Trauma dump alert! Trigger warning below: childhood, self harm. This was written by Early 2020 version Bri who was growing through some things. It feels very raw and makes me want to throw up to share, but that’s part of what eclectic purpose is, a baring of the soul and all of it’s sides, pretty or not. See note from 2023 Bri at the end.
“The primary fruit flavors in Pinot Grigio are lime, lemon, pear, white nectarine and apple. Depending on where the grapes are grown, Pinot Grigio can take on faint honeyed notes; floral aromas like honeysuckle; and a saline-like minerality.”
– The Simple Wine
I forgot about this part of myself. The part that loves a cold Pinot Grigio on a hot day.
Yesterday, I felt as though I could conquer the world as I conquered my never ending to-do list. On days such as that I feel super-human. As if my batteries are not only charged but would essentially electrocute to cinders anything they touch.
Today I laid in a random field. I moved to the south to enjoy the sunshine, the water, and to find something else. I think I know what it is but I’m not quite sure yet. Some hidden part of myself I brought with me from Missouri but didn’t realize was taking up so much valuable room in my heart because I didn’t even know it was there.
The water is off limits due to the global pandemic. I ordered a beach lounge chair and decided on enjoying some park sunshine. The parks are off limits so I found a sunny spot of grass near my apartment. That was fun while it lasted but then one day was informed by a nearby stranger that someone (“an older gentlemen with a camera lense this big *insert hands a foot a part*) had taken several photos of me while I basked with my eyes closed in the sunshine, giving me life after being cooped in the house for several days. I’m not the biggest fan of being secretly photographed so I packed up and decided to find a different patch of sunshine, a safer one.
So I laid on the beach chair in the grass in a random field, soaked in sweat, and read a book, turning my body with the pages every few minutes. Looking around every other second to make sure no one was watching me, or about to tell me to get off their land. When I lay on my belly I read. When I lay on my back I listen to music and stare at the clouds.
When I got home there was a box of Pinot Grigio in the fridge. I haven’t drank white wine in quite a while. I have been very much a black coffee, merlot, and double IPA sort of person.
Something about these strong, bitter flavors are like a salve to some aching part of me. Maybe they relate to my inner warrior, the mother and the father of my own psyche, the part that started to grow up as soon as my physical body breathed it’s first breath of life. Is this the part who still feels like we haven’t been through the worst of what’s to come in life? The part that is always waiting for the other shoe to drop?
Maybe it is in reality quite the opposite. Maybe one of my spirit guides is a tough, rugged spiritual warrior who doesn’t mind being muddy, wearing old, worn clothing because it is comfortable. Who hikes thousands of miles for self-development reasons while somehow also to save the entire human race, who can pack up and leave everything and everyone in order to rip and tear at the pages of life’s story until the next chapter is open.
When I was about 9 years old I went to a conference called “Do Hard Things”. Even though the conference was about evangelical living, it created a shift within me. Being homeschooled in a pseudo-cult, this concept oddly was newly framed to me even though I did really challenging things all the time…I just didn’t consider them hard because they were normal for me.
For instance, for a few months around age around 10-11, I would wake up at four in the morning, to do my school work while the rest of the house slept. Among other books, my mother had ordered Mennonite-created curriculum (shout out to Rod and Staff), which in beginning elementary school taught us every lesson through diagramming Bible verses, etc. My mom didn’t want me to use the actual curriculum books because she resold them, so I wrote my lessons in a notebook. My history book “The Story of the World”, among other curriculum were all Biblically based. When I got to be a bit older, I would create my own schedule, do the work myself, and often even grade myself. Eventually I learned that if I woke up so SO early, I could get all my school work done, and then have the whole day to do whatever I wanted. Eventually this time of behavior lead to me combining my sixth and seventh grade schoolwork (along with one of my close friends), so when I turned fourteen I entered public school for the first time as a sophomore.
When my parents divorced, we had visitations in the police station with my father. The reason for this unusual situation can be explained at a later time and has many aspects itself, but if we are focusing on this aspect: I used to bring books, school work, nail polish, snacks, etc. to try to make the most of my time during those hours. They were long hours for two children (my brother even 3 years younger than I). Two or three hours on Wednesday evenings, and the whole day on Saturdays. Just how children should be spending their limited childhood hours.
I experimented briefly with self-harm, in high school, but it was never “enough” for me to feel like it impacted my life in a significant way. It was always to enjoy seeing my own blood, and experimental to say the least. It was for such a short period of time, and I relatively quickly realized this was not what I was looking for. Not the way to feel better. However, each time I think of this strange time, I feel like it doesn’t count as part of my story at all because it “wasn’t deep enough” or I didn’t do it “long enough” (about two years or so, alternating with other forms of intentional bodily self-harm). What an odd thing. Being a teenager, still a child, witness to my own pain, and maybe even proud of it. Looking back, I know I needed to be able to put the pain somewhere, and it served that purpose in a very warped way at that time.
Shortly after this stint came hot yoga. Sometimes I would get dizzy in class from not sleeping or eating enough before, a feeling that far too many can relate too. Yet hot yoga made me feel strong. With cultivation of a regular practice, it gave me the first tools I learned on my path to self-growth, love and development. I may have gotten into it for a wrong reason, and become addicted to the intensity, but it birthed something new within me that grew with me into something that spurred love and grace for myself while building strength. More on this later.
When I lived with exes in the past, and in fact for the vast majority of these relationships, I tried to be an overwhelmingly “good girlfriend”. To avoid excessive detail, I gave every bit of myself: my body, creativity, love, personality, friendship, cognition, time, growth, and willpower. I state this not to blame them, but because it was for the most part, self-motivated. Looking back, it was another form of self-torture, of self-destruction. Not because of what they did or didn’t do, but because of who I was at that time in my life. Giving your all away and leaving nothing for yourself breeds resentment, but I learned this with time.
Last year I completed a 200 hour integrated yoga teacher training while still working full time, sold everything my partner and I could not fit in two cars, packed up those two cars and moved 14 hours away where we lived in a motel for about 8 weeks until we had enough in state pay stubs to rent an apartment in a complex that was just recently transitioning from no longer being section 8 housing. I taught preschool full time and served at a local brunch diner. I ran a half marathon while having acute bronchitis. Always leaning into intensity, finding an edge.
Perhaps everything I have done in my life up until now is cultivating strength in a twisted, painful way. Or maybe it is me trying to prove to myself how strong I am in every single fiber of my being.
Anyway, I haven’t drank a sweet, white wine in quite a while. I have been gravitating more to coffee, merlot, tequila shots (chaser optional), and double IPAs. I forgot the beauty of a crisp white wine, sharp and cold, after soaking in a dark, earthy tan.
So today, after savoring that first sip, I took a deep breath and remembered that there is more to a life well-lived than being strong and disciplined. A part that softens the essence of humanity a bit. It is fruity, tangy and sweet. It is pale honeysuckle yellow. It’s just a little salty like the sea. It is hope for the future and the comfort of being in the present. A deep, belly breath of air.
– March 7th, 2020
A 2023 note: Looking back, this is obviously romanticizing some very unhealthy aspects of my life, but even 2020 Bri had no idea what was still to come. A breakup, a pandemic, a whole relationship, becoming a mother, a move back to Missouri…each with it’s own new variety of trauma. Now I still lean into intensity, but strive to in nurturing, growth filled, fulfilling ways. I am so beyond grateful for how far I have come! We all self-destruct in some ways at some point, but I am grateful mine is much more mild now and I can truly lean into self love on the reg.