AT THE TATE GALLERY
“What am I supposed to do with this?” From Scapegoat to Whistleblower The other day my partner Ardhan was going out to feed the cats and I handed him an elastic band to close the cat food bag. He looked at me astonished and said ‘what am I supposed to do with this?’ and I burst out laughing realising the ridiculousness of what I had done. I’m not practical like him and clearly the elastic band would not have worked but what I was laughing at was a much earlier memory that shot into my mind, from when I was married in the UK. My ex husband was a partner at a top accountant firm and he was hosting an important night at the Tate Gallery in London with Ken Clarke speaking as the finance minister. It was an elegant affair with all the top CEOs, we were both dressed in full evening clothes, me in a sparkling blue long dress and my ex in his white tuxedo. The four course dinner finished and Ken Clarke began his speech during the coffee, which seemed to go on and on such that I found myself in need of the toilet. I had already held myself for some minutes in the hope that the speech would end but when this didn’t happen, I gently nudged my husband’s arm to let him know that I needed to go to the toilet. He on the other hand, made it abundantly clear that it wasn’t acceptable for me to leave the room while Ken Clarke was in full flow. So I waited some more minutes until desperation set in, nudging him again to express this extreme need. My husband then did a strange thing and I can remember the shock to this day, the sense that my basic needs could not be allowed at any level. He quickly shoved a couple of table napkins into my hand, saying nothing but clearly thinking this would do the trick. I can recall the overwhelm of that moment, with the same sense of confusion and a silent statement which would have said, as Ardhan did, ‘what am I supposed to do with this?’ So much was happening all at once, time seemed to stop still with the intense pain and urgency of needing to urinate, the napkins my ex had shoved into my hand, Ken Clarke still speaking and at the same time trying to work out how I could discretely leave the room against my husband’s wishes. In the end I had to leave. I intuitively knew at some primal level that I couldn’t just shove the napkins up my dress and let it absorb the urine, in the middle of the room with all the guests all around me. Plus I don’t know about you, but my flow is way more than two napkins worth and then where would I be, with crippling shame, a wet dress and a puddle at the table with high ranking guests only feet away? So I dashed quietly to the door and found myself running like a mad woman. Half way down the gallery I had to stop abruptly to cross my legs tightly, as the urgency to release was so intense, I was scared I would make a puddle right at the foot of one of the beautiful paintings, a Leonardo or Tintoretto I don’t remember. There was no-one in sight, just long galleries in front of me and I ran and ran like crazy, despite the restriction of my tight long dress around my ankles. Suddenly like grace showering down upon me, a toilet block appeared from no-where and I flew through the door crouching down to release a flood with such force it was like Niagara Falls. The relief was incredible but still I felt the guilt, shame and panic, like somehow I had failed and was ‘bad’ for having to leave the room. Adrenaline was rushing through my body, my killer critic was going crazy in my head saying I should have known better, my timing was wrong, the least I could have done was hold it and much else. I always felt that my body let me down, it wasn’t able to be perfect at every moment however hard I pushed it and this time I was angry at myself for having such a basic need. Back then, it never occurred to me that my husband might have been unreasonable and dare I say it, even crazy in that moment, to say no to my need to pee and to think that table napkins were a possible solution. It never crossed my mind that my husband in his desperate need to be the perfect host, was acting insanely for handing me the napkins infantilising my predicament with some kind of make shift nappy. I’ve never questioned him about this even to this day, I would always blame myself as the first port of call. Always without fail. The only thing that mattered was that I controlled my body and hadn’t wet myself. So I made it back through the long galleries and stood at the dining hall double doors. I can’t remember if I waited before re-entering or whether Ken Clarke was still prattling on about finances. I was so self consciousness and unsure what was the best thing to do, to avoid causing upset and disturbance, clearly letting down my husband and displeasing him. REFLECTIONS TODAY What I’m left with today, is the sorrow that I spent my life always questioning my rights, feeling excruciatingly insecure and in fear as to what I was allowed to do or not, even down to basics like needing to go to the toilet or eat. This