Hello, my very few readers!
Didja miss me? It's ok if you didn't.
I've been trying to avoid the news after enough exposure to know what level of destruction we're at but not enough to overwhelm me to tears. I've been spending my time focusing on the novel that has been itching in my head since the 80s. I didn't have the maturity or insight to do it justice then. Getting older has its advantages.
I've completed the first draft. This is amazing for me because I think the last thing I actually completed was my handfasting ceremony. (For the sticklers: I know handfasting is the engagement in certain traditions. Our vows were unique and it fits for us.)
I've always had a problem finishing things. The anxiety of "doing it wrong" or "not well enough" is too strong for most things. Case in point: I was going through a divorce at this time ten years ago and was berating myself because I "wasn't even able to complete a damn marriage."
Anxiety is a lot of things-- a bitch, disabling, overwhelming-- but it is rarely rational. As long as I complete "living" each day and do not cause injury to another, whatever I do, don't do, don't do well enough, what have you, does not matter. I know this. I still cannot feel it.
I have various ways to resolve it. I haven't hung a picture in forever because I have this crazy idea that it won't be placed well and the hammer/nail strike will result in a cartoon-style crack in the wall. Irrepairable, of course. If anything, my imagined screw-ups will be done with perfection.
So let's hand a picture anyway. And do it "wrong" on purpose Crooked, too high/low, and dent the wall somewhere outside the frame's coverage. Has the world come to an end? Nope. Will it be criticized? Maybe. Does that matter? Hell no.
Sounds good, huh? I can plan well. But 80% complete is about as far as I get.
Getting the entire novel down on paper is enough. It has to be. I told the story in full. DH was worried -- maybe still is-- that I will feel like a failure if it's not published. My head says no. My heart says eh. The goal was to write. That goal was and is under my control. Publishing has too many factors for it to be "my fault." One member of my writing group mentioned that an agent somewhere will be as passionate about the finished product as we are and they will sell it to a publisher who feels the same. The trick is to find the right combo; that is in the hands of the Fates.
Preliminary research tells me an adult contemporary fiction debut novel rarely clocks in at more than 100k words. It happens, but it's the exception to the rule. My manuscript (unedited.... and it needs editing) is a cool 182k words. There isn't a logical place to split it into two novels. There's a "then" and "now" aspect that is too interconnected to stand alone with any satisfaction.
I've cut a subplot that wasn't intended and it's still over 161k.
I have reached a tentative decision. I'll have two versions of the manuscript: in full, as I intended; and a shorter version for possible publication. I feel good about this so far and will see what unfolds.
Yay me!
Showing posts with label Mental Health. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mental Health. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 31, 2018
Saturday, January 6, 2018
Happy New Year and Writing Dangerously
Happy 2018! (I hope!)
I've been too distracted to write here. Or maybe too scattered. Or afraid. I'm not really sure. There are 11 unfinished posts in my draft folder. But I have been writing....
My current WIP is almost two years old. I've been working on fairly consistently, taking a few breaks to recharge and to explore other sides of the same characters. It's the longest I've ever stayed with a project.
So now we've entered the Terrible Twos. And I'm stuck.
One of my most favorite people in the world gave me a book for Christmas called A Year of Writing Dangerously: 365 Days of Inspiration & Encouragement by Barbara Abercrombie. The perfectionist in me said to start reading it on January 1st, and I did. I'm also sharing its passages with my writing group. I didn't expect to gain much insight. However, to put it bluntly, at Day 4, shit got real.
On Day 4, she hints that we are free to write the truth, or whatever we believe the truth to be (insert Trump joke here). She encourages us to basically just write it down because no one will read it until it is actually presented. Rewrites and purging are always options. We're free to lock it away in the depths of our file cabinets or clouds. Whatever is typed onto a screen or scribbled on actual paper, only sees the light of day if we choose. If I choose.
Nice. Ok. Just get it down. 249 words. Ok. Better than the previous days.
Day 5 stopped me in my tracks. Here is the full passage:
And I've figured out why I'm stuck.
