Layers of Defense

My inner self, my core self, sits inside a stone tower within a stone castle behind a moat behind a low stone wall behind a white picket fence behind a low fence of iron pickets with roses growing up the fence.

I used to have a problem with boundaries, in that I had virtually none. This is typical of someone who has been sexually abused as a child. Over the years, I worked hard at developing boundaries. Then, as I continued to be hurt by relationships, rejections, disappointments, and letting too many people in too soon, I began developing protections.

I have a vivid and strong imagination and am good at visualization. Every time I felt hurt, I imagined myself protected by a thick wall. This wall extended out to become a fortified castle, a wide land filled with dangerous creatures, and a series of walls and fences, all with manned gates. The outer fence was too tall to see over and the roses grew huge, sharp thorns and obscured an onlooker's view inside. Eventually, no one could see inside and I couldn't see out. I had become almost completely protected against emotional pain, yet I still hurt because I didn't have close intimate friendships (I had even protected myself from my oldest, closest friends). I still felt alone. But no one could hurt me.

Several years ago, my protective barriers crumbled and broke down completely, leaving me naked and vulnerable. My therapist at the time was stunned by the self that was revealed because she had taken what she'd seen of me as truth: that I was fairly superficial and had solid boundaries. Finally we were able to do deep work. I learned that vulnerability was a strength and that being as protected as I'd made myself actually made it impossible for me to form and maintain the emotionally intimate connections I craved. I agreed to not create such an impenetrable barrier again, but I would still create the layered barriers to remind me to not let everyone in and to let people further in only when I knew I could trust them.

Over the past several years, I've experienced some heartbreaking pain. I've wanted so much to build up those barriers again, wanting to be safe from pain, but I have learned that they won't keep me safe from pain. Nothing can. And I want to be able to experience life fully, which does require being vulnerable to pain.

Write a Memoir? Me?

Yesterday at brunch, a good friend suggested I write a memoir about all the changes I've made in my life (and some that were made for me). She said that most people don't and won't make the large changes I've made (moving places without knowing what I was going to do once I got there, moving without knowing where I was moving to) and don't take the risks I've taken. The idea sounded crazy to me, but she was persuasive, so the idea has been rattling around in my mind like a marble in a can.

But how interesting would it be? I don't even have an "and I've been so successful, have done so many wonderful things, have a job I love, etc., etc., etc.," ending for the memoir. All I can imagine is someone reading this story and saying "See? You take all those risks and end up living in a bedroom in someone else's house while all your stuff is in storage and your bank account is starting to sound like a sucking chest wound." I mean, I can always hope that by the time I came to the end of the story I'd actually have some sort of success story to end with.

One good thing I can think of that could come out of writing it is that I'd have to take a step back and look at my life differently. I'd have to own some part of being brave enough to do these things. I'd have to own up to being strong enough to get through my mother's death and aftermath. I'd have to see my life as something more than the train wreck I currently think it is.

But could I? Isn't my life rather a train wreck?

Unlike people like The Bloggess, I don't write a public blog. I don't want to share the details that I share with you with the whole world, in part because I don't want potential clients and employers to see this side of me. I don't think I'd get hired if they did.

A memoir would be different from this blog. This blog is about journaling and processing and therapy. It's uncensored, stream-of-consciousness writing with very little editing. It's long and rambling and sometimes barely has a point. A memoir would have to be different.

So the marble is rolling around and around in the empty tin can that is my mind. I may put some words on paper to see if anything happens. I'm open to suggestions and feedback. Do any of you really think the past 12–15 years of my life are memoir-worthy? (I moved from Seattle to the Oregon Coast in 2001, which is why I'm going back that far.)

So What's Been Goin' On?

Well, I've been thinking. I've been zoning out. I've been getting very few  hours of sleep a night — still — and wondering why. And the past couple of days I've been playing with the cool new toy Sabine bought me: an iPad mini. She said we all needed tablets, so she bought Griffin an android tablet of his choice and now she's seeing what about each of ours she likes so she can decide among all the choices for herself.

