My one word for 2018 (in place of New Year's resolutions) was Partake. I expected my year to be focused on truly monitoring what I let into my soul - body and spirit. Filtering out the bad, inviting more of the good.
I'd say I had moderate success. I didn't do well with the physical. I didn't do well cleaning up my diet and focusing on other healthy behaviors I've let slip (like sleep and water).
I didn't do well on time management. I didn't cut down significantly on Netflix and such.
However, I did really well at filtering out the entertainment that doesn't fit my value system. There are books, TV shows, movies, and music I partook of before that I wouldn't really want to admit to. Not because the world considers them inappropriate, but because I do. They were the literal definition of guilty pleasures.
The simplest way I found to bring my behaviors and beliefs into accord was to cut out all entertainment that would be rated higher than PG.
Not everything is rated. Books aren't rated, but many of them would be beyond PG if they were. Music isn't screened well at all. Old movies are often not rated.
With music, I just cut out anything with swearing or sex. With everything else, whenever I found myself wanting to partake of something that wasn't rated, I did a little homework.
With books, I asked the people who read them, if I could. Right now I only read for book club, so I just asked someone who read ahead of me. That worked well. I only had to filter one or two of them out.
I used IMDb to judge movies and TV shows. If a show didn't seem to have a rating, I scrolled down to a section called Certificate and clicked on See all certifications. This showed me how it was rated in other countries. I looked at the ratings from Australia and the United Kingdom, sometimes others. If they were under 13, I called it approved. I also read the Parents Guide. These helped a lot.
The trouble came when IMDb and Netflix had conflicting ratings. Like with Merlin. On IMDb it's TV-PG; on Netflix it's TV-14. I watched many episodes before I found out it was TV-14 on Netflix. Then I pondered a long time. It's a series I've watched a couple times. As far as I could guess, the only thing that might push it to TV-14 is the witchcraft, that gets a little more intense in the later seasons. But it still wasn't something that went beyond my sensitivities. In the end, I stopped watching it. Not because I don't think it's okay for me, but because it was my goal to not watch beyond PG for the year, and I wanted to stay as true to that as I could.
There were a lot of shows that are TV-14 that I think are okay, but I didn't watch. There were also some that were PG that I wasn't okay with, like Charmed (lots of casual sex). Luckily, I had many options I love - like all the Star Treks (except Discovery, which . . . let's just not go there) and Doctor Who. Most SciFi TV before 2000 is fine. I also watched some shows from years ago that I didn't watch when they first aired, like Sabrina the Teenage Witch. And I explored a lot of teen and kids shows and found some gems, like Wolfblood and Gravity Falls.
It was a little tough at the beginning of the year. I wasn't watching R-rated or TV-MA before anyway, so it wasn't a huge jump. But once in a while I'd want to watch something I thought was okay and find it wasn't. And it was tough when the new Fantastic Beasts came out and was rated PG-13. And it was especially tough during Octoboween, when I usually watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel, both beyond my limit.
But, overall, it was a great year. I was happier. My soul was lighter. I felt more clean. And less self-reproaching. I'm really glad I did it and that I stuck to it.
I've been debating how I want things to change or stay the same now that the year is over. I've decided I'll mostly maintain my current status. I'll mostly stay away from PG-13 and TV-14, unless it's something I know is clean. I have a much better knowledge of what I'm sensitive to now and feel I can be honest with myself and take care of myself by filtering accordingly.
I watched my first TV-14 show yesterday - The West Wing. There was a bit more swearing than I remember, but I think it was just the episodes I chose. I'm going to give it a few more tries before I write it off again. And I WILL be seeing Fantastic Beasts: The Crimes of Grindelwald before too long.
Beyond that, I just don't know yet. I've learned a lot. I'll play it by ear - or by heart, I guess.
Showing posts with label Self-care. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Self-care. Show all posts
Saturday, January 19, 2019
Monday, February 13, 2017
2017 - A Year of Purpose
Seriously?! Where did January go? This right here is exactly why I needed my word of the year to be PURPOSE.
Long story short, I choose one word each year. Lots of thought and prayer goes into my decision. And then I try to let that word guide my year. I never know how it's going to play out; there are always interesting surprises.
My word for 2017 is purpose.
It can be tough to explain why I choose the word I do. Sometimes it's totally clear. Other times it's pretty ethereal. Usually writing it out helps. Let's see what happens this time.
People who know me, people who are close to me, know my life is never boring. That's the nice way to put it. My life is often quite complicated and difficult. There are so many areas of my life that go nuts on a regular basis like a drop of water on a hot, greased skillet.
I often feel like I'm dancing on a moving floor. Things are rarely predictable. Try as I might, I rarely feel like I have my footing. Like I'm running my own life.
But it's been worse lately. My life has definitely been running me. A lot! Flinging me around like a dog with a rag doll in its teeth. And I feel it.
I've spent way too much time lately feeling in tatters. Like my dress is shredded, I'm missing a shoe, and one of my eyes is hanging loosely from the socket. (Still a rag doll metaphor. Not blood and gore.)
I'm running around putting out fires. I'm doing this or that because I HAVE to. I'm the flotsam and jetsam on the ocean, flung wherever the waves take me.
It's not a happy way to live. It's not peaceful at all. And peace is always my main goal for my life.
So as I pondered my word, my heart went this direction. Just as a feeling. A sense of what I wanted. But without the words. And then the word came. Purpose. I need purpose.
It's not that I need purpose in my life, overall. I have that. I have oodles of that.
I need purpose in the moments. In the days. In the plans. In the relationships. In the decisions of my life.
I need to steer my life.
We're two weeks into February. I wanted to write this on January first. Guess how well I'm doing so far.
I do have moments. I've chosen to dedicate my runs (or hikes or whatever) to people in my life. Once in a while, someone will be on my mind and in my heart. So I take them with me when I run. Not always, but frequently. When the run gets hard, I remember whom I'm running for and why. Usually gratitude floods over me in that moment. How blessed I am that I can run!
And there've been other moments. Moments I remember to stop. Think. Choose.
But not nearly enough.
Today was kind of an over-the-top kind of day. I was slammed on all sides. Stress. Stress. A little more stress. Some anxiety. And how about some STRESS? Some irrational demands. Some innocent demands hitting on top of everything else. Text. Text. Text. Phone call. Phone call. Phone call. Request. Request. Request. All day long. And some gut-wrenching struggles for people I love, people I need to take care of.
I was not in control for much of the day. And then I was. And it was better.
And tomorrow it will start all over again.
Lots of opportunities for growth. Lots of chances to find my purpose.
Long story short, I choose one word each year. Lots of thought and prayer goes into my decision. And then I try to let that word guide my year. I never know how it's going to play out; there are always interesting surprises.
My word for 2017 is purpose.
It can be tough to explain why I choose the word I do. Sometimes it's totally clear. Other times it's pretty ethereal. Usually writing it out helps. Let's see what happens this time.
People who know me, people who are close to me, know my life is never boring. That's the nice way to put it. My life is often quite complicated and difficult. There are so many areas of my life that go nuts on a regular basis like a drop of water on a hot, greased skillet.
I often feel like I'm dancing on a moving floor. Things are rarely predictable. Try as I might, I rarely feel like I have my footing. Like I'm running my own life.
But it's been worse lately. My life has definitely been running me. A lot! Flinging me around like a dog with a rag doll in its teeth. And I feel it.
I've spent way too much time lately feeling in tatters. Like my dress is shredded, I'm missing a shoe, and one of my eyes is hanging loosely from the socket. (Still a rag doll metaphor. Not blood and gore.)
I'm running around putting out fires. I'm doing this or that because I HAVE to. I'm the flotsam and jetsam on the ocean, flung wherever the waves take me.
It's not a happy way to live. It's not peaceful at all. And peace is always my main goal for my life.
So as I pondered my word, my heart went this direction. Just as a feeling. A sense of what I wanted. But without the words. And then the word came. Purpose. I need purpose.
It's not that I need purpose in my life, overall. I have that. I have oodles of that.
I need purpose in the moments. In the days. In the plans. In the relationships. In the decisions of my life.
I need to steer my life.
We're two weeks into February. I wanted to write this on January first. Guess how well I'm doing so far.
I do have moments. I've chosen to dedicate my runs (or hikes or whatever) to people in my life. Once in a while, someone will be on my mind and in my heart. So I take them with me when I run. Not always, but frequently. When the run gets hard, I remember whom I'm running for and why. Usually gratitude floods over me in that moment. How blessed I am that I can run!
And there've been other moments. Moments I remember to stop. Think. Choose.
But not nearly enough.
Today was kind of an over-the-top kind of day. I was slammed on all sides. Stress. Stress. A little more stress. Some anxiety. And how about some STRESS? Some irrational demands. Some innocent demands hitting on top of everything else. Text. Text. Text. Phone call. Phone call. Phone call. Request. Request. Request. All day long. And some gut-wrenching struggles for people I love, people I need to take care of.
I was not in control for much of the day. And then I was. And it was better.
And tomorrow it will start all over again.
Lots of opportunities for growth. Lots of chances to find my purpose.
Thursday, July 28, 2016
Preparing for Battle - A PTSD Plan
A little personal journaling as I process through my current PTSD episode --
The world is at war. Every day is a battle. You can choose to meet that with peace, but it will take work. You must strengthen yourself every day.
Daily (preferably morning) -
* half hour meditation
* one General Conference talk
* one verse of scripture
Practice these for one week. Assess daily.
See how you feel after a week. Do you feel stronger and better able to live in peace amidst the war?
Right now I don't feel strong. I don't want to be on the defensive all the time, just waiting for the attack, so that I'll be ready. But I've worried that if I weren't on the defensive, the attack would come anyway and blindside me, as has happened so often in the past. I would be knocked down hard. Painful and bloody. In the past, I've always thought that to protect myself I had to be hard. Being hard is being strong.
But I know that's the emotionally immature form of strength. True strength is soft. Gentle. Kind. It comes from sure footing in oneself that grounds you in who you are. You can stand immovable without being a brick wall.
The world is at war. Every day is a battle. You can choose to meet that with peace, but it will take work. You must strengthen yourself every day.
Daily (preferably morning) -
* half hour meditation
* one General Conference talk
* one verse of scripture
Practice these for one week. Assess daily.
See how you feel after a week. Do you feel stronger and better able to live in peace amidst the war?
Right now I don't feel strong. I don't want to be on the defensive all the time, just waiting for the attack, so that I'll be ready. But I've worried that if I weren't on the defensive, the attack would come anyway and blindside me, as has happened so often in the past. I would be knocked down hard. Painful and bloody. In the past, I've always thought that to protect myself I had to be hard. Being hard is being strong.
But I know that's the emotionally immature form of strength. True strength is soft. Gentle. Kind. It comes from sure footing in oneself that grounds you in who you are. You can stand immovable without being a brick wall.
Monday, May 9, 2016
How to Be a Good Friend
Yeah, I have no idea.
There are people who think I'm an awesome friend. There are people who think I'm a horrible friend. And there are people who've thought both at different times in our relationship.
I've thought both about myself, too.
Being a good friend is such a subjective thing. Everyone has a different idea about what makes a good friend. About what makes a close friend or a best friend. Even about the difference between a friend and an acquaintance.
I've probably put way more thought into this than most, because I feel it's something I struggle with. And it's something I think I should want to change. I tried to want to change. I even tried to change. But I think I'm done.
I'm at a point in my life right now where I'm just gonna be me.
I'm not going to be what others want me to be just to avoid guilt or to feel like I'm measuring up to some mysterious golden friendship crown.
Because, to be honest, I just don't have the energy. If you need a lot of output from your friends, if you need attention (really, any attention) to believe I care and we're friends, you shouldn't choose me as a friend.
I can do great short term. Maybe we meet when we both have a mutual need. Or one of us has a need when the other of us has a surplus, and we connect. We're good for each other and good with each other.
I can drop everything to help you with your crisis. For a while.
But then, for whatever reason, I just don't have anything else to give. Maybe it's because my life has so many recurring and ongoing crises. Maybe it's because of my chronic fatigue or my bipolar disorder. Maybe it's because I'm just a crappy friend.
And then I will disappear.
Not on purpose. Not because I'm trying to be mean. Not because I'm consciously deciding I don't want to be your friend. But because I have to take care of myself. And taking care of myself often means neglecting everything and everyone but my family. Sometimes everyone other than myself.
I will retreat. For who knows how long. You might reach out. You might not. When I'm gone like this, I probably won't reach back. I might not even acknowledge you've tried to contact me.
I see you reaching. I sense your need. But I can't fill it. And you can't fill mine. Because I need to be alone and lick my wounds or find my way. Or whatever.
I know I've wounded people with this behavior. I see it. But I'm doing triage, and I just can't see your need to be with me as a life or death thing. Or if I do, I pray someone else will treat it, because my hands are tied behind my back.
Sometimes my behavior causes others to pull back, hoping I'll notice they've left and their absence will cause me to reach out. But that doesn't work. Because if I notice, which is a big if, it's entirely possible I will just be grateful to not have to fix it. To not have to figure out the steps to the dance we were engaged in, where I was stepping on your toes. I'll just be glad the dance is over and head to the punch.
I just truly don't know how to do the dance and am no longer interested in learning.
