Christmas in August

"Em, I still don't have a Christmas list from you," my grandma would nudge as we chatted int he kitchen working on Thanksgiving dinner. "Oh, yeah, okay..." I respond though truly wishing we didn't have to go through this ritual again. I did't want to compile a list of what I want, that felt vulnerable and greedy. Sure, there were lots of things I wanted but it's as if somewhere deep inside me, I knew it didn't matter. I don't know why I wrote that in past tense, it still happens. 

So, Em, what do you want?
The question arises year after year and I've become quite gifted at slighting my discomfort by dropping emails of things on my "wish list" to my parents and grandparents throughout the year. The email I sent my mom last week doesn't feel so awful to say... "hey, I think this Lilly Pulitzer dress is whispering to me. It's saying it would like to make an appearance at my graduation in May...oh, and it's on super sale right now, I'd wear a size 6. Love, Emily" This just means 1. I can't give into instant gratification for everything and 2. I've gotta remember to send those succulent emails through the interwebbs so I'm not pinned down by a late-November request for a list and 3. Learning to dispel concerns about making note of Christmas-related items in August ranks on my lengthy list of "reasons I have a therapist."

You can probably guess by now that I'm not here to cry my woes about the materialism of Christmas in my family...though I totally could. It's that question: what do you want? --replied to with that answer: Sweet Jesus, I DON'T KNOW!!!!!!!!!!!

Welcome to my favorite sitting place with a recently found unfavorite stinking question. It's a freaking dandelion of a question, popping up exactly when and where you'd expect it to but you never have a solution, or not yet. The hilarious part about this is that I'm the one who lovvveeeesssss blowing the fluffy dead dandelions. (fun fact: I didn't realize these were dead dandelions until about two years ago when my dad pointed it out. I feel my IQ dropping rapidly) When I blow the dead ones, I'm letting the mutant dandelion seeds fly into the world to create further cesspools of dandelions. My father has yet to truly convince me that dandelions aren't flowers. They are my favorite color and, as a child, I would pick them in bunches from a hill down my street and decorate my bicycle spokes and my hair and still have enough to squeeze against the white (until yellowed by dandelion juices) handlebars of my super cool pink sparkly bike as I paraded through the neighborhood. Gosh, I love metaphor. 

I love and find purpose for dandelions even though my parents pulled me away saying "they're just weeds" as they gunned down the blooms with weed killer. I also love questions that I can't answer in 1.3 seconds, questions that melt in my mouth and get my to tip my head back with closed eyes. More often than not, I'm the one who picks these dandelion questions from the field of wildflowers.

What do you want...from this conversation...from this therapy session...from this internship...from this relationship...this blog? I still get the queazy, guilty, selfish feeling with these questions. There's something inside me saying "you should be happy with whatever you get"yet there's a conflicting yet comforting voice saying "you deserve to be fulfilled and people deserve to know how they can help." And that's where I get stuck. I have an idea of what I want but the words just don't come out. I'm afraid I want too much or not enough or that the person/situation won't be able to give it to me. I keep it simple saying "I'd like a box of crayons and a coloring book this year" instead of telling my grandma that I've been dreaming of learning to paint and would really love to take a painting class with my dad.

I don't have a take-away for you today--unless you are cool with taking "Emily lives not he struggle bus too" as today's dirty, honest truth. Super honestly: when I started blogging again last month, two friends asked me how I felt about it and I said I was struggling because I didn't feel like I had a purpose for it, there was no cohesive fiber (besides myself) tying it together and I didn't know what I wanted that fiber to be...still don't...

The Love Struggle: Engaged or Disengaged?

Not the engagement marked with a sparkly ring that leads to white dresses and well-tailored suits and cake tasting and place settings and hundreds of phone calls.

The engagement of paying attention, of making eye contact, of listening and actually hearing...opposed to the disengagement of feeling bothered, cut off, disinterested, and apathetic. This has been the topic of my week...or maybe better said as my choice of the week.

I've been babysitting two boys (ages 10 and 7) which really means I've been conducting 8 hours of play-therapy for a significantly reduced rate. I have no significant memories of babysitters that were harmful to my sense of self or esteem. However, no memories of the contrasting effort exist either. This gives me pause...childhood is short and the time in which the child is highly impressionable and malleable is even shorter, yet those who interact with children often lose this knowledge before saying 'hello.' From my experience as a small human as well as my later experiences as a coach, babysitter, and social worker, I've born witness to child/adult interactions mostly disengaged. I'm not pointing fingers. I'm not saying anyone is a bad parent or babysitter or nanny or coach or teacher or whathaveyou. I'm saying that we just aren't paying as much attention as we should.

