Chapter 43

It’s a been a while since I have written a blog but as the summer draws to end, and the kids get ready to start school this Monday, I have finally felt my muse return.  Part of the reason I could not write was that these last four months began on a not-so-good note.  On my calendar for the month of April, written in all capital letters are the words “FUCK YOU APRIL.”  Photo included for your reference. Obviously not the best month of my life for several different reasons.  After a very tumultuous April, however, throughout the rest of summer, I took some intentional steps to grow as a person.  One of the biggest changes I made was that I quit working a couple of part-time jobs at which I moonlighted on a regular basis.  I realized these part-time jobs had become detrimental to both my relationships with others and myself.  I wasn’t working them because I needed the money necessarily.  Rather, I had worked at them because I had an unhealthy relationship with money and, honestly, I didn’t know what to do with my free time.  After quitting two part-time jobs, as you can imagine, I had a lot more time to fill.  This may sound great to some of you, however, I have to admit that free time has always been a bit scary to me.  Ever since I was a teenager, I was busy with something – band, sports, college, law school, the military etc.  This was the first time in my life I wasn’t in school, sports, or the military.  I was finally staring free time straight in the face and I realized that I had not ever really learned how to handle free time.   As a result, I have always kept my life fairly busy, perhaps, well most likely, to an unhealthy level. 

​Initially, when I was discussing quitting these jobs with my life coach, I expressed some reluctance and resistance.  I remember my life coach saying to me, “Well, then, have fun working the rest of your life.”  That may sound harsh, but sometimes I need a bit of harshness to see a situation for what it is and break down my barriers to making change.  He was right – if working was my only way of filling free time, I would end up working the rest of my life and not out of financial necessity.  So, I set out on the task of learning what do with free time.  I rediscovered my love of weightlifting by joining a new gym, called Elite Edge (shout out to Justin and Eric at the Waukee Elite Edge), which has changed my physical fitness dramatically, and I am stronger than I was in my 20s.  I took a nearly two-week road trip with my kids, my dad and sister, Anne, to visit all the National Parks in Utah (photos included below). I finally learned how to open my swimming pool all by myself.  I organized my garage and my shed (still a work in progress).  I could take my time cleaning and doing laundry instead of throwing a load in at midnight or later and half-ass cleaning on Sunday.  I completed four 1,000-piece puzzles of previous National Parks I had visited with my kids (I’ll spare you the pictures on this one, okay maybe just one lol). I went to Chicago for my annual girls’ weekend of Cubs games and didn’t feel stressed or rushed for the first time in 13 years (photo below).  I read a book for the first time in two years called “The Pearl that Broke its Shell.”  I started journaling with the help of some structured journals I purchased from Case Kenny.  I started cooking more for my kids and eating better because I had the time to plan and prepare.  I invited my family over for a few grill outs and got a little better at grilling, although I have to admit my family still ate some burnt ass hot dogs, brats and burgers.  I finally found a weekend for my best friend, Trisha, to come visit (photo below) and I am making time at the end of August to go visit my other best friend, Krissi.  These are all things I never had time for before.  The problem is that while my part-time jobs kept me busy, they also kept me from actually living my life at the same time.  But this blog isn’t really supposed to be about all of these things.  This blog is actually supposed to be about my cats, well, one in particular, whom I have grown to appreciate on an entirely different level now that I am home much more often.  Trust me, I am going to tie all this rambling together if you bear with me long enough.

As many of you know, I had never been a pet person before.  Too busy, too stressed, gone too much and didn’t need the hassle. As I have written about before, however, my kids really wanted pets and somehow I have ended up with two hamsters, five fish, and three cats.  Just ignore that three cats part – that’s a story for another day perhaps- because this blog is only about one of the cats named January.  January has never actually been called January.  Her nickname quickly became “Crabby Cat” or “Crabby” for short because when we took her home from the Animal Rescue League she was very defensive and scared. Crabby is the cat on top of the couch in the photo below. When we first met Crabby, she would hiss and scratch if a human even looked in her direction.  The ARL told us she might never come around but we had to take her because she was a bonded buddy with her sister cat, Cherish, and that was the cat my kids wanted.  I had to sign a behavior waiver to adopt Crabby because she was so difficult and defensive. My kids, however, refused to believe that Crabby was hopeless.  In particular, my son, Trevor, worked with Crabby every day until eventually she began to let him pet her and even pick her up.  Now Crabby sleeps by Trevor and is forlorn when he is not around.  Lately, Crabby has even begun to let me pet her and will purr loudly while I am petting her.  We don’t know why Crabby was the way she was.  But if we let how she was on the first day we met her or believed what the ARL was saying about her dictate our decision, we never would have brought that cat home.  But my children, God bless them, had hope that Crabby could be something different and, so, we gave her a chance.  Giving Crabby a chance, however, took time, patience,and a little bit of grace-elements I admittedly would not have extended to Crabby had it not been for my kids.  

