Failure. Huge, gaping, epic failure. So you thought you wanted to be a social worker? So you were brazen enough to think that you, you of the mega-issues, would be capable of helping anyone with their issues when you haven't even begun to help yourself with yours.
Well, yes, actually I did.
And there is where the feelings of fantastic failure come in.
Who doesn't know what I'm talking about
Who's never left home, who's never struck out
To find a dream and a life of their own
A place in the clouds, a foundation of stone
I left my job for the last time on Tuesday. Taking with me boxes filled with my social work books and tears, tears for what I accomplished, what I didn't, and tears for what I wanted to.
Many precede and many will follow
A young girl's dream no longer hollow
It takes the shape of a place out west
But what it holds for her, she hasn't yet guessed
Sure, there were moments when I reached a client, where for a brief moment I made a difference and I made peace with the fact that the work I was doing was for the most part thankless (I think a prerequisite of any social work job) and there would probably NOT be any Blindside movie in my future (but if there is I want Natalie Portman to play me) and I was almost okay with that. What we do as social workers in not academy award making movies, but rather brief shooting stars. But it wasn't enough for me to not make me feel as if I totally sucked at my job. and in looking back, I cannot adequately articulate what would have made everything okay. All I know is I didn't feel good at my job, I didn't feel valued or respected and I was tired of being looked at as "that bleeding heart therapist who is too soft on the kids." At lunch on my last day somebody said "you just weren't a good fit." To me, that is failure. Pure and simple.
As I'm going through the biggest falling-flat-on-my-face moment I am also doing a yoga practice, and received an email that talked about how loss is about creating space. Without my job a wide open space has been created for me. Space to do what with -I'm not exactly sure yet. Space to hang with my kids, space to do yoga, space to run, space to write, space to grow. I'm grateful that I am lucky enough to be able to have this opportunity to create this space. I know how lucky I am and I am truly grateful, but, at the risk of sounding ungrateful, it is scary. Scary because I feel as if I have been given a sacred gift in this space and I don't want to squander it.
She traveled this road as a child
Wide eyed and grinning, she never tired
But now she won't be coming back with the rest
If these are life's lessons, she'll take this test
I am grateful for all of the gifts of the universe
I am open to all the gifts of the universe.
I am open to Wide Open Spaces.
She needs wide open spaces
Room to make her big mistakes
She needs new faces
She knows the high stakes
Friday, June 18, 2010
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Stuck
STUCK
I admit it. I'm stuck. Stuck and unhappy and down right pissed off at myself, my job, my family. Everything and everybody around me has conspired with the universe to make my life a living hell. They all hate me and are out to get me. As a CBT therapist, if I had a client come in to my office (and they have) spouting this nonsense, my first question would be, "humm, okay, the world is out to get you, that is possible, I mean, karma is a bitch after all, but what else what might be going on?
I don't know
If you did know
Still don't know
Take a guess...no matter how silly it seems
I suck
Okay, what else?
Life is a bitch and then you die
What else?
It is really all my fault.
(Now we are getting somewhere.)
So your biggest fear is that things are not going the way you want them to in your life and it is all your fault. Why?
Because I suck
AND?
I don't deserve any better.
So, it is easier to blame others than to think that possibly you aren't worthy.
Yes
So the real fear isn't that the world is out to get you, it that you aren't worthy of the things you want. Why aren't you worthy? Where is the evidence you aren't worthy?
I hate you
that is okay...
I'm so close and yet so far. So close and yet something keeps holding me back. Namely, myself and this never ending feeling that I'm never going to be successful (define success??) and the rage that comes with it. Yes, rage. Red, blinding, all consuming rage that radiates off me like a heat. So where do I go from here? Why do I keep failing? Why do I keep getting so close and then lose it? What is that wall I need to climb over made of? How do you push through something when you have no idea what it is you are pushing against? All I know that on the other side, over the wall, over the mountain that I have created for myself is success, fulfillment, and peace. Acceptance. Acceptance of myself, of my career, my weight. Acceptance from others around me, instead of this lingering feeling of being out of place of not fitting in. I just want to be good at something. I just want somebody to think I'm good at something. For once I want to finish what I've started. To succeed. But how do define or create success when all you have ever known is failure? Speaking of failure...
Devastated, by my -walk of shame- Jenny Craig weigh-in last week I came home and angrily went for a run. As I ran, a voice inside my head raged at me, and I was struck by the truth that we say things to ourselves that 1. we would never say to anyone else 2. We talk to ourselves and say things to and about ourselves that we would never let anyone else say. So I let this voice rage and call me every horrible thing under the sun and was brought to tears by the truths I believe about myself. One name kept being repeated: Fatass. Until finally, and for the first time, a small timid voice said "I am not."
Oh yes, you are. Fatass...
No!
Yup! Fatass! Fatty, Fatty two by four...
Until, with a force that shocked me some small part of me that had had enough pushed up and yelled, "I am NOT A FATASS!" I am still here. I am still running. I'm still pushing. I am still going. I AM NOT A FATASS SO SHUT THE FUCK UP!" I'd love to say that was the end of it, but old tapes die hard, but the volume of the inner critic's insults was greatly diminished and I was left to finish my run in relative peace.
Where is the evidence that I am not worthy? In my own head and in the words of that voice that hurls insults at me on a continuous basis. Since our little altercation I have become aware of just how ugly that critic is. The bitch needs to shut the fuck up. Seriously. And telling her that whenever she rears her nasty head is one small thing I can do today to keep moving forward.
I am angry and frightened, and I am left to wander in the darkness and yet I keep fighting. I keep showing up. I keep pushing, digging deep, going... knowing that without darkness, there is no light and that if you have never been lost, how do you know when you are found?
I admit it. I'm stuck. Stuck and unhappy and down right pissed off at myself, my job, my family. Everything and everybody around me has conspired with the universe to make my life a living hell. They all hate me and are out to get me. As a CBT therapist, if I had a client come in to my office (and they have) spouting this nonsense, my first question would be, "humm, okay, the world is out to get you, that is possible, I mean, karma is a bitch after all, but what else what might be going on?
I don't know
If you did know
Still don't know
Take a guess...no matter how silly it seems
I suck
Okay, what else?
Life is a bitch and then you die
What else?
It is really all my fault.
(Now we are getting somewhere.)
So your biggest fear is that things are not going the way you want them to in your life and it is all your fault. Why?
Because I suck
AND?
I don't deserve any better.
So, it is easier to blame others than to think that possibly you aren't worthy.
Yes
So the real fear isn't that the world is out to get you, it that you aren't worthy of the things you want. Why aren't you worthy? Where is the evidence you aren't worthy?
I hate you
that is okay...
I'm so close and yet so far. So close and yet something keeps holding me back. Namely, myself and this never ending feeling that I'm never going to be successful (define success??) and the rage that comes with it. Yes, rage. Red, blinding, all consuming rage that radiates off me like a heat. So where do I go from here? Why do I keep failing? Why do I keep getting so close and then lose it? What is that wall I need to climb over made of? How do you push through something when you have no idea what it is you are pushing against? All I know that on the other side, over the wall, over the mountain that I have created for myself is success, fulfillment, and peace. Acceptance. Acceptance of myself, of my career, my weight. Acceptance from others around me, instead of this lingering feeling of being out of place of not fitting in. I just want to be good at something. I just want somebody to think I'm good at something. For once I want to finish what I've started. To succeed. But how do define or create success when all you have ever known is failure? Speaking of failure...
