#ADDRESSINGchallenge

Everyone is impacted by power, privilege, and oppression to some degree. I believe that awareness of your areas of privilege helps you to realize ways in which you benefit from your various privileges as well as how you might help those who need a boost. In school, we had to complete the ADDRESSING Framework for ourselves. It's a helpful tool. I challenge you to complete it and share it to start a dialogue. At the bottom, feel free to add other ways in which you believe that your life is easier or harder when compared with those around you.  #ADDRESSINGchallenge

Age: I'm 31. I am privileged in that I am old enough to drink, vote, drive, and many other things. Though I lack the freedoms afforded to the youths due to the responsibilities of my age.
Development: (privilege) my intellectual and developmental are in line with my chronological age.
Disability: (privilege) I am able-bodied and in good health. I am able to enter buildings and use every day tools without requiring intervention. (Disadvantage) I am short and often need a stool or a helping hand. I also require prescriptive lenses and struggle with accurate depth perception. I take anti-depressants to combat anxiety.
Religion: (disadvantage) I am agnostic/atheist. I don't believe in a higher power or an after life. This is off-putting to many who would assume that I am a sinner or bad because of that.
Ethnicity: (privilege) I'm white. I had never been denied anything that I wanted because of my race. (Disadvantage) I have felt guilty or that people assumed the worst of me because of my appearance.
Socioeconomic status: (privilege) I'm middle class. I make a good wage and can always afford my bills plus the occasional splurge. I have almost no debt. (Disadvantage) I often worry about savings, and feel I need to save for the things I want.
Sexual orientation: (privileged) I a straight. I am attracted to the opposite gender, and have never worried that who I am attracted to will change how people see me or treat me.
Indigenous heritage: (disadvantage) I don't really know my heritage or the history of my family. I assume, because of my appearance and names that I am of European descent.
National Origin: (privilege) I live and am a legal citizen of the country in which I was born. I am afforded access to all the rights that go along with citizenship in the country I live.
Gender: I am a cisgender female. (Privilege) if you look at me my gender and pronouns are readily apparent. I do not get mistaken for a person of my gender. I am (relatively) comfortable in my body. I feel that it reflects who I believe myself to be. (Disadvantage) I have been denied access to things I want because I am a girl. I have had people call me hurtful names, cut me off, or treat me unfairly because I am a girl. I feel unsafe walking alone at night because of fear of attackers simply because of my appearance.
*I might add to this framework:
Political leanings: I am a democrat living in a liberal area of the country. I do not feel that my political leanings will be judged or disregarded. Though, I do have very closed loved ones who I interact with regularly who have starkly different political beliefs than I do.  I have to work hard to check my values and beliefs and balance them with my love for those peoples along with my honesty to myself.

ETA: I also carry privilege in that I feel safe enough to post something of this nature without overwhelming fear of backlash or detrimental judgement.

Readiness to Change

I give my dad a lot of flack and some mild public flogging for the excessively rational manner in which he raised me.  My all time favorite thing to razz him about is the time he tried to coax a much younger me off the side of a mountain by telling me I could choose to stay there forever.  As an adult, I think back on this encounter and cannot believe someone would say something like that to a child.  However, it was so effective that I have since made it my goal to attempt this paradoxically supportive intervention.

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Several years ago I saw my first opportunity.  I was working with an oppositional 6 year old boy.  We had gone out to a special playground for the afternoon.  At some point in the day, he had managed to climb down into the middle of a cylindrical ladder and was pretending to be a caged prisoner.  When it was time to leave for the day, we cued all the children to line up.  After the chaos of transition, we counted all the little heads and determined we were one short. When I went to find him, he was claiming to be "stuck" inside the barred structure; citing fear to leave. I did what I could to support and encourage him, but it quickly became apparent that his "fear" was more related to a distaste for the end of play time.  So, I changed my tact.

"Look dude," I said. "The way I see it, you have two choices.  You could choose to stay out here forever, bu-"
"Fine," he cut me off.
Startled, I stammered "but, like, what if you have to go to the bathroom?"
"Okay," he said flatly. He was still fairly young and thus unconcerned with voiding outside a restroom.
"Um...who's going to feed you though?"
"I don't know," he said with a startling degree of ambivalence. The idea that someone might not was not a reality in his mind.

I attempted to persuade him into seeing that there were better choices available to him.  However, his developmental state did not allow for getting past the idea that he could choose to stay on the playground forever.  I had inadvertently given him permission to defy my expectations. We were screwed. Ultimately, I admitted defeat, and wound up calling my supervisor for back up. She came right out and began the slow but ominous count to three. Problem solved.

