(originally posted on my blog at RedRoom.com)
When my daughter was six-years old she often spent her afternoons with her best friend Brianna. Brianna’s grandmother was a nice enough lady who often carted the girls around on errands after school. One day during a particularly lively play date Brianna’s grandma said to my daughter, “Melia, you are weird!”
My first reaction was to belt the woman. Who did this cleaning lady think she was to say something potentially hurtful to my lively, funny, beautiful daughter? The violent reaction, thankfully, faded very quickly. In its place was the reality I had long ago learned to embrace: weirdness doesn’t have to be a bad thing.
I had felt like a social outcaste in my two-parent, multiple-child, no-divorce neighborhood all through elementary school. My parents were not only divorced, but they left me to be raised, alone, by my grandparents. I felt as though I spent my entire childhood trying to apologize for my weirdness by doing whatever I could think of to fit in. Very little of it worked, and I probably seemed even weirder and I know I was uncomfortable in my own skin.
By the time I arrived at Junior High and met many, many other weird kids, I began to finally see that not everyone was normal. In fact that was the same year that the divorces began in my neighborhood and within a few years there were new families blending on every street.
By the eighth grade I was almost completely comfortable in my own skin, or at least I knew how to fake it very well. My best friend and I even wore leprechaun costumes to school for St. Patrick’s Day, complete with giant, green homemade top hats. We were very well received as most kids were in awe of our willingness to appear silly in public. In high school I discovered the drama department and the Rocky Horror Picture show and my comfort level with my own weirdness was nearly complete.
When it came time to raise my own daughter, I wanted her to feel comfortable with herself from the onset. I hoped to surround her self-esteem with the kind of mental cement that would keep her safe and secure even when she traveled outside of home So when she told us the story of being called weird, I told her that the next time someone called her that to thank them. After all, weird was a good thing, a compliment really. It meant she was an individual, not the same as everyone else, but in a good way.
It worked. Many people since have hurled the weird comment her way. Each time she accepts and embraces it, it deflates them and empowers her.
She has been called weird many times since and thanked every single person. By copping to and embracing her differences willingly, she doesn’t waste time apologizing for being herself or wallowing in the worry that people won’t like her for who she is. Despite the normal adolescent bumps, she is pretty comfortable in her own skin and the mental cement is intact.
My daughter and I are both weird, thank you very much.
Lake Mendocino
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Monday, July 5, 2010
To Sing or Not to Sing, That is the question
My first singing lesson, that was supposed to take place last week, was rescheduled for this week.
Strangely enough I think that I knew it would be canceled as I was driving to the lesson last week, unnaturally calm. I say unnaturally because I expected to be fighting the panic back, to be talking myself down out of my metaphorical anxiety tree. I arrived earlier than was required and managed to walk in to the building breathing normally.
The actual first lesson day was another story. I didn't make it out of the house because I needed to use all of my energy and focus to fend off the expected panic attack.
As the anxiety rises within the body, the mental capabilities are tipped off balance. The mental steps that I think we all walk down as we attempt to follow our logic begin to spiral back up on themselves, covering the same ground over and over again. Isn't that the classic cliche definition of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over again in hopes of finding a different outcome.
Getting out of that head space means switching metaphors from a staircase to a tight rope. It is very important to walk that tight rope carefully and deliberately in order to make sure to keep the thought processes linear, in line and straight so as not to veer off and go back to the circular motion and returning to the same outcomes over and over again. Sometimes it takes a voice from the outside to get off the stairs and onto the line.
It is my signal to myself that I am fighting to stay sane when I know that the thoughts that concern me are becoming great fears and the solutions in turn become less and less flexible. I can't give a logical explanation as to why I was feeling panicked. Lord knows that I tried to put my finger on a scenario that I could attach to. The hope was that if I had been able to attach to a scenario I would have been better equipped to find a definable solution earlier.
I tried to remember the explanation I had been practicing for more than a week as to why I wanted to take voice lessons: I used to be a decent back-up singer. I used to be able to carry a tune. I want to learn the discipline it takes to return to those skills. (What I really want is to have the ability to sing strongly enough for a vibrato and solos, but I'm not sure I would have felt comfortable admitting to that in the first session.)
However, as the time neared (I was about 1.5-2 hours out at this point) I couldn't remember my logical reasons, or couldn't hold the thoughts long enough to get all the way through my own speech in my head. What kept coming back was the other truth, that I wanted to conquer an issue that was a direct result of the childhood sexual abuse by my guitar teacher. I suppose that even in the safety of my own, safe home, I was unwilling and as yet unable to face head-on this facet of my own recovery.
