Who Am I? or The Irrational Things I Tell (and Do To) Myself

Who am I? I wonder. Who am I?

Am I the reader, the writer, the crossword puzzler? Am I the thinker, the ponderer, the academic? Am I my cognitive self?

Am I the one who laughs too loud, too quickly, too much? The one who farts and says you're welcome, who talks to her hands in class, who calls every dog a puppy? Am I the crybaby? Am I the sentimental fool? Am I the feelings I feel so completely yet hide so abruptly?

Am I the blubber belly, the dry skin, thin hair, too-broad shoulders? Am I the unpublished, uncreative writer? Am I my insecurities?

Am I the needy crybaby? Am I the indifferent, aloof, emasculating bitch? Am I too much? Not enough? Too much of the wrong things and not enough of the right things?

I don't know who I am, and I keep thinking that if I had a clue, I wouldn't feel so fucked up. I try to turn off the faucet, but it's constantly dripping: "You're too much, too much, too much. Be less, be smaller, shut the fuck up."

I don't know who I am and I think everyone's playing me because poor, poor Kanani. I think people pity me and they're nice folks so they play nice to me. They see that I'm struggling and move to support me so of course I get angry. Of course I do. I don't need your pity, I don't want your pity, and really, I don't need YOU, so fuck off.

So I keep thinking that healthy Kanani won't need anyone. That when I finally figure shit out, like who I am and what I want and what I need and what my boundaries are and how to maintain them and how to communicate and how to be angry, I won't need anyone. How fucked up is that? I'm so terrified of wanting people in my life, of having healthy love in my life, of requiring a certain level of mutual respect, that my version of healed is a lonely house on a hill.

I have been fighting with my own self for the last few days, and I am very sad. I am very confused. And I am so fucking irritated with myself. I am too scared to provide what the protective little girl inside me needs, and when others show me that grace, I push it away.

Healthy Kanani wants to be pulled close. She wants to be known and seen and cherished. Please don't give up on me.

Bullshit Binary

How do you friendship, people? How does one do that? How does one relationships with others?

Because about the only way I know how to do that is with half my heart in jail and the other half tentatively held out to you. It has not always been thus, but it's been long enough that I don't know what the fuck to be doing friends and relationshiplies. I can't even use real words, kinda like Jess can't say "penis" in New Girl:

I'm so fucking good at keeping people at a distance. My ability to come off indifferent, disinterested, and cold has not gone unnoticed by people I've loved. I was completely and utterly baffled when a boy I cared deeply about said to me, "I don't think you're interested in my life." Brat! You're the ONLY fucking person I'm interested in! How could you not know that??

Years later, I have some guesses. Maybe it had something to do with my erratic attention span? My extreme reluctance to show any vulnerability? Maybe it's the way I've weaponized self-reliance, like how fucking dare you show me kindness and generosity. How fucking DARE YOU. Maybe it's because I could say I love you with all of my dry, shriveled heart, but never dared to ask simple questions like, "What you doing today?" or "How's things?"

Because honestly, I can't imagine a world in which you're genuinely interested in being my friend and treating me with respect and love. I believe you will choose to hurt me because I'm easily discardable and easily replaceable. I don't believe I matter, I don't believe I have any value. This is how I experience friendship!

And though I've been beating myself up today, as the two seemingly opposite impulses wage war within-- connect, Kanani! No, disengage!-- I understand one of my mistakes is thinking it's either I trust you OR I learn to live without you. I built the binary construct and defined the terms, believing they were inviolable. They are not. 

Yes, trusting you is so HARD that it sometimes tears me up inside. I had a little meltdown today because I want so much to be more open, to be more vulnerable, but I am so terrified at the prospect. I am so inexperienced and I don't really know how to do the trust. How do trust working? How be I friending? Tell me where to put my leg, which muscles to engage, where I should look, the right amount of salt to use and at which temperature, how and when to use a semicolon, which they're/their/there to use so I know how to do relationships because I don't know how to in a way that feeds us both.

Even if trusting is one of the hardest things I've ever learned to do, I can reject the idea that it's either I trust you or I push you out of my life. (Side note: that binary is bullshit, anyway, especially if I'm keeping you at arm's length). I define the terms and the terms are ever violable. They are SO violable. Let's violate them together, shall we? Also, there's no either/or, it's not an if/then statement. It's just:

I'm learning to trust me.

I'm learning to trust you.

I'm learning to build healthy relationships.

 

By the way, it only LOOKS like I think of everything in terms of New Girl. I mean, if I DO, it's only cuz it cracks me up. And they also have moments like this where they illustrate the thing: we crave closeness but we're scared of being vulnerable and hurt, so we put up a front to protect ourselves, which only drives others farther away. We hurt ourselves.

 And now that I'm thinking about it, I have referenced New Girl A LOT in my blogs lqtm

I (Try Not to) Hate My Body

I am not loving my body lately. I’m frustrated and sad and really very much the opposite of confident. Insecure doesn’t seem like a strong or appropriate enough word, but it also isn’t hate. I think I’m confused.

