Boundaries: Drawing them, holding them, believing you have a right to them.

I recently shared these thoughts in our writing circles:

            So many say, “I feel safe in my Writing Circle.” One reason, I believe, is because there are boundaries built into our process – guidelines for timed writing, timed responding, and clear amounts of minutes to write, read, and respond. It is within these boundaries that a clear place is set for expression. Every life needs boundaries to live within. Survivors got their boundaries broken through, shattered, crossed, invaded. We have a right to mark our boundaries for the life we want to live and experience. Create them, draw them, mark your place, and flourish there.

I then showed them this poem by Jody Lynn and invited them to write about boundaries.

Setting boundaries

Is an act of liberation

While freeing yourself

You also free those

With the illusion

That their happiness

Depends on you

Here are writings generated that some of them were willing to share with you.

A Boundary I Want to Draw

By Susan G.

I imagine drawing a boundary around my body with a large, black piece of charcoal. I imagine sitting on my bottom on a human size piece of butcher-block paper, stretching forward, back, and all around me, drawing a circle and then another and another.

Who shall I let into the first circle, the second, the third? I smudge some areas to make openings for certain people, and fiercely darken others against those I never want to deal with again, or if I must, to know I am in full armor. They can no longer permeate my space, my skin, my being, my mind, and most sacred- my soul.

            I now believe that as a young girl, I had an army of spirits around me. While they could not protect my body, they protected my soul, making sure it never died, that a flicker of flame would always remain, no matter what.

            That flicker kept me alive. It was like an ongoing vigil for little me, and then bigger me, teenage me, and young adult me. Sometimes it was so faint, no one would ever guess it was still there. But even walking like a ghost, dissociated from all but my closest friends who helped to invigorate me, along with my David Bowie and Police albums which I played incessantly on my stereo, I put one foot in front of the other, did my work, applied to college,

and got out of there.

            Since then, my flame has gone from a flicker to a strong burn, not always sequentially. Now, they want that flame back to fuel themselves. “No, it’s mine,” I scream. “I won’t take care of you,” I cry. “I won’t give myself over to you,” I demand. It is a fight, a duel. I must set a million boundaries to save myself, to save my flame. It is my flame. I kept it burning. I get to choose who to share it with, and I refuse to let them take it from me, or tell me I owe it to

them.

            I turn my back, returning to my path, to my life that I have set forth with my

flame. I share this flame with those I choose. I will not abandon my family of origin, but I will no longer sacrifice my life force for them either. It’s something I’ve done time and again. No more. Now I must truly forge the life I want without guilt or regret, now in the final trimester of my life.

BOUNDARIESBOUNDARIESBOUNDARIESBOUNDARIESBOUNDARIESBOUNDARIES

By Carla S.

A boundary I want to draw….

I wish I knew

Boundaries are so hard

To draw the boundary

I first have to know the boundary

I want to draw.

I was never taught that I was allowed to have boundaries.

In fact, they were violated time and again.

So now, all of a sudden, I’m supposed to speak up and say my boundaries.

I need a class – I probably need to go back to school to get a degree.

My life depended on having no boundaries.

Reading the room knowing what everyone else wanted

And making it so.

Disappearing.

When I am around people, it’s hard to figure out what I want, but sometimes afterward when it’s over and I’m safe in the confines of my home, my own space, alone, it becomes clear that whatever transpired was not what I wanted. Recently this happened and it took me two days and a session with my coach to get clear on what the issue was and what I wanted. I went back to my friends armed with notes and said my piece and they heard me and even thanked me for speaking up and I started to cry from relief at being heard and my words being received with kindness and openness.

Then one said, “I wish you had said it at the time” and I said, “Yeah, So do I. I lost two nights sleep, but I wasn’t clear at the time. I often become clear after the fact and have to go back and sometimes the person doesn’t even remember the incident or conversation.” And she said, “Oh wow, that is a good point.” When there is something someone else has said that bothered her, but she couldn’t articulate it, she now realizes she can go back to them after the fact.

