The Gremlins Are Guarding the Gold

So, I listened again for the voices.

This time when I opened the five story closet door of my brain even more crap, new crap, crap I’d never seen before, came careening down on me.  I felt my stomach tighten, my jaw clench, my hands ball into fists, and I began to write furiously:

“You should shave your legs.”
“You need a manicure.”
“You spend too much money on grooming.”
“You spend too much money period.”
“You should have gone to the bank.”
“You shouldn’t have drank so much last Tuesday.”
“You should watch your mouth.”
“You’re too sensitive.”
“You’re too trusting.”
“You’re so naive.”
“You’re wasting time.”
“You’re not good in bed.”
“You’re boobs are too small.”
“You should cut your hair.”
“You’re never going to get a job with long hair.”
“You’re hair is too straight.”
“You wash it too much.”
“You spend way too much money on make up.”
“You spend way too much money on clothes.”
“You spend way to much money period.”
“You spent way too much money on this stupid coaching crap.”

I madly tried to keep up with myself.  My brain could cough out abuse faster than I could get it down.

~Then there was silence~

ABUSE. 

Hm.  Wow.  Yeah, if some else was saying this stuff to me, I’d tell them to go fuck themselves.  I’d call them out for harassment.  I would not be their friend.  I would not be their wife.  And if I was their daughter, I’d move very far away.  If they were my boss, I’d quit.  If they were my therapist, I’d find another one.  It’s abuse.  Emotional abuse.

But the perpetrator was me. 

I thought about what a good friend I am to all my friends.  I’m so supportive and loving and nurturing and patient.  I always make sure that everyone I’m close to knows they can call me at anytime of the day or night if they need to talk or just hear a voice.  I find the silver lining for everyone’s situational cloud.  I make sure that everyone knows they’re right where they’re supposed to be and doing everything they're supposed to do.  I’m a good friend to everyone.

Everyone except myself.  I’m an asshole to myself.  I abuse myself.

During my next session with Anna, she encouraged me, now that I had the voices out walking around, to get to know them.  Who are they?  What’s their story?  What are they doing?  What’s their function?

So, I went back to my journal with the rose petal-pressed pages, and waited for the voices to come out to play.  It didn’t take long for them to show up.  Once they were there, I started writing, not what they were saying this time, but my impression of them.  Kind of like I was painting their portrait with my words on the page.

“The bad voices are like parents.  Scolding me.  They don’t understand and are threatened by this notion of a higher calling.  My calling to be an actress and a writer, and an artist.  It’s a voice that they can’t hear.  So they don’t believe in it or trust it.  Or maybe they can hear it, but they tune it out because it feels haughty and immodest to them.  Like some kind of snobbery.”

Then something interesting happened.  I suddenly felt the need to “communicate” with the bad voices.  I wanted to talk back to them.

I put my sparkly pen again to the page and wrote:

“But to be an artist and to tell the truth in that way....is humble, not haughty.  My husband says acting is lying, but it’s just the opposite, it’s telling the truth.  Sharing my heart.  It’s brave.” 

Then something even more interesting happened:  The voices answered back.

“No one cares about you and your truths and your heart.  That stuff doesn’t matter to anyone else.  They’re unimportant.”

I stopped again and reflected on this notion that no one cared what was in my heart, what I had to say....

.....then I put pen to paper again and continued to write:

“Well, history has shown me otherwise.  The moments in my life when I have bravely shared something so personal that I thought was super stupid and I was embarrassed for sharing - those were the moments I felt most respected for my work.  Oh, and I felt the most happy and proud.  And fulfilled.  And loved.  Oh, and joy.”

The gremlins were quiet.  And a smile curled on my face as a thought started to form in the five story closet of my brain that was now considerably roomier and most definitely quieter:

.....Maybe the gremlins are a gift.  How’s that for silver lining?  Maybe they’re a way for me to find what I am supposed to share, like a metal detector that gets noisy when something valuable is below.   The gremlins are guarding the gold.  They don’t want it to get out. They’re protecting it.  And they think they’re protecting me from embarrassment and shame, but really they’re preventing me from answering the universe’s prayer for me, which is to tell the truth, onstage and in my writing.  That’s my heart’s desire, my joy.  They’re actually like little children that need coaxing and coddling to open up and let go of their shyness and let me embrace my truth, and share it. 

They’re like cobwebs covering my heart or as Anna says - wet blankets....

The Five-Story Closet of my Brain

During my first session with Anna, she zeroed in on and brought my attention to two very peculiar things present in my life:  Wet blankets and Gremlins.  Yeah, Gremlins.  Who knew?

She asked me to spend the next week listening for and writing down all the negative voices in my head.  Always the “good student,” I did what she asked, not realizing the range and scope of the endeavor upon which I was embarking. 

I sat at my desk with my journal and listened....

In no time at all, I tuned in to the chirping cacophony of bunk in my brain.  It was as though I’d opened the door to a closet---no, a ROOM........you know what?  Make that a five story HOUSE full to the ceiling with crap.  The door practically burst open, it was so full of paraphernalia, and an avalanche occurred.  It bowled me over.  It buried me.  I could barely write fast enough to get down all the junk that came hurtling down on me.

