The Wrong Life

Sometimes in therapy I learn something about myself that seems so new, or I get a brilliant new perspective or I see something I hadn't seen clearly before. I guess that's why going to therapy remains worth it. (Besides that whole life ring while I'm drowning in depression thing, of course.) Moments like that bring into sharp focus how for quite a few years I learned nothing new in therapy.

In my mind, I sometimes try to "re-do" my past, think that I can somehow "fix" things. I know it isn't rational: I'm not going to be able to make my family be alive again or change any of a number of other past traumas. But emotionally I feel as if I can do so if only I do it right.

People define themselves differently. In many places in the world, people define themselves by their place within their community. The Navaho people define themselves by their family connections. LIke the Navaho, so did I. Without my family, I feel cut off, I feel like there are huge gaping holes inside me that nothing can fill.

This is not how my life should be. I wanted to marry and have children: I would have made a terrific wife and mother. I am nurturing and loving and giving. The fact that no one ever wanted to marry me has long made me feel there is something wrong with me. I see so many people who have lifelong relationships, people who don't seem to have the qualities I have, people who are takers or who are high-maintenance, and I have to wonder what is wrong with me that no one wanted what I have to give.

My brother was supposed to be my friend when we grew up. He was supposed to be here with me after our parents died. Our children would have been friends and we would have spent a lot of time together.

The Powers of Choice

Had a therapy-by-phone session with my therapist this week and the main topic was "choice". I acknowledged that I have been choosing avoidance, distraction, and motionlessness rather than living fully, actively, and with purpose. I have been choosing naps over doing the things I need — and want! — to do.

Choice has many powers. Making a choice is powerful because it is an action and action is powerful. But when you make choice to be passive and powerless, that too is powerful because it increases the passivity and powerlessness, as well as any mental health issues associated with them, such as depression and anxiety such as I have. So I am in effect choosing to give my power over to oppression.

I truly do want to be more active and doing the things on my list and that I need and want to do: I can feel it! I feel urges toward movement and activity; I feel desires to walk and do exercises. But I squash them with the choices I make away from them. It's like choosing to kill the better part of yourself. I feel as if I've been killing the better part of myself for decades, now that I acknowledge that I have had choices. But for a long time, I didn't realize I could choose or that I had options. I felt powerless against my feelings. Now I know differently.

But changing the choices I make is not as easy as snapping my fingers and saying "Hey! I can make different choices!" It's going to require effort on my part due to the inertia involved and the habit involved and the weight of many years of making the other choices. I keep making the mistake of thinking that making changes will be easy, causing me to fall prey to falling back into what is easy. I haven't yet embraced the feeling of power that comes with doing what is difficult yet right.

I think I need to return to using contingent activities and rewards. I have better rewards now! I have a whole library of books to choose from here at the house (inhabited by two book-lovers, one of whom is a librarian). I have a niece and nephew who want to spend time with me and do the things I want to do as I re-explore Seattle and surroundings and re-experience my favorite things. I also need to again enlist select friends to nudge me along my way to making the habit of choosing the better options.

And I need to work some more on my thinking. I have my rubber band to remind me to think of the cognitive-behavioral tools I have (my housemate left me one in the bathroom we share the morning after he read my blog!). My therapist and I decided that the next major step in my therapy would probably be working on "growing up": i.e., self-actualization, letting go of the need for parental approval and validation (especially given that my last remaining one is now gone), strengthening my sense of self, however you want to define it. It's a process I haven't finished and I need to in order to be a fully functioning adult human. So time to dig in and find my next therapist. I now have a few names offered to me by my former practitioner in this area; next week will involve calling them and seeing if any are taking new patients. (I've heard that finding a mental health practitioner in this area is very difficult these days; must be a whole lot of over-stressed and "crazy" people around here; I blame the coffee!)

So making choices seems to be my next step, and one that I very strongly want to take. I can't wait for the blog post where I tell you all about how well it is going!

Lingering Effects

People say you shouldn't live in the past, and I agree with that. What I don't agree with is when people say "you shouldn't let what happened in the past affect you now." 

It's not like it's a choice. Past traumas have to be dealt with and processed before you can move on. Some people are lucky enough to have done that processing back when the trauma happened. Others of us were a little overflowing in the trauma department and are still working on processing old traumas.

For example, my discussions of connections and friendship with my therapist. This week we were just chatting at first and we got on the topic of my rosacea, which is doing the best it's ever done. It's mostly pink with some light red areas. Before I had laser treatment on it in 2007 (thanks, Mom!), it was pretty much the color of a fire truck in bright sunlight, and was that way since I was 12 or 13. 

