Not so long ago I was at a show put on by a musician friend of mine, and there was a lovely woman in attendance who I know from ‘the group’ and she had had a couple of beers, and then the story I pieced together later is that she smoked some home grown somethin’ somethin’ offered to her by a lovely man-friend who underestimated her tolerance and it hit her the wrong way. Now this was completely legal behaviour in case you’re living somewhere where it’s not. Here we are allowed a range of freedom as to how we celebrate or accidentally poison ourselves. I’m not a smoker, but I guess this stuff made her feel green, and not in a ‘top of the morning to ya’, four leaf clover kind of way. I found this out because one of the staff members was speaking to the lead singer in the band within earshot about how in the name of all things good and beautiful they were going to get her out of the restroom before the venue closed for the night.
Naturally I crept over to assess the situation, whether I might be of some help or simply crowding an already very cramped facility, as this was a quaint quiet local music spot and the restroom was in kind, a two-stall set up with a single sink. A few friends were already at the scene trying to cheer her on, but to no avail. One was offering to provide an uber home, another was standing by somewhat helplessly, and having made little headway with her pep talking wandered off to regroup before trying again. Someone had provided a small paper barf bag for her un-wellness convenience.
Our green gal was sitting in the stall, doubled over and if you’ve ever been a teenager, or accidentally suffered like one as an adult, if you’ve had one of those 27 Dresses, What Happens in Vegas, or The Hangover kind of nights, you’ll understand her absolute belligerent refusal to move from a position that she was precariously poised in; one hand holding the contents of her stomach in via the toilet paper holder, one hand on the rolled open paper bag, feet splayed. I may joke around a lot about how I love red wine, because red wine is what Jesus wants me to drink, but I like a very measured amount in my advanced age. I neither like the feeling of being drunk, or the reliving of it the next day, which comes in handy when a drunk person needs some help because I can be counted on to have my wits about me.
I’ve also seen one too many bad things happen to women in my day who were made vulnerable by having one of those nights, and we should all be able to have one of those nights, if we need to, or if we make a boo-boo, without coming into harm’s way, and so I feel a bit of determination kick in.
As the other helpers threw up their hands, I nudged my way over to the command position in front of the semi-ajar stall door. I started the usual way I begin a coaching engagement. I’m soooooo sorry you’re feeling so badly, sweetie. We all know how that feels, oh my we’ve all been through it. It really sucks. I wish I could fix it for you. No you’re not a bad person silly. You are so lovely and kind and thoughtful and well liked. You made a mistake. You didn’t realize. Then I asked her some questions. She said sorry a lot. I told her she didn’t have to be sorry, I was happy to help. Then I told her about a time that something like this happened to my sister back in our twenties, only none of us was in a position to take care of the other and she was escorted out by the staff and tossed into a cab. This was my lead in to establish the urgency of not simply holding tightly in a death grip conflict with her pain. They are going to need to close this place down soon, love, and we don’t want you having to figure this out with staff involved. She didn’t budge, but her eyes widened and she whimpered in agreement.
It’s hard when something feels so terrible that all of your instincts are telling you to push it away, but that pushing is not going to create a better outcome for your future self.
You want me to help you get out of here before that happens don’t you? Then we’ve got to work together.
Next I broke it down. I know you don’t want to move, but there is no other way to get out of here, so we’re going to move. If you need to throw up that is okay, you have a bag and even though your mind is trying to tell you it’s the thing to avoid, it really is only going to make you feel better.
I fished into my bag and tied her hair in a scrunchie.
And then I talked about her pajamas and her sofa and the safety of her home and her honey waiting for her, and this all being over and feeling much better the next day (or the next day after that).
She nodded, and so I seized my moment. Okay I’m going to count to three. I don’t literally count to three with my clients, but I might start trying it, because damn. All those years of momming and being mommed register on a universally deep level. And we’re going to get your pants back on, okay? And then we took a breath and we counted, with feeling and up we went together and I wiggled those pants back on that girl faster than she could sit that booty back down again. Also not a service I plan to be offering my clients any time soon.