I also applied for six jobs yesterday. They say you need to apply for 100 jobs to find one. If I do, say, 5 a day for the rest of the month, I'll be set! Of course, I missed today. And I get very distracted by my housemates sometimes, especially since Sabine has retired.

I made a schedule of my daily routine needs. It will work, if I can get to sleep by 11, stay asleep all night, and get up at 7. Big 'ifs'.

My creativity seems to be in the bottom of the sink right now. I've been crocheting my brains out and showing some creativity there, but then I look at stuff people have made up that's on Pinterest or Ravelry and think "why don't I do that? I'm so dull!" The crocheting has left no time for other creative work (writing, drawing) or reading. But it is satisfying because I am creating tangible, useful, beautiful things for other people and that is one of my languages of love. Actually, two I guess: gifts and service.

I talked with my therapist about the rebound effect I experienced for the couple of days following my last post. We talked a bit about it being one of my patterns and how it seems related to how I withdraw after feeling a strong emotion — for example, after I have a cry or even a big emotional event, I then pull back and am distant and detached for a while, hours to days. I think maybe that's what I've supposed to have been thinking about and working on since Wednesday, but I forgot and it's upstairs in my journal and I don't feel like going up and checking it out. Right now I'm not feeling amazing and I don't feel like I'm doing Great Things, but I at least still believe I am and I can, even if not right now.

Amazing, aka Great Things

[Note: I don't normally put another post up so quickly after a big post like yesterday's, but this one needs to go up and I don't want to wait. And there are lots of italics and all caps, so be warned. And yes, others have told me; I had to see it myself.]

Finding treasures comes from looking

This journaling-in-the-morning thing is so cool! This morning I woke up after 6 hours or a little more and decided to write for a bit before going back to sleep. I didn't end up going back to sleep. The journaling brought me to such an amazing place.

At first, all I could think of writing about was the changes in my medications. That led to thoughts about managing my brain chemistry and a wonderful vision of an orange-robed monk on top of a terrifyingly high, narrow cliff. He was sitting cross-legged, his hands dangling loosely over his knees, his eyes closed, and a wide, serene smile on his face. Every line of his body and face spoke of serenity and peace. And while I know that it's easier to achieve such things when you are not in the world, certainly exceptional people like the Dalai Lama and Thich Naht Hanh are able to be serene and peaceful while interacting with the world at large. I figure I should be able to achieve some level of serenity and peace and have in fact achieved them at times in my life. I want them again.

So I explored what might help me manage my brain chemistry other than drugs: meditation, exercise, visualizing happy things, visualizing actually changing the chemistry. Diet would probably help, too: Sabine read something about how anti-inflammatory diets can reduce depression in women by a significant amount (30%? 40%?), or in a significant amount of women. Today she began researching such diets and ran across articles about a local woman who has developed such a diet and who gives classes about the diet. Honestly, the classes seem to be long-drawn out lectures, one a week for five weeks, explaining the science behind the diet. Given that she's also written a book, I'm pretty sure we will be able to get everything we need out of the book, without paying the $180 per person to take the class. And, basically, it's just another version of the Mediterranean diet, so it's just another reminder of what healthy eating consists of.

Solstice Epiphanies

Last night Griffin and I talked about the sleep problem I’ve had for some time. Basically, I average 4.5 to 5 hours of sleep a night. Not only is it bad for me in general, it’s particularly bad for the fibro. Unfortunately, this is a habit I settled into after Mom died, or maybe just after I returned to Houston. I had developed the habit previously off and on over a few years prior to that, but never quite as extreme as this and not for as long an ongoing period.

Griffin suggested I keep a diary. He suggested I note when I go to bed, what time I wake during the night, what time I return to trying to sleep, and my feelings at the time — I think he meant my feelings as I try to return to sleep, but I think I should do so when I first get ready to go to sleep, and maybe when I first wake, if appropriate. To this list I’m adding a) what plans I have for the next day and what time those plans are for, and b) any events of note that occurred during the day, especially the evening.

