Ginger M. Sullivan's Blog, page 9

Perfect Schmerfect

“But, I had a perfect childhood,” I hear for the thousandth time.

Yet, right before me – in full-blown technicolor – are the obvious behavioral and emotional signs that something went awry.

Show me the thumbprint. I guarantee you there was a thumb.

“That’s interesting,” I muster, trying to hide my screaming disbelief. I have been to this rodeo so many times; I am well-practiced.

“I have never heard of someone having a ‘perfect’ childhood. Tell me more.”

And so goes the initial archeological dig into the inescapable human experience of the person sitting before me.

I can’t say I blame them. Who wants to change the perception of how their life has gone? Who wants to know the deep and dark content lurking inside? I get that.

Yet, reality screams. The consequences of denial are a hurting life at worst, a limited life at best. Because the truth that life is imperfect always wins out. No one escapes the full-range of life’s offerings. Joy and pain. Gain and loss. Love and hate. Gift and disappointment. We bought the ticket and strapped on the seatbelt. We were in it for the full ride. There was no turning back.

So, time to raise the white flag and surrender to the brutal truth … our childhood may have been good enough or even wonderful, but it was far from perfect.

Now, we are talking.

Let the healing begin.

For the rise of your life …

The post Perfect Schmerfect appeared first on Ginger M. Sullivan.

Red, White and Blues

I wish I could tell you I was standing in a crowded parade line. Waving my red, white and blues. Enjoying every bite of a bad hot dog while singing patriotic songs off-key, of course.

But, alas, I am not. Rather, than shouting prideful hip-hip-hoorays at being a lucky “American,” I am simply savoring a day off the clock. Because, on this day of national meaning, I am of mixed mind as to what that meaning truly is.

“The land of the free and home of the brave.”

I’ll buy that. Sign me up for that. Freedom to choose. Freedom to think. Feel. Be. Love whomever I want to in whatever way we consensually decide. Freedom to speak. Freedom to shine the color of my skin and the language of my tongue, whatever those may be. Freedom to change. Freedom to differentiate and become. And, freedom to live all those choices without ridicule and violence.

And we get to top that rich and luscious freedom pie with bravery? It’s almost too much. As a collective whole, we proclaim courage. Risk. Pushing the envelope. Acting for the greater good despite our fears and anxieties. Going boldly into unknown spaces and making room when there was no room before.

Hell, yeah. I want to live in that country. The land of the free and home of the brave.

But, wait.

I do.

At least, my birth certificate and passport say that I do. Yet, the welcoming and gratuitous energy of this great land is rapidly dimming. We are starting to believe freedom is some limited commodity that can only be possessed by the few who agree to play by the social rules. Difference is not tolerated because the misunderstood Other is deemed threatening. Thus, fear pervades, and doors of homes and hearts shut and lock. We protect rather than open. We use arms to shoot and kill rather than embrace. We react impulsively rather than talk relationally. We assume and judge rather than listen. We proclaim our values with righteous indignation as an adolescent bully in the United Nations school yard.

Such behavior doesn’t proclaim freedom or bravery – values we Americans say we espouse. Rather, it is movement toward rigidity and limitation. Confinement and reticence. Intolerance. Small, not large. Closed, not open.

So, today I am sad, not celebratory. I want to feel pride in the country I reside, yet my mood of the moment is not bringing out the brass band.

But tomorrow, I will return to the clock and the confines of my 20’ x 20’ office space – my small rented square footage of America – where through the art of psychotherapy, I will honor the brave as he/she/they fight for freedom. Freedom to speak, to be, to become. Freedom to love and be loved. Freedom to seek the truth, their truth. All the while applauding the courage required to go into unknown interior lands so that space can be created for liberated living.

That is the land that I love.

Land I will stand beside and guide.

From the mountains.

To the prairies.

To the oceans white with foam.

Our home sweet home.

The post Red, White and Blues appeared first on Ginger M. Sullivan.

