As it turns out, I've been treeating this blog like my journal, and since that's the case, I feel like I shouldn't hold back at all. I should say whatever is on my mind, that I should be able, need to be able, to express whatever deep-seeded worries or fears I have. So here goes.
I'm struggling right now. I'm struggling with the same feelings of powerlessness and lack of control that I have been struggling with for the past 15+ years. And rather than to ignore the struggle and pretend that it will go away on its own or to succumb to the powerfully, enticing and instantly gratifying means to that false sense of power, I'm openly admitting that I'm not doing too well right now. To admit that takes every ounce of strength and courage that I have. Admitting this leaves me feeling weak, needy, incompetent, unstable, secretive and untrustworthy, embarrassed and ashamed. I know what I need to do and what I should be doing to take care of myself, but I'm not. At least not on my own, anyway. Just as hard as it is to admit that things aren't going well, it's equally as hard to ask for help or let others know what's going on. Slowly, I've been doing just that. But it's hard to admit and ask for help when you feel like it's all your fault that things began to go badly in the first place. It feels like it's something I need to do on my own. But therein lies the irony. It's in the asking and admitting that the real sense of power and control come into play. I know that, but I don't necessarily feel it. So I still try to do it on my own through instantly gratifying and unhealthy means. Maybe I run one too many times during the week or perhaps I don't eat enough during the day. Other times I cut my arm with a razor blade. And then I feel worse- guilty and even more ashamed. It reinforces the notion that somehow I've created this monster all by myself, and then it becomes too large to handle, which I also don't want to admit. The other problem is that even if I am feeling open about discussing what might be bothering me, I don't always know what's bothering me, which makes me feel even more ridiculous. So, I'm not entirely sure what is causing me to feel so powerless and out of control at the moment, but I do know that something's not right, and that cutting my arm and berating myself for eating "too much" is not the healthy way to handle this. But when I feel like I can't ask for help or express what I'm feeling, it seems like the only option. And it's so enticing. It's hard not to surrender to the feelings of power and control that come from denying myself basic needs or pleasure, especially when it's so familiar. And now I feel like I'm denying myself the one thing that is so familiar. Could there be a sense of power in that?
30.9.04
Meeting the Neighbors
They are usually sitting on their front porch, just caddy corner from our house (actually, it's the house we're watching for a former professor of mine), in their old 1930 brick duplex. Whenever I pull up in my car, I see two little old heads peering around the corner at me. At first I was somewhat offended and annoyed by this. Do they think I'm doing something illegal? Are they staring at the Kerry/Edwards sticker on the back of my car? Afterall, this is central Pennsylvania and small-town America. Then, when I reassured myself that, in fact, I am not doing anything illegal, and that they are just two old people with "nothing to do and all day to do it", as my mother says fondly of the elderly drivers, it became amusing. I started to wave everytime I saw them. And then, one day when I was feeling brave, I actually said "hi". I didn't think that the woman could do what she did, but she jumped to her feet and scampered down the steps and walked hurriedly to the middle of the road where she was sure I could hear her better, and asked me who I was. When I tried to explain that I was watching the house and I was teaching at the local university for the professor who normally lives there, she heard that I was the daughter of the woman in the house, and told me to say hi to my mother. I said okay, and left it at that.
A few days ago, they were on their porch as usual, and, after I waved, I was feeling particularly bold and so I ventured across the street to talk to them. Afterall, I have grandparents, whom I love dearly, and I know how much they like to talk to young people. I approached the porch from the side, where they couldn't see me coming, and, though I thought about getting on my hands and knees and jumping out from behind a bush while yelling "gotcha!", I refrained and rounded the corner slowly so as not to surprise them. In those next 7.5 minutes, I was consumed by their lusty desire to tell me their entire life stories, as they sucked the life force out of me with their tentacles tightening around me, thereby rendering me dizzy and motionless. In those 7.5 minutes, I learned all I ever wanted to know about Earleen and her third husband Robert. It went something like this.
"My name is Earleen, like the boy's name Earl with an e-e-n. And this is Robert. We'll be married 10 years this...November 18th, said Robert. Last year, no, it wasn't last year, but the year before we forgot." When I told her my name, she looked at me just as astoundedly as I had at her when I heard her name, and she tried to repeat what I had said. "Ahhngel..." I said it again, and she just said, "that's funny". And then she continued. "Did you know that I make a great three bean salad? or is it four bean?", she pondered. "But it's no good warm. He's the only one can eat it. All the people at the senior center don't like it." A car went speeding by, and she informed me that it was the pizza boy who always waves at them. "We used to wave at the man who works with the refrigerators and ovens at Sears, and I used to kiss him even, but, did you know, he died last year?" I said no, I didn't, and she proceeded to tell me about the boy whose 4 and he plays..."what's that thing?" she asked Robert, as she held her hands out and made a strumming motion. "Guitar" he said. "Amazing", she said. "It's for those church...hmmm...gatherings." She then told me when the house was built and that Robert was born here,. "Not me", she says. "I'm not from around here. He's my third husband. The first one died of cancer and the second one is still living. Then they told me I got cancer, and they had to cut the whole thing off", as she put her hand up to her chest. "Robert is 10 years older than me. He is 74 and I am 60. No, I mean 63". I started to back slowly off the porch, and she began talking faster. Dizzy with my good intentions fading, I managed to back away and say goodbye.
