Being present to myself: a muscle I'm learning to exercise

Sometimes staying present and in the moment is less attractive to me than, well, emotionally skipping out of town. I do this in a myriad of ways, from day-dreaming, to having expectations that are not particularly well-founded in reality, to simply avoiding things that need to be done, like paying bills or doing the laundry. Sometimes, I just go on autopilot and wake up one day realizing the two-year old Diana is driving the bus. What?!? How did that happen?

The two-year old me is really cute, if I do say so myself. She has a knack for fun, loves people, and is highly entertaining. But whatever you do, do not let her drive the bus.

I'm learning about certain survival techniques that I developed early in my life, most of which were geared around ensuring an ongoing connection with the essential care-giver in my life, my mother. I've written some about this before. Unfortunately, because of her own depression and general personality, she checked out emotionally by the time I turned two and my brother was four. For a two year old, so my therapist says, this is a terrifying turn of events. Mothers are supposed to create a safe haven for their children, and the children need to feel that all is well. This was missing in my experience.

So I spent a great deal of my formative years inventing only marginally successful ways of staying in connection with my mother. One of the most vivid memories I have took place when I was around four or five, by the time my brother was off to kindergarten and I was left at home, alone, with my mother.

As if it were yesterday, I can remember lunches with mom where she would say nothing, not look at me, just sit there passively and with a vacant stare. This panicked me -- I actually can feel the same physical sensations as I write this -- to the point where I had to employ some strategy to bring her back. Usually this involved asking her tons of questions, about her childhood, about what her wedding was like, about whatever. Anything to get her connect with me and give more than a few monosyllabic responses.

The older I got, the more sophisticated the schemes. Mind you, I was too young to know what I was doing, but I had to do something or else I felt like I was going to die. I made up skits with elaborate costumes to entertain my mother. I would share earnest and heartfelt feelings I had with her -- which made her uncomfortable and so she would make jokes about my sincerity. When I was sick, I tried desperately to get her to lay a cool hand on my forehead, which she would do for maybe 5 seconds, and then say "That's enough -- I have laundry to do."

I kept thinking, "if I could just find the key to unlocking the mystery of my mother, a cascade of love and understanding would pour out on me, and I would know everything is ok."

Well guess what: I never found it, this key. But that didn't keep me from trying.

In fact, I applied that desperation for connection with many adult role models in my life, from teachers to other friends' parents to the au pair we had live with us for two years. As an example I fantasized before going to sleep at night that I would protect a beloved teacher from a criminal with a gun, myself being shot in the process. I imagined, over and over, how this teacher would be so indebted to me that she would forever show up in my life as the mother I always wanted.

The skills I developed to defeat my inner desperation and longing were great...as long as I was under the age of 18. As an adult -- not so much. But these survival mechanisms became so automatic that I had no idea they were operating with me, especially in times of panic or fear. Even now I am trying to unpack them, understand their role in my life, appreciate them for how they allowed me to survive, and let go of them.

Easier said than done.

Lately I have been chanting to be more present in my own life, to show up for myself. I had an experience recently that made me realize just how much, in times of stress, I can abandon myself, the adult part of me. I check out. Then, no one is left to drive the bus but the two year old. I go unconscious, and the two year old, driven by fear, takes over.

I began to have an inkling that something was amiss because I had an emotional meltdown over something relatively trivial last weekend. I went down this crazy-assed spiral into a very black abyss, from which I thought I would never recover. It was insane -- part of me was imploding, and yet another part of me was watching it all happen. And in that moment, I felt like there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. The 50-year old Diana awoke from the back seat of the bus to find it being driven by a two year old. Holy SHIT.

The reason this is all happening is because....well, I don't really know, but I DO know that I have been doing my Buddhist chanting a lot lately to root out the causes of my unhappiness. I guess maybe it's time to be the adult driving the bus 100% of the time. I'm not denying that the two year old doesn't exist, or doesn't need to be cared for at times, but really, I need to be driving ALL the time.

The other day, I put a card on my altar that says:

Get real and
LET GO:
--of expectation
--of wishful thinking
--of fantasy
--of false attachments

I need to let go of these two year old ways of being because they aren't serving me anymore. Because they are completely unconscious, they cause me untold pain and suffering. Even though being in reality and always in charge can be painful too, it's not an "I'm gonna DIE!" kind of suffering. It's the suffering human beings live with in the world.

Several things have been so encouraging to me on this quest: for one, chanting so much has really elevated my frame of mind. I am learning to appreciate the incredible effort of the two year old self to ensure I survived, rather than despair that I'm learning these difficult things about myself at the age of 50. The two year old did a remarkably good job, and she can go back to being a kid now.

I also have been reading some Buddhist study material about the idea of "Myo" of Nam Myoho Renge Kyo, the name of the Mystic Law at work in the world. Daisaku Ikeda encourages practitioners to "...Open the way with the wisdom to perceive the essential truth amid changing circumstances." I interpret this to mean, open my life to the wisdom that no matter what happens, know that I am already a Buddha, that I am already complete. The painful realizations about myself are not who I ultimately am. I am not my pain. I have done nothing wrong. I am only human. And being human is the only way to manifest the Buddha wisdom already within me.