Portrait in Linen

I’m think I’m through being vulnerable.

Vulnerability doesn’t seem like one of those things I can change on a conscious decision, like whether to wear my hair up or down, whether to pair flats or heels with an outfit, whether to highlight the eyes or the lips today.

But I think I’m disgusted. I think I’ve had enough.

I credit a moment of clarity tonight when I truly felt the weight of my own neuroses. It had to do, again, with measuring up, looking like I’m worth something or looking like I’m worthless, feeling like I have something truly valuable to offer the world, or feeling like I have nothing at all to offer anyone.

Lost. I’ve been lost in my own head, stumbling blind, trying to find some familiar path to equilibrium, but suspecting such a path does not exist.

Of course it doesn’t exist. If I’d beaten a path as a child, I wouldn’t be fumbling like I am this thirty-fourth year of my life. In here is a wilderness; there are no paths. If I’m to find my way, some direction, gain some sense of orientation, I’ll have to take it upon myself to start tearing down and trampling the overgrowth.

No more apologies.

I’ve been so afraid of relapsing into Entitlement Complex that I’ve convinced myself I am entitled to nothing. Guilt does that. It robs you of any self-respect and leads you to relinquish all self-worth. You spend a lifetime punishing yourself because you actually feel you deserve a lifetime of punishment.

How in the world did I GET this way??? Who’s responsible for twisting up my head like this? Could my reckless acts of immaturity, irresponsibility, and selfishness really have created such a profoundly deep, enduring remorse? Or could a mere human being be to blame for so much damage?

I accept I perceive metaphor in everything, and therefore melodramatize and romanticize.
I accept I am persistent.
I accept I am process-oriented.
I accept I am territorial.
I accept I am inquisitive.
I accept I am creatively chaotic.
I accept I am passionate.
I accept I am compulsively expressive.

I can honestly say I never intend to do harm, yet I also admit I am slow to admit my wrongdoings because it hurts so badly to face my responsibility for wounding someone. Why? Because I have never figured out how to sufficiently make amends. It’s either deny deny deny or avoid avoid avoid and salvage some pride and self-respect, or…it’s accept grossly ill-proportionate self-flagellation for an inappropriately prolonged period of time. See how neither of these is reasonable.

(I might attribute my reconciliative ineptitude to years of being an easy victim of guilt trips, and this might be a valid hypothesis, because I’m so good at dishing those out. I loathe that about me, but I am conscious of it, and I do fight the knee-jerk reaction when I feel it coming on (even though I am usually unsuccessful in aborting it).)

What is reasonable is, “I’m so sorry that I hurt you. I was wrong. I was (stubborn, insensitive, selfish, thoughtless, etc.), and I will make an ardent, genuine effort to refrain from making the same mistake again.” Sweet and simple.

And if such an apology is not accepted, isn’t it then out of my hands? Is it really necessary for me to grovel or cower or continue to wallow in guilt after that?

No. And acknowledging this, I cannot continue to allow my own psychological balance to be dependent on the attitudes of the wounded. I should be compassionate, sympathetic, gentle…but not a whipping boy. Or girl, rather.

I think that in order to put this newfound knowledge into practice, I’d have to develop a well-established sequence of actions that I consciously execute whenever I find myself in such a situation. I couldn’t continue to rely on my emotional reactions, because they’re “whacked”—irrational and unreliable. I’d have to “train” myself to adhere to the boundaries I’ve created, no matter what. That would require some pretty durable gumption.

But since I’m being affirmative, I’m going to declare I have what it takes. I am hereby refusing to be a victim anymore. I will no longer be a Vulnerable.

Tonight’s reading of Karate-Dō by Gichin Funakoshi was an anecdote entitled, “The Danger of Pride.” Funakoshi tells of an incident that took place when he was in his early thirties.

One day, while traveling a long, deserted road to his home in Shuri, Funakoshi passed a group of young men holding a hand wrestling competition. He didn’t interrupt the match, but observed from a distance.

After some time, the men took notice of Funakoshi and invited him to join. Funakoshi declined–”Please excuse me, but I must go now”–and he turned to leave, but the group dragged him to the competition.

Funakoshi easily won the match with the first man. And the second. And the third, fourth and fifth. The two remaining men were much older and stronger, and it was obvious to Funakoshi that they might present some challenge.