I went to bed at midnight. I woke at after 6 a.m. to go pee. Then I sat in bed and journaled, and the rest of this post came from that journal entry. I made some important realizations and am going to write up the appropriate ones into thank-you cards for Griffin and Sabine, each. The following is the majority of the entry, edited for clarity.

***

6:20 a.m.  12-21-13  YULE! SOLSTICE!

Realized earlier that I didn’t do much for a long time [after I moved to Seattle] because I was healing. I’d wanted to just be cared for during all those months and years after Mom’s death — was so tired and drained and hurting and scared for all that time. So I got here and [Griffin and Sabine] took care of me. I may have needed care for longer than we all expected, but I am finally coming out of this mental and emotional space and doing chores around the house. Griffin being temporarily less able spurred me.

I am feeling more healed, I realized. Something that was clenched inside of me has loosened. I still have a lot to work on, but maybe I am now better able to not only work more effectively but recognize my progress.

Validation

Follow me!

Sometimes I forget what this blog is. Sure, it started out as a way to share info with friends and family as I made my way to where I ended up. But I ended up somewhere, then this was a blog about my new home. And, when my life fell completely apart, it became a journal, a place to process what I worked on and discovered within therapy and without, and a place to vent my raw feelings and thoughts, without need to censor or be tactful.

It remains a journal, and I am very grateful to those of you who visit and comment because I enjoy what you have to say and I feel uplifted by your support. However, I began to crave comments. As someone who has long sought for validation externally, it took me long enough to figure that out. I realized this week, maybe Wednesday, that I feel bad if only one person comments. In fact, I feel inadequate if fewer than four people comment. (Weird, to have a number, but I do.)

At such times, I worry that my posts are too long, too boring, too negative, too sad, too much about myself. I wonder if I should change my posts to please my "audience". I forget, in other words, what this blog is.

**Allowing the laughter to subside**

I guess this is a good Learning Moment. It's pretty sorry that I need external validation so badly I consider changing what I write in my personal journal to try to get more comments.

**Quiet moment for obligatory shame**

I hope to remember this moment and this realization. I forgot it about five times over the past couple of days, luckily remembering it again each time. I'm staying up late to write this before I forget again. It's worth remembering.

Will writing this post help me learn to find my validation from within rather than without? On first consideration, it wouldn't seem so. It's just a blog post, right? But given what I, and all of you, have seen on this blog in the past almost three years (I know!), writing these posts has become part of my processing new information and making it possible to internalize changes. So, yeah, I think that's what writing this post will lead to: greater movement toward my finding my validation within myself. (That's a lot of "my's".)

It's hardly fair of me to put all of that on all of you.

Flake

I have a confession: I am a flake. Iffy. Dodgy. A really good liar and undependable in work and play. Torpid. Stubborn. Lacking integrity, untrustworthy, and afraid of commitment. Basically, I kinda suck. I don't much like myself and I'm still working on loving myself.

I didn't used to be this way. Before I fell apart in my mid-30s, when an overwhelming depression washed over me and pulled me into deep, dark water. Before my ex-boyfriend — the one who'd changed his mind and decided he didn't want to get married, have children, or buy a house with me — got married and asked me how I used my 401K to buy my house. Before my insecure boss made me so diminished, anxious, and crazy-feeling that my psychiatrist prescribed not one but TWO mental health leaves within a six-month period. Before all that I was not perfect, but anyone could count on me to do what I said. Friends, family, and employers could trust me. I was active, flexible, creative, and committed.

I hate the way I am. I hate that I'm not the way I used to be. I hate that I can't seem to find my way back, after nearly 20 years. Twenty years is a long time to be disgusted by the person you've become.

"Ah, the sun is blindin'
I stayed up again
Oh, I am findin'
That that's not the way I want my story to end"

Powers of the Mind

Lately in therapy, my therapist has been guiding me through imagery scenarios to address specific emotional situations. They've been enormously helpful. She also helped me address the difficulty I've been having with using affirmations and creative visualization on my own.

The guided imagery we've been doing in sessions has taken me to where in my life it seems the feelings originated. Once there, she has led me through asking myself questions, connecting to feelings, connecting to myself at those ages, and providing myself with what I seem to need at that point. These sessions are very powerful emotionally and mentally — I usually need a long nap afterward! It's so different from the therapy that I did with Karen, and equally powerful.

