Читать книгу Giving Myself Permission: Putting Fear and Doubt In Their Place - Pennie Murray - Страница 7

“No one saves us but ourselves. No one can and no one may. We ourselves must walk the path.”

~Buddha

Although I tell people my journey of learning to give myself permission started in 2001 on a flight from California back home to Missouri, I have come to realize that it actually began many years before. So, maybe a truer statement would be my conscious journey of learning to give myself permission occurred in 2001. Since then, I have discovered so much more about myself — my strengths, needs, and potential. Perhaps the greatest discovery has been becoming aware of the many inhibitions and emotional shackles I somehow acquired over the years.

Growing up in the 60s and 70s, I was surrounded by contradictory messages of independence and subordination, confidence and submissiveness, and fairness and discrimination. For instance, as a child, I remember watching a news report about two black athletes — Tommie Smith and John Carlos — who had competed in the 1968 Summer Olympics in Mexico City. Smith broke the world record in the 200-meter dash finals and won a gold medal, while Carlos won the bronze. The men demonstrated pride in their achievement on national TV by raising their arms and clenching their fists. This salute became known as a symbol to express Black Power – translation, Cultural Pride.

The sight of those two inspiring, young Black men with clenched fists — as pronounced as exclamation marks — was a powerful visual for me as a young girl. Although I was only eleven years old, I understood their actions were a symbolic statement for our race. It announced to the world that we were, in fact, equal and proud, despite the restrictions that had been placed upon us as Black Americans. A new door of opportunity swung open and these men were standing at the threshold. It was indeed a marked moment in American history.

Unfortunately, Smith and Carlos were ostracized for allegedly “politicizing” the Olympic Games. They were also immediately suspended from the team and banished from the Olympic Village. Afterward, they received numerous death threats. Ironically, there had been no such reaction to Nazi salutes during the Berlin games. What Smith and Carlos had hoped would be a positive demonstration of pride in their wins was rejected by many, including the media and some Black Americans.

Why weren’t people celebrating, rather than criticizing them? I wondered. After all, my schoolteachers and other prominent leaders often talked about the great opportunities the Civil Rights Movement of 1964 provided for Blacks in America. So why did these two men receive so little respect and so much ridicule for their superior agility and success?

To my surprise, my grandmother and mother didn’t share my sentiment. Their responses to my questions offered little in the way of comfort. They disapproved of the men’s’ actions, to say the least. My mother viewed them as troublemakers and their actions as ignorant. Public opinion seemed to mirror my mother’s views because the young men were overtly reprimanded by the United States sporting establishment.

When they returned to the U.S., the men were criticized by mainstream White America. Eventually, I learned there were others like me who admired Smith and Carlos as heroes. We considered their actions a message of courage and liberation. Many of us still feel that way today.

In Search of Courage

In 2007, I was really struggling to find the courage to go public with my philosophy of self-permission. While searching through some of my personal belongings, I came across a picture of Carlos and Smith. I believed hearing first-hand what stirred these iconic athletes on that fateful day at the Olympics would somehow help me find the courage I needed. So I decided to contact them.

John Carlos responded and agreed to spend a day with me. I met him in Palm Springs, California, where he lived at the time. Palm Springs is a place that most would describe as a small piece of paradise. Despite the scenic utopia of his surroundings, I quickly realized Carlos remained emotionally scarred by the consequences of his actions decades prior.

Carlos, greeted me with a nice, firm handshake and a welcoming hug. In his smile, I noticed a certain excitement about our visit. Although he was willing to talk about life since the Olympics, he was visibly burdened. It seemed the weight restricted the very essence of this man, who I considered a hero. As I sat with him that day, I hung on to his every word, yet noticing through his facial expressions, body language, and intonations just how scarred he still was.