I’m not familiar with this body as it changes and evolves. I have never had this body before kind of in the way that people say you can’t step in the same river twice, you know? But also, I have never had muscles like this. My arms are big, my shoulders are like medium-sized rocks, I can actually feel a tautness throughout my core, and even my ass feels different in my clothes.

And talking with my guy coworkers recently (the last time I ever worked with men was in my early 20s), their fitness goals are so different from what I’m used to hearing from my female friends. Women talk a lot about losing weight, and these guys talk about bulking up. Their individual goals vary, for sure, but none of them talk about losing weight. Not one of them. And this very different perspective encourages me to view my body in new ways. Not just individually, either. It also forces me to consider the double standard when it comes to what women’s and men’s bodies are “supposed” to look like and the various ways we’re coerced into buying into these expectations.

Still, my body is confounding me. I don’t understand what’s going on. The muscles really don’t help because even though my clothes still fit about the same, they’re more snug around my arms and chest. And I wouldn’t trade that added strength for a smaller tummy! I really wouldn’t. I need that strength to pole and I think it's is sexy, honestly. However, I struggle to reconcile the muscles with this idea of being thin still. I worry that I’m getting fat, that I’m failing. I feel ugly and awkward. I don’t know how to accept the added bulk that my male coworkers prize in their own bodies. I don’t know how to make sense of the way my clothes fit, especially when I don’t think I’ve ever had an accurate idea of what that is. Clothes that fit, I mean.

Even now, my workout tops fit differently. They’re looser around my chest, and I can tell because the arm holes are baggier, but feel the about same around my belly. What did they fit like before? What are they supposed to fit like? Is it my body or is it the fit of my clothes? I don’t know!

I was looking at myself in the mirror tonight as we were warming up in pole, and I was amazed at what my arms and shoulders looked like when we’re doing arm circles. Not too bad! They’re strong and confident. And then I saw my face and had to avert my eyes. Yuck. This is my inner conflict in a nutshell. Wow but ew. Yay but no. Amazing progress but still so much failure. I’ll figure it out, but right now, it’s just bumming me out.

How Broken Glasses Can Make You See

I am a strong woman.

I might list my accomplishments so you could assess the veracity of that statement, but if you're reading this, you likely already believe me.

I am a strong woman.

But let me tell you something: I don't always want to be.

A few months ago, I broke my glasses. The frames were bent and sat noticeably, blatantly, mockingly crooked on my face. The lenses were fine, all I needed to do was go to Optical department and ask them to fix the frames. That's it. But I didn't. For months.

 

Why? Why couldn't I do it? The store is right down the street and I go every fricken week. What was so hard? Just GO, Kanani.

I just couldn't.

Except... what if someone took me? What if someone drove me to the store and talked to the optician for me? What if all I was expected to do was wear the broken glasses to the store? What if, when the optician said, "I can try to fix it but I might break it," someone else shut down that shit with an appropriate comeback? 

What if someone took care of me so I didn't have to?

Um. I'm a grown-ass woman, if you didn't realize. I've raised two alarmingly amazing humans from birth to adulthood. Why the fuck would someone need to take care of ME? It's laughable. It's too ridiculous an idea that I don't know that I've ever pondered it before. Which is not to say it's never happened, it's just not a thing I've expected or depended on.

So, growth. I asked my mom to come with me to get my new glasses this past Saturday. I didn't even sweeten the deal with bribes or concessions, I just asked her to come. She had to drive into town for no other reason than to keep me company, and she did. I didn't have to endure the rude indifference at Sam's Club alone, she reminded me not to just settle, and she was there to help me celebrate when I found the pair I wanted. I wasn't alone. I didn't have to be alone. I didn't have to choose to do it alone.

Alone is not strength. Taking care of myself is not the only kind of strength. Alone is easy.

Asking for help is hard. Asking for help requires strength.

I'm thankful she was there, my mom, because even now in my 40s, I still appreciate being parented by my parents. I'm thankful for all the people in my life who, especially recently, have shown me how okay it is to want help and ask for it.

I have learned recently that doing it all on my own, muscling through at the expense of my mental health, boxing up my fears and disappointment? Not the kind of strength I want in my life anymore. It's like I keep trying to prove to myself that I really am the kind of woman I respect, but even my resume of Hard Shit I've Done means nothing. Every single doctor's appointment pre- and post- hysterectomy I went alone, except the one my mom came. I met with the cancer nurse alone. Every single gallbladder appointment I also went to alone. I bring these up because they actually scared me. I was so scared, I was alone, and I thought that's how it was supposed to be. I'm strong, I can handle. I was also scared.

Does going to the optician scare me? Not really, no. But I can acknowledge that these days, my mental health can be fragile. Easy things can be hard things and hard things can feel fucking impossible. 

What I've been learning, though, is that I don't have to do any of it alone. Not only can I ask for help, my loved ones are willing to give it with love, compassion, and patience. Maybe-- and here's a really tough thing for me to embrace-- maybe they wanted to help all along but I refused, I didn't know how to receive, maybe I outright rejected it. Maybe my actions taught people I didn't need them. Indeed, Shelley said she'd laugh when I said I struggled, that something was hard for me, that I needed help because she couldn't believe it. She's thought of me as capable and smart, and a vulnerable Kanani seemed kinda ludicrous.

