What do you deny yourself? What have you been denied? What is it we give ourselves permission to do, to talk about, to admit? Really? And what does denying ourselves such actions, conversations, and truths mean? What is lost to us in that denial?
Amy was not allowed to show any sadness or anger because that would be whining and nobody likes a whiner. If she did whine she would be ignored, shamed, spanked or gaslit. In this very moment she is giving herself permission to whine and realizing that, no matter what anybody else thinks, she will be safe to do so.
So I drag myself to the computer and told myself I have to write even though I'm freaking exhausted and honestly just want to take a second (okay third) bath and then, in a fit of procrastination, I open my email and boom: this post pops into my inbox in real time.
So what do I deny myself? Rest. What have I been denied? Relaxation.
In 2018 my boyfriend literally wrote me a permission slip for this vary thing. It reads:
"Skylark hereby has permission to sit on her butt all day and do nothing."
It is said that expectations are predetermined resentments. When those expectations are self imposed, the resentments turn into guilt and shame. No one talks about it, but one of the things that apparently comes with the Y chromosome is a self imposed expectation of perfection. That, of course, is unattainable, but the guilt, self-recrimination and shame that comes from failure to be perfect are real emotions. I, being of the male persuasion, count those feelings of guilt and shame to be among my super-powers. I find I have denied myself permission to be human, as absolutely silly as it sounds. After now 70-some trips around the sun, I am finally giving myself permission to be fallible, to be human, and to embrace my imperfections.
I love that. Trips around the sun. It reminds me of my daughter's birthday celebrations at Montessori where her classmates would circle around her for every year, singing songs of good will. Thank you, Andrew.
The child’s game, Mother May I, never appealed to me. The game requires one person to be the mother. who gives obedient children who use their manners permission to move forward. Perhaps I didn’t like the game because I had to ask permission from matrons for every move I made in the orphanage.
“Miss Weber, may I go to the bathroom.”
‘’Miss Weber, may I be excused.”
“Miss Weber, may I call my mother.”
“Miss Weber, may I go to my room.”
None of this was fun and games.
It felt suffocating and controlling and kept me feeling small.
As much as I hated asking for permission, I fell into a religion that dictated my every move.
I gave my power over to white men who seemed to think, and I believed, that they knew what was best for me because they had dictates from the old man with a white beard, called God.
That lasted for twenty-five years until the day that I was ready to end my life by driving in front of an oncoming semi-truck. Even though they said that getting psychological help wasn’t scriptural because worldly wisdom was dangerous, I skipped the edict, without asking permission from the ‘elders’ and made an appointment with a psychologist. In exchange for my sanity, I was shamed and shunned by people who I thought cared about me.
Once freed myself from the confines of the religion, it was no longer other people that I needed permission from. It was the voices in my head. The ones that said,
“You can’t get a divorce.”
“You don’t have the skills to get a job”
“You aren’t smart enough to further your education.
“You don’t have a story worthy of being told.’
“You are not a good writer.”
“You can’t write your story.”
I challenged these voices and gave myself permission to get a divorce, find employment, further my education, improve my writing skills, and, finally, to write my story. I discarded the childhood game of "Mother May I" and learned that I don't need to ask permission to move forward in life.
Once I stood up to the bullies in my head, they became my best allies. Instead of saying, "You can't" they ask, “Why not?”
Oh gosh, I am exactly the same way. It's instantaneous. When I started kayaking (alone) out here on my retreat, inevitably some guy was right there to offer to help me carry my boat. I went cold all over but covered, quickly, saying..."It's good for me. But thanks." And off I went. Even guys who were with their wives and seemed nice enough. I just couldn't say yet. This was something else to be sure (and I'll be writing about that next week in "The End of Anguish" or something like that), but it's also the hand up "NO!" and "I've got it." Right? Sigh. Slow steps. Slow steps. Thank you for this.