I tried telling myself that if I didn't go he would win. That concept gave me a full 5 minutes of relief and strength. It fell away quickly, though, when the unnamed panic began to creep back in.
An attempt at strategizing my way out of the lesson didn't get me very far. I imagined calling and canceling, knowing that canceling meant forfeiting the gift certificate that the Husband had given me for my birthday a year before. He spent money on this gift, had given me a gift I had asked for out loud. The idea of throwing away his gift added a layer of guilt to my panic. So I went from the idea of canceling to the guilt of wasting a gift and putting off recovery and quickly moved back to not feeling strong enough to attend the lesson to wanting to cancel to guilt. You can see the downward spiral.
Then I thought about the book project I have been working on. The book project, mind you, that I have not been able to do any real work on for more than a month, despite the fact that I have the time. I had hoped to blog about the singing lessons as a form of drafting for the book. Not long ago, it seems, I had been feeling very strong and confident about the book project and the personal resources that would allow me to research and write the thing. The last several weeks have been spent primarily in a dark place where I worked very hard at avoiding creativity, specifically the book project.
So add that step onto the spiral staircase, and we have another piece to repeat over and over again. As you can imagine, the panic only grew.
As I realized that my thought processes were out of balance with reality, I considered turning to pharmaceuticals. Specifically taking a Valium. That would require I have someone else drive me to the lesson. A surprisingly calm request moved from my lips to my husband's ears. He didn't consent immediately, but agreed in silence to change his mind about how he had planned to spend the time I was singing. He asked me if I was nervous, I calmly looked him in the eye and simply said, "Yes."
Another hour passed by (without drugs) and the Husband suggested that I talk about my feelings. Even out loud I couldn't give a logical story frame to my feelings. I could repeat that I felt ill and panicked, that I didn't want to go, but that I didn't want to waste his gift to me. Then he said the magic words that let me off the hook when I forfeited by gift certificate.
"Whatever. It'll be a donation." That concept was my ticket to finding the fine line of logic and stepping off the spiral.
Gotta love the simplicity of the out he gave me and the permission to call and cancel the appointment as gracefully as a panicked person can. It allowed me the room to cry for awhile and follow the Husband's next piece of wisdom, "If you're not ready, you're not ready."
Apparently I'm not ready. I can be okay with that for now.
Strangely enough I think that I knew it would be canceled as I was driving to the lesson last week, unnaturally calm. I say unnaturally because I expected to be fighting the panic back, to be talking myself down out of my metaphorical anxiety tree. I arrived earlier than was required and managed to walk in to the building breathing normally.
The actual first lesson day was another story. I didn't make it out of the house because I needed to use all of my energy and focus to fend off the expected panic attack.
As the anxiety rises within the body, the mental capabilities are tipped off balance. The mental steps that I think we all walk down as we attempt to follow our logic begin to spiral back up on themselves, covering the same ground over and over again. Isn't that the classic cliche definition of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over again in hopes of finding a different outcome.
Getting out of that head space means switching metaphors from a staircase to a tight rope. It is very important to walk that tight rope carefully and deliberately in order to make sure to keep the thought processes linear, in line and straight so as not to veer off and go back to the circular motion and returning to the same outcomes over and over again. Sometimes it takes a voice from the outside to get off the stairs and onto the line.
It is my signal to myself that I am fighting to stay sane when I know that the thoughts that concern me are becoming great fears and the solutions in turn become less and less flexible. I can't give a logical explanation as to why I was feeling panicked. Lord knows that I tried to put my finger on a scenario that I could attach to. The hope was that if I had been able to attach to a scenario I would have been better equipped to find a definable solution earlier.
I tried to remember the explanation I had been practicing for more than a week as to why I wanted to take voice lessons: I used to be a decent back-up singer. I used to be able to carry a tune. I want to learn the discipline it takes to return to those skills. (What I really want is to have the ability to sing strongly enough for a vibrato and solos, but I'm not sure I would have felt comfortable admitting to that in the first session.)
However, as the time neared (I was about 1.5-2 hours out at this point) I couldn't remember my logical reasons, or couldn't hold the thoughts long enough to get all the way through my own speech in my head. What kept coming back was the other truth, that I wanted to conquer an issue that was a direct result of the childhood sexual abuse by my guitar teacher. I suppose that even in the safety of my own, safe home, I was unwilling and as yet unable to face head-on this facet of my own recovery.
