The Heart-Wrenching Headache of the Day, yes, of the day

Four years ago, four summers ago actually, I nearly killed myself at a Christian summer camp. During orientation we were told of a magnificent acronym to shout at a staff member who looked like they were losing steam or passion or focus: FTK, for the kids. Everything we were to do that summer was 'for the kids.' If we took a nap during our break, the shut-eye was so we could feel refreshed and more capable of spreading joy for the kids. If we took a kid aside to reprimand [compassionately], the point was not an ego boost but rather to create a more positive experience for the kids. I came really close to killing myself for the kids. There is such a thing as loving too much, I learned.

11 asthma attacks, 7 that ended up with ambulance rides to the hospital. Apparently, I'm allergic to smoke and everything green and my asthma roars with exercise and allergies--so dancing around a campfire three times a week wasn't exactly what the doctor had in mind as life-sustaining-activity. Oops.

Despite my health issues, camp kept letting me come back because I was good at my job. In fact, I was pretty darn great...and each time I needed coaching to not cry while being wheeled into the ambulance, it was because I would be missing time with my kids. I kept coming back for the kids, that's what I thought. There's the heart-wrenching stuff.

Who are you? And why are you here?
And there's the headache.

That's how we began the first night's campfire each week. For my middle schoolers, the answers were typically: I'm (insert name here) and I'm at camp because I like (insert favorite activity here). For the counselors, however, answers were dug from a deeper place of intention. Perhaps something like : I'm  confused but overjoyed and I'm here to share both struggles with you and let you share your struggles with me this week so we can grow with one another. The answer was always another way of saying FTK.

Looking back now, I was being asked the ultimate questions each week. Yes, it was a getting to know you exercise but it also served as a moment of reflection that we never really took.

Who are you? And why are you here? What is your purpose? What is your goal? What drives you? What defines you? The questions swim around in my head most days. I ask myself these questions when I'm making decisions and when I'm not feeling confident and hope some clarity drops on me. There are some things I do that need definite answers to these questions and if my answers don't line up, I need to check-in with what I'm seeing in this world, in myself big time.

I'm starting a new school year soon, and with that, a new internship and a new swim season...each requires me to answer these questions daily and get some perspective. To do things to the best of my ability, I need to clean off my perspectacles and focus.

Double-take Reality Check

I've changed. I'm not at all the person I was two years ago. 

I say it all the time but don't often taken the time to recognize the profundity of change that has occurred. Maybe it's because I'm in it, not watching it. 

When I reevaluated my desire to blog and dusted off my keyboard, a few of the folks in my graduate program were beaming with excitement to stalk the blog history and read form the beginning. Oh, just watch this wave of thought and emotion--first, I was excited: readers! I write with the intent of people reading, so that's great. Then, nervousness took the driver's seat: The questions began. Do I write well enough? What if they don't like what I have to say? What if people think this is dumb? How will I know if I'm good enough? How do I become better? This led to self-consciousness: I read a few of the early posts and realized that I'm truly not that person anymore...how do I explain that? What if people like the old me better? What if they chastise the old me? What if they see the change as instability or inauthenticity? 

Oh, goshhhhhhhhhhhhh...

I don't have answers to all those burning questions, except that no one has said anything negative and people are still reading both current posts and old ones. In all honesty, I am trying not to think about it, to let people think what they will and to let myself write what I will. This way I calmly sit with my hands wide open to the world.

And at the same time, I've become mesmerized by the enormity of change that has a occurred in the past 2-3 years. Wow. I keep it no secret that this change happened in a street-fight sort of brawl during many many many therapy sessions and life. Shitty life circumstances would punch me in the gut while I swung back as my therapist screamed from the sidelines about the things I was doing to sabotage my game. I ignored her. I yelled back at her. I told her she was wrong. I ignored her some more. And then I began to listen. 

