Sunrise from my studio window.

Eleven years ago today, I got sick. The emotional effects didn’t hit me till weeks later, but today was the day it started – 11pm at night, suddenly awake and feeling ill. And then that feeling just never going away.

It’s been a long road to the place where I am now.

Last year felt monumental – a whole decade. Christ, I thought, that’s a long time. I felt like I’d spent 10 years picking up the pieces, and with super glue and duct tape, trying to put back together a semblance of a life few thought I could have.

I used to joke that my only goal was to be a self-sufficient cripple. But I wasn’t really joking.

Just as much as I’ve tried to reassemble my life, I’ve been working at reassembling my Self. When you grow up defined by your illness, it’s hard to see outside of that. When it’s all anyone ever talks about, or focuses on, or remembers you for, you start to forget that there is anything else inside of you.

I defined myself by what I couldn’t do. I saw so much of my weakness, and so little of my strength. It’s taken me so long to understand what happened, to move beyond being just the “sick girl” everyone saw me as.

I will never forget the utter hopelessness I felt nearly 6 years ago when I thought that my life was over. I was so sick, I barely left my room, let alone the house. My doctor suggested when I felt a bit better I could take a couple watercolour classes at the community centre.

All I could think is, “Is this what my life has come to? Is this all there is for me?”

So I made a commitment – a commitment to come back to myself, to remember who I was outside the doctors’ offices and hospital rooms, and the endless list of “miracle cures.”

That was in July of 2006. Every day since then, I’ve been taking baby steps back to myself and towards the woman that I want to be.

I decided that I was an artist. I learned (ha! still learning) to embrace the boundaries that my life has, and to grow a brilliant life within them.
A bonsai tree is beautiful and wondrous because of its boundaries, not despite them.
I chose an unconventional path, found ways to support myself by working at home. I became the self-sufficient cripple that I’d always said I’d be.

I climbed out of the hole that I’d fallen into, and now I’m sitting on the rim, looking out at this bright and crazy world which is larger and fuller than I’d ever expected.

When I was 18, a lot of doors had shut in my face. I’ve spent the last 6 years learning to open windows. It hasn’t been easy. So much of me still believes all of the doctors, all of the advice for years to just play small, stay small, keep your head down and don’t set your sights too high because you’ll fail.

I’m teaching myself that these things aren’t true; that there are parts of me that are strong, that I can dream bigger dreams.

This year, I feel like I’ve come full circle. Once upon a time, before I got sick, I dreamed of living in Europe, being self-employed and independent. I gave up on that dream for so long.

This year, I’m working on reclaiming it. I found the art school of my dreams in France last year, and after 6 months there, I knew it was where I was meant to be. This year, I plan on returning for 18 months to continue studying and honing my craft.

It’s the next step in my journey. I’m dreaming bigger than my bank account – right now, I have no idea how I’m going to fund such an experience. If you read my blog, you know that in November, I barely made rent.

But I have to try. I can’t explain it, but this is what I’m meant to be doing. I’m following my heart, my gut, every cell in my body that’s just yearning towards this.

A step at a time, I’m stretching the boundaries of what I used to think was possible. I’m creating the space for my dreams.

Become a patron of the arts

I need to pay my tuition ($2000) by Friday, January 20^th (6 days from now). I have just under $650 of that right now, so I’m a quarter of the way there! (BOOYAH.)

Awesome Way #1 to Join In: Sketches from the Road

This is my totally awesome, exclusive inside look to living life in France (and exploring other bits of Europe) while going to a private art school. It’s kind of like my own reality TV show with a weekly video, love letters to you, photos of everything I see and my progression as an artist.

It’s just $20 for 18 months of food, wine, travel, silliness and visual pleasure.
(And you’re not tied in to 18 months. You can unsubscribe at any time. Although trust me, you won’t want to. I’m too cute. )

Sign up for Sketches from the Road

Awesome Way #2: Buy some art! (Sketches from the Road subscription included!)

Surrounding yourself with beauty is good for your soul. You know that art makes your world better, brighter and more hopeful. Get yourself a painting as a symbol for the dreams you’re dreaming.

Buy yourself something beautiful

If you can’t contribute financially, but still want to help out, I’d love it if you shared this post with your friends and networks and helped to spread the word. Thank you!

(I wrote this months ago and filed it away in a random folder on my computer, titled “Manifesto”. I just found it again and knew I had to share it.)

I believe that there is a light inside of you, just waiting to shine.

I believe that there is something inside you, dying to thrive.

