If you are a kid who was born in the 80s or before, you know what it is like for your momma to put you out of the house in the morning and tell you to come back when the street lights come on. Which also means that you were accustomed to being sprayed off with the water hose before entering the house when you did come home, being disciplined by any one of your friend’s parents, and a pig in a blanket may as well have
been gourmet. You were raised on Looney Tunes, Smurfs, and Fraggle Rock.
Internet is what now and we will do what with it? The reference of any kind of tight roll technique or proper uses of a scrunchie is still up for debate and you totally have an opinion. This also means that you were the generation prior to helmets, knee pads, elbow pads, or just plain common sense prevailing.
We were the generation of “rub some dirt on it” and “I saw you just remove the top layer of the entire back of your leg but you’ll be okay, I’ve got Hydrogen Peroxide and Neosporin.” I left so much DNA on my childhood driveway from hours and hours of, by today’s standards, catastrophic bike and skating incidents.
I was raised up by all of those goodhearted, patient, encouraging personalities who I lovingly call: Momma, Daddy, Mudder, Grandy, Mama (pronounced Mah-Mah), Papa, Aunt Tene, Uncle GC, Aunt Judy, and Sissy. For the most part, my childhood was stellar. I wouldn’t change a thing about the blessings of my family. However as a grown up working through my own heaps of trauma, I see where these well-meaning and innately good taught traits have worked against me. We were part of the generation who were taught to conceal certain emotions. Emotions weren't something we talked about and if we did it was never a topic that we discussed openly or without judgment. It was more likely to be discussed behind closed doors and whispered about over the kitchen table, as if it was a farce or cause for embarrassment. We were raised on politeness and knowing our place. I was raised specifically on the principles of hard work, respect and church potlucks. Sometimes that turns out to be ‘cheap talk.’
Hard work.
After all, most of us who have lived long enough to become certified Candied Cacti were raised up in the generation by people who had to walk uphill both ways to school, barefoot, in 6 inches of snow. The ‘pull yourself up by the bootstraps’ generations. The ‘here are your big girl panties, pull them up, and move on with life’ generations. We were raised up to be hard workers. I’ve worked pretty much since the time I was 15 until I just walked away from a job this past November. That is a whole other can of worms, but it goes to prove my point that I was taught that working and working hard is honorable. So I stayed past what I knew was healthy for me. I don’t do anything half-way and, for that reason, I can run my boat aground and scrape all the paint off the hull in about 2.5 seconds. Overall cacti are very conscientious and typically driven, so we are usually trying to accomplish a goal while remaining personable. Dare I say it. Perf…Ppppeeerrr…Perfectionist. There I got it out. The outlook on this specific trait is, well, hailing dog turds expected within…well now. It is Cacti Kryptonite. As trauma survivors we can very easily mistake well-intended social norms and cheap talk as hard, rigid, non-forgiving laws. We stay at jobs because we know you can’t leave one until we’ve found another, not bad advice. If said job is sucking your soul right out of you, maybe you decide that talk is cheap. We don’t allow ourselves to make mistakes and the mental shame we pile on as a result of actually being, gasp, imperfect. That is garbage talk. We engage in behavior that compromises our self-worth and identity to please others. Pure junk. #Iaminpeoplepleasingrehab. Voluntarily. Before we know it we start drowning because we cannot keep up. We can’t help it. This is just the way we have been, born out of the fires of our lives. We are easily a 12 minute mile folk with the treadmill on 10mph - it does not end well. You’ve seen the video.
I don’t think I need to say more.
R-E-S-P-E-C-T
Ha, you just sang that. See, us cacti, do have a sense of humor! (Wink,Wink). Respect.
It was just expected in my household. My parents were polite reasoners. SOOOOOO…many valuable lessons were learned in our family’s home. I am proud of those lessons. I am grateful for my amazing parents who fostered good humans even though some of us are hella prickly. The boundaries that my parents gave me allowed me to do big things. Expectations were high but not lofty. They allowed me and my sister to be our own selves. We also had good family communication, for the most part. With their consent, I want to share a little bit about what I mean and how the very best parents do not get to choose how their child responds to modeled behavior. They simply do the best they can and hope for the best. This is a glimpse into how modeled behavior and Early childhood trauma response can bring about unhealthy relationships with certain big emotions.
We DID NOT do conflict in the family household growing up. It was very unusual for voices to be raised and physical discipline was at a minimum. Maybe my sister and I were quick learners and did not require too much physical correction before we got the point. The well-placed thump to the back of my head when I was acting up in church or the wooden spoon, spatula or fly swatter were all handy tools. It was something that I came to have a healthy understanding of. I was not in charge. It was discipline in my household and not abuse so please don’t mishear me. There is a difference. One that I do not want to belittle in this conversation.
I rarely saw my parents disagree and very rarely, saw them even fuss at each other. I never witnessed them in any yelling matches that I can remember. And I know this sounds like pure heaven to someone who grew up in a tumultuous household. It was so nice and a great example to see how much my parents love each other and it is always very apparent how much they adore my sister and I. We were taught to turn the other cheek because it was safer. Safer if we don’t show too much of that emotion that bubbles up within all of us. I’ve found myself, in later years, wondering if that was safer for me or safer for the person with whom I was in conflict with. All of that to say it translated to me that being angry was inappropriate. Anger was taboo. Bad. Unladylike. So there is a lot of shame around anger, even my righteous anger. Things that should really have made me angry, I swallowed because I was taught it was safer. I allowed my shame around being angry at the real garbage in my life and it was actually making me ill. Anger is a normal emotion and just like a recipe that calls for a little of this and a little of that. But too much of this or that ruins the recipe. Anger is okay and allowing yourself to identify as angry is one of the steps in acceptance of circumstances. Need to be mad, be mad. For now.