I tried telling myself that if I didn't go he would win. That concept gave me a full 5 minutes of relief and strength. It fell away quickly, though, when the unnamed panic began to creep back in.
An attempt at strategizing my way out of the lesson didn't get me very far. I imagined calling and canceling, knowing that canceling meant forfeiting the gift certificate that the Husband had given me for my birthday a year before. He spent money on this gift, had given me a gift I had asked for out loud. The idea of throwing away his gift added a layer of guilt to my panic. So I went from the idea of canceling to the guilt of wasting a gift and putting off recovery and quickly moved back to not feeling strong enough to attend the lesson to wanting to cancel to guilt. You can see the downward spiral.
Then I thought about the book project I have been working on. The book project, mind you, that I have not been able to do any real work on for more than a month, despite the fact that I have the time. I had hoped to blog about the singing lessons as a form of drafting for the book. Not long ago, it seems, I had been feeling very strong and confident about the book project and the personal resources that would allow me to research and write the thing. The last several weeks have been spent primarily in a dark place where I worked very hard at avoiding creativity, specifically the book project.
So add that step onto the spiral staircase, and we have another piece to repeat over and over again. As you can imagine, the panic only grew.
As I realized that my thought processes were out of balance with reality, I considered turning to pharmaceuticals. Specifically taking a Valium. That would require I have someone else drive me to the lesson. A surprisingly calm request moved from my lips to my husband's ears. He didn't consent immediately, but agreed in silence to change his mind about how he had planned to spend the time I was singing. He asked me if I was nervous, I calmly looked him in the eye and simply said, "Yes."
Another hour passed by (without drugs) and the Husband suggested that I talk about my feelings. Even out loud I couldn't give a logical story frame to my feelings. I could repeat that I felt ill and panicked, that I didn't want to go, but that I didn't want to waste his gift to me. Then he said the magic words that let me off the hook when I forfeited by gift certificate.
"Whatever. It'll be a donation." That concept was my ticket to finding the fine line of logic and stepping off the spiral.
Gotta love the simplicity of the out he gave me and the permission to call and cancel the appointment as gracefully as a panicked person can. It allowed me the room to cry for awhile and follow the Husband's next piece of wisdom, "If you're not ready, you're not ready."
Apparently I'm not ready. I can be okay with that for now.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Birthday Blues
The title of this post is a bit of a misnomer. Usually on the day of my birthday I am having a difficult time emotionally, but this year the tough stuff has already (mostly) passed.
I don't dislike my birthday because I am getting old (cause I'm not) but because I have always believed that a birthday should be something special, but life hasn't always supported that belief. That includes a bunch of old crap about my parents and a couple of nasty incidents in childhood that occurred if not on the day, then relatively close to it.
This year I felt the familiar down-turn of mood almost two weeks out and have since worked through, or lived through, the bulk of the icky feelings.
This morning I had an early breakfast with my hubby and as I write my dog is cuddled up next to me on the couch ready to dole out as much unconditional love as I need (and then some). I look forward to a special lunch with my sister-in-law and a trip to the City to celebrate the SheWrites.com one year anniversary. A larger extended family potluck is being planned by my daughter for this weekend or next. I have already received a ton of birthday wishes via Facebook.
So far, a good day. Not a blue one.
Happy Birthday to Me!
I don't dislike my birthday because I am getting old (cause I'm not) but because I have always believed that a birthday should be something special, but life hasn't always supported that belief. That includes a bunch of old crap about my parents and a couple of nasty incidents in childhood that occurred if not on the day, then relatively close to it.
This year I felt the familiar down-turn of mood almost two weeks out and have since worked through, or lived through, the bulk of the icky feelings.
This morning I had an early breakfast with my hubby and as I write my dog is cuddled up next to me on the couch ready to dole out as much unconditional love as I need (and then some). I look forward to a special lunch with my sister-in-law and a trip to the City to celebrate the SheWrites.com one year anniversary. A larger extended family potluck is being planned by my daughter for this weekend or next. I have already received a ton of birthday wishes via Facebook.
So far, a good day. Not a blue one.
Happy Birthday to Me!
Monday, June 28, 2010
To Sing or Not to Sing?