I believe that no matter what kind of shitty hand you’ve been dealt, you can find your happiness and your bliss.

I believe in your ability to thrive in the face of adversity.

I believe in your ability to turn it all around.

I don’t believe that you need to be a “positive thinker.”

I don’t believe in miracles.

I just believe in the fragile strength of the human soul. In our ability to flourish against all of the odds.

Your soul just needs a bit of watering, a bit of fertilizer. It doesn’t need a lot.

It needs gentleness, time and space.

It needs hope and possibility. It needs a dream.

I believe in your dreams.

Even the one that everyone else thinks is crazy.

I believe in your happiness.

When I look at you and the devastation in your life, I don’t see hopelessness. I see new beginnings.

Why?

Because I’ve stood and watched my own life burn down around my feet.

Because I’ve been so sick, I couldn’t get out of bed for months.

Because I’ve been through the abuse, emotional and sexual.

Because I thought I hit rock bottom once, but discovered I could go miles deeper.

I thought my life was over.

It was really just beginning.

Please don’t give up.

There is a whole world out there just waiting for you.

You don’t have to know the way.

You just have to follow the bread crumbs.

You don’t even have to believe that the bread crumbs go anywhere good.

I spent months lost in the woods. It didn’t matter.

 Every step you take is a step back to yourself.

I know that with a bit of tenacity and a tiny bit of courage, you can create a new life for yourself.

You don’t need to be brave. I’m the biggest scaredy-cat there is. I have anxiety attacks and worry all the time. I’m skeptical, sometimes even cynical.

So shoot me – I’m human.

And so are you.

You don’t need to be super human to overcome adversity.

You just need to be able to put one foot in front of the other. You just need to be able to dream.

We can all dream. We can all reach that dream.

I believe in your ability to do anything. Seriously.

So, dear heart, when I see your life burning down around you, I don’t see the end.

I see the possibility. I see the possibility where you thought there was none.

I see the hope. I see the dreams.

And I believe in them.

With my heart and my soul, I know that they can come true.

You can have the life you dream of.

You can rebuild. You can grow. You can flourish.

Come with me.

Join me on this journey towards life, hope and happiness.

I’ll help you rebuild your life and your dreams.

With my brush, I’ll paint the way back to your Self.

With my art, I’ll help you find your way home.

River Dee IV © Sarah Marie Lacy, 2010. 24"x30" oil on canvas.

Charlottetown Harbour, Sunrise © Sarah Marie Lacy, 2011

Five weeks ago, I began the process of healing my body and mind from past sexual abuse.

Some people in the comments have assumed it happened as a child. It didn’t. It happened 5 years ago. I was incredibly naive and had no idea what was happening to me or how to explain it. I blamed myself.

It hasn’t been until the last couple of years that I’ve been able to start letting that blame go, and have started to acknowledge how traumatic it was and just how much my body has been damaged.

The last 5 weeks have been pretty hellish. Good, releasing, healing, painful, and hellish.

Most weeks I’m functioning at barely half-capacity. It’s been emotionally exhausting to say the least. It doesn’t help that my chronic illnesses are triggered by emotional stress, reducing my energy levels even further. Some days, I have to give up the fight by noon and admit that what I really need is a nap.

This is my gift to myself – by working through so much of this now, when I’m studying in France this summer, my head will be clearer and I’ll have the tools to deal with the emotional uprisings.

But then yesterday I woke up and was filled with panic.

I realized that I leave for France in 5 weeks – a mere 35 days (ummm, now that’s 34.)

And I still need another $13,000 to pull off the trip.

I forgot about my commitment to my healing and my only thought was, “I’m going to fail.“

Wrong-sized advice

When I first started this healing process, a well-meaning friend insisted that my healing wouldn’t be complete unless I made all of the money I needed for France by the time I left (at the time, $18,000). They said that I needed to prove to myself that I could do it and that I needed to throw myself into a project instead of focusing all of my attention on the grieving and healing.

I got really upset because this felt like too much pressure for me – facing the trauma of the past and trying to heal the damage to my body was hard, scary and exhausting enough without dealing with all of my money issues and doing what it takes to make a lot of money in a short amount of time. I felt doomed to failure; that I would never heal because I couldn’t pull off this monumental task.

But then I readjusted my crown and realized that this is my healing process and no one else gets to dictate the terms except for me. (Sovereignty rules.) No matter how much they love me and want to help, I’m the only person who knows what’s best for me. If borrowing the money I needed was what I had to do, then so be it.

And then I felt fine, and we all tra-la-la-la’d on our way.