This is the kind of friend I can be now. I can be happy when good things happen in your life. I can be glad to see you when we run into each other. I can occasionally muster the energy, physically and emotionally, to do something together. I will think kindly of you when something reminds me of you. And no matter how much time has passed, I will still consider you my friend.
It doesn't take much for me to consider someone my friend. Do I know you? Have we had positive interactions? Yeah, that's about it. That's all it takes.
If we're not friends, and you want me to feel that way too, you'll probably have to tell me. Even then, I'm not sure I wouldn't still introduce you as my friend should the need arise for me to introduce you.
And if you choose to move on, if you decide (for whatever reason) that you're better off without me, I'll most likely wish you well and let you go. I won't argue. I won't ask you to stay. It's just not in my nature. I'll support your growth in whatever way you seek it.
I know a lot of this will sound harsh to many people. That's okay. We're all just finding our way. And this is just one little trip on the journey of my psyche. It's a crazy, winding path that's sometimes light and sometimes dark, but always mine.
There are people who think I'm an awesome friend. There are people who think I'm a horrible friend. And there are people who've thought both at different times in our relationship.
I've thought both about myself, too.
Being a good friend is such a subjective thing. Everyone has a different idea about what makes a good friend. About what makes a close friend or a best friend. Even about the difference between a friend and an acquaintance.
I've probably put way more thought into this than most, because I feel it's something I struggle with. And it's something I think I should want to change. I tried to want to change. I even tried to change. But I think I'm done.
I'm at a point in my life right now where I'm just gonna be me.
I'm not going to be what others want me to be just to avoid guilt or to feel like I'm measuring up to some mysterious golden friendship crown.
Because, to be honest, I just don't have the energy. If you need a lot of output from your friends, if you need attention (really, any attention) to believe I care and we're friends, you shouldn't choose me as a friend.
I can do great short term. Maybe we meet when we both have a mutual need. Or one of us has a need when the other of us has a surplus, and we connect. We're good for each other and good with each other.
I can drop everything to help you with your crisis. For a while.
But then, for whatever reason, I just don't have anything else to give. Maybe it's because my life has so many recurring and ongoing crises. Maybe it's because of my chronic fatigue or my bipolar disorder. Maybe it's because I'm just a crappy friend.
And then I will disappear.
Not on purpose. Not because I'm trying to be mean. Not because I'm consciously deciding I don't want to be your friend. But because I have to take care of myself. And taking care of myself often means neglecting everything and everyone but my family. Sometimes everyone other than myself.
I will retreat. For who knows how long. You might reach out. You might not. When I'm gone like this, I probably won't reach back. I might not even acknowledge you've tried to contact me.
I see you reaching. I sense your need. But I can't fill it. And you can't fill mine. Because I need to be alone and lick my wounds or find my way. Or whatever.
I know I've wounded people with this behavior. I see it. But I'm doing triage, and I just can't see your need to be with me as a life or death thing. Or if I do, I pray someone else will treat it, because my hands are tied behind my back.
Sometimes my behavior causes others to pull back, hoping I'll notice they've left and their absence will cause me to reach out. But that doesn't work. Because if I notice, which is a big if, it's entirely possible I will just be grateful to not have to fix it. To not have to figure out the steps to the dance we were engaged in, where I was stepping on your toes. I'll just be glad the dance is over and head to the punch.
I just truly don't know how to do the dance and am no longer interested in learning.
This is the kind of friend I can be now. I can be happy when good things happen in your life. I can be glad to see you when we run into each other. I can occasionally muster the energy, physically and emotionally, to do something together. I will think kindly of you when something reminds me of you. And no matter how much time has passed, I will still consider you my friend.
It doesn't take much for me to consider someone my friend. Do I know you? Have we had positive interactions? Yeah, that's about it. That's all it takes.
If we're not friends, and you want me to feel that way too, you'll probably have to tell me. Even then, I'm not sure I wouldn't still introduce you as my friend should the need arise for me to introduce you.
And if you choose to move on, if you decide (for whatever reason) that you're better off without me, I'll most likely wish you well and let you go. I won't argue. I won't ask you to stay. It's just not in my nature. I'll support your growth in whatever way you seek it.
I know a lot of this will sound harsh to many people. That's okay. We're all just finding our way. And this is just one little trip on the journey of my psyche. It's a crazy, winding path that's sometimes light and sometimes dark, but always mine.
Tuesday, April 19, 2016
I Needed to Boot Vanilla
Sometimes your computer chokes. It might run super slowly for a while first. You get the sense something's wrong. Eventually, you can't put up with it any longer. You have to call your computer friend.
Maybe you're the computer friend. Maybe it's a spouse. Maybe you don't have a computer friend and have to take it somewhere to be fixed (in which case, I feel very sorry for you; everyone should have a computer friend).
The first thing your computer friend will say is, "Did you shut it down and restart it?" Trust me. That's what he'll say. (I'm going to say he, because my husband is my computer friend.) Know why he'll say that first? Because it truly does fix it a ridiculous amount of the time. Those magic computer boxes just need to shuffle some things around and put them back in their places - they do that when you restart.
But sometimes it doesn't work. And sometimes you can't get it started again properly. Maybe you need to boot vanilla.
To boot vanilla means to start your computer up as basic as possible, without all the bells and whistles. To only load the essential programs. The minimum needed to gain access to the system. Not enough to run any of the normal programs you use. This requires a special vanilla boot disk or a vanilla install file.
From there, your computer friend can do some troubleshooting. He can search for things he knows might be possible problems. After asking about your recent activity, he might be guided to look for a particular virus. And if he still doesn't find anything, he will try adding programs back in one by one. (Yes, I know there are many possible ways to handle this process. Let's just pretend this is the one every computer friend does.)
As he adds each program back in, he'll watch for errors. This way, he can hopefully find the source of your frustration.
I needed to boot vanilla.
My life kind of choked. Things were running choppy. I was functioning sluggishly. Some days I couldn't get past the boot up screen.
I have several life "computer guys." This time I took myself to my psychiatrist and therapist for repair. (I just happened to have appointments scheduled with them on back to back days.) We did lots of troubleshooting. We figured out some workarounds.
But eventually I decided I just needed to boot vanilla. I needed to get rid of everything in my life that wasn't absolutely essential. I've actually been stripping things out for a while now. Activities. Obligations. Friends. And, more recently, social media. I kind of feel like I've put myself into quarantine.
I think I've gone bare bones as far as I can. Well, as far as I can and still be somewhat healthy. I'm hesitant to add things back in, because I don't want to freeze up again.
But I will add things back in. Very. Very. Slowly. I will go for a short time to a few activities. I will spend some time outside my home. And I will very carefully tiptoe back into social media. Very carefully! Probably in a ways but then back out again. Social media is a slippery place with lots of potential viruses, many of which I know I'm susceptible to.
I'll be running a different machine when I'm done. After all, we have to make upgrades over time or become incompatible with new programs. I've made a lot of changes lately; it's not surprising there were conflicts.
I think my main error has been trying to do a system restore. Trying to go back to the way I used to be. But I've altered too many things for that system to do the job. I need to let the new me become. Whatever I am going to become.
Maybe you're the computer friend. Maybe it's a spouse. Maybe you don't have a computer friend and have to take it somewhere to be fixed (in which case, I feel very sorry for you; everyone should have a computer friend).
The first thing your computer friend will say is, "Did you shut it down and restart it?" Trust me. That's what he'll say. (I'm going to say he, because my husband is my computer friend.) Know why he'll say that first? Because it truly does fix it a ridiculous amount of the time. Those magic computer boxes just need to shuffle some things around and put them back in their places - they do that when you restart.
But sometimes it doesn't work. And sometimes you can't get it started again properly. Maybe you need to boot vanilla.
To boot vanilla means to start your computer up as basic as possible, without all the bells and whistles. To only load the essential programs. The minimum needed to gain access to the system. Not enough to run any of the normal programs you use. This requires a special vanilla boot disk or a vanilla install file.
From there, your computer friend can do some troubleshooting. He can search for things he knows might be possible problems. After asking about your recent activity, he might be guided to look for a particular virus. And if he still doesn't find anything, he will try adding programs back in one by one. (Yes, I know there are many possible ways to handle this process. Let's just pretend this is the one every computer friend does.)
As he adds each program back in, he'll watch for errors. This way, he can hopefully find the source of your frustration.
I needed to boot vanilla.
My life kind of choked. Things were running choppy. I was functioning sluggishly. Some days I couldn't get past the boot up screen.
I have several life "computer guys." This time I took myself to my psychiatrist and therapist for repair. (I just happened to have appointments scheduled with them on back to back days.) We did lots of troubleshooting. We figured out some workarounds.
But eventually I decided I just needed to boot vanilla. I needed to get rid of everything in my life that wasn't absolutely essential. I've actually been stripping things out for a while now. Activities. Obligations. Friends. And, more recently, social media. I kind of feel like I've put myself into quarantine.
I think I've gone bare bones as far as I can. Well, as far as I can and still be somewhat healthy. I'm hesitant to add things back in, because I don't want to freeze up again.
But I will add things back in. Very. Very. Slowly. I will go for a short time to a few activities. I will spend some time outside my home. And I will very carefully tiptoe back into social media. Very carefully! Probably in a ways but then back out again. Social media is a slippery place with lots of potential viruses, many of which I know I'm susceptible to.
I'll be running a different machine when I'm done. After all, we have to make upgrades over time or become incompatible with new programs. I've made a lot of changes lately; it's not surprising there were conflicts.
I think my main error has been trying to do a system restore. Trying to go back to the way I used to be. But I've altered too many things for that system to do the job. I need to let the new me become. Whatever I am going to become.
Sunday, April 17, 2016
The Master Healer
Today started out rough. I woke feeling anxious. No particular thoughts causing me distress, just a discomfort in my body. I had a Harry Potter audiobook on; I use the Harry Potter audiobooks like white noise while I sleep. They relax me. But soon my agitation grew, so I switched over to some soothing music. But that felt like sandpaper on my nerves, so I switched over to my meditation soundtrack. No. Just no.
My anxiety grew. Intensified to the point that I wanted to crawl out of my skin. I always feel my anxiety most strongly in my shoulders. I shake my arms to try to dispel the feeling of tension, the feeling like I'm being held down by my shoulders. Shaking my arms doesn't really help, but it's my natural reaction. Well, I guess it helps a little. Sometimes it gets me through the worst of it. Not today.
My anxiety climbed. Maybe I just needed silence. So I turned it all off. And that was better. My body's stress didn't go down, but it leveled out. I just breathed in the stillness for a bit. Deep breaths. Willing my body to relax.
I prayed for help.
I felt prompted I should listen to a church talk. Luckily, I have several on my mp3 player that I sometimes listen to when I walk. I searched through my list, not really looking for a particular talk, just the right soothing voice. Then I saw the one. Jesus Christ - The Master Healer. If there was anything I needed right then, it was healing.
It was given by Elder Russell M. Nelson, a leader in our church, who does (in fact) have a very soothing voice and manner of address. As I listened to his words, I sought release. I sought a connection with God that would take away my current suffering.
And then a panic attack hit. Hard.
Suddenly I was gasping. Crying. Sobbing. It felt like my throat was closing up. The distress in my body grew. My headache exploded. I cried and cried, clenching at my throat and pressing my hand against my forehead. I had been propped up in my bed, but had to get rid of the pillows and lie flat to try to relieve my throat.
Talk yourself through it. You can do this. Talk yourself down. I tried to remember all I've learned to get through a moment like that. Nothing. And then a vague recollection of how brief it was likely to be. A knowledge that even though it felt like I would die, I wouldn't really.
I began to pay attention to my breathing. Even though I could feel my throat constricting, the muscles tightening, my breathing was still fine. No restriction. No limitation.
But still - panic! Ridiculous, overwhelming panic. And the talk continued. The soothing voice strengthening me even then.
I let myself cry. I let my breaths heave. I let my body work through whatever it needed to work through.
As the talk ended, the panic began to subside. But the anxiety was still there. How would I get rid of that? I need to go to church. I have a calling to perform.
Slow down. I felt prompted strongly to slow down today. I have a tendency to rush around in the morning getting ready and to be highly energetic in my calling. Today, I need to slow down. I need to not do anything which will feed the adrenaline. I need to relieve my body.
Stretch. I felt prompted to stretch. I stretched my legs. I did the stretches for my plantar fasciitis. It helped. I could feel my body releasing a little.
Wash your face. Okay, that might sound like a strange prompting. But I have a very minimal morning hygiene routine. Generally just a quick splash of water on my face. Today I was supposed to wash my face. Gently. Circular motions. Massaging my face slowly. Warm water. More release.
Lotion. Put on some lotion. I put some baby lotion in my hands, rubbed them together a bit, and gently applied it to my face. A similar massaging action. Lovingly. Slowly. And my body calmed.
There is still a remnant of anxiety in my body, just under the surface. I still need to go slow today. I still need to be gentle with myself. Mindful of myself. But I will get through it unscathed. I will be the better for it.