Lesson learned. The intervention is a particularly complex one that requires a significant degree of skill and the right kind of child to be able to hear the underlying message. So, I tucked it back into my memory and set it aside for refinement and later use.

Then the time came.

Not long ago, I found myself hanging out with a particularly anxious young woman who had recently learned of an upcoming transition. We sat together as she lamented the difficulty inherent in change.  I listened to her express fear of possible failure upon adjusting to something new.  I validated her feelings and praised her for past ability to manage herself; attempting to remind her this was not her first experience with change. She continued to evidence worries and concerns to the tune of "what if I can't do it?" "What if nobody likes me?" "What if it's hard?" "What if it's scary?" Allowing me to challenge her on all of these concerns but not yet feeling confidence in herself, she joking declared that she was going to wrap her arms around a nearby structural pillar and refuse to leave her present location.

"You could definitely try it," I smiled.
"Really?!" She looked at me with widened eyes, baffled by my response.
"In fact," I offered up. "let's do it together."  I stood up and started to walk towards the identified pillar.  My friend remained stationary; staring at me with a perplexed expression.
"But you know," I stopped and turned back toward her.  "What are we going to do when you get hungry?"
She shrugged.
"I mean, I guess we could probably arrange for someone to bring you food, but that's probably going to make you feel guilty.
No response, minus a slight smile.
"And, what about when you have to go to the bathroom?"
She knit her eyebrows and slumped her shoulders, an expression I had grown to recognize as irritation with a good point. So, I sat back down and continued in a playful manner.
"Even if we figure that out, eventually the paint on the building is going to chip. Then you're going to get paint chips in your hair, and the maintenance team is probably going to need to fix it, which will result in them trying to physically pry you off, and that sounds awkward."

Her affect started to brighten. Together we began to laugh and joke about the various different factors that would make her release her grip on the building.  As the conversation dwindled, I looked her in the eye and delivered the moment of insight I had come to after that cold day on the mountain so many years ago:

"My point is, no matter how bad you want to hang on, eventually something will happen and you will feel ready to let go. It may not be because you want to, and it may not be until after it happens, but eventually you're going to realize that you were ready for a change."

Forcing the Fairy Tale

One of the more memorable children I have encountered was a young woman who had a strong affinity for cosmetics.  Much of our time together was spent discussing the pitfalls of my eyeliner, or the decorations on her nails.  She enjoyed experimenting, and was quite skilled with her materials.  This type of rapport building was necessary, as this adorable and likable child was incredibly insecure.  She had been raised in poverty and neglect.  Described as "the neighborhood child," she spent much of her childhood providing for herself as her ailing caregiver slowly perished in front of her.  As a young child, she tended for the one adult she had to love, and fed herself by journeying to the houses of unsuspecting neighbors who took pity on her.

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When this phase of her life regrettably came to a close, she was transported in the middle of the night to a family friend's house where she was told she had to stay with no explanation of why or what had happened.  She then lived in transition, without acceptance and space for her grief.  She was shuttled repeatedly between households of adults who believed her to be a burden and treated her as such.  Forgetting her lack of proper parenting, and refusing to acknowledge her own emotional reaction to loss, disruption, and distress, she was forced to abide by rigid and irrelevant rules.

While in my care, she lamented the world around her.  Expressing that adults, well intended and not, had instructed her to believe that the world was an awful place.  She'd been coached to radically accept that life sucks, and it never gets better.  She was in a pivotal place in her life in which she was attempting to construct her own independence within a framework of dismay and artificial hope.

She sought my guidance often about what to expect for the future.  I joined with her in frustration for the "supports" she'd been given, and attempted to convince her that it didn't have to be that way.  I spent hours being real with her, telling her that life gets better, while admitting that it always remains hard.  She listened attentively.  It was a nice story that she liked to hear.  She wanted me to tell it over and over again, but for her that's all it was. It was a fairy tale that I was desperately wanting her to buy into. 

We parted some time ago.  I sent her on her way, set up with as much as I could give her, but knowing it was not enough to fill the unhealed wound that was her childhood.  Though I would continue to think about her, I had to accept that it was likely the last time I'd see her.

Until I recently re-encountered her in a circumstance I cannot fully explain, except to say that there was a stage and an open mic.  I had seen her early on, sitting in the crowd by herself; her hair hanging in perfectly curled ringlets that covered her face.  Near the end of the event, she got up quietly and made her way to the stage.  While up there, she caught my eye and we exchanged amused expressions.  She seated herself cautiously, gripping the mic with a shaking hand, and sang a melancholic version of Payphone by Adam Levine.

