Automatic Answer Syndrome

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When I was little(r), I was somewhat of a know it all.  If I was comfortable, I could be quite the chatter box.  Any question pointed in my direction likely got a lengthy monologue in response. Sure, I was pretty cute, but even the cutest of little ones can exhaust the attention of those that love them.

After seemingly endless periods of squeaking my every thought and observation, I eventually encountered the much too advanced wisdom of my father.  I recall conversations in which he spoke at my wee tow-head about the concept of noise pollution.  Believing himself to be helpful, he explained that my excessive verbalization was just adding needless sound to the world.  He guided me through picturing what the air would look like if we could see sound, and insinuated that I was soiling breathable space with my desire to talk without purpose.

This was not as awful as it sounds.  Though my not yet fully formed brain was momentarily stifled by the all too scientific advice of my apparently heroic father, I didn't actually stop talking.  It's possible that I may have slowed down some in response, but historic reports of my family members would indicate the inaccuracy of this assumption. On and on and on I prattled; selfishly soaking up the sound space around my loved ones.

In particular, I loved to prove my intelligence to my father.  As you may have discerned from the above story, my dad was pretty clever himself.  I'm pretty sure that was always obvious to me.  I even imagine myself as an infant, craning in his arms, thinking "whoa! this dude is smart!" So, naturally I had to rise to the genetic occasion. As a bumbling tot trying to form my own understanding of the world, I assumed I had to prove my worth by immediately answering every question that even seemed meant for me.

Obviously, I got a lot of questions wrong.  That's what happens when you increase the frequency of your attempts at anything, you increase the chances for error.  Eventually, as it always did in my family, my behavior led to another paternal teaching moment.  I recall a family dinner, with us all seated at the table discussing our days, and likely answering trivia questions to the key of "for an extra two points!"  I must have exhausted the patience of others with my interrupting and attempting to guess at things I didn't truly know, because my father finally spoke out against it.

"You don't always have to know the answer," he calmly stated.  "There's nothing wrong with saying you don't know."  He then guided us through acknowledging our ignorance, and confidently stating "I don't know."  From then on, both my parents would pause us when we demonstrated notable sensitivity to the unknown, and guide us through calling ourselves out.  We were repeatedly coached to practice alerting others to our dearth of knowledge.

I found this activity irritating for the vast majority of my childhood.  I hated telling people I didn't understand them.  I abhorred acknowledgement of my inadequacies in a public forum, and I resisted encouragement to lay it all out on the table.  Only recently have I realized that this ongoing tutelage actually took.

In my adulthood, my academic and professional careers have been marked by my insistent confession of inadequacies.  It is possible that I call out my lack of wisdom all too often.  However, I'm frequently praised by superiors for indicating that I have yet to glean what I need to.  Personally, I often attribute it to my sense of innocence and inexperience with all things "real world."  Though, I have started to notice my own frustration with colleagues and superiors who lack the strength required to assert their ignorance. I find myself often grunting vexation with "knowledgeable others" who automatically throw out suggestions unrelated to the questions I have asked.  My head spins with annoyance when I turn to seasoned professionals who attempt to guide me through basic responses to situations I am comfortable with, and ignore my pointed questions about how to deal with advanced complexities.

My initial assumption was that this played on my own inadequacies.  My primary response was to think "they must really think I'm stupid if think I've forgotten the basics," but then I realized it wasn't this at all.  Due to my own prior experience with automatic answer syndrome, I quickly understood that the truth was they don't have the answers either.  It is they who lacks the knowledge to further themselves. Because they never had support to build comfort with their own lack of understanding, they have habituated time-wasting discussions of things that don't matter.  They don't understand the utility of recognizing a deficit in order to build upon it.

Self Discovery

About two weeks ago I came home from work at my normal time, flopped on the couch, and declared epic fatigue.

"I'm tired!" I whined, perplexed that this normal every day experience had resulted in complete and total lethargy.  Being someone who must understand everything, I felt rising irritation at the irrationality of my listlessness.  There seemed to be no reason for me to feel this out of sorts.  Yet there I lay, trying to stave off the inner toddler rising to tantrum within me.

Then I did as I always do, I gave in.  This is a piece of wisdom I gleaned from many years of facilitating and safe-guarding the worst hissy fits imaginable.  I now know, after endlessly trying to circumvent hysterical meltdowns, that it's pointless.  One way or another, the emotion is going to catch up with you.  I learned to just prepare myself and others for the experience, because that's the only way to learn from it.

So, melt down I did.  In my own modified adult way, I let the child within me loose.  I cried for a minute or two, whimpering about how profoundly busy I felt.  I bellyached about my active lifestyle and how I knew it was irrational for me to actually miss my couch. I tossed and turned, and catastrophized that I hadn't had a moment to myself in years.

As I started to pull my act together, I began to actually listen to my petulant rant, and the logical part of my brain made the connections.  I'm an introspective type.  Regular readers may have noticed that my thought process often follows an inward train. My own self-exploration comes from down time and zoning out while "doing nothing." For this reason, it is crucial that I provide myself with regular relaxation time.  I need to sit in a comfortable space and allow myself to get lost in my own musings.  When I don't, I lose myself.  Though highly motivated, I forget who I am in my endless drive to the next step.

Thinking this through, I began to realize that my catastrophic thinking wasn't entirely unrealistic. In fact, I'd spent approximately the last 2.5 years working a variety of jobs, moving, attending graduate school, moving again, doing a high stress internship, volunteering, researching and composing a painstaking thesis, and beginning a career. All the while haphazardly making some of the best, most life altering, decisions ever.

