I’ve been participating in a writing challenge for the month of June. The goal is to write 50,000 words in the 30 day period. I’m neither a joiner, nor a finisher, and June is traditionally a busy month for me.With this in mind, I had several predictions for myself: The first was that I’d be strong out of the gate. I knew there were days I wouldn’t be able to write, so I adjusted my daily target to 2,273 words per day for the 22 days I expected to be somewhat productive. By the end of the first seven days, I had written 13,326 words. Prediction #1? CHECK. The second was that I’d veer from my initial goal of only counting words added to my current WIP*. Hello, blog posts! Prediction #2 CHECK. My third and final prediction would be that I’d give up somewhere around mid way through because “what’s the point” and “I can’t do this.” Prediction #3? Let me explain.
I have a few demons when it comes to certain things. They emerge from the depths of my mind in the form of echoes and paralyzing fears. It’s not enough to recognize a demon and where it came from. It needs to be dealt with. I’ve begun to pick them apart, one by one, demystifying them and attempting to stomp them out into oblivion. It’s not as easy as the self-help books claim: just face your fear and beat it into submission!! Bull. We’ve been conditioned. All of us. The little consistencies in our upbring manifest into how we handle the world as adults. Even if a parent is consistently inconsistent, it affects the adult’s world. I’m incredibly hard on myself. When I look back at things now, I see I was being pushed to always do better. The adult in me understands that. However, the push wasn’t from encouragement. It was always a challenge. Challenges are fantastic unless they are interpreted as “you’re not doing your best and, therefore, you aren’t good enough.” I developed that interpretation somewhere along the line and it’s been screwing me up for years. Challenges aren’t necessarily from parents; you can get the same type of feedback from teachers and peers. I was always a good student and was always told I wasn’t “working to my full potential”. That may have been true. As an adult, I see that I wasn’t really applying myself in grade school. Everything came easy to me. I was one of those kids who would pick up exactly what the teacher said immediately and really only made mistakes from being a careless kid who wanted to go out and play. So, Sr. Rita, you were right. I wasn’t working to my full potential and eveyr perfect grade I got wasn’t really earned because your lessons were too simple for me. You, and a good number of your fellow teachers, saw I was capable of more. The problem is that I did all that was asked, including the extra credit assignments. Was a seven year old supposed to approach her teacher and say “this is too simple for me” or “you need to challenge me more”? I don’t remember that ever being encouraged. In fact, I think I would have been punished for being flippant if I said that. The purpose of this line of thinking isn’t to complain that my teachers failed me in some way. School has been over and done for more years than I choose to admit. This is only an example of where I got the idea that no matter how well I did, the sum of my effort would never be good enough. The Demon of Inadequacy is one of my most formidable foes. It shows up without a sound, just nudging a little fear in. There’s no real thought that forms. I just look at what I’m doing and decide it won’t be “right”, it won’t be “good”, it won’t be “enough”… so what’s the point in trying?
The logical, adult(ish) part of me says that’s a ridiculous way to think. I’m still working on believing it only really matters if I give whatever it is a fair shot. I need to believe it in the same way that I know it’s raining and I’m not expected to make it stop. If I didn’t do something right, then so what? I’m not attempting anything of real consequence— no one will be hurt, killed, or even really disappointed if I don’t get whatever I’m doing “right”. What I’ve actually accomplished is that I’ve mastered the art of self-sabotage. I’ve become so good at this that it doesn’t even require a conscious thought to end a project. I’ve been paying attention to my psychiatrist and I’ve learned a lot about myself in 16 years of therapy; I could have bet money on my triple crown of predictions.
At mid June, literally the 15th, I was at 25,160 words. I’m typing this on June 27th. I don’t know if it’ll be posted tonight or tomorrow just yet. The number of words here, as of this sentence, is 796. That brings my total word count for 27 days to 33,796 (without counting any edits as I type here… don’t go counting words on me, please). I can honestly say I haven’t written this much in one month in decades. I’ll continue to write each day until the end of the month (and probably beyond) but I will not make the 50k word goal. I’m seeing posts by others who are participating in this challenge, already admitting defeat and explaining why they didn’t meet the goal (and, if you’re wondering, there have been plenty of writers who have surpassed the 50k mark… I am impressed by and in awe of these individuals). I am torn between the need to justify why I will not make 50k and knowing that it really doesn’t matter. My goal was truly to write and write intensely. I made time for it, I worked at it, and I didn’t give up, even when I had good reason to. So prediction # 3? A little itty bitty tiny check. There were three days I didn’t write, or didn’t write very much, as a result of my fear. Today was almost one of them. I was able to send the demon to back to hell. I’m probably being too hard on myself for even acknowledging a tiny check for #3. I think it’s important for me to recognize that I had fearful days. It’ll help me to remember that it doesn’t matter. It’ll help me to remember that I didn’t really give up.
I’m disappointed I won’t make the 50k mark— I don’t think it’s physically possible for me to type that much unless it’s all nonsense. I adjusted my official expectations to 40k about a week ago and that’s what I’ll work towards these next few days. It’ll be a challenge… but it won’t be a statement of my worth.