As I was petting Crabby this morning, I started to think of how many people (and cats) we pre-judge based on a singular point in time.  I was reminded of a blog I recently read by Case  Kenny, the same guy whose journals I use.  He wrote about how humans can be misunderstood because we meet them midway through the novel of their life.  When we meet someone, we come in at Chapter 43 or 51 or whatever, but we don’t know entirely know or understand what happened in the Chapters before that.  We don’t know their history or how it has affected them, but we sure make a lot of judgments about who they are or who they might be and even who we think they should be without even bothering to see the whole picture or to look beyond the page upon which we meet them.  Case writes, as an example, “You’re dating someone and they start saying like you are too direct or too eager.  Only you know WHY you’re that way.  Only you know what happened on chapter 24.  Only you know why you’ve grown to speak up for yourself and what you want. They don’t.”  The corollary to what Case writes is that by not bothering to understand or look beyond page 542 or 357 or wherever we jump into a person’s story, we presume that we can write the ending of that person’s story for them based on the random page or single chapter upon which we hopped into that person’s life and, sometimes, especially in dating and relationships, as a result, we write that person off. 

We say things like a person is too X or too Y or has too much baggage or whatever we want to name it without really bothering to understand  where the X or Y or so-called “baggage” is coming from.  I have actually begun to hate the term “baggage” because it is a mental shortcut that allows us to write another human being off without trying to understand the context. Maybe what we so flippantly call baggage is not really baggage at all. Perhaps it is more powerful than something we can write off as mere “baggage.”  More often than not, what we see as someone’s baggage or a certain character flaw is the result of surviving in a broken world and it’s actually something to be admired instead of written off immediately. Or maybe, it’s the result of being hurt time and time again but the person is still trying to put themselves out there despite their past wounds. I wouldn’t call that baggage, I’d call it courage. Perhaps the person went through some rough shit on page 478 and has a tough exterior or is hard to get to know or is careful about who gets let into their life but if a person could just wait until page 503, they would find that beneath the surface is a caring and loving individual. Everyone-whether you are 21, 43 or 51-has some kind of history which has impacted them and affected that person’s behavior. We have all been hurt, some more than others, and we have all experienced disappointment and pain. As a result, every single one of us has quirks, coping mechanisms and character flaws. We all have circumstances we are dealing with that are not ideal on some level, again some to a greater extent than others. However, these things are more complex and interrelated than the term “baggage” suggests. I don’t think it’s fair to call the set of circumstances someone has survived or is attempting to survive as “baggage” and write the ending of someone’s story without knowing the context of where they have come from. The term baggage is just an easy way of dismissing the complexities of a person without understanding or caring about the context. It allows us to extrapolate an ending based on a random page.  

Crabby is good example of this even though she is a cat.  We came in at Chapter 10 (she was 10 months old) and missed the first 9 chapters of Crabby’s life. We don’t know Crabby’s history or why she was so much more defensive than her sister, Cherish. Based on what we saw in Chapter 10, Crabby had too much “baggage” and everyone but my kids wrote the end of Crabby’s  story for her.  She would never come around, she would never like people, she would always be, well, Crabby.   And yet that is not how Crabby’s story ended.  How incredibly powerful is that?  I am not saying that everyone’s actions are justified or explainable.  I am not saying people should not be held responsible for their actions or that their history excuses bad behavior.  However, what I do know is that sometimes a little context can go a long way in explaining how someone is or acts or their so-called baggage and that if we took a bit more time understanding the context, we might, sometimes, and maybe more often than not, find a diamond in the rough, like Crabby.  Sometimes, too, context can help us forgive when we have been hurt. Hurt people, hurt people. Again, it doesn’t excuse but context can take some of the charge out of the sting of being hurt by someone else, and ultimately, lead to forgiveness. I was able to forgive and forget some things that happened in April because I understood the context of what had happened and, therefore, was able to move past it. Had I not understood the context, however, I could have easily carried around a grudge for much longer. I didn’t need someone to give me closure- I gave it to myself through contextual understanding. 

Here’s where I am going to try to tie all this together.  I think sometimes the Universe hands you lessons when you are ready to receive them.  Today, I needed to be reminded to not write the endings of people’s stories.  I needed to be reminded that people (and cats) are deserving of time, patience, and grace no matter what page they are on in their story. I don’t know the ending of a person’s story nor can I even begin to predict the ending based on a random page or single chapter.  Yet, for me personally, I often give others a lot more grace than I give myself.  So, at the same time, I also must be careful about not writing the end of my own story.  Just because I was a workaholic in Chapters 12-42 doesn’t mean I will be a workaholic by the end of Chapter 43.  In the pages of April of 2021, I wrote off my entire summer as being a piece of shit and spun into a depression as a result.  But what actually happened?  I feel stronger, more stable,greater connection and overall much happier than I did at the beginning of summer.  It’s so important to remember that a single page, or even a single chapter doesn’t predict or define the rest of anyone’s life, my own included.  Instead, I need to remember the lesson of Crabby – a cat whose story was incorrectly written for her by everyone except my kids.  As a result, I am going to try to make a conscious effort to extend more time, patience and grace to both others’ lives and my own.  Most importantly, I need to remember that I do not get to write or even predict the ending of my story or someone else’s. A little hope that our ending is not yet written can go a long fucking way with not just other people (and cats) but also with ourselves. 