 In my last couple of years, I forgot the meaning of transition.  I jumped from one thing to the next without even taking a beat.  In most cases, one thing overlapped with the next for quite some time.  I had forgotten to pause, and I definitely didn't stop to think.

So, yeah, I was tired.

Flight of the Wendy Bird

A few months back I began to prepare for the completion of my graduate degree by searching for open employment opportunities, but I found myself profoundly unmotivated to update my resume or make active efforts to embark upon my career.  So, as a method of forcing myself into the waters I applied for the very first job opening I encountered working with my preferred population.  To be quite honest, it was a job I didn't want. It represented a step into the pool for me.  It pushed me to update my resume, and practice my application responses.  I was still in school and completing my clinical internship.  My availability was remarkably limited which removed all the pressure of the process.  In fact, I made a point to note that my lack of availability in at least three separate locations throughout my resume and application submission.  If I were looking to hire, I would have thrown my cover letter out.

I was, of course, astonished when I received a call to arrange an interview.  She described a rigorous interview process that involved a 30 minute writing activity and a case consultation.  Having never experienced such an intense process, I rationalized that this would be good practice.  Again, I didn't want the job.  The pressure was low.

Before I knew it I was called for a second interview involving a mock case presentation and participation in clinical rounds.  I started to feel nervous.  I still didn't want the job, but I was becoming intrigued by the process and I was afraid I was wasting the agency's time.  Knowing I wasn't going to take this job, I decided to just relax and enjoy the experience.  So, when I found myself seated at a table with 12 skills trainers, therapists, program managers, and clinical directors, I didn't really flinch.  I answered every question honestly; revealing my strengths and exposing my weaknesses.  I was comfortable and unconcerned.  This is why, when a loud and energetic man jokingly asked me what my favorite cartoon was, I didn't even bother to let him finish asking "why" before startling him with my response.

I explained that I loved most cartoons, children's stories, and super hero tales because of the allegories inherent within them, but that one stood out among the rest: Peter Pan.  I went on to state that I truly believed this story was a beautiful metaphor for what it means to grow up.  I monologued for nearly 10 minutes about the narrative of a boy without a mother who battles adults as he refuses to grow.  The room became silent as I went on and on about the captivation of Wendy as she is pulled between a world where she has to grow up and one that won't let her.  I wound down with an explanation of Wendy's ultimate decision to have one foot in both worlds.  Crickets chirped, but before the awkwardness set I verbally lunged forward with excitement. "OH!" I started, "and did you guys know that the author of Peter Pan had failure to thrive syndrome?!"  With this exclamation, I surged onward with a lecture about J.M. Barrie's traumatic childhood, and his stunted physical development.  I explained how the novel was a tribute to his deceased older brother who's reputation forever shadowed him in the eyes of his emotionally abusive mother.

All 12 faces stared speechlessly at me as I finished my soliloquy.  My individual discourse had left the entire panel with no apparent segue for completing the interview.  Amused with my socially awkward tendency, I did the only thing I could do.  I called it for them.

"Obviously I could go on and on about this topic," I said.  "I love children's stories, and I appreciate their ability to give insight to the human condition.  So...great question!"

Now, three months later, I call that confounded panel of professionals my coworkers.

In Reality

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Recently, I found myself sitting with a teenage girl after she had requested to speak with me about her failed attempt to communicate her needs. With an agitated affect, and a irritated tone, she explained her situation to me. She had, on top of all her significant life and environmental stressors, experienced a normal and typical adolescent setback.

Under most circumstances, this setback would have been manageable. Any other typically developing child would have addressed their concerns and had their needs met in a relatively short period of time. For this child it was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. Although, when you consider her trauma history, this young girl actually handled it quite well. She reported her concerns to an adult, and developed a reasonable plan to address them. Unfortunately, the adults did not communicate the plan with one another, and this girl, whose hopelessness and despair frequently results in depressive mood and self-harm behaviors, did not get her needs met. She instead got stuck defending herself to one adult, when the first had left without explaining the circumstances. The subsequent dispute, spiraled into an argument that evolved into a power struggle, and ended in undesired consequences. Then, she cried out for a therapist, and that is when I entered, as one adult was trying to explain a convoluted miscommunication to a teenager who'd lost all hope.

I stepped in, pulled her out of the stressful environment, and into a quiet room. We sat on the backs of chairs and looked out the window as she explained the entire scenario to me. I nodded along and reflected to the best of my recently conferred master's level ability. Then she finished her story. The room went silent. She hung her head, picked at her finger nails, and waited for my little bit of wisdom. After what felt like an eternity, I said the only thing I could think of.

"This sucks."

At first, I felt horrible. Here I am: the newly anointed therapist with fresh education. I had been coaching this kid on using her assertive communication skills for weeks. I come into a confusing situation, and all I can say to her is "this sucks." What the hell did I think I was doing? She needed answers, and I was giving her nothing.

So, I combed my mind, trying to come up with something, anything, that solved or explained the situation. We sat in silence again. She shifted on the back of her chair, tracing the crease of the material with her finger as she moved. Clearly she was done talking. It was my turn now.

I watched her tilt her head as she peered out the window; avoiding my eye contact. Think of something, I thought to myself, anything. Don't let her give up, not now. But, every intervention I devised felt like a lie. The truth was this was a real life issue. No matter what level of care you require, or how out of control your emotions are, there's always going to be the potential for others to let you down and that sucks. So, I told her that.

I said, "I can tell how hard you tried to communicate your concerns, and it's really frustrating to hear that the adults involved let you down. That's not fair." I went on to tell her how proud I was of her attempts to solve the problem. I reflected that the resulting scenario probably felt like a failure that brought about consequences she didn't want. Ultimately, my final message to her was probably more for me than anyone else. Though, I think it helped us both.