But I'm also going to put this out there because I'm tired of always accepting my bad and believing I'm the only one responsible. Maybe it's also true that people let me down, didn't know how to help, didn't offer help even when I asked for it. Maybe it's also true that they blamed me for the situation I was in, gaslit me, or talked so loud they couldn't hear my voice. Maybe they intentionally ignored me because secretly they actually reveled in my "weakness" because it made them feel strong. Maybe I was taught, over and over again, that asking for help was not safe. And I'm not pointing fingers right now, I'm just saying I'm not gonna hold the bag anymore when it ain't mine to carry.

There's a meme I saw that said something like "most people don't want to be a part of the process, they just want to be part of the outcome." My process right now involves lots of asking for things. I need a lot, I realize, and I'm asking for it as often as I feel able to. I need someone to come with me to get new glasses, to be with me when I call the cable company, to remind me to eat something between pole classes, to make a bulk trash pick-up appointment, to tell me exactly what time we're going and how I'm going to get there. I'm going to drive you all fucking crazy with how much I need, how much I ask for, and even what I don't ask for even when it's SOOO obvious that I want and need to ask.

And I hope like fuck that in the end, I will be healthier, happier, and totally okay that I irritated the shit out of you. And I hope like fuck you're still there in the end... and that I still want you there.

NOTE: Even though mom came with me to get my glasses, I didn't need her to do the talking and explaining and asking and shit. I did all that. Often, it's the support I want/need because I can absolutely do the things myself, I just don't always want to. So, just showing up is a huge deal, friends. We don't always need to have the right words or know what to do, just being there with love matters a fuck ton.

That's Why Hard

I am not a victim— don’t ever call me a victim— but I’ve suffered abuse.

I love a strong community, but am I running away from my problems?

I love a strong community, but I don’t trust people, even those I love and who love me.

I need time alone, but too much time alone actually hurts.

I crave connection, but don’t always have the capacity to engage.

I want you to understand me, but I also discount my experience before you even get the chance to hear about it.

I want and need your help, but I don’t know how to receive it.

I want and need your help, but I think it makes me weak and selfish.

I want you to love me, but I don’t know how to let you.

I want to love you, but I’m terrified of losing myself.

I want and need your support, but I’m not helpless.

I am a strong, smart woman who also craves tenderness and gentleness.

I don’t want or need you to rescue me, and I don’t want you to protect me, but I want to feel protected. I want to feel safe.

I want you to challenge me, but I also want you to respect my boundaries.

The territory of my being is vast, and yet I can feel so small and insignificant.

I can know something but not feel it, feel something and not believe it.

I don’t ever want to read your mind ever again, but I want you to know my mind for me.

Don’t tell me what to do, but tell me what I want.

Tell me what I want, but I’ll say fuck you.

You invite me to call on you anytime, and I believe you, but I also don’t…. believe you or call on you.

You say you love me and don’t want to hurt me, but I associate love with pain.

I expect everyone to hurt me even though I believe they love me.

That's why hard.

Within me are contained so many contradictory ideas, beliefs, and impulses, and it’s all pretty confusing to me. I want to say I don’t know how or why you’re still around, but I actually do know why. You’re around because I’m an awesome human being. I know you see it in me, and I know you understand where I’m at right now. I just don’t always feel it or believe it, my awesomeness.

I’ve been behaving more selfishly lately in smallish ways. I let fewer cars merge in front of me, I don’t help as much as I might once have, I don’t respond to texts and emails immediately (if at all, sorry), I apologize less, I explain less, I offer fewer alternatives. You may or may not have noticed. Please don’t take these things personally— I’m learning to find balance between giving and receiving; I’m learning that I don’t have to earn the space I occupy; I’m learning to breathe.

So let me be honest right here. I want everything. I want it all. I want all the things I never allowed myself to admit because I thought it made me superficial, greedy, stupid, and ungrateful. I want you to pay attention to me when I want it, and I want you to fuck off when I’ve had enough of you. I want you to earn my friendship, my esteem, my attention. I’m such a fucking PRIZE, and I can’t force you to recognize that, but you should. You should recognize how fortunate you are. Lots of people have not made the fucking cut. You are lucky. So, be honest with me, don’t fucking protect me with lies, but really don’t put yourself in a position to lie to me. You want to protect me? Then be a good fucking human being. If you think it’s going to hurt me, just don’t fucking do it. Don’t be so fucking generic as to be yet another fucking lame asshole who hurts and disappoints me. Consider my feelings before you do some dumb shit. Holy shit, just treat me GOOD. That’s what I want. Treat me right. Don’t hurt me. Just don’t do shit to hurt me. Do what I ask, do what you know is right, be a good fucking person. Be a person I’m proud to know.

I just shared this revelation with Lucy— that I just want to be treated good— and her first question was, “Who’s treating you bad?” Well, no one! But I never thought to ask.. demand… that people treat me right because I didn’t think I deserved it. I left it up to them to decide whether I was worth respect and honesty instead of expecting it. I allowed others to determine my value instead of letting them know up front that I expect your best humanity, I deserve it, and I will reciprocate it to the best of my ability. Oh my grob, friends, writing is thinking and you just witnessed the process.