I have a sneaky brain, though.

I have a pretty severe internal critic (who may or may not sound exactly like the guy who abused me.)

He heard the words of my friend, and saw my internal turmoil and he filed this away for future reference.

He unfiled it yesterday morning, when he released this little ditty into my early morning wake up:

“You know you leave 5 weeks today, right? That’s only 35 days. And you’re going to borrow that $13,000 you still need? Pathetic. How weak. A successful person would easily be able to manage this healing process, their chronic illness, their regular duties, and overcome all of their less-than-helpful money beliefs all at once to do all of the promoting necessary to make $13,000 in 5 weeks. But obviously, you’re just useless and a failure. You’re just never going to succeed. You’ll be stuck here forever, broken. Pathetic.”

And I felt embarrassed, humiliated and ashamed. How could I borrow the rest of that money? I thought. But I’m so tired. I’m not superwoman. I’m doing the best I can here.

What we need are some heavy-duty-sized doses of permission, and STAT.

I’m giving these permissions to myself but I’m also giving them to you. We all get bogged down by unreasonable expectations. We all try to be superhuman every day, and then beat ourselves up when we discover for the millionth time that we are still only human.

Need permission to not conquer every monster you have by tea time tomorrow? Granted.

Want to take 10 years to grow your business to the level that it can fully support you at? You got it.

Want to take 5 years off to study your craft instead of trying to force money out of it straight away? Done.

Want to focus on only changing and healing one part of yourself at a time? Hell yes. You so get that permission.

Want to take a nap every day at 3pm because then you function so much better? Do it.

And I give myself permission to borrow all of the money that I need. (And I still get to be a great person who can have success in her life.)

Faster is not always better.

Sometimes I have to remind myself that I am only 23 and I have an entire lifetime to sort myself out. I don’t need to be a millionaire by tomorrow. I don’t need to be famous by October. Sure those things would be great, but do you know what’s more important?

Doing what you can manage. Not burning yourself out. Not beating yourself up.

Being happy and living with joy and bliss. And if the thought of doing all of the work necessary to be a millionaire by 2012 makes you want to throw up and hide under something, then you don’t have to do that.

You are still marvelous and magnificent and lovable. I am still marvelous, magnificent and lovable, even if I borrow every last cent that I need to get to France.

Here is your permission to fail wildly by the standards of the society but to be blissfully happy in your $100/month business.

I’m not condoning debt, or saying be broke forever or that there is nobility in poverty. It’s not really about the external factors at all.

What I’m trying to say is – trust yourself and trust your instincts. If going slowly is what you need, then go slowly. Give yourself what you need. And screw all of the people who tout faster as better. That’s great for them – they know that going fast makes them happy.

But if going slow makes you happy, then go slow.

At the end of the day, you know yourself best. I’m still learning that every single day. Trusting yourself is hard work. But in my experience, life goes better without the guilt of trying to fit in.

Charlottetown Harbour (a photo taken on a very early morning walk) © Sarah Marie Lacy, 2011

Usually I’m a yoga person. I love stretching my body and feeling myself fall into happy alignment. I get an annoyingly chipper post-yoga high. It usually involves skipping.

But lately, as I heal from the sexual abuse in my past, I’ve found myself less and less inclined to hit the mat. The days stretched into weeks and then into months. I am out of shape and stiff.

I’ve been feeling guilty for not paying as much attention to my body but I thought that the only solution was yoga.

Turns out, I needed to listen deeper than that.

My body and mind can’t handle yoga right now. Yes, it brings me into the present moment, but then I find myself sitting right in the midst of the trauma and the pain and panic floods my body as I remember…ow.

My body wants to move, but it doesn’t want to just sit with the pain. It is just too much. It’s not necessary for me to spend half an hour, or even 5 minutes, in such a painful place.

I need to move forward.

And then Jesse reminded me – walking.

I’ve walked to heal before.

After I left the guy who was abusing me, I started walking.

The walks started out short & manageable. I was still recovering from being incredibly ill at the time, and wasn’t up for much.

But as the days passed, I just kept on walking. Soon I would disappear for hours at a time. Sometimes I would wander far afield, but often times I would wander to 2 places.

The Church & the Tree

Just around the corner from my parents’ house was a church. In their parking lot, smack in the middle, they had 2 great big maple trees growing. They’d built a bench around them.

Day after day, I would walk to this tree and I would just sit and watch the world go by. Sometimes I’d talk to the tree. I’d ask it questions. I’d ask it why things happened, why I was sick, why I was alone, why I hurt so much inside.