Devastated, by my -walk of shame- Jenny Craig weigh-in last week I came home and angrily went for a run. As I ran, a voice inside my head raged at me, and I was struck by the truth that we say things to ourselves that 1. we would never say to anyone else 2. We talk to ourselves and say things to and about ourselves that we would never let anyone else say. So I let this voice rage and call me every horrible thing under the sun and was brought to tears by the truths I believe about myself. One name kept being repeated: Fatass. Until finally, and for the first time, a small timid voice said "I am not."
Oh yes, you are. Fatass...
No!
Yup! Fatass! Fatty, Fatty two by four...
Until, with a force that shocked me some small part of me that had had enough pushed up and yelled, "I am NOT A FATASS!" I am still here. I am still running. I'm still pushing. I am still going. I AM NOT A FATASS SO SHUT THE FUCK UP!" I'd love to say that was the end of it, but old tapes die hard, but the volume of the inner critic's insults was greatly diminished and I was left to finish my run in relative peace.
Where is the evidence that I am not worthy? In my own head and in the words of that voice that hurls insults at me on a continuous basis. Since our little altercation I have become aware of just how ugly that critic is. The bitch needs to shut the fuck up. Seriously. And telling her that whenever she rears her nasty head is one small thing I can do today to keep moving forward.
I am angry and frightened, and I am left to wander in the darkness and yet I keep fighting. I keep showing up. I keep pushing, digging deep, going... knowing that without darkness, there is no light and that if you have never been lost, how do you know when you are found?
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Party Girl Me VS Stepford Wife Me
A few weeks ago I reconnected with my best friend from high school. At the time we were inseparable, we went to (SKIPPED) school together and even worked at the same place. We double-dated to prom with our first loves and later cried together when they broke our hearts. And then I left and up until a few weeks ago, had no contact with her.
The reasons have been diluted by time, but I packed my car and pointed it west and never looked back. I never considered what I might be leaving behind or that I might want to get it back some day. That first trip from Virginia to California was the beginning of an odyssey of making mistakes, bad decisions and then bailing. Lather, rinse, repeat. What amazes me was how easy it was for me to just pick up and leave, to break connections, as fragile as they might have been, and hit the road. It took me many years to realize that no matter where I went, there I was, and that no matter the name of the town, or the latest Jose Cuervo induced bad decision, it was all the same.
I was always running from my latest mistake, terrified they would catch up with me. I remember working in Corpus Christi and having uh..."my past" from California walk in and say, "didn't you used to live in 29 Palms?" "Yes, I did," I replied, "and mistakes like you are the reason I moved 1000 miles away." He just kinda smiled and said, "yeah, I hear ya" and walked away. Face, enjoy being slapped by past.
I keep my sordid past deeply hidden and the Party-Girl I used to be far away from The Stepford Wife I now am. There are no "old friends" on my Facebook page, because I have no old friends. Dead men tell no tales. I don't need my kids hearing stories of the time their mom....The deeper truth is that I don't want to hear those stories. I am afraid of those stories and they fill me with shame, even as they make me appreciate the life I have now.
Now, as I reconnect with my past I am slowly naming the fear and the shame. I'm afraid my old friend won't like me any more. I'm afraid of having being confronted with the hurt I must have caused her when I just left like nothing about my past mattered. I'm afraid of asking, "what happened to us?" No, that isn't completely honest. Maybe it isn't honest at all. What I'm really afraid of is asking, "what did I do to you?" I am deeply ashamed of the wreckage I have left behind for others to clean up, and I realize that I can try to use my new life as a good mom, being a respectable a social worker, and house in the suburbs as evidence that I am a good person and that no matter the past, "all's well that ends well" but my biggest fear is that I haven't changed all that much and I am still that person who couldn't seem to quit fucking up her life and that my past is going to rear its ugly head and snatch away everything that is precious to me today. Maybe because of who I was in the past, I have no right to all I have today.
That Party-Girl seems, even after all these years, determined to rear her big 80's hair. So it is The Party-Girl vs The Stepford Wife. The Party-Girl is scrappier and will probably fight dirtier, but The Stepford Wife has some skills too, and a pretty great life that is more than worth fighting for. And maybe, just maybe, they can learn to stop feeling so much shame over the life they have BOTH lived and contributed to. One thing they do seem to bond over is wondering, "what the hell is she wearing!"
The reasons have been diluted by time, but I packed my car and pointed it west and never looked back. I never considered what I might be leaving behind or that I might want to get it back some day. That first trip from Virginia to California was the beginning of an odyssey of making mistakes, bad decisions and then bailing. Lather, rinse, repeat. What amazes me was how easy it was for me to just pick up and leave, to break connections, as fragile as they might have been, and hit the road. It took me many years to realize that no matter where I went, there I was, and that no matter the name of the town, or the latest Jose Cuervo induced bad decision, it was all the same.
I was always running from my latest mistake, terrified they would catch up with me. I remember working in Corpus Christi and having uh..."my past" from California walk in and say, "didn't you used to live in 29 Palms?" "Yes, I did," I replied, "and mistakes like you are the reason I moved 1000 miles away." He just kinda smiled and said, "yeah, I hear ya" and walked away. Face, enjoy being slapped by past.
I keep my sordid past deeply hidden and the Party-Girl I used to be far away from The Stepford Wife I now am. There are no "old friends" on my Facebook page, because I have no old friends. Dead men tell no tales. I don't need my kids hearing stories of the time their mom....The deeper truth is that I don't want to hear those stories. I am afraid of those stories and they fill me with shame, even as they make me appreciate the life I have now.
Now, as I reconnect with my past I am slowly naming the fear and the shame. I'm afraid my old friend won't like me any more. I'm afraid of having being confronted with the hurt I must have caused her when I just left like nothing about my past mattered. I'm afraid of asking, "what happened to us?" No, that isn't completely honest. Maybe it isn't honest at all. What I'm really afraid of is asking, "what did I do to you?" I am deeply ashamed of the wreckage I have left behind for others to clean up, and I realize that I can try to use my new life as a good mom, being a respectable a social worker, and house in the suburbs as evidence that I am a good person and that no matter the past, "all's well that ends well" but my biggest fear is that I haven't changed all that much and I am still that person who couldn't seem to quit fucking up her life and that my past is going to rear its ugly head and snatch away everything that is precious to me today. Maybe because of who I was in the past, I have no right to all I have today.
That Party-Girl seems, even after all these years, determined to rear her big 80's hair. So it is The Party-Girl vs The Stepford Wife. The Party-Girl is scrappier and will probably fight dirtier, but The Stepford Wife has some skills too, and a pretty great life that is more than worth fighting for. And maybe, just maybe, they can learn to stop feeling so much shame over the life they have BOTH lived and contributed to. One thing they do seem to bond over is wondering, "what the hell is she wearing!"
Monday, April 19, 2010
Gotta Get Moving
I really need to get moving. I wonder why even though I have ideas I would like to blog about, I don't. It is not for lack of time, I waste enough of it on Facebook etc...
List of topics to visit:
Magic moments and Strawberry Wine
The Last Ten Pounds
Ex Bffs
I know there is more.
Okay I guess starting a list is a beginning!
List of topics to visit:
Magic moments and Strawberry Wine
The Last Ten Pounds
Ex Bffs
I know there is more.
Okay I guess starting a list is a beginning!
