When I woke up this morning, I was sure of two things.
1. I wanted to vomit
2. The word "creativity" had NOTHING to do with emotions, unless you were creating an object outside of yourself.
So, I walk into my training at 8:15, confident in those facts.
The training consists of large workshops for information dissemination, and small ones designed to replicate the program we will someday facilitate. The program is called TIMBo, and is essentially a mindfulness based awareness and skill building opportunity for people who have experienced trauma...using breathing techniques, yoga, and group conversation to facilitate the ability to be comfortable in discomfort. We focus on physical sensations rather than feeling words, because feeling words often have negative associations attached to them, and we are not interested in the history or the story, just the experience and the present. There is a lot more to it...but that will suffice for the purposes of this story.
Small group 1. I am super psyched that my new friend Kelly is there, and feeling a bit anxious about what the topics may be for the day (I never peak ahead at the schedule, I do better at staying present when I am not focused on what is going to happen in the future). We do our one word check in...focused, connected, peaceful, nauseated (guess who that was)...and so on. The facilitator said turn to page 17, and there at the top of the page was the word "Creativity". WHAT??? The little voice inside my head SCREAMED "I cannot draw. Or paint. DON'T MAKE ME DO THIS. Let's just vomit and go home". But I stayed.
We read a quote about creativity being the choice to leave the safety of your city and venture off into the forest (or something like that. Alan Alda said it)...and began our discussion, which always starts with "what did this quote bring up for you?". Quickly, the conversation became about the ways that we all, as people, creatively reinforce the negative fears and doubts that live inside our heads. Honestly, at first I was lost.
And then I realized....that is EXACTLY how I live my life. I am SO creative at finding evidence to support the theory that I am (in no particular order): not good enough, smart enough, lovable enough. I can turn a glance into confirmation of my worthlessness, a lack of acknowledgement into proof that I am invisible, a challenging semester into attestation that I am not smart enough. Easily. Deftly. CREATIVELY.
Huh.
And then...then before lunch we started the module called "Creativity/Guilt". COME ON....
I do not have guilt. I have made amends, I own my negative behaviors, I do not shy away from the responsibility I bear in the choices I make that impact others. What is there to feel guilty about?
This module, unlike the first one today, had a writing component. Here is what it asked for: a list of your self judgements and things you feel guilty about. OK. I can do that. If I am awake, I am judging myself. Here we go...click pen open.
I judge:
my body
my diagnosis
my face
my life
my intelligence
my family
my emotions
my relationships
my hypervigilance
my addictions
click pen closed.
There is no guilt, I thought...there is nothing else to write...so I sat in the silence while everyone else continued with their writing. Then I had a feeling...an intuition...that I wasn't quite done. Sensations happening. A heavy feeling. Bile rising. Body temperature increasing.
Click pen open.
Out of my pen...with no thought from me...comes the following words:
I feel guilty for:
Being Sonja
Click pen closed.
Let me tell you fine folks something...that was not what I thought my heart was going to say. But there it was, in black and white on the paper. That is when the miracle happened. The one word check in...uncomfortable, aware, centered, disconnected, compassionate (WHO SAID THAT?? It was my voice...but WHAT???)
For the first time in my life, the first time ever, I felt compassion for myself. Now, I am not saying that I felt sorry for myself. I am saying that I was able to look at that list, inside that box, in black and white, with compassion. For me.
For the way I berate me. The way I limit me. The way I abandon me. The way I hurt me. The way I sabotage me. The way I endlessly and mercilessly JUDGE me. The fact that all of that has left me feeling guilty for...being me.
Wow. What an amazing feeling. I am hoping that I can experience it again, that this is a breakthrough of some sort, and that I will be able to revisit that moment.
The moment that I saw myself as I would see another. The moment that I realized that I am OK. That I am smart enough. That I am good enough. That I too, am worthy and lovable.
Click blog closed.
Friday, November 20, 2015
Thursday, October 15, 2015
Restless, Irritable, and Discontent
A lot has happened over the last 8 weeks of my life.
I got engaged.
I found out my future in laws would rather me be an OUT law (not the fun kind).
My father passed away.
I packed up the apartment that has been my home for 5 years.
I moved to a new apartment.
I started grad school.
I threw away most of my father's earthly possessions.
I started a new internship.
My laptop was destroyed.
I learned that I STILL do not understand statistics, even when I think I do.
Any one of those things is enough to cause anxiety. All of those things together, for me, result in a complete internal meltdown with simultaneous external "success". By success I mean that I am still, most of the time, able to function at a fairly high level. Outside the home that is.
Inside the home I have become petty, picky, high maintenance, critical, cranky, and completely anti-affection.
My expectations of myself far exceed my actual skills as a human being. I expect myself to let go of my father without even a glance back. I cannot. I expect myself to be able to let go of my old apartment without any feelings. I cannot. I expect myself to be my usual happy-go-lucky self. I cannot. I expect myself to sleep well at night. I cannot. I expect myself to feel good. I do not. I expect myself to be able to seamlessly and correctly identify the statistical formula I need for basic problems. I CANNOT.