Total count for this post before edits: 1128.
Total count for the day: 2016
*WIP= Work In Progress
## Edit: Super special shout out to Erin Jeffreys Hodges for her encouragement. She's a fabulous person with a knack for lifting spirits and putting things in perspective.
Monday, June 27, 2016
Friday, June 10, 2016
Ghosts of Birthdays Past
I woke up during a nightmare this morning, flailing around, upset and angry. It wasn’t what you’d think. No boogieman. No clowns. No monster under the bed. Just a monster in my head.
Tomorrow is my birthday. I’ll be 42. According to Douglas Adams, 42 is the answer. I’m looking forward to an entire year of ultimate knowledge and wisdom. It’ll be a welcomed change from previous years, as I’m still waiting for that instant moment of clarity and comprehension as promised in the Adulthood Brochure. I’d like to wake each morning knowing my exact place, the world’s expectations from me, and seeing I have what I need to meet them. I miss school in that respect. There was a schedule, an outline and a clearly defined path: if I knew the material, I’d get an A; if I complete this project according to this list of must-haves, I’d do well. Everyone would be pleased. Everyone would be happy. Everything was safe.
This was actually DH’s observation. He said that the skills a person needs to excel in school are the willingness to follow the rules, behave, pay attention, and complete the assignments given. The students who did those things, day after day, year after year, were the gems of the school; we speak from experience. He also observed that the skills to succeed in school do not help a heck of a lot once you’ve graduated. It seems the bullies, the cheats, and the bull shitters are the ones in charge. They are our CEOs, our middle managers who never did the job they manage, and candidates to be Leader of the Free World. The ones who got by on a wing and a prayer in school, the ones who relied on charm and manipulation, they somehow became to whom we, the rule followers, are answering. They insulate themselves with yes-men, fully aware of the smoke being blown, and redirect that smoke to join the mirrors. They are the ones in charge of the rules and keep changing them to stay on top. We liken it to a game of chess…. But chess requires strategy, not narcissism and manipulation. The chess players of the world are usually from the good-guy gene pool. Let’s not insult them.
Let’s go back to where we know which path will lead us to our destination. That’s what I’m hoping for in Year 42: The answer to Life, Universe, and Everything.
It’s been a very busy week for me. I’ve been baking like crazy for a party, trying to keep up with a writing challenge, and teaching our youngest the ins and outs of job hunting. While I’m happy to do all of that, it’s very stressful and stress, good or bad, triggers my symptoms. The best way to avoid a bad breakdown is to space out my activities but I haven’t been able to this week. Today will be my lightest day: 2 more loaves of bread and a cake, arrange an appetizer plater, write at least 3,000 words to keep up on the challenge, get the dog to the vet, and check that all applications for employment sent are followed up. This would have been a drop in the bucket before I got sick. I would have motored through without batting an eye. It’s really not a lot, except for the writing, which takes time and concentration. I was in tears last night and I’m willing to bet on an encore performance tonight.
That brings me to the nightmare. My dreams are always complex, symbolic, and makes me question the legality of baked goods I get from a friend…but I’ve always had strange dreams so I think she’s in the clear. My nightmares are psychologically terrifying, because scaring myself with a clown or a shark in the pool would be too normal and and far too easy.
I dreamed DH wanted to divorce. Yes, that is terrifying to me. It plays on my fear of inadequacy. Much of the dream was me pleading with him and reminding him that he had “just said yesterday we were good”. I threw things at him with the force and efficiency of a whiffle ball, frustrating my dream self even more. I woke up physically biting my arm and my heart pounding as if I just completed a Zumba class. NOT a good way to start a busy-for-me day.
But where did this come from? DH is fabulous and I do not doubt his love and devotion. Not. One. Bit. Of all the people in my life, he is truly my safe place. I know I’m feeling inadequate about how I budgeted my time this week. It was well planned on paper. I wrote at breakneck speed last week but didn’t complete a fraction of my goals this week. Inadequacy loomed over me when I requested a specific consideration that was ignored-- by a repeat offender-- because my few preferences never seem to matter and, therefore, neither do my efforts. But dreaming of DH abandoning me? My unconscious obviously decided to mess with me right where it would hurt the most.
Once the Xanax kicked in, I saw the connection. Today is June 10th. Tomorrow is the 11th. Monday is the 13th. In 2008, strange interactions at home on 10th and 11th culminated with my then husband announcing our divorce on the evening of the 13th. (And, yes, it was a Friday.) His words are still crystal clear in my head: you bring out the worst in me. My mind has a twisted sense of humor.
At the time, the termination of my first marriage was painful, humiliating, and scary as hell. I joined a support group, I talked with my psychiatrist, I worked with a woo-woo life coach. By my birthday of the next year, I was doing well. The split was emotionally difficult (the business end was quick and fair), but it was certainly the right thing to do. We weren’t right for each other. I wish my ex nothing but the best.