Dreams

About a week ago, LJ had a “scary” dream and woke up crying two times during the night. The next day I asked him what the dream was about. He said that he was in a pool (we had just come back from vacation with a lot of pool time) and there was a giant spider. It came up to him and then he realized it had a baby and it was just protecting its baby. He said, “then we became friends!” However, he had this dream two or three nights in a row, waking up more than usual and even telling his aunt about it before even saying “hello” one morning.

Finally, one night when snuggling before bed, he told me he didn’t want to go to bed because he was scared he was going to have that dream. I quite honestly did not know how to answer but somehow said the exact right thing because he didn’t have the dream that night or ever again since. When he told me he was scared he was going to have the dream about the spider, I told him to talk to his dream and say, “Dream, you are silly. You know that a spider couldn’t live in a pool. And also you are silly because you know that every morning someone cleans the pool to get all the bugs out before I get in. Now leave me alone.” I am sure some parenting expert could read this and tell me I could have responded differently according to choose-your-parenting-philosophy, but it was how I knew to respond, and you know what? It worked.

Later I reflected on how I responded and why it might have worked. It is possible that it worked simply because he was so tired and since it was like the third or fourth night of having the dream, he was just over it. However, I like to think it worked because of how I have seen similar things work in my own life.

This year has been a year of personal development for me. I recently read the book by Elizabeth Gilbert “Big Magic” in which she basically talks about the creative magic and passion inside each of us. She says that it is okay to be fearful and to recognize fear when putting one’s creations into the world. You cannot make fear go away but you cannot let it drive you. She uses the metaphor of actually telling fear, “Fear, I see you. You can sit over there in the corner, but you cannot bother me.” Or “Fear, you can come along for the ride. Sit in the passenger seat if you want to but you sure as hell aren’t talking the wheel.” Adopting this mentality has allowed me to do some pretty uncomfortable and creative things this year including writing my first children’s book which is due to be published in October! More on that in a future blog but back to LJ and his dream…

Acknowledging our fears but not allowing them to drive is helpful and in retrospect, that is what I did with LJ’s dream. I did not tell him he was crazy for having that dream. I did not tell him he should not be scared of the dream. I intentionally made sure to not make him feel like there was something wrong with HIM for having the dream or how he felt about the dream. I acknowledged it and then made it not about him. I talked to his dream telling the dream it was silly (not stupid because I will not allow the kids to use that word) just as I have talked to my own fears over the last year. Dear reader, in what ways could you change how you talk to your fears and dreams? What is a fear of yours that you want to tell to get in the damn passenger seat and just come along for the ride?

Outspoken

For those of us who are even semi-versed in feminist philosophy, some of the ideas in this blog post aren’t going to be particularly earth shattering. Nevertheless, I’m writing this post because of the amount of incredulity and rage I feel from some recent experiences, and I’m particularly infuriated because many of the comments have been from educated individuals who likely claim feminism as a part of their ideology. Moreover, I always want theory to touch the ground and to demonstrate what it looks like when broad philosophies touch the context of the particular.

I’ve had a run of experiences lately where people describe me as the following: “Outspoken. Candid. Direct. Blunt.”

And, to be quite frank, it really pisses me off. Believe me, I have faults, but I don't think that the aforementioned adjectives should be used to describe me, even in a mildly denigrative fashion. It makes me want to pound a sledgehammer into a tire in frustration because- in a nutshell- I strongly believe that these words are [mis]attributed to me simply because I’m a confident female. It pisses me off for additional multiple reasons that I’ll explore in a bit, but if I had to succinctly summarize my beef with these character proclamations, it can be condensed into that single sentence.

Here’s the long version of why these adjectives piss me off:

Pejorative
First, the majority of the adjectives in question have a negative, undesirable connotation. Of the four adjectives listed, I would happily accept only one of them as a label (candid). Oh, sure, you could argue semantics and talk about the reclamation and/or the subjectivity of their meaning. But really, for the most part- most people would say that these adjectives are not given as a compliments.

Here’s what really pisses me off about the fact that these “negative” characteristics are being ascribed to me. I have completed over a decade of school and work experience in the field of pastoral care and counseling. I am astutely cognizant of my word choice when I speak, and I am almost hypersensitive to the impact they may have on others. No, I’m certainly not perfect, and I do put my foot in my mouth occasionally, but for the most part, I’m very intentional with my language, and it’s resulted in a vibrant career caring for others as they experience the pain of missing deceased loved ones.

So…if I’m not being a dick when I speak…why do people ascribe these negative characteristics to me? Could it be- gasp- because I have a voice and I use it? Could it be that sometimes, my thoughts can be challenging? Could it be because you are not used to a female feeling confident in her agency?

