phoe·nix
/ˈfēniks/
noun
1. (in classical mythology) a unique bird that lived for five or six centuries in the Arabian desert, after this time burning itself on a funeral pyre and rising from the ashes with renewed youth to live through another cycle.
People pleasing. It's something people do when they have endured a loss of their voice due to the trauma of being suppressed in one way or another. It is a symptom of anxiety. Those of us that suffer from it put our own needs at the bottom of a long list of obligations and caretaking and the fear of not being loveable. You may think that the damage it does is minimal, that only the person doing the pleasing is being hurt. But you would be wrong. Families, friendships, and bonds are broken. Because somewhere inside, you are kicking and screaming to please yourself. Behind that smile, there is a raging fire that will not be ignored.
I have been a people pleaser my entire life. I can't necessarily claim tangible trauma as a result, but I suspect that cumulative events in my life brought me to a place of self-doubt.
The age of 52 was a hard year for me. I had a realization that I had not come close to achieving the life I had always wanted. It looked wonderful from the outside. I had a lovely home, a lot of friends, an active social life. I had 4 beautiful, smart, talented, loveable children. I had what appeared to be a solid marriage and a traditional lifestyle. But deep inside the fire was burning. I would sit up at night long after everyone was in bed looking for answers, numbing the pain with shopping and wine. It seems that a traditional lifestyle was not suitable for me. I have always been somewhat of a creative and free spirit. My soul needed travel, music, art, and freedom. So, an endless cycle of work, school, church, sports, cleaning, errands, and obligations was killing my soul. I want to be clear...I don't regret it. I adore my kids, and I loved many aspects of my life. The problem was, there was no room in it for myself.
The pieces started crumbling little by little. Too many nights out with girlfriends. Desperately trying a new business or blog or side hustle to create income in the hopes of setting myself free. Hidden credit cards to support a numbing shopping habit. Dreams of being my former, single self...having the ability to go out and run wild and free. These things preoccupied my mind most of the time. I even decided I wanted a tattoo. I know...I'm not the first mom with a tattoo. But it had never occurred to me to get one before. Suddenly, I could not stop thinking about it. I found the design. The Phoenix. I was nearing the end of my burning inside and it was getting close to the time to rise.
My friend and I decided to go together. I had never gotten a tattoo, and she already had a couple. Those stories about people getting drunk and waking up with a tattoo? I'm not sure where they come from, because that was not allowed. It was a carefully curated process with pre-planning, down payments, and waivers. Part of the paperwork included not drinking alcohol before the appointment. That was a disappointment.
I hate needles. I passed out as a teenager after getting a double piercing in my ears. Yep...right in the middle of the mall with my horrified mother by my side. Some nice man had to pick me up and carry me to a bench to come to. What in the world was I thinking...willingly submitting to an hour or more with needles and ink piercing my skin?
We went into the tattoo room and used their cute little bathroom to remove bras and change into shirts that buttoned. I don't know why I wasn't more nervous. Each time I gave birth, I would pull aside the nurse hooking up my IV and quiz her on her competence with needle insertion and vein location. I had one nurse leave the room and get someone else!
There were two tables in the room...perfect for besties on a tattoo mission. I lay down on my stomach and the process began. Cold antiseptic wipes, burning and buzzing, wiping of blood and ink. And then it was finished. I never even winced. My Phoenix was with me forever.
I tore my life down to the ashes along with my soul. But as I rose from the ashes, I gained my voice. I decided to name this site Finding the Phoenix, because I know I am not alone in this struggle. The stories here all lead back to my original voice, and I hope, help you to find yours. Speak your mind. Follow your bliss. Do it soon, because the sooner you do, the less you have to tear down before you can rise.
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