Blog warning! Having a bouncing baby blog tempts one to become self-indulgent and maudlin.
Back on February 2, when I said I'd been figuring out an issue, and wondered if my digging into it might benefit others as well, I had no intention of rambling on for weeks about it!
Here's the point: Because of a leak in my memory chamber, or something, I never know when I'm going to forget something important, thus causing me to either let someone down, or fail at something in a spectacular and painful way. The crutches I figured out for myself are two (a good and useful number for crutches).
1. I must write everything, and I do mean everything, down.
2. I must look at my lists constantly, all day long. This means that during particularly high-event or high-stress or low energy times in my life, all of which happen regularly, I actually wear a tiny notebook and pen fastened to my clothing. I call it my External Memory.
Today, my life is under better control, and I can usually remember most things. I am always excited and proud when I remember something without checking my list, or even without writing it down - a dangerous risk to take, still.
So the background anxiety with which I live is a little lower in intensity, but I still have to worry all the time about whether I am succeeding, or forgetting, or . . . well, basically, pleasing ALL OF THE PEOPLE ALL OF THE TIME! (A separate, but related problem, I know. . .)
Thus the unusual fear of criticism. Here's the question, and it's a serious one, a question I have to face repeatedly:
Am I, in fact, capable of achieving a useful life? Of using to their fullest the cluster of gifts God has given me? Of exercising the deep compassion that my past has engendered in me for faulty humans? Or should I go back in the cave, because my best efforts may really hurt people?
Not to mention hurting me!
Each time I go through this soul-searching it's a little clearer to me, and this is the clearest it's been, so this blog has been of use to me, at least, if not to anyone else. But I'm still not entirely sure of the answer.
I can't quite quit, so I never quite do. . . I go back in the cave and cry and lick my wounds for awhile. Then I obsess and make myself sick over how to make everything perfect the next time. Oh, and by the way, the particular episode of criticism with which this particular episode of soul-searching began? It was, in fact, unjust. I did not fail, except in the sense of not meeting someone's expectations, always very painful to me, but I cannot and never will meet everyone's expectations. That doesn't seem to stop me from obsessing.
Well, enough of that. I think I'll just leave the question. I have to re-answer for myself daily, and I suppose you do, too. For now, I'll get up and take one more step.
Next week, an entirely new, and infinitely more interesting subject!
Repairing the Breach,
Debbonnaire
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
A Disability
I liked - almost loved - my new counselor. So I was horrified the first time I forgot an appointment. I apologized abjectly, with the usual feelings of shame and impotence. It happened several times. Desperately, I tried different ways of reminding myself. I begged her to show me what I could do differently.
She told me that I subconsciously wanted to miss. How could that be? I couldn't make her understand how longingly I looked forward to each chance to talk to her. If I really wanted to come, obviously I would remember.
"I'll help you by raising the stakes," she said. "The next time you miss, you'll have to pay full price."
I was terrified. How could I remember? What else could I do?
I'll never forget that week. Every day, I jerked, adrenaline flooding my chest. Today? No. The weakness of relief left me shaky. As the day approached, these panics were more frequent. On the day, I had a homeschool meeting, then choir practice. I must leave practice precisely on time.
The appointment was on my wall calendar, in my purse calendar. I told my children, tied a string around my wrist, and told my friends at the meeting. "I must leave immediately after practice! Please don't let me forget!"
All morning I jerked to attention at irregular intervals, fearfully checking the clock.
One of the attacks of adrenaline occurred on the way home. And this time it was too late. I realized, to my horror, I had stood and talked after practice, with never a thought of the appointment, and it was now too late. I can't describe the tears, or the helplessness. What was wrong with me?
At home, hands shaking, I called the counselor's office. Her receptionist answered. I detailed for her, fighting tears, all the steps I had taken to ensure that I would not fail this time. "What," I asked miserably, "could I have done that I didn't do?"
"I don't know," she said, "but I am instructed to bill you for the full $60."
"I'll can only pay $5 a month," I replied dully. "I won't be back until the bill is paid in full."
In truth, I never paid, and I never went back. No one ever contacted me. I am sure this proved to the counselor's satisfaction that I really had not cared.
As for me, it took a long time to get over it, if in fact I am over it, and I realized that I had a genuine disability. Like many others who must cope with disabilities, I was going to require crutches of some sort. Clearly no one was going to help me. Somehow, I must help myself.
To be continued. . .
Repairing the Breach,
Debbonnaire
She told me that I subconsciously wanted to miss. How could that be? I couldn't make her understand how longingly I looked forward to each chance to talk to her. If I really wanted to come, obviously I would remember.
"I'll help you by raising the stakes," she said. "The next time you miss, you'll have to pay full price."
I was terrified. How could I remember? What else could I do?
I'll never forget that week. Every day, I jerked, adrenaline flooding my chest. Today? No. The weakness of relief left me shaky. As the day approached, these panics were more frequent. On the day, I had a homeschool meeting, then choir practice. I must leave practice precisely on time.
The appointment was on my wall calendar, in my purse calendar. I told my children, tied a string around my wrist, and told my friends at the meeting. "I must leave immediately after practice! Please don't let me forget!"
All morning I jerked to attention at irregular intervals, fearfully checking the clock.
One of the attacks of adrenaline occurred on the way home. And this time it was too late. I realized, to my horror, I had stood and talked after practice, with never a thought of the appointment, and it was now too late. I can't describe the tears, or the helplessness. What was wrong with me?
At home, hands shaking, I called the counselor's office. Her receptionist answered. I detailed for her, fighting tears, all the steps I had taken to ensure that I would not fail this time. "What," I asked miserably, "could I have done that I didn't do?"