He agreed to wrestle the first older man, and he won that match, too. But instead of staying to wrestle with the oldest and strongest man of the group, Funakoshi excused himself to resume his journey.

As expected, the group of men followed and eventually attacked him in the middle of the road. Funakoshi defended himself against all seven men, warding off every blow aimed at him, and when it became clear to the group that they wouldn’t be able to beat him, they gave up. “Who is this guy? He seems to know karate.”

The attack ceased, and Funakoshi again made his way toward his destination. He writes…

By the time I reached Shuri, I was filled with remorse. Why had I entered that hand-wrestling competition? Was it, I asked myself, mere curiosity? But the real answer came to my mind: it was overconfidence in my strength. It was, in a word, pride. It was a violation of the spirit of Karate-dō, and I felt ashamed. Even as I tell the story now, these many years later, I still feel deeply ashamed.

—

I find this story so remarkable, because–at first–I thought to myself, “Well, this story doesn’t say anything about the danger of pride. He didn’t ask to enter the competition. He never claimed he could beat everyone. He didn’t boast about winning. Where was his pride? It wasn’t evident to anyone else. Why is it an issue?”

By the time I finished the last paragraph, I understood. Funakoshi was less ashamed of his pride than he was of his false humility.

—

Several years ago, someone mentioned to me the subject of “false humility.” At the time, in my immature, self-absorbed bubble of naivety, I didn’t pick up on the fact the phrase “false humility” was being wielded in reference to me.

Since I reached the age of majority, I thought I’d matured enough, had become wise enough to the world, was confident enough in my own introspection that I would’ve been able to spot any character flaws I might have, so not only did I entirely miss the implication, I was later offended anyone would dare point out a weakness of mine before I came to recognize it myself.

Hindsight is 20/20.

I was falsely humble. And I still am. Often.

I trace the development of that glaring imperfection to childhood. No matter what potential I may have had, I was placed on a pedestal from Day One. The bar was set–High, High. Dad just knew I could do it, so I did. Again and again. So not only did I prove myself, I proved myself in his reflection, because he was on a pedestal. His bar was set High, High, too, and he did it, again and again.

Is that to say I never struggled to achieve? Course not. I think I may have become so accustomed to the pressure to perform, I took it in stride, and eventually, it came to be a natural, perpetual state. Performance. Competition. Achievement. To maintain the precedence.

One can be completely unconscious of her expectation to win. I know this, because every time I was in the spotlight or on the carpet, I was racked with anxiety, a tangle of nerves. I performed under a thousand guns, half of them Dad’s, half of them mine. Recalling it now, it felt like Do-or-Die. Like my very life depended on my performance.

But in the aftermath, waiting for the verdict, the anxiety slowly gave way to a quiet confidence. If I’d done well, I knew I’d done well, and I expected to come out–if not on top–at least in the top tier. And when it happened that way, what else could be a more effective reinforcement of “quiet confidence”?

That cycle of anticipation, expectation, performance, and reward churned and churned and eventually bled over into every other aspect of life: academics, art, friends, love interests, self-image, vocational aspirations, leisure pursuits.

And here we are, so many decades later. The veil has been lifted. I’m no longer blissfully ignorant of my tendency to overconfidence. The kicker is…I am usually very adept at keeping it stuffed so far down inside, that–in the war between what I know to be right and good, and what I know to be dark and deplorable–the conscientious effort to suppress my pride gives way to a gross overcompensation of self-abasement, shame, self-defeat, and fear. Two extremes; neither is healthy nor righteous.

“Don’t compete with anyone else. Don’t compete with yourself. Just train, just train…,” I was told.

I don’t think anything else at all about my training is so breakingly difficult as the challenge to extract myself from this infernal “ladder mentality.” I don’t want to be concerned about anyone else. I don’t want to be concerned about me, where I weigh in, how I weigh in, if I weigh in. If I could have one granted desire in life, if would be pure contentment with who I am and what I produce–As Is. No fear of being too much, no fear of being too little. Just being, and being allowed to fail or achieve, or both, and still find myself in some genuine favor with the world (even if it’s a very small world; I don’t ask for much).

There are hundreds and hundreds of memories of mine, just like Funakoshi’s, that I look back on with the most repulsively bitter remorse. Life makes no omissions. Blame youth. Blame your parents. Blame your human flesh. But it all boils down to awareness. Not only is there now awareness, but also confession. I’m aware. I confess. I blame no one but me.