When tiny humans come into the world, their gaze is met with a smile or at least two eyes of the makers of that tihuman and/or people around them. From the day of conception, the attachment process begins. It can be built or it can be destroyed. Though it is not a linear process, we certainly hope there is more building occurring than destruction.When tiny humans come into the world, their gaze is met with a smile or at least two eyes of the makers of that tiny human and/or people around them. When tiny humans cry, they are held and attempts are made to comfort. And pretty much whenever the tiny human does anything, the tiny human makers get genuinely excited.

And then the attention and excitement wane to occasional annoyance and a struggle for control. There's a lot of hearing larger humans tell the smaller humans what to do, where to go, how to act, etc. While this is certainly necessary to some point, there's a line that many people straddle between guiding and ordering, myself included.

On Monday, I decided my ten 8-hour days would be profitable for these boys. To have fun is a no-brainer, but "Emily camp"as they are calling it, has a richer goal: to infuse each activity with meaning and to intentionally create hundreds of teachable moments and opportunities for growth.

How?

• I'm asking open ended questions and listening carefully so I can mention parts of their answer in later conversation (it really helps that I'm an auditory learner). 
• The boys are given choices galore and when they say "I don't care," we develop a pro/con list quickly in our heads to initiate choosing and problem solving. 
• The games we play have a connection to gross motor development, memory, or creativity. 
• The praise "good job" has been exiled from my lexicon for the time being. Rather, I articulate praise, recognition, and accomplishment in tricky ways that let the boys know I actually saw and was paying attention to what they were saying/doing.
• We've had a conversation about what is included in a full apology and that sometimes it's better to say "I'm not ready to apologize yet" instead of saying it without meaning it.
• We have activities about feelings and how to respond to them effectively. 

There's probably more but that's the gist of it. I could let them play video games and watch tv all morning while I read then eat lunch while standing or walking around to turn on music or play with the dog then go to the basketball court and let them play while I sit on the opposite side of the hoop and swipe through facebook or pinterest on my phone. I'll admit that I've done that before and sure, I get paid the same amount as I do as when I'm truly engaged, but the boys connection to me is so much stronger because I pay attention to them and am teaching them things and building up their specific strengths and I've already noticed a bit of a change in behavior. 

Now, here's my struggle: I can do this for 8 hours a day then go home to my apartment where I don't have to give anyone direction or pay keen attention or remain entirely positive and at an even keel, but I'm not about to sign up for the 24-hour shift. So, how are parents supposed to do it? I don't know.  They get to go to their jobs all day and do whatever they do and then after hours at work, I'm asking them to come home and be fully attuned to their small humans...that's a china plate resting on a goose's head. I don't have an answer. Perhaps, that's why I'm staying on birth control until I figure it out.

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. 

The Practice of Practice

I've written before about how I'm spectacularly aware that what I do actually know seems unsubstantial in the vast face of the knowledge, existence. If you're still reading after I've told you that I don't know anything, one of three things may be true--

1. You and I are in the same boat: You don't know anything either and feel linked with my soul. Therefore, you keep coming back for more simply because we have a connection unbound by words.

2. You think there's something groovy about my boat: You believe, in at least some minuscule way, that there is merit in acknowledging our weaknesses. And, perhaps, some of this merit is built on the idea that admitting weakness somehow speaks truth.

3. You're thinking of trading in your scooter for a boat: You're not quite sure why I say I don't know anything yet keep coming back to the keyboard day-after-day to write. You just don't get me but you want to, you're intrigued.

Solid.
I really like metaphor.

I've been thinking about this all day and still don't quite have the right combination of words to clearly and eloquently express my musing. There's no reason it couldn't wait for another time when I might be able to paint a more perfect picture. Before sitting down tonight, I realized something. If I was to wait, I would be lying on my back watching the clouds pass and feeling frustrated that I wanted one to look like a lobster and none of them did. I really like metaphor. I'm saying that I'd be waiting for what I deem as perfection to come into my sight and feeling frustrated when that moment never comes.

I'm the first to add impatience to my list of flaws. It comes a few words before perfectionism (because, naturally, the list would be alphabetized). When thrown into the blender that is my personality, these two qualities express themselves as anxiety, big, prickly, cardiovascularly-out-of-shape, anxiety. Nearly every moment of every day, I have to make choices that starve the anxiety. I have to practice stillness and cardiovascular normalcy (aka breathing) and all sorts of other things to distract myself or improve the moment (hey, hey DBT fans :D). Some times I'm a pro and others it's like I'm a newborn who can't even hold her own head up. Anyway, I practice.