Amy was not allowed to show any sadness or anger because that would be whining and nobody likes a whiner. If she did whine she would be ignored, shamed, spanked or gaslit. In this very moment she is giving herself permission to whine and realizing that, no matter what anybody else thinks, she will be safe to do so.
With three kids in the house, it's almost mandatory to whine! LOL!
So I drag myself to the computer and told myself I have to write even though I'm freaking exhausted and honestly just want to take a second (okay third) bath and then, in a fit of procrastination, I open my email and boom: this post pops into my inbox in real time.
So what do I deny myself? Rest. What have I been denied? Relaxation.
In 2018 my boyfriend literally wrote me a permission slip for this vary thing. It reads:
"Skylark hereby has permission to sit on her butt all day and do nothing."
He's a keeper!
I love this, Jennifer! The denied, denied, denied, given structure is so powerful here. xo
I so so so need to find that post on your site where I was going to post this. Lol! As if you need more posts. ;-)
It is said that expectations are predetermined resentments. When those expectations are self imposed, the resentments turn into guilt and shame. No one talks about it, but one of the things that apparently comes with the Y chromosome is a self imposed expectation of perfection. That, of course, is unattainable, but the guilt, self-recrimination and shame that comes from failure to be perfect are real emotions. I, being of the male persuasion, count those feelings of guilt and shame to be among my super-powers. I find I have denied myself permission to be human, as absolutely silly as it sounds. After now 70-some trips around the sun, I am finally giving myself permission to be fallible, to be human, and to embrace my imperfections.
I love that. Trips around the sun. It reminds me of my daughter's birthday celebrations at Montessori where her classmates would circle around her for every year, singing songs of good will. Thank you, Andrew.
Your Turn 🎤:
What permissions have you been denied? What permissions you have been given?
Can you give yourself permission to post these in the comments?
Permission
The child’s game, Mother May I, never appealed to me. The game requires one person to be the mother. who gives obedient children who use their manners permission to move forward. Perhaps I didn’t like the game because I had to ask permission from matrons for every move I made in the orphanage.
“Miss Weber, may I go to the bathroom.”
‘’Miss Weber, may I be excused.”
“Miss Weber, may I call my mother.”
“Miss Weber, may I go to my room.”
None of this was fun and games.
It felt suffocating and controlling and kept me feeling small.
As much as I hated asking for permission, I fell into a religion that dictated my every move.
I gave my power over to white men who seemed to think, and I believed, that they knew what was best for me because they had dictates from the old man with a white beard, called God.
That lasted for twenty-five years until the day that I was ready to end my life by driving in front of an oncoming semi-truck. Even though they said that getting psychological help wasn’t scriptural because worldly wisdom was dangerous, I skipped the edict, without asking permission from the ‘elders’ and made an appointment with a psychologist. In exchange for my sanity, I was shamed and shunned by people who I thought cared about me.
Once freed myself from the confines of the religion, it was no longer other people that I needed permission from. It was the voices in my head. The ones that said,
“You can’t get a divorce.”
“You don’t have the skills to get a job”
“You aren’t smart enough to further your education.
“You don’t have a story worthy of being told.’
“You are not a good writer.”
“You can’t write your story.”
I challenged these voices and gave myself permission to get a divorce, find employment, further my education, improve my writing skills, and, finally, to write my story. I discarded the childhood game of "Mother May I" and learned that I don't need to ask permission to move forward in life.
Once I stood up to the bullies in my head, they became my best allies. Instead of saying, "You can't" they ask, “Why not?”
Oh gosh, I am exactly the same way. It's instantaneous. When I started kayaking (alone) out here on my retreat, inevitably some guy was right there to offer to help me carry my boat. I went cold all over but covered, quickly, saying..."It's good for me. But thanks." And off I went. Even guys who were with their wives and seemed nice enough. I just couldn't say yet. This was something else to be sure (and I'll be writing about that next week in "The End of Anguish" or something like that), but it's also the hand up "NO!" and "I've got it." Right? Sigh. Slow steps. Slow steps. Thank you for this.