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....