I found myself misty eyed as I watched this young woman nervously sing. As she crooned the following words, I was transported to visions of that poor little girl extracted from a situation without explanation and given to people who would not allow her to process her loss.

"I know its hard to remember the people we used to be. Its even harder to picture, that your not here next to me.  You say its too late to make it, but is it too late to try, and in that time that you wasted all of our bridges burnt down. I've wasted my nights.  You turned out the lights.  Now, I'm paralyzed. Still stuck in that time when we called it love, but even the sun sets in paradise.  I'm at a payphone trying to call home.  All of my change,  I spent on you. Where have the times gone? Baby it's all wrong.  Where are the plans we made for two?  If happy ever after did exist, I would still be holding you like this.  All of those fairy tales are full of it."

When she finished, she smiled bashfully at the crowd and returned to her seat.  As she passed me by, I couldn't help but reach out and touch her shoulder.  She startled and turned toward me.

"That was beautiful," I whispered.

She widened her eyes, reached out both of her arms, and crashed into my shoulder.  For just a moment, I gave a tight squeeze back.  When she released, we exchanged bittersweet smiles before going our separate ways.

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.

Puppy Dogs and Cupcakes

"My last therapist told me it never gets any better," a depressed and deserted child once told me.

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Partly amused and mostly horrified, I swallowed bile.  "Why do you think she would say that?" I implored; seeking context.

She went on to tell the typical tale of teenage angst and misery shrouded in a deep seeded desire to be independent and grown.  This nearly hopeless adolescent girl explained her forward-thinking desire for utopia being met with the harsh reality of a jaded professional telling her it would never be. Then she looked at me, wide-eyed and concerned, with an expression best explained by the question she clearly couldn't ask.  Her eyes pleaded with mine, is it true?

I sighed deeply and wrung my hands; trying to determine if I was fully equipped to provide this youth with an answer I have yet to discern for myself.  In that moment, my protective mode kicked in.  I wanted to puff up and track down that dream dashing clinician for stealing a young girl's nearly lost hope.  I wanted to tell her it was all a lie, and everything was just on the brink of perfection.  I wanted to insist that, if she persevered a little longer, everything was going to get a lot easier.  But, I couldn't hang my hat on a lie.

Yet, I think we all do this.  As adults, we want so badly to convince our children that the world is this glorious place.  With the best intentions, we tell them that all of their dreams are attainable.  We make it sound so simple.  Pay attention.  Do your homework.  Listen to your parents.  Follow the rules.  Be good for god's sake!  We say this like it's the only obstacle in their paths.  Then we find these children who, despite their best efforts, can't meet our expectations, and what's the message to them?  Try harder.  You must not be doing it right.  No wonder they struggle.

The saddest part of this whole interaction is that I think the therapist she referenced was trying to help.  I think that person was trying to be real with her.  Recognizing the false promises inherent in a follow your dreams world, this woman must have tried to counteract the overwhelming expectations set-forth by inconsistent and unsupportive adults.  She probably wasn't wrong for doing so either.  However, she definitely missed her mark, leaving me with a hurt/confused teenager struggling to rationalize her own survival.  With no other adequate explanation, I told this child what I knew to be true.

"I think what she was trying to say," I said "is that it's always going to be hard.  Growing up isn't easy.  It's not all puppy dogs and cupcakes.  Often it's difficult, but that doesn't mean it's not worth it.  It absolutely gets better, if you want it to.  But there is always going to be stressful things, and what matters is how you cope.  You can build the skills to manage your stress. It's possible to truly enjoy your life, but the stress never goes away it just changes."

Acceptance

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For more reasons than I can describe one of the children I have previously known sticks in my mind as remarkably significant. He was a darling, yet slightly awkward, 5 year old boy. Because of the profound neglect and exposure to violence he had experienced, this child struggled to relate to others. His subsequent home disruptions, and rejection by caregivers left him feeling isolated and at fault for all of the troubles he faced. As a result, he often sabotaged relationships just to control the inevitable.  About four years ago, I walked into the quiet area of our classroom, and sat down to ask if I could play with him.

"No thank you," he sighed.  "I want to play with a human."

Understandably, I balked at this response. I tried to explain to him that even though I was, in his eyes, a teacher, I was a member of the homosapien species with which he identified.

He didn't believe me.  A nearby colleague, having heard the conversation, attempted to assist by explaining that despite his beliefs "teachers are humans too," but the tow-headed child just looked at us sympathetically and shook his head.  His expression was clear: these creatures don't understand what I'm saying. So, we agreed to disagree, and I sat quietly by as I watched this perpetually lonely boy wait for another (human) child to ask him to play.

