The Little Vanilla Book by Unknown

Author:Unknown
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 0000000000000
Published: 2021-11-07T13:12:20+00:00

ON RESILIENCE

Wheresover you go, go with all your heart.

—Confucius

I never got why anybody in their right mind would want to be vulnerable. I couldn’t get why a sub would choose to be “weak.” I like being strong. Strong means being able to stay the course, survive what life throws at you, and be a force. While I craved safekeeping, I’ve had to be lionhearted from a young age. Bendy softness? Ew!

Strength is to resilience what vulnerability is to weakness. Or so I thought. Now I think the most badass battle cry is “I’m Gumby, dammit!” Yeah, that’s right, Gumby. The bendy green humanoid with a faithful pal named Pokey. Gumby’s plucky spirit and especially his flexibility—literally and figuratively—help him overcome his nemeses, which is kind of a great lesson when you think about it.

Gumby’s lessons were lost on me as a little kid. I was in full-on survival mode by the time I was six, thanks to a merciless stepdad. I learned to hide my sweet little heart and disappear. I lost my mojo. It’s a little-known fact that Edvard Munch painted The Scream while shacking up at my house.

Fuck that noise.

I decided I would never be weak again. No one would see my sensitivity or need for love. I glorified the three Bs of traditionally male traits: boldness, bravado, and balls. I donned my Wonder Woman cape and boots and walked hard. Girl power! Women warriors!

It was a hard left turn from pain and the best I could do, given my fucked-up blueprint. My childhood lesson about limits was bravely saying no to abuse. It proved that I could stand strong against anything. It deepened my resolve to never be broken. But it also cemented my near-phobic fear of helplessness.

My response to helplessness was to control. I was terrified if I let go of any detail of my life, the world I was shouldering would crash to bits. I tried to control my body with bulimia, my feelings with numbing drugs, my fear with fight or flight (enabled by my nomadic modeling career). I was enslaved by my perfectionistic, relentless need for control.

I even tried to control fate. When my mother got sick I rushed in to save the day. I stomped around and made a ruckus and handled shit. Fuck brain tumors, my beloved would be fine! In the end, all my well-intended efforts did not fix or heal or save her. Letting go of control and comforting her, really being present for her, would have been the greatest gift.

I wish I’d known when my mother was alive that letting go is the answer. It is the everything, the life breath, the now. I needed to let go of who I thought she should be and how she should mother me. I needed to let go of my fury against her illness because it hindered our closeness. I needed to let go of my panic over becoming an orphan. But I raged and gripped harder.

Sometimes the toughest thing for women is surrendering control.

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