Victim Bubble

Victim Bubble

I  have a victim bubble.

Here’s what it is -- it is a filter that all incoming information passes through before I experience it.

So, when I read a letter from someone, or receive information in any way from someone - speech, even a class - I cannot perceive the true intent, because the information has passed through my victim bubble and reconstructed it. Now my mind processes the reconstructed information and my mouth speaks a response - a response based on a distorted interpretation.

What’s wrong with that?  It’s not true.  Sometimes it totally misses the mark of the original intention of the message.

What’s wrong with that?  I’ve lost connection with the originator.  I can’t be authentic, although I am pretty good at cloaking my responses in an authentic-sounding packages.  Sometimes I fool people.  Sometimes I create pain.  That is the problem.  The pain of disconnection.  Same as when I talk to someone and they clearly are not listening to me to understand me, but are listening and formulating a reply at the same time.  Painful.

Many times, I totally blank out what has been written or said.  If I realize it, I go back to it.  Sometimes I have blanked-out on something that I do not have the maturity to hear.  That’s understandable.   Sometimes I have blanked-out on something that my ego does not want to hear.  That’s keeping me me from considering a new version of a previously held belief.  My ego does not like to be one-upped.

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I never got to see the true potential of my mother.  She was steeped in pain.  I think there were glimpses of her potential when I was younger - her free spirit, her yearnings, her openness.  Gradually, she shut down into a self contained ball of insecurities - impenetrable.

What is it that causes people to stay in that painful, and pain-producing, “protected” ball?  Wouldn’t you think they would want to get out of that?  I could see it so clearly with my mother.  She was so wrapped up in her refusal to take any responsibility for her life.  Only her children could remedy her unhappiness, in her mind.  AND, they were the cause of her unhappiness.  Yet, no matter what we did or didn’t do to try to remedy her pain, happiness was fleeting, impermanent.  It was always back to the victim status.  Of course, trying to remedy her pain was our first mistake.

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At the same time, I would not have known what to do with it had she shown her true potential.  My perception of who she was, and not wanting her to change, was a factor in her inability to change.  Otherwise I would not have played into her drama the way I did.

What was it my mom feared?  She feared her own self.  Her own expression.  Her own power.  She feared losing what she lost in order to maintain some semblance of happiness.  Love - specifically, self-love - and acceptance - unconditional - not based on whether or not we remembered her birthday.

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*** Other people also have a victim bubble.  I so much want them to see me, but they just can’t.  Too much blur from the bubble.  Only a vague sense of what I am trying to communicate.  I internally suffer from their lack of clarity.  Why?  Because I think that they can see me and that their responses are coming from that place.  Therefore, in my mind, they are deliberately trying to hurt me.  But no, they can’t see me.  And their reactions - often distancing, hurtful, critical, lacking compassion, unforgiving, and more - are coming from that place.

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People - walking around in their own personalized victim bubbles, bumping into one another, forming judgements, feeling hurt, isolating.  Every now and then, a person comes by who has no bubble.  Is she bleeding, bruised, defeated?  No.  She is light, happy, and confident.  This is the surprise.  The part that we don’t get.  The part that my mother never got.  The part I struggle with.  When we can get clear of our victim mentality, our victim filter, we can relate to others authentically.  What does this mean?  As a person without a bubble, we can relate to others with love and compassion.  No matter if they have a bubble or not.  No matter what their behavior.  Our happiness does not depend on their behavior.  We naturally don’t buy into their story.  Of course it’s a lot more fun if they don’t have the bubble.  But expecting that clarity from others is the road to disappointment.

If we feel hurt, rest assured, we have a bubble which we maintain - which means we are not relating to them authentically.  Ouch!

Without our own protective bubble - and this is the surprising part - their behavior does not hurt us. We are open-hearted, confident, and free from the judgements of others.  All this, surprising so, because we thought that if we did not have the bubble, we would be vulnerable and get hurt.  This is the delightful surprise waiting for us at the death of our bubble.  POP!  Free!

Until then, just be aware of your precious bubble, love it, talk to it, and let it know that it is ok for it to transition, to meld with the infinite, to be free.  Let it know you will be fine without it, and you want it to be free as well.

The Story of My Life

I was born two miles outside of a small town in upstate New York.. very rural.. even idyllic, you might say.  Our plot of land was nestled among neighboring farms amidst hay fields, streams, rolling hills, and cloudy skies.  On our plot we had ample yard space, as well as a functioning barn, chicken coop, tool shed, full-sized garden, and a small field with a tiny stream.  The barn housed a milk cow, a steer raised for slaughtering, and from time to time, a horse for riding.  My dad raised chickens and peddled eggs when I was a kid. The two-story house (with a cellar and an ominous attic, which I feared venturing into) was small in proportion to the land it sat on.  Us two girls shared one room, and my two brothers shared another, while my oldest sister got a small room of her own. And of course my parents had a room.  All rooms were tightly packed into the upstairs level along with one small bathroom which serviced the whole house.  As children, we chased each other around the house, played board games, took walks through the fields with no sense of danger, or spent an afternoon at the neighborhood fire station which had a pond we could swim in, if you didn't mind blood suckers, and a stream for fishing.  I was happy as a child.