I smiled to myself as I walked back across the street, feeling my senses return. The mystery was gone between us, and I no longer have to feel like a convicted felon everytime I unload something from my car. I shook my head thinking to myself what a strange name Earleen is. I'll keep waving, and, in another month, when my strength fully returns, I'll go back for another round.
A few days ago, they were on their porch as usual, and, after I waved, I was feeling particularly bold and so I ventured across the street to talk to them. Afterall, I have grandparents, whom I love dearly, and I know how much they like to talk to young people. I approached the porch from the side, where they couldn't see me coming, and, though I thought about getting on my hands and knees and jumping out from behind a bush while yelling "gotcha!", I refrained and rounded the corner slowly so as not to surprise them. In those next 7.5 minutes, I was consumed by their lusty desire to tell me their entire life stories, as they sucked the life force out of me with their tentacles tightening around me, thereby rendering me dizzy and motionless. In those 7.5 minutes, I learned all I ever wanted to know about Earleen and her third husband Robert. It went something like this.
"My name is Earleen, like the boy's name Earl with an e-e-n. And this is Robert. We'll be married 10 years this...November 18th, said Robert. Last year, no, it wasn't last year, but the year before we forgot." When I told her my name, she looked at me just as astoundedly as I had at her when I heard her name, and she tried to repeat what I had said. "Ahhngel..." I said it again, and she just said, "that's funny". And then she continued. "Did you know that I make a great three bean salad? or is it four bean?", she pondered. "But it's no good warm. He's the only one can eat it. All the people at the senior center don't like it." A car went speeding by, and she informed me that it was the pizza boy who always waves at them. "We used to wave at the man who works with the refrigerators and ovens at Sears, and I used to kiss him even, but, did you know, he died last year?" I said no, I didn't, and she proceeded to tell me about the boy whose 4 and he plays..."what's that thing?" she asked Robert, as she held her hands out and made a strumming motion. "Guitar" he said. "Amazing", she said. "It's for those church...hmmm...gatherings." She then told me when the house was built and that Robert was born here,. "Not me", she says. "I'm not from around here. He's my third husband. The first one died of cancer and the second one is still living. Then they told me I got cancer, and they had to cut the whole thing off", as she put her hand up to her chest. "Robert is 10 years older than me. He is 74 and I am 60. No, I mean 63". I started to back slowly off the porch, and she began talking faster. Dizzy with my good intentions fading, I managed to back away and say goodbye.
I smiled to myself as I walked back across the street, feeling my senses return. The mystery was gone between us, and I no longer have to feel like a convicted felon everytime I unload something from my car. I shook my head thinking to myself what a strange name Earleen is. I'll keep waving, and, in another month, when my strength fully returns, I'll go back for another round.
27.9.04
"Whenever I feel afraid...
I hold my head erect. And whistle a happy tune, so no one will suspect, I'm afraid." Those were lyrics to a song from a little wind-up toy radio I had as a kid. The song seemed harmless enough, and I liked the tune well enough, indicated by the fact that I still remember it, but I became too good at whistling a happy tune. I was suspicious of myself, but I continued to hold my head erect and keep on whistling. Isn't that what you're supposed to do?
'All the things I'm thinking but feel like I shouldn't say' is on my mind right now. What if I offend, anger, hurt or worry somebody? It feels like there are so many secrets, and they're looming large.
What kinds of secrets?
Secrets about me.
Things that I secretly enjoy, but don't want anybody to know. Things that I fear, but don't want anybody to see.
Things that I worry about, but don't want anyone to hear.
All of these 'What if?' questions spinning in my head.
"What if that paper crinkling under my bed really isn't the cat this time, but a viscious, spiked armadillo-like creature?"
"What if Donny Sharp refuses to open my milk for me today?"
"What if I forget which bus I ride?"
"What if I wake up too late and miss the bus?"
"What if I fail the history test?"
"What if, now that I'm a graduate student, someone finds out that I'm an imposter, that I'm really just posing as a student/TA, and that I still feel like the same person I was when I was 7? What if they find out that I'm really just me? What if anybody finds out for that matter? That 'me' is just embarassed and ashamed?"
Of what?
"Of feeling sad, lonely, angry, happy, joyous, content, fearful, or ashamed. For not being perfect. For not controlling what I feel. For failing to prevent things that cause me to feel anything too intensely."
If they find out, then what?
