Something I found

in the mountains

I have lived long enough to receive the blessing of the opportunity to really get to know myself. I’ve played at it for a long time—I’ve learned a lot in general and have begun to scratch the surface on me—but I’ve held onto reservations when it comes to really changing from a person who is ruled by her trauma to one who lives with an open heart.

I didn’t know I was doing that until the other day.

But I was. And the main method for my madness was judgment. It was the cruelest possible method—not just as it applies to others, but as it applies to myself. Because what we don’t realize when we stand in judgment is how it completely closes us off from love, because it completely closes us off from everything that isn’t like us or doesn’t come from the most precious font of omniscience, our over-worked mind. But let’s be honest—it mostly closes us off from ourselves because we turn away from any characteristic we decide is unacceptable or imperfect or unlovable. We want to cast it out. A harsh judge of oneself will never be anything but that to her neighbor.

There is no way to live with an open heart if we are in judgment. I used to hear the phrase “passing judgment.” And most judgments are precisely that—decisions we make in passing without the information or authority to make them. We so quickly decide if things are:

wrong or right

good or bad

black or white

this or that

and the truth is, most things are a lot more subtle than either/or. I’m of the Yoda school—there is no try, either you are or you aren’t—but I’m also of the human race, and I know we’re complicated as f*ck, which means that a lot of the time, there’s some trying and failing and some grey area. And that sucks when you’re a stickler like me because I like certainty, damn it. That’s why I’m so certain about everything—it makes me feel good and safe to have an answer that won’t change on me. Why won’t everyone quit changing on me!!!!!!!

But those passing judgments I make? They dismiss the whole world. I never give the world a chance if I have prejudice about it.

I don’t like (whatever I categorically don’t like)

I can tell those people are (whatever people I’ve decided are against me or are somehow not enlightened enough)

I know what you’re going to do (whatever I think I know about someone and their opinion of my value and how I should be treated)

I’ve always struggled with judgment. I was raised in an environment that not only encouraged it, it demanded it. I had to catch any and every little detail I could to ensure my survival. I developed a quick mind, quick eyes, and a quick body—I had to be READY for anything. It trained me for a life of hypervigilance and no faith—I had only myself to put faith in—no one else was reliable. So I learned not to ask for help or guidance and held tightly to my chest the deeply ingrained belief that I am alone in this world. And I took that belief into my adult relationships and into my adult life in general, way after it was really needed. But I always had it, just in case. And at the first sign that I might need my shield of I will protect myself from ever being disappointed and left alone again, I would completely cover myself with it while simultaneously delivering low blows to whoever might harm me.

Hypervigilance makes no room for anything but dualistic thinking, and any dualistic thinking makes no room for anything but:

wrong or right

good or bad

black or white

this or that

Trust me—by the time I was grown I had already decided that I had all the answers I needed. And I had gotten them without asking any questions. I just made assumptions and lived my life as a creature who inhaled all the details, knowing that my memory would save me and bolster my need to feel that all was in order even when it wasn’t, because I could touch every morsel of the past and I trusted it implicitly to prepare me for what was to come. Nothing else but that memory and preparation mattered—no reality or imperfect human effort to prove the contrary could shake my deep knowings. And because I was raised to think I couldn’t ask any questions and that having the correct answer to everything (even things that didn’t beg a question) was the only way of walking through the world that would bring actual worth to a human, I was terrified of being wrong, even when I had absolutely no reason or way to be right.

It’s exhausting to have to decide on every single thing all the time. It made me irritable to be in charge of having to know. I didn’t think I was allowed not to know. So, of course I was always in judgment. I was always looking! I was always being ready! I had to judge every single thing. Life or death is in the details, isn’t it?

Can I find a softer way? I had it confused. I thought being judgmental was about being judgmental about other people, but it’s a much deeper and much more insidious and damaging thing than that. The external damage that judgment causes sucks—I’ve missed out on a lot I probably would’ve ended up with at least an appreciation for had I given whatever it was a chance. But the internal damage is far worse. You can’t truly love and be in judgment. You can’t truly love if you always have one eye on all the ways it can go wrong. Love requires an open heart that makes room for benefit of the doubt, forgiveness if it needs to be given, the idea of maybe, possibilities, questions, faith, hope, magic, and the almighty trust. If there is no trust, there is no openness. There’s a catch there. Possibly an ouroboros. At least for me.

Extending trust to others requires trust of the self. That’s something I’ve almost never had. The short version of all of that goes like this: It was pressed upon me from the time I could process a thought that I was the only responsible one in my entire family. I’ll spare you the details (if you want somebody to remember something tell Allison, she’s the only one who’ll remember) but suffice to say, I failed at being the responsible one. My father killed my mother and himself with only one wall in between them and me. I didn’t end up being responsible enough, did I? I missed something, or this wouldn’t have happened. And I finally added it all up and it’s a giant pile of abandonment and the ultimate betrayal—but not by them of me, by ME of me. It’s my own abandonment of me that needs addressing. I abandoned the me I knew for the one I was told I was.

That’s what I’ve been carrying around for approximately forty or so years. That I failed everyone—my entire family—and I’m convinced I’m going to fail again. I’ve been frantically trying to make sure it doesn’t all fall apart again, but I also didn’t realize I’d put the hurt version of myself—that child that was told she was the one who was responsible for it all—in charge. She was running the show. Damn.

So, no wonder I’m scared to death something’s going to happen to John Henry. There are numerous legitimate reasons for my fear, but the scared child has been in charge and she knows she can’t handle all that responsibility.

Grown ass me is more than capable of handling it. I’ve been afraid I couldn’t, that I needed someone else to be there for me just in case, but the truth is, I don’t. I love a helping hand and can always use one, yes, that is all true. But in the absence of one, I can figure it out. I’m not that child who was told she had to be in charge and make sure no one got out of line. I’m a grown woman and I’m about as helpless as a two-headed snake. I had that wrong, too. But because I did, and I felt helpless and like I had no say in anything, I was always looking for danger and treating everything that came into my path as a potential threat to my safety (remember I had put the tiny, hurt child who was told she was the only responsible one in charge). I didn’t realize until just the other day, as I swallowed a humongous dose of humility about some of the ways passing judgment and severe emotional immaturity has made me behave, that I should’ve been walking through the world like a queen. I had it. I had everything I needed! I just didn’t know it. I couldn’t feel it.

Well, as Dr. Angelou would say, when we know better we do better.

I’m starting to know that what I’d like to do is live with an open heart, rather than a judging manner that keeps me isolated from the love of the world. I’ve been afraid of the imperfect manner in which the messengers of love will always show up, and I let that keep me from accepting the actual love, which is always perfect.

However, there is a rub. Isn’t there always? My ear and my eye is trained to hear and see what’s wrong and make it better, not hear and see what’s right and accept what isn’t and move on. But how can I leave that exacting ear and eye to my profession in life, and make acceptance and love my vocation in life? I guess I do that by simply deciding too and by having a new set of personal boundaries.

And just so you know, I forgive myself for it all. I did the best I could with what I had to do it with. Every time. And I actually love me for trying so hard. I’m now going to love myself more and try to give it a rest.

photo by Shelby Moorer

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Thank you for sharing in my journey here. It saves me to have somewhere to share my realizations. I know I’m not a solo traveler. I know so many of you struggle with the same issues of perfectionism, people-pleasing, and all the associated ills ranging from major depressive disorders to autoimmune issues to the gigantic piles of resentment we have stored all over town.

I’m just learning as I go. I appreciate y’all giving me a place to share.

Peace. Love.

Allison