Anyway, my current therapist wants to know some of the background story of my life surrounding an event that occurred 3 1/2 years ago. I have a lot of memories but it's difficult for me to remember from the center of Self I was in 2011. In a lot of ways, it feels like third person. This week, I've charged myself with reading the blog posts and my journal from that time to better understand who 2011 Emily was, what she wanted, how she walked through the world. Is it weird that I don't know? Does change keep happening like this throughout adulthood? 

I wonder what I've missed as I've been so busy in the present and future that I've forgotten to honor my past. We hear all the time about how meaningful it is to live in the moment and live for today, and I wholeheartedly appreciate that. To do one thing mindfully takes practice and patience. I don't think this practice, however, asks us to forget our stories and just live in the now. My story has brought me to my now. 

Week 2: The First Law of Motion

Two weeks without checking myself out in the mirror and, guess what, I'm not going crazy, not at all. It was tough for the first week when I wanted to put on eyeliner and check to make sure my unlatching clothes weren't too out of control. And then my racing heart calmed as I realized nothing bad had happened in the past week because I hadn't meticulously put on my eyeliner and mascara or spent 20 minutes changing into different workout tanks and shorts because the first outfit "didn't fall quite right today." Nothing bad had happened. No one had treated me any differently....

No one treated me any differently. That includes me. I didn't treat myself any differently. Even though I wasn't spending the time looking in the mirror, I was still experiencing the self-criticism I do regularly. Just instead of statements, the criticism took the form of questions, questions that I couldn't answer without looking in the mirror--do these shorts make my legs look fat? how sunburnt is my nose? is my sunglasses tan still obvious? is my hair cooperating today?--there's only so much your sense of touch can alert you about. The rest...its up to the gods (for the rest of the month, at least). 

Well, that's dumb. 

The whole point of this exercise is to change the way I treat myself! So, what am I doing wrong??!

Newton's first law of motion states the following:
an object in a form of uniform motion will stay in motion unless acted on by an external force.

Ah, ha! The "object" whose motion I'm aiming to alter is not vanity in the form of self-absorbed mirror staring, it's the self-criticism, the need to constantly check and recheck that I appear the right way whatever the heck that is. In fact, the mirror has less to do with making this change than I had originally thought. It starts from within. I must summon the courage and compassion to be completely as I am--no excuses, no apologies, no wishing it were different. It's not going to just happen. I have to do something, to make a choice, to try something different.  Sure, not looking in a mirror for a month is trying something different, but not if the work stops there. Growing and using courage and compassion isn't a mathematical formula or a law of physics, it's heart work.

Newton's third law of motion states the following:

for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. 

Beautiful. Possible. The trick is to figure out how to set this "equal and opposite reaction" in motion. 

If self-criticism exists intensely, self-compassion and self-acceptance also exist profoundly. Therefore work here requires me to uncover the compassion and acceptance that already exist, not go hunting for it in foreign territories. 

As always, easier said than done. 

As always, its a practice. 

I breathe out criticism.

I breathe in compassion.

I breathe out criticism.

I breathe in acceptance.
And my heart is full.

Just show up

In her book, Carry on Warrior, Glennon tried telling me that showing up is enough.

Ha! So funny. She's talking to the girl who intended to write her senior thesis on Post-modern Catholic Social Ethics and ended up discovering a social-ill, a struggle with "enoughness." She's talking to the girl who has grown up in a world where "enough" is about as real as pixie-dust yet something that must still be strived for...because that makes soooo much sense. Let's just say, her words did not meet willing eyes.

Well, time went on, as it always does, and some people and some situations pounded my heart with a tenderizer--yeah, that shit hurts just like it sounds--and compassion has skillfully climbed its way to the top of my value list. It happened through a lot of scowling through therapy and softening sarcasm and conversations with myself about being a friend to myself. 

The process has just begun. A journey of self-reflection leading to self-actualization. Yum. It's so good. I'm dreaming of going off the high dive someday and also being content with splashing my feet with wild abandon for now.

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These days, it feels like almost every day is like starting over.

