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."

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.

Braggart Reform

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When I was younger I could be quite the know-it-all.  Teachers liked me, because I sat quietly in class, raised my hand, and answered the questions I  was asked. At home, I would jabber on and on about all the things I learned in school.  I would talk my parents' ears off as I described every accolade and academic triumph of the day.  I'd chatter away bragging about all of my skills and scholastic strengths until my dad would sigh with exasperation and declare,

"If you're really smart, you won't have to tell anyone."

As a small child this advice baffled me.  Of course I have to tell people, I thought to myself, how else will they know?  I truly believed that I had to prove my worth to others.  Because of this, I took my father's advice how I always did.  I ignored it.

I went on striving for perfection and asserting my value to all who mattered to me.  All the while, my father repeated his advice  every time he was subjected to my self-aggrandizing daily reports.  I'd roll my eyes, stomp my feet, and complain that I was merely trying to describe my day.

I never thought this advice effected me much, except to confirm that my dad could be rather insensitive.  However, as with all mild irritations that are set on repeat, I slowly internalized his words.  Without realizing it, I took on his meaning.  Before I realized it, I grew into a strong young woman who speaks to others in simple words while resisting the need to prove my intelligence.  I now equate my wisdom and skill with that of most people.  I recognize my competencies, but I see myself as no better or worse than any other person just with a different set of privileges.

Error-genic

"Parenting," as my father says, "is a job you can only do wrong."

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 It may seem overly cynical to say so, but I've had a variety of encounters throughout my life that would confirm this very belief. I have worked with and known parents who could be described with adjectives such as good, bad, perfect, mediocre, wonderful, awful, intense, amazing, and even crazy. No matter how I've come to know these parents, they all had one major thing in common. All of their children have had "issues."

In fact, that might just be the prevailing theme in life. Everyone has issues. We all have something we struggle with, some weakness that needs bolstering, and some sensitivities that need considering.  Babies are born into our world ripe for learning behaviors from their predecessors. Their brains are literally programmed to observe and mimic what they see. These learned behaviors impact thought development, which creates internalized responses, and before you know it there's a whole new generation of neuroses walking the earth.

It's an endless cycle that can only be circumvented with acceptance. This is our fate. Whether guarded, defensive, fearful, or reactive, we all have our vulnerabilities. Often times these issues have been selected from a preordained set of environmental, hereditary, and social dynamics. There's little anyone could do to avoid creating issues. It's possible that special focus and attention may have prevented development of a specific sensitivity.  However, it's more than likely that hyper-attentiveness in one identified area would actually create neglect in an another unrealized realm; causing a whole different set of difficulties.

This is not to say that we should all just throw up our hands and surrender to our flaws and shortcomings.  Truly what I point to is the opposite. I bring up our inevitably flawed experiences, in an attempt to point out that we're all striving for improvement.  This experience is not unique to any particularly sick set of people.  We're all working on change and betterment of ourselves, because the future depends on us.

What I Am

I spend a lot of time thinking about what I represent to others, and I recognize that it's a lot of things.

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For some people I represent The Answer. I am the authority that holds the knowledge that gives insight.  For other people I am The Power. I hold the keys to the doors that get you toward what you need and away from what you hate. They do not see me. Their thoughts tell them all they need to know.

Some people believe I am The Innocent.  I am a youthful representation of freedom and ignorance. When some see my size, stature, and appearance, they assume I am without wisdom, skills, or know-how. They don't hear me. Their perception tells them who I am.

There are those who see me as The Maternal. I am The Savior. I am The Nurturer. I am the person who holds people when they cry. I am the one who makes everything all better. Then I am the one who flees when there's a need. I am The Abandoner. I am The Perfect Bitch. I am the Spoiled Child. I am The Privileged One. There are those who believe I represent everything they are not or cannot have. I am a reminder of pain and misfortune. They have no sense of me. Their history and experience forms their impression of me.

There are also those in my life who clearly see me as The Hope. I have been inexplicably called The Favorite in a variety of realms. I represent Something That Could Be. I have the skills or the prowess to turn things around, to enact change, to make things better. These people hear me selectively. I cannot ask them for help, because they do not perceive me to need it.

There are others who perceive me as The Needy. The Distant. The Reactive. The Disengaged. The Nosey; Over-involved.

I am a variety of things to a wider variety of people. I am The Projected. The Absent. The Superimposed.  I spend the vast majority of my day, my week, and my life filling the role I am assumed to have given the situation, relationship, and context. I represent what I am to individuals, groups, and systems. I try my best to work with this, but it is so moment to moment, that much of my life I find myself assessing what I am in each specific scenario, and I forget to ask myself what I truly represent.

Representing so much to so many, leaves me forgetting who I actually am. What is my role to me? What do I want to be? Who am I to me? Who even knows?