very basic and primal need to release, the knife edge story of who had the power in my life. I know this story is a memory that is only the tip of the iceberg to many previous incidents but it shows in particular the level of adaptation that had taken place, as well as the dis-regulation of my nervous system as a result of trauma. I was always hyper alert and on guard but that’s another story and not for here. The reality however, is that I could only ever get acceptance for my existence from outside. I had no self reference and no connection with my body wisdom, such that I would always override the signals it gave me. That’s part of the reason I had such urgency during the speech because in my usual disconnected way, chatting and over indulging with food and wine, I had failed to notice I needed to go to the toilet before. Up until this point in my life, I didn’t have permission in my system to make my own choice, I always deferred and had to check with my husband, especially since this was his ‘special’ night. I moved in with my husband immediately after moving out from my parents, so I never experienced any sense of autonomy or living alone. Occasionally I would have strong moments of clarity like when I confronted my parents about moving in with my husband before we were married but this was a rare occurrence. Sometimes at work if I was asked to do something seriously outside of my integrity, as then I would put my foot down but otherwise I was a super achiever programmed to help everyone I could. The only thing I’m grateful for in recalling this story, is that this strong part of me knew to leave the dining room, regardless of my husband’s reaction. However scared I was, this more disowned power was still remarkably intact, even with my more familiar up-front pleaser/Aphrodite/good girl selves having primary roles that night. The reality is that however much shame I was experiencing for wanting to do something so normal, I didn’t put the table napkins to the test. I did take a stand and leave. The shock that is with me now as I’ve turned 60 years of age, is, how many years I played second fiddle and prostituted myself because I didn’t realise I had rights or that I mattered. I was masterful at being perfect for everyone in my life be it my husband, children, boss, parents or friends. If I went to bed having ticked off my list of activities in order to please everyone, then I was happy. That night, clearly I failed and in such scenarios I would blame myself and my body for having any needs. To explain the extent of this disconnection, at age 39 I found myself unable to walk at the supermarket only to be carried home to bed where I crashed for years on end with a mystery illness, that clearly was a soul wake up call and a unconscious, desperate cry for help. Chronic illness and recovering from PTSD has been a heroine’s journey and initiation for over twenty years to reconnect me back to myself, to life, to nature and to the sacred. As painful as it has been, it has taken me on an alchemic journey, since with my habitual patterns of self abandonment, it has never let me off the hook. When I do not self care, when I let my boundaries be trashed or ignore my special, healthy diet, my symptoms and problems flare up, so I am forced to stay close to ‘home’ in every sense of the word. MIRROR OF ITALY and NEW STORY Now as I stand against certain crazy situations here in Italy where the professionals attempt to project their shame and incompetence on me and I refuse to accept it anymore, I see just how far I have come. I am still standing for myself however difficult it gets, though sometimes I crash back with raging inflammation, which shows me that I’m not able to allow my fire full expression externally. It still hurts to be blamed unfairly when the problem isn’t me but I least I don’t take it on in the same way. There is still a fall out and some implosion but it’s less extreme plus what’s new, is that I surrender and take it all to prayer, to the sacred. I see the bigger picture of how it’s a journey through the Italian officialdom that triggers so much of my past, the story of alpha male domination and how to navigate my way through in this male controlled, patriarchal culture when their reaction to shame is so shocking. My challenge is how to stay IN my body, to be with what arises and not take it personally, putting up boundaries so the other person hopefully will stay in contact and not just throw in the towel and leave. Non violent communication is very useful but also sometimes to get what I need as a woman, it’s necessary to shape shift and take the easiest route to avoid unnecessary and exhaustive confrontation. At least here in Italy that is. This sense of sovereignty has been so hard fought, in many ways I’m exhausted but that’s only because of how far away I was from ‘home’, from myself and where I continue to self abandon and not stand in my personal power. I have always been baffled and confused about what the rules