Friday, January 8, 2010
Less Like Hurting More Like Healing
I have promised myself that unitl I go back to work I will hit Starbuck's after I drop the kids off at school and write something. My writing muscle has atrophied from lack of use, but then again so have my quads. I don't however think that I'm going to be able to wake up one morning and magically run a 5K. I know I'm going to have to work my running muscles back into shape slowly and that it will probably hurt, so I guess it will be the same with my writing muscle. (That sounds a little perverted, sorry) So be gentle, this is my first workout and I'm at the couch potato stage not the 5k... yet.
Less Like Hurting
More Like Healing....
When Zoë had her tonsils out last summer, she spent approximately a week being unable to eat, drink, or talk with out pain. She was beyond uncomfortable, irritable and just ready to be done with the recovery process already. Through tears of pain and frustration she looked up at me and plaintively wailed, "I don't want my tonsils out any more, Mommy!" My heart broke for her. Now I'm the one recovering from surgery (again!) and 10 days after my hysterectomy I wailed, "I don't want my uterus out anymore!"
This is, without a doubt, the most difficult recovery I have been through. Everything hurt. It hurt to move. It hurt to breathe, it hurt to lie still. It just hurt. In the midst of all the pain and in the middle of the sleepless nights I stared asking "why?" Why so much pain? Why such a hard process this time? After all, I made it through open heart surgery last year. You might think that this surgery would be a breeze after that, but you would be wrong. So as I began to contemplate the genesis of my pain I came to believe that the pain was trying to tell me something, an important lesson that I was failing to learn. I also came to realize that the pain was not going to turn me loose until I heard what it was trying to say and I believed that understanding what was at the heart of the pain would somehow (PLEASE) banish it.
Where was all this pain coming from? I had expected and prepared for a lot of pain. Was I just getting what I expected? Was I focusing on the physical pain so I did not have to deal with the reality of what having a hysterectomy ultimately signified, or was my body itself crying out in protest against what had been taken from it?
It seemed that everyone I had spoken to who had had this surgery regarded it as the worst thing ever and the last conversation I had with my doctor before being taken to the OR was regarding my fear of the pain. So even though I attempted to focus on positive healing thoughts in the last minutes of awareness before surgery I think it was a case of too little too late. My expectation of pain was the majority of what I put out into the universe and pain was now the majority of what was coming back.
The pain also provided me with something to focus on rather that what I had just lost. There will absolutely not be a miracle, late-in-life, surprise-but-oh-so-longed for baby. Whoever that serene little girl with the blue eyes like lakes of sky I have dreamt about for years is, she is not mine. The pain filled my mind and body so that the reality of my loss was unable to bubble to the surface and drown me in tears. I could focus on the physical pain, point to yet ANOTHER scar and say "see this, it HURTS" and receive understanding but when I spoke of the loss of potential motherhood, people wrinkled the foreheads in confusion and started at me with disbelief, "but you have two perfect children?!
Maybe the pain was a physical manifestation of loss, my body adjusting (and not happily) to the now empty cavern that had once held Caleb and Zoë. Twisting and pulling, my body ached with the loss of vital organs that had sustained two lives inside me, the loss of the potential for any life to grow again, the loss of my youth. It seems to strange that my "childbearing years" (I hate the phrase) are behind me and that I have had all the children I am ever going to have. Yes, I am thankful for the beautiful boy and girl that fill my heart, soul and life with so much love, light, laughter, noise, frustration and worry, but my children are like chocolates, Two is just not enough. I could gorge myself on my children everyday and still keep coming back for more. To me it makes sense that I would want more. Who doesn't want more chocolate?
When I began to realize that the pain was all of those things, I began to see it as less like hurting and more like healing, healing from the physical trauma of major surgery and as the healing acceptance of the reality of my loss which allowed me to finally see my hysterectomy not as a interruption of a phase of my life but as a completion.
The pain is slowly abating, but I'm not rushing it. Healing not hurting I keep telling myself. While hurting was something I found so hard to manage, I see healing as necessary process that I can accept and embrace.
Less Like Hurting
More Like Healing....
When Zoë had her tonsils out last summer, she spent approximately a week being unable to eat, drink, or talk with out pain. She was beyond uncomfortable, irritable and just ready to be done with the recovery process already. Through tears of pain and frustration she looked up at me and plaintively wailed, "I don't want my tonsils out any more, Mommy!" My heart broke for her. Now I'm the one recovering from surgery (again!) and 10 days after my hysterectomy I wailed, "I don't want my uterus out anymore!"
This is, without a doubt, the most difficult recovery I have been through. Everything hurt. It hurt to move. It hurt to breathe, it hurt to lie still. It just hurt. In the midst of all the pain and in the middle of the sleepless nights I stared asking "why?" Why so much pain? Why such a hard process this time? After all, I made it through open heart surgery last year. You might think that this surgery would be a breeze after that, but you would be wrong. So as I began to contemplate the genesis of my pain I came to believe that the pain was trying to tell me something, an important lesson that I was failing to learn. I also came to realize that the pain was not going to turn me loose until I heard what it was trying to say and I believed that understanding what was at the heart of the pain would somehow (PLEASE) banish it.
Where was all this pain coming from? I had expected and prepared for a lot of pain. Was I just getting what I expected? Was I focusing on the physical pain so I did not have to deal with the reality of what having a hysterectomy ultimately signified, or was my body itself crying out in protest against what had been taken from it?
It seemed that everyone I had spoken to who had had this surgery regarded it as the worst thing ever and the last conversation I had with my doctor before being taken to the OR was regarding my fear of the pain. So even though I attempted to focus on positive healing thoughts in the last minutes of awareness before surgery I think it was a case of too little too late. My expectation of pain was the majority of what I put out into the universe and pain was now the majority of what was coming back.
The pain also provided me with something to focus on rather that what I had just lost. There will absolutely not be a miracle, late-in-life, surprise-but-oh-so-longed for baby. Whoever that serene little girl with the blue eyes like lakes of sky I have dreamt about for years is, she is not mine. The pain filled my mind and body so that the reality of my loss was unable to bubble to the surface and drown me in tears. I could focus on the physical pain, point to yet ANOTHER scar and say "see this, it HURTS" and receive understanding but when I spoke of the loss of potential motherhood, people wrinkled the foreheads in confusion and started at me with disbelief, "but you have two perfect children?!
Maybe the pain was a physical manifestation of loss, my body adjusting (and not happily) to the now empty cavern that had once held Caleb and Zoë. Twisting and pulling, my body ached with the loss of vital organs that had sustained two lives inside me, the loss of the potential for any life to grow again, the loss of my youth. It seems to strange that my "childbearing years" (I hate the phrase) are behind me and that I have had all the children I am ever going to have. Yes, I am thankful for the beautiful boy and girl that fill my heart, soul and life with so much love, light, laughter, noise, frustration and worry, but my children are like chocolates, Two is just not enough. I could gorge myself on my children everyday and still keep coming back for more. To me it makes sense that I would want more. Who doesn't want more chocolate?
When I began to realize that the pain was all of those things, I began to see it as less like hurting and more like healing, healing from the physical trauma of major surgery and as the healing acceptance of the reality of my loss which allowed me to finally see my hysterectomy not as a interruption of a phase of my life but as a completion.
The pain is slowly abating, but I'm not rushing it. Healing not hurting I keep telling myself. While hurting was something I found so hard to manage, I see healing as necessary process that I can accept and embrace.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Climbing Fearless!!
Yes, I am quoting Hannah Montana. I have a six year old girl at home. Shoot me.