I've scheduled my first singing lesson for this afternoon. Last year for my birthday my husband gave me one hour of singing lessons. My birthday is tomorrow, so you can see it took me some time to get up the nerve to make the call to set up the initial time. The plan is to stretch out one hour to 2 half-hour lessons this week and next. If all goes well, I will add in more over the course of the summer.
The desire for the lessons stems from my work around the book I am writing about being sexually abused as a kid. As a little, little girl, I loved to sing. I often sang to myself made up songs. I imagined interviews many years in the future when I would tell the story to some interested reporter how I used to sing to my own reflection in the window of Gram's white car. I would explain how I had always loved to sing and what an important part of my life music had always been. When I was actively taking guitar lessons I wrote and sang a number of my own songs.
So, life didn't happen exactly the way I had envisioned. I don't sing in public, certainly not solo. I love to sing along with the radio, but you won't hear me warbling in the shower. I lost my voice when I lost my music, back when I was taking guitar lessons from a pedophile.
These lessons are another in a long line of attempts to regain what I lost all those years ago.
So what makes me think I can sing to begin with? Not much, actually. I know from work in high school productions that I can be a competent back-up singer, but probably not a soloist. But what if I can sing well? Strong, out loud, carry a tune and find a vibrato? I can, or could at one time, at least carry a tune. I'd like to recapture that part of myself at the very least. Anything more would be simply wonderful.
The desire for the lessons stems from my work around the book I am writing about being sexually abused as a kid. As a little, little girl, I loved to sing. I often sang to myself made up songs. I imagined interviews many years in the future when I would tell the story to some interested reporter how I used to sing to my own reflection in the window of Gram's white car. I would explain how I had always loved to sing and what an important part of my life music had always been. When I was actively taking guitar lessons I wrote and sang a number of my own songs.
So, life didn't happen exactly the way I had envisioned. I don't sing in public, certainly not solo. I love to sing along with the radio, but you won't hear me warbling in the shower. I lost my voice when I lost my music, back when I was taking guitar lessons from a pedophile.
These lessons are another in a long line of attempts to regain what I lost all those years ago.
So what makes me think I can sing to begin with? Not much, actually. I know from work in high school productions that I can be a competent back-up singer, but probably not a soloist. But what if I can sing well? Strong, out loud, carry a tune and find a vibrato? I can, or could at one time, at least carry a tune. I'd like to recapture that part of myself at the very least. Anything more would be simply wonderful.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Irony or Coincidence?
Tuesday night I was teaching my summer freshman composition course. We were discussing Virginia Woolf's "Death of The Moth" essay, reading aloud and discussing the passage about the moth flying to and fro across the window pane as if he were trying to get out to the world and the activity, energy and life represented in the open fields.
We heard a noise at one of our very large classroom windows (we are on the second floor of the building). What looked like a giant bug with a wide rectangular face, it's open mouth brimming with tiny sharp teeth, was flitting to and fro across the window as if it were trying to get into our world and the activity and life we represented. Unlike the moth, our over-sized bug was attached to a very long neck and a wet substance was spewing from the center of its mouth.
It was a scrub brush attached to a very long pole and a hose. In reality we knew this immediately, but the timing was pretty interesting. It stayed on that window until we were nearly done discussing the essay, and spent less time on the second window. By the time we were ready to move on, so had the scrub brush.
Irony or coincidence? You decide.
We heard a noise at one of our very large classroom windows (we are on the second floor of the building). What looked like a giant bug with a wide rectangular face, it's open mouth brimming with tiny sharp teeth, was flitting to and fro across the window as if it were trying to get into our world and the activity and life we represented. Unlike the moth, our over-sized bug was attached to a very long neck and a wet substance was spewing from the center of its mouth.
It was a scrub brush attached to a very long pole and a hose. In reality we knew this immediately, but the timing was pretty interesting. It stayed on that window until we were nearly done discussing the essay, and spent less time on the second window. By the time we were ready to move on, so had the scrub brush.
Irony or coincidence? You decide.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
What Dreams May Come
I have had several, shall we say, interesting dreams this last few mornings.
In order of appearance:
1) My daughter and her boyfriend had a baby. They only took care of the baby part-time, so I kept having to step in and care for the infant. I also had to fight them over their inconsistent parenting behavior.
2) I was 2-months pregnant with a baby of my own.
3) I was in China and diagnosed with Cancer. I had only a few weeks to live. Two chemotherapy treatments were to be taken before I boarded the plane home, the third once I was back on US soil.