As our conversation unfolded and Carlos became more comfortable with sharing aspects of his experience, I learned how pain, disappointment, loss, regret, and bitterness had become recurring emotions in his life. He had hidden them behind superficial smiles. But Carlos’ words, which were now soaked in sorrow, and the pace of his voice, which had slowed to that of a runner trying to finish the last mile of a marathon, forced me to look beyond the physical man that sat across from me, to see the soul of the man struggling to let go of the traumatic experiences that had haunted his life.

For John Carlos, the momentary act of self-permission that took place in 1968 — an act he confesses he really didn’t think would create such negative consequences — cost him more than he could ever have imagined. My heart ached for his broken spirit, and I remembered a Scripture I once read that states, “The human spirit can endure in sickness, but a crushed spirit who can bear?” (Proverbs 18:14). The man I grew up admiring as the “exclamation mark” of strength and courage, was now a vivid picture of the emotional shackles a person sometimes acquires when he or she is demoralized by the opinions of others.

On the drive back to Ocean Side, California, where I was living at the time, I felt a bit melancholy. Journeying into Mr. Carlos’ pain had left its residue on me. I was happy to have met him, yet saddened by the lingering negativity that had devastated his life. I wondered if he had ever considered giving himself permission to learn from “it.” By “it” I mean the pain, regret, bitterness, or hostility we commit to our long-term memory after a major setback. If we’re not careful, “it” will ultimately restrict the effectiveness of our very existence. This is what I sensed was happening to John Carlos.

We Are Like Travelers

I didn’t find courage during the time I spent with John Carlos. What I did find, however, was another person like myself in some ways — living in the shadows of inhibition, fear, and a hurtful past. I’m not saying this to judge or criticize Carlos’ mental and emotional state of being at that time. I say it because he too is a traveler, like so many of us, longing for the inner freedom necessary to live out our full potential.

As I sit here years later writing this book, I am considering that maybe, just maybe, courage is not something you find or acquire from some external source; it’s innate. In other words, it’s something we just have. And if it’s innate, then maybe courage only shows up when we are actually doing the thing we are destined to do. Maybe we have to attempt something larger than our current abilities, faith, and resources before courage kicks in. Perhaps the real challenge is not in obtaining courage, but in disarming the years of learned inhibitions and emotional restrictions that suppress it.

Of all the things Carlos told me that day, one thing continues to echo in my spirit: he wasn’t really conscious of his actions or the far-reaching implications that would ensue. I now realize how important it is for each of us to be not only conscious, but also intentional, in our actions. We must be intentional in the choices we make, the paths we follow, and the people we choose to interact with most.

Of the many lessons I learned from him, however, the one I contribute most to my discovery of self-permission is the realization that I could no longer give people and circumstances power over my destiny. For most of my life, I had allowed the opinions of other people to have greater authority over my life than I did.

Regaining Your Authority

When we give something or someone authority in our lives, we give it or them permission to influence and control our decisions. Outside of God and ourselves, nothing and no one should have that type of power. God gives us free will and choice, so why do we allow others to take liberties over our lives that God Himself won’t violate. Think for a moment, who or what primarily has contributed to the choices you’ve made in life?

Ask yourself — do your thoughts and conversations still reflect pain, disappointment, or unusual stress? Do you start off talking about something that recently happened and end up talking about something negative that happened in your past? If you answered “yes” to either question, you have given something or someone else control over your destiny. It’s time to take back the authority you have given away.

In retrospect, I realize that as far back as childhood, I had given my authority to my mother. Not that we shouldn’t have respect for our parents in allowing them to guide us; that’s much of what parenting is about. What was unhealthy about my situation, however, was that I was being raised by a verbally and physically abusive mother who almost always made a point of letting me know that I did not live up to her expectations. Because of the rejection and mistreatment, I always found myself doing things to try and win her approval. Somehow, I was never quite good enough.

Most of the decisions I made about how I dressed, what I thought, or the things I attempted to excel in weren’t based on what I wanted. Instead, they were based on what I thought would make my mother proud, or, depending on her frame of mind — help me avoid her wrath.

