Abandonment Part 1

The following is the first in a series of blogs on abandonment. I strongly encourage you to respond with comments, questions, or ideas in the comments section. Abandonment is such a huge issue for so many people, that any dialogue, discussion, or sharing about it could be extremely beneficial for anyone in the blogging community who struggles with it.

        The word “abandonment” is a positively terrifying word for those who are petrified of being left. Which is to say, most of us. Or that population of most of us who are in touch with that piece of ourselves.
        Rejection, loneliness, insecurity, inadequacy, worthlessness, shame, hopelessness, and despair can all be triggered by the “A” word. That’s one reason it can feel so impossibly painful. Because abandonment ignites virtually every other smoldering hurt we have. And it sets ablaze anything else that is already up for us. We can be burning alive. And if we’re in denial about the pain, or if we’re depressed and therefore numb, we don’t even know that we’re on fire.
        Abandonment is not content with attacking us by itself. As if it were not overwhelming enough, it recruits all of our other great pains too. Soon, it’s as though we’re drowning in a toxic stew of our greatest sufferings and our most frightening nightmares.
        Abandonment takes no prisoners. It can feel like it’s trying to kill you. Maybe it is. Because the pain is so great, we sometimes believe that death might feel better. Maybe abandonment is doing us a favor by trying to kill us so that we don’t have to suffer anymore.
        If our abandonment issue goes deep enough, it feels like it’s who we are. There is nothing deeper. It is us. Everything else on top is just frosting over this dark, tortured self. That means we will never be rid of it. We will never be over it. It will always be with us, and it will run us whenever we face it.
        Our abandonment pain comes from somewhere back in childhood. If it goes back far enough, we don’t consciously remember the incidents or memories that created the original wounds.
        In my case, it goes back as far back as it possibly can. Birth.
        Right out of the womb that I shared with my twin brother, I got shipped off into an incubator for three weeks. Alone. No mom. No dad. No twin. No hanging out in the hospital room with the family for a few days. Nobody at all, except a nurse who fed me a few times a day. I don’t even know how much, if at all, she touched me when she fed me. Judging by how affectionate I am, and by my desire and love of physical contact, I’d guess that I probably wasn’t touched much at all my first three weeks of life.
        Being left alone at birth like that is similar to what an orphan experiences. I’m not comparing my entire childhood to that of an orphan’s childhood. But I am drawing a parallel to my original wound and the original wound of an orphan. Or with anyone else who can’t consciously remember the pain of their original abandonment.
        This emotional and physical orphaning leaves very deep, very big, very painful scars. The issue can loom large in our lives. Especially in our intimate relationships. That’s where the rubber meets the road. Because it was an initial love relationship with a parent, or parents, that created the original wound. We carry that with us into every intimate relationship from then on. Only when we become aware of it and choose to face it can we be set free. Like the worst monster we can imagine, unresolved abandonment can keep us prisoner our entire lives.
        To me, that monster looked so enormous, so invincible, that the only solution seemed to be to never face it. For it will eat me alive and still be hungry. The only way to beat abandonment was to not risk being abandoned. To not be completely vulnerable. I avoided putting myself so far out there emotionally that there’s no turning back. I didn’t let myself love anyone with absolutely everything, EVERYTHING, I had. It was measured love. Restricted giving of self. Safety.
        I’ve been there most of my life. Maybe you have, too. But I'm not there anymore. Because I’m tired of loving that way. I’m tired of living that way. And I’ve found a way out. It can be slow. It is painful. And it works.

