That cliché moment you realize you’re literally dragging your past baggage to Thailand.
See, here’s why I’m dragging this stuff from place to place: I don’t have a home. No really, my childhood home was foreclosed after I was raised in a cult that then excommunicated my whole broken family. No roots, no base, no ‘Oh Heidi’s from there.’ It’s why I’m off to my next adventure — Thailand this time. Constantly moving makes me feel more in control of my instability. I’m pretty sure that’s what a psychotherapist would say, anyway. By subletting my room in Vermont, my latest questionable attempt at roots where I’m on an off-term in grad school, I can afford a whole month on a permaculture farm in the jungle province of Chiang Mai and work on my memoir.
So yes, I need these archives for research. But it also felt, in the moment when I noticed the living metaphor of my literal baggage, like I had found an elaborate excuse to stay attached to the pain and bitterness of my past: endlessly lugging around and delving into it.
I thought writing my story would be cathartic but I’m getting more and more afraid it’s making me bitter. Like, bitter, bitter. Since the onslaught of the holidays, and trying to navigate complicated present family relationships while delving into awful past ones, I’ve felt resentment festering, bitterness tightening its cold, iron grip on my soul and hurt constricting my heart like winding poison ivy with fangs.
Let’s see what the dictionary says about bitterness.
1. sharpness of taste; lack of sweetness.
2. anger and disappointment at being treated unfairly; resentment.
Yep. That’s how I feel.
Here’s the thing: I’ve read the self-help books. Right now I’m on the can’t-recommend-it-enough “The Tao of Fully Feeling: Harvesting Forgiveness Out of Blame.” I practice gratitude. I pray. I do creative things every day and sometimes I even journal morning pages. I take Omega 3’s, and most days, I get some leafy greens in. I even have a ‘sparkle’ tattoo to remind me to ‘keep the glow’ (I lived in southern Cali for awhile so that’s my excuse). All around I think I’m doing a pretty good job at following a generally reassuring mash-up of scientific and spiritual advice on the pursuit of happiness.
But what about when you’ve bought into the assurance that ‘writing your story’ will bring catharsis, only it’s taking ten years to write it? What about when ‘loving yourself’ is at odds with ‘forgiveness’ (both highly recommended, it seems, by maddeningly well-adjusted people on Ted Talk type forums who appear to have transcended: what’s taking me so long?!). Back home I’m finding it hard to put up clear boundaries while seeking love and support from my abusive, traumatized family and delving into creative work that all just happen to be, literally, related.
How hard can you work on yourself before something gives? Why do I keep reliving on-the-edge drama no matter how much I try to make good decisions? Why does my family treat me like garbage for even trying, when I love them so much and have only ever loved them so much?
And so, I run again, dragging these issues behind me in a literal suitcase. My bitterness feels at a boiling point and my heart feels like it might cave in on itself. This can’t be good. What do you do when it feels like bitterness might win out?
I hope you’ll come along with me as I blog about my creative journey and hopeful defeat of the beckoning dark side, starting with this month-long move to Thailand.
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