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Volcán San Pedro at Lago de Atitlan, Guatemala – July 23, 2021
Cacao at the Butterfly House
It was only a few days ago that I sat by a lake in cool, chilly air flanked by volcanoes and mountains, a clear periwinkle sky, and turquoise blue waters. In the haze of a golden morning, I was sipping on a cup of cacao with my Airbnb host who had brewed up a batch of her famous elixir. We’ll call her S.
S said with much relish and a playful, mischievous grin that she doesn’t follow the normal preparation procedure and instead, has her own individual and unique way of preparing cacao, but that despite this (or perhaps because of this? me thinks), her’s is highly praised by the most discerning of cacao drinkers.
This was all said in a humble fashion — which would strike one as surprisingly difficult to do, but in this case it was simply fact. Her whole sharing felt like one big wink letting me in on a secret.
As we slowly pressed together in conversation of introductions, hot mugs of chocolatey cacao bliss in hands, I danced around my demons, having recently realized that I don’t need to play the role of “town crier” and shout them out to warn inform people of my craziness ahead of time.
I didn’t need to announce as a forewarning, and in some ways ominous foreshadowing, the traumatic history or the rambling anxieties and fears,
But, she asked me what I was about.
And, I couldn’t seem to do so without introducing some of the demons.
After all, they seem to be front & center in my daily life these days.
There is a part of me that clings to this identity of trauma because it feels very much a part of me.
It shares my blood, breathes my air, eats my food, shaves my head, and whispers in my ear.
I tell her this, not all of this, but some of this. That I have difficulty gauging what’s appropriate to share with people because at times I am completely closed off, frigid, & tight and other times, I’m wide open — too open, I’m splaying out my heart in a desert and it’s drying up like jerky in the wary and searing look of the sun.
Nodding, she shares a quick anecdote where somebody charged her too with “presumed familiarity".
Ouch.
The words so eloquently describe the feeling from people when I’ve overshared, recoiling with embarrassment hours later at having divulged too much of my inner world with somebody I’ve just met.
This attribute of having difficulty discerning who is safe and who is not is typical of people with CPTSD. Discernment of safety and danger is pre-empted by the knowledge of what safety is, so if one did not grow up with a knowing of that, then the whole world can, at once, feel “safe” and dangerous at the same time.
How Does One Conflate Safety and Danger?
My default state was one of danger, chaos, tumult, and turmoil because this was my experience of home.
One had always to be on high alert because anger, rage, cutdown, criticism, a wayward slap lurked most everywhere.
Even in the perceived safety of my own room, in solitude, my inner critic was constantly whispering devastating thoughts in my ear that echoed those I heard within my family.
Because this was home, this was what I knew to be “safe”, thusly safety was danger and I continued to maintain this status quo even after I left my childhood home.
Especially in my early and mid 20’s I was captivated by danger. I would purposefully walk through bad neighborhoods and seek out dangerous situations. At the time, I supposed it all to be in pursuit of thrill and adventure, the seedy underbelly of life glamourized in art and pop culture.
I see now that it may have been just simply what I knew, and where I felt most at home.
Street art in San Pedro — July 25, 2021
Bien Viaje
Where I found myself this day, sharing a cup of cacao at the foot of volcanoes and by a lake, which locals call Mother Atitlan, was a place where for the first time, I was on a trip of pleasure and letting myself FEEL GOOOOOOOD.
On this trip, I wasn’t worrying about money, time, anything. I was taking a trip where I let all the sensual-ness of life be maxed out.
In order to let myself take in life and face it with openness, I knew I needed to feel safe. Only when I feel safe, can I do, feel, and be who I am when I’m standing in love.
I wanted myself to feel deserving and worthy of eating good food, taking care of myself, buying beautiful clothes and jewelry that I love even if it’s not very minimal of me, and affording myself luxuries like a lakeside Airbnb with a big ole bathtub overlooking this ancient, magical lake and Volcán San Pedro.
What other ways can one be nourishing to one’s soul?
S says mothering oneself can be present in everything one does. It can be in the way one moves slowly, gently. It can be in the simple practice of preparing a cacao drink… It can look different than the typical modalities of what nurturing might conjure up.
A beautiful flower — July 25, 2021
Feelings of the Mother
Most recently, I’ve developed a strong will in my mind where negative thoughts are reframed into empowering ones. If fear of abandonment comes up, I remind myself that I trust in love and no matter what happens, even in perceived abandonment, I am being brought closer and closer to fullness and love.
My inner mother is becoming softer, more compassionate, and gentle. She breathes big, deeep, slow …. and loooonggggggg belly breaths and reminds me to drink water in the morning and oil my body with Jasmine and coconut oil after each shower or bath.
These days, I take time for this.
Previously militant ways of efficiency and efficacy first are being traded in for pleasure, delightful smells, delicious sensations, lingering to smell the flowers, and moving from room to room slowly and intentionally, minding where my body is in space and time, remembering to breathe and checking in with how I’m feeling.
Times of peace call for different strengths, attitudes, and skills than times of war.
Views of San Pedro — July 25, 2021
Desperate for Love and Comfort
I used to barge through life like an elephant on roller skates. My head reached my destination before my body did.
It reminds me of how my mother used to speedwalk everywhere, crowing back at my sister and me as we jogged to catch up that life waits for no man and don’t you dawdle, else you won’t survive!
And likewise, I huffed and puffed everywhere, my energy like a Tasmanian devil whirlwind uprooting anything in my path in a dizzying array of busy-ness and the need to get Somewhere(!), Anywhere (!) but here …
In this same way, I craned my head forward, from side to side, searching and sniffing for the scent of love.
Perhaps this is why I opened wide my heart even in dry deserts, displaying it for someone, Anyone, to tenderly touch it with cool hands and remark that yes, baby, you’ve got a lovely heart.
The desire so overpowering it was worth even the risk of vultures coming to pick at the still juicy redness of my ailing corazón. (Because if there’s one thing that accompanies crazy and reckless, it’s courage and bravery and that, I’ve got in spades.)
And because if the right person or experience came along who could be the silver bullet, the missing puzzle piece that would click into place to turn my life around and tear down the screen and open me up to love and connection and comfort, then it would all be worth it.
But of course, that never works because that person I’ve been waiting for is me all along.
And someday, I won’t look for a mother in each woman I meet to hold me close and let me melt into her bosom while stroking my hair and letting me know I’m safe.
Because even though I’m just an A-cup, I’m learning to do it for myself.
Now, I take my time. I breathe. I shush the town crier giddy to warn others of the Tasmanian devil sweeping into town. I take the extra five minutes to rub oil into my skin so I smell of flowers all day and take long baths without guilt.
Now, I am my own mother who whispers yes, baby, you’ve got a lovely heart.
It’s a me! — July 25, 2021
Originally published at http://asianamericancyclebreaker.com on August 2, 20213