The Real Me

Sometimes we choose to put on a false front.  We pretend to be someone we aren't.  We've all done it at one time or another, I'd suppose.

But then there are other times.  Times when you just aren't yourself and it's not because you chose it.

I remember when my grandma was in the hospital the final time.  She was one of the sweetest women I've ever met, but they put her on some medication that totally altered her personality.  She was angry and mean; it was not good.  Luckily, they figured it out pretty quickly and changed her meds.  She was able to be her angelic self for a while before she passed away.  I'm grateful we got to remember her that way.

I've spent a lot of time wondering about the real me.  Who am I really?

For so many years I let others decide what I wanted.  I let others define who I was.  I still hear so many of those tapes in my head when I choose something for myself that I know would not be approved of.

When I let others tell me what to do and who to be I do not believe I was myself.  I believe I was an impersonator.  Pretending to be what they wanted.

The real me was buried inside all along.

I have found her in the last few years.  I have spent a lot of time trying to discern between the tapes in my head and the desires of my heart.  I believe I'm closer than I ever have been to knowing who I really am.

But then an interesting thing happened.  As part of the ongoing Russian roulette that my health has become, I tried a new medication.  Xanax.

A few positives.  Several negatives.  Not a good fit overall.  But an important lesson.

You see, it altered me.  I wasn't the true me.  It made me aggressive, yelling at my family for stupid little things.  That was bad enough.  But the true alteration was more subtle and I didn't realize it until I got off the medication.

It quieted my mind.

I always thought that would be a good thing.  My brain is always working, always pondering, usually processing many ideas at once.  It's difficult for me to sleep because I can't shut my brain down.  It gets really annoying sometimes because I have difficulty focusing on a single task.

I thought I hated it.  Until it went away.

Things were quiet.  There was only one thing at a time.  Nothing of much importance.  Nothing that inspired emotion or deep thought.  Everything was shallow, washed out, muted.

I couldn't process.  I couldn't analyze.  I couldn't think deeply.  I couldn't feel.  I couldn't write.

In short, I wasn't me.

As it turns out, I like thinking deeply.  I like seeing a bird and pondering its thoughts and its place in the universe.  I like wondering about others' motivations, about their psyches.  I like struggling through a difficult emotional problem.  I like deconstructing my past to understand my today.

Even with the noise that has resumed in my head, I am glad I chose to get off the meds.  They served an important purpose and I may need them again someday.  But right now they just aren't worth the cost.  I'm not willing to sacrifice myself -- not when I've just figured out who that is.

Thanks for the Sting

Every now and then I receive a comment on my blog that bugs me.  I can't really put my finger on why.  What is it about that comment that irritates me so?  Makes me feel like I need to defend myself?  It wasn't mean, exactly.  So why did it sting?

Well, today I think I finally found my answer.  I got my first truly snotty comment.  It was on an older post.  And a fairly popular one.  It felt like a slap in the face.  A moment of shock.

But there was beauty to it as well.  You see, it was written in a way that helped me figure out what had been bugging me about those other comments.  And in such a way that it showed the insecurities of the woman writing it.  It was obviously her issue and she was projecting.  I am grateful for that.  Because it was so evident in hers, I can see it in others' as well.

So what was it?  What is it that bugs me so much in those comments?  It's someone else assuming that they know what my motivations are.  It's someone else telling me how I feel.  It's someone else putting words into my mouth.  Basically, it's all the childish arguments I've had over the years with people who would rather attack me than argue their point.  It's not debate.  It's not stating your opinion and backing it up.  It's saying, "You don't agree with me so you're stupid!"

I've had way too much experience with this kind of arguing.  Too often I don't see it when it happens.  I am hurt and can't figure out why.  I feel defensive.  I feel like a little girl being chastised for not being good enough.  I feel like I'm being told that everything that's wrong is my fault.

And those are my issues.

But because this woman took the time to comment, in all her snarky glory, I was able to see it.  I was able to see that when a person attacks like this, it's not about me.  It's about them.  And just because they blame me or think I am stupid it doesn't mean I am.  They may throw the label out there but I don't have to choose to wear it.

So if any of you have the need to tell me how I feel, you may.  And I will not argue with you.  You can just be wrong.  And I can be right.  And I don't have to prove to you that I am right or defend myself.  It's okay if I'm the only one who knows.