"I will be judged and committed to the slammer-"SouLess AnonyMous iMpostER Society" or that I'll be fed to starving wolves or swallowed up in a giant tsunami. Or, worse yet, that I'll have to just keep living and facing these 'what ifs', while nobody ever really knows whatI'm thinking or who I am, including myself. I realize now that I can't keep hiding from myself. The problem now is, where do I start looking?"
I looked under the bed, and it was just the cat. I looked toward Donny to open my milk, and when he refused, I did it myself. I never forgot which bus I rode, but, at times, I wish I had (at least on the way to school). I never woke up too late. I did fail the history test, but I got to take it again. And, so far, nobody has found me to be an imposter.
Maybe keeping these secrets is what's causing me to be so fearful, because, if somebody finds out, it means that I didn't keep the secret well enough. And everyone knows that secrets are meant to be kept hidden. I don't want these secrets anymore. The only time I'm going to hold my head erect in the face of fear is when I'm being charged by a fearsome dog. There's a fine line between keeping your cool while under duress and constantly hiding behind a mask of stoicism.
And then, on the flip side, there's being relentlessly and unmercifully tossed around like a rag doll and pounded against the broken shells and pebbles lining the bottom of the ocean floor, while ingesting volumes of salt water that burns your nose and the back of your throat when the waves are just too big, but you keep on trying to get back out there, because it was so much fun riding the waves earlier that day. Stupidity or determination?
Thanks for a great weekend at the shore, Nancy and Michael. I loved being tossed around by the waves, and there is still sand stuck in the fabric of my bathing suit. I can also still smell the beach in my hair. I don't want to wash it away quite yet.
'All the things I'm thinking but feel like I shouldn't say' is on my mind right now. What if I offend, anger, hurt or worry somebody? It feels like there are so many secrets, and they're looming large.
What kinds of secrets?
Secrets about me.
Things that I secretly enjoy, but don't want anybody to know. Things that I fear, but don't want anybody to see.
Things that I worry about, but don't want anyone to hear.
All of these 'What if?' questions spinning in my head.
"What if that paper crinkling under my bed really isn't the cat this time, but a viscious, spiked armadillo-like creature?"
"What if Donny Sharp refuses to open my milk for me today?"
"What if I forget which bus I ride?"
"What if I wake up too late and miss the bus?"
"What if I fail the history test?"
"What if, now that I'm a graduate student, someone finds out that I'm an imposter, that I'm really just posing as a student/TA, and that I still feel like the same person I was when I was 7? What if they find out that I'm really just me? What if anybody finds out for that matter? That 'me' is just embarassed and ashamed?"
Of what?
"Of feeling sad, lonely, angry, happy, joyous, content, fearful, or ashamed. For not being perfect. For not controlling what I feel. For failing to prevent things that cause me to feel anything too intensely."
If they find out, then what?
"I will be judged and committed to the slammer-"SouLess AnonyMous iMpostER Society" or that I'll be fed to starving wolves or swallowed up in a giant tsunami. Or, worse yet, that I'll have to just keep living and facing these 'what ifs', while nobody ever really knows whatI'm thinking or who I am, including myself. I realize now that I can't keep hiding from myself. The problem now is, where do I start looking?"
I looked under the bed, and it was just the cat. I looked toward Donny to open my milk, and when he refused, I did it myself. I never forgot which bus I rode, but, at times, I wish I had (at least on the way to school). I never woke up too late. I did fail the history test, but I got to take it again. And, so far, nobody has found me to be an imposter.
Maybe keeping these secrets is what's causing me to be so fearful, because, if somebody finds out, it means that I didn't keep the secret well enough. And everyone knows that secrets are meant to be kept hidden. I don't want these secrets anymore. The only time I'm going to hold my head erect in the face of fear is when I'm being charged by a fearsome dog. There's a fine line between keeping your cool while under duress and constantly hiding behind a mask of stoicism.
And then, on the flip side, there's being relentlessly and unmercifully tossed around like a rag doll and pounded against the broken shells and pebbles lining the bottom of the ocean floor, while ingesting volumes of salt water that burns your nose and the back of your throat when the waves are just too big, but you keep on trying to get back out there, because it was so much fun riding the waves earlier that day. Stupidity or determination?
Thanks for a great weekend at the shore, Nancy and Michael. I loved being tossed around by the waves, and there is still sand stuck in the fabric of my bathing suit. I can also still smell the beach in my hair. I don't want to wash it away quite yet.
24.9.04
We were all enjoying ourselves in the park
A few days ago I was sitting in the parklet near town, reading the newspapers, soaking up the warm September sun, and just feeling content. Not only was it enjoyable to sit there in the sun, but I also got some excellent entertainment. Two "boys", they could have been anywhere from 16 to 22 years old, dropped their sweatshirts and backpacks on a bench, raucously called out to a female, presumably a friend, and commenced the chase.
The squirrel chase, that is.