4) A nuclear bomb went off. Several of us who survived were attempting to figure out what resources were left.
Apparently, according to online dream dictionaries, I am dealing subconsciously with some anxiety and changes.
Ya think!!
In order of appearance:
1) My daughter and her boyfriend had a baby. They only took care of the baby part-time, so I kept having to step in and care for the infant. I also had to fight them over their inconsistent parenting behavior.
2) I was 2-months pregnant with a baby of my own.
3) I was in China and diagnosed with Cancer. I had only a few weeks to live. Two chemotherapy treatments were to be taken before I boarded the plane home, the third once I was back on US soil.
4) A nuclear bomb went off. Several of us who survived were attempting to figure out what resources were left.
Apparently, according to online dream dictionaries, I am dealing subconsciously with some anxiety and changes.
Ya think!!
Sunday, June 6, 2010
I hate to complan, but...
I'm having a rough weekend.
Reasons:
Burnout--I just finished the Spring semester and am slowly working on the plans for Summer school. Then I will have to work on Fall. I am currently scheduled to teach 3 classes at two different schools this fall (one is new for me) and may be adding a 4th on in as well. I'm not complaining necessarily, but am not feeling the excitement I prefer to feel. I'd like more down-time, but don't have the luxury.
Pain--My back went out on me. What does that mean, you ask? It means that my lower back hurts a great deal, especially when I am upright and walking. This is annoying and depressing on several levels. It means I can't paint my ceilings (yes a real project I was really looking forward to) that will precede repainting my dining room and entryway with a color I don't despise. It means I can't go shopping, run errands, clean or walk my dogs. My back actually feels swollen in places. I'll be calling the chiropractor tomorrow. In the meantime I am trying to stretch and build muscles for support.
Worry--My grandson's heart is working very, very hard to keep him going. A bit too hard, it seems. Instead of waiting until he is 3 or 6 months old to do surgery, they may have to do it fairly soon. Let me be clear, I have complete faith that this young man will pull through just fine. I do. He is strong. But I as I write this he may still be in the ER with his parents and neither of them is responding to my text messages. Their not responding doesn't necessarily mean bad news, more likely it means no news. The cliche says that no news is good news. But waiting is really a bitch.
Missed Trip--Because of my back I couldn't make the trip to Las Vegas where my adopted sister is about to have her first baby.
Other stuff--that I'd rather not share on the Internet is also percolating away under the surface and likely adding to my IBS and back pain. Nothing life-threatening or horribly bad, just internal work.
The up-side: I am writing by updating this blog. Not the most fun, entertaining or exciting post I've ever written, but at least I am writing. And the drugs are helping with the back pain.
Mmmmm drugs.
:-)
Reasons:
Burnout--I just finished the Spring semester and am slowly working on the plans for Summer school. Then I will have to work on Fall. I am currently scheduled to teach 3 classes at two different schools this fall (one is new for me) and may be adding a 4th on in as well. I'm not complaining necessarily, but am not feeling the excitement I prefer to feel. I'd like more down-time, but don't have the luxury.
Pain--My back went out on me. What does that mean, you ask? It means that my lower back hurts a great deal, especially when I am upright and walking. This is annoying and depressing on several levels. It means I can't paint my ceilings (yes a real project I was really looking forward to) that will precede repainting my dining room and entryway with a color I don't despise. It means I can't go shopping, run errands, clean or walk my dogs. My back actually feels swollen in places. I'll be calling the chiropractor tomorrow. In the meantime I am trying to stretch and build muscles for support.
Worry--My grandson's heart is working very, very hard to keep him going. A bit too hard, it seems. Instead of waiting until he is 3 or 6 months old to do surgery, they may have to do it fairly soon. Let me be clear, I have complete faith that this young man will pull through just fine. I do. He is strong. But I as I write this he may still be in the ER with his parents and neither of them is responding to my text messages. Their not responding doesn't necessarily mean bad news, more likely it means no news. The cliche says that no news is good news. But waiting is really a bitch.
Missed Trip--Because of my back I couldn't make the trip to Las Vegas where my adopted sister is about to have her first baby.
Other stuff--that I'd rather not share on the Internet is also percolating away under the surface and likely adding to my IBS and back pain. Nothing life-threatening or horribly bad, just internal work.
The up-side: I am writing by updating this blog. Not the most fun, entertaining or exciting post I've ever written, but at least I am writing. And the drugs are helping with the back pain.
Mmmmm drugs.
:-)
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