are, because with no self reference, obviously they would constantly change according to who I was with. I was deeply programmed, a dis-embodied and anaesthetised superwoman with no real identity, so I have had to strip away layer on layer to get back to some sense of my own identity, embodiment and self worth. It is therefore a slow transition from where I see bad things happening that feel like God punishing me, to slowly putting up boundaries, feeling the Divine within and noticing the transformation taking place. It has been a long journey, navigated step by step over years, often having to titrate what was uncovered to avoid re-traumatisation and overwhelm. Often my critic berates me that I’m still ill and not ‘sorted’ but that’s when I see how I’ve bought into a cultural belief that being sick or vulnerable means I'm somehow failing. This is the real madness that exists in our patriarchal culture that denies the body, the feminine, emotions, sexuality, death and the earth itself. So often I would default to seeing the other person’s viewpoint and self blaming but more and more I’m moving to recognise some sense of outrage. instead of imploding it back causing severe inflammation and chronic illness in my body. The importance of expressing the emotions is well understood, managing it without an internal backlash from my critic is another thing but nevertheless it’s my task in this life, so that I can remain grounded and strong, saying when something is not acceptable and refusing to let people trample over my boundaries or project their baggage onto me. SCAPEGOAT RENAMED TO WHISTLEBLOWER Within all of this, what I see now is that I am giving my scapegoat a different and more elevated job title. She is now called a Whistle-blower. Whistle blowers in our culture do not get treated well which is tragic because they are speaking the truth that has been deliberately hidden in order to betray and dupe the general public. I’ve always seen where there are elephants in the room or if the Emperor is wearing no clothes but whenever I would express this, often innocently, I would be in serious trouble. Now I understand why. I see it isn’t because I’m the problem, it’s what I am exposing that is the issue. This part of me has suffered enough carrying what does not belong to her and as a shadow dancer she is more capable of seeing the power games that go on, refusing to submit any longer. It’s not easy. Shame based people and narcissists do not want exposure and they will stop at nothing to project it back on others, if they are willing or able to take it. Italy is a mirror to what I experienced as a child but thankfully I recognise this as a soul learning opportunity, how to find a creative and healthy way through the challenges, instead of falling back into the old victim and scapegoat role or alternatively battling head on with resistance which equally does not work. People who have been sexually abused and what they call ‘instinct injured’ in particular, are easy targets, their boundaries having been shattered so early on, they don’t recognise boundary invasions as this was normalised from the very beginning. Research now shows how the brain is changed as a result of being marinated with complex trauma so the wires become literally crossed. When there is incest and sexual abuse within the family by your closest caregivers, love and abuse/danger are intertwined. Nothing is clear since the water that the fish are swimming in is dark and murky from festering secrets and lies as well as mind fucking double binds and mixed messages. It's normal to leave the body and find ways to disassociate and split off in order to survive the continuous onslaught and pain. The role I took on unconsciously for my family and ancestors was to be the emotional scapegoat, the bucket for unexpressed ‘baggage’ (the sins of the fathers), without realising and it’s taken years to give myself permission to finally put up a sign that says ‘no entry’. So, the challenge always for me, is to see the shame dumping and to hand it back and refuse to be a receptacle for what is not mine to carry. Better still, to not get involved in the first place with shame based souls but that’s not always possible living in Italy and in the patriarchal world that lives by these dysfunctional, perfectionist and black/white standards where vulnerability is seen as a deadly sin. Sometimes it’s safer and necessary to walk away rather than to confront a serious narcissist but if a drama does erupt, the most important issue is that my critic no longer beats me up as being the problem. It takes two to tango, even as an empath, I’m not responsible for the whole bloody lot, that old pattern has gone, despite the fact that pre-verbal terror lives with me still. I grew up with severe narcissism so inner healthy parenting with strong boundary setting is vital and non-negotiable. This radical self care is paramount when we step up to make a stand, especially as women now as we come into our fierce feminine and