My WIP is a complete work of fiction when you look at it as a whole. I've borrowed names, descriptions, places, speech patterns, and so forth from a number of sources. None match enough to pull a whole person together and say "OMG, x is y!!!" (Except maybe for whoever owns or lives at the property in Catskill where I've set my world.... They might find it a little creepy.) But fiction is rarely that perfect little world of pure imagination. We all have a point of reference, something that anchors even the most outrageous storyline to something solid in our lives.
Oddly, writing fiction with a touch of truth doesn't scare me. Isn't that crazy? Nearly 18 years of psychotherapy has wiped out a good part of my timidity. Up until now, whatever I've written has had some real connection, some modicum of truth. It may be stretched out so far that only I can see the connection, but, dig deep enough, and you'll find the speck of something real. Someone reading it can ask "Did ____ happen to you or someone you know?" and I can answer "No," with complete honesty. But there's also a yes in there somewhere, if they pick the exact right thing to ask. I can easily lie on the pages I write if I can defend that it's both fact and fiction. The closer my words are to "a truth," the easier they've been to write.
I know the reason for this: I tend to shy away from decisions and debates without knowing what I'm talking about. I never buy something without researching it. I will not argue a political opinion without exploring the opposite side. Unless I have a generous amount of information, I rather ask questions and listen to others.
It's not that I'm afraid to be wrong-- not in the sense of being misinformed. That's a learning experience. I'm afraid to disappoint, to be misunderstood, to mislead. I know where that fear comes from and I'm doing what I can to confront it. It'll never go away; it's too much of a human trait. But it is a fear that paralyzes me and lack of movement isn't acceptable.
I am at a section of the story that is "filler-but-not." I need to bridge a gap in time where a few relevant things happen, but... I can't feel the truth in it. I don't think there actually *is* a truth in it and that means I need to make it up. Fiction in its truest form where my only defense is: I made that up, and it makes sense to me.
That's what "writing dangerously" means to me.
OCD is the doubting disease. Couple that with decades of reinforcement that I'm not doing ___ right, and my confidence level is so far down it can keep America's reputation company.
My writing has no real-world consequences, making it a logical place to take some chances. Take some chances to make some changes.
I've been too distracted to write here. Or maybe too scattered. Or afraid. I'm not really sure. There are 11 unfinished posts in my draft folder. But I have been writing....
My current WIP is almost two years old. I've been working on fairly consistently, taking a few breaks to recharge and to explore other sides of the same characters. It's the longest I've ever stayed with a project.
So now we've entered the Terrible Twos. And I'm stuck.
One of my most favorite people in the world gave me a book for Christmas called A Year of Writing Dangerously: 365 Days of Inspiration & Encouragement by Barbara Abercrombie. The perfectionist in me said to start reading it on January 1st, and I did. I'm also sharing its passages with my writing group. I didn't expect to gain much insight. However, to put it bluntly, at Day 4, shit got real.
On Day 4, she hints that we are free to write the truth, or whatever we believe the truth to be (insert Trump joke here). She encourages us to basically just write it down because no one will read it until it is actually presented. Rewrites and purging are always options. We're free to lock it away in the depths of our file cabinets or clouds. Whatever is typed onto a screen or scribbled on actual paper, only sees the light of day if we choose. If I choose.
Nice. Ok. Just get it down. 249 words. Ok. Better than the previous days.
Day 5 stopped me in my tracks. Here is the full passage:
I asked a group of students once if writing felt dangerous to them. They all nodded vigorously, so I asked them to write why.
One student wrote, “Writing is dangerous because you might get caught.”Caught, found out, exposed. The stuff of nightmares.Is this why writing feels so scary sometimes? We’re caught like a fish on a hook of our own words, our secrets exposed, out inner life and imagination up for inspection.Anxiety is not only an inevitable part of the writing process but a necessary part. If you’re not scared, you’re not writing. ~~ Ralph Keyes
And I've figured out why I'm stuck.