I believe I was touched by the Master Healer this morning. I was guided through healing techniques I had learned but couldn't recall in that moment. And I'm grateful. And I testify. Truth.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mKx63a1vBlg
My anxiety grew. Intensified to the point that I wanted to crawl out of my skin. I always feel my anxiety most strongly in my shoulders. I shake my arms to try to dispel the feeling of tension, the feeling like I'm being held down by my shoulders. Shaking my arms doesn't really help, but it's my natural reaction. Well, I guess it helps a little. Sometimes it gets me through the worst of it. Not today.
My anxiety climbed. Maybe I just needed silence. So I turned it all off. And that was better. My body's stress didn't go down, but it leveled out. I just breathed in the stillness for a bit. Deep breaths. Willing my body to relax.
I prayed for help.
I felt prompted I should listen to a church talk. Luckily, I have several on my mp3 player that I sometimes listen to when I walk. I searched through my list, not really looking for a particular talk, just the right soothing voice. Then I saw the one. Jesus Christ - The Master Healer. If there was anything I needed right then, it was healing.
It was given by Elder Russell M. Nelson, a leader in our church, who does (in fact) have a very soothing voice and manner of address. As I listened to his words, I sought release. I sought a connection with God that would take away my current suffering.
And then a panic attack hit. Hard.
Suddenly I was gasping. Crying. Sobbing. It felt like my throat was closing up. The distress in my body grew. My headache exploded. I cried and cried, clenching at my throat and pressing my hand against my forehead. I had been propped up in my bed, but had to get rid of the pillows and lie flat to try to relieve my throat.
Talk yourself through it. You can do this. Talk yourself down. I tried to remember all I've learned to get through a moment like that. Nothing. And then a vague recollection of how brief it was likely to be. A knowledge that even though it felt like I would die, I wouldn't really.
I began to pay attention to my breathing. Even though I could feel my throat constricting, the muscles tightening, my breathing was still fine. No restriction. No limitation.
But still - panic! Ridiculous, overwhelming panic. And the talk continued. The soothing voice strengthening me even then.
I let myself cry. I let my breaths heave. I let my body work through whatever it needed to work through.
As the talk ended, the panic began to subside. But the anxiety was still there. How would I get rid of that? I need to go to church. I have a calling to perform.
Slow down. I felt prompted strongly to slow down today. I have a tendency to rush around in the morning getting ready and to be highly energetic in my calling. Today, I need to slow down. I need to not do anything which will feed the adrenaline. I need to relieve my body.
Stretch. I felt prompted to stretch. I stretched my legs. I did the stretches for my plantar fasciitis. It helped. I could feel my body releasing a little.
Wash your face. Okay, that might sound like a strange prompting. But I have a very minimal morning hygiene routine. Generally just a quick splash of water on my face. Today I was supposed to wash my face. Gently. Circular motions. Massaging my face slowly. Warm water. More release.
Lotion. Put on some lotion. I put some baby lotion in my hands, rubbed them together a bit, and gently applied it to my face. A similar massaging action. Lovingly. Slowly. And my body calmed.
There is still a remnant of anxiety in my body, just under the surface. I still need to go slow today. I still need to be gentle with myself. Mindful of myself. But I will get through it unscathed. I will be the better for it.
I believe I was touched by the Master Healer this morning. I was guided through healing techniques I had learned but couldn't recall in that moment. And I'm grateful. And I testify. Truth.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mKx63a1vBlg
Thursday, April 14, 2016
It Rained
What the crap is wrong with me?! Seriously. I just don't even know. I'm so lost. I feel like I'm not connected to anything. Just floating out in the ether somewhere.
As far as writing, I'm stumped. I feel like I've lost a part of myself with my inability to write. I just haven't been able to write. I don't know how to explain it. It's not writer's block. It's not a lack of ideas or time or anything like that. It's just a plug. Like someone's put a stopper in, and my writing just won't flow.
I've barely written over the last year and a half. (Maybe before that; I don't know.) I don't know if anyone's even reading my blog anymore, except for people who happen here based on a search for a certain topic.
I don't know why I haven't been able to write. There are many possible explanations.
I've been more emotionally healthy (on the whole) for the last while. For a long time I wrote therapeutically. I wrote to work through all the horrific emotional battles I was waging. I don't have as many of those lately, so it hasn't served that purpose.
I've been exercising a lot more, becoming much more physically healthy over the last year. I wonder if that outlet has supplanted this one. Also, since my hysterectomy put me into instant menopause, I just don't have the multitasking abilities I used to have. I have trouble focusing on more than one thing at a time. So since I've been focusing on losing weight and feeling better, I struggle to focus on anything else. Like, it's tough for me to make a menu and shopping list to keep my family fed. It's tough for me to stay on top of the household money and making sure bills get paid. Forget about cleaning the house!
Besides focus, there's also the energy component. I just don't have the energy for much else. Now, it's possible that's changing. When I first started working out, just under a year ago, I was coming from a place of near inactivity. Like, almost nothing. And from a place of extremely low energy (which is related to not being active, but I'm not sure about which was the cause and which was the effect; I have lots of thoughts on that). If I worked out, I was just too tired to do anything else. Or in too much pain. Sometimes that's not the case now. I hope I'll be able to move past that soon.
But I'm afraid I'm also stuck in a pattern. For almost a year my main focus of each day has been to work out. I find I'm having to really put thought into making other things happen. Oh, there's so much more to this than you know! I feel like I'm just giving the tiniest bit of snippets to explain (because otherwise this post would be seventeen pages long). But I need to get some of this out. So even if what I've said sounds like I'm being lazy and not using my time or my life well, please know that I don't think that's the case. Perhaps I'll be able to explain it further in the future.
For now I'll just hit on one other potential cause of my writing drought. I wonder if it's been connected to my mood stabilizer. I'm a mood writer. I have to feel driven. I have to NEED to write. I have to need to get it out. Almost like throwing up, it has to be forcing its way out of me to feel right.
When I met with my psychiatrist Tuesday I asked to reduce my meds by half. That's what we chose to do. This is the second day of that dosage. Today I'm writing. I can't swear those two events are connected. Let's wait and see.
When we met, she also strongly pushed me to get back to things I love. Writing is one of those things. So I may feel driven because the meds are finally allowing it or because it's an assignment. I don't know which.
But I truly don't care right now. It just feels SO GOOD to write. Like feeling the barometric pressure rise before the storm hits, or does it drop before the storm hits? Either way, the air becomes uncomfortable, and my body aches for the rain. Today it rained!
As far as writing, I'm stumped. I feel like I've lost a part of myself with my inability to write. I just haven't been able to write. I don't know how to explain it. It's not writer's block. It's not a lack of ideas or time or anything like that. It's just a plug. Like someone's put a stopper in, and my writing just won't flow.
I've barely written over the last year and a half. (Maybe before that; I don't know.) I don't know if anyone's even reading my blog anymore, except for people who happen here based on a search for a certain topic.
I don't know why I haven't been able to write. There are many possible explanations.
I've been more emotionally healthy (on the whole) for the last while. For a long time I wrote therapeutically. I wrote to work through all the horrific emotional battles I was waging. I don't have as many of those lately, so it hasn't served that purpose.
I've been exercising a lot more, becoming much more physically healthy over the last year. I wonder if that outlet has supplanted this one. Also, since my hysterectomy put me into instant menopause, I just don't have the multitasking abilities I used to have. I have trouble focusing on more than one thing at a time. So since I've been focusing on losing weight and feeling better, I struggle to focus on anything else. Like, it's tough for me to make a menu and shopping list to keep my family fed. It's tough for me to stay on top of the household money and making sure bills get paid. Forget about cleaning the house!
Besides focus, there's also the energy component. I just don't have the energy for much else. Now, it's possible that's changing. When I first started working out, just under a year ago, I was coming from a place of near inactivity. Like, almost nothing. And from a place of extremely low energy (which is related to not being active, but I'm not sure about which was the cause and which was the effect; I have lots of thoughts on that). If I worked out, I was just too tired to do anything else. Or in too much pain. Sometimes that's not the case now. I hope I'll be able to move past that soon.
But I'm afraid I'm also stuck in a pattern. For almost a year my main focus of each day has been to work out. I find I'm having to really put thought into making other things happen. Oh, there's so much more to this than you know! I feel like I'm just giving the tiniest bit of snippets to explain (because otherwise this post would be seventeen pages long). But I need to get some of this out. So even if what I've said sounds like I'm being lazy and not using my time or my life well, please know that I don't think that's the case. Perhaps I'll be able to explain it further in the future.
For now I'll just hit on one other potential cause of my writing drought. I wonder if it's been connected to my mood stabilizer. I'm a mood writer. I have to feel driven. I have to NEED to write. I have to need to get it out. Almost like throwing up, it has to be forcing its way out of me to feel right.
When I met with my psychiatrist Tuesday I asked to reduce my meds by half. That's what we chose to do. This is the second day of that dosage. Today I'm writing. I can't swear those two events are connected. Let's wait and see.
When we met, she also strongly pushed me to get back to things I love. Writing is one of those things. So I may feel driven because the meds are finally allowing it or because it's an assignment. I don't know which.
But I truly don't care right now. It just feels SO GOOD to write. Like feeling the barometric pressure rise before the storm hits, or does it drop before the storm hits? Either way, the air becomes uncomfortable, and my body aches for the rain. Today it rained!
Wednesday, September 9, 2015
The Land of Irritation or Depleted or Something Else
You bug me. Yes, you. Whoever you are. If you're reading this, you bug me. And so does everyone who's not reading this.
Right now almost everyone and everything irritates me. A lot. And I don't know why.
I'm severely limiting my social interactions, digitally and in real life. Because I can't keep up the facade.
I can't pretend the things you're saying or doing or wearing or eating aren't making me crazy. It takes so much energy to be polite and smile when I really just want to go off on a diatribe about how ridiculous I find you.
I absolutely know how self-centered this sounds (because it is). I understand how un-Christlike this sounds (because it is). I get it. And in my heart of hearts I don't feel this way.
But in my nerves I do. I don't want to. I'm working on it. But right now I do.
And my isolation is for both of us.
I'm certain my facade will eventually break down when we're together, and I'll tell you how whiny I think you are. I'll tell you to quit complaining and either do something about it or just shut up. Which will hurt you.
Which will hurt me. Because I will feel your hurt and carry the weight of that in my heart and on my back. And I just don't have that strength right now.
I think part of the reason everyone and everything is bothering me is because I feel like it's my job to fix all the problems. All of them. All of them in the world.
I know it's not. In my head. But in my heart I feel differently. Accountable. Responsible. At fault.
And I want the world perfect. I want the world to be the way I want it. That includes the people and their behavior. And if I'm accountable, at fault, then it's my job to fix it.
But it isn't. And people get very irritated when I try. (As well they should.)
So I'm just going to pull back and give myself some space to get through this. It's kind of like taking my ball and going home because you won't play what I want to play, only a bit more mature (I hope). You can keep the ball. I'm just going home.
Right now almost everyone and everything irritates me. A lot. And I don't know why.
I'm severely limiting my social interactions, digitally and in real life. Because I can't keep up the facade.
I can't pretend the things you're saying or doing or wearing or eating aren't making me crazy. It takes so much energy to be polite and smile when I really just want to go off on a diatribe about how ridiculous I find you.
I absolutely know how self-centered this sounds (because it is). I understand how un-Christlike this sounds (because it is). I get it. And in my heart of hearts I don't feel this way.
But in my nerves I do. I don't want to. I'm working on it. But right now I do.
And my isolation is for both of us.
I'm certain my facade will eventually break down when we're together, and I'll tell you how whiny I think you are. I'll tell you to quit complaining and either do something about it or just shut up. Which will hurt you.
Which will hurt me. Because I will feel your hurt and carry the weight of that in my heart and on my back. And I just don't have that strength right now.
I think part of the reason everyone and everything is bothering me is because I feel like it's my job to fix all the problems. All of them. All of them in the world.
I know it's not. In my head. But in my heart I feel differently. Accountable. Responsible. At fault.
And I want the world perfect. I want the world to be the way I want it. That includes the people and their behavior. And if I'm accountable, at fault, then it's my job to fix it.
But it isn't. And people get very irritated when I try. (As well they should.)
So I'm just going to pull back and give myself some space to get through this. It's kind of like taking my ball and going home because you won't play what I want to play, only a bit more mature (I hope). You can keep the ball. I'm just going home.
Wednesday, May 20, 2015
No More Weighting
********************
"Are you freaking kidding me?!" That's what I thought when I looked at the scale. I had my annual physical a few days ago. We all know what that dreaded first assessment is going to be. "Can I get you to step up here?" the 20-something, size 2 nurse asks me. She was sweet and kind and just doing her job, but I really want to turn to her and say, "Do I look like someone who wants to step on a scale?"
But I did, because we do. And I felt like I'd been punched in the gut.
And to follow that up, when my blood test results came back they showed quite a spike in my cholesterol levels.
And I'm not okay with that.
I'm not sure whether it was the weight or the cholesterol, but now I want to do something about it. Really do something.
So here it is. - deep breath -
I weighed in at 216 pounds. I am 5'4". I'm just going to let that sit there for a minute while it sinks in. While I get comfortable with owning my self. 216 pounds.
I'm not comfortable with it. Not at all.
I've seen lots of people, mostly women, blog about weight loss and openly share their weight. I swore I would never do that. Funny thing. Now that the decision is made to move in a healthier direction, I can say it.
