerless and we try to gain some control by either taking an over interest in others or believing, as I did above, they have an over interest in us. The rescuing and martyring codependent parts take more blame than they should – it is my fault that the situation is as it is – and the bullying codependent parts take not enough blame and see it as their duty to remedy the situation by making others change. It comes down to boundaries: knowledge of where we begin and where we end. As Charles Whitfield says, the codependent “cannot see the other as separate from self; [or does not see] self as separate from the other”. In the former, the rescuer/martyr come through and takes responsibility for others; in the latter, the bully takes over, trying to control others. Both are codependent, both take centre stage.
With this recent misunderstanding, I took a friend’s authentic concern about me to be a statement about my abilities or lack thereof. I did this because of my own self doubt: I believe that I am not good enough, therefore everyone else must also agree. In other words, I was not seeing the other as separate from myself. My codependent parts are always on the look out for conspirators in this endeavor and will tap into the subtlest remark and make it a critique about me.
How could I have handled it differently? Well, it started with my friend stating concern about me. I could have responded with: “thank you for caring about me but I am okay. However, when you state your concern in that way, I feel you don’t trust me to handle the situation”. Simple, eh? I give my friend the benefit of the doubt, that is, she is a caring and not judgmental person, and then name how I feel when she shows care in that way. There is no judgment, nor blame, as in “you made me feel bad,” and I take responsibility for my feelings by expressing them in a healthy manner. In this way I don’t create stories about what she believes: I respect myself, I respect my friend and my codependent parts get to experience another, more healthy, reality that shares centre stage with other people and perspectives.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Boredom
I was at a party the other day. It was an eclectic mix of young and old, environmentalists and writers; health practitioners and organic farmers. Waiting to pour myself some refreshments, I started up a conversation with a petite, young woman with large brown eyes. The talk came around, as it does, to what fuels our life and I told her I wrote a weekly blog on codependence. Her eyes grew yet larger. “Every week?” she asked incredulously. I looked at her and paused, not knowing quite how to answer. A part of me felt defensive to be sure, but most of me just found it funny. Finally, I responded with a laugh, “Yeah, every week, pretty boring, huh?”
Although I truly thought it amusing, I think I set myself up for the following week because once named, boredom decided to stick around. Every word I wrote, action initiated, and thought completed was boring. I was at an utter loss of what to do as restlessness wrestled with all I did: when I wrote, I wanted to read; if I stood, I wanted to sit; when I talked, I bemoaned its futility. All was useless, all was boring.
Boredom is the sealed carton confining fermenting milk on a hot day; restlessness is the milk. My restlessness wanted release but boredom kept a cap on it, denying any satisfaction. In this state I flitted and fluttered from one thing to another, never happy; never content. I was trying to write up an outline for a new workshop and I was being stymied at every point. I needed to be still so to allow my creativity to come forth but restlessness overrode this option. I felt overwhelmed, unhappy and dissatisfied with life. What was really happening, however, was that boredom and restlessness had hired out as the henchman for my codependent parts.
Codependent parts do not like to be still. To be still invites inner reflection and these parts fear that the sight will not be pretty. To them, there is nothing worthy to be found within and so they urge an outward gaze to find life fulfillment. My codependent parts deny I have any creativity. Moreover, they fear that if I try to express it (despite continuous proof otherwise) I will be criticized and found wanting.
I have fought against these beliefs before (and won) but this time their tactics had changed and I was unprepared for boredom to be the manifesting adversary. Thankfully, I had enough sense of my own self worth that I kept pushing through, despite the challenges, to write down tidbits of ideas in the few moments of space I could find. I wanted to give up on many occasions and, actually did surrender several times, only to pick up the fight again a few hours later.
It wasn’t until I was forced into stillness on a long bus ride that I could finally identify what was happening. I realized that my codependent parts were doing everything possible to keep me from expressing my inner power. In their selective memory of times past, they were scared that if my creativity came out, I would be shut down by some external force. They were, in a dysfunctional way, trying to protect me from being hurt. When I saw that, I was able to voluntarily sit in stillness and reassure these parts that it was okay. That I wouldn’t be shut down and, if I was, I could handle it. I sat with my parts just like a parent would for a small child and listened to their story. And, just like a child with a chance to express and someone there to listen to their fears, the restless parts calmed down. In the space that was created, my truth came forth: as in all human beings, I was infinitely creative and that creativity could not only bring ideas to fruition but adapt and learn from potential disappointments and external criticism.