Here is where the Serenity Prayer comes into play...
God,
Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
the courage to change the things I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.
I used to believe that meant that I could not change anything outside my own skin...other people's reactions, feelings, responses, actions, and attitudes...but that the things within my skin, my attitudes, actions, and beliefs...those I could alter to achieve my destination. SERENITY.
As I was typing that, I think I had an epiphany. It is entirely true.
It is not that I have to change what I am feeling or even what I am capable of. It is that I have to be more gentle with myself, have patience the same way I would with others, grant myself a modicum of understanding about the intensity of the past two months and all that was attached to them. How others respond to my recovery, my process and my capabilities is simply not my business. Perhaps, if I start treating myself with love, patience, and respect...I will treat others that way as well. It has worked in the past...no reason it cannot work now.
Sometimes I forget that the basics apply to everything. In spirituality, in life...and even in statistics.
I got engaged.
I found out my future in laws would rather me be an OUT law (not the fun kind).
My father passed away.
I packed up the apartment that has been my home for 5 years.
I moved to a new apartment.
I started grad school.
I threw away most of my father's earthly possessions.
I started a new internship.
My laptop was destroyed.
I learned that I STILL do not understand statistics, even when I think I do.
Any one of those things is enough to cause anxiety. All of those things together, for me, result in a complete internal meltdown with simultaneous external "success". By success I mean that I am still, most of the time, able to function at a fairly high level. Outside the home that is.
Inside the home I have become petty, picky, high maintenance, critical, cranky, and completely anti-affection.
My expectations of myself far exceed my actual skills as a human being. I expect myself to let go of my father without even a glance back. I cannot. I expect myself to be able to let go of my old apartment without any feelings. I cannot. I expect myself to be my usual happy-go-lucky self. I cannot. I expect myself to sleep well at night. I cannot. I expect myself to feel good. I do not. I expect myself to be able to seamlessly and correctly identify the statistical formula I need for basic problems. I CANNOT.
Here is where the Serenity Prayer comes into play...
God,
Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
the courage to change the things I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.
I used to believe that meant that I could not change anything outside my own skin...other people's reactions, feelings, responses, actions, and attitudes...but that the things within my skin, my attitudes, actions, and beliefs...those I could alter to achieve my destination. SERENITY.
As I was typing that, I think I had an epiphany. It is entirely true.
It is not that I have to change what I am feeling or even what I am capable of. It is that I have to be more gentle with myself, have patience the same way I would with others, grant myself a modicum of understanding about the intensity of the past two months and all that was attached to them. How others respond to my recovery, my process and my capabilities is simply not my business. Perhaps, if I start treating myself with love, patience, and respect...I will treat others that way as well. It has worked in the past...no reason it cannot work now.
Sometimes I forget that the basics apply to everything. In spirituality, in life...and even in statistics.
Wednesday, October 7, 2015
Life and Death
To say my father and I had a rocky relationship would be a compliment.
We shared a love for music and laughter, football and food, women and wine. (OK, not wine. Vodka and beer) We travelled together, camped, went to meetings, held hands and sang Amazing Grace. He was the first person in my life to abandon me, and the first person in my life to show up when others abandoned me. He taught me to fish, to hike, to rock climb, to throw darts, shoot pool, drive a motorcycle, and play video games. He also taught me to not trust, to fear men, to doubt my instincts, to roll joints and to hate.
In short, our relationship was riddled with strife, anger, love, fear, compassion, forgiveness, heated exchanges and loving embraces.
Now...for the record, I am not by nature, a jealous person. As a matter of fact, quite the opposite. I stand in gratitude for what I have, the life I am living, the pain, the joy, the loss, the celebrations...I strongly trust that every single moment before this one has shaped me into who I am. That fact has to be embraced as glorious, wondrous, a miracle.
Then I met Inga and watched her relationship with her father.
Inga was like a mystical creature to me. 35 years old, with a double PhD from one of the most prestigious universities in the world, she was humble, beautiful, funny, kind. Mesmerizing really. Oddly, I knew her father 5 years before I met Inga. I had even encountered her once with him, but didn't realize that until one night when she was sick and I brought a care package to her house and saw who her father was/is. She called him Daddy, hugged and kissed him goodbye, brought him flowers, and was committed to staying in Newburyport because she wanted to make sure that she was as loyal a daughter to her parents as they had been parents to her.
Suddenly, I found myself envious.
My father had been sick a long time when she and I first met. I was resentful, frustrated, afraid...at him, his disease, his lack of willingness to care for himself. I was confused by my struggle to reconcile the emotional turbulence that his illnesses brought into my life, and desperate to be a "good daughter", but unable to. My internal conflict resulted in guilt, shame, and external conflict. With him specifically.
I was open with her about my feelings, which she would listen to intently, head cocked to the side as if I was sprouting a new cranium in her presence. She never seemed to judge, critique or offer advice. She would just hear me. Meanwhile, unknowingly, she would model for me what a HEALTHY father/daughter relationship could look like. The saying is true, when the student is ready, the teacher appears.