Maybe you decided to pursue a certain career, live in a certain neighborhood, drive a certain car, or pick a life partner based solely on how it would influence other people’s thoughts about you, rather than making those choices because they would bring you fulfillment. If so, you’re probably not very happy. While pleasing others can in some way have its rewards, it can debilitate us if the things we do aren’t actually in line with our own purpose and desires.

By the age of 10, I had learned how to betray and dishonor myself, my dreams, my goals, and my ambitions because I feared rejection and desperately needed the approval of others. I became codependent on people at the expense of my own emotional and physical dignity. It’s been said that a girl’s knowledge of a man is established by the interaction she has with her father. I never knew my father, so I was clueless about men. At a very early age I began allowing men to take advantage of me. As I got into relationships, I thought a man was doing me a favor if he dated me. Therefore, I positioned myself to be the object of emotional or sexual manipulation.

Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t just men who took advantage of me. It seemed that everyone did. For years, it was as if I had a neon sign across my forehead that read, “FOOL! Use me!” Anyone who could see my desperate need for acceptance and significance was able to benefit from my inability to have total authority over my life. Having the love and affection of a man just happened to be the devil’s greatest tool in keeping my potential on lockdown.

Maybe the pressures my mom experienced as a single parent of five children had taken its toll. But her abuse had gotten so bad that by the age of fifteen, I left my mother’s house to live on my own. At sixteen, I was pregnant and working at an upscale steak and seafood restaurant as a fry cook at night and cleaning an office building on the weekends to provide for my daughter and myself. When my daughter was born, I went back to school.

God blessed me to find a babysitter who lived across the street from the high school I was attending. She agreed to keep my daughter during the day while I was in class, and at night when I was at work. In many ways she became my daughter’s surrogate grandmother. Every day, I would get out of school, walk across the street to spend two hours with my daughter, then head to work.

I didn’t have a car, so I rode the city bus back and forth to work. I would get on the bus around 10 p.m. It was the last bus of the evening, and I was often the last passenger. I was also blessed to have a bus driver who would stop in front of my babysitter’s house, wait for me to get my daughter, and get back on the bus. The bus stop was a half block from my apartment, so when the driver let us off for the evening he would watch us to make sure we got in safely. I would turn the porch light on to signal that we were okay. This was my routine five days a week until I graduated from high school.

My pregnancy was the result of an older man (I’ll call him William) who saw an opportunity to exploit my desperate need for affection and approval. For me, the sexual touches and tender, yet manipulative, words fulfilled my longing for the love and approval my parents failed to give me. For William, it was just sex. And like a drug addict trying to recapture that first feeling of ecstasy, I became an addict, making every sexual encounter a fiendish pursuit of love and approval.

This warped sense of thinking devastated my life in a very unsuspecting way. Because my need for love was shaped by my brokenness, I never learned the true nature of love. I equated sex with love, and no one ever told me anything different. I never learned to give love, receive love, or trust love. I was too busy trying to satisfy my own brokenness.

The news of my pregnancy and my refusal to abort it revealed William’s true nature. Immediately after hearing the news, he became abusive. When my mother found out that I was pregnant, she attempted to force William to marry me. The outcome was disastrous. Mother had invited me to go shopping with her and my older sister. I was excited because we were going to get things for the baby, and I interpreted this act as mending our relationship.

Unfortunately, there was no planned shopping trip; the next thing I knew, I was at William’s parents’ house. Feeling like a sheep being led to slaughter, I soon realized my mother had planned this. The room was darkened by heavy drapes and the darkness was deepened by the coldness of the attitudes that surrounded me.

In her usual, embittered tone, my mother told William, “My daughter is pregnant. You’re the father, and you need to marry her.” The shock and humiliation of my mother’s statement was like a heavy cement band that kept me bound to the chair. If I could have snapped my finger and disappeared, I would have.

William’s response was the rope that tied me down for the slaughter. Still dazed by my mother’s statement, I vaguely heard him adamantly deny ever being involved with me. With total contempt in his voice, he declared that I was “beneath him.” He went on to tell why he suspected I had become pregnant: “She screwed around with a lot of different men!”