It took us two more counts of three to get out of the stall. I had sent for a strong armed friend to wait at the door, because skinny girls weigh 4000 pounds when they are drunk and stoned. That was a smart move on my part. We needed that reinforcement.
We made it to the fresh air while her lead singer friend retrieved the car. She did throw up a little into her bag while waiting at the curb. Better than in lead singer’s car.
I want you to lean your face into the fresh air on the drive.
And off she went toward pajama land bliss, fresh bag in hand, cold wind rushing her face and calming her system. Hair safely secured in a messy bun to newer happier horizons.
Sometimes we get stuck in avoiding pain, and we don’t even know we’re stuck.
We just keep thinking we’re going to wait it out.
Waiting it out feels safe.
We feel in control.
Except what are we really in control of?
The toilet paper holder?
The floor?
The mistake we made a few hours or months or years back that is now sloshing around inside of us?
I love me some endurance.
I am a long distance runner after all.
But sometimes when we are good at enduring, we tend toward enduring to a fault.
There’s a bliss to the stasis, the steady rhythm, the endorphin high.
But deep down we know the difference between those things that we benefit from sticking through, and those ones that are fighting back.
I see this all the time. Almost everyone I work with has been fighting themselves for some time before letting me into the ring.
Praying to the gods, wishing on stars, or steadfastly awaiting change to arrive at the doorstep in an Amazon box.
Negotiating with the refusal by circumstances to produce a better outcome.
Trying to solve for x with part of the equation missing.
You should be able to.
If only you were able to.
If only something, anything would let up.
Maybe this is you. Maybe it’s your dating game, the online fatigue, the relationship or family you yearn for, that seems to be passing you by.
Maybe it’s the relationship you’re in that’s circling the drain.
Maybe it’s something you want and need, but you can’t see beyond the immediate obstacles in your environment. How badly it feels when you think about trying. The room full of strangers between you and the ride home.
Let’s consider for moment what you are risking when you get help. Good meaningful experienced help. That it isn’t a hundred percent guarantee?
But what about the happy ninety percent that do get there?
And even in the worst case scenario, when you aren’t all the way there as fast as you’d hoped, you’ll have reversed the trend. You’ll be closer, you’ll have built some muscles, learned some things. Even if you’re one of three tries away from the outcome you desire.
Or that it’s going to feel uncomfortable in a new kind of way on the way to feeling better?
I get it. But I’m here to reveal that the bathroom stall is no picnic either. A temporary change in the pain that gets you to the other side of the pain is a fleeting and a pretty worthwhile trade.
Maybe, just maybe you’re afraid of how hard you judge yourself, for not starting sooner, for needing help in the first place, as if you’re supposed to be all things to everyone and need no one. It’s a lonely place to be, hiding from yourself. But guess what, even you’re harshest self is no match for someone else’s expert, loving and compassionate eyes.
What I hear from clients, and what I have said outta my own mouth when I’ve been the one needing support, is that I wish I had taken it sooner.
Because the bigger risk is in the staying put.
The feeling of years flying by and the dreams you haven’t fulfilled because you’re still single. Coming home from yet another date with a stranger who looks at you from Narnia.
Fighting about the same conflict. Drowning in the same indecision.
Feeling disappointed in the same things.
Letting the imagined obstacles determine the course, or rob you of choice, power, joy.
Sitting on the toilet with your pants down when the lights go out.
You can’t control what you can’t see and you can’t see from where you are stuck.
I’ve got a pocket full of vowels and a paper bag, and a team of wonderful helpers, and volumes of compassion, insight and support to share, if you or someone you love needs a way forward or a way out.
I’m determined to get you on the couch in your jammies, living the sweet life with your beloved at your side, grateful to have you home.
Just reach out. You’re secret’s safe with me.
It’s as easy as One. Two. Three.
Much love,
Erin