The anxiety is what got me worrying back in March about how on earth I was going to be able to do therapy in the fall. Despite my experience as the client, I don't know a whole lot about being the therapist. Sure, we've taken classes but I've never actually had to do it. It's like an adult learning to swim--she might read all about the physics of floating and proper stroke technique, yet when she gets to the pool, she's afraid to come out of the locker room because this is different, it's real. I was reminded today that these things take practice. No one is great right away.

And, I was reminded that practice takes practice. You have to practice giving yourself a second chance. You have to choose to show up even after you've made a mistake. You have to practice compassion with yourself as you practice. Replace all the 'you' with 'I' and this shall be my mantra from here on out.

This life is a practice. I wake up each day and try again. Practice, practice, practice.

Choose Only Those Who Deserve

Nearly weekly from February 22, 2011 until August 5, 2013, I had the pleasure of getting my butt kicked by a brilliant and creative woman named Lauren. There were arguments and agreements, both avoiding and making eye contact, hours of silence and lots of talking. She was that person three yards past you who tells you to take a deep breath and try again each time you slip while climbing your mountain. She was that person who tells you when you've got spinach stuck in your teeth. She was that person who starts to dance whenever she sees you truly smile. She was exactly the therapist I needed. 

Sometimes she would talk and I would listen. One time, it was about buckets. BUCKETS.

We all have a bunch of buckets that we need filled. Sometimes we can fill our buckets, but more often, we let people into our lives to help fill our buckets. 

We need to be listened to.

We need to feel useful.

We need to be deeply, passionately cared about.

We need to feel special, important.

We need advice.

We need to be distracted.

We need to be sassed around.

We need to be reminded what we care about.

We need to be pushed.

We need compassion.

We need each other.

Butttttt, here's the kicker...two kickers really. (1) One person, no matter how special, cannot fill all out buckets. That's just how life is. We are complicated, complex beings with many complicated, complex needs. That means we need intimacy with more than one person. Your parent's might have advised you against putting all your eggs in one basket...this is the same thing. Don't expect each person you love to fill all your buckets. They can't. (2) Not every person we encounter gets a try at filling our buckets. And not every person we love gets a try at filling each bucket. This doesn't need to be trail and error. That just plain hurts. To put your needs, your heart on the line with every person and hope they don't let you down. You get to choose who deserves to try. You get to choose who deserves to come in contact with each piece of your heart. There are some people you love dearly who will never get to know the deepest hurts of your heart. Not because they aren't wonderful people but because however you need them to respond, they can't. And that's perfectly okay. Just promise me you won't go through your life spilling your heart out or hoping one person to meet all your needs, no matter how perfect they seem. It just won't work. It's not cynical. It's sane and it's fair.

Love yourself fairly.

Love each other fairly.

Create a Life Worth Living

This summer, I took two classes: Narrative Therapy and Dialectical Behavioral Therapy (DBT). It started off great. The summer semester is just classes, no internship--so I was able to focus on academic learning the way I love to. Not only did I read everything assigned on the syllabus, I took notes and really dove into the material. It was AAMAZINGGG!

Around week 6, I realized I wasn't especially gifted in the Narrative perspective. After about 7 minutes of being crushed, I stabilized...and gave up. I pretty much stopped reading and participating in class--both painfully obvious to everyone.

However, around week 6, I fell in love with DBT. Around week 6, I felt incredible rapture as I read and understood and accepted and became whatever you become when you marry DBT. For those of you outside the therapy world, DBT is an intense, skill-based treatment for clients with the most risky and challenging behaviors--suicidality, self-mutilation, eating disorders, addictions, impulsivity--usually a combination of many of these behaviors. DBT therapists teach skills to these clients in order to help them create a life worth living.

I love it.
It makes sense.
I'm good at it!

In a world where I often feel like I'm not good at anything, DBT fills those spaces of inadequacy. I didn't know it was going to be that big. Before the class began, I knew some about DBT skills but didn't know the theory behind it all. I didn't know the reasons behind the procedures.

We plan our lives. We think we know what things are the big things, what days are the important days--or supposed to be that way. That's what we think. That's how we move through the world; how we have to move through the world. We have to think we know what is big and important or else it's all uncertain and scary. But that's really how it is. It's the normal days that often become important days...because we aren't expecting anything from the normal days.

So what's that mean?

It means that every day is an important day, that we have to wake up every day ready to create a life worth living. It also means that the creativity behind "a life worth living" may not be as overwhelming as it would be if we only did this on the important days. Not fireworks and birthday cakes and the 7 wonders of the world. Rather, Vitamin B12 and dew on the grass and turning water into ice and clean laundry. It means making good choices, even when they are the hard choices.

Ready? Go!

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.

-------------------------------------------------------------

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.  

---------------------------------------

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.