The difficulties I've been having with affirmations and creative visualizations stem from the standard instructions for doing them: to say things like "I have a great job" when I know I am unemployed, for example. My rational mind cannot buy into the part where you feel like you have this thing NOW.

Michele offered me an excellent way to do this. "Imagine your life on a timeline," she told me. "Put yourself on the timeline in a past time when you felt confident and happy in your job and really be there, not just seeing yourself there. Add in as much sensory detail as you can. Then put yourself on the timeline in the near future, where you want to be, and imagine having the job, the living situation that you want. Be there completely. Feel everything." This sounded like something I could definitely work with.

Three times this past week I've done this visualization, with varying levels of success. I know that the varying levels are due to how distracted I am and that I need more practice, so I'm not letting them bother me. I feel each time has been successful. The scenarios I've started with are having a great job that I love and that pays me lots of money, and having a place to live that I like very much and making it be the home I want (including the living room furniture I found that I WANT!). It amazes me how real I can make these visualizations. I know I need to do the work, too (keep job hunting and networking, for example), but I feel that the visualizations add a great deal of power and energy toward getting me what I want and need, sooner rather than later.

I know the mind is very powerful. There are been many studies about the benefits of visualizing success in sports; professional athletes use this technique to increase their abilities along with doing physical practice. I think I remember reading about how many successful business people also use these techniques. So there is some strong science behind them. And doing them in a way that doesn't cause my literal mind to pop up and say "no" allows me to benefit from the techniques.

Obviously, you need to really, really want the thing you are visualizing yourself having. The strong emotional content is essential. I really, really, really want a good job that I love and a home that I enjoy living in. Really.

How about you? Do you use mental techniques to help you achieve things? What do you use?

Wet

Friday evening, my friend Skye (I know, right?) took me to her spa for a hydrotherapy evening. She has a membership to the spa that involves use of the hydrotherapy pools and massage. She gets one or two guest passes a month and asked me if I wanted to come with her this month.

The hydrotherapy set up consists of two pools and two saunas. You start in the hot pool. Then you move to the wet sauna where you scrub your body with salt (and you sweat and try to breathe the hot wet air). Shower off the salt, then out to the cool pool (which feels quite cold after the sauna), and finally to the dry sauna with cedar ledges. We did two full circuits, separated in the middle with a sit in the quiet room with tea and cookies, and then a final soak in the hot pool. Afterwards, I felt soft, smooth, loose, and relaxed. It was one of the most wonderful experiences I've ever had.

And we talked. We started out with the basic "what have you been doing lately" and, as we were there for nearly 3 hours, it just kept going deeper and wider.

I can be a chatterbox, especially if I'm feeling anxious or self-conscious. I realized later in the evening that I had forgotten my afternoon dose of Xanax, so that probably contributed some anxiety, but also I am still getting to know Skye and I am fairly insecure about my ability to make friends. Plus, I like Skye and want to create a solid friendship with her, so there's a little bit of anxiety there. (Hi Skye! I know you're there!) Because I know about this chatterbox behavior of mine, I remembered from time to time to specifically ask Skye about herself and to listen closely. Sometimes when I am in full-out chatterbox mode, I can forget to let the other person participate. I even apologized for babbling at the end of our hydro time, partly because I wasn't sure if I monopolized the conversation and partly because I was often chastised for talking too much as a child, sometimes by my parents and sometimes by teachers.

One of the topics that came up started with a discussion of fibromyalgia. In general, experts say that people with fibro should avoid exposing themselves to extreme temperatures. However, I enjoy heat a great deal. The few weeks when I went to a therapy pool for my fibro, I was completely grossed out by the body-temperature water. It felt dirty or greasy. ::shudder:: Heat doesn't seem to hurt my fibro any.

Stuck to Unstuck? My New Journey

Oh, how badly I've been stuck. I've been exhausted. My brain has felt clogged and slow. I've taken naps for hours almost every day. I have done virtually nothing to further my plans or contribute to the household. I have been a lump since arriving in Seattle.

