There is at least one in every crew, I’m told. The choice is whether to pay attention to or ignore the person(s) who rub me the wrong way. Lately, I’ve been able to curtail the voice of someone who vents, in my mind, although it comes with a degree of venting on my own.
So-and-so drove me nuts last evening. He’s a younger man, I remind myself, and try to give him space in which to grow. Next time or any time a guy/gal gets under my skin, I’ll echo the 12-step slogan I know from my past: “Don’t let them run around in your head, rent free.”
Beyond the craziness of taking the wrong escalator, thus screwing with my sense of direction, the ride to C.C. seems doable. I’d hoped to trace my steps so I’d familiarize myself and learn a route. I didn’t but there’s time. Soon the ride to and from C.C. will be down pat and all I’ll have to do is arrive at the group meeting. The important thing is I show up.
J. showed a video at last night’s group. It was profound. Basic premise: Closets are hard to come out of and everybody has one. The operative word you might think is everybody but the idea is we all have hard stories to tell and hard means hard. There is no variance of hard. It Just is.
I borrow from the video, not necessarily quoting from it. My closet is coming out as trans. No harder than telling your six year old you and your spouse are getting divorced. Not harder than telling someone you love you were diagnosed with Leukemia. No matter who you are, there is a closet you must come out of and it isn’t easy, by a long shot.
Two bullets I remember from the video are: (1) Be authentic in your telling. (2) Don’t be apologetic. Then lots of talk about each that I don’t remember. The end of the second bullet showed a pic of the beloved Mr. Rogers giving the finger. Classic!
This morning, during J. W., my writing/reading group, I once again connected to the power within. I simply let the ink flow. Out of three prompts my fave was: “Something I Don’t Remember.” I wrote about feeling alive for the first time ever, in a psychiatric facility, at the age of seventeen. I vaguely recall feeling free to let myself slide into someone’s open arms. Physically. I don’t remember the event itself. Or what led up to it.
Groups, meetings, friendships of all sorts open me up. I am not afraid to write anything now. Not afraid to extend a hand or hug. If I keep my distance it is usually because I’m getting to know you better. Posting to this blog, I want people to know me and somehow find themselves in the process. I’m no longer afraid to share and to hear your coming out story.