Category: Anxiety and self-discovery

Musings about overcoming and appreciating anxiety and learning to love myself.

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Hostess

I’m totally in my element when I’m hosting a party. Whether it’s cocktails and crudité, football and chili, or pizza and piñatas, I get geared up to be the hostess.

When I was in college, my friends would come to visit me in my little rented cottage on the lake. I’d host dinner parties with lasagna and chicken parmesan and red wine, which was a huge step up from the ramen and cheap vodka we were so used to, and my friends exclaimed, “Girl, you’re so… domestic!” I still get together with those girls and our gaggle of kids and I’m reminded of how far we’ve come.

After college, I rented an apartment on my own, just outside of Boston. It was a beautiful apartment, but I was living on my own in a new city and I didn’t know a soul. I was five weeks into my first year of teaching (and my first year of adulting), and I didn’t really have any friends yet. It was time for parent-teacher conferences, and my new apartment was less than a mile from the school where I worked. So I decided to host a dinner party for my colleagues, between 3:00 when school got out, and 5:00 when conferences started. I set up a buffet table, complete with foil pans and sterno burners. Over ziti and meatballs, I made lifelong friends.

At that same apartment, I began the short-lived tradition of the “End of the Year Luau.” The luau was definitely NOT a dinner party. It was a full-on boozy bash replete with cheap inflatable decorations and plastic ‘coconut’ bras from the Oriental Trading Company. There were cheesy party games that nobody wanted to do but everybody enjoyed; in the morning there were people passed out on every soft surface and my potato chip bowl was halfway down the block in the middle of the street. The second year I hosted this, my landlord stopped by. I was terrified. He laughed at the look of panic on my face and asked for a margarita. The third year, I was pregnant, and my friends repurposed all of my cheap decorations. The Luau took the form of a baby shower. Times they were a-changin’.

There have been so many parties since; first birthdays, housewarming parties, New Year’s bashes, Superbowl parties. Some guests appear in each and every memory; old friends who have moved with me from tequila shots to chicken nuggets. Some of the faces were cherished for a season; friends who were close for a time and then lost touch. Some have been tragically lost, through accidents or illness. Some of the faces have evolved from children to adults; the time passes so quickly.

But these memories help me to hold each of these people in my heart. I can hear their laughter and remember their stories and revel in the fact that we experienced joy together.

That’s what hosting a party is for me. Sure, there’s the frantic cleaning and cooking. There might be some shouting at the kids to clean up the dog doo in the yard and get their laundry out of the bathroom. I’m lucky to be married to a rockstar host who busts his butt to make sure that the house looks great and there’s plenty of food and our guests feel at home.

But there comes a point when people arrive and there’s no time left to clean or cook. Friends offer a hand and the drinks get poured and the food gets served and the party begins. The laughter reverberates. The kids begin to run and shout and spill and crash and the adults dish up pasta and referee arguments and sip on wine and tell stories. And those moments are reserved for enjoyment. There are no bills to be paid or calls to be made or papers to be graded. There will be no vacuuming or folding or dusting. There is a simple objective in that moment- to enjoy each other. We appreciate the talents and quirks and passing stages of our friends and family. We remember that we are loved and we have people to love.

In my mind, that’s the purpose of a party. It reminds us to stop taking ourselves so seriously and to be grateful for our abundant gifts. It reminds us to pause and be joyful.

 

 

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All the feelings….

Yesterday, I felt ALL the feelings. Do you ever have those days? Maybe my emotions were just particularly close to the surface; maybe the day’s events were just more intense than usual. Regardless of the reason, the journey through all of these emotions left me feeling reflective. And tired.

Here’s my day, in emotions:

Joy, pride, excitement. My youngest was eager to participate in our town’s “Turkey Trot.” He ran in the kid’s fun run; we had never participated before and weren’t sure what to expect. Even with a few unexpected twists, he was positive and enthusiastic and persistent. I loved having the chance to spend this one on one time with him. My baby is growing up so fast.

Gratitude, admiration, love. After a bit of guinea pig drama this week, it was decided that Lee would work with his dad to build a new and improved pen for them. There were power tools and male bonding and an awesome finished product. Watching my husband and son work together on this project made my heart swell. I’m grateful to be married to such a wonderful man and father, and I love watching my son look up to him as he grows into the young man he is meant to be.

