It's the little things....

The "little things in life" that warm our hearts and restore our faith in humanity are the stories of baby animals rescued from storm drains, the patron ahead of you who pays for your coffee, and the tweens up the block who shovel for the elderly without expecting to be paid.

I love those stories. They do exactly what they are meant to do. When we say "it's the little things",  it's because we see it, we accept it, we let it swell in our hearts, and our moods are lifted just enough to get back to work. I firmly believe that every news broadcast should be ended with a "happy" story.  It would give us the strength to fight against the wrongs when we remember all is not entirely hopeless.

Be the change you want to see in the world. (By the way, there is no real evidence that Gandhi said this. This op-ed explains this and other misquotes.) Misquoted or not,  it's a good start.  I've watched parents try to teach their children by example.  It's a long, long, LONG process.  It's frustrating to the point of wanting to scream, "Just tell them what to do already!!!"  Children are not little mind-readers--- except in some instances when they are like the family pet who suddenly knows it's time to go to the vet. 

The idea of instructing by example rather than an issued statement of rule is a way to help a child's sense of what is and isn't acceptable grow without instilling fear.  I'm willing to bet just about every parent would prefer their child cleans their room out of a sense of self-respect rather than threats of punishment. This doesn't always work.  In fact, parents reading this may be hyperventilating from laughter by now.  I get it. The concept is good. The concept works better with somethings than with others.

Observe your family of origin and then examine your own habits.  You may be surprised to see just how many things you've unconsciously picked up simply from being exposed to them over and over.  There are behaviors I have that definitely developed from threats and not adhering to 35-year-old rules beat into my head (and, sometimes, hiney) push me into anxiety attacks.  The anxiety stops me in my tracks, the rule isn't followed,  I get more anxious, and, finally, depression takes over.  I repeat this until I can muster the strength to either do the thing or accept that it doesn't matter if the rule is followed because I'm no longer 7.

I also do things because I was taught on an unconscious level. They're little things, usually.  For example, when I wash my hands in a public restroom and paper towels are available, I dry off the counter. I do not think I was ever instructed to do this, but I've seen it done so many times while growing up that I've unconsciously determined "this is the proper behavior in a public restroom".   If someone is upset, I offer sweet treats even though my conscious mind is acutely aware that teaches to seek comfort from an outside source.  (The scale makes me aware of this too.)

It's the little things we observe every day that seep into our unconscious and manifest in our behaviors, beliefs, and judgments of others. (Don't argue with me that you don't judge people. We all do it because we've determined some judgments, right or wrong, are socially acceptable.)

The little things that shape us are often witnessed in society and their messages are unintentional. The person/culture/company is more than likely unaware they are contributing to anything beyond their specific intent.  A company wants an ad campaign that will sell their product. A cultural tradition is observed without examining its effects on the environment or another culture.  A person insists that their child "give Aunt Edna" a kiss so that Aunt Edna's feelings aren't hurt.

I think I just heard a collective "huh?" from that last example.

It's the little things that teach us what is expected and those lessons are carried with us throughout our lives.  Little, seemingly innocuous things: a pale, blonde, thin, woman dressed in white selling facial cleansers; the tattooed Latino drug dealer in that movie; the shoot first/ask later police drama; the hero whose interrogation techniques include torture and he saves the day.

It's these little things we see over and over that normalize specific scenarios. If you scramble to defend the examples above but gasp when a show/commercial/movie/book depicts a same-sex romance, ask yourself why. 

Before I get back to giving Aunt Edna a kiss, here is a semi-related tangent from "the little things":

This is not about "everyone's offended about everything".  Labels such as "outrage culture" diminish the importance of understanding how these little things set the tone for society.  It is worth noting that bring attention to something that could contribute to a harmful perception is not always outrage. Outrage comes after numerous polite statements of "Hey. This is harmful and here is why."  If you think people have been skipping the polite statement phase, look at the issue.  Is it a variation of something else that's been said for years?  Decades?   Does it matter that Archaic Greeks wore their hair in dreadlocks when dreads are most associated with Black culture?  It's good for trivia night, but that's about it. It is still cultural appropriation when specific parts of a culture are exalted while still discriminating against the culture as a whole.  (For what it's worth, dreadlocks were first associated with ancient Indian and Egyptian cultures, so European dreads came after Asian and African dreads.)