I can almost see it
That dream I'm dreaming but
There's a voice inside my head sayin,
You'll never reach it,
Every step I'm taking,
Every move I make feels
Lost with no direction
My faith is shaking
but I Got to keep trying
Got to keep my head held high
There's always going to be another mountain
I'm always going to want to make it move
Always going to be an uphill battle,
Sometimes I'm gonna to have to lose,
Ain't about how fast I get there,
Ain't about what's waiting on the other side
It's the climb...
There's been a lot of climbing lately. A lot of journey with not a lot of destination. A lot of keeping my head down and pushing through, knowing there is a finish line somewhere down the road but that the only way to get there is to put one foot in front of the other and keep...well..climbing... the summit will arrive at some point.
I took a job. The perfect job? Well, no, but at this job I can gain valuable experience that will allow me to deal with what ever walks in my door as a social worker. It also gives the State what they need in order to deem me worthy of opening up a private practice next year. So I climb upward and onward trying to keep myself open to the experiences I am being offered. And of course there are many. I've never worked with the chronically mentally ill before. Everyday they inspire me. I knew I would learn a lot...but be inspired? It never crossed my mind. And yet, there it is, as I watch them reach for a brief lucid moment, or fight off psychosis...I am inspired. And I love it. In the past week and a half I have made memories that will last a lifetime, and I am just beginning!
Tomorrow I run my first 5K since surgery. The climb to this summit has been equal parts heart wrenching and heart lifting! I guess that makes it WHOLEhearted! :) I have learned so much the past seven months. One thing I have learned is the depth of my own strength both mental and physical. I have never thought of myself as physically strong person. But getting out there and fighting my way for every step I can and refusing to let the six inch war wound on my chest stop me showed me just how much strength I have. Who knew. Somebody this week suggested that my next challenge should be a triathlon and I thought "yeah, I could do that!" Before surgery my first thought would have been, "yeah, NOT in a million fecking years could I do something like that?!" After surgery however it doesn't seem out of the realm of possibility.
The climb is merely showing up. Showing up to run and put one foot in front of the other.
I can almost see it
That dream I'm dreaming but
There's a voice inside my head sayin,
You'll never reach it,
Every step I'm taking,
Every move I make feels
Lost with no direction
My faith is shaking
but I Got to keep trying
Got to keep my head held high
There's always going to be another mountain
I'm always going to want to make it move
Always going to be an uphill battle,
Sometimes I'm gonna to have to lose,
Ain't about how fast I get there,
Ain't about what's waiting on the other side
It's the climb...
There's been a lot of climbing lately. A lot of journey with not a lot of destination. A lot of keeping my head down and pushing through, knowing there is a finish line somewhere down the road but that the only way to get there is to put one foot in front of the other and keep...well..climbing... the summit will arrive at some point.
I took a job. The perfect job? Well, no, but at this job I can gain valuable experience that will allow me to deal with what ever walks in my door as a social worker. It also gives the State what they need in order to deem me worthy of opening up a private practice next year. So I climb upward and onward trying to keep myself open to the experiences I am being offered. And of course there are many. I've never worked with the chronically mentally ill before. Everyday they inspire me. I knew I would learn a lot...but be inspired? It never crossed my mind. And yet, there it is, as I watch them reach for a brief lucid moment, or fight off psychosis...I am inspired. And I love it. In the past week and a half I have made memories that will last a lifetime, and I am just beginning!
Tomorrow I run my first 5K since surgery. The climb to this summit has been equal parts heart wrenching and heart lifting! I guess that makes it WHOLEhearted! :) I have learned so much the past seven months. One thing I have learned is the depth of my own strength both mental and physical. I have never thought of myself as physically strong person. But getting out there and fighting my way for every step I can and refusing to let the six inch war wound on my chest stop me showed me just how much strength I have. Who knew. Somebody this week suggested that my next challenge should be a triathlon and I thought "yeah, I could do that!" Before surgery my first thought would have been, "yeah, NOT in a million fecking years could I do something like that?!" After surgery however it doesn't seem out of the realm of possibility.
The climb is merely showing up. Showing up to run and put one foot in front of the other.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Being Braver
So I climbed into my hip suit and my cool SUV and headed out to my first job interview. They offered me the position right then and there. I was floored. I had some major concerns about what having a job that far from home (1hr 15min) would do to the kids. For 24 hrs I went back and forth..everything else about the job fit: the money, the fact it was clinical and would count toward license, sounded good. I didn't even mind the drive. If you live in Houston, chances are you commute. An hr commute is prob the norm. Then I did the math. The kids would need to be dropped off by 6:45am and would not be picked up until 5:30pm. Dude, that is a lot of hours! No matter how great the job sounded I couldn't wrap my mind around nor could I justify leaving my kids for that long. I got scared that this was the only job I would ever be offered and I should just count myself lucky that somebody would hire me at all. Maybe I should just shut up and take the dang job. I just couldn't though. Couldn't do it.
In the end I called them and declined the offer. I did however tell them that I would be willing to work contract. I would be willing to work a couple full days a week, including Sat, or mornings, or afternoons, but I really need to be there either in the mornings or afternoons for the kids. I can't drop them off half asleep at daycare and see them only in the evenings to nuke some corndogs and pray homework has been done already.
This brings up a lot of shame issues for me. I have NEVER felt like a good mom. Not ever. Most times I feel that my kids are working out some horrible karma by being entrusted to my care. It seems like everyone else has it so much more together than I do. I really need to keep reminding myself that we all have issues and challenges and I'm probably not as horrible as I think I am. I mean, hey, Caleb is officially a teenager and STILL talks to me. Must be doing something right! :)
In the end I called them and declined the offer. I did however tell them that I would be willing to work contract. I would be willing to work a couple full days a week, including Sat, or mornings, or afternoons, but I really need to be there either in the mornings or afternoons for the kids. I can't drop them off half asleep at daycare and see them only in the evenings to nuke some corndogs and pray homework has been done already.
This brings up a lot of shame issues for me. I have NEVER felt like a good mom. Not ever. Most times I feel that my kids are working out some horrible karma by being entrusted to my care. It seems like everyone else has it so much more together than I do. I really need to keep reminding myself that we all have issues and challenges and I'm probably not as horrible as I think I am. I mean, hey, Caleb is officially a teenager and STILL talks to me. Must be doing something right! :)
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Being Brave
Okay...so here I go. All this talk about being brave and fearless will be put to the test tomorrow as I venture out to the other side of the universe (otherwise known as Northwest Houston) for my first social work job interview. I was lucky enough after graduation two years ago to get hired on at my intership so I never had to endure the hell that is the "job search." Now it is coming back to bite me on the butt.
My friend Lindsay got my resume together for me and badgered me until I finally sent it out. Now I have an interview. And wouldn't you know it, she is in Seattle and has no idea that she has left me to interview alone...she will pay!!
Went to Anne Taylor and bought a hip (although about three sizes larger than I would have liked) interview suit. Have my Coach bag and Italian pumps ready to go. I will look good even if I totally bomb the interview. I have printed out a pic of the doc "kicking and shaking boots" and tucked into my purse to remind myself that I CAN be brave and terrified at the same time.
Okay. Deep breath. Here we go.
My friend Lindsay got my resume together for me and badgered me until I finally sent it out. Now I have an interview. And wouldn't you know it, she is in Seattle and has no idea that she has left me to interview alone...she will pay!!