Winning the Lottery

“You can’t win if you don’t play!” So goes the well-known commercial jingle for the lottery system. Now, I’m not suggesting that you go buy a lottery ticket. The odds of winning are stacked against you. But, they are right. You can’t win if you don’t enter.

I think those of us in the growth and healing world should steal that tagline … “You can’t win if you don’t play!”

I mean, really? Do you actually want to be on your deathbed and be relieved that you never played? Are you really gonna say to yourself in your final moments of life review, “Thank God, I made it. I played it safe and I got through. I never got hurt. I stayed on the couch. I never had my heart jerked around. I never wanted anything. I never asked for anything. I never tried anything new. But, I was at least safe. Phew. I got through it.”

No, don’t do that.

Buy the damn ticket.

You won the sperm race for a reason. And it was not to sit on the sidelines and refuse to get in the game. Instead, raise your hand high. Get out there and skin your knees. Win the touchdown. Get your heart broken, pick it up and put it out there again. Play hard and, keep playing.

Then, when the time comes to say good-bye to this life, you will have the satisfaction of knowing that you bought the ticket. You showed up in your own one life.

Because, you can’t win if you don’t enter.

The post Winning the Lottery appeared first on Ginger M. Sullivan.

Finding Mother

The little bird was so desperate. “Are you my mother?” it asked the cow and the steam shovel. It would have probably asked anyone or anything that crossed its path. It needed to find a home.

Let’s face it … we all want to be mothered, regardless of our age. Our heart longs for someone to bring us chicken soup when we are sick. Someone to anticipate our needs. Someone that puts our wants and wishes above their own.

It’s human to desire to be taken care of. To not have to always be the one that is the resourceful, generous one.

Today, on Hallmark’s favorite day, take a moment and reflect.

If you had a wonderful mother, by all means, celebrate the hell outta her. She has earned it.

If you had a “good enough” mother, join the festivities. You are still in the lucky category.

If you had others who mothered you (and you did, or you wouldn’t be alive to read this), then find them and thank them. They are your true mothers.

If you are a mother, gifted with the immense task of raising another human being, then heap some gratitude upon yourself. You deserve it.

And, lastly, don’t forget to mother yourself. You can do that, you know. You can say “hello” to that small child that still exists in your aged, competent adult body. The one that screams – quietly or loudly – for attention, care, play, and a warm cookie right before dinner.

Mothering continues and grows the human race. We get a whole day out of the other 364 to recognize such value. Regardless of your story, find your place in this day, because even if its not obvious, you do have one.

The post Finding Mother appeared first on Ginger M. Sullivan.

Swimming in Deep Waters

“Come on in! The water is grand!” says our friend, swimming amongst the brilliantly colored coral and playful dolphins. She would sure love some company as to not be swimming alone out there.

The rest of us just wave from the ship’s deck. Margaritas – with salt, of course – gripped tightly in our hand.

“Hell, no!” we say to ourselves, our fear being masked by a socially acceptable grin. We aren’t getting in that water. It’s too dangerous. For, there are sharks in that water, too, you know. And various other unknown creatures lurking in that dark ocean No, we prefer to just watch while staying on solid, familiar ground.

However, it does look like fun and our friend might appreciate the company, but the risk of joining is too great. There is peril in those tumultuous waters. I prefer to stay wrapped in safety and comfort.

Sadly, we remain dry all our lives. Not only do we not lead the pack into deeper living, but we choose to never join those who do. We let someone else take all the risk while we busy ourselves with pretense. We choose to maintain that we have it all together while someone else braves vulnerability. We dare not admit the imperfect human mess we are – we all are. Rather, we refuse to swim in the depth of feeling we carry on the inside. We aren’t risking rejection, abandonment or judgment. We prefer to remain hidden to keep safe.

But, there is a price to pay for remaining on the ship’s deck. We miss out on the fun of both human connection and emotional exploration. Because, life’s best treasures lie in the water. It is in the sea where the goodies are – the buried treasure, neon fish, warm water and cresting waves. The satisfaction of being fully alive rests in the ocean’s magnitude.

