Here’s a snippet of what my head was telling me last night. I’m estimating that these thoughts all took place in about a five minute period:
Yesterday, I wrote a blog post on what not to say to a depressed/anxious/suicidal person, when they’re in the thick of things. I hope today’s post helps to give more insight into how people (like me,) think, even when we’re NOT in a deep depression. I hope it helps someone cope with their “loud” head.
When I get sad, I almost always feel scared and self-critical. It takes abundant, repeated practice of coping strategies for me to realize that I’m just sad and in actuality, okay. No matter, I can get pretty panicked by it.
Last night, I felt sad. Over the past year or so, when I feel sad I am oftentimes missing my former super energetic and enthusiastic approach to virtually everything. (Okay, I have never been enthusiastic about anything related to taxes or health insurance enrollment, but almost everything else.) I miss the “old me,” and when I’m sad, I usually feel my scars; both literally and figuratively and my worst self-critic emerges ruthlessly.
Before I realize I’m not in a deep depression, my head questions and criticizes a million things, real or imagined. It can be a mean place upstairs.
Here’s a snippet of what my head was telling me last night. I’m estimating that these thoughts all took place in about a five minute period:
Each day, and sometimes, minute by minute, it takes a commitment to practice accepting things I simply can’t change. Of course, this is not revolutionary. Most people know at least parts of The Serenity Prayer.
Every day, and sometimes, every minute.
Every so often, people question why in the hell I open myself up on this blog and on social media streams. Some individuals are critical of what they perceive as my being fully transparent. I respect their opinions and usually, if they’re interested, I share more about how helping others is exactly why I do it. I hope it helps them accept what I do, but it may not change their opinions and that’s okay. It still doesn’t change who I am.
There are countries I’ve never heard of who read this blog and thank me for it. If I help someone…ANYONE, this is worthwhile.
My hope is that you and others feel less shame and get okay with your own mishegas. I pray you accumulate moments of peace, love and happiness in your life. I have moments and am grateful for every single one of them. Some of my moments get widely published and they are sometimes hilarious. Especially the ones with my daughters. THIS is joy, pure and simple.
If you’re shaming yourself or someone else for something you may not understand, I hope YOU are open to learning that you are capable of loving someone and accepting them as they are, right now, in their imperfect form. You may not understand why they are the way they are, but do you really have to?
I have faith and hope in people. I believe that people can be better. I have spent years experiencing and examining communication and the impact of shame. My on-the-job training and its associated studies, have proven that loving communication opens the path to the release of shame, with access to the location of joy.
It’s not a perfect science. It’s a practice.
I wear mismatched socks sometimes, because you know, laundry madness. C’mon. We all suffer from the laundry madness of single sock disappearance. In the scheme of a challenged history and even a difficult “here and now,” I embrace my new fashion sense.
I really hate doing laundry, especially when I have a headache. On some level, I’ve had a headache for about six months. This is not an exaggeration. Doing laundry and other cleaning chores makes my head worse.
So, to my right, there’s a big pile of laundry that has to be done. There are single socks everywhere, towels, everyday clothes and delicate lingerie that needs to be in a lingerie bag and washed on the gentle cycle.
Just for today, I have one load of laundry in me. Today, everything will be done on the gentle cycle.
The content I post on this blog and on social media is also communicated on a gentle cycle. It gently rocks as it moves. It’s not the ultra power pressure washing of the nitty gritty stories of trauma, post traumatic stress disorder, cancer or addiction. It’s gingerly and carefully relayed here and other places, for you and for me.
So, here I am. My head hurts and I’m off to do my one load of laundry on the gentle cycle. The more detailed version of my stuff’s history and how I practice/d hard to get comfy in my skin, will be included in the book I’ve started writing.
I’m embarrassed and almost ashamed to even state that I’m writing a book. I’ve written lots of books actually, and still, I can hardly call myself a writer.