Misappropriated
Second, while I recognize that everyone has the right to their opinion, most of the aforementioned adjectives are misappropriated. Sure, you could get into a philosophical argument over subjectivity and truth regarding the right to label someone, but ultimately, I purport that people label me as these adjectives because we still live in a sexist world where women are continually taught and rewarded to be demure. So, yes, I suppose compared to many women, I do appear outspoken because they continue to be relatively unassuming by comparison. But just because someone appears outspoken by comparison does not mean that they are actually outspoken, nor does it mean that they should be viewed in a pejorative manner.

Nonetheless, I don’t think that I’m actually outspoken; rather, I believe that I express high levels of agency and self-possession. For the love of God, I need to possess those characteristics with my life and my career. I teach students at the college level, and I’m responsible for the maintenance of a multifaceted bereavement program across the Des Moines metro. Here’s an example of when I need to be blunt. I’ve had a decent number of male clients over the years who have struggled with boundaries. Many of them have lost their spouse, and in the midst of their grief, they start to become inappropriate with me. I HAVE to shut that down. I’m not mean when I do it, but yes, you better believe that I am direct when I do it, because I CANNOT have the client harboring any sort of misguided hope about what is happening between us. Does this mean that I’m “outspoken”? Does this mean that I’m too “direct”? Since when does having the ability to speak truth plainly mean that someone is speaking out of turn?

To add to that point, I’m trained with having honest conversations about difficult topics. I’ve had to talk with clients about enmeshment, suicide, and well, all of the difficulty that occurs when someone dies. I’ve had to talk to students about plagiarism, sex, and respectful classroom conduct. As I’ll add in further detail below, I’m always very cognizant of the other person’s feelings in these conversations, but these subjects DO get addressed. In sum, I’m very comfortable with naming and discussing taboo topics, and somehow, this familiarity has contributed to my “outspoken” and “direct” adjectives. And, to be honest, that makes me feel quite sad, because it feels like authenticity, vulnerability, and truth telling are on the receiving end of negative connotation.

And again, let me be abundantly clear- I don’t think that “confidence” and “assertive” are license to say whatever you want. No, when we claim our voices- we still need to be mindful of the other person’s subjectivity and feelings. Which is why it is even MORE baffling to me that I have these labels ascribed to me. Yes, I’m quite forward when I need to be, but I’m always very conscious of my word choice. When I talk to a client about being enmeshed, it’s not like I say, “Hey, John Smith. You are super obsessed with your dead wife and that’s waaaay unhealthy. What’s wrong with you?” Instead, I might say something like this, “John, you’ve mentioned how close you and your wife are, and it’s clear that you loved each other very much. I’m wondering what it means that you didn’t have many hobbies or spend time with friends when you were together.” And then I would wait and see how John responded to that statement, and I would guide him down a path of some of my thoughts about the fact that they may have been enmeshed in addition to having a lovely marriage.

I am not afraid to express my perceptions and voice. I’m intentional with how I do so, and yet, somehow, the mere fact that I am confident and capable enough of doing it has labeled me as “outspoken,” and “direct.”

Growth
This one is a bit more personal than the two reasons mentioned previously, but that doesn’t make it any less significant or valid.

I used to have a very diminished voice and presence. It’s taken me decades to feel comfortable interacting in the world with my innate sensitivity and spaciness. When I went to school at Vanderbilt, my awkwardness and discomfort was magnified in a context that accepted only perfection. Sometimes I would have to write my words down before I would speak, and other times, I would still stumble over them because I was so anxious with having to talk to people in that toxic environment. For anyone that’s interacted with me in the last couple of years, this probably sounds extremely baffling (and mildly unbelievable.) No, I sincerely assure you that I am not exaggerating. My voice and confidence were so emaciated in Nashville that it felt personally dangerous to allow any part of me to seep outside myself. I will certainly own that I played a part in allowing myself to become this depreciated, but the context and system most definitely exacerbated it.

In 2012, I graduated from Vanderbilt, moved to Des Moines, and broke up with my long-term boyfriend all within the space of a couple of months. The simultaneous experience of these events was catastrophic, but it resulted in a long and (ultimately) fulfilling process of putting myself back together. For the first time in my adult life, I was single, and I had to learn how to advocate for myself. I had to learn how to meet my needs for companionship and validation outside of a partner, and as I quickly realized, no one was going to simply hand it to me. Additionally, after going to school for one million years, I was finally an adult who had to learn how to function both within a professional environment and a routine work schedule. And although it was certainly a process with its own pitfalls, I love that I finally, finally found a strong and confident voice. I discovered a career as a hospice grief counselor that rewarded my innate gifts; my extreme sensitivity was finally a significant asset, and I had an instinctive creativity for developing programs that supported our bereaved clients. Instead of stumbling over my words, I found myself leading groups, teaching workshops, and continually speaking and advocating for grief with ease. When I engage in public speaking and presentations, I barely use notes anymore because I'm so comfortable with my message and material. Additionally, I grew in my personal life as well. As noted above, I quickly realized that as a single woman living alone, there was only one person who could address my need for connection. I joined a couple of different organizations before finding my true love- TGR Fitness. I found a place that empowered me so much physically that I felt mentally and emotionally stronger as well. After several years of membership, I’ve grown to the point that I teach one of the classes, maintain several friends, and participate in our shows. I am comfortable and confident with my voice in many facets of my life.