The two of them, the female remained standing near a tree, smiling nervously, tried to sneak attack the squirrel. One stayed put, and the other boy tiptoed behind it, and then yelled "GO!". The squirrel started running frantically in circles and up and down trees. It exhibited the same neurotic behavior that you see when a squirrel is in the middle of the road and a car is coming. I wonder if squirrels possess some kind of obsessive-compulsive traits. The squirrel must be like "Oh no, a car! Wait........wait........wait...RUN...left-right...left-right...one circle counterclockwise and then a flying leap to the sidewalk and up the nearest tree". If he times it just right, he'll win. If not, the car wins. (But we all know that squirrels aren't worth too many points in the driving game.)
So, the boys are chasing this squirrel, but, for all they know, it's really 10 different squirrels, and seem to be having the time of their lives. I thought about coming to the squirrel's rescue, but then it occurred to me that the squirrel was faster and smarter than the two boys put together. Not only that, but the squirrel seemed to be enjoying the game as much as the boys were. 10 minutes later, the two boys and the girl were walking dejectedly back to the bench where they had dropped their stuff. I heard one say "there are too many squirrels around here, anyway. I don't see what the big deal is". When I looked back from where they were walking, I saw a woman sitting at a table with a cup of coffee and a cigarette.
She seemed to be enjoying herself.
The squirrel chase, that is.
The two of them, the female remained standing near a tree, smiling nervously, tried to sneak attack the squirrel. One stayed put, and the other boy tiptoed behind it, and then yelled "GO!". The squirrel started running frantically in circles and up and down trees. It exhibited the same neurotic behavior that you see when a squirrel is in the middle of the road and a car is coming. I wonder if squirrels possess some kind of obsessive-compulsive traits. The squirrel must be like "Oh no, a car! Wait........wait........wait...RUN...left-right...left-right...one circle counterclockwise and then a flying leap to the sidewalk and up the nearest tree". If he times it just right, he'll win. If not, the car wins. (But we all know that squirrels aren't worth too many points in the driving game.)
So, the boys are chasing this squirrel, but, for all they know, it's really 10 different squirrels, and seem to be having the time of their lives. I thought about coming to the squirrel's rescue, but then it occurred to me that the squirrel was faster and smarter than the two boys put together. Not only that, but the squirrel seemed to be enjoying the game as much as the boys were. 10 minutes later, the two boys and the girl were walking dejectedly back to the bench where they had dropped their stuff. I heard one say "there are too many squirrels around here, anyway. I don't see what the big deal is". When I looked back from where they were walking, I saw a woman sitting at a table with a cup of coffee and a cigarette.
She seemed to be enjoying herself.
18.9.04
Shoes
As is typical for any couple, my husband and I have extremely different shopping styles. We went to the local mall last night looking for a pair of boots for me. I've been wanting (and needing) a pair for well over a year now, and I've been looking periodically the past few weeks. There was a neat pair of boots in a specialty store downtown, but they were $90.00. I just couldn't bring myself to shell out that much money for a pair of shoes that were neat, but not spectacular. I had been eyeing a pair in The Shoe Department that I really liked and had first spotted last winter. They were priced at $64.00. I wasn't sure I wanted to pay that much either, but that was before I had seen the $90.00 pair and before my husband pointed out a ridiculously expensive pair of men's boots in a catalogue for $290.00! Once a shoe hits the $100.00 mark, I really can't see how the quality could vastly improve to make a pair of shoes $190.00 more. But I wouldn't really know, because I've never owned a pair of shoes worth more than 70 bucks. So anyway, last night we went shoe hunting again, and I spotted the same $64.00 pair of boots I had liked last winter and the same ones I liked last month. I decided to try them on. As I was walking around the store with the boots on, I was drawn to another nice looking pair of boots. When I picked them up, I realized they were the same pair I was already trying on, the same ones I liked last month, and the same ones I liked last winter. I decided to buy them. Right then and there. Just like that. I knew that I liked them. My husband was appalled. "Are you sure?" he asked. "I'm sure they'll still be there tomorrow. We could look around some more". I said "why? I know what I like." And I could also sense that he didn't like them. But that was all the more reason for me to buy them. He said something about being stubborn, and I carried them to the register and paid for them. I'm satisfied with my purchase.
As for my husband?-he is on the computer now looking at LLBean again, searching for any sale items. When he finds something he likes, he'll ask me my opinion about the item. He'll ask me what color looks nice. He'll ask me what I think about the price and the quality of the fabric. Then he'll place it in the virtual shopping cart. When he gets through typing in all of the mailing and billing information, he'll inevitably delete the item. The next day he'll do the same thing. It could take weeks before he actually decides to purchase the item he's been wanting. Once he gets it in the mail, he'll try it on, and, again, ask me what I think about it. It takes about another week before he warms up to the item and decides that it was a good purchase. So I'm sure my "spontaneous" purchasing of the boots irritated him just as much as his calculated deliberations do me.
I have to admit that he gets some damn good deals, though!