© 2008 Clint Piatelli. All Right (and Wrongs) Reserved

Battlefield Tea Party

       “What the hell happened to me?”
        That question is usually asked under less than optimal circumstances. Like waking up the morning after an all nighter and not knowing where you are or how you got there. Even worse, waking up one morning in the middle of your life and not recognizing it. Or yourself. That’s much scarier than the first scenario. And more common. Has it happened to you? It has to me. More than once.
        My particular circumstances may have been different than yours, but the feelings probably weren’t. I wasn’t in a job that I didn’t like. My finances were okay. I owned several pieces of property. I was a bachelor who enjoyed good health. I had a beautiful girlfriend. From the outside, everything looked great. That’s the point. On the outside, everything was great. But I wasn’t. I was in constant pain. Because inside, it was war. And I was losing.
        The battle raged on between the real me and the me I had created to survive. The war analogy works here, but in complete reverse. In the middle of the two me’s, there’s the “battlefield”. That’s actually the okay part. Because that’s where the real me and the other me are engaging. Where they meet. It’s really more like a tea party than a fight. The problem lies in the two opposing camps. That’s where the real mayhem is.
        The two sides take up different amounts of internal space. This is a battle of territory. And the self is the landscape. The “real me” needs more room. The “survivor me” has got most of it, and he doesn’t want to give it up. When the two engage, they’re actually able to work things out. That’s the battlefield tea party. That’s who the world sees when I engage in life. When I feel safe and can be myself. It’s the person that my friends know and love. It’s the me that plays drums in a band, or throws killer parties, or goes to California and makes films about the trip. It’s the me that connects easily with people, and finds life infinitely fascinating and wondrous.
        This battlefield tea party was me at my best. It’s the me I was about twenty percent of the time. Unfortunately, the tea party didn't last very long, and it wasn’t big enough. Eventually, the survivor me took charge and ended the soiree. The landscape got altered, and therefore so did I. When the party’s over, I am too. The real me goes back to its camp, doesn’t engage, and waits for the next chance to shine.
        That was the way I used to be.
        The real me is finally winning the war. No longer in constant conflict, the person I created to survive now takes up much less internal real estate. More troops have joined the tea party, which now goes on for days at a time. The real me, all of him, is showing up, a lot more often. And he’s staying around longer too. This blog, this website, is living proof of that.
        “What the hell happened to me?” was that I got in touch with how I felt. All the way down to the bottom. When I did that, when I opened my heart, I started winning. I started winning myself back.
        Getting in touch with your heart is what gets you yourself back. And there is no greater prize on the planet.

© 2008 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and Wrongs) Reserved

A Letter To My Dad...

I came across this letter that I wrote to my dad in April of 2004. He had just suffered a bout of ill health due to his diabetes. The anniversary of his death is approaching, and he's been on my mind quite a bit.

Dad,

       I wanted to drop you a quick line because I really enjoy writing to you. You like to write letters too, and receiving one is always good reason to break out a pen and paper.
       I am very aware that I have been afforded a lifestyle and a freedom of choice that most people on the planet would envy. Some of that is because of who I am, but most of it is because you have been very successful and very generous to me (and in fact, very generous to all of your children). I try not to take that for granted. More accurately, I try to be grateful for that, each and every day. I do this by getting on my knees and thanking my higher power. I do it by attempting to be a generous person myself. I do it by respecting and loving my parents, who have given me so much. I do it by trying to live my life in a manner that is consistent with my values of truth, integrity, honesty, compassion, and love.
       If in your eyes I fail, at any time, to appear grateful, then I apologize. 
       You appear to have come face to face with your own mortality. For a man who has enjoyed such exceptional health and prosperity throughout most his life, this must be very difficult. I want the rest of your life to be full of joy and love and happiness. I know that I have no control over that, but I can pray for it. And I can treat you in a way that reflects that. I hope I do that dad. In any one moment, when emotions can run high, maybe you don’t always think I do. But in your private moments, when you have the time and the space and the luxury of personal reflection, I hope that you will know, without any doubt, how much I love you, how grateful I am for the life I have been blessed with, and how fortunate I feel to be your son. I love you dad.