The point of showcasing the last 10 years of my life is to illustrate how extraordinarily painful it is to hear people describe me as “outspoken” and “blunt.” I used to be so much more timid; I was afraid of outwardly displaying any part of my voice and personality for fear that it would be trampled upon. It’s taken an insane amount of pain and work to be the confident woman that I am today; it was literally blood, sweat, and tears that led to the level of self-possession I maintain currently. So to hear someone describe my voice- the one that I had hid for so long- as something that is too forceful or powerful- feels like a gigantic slap in the face to the trauma I endured to find it, as well as to the  joy I feel now for feeling comfortable enough to express it.  

I will always, always maintain that we need to be intentional about how we use our words, and we need to do our best to show compassion to others. I am incredibly aware of other people's feelings, and yet, I know that I still fall short at times. I can always, always grow in this area. But I will NOT apologize for having opinions, challenging people’s assertions, being genuine, discussing difficult topics, and showcasing authentic awkwardness.

That’s called being a strong and vulnerable human being. I’ve worked hard for it, and I’m not letting it go.

#Untamed Follow Up

 Approximately one year ago, I wrote and posted a blog referencing an excerpt from Glennon Doyle's book Untamed. The post talked about how we are all born to be goddamn cheetahs running free in the wild, but throughout our lives and various experiences, society tames us. We then end up being these beautiful creatures, trapped behind bars, not utilizing our talents and capabilities to our fullest potentials, and we simply fantasize or not ever know what running free in the jungle truly feels like. In honor of writing that post almost one year ago, I would like to reflect on the ways I have #untamed myself, as well as the ways I am still tamed.

Here are the ways I have become #untamed: 

1) I pursued a love interest for like the first time ever. I said goodbye to emotionally unavailable married men and confronted my fear of intimacy and abandonment for the first time in 27 years. I got to know someone, and am still getting to know someone, on a deeper level. I'd be lying to you if I said it wasn't terrifying. I'd also be lying to you if I said I didn't feel the most alive I ever have in my short 28 years of life. 

2) This love interest I pursued was first a friend and is now my girlfriend of almost, believe it or not, one year. I told my mother about me pursuing a woman before I knew it would develop into anything #vulnerable. My mother was supportive(ish) in the best way she knew how to be and responded by saying she loved me. She has directly and indirectly expressed her discomfort with my relationship, and I've clarified what is her concern as opposed to my own. Her and I have become a little distant since I've started dating a woman. I don't blame her; I know she is responding authentically and in the way she best knows how. 

3) I've said "I love you," more times than I can count, to a human that is not a biological family member. 

4) I informed my dad I was dating a woman prior to going home for Christmas. I generally don't ever inform my dad I'm dating anyone because it's usually not relevant (remember, I generally date emotionally unavailable people?), but this person felt/feels different to me. My dad responded by saying, "Oh yeah?" And then followed up by saying he figured due to my snapchats. My dad and I have strangely enough gotten closer over the course of the last year. He wrote me every week while I was away at military training for six weeks (see next bullet point). 

5) I went away to a 6 week military training only to communicate with my partner via weekly letter. I had no idea whether or not my relationship would survive that stint (it did, thankfully), but I did it anyway. I knew Kristen would survive the end of it all regardless. Talk about trusting yourself and your partner though..

6) I started a virtual book club with some of my people. I used to barely read and now here I am running whole book club with assignments, discussion questions and Powerpoints! We've met twice already! 

7) I quit my job without having another job lined up. My last day is June 18th and I still have no idea what I'll be doing, but I know what I don't want to be doing.

8) I'm moving from San Jose to Los Angeles because I can, and simply want to, no other reason.

Here are the ways I am still working on becoming #untamed: 

1) Overthinking. I overthink a lot. I overthink what others say about me or about my relationship. There is a level of confidence that comes with not over thinking. You know your path, you know yourself and you know that your own opinion is the most valuable, so you simply acknowledge the other opinions but don't dwell on them or let them dictate your next move. I'm getting better at this, but am still actively working on it.

2) Speaking out. I have begun to speak out more against racism and white privilege, and I don't just mean when someone makes a blatantly racist comment. I mean calling out the systemic injustices that come out through our actions, language and existence, and having uncomfortable conversations with people I work with or know on a personal level. This is a new and growing practice for me. I am happy to prioritize this area of work.

3) Saying no and doing what I want to do. I still struggle with trying to appease everyone and oftentimes sacrifice my own wants, comfort and happiness at the expense of others'. This has been a slow, yet necessary journey for me. I'm reminded by Molly (big sis) and my girlfriend constantly to put myself first and not take on the feelings or obligations of others. 