A week of daily stresses and my inability to deal put me back in the mode of believing I’m broken. It’s true that I’m not equipped with the tenacity I once had to multi-task and switch roles quickly, but broken isn’t the right word anymore. My mind cracked, then shattered, and the pieces were put back together— though I’m not certain they are in the right order. Unfortunately, the glue takes far too long to dry, and, like anything smashed and reconstructed, it’s never as stable as it originally was.
I need to let the glue dry.
Tomorrow is my birthday. I’ll be 42. According to Douglas Adams, 42 is the answer. I’m looking forward to an entire year of ultimate knowledge and wisdom. It’ll be a welcomed change from previous years, as I’m still waiting for that instant moment of clarity and comprehension as promised in the Adulthood Brochure. I’d like to wake each morning knowing my exact place, the world’s expectations from me, and seeing I have what I need to meet them. I miss school in that respect. There was a schedule, an outline and a clearly defined path: if I knew the material, I’d get an A; if I complete this project according to this list of must-haves, I’d do well. Everyone would be pleased. Everyone would be happy. Everything was safe.
This was actually DH’s observation. He said that the skills a person needs to excel in school are the willingness to follow the rules, behave, pay attention, and complete the assignments given. The students who did those things, day after day, year after year, were the gems of the school; we speak from experience. He also observed that the skills to succeed in school do not help a heck of a lot once you’ve graduated. It seems the bullies, the cheats, and the bull shitters are the ones in charge. They are our CEOs, our middle managers who never did the job they manage, and candidates to be Leader of the Free World. The ones who got by on a wing and a prayer in school, the ones who relied on charm and manipulation, they somehow became to whom we, the rule followers, are answering. They insulate themselves with yes-men, fully aware of the smoke being blown, and redirect that smoke to join the mirrors. They are the ones in charge of the rules and keep changing them to stay on top. We liken it to a game of chess…. But chess requires strategy, not narcissism and manipulation. The chess players of the world are usually from the good-guy gene pool. Let’s not insult them.
Let’s go back to where we know which path will lead us to our destination. That’s what I’m hoping for in Year 42: The answer to Life, Universe, and Everything.
It’s been a very busy week for me. I’ve been baking like crazy for a party, trying to keep up with a writing challenge, and teaching our youngest the ins and outs of job hunting. While I’m happy to do all of that, it’s very stressful and stress, good or bad, triggers my symptoms. The best way to avoid a bad breakdown is to space out my activities but I haven’t been able to this week. Today will be my lightest day: 2 more loaves of bread and a cake, arrange an appetizer plater, write at least 3,000 words to keep up on the challenge, get the dog to the vet, and check that all applications for employment sent are followed up. This would have been a drop in the bucket before I got sick. I would have motored through without batting an eye. It’s really not a lot, except for the writing, which takes time and concentration. I was in tears last night and I’m willing to bet on an encore performance tonight.
That brings me to the nightmare. My dreams are always complex, symbolic, and makes me question the legality of baked goods I get from a friend…but I’ve always had strange dreams so I think she’s in the clear. My nightmares are psychologically terrifying, because scaring myself with a clown or a shark in the pool would be too normal and and far too easy.
I dreamed DH wanted to divorce. Yes, that is terrifying to me. It plays on my fear of inadequacy. Much of the dream was me pleading with him and reminding him that he had “just said yesterday we were good”. I threw things at him with the force and efficiency of a whiffle ball, frustrating my dream self even more. I woke up physically biting my arm and my heart pounding as if I just completed a Zumba class. NOT a good way to start a busy-for-me day.
But where did this come from? DH is fabulous and I do not doubt his love and devotion. Not. One. Bit. Of all the people in my life, he is truly my safe place. I know I’m feeling inadequate about how I budgeted my time this week. It was well planned on paper. I wrote at breakneck speed last week but didn’t complete a fraction of my goals this week. Inadequacy loomed over me when I requested a specific consideration that was ignored-- by a repeat offender-- because my few preferences never seem to matter and, therefore, neither do my efforts. But dreaming of DH abandoning me? My unconscious obviously decided to mess with me right where it would hurt the most.
Once the Xanax kicked in, I saw the connection. Today is June 10th. Tomorrow is the 11th. Monday is the 13th. In 2008, strange interactions at home on 10th and 11th culminated with my then husband announcing our divorce on the evening of the 13th. (And, yes, it was a Friday.) His words are still crystal clear in my head: you bring out the worst in me. My mind has a twisted sense of humor.
At the time, the termination of my first marriage was painful, humiliating, and scary as hell. I joined a support group, I talked with my psychiatrist, I worked with a woo-woo life coach. By my birthday of the next year, I was doing well. The split was emotionally difficult (the business end was quick and fair), but it was certainly the right thing to do. We weren’t right for each other. I wish my ex nothing but the best.
A week of daily stresses and my inability to deal put me back in the mode of believing I’m broken. It’s true that I’m not equipped with the tenacity I once had to multi-task and switch roles quickly, but broken isn’t the right word anymore. My mind cracked, then shattered, and the pieces were put back together— though I’m not certain they are in the right order. Unfortunately, the glue takes far too long to dry, and, like anything smashed and reconstructed, it’s never as stable as it originally was.
I need to let the glue dry.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)