Letter 115: A Difficult Devotion

When we teach ourselves that we are safe

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Since today is a made-up holiday, we aren’t going to dwell on it other than to say: I hope you feel the love and share the love in all the best ways!

More importantly: Suzy is back today with another beautiful letter. The way Suzy writes about the relationships in her life is so transparent and vulnerable that not only do I learn new truths when I read her words, but I’m absolutely transported to her world. Such bravery and honesty as she walks right up to the edge. Today is no different and I cherish what Suzy offers. May we all find the courage to dive below the surface just as she does so well. —Molly

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I was in middle school during the MySpace era, before the “swipe right” and scrolling days. MySpace was the perfect playground for my very single, very horny, and very manic mother. Dial-Up quickly became our daily dining room soundtrack as she patiently waited to connect with strangers and disconnect from her loneliness.

I returned home from school one evening and waited a beat for her to lift her head from the computer screen. “I had a good day. Thanks for asking!” I screamed, hoping my sarcasm would cut through her enchantment with her stranger friends. But beneath the quip, was a profound need for connection. I missed her, but I didn’t know how to express it.

Suzy, aged 6 & 12

Middle school was also the time to differentiate from her. This was natural and healthy and I did it effortlessly. I had my own identity: I was an insecure, chubby-cheeked, energetic dancer who wore Apple Bottom jeans, Air Force Ones and slicked-back buns with zigzag parts.

She was a habitually depressed hippie who had unfulfilled creative potential. I was finding myself away from her and that felt okay, but I also desperately needed a secure base to return to and validate me as I jumped between iterations of myself.

I was real, alive flesh and bone with consciousness and I required help exploring my inner landscape to legitimize my existence. A deep yearning would germinate within me for her to be curious about my humanness so that I could see myself more clearly and learn to love my rough patches. Curiosity was my portal to self-esteem: it was proof that I wasn’t too much of anything and that the boulders inside me could be traversed, both by me and by others. 

 “What characteristics do you like in your crushes?” “When do you feel the most alive?” “What is your relationship to food?” “In what ways do you feel powerless in our family? “Where do you hide your anger toward your father?” “How did that feel when you had to lie about the black eye? “What was it like for you when I had to send your brother away?” “Tell me about the tension of being mixed race.” “Tell me how my moods impact you.” “Tell me how having a trans sibling is an ambiguous loss.” “Tell me how you like to be loved.” “Tell me.”

If such curiosity were ever up for discussion, I would have felt so deeply cherished that my chest would have imploded and turned to love dust. That is how I like to be loved. But my mom didn’t have the tools to discover her own inner world so she certainly couldn’t explore mine. It wasn’t just the internet addiction that made her unavailable. There is something selfish about mental illness; it can unintentionally make one’s experience the primary one.

Her needs and desires were outlined with permanent marker and mine were washed with watercolor – faint and hard to define. 

Between my mother’s bipolar disorder, brother’s addiction, sister’s gender dysphoria, and the agonizing stress of poverty, there was no emotional room left for me to occupy. Their multitudes of pain swallowed the air and turned it to carbon monoxide. I was gracefully suffocating and this was my gift to the family.

I minimized my needs and hid inside myself because I knew the system would otherwise bow against its will and splinter into a million pieces. The thrashing within me had to be contained to the borders of my psyche and an enveloping furnace grew inside my stomach that housed all of my screams.

It’s interesting what morphs out of unmet needs. I now have an oceanic capacity for human suffering—the darkness is familiar and the rawness reeks of home. Paradoxically, my needs feel burdensome and despite my yearnings for reciprocity, I repeatedly choose the giving over the unreliable and rickety receiving.

My relentless hunger to crawl out of myself and be fully seen feels cavernous and yet, my fear of being loved incorrectly is greater. I become young and shaky when needing more or different love and I contort my own desires into offerings for everyone else.

I am the listener – the inquisitive friend who sees your pain spots and doesn’t cower or run from them. This tactfully positions me on the other side of vulnerability.  A mistrust for dependence is precarious though. Disconnection is safer than lost connection, but both are lonely I have found. 

Suzy as an adult soaking up the healing powers of travel.

I know intellectually that all of me can’t be loved if I don’t allow all of me to be known; but I also fear that if I show those parts and they aren’t loved, well that is much more painful. I have, however, the gift of practicing with my exquisitely safe husband.

When we are in moments of disagreement or conflict, my chest rustles and I feel an immediate impulse to flee, both physically and emotionally. I want to seek refuge in the safe corners of my mind; but, despite the profound discomfort, I now choose to stay. I press my hand to my heart and gently whisper, “You are safe. You are not too much. You can be here now.” It’s in the staying that I recommit to our connection and become allies with my wish to be fully seen. 

Being in solidarity with my needs is a difficult devotion. While on a recent lunch date with a friend, she unintentionally turned a vulnerability I shared into a shaming moment. I responded with a well-oiled pattern: I swallowed the hurt and unsteadily left for the bathroom where with teary eyes told myself, “See, this is why you shouldn’t share.” Over the next few weeks, the uneasiness never dissipated so against my instincts, I decided to express myself. Again, I lay my hand upon my chest and said the hard thing: “I need curious love and when that doesn’t feel accessible to you, a reach for my hand will be well received.”

Much to my surprise, she thanked me for my courage. 

Along with my daring love requests, I have also deepened my compassion and curiosity for the moments in my childhood where I had to fill in the gaps. When my mother was deep in the MySpace trance, she quite literally disappeared for a few days.

I quickly learned from my sibling that she had gone to meet a stranger friend in California. At the time, I was so appalled that she would turn away from her parental obligations and abandon me. I was starving for her, couldn’t she see that?

But now, looking back, I can’t help but think that perhaps her desire to be known was just as large as mine. Maybe she needed to find herself before she could reach for me.

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Suzy’s 5 Favorite Things

• I have loved writing Letters From Love, which is Elizabeth Gilbert’s lifelong practice and teaching. Letter From Love is also on Substack. Start with the prompt: Love, what would you have me know today? Allow Love to answer. 

• My husband and I recently moved and we don’t have a fully operating kitchen yet so we haven’t been able to cook our extravagant vegan meals. This tofu bolognese has been a lifesaver though because it’s so easy with so few ingredients. 

• I am trained in Internal Family Systems (IFS) therapy and I love that it is having such a big moment right now. A beautiful IFS session was illustrated on We Can Do Hard Things in Episode 252.

• I participated in my first Ayahuasca ceremony and in summary, it was transformative. Learn more about the healing medicine.

• I am always on the hunt for vintage jewelry and Oko is one of my fave places in my hometown, Portland. 

With gratitude,

Suzy Fauria

P.S. Whenever Suzy shares her words here, I continue thinking about them for days. Her letter about the matriarchs in her family and her piece on her mother were just like this.