“Owning our story can be hard but not nearly as difficult as spending our lives running from it. Embracing our vulnerabilities is risky but not nearly as dangerous as giving up on love and belonging and joy—the experiences that make us the most vulnerable. Only when we are brave enough to explore the darkness will we discover the infinite power of our light.” ― Brené Brown
Our Armor Protects and Traps Us
- I disliked being a liar.
- My behaviors embarrassed me.
- But most of all, I felt ashamed that I’d given my children back to their father.
Alcohol and drugs created the problem, but alcohol and drugs numbed the feelings that I didn’t want to feel.
I wore my defense like a thick coat of armor, believing I could protect myself from unkind words and comments on my behaviors.
If I could find a way to be protected from those words, there would not be more negative feelings about myself.
Yes, the armor deflected some criticism, but that protection also meant that the armor trapped those negative feelings inside.
Trapped With Only My Negativity
I could not dissipate those feelings and was alone in my armor with them. It was an insidious trap.
What many people do not understand is that we are not all using to fill a void; some of us are using to dull the too full feelings – guilt, remorse, recriminations, and shame. Nor was I using to hurt people more. I didn’t think about their pain; I was too caught up in my pain, and doing anything to protect myself from the truth.
Breaking Through the Armor
There were people in my life who would bravely comment on my use, knowing that they would receive a scathing remark from me. Some of my excuses were probably ones you use, too.
- “If you felt like I do, you would drink and use drugs, too.”
- “When you feel like I do, and have my problems, you’ll see things differently.”
- “If you. . . followed by anything that would change the focus of the conversation.
Yes, I felt protected by my armor, but it also meant that no one trying to help me could reach me, and that seemed short-sighted and at odds with my statements that I wanted to get better. It wasn’t until I realized that if I cooperated with people trying to help me, I could help tear down my defenses.
I only heard condemnation, which in turn added another layer to the armor. Underneath the defenses, I was in emotional pain. I felt fragile, wounded, and vulnerable to comments, but did not understand that this vulnerability would be my salvation.
Shattering My Defenses
Five caring people staged an intervention on September 30, 1988. For once, I did not erect the shield of denial and deception. I just asked them what I needed to do. They all appeared relieved that they didn’t have to confront me; that I was finally willing to be vulnerable and let others tell me what to do. They told me that I had to enter treatment that night, which I did.
The preferred method of treatment available then was to “peel the onion” and expose the addict to all of their denials. There is nothing more demoralizing than having six to eight people ripping off whatever defenses they perceive we are using.
Even as I was telling the intake worker that I only wanted to get better, she dismissed these types of comments and asked me how much did I still want to use, not from a clinical perspective or to decide if I might be in withdrawal, but judging my statements as false.
My first group consisted of questions about my behaviors. With each subsequent admission, I felt my armor crumbling and in turn felt more exposed, defenseless and helpless. I’m surprised in retrospect that more of us did not explode or implode in this seemingly hostile environment.
A Kinder, Gentler Way to Get to the Truth
Over the years, I’ve gotten comfortable with talking and writing about what I did. Not because I’m proud of my actions, but because I know when I admit my shortcomings and mistakes, it opens the door for others to recognize and concede theirs.
How might this approach prove invitational to someone struggling in early recovery? By letting them know that others have committed the same kinds of horrible acts, changed, made amends and now live better lives.
Your Truth, My Truth, and Our Truths
I’ve created a truth for myself over the years. There is nothing new under the sun; the experience wore my face one time, and yours another. In other words, there is someone, somewhere who shares the experience and the way out.
When I chose to expose my story, I found others with similar life experiences. However, they are not all women, not all mothers, not all Caucasians, and not all about my age.
In that moment of being vulnerable and telling my story and asking for guidance, I found men, women, young people, old people and various methods that would help me find:
- Ways to make amends
- Alternative behaviors, thoughts, and feelings
- Renewed interest in living
- Ways to Tear Down the Defenses
I realized that staying in that trapped armor, I would never experience healing. As long as I wore masks to hide the pain, I could not get any better, and that seemed genuinely sad. Did I feel exposed? Yes, but it was a conscious choice to become vulnerable to healing.
I’ve always valued this passage from The Love Mindset by Vironika Tugaleva, “It is almost as if we are all playing a big game of hide-and-go-seek. We all hide expecting to be found, but no one has been labeled the seeker. We stand behind the wall, at first excited, then worried, then bored, then anxious, then angry. After a while, the game is not fun anymore. Where is my seeker? Where is the person who is supposed to come to find me here in my protected shell and cut me open?”
Becoming Vulnerable to the Seekers
I knew that no seeker was going to come in precisely the way I wanted, but that each person trying to help me was a seeker. Staying in that walled-off, armored place, I felt lonely, frightened, and prone to relapse.
The armor felt like protection, yet could potentially become yet another prison and keep me from healing.
Give Someone an Opportunity to Help You
Recovery gives us the opportunity to be the seeker; to dispose of the armor and remove the masks.
It is in our vulnerability that we prove our courage to heal; by asking for and receiving guidance from others who have healed. It feels vulnerable, but when you remove the armor, tear down your walls, and drop the masks; it gives others a chance to help you heal.
Writing, and recovery heals the heart.
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