I am reminded as I write this of Marianne Williamson’s quote: “Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure…”. Our codependence parts fear that power because it has been denied and/or crushed too many times in the past. It is up to us, that is, our core self, to remind these parts that things have changed, that we are no longer powerless children. As creative adults we have capable skills to deal with external oppression and that we will survive despite the misgivings of our codependent parts.
Although I truly thought it amusing, I think I set myself up for the following week because once named, boredom decided to stick around. Every word I wrote, action initiated, and thought completed was boring. I was at an utter loss of what to do as restlessness wrestled with all I did: when I wrote, I wanted to read; if I stood, I wanted to sit; when I talked, I bemoaned its futility. All was useless, all was boring.
Boredom is the sealed carton confining fermenting milk on a hot day; restlessness is the milk. My restlessness wanted release but boredom kept a cap on it, denying any satisfaction. In this state I flitted and fluttered from one thing to another, never happy; never content. I was trying to write up an outline for a new workshop and I was being stymied at every point. I needed to be still so to allow my creativity to come forth but restlessness overrode this option. I felt overwhelmed, unhappy and dissatisfied with life. What was really happening, however, was that boredom and restlessness had hired out as the henchman for my codependent parts.
Codependent parts do not like to be still. To be still invites inner reflection and these parts fear that the sight will not be pretty. To them, there is nothing worthy to be found within and so they urge an outward gaze to find life fulfillment. My codependent parts deny I have any creativity. Moreover, they fear that if I try to express it (despite continuous proof otherwise) I will be criticized and found wanting.
I have fought against these beliefs before (and won) but this time their tactics had changed and I was unprepared for boredom to be the manifesting adversary. Thankfully, I had enough sense of my own self worth that I kept pushing through, despite the challenges, to write down tidbits of ideas in the few moments of space I could find. I wanted to give up on many occasions and, actually did surrender several times, only to pick up the fight again a few hours later.
It wasn’t until I was forced into stillness on a long bus ride that I could finally identify what was happening. I realized that my codependent parts were doing everything possible to keep me from expressing my inner power. In their selective memory of times past, they were scared that if my creativity came out, I would be shut down by some external force. They were, in a dysfunctional way, trying to protect me from being hurt. When I saw that, I was able to voluntarily sit in stillness and reassure these parts that it was okay. That I wouldn’t be shut down and, if I was, I could handle it. I sat with my parts just like a parent would for a small child and listened to their story. And, just like a child with a chance to express and someone there to listen to their fears, the restless parts calmed down. In the space that was created, my truth came forth: as in all human beings, I was infinitely creative and that creativity could not only bring ideas to fruition but adapt and learn from potential disappointments and external criticism.
I am reminded as I write this of Marianne Williamson’s quote: “Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure…”. Our codependence parts fear that power because it has been denied and/or crushed too many times in the past. It is up to us, that is, our core self, to remind these parts that things have changed, that we are no longer powerless children. As creative adults we have capable skills to deal with external oppression and that we will survive despite the misgivings of our codependent parts.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Trust and Safety: The Story Continues
Trust and safety. Ever since I started writing on this subject two weeks ago, I have been dogged by these words. Are they synonymous or does one lead to the other? Here is another example.
In January, as many of you know, I was hit by a car. Now, being hit in such a way is a near death experience. I was incredibly lucky—barely injured —but had the driver been going faster, or failed to stop when she did, I could have been seriously hurt or even killed. It is enough to make one doubt their safety …
So, not one to miss a chance to doubt, for the first few months after the incident, I began experiencing my age-old nemesis: generalized, amorphous anxiety, a sure sign that safety was lacking. Interestingly, I didn’t recognize it at first. It took a close friend to open my eyes and even then, I denied it. “I am over it,” I said, “I had some fear, but its gone now.” Despite the denial, a part of me did hear her, enough that is, to ever so slightly open the door and let me see what was really happening. Sure enough, I wasn’t “over it”. Not only was I feeling anxious but I was losing trust in myself. (With no safety, can there be trust?) I began questioning my career path, my appearances and my writing abilities. I didn’t recognize it at first. Losing trust is like the insidious seepage of toxic waste — before you know it, one’s sense of safety is a crumbling edifice.
More importantly, however, than how I lost it, is how did I get it back?