Faith, peace, joy. Sometimes it’s hard to get our daughter to emerge from her room for long enough to spend a little quality time with us. Today, Bea requested that I pick up chocolate chips at the grocery store. I did her one better and got M&Ms, which she turned into homemade cookies, which she then turned into ice cream sandwiches. This kid rocks. Working alongside her, I had a moment to admire her persistence, her ingenuity (we left the mixer at church), and her grace. Every day she becomes more and more a part of our family, and every day I thank God for bringing her to us.

I spent the afternoon cooking, cleaning, and enjoying my family, with an overwhelming feeling of peace and contentment. And then there was a shift. About halfway through our cookie-making, I got a call from my Aunt.

Anger, grief, loss. A little history: My Grandpa passed about 7 years ago, and after that, we weren’t often in touch with his wife. It was a strained relationship. Well, sadly, his wife just passed, and our family didn’t know. The contents of my mother’s childhood home were being emptied into a large dumpster in front of the house. My Grandpa’s fireman’s jacket was in there; my Aunt pulled it out. Likely, his dogtags and my Grandma’s antique clock, and their old 45s were also in that dumpster. It was a sad moment. All those memories had been tossed like so much trash, and we were grieving the loss of my grandfather all over again.

Fear, panic, shock. My sister called me, on my husband’s phone. This was a bad sign. I got on the line, and she was obviously upset. “It’s Dad,” she said, and my heart stopped. I couldn’t breathe. I mentally replayed our last conversation. I had a brief, terrifying moment of imagining the rest of my life without my Dad in it. And then, about ten years after those first two words, she finished her sentence. “He’s okay, but…” I started to breathe again. He was in the hospital, but it wasn’t his heart. He was conscious and strong and getting IV fluids and he was going to be fine. But that infinitesimal moment was enough to shake my world and leave me feeling unsteady.

Helplessness, heartache, love.   I was still reeling from that call when I got another call, this time from an old friend. This woman has dried my tears, held my hair back after too much tequila, laughed with me until we cried, and seen me through some of my hardest times. She was my college roommate and is still one of my dearest friends. And now she’s in pain. She’s struggling to get through something immeasurably hard and I want to hug her and fix it for her and say all the right things. But all I can really do is listen and love her. So I send her all of my strength and love through the phone lines and I remind her how cherished she is and I pray with all my might that this paralyzing grief will end for her because she desperately needs to feel joy again.

As I sat with my friend and my family heavy on my heart, my son approached me. “Hey, mom. Can we make those pilgrim hats now?” And now it was my moment to find joy again. As we cut and glued and traced and adjusted paper hats for his classmates, I settled back into that same peaceful feeling from this morning, and I started to reflect.

We feel all of these emotions, one at a time. Sometimes we’re enveloped in bliss; others we’re drowning in despair. Each single feeling ripples out to touch another. Sometimes they come at us in rapid succession, and some days we wallow in a single emotion until we forget about the existence of others. And while the joy and the bliss and the contentment may sometimes feel out of reach, there’s comfort in knowing that they never disappear. While your grief is ebbing, the tide of joy is still out there, engulfing someone you love. In time, it will be your turn to feel it again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Badass

Nothing makes me feel sexier than shooting pool. The hubs and I went out last weekend. We went to a nice restaurant for appetizers, and then we found our way to our favorite dive bar for hot wings and billiards. We shot some pool and listened to a lot of country music and a little bit of really bad karaoke. This is my favorite kind of date.

I started playing pool when I was about 16. The local pool hall was the closest thing to a bar that we could legally frequent, and it made us feel all grown up. We didn’t really know what we were doing, but we were enthusiastic.

Later, in college, I dated a guy who played for money. He taught me how to shoot a decent long shot and put a little English on the cue. I thought I was hot shit. I never really got good, but I played well enough to surprise people. And, God, how I love that feeling. You know; when somebody underestimates you and then you prove them wrong and you get to gloat a little while they rearrange their preconceived notions of who you are? That’s a freaking awesome feeling.

Throughout college, I had a few other little tricks that made me feel kinda badass. I could tie a cherry stem in a knot with my tongue. I could throw back tequila shots with the best of them. And after college, I acquired my favorite bad-ass accouterment, in the form of a Suzuki Marauder 800. I was officially a biker.