Luckily for me, my hosts have been very understanding of my exhaustion and have asked little of me so far. Friends have supported my need for sleep and rest. It's just been me who has had higher expectations.

I have a comprehensive list of things I need to do: catch up with people online and over the phone; contact professional connections; get in touch with local contracting agencies; join professional organizations and meetups and attend meetings and events; unpack what I brought to the house; and begin revising my novel.

I don't expect myself to do everything every day or all at once. I have date ranges for everything in my list. Of course, I'm behind on probably half the list so far. But maybe that's due to my unreasonable expectations in the face of unexpected setbacks. Like needing to sleep all the time.

I have a long history of overindulging myself. In response to what seemed to me a lifetime of excessive and unreasonable expectations and a lack of understanding of my needs, I began to allow myself to slack off on things, which started small and gradually grew to encompass everything in my life.

Well, I've completely changed my life again and this, too, must change. There are things I want to do and things I need to do and blowing them off is not acceptable to me any longer. Blowing off these things does not lead to the life I want to live. And that's the important point: there is a life I want to live and I have to put in the time and effort to create it. Always before, I've waited for it to happen. No more.

When I was younger, I pursued my life more actively, so I know I can do it. There are many things I did and was when I was younger: I cleaned frequently and regularly; I wrote and drew and painted on virtually a daily basis; I did physical activities that I enjoyed; and I didn't dwell on my mostly solitary state. And I daydreamed. I played. I imagined. Those are important things in anybody's life, but particularly in the life of a creative person.

So I'm going to relearn old good habits and discard current bad ones. I'm going to be healthier in ways that I can enjoy. I'm going to rediscover my true self and let her out of the various boxes and closets where I've hidden her and all her wonderful, brilliant aspects. I'm going to love for love's sake, I'm going to love and value myself, and I'm going to live a full and rich life for as long as I possibly can.

A Blog Award!

My friend Delia nominated me for the Liebster Blog Award. Thanks Delia!

I've been nominated for a couple of other awards in the past and always flaked out on doing my part, so I swore I'd do the next one that came along.

The Liebster Award requires the following (which I snagged directly from Delia's post):

1. You must tell 11 things about yourself
2. Answer the questions your nominator gives you.
3. Create 11 questions for the bloggers you nominate.
4. Choose new blogs with fewer than 200 followers and link them to your post.
5. If you're nominated, please leave a comment on this post with the URL of  your Liebster Award post.

I'm going to do what Delia did, to avoid an excessively long post, and say that number 2 fulfills the requirements for number 1, also.

Here goes, my answers to Delia's questions.

1. What is your preferred beverage?

Tea, preferably black tea with a little bit of milk. My favorite tea is Kenilworth Estate Ceylon. Why yes, I am a bit of a tea snob!

2. Are you afraid of any animals?

Um, I'm afraid of many animals. But my fear of dogs has eased and I don't go swimming in the ocean and so am not going to get bitten by a shark. So I would have to say cows. Yes, I am afraid of cows. They are very large and they don't give way if you are walking through a herd of them. They don't even seem to like to give way to cars. Plus, when I stayed at a bed & breakfast in North Wales many years ago, the owner told me how cows with calves are much more aggressive than bulls and she was chased right up to a wall by one (she herself went over the wall).

3. Would you ever go hang-gliding?

I don't think so. I like the idea, but there's nothing to prevent you from dropping like a rock if something goes wrong. At least when I went bungee jumping, I was tethered firmly to the bridge!

4. Country, city, or suburbs?

Suburbs or edge of the city. I like to have neighbors, but not right in my face.

5. What is the easiest way to make you laugh?

Act goofy or surprise me in a happy way.

6. Do you enjoy a good cry?

Not really, even though sometimes I feel better afterward.

7. Are you multi-lingual?

Nope. I know bits and pieces of German and Welsh, as well as many word roots from Latin and Greek, but am not fluent in anything but English.