“You don’t work hard enough.”

“You ate too much.”

“You’re not a good actress.”

“You’re not pretty enough.”

“You’re not pretty, period.”

“You wasted the day.”

“You get too nervous.”

“You’re getting fat.”

“You’ve got issues.”

“You’re selfish.”

“You’re not a good writer.”

“You’re too old to make it.”

“You never get enough done.”

“You’ll never realize your dreams.”

“You’re not emotionally strong.”

“You try to do too much and none of it well.”

“You’re a fraud.”

“You’ve wasted your life.”

“You’re living in a cloud.”

“You’re life is meaningless.”

“You’ve got nothing to contribute.”

“You’re stupid.”

“You’re selfish.”

“No one likes you.”

“No one takes you seriously.”

“This coaching thing is just a waste of money.”

WOAH!!!!!! 

After about five minutes I had to stop.  What the hell was I doing?  I thought this coaching thing would help me.  This did not feel beneficial.  I made a concerted effort everyday, without even realizing it, to quiet this tumult.  It took an extreme amount of energy on my part that I didn’t even know I was expending, but at least I made the attempt.  This summoning felt completely counter productive.  Here I was, giving power and vox to these demons, writing them down in black and white---well, purple sparkles in this particular instance---so that not only did I have to hear them, but I also had to LOOK at them as well, SEE them staring back at me, accosting me from the rose petal-pressed recycled papered pages of my journal with the metal heart on the cover that was meant for recording my sweetest memories and creative thoughts.  What the f@#k?

Anna explained that these were the Gremlins.  They came to rain on the parade.  To make a mess in the microwave.  To wreak havoc.  And ultimately to keep me from my heart’s desire.  She said they traveled the terrain of my brain bearing huge, wet, stinky wool blankets, which they would throw on any fire that burned inside me.  These dampened shrouds of doom and gremlin-gloom would quickly extinguish any light, any bliss, any excitement which bubbled up inside of me.  Wet blankets.

I started to doubt the cogency of this approach to journalling.  It seemed counter productive.  Oh, and I hated it.  It didn’t make sense.  It gave the voices more power.  Writing it down made it true, made it real, made it so.  Screw that!

So, I stopped.  I know what’s good for me and this is not it.  I cleaned up everything from the avalanche and shoved it back into the closet of my brain, and sat there in silence staring out the window contemplating Tony's teeth and the money I’d spent on this coaching endeavor.

Then a chirp from the closet door broke the silence:

“You’re a quitter and you’ll never get anywhere in life.”

I felt my jaw clench and my heart pound.  Then I picked up my purple sparkly pen, laid my hand on the doorknob of my noggin, braced myself, and opened the five-story mansion closet door.....

Anna and the Painful Truth

So, even though I liked Steve, I wasn’t devastated to find out that he would not be my personal coach.  I pictured him as this younger, cuter, sprier, tanner, Orange County version of Tony Robbins.  Maybe his teeth weren’t quite so big, but I imagined that when he smiled, a little cartoon glint would sparkled over his top front incisor like it did in a toothpaste commercial.  Over the phone he was very likable, but not totally relatable, at least not to me anyway. 

Apparently, Steve was actually the coach coordinator...the coach broker, or the coach trafficker---whatever.  He was the gatekeeper of the coaches.  And while we were still on the phone he told me he had already picked out the perfect coach for me.  He got quite excited about it.  (I imagined his cartoon tooth glint was probably sparkling to the point of being blinding with all his mustered enthusiasm for me and my new coach.)  Her name was Anna, and she was also an actress and had spent time in NYC auditioning and performing just like me.  I gave Steve my credit card number over the phone with the intent that as soon as our tax refund money arrived, I would just pay it off.  Right.  Away.

A few days later Anna and I spoke.  She was nothing like Steve or Tony.  She was very calm and grounded and real.  Her voice sounded like it came from her guts, very sure and reassuring, not like she had to poop.  And she wasn’t married to a super model.  At least, if she was, she didn’t mention it to me, and she did not have a suntan that I could hear through the phone line.  We set up a time for our first session.  Then I was sent a long questionnaire about my life and my goals, my accomplishments, etc. which I answered with great detail and sent it off to Anna for her perusal.

Now, before I go on, you’re probably wondering why I even need a life coach, aren’t you?  I seem pretty healthy and happy and together, don’t I?  I mean, I haven’t shared that much with you, but you can tell I’m pretty sane and intelligent and have my shit together, right?  And it’s true.  I do.  It’s kind of astonishing what I’ve accomplished.  But....

....I just turned 40, and I feel so painfully far away from my dreams--painfully being the operative word here.  I don’t feel like I’m living up to my potential.  I don’t feel like I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing, what I was put on this earth to do.  I feel like I spend all of my time TRYING to do what I’m supposed to do and TRYING to live my dream.  And “trying” sucks.  Trying is agonizing.  And I’m sure it’s very common to feel this way, especially in this economy, but I’ve felt this way my whole life and I want it to change.     NOW.         

And I thought this life coach thing would help.....