Well, the first step was acknowledgement. That went a long way towards recovery. By stating “a part of me feels anxious” I could separate myself (my Self) out from that amorphous state and start dealing with it. In separation, I became the witness to my feelings rather than being overwhelmed by them. Bearing witness to one’s feelings is somewhat akin to being the ideal parent to a young child. The parent helps the child express their feelings while maintaining a safe environment. They help the child establish healthy boundaries (how, when and where to express) and model healthy expression back to the child. Moreover, they are authoritative rather than authoritarian, offering strong but compassionate leadership that the child can respect and look up to. When we act as a witness to our parts, whether these parts reflect our feelings, thoughts or behaviours, it is like we are reparenting ourselves. And, in that reparenting, we reestablish inner trust and safety.
The second thing I did was to deepen the relationship with this anxious part. I did this by exploring where it lived in my body (solar plexus) and then seeing if there were any images or sensations related to this part. For me it felt like a crazy spiral of swirling fingers mixing up a bad stew… gotta love these images. Ironically, the more I noticed the safer I felt. The safer I felt, the calmer I was which increased my trust. It is like waking up from a nightmare: the darkness at first disorientates and scares but the more you tune in to your surroundings, the calmer you feel. Same with my parts. With deepening trust and safety, I could then listen to what my anxious part was trying to tell me: it was scared of losing out, not being worthy, being alone, and disappearing. If I took each to its natural conclusion, it was really scared of dying. This part was acting just like a child would after any big scare.
With this information, I slowed down and began reassuring this part of myself. I did this by some self talk but also through reconnecting to my body: I noticed my breath and its natural flow; noticed how it felt to sit on a chair and to lie on the floor and walk across the room. I breathed into these feelings, validating them, grounding myself in the process. In turn, my anxious part felt safer —she (my part) was “part” of a bigger picture, she was not alone.
I then confided in friends and told them of my anxiety. I wasn’t looking for answers or sympathy, just a supportive audience and it worked. It took a few days, perhaps a couple of weeks, and the anxiety completely subsided. Self trust and inner safety not only returned to pre-incident levels but gained a stronger foundation.
So, back to the question of what comes first, I feel they (safety and trust) are two sides of the same coin. In this story I lost my sense of safety because I lost trust in my ability to keep safe. In recovery, I had to enough internal safety to trust (and work with) what my friend suggested but, then again, I wouldn’t have been able to go with any of it unless I trusted myself and the process. It’s becomes a circular argument: the more trust we have, the safer we feel; the safer we feel, the more trust we have. And, if I can add one more point, we can only trust another to the degree that we trust ourselves; we can only feel safe in our external environment if we feel safe within ourselves.
So, I end this discussion for now, but as always, I welcome your comments.
In January, as many of you know, I was hit by a car. Now, being hit in such a way is a near death experience. I was incredibly lucky—barely injured —but had the driver been going faster, or failed to stop when she did, I could have been seriously hurt or even killed. It is enough to make one doubt their safety …
So, not one to miss a chance to doubt, for the first few months after the incident, I began experiencing my age-old nemesis: generalized, amorphous anxiety, a sure sign that safety was lacking. Interestingly, I didn’t recognize it at first. It took a close friend to open my eyes and even then, I denied it. “I am over it,” I said, “I had some fear, but its gone now.” Despite the denial, a part of me did hear her, enough that is, to ever so slightly open the door and let me see what was really happening. Sure enough, I wasn’t “over it”. Not only was I feeling anxious but I was losing trust in myself. (With no safety, can there be trust?) I began questioning my career path, my appearances and my writing abilities. I didn’t recognize it at first. Losing trust is like the insidious seepage of toxic waste — before you know it, one’s sense of safety is a crumbling edifice.
More importantly, however, than how I lost it, is how did I get it back?
Well, the first step was acknowledgement. That went a long way towards recovery. By stating “a part of me feels anxious” I could separate myself (my Self) out from that amorphous state and start dealing with it. In separation, I became the witness to my feelings rather than being overwhelmed by them. Bearing witness to one’s feelings is somewhat akin to being the ideal parent to a young child. The parent helps the child express their feelings while maintaining a safe environment. They help the child establish healthy boundaries (how, when and where to express) and model healthy expression back to the child. Moreover, they are authoritative rather than authoritarian, offering strong but compassionate leadership that the child can respect and look up to. When we act as a witness to our parts, whether these parts reflect our feelings, thoughts or behaviours, it is like we are reparenting ourselves. And, in that reparenting, we reestablish inner trust and safety.