It feels like I need a whole new toolbox of knowledge and skills to get through my life.

Perhaps it is because I'm in "therapist-training-school" and go to class where we use our real-life problems as case examples and do homework assignments that dig up all sorts of raw gunk, but it feels like my life is a series of identity-crises that do not get resolved before another pops up. 
Sometimes, I leave class thinking "what the heck just happened?!" and I've learned not to think about the future because the uncertainty will only create an unrelenting pathological crisis.

During one of these class conversations about real-life problems this week, a classmate mentioned that she was wondering though the conversation about asking me what it is about competence that is important to me. That's how she stated it. She didn't ask but my mind immediately jolted to "oh, my God! that's too personal!" 

The answer? Competence is important because I've learned it has a connection to integrity and independence and purpose and usefulness--all things that are also important to me. I struggle to have patience in the learning stage when I feel as though I should already be fully competent (even when this is not the case). For example, the thought that I will be doing therapy in just two months is terrifying to me because I don't know what I am doing! 

The antidote here, is compassion. Compassion involves determining that your best is enough and accepting that it is unreasonable to ask for anything more than that. In this case, compassion is telling myself 'just show up.' Every day I have to lie in my bed for a moment and remind myself to just show up that day.  

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To balance my life, I coach a swim team. I work primarily with kids 9-13. These kids are learning long division and what the state capitols are and reading their first novels. These kids are in a stressful life stage. For many of them, swim practice is their "happy place" where the only expectation is that they do what we (their coaches) say.

Whenever I think about compassion, my mind pulls me to think of my swimmers, specifically how I talk to them--instilling motivation and confidence, requiring accountability and responsibility, etc. One of the coaches is known for his lack of compassion. According to him, you don't miss practice unless you are dying or unable to breathe. When a girl missed practice for her 8th grade graduation, he told her that walking across a stage wasn't going to make her a better swimmer and she needed to get her priorities straight. According to him, if you're late, it's always your fault--even if you're 11 and have no control over your parents leaving the house on time. According to him, if you don't swim well at a meet, you failed.

I want to be different.

I want these kids to grow up knowing there is something that is enough, that their best is enough.

One girl was freaking out in February right after she turned 13--that's the age when your events get dramatically longer distances. Hyperventilating, in tears over an hour before her first race, she told me she couldn't do it. She swims over 5000 yards in a practice so I know she is capable. I've witnessed this scene with other swimmers and other coaches before. It's a conversation about "man up! stop being a baby! stop crying and get your crap together!"

I wasn't interested in creating a hardened heart from such invalidation. I know what that's like.

We sat on a bench and I told her to just show up and get wet. She immediately stopped crying and looked at me blankly. Apparently, she had never been coached to just do her best and not strive for something higher than her grasp.

She didn't do awesome. This was no miracle. But she swam. She showed up behind the block for every race and she got wet.

Sometimes showing up is most of the battle.

Even now, as I write, I notice myself feeling some strain in communicating exactly what I want to say...and I tell myself it's okay, just show up. Just write. Words written a little awkwardly are better than words unwritten.

JUST SHOW UP.

Dreams and Fairytales

Tonight I realized, with a hint of a tear in my eye, that I am no longer a little girl. Sure I've been filing tax returns for years and buy the majority of my clothes from the women's department (yes, I'm still small enough to wear clothes form the little girls' department when I want to) but I also really enjoy swinging and coloring and cuddling with stuffed animals when I fall asleep.

I'm sure you can remember the bedtime stories your mom or dad or babysitter or nanny told you during your childhood. Cinderella's foot fits in the glass slipper. The frog turns into a prince. Sleeping Beauty is awakened with a gentle kiss. Once upon a time...and then they lived happily ever after. It's nice to think about. Fairytales, the stuff of dreams. The problem is, though, that these peaceful endings, the chance to live happily ever after is all a dream. It's not real. Fairytales don't come true.

