Monsters. We all have them – some big, some small. Some people have many, some have few. Monsters, to me, are the ugly parts of our life we prefer to ignore. But the more we ignore them, the more they take on a life of their own. They may be uncomfortable conversations with your spouse regarding the dwindeling bank account that you put off for way too long. You avoid them like the plague, but doing that makes the problem worse. You need to face the issue because avoiding it forever could lead to, well, financial suicide.
Or maybe it’s something you noticed with one of your kids that didn’t sit right with you. You know you need to ask if they are okay. If you don’t, who knows what could happen? You don’t want to think the worst, but it’s foolish to ignore signs. Still, it’s not an easy discussion. The Brady Bunch only made it look that way and in reality, difficult conversations don’t end in thirty minute segments, including commercial breaks.
Kissing your monster is a phrase I coined in rehab, back many moons ago (not that many, really – about twelve) when I struggled to deal with a heaping pile of difficulties all at once. I faced memories of sexual abuse that resurfaced after Hurricane Sandy displaced me, and most of my town, from our sleepy, simple lives. Left feeling suicidal and depressed, my brain was flooded and overhwlemed with too many issues at once. Therapy was a greuling cycle of one step forward, two steps back.
One day, another inmate (as we referred to ourselves) suggested I cozy up to my monsters and get face-to-face with them. I didn’t understand her approach. How would getting closer to my problems help?
“Don’t avoid them. Pull them in close to you,” she said.
“You want me to kiss my monsters?” I asked, half joking.
“That’s right,” she said. “Get in there and suck face!”
Oh, from the mouth of addicts…
And that’s when it began. Kiss Your Monster became my mantra for healing. I’m gonna kiss my monsters! But what exactly did that mean and what did it look like? It meant I was going to do the hard work and have the tough conversations I was backing away from. No more running away from my issues. I was going to face them head on.
What did it look like? Oh, that was a much longer story. Turns out it was much easier said than done. Silly me. Such high hopes for being healthy with a mantra. I screwed it up, like, a million times. I’d get near the monster, and turn away with mouth scrunched and arms crossed like a stubborn bratty child. Shirley Temple had nothing on me. Clearly, it was going to take some time. Lots of time to get the hang of it.
But it was a start. And once I knew about my monsters, I couldn’t unknow them. And that is what this blog is about. How I came to learn to face my monsters and learned it’s okay to ask for help, because I needed a lot of help. I couldn’t do it alone. Hiding in the shadows would have literally been the death of me – monsters and all.
I’m not ashamed of my story or my monsters. They make me, me. They make me whole. My entire life experience has brought me to this point and I love myself. For most of my life I could never say that. Staying quiet and hiding can be a lonely place. My words help me heal and will hopefully resonate with even one other person to share, compare, reach out, write, or feel less alone. I know there were days where that would have meant the world to me. I don’t want anyone else to ever feel that alone.
Peace and love,
Jeanne
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I lost my wedding band while on vacation at my happy place. Quite the dichotomy. Those of you who know me might be thinking…”Wow, what took so long?” and to that I say, “You’re right.”
I lose everything. I’ve lost my cash card at least fifty times, the people at the bank know me personally. I contemplated getting a bank number tattooed to my arm but that makes kidnapping a real threat. I’ve lost my license countless times, even once losing it in California and still, I was able to fly home. Don’t tell my husband my new Real ID license, that I just received last month, is currently missing. I’ve lost my teacher grade book, my glasses, not counting the ones on my head, and I even lost my husband in Home Depot. To be fair, every guy looks like him. Black shirt, black hat, beard and moustache.
With a history like mine, I’ve come to accept not being too attached to my stuff. And people have tried to help me get more organized, but it’s not that easy. It’s really a byprodcut of how I function in life. Telling me to “get organized” is like telling an overweight person to just eat less. It’s not that simple. Ask my friend Lisa, who tried to get me counless pocketbooks to help organize me. It was pointless. And now I have a trove of new bags to get rid of.
So this wasn’t even my original wedding ring. The original was gold with diamonds and an emerald stone. When I was getting married I got gold because I thought that was the “right” thing to get. You know, more “grown up” than silver or white gold, which we couldn’t afford. But I was never much of a gold person.
Years later, when my husband lost his job, we struggled to pay the mortgage. In a moment of desperation, I sold both my diamond and wedding band to help pay bills. I always trusted that times would get better and like I said, I wasn’t too attached to stuff. My husband wasn’t happy, but we had to take care of our family.
For years, I wore a simple silver band as my wedding ring. It was a spinner. I’m not sure where I got it, maybe a flea market 30 years ago. The outer edges were plain, but the spinning interior had a patternd design that reminded me of a celtic symbol. I wore it on my ring finger and could easily spin it with my thumb. It was a motion I didn’t know I missed until the ring was gone.
People kept asking me “Where did you last see it?” and I wanted to burst. If I knew that, I would have it in my hands, don’t you think? Yes, I looked here, yes, I looked there…I felt myself immediately resigned to the fact that it was probably gone and IT was not really symbollic of my marriage. My marriage was right here. My marriage IS still right here. The ring is, was, just a ring.
Ouch, even writing that pings my heart a little. Of course it’s symbollic. But the reality of what it stands for – the living proof of it – is in my face. How can the symbolism mean more? I can’t let that happen. I had to let the ring go. I never could have done this years ago. All my therapy must have paid off. Holy cow!
Oddly enough, my husband bought me a diamond band a few years back to replace the original wedding band and diamond that I sold. I lost that pretty darn quickly…right in the washing machine, never to be found again. Of course, if he bought larger diamonds, maybe…
Anyway, I was proud of myself for moving on so quickly, but pretty darn disappointed in losing the ring in the first place. So, there we have some growth and a need for better organizational skills. I mean, I was on vacation in my happy place! But it didn’t derail me. In the past, something like this may have. So, I am perfectly imperfect and I can accept that.
And that, my friends, is growth.
Author Jeanne Radigan 
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