The second thing I did was to deepen the relationship with this anxious part. I did this by exploring where it lived in my body (solar plexus) and then seeing if there were any images or sensations related to this part. For me it felt like a crazy spiral of swirling fingers mixing up a bad stew… gotta love these images. Ironically, the more I noticed the safer I felt. The safer I felt, the calmer I was which increased my trust. It is like waking up from a nightmare: the darkness at first disorientates and scares but the more you tune in to your surroundings, the calmer you feel. Same with my parts. With deepening trust and safety, I could then listen to what my anxious part was trying to tell me: it was scared of losing out, not being worthy, being alone, and disappearing. If I took each to its natural conclusion, it was really scared of dying. This part was acting just like a child would after any big scare.
With this information, I slowed down and began reassuring this part of myself. I did this by some self talk but also through reconnecting to my body: I noticed my breath and its natural flow; noticed how it felt to sit on a chair and to lie on the floor and walk across the room. I breathed into these feelings, validating them, grounding myself in the process. In turn, my anxious part felt safer —she (my part) was “part” of a bigger picture, she was not alone.
I then confided in friends and told them of my anxiety. I wasn’t looking for answers or sympathy, just a supportive audience and it worked. It took a few days, perhaps a couple of weeks, and the anxiety completely subsided. Self trust and inner safety not only returned to pre-incident levels but gained a stronger foundation.
So, back to the question of what comes first, I feel they (safety and trust) are two sides of the same coin. In this story I lost my sense of safety because I lost trust in my ability to keep safe. In recovery, I had to enough internal safety to trust (and work with) what my friend suggested but, then again, I wouldn’t have been able to go with any of it unless I trusted myself and the process. It’s becomes a circular argument: the more trust we have, the safer we feel; the safer we feel, the more trust we have. And, if I can add one more point, we can only trust another to the degree that we trust ourselves; we can only feel safe in our external environment if we feel safe within ourselves.
So, I end this discussion for now, but as always, I welcome your comments.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
The Chicken and the Egg
Last week we continued our exploration of how trust relates to codependence. We saw how a lack of self trust decreases one’s sense of safety and opens the door for codependent behaviours. The question I want to keep afloat is how do we promote a trust in one self? There are many ways, of course, each individually proscribed to the uniqueness of who we are but what I am curious about is what comes first, trust or safety? Or is this just another version of the chicken and egg question? Without safety, how can one trust and without trust, is there safety?
I think the first conscious step I took towards recovery from codependence was acknowledging that my sense of safety was dependent on my environment. At first this did not translate in terms such as safety (or trust), it was more of a noting where I felt, or did not feel, comfortable. In groups, for example, I didn’t feel comfortable and, hence, not safe. Conversely, I felt most safe when I was out hiking, especially when alone. The combination of movement and solitude provided for my safest environment.
If questioned I would not have been able to tell you what inner sensations made me feel either way. When I felt unsafe, there was a generalized and amorphous state of anxiety that told me to get out of there. This was absent when I felt safe. However, I was unable to break that feeling down— I could not tell you what part of me felt anxious or why I felt that way. I only knew that when I felt anxious, I looked for ways to escape that feeling.
The inability to discern and fine tune what we feel (or think) is typical of codependence. When codependent parts are at play, it is difficult to identify our own thoughts and feelings—we may rely on others to tell us what we feel and think. This sabotages our ability to trust ourselves. When we trust ourselves we have the ability to look closer at our anxieties and judge the validity of them for ourselves. Trusting ourselves helps us respond to life rather than react.
Back to me,I never consciously concluded that I felt safer when I was both moving and in solitude. I just found that I spent most of my time alone in the forest. Therapy and courses at The ARC Institute, however, helped me challenge myself to find other ways to be safe. Could I feel safe when I wasn’t being physically active? Could I feel comfortable when I was alone but still?
Following the adage that if you want change, do the opposite, I started the challenge on my next solo hike. Midway through the day I stopped and sat down on a rock in stillness. The discomfort was immediate. The age old anxiety returned urging me to keep moving, eat something, write in my journal or busy my mind—anything to keep from being still. At first I gave in to the impulses distracting myself from the stillness that invited an inward gaze. When I finally did manage to sit for longer periods another distraction took over. Instead of physically escaping by movement, I left my body
“Leaving one’s body” is an attempt to find safety. Ironically, it is not safe to do so but we usually learn to do it in childhood as a way to escape certain situations that are too painful or uncomfortable to experience. Symptoms of leaving one’s body include numbing out and not feeling to daydreaming and dissociation. It is also a symptom of codependence. Our codependent parts seldom feel safe and will do anything to distract us from feeling what is going on inside, whether that be difficult memories or thoughts of unworthiness. Physical movement was my primary distraction. When I stopped moving I needed another way to escape: I left my body in an attempt to stop feeling.