I want to be loved with respect and honesty. I deserve to be loved with respect and honesty. And if you want to be in my life, that is what you'll do. You'll be patient with me, you'll nurture me, you'll give me the time and space and love I need. This is what I'm asking for. This is what I want. I can't even promise you that there will be a time when I'll need less or I'll ask for less, but I will remember what you did, and I'll be proud to know you. I'll be proud of you. And I will love you.

The Life I Want (or Maybe I'm Already Awesome)

Maybe I already have the life I want.

My friend called me last night and said it was a better idea if I was the one who did the calling because I had such a busy life and she didn’t know when it’d be good time to contact me. I laughed. She said, “You so busy, you having fun!” and I was like, girl, who you talking about?

Because I struggle. I STRUGGLE. Every day, to varying degrees, I struggle. And I try my best to communicate that on my social media just as much as I share photos of my adventures. How can anyone look at me and think I have an enviable life? How can anyone look at me with anything other than compassion or irritation or pity? I don’t know how anyone can look at my life and think I have anything together.

She hasn’t been the only person to make comments like that. My pole journey is goals! My weight loss is inspiring. My writing is a gift. I do so many neat things. I’m always doing things. Uh, what?

I cry almost every day. I wrestle my brain over and over, often fighting the same painful, misleading thoughts from morning to night. I’m so broke, it ain’t even funny. I feel ugly, messy, needy, weak, and lost. My skin is dry and itchy and I’ve got cuts all over my body from scratching. My glasses are broken and I can’t bring myself to take them to the place to get looked at. I have a torn meniscus in my right knee so it hurts to kneel, to bend, sometimes to walk. I have trust, abandonment, and self-esteem issues.

But, maybe I already have the life I want???? Uh, what?

The thing is, I do have a lot of fun. I get to do so many great things like go for walks with friends, get shave ice, roller skate in a sparkly dress, high five Joey McIntyre, grab brunch even though I forget, go surf, watch high school football games and talk to surly old men. I started a new job that I get to walk to and from (thus avoiding traffic and the need for public transportation), and love my coworkers so far. I pole dance, have gone zip lining, finished a half marathon, earned my BA at age 40, and can recite the alphabet backwards.

I also happen to have an amazing family and super awesome friends. I have these really great kids and I’m so loved by my nieces and nephews. I’m broke, yes, and yet my family fricken comes through for me in big and small ways. I have SO MUCH love in my life. I am so very lucky to have this support system. People check on me every day, pay my bills, treat me to lunch, give me rides. They sit with me when I ugly cry, give me clothes and jewelry for job interviews. They thank me in the liner notes of their albums. They give me so much support even when I can’t offer the same in return right now.

And so maybe, even though I ride the strugglebus every single fucking day, I already have the life I want. A life that’s meaningful, adventurous, challenging, fulfilling. A life in which love and kindness are the currency. A life where every day I hear “I love you, Kanani. You are beautiful.” A life where the words I write and the stories I tell connect people, where I can make people laugh. One of the doctors today told me that I have such a warm and pleasant demeanor on the phone and it made him happy.

I don’t have all the things I want. I wish I had more resources (like money) and the job of my dreams (writer, in case you were wondering). I wish I had a private jet. I wish I didn’t feel scared and instead felt confidence. I wish I loved myself better, valued myself more, and knew myself more deeply. I wish I had a better body, a stronger body, a less-flawed body. I wish all your lives revolved around mine. Not really but kinda sorta, if I’m being honest. I want to be worshipped and respected and challenged and loved. I want to laugh more and cry less. I want to get angry without being afraid you’ll bail. I want to receive a love letter. I want a lot. Perhaps I want it all, in the famous words of Rilke.

But maybe I already have the life I want.

Side note: I'm not suggesting that my mental health can be completely healed if I could just recognize how good I have it. What I AM suggesting is that my friend's comment last night gave me pause. I thought she wasn't seeing things clearly, but maybe it's me. Maybe I don't see things clearly. That I may already have the life I want gives me hope because it's not that I have to reinvent who I am in order to be awesome. I might already be awesome and I just need to learn to see it.

Not This Time

Buddhist nun, Pema Chodron, writes “We’ve been trying the same ways of getting comfortable for as long as we can remember, and yet our aggression, our anxiety, our resentfulness don’t seem to be getting any less. I’m saying we need to develop an appetite for groundlessness; we need to get curious about it and be willing to pause and hang out for a while in that space of insecurity.”

Everything in my life these days is in a state of groundlessness, and if you’ve heard me say that I don’t know how to be a person, this is why. Nothing is the same, least of all me. To heal, I gotta make different decisions, not just once, but every. single. fucking. time! I can’t just put up a boundary and then get to forget about it, no. Cuz now I gotta maintain it even though it's painful, even though it's difficult. Maybe one day those will be automatic, but today is not yet that day.