My motorcycle is still my favorite claim to badassery. Just last week, someone saw it in the garage and started asking my husband about “his bike.” To be fair, my husband is the super sexy, muscular, tattooed, shaved head stereotype of a biker. And I LOVED it when he looked at this guy and said, “Actually, that’s HER bike.” Don’t get me wrong. My husband rides. But first he has to ask to borrow my bike.

But I digress. I don’t get a lot of opportunities to feel like a badass anymore. I make a pretty mean chicken pot pie and I’ve been known to kick ass on a Principal’s observation, but it’s not quite the same. I’m a mom and a wife and a teacher. I crochet and go to book club once a month. Granted, I’d probably still be voted, “Most likely to drop an F-bomb at bible study,” but I love my comfortable suburban life, and I think I’m doing things that contribute to my community in a positive way. I’m officially a grown-up. Nowadays, I mostly rock my Honda Odyssey around town. When I’m feeling really risqué, I’ll blast a little Eminem or Pink from the stereo… with the windows down.

And when I really want to feel like hot shit, I challenge my husband to a game of pool.

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Redefined

Who am I? Each of us works our whole lives to cultivate the answer to this question. We want to define ourselves in the context of the world in which we live. We want to separate from some and unify with others. We yearn to be unique, yet are comforted by similarity.

We read books, we travel, we study, we experience, we try new and unfamiliar things; all in an attempt to “find ourselves.” This process of discovery, this becoming, compels us toward a definition of self.

Some of these identities are tried on and discarded. In my younger years, I was a flutist, a hackey-sack player, a choir member. These were dismissed readily and with cause.

Some definitions are worn for a season. Disney fan. Soccer player. College student. Newlywed. We anticipate their passing, even as we reluctantly let them go.

As we grow into ourselves, we develop our personal style; a sense of self that begins to become inseparable with how we present ourselves to the world. I am an intellectual. I am a Christian. I am a mother. I am a teacher.

What about those definitions that we’re not proud of? I am an addict. A victim. A failure. Can we integrate these into our definitions? Or do we bury them and deny them until they become a festering wound?

Regardless of our process, we are defined by our own perceptions of self.   We invest countless hours and days and years into becoming a person, and we cling desperately to our own perceptions. We spend our lives cultivating a persona.

So it’s no wonder that our psyche starts to crumble when faced with cognitive dissonance about our very being. What happens when the very thing we used to define ourselves ceases to be true? What of the executive who loses his job? What of the child who finds himself without parents? What of the parent faced with an empty nest? The devoted wife in the throes of divorce? We all go through a period of cognitive dissonance when we’re forced to redefine ourselves. If you haven’t, don’t worry. You will.

Perhaps equally difficult is the task of revising our perceptions of those closest to us.

How do we resolve the cognitive dissonance of an unfaithful spouse? A Priest accused of the unthinkable? A transgender child?

Do you know what research tells us about people’s responses when confronted with evidence contrary to what they believe? We dig in our heels. We become more adamantly entrenched in our beliefs! We consider ourselves to be rational beings; however, our personal beliefs and opinions are so emotionally powerful that they have the ability to hijack all rational thought. We only begin to shift our perceptions when we can no longer bend the truth to fit our own patterns of thought.

When it finally happens, the shift is seismic.   These types of thought revisions can create immeasurable spiritual pain. How do we move on when we discover a flaw in what we believed to be fundamental truth?

I have to believe that, as we change and evolve, we never go backward. We can’t lose pieces of who we are… those lost definitions and past phases all get rolled into this great big jumbled ball of humanity that is each unique individual. We don’t ever become less… we become more, for better or for worse. We become greater.

So even those traits we’d like to deny; even those mistakes we hate to admit; even those trials we wish we hadn’t faced; each of those becomes a thread in our fabric. The weave becomes stronger and more beautiful. The snags and the pulls and the missed stitches still hold strong together.

And perhaps the most beautiful thing is that each day presents a chance to redefine our selves. Each morning is an opportunity for evolution; for one’s own REvolution. That’s what keeps us growing. That’s what keeps us going. That’s what gives us hope.