I can only hope it doesn’t take a premier instance of humiliation to crush forever my pride and overconfidence. I can only hope I’m never called out at the height of my self-scorn and shamed into a brand-new, twisted false pride. What’s left but paralysis? Frozen in a dusty, psychological mine field?

Take a deep breath. Forget Dad for a while. Forget me. Just train.

So much for “Guilt-Free.”  I wouldn’t take L’Auberge buffet for a “best-push-up-bra and strappy heels” kinda place, to hear about it, but Josie confirmed–it is.  I don’t own one skirt above the knee, and certainly no bust-plunging tops.  And even if I did, I wouldn’t wear that to lunch.  What does it matter anyway?  Why is everything so complicated?

And why am I even dealing with this?

—

Karate class was not easy tonight.  I think my stamina is improving a tiny bit, but there is still so much to be desired.  Had another light-headed episode, but thankfully, it didn’t set in until the very end of class.  This time, I did have to lie down on the bench in the dressing room to recover.

I felt so bad for Sensei Sweet (female instructor who has welcomed me with open arms from the very beginning).  I think I scared her.  She encouraged me to step outside to get some fresh air, but again, shame was paralyzing, so even though I knew it would probably be good for me, I refused and just lay there being miserable, waiting for the icky heat-blech to pass.

And it did.  Drank some lukewarm water I had in my bag, took a deep breath, and took a seat to observe the second class.

“The Second Class”–which is for Intermediate/Advanced karateka–is a dilemma in and of itself.  Some time ago, Senpai Kūnane (previously referred to as “Sensei Kūnane,” but he instructed me to call him “Senpai” (senior student) in class, and just “Kūnane” outside of the dōjō) encouraged me to begin to train through the second class, too.

It was an honor to be invited to participate.  I’m under the impression attending the second class is the thing to do if one would like optimum preparation for the next round of belt testings.  And each class holds something new.  Always something else to learn; I certainly wouldn’t want to miss out on that.  But, I knew without even thinking about it that I wasn’t ready to take part in a second hour of training, and I’m still not.

So, I’ve compromised.  The second class is the perfect opportunity for me to listen, write things down, hear the corrections, watch the way the higher ranking students move, get a solid visual of what to do and what not to do.  It really helps.

When we were preparing for Merrie Monarch year before last and I couldn’t get to Houston or Dallas as often as everyone else, I had to compensate.  The rest of the haumāna got twice as much practice, twice as much correction, had the opportunity to watch and study the senior dancers’ movements, and were able to work on emulating them as closely as possible.

Since I didn’t have the same opportunity, I watched Merrie Monarch DVDs from previous years.  I studied the winning hālaus, watched how the dancers’ feet moved across the floor, studied how they held their shoulders, the angle of their hands, the expressions on their faces.  I studied every single detail and practiced in the mirror, trying to get my body to move exactly like theirs.

And it helped.  Noe (one of the hālau leaders) told me, “You’ve improved by leaps and bounds.”  That was so rewarding, and it proved there are alternate means of honing skill for those of us who can’t practice or train along with everyone else all the time.

Maybe I’ll recognize it when the time has come that I can handle participating in “The Second Class.”  I guess the first sign will be, at the end of an especially challenging class, I don’t feel like I’m about to hurl my cookies all over the place or do a Scarlett O’Hara swoon in the middle of the floor.
—

Thinking about Dad so much lately.  I would be afraid of diving into another episode, but I just can’t cry these days.  That bothers me.

Therapist said I need to give myself permission to be angry, to not let go of the logical, justified bad feelings that come along with the conflict, or I risk invalidating my standards.  That’s so easy to do when it seems like life would be easier, return to normal if we just let bygones be bygones and start over.

But I know that’s a ruse and a time bomb.  I know it’s absolutely necessary I accept the anger, own it, then deal with it appropriately.  The thing is, I naturally react to my own anger with guilt for being angry.  I always feel like I must be pitching a fit or blowing things out of proportion or projecting my anger at myself onto someone else.  I never feel justified.  Why is that???  Why has it felt like anger is off-limits to me?  How can a person maintain a healthy psyche with certain emotions entirely omitted???

—

Too tired for art or study tonight.  But I need to concentrate on writing anyway.  Will do a couple more proofs of the parenting article I have on the plate, then it’s off to the mom-mag editor.  Ho