My WIP is a complete work of fiction when you look at it as a whole. I've borrowed names, descriptions, places, speech patterns, and so forth from a number of sources. None match enough to pull a whole person together and say "OMG, x is y!!!" (Except maybe for whoever owns or lives at the property in Catskill where I've set my world.... They might find it a little creepy.) But fiction is rarely that perfect little world of pure imagination. We all have a point of reference, something that anchors even the most outrageous storyline to something solid in our lives.
Oddly, writing fiction with a touch of truth doesn't scare me. Isn't that crazy? Nearly 18 years of psychotherapy has wiped out a good part of my timidity. Up until now, whatever I've written has had some real connection, some modicum of truth. It may be stretched out so far that only I can see the connection, but, dig deep enough, and you'll find the speck of something real. Someone reading it can ask "Did ____ happen to you or someone you know?" and I can answer "No," with complete honesty. But there's also a yes in there somewhere, if they pick the exact right thing to ask. I can easily lie on the pages I write if I can defend that it's both fact and fiction. The closer my words are to "a truth," the easier they've been to write.
I know the reason for this: I tend to shy away from decisions and debates without knowing what I'm talking about. I never buy something without researching it. I will not argue a political opinion without exploring the opposite side. Unless I have a generous amount of information, I rather ask questions and listen to others.
It's not that I'm afraid to be wrong-- not in the sense of being misinformed. That's a learning experience. I'm afraid to disappoint, to be misunderstood, to mislead. I know where that fear comes from and I'm doing what I can to confront it. It'll never go away; it's too much of a human trait. But it is a fear that paralyzes me and lack of movement isn't acceptable.
I am at a section of the story that is "filler-but-not." I need to bridge a gap in time where a few relevant things happen, but... I can't feel the truth in it. I don't think there actually *is* a truth in it and that means I need to make it up. Fiction in its truest form where my only defense is: I made that up, and it makes sense to me.
That's what "writing dangerously" means to me.
OCD is the doubting disease. Couple that with decades of reinforcement that I'm not doing ___ right, and my confidence level is so far down it can keep America's reputation company.
My writing has no real-world consequences, making it a logical place to take some chances. Take some chances to make some changes.
Get it down. Take chances. It may be bad, but it’s the only way you can do anything really good.– William Faulkner
Monday, November 20, 2017
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 youLet'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.
Wednesday, June 14, 2017
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.
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.
Thursday, May 25, 2017
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.
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.
Saturday, July 16, 2016
The Language of the Unheard
Disclaimer: I know not many people read this and those of you who do know me fairly well. However, in case this post makes its way onto the screen of a stranger, let me clarify that the Black Lives Matter movement was part of a discussion during which I learned something about myself and should not be addressed in a comment. This blog is supposed to be about how I’m processing the insights into the roots of my disorder. While I have some political ramblings on here, I’m trying to focus on what’s going on with me. If you want to read and comment on my thoughts on our world, you can go here.
I tend to have extreme emotions to begin with but, my reactions to Black Lives Matter and Trump’s campaign have been completely over the top. The demonization of BLM and the elevation of Trump’s ideology du jour feels like a personal attack on me, which is ridiculous. The only targeted demographic that truly affects me on a personal level is Trump’s misogyny. Still, the intense anger that overtakes my rationale when discussing either topic is perplexing. My support for BLM and against Trump is justified on a logical level; if I’m presented with a point by point list of each agenda, I can show-- calmly, rationally, respectfully-- where I stand on each and why. But when it comes to a verbal discussion, all sense of logic flies right out the window and doesn’t boomerang back until a mushroom cloud appears. That’s not the best way to bring understanding and compassion to a subject.
A mushroom cloud appeared when I embarrassed myself, and probably my family, yesterday. If you have seen any portrayal of an Italian-American family dinner and have gaped at how loud and intense the conversations can be, let me tell you, this really happens. Yelling is how we communicate. About everything. Right down to who brought in the mail. My role in the family is The Kid. My cousin is also The Kid. Respectively, we are 42 and 21 years old, but we are the youngest members of the local clan. We are also much more introverted than the rest of the family. ( I’m going to pull my cousin out of this post for now since I cannot speak for her but wanted to mention that I’m not technically the youngest of the family.) The Kid’s role in the family is to remember to “shut up and let the adults talk.” While this is never actually said, it’s implied by various actions such listening to the first few words of my sentence and then either redirecting the conversation to someone/something else or cutting me off before I actually finish my comment. Both actions have been happening to me at the dinner table my entire life.
