(Previous title: When the Bones Are Good)
Think about your bones. We’d be a floppy, droopy mess without them, right? They hold us up. They protect vital organs. They endure smashing, kicking table corners, bumping into cabinet doors. If they crack or snap, they’re capable of healing back again. Our bones aren’t just an important part of our bodily structure, they’re pretty bad ass!
Bones are the base of our body. So, as I considered how to describe the “base” of our lives, my mind went there…to our awesome skeletons.
What were the bones of your life like? How would you describe them? Nobody has a perfect scenario as they emerge from childhood into adult life. Some, however, have better life bones than others. Think about yours. Were they a solid, functional, healthy set of bones? Or was there a malformation? Maybe just a lack of strength…Maybe they were broken and not set properly so the healing didn’t happen correctly…Maybe a piece was missing causing a lack in function.
I’ve noticed throughout the last decade or so, that my life bones set me up for a bit of a struggle in this third quarter. Back in 2012 I began writing my story. I got to about age 5 or 6 and then the laptop I was writing on broke and I was unable to recover my documents…until now. I found the story! And as I started to read through it, I noticed something. Being 9 years further in life than when I began documenting my memories, knowing where I am now and comparing it to what I was reading from then, I see that our childhood circumstances most definitely influence how we handle major life transitions. Think about it… we develop coping mechanisms, defense strategies, habits in order to protect ourselves…and we carry them right into our “grown up” worlds.
My memoir (sounds a bit too fancy for me, but I’m going with it), begins with my first child leaving the nest. I was 39 years old, 40 at the time I was writing. Now that my last two kids have moved out, I have more experience on the whole “Empty Nest” scenario. So, I’m finding it interesting to read my thoughts when it was such a new experience. Even then, though, I was aware of the fact that my life bones were the cause of why it was such a devastating transition.
I want to share my story. I won’t dump the whole thing here, though. Maybe in pieces over the next few weeks. But, definitely the first part about my son heading off to college, along with my very first bone…
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“I still need you, mom, just in a different way, now. ”
This thought rolls around and around in my head as I try to get some sleep. It’s not the first time I’ve heard it in the past twelve months, either. What’s happening to me? Why do I feel so afraid? It’s not as if I thought my kids would stay small forever. I’ve always been fully aware of the fact that the day would come that my son and two daughters would eventually take off into their own lives. Isn’t that what the goal of parenting is? And not only did I want them to take off, I wanted them to go on their own volition, with excitement and purpose, ready to handle whatever they might encounter. I was determined to release three amazing adults into the world. It was always my goal.
Nearly one year ago, the first part of this goal was met. My son, Bradlee, graduated from Grace Preparatory High School. And two months later, August 2011, Brad, my husband, our two daughters and I packed up the Buick with boxes, Rubbermaid containers, a stereo and so much more. The five of us literally wedged ourselves into the car. We buckled up, gave one last wave goodbye to the friends who’d gathered in our front yard to say their teary farewells to Brad, and began the trip toward Santa Barbara to drop him off at Westmont College – the school he’d wanted to attend since junior high.
Driving home two days later, the car one person lighter, I felt as if I’d left behind a part of me that was vital to life. Pulling into the driveway that night, I no longer understood what my purpose was – at least not in my son’s life. And, not long from now, I’d be doing the same thing with my two girls. This was one of the single most terrifying realizations to ever hit me. Not because I was living in some sort of dream land where my children were never going to leave me. But because I’d now experienced watching one of my birds leave the nest. It was no longer a future event I knew would happen, someday. It had actually already happened. And it happened a lot faster than I had expected. Wasn’t he just a little guy playing with his army men and Legos while watching SpongeBob Squarepants on Nickelodeon?
It hurt. It hurt really badly. It hurt more than I think it should have. I had this all too familiar feeling of being left behind. I felt unnecessary. I felt insignificant. I felt……abandoned. And mixed in with all of this, I felt guilty because I knew none of these feelings were right. My amazing son was at the exact school he’d always wanted to attend. Brad was about to set the world on fire. I was so excited for him. I was so unbelievably proud to watch him drop right into this new phase of life with confidence and ease. I mean, isn’t that proof that I had accomplished my goal of preparing him for this exact moment? What an awesome event in the life of a mother! But as I rolled these truths around in my mind, I realized that this had nothing to do with Brad. It had never been and would never be the responsibility of my children to provide me with security and life purpose. That wasn’t going to start now. No, I realized that there was another level of garbage from my less than ideal childhood trying to rear its ugly head. I could tell already, it was going to be a bad one. And I had no idea how the hell I was going to handle it.
Sevens part #1…
1976
Refrigerator magnets…I remember focusing on the refrigerator magnets, so neatly arranged on the front of the freezer door. I think staring at those magnets, finding a pattern in how they were hanging symmetrically gave me a tiny sense of comfort from the screaming that was going on in the peripheral area of where my eyesight was focused. Mommy & Daddy were fighting again. Memory of the exact words that were being yelled is gone. But what I can recall is the intensity of the voices, the sense of hatred that was being torpedoed back and forth between the two people who were my very foundation. I was four years old. It’s my first memory – finding a pattern in those refrigerator magnets while listening to my parents tear each other apart with terrifying volume.
Whether it was later that same day, I have no clue; Most likely not. But it couldn’t have been more than a few days before memory #2 hits. Closet doors…I was sitting on the side of their bed, now staring at the closet doors. “Daddy’s going to go live at Grandma’s house.” There were four closet doors – the kind that slide on a track. And above those sliding doors were cabinets; Three of them. Another pattern. Sliding door, cabinet, sliding door, cabinet, sliding door, cabinet, sliding door…”sometimes mommies and daddies just can’t live together anymore…” Seven doors all together. Seven doors. Seven…”We still love you so much. And this has nothing to do with you…” Seven doors…”and you can come and visit me every weekend…” The sliding doors have big, circle handles and the cabinets have small knobs. Circle handle, small knob, circle handle, small knob, circle handle, small knob, circle handle. Seven…”and I’ll call you every night and you can call me any time you want…”
And just like that, my family was gone.
Here’s the thing about this first bone; it started a habit – a coping mechanism. I STILL count things in sevens. I decorate my walls in a way that I can always find a pattern of seven when my husband and I have a fight, or if I’m having any type of anxiety. When I enter anybody’s home, I find my seven immediately. This started when I was four years old…for 45 years I’ve been finding patterns and counting in sevens for comfort.
That’s a bone!
What is your first life bone? What was your earliest memory? What was the result of that memory? Has it influenced how you handle life circumstances today? Mine sure did! Think about your bones…be grateful for them, nurture them, honor them, and if they need healing, do that, too. We can work on that healing together.
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Kim Smith is a Certified Integrative Health Coach who lives in the San Gabriel Mountains with her husband of nearly 30 years. She offers health, nutrition, and weight loss coaching, as well as stress management training, and support for autoimmune disease and chronic illness patients. She is in the process of releasing her signature online course, “RESET Your Life”, due to launch in November of 2021.
For more information on the programs she offers, visit her website at http://www.resetihs.com
You can also contact her at (951) 634-1100 or email at kim@resetihs.com
The Third Quarter 