8. How often do you read for pleasure?

Depends. When I am going through a major reading phase, I'll read every day, sometimes all day long. When I'm stressed like I am for my move right now, I only read maybe once a week or less often. And I generally read a lot more during the winter.

9. Can you do anything crafty (sewing, knitting, woodwork, etc.)?

I crochet fairly well. I draw and paint a little. And a friend is teaching me to knit. I did some wood carving in a class once and did very well. I think that some day I'd like to do more of that.

10. What was the worst thing you've ever tried?

That's a very open question. Do you mean an action, or a situation, or something to eat? I'll say The Zipper, a carnival ride. Almost lost my cookies on that and it wasn't fun in the least.

11. Johnny Depp or Sam Elliot?

Johnny Depp.


Wow, those were some thoughtful questions.

My 11 questions for the people I'm nominating are:

1. If you could go anywhere in the world for a long visit, say three to six months, where would you go?
2. What's your favorite kind of movie to watch?
3. If money were no object, what kind of home would you have?
4. Have you ever wanted to be in movies or on TV?
5. What is your dream job?
6. Do you prefer to wear dresses/skirts or pants?
7. What is your favorite kind of weather?
8. Do you like to work with your hands? If so, doing what?
9. Do you prefer to drive or be driven?
10. What's the weirdest thing you've ever done?
11. Do you prefer to shop at stores, through catalogs, or over the internet?

And, I'm nominating the following three people:

Lora
London Mabel
Nan

Have fun!

As for the rest of you, pick a question from the list and answer it for the fun of it.

On Making Friends

Today in therapy, we were congratulating me on the strides I've made in my cognitive therapy: developing my center and a sense of home in myself; becoming comfortable and content with the way my life is, even though I would rather it be less solitary; basically developing more of an internal locus of control rather than external.

Then I asked my therapist, "What next? Go back and do some trauma work?" She was curious why I felt I need trauma work rather than to continue with cognitive work. 

"Where in your life do you feel that past traumas are holding you back?"

That was a good question. We talked about that for a bit, then I came up with my problems with making connections: both friendship and romantic. Since I've lived in Houston, I've had two friendships go ballistic on me (and had to go to other friends to get reality checks to make sure I wasn't the crazy one in each situation), one dropped off the radar, and one has had very good reasons to be scarce. But in my past, I've watched as other people made workplace friendships that developed past the workplace and I saw people make love matches that eluded me. I've developed the expectation, I told my therapist, that either I won't make any connections or the ones I do make will end very badly. (I have one good friend I made via work and who has remained a good friend for over 25 years.) I feel I'm so poor at making friends I might as well start making them out of Sculpy.

There is good reason for me to think that traumas have affected my ability to make intimate and lasting connections. But it's also possible that my expectations, based as they are upon experience, have twisted my beliefs and self-talk about friendships and romantic relationships. So far, we are doing quite well with the cognitive stuff, so why not keep going on that, my therapist suggested. 

Well, There's Yer Problem!

I've written about some challenging times in my childhood lately and they've not been entirely uplifting, especially the one previous to this. And I was intending to try to show some humor in that one. Be like The Bloggess, you know? Tell about some horrible life story with humor? I don't want to be a downer; I want to be funny! I want to attract you, my readers, and start conversations and connections.

But it's not working yet. Maybe because I'm not in a good enough place yet (even tho' The Bloggess writes while from the depths of her depressions and anxiety episodes). As you can see, I admire her greatly. I want to be able to talk about my life in a way that attracts and entertains readers rather than depresses them.

I have a lot of those sorts of stories, but by now I should be able to view them differently. My therapist said that you cannot get away from a wound until it's healed, and many of these wounds should have been at least addressed and soothed by my parents. I know they did the best they could. I just wish that in some ways it had been better. 

Usually with the practice (i.e., first) kid, you make your mistakes and you do things differently with the second. Well, with me, they treated me a lot like a little adult in some weird ways — expecting adult abilities and reactions and reasoning — and then treated my brother like an age-appropriate kid. I couldn't ask my mom about it when she was alive because she would do something that I found entirely out of character for her: she'd go into high-drama mode about what a horrible mother she had been for not doing XYZ and I'd have to leave off my issue and comforter her and tell her she was a great mom. Not. Useful. But effective in derailing me. I'm guessing she didn't like to say "I have no clue why."