Like I said – I have a commitment to practice. I practice and practice, but am far from perfect. It’s the commitment to practice that provides the moments of joy.
Today, I have the forethought to choose the gentle cycle for my clothes and for me.
I wish you tender loving gentleness today, even if you’re power washing. May we all have the wisdom to know the difference.
I lost my voice today due to a hefty bout of laryngitis. I mostly reveled in being silenced on this very important day and I’m pretty sure my kids enjoyed my silence more than I did! Continue reading “Releasing the Hunt for the Ghastly Girl”
I never wonder if I, or anyone else has “the right to be depressed.” I think the very idea seems way off. Throughout my life, I have heard others validate or invalidate individuals (and sometimes, me), on whether enduring depression is acceptable,“ridiculous,” or to be expected. It seems to me, these opinions appear to be based almost solely on measurable logistics. For example, Continue reading “Depression Has Nothing to do with Rights”
And once she learned to kick and scream, the monsters quieted down.
When she knew she was safe to stop kicking and screaming, the monsters left
forever.
She was left with some permanent scars that she saw as rich and beautiful, because they were perfect to her and not because they had to be, but because they just were.
The little girl healed and the woman flourished.
The little girl and the woman agreed to coexist as the caretakers of each other and providers of the ointment that would protect and honor her scars
This morning, I devoted a brief amount of time to catch up on “the news.” I put “the news” in quotes, because while natural disasters and locating avenues to help human beings recover and thrive, are newsworthy, much of “the news” I skimmed through, left me disgusted and incredibly sad.
For as long as I can remember, I worried about my family, my community and pretty much any injustice and atrocity I perceived in the world. As an adult, I learned that my worrying had to be transposed into action. Naturally, I still worry, but have implemented a rule that I’m not permitted to worry for very long, unless I am actively working on helping to repair or heal whatever it is that keeps me awake at night. Continue reading “Atoning for Too Much Tikkun Olam”
Every so often, I consider, “taking a lover.” This always sounds so romantic to me, but I don’t spend much time daydreaming (or night dreaming) about it, because in actuality, I tend to react rather swiftly with… BARF. HIDEOUS IDEA. EW.
One week ago, I had a personally significant experience while on a mostly blind, first date. I say, mostly blind, because we’d seen photos of each other, had spoken on the phone, but neither of us could recall ever meeting each other in person. We have many wonderful friends in common and certain career parallels where we might have met at some point long ago. If we did previously meet, neither of us made a noteworthy impression on each other.
For me, and unbeknownst to my date, I was about to have a phenomenal dating experience.
I arrived right on time for brunch. My date was already at the restaurant waiting for me. Approximately 38 seconds into the date, as we arrived at our table, and even before my tush could make the”pffftt” sound that always happens when ANY tush hits the cushion of a seat in a booth, my date said, somewhat apologetically…
I’m usually attracted to slender, more petite women.
I almost hate to put the anniversary of 9/11/01 beside National Recovery Month, but everything seems to connect somehow to that fateful day, getting real and honest about the impact of it, and getting real and honest about how we cope or can’t cope is what connects us to recovery.
Today, in the year 2001, everything changed. I can only speak for me, but as inherently fearful and geared toward sadness as I was before 9/11, the volume of my fear and sadness resounded at a higher decibel and with more frequency.
It still does, but I work very hard to locate a peaceful and serene volume and that happens almost solely by working with and helping others.
Every so often, I don’t want to post or go public with the truth about myself. Right now, I’d prefer to post a comparative analysis of my body measurements, weight and BMI from age 18 to present day, or even post a daily food intake journal that demonstrates my consumption of three pieces of cake, more than I want to publish a post that states that I had, over the past several days, been feeling pretty down. I was stricken with fear, self-doubt and partial paralysis of my left brain, which in Pam-speak, translates to, “Quit now because you’ll never do or be anything you can actually feel good about. You’ve already failed, and when push comes to shove, you are wholly unlovable.”
Pamela Klier-Weidner (PKW) 