Yesterday was a rough day. For reasons that would be revealed as my blood pressure plummeted to a lovely 84/40, I was forgetful. I wasn't sure I could remember my name much less my security badge, the fact that it was trash day, or my driver license. So when I finally arrived at work half an hour late, I was brought to my knees by a gesture of kindness I never expected.
On my desk, in front of my keyboard was a box of tea. Not just any tea... my favorite tea. Peach passion. The scent of which calms me even on my roughest days. And on top of the box of tea was a sweet note from a dear friend, wishing me a good day in spite of it's rough beginning.
I can't even begin to describe my gratitude. I am so blessed with amazing relationships, and I am never prepared for the wonderful people who are brought into my life. Often I find myself unable to thank people enough for the kind things they do for me. From mowing my grass to watching my kids while I nap to simply keeping me company on days when I am not good company for myself much less anyone else... these people fill my life and bless me beyond measure.
I hope beyond hope that I am able to be a blessing back. And I want to tell those friends thank you... from the bottom of my heart. And maybe one day, I will find a way. Until then... maybe I can just say this...
My life is meant for relationships, and I will work my hardest to maintain the ones I have. I promise my friends that I will love them in spite of their flaws, that I will cherish their quirks, that I will encourage their eccentricities. Because their unique qualities make them wonderful. And I will pray every day for blessings to overflow on my friends, for peace to pass their understanding, and for life to be interesting and wonderful and full of amazing things.
Thank you, friends. For tea in the morning. For contemplation of homicidal monks. For deep conversations at 4:00am. For Star Trek. For the color pink. For owls. For singing at the tops of our lungs in the car. For flowers. For adventures in home improvement stores. For garage saleing. For coffee on my porch. For silly string and food fights. For hope. For the future.
You make my life worth living.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Sunday, September 25, 2011
The Golden Rule Revisited
A very good friend of mine said something to me the other day that hurt my feelings. Like many things that are hurtful, I needed to hear this one because it was truth. He said to me, "I don't like the way you treat my friend Theresa. She's one of my favorite people and you treat her like crap. You would never treat another person the way you treat yourself, and I think that's wrong. Be nice to Theresa."
It's true. I beat myself up all the time over things I have no power to change. I am so much harder on and more judgmental of myself than I ever would be of someone else. Other people are always given the benefit of the doubt. I don't know what they think or what their intentions are after all. I know what I was thinking. I know where I was going. I know what I could have done better.
The hardest part of this situation is that I don't know how I can treat myself better.
I walk myself in circles in my head. If I am kind to myself I carry guilt that perhaps I should have been less selfish. I should have focused that energy on someone else. How dare I spend money on my hair when I'm cutting my sons' hair inexpertly in the kitchen?? How can I go to bed early when I have their school schedule and lunches to organize for the morning?? How can I tell a friend in crisis I don't want to go out for coffee and talk about their feelings because all I really want is to sit on my couch and watch Star Trek Voyager on Netflix?? How can I take a day off of work to go to the doctor when my boss obviously really needs me??
People are not machines. We are not meant to run full tilt all the time. Sometimes we need rest and when those moments occur, beating ourselves up is pointless because if we don't, our bodies will simply shut down and we won't have to beat ourselves up. We'll already be beaten.
My worst moments however are not necessarily struggling with obligation... my worst moments are dealing with the crises that happen in my life without thinking I could have prevented them somehow. For example how could I have prevented my son from acting out in school? Obviously I'm sitting right next to him in his classroom enforcing all of the behavioral rules I've preached since his birth. If I am logically aware that I can actually do nothing to change his behavior from my remote location, why on earth do I have this irrational need to blame myself for it? Yet here I am, doing exactly that.
I have learned in my short life that I do not know what the future holds. (I know that's a random segue, but stay with me... I promise I'll tie it in!) Every day is new and fresh and things happen that I never expected. So many things have happened in the past several years that I never thought possible for me, yet here I am sitting at this table writing these words... I am beyond blessed!
And maybe that's the key. Everyday I need to look at my blessings, discover just how wonderful this life is, remind myself that while sometimes hard things happen, beautiful things happen to. Perhaps there are things that are my fault. Perhaps I could have flapped my butterfly wings and changed the course of war in Africa, but I didn't. Instead I made an impact elsewhere and left a joy-filled crater that I can't beat myself up for.
It's true. I beat myself up all the time over things I have no power to change. I am so much harder on and more judgmental of myself than I ever would be of someone else. Other people are always given the benefit of the doubt. I don't know what they think or what their intentions are after all. I know what I was thinking. I know where I was going. I know what I could have done better.