I initially struggled to understand this interaction, and I ultimately wrote it off as a "kids will be kids" expression. When I pause to reflect upon this amusing memory now, I am struck with how incongruent that interpretation is with my own beliefs.

I wholeheartedly believe that children are amazingly intelligent. Children hold a special kind of intelligence that is remarkably self-aware and intuitive when you are able to interpret it.  It seems to me that, often, children struggle emotionally because they do not have the words to communicate what they know and what they feel.  Many times we, as adults, do not understand what they are saying to us, and we respond with patronizing laughs that disregard their experiences.

When I remember this outlook, and think about my role in this boy's life.  His meaning was actually quite clear. He may as well have said:

"You're not the same as me."  

"You don't know what it's like."

"I want to belong."

Now that this message is clear, I think it's an important one to remember.  The truth is, no matter how my rapport with this boy was, no matter how much he felt supported by me, and no matter how much he claimed to like me, I could never truly understand where he was coming from.  The sense of belonging and relief that comes from being understood on that level is a support that cannot be manufactured or taught in school.

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.

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.

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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.

 

Disoriented

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There she stood; a little girl alone in the dark stormy forest. Though she wracked her brain, she couldn't recall exactly how she had gotten there, but she knew how to get out. The path lay just before her. She had spun around multiple times, surveying every corner of these creepy woods, but the darkest and most worrisome road was the only one that seemed remotely familiar. Just as she realized it was the way out, the storm picked up. 

The wind began to rock the trees around her as it whistled through the canopy above. Thunder cracked through the sky, and the thick cloud cover dumped freezing water.  The little girl wrapped her arms tightly across her core. She was thankful to be wearing her warmest winter jacket, but even still she shivered as the downpour struck her bare head and cheeks. She was not yet aware that the frigid climate was only partially to blame for her quivering.

Still she stood there, soaking wet and growing colder by the minute. She had figured out which direction to go, but something seemed to be stopping her from heading down that path.  It could have been the ominous shadows looming overhead, or the drastically poor visibility, but it seemed like more.  She had recognized those problems, and the little girl understood that there was nothing she could do about them.

"It is what it is," she reasoned to herself.  "I can only control myself."

So, she took a few small steps forward, but froze in her tracks shortly after beginning her trek.  She couldn't move anymore, because she suddenly felt so small.  She felt as if she had become a miniature version of herself standing in a world of giants.  Despite knowledge of her strengths and capabilities, the little girl cowered in the deep dark woods.  The road seemed even longer now.

With a heavy weight on her shoulders, the girl stretched out her neck and trunk. She squinted her eyes in an attempt to see more clearly, but it was of no use.  The fog had rolled in, and she could barely see her own hands in front of her face.

That's when her stomach began to turn.  Something down in her gut began flopping around, but rather than deal with it she reached up to chill her unexpectedly feverish cheeks. The two sensations combined caused her to waver in her stance. She automatically blew out a long stream of air, and crouched to her feet. 

Frustrated, the shrunken little girl couldn't take it anymore.  She was exhausted and overwhelmed from her circumstances. She closed her eyes and let her fingers rake in the damp earth below her.  The little girl knew what had to be done, and she was eager to get on with it. She hoped that an epiphany would strike her, and this sudden burst of insight would shine some much needed light on her situation.

But no amount of grounding or rationalization would get her out of this. She was alone in an unknown land. Though she told herself to move on, the little girl was stuck trapped in a body that wouldn't listen to her.

"I just want to get out of here," she thought to herself over and over.

Tears squeezed out of her tightly clenched eye lids, and her lip began to tremble. Then, a low flying gust of frigid wind knocked her off her precariously perched feet. She slammed down hard into an icy patch of dirt. Without realizing it, the little girl let loose with a wail that was just as loud as the cry of the storm.

She attempted to recompose herself, but that only lasted a couple of short seconds. Then the little girl understood that she couldn't even control herself any longer. She let go in a rare fit of unregulated emotions. She screamed and thrashed about in a way that hadn't been acceptable of her in years. The girl kicked her feet and arched her back while sobbing with every ounce her diaphragm could muster.  She knew it wasn't going to help anything, but she didn't care anymore. The little girl was distraught. She felt confused, frustrated, sad, alone, and angry.  She was overwhelmed, and she was frightened she would never make it through this.

After what felt like forever, her tantrum tapered down and her weeping faded to a whimper. The exhausted little girl slowly sat up and opened her eyes to see the unchanged world around her.  With a heavy heart and a vacant mind, she carefully shifted her weight. She wanted to slip her weight back to the ground. She craved nothing more than to just give in to the insanity that seemed to be consuming her. However, as she leaned carefully backwards, the little girl startled.

She had struck something cold and hard. She turned her body to feel it with her hands.  As she groped along the rocky surface, she found herself crawling forward. Cautiously, she moved further and further until she realized that she no longer felt the cold sting of rain drops on her skin or the burn of the wind as it rushed across her cheeks. She listened carefully, and heard droplets echo in puddles around her. Still blinded by her darkened surroundings, the little girl assumed she must have entered a cave. She got to her feet, and looked around. She had no idea what lay ahead, but, if she squinted really hard, she swore she could see a pin prick of light in the distance.

She adjusted her proportions, and returned to her normal stature. Her chest still ached from fear and her gut flipped with anxiety, but something told her she was going to be okay.  So, the little girl headed off on her journey.

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.

Ordinary Origins

My favorite type of hero stories are the tales of origin. I like watching an individual rise to greatness. It's fascinating to learn what made that person become who they are.

The best origin stories tell us about someone who is broken. They give us a tortured person set apart from society by their struggles. They show us an individual hurting. Incapable of dealing with their reality, these people throw on a costume, create incredible gadgets, or develop powers to defend against the world. They walk, head held high, into battle with demons while we revere them for their strength and courage.

The irony is rich when we see our heroes in their human lives, stripped of their shields, and unable to cope with the things we face each day. These stories plant a seed of doubt. I begin to wonder: if heroes have such weaknesses, maybe we are stronger than we seem.

Lost, But Not Forgotten.

Somewhere, in one of the numerous places I store my belongings, is a picture of my dad. I have several pictures of him; most of happy times. I can feel my face mimic his as I look into his own smiling eyes frozen in time; enjoying that moment forever. This other picture is different. It was not a happy time, and though he may be trying, he does not appear to be smiling.

My father is the only person in this lost photograph. He's propped up on a hospital bed with tubes connected to his body. He's awake and alert, but it's clear he's in pain. This picture was taken after one of only a few times I've known my dad to fall off his bike. He slipped down the banking of the velodrome, and hurt himself so badly that an ambulance was called. That's a big deal for my dad. He doesn't do ambulances. He's a "walk it off" "you'll be fine" type of guy.

Though I was around, I have no memory of this tragic collapse. I couldn't have been older than five at the time. At such a young age, most of the experiences I had have begun to fade to fleeting sentiments. However, I have a very significant recollection of seeing him in his hospital room. I don't know if I had been prepped for the sight of him or how much I even understood of his injuries. Regardless, I couldn't handle it. I burst into tears as soon as I walked into the room.

There was no space in my tiny little head for an injured conceptualization of my daddy. As far as I was concerned, this man was as strong as they come. He could do anything, and typically did...with flare. He didn't fall, and he definitely didn't get hurt.

With no frame of reference for how this circumstance had come to be, I had absolutely no clue what it meant about the future. I know that my parents were perplexed by my reaction. They consoled me appropriately, but, at that point in time, I had no faith in their assurances. Though they never promised this, I trusted that they would both be okay forever, and I had been wrong. I just couldn't get over that.

A year or two later I stumbled upon the polaroid of my punctured father. Not knowing why, I stole it from the drawer of family photos and tucked it into a jewelry box in my room. I kept that picture in my nightstand, and never told anybody it was there. As I grew up and struggled with understanding my continuously challenged conceptions, I looked at this picture regularly. It never gave me any answers and it always recreated that same distraught sentiment I had as child, but somehow the memory seemed important to me. I clung to that photo because of the lesson I knew I would get from it one day.

Even now, though I have left it behind somewhere I am uncertain of, I think of it frequently. Sometimes when I'm upset and unsure why, I imagine myself, alone in my adolescent bedroom, opening that stowed away box and trying to sort out the message from the memory.

Two Years Ago

Two years ago the world became a confusing place.
Things I thought I knew were wrong.
What I trusted had failed.
What I relied on was lost.

Two years ago was a scary time.
Things I thought would always be were gone.
What I expected came into question.
What I wanted didn't matter.

Two years ago my hero fell.
Things I thought were strong had faults.
What I thought would last had worn.
What I cared about was wounded.

Two years ago I wasn't prepared.
Things I thought were distant came close.
What I realized was scary.
What I learned I valued.

Who Am I?

Who am I to think I can help people?

Found here

I have lived a fairly sheltered life safely swaddled in my privileged middle class bubble. What I know of this complex world is derived innocently from books, movies, and secondhand stories. I don’t have life experiences that allow me to speak to the very real and significant struggles that many, if not most, people go through. 

I have been widely loved and supported throughout my life. People have encouraged, valued, and believed in me. I have been consistently lifted up, respected, and handed opportunities. The only person to ever doubt my worth or skills has been me. I am the only one who has ever kept me from anything.

In my life, I have always been afforded the luxury of choice. I could go anywhere or do anything. I have been able to choose to stay back or move on. I could be or do anything I wanted. My only real difficulties emerged from this overwhelming sense of obligation to select my own path.

Without completely invalidating my own difficulties in this world, I think it’s fair to say that I’ve been incredibly lucky. No external source has ever pushed me down, blocked my path, or made me feel defeated. I have never had to overcome a source seemingly more powerful than myself. Thus far I have avoided trauma, loss, and oppression. I have not experienced the crippling effects of poverty, or the fear and isolation that results from a lack of trust in those around me.

What do I know about any of that? How does that knowledge enable me to improve a lifestyle I don’t understand? Who am I to think I can help these people?

Some Assembly Required

Throughout my childhood, whenever my family obtained something that required assembly the task was given to my father. He would don a self-impressed grin and sarcastically declare "this is a job for someone with a penis!"

That may seem rather chauvinistic, but I never took him at his words. It was clear that he was mocking conventional gender roles and his intended message was that a penis was not necessary. Er... um... perhaps a more eloquent explanation is that I always understood the graphic humor to be his way of saying that I could do anything I wanted.

My interpretation was evidenced by my routine tendency to follow him into whatever room the shiny new thing was placed, and assist in its construction. My job was usually to sit by, watch as he grunted out "man sounds" (think Tim "The Toolman" Taylor), and hand him the pieces as needed.

Inevitably, I'd revert to my faithful standby behavior of incessantly asking questions. Maybe I'd find a piece I couldn't recognize. I might have wondered how things fit together. Regardless of my reasons, I was typically always curious what the next step was, and what happened when we were done. These curiosities often left me waiting for my seemingly omnipotent father to provide me with the answers. Which he often did, in his own special way.

When he didn't know, or he was running out of patience, he'd finally declare:

"RTFM."
"What's that mean?" I'd ask innocently.
He'd smile and explain, "read the manual."

You'd think, with the number of times this happened in my life, I would have figured it out without needing to ask each time, but you'd be wrong. This came up every time we worked on a project together, and I was frequently left confused, wondering what the F stood for. On some level I must have known, because I never asked him. I faithfully accepted that he would have included it if it was important.

All of those years spent pondering the F out of it resulted in two very apparent lifelong instincts:

The first (and most trivial) is that now, whenever I see the letter F in an acronym, I assume it's an expletive. Then I giggle like that 8 year old girl watching her goofy father run wires along the back of a new computer desk.

More importantly, I come back to this advice often. I think of it when I don't know how to fix a problem, when I'm not sure what to do, and when I can't determine how to go on. When I find myself stuck and incapable of determining my next move, I see my dad behind a cabinet, or under a table, encouraging me to use my eyes and find the answers that have been provided for me.

My Humble Beginning

On my first day of working with troubled kids, I unknowingly walked into utter chaos. Children were screaming and crying. Kids swore, threw solid blocks at one another, and ran out of the building.  And a frighteningly thin cape-clad boy jumped from atop one wobbly shelf to the next.

Initially, I was barred from fully entering the room because a deceivingly adorable cherub-faced 2 year old was throwing an impressive tantrum by the door. I watched as he completely dysregulated, crawled under the table, and began to scream obscenities while also melodically chanting "you have a stupid face."

I felt ill-equipped to handle this situation. I wanted to turn around and run away as fast as possible, but, for reasons I still have yet to identify, I did not. I walked right into the middle of the room, and observed as things deteriorated. Eventually, I engaged a few children and immediately felt out of my league. The caped child jumped onto a shelf in my area. One kid with an indecipherable speech impediment set him off. A toy was thrown. I moved to intervene, and got pelted in the head with a piece of jagged plastic.

I remember feeling helpless and stupid. I thought it was obvious that I had no idea what to do. I was sure the staff could see I was a moron and had no business being there. Then a nearby therapist came over. I don't remember exactly what she did, but I do recall thinking she was a genius. In minutes, she had miraculously diffused the situation, coaxed the caped boy down, and carried him out of the room. I was in awe of her skill, and simultaneously abashed at my own pathetic attempt to help. When the group ended, I kept thinking how bad I was at this work, and how frightening the whole experience had been. The last thing I remember about that day is this magical therapist telling someone not to thank her for helping because she'd "carry that kid around in a cape any day." Her unconditional regard for that child intrigued me.

Not long after, I began to think my perceptions about my ability were off-base. I was asked to fulfill similar roles more often, and eventually recruited to join the treatment team. I had several opportunities to work directly with this magical therapist. Eventually, I began to tell  her that I felt scared and unskilled often. I was routinely galvanized by her responses to these disclosures. She assured me that not only could I handle terrifying scenarios, but I did it all the time.

Often I did not believe her. She'd try to prove it by citing her observations of my interventions. I'd insist they were always accidental and unintentional. Usually we would agree to disagree, but the knowledge that she believed in me always encouraged me to continue on despite my discomfort. Because of her support, I assisted in intense situations that I would normally avoid. I took on perplexing challenges, and I got to see astonishing growth in some very needy kids.

Just before I left that job to pursue further education, I received a card from her that said:

"You are so talented at this work. I hope you realize how gifted you are shortly so that you can have the most amazing career ever."

I'm not sure that's necessarily true, but as I near the beginning of my internship and prepare to be unleashed into the clinical world, I think of this therapist often. When I think about frightening aspects of my future career, I hear her voice saying "but you do that all the time." When I'm certain I don't know how to handle specific scenarios I remember her arguing with me about my ability.

None of it changes my perception. I still feel naive and unprepared, but now I question the necessity of these feelings. The memories of her perspective and the knowledge that someone I admire believes in me, give me courage to face my fears and help others to do the same.

A Hero for Midge

When we were kids, my brother used to pick on me. He poked me repeatedly until my shoulder was raw. When the phone rang for me, he held it captive while sitting on my stomach until I gave in and admitted he was king or insulted myself. When we were home alone, he threw nickels at my head.

But, he was my brother all the same. We built forts together. When I was scared, we hid in his room. He walked me to school on my first day of kindergarten. Then he feigned exasperation as he returned my wave in the halls. We played games against one another on our parents' computers, and we danced like fools when our favorite shows came on the television.

He was bigger, and older, so my brother nearly always picked. Everything. TV shows. Radio Stations. Video games. Movies. The occasional book. For this reason, I logged many hours grudgingly learning about G.I. Joes, Calvin and Hobbes, Power Rangers, and most all comic superheroes.

I never thought of my brother as a protective one. Sure, he helped me out occasionally, but mostly with menial tasks that weren't significant enough to be remembered distinctly. When it came to more distressing issues, he didn't seem willing to come to my aid. I specifically remember asking him once to beat up someone who had wronged me. He turned me down.

"Handle it yourself Midge," he told me, seemingly indifferent to my struggles.

Secretly, I craved a brother that cared enough to come to my rescue. I wanted someone to protect me from the bullies of the world. I yearned for him to shelter me from bad experiences, and lift me up when I couldn't reach my solutions. But most of all, I wanted a brother I could be closer to.

As I step tentatively into adulthood, foraging my path and tripping along the way, I'm beginning to see the past differently. As a child, I hated my involuntary exposure to the modern mythology of superheroes. Now, I have developed a kind of affinity for them. I enjoy the stories hidden below the surface. With a more mature vantage point, I see the subtle communication about the human condition. I recognize the archetypes, and I am beginning to understand the allegories.

No one escapes from this world. One way or another, we are all forced to deal with the realities of our existence. Learning to cope, respond, and overcome this is vital, and help often comes in an unexpected costume.

I hadn't seen it before, but my brother was preparing me for this experience. That distance I saw between us was merely perceived. When it came to navigating the complexities of the world, he was actually an incredible guide. He has always been there, watching me from the sidelines. By pulling back, my brother was protecting me. He was sending me a message:

"You are strong, and you can do this."

So, I no longer wish for the stereotypical older brother to loom over me, fight my battles, and hold me back from the world. I understand now, that what I have is infinitely better. I may not see him all the time, but I know that he's there motivating and protecting me in a way that only super heroes can.

Let's Not Listen to That Guy Anymore

The unexpectedly beautiful sunshine today and unpredictable weather of the past week or more has reminded me of a particularly fond memory that I would like to share.

Our last summer in Portland was rather chilly. It rained often. When it didn't, a dingy nebulous haze sealed off the Willamette Valley. It was gross, and demoralizing.

The most stressful part about the whole situation was explaining it to the kids that I worked with. Usually in the summer the weather gets warm enough that we are able to bring out the sprinklers and wading pools, and let them be typically developing kids for a  few moments. I'm not going to even pretend this is anything less than awesome. There's something about seeing a small child totally drenched and gleefully sprinting around a playground that energizes your soul.

Before Summer came, we had told all the kids how amazing it was going to be. We promised them pools, and picnics. We said there would be entire days of playing outside in the sun. Only, the sun barely ever came. A significant portion of the season was spent inside watching the clouds pass by, and the mist trickle down. Nevertheless, we pressed on. We assured the kidlets that the sun was on its way, and the heat would eventually make all our dreams come true.

But, company policy dictated that the weather had to be a certain temperature before we could allow that particular breed of merriment. Imagine trying to explain this to your average preschooler. Now, try and figure out how to word it to a group of preschoolers who have cognitive, developmental, and emotional delays. It's incredibly difficult, and the fall-out is a superior form of suck.

Not wanting to take the blame for any of it (because the physical and emotional repercussions would be of tantrumtastic proportions), we blamed it on The Weatherman. We told them that he had to predict excessive sun, and early-morning heat for the fun to start and the pools to come out. Naturally, they kept asking, and we kept relaying his inconsistent messages. Then, the local forecasters began erroneously predicting heat waves. How did we respond? Of course we got our hopes up and declared it to all the kids. Glee, ecstasy, and anxious anticipation ensued as we prepared for the tardy summer weather to arrive.

Only, it never did. Frustration set in amongst all involved. The kids lost faith in our words, and, despite our attempts, we began to lose the will to foster their hope. Finally, one day a particularly adorable child approached me after peering longingly out at the muggy and overcast skies. He widened his doe-eyes, shrugged his little shoulders, and with a comically large sigh said,

"All the time The Weather Man says 'it will be sunny' it's rainy, & all the time he says 'it will be rainy' it's sunny. So, I think let's not listen to that guy anymore."

Even still, the only reply that seems logical is: Here, here good sir. I agree. I mean really, who is he to tell us what's up anyway?

Me Too, You

My mom doesn't get nearly enough credit. I have all these amusing stories about growing up with an analytical father. I go over memories of him using logic to talk me down from an emotional height, or pushing me when I wasn't quite ready for it, because I'm just now beginning to understand what he was doing. I don't offer many of my mother, because those memories are different.

In my mind, my mother's parenting doesn't take the shape of amusing stories, or particular episodes characterized by meaningful lessons. They come to me in combined experiences accompanied by general sentiments.

When I think of her, I'm a little girl, with wet hair, sitting in the kitchen while she combs out my tangles before school. I'm doing my homework with a hand on my shoulder. I'm in the passenger seat singing oldies at the top of my lungs. I'm stomping out of the car after waking up early, and she's following me with a soft voice explaining that it won't seem so bad after I've eaten.

When I think of her, she's brushing bangs out of my eyes. She's waiting for me to let go of that long hug. She's letting me ramble on about meaningless adolescent drama, and pretending it's as important as it feels to me. She's asking, "have I told you yet today?" And when I'm answering before she can, she's responding with a serene "me too, you."

I think about all the times I wrapped my arms around her, and buried my face in her stomach, and then eventually her shoulder. I remember fingers in my hair as I dozed off, my head safely in her lap. I recall appreciative smiles as I debuted every possible combination of my back-to-school wardrobe. But mostly, I just remember her being there.

I don't have to recount stories of specific experiences I had with her, because I understood her motives. The truth is, I always knew what my mother was doing. She was taking care of me and loving me in a way that only the best moms can.

Casualties

“Now Woody, he’s been my pal for as long as I can remember. He’s brave, like a cowboy should be. And kind, and smart. But the thing that makes Woody special, is he’ll never give up on you… ever. He’ll be there for you, no matter what.”

Sometimes you need to shed things. You need to say goodbye. Push them away, and move on.

If you have a heart, you'll look back on the decision often. You'll wonder if it was right. You will think to yourself, was it necessary to leave that behind? Then you'll consider whether or not you should return to it. You will contemplate using your new found maturity to reincorporate it into your life. But, just the idea will seem insurmountable.

You have grown. You are a different person than you once were. The world is not stagnant. Your growth implies the same in others. Going back would not be a return to what once was, but a rebuilding of something new. However, this reconstruction would begin upon a foundation of past experiences and conflicting perspectives. This is tricky work.

Most of the time, you'll leave it alone. After all, there is a reason why things came to an end. You will think back fondly and long for the memories to be current. You'll regret the negative experiences, and the choices that led to them. Only in rare instances will you stumble upon it once more and honor the past by displaying it, unengaged, on a shelf somewhere. Mostly, you'll continue on becoming newer versions of yourself and leaving the rest behind.

"So long partner."