Doormat, Goddess and Dirty Dishes of a Free Spirit Human Named Jenny Lane
You matter
I used to awaken to a whole sink full of dishes. My morning routine, awaken, eat the frog, wash the dishes. Day in day out, some new frog, or old frog. Awakened to the regular regular, go off and teach the youth of America, or the Netherlands. Come home and clean.
Tired of frogs.
Feeling like the same day different mess. The invisible work. Different piles of random stuff to move from one place or another. Different responsibilities, I took on all on my own, while sharing a home with someone who said they “loved” me.
My “get to” gratitude opposed to “have to” wasn’t strong without an actual partner.
In my past relationships, this was when I truly felt what deeply lonely meant.
Lonely with another human, capable and able, but not willing to take on the responsibilities of life. I could never understand how someone could place all that on another and not care.
My past relationships were a lot of me mentally twisting the situation, “Well, if I was alone, I’d have to do this alone anyway.”
So I did it, alone. I said this to myself often.
I’d focus on the blessing of getting to do these actions, like washing the dishes. Because we have a stove to cook, because we have food to eat, because we have running water — I got to do this.
Alone.
I’d focus on the gratitude of having a home.
But I didn’t want to do it alone.
Lots of it really, I still am not fond of doing. Sometimes I’d like to wake up by the sea under a palm tree. Yet, blessedly, I do have a home, and not just a spot under a palm tree.
I’ve slept out in the elements without safety a few nights of my life. I felt less alone, sleeping by milk crates, with sand on my palms and the ocean roaring me awake than I did in these past relationships.
This is the first time ever, I’ve shared my life and home with someone values acts of service.
My love language is action.
To me, love is a verb. Being love. Acts of service to lighten your existence is the way I express love the most.
Love in action.
You can say, “I love you” until the cows come home and leave all the dishes and jars to clean in the sink. For me love isn’t just saying the sounds. It isn’t gifts in shiny paper.
It’s service to another, help in lightening the load. It’s sharing love and making someone’s existence easier. Making our shared life suffering, we all go through, just a little less.
It certainly isn’t making someone else’s life more hectic because you can’t be bothered to rinse a dish.
It’s not about the dish.
In my world it seemed like a big “fuck you, I can’t be bothered, it’s your job to clean because now I expect it.” Or “I don’t care if it’s there, why should you?”
Oh, they cared when it was something that bothered them, and snapped fingers to command it done.
It’s all an adjustment for me now with G. I’m not used to having someone around who understands it’s not only my responsibility to take care of a home.
Georges, my partner, keeps saying to me, about this that, or the other household thing, “That’s not only your responsibility, Love, it’s ours.”
Yeah, I cry a lot in happiness. I’m really not used to this. He hugs me.
I’m not used to having a partner in life.
I’m not used to someone being there, sharing the actions in keeping a home safe and clean. In showing his love in action. In actually taking care of his self, his needs and voicing his wants.
I’m not used to someone having my back. Really knowing someone is there for me, through and through.
Georges was the first person to ever say to me, “I appreciate you.” Not “I appreciate it.” As in you doing it. As in, I appreciate you, human being.
I’m not used to being with someone trustworthy. Someone who says what they mean. Actions meeting words.
I’m not used to a partner who is actually a partner. Who looks out for my wellness, is considerate of how his actions affect not only me but our relationship.
My life has been a lot of people promising pink clouds while I look up, and shit falls from the sky.
Now I wake up to the fucking joy of a clean kitchen. And, yup, I cry a little. I am so grateful.
I have a real life partner.
I’m not his mother. He’s a grown man who knows how to care for himself, so the burden of care doesn’t fall on me. He knows exactly how to care for himself. My care for him is extra care on top.
It’s not my obligation to care for anyone. Yet, I do. My duty of care begins with me. And I choose who I care for beyond that. I do care a lot for a lot of aspects of life and people.
Do I care too much?
Sometimes I wonder.
Need I care less?
Can I care less?
If the care I’m giving to another is more than the actual care they are giving to themselves.
My care shouldn’t be the only care someone is receiving.
A care machine I am not. Limited energy I have, despite humming along all day long, wings at full speed, until I’ve forgotten I haven’t had any sugar water.
Action is it for this woman.
My love is a verb. My Loves’ love is a verb. I have never once questioned his love for me.
My whole life I have questioned others’ love for me. There were strings attached. There were expectations if not met, the attention would be withheld. There were rules. If they were angry, love will not be here until they are happy again.
It usually meant I needed to “get over it.”
I “got over it” a lot.
And lost a lot of who I was.
Their happiness was my sole responsibility. There were confusing dichotomies. The words were spoken of love, but my boundaries weren’t respected, my feelings fell on deaf ears.