Pointing something out as potentially problematic does not always mean you need to cease and swear off whatever it is. If a phrase, decoration, depiction, style, advert, artistic expression, [insert whatever I missed here*] is critizied as insensitive or harmful, try to understand why instead of automatically getting pissed off that someone else has an opinion.  If you don't want to understand, then by all means, continue being disrespectful. I'm not responsible for you.  

* and my apologies for missing something of importance to you

Let's get back to kissing Aunt Edna. I've spent the last year examining how "little things" contribute to my own behaviors and have expanded to looking at its effects on society over the past few months. I read something on Twitter last week that struck a cord.

There is no doubt that November has been an impromptu Sexual Harassment and Assault Awareness month. Even if you are not a news junkie, some, if not all, of the stories have reached under whatever rock we've been trying to hide under.  I'm not going to get into why survivors "wait so long" to come forward nor the victim-blaming bullshit I've been seeing.  Those are other posts on their own, and I just don't have the strength for it right now.  

I'd like to address the "well why did she let him" and it's cousin comment "I would have smacked him then and there". (Side note:  I'm using she/him because using the gender-neutral they/them will get seriously confusing. Be assured that I know assault/harassment/abuse is experienced and committed by all genders and nonbinary people.)

The Twitter thread was regarding consent and who should be responsible for teaching it.  I'm not going to post the whole thread--- if you're interested in reading more, scroll through his thread archive.

Read that last screenshot again. Have you ever thought of it that way before?  While I've been consistently telling children who are ordered to hug or kiss me that it's ok if they don't want to, I never made the connection that Isaac did. There is not a parent that I know who tells their child to hug or kiss so-and-so with the intention of teaching them to participate in submissive behavior.

But.....

"Boys will be boys."  "He's mean to you because he likes you." "That's just how is he." "Your clothing is distracting."  "Don't be so sensitive." "Women are so emotional."

"I bought you a drink so I deserve a kiss."

We've been taught from an early age to let things go, to accept whatever excuse is used to dismiss our complaints. The training lasts into adulthood, and unless you've been in a specific situation, you can not say what you would do with absolute certainty.  Stay quiet while the boss makes sexist jokes? Laugh off the "accidental" glide over your ass. Give the person who bought that drink a quick little peck because it might be the fastest way to appease them and get away?

Oh.  So just don't force your girls to kiss Aunt Edna?  Are the boys fine?

Hell no. 

The boys absorb the other "little things".  "Real men don't cry." "Man up!" "Be aggressive and go after what you want!"  When you demand your boy should kiss Aunt Edna, he's still learning that his feelings are not valid. He's still learning that personal space and boundaries are arbitrary. It's the rest of their "training" that leads to adults who deserve a kiss because he spent money.

You put the person who was taught to let things slide with the person who was taught to be aggressive and get what they deserve? You get stories about being raped in a parking lot 30 years after the fact.

It's the little things.

The little things can lift your spirits for the moment.

The little things can also rip your life to pieces.

But If You Didn't Do Anything Wrong...

For a perfectionist, nothing is more horrifying than the thought of screwing up.  Not even the actual screw up, just the possibility.  We spend so much time checking, rechecking, tweaking, returning to the original, etc. Rinse. Repeat. Rinse an extra time, just to be sure.

We've been surrounded by mixed messages.  First you get the encouragement: "Don't worry. Everyone screws up." "Don't be so hard on yourself." "If you do your best and it doesn't work, it's still fine."  But once a mistake is revealed?  "Well why weren't you paying attention?" "It's so simple." "How could you possibly miss that?"

Perfectionists hear about a new law/decree/task force/policy, and we immediately run through the possible problems. It's not that we're alarmist, we need the whole picture to understand what will be required of us.  We want to know what the ramifications will be if we miss something.

Perfectionists are info seekers.  We are data miners. We take the result and learn how all the pieces fit together. We try to make different pictures of those same pieces. We're lawyers, scientists, researchers, counselors, and historians all rolled into a neat package of frazzled nerves.

You see, we're the ones who laugh the loudest at the supposition of "If you didn't do anything wrong, then you have nothing to worry about."  We laugh because that is a simplistic argument that should be true. It isn't.  It's a lie we tell ourselves because we desperately want to believe if we follow all the rules, do our best, and avoid mistakes, we'll live happily ever after.

Bull. Shit.

Lies, damn lies, and statistics, right?

