Room For Discovery

Several years ago, a friend suggested I read the book, "Room." I gave it a shot, and couldn't get past the first few pages. I wondered why, but had no coherent answer. When the film version came out, another friend highly recommended it. When he reminded me of the story line, I just couldn't rouse any interest.

Then, Brie Larson received an Oscar nomination for her acting in the film, and I resigned myself to give it a go. There are so few primary roles for women, I figured supporting a film that featured one should be reason enough. Within the first few moments, I remembered why I'd put the book down. It started off so s l o w, but at least it would only be two hours of my life, right?

As I settled in to the pace of the film, I found myself keenly interested in the relationship between mother and son. While their circumstances were dismal and crazy, I experienced the love as palpable. These two beings were locked away together in a single "Room." Watching from my theater seat, I yearned for more personal space, while tangibly feeling the strength of the bond forged by crazy events, far beyond the characters' control.

Without giving away the plot, I'll share with you that I cried - a lot - watching this film. I likely wasn't the only person in tears, but the depth of feeling stirred within, clearly went beyond the content of the film. Growing up with my schizophrenic mother, felt a little like living in a single room. In some real ways, we had only each other. She even decided that the Helen Reddy song, "You and Me Against the World," could be our theme song. I know, it's embarrassing to admit, and I cringe as I type.

Yet, as a little girl, who needed her mother so much...I was grateful for anything that bonded us more thoroughly. I remember being in our bedroom in my grandparents' house. My mom would talk about some crazy, paranoid thing - like believing her boyfriend was hired by my grandmother to date her - and I would do my best to sprinkle a little sanity on the scene, without alienating her. Sometimes it seemed to work, but I know now, I had no power to change the crazy, despite my valiant efforts. It took a long time into adulthood, and years of personal growth work, to truly accept this truth.

No matter how many nights we'd be alone talking in the bedroom like this, while my grandparents watched 60 Minutes (or something equally boring to a youngster), in the living room, it was simultaneously too much and never enough for my vulnerable self. I wished, so desperately, that Mom would be her fun, generous, and silly self (which I got glimpses of), instead of her unpredictably scary, paranoid version. And then, when she was gone, at one mental hospital or another for stretches at a time, I would miss her beyond imagining.

In her absence, it didn't matter how crazy she was. It didn't matter that she'd make me go out to eat when I wasn't hungry, because she just wanted to get out of the house. It didn't matter that she'd attempted suicide...again. Not for my littlest self. It only mattered that I had her with me, even if we had to live in a Room of insanity together.

All of this memory and open-hearted knowing bubbled up watching this one film. I am incredibly grateful for the celluloid spoon (okay, it was probably digital) that stirred my inner pot. As a result of years of personal growth work, legions of support, and so much love...love for myself, for my mom, for the people who have held the flashlight as I've navigated the dark corners of beliefs I formed and carried into my life... I can see a film like "Room," and see both me and my mom in it, without the ancient disgust or anger I used to feel. Instead I find a depth of sadness and compassion I didn't know I possessed.

From years of living in my version of Room, I learned to numb my feelings with thought. Thoughts became more important, because I could control them, and that constructed an illusion of safety. Of course, it didn't actually keep me safe, especially because so much of what I thought was spoken in the voice of my inner terrorist, who knocked me down, beat me up, and deprived me of sustenance.

I wish I could tell you I've evicted my inner terrorist, but you deserve the truth. The truth is this: I am still learning to feel my feelings; forgive my self-judgment; and allow a kind of gentleness with self that remains magical and mysterious. And when I forget to practice those things (which happens often), the terrorist wins the battle.

Perhaps I forget because it's a practice completely contrary to what I learned about uncomfortable feelings in that Room. I had real reasons to be afraid growing up, and while I may have real reasons now, too, my capacity for being with the fear has changed and grown. When I allow myself to feel the feelings, I trust myself more. When I don't dismiss my fear, for example, I have someone within showing up for me. That person will stand with me, even when the terrorist shows up. She'll remind me, "there may be some feelings residing beneath these horrible thoughts," and if I willingly uncover and allow space for those feelings, my greater sense of safety returns.

All this to say, getting out of the Room does NOT happen overnight. It requires me to feel all of the feelings I wish to keep hidden from myself - most of which were once skin-crawlingly uncomfortable. Only then, may I access the love and compassion available to me, from me. In fact, the act of feeling, is itself, both loving and compassionate.

Whatever path you are walking, trust that there is more in store for you - a world outside your Room. If feel angry, sad, or afraid, that's okay! I get that it's not enjoyable, but it IS part of the human experience. Giving space for those feelings, gives birth to all of your feelings. Peace, joy, and love are available to you in abundance, but you must be willing to feel ALL of your feelings to have access to the desirable ones. And, because the nature of emotions is transient, it helps to remember, you won't always feel what you feel in this moment. Whether in five minutes or five hours, you will feel something else...and then something else...and then this particular uncomfortable emotion may come back around. It's okay, let it be a party of sorts, with guests that come and go. Welcome them, invite them to have a seat to rest their feet, trusting they will make room for another guest (emotion) once they've been fully expressed.

May you find your way gently out of your version of "Room," as I continue to do the same.

With love,
Joanne Lutz