2015
It's 2:45AM. This is the first time I screamed loudly enough to awaken myself from a nightmare where a bully is hurting me while a group of fearful people watch passively, because none has developed the power to stand in defiance of evil-doing in order to defend those who, on their own, feel powerless to free themselves from the clutches of brutish behavior, and since no one had the courage to rise to my defense each time a bully charged, like a raging bull, straight at my vulnerability, I, seeing myself as prey feeding this creature's need to tear my peace of mind to shreds, spin on my heel and crash head first through a basement window that, being level with the ground, separates me from the passive gang, who fearing that the beast might target them, stand like statues, who do nothing to stop the bully from lunging through the broken window, while I, crawling away— feeling mentally spent—with my physical and emotional injuries fully exposed, hear myself screaming bloody murder to no avail as I'm pounced upon and grappled to the ground while surrounded by those who, professing to love, honor and respect me, remain blind and deaf to the fact that their passivity feeds the beast's roar of victory when they accept the bully's suggestion that all raise a glass of wine while toasting to the bully's exclusion of me ... And if you ask how those who profess to love me can close their eyes and sleep in peace, I'd reply: Once bullies grow up, they may prove so brilliantly subtle as to bamboozle every think tank except for those that eventually see through the sham when the bully in sheep's clothing beckons to the flock to get drunk on pandering compliments thrown in the air, all around. Seems to me I need to create a tea party of my own patterned after the one that took place in Boston, because some things change when children assume the mantle of adulthood and some things don't, and unfortunately, the bullying aspects of human nature stick close to the latter.
It's 2:45AM. I'm in the basement of a massive, brown brick apartment building. I'm a young girl, somewhat older than a child. I'm surrounded by people, who profess to love me but are too afraid of conflict to make a peep. Their reactions seem blind and deaf to the frequency with which I've had to stand my ground in honor of my self respect each time this bully's defensive attitude feels need to put me down, and with hindsight, I've come to see that that's been our pattern, ever since we were kids. Since the eyes of these passive observers glaze over as to look half dead with dread each time I mention being bullied, again, I begin to wonder if fear at finding myself being squeezed out may cause me to shrink back along with everyone else in this group, who, longing for peaceful co-existence, resists taking a proactive stance in fear of further inflaming the wrath of this one particular person, except for my father, who, wearing whatever he feels on his sleeve, appears to fear nothing other than poverty, and feeling free of fear, my father is known, far and wide, as a man who says whatever he feels in such an unfiltered fashion as to shock every ear close enough to listen up. Unfortunately, my father's voice missing each time the bully gathers the flock, satisfying its hunger for power by charging straight into my vulnerabilities, and with that insight in mind, reflection suggests that this train of thought has led my conscious mind to see more deeply into the relationship that exists between change and conflict in that clarity has just ignited this OMG moment for me: The tide turned when my father died and the flock had need to pass the baton of leadership—Oh my gosh! Suddenly this latest insight, emerging from within my subconscious, has dropped into the sea of insights, which comprise the storehouse of knowledge that swirls through my mind each time a missing puzzle piece reminds me, once again, that change and unexpected conflict go hand in hand. And each time conflict raises its power hungry little head, the need to set boundaries must be voiced, regardless of what may be at risk if I open my mouth to protest the bully's need to put me down.
If, at this point, you think to ask how this insight will serve to strengthen my voice, I'd reply: At this stage of my life, I've worked conscientiously to dive ever more deeply into subconscious memory in hopes of retrieving so many puzzle pieces from the past as to replace confusion with clarity in hopes of focusing my think tank toward assembling the bigger picture, which most observers in the group have yet to see for this reason: Their communal lack of self awareness is still wandering through life's dark, puzzling maze, led by one who fears any discussion concerning insight into deeper truth, and in the absence of insight into assembling missing pieces of the bigger picture, the perceptions of community solidarity have continued to weaken and darken. In short, the attitude of leadership is everything.
It's 2:45AM. I am in the basement of my mind, where subconscious memories, which layer up, dating back to yesteryear, are stored. I'm surrounded by people, who, while professing to love, respect and cherish me, can't seem to hear a thing I say or relate to what I feel, and while I feel a growing sense of disconnection from the inner sanctum of this group, who turn a deaf ear to much of what I feel the need to say about self awareness, I choose to make sound use of my mind in order to voice the courage of my convictions while soldiering forth into the great unknown. During each stage of my transition—from vulnerability to strength in individuation—my sense of clarity continues to deepen, and if you ask why my hard won personal strengths are quaking less frequently than before, my reply would be threefold: First of all, I believe in the power of one. Secondly, I know myself to be a person, whose self awareness is empowered by insight, which guides me to soldier forth proactively on my own rather than bowing passively to the egocentric leadership of a bully in sheep's clothing. Thirdly, I've gained insight into the fact that this flock of sheep is not all black or lily white. This flock is made up of individuals, suggesting that each person will make use of his or her grey matter differently from all rest, and since life tests each member of the flock to grow aware of gaining insight into deeper truth as is true of me—I believe that with patience and hopeful shots of positive focus, I'll find myself to be not nearly as alone in my quest to lead this group toward healing as I've felt for more than a dozen years ...
