Death and Life

It is a matter worth noting that not once that I can remember this last week did I wish I were dead or dying. This fact is both happy and sad: happy because, hey, I didn't want to be dead, and sad because, wow, during enough other weeks I have?

Here's what I posted on the ReFab blog about this:

Some weeks, just getting through the week without having even random thoughts of how it would be easier if the Universe just casually bumped me off is a good thing. It’s not that things are rotten, just that they are hard and I’m still unemployed and I feel afraid about my future, never mind my present. So, I’m counting it as a win for this past week that I didn’t even wish I were dead, even for a moment.

Why have I felt different this past week? I have no idea. Could be we are getting somewhere in therapy (but I'm not aware of it; however, wouldn't be the first time). Could be due to the slight medication change (but we didn't start that until Wednesday and the past few days I've been kinda dizzy when I got up, so maybe the med isn't such a great thing for me). Could be the full moon (full moons make me happy). Could be, as was pointed out by responders to my comment, I know there are people who would miss me and be in pain if I died. I might as well flip a coin to decide what factor has made a change. Unless it's just a mental hiccup and I go back to occasionally thinking about how much it wouldn't hurt if I weren't alive. (Yeah, a bit of pessimism and wariness, plus discomfort about change even if it's for the better …)

Just FYI: NO! I am NOT thinking of hurting myself. Just want to be clear on that point so no one worries.

Power, Protection, and Progress

So. Therapy today was powerful. We talked about a major theme in my life: power and powerlessness, authenticity and invisibility. I came away with my mind spinning, feeling full to the brim, and feeling good. I even turned off my radio so my mind could keep resonating with what we talked about and when I got home I wrote the important bits down so I'd remember them.

It started off with me talking about the TED Talk by Amy Cuddy about body language and using it to change your own perceptions and feelings and behaviors. About the "Wonder Woman pose" that the media has played up and how to use it. (And I have used it, and Amy's other suggestions, and they seem to actually work.)

From there we went into how I diminish my own strengths and talents and accomplishments, and why I do so. I tend to have "don't look at me, I'm no threat" submissive and powerless postures: head or eyes down, shoulders hunched, arms and legs drawn in. I have often thought that I don't deserve as much space as other people, as much air as other people.

Then we went to why. Mostly self-protection, plus a lot of being squashed so much I've just given in and stayed squashed most of the time. Because of being molested, and from such a young age. Because my parents were always telling me "don't show off" (my intelligence and vocabulary), "don't brag," even while encouraging my little brother to show what an exceptional athlete he was and revolving our lives (mine included) around his sports. Because at a job I stayed at for six years (four years longer than I should have), my boss and co-workers treated me worse and worse the more authentically I lived my life and the more I threatened their world view: I both worked AND wrote (and published a story); I took a month off and went to Britain; I took six weeks off and attended a full-time writers' workshop (that you have to apply and compete for). Some people can be downright hostile if you do what they have told themselves they cannot do because that is How Things Are.

I have often in my life felt that The Universe hates me. It has seemed as if, just when my life was going particularly well, the Universe has reached out and slammed me, with moving when I was 16, with the deaths of my father and my brother and my mother, and with other things. And that has happened a lot, but there are times when I've been slammed while things were going very badly, and I'm sure there have been times when things have been going well and I haven't been slammed (I just have to remember them!).

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.

Slow Maelstrom

That silence you've heard for the past week and a half was me resting, sleeping, and surfing on the interwebz. You might have heard some snoring, too, from the sleeping. My mind has kind of been like that empty, static-filled screen you see in the middle of the night on some TV channels.

So I'm here, in the Seattle area, and it's kind of weird. I still feel like I'm visiting, even though I oversaw the movers when they put all my stuff in a storage unit. Part of that is because I'm staying in someone's guest room, I'm sure, and some of it is because those times when I have been here over the last dozen years I have been visiting. I need to change my mental framework.

I'm very glad I'm here. I'm also kind of weirded out by it. Many thoughts and feelings have been swirling around inside of me: happiness, exhaustion, stress, anxiety, surrealism, expectations, trying to not have expectations, positivity, fear, and today I'm having some fibromyalgia pain, which I think is partly a delayed reaction from all the stress I was experiencing just getting ready to move. Everything has been swirling slowly, probably due to the exhaustion, for which I am grateful. I couldn't handle vertigo too right now!