Went to Anne Taylor and bought a hip (although about three sizes larger than I would have liked) interview suit. Have my Coach bag and Italian pumps ready to go. I will look good even if I totally bomb the interview. I have printed out a pic of the doc "kicking and shaking boots" and tucked into my purse to remind myself that I CAN be brave and terrified at the same time.
Okay. Deep breath. Here we go.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Superpower!
(From Brene Brown's I Thought it Was Just Me read-a-long)
What is my superpower? Well, back when I was nursing Zoë, I had a t-shirt that said "I make milk! What is YOUR superpower?!" Loved that t-shirt. Totally freaked the Stepford Wives out here in Clear Lake. Now that my breastfeeding days are far, far, far behind me (Zoë is now six) I'm not sure I have a superpower.
As a therapist I have a knack for understanding motives behind my client's actions. Especially between parents and children and couples. It's like I can step back, and see "the big picture" However, any therapist worth a dang should be able to do that, so while it is a skill I'm proud of and think I'm good at, not sure it qualifies as a SUPERpower.
So I started thinking about WHAT I wanted my superpower to be. I want to be brave. I want super-duper-braveness powers…the power to be fearless…then I remembered something Brene said in the last podcast…about being scared and brave at the same time.
That is my superpower! To be in two states at once and finally realizing that I don't have to be one or the other and allowing myself to be vulnerable to be both (to integrate and not alternate thanks, Brene…again!) is a very good thing.
Because you have to be brave and totally terrified when you:
Skip out on a graduate program the semester before graduation and go for something else!
Try to have another baby with the memory of PPD still stinging.
Send out a resume for the first time after being out of work for six months
Learn to ski at the age of 31
Karaoke
Do play therapy with young children who have been abused
Run after open heart surgery.
My outfit is comprised of a red cape, and these really cool Doc Martens boots to kick butt in and shake in!
Monday, March 23, 2009
Running Fearless
I'm signing up to run my first 5k since open heart surgery! It is a small one April 18th to raise money for our local high school band. I'm posting it here to keep me honest!
I started running about five years ago. I bought a jogging stroller strapped my daughter in and hit the pavement. I was hooked almost immediately, interesting, since I do not have an athletic bone in my body, but there is something about getting lost in the sound of my feet hitting the pavement that calms and centers me and keeps me sane.
It has been hard to get back to running. Physically, it has been challenging. When I first got home I couldn't climb the stairs, much less run! Six months later, I can climb the stairs, but am nowhere near the distance or time I was pre-surgery.
The mental part has been more difficult. In spite of being cleared by doctors, of being told "no, your heart is NOT going to explode in your chest," fear of "what could happen" has kept me from doing one of the things I love the most.
In the movie Sex and the City, Charlotte is afraid to run, afraid to jinx all the good things happening in her life, afraid of something bad happening. Carrie tells her, "you run. That is what you do. It is who you are. You can't be afraid to be who you are!" I can relate.
So this week I am not going to be afraid of who I am. I am a runner. I am going to run.
I started running about five years ago. I bought a jogging stroller strapped my daughter in and hit the pavement. I was hooked almost immediately, interesting, since I do not have an athletic bone in my body, but there is something about getting lost in the sound of my feet hitting the pavement that calms and centers me and keeps me sane.
It has been hard to get back to running. Physically, it has been challenging. When I first got home I couldn't climb the stairs, much less run! Six months later, I can climb the stairs, but am nowhere near the distance or time I was pre-surgery.
The mental part has been more difficult. In spite of being cleared by doctors, of being told "no, your heart is NOT going to explode in your chest," fear of "what could happen" has kept me from doing one of the things I love the most.
In the movie Sex and the City, Charlotte is afraid to run, afraid to jinx all the good things happening in her life, afraid of something bad happening. Carrie tells her, "you run. That is what you do. It is who you are. You can't be afraid to be who you are!" I can relate.
So this week I am not going to be afraid of who I am. I am a runner. I am going to run.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Fearless
And I don't know how it gets better than this
You take my hand and drag me head first
Fearless
And I don't know why but with you I'd dance In a storm in my best dress
Fearless
I have really enjoyed these past two days. The weather has been absolutely gorgeous. On our road trip to Galveston and Moody Gardens yesterday, the kids and I were zooming down the highway blaring Taylor Swift, singing at the top of our lungs, Zoë and I in our matching "bug" but, oh, so fashionista, sunglasses. Caleb rolling his eyes in between mouthing the words under his breath so we won't hear him. We've just spent time together, laughing, singing, dancing around, acting silly…fearless. I don't know how it gets better than that.
It has been a long time since I have felt this, well, fearless and it made me realize how rarely I let myself experience this feeling. I began to wonder how to hold on to this feeling and "all this beauty" I wish I had some profound insight. I wish I could write that I figured it all out, that I finally got it all together. But I don't. But maybe that is how you be fearless: you grab hold of somebody's hand and rush headfirst, especially when you don't know where you are going. I don't know where I will end up, it is all up in the air, but here I go…fearless.
You take my hand and drag me head first
Fearless
And I don't know why but with you I'd dance In a storm in my best dress
Fearless
I have really enjoyed these past two days. The weather has been absolutely gorgeous. On our road trip to Galveston and Moody Gardens yesterday, the kids and I were zooming down the highway blaring Taylor Swift, singing at the top of our lungs, Zoë and I in our matching "bug" but, oh, so fashionista, sunglasses. Caleb rolling his eyes in between mouthing the words under his breath so we won't hear him. We've just spent time together, laughing, singing, dancing around, acting silly…fearless. I don't know how it gets better than that.
It has been a long time since I have felt this, well, fearless and it made me realize how rarely I let myself experience this feeling. I began to wonder how to hold on to this feeling and "all this beauty" I wish I had some profound insight. I wish I could write that I figured it all out, that I finally got it all together. But I don't. But maybe that is how you be fearless: you grab hold of somebody's hand and rush headfirst, especially when you don't know where you are going. I don't know where I will end up, it is all up in the air, but here I go…fearless.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Haircut Time
So I went to Vegas with a friend this weekend. I did have a good time: had a spa tx, laid out by the pool, had an awesome dinner at Picasso, but I kept having flashbacks to 15-20 years ago when I was the party-girl/club-kid. Some things never change. The drinks may be more expensive but that is about it. I did come to realize that I am recovered from heart surgery. I'm fine. My heart is not going to explode or rupture in my chest at a moments notice. You will not see the headline "Stepford Wife Runner Found Dead in Clear Lake." What that means is the same thing it meant 15 years ago when I realized that my partying/drinking/ (and let's be honest, ho-ing around) was way out of hand: it's time to get off my ass and do something with my life. Like I said, somethings never change. I guess I'm lucky that all it took this time was a weekend in Vegas.
It is time to stop growing out my hair. Time to stop being afraid. Afraid of not being hired, afraid of my heart exploding, afraid of running, afraid of putting myself out there. I never realized the courage it takes to allow yourself to admit you're healed. It is much easier to be sick, to turn yourself and your care over to a team of doctors and to say, "I can't _________ because I'm sick.
I have decided that I really, really, need to get a job, get my resume together and start sending it out. I also think it is time to get a haircut so that I can look like somebody might want to hire.
It is time to stop growing out my hair. Time to stop being afraid. Afraid of not being hired, afraid of my heart exploding, afraid of running, afraid of putting myself out there. I never realized the courage it takes to allow yourself to admit you're healed. It is much easier to be sick, to turn yourself and your care over to a team of doctors and to say, "I can't _________ because I'm sick.