The hardest part of this situation is that I don't know how I can treat myself better.
I walk myself in circles in my head. If I am kind to myself I carry guilt that perhaps I should have been less selfish. I should have focused that energy on someone else. How dare I spend money on my hair when I'm cutting my sons' hair inexpertly in the kitchen?? How can I go to bed early when I have their school schedule and lunches to organize for the morning?? How can I tell a friend in crisis I don't want to go out for coffee and talk about their feelings because all I really want is to sit on my couch and watch Star Trek Voyager on Netflix?? How can I take a day off of work to go to the doctor when my boss obviously really needs me??
People are not machines. We are not meant to run full tilt all the time. Sometimes we need rest and when those moments occur, beating ourselves up is pointless because if we don't, our bodies will simply shut down and we won't have to beat ourselves up. We'll already be beaten.
My worst moments however are not necessarily struggling with obligation... my worst moments are dealing with the crises that happen in my life without thinking I could have prevented them somehow. For example how could I have prevented my son from acting out in school? Obviously I'm sitting right next to him in his classroom enforcing all of the behavioral rules I've preached since his birth. If I am logically aware that I can actually do nothing to change his behavior from my remote location, why on earth do I have this irrational need to blame myself for it? Yet here I am, doing exactly that.
I have learned in my short life that I do not know what the future holds. (I know that's a random segue, but stay with me... I promise I'll tie it in!) Every day is new and fresh and things happen that I never expected. So many things have happened in the past several years that I never thought possible for me, yet here I am sitting at this table writing these words... I am beyond blessed!
And maybe that's the key. Everyday I need to look at my blessings, discover just how wonderful this life is, remind myself that while sometimes hard things happen, beautiful things happen to. Perhaps there are things that are my fault. Perhaps I could have flapped my butterfly wings and changed the course of war in Africa, but I didn't. Instead I made an impact elsewhere and left a joy-filled crater that I can't beat myself up for.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
What I Learned While Repairing My Toilet
There are many things I can do, and a few of those things I'm very good at. I can garden (you wouldn't be able to tell that from the state of my yard at the moment though). I can cook (not fantastically, but definitely adequately). I can clean (obsessively). I can fix a computer (in my sleep). I can change the oil and spark plugs in my car (though I prefer to pay someone else to do it).
However, I am not particularly good at anything DIY around the house. A friend of mine showed me how to re-wire an electrical socket. I'm ashamed to admit that other than "turn off the power before you start" I remember nothing of what he said. And plumbing completely baffles me!
Since I moved into my house over a year ago the toilet has run constantly. This was something that was noticed during inspections and should have been fixed. Somehow, it was overlooked (in other words I didn't notice it wasn't fixed) and I was stuck with it. I ignored it for a while until it got really loud and I started noticing a difference on my water bill. For some reason, when it affects my bank account, I take action.
One Saturday I decided to do something about it. Everyone I'd spoken to had advised me that this was an easy job. And wasn't I an independent, strong-willed woman who had taken the world by the balls and made it hers? Surely a toilet would not conquer me! So I went to Lowe's and purchased a toilet repair kit.
I followed the directions. I turned off the water and disconnected the hose. I caught the excess water in a bucket. So far so good! I removed the ballcock and tried not to giggle (the guts of a toilet have amusing names... just sayin'). I removed the floater and the overflow tube. I was getting pretty good at this.
Then the directions told me to unscrew the tank. My home was built in 1953, and while some things have been updated and it looks fairly modern, there are some things that have not been. My toilet has probably been in this bathroom for more than thirty years. The bolts that held the tank to the bowl were covered in some sort of strange crust (I'm hoping it was rust). One I removed... with effort. But the other would not move. Not even a tiny bit. After an hour of frustrated attempts I was fighting tears and lamenting the weak upper body strength associated with my gender.
And I called my dad.
What is it about dads that make them know everything? Just the sound of his voice gave me confidence that this was going to be okay. When I explained what it was I was doing he gently told me I didn't need to do all of that. He asked me what I saw and I described the disaster that sat in pieces in front of me. The delicate balance between independent, strong-willed woman and despairing little girl who didn't have a clue what to do with this dirty, watery mess tilted and I nearly lost it. But dads somehow work magic, and mine is particularly good. He spoke the incantation, "How 'bout I come take a look at it."
Verbally I objected. Emotionally I rejoiced. Cognitively I stubbornly wanted to figure it out on my own. Talk about conflicted! But in the end, I agreed, and he was on his way.