As for my husband?-he is on the computer now looking at LLBean again, searching for any sale items. When he finds something he likes, he'll ask me my opinion about the item. He'll ask me what color looks nice. He'll ask me what I think about the price and the quality of the fabric. Then he'll place it in the virtual shopping cart. When he gets through typing in all of the mailing and billing information, he'll inevitably delete the item. The next day he'll do the same thing. It could take weeks before he actually decides to purchase the item he's been wanting. Once he gets it in the mail, he'll try it on, and, again, ask me what I think about it. It takes about another week before he warms up to the item and decides that it was a good purchase. So I'm sure my "spontaneous" purchasing of the boots irritated him just as much as his calculated deliberations do me.
I have to admit that he gets some damn good deals, though!
16.9.04
Imposter
It's really amazing how sometimes your mood can be so stable and other times so labile (I think that's the right word, but I can't find it in the old dictionary we own. Even if it's not, I like the sounds of it). Of course I don't mind when it's influenced in a positive way. For instance, last night when I was helping Zach coach 10 and 11 year olds soccer, I was feeling a bit insecure, which wasn't me being irrational, given that I've never played soccer before in my life. So there I was, throwing and rolling the ball toward the kids as they attempted to kick it in the goal. One of the balls was kicked way off into left field somewhere, and the kid who went after it lobbed it at about 70 miles an hour into the air right toward me. I put my hands out and, to my surprise, caught it. Two of the girls gasped and said "Now we know who can be our goalkeeper." I thought to myself "alright, they think I'm good!". They never suspected that I was an imposter. Of course, don't we all feel at times like imposters? I suppose one of the secrets to success is to always have the appearance of knowing what you're doing, even if you haven't the slightest clue.
Today I'm feeling a bit knocked down, though. There are several reasons, but I'm having trouble putting them into words. I feel like a big imposter, like I've been deceiving myself. I suppose tomorrow I'll feel differently, but for now I think I'll just keep deceiving myself. Otherwise it's just like standing between two mirrors and seeing never-ending reflections of yourself in the mirrors. The longer I stare at the distant reflections trying to decipher which one is the real me, the farther I get from myself.
Today I'm feeling a bit knocked down, though. There are several reasons, but I'm having trouble putting them into words. I feel like a big imposter, like I've been deceiving myself. I suppose tomorrow I'll feel differently, but for now I think I'll just keep deceiving myself. Otherwise it's just like standing between two mirrors and seeing never-ending reflections of yourself in the mirrors. The longer I stare at the distant reflections trying to decipher which one is the real me, the farther I get from myself.
13.9.04
Extreme Enjoyment
It's already the end of the start to another week. And here I am, sitting at the computer in my cozy, temporary office, belly full of a tasty spinach-veggie wrap and macadamia nut cookie, watching the sky darken and listening to the crickets chirping on this summer evening, and all-the-while feeling like there's something I need to hurry up and do.
What is that all about? Where does that feeling come from? It's as if I think I'm missing something at home, but home right now is the house that I'm watching for my professor while I teach her three classes. There is no one there right now for me to get home to, and there is nothing there that I need to do. Maybe that's just it. Because it's empty, I feel the need to subject myself to the boredom and loneliness, because life can often be boring and lonely. I can't let myself get used to anything otherwise. That would be, like, actually enjoying myself. Somehow there's something seductively wrong in that. It's as if life is this huge, cruel, menacing chore, and everyone is out for himself. If there's enjoyment, it means you must be shirking responsibility or just not working hard enough. Is that the old Protestant work ethic? My dad grew up Catholic and my mom grew up with parents who dropped her and her two older brothers off at Sunday school from whence they gleefully strolled to the candy store and made it back in time to be picked up. My dad shed his catholic upbringing when he married my mother. I remember going to church sparingly. The most vivid memory is when it was around Christmas time when I was three, and I dropped a spoonful of red jello on my red and white dress. Some ladies across the way were making oohing and ahhing sounds at how cute I was, and I put the fork down and forever laid to rest any potential fondness for church-related activities.
I don't know where this idea that life is harsh and cruel comes from, but I don't like it. So maybe tonight I'll be defiant and stay here, enjoying myself. I'll sit here through the calling of my bed, the hunger pangs and the bulging of my bladder! I vow that I WILL enjoy myself.
So maybe I have a tendency to take things a little too far...
What is that all about? Where does that feeling come from? It's as if I think I'm missing something at home, but home right now is the house that I'm watching for my professor while I teach her three classes. There is no one there right now for me to get home to, and there is nothing there that I need to do. Maybe that's just it. Because it's empty, I feel the need to subject myself to the boredom and loneliness, because life can often be boring and lonely. I can't let myself get used to anything otherwise. That would be, like, actually enjoying myself. Somehow there's something seductively wrong in that. It's as if life is this huge, cruel, menacing chore, and everyone is out for himself. If there's enjoyment, it means you must be shirking responsibility or just not working hard enough. Is that the old Protestant work ethic? My dad grew up Catholic and my mom grew up with parents who dropped her and her two older brothers off at Sunday school from whence they gleefully strolled to the candy store and made it back in time to be picked up. My dad shed his catholic upbringing when he married my mother. I remember going to church sparingly. The most vivid memory is when it was around Christmas time when I was three, and I dropped a spoonful of red jello on my red and white dress. Some ladies across the way were making oohing and ahhing sounds at how cute I was, and I put the fork down and forever laid to rest any potential fondness for church-related activities.