When my numbness became apparent I simplified the exercise. As it was too scary to look within, I focused instead on how it physically felt to sit on a rock. Did the rock feel hard? Was it warm or cool? Were there edges or rounded curves? What colour was it? I then looked at my feet on the ground and asked similar questions. I moved my focus to my hands clasped on my lap and my shoulders feeling the pull of the knapsack. Each time I asked straight forward questions about texture, colour and temperature such as you might ask a young child. Yes, it was basic, but if performed a miraculous feat: not only did I begin to notice more but I began to feel.
Over time, I started hearing the distinct sounds of different birds and the wind rustling through the leaves. I noticed more of the colours around me: the dirt, the sky; the greenery covering the ground. Venturing inwards I was finally able to detect different emotions like sadness and joy; grief and anger. I expressed them and felt validated in the process.
By challenging myself to slow down in what I considered to be a safe place, I created space for my inner world to match up with my outer one. I began to feel safe inside. Within that safety, I could begin trusting what I experienced: the feel of the rock, the song of birds, and the deep greens of the cedars; anger towards the past and grief at my losses. In my forest sanctuary I took the first steps towards trusting myself and what I experienced. I began a journey of self discovery, self care and self respect that allowed me to carry forth this experiment to groups and other “unsafe” places. I created a foundation for internal safety so that I no longer depended on my environment for safety. I could be safe in whatever conditions I found myself because I trusted myself to do what was right for me.
So, in answer to my question about what comes first, it seems that I needed to create an internal sense of safety before I could begin the process of self trust. Then again, did I not have to have a certain amount of trust to create space for that safety? Hmm, how was it for you?
I think the first conscious step I took towards recovery from codependence was acknowledging that my sense of safety was dependent on my environment. At first this did not translate in terms such as safety (or trust), it was more of a noting where I felt, or did not feel, comfortable. In groups, for example, I didn’t feel comfortable and, hence, not safe. Conversely, I felt most safe when I was out hiking, especially when alone. The combination of movement and solitude provided for my safest environment.
If questioned I would not have been able to tell you what inner sensations made me feel either way. When I felt unsafe, there was a generalized and amorphous state of anxiety that told me to get out of there. This was absent when I felt safe. However, I was unable to break that feeling down— I could not tell you what part of me felt anxious or why I felt that way. I only knew that when I felt anxious, I looked for ways to escape that feeling.
The inability to discern and fine tune what we feel (or think) is typical of codependence. When codependent parts are at play, it is difficult to identify our own thoughts and feelings—we may rely on others to tell us what we feel and think. This sabotages our ability to trust ourselves. When we trust ourselves we have the ability to look closer at our anxieties and judge the validity of them for ourselves. Trusting ourselves helps us respond to life rather than react.
Back to me,I never consciously concluded that I felt safer when I was both moving and in solitude. I just found that I spent most of my time alone in the forest. Therapy and courses at The ARC Institute, however, helped me challenge myself to find other ways to be safe. Could I feel safe when I wasn’t being physically active? Could I feel comfortable when I was alone but still?
Following the adage that if you want change, do the opposite, I started the challenge on my next solo hike. Midway through the day I stopped and sat down on a rock in stillness. The discomfort was immediate. The age old anxiety returned urging me to keep moving, eat something, write in my journal or busy my mind—anything to keep from being still. At first I gave in to the impulses distracting myself from the stillness that invited an inward gaze. When I finally did manage to sit for longer periods another distraction took over. Instead of physically escaping by movement, I left my body
“Leaving one’s body” is an attempt to find safety. Ironically, it is not safe to do so but we usually learn to do it in childhood as a way to escape certain situations that are too painful or uncomfortable to experience. Symptoms of leaving one’s body include numbing out and not feeling to daydreaming and dissociation. It is also a symptom of codependence. Our codependent parts seldom feel safe and will do anything to distract us from feeling what is going on inside, whether that be difficult memories or thoughts of unworthiness. Physical movement was my primary distraction. When I stopped moving I needed another way to escape: I left my body in an attempt to stop feeling.
When my numbness became apparent I simplified the exercise. As it was too scary to look within, I focused instead on how it physically felt to sit on a rock. Did the rock feel hard? Was it warm or cool? Were there edges or rounded curves? What colour was it? I then looked at my feet on the ground and asked similar questions. I moved my focus to my hands clasped on my lap and my shoulders feeling the pull of the knapsack. Each time I asked straight forward questions about texture, colour and temperature such as you might ask a young child. Yes, it was basic, but if performed a miraculous feat: not only did I begin to notice more but I began to feel.