I'll write some amusing stories later that will show the good side of my parents, I promise. And I'll try to find ways to write about my successes that don't emphasize how much I might have had to do them in the face of parental hurtfulness or simple negligence.

So stay with me. I will achieve humor if it's the last thing I do. But I'd rather it not be the last thing because then it would be kind of uselessly ironic.

When I Was Alone

I was the only girl my age in the cul de sac where I grew up, which meant that I only had people to play with when the boys needed an extra number or they were feeling generous (or when a girlfriend from school asked me to come over for the afternoon). After all, I couldn't catch or throw a baseball to save my life (although my football spiral was a thing of beauty) and my basketball skills were unreliable. I had reasonably thick glasses from the time I was nine, which probably had something to do with it.

But I was the only kid who wanted to play the part of Spock when we played Star Trek with someone's LEGOs and sometimes they needed an extra number for a sports game (my little brother was a thousand times better than I was by the time he was seven, so he took my place completely when I was 11, which was also when the boys determined I was truly a girl. After all, I was now wearing a training bra.

So I played alone a lot, even before I got a bra.

The thing was, I was only seldom sad about it. I'm alone most of the time now, too, but I'm sad about it most of the time. What was different and how do I get back to not minding being alone?

When I Did It Myself

When I was five, I wanted a two-wheeler bike. It was time to be done with my big tricycle and be a big kid. 

But first there is something you need to know about my parents: they weren't the kind of parents who thought through any aspect of their parenting. Mom was only 21 when I was born and Dad was 27. They liked to do what they wanted to do, and they did love my brother and me and enjoyed doing things with us, but they tended to parent on the convenience plan: if they felt like putting out the effort they did. If it seemed inconvenient, they found a reason not to do it.

So when I wanted a two-wheeler bike, they apparently weren't in the mood to be bothered with it at the time. They were both working, which afforded us luxuries that other kids with a cop or a secretary as a parent didn't, so it wasn't the cost. They just didn't apparently feel like it right then. So instead of the usual thing, where you buy your kid their first two-wheeler and teach them to ride it, they told me they'd buy me one when I was able to ride one. 

Hell, I was five. What they never understood was that I was an extremely bright kid, more than they realized, and logical, too. I wanted my bike, so I was going to learn to ride one.

Not Enough

I've mentioned the cognitive-behavioral therapy I'm doing right now with my therapist. It's got great potential and it's very promising, but ... not much is happening. I feel I've made very little progress in the past few months. So today I asked my therapist why, and she told me.

It's not enough to read the book and talk to her about the theory and how it can work and talk about the intellectual aspect, which I can do ad infinitum. I have to actually do the work. I have to think about it and apply it all through the week.

She said, "This therapy is the most important thing in your life right now."

The most important thing in my life. I hadn't been thinking of it that way. 

She said, "This is the only way you are going to be able to make your life be what you want it to be."

I more or less knew that, on an intellectual basis, but not on a gut basis. I wasn't feeling it. I wasn't thinking "I need to do this NOW before my life passes even further by me without my control or passion or action.

My attitudes and perspective changed today; I hope they changed for good. The work I'm doing now IS the most important thing in my life and always has been, I just didn't know it. I need to act on learning this therapeutic form and making it natural and automatic. I need to act, period.

I know me: I might forget all this in a day or two of feeling miserably anxious and failing all over the place. I won't mind gentle reminders. I expect my therapist to be a bit less than gentle because it is time and past for me to get this done. I'm 51. I don't want to still be exactly in this same place when I'm 52. In fact, I have an intention. I intend to make great progress by summer so I can actually begin looking hard for freelance work and be able to handle the anxiety, be able to make it smaller and smaller.

But it starts with making the therapy natural and automatic, and with action rather than with the passivity I've grown into. There's another Skye who views me as Superman for a variety of reasons; I can try to live up to that.