Both of my parents are stew-ers. They know this and accept it. I’ve come to inherit a good bit of that tendency. And it is okay. I know this about myself and you owe it to yourself to identify how you process things. I used to be quick to pop off. With maturity and wisdom, wait for the irony in this statement, my anger sits and sits and I like to mull it over now and wait 'til it is a fine broken meringue. Ewww. I’ve now become more familiar with that big ol’ metal pressure cooker (Instant Pot, for you young'uns) that sat atop our grandma’s stove that was always primed for an explosion but you weren’t sure when, how, or why. I let things out when it bubbles over and bakes onto the stovetop. An unholy mess. This has created within me a very unhealthy relationship with my emotion named anger which I like to call frustration because it sounds less...well, you know, angry. I am not advertising this as a good idea. It has not served me well. Ask my therapist. Cacti, if we sit in this pot for long, we rot.
Speaking of places that rot, let’s scoot on over to the church (collectively) where there are tons of cacti - some candied and some WAY crusty.
Church potlucks
If you know, you know. Y’all it is some good eating. Side note: Everyone knows a good casserole can fix almost anything. Insert eye roll, but I still feel compelled to take one, most anytime I don’t know what to do for someone. I just take them food. You get a casserole…and you get a casserole…and you get a casserole. Everybody is getting a damn casserole. This church potluck or food extravaganza was my first glimpse of competition. Competition amongst one of the most amazing creatures that inhabits this earth: women. I use creatures as a term of endearment so please don’t get all uppity. We are amazing creatures. We do hard, wonderful and amazing things every day. But it always seemed to be a contest of who could bring the most ah-mazing dish. And friends, if you have never been to a Southern Baptist potluck you will need extra napkins for soppin’ up drool. It may have been good natured competition but for some it was a do or die moment. A real Aunt Bee kind of pickle, for all my Andy Griffith fans out there. Everyone knew sweet Ms. Anna’s homemade chocolate chips cookies were going to be the best.
Why even try to top that? Like, legit, the best chocolate chip cookie in THE world. At minimum, those cookies should have been declared a National Treasure. Seemed like a moment of self-reflection should have been realized and we just served ONLY chocolate chip cookies for lunch.
But, you see, some of us also love the competition. You may be thinking that I am saying competition is all the way bad, all the time. That is not so. Healthy competition in bunko, rook, or monopoly is fun. But competition unbridled becomes comparison and that is a proverbial cancer in a humans’ heart. Teddy Roosevelt said “comparison is the thief of all joy.” He was right. It robs us of our amazing uniqueness. The authentic presence of who and what we are. We, simply, cannot tolerate it. Because of comparison traps, we look at our traumatic situations side-by-side with someone else’s and try to rationalize why it is worse or better. Drop that habit in the trash like a lunch container of leftovers you left in the car for two weeks in southern swamp weather also known as summer. Don’t hesitate, just chuck it in the trash…now.
The generic brand
We’ve all heard the phrase ‘sometimes you get what you pay for’ and sometimes that generic version is a weird texture that you think to yourself who signed off on this heinous imposter of a food product. That is why, as a Candied Cactus, I am careful as to where and to whom I go to for speaking into my soul. My soul doesn’t deserve all this exposure. It has had enough. You dig?
Exposure to things that fan the flames of my unhealthy relationship with hard work in the pursuit of perfection, respect as a guise to not feel my feelings, and church potluck Olympic trial level competition and comparison were not things that my parents taught me. These were things that I misunderstood and became a maladaptation of what was intended. It just isn’t worth it and it always means compromising my needs and prioritizing everyone and everything over myself. Again, cheap talk but, oh, so costly.
When you have experienced great (fill in the blank with your word), it becomes part of who you are, hence the spine talk we’ve been having. Loss is mine. I’ve experienced great loss in my life and I am reminded of that loss so very often. In fact, so often that it is constant. I’ve learned to navigate that for myself, as discussed in a previous blog, with appropriate boundaries. Go check it out if your boundary generator needs a kickstart. But for me to compare my loss to someone else’s sickness or a fellow cacti’s trauma of betrayal, is just ‘cheap talk.’ Apples to oranges if you will. ’ Trauma comparison is a formidable snare. It is always going to leave you in a place of self doubt, clarity lacking, terribly raw from clawing to become top Trauma King and/or Queen.
Clean up that garbage mindset
Need to know the secret to silence cheap talk? because cleaning is their forte. Simply put, be kind. Not because all people necessarily have earned your kindness but because it is in your nature to love people. Again, not because they necessarily deserve it but because you don't either. Always showing up in a way that is not self-sacrificing, but is authentic to the heart of every human - we were made to show and be loved. The best role model is the one who leads by action. All prickliness aside, collectively we do a better job of tearing each other down then we ever did of building each other up. This is another place where Crusty Cacti run wild. Don’t get caught up in that ‘cheap talk’ stampede. Friends, I love you but hear me: if your first thought when seeing another person is not a compliment - you are crustier than you think. I still love you and I believe that everyone can become Candied. It just takes more effort to be candied than crusty. Now I’m not saying we can’t listen to our inner voice and recognize those bad cacti. They are out there for sure. Your intuition is a valuable tool for finding genuine gems in this life. Use it as a superpower that helps guide you to be the best you and bring the best out of everyone else. For when we talk “cheap,” we often get what we paid for.
Kings and Queens, we all have a crown. Straighten those suckers without ever telling someone theirs is crooked. That is the candied way.
Natalie Blackmon, M.S. Human Development and Leadership
Trauma Informed Yoga Instructor
Editor Credits: Becky Simmons
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