Your loving son,

john

Principessa

       Columbus Day weekend. The quintessential fall getaway here in New England. Last year, I went to western Massachusetts to see the foliage. I went with...well, I shouldn’t use her real name. I could refer to her as “The Woman who changed my life”, as I have elsewhere on this website. But that moniker would get cumbersome after a while.  
       I used to call her “principessa”, which is Italian for “princess”. She actually turned me onto the word. She had gone to Italy when she was in college and picked it up there. I loved how the word sounded, and it fit her. She didn’t act like a princess. But she looked like one. Beautiful, with a casual elegance, and an earthy yet chic fashion sense that a modern princess might possess (not ever having met a “real” princess, I can only speculate on this). Think Princess Caroline of Monaco meets artsy, hip, urban yoga instructor .
       Whenever the word principessa left my lips, it vaporized like a mist, and made it’s way towards her. The mist then embraced her, like an aura, and she would wear that glow. That’s what I saw when I called her that.
       Sometimes she would say “I’m so not a princess”, wanting me to acknowledge that she wasn’t a prima donna. I knew that. What she didn’t know was how often I wanted to respond “You’re a princess to me”. But like so much of what I felt back then, those words got stuck in me and coagulated. Like I had swallowed a wad of glue. The toxic buildup of unexpressed emotions and words would just stay trapped inside and reek havoc. Trouble breathing. Trouble sleeping. Trouble being. I was choking on my own feelings.
       But that weekend was one of the best of my life. We drove out along scenic Route 2 and got lost. We always got lost when principessa had anything to do with directions. She was, by her own admission, “extremely directionally challenged”. The funniest part was that, when she gave directions, she always sounded like she knew what she was talking about. She would say “I’m sure we take a left here”, and there would be plenty of conviction behind it. So I would take the left, even after we had been together for a while, knowing that she was probably wrong. I wanted to believe, so I did. It was a rare case of a couple being in functional denial.
       I found this idiosyncrasy of hers absolutely fucking adorable. She knew that. I never got mad at her for not just saying “Look, I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about here.” She would apply her false bravado not just to directions, but to virtually everything that she had no idea about. As if admitting she was clueless about something was a crime. That part of her fascinated and intrigued me, and I always wanted to know more about it and where it came from.
       Anyway, after we got back on leaf peeping track, we went hiking, walking, talking, and soaking in one of those beautiful, picturesque, "Norman Rockwell painting" type autumn days. We stopped at the Red Lion Inn, in Stockbridge, Massachusetts, where old Norm lived. We had a drink on the porch. Actually a few drinks. Probably shouldn’t have driven. That one’s on me.
       We stayed at a bed and breakfast owned by a couple of gay guys from New York city who quit the rat race and decided to open up a B&B in South Barrington, Massachusetts, another absolutely gorgeous little town. Talk about a culture shock. But they seemed like they were adjusting fine and they were great hosts.
       There’s something else about that weekend that I will never forget. Saturday night, I dropped principessa off at a restaurant and went to park the car. On the walk back to the restaurant, I encountered a handicapped woman walking, with a metal walker, towards her apartment. She moved very slowly, each step requiring gargantuan effort. It was going to take her fifteen minutes just to get from the street to the elevator inside. I asked her if she needed any help, and she just shook her head. I stood there for but a moment and looked at her. The words “There but for the grace of god go I” flashed inside my mind. As soon as I heard those words, I started walking again. Because I had started to cry, and I didn’t want anybody to see me crying.
       When I got to the restaurant, I couldn’t hide the tears from my principessa. She could tell I was upset. She held my hands from across the table and we talked about what I had just experienced. Her gentle gaze, soft touch, and caring ways always comforted me. Gratitude filled me from deep within as I sat there with this beautiful woman, in a beautiful town, at the end of a beautiful day. I felt guilty that I had it so good.
       I can’t say that when I’m in my shit, I always think of that moment and it shifts me. But I am thinking about that moment right now. And I’m grateful. Grateful that I feel so much these days. Because for so long I could not.
       But that weekend, I did feel. Contentment. Happiness. Joy. Sadness. Love.
       I miss principessa.

© 2008 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and Wrongs) Reserved