The weather has been quite a bit cooler than I am used to. Colder, really — in the 50s during the day. We had a lot of rain and gray days my first week, but we've been having some simply glorious days recently, with brilliant blue skies, puffy white clouds, spring greens, flowers and flowering trees in all colors. These are the days that almost make you forget about the rain and the gray.

I remember when I first moved to Houston: one of the habits I had to wean myself off from was always taking or wearing a jacket or at least an overshirt with me when I left the apartment. Well, I changed that habit and got very comfortable going outside in just a tank, shorts, and sandals. Now I'm in the position of having to reverse the process! I'm underestimating how much I need to wear to be warm enough, usually by a thin layer (think an undershirt or camisole). And I don't always bring a rain jacket when it looks like rain (which is often). I need more weather-appropriate shoes and probably another jacket or vest or two. My BFF says I can borrow his sweaters until I can buy more of my own, which is nice. I really need an income so I can buy these weather-appropriate clothing items. I'm just hoping that I can make enough of my Houston wardrobe work here in Seattle enough of the time so I don't have to buy an entirely new wardrobe, which is more or less what I did in Houston.

Transforming Fear Into Excitement

Do you remember the series I wrote back in November, "Memories of Mom"? My friend Judy, Judy, Judy recommended I write those happy memories as an antidote to the sadness that was threatening to overtake me.

On Monday, my therapist recommended I do something similar to transform the fears and anxieties I've been feeling about moving to Seattle into the excitement that also exists. You see, I was telling her about things I missed about Seattle, things I was looking forward to, and how in the last few years that I lived there, my enjoyment of living there turned into stress, and how I didn't want that to be the case this time. She said that my telling her about the positive things transformed me as I told them and that I should write a series of posts about them. So here goes.

I'm moving at the end of March. In April, the Skagit Valley Tulip Festival takes place in a set of towns about an hour north of Seattle. I love tulips and it's too hot in Houston to grow them. Sure, you can buy a pot of them and water them and enjoy them for a little while, but it doesn't get cold enough for the bulbs over the fall and winter. I've missed them.

The Tulip Festival is wondrous! Fields and fields of daffodils and tulips of all colors as far as you can see. And my favorite place of all is the Roozen Gaarde, which is landscaped with every tulip imaginable, and many that aren't. There are so many types of tulips, from the basic tulip we are all familiar with to tulips with fringed petals and coming in all shades of the rainbow.

My girlfriends and I used to go to the Tulip Festival when we could. One year we went, it rained and we took pictures of us looking very downcast in the rain, our arms filled with tulips. Another year, I was going with just one of my friends and her two young children, until her youngest barfed in the backseat all over everything, including her older brother. We went back home and I went by myself that year. But no matter whether I went alone or with one or two friends, I loved it, loved browsing through the fields and the shops and taking pictures. After we looked at the tulips, we usually wandered over to La Conner to have lunch and look at the shops. They had a most wonderful yarn shop there: I hope it's still in business!

This year, I will be there for the Festival and my girlfriends and I have already made plans to go. I'm very excited about this and plan to plaster my blog with pictures of tulips for your pleasure. If you ever get the chance to be in the Seattle area in April, you should definitely make time to visit the Tulip Festival.

Wow, I can feel the excitement bubbling inside of me and there's a big smile on my face. Yup, I do believe that writing this series is going to have a very positive effect on me and my upcoming move. I hope you enjoy it too!

Memories of Mom: Happy Birthday, Mom!

To see the reason for my writing this "Memories of Mom" series, see the first post in the series.

Well, I don't have any one story to tell today; I've told you all the best that I can remember right now. Instead, I'll just sum up the day, provide a few vignettes, and maybe tell you just a little bit more about Mom.

I had therapy today. I took with me pictures of my mom and we talked about Mom and how I was feeling. I'm feeling kind of neutral, but I think that's a touch deceptive. I think there is more there than I am currently feeling. There's sadness underneath, which is to be expected. And I'm feeling a bit irritable and easily annoyed. But it was a good therapy session.