I don't know where this idea that life is harsh and cruel comes from, but I don't like it. So maybe tonight I'll be defiant and stay here, enjoying myself. I'll sit here through the calling of my bed, the hunger pangs and the bulging of my bladder! I vow that I WILL enjoy myself.
So maybe I have a tendency to take things a little too far...
9.9.04
Mechanics and Boogies
So, things are going better. I babysat two of the smartest, most adorable girls I know last night and this morning. The older one is four, and she is frighteningly smart. She knows all the continents, how to count to 100, and the mechanics of a viewfinder-you know, those toys you put up to your eyes and you can see pictures and then you pull a lever and another one appears? Yeah, she was showing me how the thing works. I just like looking at the pictures. The younger one is two, and just as smart and adorable. When I asked her last night if she needed a diaper change, she turned around and said "No, I'm just picking my boogies. I'm just picking my boogies. They're all gone now". Either she was trying to distract me or that was her way of letting me know that she was doing fine and didn't need anything from me. I said okay, and she went about her business of feeding her baby the plastic corn, tomatoes, bread, peppers, apples, grapes and carrots. This morning we went outside after the rain let up and we jumped in puddles.
8.9.04
Creeping Anxiety
Last week went wonderfully well, better than I could have ever imagined. I was teaching again, standing in front of a roomful of students, and I felt confident, competent, and, well, smart. I don't know what happened between last Friday and this Monday. All of a sudden it was gone. All the confidence and the spark and the adrenaline flow that I get while standing in front of the students just disappeared. I know that nothing has changed in my ability between now and then, but, none-the-less, everything has become drab. It just all seems like part of a never-ending routine. I keep telling myself that I can do this. I can face the students and appear like a teacher should, but I don't want to.
As Zach drives us to work early in the morning, I think back to the time I was four, and my grandfather would drive me to preschool every other day. I would sit in the passenger seat with the seatbelt cutting into my neck. He would try to make light of the situation by singing songs like "Overhill overdale we will heat the dusty trail", and as we got closer and closer, my hands would clench next to me on the seat. As we walked down the steps of the church basement, I would grab his hand and hope that he wouldn't leave me this time. I feel the same way now as I did then. Like I'm being led into a tank of sharks, except this time it's my husband, not my grandfather, leading me.
I don't think it would matter who was leading me or what kind of job I had. I think this overwhelming dread would be there no matter what. I've tried countless ways to lessen the anxiety, from changing eating habits, exercising, studying hard or not at all, keeping busy, giving myself free time, yoga, different medications, therapy and some other not-so-healthy coping mechanisms. This past year I've uncovered a lot about myself and some of the causes for this anxiety. I know about it and that it doesn't last forever, but it keeps coming back. So, I just hold my breath until it passes, which it will. But is my husband supposed to hold his, too?
As Zach drives us to work early in the morning, I think back to the time I was four, and my grandfather would drive me to preschool every other day. I would sit in the passenger seat with the seatbelt cutting into my neck. He would try to make light of the situation by singing songs like "Overhill overdale we will heat the dusty trail", and as we got closer and closer, my hands would clench next to me on the seat. As we walked down the steps of the church basement, I would grab his hand and hope that he wouldn't leave me this time. I feel the same way now as I did then. Like I'm being led into a tank of sharks, except this time it's my husband, not my grandfather, leading me.
I don't think it would matter who was leading me or what kind of job I had. I think this overwhelming dread would be there no matter what. I've tried countless ways to lessen the anxiety, from changing eating habits, exercising, studying hard or not at all, keeping busy, giving myself free time, yoga, different medications, therapy and some other not-so-healthy coping mechanisms. This past year I've uncovered a lot about myself and some of the causes for this anxiety. I know about it and that it doesn't last forever, but it keeps coming back. So, I just hold my breath until it passes, which it will. But is my husband supposed to hold his, too?
6.9.04
Work and Play
So, today was Labor Day, and my husband and I both had to work. On Labor Day!
We both teach at the same school, and so we figured it must be run by a bunch of republicans who don't believe in labor. We commute over an hour each way on a wide-open country highway surrounded by farms, cattle, and more farms. We made it there this morning in record time, being that everyone else had the day off and was resting comfortably in bed or reading the newspaper with a nice cup of coffee. I know, I know, we weren't the only ones on the planet who had to work today. Apparently there were three other yahoos, and we got stuck behind each one on our way home. They each made a sustained effort to go just about 4.5 miles below the speed limit, just slow enough so that everytime we started to cruise, we had to break. At any rate, we did make it home. And that marks another successful day of putting in my time; doing my civic duty; being a normal American citizen. Of course it's not all work and no play.