This state of groundlessness, this uneasy space, is so hard to exist in. I want to turn away, I want to return to the old patterns because they’re familiar even though I know how destructive they are. Chodron says to “think of this groundlessness and openness of insecurity as a chance that we’ve been given over and over to choose a fresh alternative,” and it is this “over and over” business that HURTS and it’s scary. How do you know this groundlessness will ever end? What if it never does? To choose this uneasiness over and over again, to resist the impulse of clinging to old patterns, can be so painful. It makes everything hard.

The habitual Kanani wants to pull away when things are rough and close her heart until she no longer cares. She doesn’t need you, doesn’t need this, she can take care of herself, fuck you very much. Habitual Kanani is only trying to protect herself because disappointment is inevitable. I don’t have a lot of practice reaching out for help and actually receiving it. I have learned that self-reliance is the only kind of strength, that needing anything or anyone is weakness and selfish, that anxiety exists because I haven’t yet figured out all the answers all by myself.

To keep my heart open to this uneasiness, to resist the impulse to pull away and to push you away, that’s fucking HARD. Even the so-called easy shit is hard. Everything is hard because there is no autopilot anymore. I can’t do things as usual. The BAU mentality perpetuates this cycle of pain and self-loathing, and I am SO TIRED of hating myself. I have to stop protecting myself (and, let's be honest, protecting others) at the expense of myself.

That means every single fucking time I want to pull away instead of move toward, that I want to act instead of feel, that I want to avoid instead of engage, I have to find the courage to say, “No, not this time.” When every cell in my body wants to do what it’s always done, pumping the brakes and then changing direction fucking SUCKS. Resisting that autopilot response is HARD. Every part of me revolts, screams, scratches at the door.

So when I’m curled up on my bed, bawling my eyeballs out, when I can’t even respond yes or no to a text, when I can’t for the fucking life of me breathe, just BREATHE, it’s because my body is devoting all of its resources to healing. And I’m writing today to remind myself that this is why everything is so hard, why I need so much these days, why I can be so confused about who I am. It’s not because I’m weak and stupid and lacking. I'm hanging out in this space of insecurity. Of groundlessness. I'm choosing a fresh alternative. And how fucking brave is that?

Can I handle my own shit? Am I smart enough, strong enough, resourceful enough? Absofuckinglutely. But I’m so tired of doing that. I’m so tired of relying on no one, expecting nothing, hoping for nothing, feeling disconnected from everyone. I don’t want that. No, not this time.

If you'd like to read some Pema Chodron, here's a link to the book I quoted in this blog: Practicing Peace

Here's a link to the book I'm currently reading: Fail, Fail Again, Fail Better

On Earning (and Justifying) Fun

As I heal, I grieve.

Each time that I do something that is in opposition to my old pattern, I grieve. Can you understand that? Have you felt that before?

It is a reminder that I have not been treated like I deserved, by myself and often by others. You needed love, Self, and tenderness, but you came up wanting more often than not.

Each time that I do something that is in opposition to my old pattern, I go into high alert mode, looking for those harbingers of retribution to come. It’s an if/then statement. Everything has strings attached.

A couple of months ago, I had a mani/pedi girls day with Tiani and Ami. I got picked up and we went to a mall I’d never been to before, eaten at a restaurant I didn’t even know existed and ordered fancy french fries for lunch (french fries! Okay, I also got a tamale to make it seem less like having candy as a meal), and then indulged in an expensive mani/pedi, my first ever. No one called me, asked me when I was coming home, could I stop at the market before I did, and if it's not too much trouble, hey, bring me something to eat. There was no pressure to have to earn my fun day, to justify it, to apologize for it.

And yet I was stressed out the entire time. Did I have fun with them? I did. Did I marvel at the opportunity? I did. But it was also so extremely uncomfortable in its unfamiliarity, I kept waiting to be devoured by monsters or at least punched in the face multiple times by a passing stranger, or better yet, by Ami or Tiani.

“Who you think you?” I imagined. “You don’t belong here. You don’t do this. This isn’t for you.” Over and over. You don’t belong here, this isn’t for you. You don’t belong here, this isn’t for you.

It has taken me all this time to process this day. I was invited. They wanted me there. That’s already enough for a few therapy sessions, yo. I spent all this money on myself is another month of therapy. I didn’t have to drive and worry about gas or parking or traffic. What?? I felt anxious and scared the whole time. Holy fuck, that’s why I’m in therapy.

But here’s the thing: I did the thing. Even though all of the things were unknown to me, I did it. Even though all of the things made me feel crazy, I did it. Even though I cried and cried when I got home, I did it. Even though I still can’t get this damn fucking nail polish off my fingers, I did it.

Healing is not easy, even when it’s a fucking fun-ass mani/pedi day with T&A. You think that should be easy. Ahhh, what a relaxing day. No! It wasn’t! It was hard and uncomfortable and I cried. It was fun and hard and I was so touched that they wanted me there and I was also thinking like wtf am I doing here? And I’m stoked i went.

Each time that I do something that is in opposition to my old pattern, I heal, and I’ve been doing a lot of opposing lately. Doing things because I want to instead of what’s expected. It’s hard. I grieve. I cry a lot.