Most of the roots of my disorders need to be cut by being my own person. It is ok to assert myself I need to be confident in my thoughts, actions, and words. I need to internalize that I am within my rights to express myself on any topic. In return, others are allowed to dispute my points of view with their own. This is how we learn. This is how we come to understanding each other. This is an integral part of a functioning society. Whatever label it’s given, conversations, discussions, debates, or fairly fought arguments over disagreements need to happen and they need to happen with respect. If you are shown any disrespect, end the conversation and walk away until tempers have been controlled. This is how I prefer to conduct myself. I’m not always good at it. In fact, I failed miserably at my self-imposed decorum yesterday.
However, my failure wasn’t because we disagreed.
A troublesome side effect of having Scrambled Brain is my lack of impulse control and how it likes to present itself at the most inappropriate times. I feel there’s a difference between acting inappropriately with someone who knows you well and someone who is an acquaintance. Both deserve respect. However, if your manners bolt out the door with the former and if that’s not a habit, it’s easier to reconcile. The latter isn’t aware that temper tantrums isn’t really your style.
Prior to this full-blown disorder, I would approach a debate with facts and logic: “no, this is what the research states” and “explain to me why you believe that”. Scrambled Brain has not only created a mess of the facts, but it likes to flip my Assert Yourself! Switch firmly into the On position. That in itself isn’t a bad thing. The problem is when my unconscious decides to fight a battle that isn’t the topic of discussion.
The discussion turned to Black Lives Matter and my opinion was in the minority of those voiced. (DH feels the same way I do but he’s healthy enough to know when to speak and not.) The discussion was heated— though, I honestly don’t think it’s easy for anyone to remain calm on this subject. When I look back on it, I was the person I usually want to slap. I wasn’t listening. I wasn’t trying to understand. I was more interested in saying what I had to say and dare anyone to tell me why I’m wrong. That’s not who I want to be. Ever. About anything. I was on the other side of how I expect myself to act. I was the disrespectful one and the gentleman, who, mind you, had some really good insights and points on the subject, did the adult thing and walked away. Then I continued to argue with no one, but I was no longer talking about BLM. I was spewing frustrations over being told I’m wrong or dismissed before I finish expressing my point. Let me get to that period or exclamation point and then have at it. Please.
Yes, I apologized to him. He did nothing wrong, really. If I were in my right mind, I would have calmly requested that I be permitted to finish my comment and, from what I’ve observed, he probably would have complied. Instead, I raised my voice and slammed the table with every word. The only thing good I can say is that my punctuated words were the rest of my statement rather than an attack on him.
I spent the next two hours crying and dissociating in and out before fell asleep for the night.
Aside from making a fool of myself and trying to explain this crazy disorder for the nth time in 4 years, I figured out why I become so blindly enraged when BLM is criticized. I understand their frustration on a nonracial and nonlethal level. They aren’t Being Heard either. With every retort of ALL Lives Matter or Blue Lives Matter, the fear and grief of the Black community is being dismissed. Yes, all lives and blue lives matter. Of course they do. But when those phrases are used to drown out voices rather than addressing the matter at hand, they become nothing but a three word silencing mechanism. Any response other than “I agree” to Black Lives Matter is morally, socially, and ethically flawed in some way. The reason for that flaw will vary from person to person and has no place in this post. (Maybe I’ll write another on Medium…)
Trump does the same thing through different tactics. When his statement is challenged and he cannot provide backup for his belief, he turns to mockery, insults, and fearmongering. Anyone who doesn’t agree with him is fair game. Believe it or not, I would actually have a tiny bit of respect for him if he didn’t constantly stoop to lower and lower levels in his attacks. (Side note: I do NOT agree with him on anything. “Respect” is meant to convey that I’ll agree to disagree.) His popularity enrages me. The fact that I have family and friends who would actually vote for him brings me to terrified tears. Trump’s form of dismissal is dangerous for every single living being on this planet.