Anyway, I wish boundaries were easier. I wish there was a way for me to be more clear in the moment. I’m working on speaking up, but it is so hard sometimes because it seems easier to make the other person happy and sometimes because I think that is what I want and don’t know the difference between making the other person happy and making myself happy. It’s all wrapped up in one.

I’m getting better at speaking up when I have an opinion and know what I want. I need more practice figuring out what that is and being brave enough to say it when I think it will offend or upset the other person or when I know that’s not what they want.

It’s especially hard for me to set boundaries with my family. It seems almost impossible. They need so much, and they are so used to getting it from me. I know I have to work on this co-dependence, but I know if I don’t answer the phone/give advice/help out. Whatever the issue is it snowballs into a bigger mess to fix later and it’s very hard for me to walk away and say, “Not my problem.” It’s also constant so one day I resist answering the phone the 10 or so times they call but then the next day I feel like I have to answer.

I wish boundaries were something I could buy in a store or order online. But I get that this is my life’s work – figure out who I am and what I want and ask for it and sometimes, when necessary, just take it for myself.

It sounds so simple.

If only it were.

I am a monster.

John P.

As a child, I participated in some horrible, despicable, disgusting crimes. Yes I was a child, and yes I did it to survive or to save my body from being beaten to pulp.  But you can’t deny it, I was there, and I took part.

Like a sponge, I soaked adult bitterness and pain. As I grew up the sponge just grew larger, able to soak more poison.  And then the sponge filled, saturated.  It could take no more and started dripping poison.  The compelling thought was to squeeze the sponge and empty it: on another sponge.

But then I discovered boundaries. I carefully built a boundary around my sponge, to protect others from me the monster. And I surely saved some lives this way. And then the real work began, the monster and I, alone in a room, forever, and a sponge saturated and trapped with poison.

I am a monster, please do not dismiss this statement. I have saved many lives, but the power to destroy, the imagery and the tools, are inside me, generational gifts forever.

The real work started maybe 30 years ago. The intension to keep this boundary and break the chain of suffering, that is my gift and my liberation. I can see the boundary, like a circular rainbow surrounding me, transforming the monster to beauty, to protect others.

The monster and I are friends now, after 30 years of the real work. We are at peace, and we never did hurt anyone, except a dog who once received a fury of rage and anger. And the sponge is mostly evaporated, dry.

You may think of me as a rainbow. But never forget that I am a violent monster who chooses with every breath to be a peaceful, giving, kind, rainbow of life.

The Curve

By Laurel Sanford

A line, a curve, a space between you and I that leaves me vulnerable. The curve of a hug I so badly needed that night I mourned for my Mama. The tears that fell from my wet cheeks like a broken child torn from its mother’s womb. The space in my heart left barren and cold without you there, Mama.

The hug rejected; the compassion denied. The argument that ensued, the accusations and lies. The excuses to not show love and care to ease the pain of my broken heart torn wide apart. The anger replaced the sadness but mourning still covered my heart. I was all alone. Yet present with a man who couldn’t love me back. A man without boundaries. He crossed them to and fro. He’d crushed my heart that night - I merely needed the curve of a hug to console my breaking heart. Instead, I felt bound by anger over the line he’d crossed. The space between us grew apart.

Boundaries are something I’ve always had trouble with because I never learned how to create them. So, I met a man just like my father and I’ve lost my self again. He crossed a boundary with me and I can’t forgive, can’t forget, can’t feel anything but resentment now towards a man who couldn’t show me compassion when I needed it the most. I am everything to him. I do everything for him. He takes and I give away myself in vain. I can’t say no.

Co-dependency consumes me. I am so well versed in so many other areas in my life except boundaries. I wish I could figure out how to apply them to my life. I feel weak. I cater to a narcissist. I am an empath. Such a recipe for disaster for me.

