Road Rules

What the hell is the deal with drivers in intersections looking right and merely glancing left?!

You know what, I'm going to (ironically) be the bigger person here and forget for a moment that a whopping four of you almost killed me during my ride about town this afternoon in order to provide you with two pieces of wisdom.

NUMBER 1

In this culture, we are taught from a VERY young age (think infancy) to read things from left to right.  Keep in mind here, I'm saying read things, not books.  As soon as we are born, we begin looking around.  We may not immediately track anything specific but we see the way our caregivers do and we pick up on that. Guess what we begin to notice? They're tracking left to right. Since babies begin to mimic what they see it's no surprise that you developed this behavioral trait.  In fact, by three months, when you were visually tracking faces, situations, stimuli, and other things, you did it from... (dat dat dada) left to right. Then, when you were introduced to picture books, signs, and eventually  words, this left to right looking  thing was repeatedly reinforced.  So, what you're doing at intersections is counterintuitive.  It makes no sense, and you're likely putting in more effort to combat your habitualized pattern of scanning surroundings to engage in a potentially dangerous behavior. Which leads me to my second point.

NUMBER 2

Unless you're  a brand new driver, this should be common sense, but just for the sake of your own edification I'm going to remind you of something rather crucial. Brace yourselves. Are you ready for it?

K.  Here it is:

The oncoming traffic closest to you is coming from your left side!

While you're peering past the empty passenger seat of your likely over-sized death wagon, you are completely missing that "jackass" who is about to come "out of nowhere" to t-bone you.  This is the thing that baffles me the most.  You'd think you're own inherent sense of self-preservation would protect you from missing this, but it appears it doesn't. 

Alright.  I'll quit ranting now, but before I go, do us all a favor, and start to think about what you're doing behind the wheel.  You might just save a life.

Pandora

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Blog,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you so much,
Mindy

Conciliation

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

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

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

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

Working On It

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

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

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

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

I ran crying to my mommy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Knowing I Don't

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

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

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

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

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

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

Asking For It

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

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

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

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

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

KINDLE

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The Resolution

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Happy New Year kids!  Thanks for sticking with me!

Sitting With It

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

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

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

I sit down.

That's it.

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

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

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