It's the other stories, the ones that begin in the dark and end in the dark, the ones that are scary and hard to understand, that come true. It's the nightmares that always seem to become reality--dark, scary, confusing, painful reality.

I was watching the U.S. figure skating championships tonight and remembered being a little girl watching the same thing. I have always been enamored with the sport but it is one that I never really tried. My mom built a ice rink in our yard each winter as I grew up but I never took lessons so I didn't know how to do much more than skate in circles and do close body and sit-spins. Still, I loved, loved. loved watching figure skating on TV. There was something mesmerizing about these women. They seemed so much older than me and so much more beautiful and graceful and talented but they led my heart to dream. I would sit on the couch dreaming of someday being something great. I never thought I would be an olympic figure skater but I had dreams. Honestly, I can't tell you what they were but I know I had them. I know I had dreams, big dreams. These are the kinds of dreams that don't take reality into consideration, the kind that don't care if you don't have the money or the time, or the access, or the talent...that's what makes them dreams. These beautiful young women gracefully glide to and fro across the ice as if they were telling me I could go anywhere I wanted. They stretched their arms wide to show me the world was mine. And they smiled to let me know I, too, was beautiful and could do anything.

Sometime between age 11 and 21, the way I watch figure skating changed. Tonight. though still enamored, I was jealous and felt inferior. These young women were younger than me and people already knew their names, they were already important and on their way to being remembered...and I'm still nobody. Sure, I am important to the people who love me. And there are quite a few people on this planet who know my name, but it's different.

The freedom I associated with figure skating was nothing short of a fairytale. Perhaps it comes true for one girl somewhere, but not every girl like me with their eyes glues to the sequined skaters dancing across the television.

Sometime between 11 and 21, my dreams learned the limits of reality. People don't talk about it, but life is governed by fear...and this now includes dreams. I only dream what I think can actually happen...and I am careful in how far I push that actuality because a dream that doesn't come true at 21 still feels as crushing, if not more, than it did at 11.

We all want happily ever after but for most people, I'm guessing happily ever after means something much different than it does for the princesses in my fairytale stories.

practice, practice, practice PATIENTLY

Let me join the rest of the cyber-world in wishing you a very

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

And now let me tell you my thoughts about this hyped-up time.

SCREW RESOLUTIONS.

I know I'm not the only one who thinks this, but I'm going to say it: I don't think I've ever actually fulfilled any of my new year's resolutions. EVER. Yeah, sure, I'm young, but in all reality, resolutions set us up for failure. Resolutions are  black & white. Resolutions are either kept or they're not. You either fulfill what you resolve to do/be/see/etc or you fail. 

From 10:30 on New Year's Eve until midnight, I participated in my Bikram yoga studio's  silent, candle-lit class to say goodbye to 2012 and welcome 2013 in peace. Bikram yoga is a set of 26 yoga postures practiced in unison in a room heated to 105 degrees with 40% humidity. That is to say, it is intense...then turn off the lights, light some candles, and remove the instructor and shoot dang! you've never witnessed anything like this before. 

For 90 minutes, the only words we heard were "start" when we were to begin a posture and "change"when we were to release. 

START

CHANGE

START

CHANGE

START

CHANGE

Yoga is a practice of the present. It's not something you ever master. It's not something you ever cannot do. It's not something that is ever the same one day to the next. We come to the room and practice. We practice challenging our bodies and and practice being kind to our bodies. We practice mindfulness of the moment and practice letting go. And when we drift from the view of our goal, we reign ourselves back in. 

This year, I resolve to PRACTICE.

I'm not going to promise any results will be accomplished.

Instead of kicking myself around the moment I fail, I will change and start again. This is called resilience. I will start and change and start and change and start and change and I will probably fail to keep this mindset but the beauty of my promise to practice is that falling short is not just okay, it's necessary. 

So while I check off the January days of watching people come in the the gym once or twice because they've superglued themselves into a straightjacket of fitness or whatever other "resolutions" people have made, I will walk forward and practice getting back up each time I fall. 