I told her that we can't control what other people do with the information we give them. All we can do is try our best to control what comes off on our end, and that's why it's important to keep at it. You've got to practice the skills to get better at them, but no one can promise that you'll always be successful. Sometimes, despite our best efforts, things don't work out. That's when it sucks the most. When we tried really hard, did everything we could, and it still didn't turn out right. But, if we keep on trying, one day we will limit those interactions as much as possible, and our successes will outweigh the setbacks.

Pandora

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Those who truly know me, know that I'm not afraid of crying. Yet, I don't do it much. I may be a sensitive person, but I'm pretty tough emotionally. I can handle seeing and hearing about most things. In fact, I've been a direct witness to a lot of the really tough shit in this world. So, imagine my dismay when I found myself crying...in a session.

I was sitting on the floor with a  fragile-looking little girl suffering from a deep chest cold. She didn't feel well, and I too was suffering from my own physiological malady. I had brought some magazine clippings and a shoebox into the room. Calmly and with frequent interruptions to sympathize with her productive cough, I explained that our purpose for the day was to cover this box in happy thoughts. She nodded in understanding, and we quietly set out to find her happy thoughts. It was a low-key moment. Neither of us said much. Side-by-side we combed through images; silently passing them back and forth. Fatigue was high, and words were sparse.

Several minutes into the activity I realized my attempt to help was impeding the process. After all, the images were supposed to make her feel good, not me. So, I sat back and watched this tiny thing rake through piles of glossy paper. The only sounds were sniffles and shuffling. Her kind yet guarded eyes remained turned down except to seek out clean tissues. Despite her clearly ailing body, she was completely engaged in this activity.

For all intents and purposes, this was a breakthrough. It was the most open this overly regulated and compliant child had ever been in my presence. I should have been ecstatic. The pride I should have felt at having finally gotten through to this child should have been overwhelming. Instead, I remembered why we were doing this.

I was helping this child create a vessel for her abundance of private worries. I was assisting in the construction of a safe place to release her very serious and realistic fears.

For a moment, I tried to imagine myself making a similar box for my worries. I saw a towheaded Little Min sit in front of me. I thought of the things she might put in her box. Only, I couldn't think of what would have been serious enough to require such an action. What is this girl going to put in her worry box? I wondered innocently.

That's when the triggering thought sauntered through my mind: Someone hit this child.

I welled up. My eyes filled to the brims with fluid, and I quietly swallowed a lump. This would have been fine, but my brain continued thinking.

I had no idea what it was like to be this girl. I had never in my life experienced anything like she had. My own childhood was safe and secure. My worries were sweet, chaste, and age-appropriate. I knew what to do with them. My family was reliable, and trustworthy. I could turn to my parents whenever I needed. When I did, I always found support, and I frequently got answers that explained every perplexing struggle. I was so lucky.

Juxtaposing my free and secure Little Min with the girl earnestly seeking to suppress the evils in world before me, I lost my composure. My eyes overfilled, and tears silently rolled down my cheeks.

Fortunately, she was so engrossed in her activity, that my sorrow for her went unnoticed. I turned my head and wiped my tears so as not to burden her with my own trivial sense of guilt for having a wonderful family.

This very uncharacteristic moment of emotionality passed rather quickly. However, I suspect this is not my last confrontation with guilt-ridden sorrow for others.

Dear Blog,

There's this thing my mother used to say to me when I was little. She'd lower her voice to an affectionate whipser, and ask for my attention. A gentle smile would wash over her face. This was evident, even when she spoke from afar, by the warm tone in her voice. She'd sigh, then ask "have I told you yet today?" Sometimes I'd respond by explaining that she had already given me the message. Most of the time I'd impishly imply she hadn't. Then she would tilt her head, twinkle her eyes, and say "well I do." This is a ritual I have always held warmly in my heart.  To this day, remembering those tender moments when neither of us verbalized anything significant, I swell with nostalgia because I know a connection existed between us. I smile to myself at the idea that no words were ever necessary to convey my mother's love for me.

Right now, this memory seems the most appropriate way to begin what is a very bittersweet announcement for me. This, as you may know, began as a frivilous and infantile finger fidget for an angsty and unemployed post-grad. I sporadically provided humorously detailed accounts of the absurdly mundane, and  peevishly moaned about my seemingly catastrophic realities (they weren't).  Gradually, I found my voice in recounting lessons learned from less fortunate little ones. 

Oblivious to the irony, I felt so immature. It was like I had gotten stuck somewhere in my own development. The only way I could find to move myself along was to listen to these tragic tales of children in crisis or escaping duress. It seemed unfair that I, the world's youngest adult, was to help the world's oldest children. Clearly, they knew more about growing up than I did.  They had no choice but to take care of this obligation early on. Whereas I had been given all the time in the world simply to stall.

It wasn't until a few years in that I understood we were helping each other. As I noticed my emotional maturity grow, I realized this wasn't something you could force. I learned the importance of slowing down and meeting yourself where you are at. That's when I decided I didn't want to grow up, and I stubbornly dug my heels in the ground. I changed my blog. I embraced my inner Peter Pan.

That's the tone this has taken over the last year of weekly scheduled essays. Memoirs and stories have dictated my internal resistance of the never-ending drive to mature, and my outward embrace of a childish affection for life. It's been a kind of manual or cautionary tale for the coming of age. I can't even really describe just how important this has been to me. The people this has reached provided validation I didn't even know I needed. It was intended for me, but the support has been overwhelming. I appreciate that more than I can put into words.