Over time, I started hearing the distinct sounds of different birds and the wind rustling through the leaves. I noticed more of the colours around me: the dirt, the sky; the greenery covering the ground. Venturing inwards I was finally able to detect different emotions like sadness and joy; grief and anger. I expressed them and felt validated in the process.
By challenging myself to slow down in what I considered to be a safe place, I created space for my inner world to match up with my outer one. I began to feel safe inside. Within that safety, I could begin trusting what I experienced: the feel of the rock, the song of birds, and the deep greens of the cedars; anger towards the past and grief at my losses. In my forest sanctuary I took the first steps towards trusting myself and what I experienced. I began a journey of self discovery, self care and self respect that allowed me to carry forth this experiment to groups and other “unsafe” places. I created a foundation for internal safety so that I no longer depended on my environment for safety. I could be safe in whatever conditions I found myself because I trusted myself to do what was right for me.
So, in answer to my question about what comes first, it seems that I needed to create an internal sense of safety before I could begin the process of self trust. Then again, did I not have to have a certain amount of trust to create space for that safety? Hmm, how was it for you?
Friday, May 14, 2010
The Codependency of Distrust
In last week’s blog, I somewhat belatedly noticed that there were no explicit references to codependency. Perhaps because, at least in my mind, it is an assumed thing: trust, or to be more specific, self distrust is one of the core components of codependence. Lack of self trust sabotages intimacy and healthy boundaries; promotes cynicism and hijacks innovation and creativity. It underlies a poverty of spirit that defeats us at its more primal level, eroding our will to live: we lose our sense of self and a basic trust in life. We live in fear rather than safety. Charles Whitfield wrote: “Codependence is a disease of lost selfhood. It can mimic, be associated with, aggravate and even lead to many of the physical, mental, emotional or spiritual conditions that befall us in daily life.” If codependence is the disease of lost selfhood, lack of self trust is the virus.
Last week we also discussed how, as a community, we can support the maturation of children into competent adults by just believing in them—instilling in these children some semblance of self trust. Self trust enables us to feel safe in our environment and strong in who we are. Self trust, however, is not a black and white issue. We can, for example, feel that sense of trust (or safety) when we are with animals but feel unsafe, or distrustful, when at work or with certain people. The deeper we trust ourselves, the father afield our sense of safety goes. Moreover, the safer we feel, the less our codependent parts feel the need to take over.
The question to ask yourself then, is when and where do you feel most safe and when and where do you feel unsafe? Who are you when you don’t feel safe? How do you behave, think and feel? What codependent parts are activated when you do not feel safe? And, most importantly, how can you support yourself to feel a stronger sense of inner safety?
By first identifying when and where we don’t feel safe, we can start isolating the codependent parts that tend to take over. In this way we can then communicate with them, much the same as we would any small child. For therein lies the truth, codependent parts are generally formed in childhood and therefore behave and respond like children. So, as with children, we reassure them while providing safe but firm boundaries. I’ve spoken to this subject several times over the past few months but here is another example.
For most of my life, I didn’t feel comfortable or, in other words safe, in groups. I didn’t trust myself enough to feel okay with whom I was in the face of others. Because I didn’t feel good enough, it felt unsafe to let others come close. To let others in would reveal my unworthiness. To protect myself, I either made myself small, as if to disappear, or made myself large and aggressive to keep others away. This was an unconscious response or a reaction to my fears. However, when I took the time to examine where I felt unsafe in life, I was soon able to discover this codependent behaviour. With that, I could then isolate and communicate with the part of me that felt unworthy. I could visualize her (a little girl) and felt her in my shoulders where I curled inwards in attempts to shrink down or tensed up in preparation to fight. I could hear her telling me she wasn’t good enough, wasn’t pretty or smart enough. The more I noticed about her, the more I could gently communicate with her, letting her know she was safe and that if it wasn’t safe, I would get us both out of there. With this burgeoning relationship I started attending different groups, at first with friends and later by myself, pushing the boundaries while continuing to reassure and comfort my little girl. In time the little girl grew to trust my words allowing me to lead, instead of me being dictated by her fears. The trust of this little girl was a metaphor for self trust and in that self trust, I began to feel safer in groups. With increased safety the need to exercise codependent behaviours decreased.
I’ve just given a snapshot of a process that can help create inner safety. It is only one example and a frugal one at that. The process is rarely so linear. My main point, however, is to say that for those of us who didn’t learn self trust as children, we can still learn it today as adults. Moreover, we can share this knowledge with the children that share our lives. Staye tuned for more thoughts and exercises on learning to trust one self.
