Meltdown and Recovery
I was a loser in CTL, the cultic group I was in for 18 years. I was one of the ones who'd never make it. I watched newbies enter the group and climb the leadership ladder while I stayed ever hopeful at the bottom. I was groomed to celebrate their ascent. Loyalty to my teacher, to the “depth, integrity and beauty” of what we were all striving for, was stitched securely into my psyche, making me a devoted student. 😇
I didn’t see, couldn’t see, how my faults: my ‘enormous pride’, my ‘extreme resistance’, my ‘rebellious arrogance’ were core elements of the cultic identity that my teacher crafted to keep me dependent on him and on the group. For eighteen years, I was a steadfast seeker, a tireless pursuer, a dedicated doer who engaged in as many personal sessions, classes and retreats as I possibly could.
Impossibly unrealistic. Undermining my family. Destabilizing our finances 💸 by filling his pockets. Sabotaging relationships... and everything else that’s detailed in my memoir, An Everyday Cult. I kept going, believing I would “get there” one glorious day. I believed that even people as damaged, stubborn, and lost as I was, could one day be free, if only we worked hard enough. 🧽
In the 11 years since I snapped and left the group, I’ve done therapy, healed, reclaimed my life, my family, my home. Aaannndddd….the recovery journey continually dishes out surprises. One such surprise walloped me before Saturday’s symposium when “the loser trope” in me resurfaced with vengeance.
Triggered by a barrage of factors, I had a complete early morning meltdown in my kitchen. ☕️ Thankfully, my husband was there to listen, to hold space for me while I decompensated into a blithering lost soul whose efforts would never be seen 💦 enough to allow me the dignity of a respectful livelihood. How desperately I want this for myself, for our family and how pathetically far I am from ever being capable of it. I went on and on and on and on and on. The waves of despair buffeted me for what felt like hours until I had to shift.
Seven inches of heavy snow ❄️ had fallen overnight and it was still coming down. I had to take care of myself. I slipped my snow-pants over my pajamas, bundled up and headed out. I just took an involuntary sigh while writing this. This is exactly what happened when I stepped outside. Deep breaths. 😮💨 Heavy steps, clomping through the snow, helped restore my sense of self. Stomp. Clomp. Whomp. One step at a time. I laid down by the pond, surrendering my anxiety to snow that supported the curves of my body. I let the falling snow melt on my face and finally moved my limbs upward and wide, making a snow angel.
Walking back to the house, I knew that I’d shifted from emotional meltdown into a tender, but grounded self who was ready to work. I had reached out to my wise friend and writer Kathleen who reminded me:
We don’t go numb out of fear when we are seen and speak the truth.
This, my friends, is what happens when we write. This is what the symposium was all about. This is at the heart of every single Writing to Reckon Class and the Connections Program.
Are you craving to be seen? To speak the truth?
PS The Writing to Reckon (W2R) Connections Program starts April 13th and meets for 7 Sundays. Because this program is dedicated to fostering a secure and nurturing space for survivors, we ask that all participants complete this application. This helps ensure that W2R Connections Program remains a safe and respectful environment for everyone involved.
PPS If you haven't already, come to a W2R Friday class for free, by using CLASSPASS, to see if it's a good fit for you.
PPSS The FREE MONTHLY ZOOM W2R PARTY IS THIS SUNDAY! Choose your favorite comfort drink or food and come share a short piece of your writing with fellow survivors. REGISTER HERE.