Asking the questions was comforting. I didn’t know how to talk about these things to the people in my life. I was full of shame. The tree could never judge me. It only listened.

I would sit and watch the butterflies as summer deepened. I watched the red-tailed hawks come through, slowly spinning in their thermals.

I sat and I watched.

And then I would walk.

The Park

The problem with suburbs built around cars is that everything seems so close in a vehicle and yet it’s so damned far on foot.

This park was a 3 minute drive and a 30 minute walk. It didn’t matter.

It was hidden away, narrow but deep with a small stream going through it and dozens of trees. It was dark and shady with patches of bright sunlight. Willow trees and bulrushes lined the stream.

It was heavenly. My own little piece of paradise.

Someone had strung up a makeshift swing on one of the trees. I used to sit there and write and swing for hours. No one else came to this park. I think people often forgot it was there.

I would sometimes take the long route to get there, walking until my muscles burned and twitched. I wanted to push my body. I wanted to forget.

Dreaming up a new future

It was during these walks that I planned my future.

It was striding along familiar and unknown neighbourhoods that I made the choices that led me here today.

I decided that I didn’t want to see anymore doctors and I wanted no more “miracle cures”. I decided that I wanted to share my story and put my trials to good use. I decided that art was my calling and I was going to dedicate my life to it.

I decided that even if I was horribly unloveable because of the chronic illnesses, and no one would ever want to put up with me, I was going to have a damned awesome life anyways – I had friends, family, pets and my art. I was going to be as happy as I possibly could be.

It was on those walks that I declared my life my own – not that of my doctors, my parents, my ex-boyfriend’s or future boyfriends’.

Mine.

I was going to live life on my terms. I was going to do things my way.

I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I couldn’t see the impact those choices would make on my life. I had to fight for my new beliefs. People thought I was either crazy or stupid. I wouldn’t change a thing.

Walking my way back to my body

So now, as I revisit and heal the traumas from that time, I come back to walking once again.

As my feet tread the pavement, and my eyes breathe in the world around me, I’m creating a new future for myself. I’m walking away from the abuse and towards healing. I’m literally moving my body forward, one step at a time.

I am creating healing, peace and acknowledgement. I am hearing my pain, holding it close and letting it go with every step.

And then one day, I will stop walking. I will be able to re-enter my body and find only peace, calm and stillness there.

I will be able to come home.

Comments

I would really appreciate it if you didn’t leave any advice. This is my own healing process and I’m finding my own way. Everyone heals differently. However, I’d love to hear your own tales of coming back to yourself and how you’ve created new futures for yourself and for your body. And I always accept hugs and nods of understanding.

I’ve had a few people look at me cockeyed since announcing on Wednesday that I was going to back off of my self-promotion efforts because of my healing process.

“So what you’re trying to tell me is, that even though you need $18,000 to get to France this summer, you’re going to stop promoting your art?”

Well, yes and no.

I mean, I did launch a Pay What You Can event yesterday for my birthday. But the launch was pretty low-key. If you’re called to it, you’ll find it. It’s sort of an experiment anyways. If I happen to make some money, that’s a sweet, sweet side effect. But I just wanted to try something cool.

But at the same time, going into hardcore marketing mogul mode, like I did back in January, isn’t what’s right for me at this time. That might change next week, or next month.

There is some logic behind this, I promise.

I know this seems really backwards. From the outside, it looks like I’m stopping, maybe even giving up.

But what looks like a lack of motion from the outside, is actually me diving deeper.

My relationship with my body is an unhappy one. The abuse jarred me out of my Self. There’s a disconnect and that’s been getting louder lately as this part of my life tries to get my attention.

It’s come out as me abandoning any sort of physical self care. I’ve stopped exercising, or eating properly. Even taking my makeup off at night has become a tiresome chore. I’ve been living in sweatpants and forgetting to floss.

Anything that brings me into a closer connection with my body is something that I’ve been avoiding like mad.

My body is my home here on Earth. The abuse was like being robbed. My boundaries, my sense of safety, were violated. I’ve been afraid to return.

But until I can be at home in my body, I’m at home nowhere.

It’s about putting down roots before I can reach my branches to the sky.

I want to reconnect with my physical self. It’s about reclaiming my body as my own.

It’s about being brave enough to look at the damage that was done and start picking up the pieces.

Maybe today I throw out some of the broken things. Maybe tomorrow I sweep. Next week, I might dust.

This afternoon, I may throw open the windows and let the fresh breeze rush in, blowing out all of the cobwebs and stale air.