My husband and I never took a honeymoon after we got married last year, so he spent some of his "planning" time looking at flights to England and France. There are some great deals going on for the fall. So, we may be heading to Paris or London this Thanksgiving. That makes the labor worth it.
We both teach at the same school, and so we figured it must be run by a bunch of republicans who don't believe in labor. We commute over an hour each way on a wide-open country highway surrounded by farms, cattle, and more farms. We made it there this morning in record time, being that everyone else had the day off and was resting comfortably in bed or reading the newspaper with a nice cup of coffee. I know, I know, we weren't the only ones on the planet who had to work today. Apparently there were three other yahoos, and we got stuck behind each one on our way home. They each made a sustained effort to go just about 4.5 miles below the speed limit, just slow enough so that everytime we started to cruise, we had to break. At any rate, we did make it home. And that marks another successful day of putting in my time; doing my civic duty; being a normal American citizen. Of course it's not all work and no play.
My husband and I never took a honeymoon after we got married last year, so he spent some of his "planning" time looking at flights to England and France. There are some great deals going on for the fall. So, we may be heading to Paris or London this Thanksgiving. That makes the labor worth it.
4.9.04
Who is listening?
A friend just sent me this website address to check out. I did, and it made my blood boil. http://members.cox.net/classicweb/Heroes/heroes.htm
I don't mind the graphic pictures from the Twin Towers burning on 9/11. What I mind is the agenda of whoever created this site, which is basically the same message the president sends daily, and that is, "if you don't agree with me, then you're a traitor, unpatriotic and a "girly man"." I resent being told that if I disagree with the president, then I'm in support of terrorism. In opposition to what Cox Enterprises, the creators of this site, claims, there is never a time when even peace-loving people have to fight. I believe that it is dishonorable to use the victims from 9/11 as leverage to go to war with a country which, as Dick Cheyney himself said, most likely had nothing to do with 9/11. It is not acceptable to enter a war with no vision for the future of the country being invaded or for the troops who are there, and especially not if there was no immediate threat to any other country. As the website affirms, we need to protect the Americn way of life. But does that mean we need to do it at the cost of thousands of lives, American included? And does that mean that we have the authority to behave and act no better than the terrorists themselves? I want to say that the American people are not the only people on this planet deemed worthy of protecting. The threat of terrorism has always been there and will probably always be there. The planet is no more dangerous or safe than it was 5, 10, 50 or hundreds of years ago. Terrorism is not new. Terrorism cannot be destroyed. Some politicians would have us believe that there is always an enemy that we need to fight, and, because the world is not a safe place, we need their protection. What we need is a leader who listens; to his people, to his allies, his friends, and, most importantly, his "enemies".
I am voting in the upcoming election because I support and believe in American ideals and values. This is my country, too, and I want to feel pride in saying that again.
I don't mind the graphic pictures from the Twin Towers burning on 9/11. What I mind is the agenda of whoever created this site, which is basically the same message the president sends daily, and that is, "if you don't agree with me, then you're a traitor, unpatriotic and a "girly man"." I resent being told that if I disagree with the president, then I'm in support of terrorism. In opposition to what Cox Enterprises, the creators of this site, claims, there is never a time when even peace-loving people have to fight. I believe that it is dishonorable to use the victims from 9/11 as leverage to go to war with a country which, as Dick Cheyney himself said, most likely had nothing to do with 9/11. It is not acceptable to enter a war with no vision for the future of the country being invaded or for the troops who are there, and especially not if there was no immediate threat to any other country. As the website affirms, we need to protect the Americn way of life. But does that mean we need to do it at the cost of thousands of lives, American included? And does that mean that we have the authority to behave and act no better than the terrorists themselves? I want to say that the American people are not the only people on this planet deemed worthy of protecting. The threat of terrorism has always been there and will probably always be there. The planet is no more dangerous or safe than it was 5, 10, 50 or hundreds of years ago. Terrorism is not new. Terrorism cannot be destroyed. Some politicians would have us believe that there is always an enemy that we need to fight, and, because the world is not a safe place, we need their protection. What we need is a leader who listens; to his people, to his allies, his friends, and, most importantly, his "enemies".
I am voting in the upcoming election because I support and believe in American ideals and values. This is my country, too, and I want to feel pride in saying that again.
3.9.04
Gratitude
Well, I just finished my first week of teaching for the new semester. This is a big feat for me, being that I haven't taught, or worked for that matter, in over 5 months. I've spent the past 5 months getting back on my feet, regaining my confidence, strength, and will to live. For the first time in years, I feel a sense of calm and serenity, a sense of being at ease with myself. I've discovered that there's actually an art to living. Instead of being all chores, stress, overwhelming feelings of anxiety, and constant feelings of embarrassment and guilt which lead to self-destructive behavior, my life feels...Joyous. manageable. bright.
I don't have to be superhuman.
