The Curious Coddiwompler

“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It doesn’t happen all at once. You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in your joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”
― Margery Williams Bianco, The Velveteen Rabbit

It’s been a bit since I have written much, a lot longer since I have discussed my “inside voice” of thoughts and feelings. I have been told that I am brave and that I am strong, not only from experiences that I have somehow survived, but also as I continue to experience the wildness of my life. I don’t feel like I am either of those things.

I once believed that I would just keep living in my house with my husband, where I homeschooled and raised my kids. I always thought that they would have a home with me in case the world gave them troubles. I never thought that while standing on the side of a busy road, I would have to tearfully beg the man who married me to “please choose me, just once, even if you have to pretend.” He never did. That is ok, I am better off for it.

These past few months have felt like incubation time, a time of profound healing, a time of discovery, acceptance, and understanding of who and what I am.

Some things will always be. I will always be a mother, daughter, and sister. I will always hold the title of an Ironman and a Kukkiwon-certified taekwondo black belt. I will always be a survivor of military sexual assault and rape and a nearly fatal marriage. I am a nurse who has had the privilege of creating an eternal bond by holding the dying as they pass. I will always be a diver seeking the relief of the ocean- the only thing big enough to hold the heaviness of the world. I will always be real; there is no longer any turning back.

There is a reckoning that can occur when someone looks around as their life falls apart. As pieces fall, there are many paths to take, many of which just keep wandering around the hellscape of a broken life. They say the fastest way through something is through it, just keep going. In my life, going through trauma healing, realizing that staying in my marriage was going to mean death, and attempting to save myself without torching my relationship with my children was a path that led down to the deepest hellfires. It is there that I became real.

In The Velveteen Rabbit, the rabbit is made real through love. Love that rubs off the hair and makes the eyes fall off. It is a love that is beyond all measure.

I remember saying to my ex-husband, “I can’t live like this anymore.” That was the beginning of my hair being rubbed off and my eyes falling off. I said it, I claimed my life, and dubbed it worth saving, worth living. Opposite the message I was given for so long.

And so the tempering begins, being loved so well that you survive the hellfires that temper you. The mirrors you look into and break, saying, “This isn’t who I am anymore.” It takes time to figure out who you are after deciding who and what you are not. This gift of this reckoning is a soul tempered in the fiery breath of the dragon.

People who are real know who they are and where they stand. They are authentic and true to themselves regardless of the situation around them. I have seen them, I know them. They have survived their own fires of assault, abuse, brokenness, and addiction. Despite the scars of their life, their souls are stunningly beautiful and will always be.

I am trying to be brave with my scars. Being who I am, I am always going to push to learn and grow. Law school is no exception. This semester is particularly challenging academically- a problem I have never had before despite nursing school and graduate school work. I had a meeting last night about a rough draft for a legal memo, and it didn’t go well. Memories came up of me repeatedly saying, “I’m not stupid, you know,” to a man who looked at me with disgust and contempt after he made a condescending remarks. I was slip-sliding down memory road and had to make a choice.

There is a cafe that I visit. I had stopped by after the boat trip last night- a bit cold, salty, and dirty. The nice woman at the bakery gave me a little extra whipped cream for my to-go hot chocolate. I left without leaving a tip, as my mind was jumping ahead to the meeting with professors that evening.

I showered after my meeting, still trying to convince myself I wasn’t stupid like I had been told for so long. I dressed in my comfy “before bed but not quite time for pajamas” dress. Everything felt wrong. I wanted to ride back to the cafe to leave a tip for the bakery woman. I needed something to feel right, and I could make that happen.

I managed my dress on my bike, my wallet in my pocket, Dave Matthew’s “Grey Street” in my ears, and rode back to the cafe. Given that it was going to be a quick pop in just to leave a little money in the jar, I left my bike unlocked. I could make this right and just have that one thing be ok.

The bar is my usual perch when I am by myself without having schoolwork to do. There was one seat. I had no plans to stay. I stayed. I drank a cup of tea. One of the servers, who knows my name and a bit about me, asked if I was ok. I surprised myself and said, “No, but I will be.”

Sometimes, there is shame when a scar is made visible. I felt that last night. It felt like others could see how stupid I was and how stupid I felt for believing someone who would have preferred my death over divorce. There is less shame when the scars are visible only to you, in the quiet and dark of isolation. My “no, but I will be” was met with grace and understanding. It was a gift I was not prepared to receive but was given anyway.

The chamomile-citrus tea was calming as the normal buzz of the cafe whirled around me. My slipping back into long-ago memories stopped. I wonder if this is how other people have felt when they showed me their scars. I am hoping they felt I met them with grace, peace, and love.

My scars are ugly; they made me real. I understand them. It is my hope that, maybe someday, I can be brave enough to show them so someone else can see them and understand.

But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”
― Margery Williams Bianco, The Velveteen Rabbit