So, it is with a heavy heart that I have decided to take a break from my routine. Don't worry, I'm not done here, nor do I ever think I will be. I love writing too much, and I enjoy the meaning others find in my words even more. However, I have recently realized I may be on the precipice of biting off more than I can chew. 

Approximately a year ago I posted a macabre satirical letter informing the powers that be of my bleak outlook. Surprisingly, I made it through that experience. In fact, not only did I survive, but I aced everything that came my way! This year, it's different. My outlook is hopeful, despite some majorly distressing obligations. That's why, I needed to really prioritze. 

The reality is, I'm almost done with grad school. I'm about to be through with my scholastic experience, and I will be embarking on a career. All in the next 6 months. This is huge! Honestly, there is a part of me, that's terrified. This part wants me to give up now, and hide in my bedroom like I did when I was less emotionally secure. However, if this last year has taught me anything it's this: The only way to truly erase fear is to face it head on. That's why I refuse to fail now.

Unfortunately, that means something has got to go. At least for now. So, after all that beating around the bush here's my plan:

I'm going to suspend Monday Musings. I refuse to give up completely. Leaving Neverland will still be up and running. If something comes to me, I'll write it down. If it seems appropriate, I'll intermittently post like I used to. However, for now I will be relieving the pressure of providing a half-prepared poorly thought out post each Monday evening. Those don't represent my true feelings, and that's not fair. It's not fair to me, and it's not fair to you.

Until I return, you are more than welcome to review my archives, share thoughts in the comments, or send me messages. I will always attend to that because you are important to me.  As a matter of fact, have I told you yet today?

Thank you so much,
Mindy

Conciliation

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It's astounding how difficult it is to get heads and hearts on the same page. Encapsulated in the same body, our two most vital organs are not far from one another. They're practically neighbors situated on the same northern end of our anatomy. Yet, the two regularly seem at odds with one another.

So often, we find ourselves mediating arguments between our brains and chests. We express confusion at the recognition that what we know differs greatly from how we feel. We startle or act impulsively when we want what we know we should not, and our beliefs frequently stop us from pursuing what seems right.

We tell each other how to cope with this disconnect all the time. Slow down. Listen to your heart. Think it through, we say. It's all very wise and thoughtful advice. If only our souls could hear it.

Reconciling minds and hearts is not easily done. It's a fool's errand in which what you want and what you need are rarely running in the same direction. Yet we keep trying. We strive each day for that perfect world scenario when our heads and our hearts finally agree and we can live in peace. If there is such a thing.

Working On It

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Right after I accepted the job that got me started down this path, and shortly before I actually began doing it, I had a rather significant freak out. I remember it distinctly.

I was sitting in my cleverly designated "office" (also known as my parents' dinning room) anxiously fiddling through HR paperwork. Like the good-little neurotic employee I planned to be, I had logged into the company email remotely to set up my account preferences so they would be ready in two weeks when I actually started. Excited, I realized that I had already been added to the team e-mail list. The curiosity tagged the over-achiever in me, and I clicked the first of several messages open. What I discovered was an overwhelming amount of information about deadlines, time frames, and expectations all cloaked in some kind of agency jargon that made no sense to me.

Shit, I thought. I don't know how to do any of this!

Then I did what any responsible and mature 23 year old woman does. 

I ran crying to my mommy.

Through broken breaths and heaving sobs, I frantically described for her what a massive mistake I had made. I told her I wasn't ready. Like a crazy person I speculated about my imposter status. I rationalized that I had wanted this job so badly I had actually tricked several experienced mental health professionals into thinking I knew what I was talking about.

Likely bewildered, my mother patted my back. She looked me in the eye and frankly told me to put on my big girl pants and get over it.

"Of course you don't know what you're supposed to be doing!" she shook her head with exasperation. "You haven't done it yet. That's what training time is for." She explained that I hadn't tricked anybody into anything, and that all new jobs have a learning curve. Then, she abruptly instructed me to calm down already.

Honestly, I walked away from that interaction feeling like my mom had no idea what she was talking about. I mean, she hadn't seen those e-mails. She didn't fully understand the magnitude of my predicament. Now, several years later, I'm not so sure.

I find myself in a rather similar state of panic over ineptitude in my current position. I wake up nearly every day thinking to myself, what have I gotten myself into? Most of the time I'm convinced I have no idea what I'm doing. More often, I think about how I seem to have fooled each of my supervisors into thinking that I do. On more than one occasion I've actually practiced a "coming clean" type of speech that will explain my actual ignorance to this group of highly educated individuals.

It's definitely not a good feeling, but when I think back to other times I've had these sensations I'm reminded of my retail job in college when I fretted excessively over just what particular style to fold the t-shirts in. I also think of my first actual job at a movie theater, and the shame I felt when the manager accused me of misrepresenting my (very real bike race) concessions experience because, to him, that meant knowing how to work a pop tower. The common thread here does seem to be new jobs.

Perhaps what's even more important is that I eventually learned to work that pop tower and I am now an expert shirt folder. Also, those deadlines and time frames where concerning treatment issues that would eventually become so important to me I went to grad school so I could make a serious career out of them.

Maybe the freak out is all just part of the process. Maybe that irrational panic and absolute conviction that I'm an imposter is just proof that I'm ready to learn. And maybe, just maybe, my mom was right after all.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

If you yourself have ever found yourself afflicted with a similar case of the unnecessary worries, read this woman's blog.  It helped me a LOT.

 

Knowing I Don't

There's this saying. It's a bit of a brain bender, but I find it incredibly accurate:

The more you know, the more you know you don't know.