But you know what? I’m making my way back to me. My life has been in this strange and confusing flux beginning in 2017 when I began bleeding for nearly 2 years straight; through a partial hysterectomy in 2018, mini menopause, and cancer; the uncertainty and terror of Covid in 2020; my health scare and eventual gallbladder removal; depression and anxiety in 2021; and now, in 2022, my second divorce. In that time, I not only endured, I did shit. I earned my undergraduate degree, lost 60 pounds, trained for and finished the Great Aloha Run and Hapalua Half Marathon, sold art that I made, published several blogs that got hundreds of views each; and learned to invert my body on a pole and hang by one leg.

I’d say I’m winning.

Pole Lessons: Use Your Booty

The first spin I ever learned on the pole is what the studio calls a butterfly. Your outside leg hooks the pole at the ankle, inside leg comes up behind the pole, sit your booty back and let it propel you around. The key to the spin, Iʻve been told, is the booty. And to get the booty to do its thing, you gotta sit back. You gotta lean back. You gotta let your body fall away from the pole.

But thatʻs scary. Why? I donʻt know, really. Youʻre not so far off the ground, youʻre upright, both hands are right where you can see them. Yet the impulse is to hug the pole, to go in closer. Grip it, tighten your body. 

Doing that might make you feel safer, yes, but you wonʻt spin. Not like you want to.

When you learn to let go, to trust your body, trust in your strength and training, things change. New sensations can lead to improved technique and greater confidence. And that feedback loop? Iʻm scared → I tried I tried I tried I tried (over the course of one class or many) → I improved, even if only by one degree, even if I havenʻt improved but am now less scared. Rinse and repeat. Thatʻs how you build a new narrative. Iʻm still scared, yo, but now I have a history that directly contradicts my fear and maybe I can try again. Holy shit, thatʻs powerful stuff!

Thatʻs what confidence has become for me. Accepting that I will not be perfect, I may not even be good at it, but through practice, I will get better and feel better. It is the work I put into it that makes the success so much fucking sweeter.

And thus it is in life.

When I get scared, when I feel threatened, I want to close up. I want to pull in. My shoulders hunch over, I hang my head, I slouch like crazy. Every part of me wants to turn inward because it feels safe. I consider not going to class or camp or texting friends. This is how I have long protected myself and itʻs also what fucks me up.

Not only do I have people who care about me and want to help me succeed, there are tons of experiences I might miss if I donʻt ever give myself the chance. Open up to people and open up to the world, release whatʻs "safe," and pursue what makes me better, happier.

Fear keeps me in my comfort zone and prevents me from learning, challenging myself, growing. Iʻve told my pole sisters that I think some nights we cycle through our fear into our learning zones in a matter of minutes, sometimes it takes the whole night, sometimes we stay stuck in our heads for weeks. The glorious thing about pole is that the entire class will shake our heads and say, "Fuuuuuuck, thatʻs scary," or maybe just me. And yet I never get the sense that judgment exists in the confession, only understanding. And that understanding allows me to accept my fear and move with it.

When I have to face a Hard Task in life, I think about this hip pull that allows me to do so much in pole. And when I despair about this Hard Task, I imagine myself scrunched up on the pole, tense, with no momentum to spin. Eventually, I begin to envision myself as I want to be-- loose, spinning one-handed with a bonus hair whip, with all this space between me and the pole-- and thatʻs my reminder to stop clenching so tightly to what I think is safe so I can open myself up to the fullness of life.

In The Hollow of My Belly

On an ordinary Wednesday, quite unexpectedly, I learned where my fear and shame live.

They live in the hollow of my belly.

My neck and shoulders and lower back may carry the weight of my fear and shame (and stress and anxiety), and itʻs a constant pressure I feel in these areas that I barely even notice anymore. My belly, though? It is a barren wasteland. It is preternaturally silent. It is a void, a black hole, an algae eater scrubbing my insides of any emotional awareness.

Because the only time I pay any attention to my belly is to say I hate it. You embarrass me, I scold. Youʻre gross, youʻre too big, youʻre too flabby. Youʻre the source of so much shame and self-loathing, and I canʻt deal with you.

When I was little, I was made to attend charm school. The joke might have been that I was a tomboy and needed refining, but I seriously took that to heart. I was a tomboy* and proud of it, and yet I also believed that for people to actually like me, I had to be someone else entirely. I had to go to school to learn how to be a person because who I was wasnʻt worth liking or loving. I had to be different. I had to be better. So that I could be loved.

This really is as tragic as it sounds.

If I could only learn to walk, talk, eat, stand, and sit correctly, I, too, could be loved. I, too, could be a whole person, valuable and worthwhile.

Except I remember hiding under a table before class started, ashamed because I hadnʻt completed my homework: drawing a picture of an appropriately-portioned, well-balanced meal in the center of a plate. Why hadnʻt I done it? Well, for one, I didnʻt want to and for two, I had no fucking clue what an appropriately-portioned, well-balanced meal was! I felt like such a loser because my failure was two-fold. I sucked at being a person AND I couldnʻt even be taught to be a person!