With time, I will heal this rift. My body and I will become friends again. I will come home.

But it’s hard.

Sorting through the broken shards of my memories is painful. There are some things that I never wanted to remember. Some days the pain is a sharp twist, and other times, it’s a dull ache. Sometimes, it’s all I can do to lie on the couch and stare at the wall.

This time is my gift to myself.

When I’m in France, I don’t want to be in this place. I don’t want my mind clouded by depression and pain when I’m trying to learn and absorb as much as possible.

This summer is my fresh start. When I get on that plane, it will be with a lighter mind and a happier spirit. It will be my new beginning.

I will finally be able to step into my own.

Sometimes backwards moves you forwards

I have a theory.

I have a feeling that by taking these steps to go inside and heal my physical pain will result in the money I need showing up.

I have nothing to base this on except experience – every time I take the time to heal, I consistently make more money.

At the end of the day, money is just another form of energy. The more I heal, the more energy I can allow to flow through my life.

And as I heal this darkness and this part of my life, all of the other parts of my life will get better too. Nothing is separate. It’s all a part of a bigger pattern that is my life.

Comments

Everyone varies. This is just my experience and my healing process. I just ask that you respect my choices and my feelings. I’m not looking for advice, but support, hugs and cake are always welcome. And if you’ve been through something similar, I’d love to hear about your experiences.

The “Pay What You Can” Experiment

If you’re interested in the “Pay What You Can” event for my artwork, you can click this link here to read about it. Only happening until 20/3/11!

Becca (reference photo) © Sarah Marie Lacy, 2011

So I’m just going to out and say it:

Things have not been pretty here at S. M. Lacy Art headquarters the past few weeks.

Quite frankly, I’m sort of falling apart.

I leave for France 2 months today. Which is all kinds of fabulous and terrifying at once. Mostly fabulous. Except for the part where I need lots and lots of money. That part is more towards the terrifying side.

And while this is scary, it’s sort of exhilarating and a challenge at the same time. There’s a part of me that’s all “Yeah! I’m gonna get all $20,000 and more! And send bunches to charity! And be fabulous and change the world! Woo!”

This is great. I wish I could live in that headspace. I was there for a few weeks, and it was awesome. I rocked it out. I made $4,000 in 10 days. Life was fabulous.

For the first time, well, ever, I feel really and truly safe. I have discovered my own resourcefulness. I know for a fact that I am independent, self-sufficient and very capable of taking care of myself and making ends meet. I’m certainly making more money than any of my doctors ever predicted (more than $0!).

I’m with a guy who I am madly in love with, and who truly loves me back. I live in a fabulous apartment, in a wonderful city, and have some absolutely delightful friends who I adore. And by God, I’m going to France to study art in a way I’d never dreamed possible for 5 whole freaking months. And I’ve got new businesses brewing and all sorts of opportunities in front of me.

Yep. That is one whole helluva lot of awesome. No denying it. Life is fab.

Unfortunately, because I’m in this incredibly safe space, my brain has decided that now is the time to start resolving some trauma.

It started with the dreams.

About 3 weeks ago, I dreamed that I beat up my ex-boyfriend. The one who was abusive in all sorts of lovely ways. Most of those ways, I’ve dealt with and come to terms with, especially as I mature.

I never dealt with the sexual abuse. I didn’t know how. I spent years in denial and self-blame.

Yesterday, I officially started therapy to begin working through it.

All I have to say is:

Ow.

Owowowowowow.

So while I’m supposed to be kicking ass and earning big bucks to get my cute butt to France, I’m curled up in a ball in my bed staring at the wall because of the overwhelming grief.

And with the grief comes the memories. Which trigger more grief. Not to mention a crisis of confidence as I’m filled with old feelings of worthlessness, ugliness and humiliation.

This is not exactly how I pictured the next couple of months going.

I know that this is all part of the process. And that I badly need to do this. And that I will feel far, far better when I’ve worked through some of this stuff.

But at the same time – seriously, brain!? Seriously?! Now is the time when you decide that we need to work this out?!

Sigh.

I actually have no idea what I’m going to do. I’m supposed to be in the process of raising $20,000. I’m supposed to be rocking out.

And I can’t.

I just don’t have the emotional energy necessary to sustain the kind of promotion I need to be doing right now. Self promotion is almost impossible from under your duvet.

I need a new plan.

I’m going back to ol’ reliable – baby steps.