While William’s statement wasn’t true, it led to a silence that seemed to strangle life out of the room. With my head dropped in shame, I could feel the hate emanating from his eyes. The very look he gave pierced my soul like red hot coal burning through silk. The same man, who had previously taken sexual liberties with my body, now spoke of me in total disgust.

As I walked away from that humiliating situation I felt extremely filthy. It was as if the ultimate scarlet letter of shame had been stamped on my forehead. The shame was embedded more when my mother vowed, with the same measure of disgust, that she would never help me in the support of my baby. In the years that followed, she stayed true to her word. Oh, just so you know — we never went shopping for the baby — not that day or any other day.

I was determined not to be a statistic or a financial weight on society, so it was critical that I finish high school. I attended summer classes to make up for the time I lost during my pregnancy. Back then, a girl wasn’t allowed to attend school once the officials found out she was pregnant. When word began to spread, the boys I knew and the few friends I had avoided me like the plague! The girls acted as if my condition was contagious. The boys — well, none of them wanted to be accused of being the father of my baby.

My mother forbade my sisters to talk to me, and my oldest sister who attended the same high school, did just that — refused to talk to me. My younger sisters decided to defy mother. They would lie about having to stay after school and would come to my house instead. When my mother found out, my younger sisters were punished. But despite the punishments, my sister Sheila continued to sneak to see me. Sheila still has that defiant spirit, but sometimes it sabotages her in emotionally unhealthy ways.

I miraculously finished school on time and walked across the stage a proud mother, with my sisters and daughter cheering excitedly as my name was announced. It was one of the proudest moments of my life, but my mother and father were nowhere to be found. Even then, they were unable to give me love and approval.

With no help from my parents or my daughter’s father, I felt totally abandoned, betrayed, and afraid. I sought assistance through the state welfare program and received help in the form of childcare and food stamps. In my mind this was another symbol of shame.

I had hoped to raise the status of our lives by attending college to become an ophthalmologist, but those hopes were quickly dashed when a college advisor told me to try something that I was more qualified to do. I can’t remember his list of suggestions, but they were service-oriented jobs, like hospitality and entry level office support. In that moment I gave him greater authority over my life and my hopes because I never challenged his opinion, nor did I continue to pursue my ambition. By accepting his view of my life and potential, I also accepted a life of mediocrity. Thank goodness that cycle eventually changed by giving myself permission to be and do more!

Struggling to break free from this hell resulted in years of arguing with God and emotionally exhaustive debates with myself and anyone else who would listen. There were periods in my life where I indulged in elaborate pity parties. There were also times when playing the role of the martyr was preferable to engaging in another wrestling match with life. Without a doubt, I’ve done my share of whining, complaining, blaming, and excuse-making.

Getting Fed Up

One day, I got sick and tired of being sick and tired. That’s when God began to prepare me for the truly conscious journey of giving myself permission. When I reflect on what triggered my turning point, I have to consider a series of questions: Was it just one thing, or a compilation of disappointments, failures, betrayals, and habitual behaviors that yielded the same drama, hurt and pain? Was it the year and a half I spent in counseling? Maybe it happened when I looked back over my life and realized that my grandmother, my mother, my sisters and I embodied three generations of emotionally broken people. Whatever the trigger, the coup de grace came on a cold winter night in January when I found myself on a dark street in my car trying to figure out how I could commit suicide and still leave my children with some kind of dignity.

While I won’t go into great detail, I will share with you the essence of the event. But let’s just say I journeyed through several layers of consciousness in one night. I don’t think Ebenezer Scrooge, from the story A Christmas Carol, and his ghostly visitations had anything on me. My journey started with a psychological sense of being in the depths of hell, and ended with the ultimate, conscious commitment to always maintain a higher level of self-awareness.