Identity Solutions

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Writing has been hard for me lately.  Sitting in front of my computer on Monday nights has turned in to pulling teeth.  I essentially have to isolate myself, and limit distractions in order to get anything out.  Even then, it's difficult to focus.  About every 1.5 sentences I stop to check my phone, pick at my split ends, or play with my cat. It's become a slow going, painstaking, process, and I've been quite distressed about it.

See, I conceptualize myself as a writer.  Clicking keys to make meaningful materials has nearly always come easily to me.  Writer's block freaks me out.  It screws with my identity, and makes me question my understanding of myself and who I am.  Writing is how I process my world.  Without writing, I feel confused and unfocused.  So, naturally I've been concerned about my most recent bout of writer's block.

Last week I began to ponder my three month long impediment.  Rather than fixate on my overwhelming sense of curiosity about why I wasn't writing, I started to think about my most prolific periods, and I discovered something peculiar.  My best writing is often regarding a topic that has given me a degree of mental anguish.  Bursts of frequent essays on a variety of topics often spring up during periods of my life characterized by transition, identity crisis, and general lifetime turmoil.  I knitted my eyebrows as I processed this information; not quite sure what to do with it.  Until it occurred to me that maybe I'm not writing because I'm happy.

Dorothy

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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

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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

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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.

Pandora

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Blog,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you so much,
Mindy

Working On It

Image found here

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.

 

Epic Tails

You should know that I believe in the power of fables.  I think that metaphors are a great tool for understanding the world.

Image found here

Human history is rich with examples of us exploring our purpose as a species through story telling. People have always been able to extrapolate powerful meaning from mythologies. This is a pattern that continues to this day. If you are paying attention, you'll be surprised to find many of life's little lessons in the most unexpected places. Epic poems, novels, comic books, and even movies are filled with profound insight. I am a firm believer that "all of life's riddles are answered in the movies," and in the best children's stories as well.

So today, when I went to see a movie based on a novel, I wasn't surprised to discover the entire story had been leading to moment of allegorical clarity. However, I was surprised to find out that the lesson to be learned from this particular tale was one I had already learned. Even more startling was the awareness that this very specific lesson was one I had  taught myself. I had even passed this bit of knowledge on recently.


It was this past summer, and I had (as I often do) accompanied my parents to a bike race. I was standing in the official's box in the infield of our friendly neighborhood velodrome. I was talking to my father, as the child of a family friend sat next to us eating a type of sweet treat that I have since forgotten. The brawny little boy sat atop a tall stool wearing a content expression as he munched on his snack. He innocently kicked his dangling legs back and forth in the sunlight. Watching him sit there as his father attended to something elsewhere,  I felt a kinship with this boy who was sharing my childhood experience. I smiled at him as I recalled my own childhood sitting in that very spot.

Then, I noticed what looked like a scrape on his knee. Though the scab was small, I figured it had come from one of his rough and tumble adventures, and I wanted to know the story. So, I asked him. "How'd you scrape your knee?"

He squinted his eyes into a perplexed expression as he looked up from underneath a pile of the most golden blond hair. "It's paint," he said reaching down to scratch part of it off.

It seemed so obvious after hearing that. The kid had, after all, spent the afternoon with both of our fathers repainting lines on the track. However, I felt somewhat unsatisfied with his answer. So, as someone who has been repeatedly complimented for her sensitivity in dealing with children, I told him how I felt.

"Oh," I shrugged. "Well, that's kind of boring."
"Yeah," my dad chimed in. "Next time someone asks you that, you should come up with a better story."

The child looked at us, confused.

"I think you should tell people you wrestled a tiger," I said "It's more exciting."
"Yup, tigers are much cooler," my dad concluded.
 "But, it's just paint," He told us. The boy still looked puzzled, but one corner of his mouth had flipped up into a smirk.
"I know! I can say the tiger had a paint brush in his mouth," he added, clearly missing the point.
"I guess that will work," I responded suddenly feeling disappointed in myself for having told a small child to lie for no good reason. But, it was too late.

The boy had started to get the idea. With our assistance, he had concocted an epic tale of an invisible paintbrush wielding tiger that had scratched him once, because it turns out he did have a cut on his leg (a small freckle-sized scab on one ankle underneath his sock). And, for the rest of that evening, when we told people to ask him about the paint on his knee, the macho boy responded with pride, "I wrestled a tiger."


I guess the point I was making, that was echoed months later in this movie, was that sometimes how you got to where you are is not important. Life can be intense and complicated. We move through it compiling data for complex tales, some of them gloriously exciting, incredibly tragic, or unbelievably mundane. We all have epic journeys to report. In doing so, it's easy to become fixated on how it all happened. When we do that we can forget the most important details. That is, we often neglect to acknowledge that, no matter how we reached our current states, we survived.

So, next time you feel the need to dwell on your past, take a tip from me. Tell the story with a tiger. It'll sound more impressive.

"Van Gogh would’ve sold more than one painting if he’d put tigers in them." - Calvin 

(Image found here)