I have little pictures in my mind of my mom. When I was little and she was trying to play whiffle-ball with my little brother, me, and Dad. Unfortunately for my mom, there wasn't a sport she played where she didn't end up bending a finger back further than it was supposed to go. Frisbee, volleyball, even whiffle-ball with a couple of little kids.

When wigs were popular in the 70s, Mom had one that was in a tight perm and was kind of silvery blonde. We all called her "Fifi" when she wore it because she looked like a poodle, only she didn't realize it. Then she saw the pictures from the Halloween when my little brother wanted to be dressed up "like a hooker" and he and I used Mom's wig, among other things of hers. She never wore that wig again. Or the mini-dress that my brother wore with it.

Then she wore her blonde hair in a cut that, with her golden wire-framed glasses, made her look like John Denver. 

Memories of Mom: A Mother-Daughter Bonding Experience (Rerun)

To see the reason for my writing this "Memories of Mom" series, see the first post in the series.

(Originally posted Tuesday, October 28, 2008 and was rerun on March 29, 2011 by request. It seemed appropriate for this series)

WARNING: This post contains adult content and references to genitalia, sex toys, and batteries. Read at your own discretion. If you are under 18, just lie and tell your folks that you didn't read it.

Don't blame me: there was a request for it!

My mom was helping me pack today, and we were discovering that there was a lot more to do than I had thought there was. And we had less time to do it in. So there was some back-and-forth comments, as is usual, some mild bickering.

Then came a knock on the door. It wasn’t until I was almost to the door that I realized what it had to be: my delivery from Babeland.com. Early. Usually UPS doesn’t deliver in my area until late afternoon or early evening (it’s a long story and an even longer way from anything resembling an airport). So when I made my order, I figured it would arrive after my mom was gone.

Nope.

The rectangular package was only as long as the distance from my elbow to the end of my fingers. Mom came out of the bedroom, where she had been sorting and packing my clothing, and asked “What is it?”

Memories of Mom: Painted

To see the reason for my writing this "Memories of Mom" series, see the first post in the series.

When I bought my house in Oregon, it was a bank repossession and it was in bad condition. The floors had been trashed. The wrong materials had been used in the bathroom tub surround and the wood joists around it had all rotted; the bathroom had to be gutted. The fireplace was not in good enough shape to be a working wood-burning fireplace. Most of the little wall-insert heaters were situated behind doors and were also from the years that had been recalled due to fire danger. Because the house was being bought with a remodeling loan on top of the mortgage, the bank insisted that the tiny, aluminum, 1960s windows in the bedrooms be replaced with windows that allowed egress according to current building codes. A lot of work had to be done before I could even live in it in the barest form, much less in comfort. 

But work went along and the bathroom became a thing of beauty (but that's for another story). I worked as the general contractor for the work, with a contractor friend working as the main contractor. Lots of extra things came along, as things do, and it wasn't until December that I was up to putting in new flooring and painting the walls and ceilings.

This is when my mom surprised me. Never before had she shown any interest in doing this sort of work. She paid to have someone repaint the walls in her own home. But she wanted to help me paint my house. So I let her.

I had painted before; I'd completely scraped and repainted the exterior of my previous house. I had done a lot of research before that to make sure I knew what I was doing. My mom had never so much as held a paintbrush. I just made sure to cover anything that needed covering. The floor was still old linoleum that would soon be covered with floating plank flooring (Mom paid for someone to lay the floor in the living room and kitchen for me, so they would be done at least), so it didn't need covering thank goodness. The amount of paint that ended up on that floor was tremendous and I have to say that only some of it was my fault.

Memories of Mom: Turning 21

To see the reason for my writing this "Memories of Mom" series, see the first post in the series.

Mom was 21 when I was born, so she was only 42 when I turned 21. Because it was a big-deal birthday for me, she drove over the snow-covered mountain pass (after driving over the snow-covered eastern side of the state) to take me out for my birthday, which fell on a Thursday. My friends were all taking me out on Friday, then my aunts and uncles who lived in the area, and my mom and I, were celebrating my birthday on Saturday.

I had moved out of the dorms to live in an apartment in the winter of my junior year of college. (Big mistake, but what the hell.) I was living in a tiny, tiny studio apartment — basically a bathroom, a kitchen, and a bedroom — that was not exactly the dream of every mother for their child's first, or any, home. When my mom went to use the restroom, she almost fell over because the floor was tilted at that spot. There was a bathtub, no shower. The pipes underneath the bathroom sink were rusted. But it was as clean as I could make it. And I was only 21.