For years I've told myself I wasn't sensitive about my weight. I knew I was getting heavier, but I was still able to do most of the things I could before, so how bad could it be? My skin never felt flabby. (Yeah, it never does. It grows with the enlarging mass growing under it. Duh.) There was always someone larger than me. That helped, although it shouldn't have. It really had nothing to do with me.
But it did bother me. I'd say it was about being healthy, not about how I looked. Bull! What a lie. One of those self-deception things that helped me get through a situation I felt powerless against.
It was bothering me before I went to the doctor. I addressed it with him as part of my physical. "I used to have no appetite and could easily go 24 hours without eating (not healthy). But now I'm hungry all the time. I'm more physically active than I've been in a long time, but I'm still gaining weight. Could it be menopause?" (I had a full hysterectomy last year. So even though I'm only 45, I'm in full-blown menopause.)
He told me two of the medications I am currently taking cause weight gain. Wonderful. :( Actually, I liked when he said that because it gave me a bit of deniability. "I would totally be losing weight if I weren't on these meds. It's the meds' fault." And that's probably partly true. But not entirely by a long shot.
I'm getting off one of the meds, for other reasons, and cutting the other one by half. Finger crossed this helps. And with my new thyroid medication and the Lamictal I have more energy that I have in years. (Not a lot, but enough to feel like a tired human instead of a rock.)
This is it. This is the time. It's only going to get harder if I wait. And I'm sick of hiding from friends and from pictures.
There are people I used to work with that I avoid seeing, even though I like them and would love to see them again, because I don't want them to see how much weight I've gained. And I've hidden from pictures for years now. There are way fewer pictures of me for posterity than there should be.
Because I'm embarrassed. There. I said it. I'm embarrassed about how I look. I want to say I'm not. I want to not care about what others think of me. But I am. And I do.
A basic history:
* Other than being shorter than most people, I was never really petite.
* In high school (which was the first time I remember even knowing what I weighed) I weighed 140 pounds and wore size 8 jeans. I was not skinny by high school standards. There were so many girls around me who were just tiny. Thin little things. I was absolutely not that. I knew I wasn't that but wanted to be. I developed substantial hips at 14. I have thoroughbred thighs that run in my family. I was not tiny. But when I look back at those photos now I realize how small I really was. Go figure.
* I only gained 20-25 pounds with each baby (5). With my first, I lost the weight quickly and even dropped some extra. I was very active. I dropped to 130 pounds and a size 6. That was the happiest I'd ever been about my weight and how I looked.
* After each following baby, I kept about ten pounds.
* In the spring of 2001, when I weighed about 180 pounds and my baby was almost three, the world feel out from under my feet. By June I was in bed. All the time. For the next year and a half. I was able to function just enough to keep my children alive. I would lie on the couch and watch videos with them or watch them play. I would talk my oldest daughter (10) through getting them food. At night I had a tiny amount of energy and would put together sandwich bags of food for the next day. Cheese slices. Carrots. Crackers. My attempt at taking care of my kids. Because that was seriously all I could do. I couldn't move. I was so tired it made me cry. And giving up all the things I did, all the volunteering at their schools and coaching of their teams and taking them to the park - all gone. I never got a definitive answer about what was wrong, it just gradually got better. But I've never felt well again since. I go through times when I can function better than others. And I go through times when I'm flat in bed.
* I have no idea how much I weighed in between that time and the next time. We didn't own a scale. We still don't.
* In 2010 I wrote "A Weighty Issue," a blog post about being unhappy with my weight but not ready to really do anything about it. It really shook me today when I looked back at that and realized it took five years for me to be ready. I honestly don't remember what I weighed then except that I'd probably just broken 200 pounds. I'd sworn to myself I'd never let myself hit 200, but I did. And it devastated me for a few days. But I shook it off, blamed it on still not feeling well, and moved on. Seriously, if you can barely get out of bed, how could you be expected to exercise?
* In 2012 I went to my psychiatrist for the first time. She asked what I weighed. I said about 200 pounds, which was hard enough to say. But it wasn't even true. Because I had just recently had a physical and the scale said 206. Stupid scale. But I wrote some of that off as premenstrual water retention. You know what I mean; right, ladies?
* And now, three years later, I weigh 216 pounds and wear size 16 jeans. Like I said, I had a hysterectomy. So the excuse of premenstrual water retention is off the table. I am finally able to move enough to clean my house and function almost like a real human being. And I know how to do it. I really have no excuses anymore. (Well, I still have some flat in bed moments. But I could work out on the other days. Which I don't.)
So here's my action plan. Eat better. Move. That's it. It's more defined in my head, but that's the gist of it.
I don't intend for my blog to suddenly become a weight loss blog. I may or may not report as things progress (because they will progress, dang it!). And I don't have a before shot of my body. Honestly, my fat body hasn't been what's bothered me most or kept me from being in pictures.
It's my fat face.
You can hide your body behind other people, but if you hide your face there's really no reason to be in a photo. And I've got a big head - like 7 3/8 big. So when I'm in a photo with other people, my head dwarfs theirs. I look like Andre the giant. That was even true before I got so fat. (Luckily, my husband's head is even bigger than mine. Thanks, honey.)
But I'm ready to own it. I'm ready to move on. And in order to move on, I have to acknowledge where I came from. So here are some of those photos. (Sorry I don't have better photos. Not only do I hide from the camera, but I also haven't digitized many.)
It's my fat face.
You can hide your body behind other people, but if you hide your face there's really no reason to be in a photo. And I've got a big head - like 7 3/8 big. So when I'm in a photo with other people, my head dwarfs theirs. I look like Andre the giant. That was even true before I got so fat. (Luckily, my husband's head is even bigger than mine. Thanks, honey.)
But I'm ready to own it. I'm ready to move on. And in order to move on, I have to acknowledge where I came from. So here are some of those photos. (Sorry I don't have better photos. Not only do I hide from the camera, but I also haven't digitized many.)
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| My wedding day - 1990, 25 years ago. This is the oldest digital photo I had of myself that you could see my face in. This was two years after I graduated. I think my face looks pretty good here. |
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| Five kids later - probably early 1999, 16 years ago. I'm not thrilled with my look here. My hair is pulled up in my "softball/cleaning" ponytail; not super flattering. But there's no double chin yet. |
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| I'm guessing this is about five or so years later - let's say 1994, 11 years ago. See how I'm throwing my head back. At this point I'd started to notice a double chin in photos and was trying to avoid that. |
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| 2009 - 6 years ago. My daughters are super cute, but that's about the only thing I like about this photo. See how I'm hiding behind them? Still trying to tip my head up and back a little? See those flabby arms? See that double chin? Yeah, not cool. But I got in the photo. For that, I'm proud of myself. |
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| 2011 - 5 years ago. By this time I'd decided I needed to start being in some of the photos. I'd also learned that being cheesy in a photo made it less bothersome when I didn't look great. Okay, I look kind of like a drowned rat here because of the rain, but also notice how round my face has gotten. |
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| 2012 - 4 years ago. This is a photo I both love and hate. It's a picture of me teaching at church, which is something I absolutely love to do. It was a wonderful time in my life and I'm glad I have a record of it. But, seriously, can you believe how fat my face is? How fat I am? Oh, my heck! I about cried when I saw it. |
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| 2013 - 2 years ago. Hiding behind someone again. Tilting my head away and back a bit to try to hide that double chin. Failing miserably - Ugh. That double chin. |
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| 2014 - last year. I'm kind of proud of myself for just letting the shot happen. I'm not hiding or tilting my head back. I've come a long way toward acceptance of my true body size by this time. But, oh, how huge my head is. |
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| 2015 - last week. This is me now. I voluntarily took a photo of my face and put it on facebook. I own it. This is me. I'm a fat girl. |
Thursday, March 19, 2015
Self-Harm and the Words That Made Me Want to Stop
***This post contains material that could potentially be triggering for anyone with a history of self-harm. Please do not continue if you aren't safe right now.***
I purposely and knowingly hurt myself for the first time on December 14, 2006. I used a broken plastic spoon to scratch three deep lines into my forearm. Later that night I burned myself with a candle. And it felt good.
There is no way for someone like me to explain this to someone like you if you haven't been there.
My brain says it shouldn't feel good. My brain says it's not something that's okay to do. And my brain knows it will bother the people around me.
But it does feel good. And it doesn't feel like a big deal. And in that moment of darkness, I don't care how others feel about it.
At least that's the way it's been. In the past. It's been a little over eight years since I first did it. And while I understood it wasn't a healthy coping mechanism and I should probably stop, I have never wanted to stop. Not once.
I tried to want to. I wanted to want to. But I just didn't. I didn't want to give it up. And, honestly, I just wasn't fully converted to the idea that it was important for me to give it up.
Last October (2014) I burned myself. I mean, I really burned myself. And it ended my relationship with my therapist. Which led to me seeing a new therapist.
As my new therapist and I got to know each other I told him about how many therapists I'd seen over the years. There have been many in my life. I go for a while without seeing anyone and then, when I know the issue I'm dealing with is too big for me alone, I pray and ask God which therapist is the right one to help me through this moment.
This is the point when my new therapist asked me what I was seeing him for. What was he supposed to help me with, whether I wanted to do it or not?
And, boy, wasn't that final qualifier just the clincher for me? Didn't that phrase tell me I was with exactly the person I needed to see?
I looked him in the eye and told him he and I were to heal the self-harm problem I have. That I didn't want to give it up. But that I would work on it with him because I believed God wanted me to.
And I didn't see how I was ever going to want to give it up.
I have been seeing him about every two weeks since early November. We've taken various approaches. We've found things that I believe will help me and a few that didn't really fit.
And then, on February 17, he said something in passing that was a game changer for me. I don't remember the exact words. He was talking about helping me get more tools in my toolbox so I don't pass the trauma on.
And that was the moment. I heard in my head and wrote on my paper, "When I self-harm, I pass the trauma on."
I am causing trauma to my children.
And that was the slap I needed. I am in therapy to heal for them. I am working so hard to make their world better. To find the answers they will need in the future by doing the work myself. And to end a long line of dysfunction. My goal was to make the trauma stop with me. I had hoped that I would be its last victim.
But when I hurt myself, it hurts them. And that's just absolutely not okay with me.
So I'm done.
I can't promise I won't engage in any other unhealthy behaviors as I continue to work my way through my incredibly tangled past. But I will never, ever purposely hurt myself again.
And that's a promise!
I purposely and knowingly hurt myself for the first time on December 14, 2006. I used a broken plastic spoon to scratch three deep lines into my forearm. Later that night I burned myself with a candle. And it felt good.
There is no way for someone like me to explain this to someone like you if you haven't been there.
My brain says it shouldn't feel good. My brain says it's not something that's okay to do. And my brain knows it will bother the people around me.
But it does feel good. And it doesn't feel like a big deal. And in that moment of darkness, I don't care how others feel about it.
At least that's the way it's been. In the past. It's been a little over eight years since I first did it. And while I understood it wasn't a healthy coping mechanism and I should probably stop, I have never wanted to stop. Not once.
I tried to want to. I wanted to want to. But I just didn't. I didn't want to give it up. And, honestly, I just wasn't fully converted to the idea that it was important for me to give it up.
Last October (2014) I burned myself. I mean, I really burned myself. And it ended my relationship with my therapist. Which led to me seeing a new therapist.
As my new therapist and I got to know each other I told him about how many therapists I'd seen over the years. There have been many in my life. I go for a while without seeing anyone and then, when I know the issue I'm dealing with is too big for me alone, I pray and ask God which therapist is the right one to help me through this moment.
This is the point when my new therapist asked me what I was seeing him for. What was he supposed to help me with, whether I wanted to do it or not?
And, boy, wasn't that final qualifier just the clincher for me? Didn't that phrase tell me I was with exactly the person I needed to see?
I looked him in the eye and told him he and I were to heal the self-harm problem I have. That I didn't want to give it up. But that I would work on it with him because I believed God wanted me to.
And I didn't see how I was ever going to want to give it up.
I have been seeing him about every two weeks since early November. We've taken various approaches. We've found things that I believe will help me and a few that didn't really fit.
And then, on February 17, he said something in passing that was a game changer for me. I don't remember the exact words. He was talking about helping me get more tools in my toolbox so I don't pass the trauma on.
And that was the moment. I heard in my head and wrote on my paper, "When I self-harm, I pass the trauma on."
I am causing trauma to my children.
And that was the slap I needed. I am in therapy to heal for them. I am working so hard to make their world better. To find the answers they will need in the future by doing the work myself. And to end a long line of dysfunction. My goal was to make the trauma stop with me. I had hoped that I would be its last victim.
But when I hurt myself, it hurts them. And that's just absolutely not okay with me.
So I'm done.
I can't promise I won't engage in any other unhealthy behaviors as I continue to work my way through my incredibly tangled past. But I will never, ever purposely hurt myself again.
And that's a promise!
Friday, February 20, 2015
Struggling with Compassion
A while back I was invited to participate in the 1000 Voices Speak for Compassion blogging event, #1000Speak. I quickly agreed. I'm a nice person. I believe in showing compassion to those around me. My heart reaches out, yearning for my fellow man to learn to be more kind to each other.
And then reality hit.