4) Comparing myself to others. This comes with the territory of overthinking. I still compare my growth, relationship, body, you name it, to others. It's damn hard not to do. I am more aware of when I am doing this though and try to be kind and patient to/with myself in the process.

Anyway, that's all I got for now, folks. I am by no means a fully #untamed woman, and I anticipate this will be a lifelong journey for me. Some moments, days, months and years may be more #untamed than others, and that's okay because life and growth are never a straight trajectory. I would love to hear everyone's thoughts on how they are #untamed and still becoming #untamed, so we can boost each other up and support each other on our pathways to be goddamn cheetahs. 

Peace, love and positive energy,

<3 Kristen

DOES THAT MEAN I'M NOT MAKING PROGRESS??!!

 A couple weeks ago, I was feeling really stressed out about work for a number of reasons. A severe case of imposter syndrome and anxiety upped the ante so by the time I had my therapist appointment that day, I was fully bogged down and ensconced in that prickly place in my brain. The place that tells me I'm one typo or imperfection away from being fired, that I'm not good at what I do, that I'm failing at everything, that I can't handle it.

I started telling my therapist everything I was thinking about regarding myself as a failed, soon to be booted out onto the job market grant writer. We talked through everything and at the end of the conversation, I was feeling more calm and like I had a plan in place. Believe it or not, this was not the highpoint of the session.

Up until this point, I had vented, worried, swore, and calmed down. By this time, we still had some time remaining and in the calm, I realized my therapist and I had had this conversation before - about work, about feeling like an imposter, about feeling like a failure - all of it. I told her this as I  burst into tears. I cried, DOES THIS MEAN I'M NOT MAKING PROGRESS??!! In the moment, it felt so scary. I have spent a lot of time and effort working on myself. The thought that I had regressed and needed help with something I hadn't needed help with for a long time - it felt like the rug had slipped out from beneath me.

Does this mean I'm not making progress?! I cry-yelled on the trail I walk on during my therapy appointments. The geese gave me the evil eye and hissed at me. It was in this moment of angst, and fear that all I had been working for had been for naught, that my therapist used an analogy I found very powerful and I want to share it.

She used the analogy of weight-lifting. When we begin weightlifting, we might need a spotter to lift 100 pounds (these numbers are not recommended, accurate, or anything other than made up to illustrate the point - the only thing I know is that I'm pretty sure I can lift 30 pounds without a spotter. Lol.). As we work, we might not need a spotter at this weight anymore but when we move up to 150 or 200 pounds, we're going to need the spotter again. It doesn't mean your not making progress. It means you're tackling bigger things. Or, it might mean that on any given day, that 100 pounds is heavy again. Even though you have been lifting 100 pounds for a year, maybe you didn't get enough sleep, you didn't eat the right foods, or you ran a marathon before you tried to lift the 100 pounds. Any number of things impact whether or not on any given day we need that spotter.

She said, it's the same with your mental health journey. When you first started, you needed a spotter more frequently and for smaller things. As we grow in our mental health journey, some of those things we no longer need a spotter for. We're working on the 200 pound mental lift. The 100 pound mental lift...we nailed that a few months ago. But sometimes, stressors in our life (and things that exacerbate stressors, like lack of sleep, too much caffeine, inattention to mental wellness practices, etc.) can make that 100 pound mental weight feel heavy again. And we need a spotter. It doesn't take away from the progress we have made - it means sometimes we need help. And that's okay.

I started thinking about the analogy more. Sports analogies make sense to me because I'm very active and grew up playing and watching sports. We might not need a spotter for the leg press but we might need a spotter on the chest press - we might need a spotter farther than we can see into the future for the damn chest press. There are some areas of my life where I needed coaching and I've managed pretty well (complete with bumbling and stumbling) after that. There are other areas of my life where I consistently need to talk through things with my therapist to feel like I can "lift" them. I'm getting better at all of them - just the way muscles strengthen with practice. But the chest press area of my life (usually relationships and my internal monologue) might always be weaker then my leg press areas. And some days, like that day a couple weeks ago, I might need a spotter in the leg press areas.

Another point that came up in the same conversation (I warned you - I like sports analogies) was that I wouldn't go for a run or do yoga or stay physically active until next week and all of a sudden proclaim myself done for the rest of my life. Like I'd made it, worked out enough to last me all my days. I started laughing at the thought - that physical health wasn't a daily, weekly, monthly, yearly effort. BUT - and this was mind blowing to me - NEITHER IS MENTAL HEALTH. I'm not going to reach some place where there is a golden halo placed on my head and all of a sudden, I've arrived. Mental health is like physical health in that I need to be intentional and practice, learn, grow, and work on the things I need to work on most days, every week, and every year of my life.

I have always been committed to growing as a person - to me that meant learning new things, learning how to love people better, learning to love myself better. I just hadn't thought about the fact that the same way I go out and run 4-5 miles even when I'm not training for anything, I need to practice the 4-5 mile equivalent of mental health work each day. My life is better when I do. And it's helpful to know it's not a destination I or anyone will ever make it to - it's a practice that, like running, I can learn to enjoy because of the benefits it brings to my life.