Oh, boundaries help me set you into place. Set your line and curve and give me space to set me free.

Family Boundaries

By Stacy W.

Setting boundaries is an act of liberation and boy do I need to be liberated.  My family.  Oh, my family. I love them all so much, but I've lived my whole life for them. I feel noble when I sacrifice myself for their well-being, which usually results in some type of harm to myself. Why is it pretending has always been more comfortable than being real and authentic?  This 50th wedding anniversary celebration is coming up in December and they have all decided, with no input from me, that we will ALL spend 3 days and 2 nights at my parents' home. 

It's like returning to the scene of the crime. All the violence, abuse and violation that occurred in that house and now we are supposed to be happy and celebrate. I am terrified of just saying “No this does not work for me.” There is no way I can survive without self-harm with all my family in that very same house for 3 days straight. It’s like we have to do this to prove to the rest of them, I mean all our friends and family, that we are not just pretending to be a perfect little family. This celebration will only multiply the denial of our truth. The truth of mental illness, domestic violence, sexual abuse, and suffering. 

No, we have to present as one big happy family. And I am angry. No, I am pissed off.  I was not even asked about this, but I was told this was what was decided, and I am so afraid of my brother’s rage that I said my usual, “Works for me,” just to not upset anyone.  But you see, later while I am sobbing by myself, I am ruminating about how I cannot ever say No to this, yet I truly realize the cost to me. I don’t want to say No because it will cost me approval from my family and time with my niece and nephews. However, not setting that boundary by being honest that these plans do not work for me cost me myself. 

I have worked tirelessly at gaining independence from them and from the stories and this will set me back. I have started to feel like a separate adult woman because of therapy, meetings, meditation, friends, writing and asking for help and now I risk falling back into old patterns by participating in false beliefs, such as, I am incapable of saying No. No. A one word answer. No. Because I love myself too much to keep hurting myself.  No. Because I do not want to. No. Because I matter. No. Because they hurt me. No. Because no one even asked me.  And simply No because I love me and for once I am going to be that one person I prayed for as a small, abused child and I will say No to save and protect that little girl!

 A Boundary I Want to Draw

By Helen H.

 I drew a boundary when it comes to my family and especially my youngest brother. I watched my mother enable him. He is the baby of the family. Like a lot of young men working away from home he'd bring his laundry home for her to do it for him. I watched her enable him by buying him his alcohol - a 12 pack or a kit as he called it by including a mickey of Brandy with that beer. And as she was lying in her sickbed he'd come and visit her for 10 minutes or so before he'd ask for money. I, at one time, went and cashed a check for her and then watched as she gave the cash to him for his booze. I refused. I’d take him to the clinic so he could get his pills, but I refused to take him to the beer store or the liquor store.

I told him that I loved him and supported his right to make his own choices. I didn't like the idea if he was choosing to kill himself, but I said he had the right to make those choices. I set my boundaries with him. I watch my sister and my daughter take care of him. I will visit and if I make a stew or a pot of chili, I will take him a dish. But I will not buy his booze or take him to get that booze. They can take him for his drinks and sometimes they even take him to the grocery store. It's hard for me to love him and let him go the way he chooses.

It's hard to watch his body fall apart - his legs swell until he can barely walk. I know he's in trouble. He had a non-functioning liver when the ambulance took him to the emergency room a few weeks ago. I set my boundaries with my dad, my husband, and now my brother. I watched dad and Dale die from the drink and now I watch my brother. I set my boundaries with him, not because he was my son's abuser but because I can do nothing to help or stop him. I set them because I need to care for me.

Boundaries

By Suzan Carol

My first reaction is anger. I was not able to protect my boundaries. I have so much rage about that. I was just a child, an innocent child whose boundaries were broken in so many ways.   

This past week I was proud of myself because I had an opportunity to set a boundary with my sister & niece, and I did.  And I kept it!   It felt so freeing.