A little bit, every day that I feel capable. I might just end up being seriously in debt by the time I get back. That’s a possibility. Not one that I like, but a possibility. The important thing here is that I get to France. If I have to owe several thousand dollars, then that’s just what has to happen.

Someone wise said to me the other day, “It’s gonna take as long as it’s gonna take.”

Can’t argue with the logic of that. If I’m not capable of brilliantly selling myself right now, then I’m just not. I can’t force it. I can’t suddenly make all of this go away.

It’s not ideal, but then life usually isn’t. Honestly, I’m actually better equipped to handle life going horribly wrong than really well. When life goes well, I tend to get edgy.

So I’ll take some time to assess where I am, and come up with an appropriate plan. Maybe that plan is one tweet a day where I mention that I’ve got art for sale and I need to get to France. Maybe it’s mentioning it once in every newsletter. Maybe it’s writing one blog post a week where I talk about a painting I’ve got for sale. Maybe once a week, I mention it on my FB page.

The key here is to keep the steps small, manageable and easy.

For example, I want to tweak some of my sales pages. Normally, I’d tackle them all in one go. Well, that’s not going to work anymore. So maybe I tweak one or two sentences at a time. I take 5 minutes just to read a page through and make one change. Just one.

I just don’t have what it takes to conquer the world right now, and that’s okay too.

The other part of this equation? Asking for help.

Which is actually something I’m terrible at. So part of my plan will be making it easy for others to help. I’ve had tons of offers from people who really want to help out, but have already contributed financially. They want to do more.

So I’ll come up with a plan and I’ll start to implement it. One tiny little tortoise step at a time.

Step one!

I’m gonna be a big brave girl right now and ask you for help. Do you have any thoughts on ways I could promote this that are manageable? Do you have any ideas on how I could make it easy for people to help me?

Have you ever been in a similar position? What did you do that worked for you?

One thing: I don’t want any advice on the healing process – I’ve got my therapist for that and I’m not sharing details for a reason.

But I will take hugs. And cake.

Leave ‘er in the comments. Mwahhh!

I had a mind blowing epiphany and shift yesterday and I really wanted to share it with you, in case it might help you reframe something painful from your own life.

I’ve spent the last 5 years walking around with a whole ton of guilt and shame from the abuse of a previous relationship.

The guy I was with was a master manipulator. Everything, of course, was my fault.

And every single day since, I’ve doubted my own pain and perceptions in some moments and felt like a pathetic victim in others. In other moments, I tell myself that it could have been a lot worse, and that because it wasn’t worse, I don’t deserve to be upset or hurt.

Like I said – guilt. Shame. Lots of self-blame and disgust and many other not-so-pleasant emotions.

Yesterday, I was talking a lot of stuff out with Diane (as one does with your best friends) and she asked me something that made my head spin.

“Did you ever stand up for yourself?”

Once I’d managed to pick my brain up off the ground, where it had dribbled, I sat and thought about it. I mean, really thought about it.

And the answer was yes.

In fact, I can pinpoint the exact moment when the relationship really ended. Oh, we dragged it out for a few painful months after, but the moment that it was really lost – it was the first time I stood up for myself.

We were at Easter dinner with some of his family. He’d been making fun of me, telling me I was too skinny and too fat to really be attractive. (I don’t even know how he did that….)

I don’t remember what I said. But I remember my attitude – I was very polite, and very firm. The gist was, “Fuck off.”

He stopped speaking to me right then and there.

For the rest of the dinner party, the entire ride home, nothing. He was very distant for the next week. Things were never quite the same after that. Because he was a master manipulator, I blamed myself and felt horrible for the way I’d stood up for myself (being a bitch was how he’d phrased it.)

But what I’d actually done was break the spell. He wasn’t in control anymore. I no longer just accepted it when he treated me like dirt.

The reason things never got worse were not because he was actually a nice person and I was just misinterpreting things because I was a lying, manipulative bitch.

Things never got worse because after less than a year, I walked away.

The sexual abuse never got worse because after months of pain, I told him no. I told him he couldn’t do those things to me anymore. Mind you, at the time, I blamed myself – I thought that there was something wrong with me. But that’s not important.

I said no. I left. I walked away. I stood up for myself.

Looking back now, I was so much stronger than I’ve ever given myself credit for.

I was terrified. He had me convinced that no one but him would ever love a girl with a chronic illness and that I’d die alone. But I decided that dying alone was better than the misery I currently felt.

Officially, he left me first. For him though, that was part of the game. It was supposed to make me wildly grateful when he decided to take me back.

