What Healing Really Looks Like

It seems alleviating the pressure of producing something every week has opened up a door in me I didn’t know existed. I’m sure there will be more. I’ll send them out as they come. ______________________________________________________

A couple of weeks ago, I saw a friend’s post on Facebook. A collection of photographs she’d taken at a party hosted by someone I used to work with, I noticed several friends, one of whom is a very close one.

The little girl in me was immediately sad she hadn’t been invited.

But you don’t even really connect with the person who hosted it, I said to her. You were never friends with her. In fact, when a post from her came up in your feed last month, you debated whether or not to unfriend her.

None of that had an impact on the child who still felt left out.

I went on with my life, continuing to rationalize why I shouldn’t feel the way I did.

This past week, another former work friend posted some photos from a professional conference he was attending. They included my old boss with whom things did not end well.

I felt a twinge, but I quickly pushed it away reasoning that I had no right to feel the way I did. After all, I chose to walk away from that job. Why should I care that they were together and having fun?

Then I had a messenger conversation with my friend Pete Fernbaugh, founder of the Ohio Valley Cloak & Dagger Company, playwright, and incredibly talented human being, who I met through the same job. He was working hard to navigate the thoughts and emotions he was experiencing while on vacation, determined to understand why everything felt like a lot.

We talked about neurodivergency - the difficulty often experienced in the process of accepting how your brain is wired, the overwhelm you push through not to rock the boat or seem ungrateful or abnormal, the exhaustion experienced after you’re finally in your safe space.

He knows a lot about my process of suspecting, exploring, researching, resisting and finally accepting my neurodivergence. The imposter syndrome I went through because I don’t fit the stereotype of gamer, Rubick’s cube solver or chess champ. The joy of realizing that I may not be able to do any of those things, but if you gave me a job like Peter Jackson filming three separate movies at one time, I’d kill that. In fact, the very idea of the challenge titillates me. The confusion about how to explain to family and friends that at almost sixty, I’d discovered something really important about myself.

Toward the end of our conversation, I admitted that I am grieving.

Grieving the millions of times I berated myself for not fitting in. All the things I did even though I wasn’t comfortable because it was just easier (or so I thought then). The longing and strong desire I had to “belong” in places where I was never going to fit no matter how hard I tried. The behaviors I believed were quirks but were really signs pointing to my neurological wiring - bringing a lamp into every office I’ve ever had because I despised overhead lighting, my heightened sense of smell and taste, my need to jump from one thing to another and then back again.

I’m still mourning the loss of experiences I will never have because I’ve passed the point where my body will cooperate. Relationships that won’t ever exist since the thick collection of masks I were a barrier to healthy intimacy. The success I never achieved despite all the trying.

In discussing this with him, it hit me why I felt the way I did about the party photos and the pictures at the conference. And the sadness came upon me, ever-present innocuous clouds that suddenly released a steady stream of rain.

I wanted to be a part of the inner sanctum in that job in ways I cannot articulate. I wanted to be accepted, acknowledged, and validated. The drive to be included caused me to ignore how toxic the environment was for me. Maybe not for everyone, but certainly for the way my brain is wired.

So, I pushed through. Did things that didn’t feel right in the name of recognition. Forced myself to accept assignments for fear of getting a demerit if I didn’t. Ignored the growl in my belly, the tightness in my throat, the conversation in my head. All in the name of being accepted and appreciated.

As I contemplated all of this, the steady rain turned into a thunderstorm and I found myself doubled over, crying. But it wasn’t only about this job. It was the amalgamation of all the other times where I pretended to be someone I was not. To avoid conflict. To feel a part of something. To belong. Somewhere.

Attending concerts where I was overwhelmed by the sheer number of people and the energy they projected. Allowing myself to be talked into going to bars and clubs that made me want to jump out of my skin. Diving in headfirst with an idea because I believed it would bring me the sense of connection I craved.

I still feel the sadness. And I am committed to allowing it to exist in me until it’s ready to go.

This is what healing looks like.

It’s been almost five years since I left that job. In this process I have blamed, judged, justified, explained and defended. I have forgiven, accepted and allowed the feelings their space until they dissolved. Over and over and over.

This is what healing looks like.

I have given myself permission to be exactly where I am without judgment or consequence. I’ve talked to friends, journaled, screamed, cried and laid in bed paralyzed from all the feelings.

This is what healing looks like.

If you are a seeker. Someone who feels they don’t ever fit in no matter the effort to make it so. Or a neurodivergent wondering why your life doesn’t look like that of friends or family, perhaps this last entry from my conversation with Pete, his response to my realization of what my reaction to those photos was really about, will resonate with you.

You and I are part of a unique group of travelers: we are Wayfaring Strangers. Whether we're actually traveling or not, the seeking we do guarantees we'll never fully fit in. We're fugitives from the status quo. We've tried to align with systems, but our spirits can't be confined. We're destined, perhaps sentenced to always traveling and roaming and much like your trip the other day, meandering. We're never without purpose, because we're always seeking. Those who conform--not bashing them--sense this about us. We stand out without trying. There's a difference to the energy we project. It's not a bad energy. It's a whimsical, unpredictable energy that threatens safety and security, the two things all humans desire.

Therefore, we'll always be wayfarers and always be strangers, and it won't be until after folks have encountered us that they'll be grateful they did. All of this is through no effort of our own. We just are that way. Blessing and a curse.

Until next time…