If I’m at the point where I’m pleading with someone for help — which is incredibly challenging for me to do. I’m the “I can do it all alone” only child. If I’m pleading, and there is still no help, or it’s you not even taking responsibility for your being — I turn desperate.
If I’m expressing my discomfort because of your actions. And your actions are continuing to hurt yourself and others, this is when I feel that horrid feeling of helplessness.
If I’ve voiced my need for help in you actually caring for yourself, and you still don’t give a shit. If I’ve voiced my feelings from an “I perspective” and not “you blame perspective” — there are only two options left for me.
Walk away for my own peace and reinvest that energy back into me.
Or if it’s not possible to walk away, and in some situations it’s not for many reasons, to change my mindset in how I handle whatever type of relationship it is.
Nothing more can be done.
And there is nothing worth your peace.
This is when I’ve learned to check out and check back into radical self-compassion.
My inner peace is a top priority.
I can guarantee if I've gotten to this point in any relationship, I love myself enough now to protect myself from inaction. From words, promises, and action not meeting. From someone expecting unconditional love.
Listen, even now, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.
We are human we make mistakes.
Yet, if you’re telling me you know how that fuck up affected me, and then you continue that behavior — your words are hollow as a bird’s bones.
You are showing me, you either don’t know what hurts me, or you don’t care how your actions are affecting my well-being.
You are then a threat to my peace, to my well-being. And also to the well-being of the people who love me. Because I’ll feel sad, desperate, helpless.
It is my responsibility to voice my feelings in any relationship.
It is not my responsibility to pull your voice and feelings from you. Especially if their hidden in shame, or escapism, or pride, or ego.
I’m no fucking mind reader. Talk to me. I’ll be compassionately listening the best I can.
If I have voiced my feelings (which frankly took me years to do effectively without pride getting in the way, and is still tough to do) and nothing changes — let’s just say my natural openness to the allowance of you into my life, and the potential of you hurting the ones I love, by proxy, because you are still hurting me — yeah, my door will be shut.
I will offer compassion and hope you get help. Hope you learn to care for yourself. But that’s it. That thrown-away care, which landed nowhere, will be returned back to me.
Picasso said there’s two types of women — goddesses and doormats. And he would know. He was quite the fucking asshole to women. He treated many like doormats.
I was once the doormat, so afeared of making others angry.
I didn’t care if that fear made me angry. I didn’t rock the boat because I was afraid, if I did, I’d be abandoned. Like I felt as a child by my father.
I dangerously suppressed my food, in decades of disordered eating, because I was so frightened if I gained weight I would no longer be worthy of love, as my mother felt herself.
To this day I eat well, but rarely have hunger after years of eating this way.
And I chose men in my exes who reinforced every one of these fears. They proved my insecure attachment perfectly. Surprise, surprise.
They showed me my blueprint of “love” was right.
I gained weight, ate like a normal human being, in those past relationships, and poof, then I was not worthy of their love. And they sure let me know, in ways I still remember today, how my fat made me unlovable.
I finally did learn to somewhat voice my sadness, or anger with kindness. And then would be left for days, alone, without any word of if they were safe or okay.
I kept my mouth shut about a lot of things that hurt me because I didn’t want to fail the relationship.
But in my past, I was failing myself.
I was allowing people, not just my exes, but bosses and friends to walk in shit and wipe their shoes on my back.
The “I’m fine” crap love with no actual partner in life is better than being left. Right?
It’s better than failing, yet again, in my past relationships. Wrong.
Fuck that. There’s big great Love out there, in all different kinds of relationships.
Friendships where respect for your well-being is more important than their shame, pride, or ego.
Chosen family who won’t withhold love, or scream at you because you’re a convenient and reliable emotional dumpster when they’re tired, angry, grumpy, or just them.
People who know how to emotionally regulate, and be there for you. Who know when to vent. And care enough to care enough for themselves.
And there are partners, real-life partners, who are actually there in care, equally. Who actually love with no fucking strings. Who respect themselves enough to say their feelings, voice their concerns, call you out lovingly, and get real, interdependently.
Not some codependent bullshit where you forget completely that you matter. That codependency where nothing is more important than the relationship, including your fucking life.
You matter.
Now I finally know what a partnership is.
Thich Nhat Hahn says in true love you find freedom. I feel this is true self love too and true love with another. For the first time in my life, not only do I feel real freedom, but the freedom to be the divine being I also am.
Picasso only had two versions of women: doormats or goddesses.
You know what kind of woman I am?
A woman with the freedom to be a divine goddess, while also being a messy human.
A human who makes mistakes, and takes radical accountability for her own divine-human life. And takes radical care for my humanness, as well as my goddessness.
Call me whatever you will.
I’ll be over here with my freedom, divinity and interbeing with great big Love in life.
I am, is all I need to be.
With radical love,
~namaste~
🌈💜
