Shit-colored glasses, Free Dictionary, Jane’s Dictionary

Dark brown glasses, worn by people who are overly depressed and pessimistic about everything. We could say they see the world through shit-colored glasses instead of rose-colored glasses.

Yesterday in my story, I jumped from wearing rose-colored glasses to reality glasses, at least in terms of the men in my life! However, between those two pairs of glasses there was a period where I showed up to life in shit-colored glasses. I had enough chaos and self-loathing inside that, by then, I had made many mistakes. It was like a movie director shouted, “Cut,” and I started on a new scene for the next decade. Yet, this was also the time when I started studying for the ministry! That saved me in many ways, but I am getting ahead of the story. 

 

Dark Night of the Soul, Kosmos Journal

A period of sadness or challenge that is deep-seated and tenacious, a dark mood that is truly life-shaking and touches the foundations of experience, the soul itself

This shit phase is more commonly known as the Dark Night of the Soul. I lived with a great deal of psychic pain, and I was beginning to doubt that anything would go right ever again. I dwelled on things in my childhood and my more recent poor decisions. I continued to find situations that would reinforce my worthlessness and people who would abandon and shame me. In fact, in a bizarre development, I moved over 2000 miles to Florida near my Dad and Stepmom. Right back into the original fire of dysfunction!! I had mostly escaped for over 20 years, but in my darkest moments, I crawled back. I was repeatedly scapegoated and gaslighted. I was in a funk, a deep despair. I became clinically depressed and pessimistic, and anti-depressants did not help much. Nothing went well there with my jobs, my family, or my son, who eventually went to live with his Dad for a few years.

 

The Victim Identity, Psychology Today

“A person with a Victim identity is someone who has identified with whatever crises, traumas, illnesses or other difficulties have occurred in their lives, particularly those that began very early in life. Hopes can be smashed and a person can be devastated by such dashing.”

In this darkness, I began to define myself as a victim. I was victimized in my childhood, let’s be clear; however, assuming a victim identity is not a healthy thing. Woe is me. Self-pity. Life through shit-covered glasses, or as one equally depressed acquaintance said about herself, “I live under the helmet of shit.” At some point, I will expand on this period. However, just thinking about it is depressing and I want to move to something positive. This has been a long scary week of revealing my truth and I need a little break. 

Fast forward: a healing process started in me. Do not ever underestimate the good side of anger. I started getting pissed off by my paralysis. I had new goals, new dreams. I needed to find some balance.  So, 4 years after reentry onto the dysfunction merry-go-round, I left Florida and family. The final push was because my son was unhappy still. I decided to move to Colorado where he was and get him back. I got a decent job right away. I finished my preparation for ministry with a long internship. I had long periods where I was happy interspersed with down times.  I learned that the experience of darkness plays an important role in our lives, and that, eventually, it clears and light can come in again.

 

Not to mention: it is no surprise that things started improving when I left the family crap again.

It did not happen overnight, though. I had not completely reassembled a healthy self-image but I was on my way. I had not learned how to keep myself safe from hurtful people and situations, but I was learning. I had not learned enough about the harmful and self-destructive effects of my truth-telling habit, but I saw bits of it. It would be another decade at least before I jettisoned completely my feelings about being a victim. I had not yet worked through all of my anger either. In fact, as I approached menopause it intensified. But in time, I worked through those things as well.

I credit my progress in that phase to sheer determination. I did not want to be unhappy all the time. I was generally a positive person with hopes again for a good future. I wanted to have an impact, to contribute rather than sit in a corner sniveling. I also credit my progress to some good counseling. I had sought counseling many times before this, but I found that most counselors (if they ever call you back) provide only one thing: short-term pain relief. It is better than drinking but nothing more than a good cry session with a best friend. I never got any tools to help me cope or grow. This time, however, I found someone who practiced EMDR. It is a technique originally developed to address PTSD in veterans but was becoming more mainstream. What a difference it made for me by defusing traumas that were eating me alive. Whenever I moved for work after that, I found an EMDR practitioner. I moved forward rapidly and significantly.

I am a retired minister so I should probably also talk about the role my faith played in all this! I had always been a spiritual seeker but I turned to formal religion as I approached the Dark Night of the Soul. With its message of hope, redemption, and healing, it is a good thing to cling to when you are alone behind the shit-colored glasses. It made a difference for me, providing an anchored, soothing place. It gave me a new purpose, as a minister helping others in their Dark Night.

Over time, I began to feel that most people who attend church are not looking for much more than another pair of rose-colored glasses so that they can survive in the world another week. Some of the more ardent seekers, those “followers of Jesus,” do not actually understand his teachings or live according to them. I found that fellow ministers, including my own mentor, could be abusive and manipulating. So, I still pursued answers and comfort in more than that one place, most notably in meditation and Buddism. Meditation is a great tool and I also learned how to stay with the pain and eventually allow it to dissipate. I attended workshops at a retreat center in Colorado. When my son was in Afghanistan, I spent a stressful Thanksgiving weekend there, learning more about meditation and spending time with a warm community.

In the end, I discovered that – at worst-  all organized traditions are just another type of dysfunctional family system and we know how they work to sustain themselves even if the members are brutalized in the process.  At best, organized religion is just a tool among many others. At the moment, the AL-ANON and ACA literature and meetings are equally effective tools that provide the anchor and the wisdom I need now. I am comfortable with the idea of a higher power who directs the healing process. I also like the people better in many ways because we don’t wear the rose-colored glasses or any other pretense. People there are raw and vulnerable as they share their story. The walls are down the minute you walk in. They have given me the courage I need to tell my truth here.

Another motivation to tell my story and pursue healing: I  do not want to be like my mom. She had never gone to Al-Anon or otherwise sought help for her issues. She never made the journey through the dark night. She was so bitter and unhappy. Yes, she built an alternate life with her church friends, but at home she was still mean and cold, especially to my stepdad. She complained about everything, even on the day she died. It was not “peaceful” enough like her hospice nurse had promised. She was also angry about the shoe salesman who came in with her specially fitted diabetic shoes. Nothing ever made her happy, nothing was good enough.  It was always so difficult to be around her, and many times over the years I gave up in disgust. Our relationship was on and off until she died.

Interesting symbolism: when mom died I took her Honda Civic. My van, which I use to pull the RV, does not get great gas mileage. I was excited about also having a little car and about the possibility of doing some travel in just the car. In the spring after she died,  I drove mom’s car to and from Alaska on a life-changing trip. Why did it wait until she died? Did it help me reach a postivie outcome because I drove her car on yet another journey away from home? In some ways did I help her escape too, at least in my own mind? Should I think of her now as my imaginary friend on the journey, where we heal together? 

 

Goal Five: Stay with Al-Anon and ACA. Consciously bring mom as my imaginary companion on the healing journey. Accept that maybe she really is there on the other side and we really are doing this together.