People love to quote Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. during national racial conflict. I’m going to stick with this one: “A riot is the language of the unheard.” If you are dismissing this statement with “I’ve never been so mad that I’ve rioted”, a) good for you; and b) you’ve never lost your temper and yelled at or punished your kids for not listening to you? I’ve spent my entire life not Being Heard. Being Heard does not require agreement. I require my point of view to be heard and considered. I agree that I need to make sure Scrambled Brain doesn’t interfere with giving the same consideration to others. My outburst yesterday, and in past arguments on a variety other subjects, stems from almost constant dismissal when trying to join a dinnertime discussion for as long as I can remember.
A riot is the language of the unheard.
I think it’s time to hear each other.
Monday, June 27, 2016
The Art Of Self-Sabotage
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, May 22, 2016
"Just Do It" Only Works For Nike
I know it's been a long while since I've posted anything. I'd like to say it's because I've had better things to do, but that's not true. I've had plenty to say, but it was more along the context of politics than the introspective growth topics that I'd like this blog to focus on.
My progress with GAD and MDD has been forward a little, back a little, and stagnate at times. I'm still doing what I'm "supposed to" (going to therapy, taking my medications, identifying and working through triggers.....) but I keep coming back to "what's the point". Why should I bother? It's been 4.5 years since my brain broke and I still spend Every. Single. Day. Fighting.
It's friggin' exhausting.
But I've been trained to push through. Just do it. Keep at it. This is what I'm supposed to do and All Good Little Girls do what they are supposed to do.
All Good Little Girls. Are you kidding me? I'm squarely in my 40s.
That's the craziness of my alphabet soup of disorders. My adult ego hasn't taken over in the reactionary part of my brain. I'm still the Little Girl who reached for the toy that was purchased with the Very Expensive liquid medicine, which fell, shattered and bled all over the asphalt between the double parked cars, sending my paycheck to paycheck parent into (what I recall as a) rage. I'm still the Little Girl who actually, sincerely, seriously DID hand in the "A to Z in NYC" project Sr. Rita Marie said she didn't receive. (To any teachers reading this, I know you've heard it a million times over, but I REALLY DID HAND IT IN DAMN IT.) I'm still the Little Girl who pulled straight A's in school and was told I wasn't working hard enough. I'm still the Little Girl who graduated 4th in her class, 80 points away from a perfect score on the SATs, acceptance to every college applied to.... but ends up at a college I didn't want to go to because I didn't get any scholarship money. I eventually dropped out, went to another college I didn't want to go to, and got an Associate's degree I used for about 4 months.
Fast forward 15 years from graduation and beyond: I'm the Adult Little Girl who couldn't keep a marriage together. I'm the Employee Little Girl with the highest weekly billing and 98% retention rate of hires but I'm not bringing in enough business. I'm the Parent Little Girl who can't "just make him get a job or tell him 'the door is that way'." I'm the Homeowner Little Girl who isn't keeping up the maintenance. I'm the Housewife Little Girl who can't keep up with the dog fur and clutter.
None of this is a big deal. None of this should put me-- or anyone-- in a dissociative state. When I look at what I've written here, I see how pathetic it is that these are my thoughts. Look at what I just typed: pathetic. I see this as another failing. The cycle is never-ending!!!
Someone who has nothing but my best interest at heart introduced me to someone in the medical field last week. "Tell her what your problem is. Maybe she knows a better doctor for you." (That's paraphrased.) So I explained to this professional exactly what happens to me. Then I told her what I've learned about why it happens through therapy. She said, "If you are this aware of your symptoms and triggers, I think this psychiatrist is doing a fine job with you." I hugged her. I'm gonna bake her a lemon meringue pie for her birthday on September 1st.
This is where I'm at. The ideas of "just do it" and "don't let it bother you" and "get over it" would be WELCOMED if it worked. I've asked professional after professional after professional if this approach can work for some people. Time after time, the answer is "For a very small percentage of people it might, but, for the majority, denial is only a temporary solution and not healthy."