What do I mean by boundary? Doing what is best for me. Thinking about me first, pausing and thinking- what is in MY best interest. And then deciding how to execute it.

Before we can set a boundary, we need to know what is in our best interest. I have become much better at this.

One of the negative consequences or collateral damage (to borrow from an earlier writing) is that since my boundaries were broken, no, there’s a better word for this, not just broken, VIOLATED, yes that’s the word, VIOLATED. My boundaries were VIOLATED.

I learned to do what others wanted without stopping to think about what I wanted or what would be in my best interest. Actually, even when I did know instinctively what was in my best interest, I couldn’t stop it. So, I learned not even to think. I learned to do what others wanted, without thinking or speaking.

I have come to realize that I tended to surround myself with those that were inclined to be narcissistic, those that expected me to do for them but never realizing they were doing this, or that I was going along with it. Their intention was probably not to be self-centered, yet they were, they were clear about their boundaries, but I was unable to be clear about mine.  (As adults, we do teach people how to treat us).

Fear dictated me, I can feel the familiar anxiety as I write this. The fear of being abandoned when I set boundaries. Actually, regardless of boundary setting, emotional cutoffs were the pattern in my family. People stopped talking to each other, even when I was young.

The irony of it all – my father stopped talking to me after he did what he did to me for years. Oh, I’m not liking these feelings right now. I think I need to set a boundary with myself. I’m breathing intentionally, ‘You are safe, it is ok, you will be ok – you will survive even if they leave you’.

It is interesting because I am in a place with a friend right now, repeating the same pattern; the fear of her abandoning me when, in reality, is she really there for me? When she feels hurt, she retreats.  I don’t want to put any more energy on her. I’m bringing it back to me. Boundaries.

I think about what is good for me and I will do what is good for me. I have learned to set boundaries - to think of myself.

In some ways I don’t like this writing, It’s old stuff.

Postscript (after a 5 min break):

Got it! It’s my anger at her. Yes, the anxiety is actually anger, which leads to the fear of abandonment.

I’m feeling better already!

“Boundaries”

By Joanne Kirves

Boundaries.

Before I knew what a real boundary was, I would have proclaimed that I excelled at setting “boundaries”.

How did I get so much done?

Well, “boundaries” of course!

I realize now that I had let people invade my territory with their persuasive reasons.

They were being helpful, it was their job, they needed me, etc.

My life was all over the place.

I didn’t know where to go next, but I was sure I was late.

It was pointed out to me, “You’re letting this job take over your life”.

My first reaction was anger.

How dare you say that?

Who’s going to do this work if not me?

No one.

That was pretty clear.

I marched on, only to realize the more I worked, the more work awaited me.

Enter “boundary #1”. (I use quotes because I know now, it’s not true.)

Boundary #1 was an adorable little boy with blues eyes and a killer smile.

I need boundaries now with work because this little boy needs me and I him.

I proudly say “I will do this, but not that.”

I’m having a baby after all!

Little did I know I was just exchanging one false boundary for an open border.

I love the little boy who came into our lives with a smile and cuteness abound.

How could I say no to that face?

I knew I wanted to be at home when the kids were young.

That’s a boundary, right?

I also knew I wanted to work too.

I created a job that would allow for both.

 My work “boundaries” were defined by nap times.

Meetings were scheduled for the evenings, when dinner was ready and the kids just needed to be fed and put to bed.

Look at me and my stealth “boundaries”!

“I’m sorry I am not available right now I’m being puked on. Try back later.”

I would continue on this path of juggling work, babies, and the occasional nod to my beloved.

I felt “in control”. There are those quotes again.

Give me a task, I got this.

I can juggle multiple things, babies included. That’s what baby backpacks are for!

Don’t stop. Keep going.

There’s so much to do.

The to do lists are like Santa’s list – they just keep unrolling.