As I write this to you, I find myself 2/3 the way through an advanced degree program. I have more knowledge than ever before, and I've never felt more dumb.

Logically, this makes no sense. My brain is so full, yet it feels utterly empty. So empty in fact, that I struggle to find the words to describe it to you.

See, it is as if my mind is a bucket that has been placed under an eternally running faucet. At first, it started to fill with beautifully clear liquid knowledge. Then, as it came faster, the solution inside stirred up. The pressure of incoming information muddied the water with an influx of air bubbles. What was once contained safely in my mind began to spill over the edges; making room for the fresh supply.

The inherent dilemma is that I can't hold it all in. As the deluge continues to build, the bucket will start to rust and eventually it will wear down because of the weight it contains. Knowledge will leak out at an increasing rate. It's a giant mess, and I find myself frantically trying to mop it all up. Only, I can't because patching holes is nearly impossible while it pours in, and there seems to be no stopping it.

Asking For It

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There's a story in one of my favorite psychology books about a young girl who was repeatedly molested by an adult in her own home. The story is fascinating for several reasons. Perhaps the most notable intrigue in the story involves the girl's peculiar response to the trauma. This girl, recognizing that the abuse only occurred during states of extreme intoxication on the perpetrator' part, began to provide the man with freshly opened beer bottles.

Those of us fortunate enough to grow up in healthy homes with trusting adults are often baffled and outraged by this story. We wonder why she would do that. We speculate about her self-sabotaging or masochistic tendencies. Our healthy relationship foundations impair our ability to see this seemingly illogical reaction for the highly adaptive behavior it is. Because he only ever molested her when drunk, and because the girl couldn't stand waiting around wondering when his next bender would be, she took matters into her own hands. By initiating the very circumstances that result in her recurrent traumatization, this girl took control of an otherwise reckless scenario. Instead of maintaining a perpetual sense of terror at the unpredictable potential of another incident, she made it happen on her terms.

You actually see this kind of behavior in traumatized kids all the time. For many it involves emotional explosions that practically demand punishment. It is those kids who, despite every promise of rewards for good behavior, blow up at the first seemingly insignificant issue of the day. It's really common conduct, and yet it leaves foster parents, helping professionals, and school faculty understandably confused. It can be difficult to comprehend why a perfectly capable kid will repeatedly self-destruct.

These kids don't see the world the way we do. Their development has not been securely guarded by the trusting adults most of us knew. They do not have the expectation of safety and happiness that every child deserves. Unfortunately, moving them to safer environments doesn't magically change that. They have already grown to know the world as a dark place of disappointment. Maybe they have had some good experiences, but those are disproportionately infrequent in their memories. Getting smacked around, yelled at, and sent to a cupboard under the stairs are things they can count on. They know abuse is going to happen, history has proven this to them. They live every day knowing that eventually they will fall asleep and their nightmare will begin again.

Maltreated kids do not have much experience with interrupting or ending their traumas. Many of them don't believe it is even possible. They often lack the hope to hang on and try to repair their lives. To them, the worst is coming. It always does. With this hopeless outlook, the only way to prepare themselves, is to control when.

The Resolution

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I've never put much weight behind New Year's resolutions. I don't care for them. It seems silly to even bother. Few are actually kept, and the idea of changing simply because the annual calendar is ending seems arbitrary to me. Nevertheless, I made one this year. Or, I made one last year? Whatever. I made one for 2012. That's what I'm trying to say.

As 2011 came to a close, I found myself contemplating my love of writing and the misfortune that my studies and career path had me so overworked and emotionally drained that I didn't have much time for it. After one of my numerous discussions with fellow helping professionals about the importance of taking care of yourself (much like the airplane oxygen mask rule, it's important to secure your own wellness before you can help others achieve theirs), I decided something that changed the course of this blog.

"Screw my mental and temporal restrictions!" I thought. I enjoy writing. The creative process brings me peace and clarity. So, as an exercise in productivity, and making self-care part of my routine, I determined that 2012 would be a year of weekly blogs. As I shifted my Mindy's Musings to a less identifying name, I realized I could keep the original theme going by creating Monday Musings.

For someone who barely values New Year's Resolutions for their ability to change a person, I'm incredibly surprised to announce that I kept mine. This has not always been as simple as I expected. This past year has been rife with trying experiences, research papers, scheduling challenges, and the dreaded writer's block. Sometimes, I intentionally prepared my essays ahead of time, knowing there wouldn't be time in the Mondays to come. Other times, I stayed up until nearly the last minute to publish some impulsive and disorganized posts I wasn't exactly proud of, but I had apparently committed myself to this goal.

Clearly, I have produced a lot this year. Some of it evidences my skill in a way that reinforces my confidence and makes me proud to share with others. On the other hand, some of it is utter crap, and publishing it was embarrassingly humbling. Regardless, everything I have posted this year, including the fictional experiments and novel series, came from my heart.

Though it often didn't seem like it, working toward this goal was a revealing process. I started the year off feeling like I knew who I was. I set off to detail my own adventures in growing up in the hopes that it would solidify my self concept and help someone else recognized theirs. Over the past year I learned that my original intent was somewhat misguided. I put a little bit of myself into everything I churned out. As my readers unwittingly learned more about me, I discovered how much I actually didn't know about myself.

Surprisingly, I am alright with this revelation. It's okay that I learn something new about myself each week because I doubt I'm alone in this experience. I don't think any of us truly knows ourselves. There's always something new to learn and unexpected epitomes to be realized. If there isn't, you're not looking hard enough.

I was right about one thing however. No matter how old we are, everyone is striving for the next in a series of milestones  We are all just trying to grow up while simultaneously attempting to understand what that even means.