At the time, I had been married for six months to a pastor of a church who was physically, spiritually, and emotionally abusive. I’ll tell you a little more about this in the next chapter. But the events that led to this decisive moment had sent me spiraling to a very dark place. On this particular day I had not seen my husband for two days. That evening, I received a phone call from a man who was the husband of one of the members of the church. He called to tell me that his wife had changed the locks on their home and that the pastor, my husband, was now living with his wife.

Numb from this insane news, I tried to wrap my thoughts around what I had been told. After awhile I called my husband and in the most uncaring and nonchalant voice, he confirmed what the woman’s husband had said. The “good” pastor went on to tell me that God had revealed to him that I was there to destroy him and that the other woman was the one who would uplift him and his ministry.

By this time, I had two children — a daughter and a son. Because of my husband’s abuse, my son’s father had demanded custody of him. My daughter was attending college in another state. So there I was living in this small, roach-infested house my husband owned before we were married. His five children lived with us. He had not taken them to live with him; he left them behind with me.

There was absolutely no food in the house, utility shut off notices were on the counter, the needle on the gas gauge of my car was on the mark before empty, and I had five dollars to my name. Trust me, how I let myself get to this level is another book in itself. Realizing the situation I was in, I began tumbling fast off an emotional cliff, and all I could think about was suicide. In a desperate attempt for help, I called a spiritual counselor. It was nine o’clock at night, and I pleaded with her to see me. She agreed.

I drove to her house as fast as I could. When I arrived, I found myself in a dark cul-de-sac. There were no lights on at her house. After knocking on the door several times I went back to my car. I decided to wait, thinking that she might have left for a quick run to the store or something. My thoughts of suicide intensified as I shivered in the cold winter night. I was trying to preserve the little gas I had in my car by turning it on and off as needed for heat.

As I sat in the car, I felt a lot like Job in the Bible, who, after he was struck with sickness and lost everything he had, began to loathe his very existence and wish for death. My somber, desperate demand to God was much like what Job said in the Biblical book that was named for him: “God if this is the course of my life, I would rather die than to live!” (Job 10:11)

God’s response to my demand was surprising, to say the least. “There are forces that are working to destroy you,” I heard Him say. “But I have you in the palm of my hand and I see you. I will let go, if that’s what you really want.” That sobering statement shook me from my emotional stupor and made me realize that I had to make a choice. But instead, I challenged God further.

Like Jacob in Genesis 32:26, I began to wrestle with God about my desires for spiritual, mental and emotional healing, freedom, and authenticity. I demanded that my life be changed and that I be given a new name and a new sense of being. Three hours later, I emerged, triumphant, like the Psalmist David, declaring, “I will not die! I will live!” (Psalms 118:17).

All of this took place on that dark and devastating winter night in my car. The counselor never returned home that evening. One week later, I found out why she never showed. Just ten minutes after she had agreed to see me, she received a phone call that her son had been shot. He later died. The counselor’s tragedy prevented her from seeing me that night, yet it has allowed me to reflect many times on a very real fact: Often times it’s just between me and God, but I keep trying to include everyone else. We are so conditioned to look outside ourselves that we have become extremely reliant on external elements for answers or resolve. But many times it’s not for others to intervene — it’s between you and your God.

Throughout my own transformational journey, I’ve often challenged the notion of giving myself permission. Knowing my own torments, I wondered if it was even possible to manage the uncertainty, or hush the internal screams of self-doubt and fear. I’ve often wondered if it would really be possible to overcome my apprehension toward success and not pay another ransom to my self-saboteur. My response to these questions was, “Yes it is possible!”

Limitless Possibilities

The greatest wealth we have as individuals comes from living a life without limitations. “But Pennie,” you might say, “life is filled with limitations. We simply are incapable of doing everything!” You are partially correct. But let me clearly explain what I mean.

Over the span of our lives, we have learned a host of inhibitions that have caused us to betray our own purpose and quality of life. The price tag for this self-betrayal has been the unhealthy need for external validation and reassurance. In other words, the reassurance we desire from others is permission. But why do we need their permission to live our lives?