I have decided that I really, really, need to get a job, get my resume together and start sending it out. I also think it is time to get a haircut so that I can look like somebody might want to hire.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Invasion of the Heart Princess
When I had my heart surgery I said I wasn't a cardiac patient, I was a "heart princess." A cute moniker to help soften the blow of what I really was…somebody whose world completely changed….somebody who could have died. Now maybe that sounds melodramatic. But that is part of the problem. I haven't allowed myself to be melodramatic. Hiding behind Heart Princess I could pretend to be strong when I really felt like falling apart.
For the last six months I have been trying to deal with this Heart Princess person. Trying to integrate this person into who I was BS (before surgery) has been a difficult task for me. I have come to resent, hate and rebel against this "heart princess." She is no princess at all. She is a cold-hearted bitch and I hate her. I am so angry sometimes that I can't see straight. I didn't ask for this. I didn't deserve this. I was living my life, finally creating something that I felt proud of. I loved being a social worker, working with clients and even felt that I actually did some good. I was mom to two great kids and I seemed to not be totally messing that up. I was becoming a stronger runner everyday - running harder and farther every week and beginning to even think about running a half marathon. Like a cruel version of Invasion of the Body Snatchers, this Heart Princess walked in the door and just decided - not just to take over- but to take away all that I had worked so hard for and left me a life I don't recognize.
No clearer is the change in me as evident then in the mirror. I am now officially fat. I am not talking about the uncomfortable bloat that you wake up to on Jan 2 after you've spent the entire holiday season eating everything INCLLUDING Aunt Martha's fruit cake. Or even the ramifications of running through the drive thru one too many times for lunch. And it is mostly definitely not the, "oh my GAWD I ate a piece of bread this week" from the Paris Hilton Crowd. This is serious. Lecture-from-doctors-serious. "You're heart can't handle all this weight" serious. I am three pounds away from my heaviest weight ever….which happened to be when I was PREGNANT.
I have never had a good relationship with food or my body. I know what it is like to wield food like a weapon, to withhold or binge on food to feel some small piece of power. I've used eating as a way to make myself feel better than the people around me. I've used it to make myself feel worse, and now I feel worse than I ever have Something has to change. NOW. And not just because the doctors say so, because Heart Princess and I can't live like this anymore. We need to integrate. For both our sakes. I never wanted to be a Heart Princess and she isn't going away. We are playing tug-of-war with each other and neither one of us I backing down. Being fat is the physical manifestation of everything that has changed since I've had open heart surgery: my inability to exercise, my not working and turning into a slug and using clothes to hide my weight… and my scar.
What is my step in the dance?
Dig my heels in. That is what I do. You tell me I can't do something, damn if I am not going to kick and scratch until I prove you wrong. So it made sense to me that the more I dug in, the more difficult it was to accept the interloper. She is not going away and the more I rant and rave and throw clothes around Anne Taylor and JJill that don't fit and scream about how fat I am the more she is going to dig her heels in and settle in for the long haul. So I began to ask myself the question I used to ask my clients "what is your step in the dance?" I realized that every piece of clothing I put on that pinched, was so tight it hurt, or that I used to cover up and hide my body fueled my resentment. I decided I needed to make her feel comfortable and not like an unwelcome guest at a party. You know, invite her to eat lunch at the cool kids' table. I was thinking about ways to do this yesterday driving around and it thought maybe some retail therapy might be in order. It would have to be different this time. I couldn't do it with resentment or anger bitching and moaning and feeling disgusting and like a total failure. I would have to let that all go. It was going to have to come from a place of acceptance. It was time to meet my heart princess where she was at, welcome her with open arms and tell her the same thing I needed to hear, "it is going to be okay. We can do this. This is not forever." So in the jean aisle at Old Navy I resolved to buy a pair of jeans that fit - that I felt comfortable in- without even looking at the size. I scooped up different cuts and sizes and kept reminding myself that this would not work if I got pissed off.
Five minutes later I was in the dressing room in the first pair of jeans that I have felt good in in the last six months. Slipping those jeans on and not struggling with the buttons felt like me giving my heart princess a big hug. I could hear both of us sigh in relief. In that moment we met each other halfway. We're in this together. WE can do this. Not just dealing with the weight issues but dealing with the whole trauma of having open heart surgery. Together we can deal with the many fears that have gotten us to this weight and get past them. Together.
Nobody has understood what it has been like, but in that moment in the dressing room in my new jeans that fit, I finally found somebody who did get it and while I was so very grateful to have finally found her, I was sad to think she had been here all along I had just been too busy fighting her to realize.
This doesn't mean I'm giving up or that I am accepting my weight. It is unhealthy and I need to change it, not for a size I want to wear, but because I don't want my weight to sabotage my new heart. I also need to give up searching from outside sources of understanding. It just isn't going to happen. I am going to have to provide myself with understanding and comfort and that is going to have to be enough. That and maybe a cute new pair of pumps. My feet have gotten fat too! :)
For the last six months I have been trying to deal with this Heart Princess person. Trying to integrate this person into who I was BS (before surgery) has been a difficult task for me. I have come to resent, hate and rebel against this "heart princess." She is no princess at all. She is a cold-hearted bitch and I hate her. I am so angry sometimes that I can't see straight. I didn't ask for this. I didn't deserve this. I was living my life, finally creating something that I felt proud of. I loved being a social worker, working with clients and even felt that I actually did some good. I was mom to two great kids and I seemed to not be totally messing that up. I was becoming a stronger runner everyday - running harder and farther every week and beginning to even think about running a half marathon. Like a cruel version of Invasion of the Body Snatchers, this Heart Princess walked in the door and just decided - not just to take over- but to take away all that I had worked so hard for and left me a life I don't recognize.
No clearer is the change in me as evident then in the mirror. I am now officially fat. I am not talking about the uncomfortable bloat that you wake up to on Jan 2 after you've spent the entire holiday season eating everything INCLLUDING Aunt Martha's fruit cake. Or even the ramifications of running through the drive thru one too many times for lunch. And it is mostly definitely not the, "oh my GAWD I ate a piece of bread this week" from the Paris Hilton Crowd. This is serious. Lecture-from-doctors-serious. "You're heart can't handle all this weight" serious. I am three pounds away from my heaviest weight ever….which happened to be when I was PREGNANT.
I have never had a good relationship with food or my body. I know what it is like to wield food like a weapon, to withhold or binge on food to feel some small piece of power. I've used eating as a way to make myself feel better than the people around me. I've used it to make myself feel worse, and now I feel worse than I ever have Something has to change. NOW. And not just because the doctors say so, because Heart Princess and I can't live like this anymore. We need to integrate. For both our sakes. I never wanted to be a Heart Princess and she isn't going away. We are playing tug-of-war with each other and neither one of us I backing down. Being fat is the physical manifestation of everything that has changed since I've had open heart surgery: my inability to exercise, my not working and turning into a slug and using clothes to hide my weight… and my scar.
What is my step in the dance?
