Be My Own Muse

If we don’t heal our generational trauma, we repeat it.

Am I just my mother and grandmother?

Just like that, it isn’t fun any longer. The repetitive questions. The continual introductions. My eager heart sewing threads to another’s only to be yanked out immediately.

I forget where I saw it, heard it, but someone said to ask yourself, “Would my future boyfriend do that?” I, of course, changed this to, “Would my Big Love treat me this way?” When the answer is no, it’s time to walk away.

When I was younger, and by younger I mean nearly yesterday, I would cling and claw and scratch at what I thought I wanted. But if I rewind the tapes of my memory a little further, I used to be the opposite. In high school I never really had boyfriends, not for long anyways. At some point I decided that it was all so trivial and meaningless. Throw in a little trauma, and for a long time I couldn’t connect to nearly anyone. So, I guess I just need to find the balance between these two.

How do I break the cycle? How do you look at things with a fine tooth comb when you don’t know everything.

My health has been slightly compromised of late. Nothing too serious, but I visited my mother’s trusty holistic woman, I don’t know what else to call her besides that. I used to kind of roll my eyes at her vitamins and naturopathy. Mom’s healing woman, we’ll call her Mary. Mary won me over when after a drive across the country my iliopsoas muscle was so tight my hip felt locked in place. I had recently complete my massage therapy certification and was waiting on my license to arrive. I knew that that particular muscle would take a firm hand to release. She had an infrared tool, and performed healing sounds on me, something she’d learned from a woman in Germany. (If I’m remembering right, it’s been a few years now.) 

All her hippie woo-woo stuff worked though. I couldn’t believe it when I left, how she had released my muscle without ever placing her hands on me. How was that possible?

Her second husband had passed away a few years ago and I was surprised to learn that she’s since remarried. During my recent visit, I asked her what her secret is, how do you date? How do you find someone? She said, “You don’t.” I hate that answer. A co-worker gave me the same response. “You just have to stop looking and boom it’ll hit you in the face.” But I had stopped looking for two years. Mary said I need to heal my trauma. I thought I had. Not as if I’m perfectly healed but I saw a therapist who specializes in trauma for months when I first came back home. I still see a therapist now. Granted, I’ve made friendly with her and she’s caught on to my tricks. I make her laugh and talk about anything besides what she’d like me to address.

Mary performed a muscle test and I know what I need to process. Sometimes though “processing” feels like wallowing. Remembering feels like I’m lingering on something I cannot change. I have examined my part in the mess. I have acknowledge my contribution. Couldn’t that be enough?

I don’t want to repeat my mistakes. 

If I was running from myself when I was younger, running away from the shadows, I collided into a rock. The rock seemed secure, sturdy, assured. The rock held blood beneath the surface. Collected calm, and cold. It wasn’t so obvious at first. Blood oozing beneath, little drops at first. Easy to clean, until it wasn’t.

Have I encountered another rock?

Mary says that butterflies in my tummy mean to run the other way. This man doesn’t give me butterflies. I do however feel maybe I started wrong. Gave too much too soon. Can that be remedied? No.

Delete, remove the little strings I wove and place them in the garbage. Walk away.

The silly voice in my head says to finish the second book. Maybe that will close the door on something I don’t want to look at any longer. First, though, I’ll have to examine it more closely. Only then, hopefully, can it rest.

-A.