But things changed.  As a teenager I was depressed.  The depression lasted for many decades.  I not only didn't know why I was depressed, I did know that I was depressed until much later in life - I was in my 50s when I first admitted it, and in my 60s when I first admitted it openly.  I hated it when people said "Smile!" to me.  My mom worked the night shift (3pm to midnight) so we only got to see her mornings before we left for school, and on the weekends.  On the weekends, she was understandably tired.  Saturdays, she did the shopping with my sister and I clinging to her existence.  Sundays she made a family meal, alternating between fried chicken, chicken and dumplings, and pot roast.  Occasional she had a tea party with us (a soda-filled tea pot was used for tea).  She generally did not have much time for us.  As we got older, she really did not know what to do with us.  She had no sense of paying attention to us as personalities who needed attention, conversation, or listening to.  Not having many friends, most of her conversations were relegated to my older sister whom she inappropriately confided in like an adult.  And living in a rural setting with no friends nearby to confide in, left me lonely.

My dad worked days, and spent a good deal of time after work doing chores for the animals.  (I have sometimes wondered if this arrangement was an unconscious way of dealing with their marriage.)  He rarely spoke to us, except to tell us what to do and how to do it.  He taught me how long to cook vegetables (till limp), and how to sweep a floor.  He didn't know how to talk to us.  Emotionally, he was shut down.  I never witnessed him laughing except if he was winning at cards, or at an occasional joke that someone else was the brunt of.  He was often gruff.  If we got too happy, he shut us down.  Occasionally a marital dispute would erupt and his anger released like a volcano.  Aside from that, he had a solid sense of respect and nonjudgement of others, as was witnessed by the tacit acceptance with which he greeted boyfriend after boyfriend that I brought home, most of whom were largely unimpressive.  (I was easily impressed.)

A man used to visit my dad from time to time.  He was dressed in frumpy pants, a long-sleeved work shirt, and a battered dress hat - a failed attempt to appear presentable.  He would sit in the kitchen and talk to my dad while we lingered around shyly, accepting compliments.  Eventually, the conversation would end up with him asking my dad to borrow money.  My dad always pulled something out of his pocket and gave it to him.  This was no small feat considering he had five kids to support and he worked in a leather tanning factory - not known for making fortunes.  My mom, too, endured hard labor in a record factory working hot presses on an assembly line.

By the time I graduated from high school, all I could think about was getting out of that town as if it were the cause of all my unhappiness.  No one encouraged me to do anything but get a job.  My younger sister had gotton pregnant with her forever boyfriend and she was destined to stay there.  But I stayed long enough to graduate from the local community college, then from Woodstock, before I left Albany airport with a one-way ticket to San Francisco with my pet turtle, whom the stewaress graciously supplied with a cup of water.  I met up with a friend who was headed to art school there.  Later, the turtle mysteriously got lost in our tiny studio apartment and I never found him again.

Over the tender, youthful years of my 20s, I nurtured the drinking skills I had begun in New York starting at age 16.  I experimented with drug use, and I slept with young men as a way of getting attention, affection, and a sense of self worth, and for fun. But I had no idea how to relate to them beyond that.  I clung to them, or I pushed them away if they expected me to relate to them in an authentic manner.

I moved to Arizona and in my 30s met a man with whom I could carry on a love relationship, and we got married.  For a number of years we had a lot of fun traveling and working together.  I gradually discovered that in some significant ways, he was as emotionally shut down as my dad was.  His wit and his humor adeptly disguised it.  I began to face up to the fact that I, too, was emotionally shut down.  But, I didn't want to be.  I just didn't know how not to be.  To add to the disfunction, I had no idea how to stop the bickering and hurt feelings.  I blamed him for most everything.  We became distanced.  There was no way to end the suffering but to end the marriage (and the expectations), so I did.

This is a story of coming to terms with my past, and realizing that I was/am a victim of it in many ways.  I live by myself now with two cats.  I know many people.  I have a few friends.  I continue to say or do things that hurt others and it usually baffles me how that happened... some of my behaviors are still so embedded I cannot recognize them.  They serve to protect me from being hurt and I am in the process of letting them go.  I could go on about how I love my life, and this is the life of my dreams.  But I did not dream of this.  I dreamed of being happily married to a peaceful man with 4 kids who were happy and healthy, with two cats in the yard... I got that part.  

My main interest is in helping others.  I love to talk to people who are looking for a caring person to listen to them, support them, offer guidance if appropriate, and who are looking for a person who wants to acknowledge their struggles.  I like to talk to those who have found themselves in a daze wondering how they ended up depressed, without friends, and/or in dysfuncitonal relationships, accept them where they are at, and help them take responsibility for their behaviors, and possibly even change those behaviors.  I was helped out of my maze by a several significant groups that I have had the privilege to be associated with over the years... people who were patient, forgiving, loving, and strong enough not to take me too seriously when I went off track.  Actually, that includes my ex-husband who remains a friend of mine today.  I have been able to help a number of people with these challenges in a similar way.

We all deserve to live happy fulfilled lives.  Not a cute statement.  We do.  I am committed to help others see that it is possible.  I surround myself with people who are interested in attaining similar goals.  I don't try to escape the world too much any more, but embrace it in my own imperfect way, still making mistakes, hopefully helping more people than I am hurting.

I forgive pretty easily.  I ask the same of others, but that would be an expectation that could bring  bring a great deal of disappointment, and it's conditional.  So I just go back to me.  I forgive pretty easily.  And even if you don't forgive me, or can't love me, I still endeavor to forgive you, and, yes, even to love you.

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Suzanne is available for coaching and spiritual guidance.  She has a rich spiritual (not religious) background and offers compassionate listening, spiritual guidance, and can offer healing blessings that bring light to transform stubborn blockages.
https://suzee5.wixsite.com/coachingwithsuzanne

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[It's just my background.  It helped form who I am.  It is not who I am.]