 

Who did I go to for help? Who did I confide in? Who did I tell, "I think I suck as a human being and Iʻm scared and lonely?" Well, go on and guess.

Right. Nofuckingbody.

And that little Kanani who clearly found herself lacking, thought herself unlovable in her natural form? The Kanani who quietly accepted her obvious and egregious deficiencies as a human being? I found her yesterday. She lives in my belly.

My belly, the source of my shame. My belly, which also marks me as unlovable because it is big and flabby and covered in stretch marks. My belly, where organs were literally removed. My belly, where my guts have churned and rebelled since September 2020.

What better place to hide the scared, lonely, heartbroken little girl than in the place I hate? Itʻs like the junk drawer where you stash all the random shit that doesnʻt have a home but you canʻt bear to part with.  My belly is already filled with so much self-loathing, whatʻs one more thing?

How long has she been in there? Probably for as long as Iʻve been ignoring her. She reaches out to protect me still, she cries out for me to help her, to listen. She wants to tell someone about her pain and confusion, and even I tune her out. Even I donʻt want to hear it. And so she tries to protect me still even if her thoughts and adaptive behavior no longer serve me.

Because the way her pain manifests is, "Donʻt even try, Kanani, youʻll suck at it and people will judge you." "Sheʻs your friend because sheʻs a good person and doesnʻt think you should suffer." "Donʻt ask them questions about their lives because youʻre nobody and donʻt you dare impose." "You canʻt trust anyone, not even yourself." "Nobody cares." "Strength is shutting the fuck up and soldiering on." Herʻs has been a tough love.

As homework, Iʻve been tasked with making space for her. "What does she need, Kanani?" my therapist asks. I donʻt even understand the question, I reply. What does that even mean? Itʻs like chronic pain you get so accustomed to, you canʻt even imagine what itʻs like to simply consider a life free of pain. I canʻt even fathom a world in which I donʻt hate myself, in which I feel worthy of love, in which I donʻt have to constantly prove my existence has value.

I hope you know this blog isnʻt a fishing expedition. Itʻs not meant to solicit pity or compliments. I donʻt even want you to be sad for me. The real takeaway is that knowing where my shame and fear live and having an image associated with it, I feel better equipped to heal. When I start to feel good about myself and the ugly self-doubt comes along, I can see that doubt as little me, hiding under the table, trying to tell someone she feels scared and unloved. She is not trying to tell me Iʻm worthless, sheʻs just telling me how she feels. And Iʻve ignored her because her pain is my pain and itʻs felt so unbearable at times.

This blog is meant to convey hope. Maybe I can give myself what I need to heal. Maybe, in the process, I can stop hating my belly, and stop hating myself.

*I have reservations about using "tomboy" because it implies a girl who behaves or looks like a boy. A girl with boyish attributes, anyway. And thatʻs assuming a whole lot about gender (and identity, really) that I donʻt subscribe to. However, I use the term here because itʻs what I used back then, and itʻs what Iʻve used through most of my life, thinking that was the only kind of "girl" I could ever be. I was proud to be a tomboy, but it was also a way I diminished myself.

But When She Gets Weary, Try a Little What Now?

Iʻve been thinking a lot about the sentiment “I donʻt need constant validation.” Iʻd said that recently and meant it even as I also recognized that it wasnʻt entirely true. Validation? Yeah, donʻt need a constant stream of that. I realized, though, that I still DID need something, and that was way harder to identify.

I need tenderness.

I crave tenderness.

Itʻs not validation. Itʻs not attention. Itʻs not reassurance. It isnʻt any of those things people say to try to categorize (or trivialize) your feelings.

I want tenderness in my life.

Most of my life has been spent stuffing down this need, cruelly ignoring it, making sure no one (myself included) noticed its existence. Iʻd been encouraged to deny my need for tenderness in so many different ways: I grew up in a household where physical affection ended at a certain age— Iʻm guessing when our heads stopped smelling like babies and instead reeked of childhood exertions; Iʻve been called needy by people who loved me; Iʻve been rewarded for my silence, my stoicism, and then later accused of being indifferent.

And I called this strength even as I wept for my loneliness.

And so this tenderness? It can manifest as validation, attention, and reassurance. It can be a gift, a text, a high five. An email, a handwritten letter, an “I love you.” It can be offered as space to explore my pain or joy. A smile, your laughter, a meme. A shared YouTube video, an article, a picture of your favorite tree. Acknowledgment. Transparency. Affection.

All I know is that I want my life fucking FILLED with this shit.

An example: Iʻm a part of a group chat with some pole sisters. We have occupied entire mornings discussing our various instructorsʻ weekly efforts to disguise our attempted murders as “conditioning” and “fun” and “new moves.” Iʻm literally LOLing as Iʻm also filled with such affection for these women who seem to have accepted me and, for some odd reason, appear to care about me.

That is the tenderness I seek. In all of my relationships.

It is a belonging even as itʻs also a claiming. I am yours and you are mine.

Youʻve been warned, world. Iʻve made my intentions known: I want tenderness in my life, and I want a shit-ton of it. Stop pussyfooting, stop with the posturing, you never have to wonder again. If youʻre on the fence, “Should I be subtle or extra?” Motherfucker, damn right you should be extra. Extra all day!