So Mom met me at my apartment after I got home from classes. She got to meet the apartment, most of which she kept her mouth closed about (my aunt had been coaching her on how to react to your child's first home, which was bound to have something horribly wrong with it and at least I kept it clean). She couldn't help but shriek about the tilted floor though. And she wasn't thrilled by the "doorbell", which was a string that hooked to a bell on the inside window molding, went out through a hole in the window frame, then down to a loop at about head height outside. Basically, it wasn't a place I'd want my own kid, if I had one, to live. But it was my first place and I was very proud of it. (And I moved back into the dorms the following year; living alone was lonely!)

Since there wasn't anything to do around my apartment, no TV or radio even, and it wasn't the most comfortable place in the world, we went to dinner early. And my mom proceeded to get me drunk.

Memories of Mom: In the Middle

To see the reason for my writing this "Memories of Mom" series, see the first post in the series.

When I was living in Oregon, my mom sometimes had the unenviable position of being stuck between my grandma and me. Gram and I loved each other very much, but she had a very narrow viewpoint of life, was critical of everything that didn't fit within it, and when she was angry with me for transgressing these things, she would let my mom know about it. She also let me know about it, but she expected my mom to actually do something about it. This put pressure on my mom and when I occasionally complained to her about Gram, she let me know how difficult she found her position in the middle. So I endeavored to not put her there anymore.

Sometimes all three of us would go into the valley to Salem together to shop and have lunch. We didn't often get to go together because I worked and my Gram often got too tired, so it was always a treat when we managed it. Mom always insisted that Gram and I choose where to eat, hoping to avoid problems there, and Gram and I took turns choosing, to be fair.

One time we went to Salem and before lunchtime came, we had to decide where to eat. Now, Gram was becoming extremely picky by that time and didn't always like to eat just any place. So I offered to let her choose, but she insisted that it was my turn to choose, so I chose The Fish House. They had things other than fish, so Gram could have her choice, but they did specialize in seafood. Gram said that was fine.

Until we got to the restaurant. Then she complained that she didn't want fish, that she'd had fish recently and she didn't like to eat fish that often. Even as we sat down with our menus, both Mom and I told her that we could eat elsewhere.

Memories of Mom: The Wine Fairy

My mom was a very welcoming person, especially as she got a little older and more comfortable with herself. My friends always fell in love with her and enjoyed spending time with her.

One time, when I was in my mid- to late-20s, I took my two best girlfriends with me to visit my mom and her husband for the weekend. It was about a five-hour drive, so I didn't take people over often, and this was my girlfriends' first visit.

It was summer and quite hot out (Mom lived in Eastern Washington then, which is a high-altitude desert), so on Saturday we girls got into our shorts and lay on the back lawn to catch some sun. We hadn't been out there that long when it began to rain. Rainstorms in the summer in that area mean thunder and lightning, and with most things being brown and dry in the summer, lightning means fires. It wasn't long before the police scanner began squawking out news of various wildfires. We could see the smoke from many of them as some of them headed north toward our neighborhood. It was turning out to be a more exciting day than I had planned for my friends.

So, changed into more suitable clothing for the sudden drop in temperature, we stood in the living room watching the storm move down the Columbia River Gorge, watching the wildfires, and listening to the police scanner.

My mom and her husband liked wine. I liked wine. My girlfriends liked wine. So Mom poured all of us glasses and we sipped while we watched Mother Nature's entertainment for the afternoon. 

The thing about the wine was that our glasses were never empty. My glass got close to empty a time or two, but then I'd pick it up and it would be full again. Same thing happened with my girlfriends. We never actually saw my mom filling our or each others' glasses, but we sometimes heard them being filled. The next thing we knew, we had full glasses again. This led to a series of photos that in turn led to a series of threats about if they ever saw the light of day. (I need to find those ....)

Thus began the legend of The Wine Fairy, who would magically keep your wine glass full, even in the face of thunderstorms and wildfires. Ever after that weekend, my girlfriends would ask about The Wine Fairy, not "how's your mom?" 