To that wonderful woman who gave me this gift this morning, thank you.  It may not have been what you intended, but it turned out great for me.  Good luck to you as you work through your insecurities.  I hope some day you can receive a similar slap in the face that helps you become the person you want to be.  And I said that in all kindness and sincerity.

Thanks for the sting.

Thank You, Marcus Bakeman

What inspires you?

As you think about this, let me tell you a story.  Imagine me as a junior in high school (put Sam's head on Jess' body and you have a pretty good representation).  It's the fall of 1986.  I walk down the halls of SHS, past the office, turn left and then turn into the first door on the right.  This is my English class.  I sit down and wait for class to begin. 

The teacher comes in.  He walks to the front of the class and holds up a small figurine.  It is of a Mexican man, sitting with his knees pulled to his chest, head resting on his knees so that his sombrero hides his face.  The teacher instructs us to write about this figure for the next ten minutes or so.  After a moment, hands go up.  "What are we supposed to write?"  "Will we be turning this in?"  "How long does it have to be?"  He answers, "Write whatever you want.  Write whatever you think about when you see this.  There is no length requirement.  You will be graded only on participation.  Write until I tell you to stop."

We did this every day with different prompts; it was called journal writing.  Sometimes it was an object, like the figurine.  Sometimes it was a song.  Sometimes it was a question.  My favorites were when he brought his guitar and sang -- especially Chalkin' and Huggin'.

The cynic would say that this was so that he could keep us busy while he got ready for our class. There could be many other, more altruistic, reasons for doing this as well.  But the reason doesn't matter. What matters is what I learned.

I learned to look.  I learned to notice.  I learned to think.  I learned to express.

It was one of these journal writings that helped me and my best friend discover that we had opposing political beliefs.  It was through these journal writing prompts that I was exposed to Don McLean and James Taylor.  And it was in these journal writings that I discovered my love for essay writing.

I'd always written, for as long as I'd known how.  I'd written poetry and short stories.  But never did I feel more free than when I did these exercises.  Never did I feel more empowered than when I discovered how to express my thoughts and opinions safely on paper.  And I loved it.

Sometimes people ask me how on earth I chose "that" topic to write about in my blog, whatever that may be.  "You notice such strange things."

And I think back fondly and thank this teacher, not just for teaching me the assigned subject, but for teaching me to think and helping me discover something about myself.  Thank you, Marcus Bakeman.  May you ever continue chalkin' and huggin'.

Women Who Think Too Much

Yes, this is the title of a real book.  No, I did not write it, I do not own it, and I have not read it.  I found it at the library, skimmed the table of contents, and put it back.  Too stressful!

I do not believe that I am alone in being one of those women who thinks too much.  I over-analyze.  I look for the hidden meaning.  I drive my husband crazy.

"That's not what I said!"
"But it's what you meant!"

But I over-think in other ways as well.  Too often I cannot sleep because there are so many thoughts running through my mind.  They can be pleasant, like if I'm excited about something or making plans.  Or they can be unpleasant, like if I'm stressed or working on something difficult in my life.  My mind will race from topic to topic, worried that something will slip by that is important or that I won't remember in the morning.  Sometimes writing it down helps, other times nothing does and I am up playing Word Whomp on the computer for hours.  Too often I am seeing 5:00am from the ugly side (as if 5:00am has a good side).

It's what my Buddhist meditation dvd calls a monkey mind.  I have a monkey mind.  Flitting from one thing to the next like a monkey through the branches of a tree.

I have also been accused of being a deep thinker.  Maybe accused isn't the best choice of words here; people usually mean it as a compliment.  But it isn't always a good thing.  Sometimes I miss a lot by skipping the shallow thinking (as others put it).  Sometimes I skip right by the obvious and basic and see only the complicated and heavy. 

And as frustrating as thinking too much can be, as crazy as I make myself when I can't shut my brain down, it's nothing compared to those days when I can barely think at all.  Those days when I can't seem to really lock onto a single thought long enough to process it through.  Those days when the best I can hope for is to pay attention long enough to find the plot in a fluff movie.  I hate those days!

The in-between days are sure nice.  How come I can only recognize them in the rear view mirror?