It's 2:45AM. I see the bully eyeing me. I go from person to person, pleading for help, but all avert their eyes, close their ears and zip their lips so tightly that the silence feels more shocking to me than any scream I've ever heard. As over years past, each of these people had looked to my trains of thought for help, I can't help but wonder what has led this flock astray ever since my mind, heart and spirit has felt utterly spent. (If only people were more like seagulls than sheep. If that last statement has confused you, I'm referencing the novella, Jonathan Livingston Seagull.) Having learned the wisdom of listening before speaking, I assemble the group and ask what each one is thinking and shock reels silently through me when I hear: 'You're too sensitive.' 'You have no friends.' While taking time out to reflect, I ask myself: Who is at the helm, leading this group astray, ever since my father died; the depth of my mother's grief consumed my heart, and my spirit wandered so deeply into this emotional maze as to have caused my mind to lose sight of the path where clarity, concerning reality, will once again be mine?
It's 2:45AM. I am surrounded by people, who having no clue as to the importance of taking time out to reconsider their perceptions, have yet to recognize the subtle nature of a bully's influence. Those who remain blindsided have given the negative focus of this person's perceptions license to bite large chunks out of my inner strengths for so many years that eventually the wealth of insightful knowledge that I chose to amass felt choked back behind so much repressed fury that I fear my Line of Control may snap, and if you ask why I haven't opened my mouth to snarl back, I'd reply: That, my friends, is exactly the reaction that the bully has been baiting me to do, and thus, in my dream, I crash, head first through that window, like a bat out of hell, and when the bully tackles me to the ground in my own home, all I can do is scream bloody murder: Where the hell is my team? Whew! Thank god I have an astute coach, who understands what happens when PTSD is on the loose. Unfortunately, the young woman in this dream has not yet been correctly diagnosed, but that time will come, and then, rather than inching forward, I'll begin to make strides by mustering the courage necessary to breath so deep as to fully oxygenate my brain in readiness to take huge leaps of faith.
It's 2:45AM. I awaken to my screams. Though this is not the first time my screams have awakened Will, it is the first time my screaming awakened me. This is the first time I remember a more detailed version of a repetitive nightmare that I've had since childhood. Beginning in childhood, my dream saw me as being chased down a dark street, before the dawning, by a dark, hairy monster-like being, who, over time, will personify every bully who has ever threatened my personal sense of well being ever since my development detoured away from strengthening the self assertive portion of my voice when I was three. In earlier dreams, I'm chased through the dark of night, and upon opening my mouth to scream for help, nothing releases except for the silence of terror, gagging my voice behind the lump fear that has crushed my self self respect inside my windpipe until it's impossible to breath much less express the drowning nature of panic that suggests my need for someone to stand up beside me before the best part of my psyche, the part that trusts people to know me worthy of love, respect and affectionate attention, gives up in despair of ever being accurately heard. And then the fear inside me goes on to say: One day, those who professed to love, honor and respect the mind, heart and spirit of the woman I once was will collectively shake their heads in rock solid confusion while wondering what in the world could make a person who had demonstrated such a tireless passion for championing the vulnerabilities inherent in others to disappear, leaving the confounded masses scratching their heads as they continue to wander forth in denial of how often the woman had pled for help for years before her enthusiastic attitude, concerning life and love, which had known no bounds, grew so exhausted that no one could recognize the shell of her former self, and as, with the passage of time, her spirit shrunk into itself, the woman was seen smiling quietly while insight into deeper truths continued to drip, drip, drip out of the hole that years of futility had drilled through the self empowering strengths that she'd worked to amass within the brain space, which had once housed her well organized mind until that last straw occurred, causing the woman to cut loose of her grass-roots-movement-to-create-change-for-the-better in favor of allowing the sparkle in her bright blue eyes to grow dim and glaze over as she joined hands with the passive masses, who go about their busy days acting as though the curious disappearance of a living soul—whose enthusiasm for love and life had inspired countless others to hold her hand while, together, they achieved a wide variety of mutually supportive leaps of faith—is a common, every day, occurrence...
... And having been there done that, twice, I'll not be seen entertaining that negatively focused thought for more than a second, so—so help me God—the woman I've worked to become will do whatever it takes to make good use of my voice to rouse the alarm, thus reassuring the frightened, young girl, who screamed for help to no avail in dream after dream that no matter how long it takes to awaken others' sense of awareness to the negatively focused, egocentric attitude that has assumed leadership over this flock of sheep, my mind, heart and spirit will keep percolating until others wake up, smell the coffee, and stop being so easily influenced by a bullying point of view. I guess what I'm saying comes down to this: Though others may continue to duck ever more deeply into the maze, where fear detours the conscious mind from confronting reality with crystal clear clarity, I'll not allow the think tank that I've consciously worked to fill with insight into positively focused solution-seeking skills to take the easy way out by slipping into Denial Land, again. And you can believe that as long as the emotionally intelligent woman I've grown to be is still on this side of the grass, that will be true. And now, though there's much more to share about what happened in my dream, concerning leadership that aspires to achieve an attitude of win-win vs leadership that's sharply but subtly focused upon I win-you lose, here's why that's enough for today: My think tank has tired, and as it's 4:45AM, I'm going back to sleep ...
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