 

 

 

 

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Abundance

It’s been one of THOSE weeks over here. You know, the kind of week when you feel like you’re going a million miles an hour and not doing anything WELL? I hope I’m not the only one who has those weeks.

This week, there was a TON of work to be done at work. On top of the usual shaping of young minds and curriculum development and trying to be more interesting than a cell phone video, there was also a ton of meetings and evaluations and paperwork. These things suck the life out of me.

This week, I talked with ALL of the kids’ teachers via email, because my children are amazing, complicated humans with challenges that we should definitely talk about, but please-can-we-have-the-conference-next-week because I do not have the energy.

This week, I spent hours on the phone with doctors and insurance companies. And then I took my amazing, strong, funny, brave kid to a hospital where we spent half our time correcting the staff who can’t get his name right, and then the other half wiping his tears or his vomit or rubbing his back because this damned injection is so painful.

This week, my husband’s truck became unsafe to drive and not worth fixing and I postponed some payments and sold some stuff so we could make a down payment on a new one, and he’s relieved and safe but I wish it didn’t require so much juggling.

This week, I was mean to my husband. The man isn’t a saint, but oh-dear-Lord-he-deserves-a-medal-for-tolerating-me-this-week. Every time he tried to talk to me, I was so anxious/crabby/distracted that I barely responded. Or if I did, it was in single syllables or grunts or tears.

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Today, I got up early and lay in bed, chatting with my husband. I felt the weight of his arm across my waist and his breath on my neck and I thought to myself, “Breathe this in. Notice this feeling of safety and peace. You have this blessing in abundance.”

Today, my son and I spent the morning at the hospital. Then we went out to lunch, just the two of us. We laughed and talked and I thought to myself, “Remember this moment. Remember the laughter, the connection, and the pride you feel. You are abundantly blessed.”

Today, the gorgeous weather called me outside and my hammock called my name. As I lay there, I looked up at the view of the leafless trees and breathed in the fresh air on this oddly warm November day, and I thought to myself, “Save this picture in your mind. This is the soothing beauty and calm of nature. This is available to you in abundance.”

Today, I picked up a package from the post office. My mother sent me a box full of beautiful things that made me smile, and I thought, “You have family who cares for you and loves you unconditionally. You are abundantly loved.”

Today, I got a card in the mail. It was unexpected, from someone I respect and admire, whom I haven’t seen in decades. She reads my writing, and she sent me a gift. I cried as I read her card, and I thought to myself, “You have been supported by amazing people throughout every age and stage in your life. You are abundantly blessed.”

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My biggest anxieties arise from perceived scarcity. There’s always a fear that there won’t be enough; there won’t be enough time, or enough patience, or enough money.

But we live in a world of abundant blessings. Even as I write that, I realize that I sound like a Pollyanna who doesn’t live in reality, but hear me out. When we reach out to others, when we love abundantly and we give generously and we exude gratitude, it impacts the people around us. When we notice each and every simple blessing, it helps us to put things in perspective.

Feeling stressed about getting dinner on the table? Notice the leftovers in the fridge. Or the cereal in the pantry. Be grateful for the abundance.

Feeling impatient with the kids? Notice their lengthening limbs and admire their artwork and listen to them read. Remind yourself that they are blessings. Smelly, loud blessings, but blessings nonetheless.

Worried about the car payment or the cable bill? Pay attention to the clothes on your back and the roof over your head and be grateful for this moment instead of fearing a future that may or may not come to be. And what will happen if they turn off the cable? You’ll have to play board games with your kids and read books and build a fire in the fireplace. It will be okay. They will survive without wifi. Or you can all go to the library. Imagine that!

This shift affects the people around you. When you notice blessings, you become a blessing to others. When you focus on fears and anxieties and worries, you radiate fear and anxiety and worry. It is contagious.

It is also a cycle. I received a lot of blessings today. I will put them to use. I will enjoy them and appreciate them. When the time comes, when it’s my turn, I will pass them on to others, with peace and joy and gratitude.

 

 

 

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Melancholy

I read voraciously. I inhale books like some people devour popcorn or sunflower seeds; quickly, by the fistful and without stopping until each tiny morsel is gone.

I don’t recall the first time I came across the word ‘melancholy’ in print. I do know that I didn’t look it up. I used context clues to make a reasonable guess and kept reading. Over the next few years, I encountered it enough to feel confident that I knew its meaning, and it became one of my favorite words.