But what he didn’t take into account that after he left me, I took back control of my life. I spent weeks walking, and healing. I decided that I was never giving away my power ever again. I spent several weeks in England, far away from him (and possibly flirting with cute English boys…)

He called me out of the blue the day I got back. He insisted we go for lunch. He spent the whole time insulting me. (Worst pick up line ever, boys? “So, I see you decided to dress like a whore today.”)

Then he drove me to an empty parking lot and tried to convince me to get back together with him. I said no. I got him to drive me home. I burst into tears the second I stepped inside my house. I didn’t know if I’d done the right thing – it took me a while to know that for sure.

A lightness of being

Reframing the experience – realizing that I wasn’t a victim, that I was smart and strong and got myself out of a dangerous situation all by myself (no one really knew what was going on) – so much of the guilt, shame and blame have melted away.

I woke up this morning feeling lighter than I have in weeks.

I am so much stronger than I realize.

And so are you.

Maybe you can relate. Maybe there’s a situation of your own where you’re still feeling ashamed and like a victim.

But what if you weren’t? What if you could give yourself credit for trying as hard as you did? What if there is so much more to the situation than meets the eye?

And is there anyway that, in some small part, you can forgive yourself?

This week, I’m sending out an extra-large, extra-squishy, extra-loving hug. Because this shit is hard.

I’d love to hear your thoughts and experiences in the comments. Have you ever had this kind of experience? Have you ever realized your own strength?

And as always, this is the Sunday Hug, so we use our nicest, gentlest voices and give everyone big ol’ hugs.

I’ve been super busy this week but really wanted to post something to the blog, so decided to make a video!

I actually decided to paint and talk. Possibly not my best idea ever. I’m not even sure if there’s a point to this video at all.

I sort of ramble.

And by sort of, I mean, a lot.

And then I change topics half way through.

It’s sort of an update on my life.

And sort of me talking about stuff.

But I do ask a question that I’d love if you answered in the comments!

I’d love to hear your thoughts!

What do you think of the relationship between healing and business?

I have my modeling audition today.

I’m not really nervous anymore. (What’s the worst that can happen? They say no? Big whoop. I’m more worried I’ll put my foot in my mouth, or faceplant it.)

There are a lot of tangled threads here that I’m still working out.

Thread #1 – The Idea that I am Beautiful

This thought actually fills me with shame. The idea that I might be beautiful – and not only be it, but think it – is a difficult one for me.

“Who are you to think that?” yell the voices. It’s a familiar chant.

But I also fear the catty remarks, the sidelong glances, the disdain from other women.

“Oh, you’re going to be a model, are you?” someone mocked when I mentioned it.

I immediately went on the defensive, and shame welled up inside me.

There was the inference of, “Who are you to think you’re better than the rest of us? Who are you to think that you’re more beautiful?”

Oof. Yep. That one gets me. Especially because it’s about neither of those things.

I don’t think I’m better or more beautiful than anyone else. I only think I’m tall and slim, and am comfortable in front of a camera.

Thread #2 – That I’m a shallow, vain person for even wanting to try

You can’t deny it – there’s a stereotype.

Tall, blonde and dumb about sums it up. Vain and shallow would be great adjectives to add to it. You could maybe even add coke addiction and drama queen in there too. It’s a lethal cocktail.

And yet there is such a yearning in society to be “one of the beautiful people.”

I’m not saying everyone feels like this. But models are held up as the (ridiculous) ideal of beauty by popular media. Young women are desperate to be models, to look like models, to dress like models and now, even celebrities have become models.

There’s this strange push and pull, love and hate dynamic around this culture of beauty, and stepping into it is causing me some discomfort that I haven’t quite sorted out yet.

I don’t want to model to make someone else feel bad about their body. Of course, I’m also not responsible for other people’s reactions.

And it’s not even the kind of modeling this company does – it’s local, it’s small, and the girls are all shapes, sizes and heights. There are no cookie cutters here. It’s a company that seems to be run with ethics and respect for their models. I like that.

I’m not interested in gracing magazine covers or waltzing down runways.

Thread #3 – And then there’s Capitalist Me.

I’m going to France in 3 months. I need several thousand dollars. If someone will pay me to wear clothes, and pose in front of a camera (something I already enjoy) or walk down a runway for a local fashion show, then all I want to know is – where do I sign up?

At the end of the day, it all comes down to the art and finding ways to keep doing it.

Thread #4 – Learning to embrace my own body

The sexual & verbal abuse in my past caused me to feel ashamed of my body for a long time.

