During my Sweetness Sojourn to Oaxaca last November to ring in my 50th rotation around the sun + the beginning of a new 7-year cycle, Les gifted us with a visit to a Zapotec tarot reader. I haven’t been reading my cards very regularly as of late, and I haven’t seen a prognosticator since I had my tea leaves read in NOLA in the mid-noughties. Even though seeking out future echoes and keening for insight into my future was a hallmark of my twenties to my mid-thirties, I arrived at the session with few questions and even fewer curiosities. It is a strange thing to be in a place where I am thrilled at the idea of the unknown, the possible, the not-yet-determined — a place where I would much rather not know what my future might hold. To be utterly present and looking forward to how it all unfolds.
The session was largely affirmative; I mean, she was good, she called out shit from the jump around my proclivity for wrapping myself in dysfunctional relationships, but her most pointed comment was that a lot of this repetition is rooted in my inability to forgive myself.
I always thought that I wanted to be, or that I was, someone who didn’t harbor regrets, but I am fooling myself. My biggest regret over the past few years is quite simple: I didn’t listen to myself. I knew that things weren’t right, weren’t good, weren’t in my best interest in my most recent romantic foray, relatively early on in the experience, but I didn’t trust myself. I didn’t pay that little voice any mind, and I engaged in somewhat athletic mental gymnastics to excuse, dissuade, convince, dismiss, explain etc. etc. etc. away all of the red flags, the abusive behavior, the controlling and the emotional blackmail, the financial abuse — all of it. Until I couldn’t.
But the reason that I couldn’t wasn’t that I suddenly trusted myself, believed myself, honored myself. It was that he behaved so utterly transparently to the point that there wasn’t even any attempt at hiding his usery, his twisted approach to “love” — it wasn’t that I suddenly found strength to love and stand for myself. It was that he was so degenerate that I could no longer fool myself.
So, there is shame in that. It isn’t any powerful self-actualization story to say that you took a massive step in caring for yourself, not because you loved yourself enough to do so, but because the other person abused you enough to give you no other choice. But we all have to start somewhere, eh?
My Zapotec purveyor of guidance and clarity reiterated something that I have been feeling: That there is nothing for me to let go regarding this experience other than the shame, embarrassment, and humiliation that I carry with me. I am embarrassed to have been so manipulated, so played. I feel shame that I gave so many of my material resources to someone who used me thoroughly and then tossed me away when I was no longer deemed necessary — and did so with cruelty, malice, and nastiness. I am also sad that this experience, for me, was not that extraordinary, and that my four major romantic relationships have ended in varying versions of betrayal. This Oaxacan witch tried to convince me that my entire story is rooted in me finding love, and I just really don’t fucking believe it. In fact, that thought brings me great sadness.
Months ago, my therapist told me that it was possible that I just really, really, really had to learn some of these lessons the hard way, and while I don’t like that diagnosis, it’s undoubtedly true. And I think part of this lesson is not to internalize or carry this shame, this anger with me; I showed up with all of myself, and I don’t know when or if I will ever be able to do that again. Too many emotional and mental beatings, and I can’t bear to be open and honest and vulnerable — at least, not for a long while. But why am I beating myself up for the abusive behavior of another? Why am I carrying that pain, that rage, that nastiness that is in their heart? Why am I letting it take root in mine? What do I have to be ashamed of? I didn’t abuse someone, take them for everything they have, and then leave them. So why am I continuing to compound the trauma by holding myself accountable for their actions?
I know that I have a long way to go to be at home in and at peace with myself, and that is a life’s journey. To build trust in myself is what this next 7-year cycle is all about, I think; to listen to my gut and not be afraid to make hard choices that may result in short-term discomfort. It is emotional strength training, and it will be difficult to shape my flabby sense of self-love into a lithe, flexible form — but it can be done.
After all, what else have I got to do?
I am back in Mexico again, on the other side of the country, listening to the ocean waves, watching spider monkeys and coatis play, reading, reading, reading, bonding again with Les, and it is a kind of nervous system reset that I have needed for a long while. Sunshine and sea salt, Mexican Gothic, hammocks, and 10 days of relative timelessness. I return home tomorrow, and I am quite excited — for the unknown, the new adventures, the next chapters yet to be written. And, for the first time in several years, it feels good.