The Wine Fairy abilities are apparently not heritable, because while I can keep your wine glass full, you'll always see me doing so. 

Memories of Mom: Gin!

To see the reason for my writing this "Memories of Mom" series, see the first post in the series.

My mom did not sew or knit or or even cook very well when I was a kid, so I didn't learn any of those traditionally female activities (although I really wish I'd learned to sew). She did teach me how to clean house and do the laundry, both of which I was grateful for when I got older, but they just weren't mother-daughter bonding activities.

Until I hit eight or nine, we really didn't do much in a parent-child sort of way other than the usual go on vacation, go shopping (which neither of us enjoyed), go to Disneyland as a family, etc. But nothing just us.

Then she decided I was old enough to learn to play cards. Perhaps my father had grown tired of being beaten by her because I didn't see her playing with him. Her game of choice was gin rummy.

When she was teaching me, she took her time and showed me which cards to play and why and how to play competitively. Then, once I had the basics down, her killer instincts kicked in and it was no longer Ms. Nice Mom. If I hadn't already learned not to cry when I lost a game, I'd have learned it quickly then.

She beat me — at cards — six ways from Sunday on a regular basis. No playing nice or letting me win. I had to learn and catch up on my own. And I did. Oh, I didn't achieve her ability to completely annihilate the other player: I don't think I have that killer instinct. But I started winning more often. Not as often as she did, but more than before. And I could see my progress, so I figured eventually I might get as good as her.

There was nothing she loved so much as slamming down her last card and shouting "Gin!" at the top of her lungs. Then she cackled her evil laugh. For such a sweet-looking, mild-mannered lady, she could be as evil as they come.

Memories of Mom: It Wasn't Very Funny at the Time

This is the second installment in the "good memories of Mom" project recommended by Judy, Judy, Judy to offset the unhappy memories that have been cycling through my memory lately. Mom's birthday is next Monday, which is probably why these thought-vultures have been circling. This series of good memories is the antidote. I've only just started, but it seems to be working.

From the time I was five until I was 12, my family and my aunt and uncle's family went car camping at a manmade lake in Northern California, on the border with Nevada, somewhat south of Lake Tahoe. We shared a boat and the vacation essentially consisted of parking our truck and camper and their camper-trailer in connecting campsites and spending our days on the other side of the lake, boating and water-skiing and generally goofing around. 

When I was younger, it was great fun, but as I grew older, it grew a bit tiresome on occasion. I was the only girl among a brother and a couple of cousins and, on our last 2 trips a half-brother as well. And I just did not relate to my mom or my aunt, but I usually was left in their company because ours was a very gender-stratified family. And the guys got to spend more time with the boat and do more fun things, to my way of thinking.

At the time of this story, I was 11 or 12. It was a windy day and we'd spent quite a bit of time and effort weighting down the ties for the tarp so the adults could sit in the shade. (They simply slathered us kids with sunscreen and hoped for the best.) My aunt had her small dog with her, a chihuahua-mix of some sort, and it was quite nervous about the flapping of the tarp when the wind gusted through.

A little after lunch, the guys took the boat out. The were going to ski around to other parts of the lake and generally goof off with the boat for awhile. But usually they were back within an hour or so. Not so this day.

Memories of Mom: the War of Water

My friend Judy,Judy,Judy gave me a lovely idea in her comment on my most recent post: to post good memories of my mom every day for awhile — until her birthday I think would be best — to offset the negative ones I've been remembering from just before she died. So here's today's good memory of Mom.

Mom was always the "grown-up" in the family, because my dad could be such a kid. It was always Mom who said "look out" and "be careful" and "are you sure you should ...". So when she let her inner child out to play, it was always a surprise and so much fun.

I grew up in So. Cal. We had a swimming pool from the time I was ten. We lived in a tract ranch-style house with sliding glass doors that led out to the backyard and the pool. One day while Mom had just finished washing the dishes in the sink (pre-dishwasher time), my dad said something to her. I don't know what it was, but she grabbed the sprayer next to the kitchen faucet, turned on the water, and let my dad have it! He was drenched.

Undeterred, Dad headed for the backyard and the faucet back there. Mom, meanwhile, filled a plastic cup with water and sent one of us kids out to throw it on my dad: my brother and I were entirely flexible about whose side we were on at any given time during a water fight. 

