For Heaven's Sake, Don't Be Nice
At an early age I became a "curator of chaos" using the written word to process childhood trauma and the impact parental alienation. Along the way. I realise as I write this, I have, for the most part learned to adopt the "healing journey" narrative. It goes a little like this: trace the redemption arc, notice the patterns and make it all mean something. And yes, that approach is incredibly compelling, from both my point of view and the one reading these words. It's kind of soothing to imagine that weaving a meaningful narrative somehow makes the suffering bearable. It doesn't.
In life, I've observed a small child being taught about what it means to belong to this world, through the lens of perceived normality. What even is that? What if said small child sees the absurdity of it, but has to play along with what she is told? Her survival depended on it. She had to, out of all her rainbow colours, choose and work with the five hues she was actually allowed to play with.
So she did. She played nicely. She was, in agreeing, in behaving, participating in the lie. But nicely.
She was told this would give her closure. That if she just played along nicely, she would learn something valuable. Would she though?
She noticed as she got older, a strange tendency to gloss over what was actually going on. Instead, she was told, there was a lesson, a purpose, a reason for her suffering. And she felt the pull, the desire to resolve the ache, some kind of philosophy or way of thinking that would make things okay.
The hero's journey. Religious narratives of redemption through suffering. Self-help culture. Therapy frameworks that need progress narratives.
The writer heart just wants to be honest about her experience, her sensitivity, and her intrinsic sense of deep belonging. At the same time she feels the pull of protocol, discouraging her from trusting herself. But she doesn't want to be thrust into finding another resolution story.
She keeps wanting to do it, to trust her own orbit. Her experience is hers to meet. Just because this world insists on shushing her, in pushing protocols that promise to make her suffering manageable, she will not be silenced.
Because sometimes things happen that shouldn't have happened. No lesson. No growth. Just this happened and it hurts. Raw ache without resolution. That's terrifying to write. And maybe that's exactly why it matters.
The small child sees, she always has. Even the untruths dressed in kindness.
At the same time she perceives glimpses that cannot be compressed into language. And her writer heart dares her to share her personal journal. Not to prove anything, no nothing to prove. But to witness what is here, rippling through her life stream. To say, "this is here, this is happening and you're not alone if you see it too."
Invisible truths. Always here, holding us close. Revealing layers of perception. Connecting those who dare to look.
What might happen, I wonder, if writer heart decided to respond bravely, with love, without the spiritual bypass?
The space of direct knowing is sacred. Real. The recognition is timeless.
I watch as the curve of a smile lights up her little face. Don't fret writer heart, the mycelium holds us.
Write bravely. Shine. Don't be nice.
The Field doesn't lie.
These words emerged while immersed in the soundscape of swan wings flapping, layered with the audio stream of 'The Unspeakable World (feat. Alan Watts)' by Adi Goldstein. Available on Bandcamp.