I can see it my posture, when people snap pictures of me when I’m not looking – I slouch, my shoulders slumped, like I’m trying to disappear into the floor. You won’t see it in my face, but from the neck down, the shame takes over.

I sometimes feel like my body is anything but beautiful. The words damaged, broken, violated come to mind.

To model means I need to stand in front of a camera and own my body. I need to embrace it, to love it, to be truly in it.

I had to get some shots taken to bring with me to the audition tonight – a full length shot of my body and one of my face. The other night, I got out the camera and Jesse patiently spent an hour photographing me until I felt we had enough material that I might be able to find one that would work.

As I looked through the photos, a sneaky little thought came stealing through my mind…

“Oh my goodness – I look beautiful in some of these…”

Comments!

What about you? What are your struggles with beauty and embracing your own body? Have you find your beauty yet or do you find it hard to see in yourself? I’d love to hear your thoughts.

I know this is a pretty “feminine” topic, but Dudes! I want to hear from you too! Men struggle with “beauty” as much as women I think, it’s just more taboo to talk about it.

And I know this is a sensitive subject, so we’re all going to use our kindest, nicest voices, yes?

Bad Dreams

I woke up this morning feeling humiliated, broken, hunted.

It took me a few minutes to realize it was only a dream. I can’t seem to shake it though. As I sit here writing, drinking my cup of tea, I still feel shaken. I still feel shaky, and a little bit nauseous. I don’t want to remember the things in my dream – I don’t want to remember feeling powerless, helpless to stop what was happening to me. I feel like things happened as I watched in horror, trying to get away but unable to do so.

Ughhh.

My head is not a friendly place to be right now.

I’m currently in my hometown, visiting friends and family. It’s good, but hard too. This place is home to a lot of painful memories. I just end up feeling uneasy here, especially when I’m left alone with my thoughts. Too much happened. When I left for PEI last year, there were definitely things that I was running away from.

Don’t get me wrong – I adore PEI, and my decision to move there was one of the best I’ve ever made. I did get the fresh start I was hoping for and I’ve built a wonderful life there. I regret nothing.

But the memories I was hoping to leave behind came with me, stuck like burs to my hair and clothes. The harder I’ve tried to get them off, the harder they’ve clung.

Being here again is a bit like pulling off the bandages and exposing the memories to light. It’s painful – oh my god, it’s painful – but it’s good too. There’s breathing room now, space to air out. There’s fresh air here.

I’m finally opening up to friends and family about what really happened. I’m clearing out the shame. I’m shining a light on the places I thought no one would understand, that I thought I would be shunned for, laughed at. I’m slowly coming out of hiding.

I’m gradually learning to name the things that happened, to point to them and say, “This was not my fault.”

It’s 8 million kinds of hard. If the people who hurt me could hear me, they’d be furious. They’d tell me that I was horrible, manipulative, a liar. That they were angels and that they’d never do those things. That it was my fault. That I was the one who was broken and wrong. Not them. Never them.

I wish that I could end this with a feel-good moral – a lesson I’ve learned, a series of how-to’s, steps to take. I wish I could wrap it up in a shiny pink bow and tell you that everything is okay now.

I can’t though. It still hurts. I still feel awful. I am still learning to be comfortable within myself and within my own skin. I still feel shaken and humiliated by the dream, despite being up for a couple of hours. There is no pat, easy answer here. Just honesty.

It would be so much easier to put my armour back on, to tell you that I feel great after writing this, and that I am strong and I’m going to win this. I don’t know that though. I hope I do. But I definitely don’t feel strong right now. I feel small and vulnerable.

But I’m tired of lying and pretending that I’m okay when I’m not. Isn’t it braver to be honest and tell the world that no, I’m not okay, that this isn’t okay and that I don’t know when I’ll be okay? And that that’s okay?

Maybe my only moral is this – permission. Permission to be not okay. Permission to be in pain, and not together, and not Ms. or Mr. Positivity Sunshine Pants. Permission to be terrified. Permission to be angry. Permission to feel uncomfortable in your skin and to take as long as you need learning to love yourself and to heal your wounds.

Permission to be a raging maniac because your soul is howling with pain. Permission to hide for the day. Permission to shower 5 times today as you try to feel clean again, to wash away the dirt, to scour your soul. Permission to be filled with sadness, and permission to do nothing at all.

I’m giving myself permission to be here, in this place, without trying to fix it or be someone or something else. If you need that permission as well, I hereby grant it to you – permission to be wherever you are right now, guilt-free.

Ms. Positivity Sunshine Pants be damned. I’d rather be kind to myself.