Slowly, I changed. I began reminding myself that my father really was on borrowed time. I started to see him as a fragile old man, rather than the man who had brought me so much sorrow. I was finally able to let love win.
On September 3rd my father was admitted to the hospital for the last time. For the first time in over 2 years, I spent every minute I could there with him. I was patient. I was kind. I was there for him and him alone. We laughed, we joked, we reminisced about good times....and then at 11 p.m. on the 4th I got a call that I may want to come in to the hospital as his breathing had altered. I waited for 15 minutes and then recognized that the Michigan game was not the priority, being with him was. When I got to the hospital, I realized how much the nurse had understated his condition. I crawled into bed with him, played his favorite music into his good ear, told him how much I loved him, and held him as he took his last breath at 12:40 a.m.
The past month has been a literal roller coaster ride of emotions as I have dealt with the loss of my father. It amazes me how a smell, the opening notes of a song, or a ride through town can send me into a spiral of tears and ache. I have picked up the phone to call him, tried swinging by his house to say hello, and strolled down memory lane with boxes of photos that he had at his home. I have been able to truly embrace sadness and joy at the thought of him, even with full awareness of just how convoluted our time together was.
The most amazing part of what I am saying is that I owe the end of my relationship with my father to the beginning of my relationship with my future wife. The biggest gift she has ever bestowed upon me is the one she never knew she gave.
She gave me my father.
We shared a love for music and laughter, football and food, women and wine. (OK, not wine. Vodka and beer) We travelled together, camped, went to meetings, held hands and sang Amazing Grace. He was the first person in my life to abandon me, and the first person in my life to show up when others abandoned me. He taught me to fish, to hike, to rock climb, to throw darts, shoot pool, drive a motorcycle, and play video games. He also taught me to not trust, to fear men, to doubt my instincts, to roll joints and to hate.
In short, our relationship was riddled with strife, anger, love, fear, compassion, forgiveness, heated exchanges and loving embraces.
Now...for the record, I am not by nature, a jealous person. As a matter of fact, quite the opposite. I stand in gratitude for what I have, the life I am living, the pain, the joy, the loss, the celebrations...I strongly trust that every single moment before this one has shaped me into who I am. That fact has to be embraced as glorious, wondrous, a miracle.
Then I met Inga and watched her relationship with her father.
Inga was like a mystical creature to me. 35 years old, with a double PhD from one of the most prestigious universities in the world, she was humble, beautiful, funny, kind. Mesmerizing really. Oddly, I knew her father 5 years before I met Inga. I had even encountered her once with him, but didn't realize that until one night when she was sick and I brought a care package to her house and saw who her father was/is. She called him Daddy, hugged and kissed him goodbye, brought him flowers, and was committed to staying in Newburyport because she wanted to make sure that she was as loyal a daughter to her parents as they had been parents to her.
Suddenly, I found myself envious.
My father had been sick a long time when she and I first met. I was resentful, frustrated, afraid...at him, his disease, his lack of willingness to care for himself. I was confused by my struggle to reconcile the emotional turbulence that his illnesses brought into my life, and desperate to be a "good daughter", but unable to. My internal conflict resulted in guilt, shame, and external conflict. With him specifically.
I was open with her about my feelings, which she would listen to intently, head cocked to the side as if I was sprouting a new cranium in her presence. She never seemed to judge, critique or offer advice. She would just hear me. Meanwhile, unknowingly, she would model for me what a HEALTHY father/daughter relationship could look like. The saying is true, when the student is ready, the teacher appears.
Slowly, I changed. I began reminding myself that my father really was on borrowed time. I started to see him as a fragile old man, rather than the man who had brought me so much sorrow. I was finally able to let love win.
On September 3rd my father was admitted to the hospital for the last time. For the first time in over 2 years, I spent every minute I could there with him. I was patient. I was kind. I was there for him and him alone. We laughed, we joked, we reminisced about good times....and then at 11 p.m. on the 4th I got a call that I may want to come in to the hospital as his breathing had altered. I waited for 15 minutes and then recognized that the Michigan game was not the priority, being with him was. When I got to the hospital, I realized how much the nurse had understated his condition. I crawled into bed with him, played his favorite music into his good ear, told him how much I loved him, and held him as he took his last breath at 12:40 a.m.
The past month has been a literal roller coaster ride of emotions as I have dealt with the loss of my father. It amazes me how a smell, the opening notes of a song, or a ride through town can send me into a spiral of tears and ache. I have picked up the phone to call him, tried swinging by his house to say hello, and strolled down memory lane with boxes of photos that he had at his home. I have been able to truly embrace sadness and joy at the thought of him, even with full awareness of just how convoluted our time together was.
The most amazing part of what I am saying is that I owe the end of my relationship with my father to the beginning of my relationship with my future wife. The biggest gift she has ever bestowed upon me is the one she never knew she gave.
She gave me my father.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)