Take something off and add on two more.

Go, Go, Go, Go, Go Girl!

You can do it all.

Well except for time to myself.

I hear the kind words of “you need to take care of yourself, a little self-care”

Oooh those are fighting words!!

Don’t you see what’s going on here?

Between family and work there’s no more time.

Anyways, my work is my “self-care” (the quotes are back)

It’s funny looking back now, oh sweet, naïve Joanne. Who convinced you of that?

As the kids got older, I proclaimed even better “boundaries”.

I can’t start work until 9am because I need to get the kids to school. And I must be done by 3, because I have to pick them up.

This was part of my powerful negotiating for a new job. Boom!

Look at me laying down the law. Proclaiming loud and clear, these are my “boundaries”!

Until those outside my boundaries began to see the fault lines.

Well, she emails at 5am, so I can talk to her about work then.

She answers all my calls after hours, except for dinner time because that’s a boundary.

Yes, these “boundaries” weren’t boundaries at all.

I’m not even sure what to call them.

Now my boundaries look so different.

Self-care is a joy, not a job.

I’m learning what real boundaries are.

I am slowly, methodically creating new ones, real ones, and without any quotes.

What I Draw On

by Jessica Marvel 

I drew a boundary, following a map with my ancestors as signposts, illuminated by a god I was familiar with.

Then my eraser got jacked and all but the table the map had been rolled out on had been utterly shredded from the force.  No, I was not a survivor. I F*&!%ing died every day on that table. Prometheus even felt bad for my living corpse. Nope. Not a survivor.

Toggling recklessly between ornery undead, (refusing to die) refusing to stay down, and massive phoenix that burns retinae.  

So, for these reasons I really like my alone time right now.  That's the only real point I tend to get back to in my perpetually lost state.  

You only get one map and if yours gets destroyed well, you're out of luck. And I was out of luck before I ever knew what the stuff was.

Heck, I'm just learning to read. How do I work with boundaries? Well, it's pretty blunt right now. Can't say I could imagine better. No contact. Waiting for a certain someone to die. I'd have nothing to be sad about, which is still weird.  But to be eraserless now and drawing up boundaries means my margin for error just has to be lower - I don't have an eraser on my old pencil so while I'm working to locate an eraser looking for a job, I'm bound to be as precise as possible with how I draw things up.  

To some it seems crazy how much time and energy I spend - and that's to those who don't even see half the work.  And if they asked, I'd say, this is what I've got to work with right now, and no I don't need to thank anyone in advance for the patience they don't yet have. No. When I make boundaries It's big. It's Obvious, it's consistent, it's clear. And it's as cast in concrete as you're going to see.

What better place to build a beautiful delicate world than behind a sea wall of a thing. So, for now, I work within my lines. An Eraserless Warrior. An open heart. With-in reason.

Thank you for reading,

Donna

P.S. I’ll leave you with a quote from Brene Brown:

Daring to set boundaries is about having

the courage to love ourselves,

even when we risk

disappointing others.

Deep Rest

What happened was two and a half years down the pandemic road, I got covid. I stared at the two emerging red lines in the home test kit labeled C and T, thinking, 'you've gotta be kidding me.' I'd been carrying around the silent arrogance that I'd dodged the viral bullet until I didn't.

I'm six weeks down this covid paved path, and I'm grateful I got vaxed, thrice boosted, and able to get prescribed Paxlovid early. And grateful, too, that I don't have a 9 to 5 job to drag my butt to when my body still needs a serious nap after human activity. But I’d be lyin’ if I said I’m all gratitude.

The first week there was no arguing with my body. She was down for the count, plain and simple. I was sleeping more than awake. Around day ten, I could feel impatience laced with frustration winding its way up my spine, making my jaw clench, eyes squint, and heard my internal critic, Pacasandra, chortle, “Enough already. You going to let this virus stop your life?”