I've known about this for a month or two and haven't written a thing. First off, it was way out there in the future and I had more urgent things to do. Second off, I couldn't think of any way to write about compassion that didn't leave me feeling like a hypocrite.
You see, being kind isn't that tough. It's like being polite. It's something I can do without truly feeling it in my heart. But kindness isn't the same thing as compassion, although I believe true compassion does lead to kindness.
Kindness is an act. It's the way we treat someone.
Compassion is a feeling. It's the motivation behind the way we treat someone.
Except when it's not.
You see, I can look kind. Act kind. Do kind. Without feeling compassion. So all that looking, acting, and doing kind is just hollow. But it looks good.
I don't usually do it just to put on a good show, so others will think I'm a good person. "See how kind I am?" But sometimes I do.
I don't always do it unwillingly. "You're making me crazy and I really don't want to have anything more to do with you but I'm sure it's the right thing to do and it's what I should do so I'll grit my teeth and just get it done." But sometimes it's like that.
Sometimes I really struggle with compassion.
I'm really good at feeling compassion for people who are struck with illness or difficulty that was beyond their control - those situations when life just happens. Or when someone else's actions hurt them. I have no trouble feeling compassion for people in those situations.
But when someone is struggling because of their own stupidity or immaturity, it's tougher for me. There's some judging that happens here. I find myself with a bit of a you-got-yourself-into-this-you-earned-it attitude. Definitely not compassion.
And when nature does its damage, destroys a home or ravages a body with disease, my heart aches with compassion for that person. I want to help and I try.
But when that damage interferes with the life I had planned for myself, when it inconveniences me, I'm not as caring. Not as giving with my time. Even though I know the other person is suffering much more than me in that moment, I still find myself throwing a self-pity party. And getting irritated that this person is messing up my life.
Because I think compassion is easier from a distance. Compassion up close can be difficult, especially if it's needed for a long time. If it's an ongoing situation. That shows no signs of ending and which will be a part of my life for an extended period of time. Compassion under those circumstances can be hard.
And this is the part of the post where I expected to spell out all the ways to be compassionate anyway. This is where I planned to set goals to work harder and be better, to look beyond myself.
But that's not what I'm going to do. Because all of a sudden I am feeling compassion. I am feeling compassion for myself. (Which has been an uncommon feeling for me.)
Sometimes we experience compassion burn out. Sometimes we have to stop focusing on others and focus on ourselves a bit. We need to sit down. We need to eat a good meal. We need to get some sleep. And sometimes that means letting our hearts worry about our own hearts instead of everyone else's.
There are many people in my life who are having severe difficulties. I am frequently called on to help them in some way, even if it's just listening for an hour or two while they try to process their thoughts. And I do.
But sometimes it's okay to say I can't. Because I need to have compassion for me, too.
And then reality hit.
I've known about this for a month or two and haven't written a thing. First off, it was way out there in the future and I had more urgent things to do. Second off, I couldn't think of any way to write about compassion that didn't leave me feeling like a hypocrite.
You see, being kind isn't that tough. It's like being polite. It's something I can do without truly feeling it in my heart. But kindness isn't the same thing as compassion, although I believe true compassion does lead to kindness.
Kindness is an act. It's the way we treat someone.
Compassion is a feeling. It's the motivation behind the way we treat someone.
Except when it's not.
You see, I can look kind. Act kind. Do kind. Without feeling compassion. So all that looking, acting, and doing kind is just hollow. But it looks good.
I don't usually do it just to put on a good show, so others will think I'm a good person. "See how kind I am?" But sometimes I do.
I don't always do it unwillingly. "You're making me crazy and I really don't want to have anything more to do with you but I'm sure it's the right thing to do and it's what I should do so I'll grit my teeth and just get it done." But sometimes it's like that.
Sometimes I really struggle with compassion.
I'm really good at feeling compassion for people who are struck with illness or difficulty that was beyond their control - those situations when life just happens. Or when someone else's actions hurt them. I have no trouble feeling compassion for people in those situations.
But when someone is struggling because of their own stupidity or immaturity, it's tougher for me. There's some judging that happens here. I find myself with a bit of a you-got-yourself-into-this-you-earned-it attitude. Definitely not compassion.
And when nature does its damage, destroys a home or ravages a body with disease, my heart aches with compassion for that person. I want to help and I try.
But when that damage interferes with the life I had planned for myself, when it inconveniences me, I'm not as caring. Not as giving with my time. Even though I know the other person is suffering much more than me in that moment, I still find myself throwing a self-pity party. And getting irritated that this person is messing up my life.
Because I think compassion is easier from a distance. Compassion up close can be difficult, especially if it's needed for a long time. If it's an ongoing situation. That shows no signs of ending and which will be a part of my life for an extended period of time. Compassion under those circumstances can be hard.
And this is the part of the post where I expected to spell out all the ways to be compassionate anyway. This is where I planned to set goals to work harder and be better, to look beyond myself.
But that's not what I'm going to do. Because all of a sudden I am feeling compassion. I am feeling compassion for myself. (Which has been an uncommon feeling for me.)
Sometimes we experience compassion burn out. Sometimes we have to stop focusing on others and focus on ourselves a bit. We need to sit down. We need to eat a good meal. We need to get some sleep. And sometimes that means letting our hearts worry about our own hearts instead of everyone else's.
There are many people in my life who are having severe difficulties. I am frequently called on to help them in some way, even if it's just listening for an hour or two while they try to process their thoughts. And I do.
But sometimes it's okay to say I can't. Because I need to have compassion for me, too.
Thursday, November 6, 2014
I Broke My Therapist and Got a New Diagnosis
Warning: This post contains possible triggers for self-harm. If you are not safe, please don't continue.
The new diagnosis is Bipolar II and doesn't really have anything to do with me breaking my therapist. It's something that's been tossed around as a possibility a couple of times in the past. I think we're calling it semi-definite now. Enough that I'm trying a new medication for it. We'll see if that does anything to change my life.
But the real reason for this post is the whole breaking-my-therapist thing.
Let me start off by saying how much I adore my therapist, Dan. A lot. He's amazing and has helped me so much over the years. He's seen me through some very difficult stuff and walked me through the dark corners of my life that I didn't want to go into. I would recommend him to anyone. Well, almost anyone. Anyone who needs help but doesn't have a problem with self-harm.
You see, along with being a hero, my therapist is a person. Just a regular human being. With issues. I know. Therapists aren't supposed to have issues, huh? But they do. And he does. And self-harm is the one I triggered.
For anyone who doesn't know me well or hasn't read my blog much, self-harm and I are old friends. She's helped me get through some really heavy times. (Not sure why I called self-harm female, but let's just run with it.) Generally I'm a scratcher. I use a broken plastic spoon to scratch myself (usually my arms) until I get through several layers of skin and it welts up and bleeds and stings really good. I say good because to me, in those moments, it feels good. Don't ask me why. It doesn't make sense in my logical brain. It just does.
I'm not good at knowing what will set it off. It just happens. I go months without doing it and then WHAM! Out of nowhere I'm slicing my arms open.
Only this time I maybe should have seen it coming. I've been fighting a nasty depression (with a couple days of hypomania thrown in, just for fun). I went quite dark a few days. Started isolating myself. Quit getting dressed or leaving the house. Stopped communicating with people. Not a happy place.
I don't know what the straw was -- you know, the one that broke the camel's back. But something happened and I knew I was going to hurt myself. And being in that dark place when it started coming on, the idea of asking for help didn't occur to me.
But this time I didn't need to scratch. I needed to burn. See, it's like getting an itch. And it's a peculiar itch. An itch that will only be well scratched with the proper technique. Sometimes that's the spoon. Once in a while it calls for the curling iron.
Almost before I knew it I had a nice, big, second-degree burn on my arm. Ugh. I'd gone so long without doing it. I'd been able to wear short sleeves without worrying about traumatizing my kids or others. And then BAM! All down the toilet. Dang it!
Yes, it felt better in the moment. Yes, it took away the itch. Was it worth it? I don't know the answer to that yet.
But then I had a therapy session. Therapy only works if I'm honest with my therapist. So I told him and showed him. He wasn't happy, but we were functioning. We were even making some progress. Until near the end of the session. When I, in the interest of honesty and knowing it was something I should tell him, told him I was thinking of using a blade.
And it triggered him. And he lost his therapist brain for a bit. And he called me a coward.
I completely shut down therapeutically. I refused to look at him. I started crying a lot. I told him I was done and wanted to leave.
He could tell things had gone off the rails and tried to fix them a little, but it wasn't going to happen. He asked when my next appointment was (because now he was very worried about me; it's never a good sign when you leave a therapy appointment in a more fragile state than when you entered). When I told him it was in two weeks he said that was too long. He looked at his schedule for the next week to see where he could squeeze me in. It was packed full. But he had an opening for the next day. Would I take that one? Whatever, just get me out of here.
I called my husband and told him what had happened. He could hear how bad I was. He tried to talk me through it. I said I was safe (therapy code word for not-going-to-hurt-myself). I said I was just going to go home and go to bed. Maybe watch some Angel or Buffy the Vampire Slayer. He offered to come home. I said he didn't need to.
Apparently he didn't believe me, because he showed up a couple hours later (he has a two hour commute). I needed him more than I thought and spent the rest of the night next to him. Then he took the next day off work so he could come to my therapy session with me.
I don't often want outside help. My husband is many things, but my strength is not usually one of them. This time it was. I needed him to be my buffer with my therapist. Also not a good sign.
Usually when I take my husband to therapy with me it's because he's having a problem (we see the same therapist) or we're having a marital problem (which still usually means he's having a problem). So as we sat down in the therapist's office he asked if there was a marital problem. I said that we were fine. He asked if Bill was there as support. I said yes. Then I looked him in the eye for the first time since he'd called me a coward and through my tears said, "I don't feel emotionally safe with you."
I chokingly explained what had happened the day before, thinking that maybe he didn't understand what he'd said or didn't mean it that way. He said, "Yep. I did." Then he went on to defend it with the idea of challenging a patient. Using the relationship between patient and therapist to push the patient into something healthier. He said self-harm was a deal breaker for him. It was his Achilles heal. He said sometimes people forget that therapists are people, too, and have their own issues. This was his. If I couldn't commit to not do it anymore maybe it would be a good idea for him to refer me to someone else.
I've been seeing him off and on for over eight years. The idea of starting over, of having to explain everything - my whole life story - again to someone new, was not appealing. Was exhausting to just think about. But I was pretty sure I couldn't work with a therapist that I knew saw me as a coward. Someone I wouldn't feel comfortable telling when I self-harmed. And I knew I couldn't say I was done.
I told him I needed to think about it and let my husband spend the next forty minutes asking about Bipolar II (really, just to get our money's worth; I had made the decision). Then my husband ran out of questions. It was time.
My therapist apologized for using such a "harsh" word. I looked him in the eye again and said, "It wasn't harsh. It was demeaning." He just nodded.
We all sat in silence for a minute or two.
Then I looked him in the eye and told him I needed him to refer me to someone else. I told him I've never not seen him as a person. I never thought he didn't have issues. But I have my own issues and I can't carry his, too. I have to carry the issues of too many people in my life. I can't carry his.
So he said he would refer me out. He said his feelings weren't hurt. He said I could come back if I ever needed to. I understood completely why he reacted the way he did (I know what it's like to be triggered). We patched things up amazingly well and respectfully. I left with a recommendation from him (Jason) and a promise from me that I would get medication for Bipolar II ASAP. And with a heart that was breaking, because even though I knew it was the right decision I was so sad about leaving him.
My husband and I left his office and I immediately set appointments with the new guy.
Lest I leave you with a bad feeling about my therapist, there is more.
He called me later that night to check on me and make sure I was okay. I was. I was actually doing great. Much better than I'd been in days. Because I'd done something very brave and very hard to stay true to my own needs. I was riding a bit of a high from that. He also said that what I'd said, about not carrying his issues, had stuck with him. He'd been thinking about that a lot and would continue to do so.
Then he called me a few days later to apologize. He said not only had he handled the first appointment horribly, inappropriately, but he'd botched the second one, too. He said it's never okay to call someone names. He acknowledged that he'd not been in his therapist mind at the time. He said he'd spoken to some colleagues about it and understood a bit better. He said to force me to transition to a new therapist while in the midst of a deep depression was completely wrong of him. He said he knew that he'd shut me down when I needed to be heard. And he was so sorry about that.
Then he said he'd also talked to his colleagues about his issue. He said he understood self-harm better and how to see it as a symptom and to treat it as such. He said he thought we'd done great work together over the years and still could. He said he thought he could work with me, that he liked working with me, and wondered if there was any way we could repair the relationship. Would I be interested in coming back? Seeing him again?
I thought about it for a few seconds, but the decision was easy. Because just moments before he'd called me I'd gotten out of a session with my new therapist.
I thanked him for his apology and gladly accepted it. I told him we had done lots of good work together. And then I told him I'd just met with Jason and wanted to try that course for a while.
He said he understood and that I would always be welcome back. I told him it was nice to know I had a parachute, should I need one.
Will I go back? Honestly, I think eventually I probably will. I want to see what this new therapist has to offer. Maybe he can help me kick the self-harm thing for good. Maybe he can help me want to. He thinks he can.