Dig my heels in. That is what I do. You tell me I can't do something, damn if I am not going to kick and scratch until I prove you wrong. So it made sense to me that the more I dug in, the more difficult it was to accept the interloper. She is not going away and the more I rant and rave and throw clothes around Anne Taylor and JJill that don't fit and scream about how fat I am the more she is going to dig her heels in and settle in for the long haul. So I began to ask myself the question I used to ask my clients "what is your step in the dance?" I realized that every piece of clothing I put on that pinched, was so tight it hurt, or that I used to cover up and hide my body fueled my resentment. I decided I needed to make her feel comfortable and not like an unwelcome guest at a party. You know, invite her to eat lunch at the cool kids' table. I was thinking about ways to do this yesterday driving around and it thought maybe some retail therapy might be in order. It would have to be different this time. I couldn't do it with resentment or anger bitching and moaning and feeling disgusting and like a total failure. I would have to let that all go. It was going to have to come from a place of acceptance. It was time to meet my heart princess where she was at, welcome her with open arms and tell her the same thing I needed to hear, "it is going to be okay. We can do this. This is not forever." So in the jean aisle at Old Navy I resolved to buy a pair of jeans that fit - that I felt comfortable in- without even looking at the size. I scooped up different cuts and sizes and kept reminding myself that this would not work if I got pissed off.
Five minutes later I was in the dressing room in the first pair of jeans that I have felt good in in the last six months. Slipping those jeans on and not struggling with the buttons felt like me giving my heart princess a big hug. I could hear both of us sigh in relief. In that moment we met each other halfway. We're in this together. WE can do this. Not just dealing with the weight issues but dealing with the whole trauma of having open heart surgery. Together we can deal with the many fears that have gotten us to this weight and get past them. Together.
Nobody has understood what it has been like, but in that moment in the dressing room in my new jeans that fit, I finally found somebody who did get it and while I was so very grateful to have finally found her, I was sad to think she had been here all along I had just been too busy fighting her to realize.
This doesn't mean I'm giving up or that I am accepting my weight. It is unhealthy and I need to change it, not for a size I want to wear, but because I don't want my weight to sabotage my new heart. I also need to give up searching from outside sources of understanding. It just isn't going to happen. I am going to have to provide myself with understanding and comfort and that is going to have to be enough. That and maybe a cute new pair of pumps. My feet have gotten fat too! :)
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Do One Thing Everyday That Scares the S"*!T Out of You!
One thing you must know about me is that I am the biggest chicken on the face of the planet. Bawk, Bawk, Bawk. Yeah, that is me. I'm afraid of everything, roller coasters, pain, fast cars, new restaurants, new people, old people doesn't matter it terrifies me, and me terrified is NOT a pretty sight. Just ask the 20 or so fellow grad students (not to mention the prof!) who had to endure my first grad school presentation! UGG. I think there is a part of me that is still be scraped off the wall in that classroom! So me going on a national casting call for ANYTHING is totally out of character! Me? Talk? You mean, like, in front of people? That I don't know? With cameras around? Might as well just shoot me now! Now once you get to know me, I won't shut the hell up, but at first? No freaking way! But when the AHA's Go Red Campaign came to Houston seeking women to share their "inspiring stories" I wanted to go because I'm a masochist like that.
It was an amazing experience. Kudos to the staff. They noticed I was nervous and told me I could "practice" telling my story on them before I went in for an interview. One of them even lent me this fierce red trench coat jacket to wear. Truth be told, I probably looked like a red oompha loompha, but I felt like I had just walked out of a What Not to Wear reveal. Stacy and Clinton would have been proud. I told my story to the interviewer, made her cry, and even did a brief interview (complete with pics) for the local newspaper! I was so dang proud of myself! I did it! Something that scared me to death, and I did it!
How did I do it? What got me through? Well, about a year ago my 13 y/o walking talking hormone (AKA my son) performed in his school's annual talent show. He was the only boy to perform and the gym was packed, but he absolutely rocked. Whenever I thought about giving up yesterday - of just turning around and going home, I pictured my son, on stage, no fear, rocking out to Weezer's Beverly Hills and told myself "I can do this!" then I surprised myself by actually doing it. Go Red. Go Caleb! Go ME!
It was an amazing experience. Kudos to the staff. They noticed I was nervous and told me I could "practice" telling my story on them before I went in for an interview. One of them even lent me this fierce red trench coat jacket to wear. Truth be told, I probably looked like a red oompha loompha, but I felt like I had just walked out of a What Not to Wear reveal. Stacy and Clinton would have been proud. I told my story to the interviewer, made her cry, and even did a brief interview (complete with pics) for the local newspaper! I was so dang proud of myself! I did it! Something that scared me to death, and I did it!
How did I do it? What got me through? Well, about a year ago my 13 y/o walking talking hormone (AKA my son) performed in his school's annual talent show. He was the only boy to perform and the gym was packed, but he absolutely rocked. Whenever I thought about giving up yesterday - of just turning around and going home, I pictured my son, on stage, no fear, rocking out to Weezer's Beverly Hills and told myself "I can do this!" then I surprised myself by actually doing it. Go Red. Go Caleb! Go ME!
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Data Connection Rejected: Are We Human or Are We Dancer?
While trying to IM with my BFF yesterday my Blackberry very rudely informed me that it "rejected" my attempt at connection! WHAT? How dare it! Freaking thing! Doesn't Mr. Blackberry understand I need my connection - that his rejection was felt on a very deep and personal level. Well okay, may not Blackberry personally, but it did leaving me thinking about what happens when our attempts at connection are rejected.
At this point in my life I am starved for connection. Since having open heart surgery I am no longer working. My central self-care routine (running till I puke) is not an option at the moment. I went from being a busy, successfully working mom to a slug in baggy sweats and oversize T-shirts to hide the bulges! Work and running centered me, grounded me, connected me to others and to myself. With them gone I became untethered and depressed. I have many friends who would understand and answer my call, "I need to connect!!" But the fear of receiving that message "data connection rejected" keeps me from opening my e-mail and sending those words to anyone in my address book. I have a list of excuses: they work, they have kids, they're too busy but the main reason is that fear of rejection. What is it about us that causes us to fear the most the thing we need the most?
I'm afraid of being laughed at. "Why is SHE calling me?" I know this to be an irrational fear. Nobody I know would say that to me. So what is beneath the fear or ridicule - showing weakness - admitting we don't just need help - we need people -to laugh with, cry with, celebrate and mourn with- we need connection. I know that I need to share my story about my heart surgery and I haven't fully done that yet with anybody. But I desperately need to share my story and have somebody "get it." To understand how scared I was. To understand why it is still mentally hard for me to run. I need to be understood as to how badly I feel my body betrayed me and how terrified I am that it will do it again and this time I may not be so lucky. That I still dream of my daughter, standing there in a beautiful wedding dress and she is crying for me…because I'm not there!
Then I think, maybe I am the one who is doing the rejecting? Maybe there are opportunities all around me to get the connection I need. Maybe the world is full of people who are receiving my message of "data connection refused" Sometimes I think it is harder to be the receiver that the transmitter. To offer a shoulder, a pat on the back, a "that will do, pig, that will do." We are not mere receivers or transmitters, but are we human or are we dancer(s)? When Hunter S. Thomson wrote that, we was referring to our innate behavior to perform, to be what others needed or expected us to be. And if we were always "dancing" were we ever really human? However I heard this song by The Killers on the way to take Zoë to dance lesson and it spoke to me in a different way. Are we dancers? Is there something out there greater than ourselves that when we allow it to work within us allows to achieve more, be more, lets us know the power of the universe at work in our lives….that allows us to dance…I wrote a list of 100 things I am grateful for today…things that make me dance…most of it is the people in my life. That is what makes us dancers. And it makes me realize that if I want to dance I need to receive connection as well as give it. What makes YOU a dancer? Right now it is the six year old tugging on my hand wanting to boggie down to The Go Go's We Got the Beat! Dance on!