And maybe you cannot give that to me. Maybe youʻre unwilling or unable or unfamiliar. Maybe itʻs just too hard. And if youʻre expecting me to be okay with that, I might be, I donʻt know. (Boundaries are like gates, right? I can open or close them when I choose.) Giving authentically is something Iʻm constantly working on, too. But youʻre wrong to expect that Iʻll be okay with the deficiency and still choose to keep you in my life. I might even be asking for a lot, and Iʻm okay with that because, um, I give a lot.

 

And I know Iʻm worth the effort.

 

The Perks of Werking the Pole

I never played sports in high school. I took drama, speech, photography, and lots of English classes. I wrote and edited an award-winning (at the nearby community college) PSA about AIDS my senior year, but couldnʻt celebrate because I was running lights for The Crucible. I was in the drama club that year, but I felt more honorary than true.

What Iʻm saying is I donʻt think Iʻve really had People. Friends? Yes. Acquaintances? Plenty. I am super lucky to have this fantastic support system to help me navigate my current journey.

But I canʻt remember the last time I had People. I didnʻt even know that I needed or wanted People.

Until pole.

Iʻve been asked how Iʻve gotten so many friends to sign up for a level series, and I joke that itʻs because I post embarrassing videos of myself on social media to show that if I can do it, anyone can. Never mind that my therapist and friends would say thatʻs self-deprecating (theyʻre right). I donʻt think thatʻs the real reason, anyway.

Pole has given me so much. Iʻve likened it to the movie A Knightʻs Tale, which is a film that has EVERYTHING: romance, comedy, action, a dance sequence! Pole at Fit for a Goddess is fitness, sensuality, strength. Itʻs totally challenging in so many fucking ways while also managing to be a super safe and uplifting place.

Iʻm a baby poler-- Iʻve only been at this less than a year. But what I quickly discovered is that the amount of confidence I gained wasnʻt dependent on my actual ability. Going week after week, growing stronger, learning more, trying, trying, trying, doing, doing, doing? Thatʻs what it was about. Slowly coming out of my shell, learning more about what my body could do, what my brain could do, seeing the positive changes? Holy shit! I was learning to give to myself and to be kind to myself and to encourage myself.

It helped a shit-ton that Ami was there, literally cheering me on, modeling not only the spins and turns, but also showing me what encouragement, support, and self-love looks like.

It helped to have super fucking awesome instructors like Tiani, Jamie, and Jenn. Each of them have their own unique teaching styles, and each has given (and continues to give) me new perspectives, encouragement, and challenges. And whatever challenges I face in their classes, I have been met with nothing but support. I mean, did you see my epic humiliation in Jamieʻs Slow Flow? The whole class fucking cheered me when using my foot to propel me around the pole like it was a fucking skateboard!

And that brings me to my People. I donʻt know if they embrace me as their People, but thatʻs really kind of inconsequential at this point. Sitting with some of the ladies at the end of choreo the other night, laughing, hearing my name, I felt like I was a part of something, even if just, you know? A couple of long-time polers have commented on my growing level of confidence, and I take that in such a positive way, as such a compliment. That they notice some measure of progress is way more reassuring than being told how good I might be.

If youʻre reading this, then you likely already know how I value stories. Stories connect us. Stories are so important. So when we stand around the parking lot after class, shooting the shit, itʻs like Iʻm tending my garden, caring for seeds I planted. I feel a part of a community. I feel accepted. These women have seen me try and fail. Theyʻve seen me repeat the same dumb mistakes over and over and over for days and weeks. Theyʻve seen me try to express a sensual part of me that Iʻve worked hard to hide. Theyʻve seen my terror at being in the front line of Tianiʻs choreo class and ribbed me for it, but also fucking cheered me just for trying. And I donʻt care if thatʻs simply good sportsmanship! I donʻt care! It feels good!

In those 90 minutes, we are united in purpose: learn the thing, practice the thing, get better at the thing, have fun. And maybe at the end? We can talk about the thing, laugh about the thing, talk about other things. 

In writing this, Iʻm probably showing how uncool I am, though I think Iʻve already established how unconcerned I am with seeming cool. That was always going to be a lost cause if it were ever my mission.

How have I gotten so many friends to sign up? Whatʻs the real reason? Yes, theyʻve likely seen my embarrassing videos. But maybe more importantly, theyʻve also heard the contents of this blog before and seen how pole has changed my life. I have been through so much shit in the last few years and it feels so fricken good to find something for myself. It is like meditation. It centers my mind. It grounds me. It feeds my body, it feeds my soul. 

Or maybe they just see how much fucking fun it is!

Go Team!

Note: Working the Writing Center at UHM/being in Teaching Composition class felt like a team. Taking the intensive Spanish 101/102 felt like a team. Taking ʻōlelo hawaiʻi with Jonah felt like a team. Thanks to all of you who were in those classes with me, including my fucking kick-ass instructors. This blog, however humble, is dedicated to all of you.

Enjoy these "bloopers" from my first Level 2 graduation.