Take that!

It's new year's yoga style.

New Semester. Old Issues.

I HATE CHANGE.

really.

really really.

I really hate change.

But the ruler of the universe doesn't seem to care.

what's up with that?!!

The change of classes and professors isn't the issue here. It's friends leaving. shocker, I know. it's not like we haven't gone through this before. 

Try this dialectic on for size: Sure, I have abandonment issues, but I know this isn't about me.Yeah, I'm gonna miss 'em, but I know this is what's good for them.

Still, I liked things how they were. I liked it when we were all here.

I have this group of best friends. There are five of us and though we are rarely all together, we are always with one another. We've memorized each other's work and class schedules and schedule in "best friend time" on our google calendars. And when we aren't physically together, we are still textually connected (and emotionally, of course). In fact, Annie figured that for each hour she and I spend apart, we have a minute of phone conversation--this hypothesis was proven over the two weeks we were with our families during this past Christmas. We weren't always best friends--none of this 'we grew up on the same block and have been friends since kindergarten' business. It was gradual and, for the most part, natural. I could tell you stories about the precise prompting event that led me into friendship with each girl. Annie--crossroads class. Claire--texting pranks. Amanda--well, actually, I don't remember, Erin--living next to (and then with) each other.

Erin is in Ecuador. Awesome, right? She and I have bonded over our love of the Spanish language and, more specifically, the Latin American people and culture. We had hoped to travel to Nicaragua for a two-month immersion trip this summer (the scholarship got cancelled so that's not happening, don't worry, you haven't missed anything that big).  Some "plans" didn't work the way we expected and that resulted in Erin's decision to study abroad this semester.

Studying abroad is awesome. And I'm fully for it. But I don't like that it's taking one of my best friends to the southern hemisphere for and extended period of time. Fact is, I miss Erin. And she's only been there since Saturday. 




Person leaving #2: Fr. James Vioss, SJ
Much of my reason for being so absent from the blogoshpere this past semester has to do with this very fine man and his very fine class entitled 'Sources and Methods of Theology.' That's a fancy way of saying 'read this 400 page book written for Ph.D. students on the doctrine of the Trinity, understand it, and come up with a way to make it integral to your final project, which we will start during the second week of class.' And if you don't understand that description, it has also been called 'hell.' The class is a research seminar required of all junior theology majors and it is well-known for being the most difficult class in the major coursework.

Fr.Voiss keeps the class small (we had 6 students in the class) so he can offer each of us personal attention. He requires us to meet with him two or three times outside of class...I probably went to see him ten times. You sat and talked about life for 5 minutes then about class for 3 then about your paper for 5 then more about life and spent quite a bit of time staring at each other, trying to read the other's facial expressions. I cannot even tell you how many times he'd be smirking and I'd ask 'what's that face for?'

This was the first class I've had during my collegiate career that has actually challenged me.I've had classes that required a lot of work and some that took a bit of reflection but nothing like this. Fr. Voiss quickly tuned into the range of my abilities and was not about to let any of it go unused. There was one Friday in October when I cried in all of my classes because I was so stressed about an assignment due for Fr. Voiss that evening. There was a time I shed tears in our own class when he gave us a revised syllabus outlining all the work for the rest of the semester. It seemed like one class period I would be so angry and frustrated with Fr. Voiss that I was about to explode and cause a scene and the next I would tell him he was a great man and I loved him. Confused? I was.

We turned in our final projects on December 12 and on the 22nd, he emailed us telling us his provincial had requested his transfer to a province in the Northwest. Once again, I cried.

It was a rough class but I learned so much and I am a better student and theologian for having taken it. NO ONE can teach that course the way Fr. Voiss did. I am so incredibly grateful for having taken the course this semester and for being pushed and pulled the entire way.

I wish I had realized sooner how great I had it. I want to make an effort to be more present to the good, more grateful for the challenge, and less stressed about the inevitable.


People are indispensable. 
Experiences only occur once.