That took us into a discussion of the effects the rosacea had on me in junior high and much of the rest of my life, because people ALWAYS commented on it, asking if I'd been out in the sun and gotten a sunburn, offering home remedy suggestions, and, in junior high, being total asshats about it, pointing it out, calling me names, and in general picking on me to an extreme extent. Yes, I was that kid, the one who everyone picked on and put down so as to not be the lowest person on the totem pole. 

I also think my rosacea contributed in part to my lack of romantic success: it made me stand out in a non-attractive way and men are very visual creatures. As a couple of friends said when we talked about my face over the years, they noticed the red a lot until we became good friends. Then they never noticed it again. So a guy would have had to become friends with me to even get past the redness of my face, I imagine. But no, I'm not going to blame the rosacea entirely for my eternal singlehood: I just think it was a contributing factor both as being visually off-putting to others (people are still more attracted to attractive individuals) and developing in me a hesitancy and a defensive manner toward others.

The Story of My Life - Part 2

As I explained in Part 1, my therapist told me that there is another way to look at my life, rather than the powerless, victimized, trauma-ridden way. She talked about it as telling stories about our lives and how we can choose to emphasize different things. I've learned to emphasize the sad and fearful things, but my life has had so much more than that to it.

So here's another way to look at the story of my life. Beware: this is even longer than Part 1. If you want, you can scroll to the end and just read the conclusions.

It's true that I was molested, became afraid of the dark, and was bullied for many years. But I didn't live with my cousin (or my grandfather) and wasn't around either too often for the most part. And I didn't live near my school peers who bullied me. So I had the room to build a stronger self than it first seemed.

Although victimized early, and having parents who were kind of clueless about how to raise me and what was going on in my life, I did some powerful things. There was the time I taught myself to ride a two-wheel bicycle in a day so that my parents would buy me one. Because we didn't live near my school friends and there was seldom anyone for me to play with, I learned to keep myself entertained  --- I was bad at most sports so the boys in the neighborhood didn't usually want to play with me if they were playing football or baseball, and none of the girls were my age. I enjoyed skating around the cul de sac for long periods, I loved to read and write and draw, and I liked pretending to be a detective or something else that required me to sneak around the neighborhood. I didn't retaliate against my bullies, nor did I become cynical and bitter. When things got better for me in 10th grade, I simply enjoyed my good fortune and made more friends.

Then I survived a move away from everything and everyone I'd ever known. I survived the death of my father from a heart attack. And I survived going away to college and even thrived there. I was wary enough and strong enough to take myself out of an uncomfortable situation and move out of my aunt and uncle's house and into on-campus housing. And I did begin the steps toward adulthood, something I didn't realize until I casually brought up the following story to my therapist. 

Wanted: Suggestions for Movies or Books on a Specific Topic

Specifically orphans, or children whose parents are terrible parents, so the children have to learn how to fend for themselves, trust themselves, and become adult on their own.

"Why such a specific topic?" you might be wondering. It was an idea from my therapist today. We were talking about my lack of individuation or separation from my family members the way most people do in the normal way of growing into an adult and how my people to separate from are all gone. "That's okay," said my therapist. "You'd be doing most of the work anyway." But it might have some effects. 

Then she came up with the idea of movies or books/series that might kind of serve as an inspiration and even as a guidebook for me, suggestions of how to get there from here.

So if you know of a book or series or a movie about a child in such a situation, please recommend it or them. (It has to have a happy ending, okay?)

So Much To Do, Dammit

In my Shame e-class, we talked about empathy last week, empathy both for ourselves and for others. Then Friday, Brene told us about self-compassion, without which it is hard to give empathy to ourselves. She directed us to a test for your self-compassion level on the web site of a woman, Kristin Neff, who studies self-compassion.

The scale is 1 (low) to 5 (high). There are six aspects to self-compassion as Kristin defines it, then these aspects are coded to give you an overall self-compassion score. Remember how I said 1 is low and 5 is high? My overall self-compassion score is 1.53. To quote Neff's site: "As a rough guide, a score of 1-2.5 for your overall self-compassion score indicates you are low in self-compassion." Yeah, who didn't see that coming?

So my therapist and I can see many areas I have to work on, and for me it all comes down to how and what I think — about myself, about life, about everything.

There are self-compassion exercises for download. I've downloaded them and am going to give them a good try.

I'm also going to keep working on class assignments and going through the cognitive therapy book. I like that the class and the self-compassion web site have exercises and assignments because then I know what to do; I have tasks and accomplishments. The cognitive therapy book has information but no real assignments other than to use the tools when you become aware of feeling anxious, angry, or depressed. When I feel like that, i find it very hard work to remember anything, but I did so once two weeks ago!

