Inner pain and the myth of "safety"

Many of us have suffered great difficulties and hardships, and as a result we've developed an internal organ for processing pain I call The Inner Fist. The Inner Fist clamps around that set of hurts and keeps it "safe"--unprodded, airless, always raw.

image: wikimedia commons

When anything comes at us that feels like the clenched pain--rejection, violation, terror and the like--the Inner Fist hits back. When it hits inside, it punches holes in our confidence, pummels our joy, hammers home the thought that, as usual, the universe and its creator are against us. Sometimes the Inner Fist hits outward, making us lash out at others or become pleasure-chasing addicts.

The Inner Fist strengthens itself by drawing around it expectations that we believe will make the hurt inside magically dissipate. As writers, some of our fist-builders are thoughts like these:

"I will get published and...
...I will have honor instead of shame"
...I will have worth instead of worthlessness"
...I will have abundance instead of deprivation"
...I will be popular instead of ignored or bullied"

Can any publishing experience bear the weight of expectations like these? Not likely. So the Inner Fist goes on punching us inside.

Unclenching the Inner Fist is the heart work of a lifetime. Until you grant access to the pain--to God, yourself, others--the Inner Fist will remain a destructive force in your life. It requires great courage, grace, faith and hope. It is the only path to peace and to creating great art that changes lives. That changes the world.

What unclenches the Inner Fist are ordinary graces--things like delight, wonder and play; learning, mentoring and teaching; communicating with open honesty; freely giving you time, skill, creative output and praise with no expectations simply because it's fun and makes you feel alive. Above all, the gracious work of love--God's, your family's, your friends', and yours for them--builds skin over the raw places.

At times these winds of grace may feel like a tornado. They may feel like self-immolation. Like tossing your possessions out the window. Like standing yourself before a firing squad. Who am I without my defenses after all? You'll never know unless you let light inside.

You might just find that the place of your deepest pain is a well of great beauty--your truth--which when drawn out, has the power to unclench other Inner Fists. I think of Anne Lamott's raw honesty in Traveling Mercies and Operating Instructions. Of Donald Miller's meandering hunger in Searching for God Knows What.

Have you felt the Inner Fist in your life? What ordinary graces have unclenched a finger or two for you? What books have encouraged you in your own heart work of healing and maturing?

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The perfection myth

Maybe you're just coming off the high of "winning" NaNo and realize your first draft is, alas, full of flaws.
Maybe you've drawn up a holiday gift-buying list and realize there's no way you can afford all these wonderful gifts you think you must buy for precious family and friends.
Maybe you  have to sing in front of a roomful of people with a pretty serious head cold (that would be me. LOL.)

You're forced to face the fact that you aren't perfect. And if you never bought into the perfection myth, that's no big deal. But if you have, moments like these mean extreme anxiety.

What do I mean by "the perfection myth"? It's an inner script that says:

As long as I do everything just right, I will be safe.

You'll note a few key concepts here. It's very self-focused; it's what I do. It's absolute; I must to everything just right. It's nebulous; "just right" is never defined. It's tied to survival; my very safety depends on it, and the alternative is unthinkably awful.

Last week I heard author Anne Lamott speak (part of a book tour for her latest release, Help, Thanks, Wow), and perfectionism was one of the topics she tackled with wit, honesty and grace. This kind of striving for perfection, especially as I've defined it above, has less to do with being our best selves and more with fear. This kind of perfectionism comes out of the crucible of unpredictable, chaotic environments. Striving to do right is a means of achieving control.

But the fact is, perfectionism promises freedom from fear while creating more anxiety. Because the truth of all of us is that we're broken people. We've been harmed by others and we have weaknesses ourselves. The myth of perfectionism says I'm not safe if I'm not doing everything "just right," therefore, I must cover over all my inadequacies to stay safe.

That, friends, is living a lie. Lamott connected the dots of this to conclude that perfectionism is "the voice of the oppressor," is demonic. By that she means anything that encourages vices--like dishonesty and pride in this case--intends our ultimate ruin and is aligned with all evil.

The divine voice tells us, "You are broken, but you are mine. I love you and will hold and heal you."

Learning to find safety in acceptance by a higher power ("as I understand him," Lamott added, quoting from the Alcoholics Anonymous 12-step program) involves letting a mess happen and seeing how little it actually effects the people around you. They don't care as much as you think.