Happy New Year kids!  Thanks for sticking with me!

Sitting With It

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I've seen a lot of scary behavior. Working with traumatized kids often lends itself to those kind of observations. I've seen tiny humans lift disproportionately large furniture, throw solid objects, and attempt to harm people during the most epic tantrums you could imagine. 

 Usually, when people ask me how I respond to these behaviors, I provide some kind of non-answer, like "it depends." I know they won't find the truth as helpful as they should. To the uninformed ear, what I really do doesn't seem like enough to calm another person in moments of unadulterated emotional distress. To those concerned with repercussions, it definitely doesn't seem sufficient.

So, what do I do when I'm with a child who is, for lack of a better phrase, freaking out?

I sit down.

That's it.

People who have seen me intervene during a variety of truly awful tantrums would probably argue with that assessment of my actions. They are likely to add that I listen with empathy and offer unconditional support.  These people aren't necessarily wrong. When appropriate, I also do those, and many other, things, but that's not what is important. What is important is me sitting down.

When I sit down, I get on the other person's level. I establish myself as present with them in their complete emotional meltdown.  I send the message that, no matter what, "I'm here with you, and I'm not going anywhere." This is important because often these kids are terrified. Even if they don't look like it, these kids are generally scared of something. This increased anxiety is isolating. Feeling alone and misunderstood only exaggerates the original problem. Similarly, attempting to correct the behavior before understanding it also makes it worse. So, I take a deep breath, and I sit down.

Sometimes I say something in an attempt to help quell a fear or ease a catastrophized reaction, but mostly I just wait it out.  Because the truth is, no one can tantrum forever, and often the experience itself is enough of a repercussion to aid in correcting the behavior. Then, all that's left is letting them know they were never really alone.

The Key

Image found here, but go here to fully appreciate it in all it's glory

I suck at reading maps.

I'm not exactly sure why, but I'm willing to bet it's related to my obvious deficits in spacial reasoning.  I struggle with determining my actual distance to objects around me. So, it seems fair to assume this difficulty would translate to my theoretical representation of self in relationship to my surroundings. Though understanding possible causes for this deficiency does not help me overcome it.

I am a fairly intelligent young woman. I can analyze complicated scenarios and make cognitive leaps that many find difficult. I have historically excelled in mathematics, scientific reasoning, and mental puzzles. Yet, graphic depictions of the world boggle my mind.

With minimal frame of reference, I balk at determining things as simple as mere orientation. If not pre-ordained, I take comedic lengths of time scrunching my face and flipping pages rapidly in an attempt to make the image reflect my environment. Fixated images alleviate some confusion. However, I'm ashamed to admit that, on numerous occasions, I have found myself stuck before event kiosks as throngs of other patrons come and go having quickly identified their locations and destinations. Keenly aware of my difficulty I flush with embarrassment as I become overwhelmed with seemingly indecipherable information.

I've gotten better over the years, but still I find myself bested by geography more than I should. There's just so much to take in that, sometimes it is too difficult for me to even find myself. Where I have been and where I am going get tangled up in a mess of confusing lines and symbols. I start with knowledge of where I began, but I quickly forget it as I twist the image in a desperate search for my goals. I lose my location as I try repeatedly to come at it from different angles. Often, I wind up more lost than when I began.

This has been a lifelong battle that has frequently left me distraught. Frustrated with my uncharacteristic ineptitude, I have resorted to drastic measures to right myself and regain my barrings. This has included law-breaking turns, humiliatingly emotional please for assistance from anyone who would listen, and rather bleak self-talk. At times, my circumstances have seemed incredibly hopeless. That is, until three beautiful little words remind me of something too easily forgotten

You are here.

Focal Points

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One of the first things they teach in dance classes is how to spot your turns. "Find a speck on the wall, and stare at it," said every dance instructor ever. "When you're ready," they explained. "Let your head go first. Find the spot with your eyes, and your body will follow."

I remember, as a little girl, spending hours identifying a single fixed point on an adjacent wall. Staring at that spot, I would rise to my tippy-toes, lift one leg, and whip my head around as fast as I could. Each time I hoped that my eyes would remain fixed on that preselected speck, but frequently they wouldn't. I failed often as I attempted to learn this skill. I would lose my balance, teeter, and tip over. Understandably, I found this frustrating.

Eventually, I figured out that focusing on one spot in a semi-distant space was actually serving a purpose. Steadying my gaze seemed to give me balance. That provided the stability required for movements. However, having that down isn't enough. Whipping my head around with no continued focus, left me without direction. My brain lacked proper input to tell my body where to go. I could balance, but I would veer off randomly. I had to know where I was going before making the shift.

Later in life I learned to drive, and dealt with a similar issue. Petrified over the responsibility of operating heavy machinery, I focused my attention on the front of the car. Hoping never to strike anything, I sputtered through this learning process. I zigged through parking lots, and zagged down neighborhood streets. Slowly careening around isolated areas, I thought I'd never make it to a real road.

My steadfast parents however, knew otherwise. They ignored my teenage melodrama, and repeatedly reminded me to shift my gaze further down the road. This made no sense to me at the time. I often wondered how I was to get anywhere without knowing what was directly in front of me. So, imagine my delight when I discovered that they actually did know what they were talking about. Watching the road ahead informed my driving. It allowed me to see where I was going, and told me what was headed my way.

As I have illustrated, this bit of advice is reiterated frequently:

Head up. Keep a weather eye the horizon. Look ahead.

It's all very useful advice. The body follows the eyes. Looking down the road prepares you for what is to come. Although, it is pretty easy to forget this. The present is more immediate. It is, after all, happening now and it seems as though you must deal with it as it comes to you, but having a goal is important.