You can poll the exact same group of people multiple times and get vastly different results based on how a question is asked.  If you want a specific result, you practice wording the question to nudge answers in the desired direction.  It's a sophisticated manipulation.

Sometimes you have to start with raw data and draw conclusions from that.  First, you collect all the information available such as all the students in a school district. You take demographics-- age, economic bracket, parental situations, address, ethnicity, and the like; scholastic history-- grades, teachers, pedagogy, and so forth; extracurricular involvement-- sports vs drama vs art vs music vs community service; social environment-- cliques, after school jobs, friends from school, friends not in the district...

Lots and lots of data.  So much good can be done with this. But, for argument's sake, let's say that there's a particular guidance counselor a researcher doesn't like for whatever reason. This counselor's students have the highest college acceptance rates and are among the most well adjusted, well rounded kids in the district.  This counselor is doing everything the right way.   Dollars to donuts, the collected data will show this is a model counselor.

The data collected can also be grouped to show a myriad of reasons to fire them.

The collection of information is always-- always-- the first step for a bigger end game. Always. A plan enacted without the proper data will crash and burn.  Perfectionists know this.

When the person requesting the data is shady and when the task of collection is given to a person whose morals are also questionable, the resulting report will most likely be skewed.

Believe it or not, I've spent a good amount of time setting up for a very simple point.

If you didn't do anything wrong, you still have to worry about falling victim to another person's agenda.  Being a Good Person or a Law-Abiding Citizen does not protect you from harm.

This has been a passive-aggressive post.  Attribute this rant to whatever you wish.  I have no control over what you believe to be the source. This information is now public for anyone to draw any conclusion.

And that, reader, is my point.

General Nike of the Bootstrap Brigade

This is a general rant.  I’m stuck on my writing and I decided to just vomit all over this topic.


I’m feeling inadequate.  Not helpful.  A burden.

Depression demons are the worst.

Insight helps.  I actually know why I’m feeling like I do.  Understanding my reactions allows me to deal with them better. I’ve always been a big “why” person; I like knowing what makes things tick.  Theoretically, knowing how something is supposed to work makes it easier to fix the defective, but there’s another angle to this.  Sometimes it’s also so that you know to just accept the defect and learn to manage around it.

I get a lot of “why aren’t you better yet?” from the Bootstrap Brigade.    Leave me the fuck alone.

That’s easy to think and type.  Saying it— or a more polite version of it— is still difficult.

Being defensive doesn’t help me. I shouldn’t have to justify my process to anyone.  Yet I find myself faced with some version of “you aren’t doing enough” or “you should just_____”.   Guess what, folks. If involuntary, physical reactions take over, one does not have control over them.  Just like you can’t will your heart to stop and start on command, I cannot will my depth perception to stay steady, my body from shaking, and my mind from dissociating.  Nike slogans do not apply.

But but but.

I know.  Yes, CBT techniques retrain the brain and reactions.  I’m using them to manage the OCD. Currently I’m under the impression that getting a handle on the intrusive thoughts will cut down on what I’m calling “self-inflicted anxiety attacks”.   Depending on what’s happening around me, it can be difficult to remember to use the tools (unless you have a fabulous stepdaughter who is in the grocery store with you, realizes that you need a frozen orange and hands you a pint of ice cream to hold which breaks the cycle and makes you laugh).  I’m getting better at it.  It’s like anything that requires practice and remembering to practice brings up a whole slew of issues for me but that doesn’t matter.  I see it. I recognize it. I’m working at it. I’m “just do(ing) it”.  Thank you, Nike.

It’s the random anxiety attacks that still really piss me off and there are tools for these too but I’m not ready for them just yet.  Therapy is like going to the gym.  You have leg days, arm days, core days, cardio days, so forth and so on, except the days are counted in months.  Maybe years?  I don’t know.  I’m impatient and switch my focus often.  I know, I know… it’s not efficient but hey.  I’m a work in progress.

The random attacks annoy me because I’ve been in the Nike mode  for a few years.  I’m constantly, actively working on recovery. And it’s exhausting.  It’s disheartening to be having a fabulous day and suddenly have to deal with anxiety.  There’s no precursor to the attack that I’ve noticed.  No intrusive thoughts, no visual cues, nothing physical that triggers it.  It. Just. Happens. (Yeah yeah yeah… the unconscious is always at work, stirring up trouble, yada yada yada.  I’m ranting about it. Leave me alone.)