She said a lot more though mostly; it sounded like a cross between a growl and a hum. And it was familiar. When I boil it down, it's a garden variety form of self-blame. I probably don't need to tell you, dear reader, the debilitating consequences of self-blame. But I will. For me, anyway, it stops me in my tracks.

I embarked on my healing path four decades ago when I determined it was where I would recover from the incest and move my life and creativity forward. I do all I can to stay on that path because life and shit happens. And when I contracted Covid, I knew it had to join me on my healing path for me to recover from it. I knew instinctively, and from both my medical team and Posse, that rest with a capital R was necessary. But there can be interruptions.

The worst interruption to rest is when the toxic smoke of self-blame envelops me. Whatever degree of energy resides within me revs up and marches up, and down the list of all I have done to cause said illness. When I'm done with that nasty list, I construct the indictment of my inability to overcome said illness – or worse – my deliberate disregard for my responsibilities which I am not just failing to do but wantonly shirking.

One might ask, “Why, dear Donna,” no, “Where dear Donna, did you learn to be so hard on yourself?” I welcome this questioning because it is a surefire way to snap me out of it. What do I mean by “it”? The internal activity of blaming myself.

Luckily, I have my Posse – those dear beloveds who, in many ways, throw roadblocks onto this activity of self-blame. Usually, one of them will ask, "What does this questioning remind you of?" In a millisecond, the echoes of my father and his mother's response to any level of incapacitation jump forth. They both had plenty of blame to spread around and believed compassion to be a weakener.

When I came up for air, I gave my head a shake, took a few deep breaths, and told myself, 'Do not go there again while you're sick.' I also told some posse members of my detour off the path and into the self-blame quicksand and asked them to keep an eye on me. I am happy to say I spent less than 24 hours goose-stepping into the quagmire of self-recrimination.

I'm rounding the corner of a month since I tested positive, and I'm proud to say I've not gone down the rabbit hole of depression again. Of course, it helps that my symptoms are receding. I'm coughing less, and while the fatigue can still come knocking – it doesn't knock me out as it did three weeks ago.

Last week two dear friends tested positive, and all my messages have been, one way or another, 'REST!' I surrendered to rest. Not usually one of my go-to activities, surrender. But in the face of this illness, I believe my surrender to resting is what’s helping me to heal. Deep rest.

I am privileged to be surrounded by nature as I travel this covid journey. I've spent every available sunny hour stretched out on a lounge chair on the deck off my bedroom doing nothing but tracking clouds, slow-moving clouds. For variation, I let my gaze move to the trees below the clouds: pines, birches, and one colossal sycamore. I'm sure it was a meditative state I was in though I didn't initially set that as an intention when I laid my body down. I was laying down – to rest. To not think, worry, plan, or bitch and moan. Just rest.

There is a tickle of a question that has started to bubble up. What have I learned? What am I learning? Maybe it will become, "What do I notice about this time and experience?" As I walk this path, I’m not just the walker but a watcher. What will the watcher have seen, noticed, or taken in, once the walker is through this patch of her journey?

Thanks for reading,

Donna

A taste of Time To Tell Writing Circles

The TTT writing circles produce rich, inspiring pieces of writing that have the capacity to bring healing not only to the writer but readers as well. Each session has two opportunities to write where I offer poetry or prose along with a prompt to begin our writing.

 Nine circle members agreed to share the writing they did together during several January 2022, sessions. The banner above shows three collages created by two of our tech moderators using images reflecting the writing done during the sessions. The pieces of writing are the unedited, raw, first drafts of writing done in the safe confines of a circle of survivors. Consider yourself privileged to receive these brave courageous gifts. 

The first offering was the poem A Sad Girl’s Love Song by Nikita Gill. Here is the closing stanza:

      One day I want to write a poem

      That says, I am alive.

      I forgive myself.

      And I love myself despite it all.

My prompt was: One day I want to…

Here are three pieces that followed that prompt: