The Plan

*Pause for major life changes*

AAAAAAAAAAAaaand we’re back.

Hi there!  Thank you for joining me once more.  A lot has occurred in the time that I’ve spent away.  One day I’ll talk about it here.  It’s on my ever-growing list titled: “Things That Really Are Important to Me, and One Day I Swear I’m Going to Get to Them, but Not Today Because I am So Very Tired, and I’d Rather Eat Junk and Go to Bed Early. So, Tomorrow Probably, or Maybe Not.”  When I do, rest assured that it will be an eloquent summary of my innermost processing of topics that are highly relevant and connected to my purpose here both big and small. 

BUT!  Not today!  Today is for venting!  Today is shouting my pain into the internet.  (You know, the place it’s supposed to go). 

Today, like so many days in recent history, I find myself growing frustrated and impatient with adults.  This may seem easy to do, because there are so many adults that are truly garbage humans.  There are also so many adults that are trying their best, and they mean well, but are just tripping and falling all over this thing called life.  Let me be clear, my frustration and lack of patience is not for these obvious targets.  I have a surprising amount of compassion for those diverse classes of people. 

My frustration and intolerance grows evermore for the “educated” and “enlightened” adult.  The adult who doesn’t think they know better.  The adult who knows they know better because they are the grown-up, and they learned about things in school or from their healthy upbringing.  I am starting to believe that these people are more dangerous than those with obvious challenges and inadequacies.  We tell ourselves and our children that we can trust these idiots. Yet, they lead us so continually astray.

Where is this coming from?

Thanks for asking. 

So many many places. 

But, today, in particular, I found myself sitting with a 10-year-old Sad kid.  This is a child that has been through so much, and really needs the universe to give them a substantial hug.  This kid is sad.  This kid has every right to be sad.  This kid is not disruptive.  This kid is quiet, and hopeless.  This kid does not feel that they can ask questions or advocate for themselves.  Sad.  You get the picture. 

We are sitting together playing with slime (as you do) and this child spontaneously declares “my music teacher and I have a plan!”

“Oh yeah?” I respond with curiosity and naïve hope.

“Yep!” Kiddo pipes up. “If I have a good week, he has this plushy that has these squishy things in it, and he said I could have it.”

“Wow!” I join in kiddo’s excitement.  “What exactly is a good week though?”

I’m asking because I want this kid to realize that “good” is a value statement, and it has no specific expectations, or concrete information, for anyone.  “Good” is vague, and confusing, and means different things to different people.  What I consider to be “good,” can be very different from what the music teacher considers to be “good,” and it likely is very different form what the math teacher considers to be “good.”  This is confusing to kids (and me quite frankly) who are constantly looking around for some sign of what we want from them. 

“It means, if I don’t get upset, and don’t use the cool down space,” kiddo clarifies.

*Here’s where I go off the rails*

For a whole week?!  The expectation is that this child does not get upset for a whole week of music lessons, otherwise it’s not “a good week?”   Also, we’re rewarding a week in which this child does not use the identified “cool down space?” 

Step One: Don't get Upset

Step Two: if you happen to get upset (which you weren’t supposed to do), stifle it so that you can stay in class and not use the space we tell you is for going when you are upset.   

Maybe you think I’m over reacting, and admittedly I am exaggerating my response some.  I assume that this adult was well-intentioned. I assume that he meant to encourage the child to feel happy and participate in class.  I assume the best intentions.  It’s this assumption, however, that makes me angry. By attempting, in this way, to encourage happiness, this grown up is saying, uncomfortable feelings are to be discouraged, and doing something that tells me you are upset is not to be rewarded. 

This is the message we all say to kids. We are saying, we want you to feel happy.  We are saying, if you are unhappy, you are doing the undesirable.  You do not get a reward if you feel something other than happy. Ignoring for a moment that the upset feeling itself is a lack of reward. Ultimately, what this boils down to is a message that unpleasant emotions in other people make us feel uncomfortable, and therefore we must discourage their safe and appropriate expression at all costs.

Earlier this year I was talking to a 7-year-old who screamed at me and called me names.  He shouted, for all the world to hear, “you’re not making me feel better!”  He was angry, and I wasn’t taking that away from him.  How did I respond? 

I sat down.  I sighed.  I said, “that’s not my job Friend.”

He persisted. He believed it was my job to make him feel better. I was there for him because he felt “bad.”  What was I doing if I wasn’t fixing it?

 I validated that belief and his anger, and I explained “you get to be mad. It is normal to be mad, and sad, and all other feelings you can think of.  That’s normal. My job is not to take that from you.  My job is to help you know what to do with it when your feelings are so big that you don’t know what to do.  My job is to help you learn what to do with big feelings that are uncomfortable feelings.”

That’s our job folks. It’s not just my job. I can’t do it alone. It's for everyone. We have to manage ourselves, and to ask for help when we can’t.  It’s our job to know our needs and to tend to them so that we don’t take them out in ways that are unhealthy and disruptive and make us feel worse.

We send these messages so early on that what we want from others is for them not to be anything other than “good” or “happy.” 

“No more crying.”

“Don’t get mad if it doesn’t work.”

“There’s nothing to be scared of.”

Your feelings matter less than mine.

We want you to feel an emotion that doesn’t make us uncomfortable. That’s what we will reward. When you don’t, we’ll shame you and wonder why you didn’t make the right choice.  We’ll wonder what happened in your life that made it, so you turned out to be one of those garbage people or those well-meaning adults who just can’t get it together.  “What’s wrong with them?” We’ll ask ourselves, blaming you for the problems you have or cause.

The “functional”, “successful,” “educated”, and “enlightened” members of society will scream into the void at the traumas of the world and blame these people for not knowing how to behave in the ways that we told them all along they needed to.  We will do anything we can to avoid looking inward and identifying how we contributed to it.

#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.

My Imaginary Friend

Like many small children, I had an imaginary friend.  My imaginary friend and I did everything together.  Her name was Little Min.  She was a miniature, older version of myself.  We played together all of the time.  Then, one day she moved away with her boyfriend.  She never came back after that.

Evolution of Imagination

"Um..could we go for a stroll?"  A delayed adolescent boy asked me one day.   Of course I agreed, and as we walked he asked, “do you like imagination games?” 

I replied with a resounding, “I LOVE imagination games!”

“Would you like to play my imagination game?”

If you’ve read my blog before (which you might not have because it’s been literally forever since I’ve met you all here) this probably sounds like the beginning of my perfect afternoon. Time spent outside, with a kiddo, playing an imagination game, and exploring the themes he develops and works through.  Um…yes please!

Unfortunately, this didn’t go the way I expected.  The young teen walked me down to the football field, and proceeded to tell me the rules to “the game I play in my head.”   The game was called “Clash of Clans,” and if you’re thinking that this is a game that already exists in tableland.  You’re right where I am.  Open-minded and optimistic, but confused.

***For the reader’s information - As I understand it, Clash of Clans is the new equivalent to a point and click adventure.  While there is a back story and one or more goals, the overall action of the game is to “tap” on different parts of the map in order to collect whatever it is they are collecting.  In order to play it, you basically sit and watch the game play itself until it has produced something you can “tap” on. Get it?  Cool.  On with the story!

Kiddo explains to me that we need to build the town barracks, fortress, or some unspecified medieval edifice.

“So,” he says, “first we need to collect wood by chopping down those trees!”  He points toward the northwest corner of our line of sight, at about 50 degrees from midline.

“Great!” I energetically declare, as I grip my make believe axe and start to swing.

“No, no!” he reprimands, as though I’m missing the obvious.  “You just tap here and slide it.” Kiddo then proceeds to “select” the same area he indicated prior, and slides it horizontally on the same plane.  This is when I realize that the game he plays in his head is just that.  It is a literal game, that he is playing in his head. What happens next involves me essentially gaping at him as he seems to project an invisible giant tablet into the foreground of his line of sight, and continues to “tap” and “select” unforeseen areas of the map in order to achieve some inexplicable goals. 

He narrates the whole thing for me.  At times he asks for me to take on a task.  He gets annoyed that I attempt to act it out and explains to me, again as if I were an idiot, that I simply need to tap the thing in the air I cannot see. In theory, I should be tracking it.  It’s not all that complex.  Instead, I notice my heart sinking. I feel helpless. I become slightly annoyed with this game that “we” are playing.  Suddenly, I start looking around for excuses to interrupt the game.  I grapple with the tension between improving our relationship by allowing him to play, or impeding our relationship by sitting with him for a full hour, irritated with our activity.  Eventually I claimed a mixture of “it’s too bright outside for my eyes” (a lame but true fact for those of us with blepharitis and no sunglasses) and “I think you should get back to class so you don’t miss anything.”

Over the next several weeks I struggled with this memory.  I love the unexpected and imaginative things that kids do in their minds.  It is my favorite when they invite me to witness it.  I should find this delightful!  So, why did I find it so off-putting?

It wasn’t until recently that I put it all together.  I was sitting with a different delayed pre-adolescent.  I was observing him to use jenga blocks to create an entire world.  In front of me evolved what looked like a cityscape.  The same wooden blocks were used as mortar and as character.  Blocks spoke to one another, while more blocks constructed skyscapes around them.  I was, to say the least, captivated.  This was incredible.  This kiddo was using his imagination to work out issues.  The conversation between his humanoid blocks was rather unintelligible.  I have no idea if they were discussing world piece, impact of trauma on world view, or just what ice cream they both like, but it doesn’t matter.  This kid was practicing some very useful skills. Whether or not he was aware of it, he was testing the limits of reality, by using his imagination to play out some dynamic scenario. 

This is play with a purpose.  It is how we learn about ourselves and the world, and it’s crucial.  Many species do this.  All you need to do is turn on national geographic, and you are eventually bound to see some video of a polar bear, a lion cub, or tiger pup using play to practice very necessary survival skills.

That’s the difference.  The mind tablet lacked utility.  Kiddo was not using play in the way it was developmentally intended.  He was not practicing social skills.  There were no social skills being used. The game was entirely one sided.  Even when I participated, I had no idea what was going on, and he typically ended up taking over for me.  He wasn’t working through survival skills.  The clashing clans were warring with one another and protecting their territory, but Kiddo just “watched” and then “tapped” when it was over.  The only thing I can see him learning from this process is patience.  The work was definitely not hard, and the topics were flagrantly simple. 

My sadness and irritation then comes to the question of why?  Play exists to help us learn, and kids are incredibly adaptive.  Which, means that this kiddo has got to be working through something, and I don’t understand it.  This leaves me wondering if I have reached that very depressing aspect of adulthood when I no longer understand “kids these days.” Or worse, is this the work of modern children?  Is it becoming a 2-dimensional and nonreciprocal world of “sit and wait,” or “tap and slide”? How painfully sad would it be if children physically reenacting stories turned instead into watching flat projections that no one can see and engage them with? Is our thinking becoming more and more 2-dimensional? Or have I lost my ability to connect?

Automatic Answer Syndrome

Image found here

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.

(Not) Helping

I work a 9-5 now. I got home at 6:45pm today. I could have stayed later. I should have stayed later.

This is the nature of my work. I'm currently operating at a half a caseload, and the amount of action items and steps to take on is overwhelming.  It's never ending. There's always someone to talk to, and something to do. There's always someone who wants something and someone else who needs something from me. I'm quickly learning that my job involves a massive amount of identifying who and what does not get my attention.

I took this job because I like spending time with children.  I'm energized by working with kids in need, and I have a knack for intervening in a crisis.  I took this job because I want to help, but what I'm quickly learning is sometimes not doing something is the only help I can provide.

Secondary Gains

Image found here

People do some ridiculous things to get attention.  They act absurd.  They make a fool of themselves.  They harm their images, their loved ones, their bodies, and their psyches, all for the sake of recognition.  But we live in a paradoxical world where a little bit of attention is never enough.

Being the focal point of the moment seems to fill just enough of the void to remind us that one was ever  there.  It brings about panic at the thought that we might have to deal with ourselves for even for a short period of time.  The thought is so unbearable, that we can't even begin to process or cope with the idea.  So we do the only thing that's ever abated this particular breed of anxiety.  Something.  Anything, to remind us we're not alone.  We act in ways to remind others that we are important enough to notice, because we can't even begin to remind ourselves of that.

Puppy Dogs and Cupcakes

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

Image found here

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."

Dorothy

Image found here

I don't remember much about my first day of kindergarten. Mostly, I have information that has been given to me enough times over the years that my brain can now formulate what it thinks is a memory. For instance, I know I walked the 0.4 miles to school with my older brother. I know that he took me to my classroom, and that my teacher was a friendly woman named Mrs. Savage. She played a kanun during story time. I know those things as if they are memories. What I remember, is a frail little girl named Dorothy.

I was nervous, but I came from a family that valued education. So, I acted eager. Learning was always a priority in my house. I have early memories of books at bedtime, word games at dinner, educational toys, and math challenges. So, when it was my turn to go to school I understood that I was supposed to be excited. Learning had always been fun. Therefore, I was supposed to be happy about leaving home to do it full time, and I generally was. However, change is hard. For a petite, securely-attached, and introverted 5 year old girl, leaving home for school can be the most difficult kind of change. Grappling with the emotions associated with this lifestyle upheaval was very confusing. Internally, I was scared, but I was externally happy because I knew I needed to be.

This is where Dorothy comes in. When my brother and I arrived at the door to the classroom that crisp September day, she stood outside, a fragile-looking girl clinging to a worn-down plush bunny, sobbing uncontrollably. Like me, Dorothy was small for her age. She also had a pale complexion. Her eyes were a similar shade of blue, and her tear-streaked cheeks were spattered with freckles like mine. Naturally, I identified with her as she clung to her grandmother's leg and hid her face from the affable school teacher crouched before her.

Though I admired him greatly, a quick comparison to the caring adults surrounding this girl had my own escort seeming emotionally inefficient for the intensity of this transition. Eventually, the teacher managed to coax Dorothy across the threshold with the understanding that her ragged bunny could remain by her side as a reminder of home, and kept it she did. Throughout the day, she grasped that thing so tightly I occasionally worried it would lose its second eye. She never stopped crying either. She clutched her transitional bunny with all her might, and sniffled her way through the entire day. For weeks, she isolated herself, and remained always near the teacher wearing a fearful expression.

On some level, I sympathized with Dorothy. I remember feeling bad for her as I watched her cry quietly on the curb at recess. I watched her with that bunny. I understood that, without it, she would never have been able to leave her family behind each day. I pitied Dorothy and her bunny for their inability to attend school the way the rest of us could.

But, if I’m being entirely honest, Dorothy irritated me. Not because she stood out, or because her incessant crying interfered with my learning. Dorothy annoyed me because she got to be what I couldn't. She got to be scared. For reasons I would not understand for many years, she was permitted to act as nervous and frightened as I felt. She didn't have to justify herself to anyone, and she didn't need to act strong for a family who was excited for her burgeoning education. She was scared of change, and it was accepted. Her feelings were allowed, and her behavior was justified.

At age 5 the differences between Dorothy and I were subtle, but worth noting. Though we experienced a similar transition and faced similar emotional challenges related to this developmental experience, I had an implicit understanding of a very important aspect of life. Even as children, we sometimes have to choose between what we want and how we feel. Unfortunately, doing so often means suppressing an honest reaction in favor of a productive one. It’s uncomfortable. It’s hard, and it’s done almost every day.

The Truth

Image Found here

Several years ago, I achieved a major milestone in my life. As part of my celebration, I took a vacation; the first solitary sojourn of my adulthood. My intent was to visit a loved one, and to contemplate the course my life would take. It was a whirl-wind trip. I was toted around a relatively foreign city, carted from one monument to the next because, I was told, "I had to." There was no time to relax or process. When given an opportunity to select from activities, my voiced opinion appeared considered and subsequently rejected. As a result, I felt under-appreciated, overwhelmed, frustrated, and emotionally taxed. Eventually, this experience culminated in a fight.

I had been under the impression that I was going to select our activity that day. Instead, my preference was denied. When I voiced my concern, a woman I thought I knew turned on me.  In a very public setting surrounded by complete strangers, she yelled at me.

"This is MY city!" she declared, in response to my reminder that I was on a much needed vacation.

She then proceeded to berate me and my entire family. In not as many words, she told me I was ungrateful, stubborn, impatient, inflexible, and inconsiderate. She devalued my entire worth that day. Then she informed me she was going to the destination of her choice, and I could choose to follow her.

For the first time in my life, I thought to myself "I'm an adult and I don't have to do what you say." So, I stood my ground (literally), and watched her walk away. Suddenly alone, in a city I had not seen since childhood, I began to feel utterly lost. I barely knew where I was physically, and I had no idea where I was emotionally. Without any clue of where to go, I found a horizon, and I began to walk.  As I did, I called my mother. Through poorly controlled sobs, I relayed what had happened. I explained feeling pressured to appease this woman simply because I was a visitor in her home, in her city, in her world.

My mother, wonderful support that she is, sided with me. She agreed with my decision to remain alone. In fact, she suggested I explore the city  by myself.  She made sure I knew how to return, and gave some of the best advice I ever received.

She said, "take some time. Do what you want to do. Then, when you're ready, go back to her. Tell her you're sorry, and ask to take her to dinner." She said she knew I didn't want to do any of that, but I was only there temporarily. She said, "you just have to get through tonight."

So, I listened to her. I took some time to appease my neglected need for relaxation. Then, I sucked up my pride, and found my way back to this person, in an unfamiliar city.

When I arrived at her house, she was on the phone with a friend; chatting. She smiled and waved me in like nothing had happened. Unsure of myself, I sat next to her and waited while she finished her call. When she hung up, I did what my mother told me to do. I apologized.

I sat in her living room, as she told me how disrespectful I was. She reiterated that I was selfish, rude, and unappreciative. In doing so, she used examples from the week prior, and instances from my early life. I listened as this woman, who assumed she knew my personality based on sporadic visits throughout my childhood, told me I was spoiled rotten. I sat quietly as she accused me of being overpriviledged and insulting because I had once asked her why my 7th birthday card was late. As an adult, I allowed her to drag up moments of age-appropriate immaturity from my youth and use them as proof that I was, and always had been, self-centered. Then, she told me, it wasn't my fault. She forgave my insensitivity and immaturity by explaining that my parents had neglected to teach me respect. She said I didn't hold those values because they were not instilled in me. She further proved this point by citing all the instances my siblings had treated her in a similar fashion when they were children. In one fell-swoop she insulted my entire family.

And, what did I do? Exactly what my mother, who never taught me respect, told me to do. I listened, and apologized. I told her she was right. I said I had not known thank you cards and formal gestures were required to demonstrate love and affection. Then I asked to take her out for dinner, and she obliged.

That night I cried quietly into the keys of my smart phone, as I wrote my parents an email asking if any of her words were valid. At this point in my life, I had no idea who I was. Naturally, someone (who I thought knew me) chosing that moment to say I was an awful person resulted in one profoundly distressing question. Was any of it true?