Here are the key sentences to all this:  My plate is full enough. I am handling what I can, when I can. If my process isn’t fast enough for you, I share your frustration. Now back the fuck off and stop adding more stress to my life.

Little Green Bags

Her name was Pork Fried Rice— because that’s the type of name a cat gets when kids are in charge of the naming process.  She was a tortoiseshell calico with an enormous voice and a tendency to drool. She didn’t know how to keep her claws retracted.  She would stare at you while knocking stuff off the bedside table.

She was my little buddy.

Pork Pie was part of the package deal.  She came with my husband, four children, a dog, and a house in need of attention on a lake.  When she was younger, she tore her ACL while playing with a mouse on the stairs.  As a result, she limped and used the “I’m a poor, lame kitty” to her advantage when she wasn’t hopping onto the kitchen counter to snack on the butter.  She had been known to climb onto the dining room table, flip the pizza box lid up with her nose, and make her self comfortable on top of the pizza she chowed down on as her own.

She was a little brat cat.

She could have supplied the voice for Grumpy Cat. She always sounded pissed off to the highest degree possible and her yelling was so loud that you’d think she was standing next to you even when she was 2 floors up. Despite the tone of her meowing, she was a happy cat.  I’d get regular head bunts, purrs, and the occasional grooming sessions.  She refused the concept of “next to”, preferring “on top of”  whenever she was near me. .  She wanted to be cuddled at night and would nag at me until I rolled onto my left side and made a pocket with my arms for her to sleep in.  In the morning she would hassle me to get up— presumably for breakfast to be served— but what she really wanted was the bed to herself.   She loved to curl up against my pillow in the spot still warm from my head.

We’re uncertain as to her actual birth date, but she was a kitten when carried into the house by our eldest 18 years ago.  She had a brother named The Gray One.  Our daughter said, “We don’t have to keep both of them.”  Uh huh.

I met PFR in 2010. I liked her immediately.  She was a straight shooter who would evaluate your worth with an unapologetic stare.  When I officially/legally joined the family in 2012, she accepted me right away, maybe because I was the only other female in the house, or maybe because I’d cuddle her (mostly) whenever she asked.  Honestly, it was probably the scrambled eggs.  But I really don’t care why.

I loved her right back.

She had slowed down a lot in May, feeling her age. Over the weekend she stopped eating, save for the few pieces of cheese and chicken we fed to her by hand.  She would drink if we put the water bowl directly under her nose. I still got little head bunts.

Porkie was considerate enough to wait for our youngest to return from work before scampering over the rainbow bridge, giving our normally stoic-on-the-outside son a chance to say goodbye. (He’s not fooling any of us. He’s a sensitive mush and we all know it.)  I petted her while she took her last breaths, reminding her she was loved and that it was ok to let go.   Once she left us, DH gently placed her in her bed for her well deserved rest.

Little green bags…. The crematory our area vets contract with places your departed pet’s ashes in an urn, write a little certificate of death and attesting to a private cremation, and a small clay heart with their paw print into a little green paper bag.  I’ve had to pick up two others over the past five years— one for Patchy the Cat and then Ragamuffin. 

The lifespan of pets is far too short when counted in years but infinite when measured in love.

Rest in Peace

Disrespected Doormats.

About a month or so ago, I commented on a quoted tweet and it blew up in my face. Either I didn’t word it correctly or everyone is so readily defensive that the context was missed. Such is life on social media.

The original poster said something to effect of  how we’re all going to be offended by something at some point. I agree with this and I tried to take this one step further.  I’d like to change the conversation from “I am offended” to “That is disrespectful”. I was accused of policing someone’s feelings and I can see how it would be inferred.  It wasn’t my intention. Claiming that something is offensive opens a person up to being judged as too sensitive, too politically correct, too [insert specific complaint here].  The message is lost because we’re too busy telling someone why how they feel is wrong.  By calling something disrespectful, it takes the personal implication out of it.  It is now about the thing itself and up to the person/company/policy/whatever to understand what should be addressed.  It’s a subtle difference that will eventually become part of our unconscious.  Then, maybe, we can grow up a little and stop being so damn disrespectful to each other.

Long story short, I deleted the comment and told the OP I didn’t mean any disrespect.  Arguing my case wasn’t worth the inflicting any additional emotional toll on others.