But I don't imagine he can possibly solve all the problems that keep me crazy. My life is not simple and shows no signs of letting up any time soon. I imagine I will work with him, get better for a while, leave therapy and try to make it on my own, and eventually crash and burn again (I mean that like a plane going down not depression and self-harm). And when I do I will look for that comfortable place. That worn pair of pants. Because Dan and I still fit.
The new diagnosis is Bipolar II and doesn't really have anything to do with me breaking my therapist. It's something that's been tossed around as a possibility a couple of times in the past. I think we're calling it semi-definite now. Enough that I'm trying a new medication for it. We'll see if that does anything to change my life.
But the real reason for this post is the whole breaking-my-therapist thing.
Let me start off by saying how much I adore my therapist, Dan. A lot. He's amazing and has helped me so much over the years. He's seen me through some very difficult stuff and walked me through the dark corners of my life that I didn't want to go into. I would recommend him to anyone. Well, almost anyone. Anyone who needs help but doesn't have a problem with self-harm.
You see, along with being a hero, my therapist is a person. Just a regular human being. With issues. I know. Therapists aren't supposed to have issues, huh? But they do. And he does. And self-harm is the one I triggered.
For anyone who doesn't know me well or hasn't read my blog much, self-harm and I are old friends. She's helped me get through some really heavy times. (Not sure why I called self-harm female, but let's just run with it.) Generally I'm a scratcher. I use a broken plastic spoon to scratch myself (usually my arms) until I get through several layers of skin and it welts up and bleeds and stings really good. I say good because to me, in those moments, it feels good. Don't ask me why. It doesn't make sense in my logical brain. It just does.
I'm not good at knowing what will set it off. It just happens. I go months without doing it and then WHAM! Out of nowhere I'm slicing my arms open.
Only this time I maybe should have seen it coming. I've been fighting a nasty depression (with a couple days of hypomania thrown in, just for fun). I went quite dark a few days. Started isolating myself. Quit getting dressed or leaving the house. Stopped communicating with people. Not a happy place.
I don't know what the straw was -- you know, the one that broke the camel's back. But something happened and I knew I was going to hurt myself. And being in that dark place when it started coming on, the idea of asking for help didn't occur to me.
But this time I didn't need to scratch. I needed to burn. See, it's like getting an itch. And it's a peculiar itch. An itch that will only be well scratched with the proper technique. Sometimes that's the spoon. Once in a while it calls for the curling iron.
Almost before I knew it I had a nice, big, second-degree burn on my arm. Ugh. I'd gone so long without doing it. I'd been able to wear short sleeves without worrying about traumatizing my kids or others. And then BAM! All down the toilet. Dang it!
Yes, it felt better in the moment. Yes, it took away the itch. Was it worth it? I don't know the answer to that yet.
But then I had a therapy session. Therapy only works if I'm honest with my therapist. So I told him and showed him. He wasn't happy, but we were functioning. We were even making some progress. Until near the end of the session. When I, in the interest of honesty and knowing it was something I should tell him, told him I was thinking of using a blade.
And it triggered him. And he lost his therapist brain for a bit. And he called me a coward.
I completely shut down therapeutically. I refused to look at him. I started crying a lot. I told him I was done and wanted to leave.
He could tell things had gone off the rails and tried to fix them a little, but it wasn't going to happen. He asked when my next appointment was (because now he was very worried about me; it's never a good sign when you leave a therapy appointment in a more fragile state than when you entered). When I told him it was in two weeks he said that was too long. He looked at his schedule for the next week to see where he could squeeze me in. It was packed full. But he had an opening for the next day. Would I take that one? Whatever, just get me out of here.
I called my husband and told him what had happened. He could hear how bad I was. He tried to talk me through it. I said I was safe (therapy code word for not-going-to-hurt-myself). I said I was just going to go home and go to bed. Maybe watch some Angel or Buffy the Vampire Slayer. He offered to come home. I said he didn't need to.
Apparently he didn't believe me, because he showed up a couple hours later (he has a two hour commute). I needed him more than I thought and spent the rest of the night next to him. Then he took the next day off work so he could come to my therapy session with me.
I don't often want outside help. My husband is many things, but my strength is not usually one of them. This time it was. I needed him to be my buffer with my therapist. Also not a good sign.
Usually when I take my husband to therapy with me it's because he's having a problem (we see the same therapist) or we're having a marital problem (which still usually means he's having a problem). So as we sat down in the therapist's office he asked if there was a marital problem. I said that we were fine. He asked if Bill was there as support. I said yes. Then I looked him in the eye for the first time since he'd called me a coward and through my tears said, "I don't feel emotionally safe with you."
I chokingly explained what had happened the day before, thinking that maybe he didn't understand what he'd said or didn't mean it that way. He said, "Yep. I did." Then he went on to defend it with the idea of challenging a patient. Using the relationship between patient and therapist to push the patient into something healthier. He said self-harm was a deal breaker for him. It was his Achilles heal. He said sometimes people forget that therapists are people, too, and have their own issues. This was his. If I couldn't commit to not do it anymore maybe it would be a good idea for him to refer me to someone else.
I've been seeing him off and on for over eight years. The idea of starting over, of having to explain everything - my whole life story - again to someone new, was not appealing. Was exhausting to just think about. But I was pretty sure I couldn't work with a therapist that I knew saw me as a coward. Someone I wouldn't feel comfortable telling when I self-harmed. And I knew I couldn't say I was done.
I told him I needed to think about it and let my husband spend the next forty minutes asking about Bipolar II (really, just to get our money's worth; I had made the decision). Then my husband ran out of questions. It was time.
My therapist apologized for using such a "harsh" word. I looked him in the eye again and said, "It wasn't harsh. It was demeaning." He just nodded.
We all sat in silence for a minute or two.
Then I looked him in the eye and told him I needed him to refer me to someone else. I told him I've never not seen him as a person. I never thought he didn't have issues. But I have my own issues and I can't carry his, too. I have to carry the issues of too many people in my life. I can't carry his.
So he said he would refer me out. He said his feelings weren't hurt. He said I could come back if I ever needed to. I understood completely why he reacted the way he did (I know what it's like to be triggered). We patched things up amazingly well and respectfully. I left with a recommendation from him (Jason) and a promise from me that I would get medication for Bipolar II ASAP. And with a heart that was breaking, because even though I knew it was the right decision I was so sad about leaving him.
My husband and I left his office and I immediately set appointments with the new guy.
Lest I leave you with a bad feeling about my therapist, there is more.
He called me later that night to check on me and make sure I was okay. I was. I was actually doing great. Much better than I'd been in days. Because I'd done something very brave and very hard to stay true to my own needs. I was riding a bit of a high from that. He also said that what I'd said, about not carrying his issues, had stuck with him. He'd been thinking about that a lot and would continue to do so.
Then he called me a few days later to apologize. He said not only had he handled the first appointment horribly, inappropriately, but he'd botched the second one, too. He said it's never okay to call someone names. He acknowledged that he'd not been in his therapist mind at the time. He said he'd spoken to some colleagues about it and understood a bit better. He said to force me to transition to a new therapist while in the midst of a deep depression was completely wrong of him. He said he knew that he'd shut me down when I needed to be heard. And he was so sorry about that.
Then he said he'd also talked to his colleagues about his issue. He said he understood self-harm better and how to see it as a symptom and to treat it as such. He said he thought we'd done great work together over the years and still could. He said he thought he could work with me, that he liked working with me, and wondered if there was any way we could repair the relationship. Would I be interested in coming back? Seeing him again?
I thought about it for a few seconds, but the decision was easy. Because just moments before he'd called me I'd gotten out of a session with my new therapist.
I thanked him for his apology and gladly accepted it. I told him we had done lots of good work together. And then I told him I'd just met with Jason and wanted to try that course for a while.
He said he understood and that I would always be welcome back. I told him it was nice to know I had a parachute, should I need one.
Will I go back? Honestly, I think eventually I probably will. I want to see what this new therapist has to offer. Maybe he can help me kick the self-harm thing for good. Maybe he can help me want to. He thinks he can.
But I don't imagine he can possibly solve all the problems that keep me crazy. My life is not simple and shows no signs of letting up any time soon. I imagine I will work with him, get better for a while, leave therapy and try to make it on my own, and eventually crash and burn again (I mean that like a plane going down not depression and self-harm). And when I do I will look for that comfortable place. That worn pair of pants. Because Dan and I still fit.
Thursday, July 24, 2014
My Facebook Fast
A week ago tomorrow I was done. Absolutely finished. I couldn't stand one more minute on Facebook. So I decided to take a break.
I didn't start out planning to be off for a week. Just a few days to cleanse my system. It was making me anxious. I was feeling social pressure (that probably wasn't even there but was just in my own head). I felt compelled to like this or comment on that to make sure she knew I was reading her stuff or he knew I still paid attention to his life or she felt like I liked her. Seriously, it was ridiculous.
I was not feeling peace. I wasn't acting; I was reacting. I wasn't being true to myself. And I am not okay with that.
So I announced my departure and went away.
And very soon I was anxious about being away. I missed it terribly. And I started to wonder why. I started to examine my feelings and their causes. Why was I uncomfortable being away? What was it that Facebook was fulfilling in me that pulled me back even though it had been causing me negative feelings?
So I spent the next few days watching my own behavior and paying attention to the pull.
This is what I learned.
The thing I missed most was knowing what was going on in my friends' lives, especially within my own neighborhood. I missed knowing when a friend was having a bad day or hurting. I missed knowing who was having a birthday that day. I missed knowing when someone in my neighborhood needed help. Facebook has opened up communication in a way that just wasn't there before. People share more. I can get the info immediately or whenever it's convenient for me. We can have a communal conversation over several days. It's awesome like that.
But the flip side of it is over sharing or people sharing things I just don't want in my life. Political/religious disagreements. Posts with the F word. Griping/whining in a victim-y way, with the same complaints over and over with no intention to try to make their own world better. Pity parties. Sexual images and/or status updates. Non-stop selfies. Contentious behavior of all kinds. And certain people who just rub me the wrong way no matter what whom I hid from my feed but then they show up anyway because one of our friends in common likes or comments on their post. I didn't miss those things.
Of secondary importance, I felt like I lost my voice. My ability to communicate with the world was severely diminished. Many times a day I wanted to share something and didn't. I think this was the most important area for me to evaluate and an area I still need to work on.
I've always been curious. I find many things interesting and always have. Growing up I used to talk all the time -- ALL THE TIME! I made people crazy. I could sometimes sense it but didn't understand why. The things I was saying were so interesting (I thought). I don't remember how old I was when I finally understood (but it was probably much older than I should have been). I don't remember what happened to precipitate it, but I remember distinctly realizing that I didn't need to share every thought that popped into my head. In fact, it made people crazy that I did that. It was truly an awakening moment for me. It's taken years for me to learn to be quiet, because my brain never shuts up. (It was many more years after that before I learned that other people want to share, too, and it's so important to listen.)
Facebook has been this lesson all over again. I find so many things interesting in a day. I have so many thoughts that I think are incredibly clever. So many observations I find fascinating. So many news stories I think are noteworthy and/or important. I want to share them all. And some days I know I'm sharing more on Facebook than others want to read/know, but I just can't stop myself. I can hear people rolling their eyes at me when I post the third news article in a 15 minute time span. To all of you who are my Facebook friends, please know I do try and I do censor and you aren't getting half the things I want to share. You're welcome.
And it would be bad enough if that were my only sharing problem, but it isn't. I started paying attention to the status updates I wanted to post. So often this last week I found myself wanting to post snotty or complaining status updates. The kind of communication that has become so much a part of our society. The kind of communication that takes place on so many of today's TV shows that it's just become how we communicate with each other. The kind of communication that's flippant and sarcastic, that we've all come to accept as appropriate humor. The kind of communication that isn't Christlike or kind or sincere.
I don't want that to be my communication style.
Facebook is just too easy and quick and removed. I don't have to think through, censor, or see the reaction to my thoughts the way I should.
I also missed seeing the updates from my daughter who is on a mission and knowing she's still okay. That was hard on my heart.
There are lots of other things I missed and lots of other things I didn't miss at all.
So am I ready to get back on? Kind of.
I still don't feel sure of my ability to regulate my behavior in a way that will bring me peace. So I'm going to ease into it. Tomorrow I will begin reading Facebook again. I will communicate through the private message system about important things. I will like my missionary daughter's posts so she knows I'm seeing them. But I will not "like" any other posts. I will not comment on any other posts. I will strive to be an observer for a while as I continue to examine my thoughts and feelings.
When I feel like I can be true to myself and behave in a way that brings peace to my heart, I will participate fully again. Until then, I'm going to practice observing and listening.
I didn't start out planning to be off for a week. Just a few days to cleanse my system. It was making me anxious. I was feeling social pressure (that probably wasn't even there but was just in my own head). I felt compelled to like this or comment on that to make sure she knew I was reading her stuff or he knew I still paid attention to his life or she felt like I liked her. Seriously, it was ridiculous.
I was not feeling peace. I wasn't acting; I was reacting. I wasn't being true to myself. And I am not okay with that.
So I announced my departure and went away.
And very soon I was anxious about being away. I missed it terribly. And I started to wonder why. I started to examine my feelings and their causes. Why was I uncomfortable being away? What was it that Facebook was fulfilling in me that pulled me back even though it had been causing me negative feelings?