I know now that it was not, and never was. I know now, that these were callous reactions from someone making over-generalized assumptions based on  behavior once observed in my childhood. She had no idea who I truly was as an adult, because she couldn't see that I had grown up. Though she recognized my growth and appearance, she still viewed my attempts to communicate and discuss as the whining inflexible tantrums of a much younger me. If she were really looking, she would have seen the truth.

I am compassionate.
I am reasonable.
I am kind.
I am giving.
I am honest.
I am caring.
I appreciate my life, and the people in it.

Perhaps the most important thing I learned from this experience is the truth that hurts the most: I can be loyal to a fault, but even I know that some people are not worth keeping around. It's sad, but sometimes you have to cut ties with those who hold you back. For me, that means choosing not to maintain a relationship, however mandated by cultural values and biology, with anyone unwilling to hear or see me for who I truly am. 

Wedged

Image found here

Sometimes I get my hopes up so high that they can only be dashed. ― No. You know what? Scratch that.

Pretty much any time I'm excited my expectations reach unattainable heights.
 
Unfortunately, this means I find myself falling from emotional extremes on the regular. It sucks, but I have always been this way. At least now I am able to recognize it. I do this by comparing the sensation to my first frustrating experience of letting myself down, which is mortifyingly stereotypical with wardrobe-centricity.

I was in middle school. Therefore, my appearance was overwhelmingly important to me. I truly believed that the right outfit would one day catapult me to social success, because that's what mattered. The right Gap sweatshirt was going to get me in with the cool kids, and the wrong platform sneakers were sure to loose me any chance with the hottest pock-faced guy in the commons.

Keeping this in mind, I carefully selected everything I wore. I perused catalogs, and back-to school shopping with Mom was, at times, a weekend long experience. One time I walked away from this epic adventure with what I thought was the most beautiful summery pale blue skirt. It had pink flowers embroidered along the bottom hem, and I was in love with it. In my eyes, it was incredible and no one at school had ever seen anything like it. In reality, I would not actually fill it out for about 5 years.

When we arrived home, I immediately ran it to my room to prepare for the parental fashion show that followed every shopping endeavor of my adolescence. I put it on, paired with a white button up, and ran downstairs to show it off.


"Very pretty," My mom said, "but what shoes are you going to wear with it."

Panicked, I looked down at my bare feet. I didn't own anything that would go with this outfit. Fortunately, an image of the most perfect pair of white platform wedges came to mind. I explained them to my mom, and the next weekend we set out to find them, but to no avail.

We must have gone to 20 stores that day. Several had shoes similar to my idea, but these shoes did not seem to actually exist as I had imagined them. I found white shoes with tacky flowers, tan shoes with white designs, pale brown wedges, summery flip-flop heels, and white dress shoes. Nowhere did anyone have a pair of plain white wedges.

In retrospect, any number of the shoes we stumbled upon probably would have gone with my outfit. However, I had my heart set on this concept that seemed to be stuck in my brain, and something close just wasn't it. So, I gave up. I went home pouting. I put the beautiful summery skirt in my closet, and looked at it longingly each morning for far too long. The passion I had invested into actualizing my dream of perfection was replaced by complete refusal to even try.

I have since grown to understand this as an incredibly typical developmental experience. Getting your hopes up is risky. The heightened excitement exposes vulnerabilities. It's awesome when it pays out, but the odds are not always in our favor. Ramped up expectations increase the odds for failure, setting us up for a greater chance of disappointment. Which makes giving up a reasonable reaction.

So, should we stop hoping for the best?  Should we protect ourselves from distress by increasingly lowering our aim from the moon, to the stars, to earth's atmosphere, and then to the sky? These are choices we all must consider. However, it is also important to consider that decreased risk of failure comes with an equivalent decrease in expectation and anticipation. This may also impair your true ability to experience pride, surprise, and elation.  Even emotional protection comes at a cost.