Tygerlily

Some people always have their eyes on the horizon—they are always looking outside of themselves for things that can only be found within their own beings.  Our pal, William Shakespeare wrote in Hamlet:  “This above all: To thine own self be true . . .” Polonius was preparing his son Laertes to go abroad—basically he was preparing him to go out into the world.  Polonius knew how easily Laertes could get caught up in or fall prey to the influences or enticements that the world offers.  I have often wondered:  How does one be true to oneself without knowing oneself?  How can we measure the self-worth, the success, or the happiness of strangers?  If we do not know ourselves, we are essentially strangers to ourselves. 

I am always saddened when I hear others say, “I will be worth something or successful or happy when . . . or I will be worth something, successful or happy if . . .”—I think to myself that those people will never know true self-worth or success or happiness—because they believe these things emanate from external forces—whether it is the attainment of some position or material item or dependent upon the actions or views of others.  Self-worth, success and happiness all live on the horizon like mirages--they are ever elusive dreams or goals that are rarely realized and almost never sustained for any significant amount of time.

I can’t imagine nor will I pretend that I could know what it is like to be physically incarcerated.  However, I do know what it is like to lose myself—to get so caught up in doing and being and pursuing those elusive dreams or goals in life that I have no sense of myself—no sense of who I am—no sense of what I want or of what I really need—that in itself is a type of incarceration—it is a soul-stifling imprisonment. 

I believe that the most difficult thing we ever do in our lives is being true to ourselves—it is an almost impossible balancing act.  On the one hand, we are trying with all of our might to protect ourselves from hurt or disappointment, but on the other hand the only way we can grow and thrive is to open up ourselves—to make ourselves vulnerable—to risk being hurt or being disappointed or even failing. 

If that isn’t complicated enough, there is always the third hand—the hand that is ever extended from friends and family—the hand that tugs at our heart and hopes we will follow our heart and ignore our rational mind—the hand that is ever pleading with us to help or to please or to not disappoint.  If you are like I am, you have often quelled that voice deep inside yourself that makes you uneasy or that reminds you of your own longings or desires, and you follow through with whatever is asked of you because you don’t want to hurt or disappoint someone you care for.  After a while it becomes really easy to sacrifice ourselves—to sacrifice our needs and our desires for the sake of others or for the sake of what others think we ought to do or be or want, and in the process we become strangers to ourselves.  It becomes impossible to be true to ourselves. 

The spring of 2004 was perhaps the bleakest, darkest point in my life.  I felt as though my life had become so noisy, so unmanageable, so frustrating that I couldn’t concentrate—I could not function, and I was incredibly stressed out because there were so many people depending on me to do or to be certain things.  I could sit and listen to someone talk to me, and even though I could hear the words I couldn’t comprehend what they were saying to me.  I honestly felt as if my circuits were overloaded—memory is full, but nobody is home.  I didn’t know what to do; I didn’t know how to fix it.  I didn’t know what I wanted to do or what I needed to do to take care of myself.   I felt as though I was a complete failure. The only thing I knew for sure was that I couldn’t keep doing what I was doing.  No one I talked to or went to for advice could understand me.  No one seemed to understand that I just could not physically, mentally or emotionally keep doing what I was doing.  Everyone looked at me as though I had lost my mind.  Everyone asked me what my plans were—what I wanted to do instead, but I didn’t know.  I just knew I couldn’t continue to do what I was doing, so finally against everyone’s advice, I just stopped.

I quit teaching at the end of the school year—gave away all my teaching stuff—I came home and I didn’t do anything for nearly six months.  I literally became a hermit.  I quit answering my telephone, and for the most part I didn’t even return messages.  I didn’t go anywhere or talk to anyone.  I ventured out about once a week to see my parents and to go to the grocery store.  I went to the book store a few times; I always have to have something to read, but I couldn’t really read at that point.  Sometimes late in the evenings when I was sure not to run into anyone I would take my dog out for a walk.

One day I was lying on the couch talking to my Daddy.  I don’t know how we got on the subject.  He told me not to be a shrinking violet, but he said there is no need to be a stink weed either.  He said be a Tiger Lily.  He was particularly fond of Tiger Lilies, and I am too.  They have a rather commanding presence towering over all of the other flowers in the garden, but because they are tall and slim, they don't overshadow all of the other flowers--they don't steal all of the sunlight or the glory.

Tiger Lilies can grow just about anywhere even in the red mud of the Carolinas, and they are resilient--they survive the heat and drought of our summers, the winds and heavy rains that sometimes lay them down flat, and even the rare and unexpected freezes but no matter what they not only come back year after year, but they also multiply effortlessly like weeds.

I love the irony in the name--Tiger Lily.  Most people think of tigers as being strong and ferocious and maybe even unpredictable, but they think of peace and calm and tranquility when they think of lilies.  You would think the two extremes would have little to do with each other, but I have learned over the years that sometimes it takes the strength and ferocity of a tiger to keep the peace. 

What I learned during that six months was that sometimes just knowing what you don’t want to do is sufficient.  You don’t have to have a plan; you don’t have to be able to justify why you don’t want to do something.  Just saying, “I don’t want to do this” is sufficient. The other thing I learned was that I don’t have anything to prove.  I am who I am.  My sense of self-worth comes from inside of me.  My sense of accomplishment or success comes from inside of me.  My happiness comes from inside of me.  No one else can accurately measure or define my self-worth, success or happiness, nor do they have a right to.  Oh, there are those who will try, but how dare they?

The most important thing I learned was that the only way I can remain true to myself is to listen to that voice inside of me.  If the world is too noisy and imposing, then I need to find a quiet place where I can hide out for a while—where I can escape the demands of others—where I can get back in tune with myself.  There is a poem called “The Invitation”--when I first read the poem, I knew it was speaking to me.  I knew it was full of questions I needed to ask myself.  I think in some ways I have always had a longing for people to see me from the inside out, but more than anything I needed to be able to see myself from the inside out.

 

My Daddy reminded me that I am a Tiger Lily.  I am strong, resilient, and beautiful among many other things. We all make mistakes; sometimes we repeat our mistakes; heck, sometimes our mistakes become a way of life~~just being bipolar.  Nevertheless the fact remains that we are resilient—we can come back stronger, wiser, and more beautiful than ever.  Breathe and believe:  I am going to find a way to care for and help myself and others wherever I am on the bipolar continuum because that is my inherent nature:  I am a Tygerlily.