So, jump in. Close your eyes, hold your nose and dive. Your friend or partner will appreciate the companionship. And you will never look back – except to wonder what took you so long.

The post Swimming in Deep Waters appeared first on Ginger M. Sullivan.

SPEAK

It’s a cardinal rule in coupledom: SPEAK. If you choose to remain voiceless out of either avoidance, fear of conflict, unworthiness, laziness, ease or whatever other foolish excuse you can come up with, then you are not in relationship. You are only enabling your partner to think he or she is in relationship when the only relationship he or she is really in is one with him/herself.

Did you get that? Reread that sentence. Digest its magnitude.

A relationship is defined by the co-existence of two people – two separate parties with differing thoughts, feelings, wants, wishes, histories, cultures, values, opinions and preferences. Therefore, it is essential that both partners put it all on the table.

Then, and only then, can we begin the negotiation, compromise and perhaps, surrender as to both decide and buy-in to all the small and large decisions we need to make as a team.

Sometimes, you get your way.

Sometimes, you don’t.

Sometimes, you get some of your way.

But you always, get your voice.

That, my friends, is true partnership.

For the rise of your life …

The post SPEAK appeared first on Ginger M. Sullivan.

Finding Becky

No. This is not a picture of a prop from the latest filming of a horror movie. But, not a bad idea. Maybe I can find her an agent. She’d be perfect for the part.

Rather, this is Becky, the baby doll from my childhood. She found her way out of a box as I was unpacking the footprints of my life. I know … my treasure, looking like someone else’s trash. I admit she is fucking ugly. She desperately needs a day at the doll hospital or even a spa, for that matter. But, it’s my fault she is so worn and tattered. She was not going to lie delicately on some shelf or perfectly made bed. Not my Becky. I adored her. She went places, She travelled alongside every step of my elementary school days. If only she could tell the stories of our comings and goings. The ones where she comforted me in my heartache and kept good company to my loneliness.

Notice her left arm. The one barely attached. The one hanging on by an Ace bandage. It remains witness to the scene of the crime. My older brother and I were at the top of the slide in the backyard. Of course, Becky would be along for the fun. I can’t recall if it was intentional or accidental, but I imagine the top of the ladder was crowded on that sunny afternoon. With one quick move, Becky’s arm became collateral damage. I don’t recall being anger at my brother. I sure should have been. I just remember the tears. The ones that would not stop pouring down my cheeks. How could I be so careless toward the one that cared so much for me?

Fortunately, more for me than Becky, my mother took my distraught seriously. We rushed Becky to the equivalent of a hospital – my father’s dental office. I know – it makes no sense. How is a tooth doctor going to fix my doll’s broken arm? But, Nurse Connie came to the rescue. She pieced Becky’s arm back together as if stitching my own heart at the same time. Healing ought to be that simple.

Forty-five years later, here comes Becky, scarily peering out of a cardboard Home Depot box. She refuses to go away, just as much as I refuse to throw her away. I guess, some parts of our childhood are made for keeps. Meanwhile, if you are looking for an extra at your next Halloween party, let me know. She’d be a surefire hit.

The post Finding Becky appeared first on Ginger M. Sullivan.

Scheduling Sunday

It’s Sunday. As a kid, that meant church and Sunday dinner with all the imagined Southern staples. No sleeping in or playing golf in our household. Rather, we were up, finely dressed and yelling at each other to hurry up as to not miss the opening hymn.

Right side, fourth row back were the indented cushions for the backsides of us Sullivans. I inherited my father’s elbow and during the many times I caught him snoozing during the lengthy sermon, he would get my abrupt pointed sharpness to his right side. I guess I thought it was my job to make sure he was getting enough Jesus. I wish now I had let the poor man sleep.

For a sundry of reasons folded in the many chapters of my life, I have chosen not to continue this tradition with my own family. Sunday has become a day for soccer games, laundry, kicking back and the necessary prep for the week ahead.

Yet, there is a part of me that longs for – and desperately needs – a day of perspective. A moment of full stoppage where I rise above the day-to-day and make meaning of what the hell I am doing with this measured and finite gift of my life.