The whole situation had a very strong effect on me: anxiety attacks, crying fits, a minor dissociative episode.  I was frustrated and plain ‘ol pissed off at my reaction.

Enter 17 years of introspective psychotherapy.

This hit three very specific buttons: not being heard, being misunderstood,  and being the target of undeserved anger.  I know this doesn’t sound like a heck of a lot to be upset over.  Bear with me.

Many psychological triggers are, in fact, this basic and it takes a lot of insight to recognize.  For instance, when you fight with your spouse over who should take the garbage out, the fight is not about the garbage.  It’s not about gender roles. It’s not about division of labor.  It boils down to respect.  Respect for your partner’s time, energy levels, other contributions.  It’s about  acknowledgment of “hey I had a really shitty day and it would help me out if you could take care of the garbage tonight.”.  It’s about listening without hearing those specific words because, let’s face it, none of us is good at being that articulate when asking for help at the end of a long day.

(Unless you’ve been in therapy for years.)

Back to my paltry sounding buttons.

Emotional abuse is just as damaging as physical. Instead of having a broken bone that didn’t heal correctly— because you were too scared to go to the ER— your spirit is damaged.  You can’t put your spirit in a cast.

What’s worse, both the abuser and victim may not even recognize emotional abuse is happening.  If you have a child who is super sensitive and you criticize  them constantly, you aren’t helping them build a thicker skin.  Your challenges for them to do better when their best was done isn’t motivating.  A sensitive child is going to hear they aren’t good enough no matter what they do. Their best isn’t good enough.  Their decisions are always flawed.  They will never have the confidence to try something new.   They will doubt their intelligence, their opinions, and the only thing they will truly succeed in is being the best damn doormat in the land.

“But you can’t baby them. That’s what’s wrong with our society.”

If this is your position, I’m sorry that no one ever took your feelings into account.  I’m sorry that you were emotionally abused to believe that tough love is the only answer.

Understanding how a person operates and adjusting your own methods isn’t “babying them”. It’s showing respect. There is a growing trend in the workforce to pit departments/teams/individuals against each other to create “healthy competition”.  For some people, this is a fabulously effective motivator.  A career salesperson will thrive on this.  The customer service oriented personality will burn out faster than a match in a hurricane.   The quiet accountant will keep your books impeccable, but hire someone with the pit bull aggressiveness needed for collections.  It is not “babying” to recognize someone’s strengths  and using them to your company’s advantage. Provide opportunities to enhance those skills and to learn new ones if your employees wish to expand.  Some of us are office managers with no interest in sales. Respect that. Especially if we tell you. Over and over. Before you hire us.

“But I’m talking about kids!  They need a firm hand! None of this Mr. Rogers shit!”

Gah! What did your parents or teachers do to you?  Wow. You should probably try talking to a therapist.

Yes, children need a firm hand and some more than others. Just remember that if you rule your children instead of parenting them— scaring them into submission instead of teaching them right from wrong— you are creating either a bully or a doormat.  No, children should not be encouraged to follow all of their dreams, especially if  one of those dreams is to fly with a cape and not a plane.  Your job is to keep them safe and teach them how to deal with the world.  Yes, the world is a hard place to live.  It’s filled with people who won’t take your strengths and sensitivities into account.  Yes, kids need to learn this.  But, before they do, they need a strong sense of self.  This isn’t achieved with participation trophies.  It’s probably more beneficial for a child to lose than to win as long as you do not enforce the belief that the loss came from an inherent flaw.  Instead of “you’re just not good at baseball”, suggest a different grip on the bat. Or, if they are fast but have trouble connecting the bat and ball, try tennis.

What does this have to do with my buttons?  When you hear that your best isn’t good enough for over 30 years from various people in your life, it’s harder than you think to change all the bullshit you’ve been trained to believe. Reactions are involuntary.  My rational brain will scream that crying over a stranger’s misinterpretation of my position is absolutely ridiculous and, gadzooks woman, get a grip!   Once the screaming stops, I remember I was trained to reaction like this.  I was trained to fear confrontations. I was trained to be submissive to whoever was upset.  I am forever on alert— gauging body language, listening for intonations, assessing the moods of everyone around me— to keep myself safe.

I know where my reactions come from. I’m learning to internalize the rationale in order to free myself.

There’s no magic pill.  There’s no specific technique that will get me there faster.

I just need time and you to wipe your feet elsewhere.