So I spent the next few days watching my own behavior and paying attention to the pull.
This is what I learned.
The thing I missed most was knowing what was going on in my friends' lives, especially within my own neighborhood. I missed knowing when a friend was having a bad day or hurting. I missed knowing who was having a birthday that day. I missed knowing when someone in my neighborhood needed help. Facebook has opened up communication in a way that just wasn't there before. People share more. I can get the info immediately or whenever it's convenient for me. We can have a communal conversation over several days. It's awesome like that.
But the flip side of it is over sharing or people sharing things I just don't want in my life. Political/religious disagreements. Posts with the F word. Griping/whining in a victim-y way, with the same complaints over and over with no intention to try to make their own world better. Pity parties. Sexual images and/or status updates. Non-stop selfies. Contentious behavior of all kinds. And certain people who just rub me the wrong way no matter what whom I hid from my feed but then they show up anyway because one of our friends in common likes or comments on their post. I didn't miss those things.
Of secondary importance, I felt like I lost my voice. My ability to communicate with the world was severely diminished. Many times a day I wanted to share something and didn't. I think this was the most important area for me to evaluate and an area I still need to work on.
I've always been curious. I find many things interesting and always have. Growing up I used to talk all the time -- ALL THE TIME! I made people crazy. I could sometimes sense it but didn't understand why. The things I was saying were so interesting (I thought). I don't remember how old I was when I finally understood (but it was probably much older than I should have been). I don't remember what happened to precipitate it, but I remember distinctly realizing that I didn't need to share every thought that popped into my head. In fact, it made people crazy that I did that. It was truly an awakening moment for me. It's taken years for me to learn to be quiet, because my brain never shuts up. (It was many more years after that before I learned that other people want to share, too, and it's so important to listen.)
Facebook has been this lesson all over again. I find so many things interesting in a day. I have so many thoughts that I think are incredibly clever. So many observations I find fascinating. So many news stories I think are noteworthy and/or important. I want to share them all. And some days I know I'm sharing more on Facebook than others want to read/know, but I just can't stop myself. I can hear people rolling their eyes at me when I post the third news article in a 15 minute time span. To all of you who are my Facebook friends, please know I do try and I do censor and you aren't getting half the things I want to share. You're welcome.
And it would be bad enough if that were my only sharing problem, but it isn't. I started paying attention to the status updates I wanted to post. So often this last week I found myself wanting to post snotty or complaining status updates. The kind of communication that has become so much a part of our society. The kind of communication that takes place on so many of today's TV shows that it's just become how we communicate with each other. The kind of communication that's flippant and sarcastic, that we've all come to accept as appropriate humor. The kind of communication that isn't Christlike or kind or sincere.
I don't want that to be my communication style.
Facebook is just too easy and quick and removed. I don't have to think through, censor, or see the reaction to my thoughts the way I should.
I also missed seeing the updates from my daughter who is on a mission and knowing she's still okay. That was hard on my heart.
There are lots of other things I missed and lots of other things I didn't miss at all.
So am I ready to get back on? Kind of.
I still don't feel sure of my ability to regulate my behavior in a way that will bring me peace. So I'm going to ease into it. Tomorrow I will begin reading Facebook again. I will communicate through the private message system about important things. I will like my missionary daughter's posts so she knows I'm seeing them. But I will not "like" any other posts. I will not comment on any other posts. I will strive to be an observer for a while as I continue to examine my thoughts and feelings.
When I feel like I can be true to myself and behave in a way that brings peace to my heart, I will participate fully again. Until then, I'm going to practice observing and listening.
Friday, February 28, 2014
What's Got Me Scared
I hate to use the word scared. I hate admitting something frightens me. It means a level of vulnerability that I try to deny I have. I can admit when things make me nervous. I can admit when I'm anxious. But scared. Scared is bigger. Scared makes me feel like a little girl again. A little girl in a big, mean world.
But I am scared. I'm going to tell you why and it probably won't make sense to most of you. But there will be a few who will totally get it.
I'm having intense pelvic pain again. Last time it lasted almost two months. So far this time, it's been a couple of weeks. And it's been off and on in between those two major episodes.
Here's what I'm not afraid of. I'm not afraid it's cancer. It could be, but for some reason that's not really a fear I have. I'm not afraid I'm going to die or anything.
I went to my doctor with this problem in October. That's when I'd already been hurting for a month. He did an exam, a pap smear, and ordered an ultrasound. When nothing showed he suggested that I see a gynecologist.
I know it's possible that it's something non-female-problem related. It could be intestinal. Let me tell you why I don't think it is. It feels like I have a rock in place of my uterus.
As a woman, I went years and years without being aware of my uterus or being able to feel it inside me unless I was cramping during my period. I mean, how often are you aware of your pancreas or your liver? Can you feel them? Would you know if they hurt? So I understand when my husband says, "How do you know it's your uterus?" And, seriously, sometimes intestinal cramping and uterine cramping feel a lot alike.
But after going through labor, my awareness of my uterus increased quite a bit. I remember when it tightened and felt like a boulder inside me. And this feels kind of like that. On a much smaller scale, of course.
And then there are the twinges in my ovaries. Again, how can I know that's what's twinging? Well, let me tell you. If you've ever been to the doctor and said you think your ovaries are hurting this is what he/she will do. He (because my doctor is a he) will have you lie down and will palpate (which means push around on) your abdomen. And when he pushes in a certain spot and you practically jump off the table and he says, "Yep. It's your ovary." then you remember that. From then on, when it hurts, you know what's hurting.
And, yes, at my exam he palpated my abdomen and confirmed that it was my uterus and ovaries that were hurting. (And let me just tell you, they hurt a lot worse for a while after someone pushes on them repeatedly.)
So I'm not completely ruling out something else, but I'm pretty sure it's my internal girl parts that are causing me so much pain.
My primary care physician thinks it's probably endometriosis.
Well, you know what happens when a doctor tells you they think you have such and such. You start researching such and such until you see the specialist.
Endometriosis isn't something incredibly dangerous. It won't kill me. The worst side effects are pain and infertility. And since I'm done using my fertility I don't mind if that goes away. And I already have the pain.
So why am I scared?
I am scared because I read up on how they treat and diagnose it. Often they use hormones to reduce the symptoms. Well, I am incredibly sensitive to hormonal changes of any kind. I've had PMS since my first menstrual cycle at fourteen. I've been on birth control pills a few times in my life and had horrible results. They either make me homicidal or suicidal or a bit of both. Having just come through a nasty mental prison, I'm not anxious to go back there. One of the treatments if they do find endometriosis and it's severe is a complete hysterectomy.
Again, I'm done with those parts so I wouldn't mind giving them up. Except for the whole hormone thing. It's called surgical menopause because the surgery instantly does what is supposed to take a woman's body years to complete. If small hormonal changes like my natural cycle and birth control pills can send me out of whack, just think about what surgical menopause could do. And it's not like we can change our minds afterward and say, "This isn't working. Let's put it all back."
So there are those issues. But still those aren't my biggest fears.
My biggest fears are these: sedation and no answers.
The only way to confirm endometriosis is through surgery. Laparoscopic these days, but still full sedation. The surgery doesn't scare me. Being put under terrifies me. Not for the typical, "What if I don't wake up?" reason. Sedation terrifies me because I will have no control over what is done to my body. I have a history of sexual assault. Things were done to my body without my permission. At least once it happened when I was asleep. This is when I became a light sleeper. Being aware of and in control of what happens to my body is very important to me. It's not that I don't trust the medical personnel. They have no reason to hurt me. But giving up that control just doesn't feel safe to me at all. It terrifies me.
And I fear that after all of the tests and possible surgery, they won't find evidence of anything wrong with me. It will be another time that we've spent lots of money and caused lots of worry for nothing. Another time that the people around me wonder if I'm faking it. If I'm just a big baby. Another time when I doubt myself and wonder if everything really is all in my head. Another time I hurt so badly but can't say why. Another time of feeling embarrassed because I'm such an idiot who can't handle a few of the twinges that are normal in life.
But I can't just not get it checked. Because it could be something else. It could be something serious. I can't take that chance.
I see the gynecologist on Monday. Your prayers and happy thoughts are welcome. Again.
But I am scared. I'm going to tell you why and it probably won't make sense to most of you. But there will be a few who will totally get it.
I'm having intense pelvic pain again. Last time it lasted almost two months. So far this time, it's been a couple of weeks. And it's been off and on in between those two major episodes.
Here's what I'm not afraid of. I'm not afraid it's cancer. It could be, but for some reason that's not really a fear I have. I'm not afraid I'm going to die or anything.
I went to my doctor with this problem in October. That's when I'd already been hurting for a month. He did an exam, a pap smear, and ordered an ultrasound. When nothing showed he suggested that I see a gynecologist.
I know it's possible that it's something non-female-problem related. It could be intestinal. Let me tell you why I don't think it is. It feels like I have a rock in place of my uterus.
As a woman, I went years and years without being aware of my uterus or being able to feel it inside me unless I was cramping during my period. I mean, how often are you aware of your pancreas or your liver? Can you feel them? Would you know if they hurt? So I understand when my husband says, "How do you know it's your uterus?" And, seriously, sometimes intestinal cramping and uterine cramping feel a lot alike.
But after going through labor, my awareness of my uterus increased quite a bit. I remember when it tightened and felt like a boulder inside me. And this feels kind of like that. On a much smaller scale, of course.
And then there are the twinges in my ovaries. Again, how can I know that's what's twinging? Well, let me tell you. If you've ever been to the doctor and said you think your ovaries are hurting this is what he/she will do. He (because my doctor is a he) will have you lie down and will palpate (which means push around on) your abdomen. And when he pushes in a certain spot and you practically jump off the table and he says, "Yep. It's your ovary." then you remember that. From then on, when it hurts, you know what's hurting.
And, yes, at my exam he palpated my abdomen and confirmed that it was my uterus and ovaries that were hurting. (And let me just tell you, they hurt a lot worse for a while after someone pushes on them repeatedly.)
So I'm not completely ruling out something else, but I'm pretty sure it's my internal girl parts that are causing me so much pain.
My primary care physician thinks it's probably endometriosis.
Well, you know what happens when a doctor tells you they think you have such and such. You start researching such and such until you see the specialist.
Endometriosis isn't something incredibly dangerous. It won't kill me. The worst side effects are pain and infertility. And since I'm done using my fertility I don't mind if that goes away. And I already have the pain.
So why am I scared?
I am scared because I read up on how they treat and diagnose it. Often they use hormones to reduce the symptoms. Well, I am incredibly sensitive to hormonal changes of any kind. I've had PMS since my first menstrual cycle at fourteen. I've been on birth control pills a few times in my life and had horrible results. They either make me homicidal or suicidal or a bit of both. Having just come through a nasty mental prison, I'm not anxious to go back there. One of the treatments if they do find endometriosis and it's severe is a complete hysterectomy.
Again, I'm done with those parts so I wouldn't mind giving them up. Except for the whole hormone thing. It's called surgical menopause because the surgery instantly does what is supposed to take a woman's body years to complete. If small hormonal changes like my natural cycle and birth control pills can send me out of whack, just think about what surgical menopause could do. And it's not like we can change our minds afterward and say, "This isn't working. Let's put it all back."
So there are those issues. But still those aren't my biggest fears.
My biggest fears are these: sedation and no answers.
The only way to confirm endometriosis is through surgery. Laparoscopic these days, but still full sedation. The surgery doesn't scare me. Being put under terrifies me. Not for the typical, "What if I don't wake up?" reason. Sedation terrifies me because I will have no control over what is done to my body. I have a history of sexual assault. Things were done to my body without my permission. At least once it happened when I was asleep. This is when I became a light sleeper. Being aware of and in control of what happens to my body is very important to me. It's not that I don't trust the medical personnel. They have no reason to hurt me. But giving up that control just doesn't feel safe to me at all. It terrifies me.
And I fear that after all of the tests and possible surgery, they won't find evidence of anything wrong with me. It will be another time that we've spent lots of money and caused lots of worry for nothing. Another time that the people around me wonder if I'm faking it. If I'm just a big baby. Another time when I doubt myself and wonder if everything really is all in my head. Another time I hurt so badly but can't say why. Another time of feeling embarrassed because I'm such an idiot who can't handle a few of the twinges that are normal in life.
But I can't just not get it checked. Because it could be something else. It could be something serious. I can't take that chance.
I see the gynecologist on Monday. Your prayers and happy thoughts are welcome. Again.
Saturday, February 22, 2014
A Few Recent ZIA Pieces
In order for something to be called a Zentangle, it has to stick to the basic formula. On a 3.5" tile, black and white only, true Zentangle patterns (not intended to look like anything or really have a right side up).
Most of what I do (and much of what shows up in a Zentangle search) is actually Zentangle Inspired Art (ZIA).
I haven't felt up to writing, but I've been drawing some. Here are a few of my recent ZIA pieces, all on 8.5" x 11" linen paper.
Most of what I do (and much of what shows up in a Zentangle search) is actually Zentangle Inspired Art (ZIA).
I haven't felt up to writing, but I've been drawing some. Here are a few of my recent ZIA pieces, all on 8.5" x 11" linen paper.