I'm still working on this...I see my therapists regularly but I want to put as much time and effort into mental health maintenance and practice as I do for physical health. This can be reading, listening to a podcast, writing, meditating and it doesn't have to be for a long time. I'm going to work on fitting these things into my day to day. I was depending on therapy sessions - and I need those, too. What I realized is depending solely on that is like depending solely on running for an hour every two weeks and then expecting myself to be able to complete a half-marathon seamlessly. And I'm not saying some people can't do that - the same way I'm sure some people don't have to break down to their therapist about being stressed at work. We all started at different starting lines with different abilities and coaches (or lack thereof) along the way.

I'll keep working on the chest press and maintaining my leg press. I know I've made progress, grown and developed...AND I know I still need a spotter some days, some weeks, some years. And that's okay.

The Darkness

Recently, I suffered a loss.  The particulars, the details - they are of no import.  A loss is a loss, no matter the circumstances.  I will just say that my perception of something was very different than reality.  Due to the fact I chose to overlook what were probably obvious signs that my beliefs and hopes about what was were very far from the truth, what was likely right in front of my face but I refused to acknowledge, the loss was unexpected and unanticipated. Anticipated loss is one thing; unanticipated loss is quite another animal all together.  Although I thought I was done with him, Darkness came to visit me after this situation occurred. Well shit.  I really thought I had moved past Darkness and yet, here he was again, in full regalia.  This was a double gut punch – to not only suffer a loss, but to also discover that I had not rid myself of Darkness after all the work I had done on myself over the past year.  

For whatever reason, this bout of Darkness was overwhelming.  Perhaps it is because I truly allowed myself to feel the Darkness as I lacked the desire and energy to fight with him once again.  Perhaps it was because I was confused by my circumstances-there was only one way they made sense and I was refusing to, once again, accept the truth.  I’d like to think, however, that the reason this bout of Darkness was so crippling was because, deep down, I knew the only way around this suffering was to go through it or that there was more going on than I could comprehend.  Whatever the reason, Darkness took me to some very black places I had not visited in quite some time.  It’s hard for me to have the courage to share this, but I wrote about the Darkness, mostly to try to get Darkness out of my mind.  I understand this is dark and intense – I don’t have a muse when I am happy.  But I am sharing it because I do want to be open about how much I had let Darkness in. I warn you, you won’t feel happy after reading this.  You may even question if I am okay.  I will tell you, I am, indeed, okay.  Please understand this poem captures a moment in time – a moment that I truly and deeply felt, but it does not represent the end of this story. 

   

The Glass House – By Jill Alesch

Pieces of glass scattered all around, 

What once was a house has now been torn down.

A future, a dream, the hope that once shone,

Shuttered and shattered, I am all alone.  

 

The shards are many, the destruction is so intense,

Nothing can be mended, the trauma is too dense.

People say I’m strong, that I will rebuild again, 

They don’t know I’m too tired, the lights have all been dimmed.

 

Even if I did the house would still be made of glass,

Pretty on the outside, but never made to last.

My old friend Darkness arises from the pile, 

Looks at me and smiles, it has been a short while.

 

Yet he and I both know is he is never far away, 

He is always close, I can’t keep him at bay.

He reminds me that when I’m happy, he is always near,

Then invites me to his table and says, “Drink up, my dear.”

 

We have a nice chat, Darkness and I, 

I accept that I’m broken, it’s pointless to try.

There is no one who loves me like Darkness can, 

I acknowledge my fate, it’s who I am.  

 

Marred and battered to a point beyond grace,

When it comes to love, I deserve but a taste.

Like an intimate lover, Darkness wraps his arms around me, I give him my heart and throw away the key.  

 

I don’t know how it came to be or why,

But in the end, it is always just Darkness and I.  

I read and re-read this poem.  I kept reading it until one day, it didn’t make me cry.  And it was then, when it no longer hurt to read the words I had written, that I began to realize I was feeding the Darkness with some of my thoughts about and resentments over the situation.   Darkness wasn’t holding me, I was holding Darkness.  By doing this, I was only extending my suffering and grief.  By doing this, I had invited Darkness to stay because I was refusing to look at the underlying reason for Darkness’s visit.  I was so focused on how I had been wronged, or what I could have done differently, or why did this have to happen to me, or how could I have been so stupid as to not see what was really going on that I was completely ignoring the real reason Darkness had come to pay me a visit. And so he was going to stay until I was open to understanding why he had come with such force. 

