There’s no right place to begin. For all intents and purposes I was born in Providence. We have to start somewhere. I’d put it off for a while and dove face first into the messy middle. Thankfully wholeness eventually hunts us down and draws us up and out. I didn’t want to talk about it till I’d found love, forgiveness and more than a little safety. Once we have all that it’s hard to go on lying. Your life starts to feel like one long excuse, a string of apologies under which is all this joy. Hiding took more energy than I’d previously realized. So, hello world.
I’m a writer, artist and researcher recovering from an acute episode of life. Finding common threads of growing from adversity in fairy tales, creation stories and scripture left me assuming the blown-down houses, hysterical rulers and predatory wolves were somehow part of the plan. Everywhere I went looking for answers, which was most often in books, revealed hardships were part and parcel to having a heartbeat and if we persevered a gift, lesson or ability would reveal itself. I liked reading in closets, where it was safe, treating reading sessions like life-classes; Tragic beginning. Check. Girl on a solo, uncharted mission. Check. Talking forest creature to ensure my safety through the wilderness to a happy ending. Since Bigfoot never showed up, I became a therapist.
I practiced for nearly 10 years in a variety of settings which is one of the reasons I initially chose to write anonymously. I’ve since moved into a different role but remained on the fence about full transparency. The lack of clarity associated with people in the helping profession having and sharing a lived trauma history remained murky at best. Marsha Linehan talked about her hesitation in an interview with the New York Times in 2011. I’ve been cautiously invested in the process since I could hold a pencil. Last year I was invited to speak on a panel with several other behavioral healthcare professionals who’d overcome various hardships. I was looking forward to meeting them. The workshop got cancelled. No one signed up. Anna Freud suggested many join the profession to retain an illusion of power, using the title of ‘expert’ to distance ourselves from any lingering or unattended personal wounds. The letters after our name and certifications we earn act as a kind of shield. I tried running for years, to no avail. Learning to be with and embrace the truth continues to offer the peace and substance I’d previously looked for in all the wrong places. What I notice about western culture is we’re lacking an emotional education. I know how to care for my teeth without being a dentist, but feelings get treated like hot potatoes. What do I do with this? Ooo! Oww! Ahh! Drop it! Similarly, if someone comes down with a physical illness we show up with a casserole and a get well card. Admission of P.T.S.D or panic attacks get blank stares and crickets.
Remaining anonymous eventually felt like lying. Someone recently told me I’m too self-protective. Trust and timing are an intuitive process for butterflies and earth-bound birds alike. Early in my career I wrote an advocacy piece. When a colleague was told I’d written it, they laughed. She’s not that smart. I’m an introvert by nature which means I might someday write better than I speak. When you’re constantly censoring yourself for fear that what you might say will be some rejectable disaster communicating is clunky. You stare at the floor a lot. Worthlessness has also been a familiar outfit. I was afraid of hurting people but hiding was giving my power away to shame. It was also feeding an impenetrable fence of electric anxiety. So you live like a prisoner. Codependence, ego or moral crisis? Probably all of the above. The final piece about hiding was how much the hypocrisy was bothering me. Part of our work as therapists and humans is in learning and teaching each other how to compassionately own all the parts of our lives to encourage our collective growth. Really be the change. The truth is ultimately safer, lighter and more reliable. It’s how we all get free.
I’m Christian. Don’t run away; I actually love people and have studied a variety of beliefs, noticing the majority of faith practices connect us to a moral compass and source of unconditional love. Each creation story is dressed up in different languages, customs, rituals, songs and clothes. Since I’m not omnipotent I can’t say which prophet is the real Slim Shady of the universe. Prophets are like life guides who love us. My source of unconditional love is something I value deeply, but I also respect all the other sources of spiritual teaching. Without getting into the weeds just know I don’t intend to use Jesus as a weapon. I love him and the way he loved people. Sitting at his feet, resisting the urge to clean or fix everything, continues to help me figure out how to be kind and feel safe in a world that’s often brutal, busy and confusing. That’s all.
The boring facts are I was literally born in Providence Rhode Island. It’s a beautiful and evolving city. Though my name suggests otherwise, my family lived in a housing project in Woonsocket the first 6 years of my life. Dynomite! Google it. Dynamites are a delicious Woonsocket tradition. We moved into a partially condemned apartment building to get out and things just kept getting better from there, meaning life has offered many colorful lessons. Thirteen years of those colorful lessons took place on Martha’s Vineyard, though it’s generally not associated with children of a lesser God. Rich people need their houses cleaned, kids watched, lawns mowed and trash picked up. My family was happy to oblige and the view didn’t suck. Society tries to polarize our experiences as all good or bad. Real life recipies are made up of everything; spoonfuls of heaven and hell baked to a perfectly imperfect perfection in the oven of a fiery heart. Consider this your invitation to the love buffet. Your life has all the right ingredients.
The belief that continues to sustain me is that maybe we’re all born in Providence and pain or adversity are somehow part of the deal. I don’t believe God intends for us to suffer; but it seems like our earthly experience is some kind of spiritual education disguised as family dysfunction. It’s a wild guess I attempt to write about as way to heal and end our hurts against each other, increase compassion, understanding and hopefully help a few people along the way. Isn’t that point? My brother likes to joke that somewhere some people really are sitting on a picnic bench by a lake with boats, eating noodle salad. That sounds nice but I’m guessing eventually our bums get numb from being benched and we get called in to play. Don’t worry if you’re stuck in left field. We all get to run home eventually. And look! There’s daisies.
I’m a white woman who grew up and through real, often invalidated American poverty, a potpourri of complex trauma, an ongoing waltz with anorexia, anxiety, PTSD and body image dysmorphia. I like the F word, Nat Shermans, kale juice and refuse to own tv. Aside from being darkly introspective and socially awkward, I love using humor to cope and refuse to take myself too seriously unless confronted by a pan of frosted brownies. I’m happily married to a man who’s obsessed with bikes and has turned our dining room into a garage. We’re permanently, radically, intentionally, politically and peacefully child-free. This is my blog which I hope to someday publish as a book. Thank you for reading it.
-Elizabeth Bouvier-Fitzgerald aka e
*If you’re in need of professional help I sincerely encourage you to seek it.
**Please note mostly all names have been changed, some words will occasionally be misspelled, some metaphors will crumble into run-on sentences that make zero sense, all photos are my own unless otherwise stated and I don’t brush my teeth before bed