Not too long ago, I had cause to look up the actual dictionary definition of melancholy, and I was shocked. This word did not mean what I had always thought. The dictionary tells me that it means ‘depression’ or ‘sorrow’ or ‘intense sadness.’ I had always understood that the word described a certain type of sadness, but another definition; ‘a pensive sadness,’ was a bit closer to how I had always thought of it. In my mind, melancholy has always been a beautiful sort of sadness.

It’s a ‘sitting on the floor surrounded by old photos that make your heart ache’ kind of feeling.

It’s the beauty and release of a long, ugly cry into the soft fur of a beloved pet.

It’s the scent of grandma’s meatballs, bringing a shocking swell of grief in the back of your throat where the taste of the garlic should be.

It’s your child hugging you through his tears when his best friend finds a new best friend.

It’s a sadness that understands its own value.

I’m not sure if it’s our culture or our human nature that compels us to escape pain as quickly as possible. We don’t often allow ourselves to sit with our sorrow. And it’s even more unusual for us to dwell in the pain long enough to find peace there; to bask in melancholy.

I don’t even care that I’ve had it wrong for all these years.  In my mind, melancholy will always be sadness clothed in wisdom and patience and beauty and peace. It’s not a sadness to avoid; it’s a sadness to embrace.

 

 

 

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Rockstar

It is 3:40 pm. I’m out of my work clothes, into my yoga pants and drinking my first glass of wine. Don’t judge. It’s been a rough week. Here are the highlights:

– Broken oil burner. No hot water. Luckily I know a guy, so this one could’ve been worse.

– Progress reports come home. At least one kid is an asshole. Others are questionable.

– Parent teacher conferences. This is different from any other evening because I have to continue working late into the evening WITHOUT wine and yoga pants.

– Mom wants me to pay her back the money I owe her. (I know you’re reading this… I’m working on it, Ma.)

– My kid showered without prompting… because the other kids told him he stinks. I’m not sure whether to be embarrassed that I have the smelly kid, or relieved that someone finally got through to him.

– The underwire broke on my favorite bra. Only the ladies will understand the enormity of this.

– Hubs’ truck has no brakes, no air conditioning, no tread on the tires, no power steering, and basically no value. Time to finance a new truck we can’t afford.

– Halloween is four days away. Children have planned costumes that require wigs. Need I say more?

– The kids were told to clean their room. They rearranged instead (I am blaming Nana for this gene). For three days, it’s been a disaster area in there. Last night, their dad threatened to give away all the pets if it’s not cleaned by the time he gets home. Tears have given way to frantic cleaning, and I’m hopeful….

– I tore my last contact lens and I’ve been in glasses for two days. I trip every time I walk down stairs.

 

I realize we’re not dealing with any sort of tragedy here.   But I’m going to gripe and sip chardonnay for a little while. Then I’m going to meet up with my friends for pot luck and movie night. And wine. Duh.

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Bring on the Rain

Is there anything as soothing as the sound of rain outside your open bedroom window as you fall asleep?

Call me crazy, but I love the rain. Today, a friend and co-worker was griping about the terrible weather. Typically, I agree wholeheartedly with this amazing woman’s perceptions and insights. But this ‘rotten weather’ comment had me sheepishly admitting, “I kinda like it.”

Hear me out.

Crappy weather is forgiving in a way that sunshiny days just aren’t. Sunshine screams, “Come out and play. Bring the kids to the park and the beach. Walk the dog. ENJOY EVERYTHING!” Rain gently whispers, “Sit down for a while. Relax. Don’t be in such a hurry.”

Rain makes it permissible to sit in your car, long after you’ve parked and turned off the engine. You’re just waiting for the rain to let up, after all.

Rain allows you to throw your hair in a ponytail. Because it’s just going to get ruined anyway.

Rainy days turn comfort foods from an indulgence to an expectation.

Rainy days are the perfect excuse for a good book or a cup of tea or a long nap. Throw in a good thunderstorm, and I’m in heaven. There’s nothing better.

Until our first snow day, of course.