   

Interestingly enough, it seems God and the Universe always give us what we need when we are ready to receive it.  Someone at work asked me how I was doing, and my eyes welled up with tears and spilled out onto my cheeks.  Although I was embarrassed by an extreme reaction to a rather simple question, especially while at work, this person who I don’t know very well at all, said to me something I will never forget.  “Jill, I don’t know what is going on, but you have to think of yourself like a tree.  If the roots are good, you can always cut and prune the branches and they grow back.  Sometimes branches are broken by things out of our control, but they always grow back if you mind the roots.  And, if they don’t grow back, it is for a reason, but the tree can still be beautiful.”   I thought about these words for a few days.  I knew my roots were good, so the branch that had been broken would either grow back or it wouldn’t, but one dead branch wouldn’t kill my tree or make it less beautiful.  It was then that I began to wonder if, perhaps, I had been looking at Darkness all wrong.  I began to consider the possibility that maybe Darkness had come because I needed to cut down some branches.  Perhaps Darkness would stay until I fully learned what he had come to reveal to me.  Maybe, just maybe, Darkness was not my enemy at all.  Maybe Darkness did love me like no one else could, but in a way I had not considered before.    

As I pondered this possibility, I began to look deeper into what Darkness may have wanted me to learn.  I concluded that Darkness was telling me it was time to trim my tree, cut down some branches and prune some others.  And then I saw this quote randomly on Instagram, “You will suffer until you become the best version of yourself,” and I knew I was on the right track.  It hasn’t been easy – this personal inventory of sorts.  I had to quit a part-time job I enjoyed and let people down when I did, but God and the Universe had given me several signs it was time to go, and I had not listened before now.  I stopped drinking as well, which was also not easy, but Darkness wanted me to trim down these branches with a clear mind so I didn’t cut off or trim the wrong branches-some of them – like my kids and extended family-are good and need to grow and flourish.  I recommitted myself to my own physical health.  I re-joined an organization and a way of life I left three years ago.  Darkness dissipated with each step I took in the right direction, and yet he was still lingering.  Darkness didn’t leave me until the day I decided to commit the next six months of my life to pruning my tree, taking it down to the damn roots if I needed to.  I had finally learned what Darkness was trying to tell me – that I needed to focus on me without any extraneous distractions.  Darkness and I agreed to revisit this item after six months minimum, but he also told me to be prepared for it to take longer.  Regardless of the time frame, I needed to take this time to tend to my tree and grow as a person.  Yes, I had done some of that over the last year, but Darkness has now told me I am not anywhere close to being finished.  Maybe, just maybe if I listen to Darkness, I won’t end up building another Glass House.  Perhaps, Darkness, as much as I hate the way I feel when he is near, is actually my best friend and mentor. 

I am hopeful Darkness will leave me alone while I am focusing only on myself and my kids.  I do know that eventually he will pay me another visit.  However, when he does, I am simply going to invite him in as a friend and ask him what he wants me to learn.   I am not going to argue with him or try to convince him I have been wronged.  I am not going to resist his cold embrace, but I am also not going to sit at his table for three weeks in self-pity.  When I sit at Darkness’s table, he will allow me to stay if I sit there.  I don’t think, as I once did, that Darkness invites me to his table – I think I invite myself.  I also no longer think Darkness actually wants me to sit at his table, but as long as I keep serving food and drink, he will permit the indulgence--not out of cruelty, as I once thought, but maybe out of the hardest kind of tough love. 

This morning, as I sat outside and enjoyed my morning coffee in solace, reflecting on my branches, I happened to notice a particular tree outside my backyard.  It was small-probably not even noticeable because it was surrounded by other beautiful flowering trees.  But this tree I had focused on, small as it may be, had lush pink flowers whereas the trees it stood amongst were all adorned with white flowers.  I reflected that right now, my tree looks injured and awkward.  Some of the branches are severed, some are cracked, and some need some pruning.  There are but a few flowers.  Yet, I know it won’t always be that way because of the lesson Darkness taught me.  Now, when I picture what my tree will look like six months or a year from now, I picture that small pink tree outside my backyard.  It may be small and still growing, but it is strong, beautiful, unique, well pruned, surrounded by other beautiful trees and not afraid to just be the tree that God and the Universe intended it to be. 

Side note:  I used to refer to myself as an asshole at least once in every blog-I thought it was funny, to be honest.  This is the first blog where I didn’t call myself an asshole.  When I call myself an asshole, I am sitting at Darkness’s table because I am actually not an asshole.  I am a deeply sensitive and loving person who has been hurt, so sometimes I hide behind a tough exterior but that does not make me an asshole.  I will no longer be using that term to refer to myself in these blogs.  This is also a branch I needed to cut down and I am not sure what will grow in its place, but perhaps it will be something kinder, gentler and more reflective of who I am as a human being.    

Second side note:  When I say cutting off branches, I do not mean I am going to cut people off (unless they are harming me in some way) or ghost them.  To date, I have only cut two people out of my life entirely and when I did, I didn’t ghost them because I think that is particularly cruel.  Rather, I told each of these people what I was doing and why.  For the most part, I won’t block people who have come into my life in some capacity because no matter what someone has done or what our history may be, I’d like to think I will always be there as a friend or someone that can be counted on when a person is need.  That is the kind of person I am and always want to be.  It is my greatest attribute and, maybe, also my worst, but it is how I would want to be treated-as a human being who deserves dignity and respect-not a commodity that can be easily discarded.