You must identify where you are going in order to get there. You have got to look ahead, and prepare before you take your steps. Focusing on the distant future gives you the guidance required to maneuver this world. It's a practice that affords you the balance to deal with what's in front of you while also helping steer your life in the right direction.

Big Girls Don't Cry

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This past weekend I went out to a karaoke bar with friends. I had some delicious beverages, and observed complete strangers make a mockery of themselves. After a couple brief hours, I called it a night in favor of my bed and a good night's rest before an early morning. While waiting in line to close out my tab, a rather inebriated young gentlemen wandered aimlessly in my direction. He stopped in front of me, and gaped.

"Are you even old enough to be here?" he inquired with genuine concern in his voice.

Though I assured him that I had been "old enough" to be there for the better part of a decade, the man remained suspicious.

"You look like you're 12!" he argued with me.
"I'm not," I responded abruptly, but he persisted. He went on and on about his misperception of my age. I simply stood there speechless, staring daggers at him, until a nearby friend came over.
"You are not making friends right now," she said. "You need to say something nice, and leave."
"It's just that you look..."
"Think about it," I urged him.
"...like you have a wonderful smile."
"Nice job turning it around," I affirmed. "You should probably go now."

With that he was gone, but his words still linger in my brain.

For the most part, I have pretty thick skin. However, those who know me well, know that being older than I look is one of my truly sensitive areas. And it gets picked on quite frequently. In the past year, I have been called pet names, offered children's menus, had solicitors ask if my mom is home, and had the validity of my ID questioned on numerous occasions. People hear me talk about school and want to know what grade I'm in or what college I'll be attending. In the past, my adolescent clients have asked if I was a teacher or a student, and my child clients have told me I look more like a kid than an adult. The general population seems to struggle with categorizing my appearance, and they all feel the need to share that difficulty with me.

I wish I were tougher. I wish these observations didn't get to me as much as they do. I want to be able to confidently stand up to the world and say, "so I'm short and I've got a mad case of the baby face. No need to make a formal report. It's not like this is news to me. I do own a mirror." Sometimes I even try this, but I lack the most key component: confidence.

I act all resilient and talk a big game about it not bothering me, but the truth is that this infuriates me. See, I believe that life is a long journey of self discovery and growth. I write about growing up so often, because I think that's what we're all trying to do. Myself included.

I'm trying so hard to grow up, to become the mature, poised, and competent woman I know I can be. I'm desperately seeking opportunities to prove professionally, socially, and personally that I am an adult. I constantly feel like I'm ready to start my life. I want a career. I want love. I want a family. I want to move on from adolescent angst and finally feel comfortable in my own skin.

Though well-intended, all of the jokes, comments, and assurances that "one day I'll like it," seem to be forming a barricade in my own development process. When others see me as juvenile, it stunts my personal growth. Even if only for a moment, I loose any progress I've made in life in a regression back to my early insecurities.

I mean, I get it. I look young. But, I can't do anything about my appearance. My hands are tied behind my back on that. All I can do is recite my birth date repeatedly, and hope that one day someone will believe me.

I Must Not Tell Lies

I don't believe in good and bad.

Image found here

There is goodness and badness, but I don't believe the two qualities exist in vacuums independent from one another. I think that is too black and white for this confusing world of grey. It seems fairly obvious to me that the two are interconnected. So many of the bad behaviors in this world are informed by good things.

Traits like conviction, passion, strength, and love are widely believed to be positive attributes. However these qualities, and others like them, can takeover a person's whole world. They can become powerful enough to influence terrible actions.

Many people find it easy to holistically declare a person malevolent based on what they have done, but for me it's not so simple. I see people for their morals, values, and conduct. I'm hesitant to speak to the motives of another when they have not been explicitly shared with me, and I'm skeptical about the existence of pure evil in this world.

Falling

Image from Batman Begins. Found here

I'm supposed to write a blog today. It's Monday. That means I have to muse, but it's just not happening. While I have numerous musings knocking around in my noggin, none of them are coherent enough to share. I have tried to force some eloquent bit of wonder out for all of you to read, but I'm struck at the fried blankness that is my overstressed mind.

It's been the kind of perspective-commanding rough day that puts my recent "bad days" to shame. Today I was reminded that I have no real experience with suffering. It's a balanced world, and my lack of suffering implies that others have no experience with safety, security, or success. Additionally, I learned that sometimes, there's nothing that can be done for these people. Sometimes limits must be set and lines must be drawn. The high volume of compassion that pours out of my bleeding heart made that last lesson exceptionally hard to swallow, and I suspect it will continue throughout my career.

Frankly, I was rather dumbstruck by both of these lessons when I sat down to produce my Monday Musings this evening. I wasn't sure what to make of these recent experiences, and I couldn't focus on writing a profound or entertaining essay. That is, until my wild little kitten had one of her eccentric adventures.

While she is relatively new to my life, I have already grown accustomed to her sudden bursts of energy and cacophonous surprises. So, when a clutter of clanking noises came from the blinds to my right, I barely even reacted. Slowly, I paused my blank stare and unproductive editing to investigate. This is when I found the curious cat bridging the gap between my propped-up bike and the window sill it leaned against. Closed blinds were no barrier for this daredevil. She awkwardly pushed her way through the metal slates, and then set forth on a rock-climbing-like expedition up the window screen. Nearly two feet up from the base, she dangled helplessly and cried out with a desperate tone.

"Should I go help her?" I thought to myself. I carefully surveyed the situation. Though she was likely to fall, she probably wouldn't drop far and her odds of injury were minimal (if they existed at all). So, I watched patiently to see how she was going to handle this predicament.