Mom and Dad proceeded to drench each other, us two kids, and parts of the house before deciding that the amount of water on the floor indoors and the cement outdoors was becoming hazardous. Then we all bent to the task of cleaning up.

There was no clear winner in the War of Water, but it has always filled me with wonder and laughter that my mom, the grown-up of the family, started the water fight, especially from the kitchen. She may have been the grown-up, but she had a tremendously mischievous inner child!

Irrational Thinking, the Scarcity Mindset, and Cognitive Therapy

I am afraid. I'm afraid of many things, few of them rational. Some of them even have names. One of the things that most occupies my fear at the moment is that I'm going to run out of money and have no options. This is called a Scarcity Mindset. It's a little rational to think that I'll run out of money because I'm not working and the inheritance will last for only so long. But it's not rational to the extent that I fear it. I'm almost paralyzed with it.

It doesn't help that, for almost two years, I've been almost incapable of holding down a job. I worked at that contract job and called in sick way too often, just out of the stress of working and commuting when I was still recovering from my grief.

I'm capable of working a regular job now. I'd rather work freelance, but I think I can work something more normal. It would be best if it could be on a contract so I could get paid by the hour and extra for more than 40 hours a week; I don't want to work all those extra hours without extra pay anymore. I'm too old for that shit.

So here I am, looking for work on craigslist and the freelancer's association job list and LinkedIn and not finding anything or at least not getting even any messages back and I'm thinking maybe I need to find an office job (not like there aren't already enough office workers looking for work out there) or a retail job or something just so I can earn some money. I need to find work. I need an income. And I'm terrified that I won't find work and that I'll end up stone-broke. 

But this is something that cognitive therapy is designed to work with.

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. 

Connection

Humans are born hard-wired for connection, which is why being thrown out of a group, being ostracized, or simply having no community is so devastating. Even the non-conformists have to find other non-conformists to hang out with!

In my e-class on shame, love, and worthiness, one of the things Ms. Brown talked about was the need for a connection network: people in your life whom you can go to when you need support, when something that felt shaming to you occurs, when you need a reality check, and just for that being part of a group of people who love and accept you.

I have a very small connection network of people I know in person, and most of them live elsewhere. But I've discovered that I've got a lot of online friends who I've never met in my connection network. These are the people who cheer me along during my difficult times and my good times and who help me recognize good things amidst the rubble of my current life or who suggest good things that are not too difficult to do to make things better. These are the people who don't seem to mind that my blog has so much angst and depression to it. They see beyond the depression and anxiety to me, which boggles my mind.

As I slowly learn to accept that online friends count just as much as friends I've met, I slowly start to feel better. I feel as if I've met many of these friends and I find I want to give to them as much as they give to me. This is my community. This is my neighborhood. We drop off virtual casseroles on bad days and we share virtual margaritas on good ones. If I had the money, I would fly out to meet every single one of these people, give them a hug, and take them out to dinner (this was how we showed appreciation in my family).

So to all of you who are my virtual friends and family, and to those who may become such, thank you for making me feel more connected and less alone. It's taken me awhile to appreciate this kind of connection, but I have appreciated your kindness and thoughtfulness for as long as you've been providing them.

Love and blessings to you all!

Zenhacking My Life, 2012

I don't make New Year's Resolutions — never have succeeded. I tried a few times when I was younger and I had the success that all articles about the futility of resolutions predict: zero. But there are a couple of sites I follow — one always and one sometimes — that have ideas for changing one's life without resolutions or goals. One of the sites is zenhabits.net; the other is LifeHacker.com. and both offered up a true gem for me to use to change my life into what I want and need it to be.

What I need in order to change my life (YMMV) is new habits. And among the ways to help me make the changes is to implement the placebo effect.

Positivity and Mental Noise

Yesterday (and actually several times recently), Julie has pointed out to me that I am not being positive and that I'm not even acknowledging that there is anything positive in my posts. I'll point out all the ways I've failed, and she'll point out the things I succeeded at during that same time, things I won't even have considered.

I guess this means my next task (I should just write them down on a long list) is to pay more attention to the positives, the successes in my days and not dwell so much on the negatives and failures. Heck, I probably shouldn't even refer to "failures": they are "learning experiences" or somesuch!