The truth is, we don’t. We have programmed ourselves to believe that we do. Many of us long for accolades and acceptance from our peers, family members, colleagues, and even our children. It makes us feel good and gives us great pride in ourselves and our accomplishments.

It stems from our childhood, when we smiled from ear to ear after receiving a compliment from our parents, grandparents, and teachers. Their words encouraged us, motivated us, and made us want more. Some of us didn’t get enough positive reinforcement growing up. Some of us did. In the scheme of things, all these things matter. I don’t know a single person who doesn’t thrive on compliments, even those who may never admit its necessity or benefit in their lives.

Think about this for a moment. Can you recall a time when you made a decision about something and then got someone else’s feedback BEFORE acting on it? I know I have. In these cases, we’re sometimes — though not always — subconsciously seeking permission from others. We want their reassurance to move forward.

Getting advice before making a decision is valuable, wise, and recommended. The Bible says, “Plans fail for lack of counsel, but with many advisers they succeed” (Proverbs 15:22). So obtaining counsel is a good thing. After we have gathered the perspectives and recommendations of others however, it is ultimately we who must decide to move forward, postpone, or abandon the idea altogether.

The path towards self-permission demands that we trust ourselves and our judgment. Sometimes there is no right or wrong answer. Life is a learning curve. Not only must we learn to trust ourselves, but we must also learn to accept the responsibility of the outcome of our decisions.

The best decisions are based on our own perceptions and timing, not on someone telling us what we should or should not do. When we give ourselves permission to make decisions, we take ownership of our destiny. Win or lose, we must act on what our internal instincts tell us. Relying on the permission we seek from others may often cripple or limit the potential of our success in life, love, and purpose.

Never should a decision be made to impress or outdo someone. Yes, we all possess some level of competitiveness. In business, competition is the name of the game. But even in business we must exercise restraint, wisdom, and sound judgment.

If we remain solely dependent on others to give us permission to live, we will always be at risk of being slaves to our own self-doubt, and others will always have unfair access to the emotions and direction of our lives. Ultimately, it is unfair to us to continue living this way.

If you have been accustomed to pleasing other people or basing your decisions on what they think, the self-permission transformation will give you a whole new lease on life. In the beginning, some of the people you have become dependent upon may be offended by your newfound independence. Others may be relieved. Regardless of their feelings, move forward with confidence. After all, this is your life. Isn’t it?

Self-Permission Challenge

It’s been said, “Emotions (positive or negative) like themselves. They want to live on forever.” This means they will insert themselves whenever and wherever they can flourish. Letting go of the dumb stuff that triggers negative emotions is not the same thing as letting go of our emotions or our emotional selves. Our emotions are valid and are an expressed response to painful experiences. They also offer insight into what’s really going on in any given situation.

So, I’m not encouraging you to discredit the negative emotions you feel. And I certainly don’t encourage avoiding, rejecting, or repressing negative emotions. This challenge is more about dealing with the people and things that negatively impact your emotions. It’s about learning to manage and interpret these emotions so that they can benefit us.

Whether you insert negative past events into your thoughts or express them aloud, when you recognize that your conversation or thoughts have shifted from the present to the negative past ask yourself the following questions:

1.What was the purpose or intent of inserting my negative past into this conversation or this situation?

2.Was it truly important or necessary to insert them?

3.Did it strengthen or diminish me mentally and emotionally?

4.What positive words and/or actions would give me what I want (positive attention or support) without negative input?

Letting go of your emotions is not an option, but letting go of the dumb stuff is a process that can be learned. So start off slow by following the 5% principle. For example, focus on just one negative insertion at a time. Start with something small. Once you no longer have a need to insert the negative past into your present life, move on to another.

As I stated in the introduction to this book, there is no time span as to how long you work through this challenge. Don’t set any pre-determined results, or place any expectations or demands on yourself. Work on each negative insert until you no longer have a need for it.