No, it doesn’t have to be Sunday. Or even a full day, for that matter. It just needs to happen. A determined moment whereby I catch myself. Get off the hamster wheel. Stop and smell and see and feel and be and connect with all that is within and beyond me.

As healing salve for our busyness, we need serenity. Margin. Space between the business of making a living.

Christians call it Sunday. Jews call it the Sabbath. I don’t think it matters what you call it. I just know that it is essential to make life about living. For, it reminds us of purpose and recalls gratitude. Two ingredients to a satisfying existence.

Make a point of scheduling it. Your life will be richer for it.

For the rise of your life …

The post Scheduling Sunday appeared first on Ginger M. Sullivan.

Puzzling it Together

Are you a jigsaw puzzle fan? Those impossible ones with many thousands of pieces that all look the same?

Can’t say I really am one myself. I don’t have the patience, nor do I get bored enough, to willingly put myself through the agony of the cyclical torture … hope to “ah-ha” to “nope” to hopelessness back to hope again. Doesn’t life give us enough of such torment without having to seek it out, much less as supposed fun?

And, yet putting together puzzles is what I do all day long. A patient comes in, usually with some hint of discomfort – at least enough to make an appointment. And we get busy taking out all the pieces, turning them face-up on the card table and beginning the sometimes long and grueling process of making sense of an ever-evolving scene.

“That’s a corner piece.”

“This one belongs over here.”

“Now I can see the picture more fully.”

And on it goes till the final act when all the time, all the work, and all the anguish begin to take shape into a beautiful and satisfying form.

But be warned: if often feels worse before it gets better. Leaving those 1000 puzzle pieces neatly piled and plastic-wrapped in a sealed box sure sits better on a shelf. It is contained and safely tucked away. It’s not sprawled out in a mess in the middle of the living room.

But, there is no joy in such storage. And, I am greedy that way. I want a fully-formed picture. One that screams beauty and long-hours and diligence and yes, even patience. And if I can’t have that, at least give me effort. Give me your ass on the folding chair. Struggling to make sense of your best life possible. I’ll take that any day over an unformed picture.

So, start. Don’t wait for a snow day. Unwrap your potential. Your soul craves to be whole. We might even pull out the glue and a regal frame. Your artistry is so deserving.

The post Puzzling it Together appeared first on Ginger M. Sullivan.

Three Pods and Two Trucks

My life exists in three pods and two trucks. Except for the Hawaiian girl and the corn snake. They are being housed by the realtor.

Yesterday, we said good-bye to our home of ten years. The one where I raised my kids. Fed the neighborhood. Met the Montgomery County police and my fiancé. The one with the large hole in the backyard that is now filled in for the new owners. The one with neighbors that best Mayberry. The one that housed the loud pug and the black lab, better known as “the beast.” The one that snowed us in – on more than one occasion. And lost power the same number of times. The one with the open door and the unlocked windows. The one that secretly holds my daughter’s evolution via the layered paint colors – from hot pink to turquoise to brown. The one with crickets and annual Halloween parties and my son’s culinary artistry left in the cracks of the kitchen floor.

Yes, we moved out to move on. We pulled away, looking as if we were the second act of the “Beverly Hillbillies” – broom handles, bicycles and one large gas grill spilling out the edges of my fiancé’s diesel truck. Hardly a showing of Washington’s finest.

Hopefully, at some point soon, we will take root in our new abode. Meanwhile, we camp at a hotel while our whole life is contained in three pods and two trucks. Over fifty years of living and it all can be enclosed in three pods and two trucks. I guess all we really need is what we have inside and what we have between us.

At least, I have a toothbrush and two pairs of shoes I can alternate wearing to work this week. The high heels are somewhere. Stuffed in one of the pods, I am guessing.

My eyes water and my heart bursts. Three pods and two trucks. I am grateful to be on life’s grand adventure.

The post Three Pods and Two Trucks appeared first on Ginger M. Sullivan.