In the coming days, I'll tell stories of when I acted, when I persisted against failure or lack of support, when I succeeded and learned, and when I was my own superhero. Those are the anecdotes and examples I need to remember in order to regain those aspects of myself again and get back to my authentic self.

So hang around. And feel free to share your own stories of being stuck, of getting unstuck, and of becoming You.

I Did This

Just a super-short post to tell y'all that I took the picture in the header. It's from the Central Oregon Coast, from 2010 or 2011. It's only a portion of a photo, but I had to jump through some hoops to get it to fit as a header for the blog.

I'm always pleased when I can actually get the spray or a curling wave and I got both in this one. So, I'm bragging on myself and saying "See this awesome picture? I took it!"

Me and James Dean

What could I possibly have in common with James Dean, you might wonder? Simple: a restless and rebellious spirit. For some reason, I was not a rebellious teen. I argued with my parents, but not just for the sake of argument; I wanted answers. I raced my car fast a couple of times, but just to see what it could do, then I stopped. I made out with my boyfriends. But none of it was because I was rebelling.

Even the fact that my very nature was antithetical to my parents social and political beliefs wasn't about being rebellious. It was about being me.

Since I've been a grown up, say, since my early 30s, I've been rebellious. I don't like taking orders: I want to know why before I do something. If I tell myself "no sugar" because I'm trying to be healthy, the next thing you know I have an empty box of cookies on my kitchen counter. When the folks at work said "no more 'creative' hair colors," the first thing I wanted to do was put a rainbow in my hair.

I didn't. But I'm going to keep wearing 'creative' fingernail polish and brightly colored and patterned socks. I cannot give in completely.

Who Am I?

I was chatting with my BFF recently about the whole damned mental health issue:

Me:  Why does getting better mentally, at least for some of us, have to be like learning to walk again after getting a leg shot off, or getting a spinal injury? Why can't it be like getting over the flu? Relearning to think differently is a long, difficult, sucky, unpleasant prospect (and probably just as bad to do).

BFF:  Because it is much like learning to walk, or walk right.  For some of us, it's not "again".  This crap has been normal for far too long.

This crap has been normal for far too long. 

Normal. 

Normal for me is not the same as normal for someone else, for the most part. Sure, normal for us all is that the sun rises and sets every day and the earth revolves around the sun and we need certain combinations of gases to breath and nutrients to stay alive and etc. But normal for me also has come to include struggles with depression, anxiety, and pain; solitude and loneliness; and medications. My normal includes a lot of stuff that I hate. 

A Sally Fields Moment

The past year-and-a-half has taken me places I've never imagined. I never imagined taking care of my cancer-stricken mother — or being able to for that matter. I never imagined moving back to Oregon then back to Houston, all in the space of six months. But more than that, I never imagined finding out that So Many People Like Me!  They really, really Like me! (And one or two have even said 'L-O-V-E'!)

Yeah, I have a strong Sally Fields side. That Oscars moment of hers was very painful to me, because I could (and still can) identify so strongly with her. 

It's such a wonder to me, to be liked, to be loved. My parents loved me, as did my brother. So did my grandparents. I imagine that while I was very young and very cute and had few significant opinions of my own that my aunts and uncles and some of my older cousins liked or loved me as well. I was 8 when I found out that not everyone loved, or even liked, me. It went downhill from there. Apparently I am one of those people who often causes others to form very strong opinions one way or another. 

There's lots of history and tons of stories in there, but they aren't the point of this post. The point of this post is that, as a result of my difficult year-and-a-half, especially the last month or so, I have found out that many people I like and respect Feel The Same Way About Me! It matters because it hasn't always been so. It matters because it feeds the part of me that needs external validation and that has been feeling empty for too long. And it matters because I have lost the favor of several who cared, or said they cared, during that time. This is not a one-to-one correspondence in growth here folks. I believe that I have acquired approximately 5 to 10 times as many "likes" as I've lost.

I think I'm feeling a bit dizzy; perhaps I'm coming down with something. Oh yeah, I think it's that thing called a Sally Fields Moment. I think it's a crazy little thing called 'loved'.