refuse to be infantilised and collude as a way to stay safe. My truth, this fierce feminine path, is not always welcome but it’s necessary, it’s bigger than my personal story, and it needs to come out for the good of the whole. I’m more able to see the bigger picture and self care each time I dare to speak out, consciously making healthier choices with my thoughts, beliefs and actions. And, with my rebel more intact, if I need to shit, cough, pee, fart, vomit or spit, I will do what my body needs. Stoicism is a form of madness and connecting to feelings and our bodies is the only way to come into alignment, so we are living life with our minds in service to our hearts. I’m a work in progress of course, destiny is a life long journey but with this story as a metaphor, I will not be silenced by napkins in my mouth or up my fanny. This is about Soul Esteem and what I’ve come here to do karmically. I know that I’ve felt gagged by my ancestry, by the ‘sins of the fathers’, kept for too long hidden in the closet but finally being exposed from incest, murder to slavery. This is the legacy I signed up to, as Malidome Some the African shaman says, the ancestors are ringing on the telephone and we need to reconnect with them, since we cannot do this generational healing alone. It’s not easy work but we are living in the time where this is now possible and indeed essential. Recently, I once said to my shaman in my ritual training group, that I felt like I was losing it from every orifice, like I couldn’t hold onto it anymore. It was scary as hell in truth, I was falling apart or so it seemed. He replied to me in front of my 60 fellow colleagues that when I finally lose all types of fluid from every orifice possible, I will be healed. I felt this permission deep inside, the longing to let go and surrender, trusting that holding on and over trying has never worked. I think he’s right. Like so many, I’ve held in so much for so long and it has nearly killed me. As women, it’s time that our rage is put OUT there, the OUT-RAGE that needs a voice, because we’ve suppressed and squashed this immense power that flows in our veins and needs now to be in service to Mother Earth, as we face this global crisis and honour the return of the sacred feminine. So, even if I’m not popular with speaking out, I do believe as Jesus said that ‘the truth will set us free’. It might not be about having a ‘happy ending’ with a perfect solution at a personal level. As the distorted patriarchy falls they are fighting for their lives and it isn’t a pretty sight. Ultimately it’s a soul and destiny decision not an ego and fate one. Moving beyond my own protection and safety, what I pray to do, is to turn my story into something that will help others, to transform the personal into an alchemic offering. I pray for guidance daily, to see reality as it really is and for the grace and courage to know how to handle it because I cannot do this alone. We need access to the sacred and to know it doesn’t live outside of us but is a part of who we are as well as what links us all together as One. That something bigger than us has our back, that we are working for the light forces and absolutely not alone. We need enlightened witnesses, people who have navigated the dark night’s of the soul and dared to confront their own shadow behaviour instead of arrogant and apparently enlightened healers caught in another ego trap. We need shared, resonant and supportive community around us, this ‘welcoming home’ tribe who can honour and validate us allowing our feelings without dismissing, belittling, patronising or judging them. Strong, compassionate souls who can sit in the fire with us, not seeking to change, heal or rally the forces too soon to find meaning… just being present with ‘what is’ and trusting to the greater magic and miracles that can then take place. MY SACRED COMMITMENT I was once given the name ‘Golden Chalice of the Rising Phoenix’ yet I feel I have much more holy work before I am worthy of such a sacred name. In honour of my own pre-verbal inner child with her exquisite and raw sensitivity, my promise is that I will speak the unspeakable and be a voice for the voiceless. She has no words, only implicit body memories, this evidence that speaks volumes as the 'body holds the score' (Bessell) even if it would not hold up in a patriarchal court of law. No matter. I speak for her now as I will speak for others who need an enlightened witness to move beyond self hatred and self doubt. I vow to be a witness for souls who need help to see the madness that they have accepted as the norm, help them return ‘home’ to their bodies, to believe and validate what they have endured and survived. I will hold a lantern and help others where necessary, to question things and come back to their own inner truths and to their sovereignty, so that they too can hand back the insane projections saying confidently……… ‘what am I supposed to do with this?’
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