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| I asked my son (17) to tag this wall and then cleaned it up a bit and added details. It was fun to include him on my project and he did an awesome job! |
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| I was going for a stained glass feel with this one. I really like the way it turned out. Unfortunately, now I'm having trouble deciding what to do with the sections. I like it so much the way it is; I don't want to mess it up. Some day inspiration will strike and I will finish it. Inspiration always strikes eventually. |
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| One of my favorite patterns is Widgets. I've used it a lot. It's usually small and used to fill a space. For this piece I used the Widgets shapes as the design to fill. It was fun to work with them on a larger scale. |
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| I sometimes struggle to leave edges open, without solid borders drawn in pen. This was an exercise for that. I used pencil to lightly draw outlines for the petal shapes (just the sides, I left the tops open). I used different grid-based patterns because I've found myself steering away from them and felt like I needed to practice. I tried to let the grid hit the edge in such a way that when I removed the pencil line it would just feel like the shape ended naturally instead of being contained with a border. I like the difference. I'll have to try this more often. |
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| This one was by far the most time consuming (I just might have stayed up until three in the morning with an obsessive need to finish it), but was also super fun. The globe idea was inspired by a piece by Erin at The Bright Owl. I saw it months ago and have wanted to try it ever since. Again, I tried the no-actual-border-line thing. The shading creates the border and helps the circle become a sphere. My daughter said it reminds her of art from people on drugs, like The Yellow Submarine movie. Art that looks like I was stoned? Hm. Not sure if that's a compliment, but she captured the feel of the craziness of the background. I'm kind of picturing it in psychedelic colors now in my head. Far out, man. |
And that's what I've been doing lately. I'm feeling much better. Oh, so much better. I'm still having some anxiety moments and hurting a lot, but I feel like myself again. Everything is easier when my brain and I get along.
Friday, January 31, 2014
A Little Bit About that Zentangle Thing
I will post a health update soon.
**********
A little while ago I posted some pictures and introduced a new word to many of you -- Zentangle (which is a registered trademark and is supposed to have that little R in a circle thing, but I don't know how to do that on here so let's pretend this is a really long version of that).
A few of you have said you looked into it a bit or thought about trying it but haven't really found your way. So I thought it might help if I shared my Zentangle (still trademarked and you'll have to assume that from now on) journey with you.
I first saw the Zentangle art form over a year ago on my cyber-friend's blog (Sherri -- not to be confused with a cyberman, for all you Whovians). She fights MS and talked about how tangling helped her. Even though I don't have MS, a lot of the symptoms I have are similar to things she struggles with. I was intrigued but didn't think I could do it. I doodled in junior high and high school and used to copy the illustrations in my Peanuts book and took a basic art class in seventh grade. That was about the extent of my drawing experience. I just kind of filed it away in the back of my mind as an if-I-ever-feel-well-again-I-will-try-this thing.
I don't know why I suddenly decided the time was right a week before Thanksgiving this last year, but I did. I thought about it for a day or two. Looked it up a bit. And then went out and bought what I thought were the absolute basics I'd need. A sketchbook and pens. A six dollar sketchbook from Walmart and a fine and medium Sharpie (also from Walmart). Within a few days I'd added a pencil (just a regular one from the drawer) and some Q-tips to my supplies. A few days later I bought a gum eraser and a paper stump (for blending, which is what I'd been using the Q-tips for).
For the first little while I just drew in my sketchbook. I searched out some of the basic patterns and copied them in my book, for practice and reference. I drew some simple tangles. I was really enjoying it, even though it caused me to fight my perfectionist tendencies.
Then, as he was looking at my latest tangle, my husband said he wanted to color it. Which, of course, I wouldn't let him because it was my art. Hello? But it inspired an idea. I decided to make a coloring book for him for Christmas (which I did and made several for my kids and a few friends, too; I have these in a pdf file and you are welcome to it if you want it, just shoot me your email address). That's when I bought some linen paper (because I love the texture of it) and got out the clipboard and started drawing on 8 1/2 x 11 paper.
I don't think this is the traditional journey to Zentangle, but who knows. Zentangle is an art form that started around 2005ish when a former Buddhist monk was watching his artist wife add detailing to a piece she was working on. She described what she felt as she did it and he told her it was just like meditation. They worked together to create a simple system so others could enjoy a similar experience. Their tag line is, "Anything is possible one stroke at a time." They also say there are no mistakes, just opportunities to discover new patterns and go in unexpected directions.
They teach their method to others who then become Certified Zentangle Teachers (CZTs). There are CZTs all over the world, although there isn't one close by me.
Zentangle is done in black and white, with shading (although there are variations on this and lots of people add color). It is done with pigment pens (so many to choose from, but the Sharpies worked just fine for me for a long time and were the least expensive option). It is taught on tiles (3.5 inch squares of paper sold by the company). The tiles now come in white, black, and Renaissance (which are tan). They also have black and white circles. These are all about the size of a drink coaster. They also have black and white ATC-sized cards.
Anyone who has done paper crafts knows you can buy all the stuff from the main company and get great stuff but pay a lot or buy similar stuff at your local craft store and pay a lot less. It's fun to have some genuine Zentangle supplies, but not necessary.
(Yes, I know my "little bit" about Zentangle is turning into a "lotta bit." But I want to keep it in one post. Deal with it.)
You start with a string, which is basically just a line of any shape. Then you use the Zentangle patterns to fill in the spaces this line created. The line is your skeleton. The patterns are the muscles and skin. The shading is the beautiful clothing. Or something like that.
Most of the patterns have step-outs available. This is a step by step illustration of how to do what they did. There are so many patterns that look complex but are so simple (like Paradox). The best resource for tangle patterns is TanglePatterns.com. I have spent a lot of time there doing things like this:
But sometimes I do this:
There are also a lot of YouTube videos that teach Zentangle. One of my favorite YouTube teachers is Ellen Wolters.
I'm still finding my way, deciding what works for me and what doesn't. I think my art will continue to expand. It's been very enjoyable for me.
And before you tell me you can't do it, let me tell you this. My husband has started tangling. My can't-draw-a-straight-line-or-a-circle-either-for-that-matter husband. And he loves it. His tangles turn out very different from mine, but they are still cool and it's very satisfying and soothing for him. And he doesn't have the same perfectionist issues I do, so he tends to experiment more. His are very creative.
If you think you'd like to try but want someone next to you to walk you through it (and are in my general area), let me know and we'll find some time to get together so I can show you the basics that I've learned. I am absolutely NOT a CZT. I am just a self-taught novice who is willing to share what she's learned.
**********
I have added a tab, Tangled Art, under my blog header. For now, this is where I will put pictures of the pieces I create. Hopefully, I will find a better option for this eventually.
**********
I am participating this week in two Zentangle based challenges.
First, the I Am the Diva Weekly Challenge #152 -- Aquafleur:
And second, Adele Bruno's "It's a String Thing" #25 - using Fassett:
If I didn't know these last two tiles shared the same string, I don't know if I'd have guessed it.
These two challenges were the first time I've worked on the 3.5" squares. It was fun.
**********
A little while ago I posted some pictures and introduced a new word to many of you -- Zentangle (which is a registered trademark and is supposed to have that little R in a circle thing, but I don't know how to do that on here so let's pretend this is a really long version of that).
A few of you have said you looked into it a bit or thought about trying it but haven't really found your way. So I thought it might help if I shared my Zentangle (still trademarked and you'll have to assume that from now on) journey with you.
I first saw the Zentangle art form over a year ago on my cyber-friend's blog (Sherri -- not to be confused with a cyberman, for all you Whovians). She fights MS and talked about how tangling helped her. Even though I don't have MS, a lot of the symptoms I have are similar to things she struggles with. I was intrigued but didn't think I could do it. I doodled in junior high and high school and used to copy the illustrations in my Peanuts book and took a basic art class in seventh grade. That was about the extent of my drawing experience. I just kind of filed it away in the back of my mind as an if-I-ever-feel-well-again-I-will-try-this thing.
I don't know why I suddenly decided the time was right a week before Thanksgiving this last year, but I did. I thought about it for a day or two. Looked it up a bit. And then went out and bought what I thought were the absolute basics I'd need. A sketchbook and pens. A six dollar sketchbook from Walmart and a fine and medium Sharpie (also from Walmart). Within a few days I'd added a pencil (just a regular one from the drawer) and some Q-tips to my supplies. A few days later I bought a gum eraser and a paper stump (for blending, which is what I'd been using the Q-tips for).
 |
| These are the basics. That's what the Sharpie packaging looks like in case you want to buy some. |
 |
| This is my sketchbook, which has my name on the cover because two of my daughters have the same kind. |
For the first little while I just drew in my sketchbook. I searched out some of the basic patterns and copied them in my book, for practice and reference. I drew some simple tangles. I was really enjoying it, even though it caused me to fight my perfectionist tendencies.
Then, as he was looking at my latest tangle, my husband said he wanted to color it. Which, of course, I wouldn't let him because it was my art. Hello? But it inspired an idea. I decided to make a coloring book for him for Christmas (which I did and made several for my kids and a few friends, too; I have these in a pdf file and you are welcome to it if you want it, just shoot me your email address). That's when I bought some linen paper (because I love the texture of it) and got out the clipboard and started drawing on 8 1/2 x 11 paper.
I don't think this is the traditional journey to Zentangle, but who knows. Zentangle is an art form that started around 2005ish when a former Buddhist monk was watching his artist wife add detailing to a piece she was working on. She described what she felt as she did it and he told her it was just like meditation. They worked together to create a simple system so others could enjoy a similar experience. Their tag line is, "Anything is possible one stroke at a time." They also say there are no mistakes, just opportunities to discover new patterns and go in unexpected directions.
They teach their method to others who then become Certified Zentangle Teachers (CZTs). There are CZTs all over the world, although there isn't one close by me.
Zentangle is done in black and white, with shading (although there are variations on this and lots of people add color). It is done with pigment pens (so many to choose from, but the Sharpies worked just fine for me for a long time and were the least expensive option). It is taught on tiles (3.5 inch squares of paper sold by the company). The tiles now come in white, black, and Renaissance (which are tan). They also have black and white circles. These are all about the size of a drink coaster. They also have black and white ATC-sized cards.
Anyone who has done paper crafts knows you can buy all the stuff from the main company and get great stuff but pay a lot or buy similar stuff at your local craft store and pay a lot less. It's fun to have some genuine Zentangle supplies, but not necessary.
(Yes, I know my "little bit" about Zentangle is turning into a "lotta bit." But I want to keep it in one post. Deal with it.)
You start with a string, which is basically just a line of any shape. Then you use the Zentangle patterns to fill in the spaces this line created. The line is your skeleton. The patterns are the muscles and skin. The shading is the beautiful clothing. Or something like that.
Most of the patterns have step-outs available. This is a step by step illustration of how to do what they did. There are so many patterns that look complex but are so simple (like Paradox). The best resource for tangle patterns is TanglePatterns.com. I have spent a lot of time there doing things like this:
 |
| A page of patterns from my sketchbook. Make sure you include the name of the pattern in case you need to look it up again. Also, if I figure anything out as I draw it, I make note of it next to the pattern. Because I am old and won't remember. |
 |
| This has some tangle patterns I saw and wanted to try, one I tried to draw but it sucked so I gave up and crossed it out, and those dark swirl things. That's a loose recreation of the pattern on the carpet outside of my therapist's office. Cool patterns are everywhere! |
I'm still finding my way, deciding what works for me and what doesn't. I think my art will continue to expand. It's been very enjoyable for me.
And before you tell me you can't do it, let me tell you this. My husband has started tangling. My can't-draw-a-straight-line-or-a-circle-either-for-that-matter husband. And he loves it. His tangles turn out very different from mine, but they are still cool and it's very satisfying and soothing for him. And he doesn't have the same perfectionist issues I do, so he tends to experiment more. His are very creative.
If you think you'd like to try but want someone next to you to walk you through it (and are in my general area), let me know and we'll find some time to get together so I can show you the basics that I've learned. I am absolutely NOT a CZT. I am just a self-taught novice who is willing to share what she's learned.
**********
I have added a tab, Tangled Art, under my blog header. For now, this is where I will put pictures of the pieces I create. Hopefully, I will find a better option for this eventually.
**********
I am participating this week in two Zentangle based challenges.
First, the I Am the Diva Weekly Challenge #152 -- Aquafleur:
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| This is the first time I've drawn a tangle in anything other than black. It was fun. Plus, I love Widgets and wanted to try making a Widget the center of a tangle. |
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| I know Aquafleur is all about the look of a water flower, but to me it always looks like a ribbon around something. I wanted to try something other than a flower. |
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| I started building this from the center out. Soon it was this fun twisty pillar shape. And whenever I see Fassett done randomly, I see these star shaped flowers. I wanted to bring a few out with color. |
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| I thought about trying Fassett in the grid style. But as I looked at the given string, I decided it didn't really lend itself easily to a grid pattern. Then I wondered what kind of shapes I'd get if I overlaid a grid on top of the string. This is what I got. I love the pinwheel shape that emerged. I kept everything minimal (just a few sections with Fassett and a bit of shading and embellishment) because I liked the blend of the string and grid so much and wanted that to show. |
These two challenges were the first time I've worked on the 3.5" squares. It was fun.
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