The other big antidote to perfectionism is laughter. Lamott called it "carbonated holiness."  Laughter looks at weakness and is not undone by it. Rather, it is thankful for the honesty. Joys in it, in fact.

We stumble, and laugh and know we are frail. We are not the be-all and end-all of the universe. With that attitude, we can love well and create with the kind of honest freedom that brings more light into the world.

Trying to be perfect is a most dangerous game. So laugh when you fall. Your freedom depends on it.

Do you struggle with perfectionism? Do Lamott's observations speak to you?

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Leaving fear, grasping hope

Once I made the decision to self-publish Never Gone, a funny thing happened. I became completely paralyzed by the sheer volume of what I needed to do.

When I think back to my life in high school, I can't believe how I juggled band, choir, art club, school newspaper, honors classes, a part-time job, and scribbling stories every spare moment. College wasn't much different, though theater, music ministry, and literary magazine were my passions of choice. I never pulled an all-nighter in college and still graduated magna cum laude. After college, I worked full time, went to grad school, did freelance graphic design projects, and served as editor and publisher of an international literary magazine, About Such Things.

I used to be a high energy person, so why the paralysis at this phase of life?

I'd become irrationally afraid. About setting up my business wrong. About getting bad feedback that makes the story wrong. About my title choice and cover design ideas. About failing in a huge, public way.

A funny thing about listening to fear--it takes away your power to contradict it.

Getting into better headspace about the project came when I let voices other than the voice of fear really sink in. I went back and reread notes from the three groups of people who'd critiqued over the years. Sure they pointed out weaknesses, but they also had a lot of immensely encouraging things to say--that it's an important story, that it's moving, that it kept them up late reading. Friends and family alike kept asking how the book project was coming along, wanting to know when they could get their hands on it. Even my daughter was itching for this book to come to fruition.

When you're in the presence of other writers, it can be easy to forget what an extreme act of bravery it is to create worlds, characters, stories and put them out for public consumption. Non-writers are always amazed by it. I think in our circles we're only beginning to talk about the reality of fear when we create. Alex's Insecure Writers Support Group is one such place, and I'm always encouraged by folks' posts.

See, bravery isn't a lack of fear, it's a willingness to move forward in hope despite the fear. There are still moments when the voice of fear picks up on my doubts and shouts them at me. But I turn away and listen to the voices of hope instead.

Because hope energizes. Hope keeps on trying. Hope is patient. Hope believes.

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Blog Ramble News

See my interview with Anglea Felsted at My Poetry and Prose Place, discussing how my life experiences do and don't show up in my novel Never Gone.

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Have you wrestled with fear? How do you tune into the voice of hope instead?

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Why I love (and hate) Little Women

While laid low with a cold over the weekend, I rewatched the old Winona Rider version of Little Women, an odd mix of wonderful and terrible acting, and a sentimental journey for anyone who writes.

For some reason, this watching I was most struck by Prof. Bhaer's opinions about Jo's first novel. He assented that yes, sensational, exciting stories sell. But Gothic romance seemed to not admit any of Jo's best qualities: "There is nothing in here of the woman I am privileged to know." I'm not entirely sure if Alcott intended this as a smear on pulp fiction; perhaps so, perhaps not.

But whether you write literary realism or more fantastical work, I think there's something to his assertion that the very best books, the one that are loved for generations, are works of extreme courage. "There's more to you than this," the professor says, "If you have the courage to write it."

In Jo's case, she doubts that her life experiences are worthy subjects of fiction. The most courageous thing for her is to expose her "quiet" upbringing for all its humor, beauty and drama. But another writer might have been raised in an environment that shunned imagination and was always thoroughly Philistine. In his case, it would take great courage to write light, humorous fantasy. In so doing, he'd have to own up to suppressed desires and embrace what he fears others might not value as much as he does. Honesty is the supreme act of courage.

Do you have a story you lack the courage to write? I do. It's been niggling at me for years, and Prof. Bhaer's wise words have again it pinned front and center on my imagination's notice board. Even the holiday busyness hasn't been able to push it into a closet it this time. For once I have a sense of just how the story wants to be told. So here's to courage!

What does courageous writing look like to you?

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