In the meantime, I resorted to my good friend Google and searched for answers. In the ensuing ten minutes I discovered that he was indeed right and I was doing too much work. I was nearly finished when he arrived and inspected my work. He simply said, "Yep. Looks good. Make sure everything is good and tight and keep an eye on it over the next couple of weeks to make sure it doesn't leak." Suddenly I felt like a brilliant neurosurgeon who had just performed life-saving brain surgery.
I had done it. The toilet worked, and it didn't make a sound! What's more, I had done it by myself! I was proud and humbled at the same time, and I realized in that moment that without his affirmation I would have gone back and forth on the matter for some time and may never have come to the conclusion that I was indeed doing things right. I needed the help, as much as I didn't want to admit it to myself. Getting up close and personal with a toilet forced me to realize that asking for help isn't weakness. Asking for help is a kind of strength in and of itself. Life isn't about knowing everything, it's about knowing who to ask when we aren't sure and being willing to change what we're doing to follow wiser directions.
Yep. A toilet taught me that.
However, I am not particularly good at anything DIY around the house. A friend of mine showed me how to re-wire an electrical socket. I'm ashamed to admit that other than "turn off the power before you start" I remember nothing of what he said. And plumbing completely baffles me!
Since I moved into my house over a year ago the toilet has run constantly. This was something that was noticed during inspections and should have been fixed. Somehow, it was overlooked (in other words I didn't notice it wasn't fixed) and I was stuck with it. I ignored it for a while until it got really loud and I started noticing a difference on my water bill. For some reason, when it affects my bank account, I take action.
One Saturday I decided to do something about it. Everyone I'd spoken to had advised me that this was an easy job. And wasn't I an independent, strong-willed woman who had taken the world by the balls and made it hers? Surely a toilet would not conquer me! So I went to Lowe's and purchased a toilet repair kit.
I followed the directions. I turned off the water and disconnected the hose. I caught the excess water in a bucket. So far so good! I removed the ballcock and tried not to giggle (the guts of a toilet have amusing names... just sayin'). I removed the floater and the overflow tube. I was getting pretty good at this.
Then the directions told me to unscrew the tank. My home was built in 1953, and while some things have been updated and it looks fairly modern, there are some things that have not been. My toilet has probably been in this bathroom for more than thirty years. The bolts that held the tank to the bowl were covered in some sort of strange crust (I'm hoping it was rust). One I removed... with effort. But the other would not move. Not even a tiny bit. After an hour of frustrated attempts I was fighting tears and lamenting the weak upper body strength associated with my gender.
And I called my dad.
What is it about dads that make them know everything? Just the sound of his voice gave me confidence that this was going to be okay. When I explained what it was I was doing he gently told me I didn't need to do all of that. He asked me what I saw and I described the disaster that sat in pieces in front of me. The delicate balance between independent, strong-willed woman and despairing little girl who didn't have a clue what to do with this dirty, watery mess tilted and I nearly lost it. But dads somehow work magic, and mine is particularly good. He spoke the incantation, "How 'bout I come take a look at it."
Verbally I objected. Emotionally I rejoiced. Cognitively I stubbornly wanted to figure it out on my own. Talk about conflicted! But in the end, I agreed, and he was on his way.
In the meantime, I resorted to my good friend Google and searched for answers. In the ensuing ten minutes I discovered that he was indeed right and I was doing too much work. I was nearly finished when he arrived and inspected my work. He simply said, "Yep. Looks good. Make sure everything is good and tight and keep an eye on it over the next couple of weeks to make sure it doesn't leak." Suddenly I felt like a brilliant neurosurgeon who had just performed life-saving brain surgery.
I had done it. The toilet worked, and it didn't make a sound! What's more, I had done it by myself! I was proud and humbled at the same time, and I realized in that moment that without his affirmation I would have gone back and forth on the matter for some time and may never have come to the conclusion that I was indeed doing things right. I needed the help, as much as I didn't want to admit it to myself. Getting up close and personal with a toilet forced me to realize that asking for help isn't weakness. Asking for help is a kind of strength in and of itself. Life isn't about knowing everything, it's about knowing who to ask when we aren't sure and being willing to change what we're doing to follow wiser directions.
Yep. A toilet taught me that.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Re-claiming
It's taken me three long, desert-like years to discover that violence can be purely emotional.
Yes, I've read all the stories about emotional abuse. I've watched Law and Order: SVU. I've seen first hand the results of brain-washing. But never once did I think it could happen to me. Perhaps this is a resulting fallacy of my mid-Western American upbringing. Relatively safe. Relatively happy. Relatively sheltered. Being aware of what is happening in other parts of the world does not give the same understanding as actually experiencing those things. Anyone who has been to a third world country and witnessed real poverty can attest to this.