I can make mistakes, make people angry, be upset, be happy, be HUMAN.
This all sounds so simple, so obvious, but for me it wasn't something that I ever thought possible for myself. Instead of living my life I was always planning for "it", whatever it may have been. I am more present, open, and compassionate. Now that I've written all of this I'm feeling a bit anxious about keeping it up, putting all my words to the test. I know there are setbacks, and that scares me. I am ambivalent right now.
Standing up in front of a roomful of 25 students puts me to the test daily. I am somewhat shy, quiet, and a better listener than talker. Everytime I walk into the classroom, my heart flutters, my breath escapes me, and there's a sinking feeling in my stomach. Once I start talking my adrenaline starts pumping, and, before I know it, I'm floating on the sounds of my own voice, being swept up and whisked away by the responses I get from my students, amazed that they respond to me at all.
Sometimes I make mistakes, and they call me on them. I breathe, remember that everyone makes mistakes, commend them, and return to my teaching persona. I remind myself that I can learn from these situations. Instead of feeling like an utter failure and a completely unworthy being, I just keep going. At times I feel like it takes all the courage I have to do this, but I'm doing it. I'm living, feeling, and making decisions that I never knew I had. There are still times when I don't want to do it, but I do it for all my friends, especially you, Nancy, my family, my running group, those who have helped me and counseled me, for my nieces, for the two little girls I babysit, to see the looks of joy, excitement, frustration and heart-melting sadness on their faces, and for my husband (even when he's venting his anger for the 29th time today about the state of affairs of our country, our imbecile president and snorting in disgust) and our future together. I am grateful for all of these people.
And by the way, in case there is any confusion, I agree with my husband about the imbecile we call our leader. He's just way angrier and way more vocal about it.
I don't have to be superhuman.
I can make mistakes, make people angry, be upset, be happy, be HUMAN.
This all sounds so simple, so obvious, but for me it wasn't something that I ever thought possible for myself. Instead of living my life I was always planning for "it", whatever it may have been. I am more present, open, and compassionate. Now that I've written all of this I'm feeling a bit anxious about keeping it up, putting all my words to the test. I know there are setbacks, and that scares me. I am ambivalent right now.
Standing up in front of a roomful of 25 students puts me to the test daily. I am somewhat shy, quiet, and a better listener than talker. Everytime I walk into the classroom, my heart flutters, my breath escapes me, and there's a sinking feeling in my stomach. Once I start talking my adrenaline starts pumping, and, before I know it, I'm floating on the sounds of my own voice, being swept up and whisked away by the responses I get from my students, amazed that they respond to me at all.
Sometimes I make mistakes, and they call me on them. I breathe, remember that everyone makes mistakes, commend them, and return to my teaching persona. I remind myself that I can learn from these situations. Instead of feeling like an utter failure and a completely unworthy being, I just keep going. At times I feel like it takes all the courage I have to do this, but I'm doing it. I'm living, feeling, and making decisions that I never knew I had. There are still times when I don't want to do it, but I do it for all my friends, especially you, Nancy, my family, my running group, those who have helped me and counseled me, for my nieces, for the two little girls I babysit, to see the looks of joy, excitement, frustration and heart-melting sadness on their faces, and for my husband (even when he's venting his anger for the 29th time today about the state of affairs of our country, our imbecile president and snorting in disgust) and our future together. I am grateful for all of these people.
And by the way, in case there is any confusion, I agree with my husband about the imbecile we call our leader. He's just way angrier and way more vocal about it.
2.9.04
Etepetete
It's pronounced 'ate a potatah', like the way a Bostonian would say 'potato'. (At least that's the way my husband says it when he tells me "his ont keeps her potatahs and her khakis (the ones to her Chevy) in the bottom cabinet draw"). It's German for "overly particular", which I can sometimes be. I spent way too much time thinking of a title for this blog. I had ideas ranging from "Grimacing Violet" (suggested by my husband) to "Nocreativetitlewhatsoeverforthisblog", which could be a German word from the looks of it. So anyway, I'm only overly particular about particular things. For instance, I'm particular about the water droplets in and around the sink (I don't like them there). And I'm particular about putting too much hydrogenated soybean oil and high fructose corn syrup into my mouth, the noise volume in our living room when the Red Sox get a run (although I'm also secretly happy when they win and the Yankees lose), how I fall asleep, how hot the room is, my friends, and how often I can run. The bad news is, where my neuroses end, my husband's pick up. I'm not too particular about the cleanliness of my car, but he has what some might call 'auto-hypochondria'. It's a chronic condition that never lets up. The tires need constant caressing. We listen attentively for noises which remain unidentifiable and cause fits of hair pulling and never-ending trips to the mechanic. I am, however, grateful for my safe and smoothly-running car. I'm also grateful for my husband's ever-expanding patience and support when my particulars turn me into a particularly moody, vengeful, no-longer-able-to-produce-coherent-words wife. I'm more than happy to be called a grimacing violet.
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