Sure enough, she couldn't hang on long. My little feline friend dropped down to the window sill, and subsequently slipped off the ledge. Luckily, she was able to exercise her cat reflexes, and caught the pane at the last minute. As she managed to pull herself back up to her precarious perch, I reminded myself of something I frequently remind others.

That's how they learn.

With that, I remembered that you can't help everybody all the time. Sometimes this is because you lack sufficient time, resources, or energy to give the support you want. Other times, people aren't ready to get your help. They may think they are ready and willing to change. However,  numerous signs that you just aren't reaching them will make you think otherwise. This is when it is important to remember that a little failure can be a good thing. It's not pleasant, but sometimes people have to fall before they can get themselves back up.

So, thank you Schrödinger the kitten for giving me some much needed perspective.

Inquisitive little kitten dismounted by balancing on my top-tube.

Upright and Locked Position

When I was little, my brother and I went to visit our grandmother in Chicago. Man, was I excited for this trip! The mere idea of it was thrilling to me. I was going to travel to a big city and have an adventure without my parents. Aware that not many kids received such an opportunity, I knew just how special this was, and I'll be damned if I wasn't ready for it.

That is, until I had to say goodbye to my parents at the airport. I remember a knot forming in my chest as I hugged my mom and dad, but I tried to stay cool. My brother and I walked slowly down that strange metal corridor to board our plane, and the knot sent these obnoxious lumps into my throat. I closed my eyes and slowed my breathing as we entered the cabin. It wasn't until after we reached our seats, and I was staring out the window, that I recognized what was happening. My nose began to run, and I understood that I was one seat-belt demonstration away from a meltdown.

Completely confused by this realization, I tried to collect myself. Mentally, I went over the rational evidence to contradict my emotional state. I told myself there wasn't anything to cry about. I knew this was coming. I wanted to go on this trip.  I had even been excited for it.

When the plane began taxiing the runway, all my effort to remain calm flew out the window. My tears began to fall as I thought to myself, What if I can't do this? What if I'm not ready? What if something happens to us?

As the plane took off, I had a distinct change of heart. I didn't want to go on this trip anymore. I wanted the pilot to turn around. I wanted that plane to land. And, more than anything else, I wanted to run into my mom's arms and stay there forever. I didn't want to take this trip on my own. It was a stupid idea, and I didn't want to have this adventure anymore.

I wish I could say this was a one-time only, childish response, but I can't do that without lying. I have a similar emotional response every time a big decisions comes to fruition. Whenever I'm about to embark on a new adventure, I come back to this same feeling. I start by pretending to be brave. Then, a chest-knot turns to a throat-lump, and, with a runny nose, I begin to doubt my preparedness. Part of me toys with the idea of changing my mind at the last minute. I consider the possibility of turning around and running for the more familiar (yes, sometimes that still includes my mom). Then, I suck it up and face the facts.

Maybe it's immature, but I think I had it all figured out early on. Even as a little girl, I knew that my tickets had been purchased, my bags were packed, and once that plane was in the air, I was having this adventure whether I wanted it or not.

The Mantrum

As someone who has always been fascinated by psychology and has spent a large portion of her life watching athletic competitors, I feel it is my sociological duty to share my observations with the world. I will begin by highlighting your awareness of one startling human behavior that occasionally wreaks havoc on the cycling community because I strongly suspect that it occurs in many other realms as well.

While not explicitly identified as an area of clinical concern, many communities are acutely aware of this behavior. It has been referred to as a hissy fit, an outburst, being an asshole, having a temper tantrum, whining, and (my personal favorite) getting your panties in a bunch. These are all fairly descriptive titles, but I believe it is best identified as a mantrum.

As it is a developmentally stunted expression of personal emotions, the mantrum can take many different forms. The overarching personality traits of the person experiencing it (henceforth known as the thrower) ultimately dictate final exhibition of a mantrum. Despite wide variability, all mantrums do have a number of commonalities. The typical mantrum can be characterized by a combination of:

Two or more of the following

• Extreme emotionality
• Irrational arguing
• Hypersensitivity resulting in anger

and
Three or more of the following

• Stomping
• Red face
• Throwing objects (i.e. bike, chair, helmet, etc)
• Screaming/Yelling
• Name Calling
• Excessive use of profanity
• Aggressive or physically violent outbursts

Though anecdotally this behavior appears to occur most frequently in adult, adrenaline gorged, males, it is not particular to men. It is important to note the greater variability in mantrum throwing across genders. Those observing similar behaviors in feminine throwers should first rule out a missy fit before applying a mantrum classification.

My Controversial Musings

Found here

I think sometimes when people say that they are all about diversity they mean to say that they are all about minorities and oppressed populations. If that's true, that's great! Those groups absolutely need someone to stand up for them. They need people to be their champion, and to make sure that they are equally included in this world dominated by the privileged masses.

But, let's be real. If that's what you're doing, you are not actually promoting inclusion. The diversity movement, at least as I understand it, is about incorporating everybody. After all, the word literally means variety. So, regardless of your reason, if you shut out a person from any one particular group you are decreasing the variety and therefore the diversification of your own movement. When you favor one group over another, even if it's the disadvantaged, you are merely replicating the same discrimination you seek to eradicate.

For the record, I am aware this is a controversial view. I'm also aware that this might sound like I'm advocating to extend the privilege of the groups with social power (and therefore my own). This is not my intent. I am merely noticing a discrepancy between the ideology of many (not all) proponents of diversity groups, and the actual intent. Maybe I'm too literal, but I believe that a truly diverse group of people would be all inclusive.