I agree to do this. It will fit well with my mindfulness and awareness practice, which is going quite well in certain areas.

For example, most of the time, there is noise in my head. It might be music (usually popular songs, but not the whole song), it might be conversations I'm having with other people (that actually never happen) or arguments with other people (that never happen). Or it might just be me counting or talking to myself or providing commentary. But my mind isn't quiet and all that noise distracts me. With all that going on in my head, if I don't pay very specific attention, I'll forget whether or not I locked my apartment door and have to come back to check; same with the car door. I can forget to set the timer for my tea or forget to put tea in the tea strainer (makes for awfully weak tea!). When I allow all this unfiltered activity to inhabit my mind, I can lose whole days and whole weeks of time because I'm not paying attention. I also break things when I'm just following along with the activity. (I broke things a lot as a kid.)

A few weeks ago I began developing the habit of washing my dishes after every meal. It's easy enough right now because I don't cook particularly. And when I wash them, I am reminded of a passage in Thich Nhat Hanh's The Miracle of Mindfulness where he allows a friend to wash the dinner dishes, but only if he washes them "correctly." To wash dishes correctly, you must be paying attention to the dishes. You must be washing them to wash them, not washing them so you can rejoin friends in conversation or go watch television or some other activity. You must wash the dishes to wash them.

When I wash my dishes, I make myself slow down. I don't think about what I'm going to do next. As I wash each dish, I notice how it looks and how feels in my hand. I feel grateful for having it and appreciate its aesthetics. I carefully wash and rinse each piece, then dry each piece, paying close attention the entire time. Focusing. I find that I have enjoyed washing those dishes. Plus, they aren't cluttering up my counter or sink (other things are, but I will get to them). And I feel more relaxed.

I can add being more positive to this mindfulness and awareness practice, because I'll need to pay attention to note the positive things I do or that occur.

When I pay attention, when I focus, my mind is quiet. When I am washing a bowl, the only noises I allow in my head are the sounds of the dishcloth and soap and water squeaking against the bowl, the sounds of the refrigerator compressor (which runs too often) and the air conditioner — only what is occurring right now. My mind feels less cluttered, more open and airy, and much quieter. Perhaps in the evening, when I am assessing my day, I will achieve a similar quiet as I pay attention to the positive parts of my day, and reframe the ones that were less than positive.

Be Like Julie

For the next 28 days, I am striving to be like my friend Julie, she who comments here regularly. Julie is the most positive and most zen person I've ever known and I could use a lot of that in my life. So I am going to follow her ways of thinking and believing and, in part, behaving (I had frosting today, Julie!), to see what effects they have on me and my moods, my world view, and my blood sugar.

These are the things that most come to mind as I approach this month (hope you don't mind, J):

1. assume the Universe is a friendly, positive place
2. assume that my Spirit chose this life and these lessons, and that my life IS about lessons
3. believe in visitations, psychic phenomena, and magick
4. be zen and don't want what I don't have, refrain from envy and jealousy 
5. be unabashedly me ... er ... her ... us ... 
6. give voice to my true self, rather than being afraid of what others might think
7. smile a lot, laugh a lot (Julie, can I borrow Dan so I can, um, ... a lot? LOL)
8. and I'm going to eat frosting

There are probably some other things I need to consider, and I'm expecting her to remind me, but the first one is probably the most important and the fourth one is probably next most important. My life does seem to be strongly affected by seeing the Universe as a frightening, malign place (hey, I have my reasons!), and by wanting so much that I do not have, cannot have in the near future, probably cannot ever have. Always wanting. So other than a couple of things I honestly need (a dresser, a vacuum that works, curtain rods so I can put up some curtains, and possibly a simple, inexpensive sewing machine so I can do a couple of inexpensive decorating things to make the place more homey), I have everything I want. (Thank goodness I ordered that LEGO before I made this crazy decision!) I might have to stop reading catalogs and decorating magazines for the month, however!

But I honestly want to learn some of the ways Julie approaches life, with her positivity, happiness, and her zen quality of "enough." She seems much happier than I am. Of course, I'm sure that has nothing to do with our almost completely opposite approaches to life and our world views.  

Therefore, I declare June (and part of July) Be Like Julie Month. C'mon and join me!