Last week we also discussed how, as a community, we can support the maturation of children into competent adults by just believing in them—instilling in these children some semblance of self trust. Self trust enables us to feel safe in our environment and strong in who we are. Self trust, however, is not a black and white issue. We can, for example, feel that sense of trust (or safety) when we are with animals but feel unsafe, or distrustful, when at work or with certain people. The deeper we trust ourselves, the father afield our sense of safety goes. Moreover, the safer we feel, the less our codependent parts feel the need to take over.
The question to ask yourself then, is when and where do you feel most safe and when and where do you feel unsafe? Who are you when you don’t feel safe? How do you behave, think and feel? What codependent parts are activated when you do not feel safe? And, most importantly, how can you support yourself to feel a stronger sense of inner safety?
By first identifying when and where we don’t feel safe, we can start isolating the codependent parts that tend to take over. In this way we can then communicate with them, much the same as we would any small child. For therein lies the truth, codependent parts are generally formed in childhood and therefore behave and respond like children. So, as with children, we reassure them while providing safe but firm boundaries. I’ve spoken to this subject several times over the past few months but here is another example.
For most of my life, I didn’t feel comfortable or, in other words safe, in groups. I didn’t trust myself enough to feel okay with whom I was in the face of others. Because I didn’t feel good enough, it felt unsafe to let others come close. To let others in would reveal my unworthiness. To protect myself, I either made myself small, as if to disappear, or made myself large and aggressive to keep others away. This was an unconscious response or a reaction to my fears. However, when I took the time to examine where I felt unsafe in life, I was soon able to discover this codependent behaviour. With that, I could then isolate and communicate with the part of me that felt unworthy. I could visualize her (a little girl) and felt her in my shoulders where I curled inwards in attempts to shrink down or tensed up in preparation to fight. I could hear her telling me she wasn’t good enough, wasn’t pretty or smart enough. The more I noticed about her, the more I could gently communicate with her, letting her know she was safe and that if it wasn’t safe, I would get us both out of there. With this burgeoning relationship I started attending different groups, at first with friends and later by myself, pushing the boundaries while continuing to reassure and comfort my little girl. In time the little girl grew to trust my words allowing me to lead, instead of me being dictated by her fears. The trust of this little girl was a metaphor for self trust and in that self trust, I began to feel safer in groups. With increased safety the need to exercise codependent behaviours decreased.
I’ve just given a snapshot of a process that can help create inner safety. It is only one example and a frugal one at that. The process is rarely so linear. My main point, however, is to say that for those of us who didn’t learn self trust as children, we can still learn it today as adults. Moreover, we can share this knowledge with the children that share our lives. Staye tuned for more thoughts and exercises on learning to trust one self.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Trust
Last week I started a discussion about trust. More specifically, how grounding and centring can promote self trust. I wrote: “[In being centred, grounded and aware —mindful] I know that whatever happens in life, my response is all that matters.” I wrote with confidence. I know that when I am in a state of mindfulness, I can trust my response to life as a creative and authentic reflection of who I am. The question is, if being mindful can build or renew this sense of self trust, how do we lose it in the first place?
Self trust is an interesting concept: widely assumed, yet unfortunately, not so widely practiced. It is also the foundation for leading competent and fulfilling lives. Self distrust (or self doubt), on the other hand, feels more prevalent. It piggybacks on the feeling that there is no safety, external or internal, and can manifest in several ways from overdependence on others to Ď‹ber independence. The over dependent person looks towards others for safety, or a means in which to trust life. They cannon find it within so they look for it in others: a Sisyphean task. In over independence, rigid walls are erected to protect one self from the outside world. Flexible boundaries are scary for the overly independent. With no trust in self to feel safe in the presence of another they ask, "What will happen to me if I let another in, let another help me or be kind to me?" Trust in self is the first step in feeling safe but it is also imperative in creating a fulfilling lives and satisfying relationships.
Loss of self trust can occur at anytime: we lose our job, fail an exam or end a relationship, and a period of self distrust follows. However, a persistent lack of self distrust will have its roots in childhood, a time when our survival is dependent on our caregiver’s thoughts, actions and emotions. In that dependency, we have to trust our primary caregivers and in turn, our caregiver’s job is teach us to start trusting ourselves. Abuse and neglect can corrupt a child’s sense of trust but abuse of power doesn’t have to be so extreme. Parenting is a fine balancing act between “taking care of” and “taking over” in times of need. How many times have you been at a play ground and seen a caregiver prioritizing caution over a child’s physical initiative, or overheard an adult telling the child how they should feel, what they should think, or who they should befriend? Self distrust does not necessarily come from chronic physical or sexual abuse, it can be a slow corroding of a child’s confidence through the most mundane events.
