Beneath the surface

I always find it interesting to learn what a person's impression of me is.  At the same time, I'm rarely surprised at how little people know about me. I guess this happens to many of us. Right?

There are a handful, and I mean a handful of people who 1) truly know me and 2) actually get me. I don't 'show' much of myself which is contradictory to what you read here. I share a great deal here on this blog.  I'm expressive but I'm very selective with whom I express my deeper self to in 'person.'

It is what it is.

There is a sort of restrain I maintain for the sake of 'safety' and 'trust' and some may not understand this. Worse, they may think it's about them. It's not. The ego always finds a way to fit themselves into the equation. Funny, eh?!

I'm a friendly person but I maintain very little 'close' friends.  I'm loyal and protective with those I love. I'm severely flawed and I'm quite okay with this. What others think of me doesn't define me because although I don't seek the approval of others, I do consider myself altruistic.

At my core, I'm deeply passionate and in tune with the subtleties of body language. I often find myself acutely observing people. Obviously, this is one of the reasons why I'm a writer. Interestingly, my husband shares a few of these qualities along with me and it fascinates me. He's my 'go-to' person and ultimate confidant.  

The one obligation I have toward myself is to be authentic. Self-reflection is oftentimes a difficult task because you don't always like what you see. Wading through all the garbage is tiresome. Tossing out the things that weigh me down is liberating. Choosing to keep individuals that stifle my energy out of my life is a relief. Being selective with whom I put my energy into is smart. This is the process of peeling down the layers of my authentic self. I'm not saying that any of this is easy but it 'is' necessary.  

While having a conversation with a very close friend today, we talked a bit about compassion. I expressed to her that for the past decade I've been cultivating compassion within myself.

It has taken me this long to realize that many individuals whom have willfully inflicted harm and pain toward me are also broken and lost souls that deserve my compassion. Yes, they deserve my compassion.  This awareness did not happen overnight. It has taken me this long to own it. There were certain events that had to happen for me to cultivate and own this emotion.  Follow?

"Forget your personal tragedy. We are all bitched from the start and you especially have to hurt like hell before you can write seriously. But when you get damned hurt use it- don't cheat with it. Be as faithful to it as a scientist." Quote from a letter E. Hemingway wrote to F. S. Fitzgerald in 1934.

The thing about compassion is that it is not an easy feat. No. But it is a reality that has stricken my sense of worth in this world. Contrary to what I witnessed as a young child and for as long as I can remember, the one thing I always knew for sure was what I did 'not' want in my life.

I did not want an unstable life. I did not want a life full of regret. Basically, I did not want to be 'like' my mother. But I needed to be compassionate toward my mother, regardless.  Beneath the surface of my pain and resentment, compassion was being cultivated. It was a choice I made in order to heal and continue to grow and ultimately understand myself.

Growth doesn't come without pain.  Healing doesn't happen without once again ripping the wounds open. Compassion cannot be born without self-reflection.

As a child, my dreams were always bigger than my problems even when I thought the sun would never shine brightly enough. Perhaps this could explain why I'm confident in my own skin no matter what is happening to me. Sure, I get depressed and down and suffer from sudden bouts of anxiety but I don't ever lose my self-confidence. Only a a selected 'few' get to hear my moments of darkness because only a selected 'few' understand me.

I'd be a phony if I told you that I have all my garbage together. I don't. I'm 'far' from it. I've never claimed to have anything 'together' and I'm okay with this. I'm okay with telling you that I am a mess.  I. Am. A. Mess. Questions?

Most of us are a lot more complicated that what we seem while others simply seem ordinary. We all have our flaws and this is what makes us so interesting and beautiful. What fun would it be if we were all perfect? Blah, no way! Imperfect is way better. We are human. Imperfect beautiful humans.

Beneath the surface, I know that I am a rare and valuable individual. We all are.

One is like a pearl, sometimes irregular but always beautiful...

Beneath the surface of all this mess there is a compassionate soul.

We all have something that we need to work on and work with. Be authentic with yourself and you'll find your pearl beneath the surface too...

The Great Abyss: Parenthood

My older daughter gets frustrated and irritable about small things.  She's passionate, sassy, creative, sensitive, insightful and impatient.  Nevertheless, I love all this about her.  She's authentic with her emotions and how she displays them.  She's a kid and kids are raw and open.

As her mother I often find myself teetering on the ability to completely understand her or simply being emotionally exhausted by her.  She physically looks like her handsome father but she's a whole lot like me in her personality.  I too am passionate, sassy, creative, sensitive, insightful and impatient (go figure!)

The other day, while she was having a major meltdown, I 'patiently' watched her and took in every ounce of her irritability, frustration and exasperating tantrum.  Sometimes I want to have tantrums like the way she was displaying—stomping her feet (hard), furrowed eyebrows and pursed lips, flailing her arms and all of the body language of an 'I'm really, really not happy right now' person.  I on the other hand HAVE to be an adult about how I carry myself.  Period. I know, it sucks right?!

Instead I tried to reason with her.  I spoke to her in an unaggressive and non-judgmental tone.  Although, inside I felt lost and unable to appease her in general.  She kept on repeating how she didn't like that I got angry at her.  I then reminded her that I had immediately apologized when I realized that I had indeed 'overreacted' but she didn't care about my apology, she was stuck on the fact that I 'got angry.'

'Sabrina, what can I do to help this situation?' I asked her.

'I'm mad.' She said.

'I know.  I can see that.  I'm sorry.' I said.

'I don't like when you get mad.  I hate it.' She said.  Her arms tightly crossed across her chest.

I looked at her little face, admired her genuine expression even while in her state of 'angry' and reminded myself that I too was a child that felt this way more often than not.  The only difference was that my mother didn't take the time to understand the 'why' behind my tantrum.  I got REAL with her.  It was all I could do.

'Sabrina...Mommy doesn't always have all the answers.' I said to her.  Her eyes became soft and engaging and she was all of a sudden absorbed in what I had to say to her.

'I don't always know what I'm doing but you know what I know for sure?

'What?'  She asked.

'That I love you more than you'll ever know.'  I said.

Her blue eyes were fixed on mine and she threw her little arms around my neck,  'I love you, mama.'

Parenting is daunting and exciting.  I don't know what I'm doing a huge percent of the time but I have to trust that when I'm completely raw with my children that they'll understand me as I try my very best to understand them.  I'm okay with feeling lost half of the time because I know that at some point I'll find my way.  In the meantime, I just have to keep swimming in the great abyss of parenthood.