When the Filters Fall.
How containment and safety lead to authentic expression.
There is a certain kind of safety that only comes from knowing I have my own back.
Then again, there are nuances to this because I have always had to have my own back. In the past it would present as a more hyper independent quality or on the reverse side of the spectrum, a more enmeshed or codependent kind of quality. In other words: give me everything or leave me entirely alone. When in those previous states, approval got mingled with survival and isolation was mistaken for strength.
Funnily, or not surprisingly, this also affected my writing. ‘Sharing’ sometimes felt like a strange mix of shocking, exposing, and catharting. It was all at once validating and unnerving. It also had an “I dare you” attitude attached to it. Dare you to what? Disagree with me? Confront me? Shame me? Any and all of the above. I know I never wanted pity, but camaraderie? Sure. Who doesn’t? And there is a niche that certain people, myself included, can write from that speaks personal to the collective and though it is a gift, we still need to protect ourselves or we will be left feeling drained and overexposed. That has been my experience anyway, and I am glad I have gotten it out of my system before getting around to actually publishing a book. Knowing there are parts of me on the internet which can never be retracted is enough.
Vulnerability is not bravado, but in this day and age they are often conflated.
Somehow I am becoming stronger and softer. Less filtered and more contained.Perhaps it is because I truly know I will choose myself no matter what. Perhaps it is because something that has been agitated and in motion for a very long time, maybe my whole life or at least the majority of it is finally still.
Stillness forms containment, but it also gives rise to inspired action and communication.
Of all the things in this world it is probably communication that motivates me the most. To speak, to write clearly and articulately. To be able to string thoughts into sentences short and sweet and long and rambling that convey feeling, poetry, and a position in consciousness that can only be occupied by me. It is a potent process and it requires responsibility.
In the past I let it all loose. I rather made a name for myself through catharting through my writing—’bleeding ink’ if you will. In a sense it was liberating, but in another sense it wasn’t really safe. It’s better to let some scars speak that it is to wail from a fresh wound. Not everyone has earned our blood, sweat, and tears and not everyone can handle them. Not to mention: there are those who would use our wounds against us.
The needs of a child are not the needs of the adult, but those of us who may have not been well tended when young do not always accurately see a difference. There is a kind of vampirism that can go along with vulnerabilities that have not been seasoned, both in the sharing of them and in those who witness. The young psyche seeking solace cannot always tell who is there to mend vs who is there to feed from our sorrows. Very often when we lack this instinctive awareness we learn through trial and error. We learn through toxic or narcissistic relationship dynamics. We learn through leaving ourselves behind.
For a time our ‘recovery’ might be loud, bold…”I am here! Look at me. Listen to what I have to say. I am valid. My thoughts and feelings matter.” Sometimes this revelation is much like a peacock displaying its feathers. Sometime when going through that process we, ourselves, get accused of ‘being narcissistic’, and maybe we are for a while. Not all narcissism is malignant; some of it is developmental, and if we miss those stages when we are young we often have to come back to them. However, phases are meant to be phases, not identities. And as odd as it may seem, overexposing oneself is another filter.
Maybe the woman (me) who is taking all the selfies and writing her life out like an online journal is in the process of claiming or developing something that previously didn’t get the chance. I went through that phase. And I will embarrassingly admit that there was a time I attached too much validation to how my cleavage looked on a particular day. Sure, it was displayed with a piece of ‘brilliant’ writing or maybe more accurately some introspective drivel. Or maybe it was just too personal. I know it feels that way to me now, but at the time it felt like liberation. And you could not have convinced me that I was being anything other than ‘liberated’.
Liberation tastes different to me now, like a home cooked meal with simple ingredients. It is containment, and it presents as a bit more covered up. It sounds like a throaty song throaty and sung to a loved one, not a whole crowd. It is people who have proved their ability to hold me that are the ones who get my fresh stories. It is the scars I am no longer afraid to bump whose tales will get told to the world. It is the raw and relevant that is shared intimately and with greater immediacy; less planning, holding and editing.
The filter I am dropping is fear, and in its place I am building even more containment. In my inner world, my ‘container' has taken the shape of a beautiful castle with a massive drawbridge and iron wrought doors which can be pulled closed for my protection or opened at my discretion. As I know more deeply in my bones than ever that I truly hold the key to my own safety and well being there is nothing which I will let in or let out that I do not acknowledge I can and choose to engage with.
I love the feeling of pulling up my drawbridge. I love the feeling of closing those wrought iron doors and pulling close the shutters or leaving them open as I see fit. I love that I can open up or pull within anytime I choose and it is not indicative of anything other than where I am in the moment.
The filters come off naturally as I feel more contained, as I build safety within myself and through those with whom I build relationships. This is how I learn to trust feelings that sometimes leave me feeling unhinged.
This is how I know when to dare, to do, and to keep silent.
I love how you speak so well about vulnerability and also honor your own changes. I also heard untended kids tend to be vulnerable adults, but even me, who was super well tended as a child, had horrible moments of vulnerability. Or maybe I shouldn't say horrible. Great article, dear. Love ya.
I've been thinking a lot about these dynamics lately. Your perspective is so well articulated. I feel gifted to know some of the things you've been going through in recent years, and honestly I don't believe I would feel as connected to and inspired by you if I hadn't been given that gift. And then again, I have other mentors who have never been that vulnerable that I get enormous amounts of inspiration from, and part of the inspiration is how much they're able to transmit while keeping their private life private.........It's tough sometimes for me to feel that urge to be seen in my messiness and for others to benefit from my vulnerability and to simultaneously know that sometimes more containment will serve my general well being more. Even writing comments like this usually feels draining in some way, and more often I tend to keep my thoughts to myself. :) But for the sake of honoring the paradox, I'll resist the urge to delete.