Parenting is a difficult profession; there are no exact rules or right methods. Children come into this world with different temperaments, strengths and vulnerabilities. They come into families with different temperaments, strengths and vulnerabilities, and sometimes that match isn’t great. So what can we, as a community, do about it?
In 1955, a thirty year longitudinal study began with the birth of 698 infants on the Hawaiian island of Kauai. One of the goals was to document how early family conditions affect children in later years. The researchers compiled case studies; conducting extensive interviews from professional and lay caregivers and, later, the adult children themselves. One of the study’s main findings came from a sub-group of these infants that were ultimately exposed to several risk factors before the age of two. These risk factors included: perinatal stress, chronic poverty, poorly educated parents (less than grade 8), and family discord (alcoholism, divorce, mental illness, etc.). The researchers found that in this sub-group (129 children), one third of them grew into competent young adults despite their family’s situation. The author concluded that these 72 “resilient” children thrived because all “had at least one person [relative, babysitter, sports coach, teacher etc.] in their lives who accepted them unconditionally, regardless of temperamental idiosyncracies or physical or mental handicaps.”
In other words, there was at least one person who was able to instill enough self trust in these children by just believing in them. Food for thought for anytime there is the opportunity to spend time with a child.
For more info see Werner, E. E. Children of the Garden Island. Scientific American, April, 1989: 106-11.
Self trust is an interesting concept: widely assumed, yet unfortunately, not so widely practiced. It is also the foundation for leading competent and fulfilling lives. Self distrust (or self doubt), on the other hand, feels more prevalent. It piggybacks on the feeling that there is no safety, external or internal, and can manifest in several ways from overdependence on others to Ď‹ber independence. The over dependent person looks towards others for safety, or a means in which to trust life. They cannon find it within so they look for it in others: a Sisyphean task. In over independence, rigid walls are erected to protect one self from the outside world. Flexible boundaries are scary for the overly independent. With no trust in self to feel safe in the presence of another they ask, "What will happen to me if I let another in, let another help me or be kind to me?" Trust in self is the first step in feeling safe but it is also imperative in creating a fulfilling lives and satisfying relationships.
Loss of self trust can occur at anytime: we lose our job, fail an exam or end a relationship, and a period of self distrust follows. However, a persistent lack of self distrust will have its roots in childhood, a time when our survival is dependent on our caregiver’s thoughts, actions and emotions. In that dependency, we have to trust our primary caregivers and in turn, our caregiver’s job is teach us to start trusting ourselves. Abuse and neglect can corrupt a child’s sense of trust but abuse of power doesn’t have to be so extreme. Parenting is a fine balancing act between “taking care of” and “taking over” in times of need. How many times have you been at a play ground and seen a caregiver prioritizing caution over a child’s physical initiative, or overheard an adult telling the child how they should feel, what they should think, or who they should befriend? Self distrust does not necessarily come from chronic physical or sexual abuse, it can be a slow corroding of a child’s confidence through the most mundane events.
Parenting is a difficult profession; there are no exact rules or right methods. Children come into this world with different temperaments, strengths and vulnerabilities. They come into families with different temperaments, strengths and vulnerabilities, and sometimes that match isn’t great. So what can we, as a community, do about it?
In 1955, a thirty year longitudinal study began with the birth of 698 infants on the Hawaiian island of Kauai. One of the goals was to document how early family conditions affect children in later years. The researchers compiled case studies; conducting extensive interviews from professional and lay caregivers and, later, the adult children themselves. One of the study’s main findings came from a sub-group of these infants that were ultimately exposed to several risk factors before the age of two. These risk factors included: perinatal stress, chronic poverty, poorly educated parents (less than grade 8), and family discord (alcoholism, divorce, mental illness, etc.). The researchers found that in this sub-group (129 children), one third of them grew into competent young adults despite their family’s situation. The author concluded that these 72 “resilient” children thrived because all “had at least one person [relative, babysitter, sports coach, teacher etc.] in their lives who accepted them unconditionally, regardless of temperamental idiosyncracies or physical or mental handicaps.”
In other words, there was at least one person who was able to instill enough self trust in these children by just believing in them. Food for thought for anytime there is the opportunity to spend time with a child.
For more info see Werner, E. E. Children of the Garden Island. Scientific American, April, 1989: 106-11.
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