At this point in my life I am starved for connection. Since having open heart surgery I am no longer working. My central self-care routine (running till I puke) is not an option at the moment. I went from being a busy, successfully working mom to a slug in baggy sweats and oversize T-shirts to hide the bulges! Work and running centered me, grounded me, connected me to others and to myself. With them gone I became untethered and depressed. I have many friends who would understand and answer my call, "I need to connect!!" But the fear of receiving that message "data connection rejected" keeps me from opening my e-mail and sending those words to anyone in my address book. I have a list of excuses: they work, they have kids, they're too busy but the main reason is that fear of rejection. What is it about us that causes us to fear the most the thing we need the most?
I'm afraid of being laughed at. "Why is SHE calling me?" I know this to be an irrational fear. Nobody I know would say that to me. So what is beneath the fear or ridicule - showing weakness - admitting we don't just need help - we need people -to laugh with, cry with, celebrate and mourn with- we need connection. I know that I need to share my story about my heart surgery and I haven't fully done that yet with anybody. But I desperately need to share my story and have somebody "get it." To understand how scared I was. To understand why it is still mentally hard for me to run. I need to be understood as to how badly I feel my body betrayed me and how terrified I am that it will do it again and this time I may not be so lucky. That I still dream of my daughter, standing there in a beautiful wedding dress and she is crying for me…because I'm not there!
Then I think, maybe I am the one who is doing the rejecting? Maybe there are opportunities all around me to get the connection I need. Maybe the world is full of people who are receiving my message of "data connection refused" Sometimes I think it is harder to be the receiver that the transmitter. To offer a shoulder, a pat on the back, a "that will do, pig, that will do." We are not mere receivers or transmitters, but are we human or are we dancer(s)? When Hunter S. Thomson wrote that, we was referring to our innate behavior to perform, to be what others needed or expected us to be. And if we were always "dancing" were we ever really human? However I heard this song by The Killers on the way to take Zoë to dance lesson and it spoke to me in a different way. Are we dancers? Is there something out there greater than ourselves that when we allow it to work within us allows to achieve more, be more, lets us know the power of the universe at work in our lives….that allows us to dance…I wrote a list of 100 things I am grateful for today…things that make me dance…most of it is the people in my life. That is what makes us dancers. And it makes me realize that if I want to dance I need to receive connection as well as give it. What makes YOU a dancer? Right now it is the six year old tugging on my hand wanting to boggie down to The Go Go's We Got the Beat! Dance on!
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Tools of the Trade
Anyone who has ever grown out their hair knows the value of the tools of the trade, namely headbands, ponytail holders, barrettes. Get a good hairband, slick back that hair, gel up the back in some funky spiky madness, and voila! Fake it till you make it is what I always say!
I've discovered that when growing out your life, you need tools too, namely friends, trips to Vegas, chocolate and alcohol...not necessarily in that order. Friends will force you out of the house, either for lunch, coffee, drinks...whatever, and they won't judge the sweatpants you have been wearing for the past three days. (at least not the good ones!) They will keep you from hacking at your bangs in fits of frustration and rage and lie to you and tell you that you look great when you know you look like ass. Getting hit on my some drunk guy in Vegas who you have shoes older than can be good for the self-esteem. Chocolate and alcohol are fairly self-explanatory.
I am lucky that I have several friends to get me through this growing out stage of my life. They have accepted me where I am at right now and continue to love me anyway, six inch scar, depression, and jacked up hair and all.
We tend to forget however, that we have tools inside of us! Tools we need to take care of ourselves so that we can grow out healthy and happy we tend to forget how to do this. We take care of everyone else around us like society says we should afraid of the voices that tell us we are a bad mother, wife, worker, woman if we are not doing it all...for someone else.
You would think that having open heart surgery would force me to start taking care of myself. In many ways it has but I have noticed this past week that the things I need to do for myself - things that make ME feel better - I have let fall by the wayside. I haven't been exercising, meditating, sleeping well, or getting sunlight and I'm feeling the ramifications. Basically I feel like crap. I did go for a walk - dragging my sluggish self through the streets of my Stepford Wife subdivision. No, it didn't make me feel better but I have to start doing somewhere. I told my kids that night before I went if for surgery, "my heart is not some aorta that needs to be repaired or some valve that needs to be replaced. My heart is YOU!" Can't take care of those pieces of my heart until I take care of my own first.
I've discovered that when growing out your life, you need tools too, namely friends, trips to Vegas, chocolate and alcohol...not necessarily in that order. Friends will force you out of the house, either for lunch, coffee, drinks...whatever, and they won't judge the sweatpants you have been wearing for the past three days. (at least not the good ones!) They will keep you from hacking at your bangs in fits of frustration and rage and lie to you and tell you that you look great when you know you look like ass. Getting hit on my some drunk guy in Vegas who you have shoes older than can be good for the self-esteem. Chocolate and alcohol are fairly self-explanatory.
I am lucky that I have several friends to get me through this growing out stage of my life. They have accepted me where I am at right now and continue to love me anyway, six inch scar, depression, and jacked up hair and all.
We tend to forget however, that we have tools inside of us! Tools we need to take care of ourselves so that we can grow out healthy and happy we tend to forget how to do this. We take care of everyone else around us like society says we should afraid of the voices that tell us we are a bad mother, wife, worker, woman if we are not doing it all...for someone else.
You would think that having open heart surgery would force me to start taking care of myself. In many ways it has but I have noticed this past week that the things I need to do for myself - things that make ME feel better - I have let fall by the wayside. I haven't been exercising, meditating, sleeping well, or getting sunlight and I'm feeling the ramifications. Basically I feel like crap. I did go for a walk - dragging my sluggish self through the streets of my Stepford Wife subdivision. No, it didn't make me feel better but I have to start doing somewhere. I told my kids that night before I went if for surgery, "my heart is not some aorta that needs to be repaired or some valve that needs to be replaced. My heart is YOU!" Can't take care of those pieces of my heart until I take care of my own first.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Growing Out My Hair
So I'm growing out my hair and my wise friend Michelle commented on how she is also growing out her hair and how it a metaphor for her life. It occured to me that it has become a metaphor for my life as well.
Since I had open heart surgery on 9/22/08, my life has been in a serious state of "growing out"-going from that safe predictable bob I've sported for the past 100 years to a new, sassy, hipper version of myself. Nothing is safe or predictable after having heart surgery. Nothing. But is LIFE ever safe or predictable? God I hope not!
So here I am, growing out my hair... trying to figure out what I'm going to look like now. In that in between stage, in between careers, relationships, body images, and hair cuts. Right now I'm in that awkward stage. Nothing makes sense, that stage where you can't do a thing with it and it would be easier to just shave everything off and start over (which may be an option!) but where you just have to hang in there and see where it goes. Guess I'm just going to invest in some headbands and jump in!
Since I had open heart surgery on 9/22/08, my life has been in a serious state of "growing out"-going from that safe predictable bob I've sported for the past 100 years to a new, sassy, hipper version of myself. Nothing is safe or predictable after having heart surgery. Nothing. But is LIFE ever safe or predictable? God I hope not!
So here I am, growing out my hair... trying to figure out what I'm going to look like now. In that in between stage, in between careers, relationships, body images, and hair cuts. Right now I'm in that awkward stage. Nothing makes sense, that stage where you can't do a thing with it and it would be easier to just shave everything off and start over (which may be an option!) but where you just have to hang in there and see where it goes. Guess I'm just going to invest in some headbands and jump in!
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