Vulnerability Hangover
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Recently, I sent a long, vulnerable email to close friends and family letting them into some of my quietest thoughts.
I’d worked on it for weeks, making sure it’s what I really wanted to say.
I read it to Vince to make sure he thought it sounded honest, and worth sending. He did.
Within about two minutes of clicking ‘send’ I felt regret.
The letter was too long.
It was too self-absorbed.
It was boring.
It was melodramatic.
It contained things everyone knew already.
It was a waste of their time.
It was unclear.
It would be misunderstood.
As a result of all this, each of them would roll their eyes and move a little bit further away from me in their hearts.
I shouldn’t have sent it. Why did I do that? My oh my, I felt exposed.
Which, of course, had been the point.
As I learned while recovering from Bulimia, hiding is the breeding place of shame, and I wanted to reveal some things about myself to my loved ones so that I could be seen, so I could tend to these vulnerable aspects.
I’m not trying to be vague about the details; there’s a good chance I’ll share some of the contents here at some point in case it could help anyone else.
But as Martha Beck encourages in The Way of Integrity, it’s wise to share our tenderest truths first with ourselves, and then with people we most trust.
Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, the vulnerability hangover. The part after you speak your truth and then hang your head in your hands and mutter “what did I do?”
As someone who tends to lean in to scary conversations, I know this feeling well, and usually I know it will pass.
But this time, I noticed something I hadn’t noticed before!
I knew I was feeling embarrassed and scared and I was also telling myself just to wait it out.
Until this experience, I had thought this was a mature way to be with these feelings. It certainly feels more mature than overreacting to them.
What I hadn’t noticed was that this wait-it-out approach is a subtle form of resistance.
Rather than actually moving toward my scared and humiliated feelings, rather than softening my body and opening my compassionate heart to the terrified part of myself, I was saying something more along the lines of “I know you’re here. But I don’t like you. You don’t really belong here. You are just an overreaction to having done something brave. I’ll tolerate you because I have to, but I’ll be happier when you’re gone.”
Owch.Then I remembered something I’d heard Vince say, which is “naming a feeling isn’t the same as feeling a feeling.”
Knowing I was scared and saying I was scared is not the same as actually feeling the fear.
It’s actually a very sneaky escape hatch.
We can tell ourselves “if I know it, if I name it, if I tell others about it, then I’m being conscious, right?” When in fact, we’re using our minds to cut us off from our bodies and hearts, where the pain (and the healing) actually reside.
So I took a deep breath, and did what I knew to do. I went toward the fear.
How did I do this?
First, I located myself as the loving awareness that I am.
Then, I consciously chose to let myself think my most terrified thoughts and open to the possibility they were true, so I could feel what that feels like.
“The letter was too long, self-absorbed, melodramatic, and boring. I wasted everyone’s time.” Which basically means, “I am a self-absorbed, boring, melodramatic imposition.”
“I am a self-absorbed, boring, melodramatic imposition.”
Finally, I let myself feel the impact of those beliefs on my body. I let myself feel queasy. I let myself shake. I let myself feel faint. I let the tears come. I kept softening to allow this terrified energy to move out of the tissues in which it has been locked away.
I welcomed the fear as if it has as much right to be here as anything else.
Remember, in case you try this at home, none of this was happening to me. I was locating myself as the aware-experiencer. I was the conscious, feeling, observer. The thoughts happened to my mind, and the fear happened to my body.
Another way to put this, I was identified as the mother, holding my terrified inner-child.
Ok, so why put myself through this hell?
Because there is a part of me that completely believes this stuff about myself. I already live as if it is true, which creates all sorts of unseen limitations.
My protector parts are always trying to cover this up. “No no no, you’re wonderful! You’re generous! You’re interesting! You’re honest! You’re loved!”
This is well-intentioned, obviously, but this coverup is a song-and-dance that keeps me from actually bringing the terrified part of myself into the light. It keeps her from speaking her fears out loud. It keeps her from feeling seen, acknowledged, and honored, instead of shushed and dismissed.
I wasn’t putting myself through hell, I was showing myself the way out.
The hell was actually always happening at a subconscious level, which means my body and mind have to stay in a constant state of tension and vigilance to keep it from surfacing.
I’m sure I don’t have to enumerate the costs and consequences of long-term tension and vigilance. So a few moments of terror are becoming a smaller and smaller price to pay for freedom.
At the end of the process, I emerged into a kind of open field of relaxation, with a new perspective. I let out a deep soothing sigh.
The thoughts weren’t gone, but the charge behind them was.
So what if I am self-absorbed, boring, melodramatic, and an imposition at times? Aren’t we all, to some degree? So what? Is that really so terrible?
I wrote that letter to my friends for my own freedom. For my own healing. Perhaps that’s the very definition of self-absorbed. But so what?
Ultimately, aren’t we all responsible for our own healing and happiness? I did my best to be clear, concise, and loving, and I also wrote it to help me be in even more honest and conscious relationships. If others had contracted feelings about it, that is beyond my control.
If they want to share that with me, they can, and we will learn and grow together. But until then, the only thing I can control is my own integrity, my own honesty, and my own healing.
So I will do my work. They will do theirs. You will do yours.
And we will all keep walking this path, arm-in-arm, together.