 

 

 

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Panic

I’ve been having panic attacks since I was eleven years old. At first, I didn’t know what was happening. My mom took me to lots of different doctors, who administered lots of different tests. I went through x-rays, an EEG, a visit with a gastroenterologist, and countless chats with my pediatrician and then a therapist. The ultimate diagnosis was “free-floating anxiety.” Which sounded like an oxymoron to me. Anxiety is crippling, stifling, painful. Whoever paired the words “free” and “floating” with ‘anxiety’ had obviously never experienced it.

Since I was a pre-teen, I’ve learned a lot about my body and how it reacts to stress. My anxiety is still ‘free-floating’ which basically just means it’s unpredictable. While I don’t always know the triggers, I do now recognize the signs in my body. It starts with a knot at the base of my left shoulder-blade. Then there’s an achy tension right where my shoulders meet my neck. I feel a pit in my stomach, and it starts to grow until it becomes painful to take a deep breath.

At that point, I have a few choices. I’m about 8 minutes away from a full-fledged panic attack. If I focus on that, I will wind up in a heap on the floor, or in the back of an ambulance. If I try to figure out what’s triggering the anxiety, I’ll speed up the process.

I have medication that helps. If I wake up with that feeling (like I did this morning), I know it’s going to be a two-Ativan kind of day. But if it sneaks up on me, and I don’t have any chemical assistance available, I have to have some other tools. Oddly, taking deep breaths makes it worse. Deep breaths are painful and the more I feel like I can’t breathe, the more anxious I get. I need to breathe calmly, but using shallow breaths. I count the breaths. I wiggle my toes, because it takes my focus off of all the places that are tight and constrained in my upper body.

I read recently that anxiety and gratitude can’t exist in the same space.   Maybe it seems over-simplified, but there’s a ton of research on the power of gratitude, and I for one, am a believer. If I can shift my attention to all the things I’m grateful for, I can push away the panic, slowly but surely. I start with the big things; my family, my husband, my health, my home… but it’s more effective when I shift my focus to the small things. Early morning coffee. The warmth of wool socks. The feel of book pages between my thumb and forefinger. The smell of rain. The rhythm of my children’s breath as they sleep.

It doesn’t always work. But I’m grateful for the times that it does… and also for Ativan.

 

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What the actual *#$&@*

I apologize in advance.  There is no grace in this post; inhaled, exhaled, or otherwise.

I was driving down the road in my minivan with my eleven year old son riding shotgun. We were on our way back from an appointment with his therapist, and we were enjoying each other’s company. We were singing in the car.

We weren’t just singing along; we were rocking out. We were laughing and gesturing and enjoying ourselves. It was a two lane road, and a silver pickup passed us on the left. I made brief eye contact with the driver, and I smiled, a little embarrassed to be ‘caught’ singing like that.

We kept driving. But I could feel the truck hovering right next to me on the left. He wasn’t passing. He wasn’t slipping behind. He was matching my speed, which seemed a little odd. For a moment, I resisted the temptation to look over.   I didn’t really want to make eye contact again. But his truck continued to travel parallel to my minivan, and I eventually glanced over to try to figure out what was going on.

It was a blur, and it took me a moment to realize what was happening. The look on his face was the first indicator. He was making one of those creepy come-on faces, with big eyes and wiggly eyebrows and his mouth a little open. He gestured to his phone screen. He was trying to show me something, but all I saw was a blur… a flesh-colored blur. Then he gestured again; more explicitly this time. This creep saw the shocked look on my face as I realized what he was showing me, and he laughed. I sped up and turned down a side street, praying that he didn’t follow me, and that my kid didn’t realize what had just happened.

The whole thing left me grossly unsettled. What the actual eff?!?!?   I should’ve gotten his license plate number, but I didn’t. Would I have called the cops? I’m not sure. Because I began second guessing myself immediately.

Are you sure of what you saw? Why were you even looking at him? Did you do anything to suggest you might be interested? And that’s the most ridiculous thing of all. I’m programmed to check MYSELF. My first instinct is to question whether MY behavior somehow encouraged this asshole. I was in a minivan. During rush hour. With my son. There was no communication. There was no suggestive language. It didn’t matter what I was wearing, because he couldn’t even see.

And, goddamn it. Even if I was wearing a miniskirt and throwing back tequila shots and flirting with this guy, it STILL would’ve been grossly unacceptable behavior.

I am SO GODDAMNED ANGRY right now.