In other news, I'm feeling down and everything feels difficult and much more complicated than it probably really is. I just feel a ton heavier (it's probably only those couple of pounds I put on while visiting Sierra) and all my fibro areas hurt (and probably a few more). Walking seems to be too much work and my organizer is coming Saturday and I honestly haven't made any progress on my own since she first came (other than to go thru my mail and toss the junk mail and sort what is left — but I don't act on all that needs action). So I'm feeling down and anxious, even after spending a lovely weekend with Sierra and her guy and their cats and the bird.

Maybe it's because my therapist and I also discovered another issue: a lack of individuation (aka self-differentiation), which is when you detach from your parents and develop into your own self as an adult. This usually happens between the ages of 16 or 17 and 21 or 22. Well guess what? Dad died when I was 17 and my brother just before I turned 22. I really didn't want to push my family away, what was left of it. I probably never detached from my mom, which is why I don't feel like an adult and I am stuck at certain phases of development. Like complaining that life is too hard and it's unfair.

I feel like I'm starting therapy from day one, learning from the very beginning what issues I have and starting to learn how to resolve them. It feels like it will take me forever to get to the place I want and need to be, where I can have the life I want and be confident and take good care of myself. It feels like the previous two decades plus some have done nothing.

Do you feel like you separated from your parents? Are you an adult or still stuck in some childhood phase? If you take the self-compassion test, will you share the results with us?

Missing My Boy

He was born three years and almost nine months after me and he was always "my boy." He was my treasure and my gift and I'd have given my life for him. For a long time, I wished that our parents had died and at least left me him. 

But he died when he was 18; this coming week it will be 29 years since he killed himself, just days before my birthday. I always get depressed in January. 

The thing about suicide (which I conveniently chose to ignore when I was thinking hard about it, some time ago) is that you never get over that grief. It remains sharp, like a deep cut from a sharp knife. It gets better, but never entirely heals. Everyone I've ever talked to who survived a loved one's suicide tells me that. Even people who were friends, not even close, remain affected for years and years.

So every January I bleed inside. 

Presents = ♥!

When I feel low, I want people to give me presents. Heck, I'm even happy when I receive a "present" I've ordered for myself: I lurve the UPS driver, the FedEX driver, ... basically whoever hands me the "present."

And yes, my family frequently used material things to say I love you. We hugged and kissed and said I love you, but there was just enough gift-as-love/affection to make it into my psyche for a lifetime. So when I feel depressed or lonely or even just blue, I want to receive presents.

I have no books due to come to me until January (Ms. Lucy March!). My apartment is too messy to even contemplate buying a tree and decorating it ... or decorating anything. I've got to stop buying ice cream as a present to myself. And I told my friends not to give me anything for xmas when I go stay with them all up in Seattle. So ... sigh ... no presents are due.

This is an issue. This is an issue I need to work on and I have achieved a lot of progress (like, I am aware of it and can often sidetrack it). But, given how things have been lately, and even, hell, for the past couple of years or so, my love-basin is feeling quite empty and dry (kind of like most of the lakes, rivers, and bayous in Texas, as a matter of fact). So it's a lot more difficult to sidetrack that presents = ♥ feeling.

I don't have any ideas that I'm sure will work. Distraction, the old stand-by, of course. I have tons of yarn and crochet thread, so I can work on a project to give myself. And I do have to buy a few things for myself, which will at least fulfill a retail-therapy aspect.

That should help. I hope it does. It will be so humiliating to ask the people I know to "give me this book/ring/knicknack and pretend it's a gift from you to me." 

About time

It's about time I ran away from home. I'm 48, after all!

When I was growing up, I was an obedient, amiable child. If I disobeyed, it was accidental. I didn't rebel particularly; I just fought with my mom for about three years when I was in my teens. But I didn't commit acts of rebellion. I generally tried to follow the rules.

Except for once, when I was in second grade.

I had a boyfriend --- Chris Jaeger. I had a babysitter who had three other kids to watch, all younger than me. After school, I generally played outside on my own for hours, so it wasn't a big deal for me to be out of her hair and out of her sight for large amounts of time. And everyone knew I was an obedient child.

But one day, Chris walked home with me. I left him at the corner, checked in with my sitter, got my bike, and went to Chris's house for the afternoon.

His mom fed us brownies and milk. We played with his stuff. And then I rode home.

It felt like such an adventure.

I haven't had an adventure since I was 30, when I went to Britain for a month. And I haven't busted out of the mold, out of the normal and expected, since I was seven.

Yes, it's about damned time.