Anxiety is a reflex. When you go to the doctor and get your knee tapped in just the right spot, your lower leg jumps. Sure, you can focus on not moving your leg if you want. If you are completely on guard, constantly vigilant, braced for every possible moment when something could tap just the right spot, you can avoid the reaction. Try this exercise: Raise your non-dominant hand up over your head. Reach for the ceiling or sky, wherever you may be. Now keep it there. For how long? Every waking moment of the day. When your arm gets tired, imagine people standing before you with their arms crossed telling you "just keep doing it" and "if you work hard enough, you can do it" and "if you really wanted to beat this, you would just do it." Now do this every day for 4 years. No breaks. Every day. If you are lucky, you might build up enough strength to hold that arm up. It's more probable that you'll damage your muscles and lose reasonable use of your arm. Living in a state of hyper-awareness is a one-way ticket to more health problems.
And it's friggin' exhausting.
My progress with GAD and MDD has been forward a little, back a little, and stagnate at times. I'm still doing what I'm "supposed to" (going to therapy, taking my medications, identifying and working through triggers.....) but I keep coming back to "what's the point". Why should I bother? It's been 4.5 years since my brain broke and I still spend Every. Single. Day. Fighting.
It's friggin' exhausting.
But I've been trained to push through. Just do it. Keep at it. This is what I'm supposed to do and All Good Little Girls do what they are supposed to do.
All Good Little Girls. Are you kidding me? I'm squarely in my 40s.
That's the craziness of my alphabet soup of disorders. My adult ego hasn't taken over in the reactionary part of my brain. I'm still the Little Girl who reached for the toy that was purchased with the Very Expensive liquid medicine, which fell, shattered and bled all over the asphalt between the double parked cars, sending my paycheck to paycheck parent into (what I recall as a) rage. I'm still the Little Girl who actually, sincerely, seriously DID hand in the "A to Z in NYC" project Sr. Rita Marie said she didn't receive. (To any teachers reading this, I know you've heard it a million times over, but I REALLY DID HAND IT IN DAMN IT.) I'm still the Little Girl who pulled straight A's in school and was told I wasn't working hard enough. I'm still the Little Girl who graduated 4th in her class, 80 points away from a perfect score on the SATs, acceptance to every college applied to.... but ends up at a college I didn't want to go to because I didn't get any scholarship money. I eventually dropped out, went to another college I didn't want to go to, and got an Associate's degree I used for about 4 months.
Fast forward 15 years from graduation and beyond: I'm the Adult Little Girl who couldn't keep a marriage together. I'm the Employee Little Girl with the highest weekly billing and 98% retention rate of hires but I'm not bringing in enough business. I'm the Parent Little Girl who can't "just make him get a job or tell him 'the door is that way'." I'm the Homeowner Little Girl who isn't keeping up the maintenance. I'm the Housewife Little Girl who can't keep up with the dog fur and clutter.
None of this is a big deal. None of this should put me-- or anyone-- in a dissociative state. When I look at what I've written here, I see how pathetic it is that these are my thoughts. Look at what I just typed: pathetic. I see this as another failing. The cycle is never-ending!!!
Someone who has nothing but my best interest at heart introduced me to someone in the medical field last week. "Tell her what your problem is. Maybe she knows a better doctor for you." (That's paraphrased.) So I explained to this professional exactly what happens to me. Then I told her what I've learned about why it happens through therapy. She said, "If you are this aware of your symptoms and triggers, I think this psychiatrist is doing a fine job with you." I hugged her. I'm gonna bake her a lemon meringue pie for her birthday on September 1st.
This is where I'm at. The ideas of "just do it" and "don't let it bother you" and "get over it" would be WELCOMED if it worked. I've asked professional after professional after professional if this approach can work for some people. Time after time, the answer is "For a very small percentage of people it might, but, for the majority, denial is only a temporary solution and not healthy."