I am no different. I had no idea what real emotional trauma could do to a person. In fact, because I mostly blamed myself for the trauma in my life, it never occurred to me that it was abuse. But it was. And I was a victim.
Ugh. I hate that word. There is such a loss of control there. Something I hate with so much passion, I can't even describe it in words. I don't like loss... in any form.
But loss is what I experienced. Not just any loss, but a violent, tragic, heart-rending loss. The kind that broke me.
I'm not talking about the kind of broken that makes a person suicidal. I am aware that people have it much worse than me, and there are kinds of emotional trauma that some people never recover from. It is my prayer that I am not one of those people. I am determined to recover, and this... this is my therapy.
My loss was my cathartic, creative writing outlet. My stories were stolen from me, literally taken and violated. A kind of emotional rape that I am positive few people are really going to understand. I won't take it personally if you scoff at this. The analogy probably sounds ridiculous to anyone who has been physically raped. And from that perspective, it is. But the trauma was the same. My creativity was broken. My inspiration suppressed. The loss was so deep, I sank gratefully into denial.
Today I was shaken from that comforting, self-effacing place. Today the band-aid was ripped right off, and not by more hurt... but by kindness and a genuine need to help heal a wound that was obvious to anyone who knew me four (or more) years ago. This emptiness that filled my once literary, word-filled world was bigger than I expected.
Now, I am angry. How dare anyone take that from me? It was mine. It IS mine. And while the physical, readable evidence of those days no longer exists (except perhaps on some back-up server that no one can access without special privileges that I wouldn't even know how to begin to request) the creativity, the passion, and the drive that formed passages, paired words, lengthened narrative... those still exist. They are buried under hurt and anger and abject terror, but they are there.
Today I make it my mission to pull myself out from under those layers. I make it my mission to find myself again. Today I told someone I was content with who I am, but a few short hours later I discovered a part of myself is missing. Perhaps I am still content, but I am driven to find the rest of me. No... it's deeper than drive, deeper than ambition. I need to find it. It is an integral part of me. The outpouring of my soul. And I will reclaim it.
Yes, I've read all the stories about emotional abuse. I've watched Law and Order: SVU. I've seen first hand the results of brain-washing. But never once did I think it could happen to me. Perhaps this is a resulting fallacy of my mid-Western American upbringing. Relatively safe. Relatively happy. Relatively sheltered. Being aware of what is happening in other parts of the world does not give the same understanding as actually experiencing those things. Anyone who has been to a third world country and witnessed real poverty can attest to this.
I am no different. I had no idea what real emotional trauma could do to a person. In fact, because I mostly blamed myself for the trauma in my life, it never occurred to me that it was abuse. But it was. And I was a victim.
Ugh. I hate that word. There is such a loss of control there. Something I hate with so much passion, I can't even describe it in words. I don't like loss... in any form.
But loss is what I experienced. Not just any loss, but a violent, tragic, heart-rending loss. The kind that broke me.
I'm not talking about the kind of broken that makes a person suicidal. I am aware that people have it much worse than me, and there are kinds of emotional trauma that some people never recover from. It is my prayer that I am not one of those people. I am determined to recover, and this... this is my therapy.
My loss was my cathartic, creative writing outlet. My stories were stolen from me, literally taken and violated. A kind of emotional rape that I am positive few people are really going to understand. I won't take it personally if you scoff at this. The analogy probably sounds ridiculous to anyone who has been physically raped. And from that perspective, it is. But the trauma was the same. My creativity was broken. My inspiration suppressed. The loss was so deep, I sank gratefully into denial.
Today I was shaken from that comforting, self-effacing place. Today the band-aid was ripped right off, and not by more hurt... but by kindness and a genuine need to help heal a wound that was obvious to anyone who knew me four (or more) years ago. This emptiness that filled my once literary, word-filled world was bigger than I expected.
Now, I am angry. How dare anyone take that from me? It was mine. It IS mine. And while the physical, readable evidence of those days no longer exists (except perhaps on some back-up server that no one can access without special privileges that I wouldn't even know how to begin to request) the creativity, the passion, and the drive that formed passages, paired words, lengthened narrative... those still exist. They are buried under hurt and anger and abject terror, but they are there.
Today I make it my mission to pull myself out from under those layers. I make it my mission to find myself again. Today I told someone I was content with who I am, but a few short hours later I discovered a part of myself is missing. Perhaps I am still content, but I am driven to find the rest of me. No... it's deeper than drive, deeper than ambition. I need to find it. It is an integral part of me. The outpouring of my soul. And I will reclaim it.
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