Anxiety is a reflex. When you go to the doctor and get your knee tapped in just the right spot, your lower leg jumps. Sure, you can focus on not moving your leg if you want. If you are completely on guard, constantly vigilant, braced for every possible moment when something could tap just the right spot, you can avoid the reaction. Try this exercise: Raise your non-dominant hand up over your head. Reach for the ceiling or sky, wherever you may be. Now keep it there. For how long? Every waking moment of the day. When your arm gets tired, imagine people standing before you with their arms crossed telling you "just keep doing it" and "if you work hard enough, you can do it" and "if you really wanted to beat this, you would just do it." Now do this every day for 4 years. No breaks. Every day. If you are lucky, you might build up enough strength to hold that arm up. It's more probable that you'll damage your muscles and lose reasonable use of your arm. Living in a state of hyper-awareness is a one-way ticket to more health problems.
And it's friggin' exhausting.
Friday, January 1, 2016
Know Thy Self (Sorry, Not Sorry)
Fourth grade flew by and I’m convinced it was because of my
teacher. She had a way about her that got right to the heart of the matter and
we kids responded well to her. She was
unconventional and did things that would probably land her in court these days---
nothing horrible, but parents overreact when it comes to their kids. I remember a specific moment, maybe a screen
memory, where we were all huddled around her.
She explained how even when we are joking around with each other that
our words can hurt and unintentional hurt is just as bad as a conscious blow. I
was teased a lot as a kid (and as an adult) and I remember desperately wanting
some of my classmates to acknowledge how badly they’ve hurt me. Being that I’m sensitive, I’m sure some of it
was unintentional. My need for acknowledgement was so great that I decided to
prompt apologies with my own. I told
everyone that if I ever hurt them unintentionally, I didn’t mean it and that I
was sorry. No one else said anything. I looked around at our group who seemed
to have heard me but weren’t self-aware enough to follow my lead. Our teacher
looked me directly in the eye and thanked me. I think she was glad her words
impacted at least one of us. It didn’t
help my own hurt.
My adult ego tells me that while an unintentional hurt is
bad, I’m not responsible for how people interpret my words and actions. Years
of therapy has developed a self-awareness in me that the average person who has
never been in intensive therapy just doesn’t have. It is difficult to be able
to pinpoint an emotion, know it’s origin and be able to infer what’s behind the
words and actions of another. (The latter isn’t always accurate.) I’m torn
between believing if it’s the reaction or intention that truly matters in
society. I’m sure it’s some combination
but I don’t know how much weight to put on each part.
I still want acknowledgement. I still want those apologies for
unintentional hurts. I don’t know what getting them will accomplish. It feels
both necessary and empty.
I want to find the balance between caring and caring too
much. I feel that I’ve gotten past Worrying What Others Think Of Me but I’ve
noticed my reactions don’t match yet. My therapist recently asked me that if I
don’t Worrying What Others Think Of Me, then why do I push myself to the brink
of (and sometimes actually) breaking down to please them? My current answer is that I’ve been hurt so
much that I do not want anyone I love to be hurt by my words and actions. I know what it feels like and I just don’t
want to be responsible for inflicting it.
This brings me back to the intention/interpretation question. Where is
the line?
It’s a brand new year. Normally I think it’s fairly
ridiculous to consider this as a mystical clean slate. They don’t exist. We can’t
ignore our past to “start again”. I
prefer to embrace the past. It makes me
who I am and without it, I won’t be able to know myself. I’ve made a lot of progress this year and in
order to keep that going, I need to practice a little more self-care. When I
feel my anxiety rising, I need to ask “What is best for me?” The potential problem will be that I’ll say “no”
more than I have in the past and people aren’t used to that from me. I’ve already started. I declined to attend a party that I know was
very important to people I love. I’ve
been very symptomatic this week. I think it would be better for me to bow out
than to force myself to go, have an anxiety attack, make others uncomfortable,
and then beat myself up over something I can’t control. This is the pattern I
have. It’s a pattern I need to break. I’m willing to bet my intention behind
staying home and the interpretation of
my decision will be completely at odds. I’ve decided (right now this
minute) that unless I’m asked, any false interpretation isn’t my
responsibility. There. I feel healthier already.
Until my OCD kicks in, of course.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)