"I don't know," she said, "but I am instructed to bill you for the full $60."
"I'll can only pay $5 a month," I replied dully. "I won't be back until the bill is paid in full."
In truth, I never paid, and I never went back. No one ever contacted me. I am sure this proved to the counselor's satisfaction that I really had not cared.
As for me, it took a long time to get over it, if in fact I am over it, and I realized that I had a genuine disability. Like many others who must cope with disabilities, I was going to require crutches of some sort. Clearly no one was going to help me. Somehow, I must help myself.
To be continued. . .
Repairing the Breach,
Debbonnaire
Monday, February 06, 2006
Lost. . .
I am much more likely to fail at some things than Other People are.
On the face of it this is a truism. Of course we're all more likely to fail at some things than others. I, for instance, am likely to fail dramatically at playing the Warsaw Concerto, and you really, trust me, do not want me flying your airplane!
What I mean, however, is that while everyone makes mistakes, everyone forgets things, and everyone sometimes forgets something important and really screws up, "normal"(?) people do not forget as much as I do.
I have forgotten to show up for classes. . . that I was teaching.
I have planned things I particularly looked forward to, eagerly, day by day, "Is it time to go yet?" then hour by hour as the time wound down toward the longed-for event, then not only forgotten the event, but not thought of it again for two months.
I fairly commonly panic while on familiar roads near home, where I drive every day, wondering where I am and if I am headed toward home or not. This happens more at night than in the day, when landscapes suddenly seem terrifyingly unfamiliar.
Once, in my early 30s, I drove home alone to Ohio from Michigan, and found myself in Illinois.
I have to think about it to know whether I have brushed my teeth today, and I regularly forget to eat.
In short, I am not a dependable person. Deep breath. That hurts.
Am I sure I want to publish this where the world can see it?
What this means is that I travel through my days washed in low-level anxiety (high-level, killer anxiety if I am under unusual stress, because then I forget much more), constantly checking. Have I remembered to do what I said I would? Is there somewhere I am supposed to be? Am I letting someone down?
Story:
In my mid-30s, in the Dark Years, I actually had the blessed chance to get counseling from a sliding-scale county counseling agency. For $5 instead of $60, I could talk to a trained person. This, mind you, was in the era when I still believed I must simply be lazy, or something. Surely, if I tried hard enough, I could live the normal, only-sometimes-forgetful lives I saw people around me living.
I really liked this counselor. She was pretty young, and I wondered how she knew enough about life in general to counsel people older than herself, who had been through experiences she could only read about, but she was so kind and compassionate. She didn't think I was lazy, or a bad person. She believed I could succeed, and she believed she could help me. So I believed her, too. I looked forward passionately to each session, and hated when they were over. Somebody to listen to, to take care of, me!
To be continued. . .
Restoring the Breach,
Debbonnaire
On the face of it this is a truism. Of course we're all more likely to fail at some things than others. I, for instance, am likely to fail dramatically at playing the Warsaw Concerto, and you really, trust me, do not want me flying your airplane!
What I mean, however, is that while everyone makes mistakes, everyone forgets things, and everyone sometimes forgets something important and really screws up, "normal"(?) people do not forget as much as I do.
I have forgotten to show up for classes. . . that I was teaching.
I have planned things I particularly looked forward to, eagerly, day by day, "Is it time to go yet?" then hour by hour as the time wound down toward the longed-for event, then not only forgotten the event, but not thought of it again for two months.
I fairly commonly panic while on familiar roads near home, where I drive every day, wondering where I am and if I am headed toward home or not. This happens more at night than in the day, when landscapes suddenly seem terrifyingly unfamiliar.
Once, in my early 30s, I drove home alone to Ohio from Michigan, and found myself in Illinois.
I have to think about it to know whether I have brushed my teeth today, and I regularly forget to eat.
In short, I am not a dependable person. Deep breath. That hurts.
Am I sure I want to publish this where the world can see it?
What this means is that I travel through my days washed in low-level anxiety (high-level, killer anxiety if I am under unusual stress, because then I forget much more), constantly checking. Have I remembered to do what I said I would? Is there somewhere I am supposed to be? Am I letting someone down?
Story:
In my mid-30s, in the Dark Years, I actually had the blessed chance to get counseling from a sliding-scale county counseling agency. For $5 instead of $60, I could talk to a trained person. This, mind you, was in the era when I still believed I must simply be lazy, or something. Surely, if I tried hard enough, I could live the normal, only-sometimes-forgetful lives I saw people around me living.
I really liked this counselor. She was pretty young, and I wondered how she knew enough about life in general to counsel people older than herself, who had been through experiences she could only read about, but she was so kind and compassionate. She didn't think I was lazy, or a bad person. She believed I could succeed, and she believed she could help me. So I believed her, too. I looked forward passionately to each session, and hated when they were over. Somebody to listen to, to take care of, me!
To be continued. . .
Restoring the Breach,
Debbonnaire
A Secret Beast
Fifteen years or so ago, I started getting well. And then finding out how sick I'd really been, and getting a little more well. . . yeah. People who have spent any time in the abyss of depression or other forms of mental dis-ease will know what I mean, and what a long, arduous process it is.
Eleven years ago, I married a man who loves me. Who loves me! Who loves me! And who is nothing if not stable and steady. I tell him I embroider his life with color and excitement, and he gives me sturdy, even cloth on which to embroider.
Often we can see this as the good thing it really is.
So here I am. I get a criticism. A normal part of a normal life, if you're not spending all your energy hiding out in the cave so nobody can see you, let alone shoot at you. And what happens? Well, just at first, any normal person is hurt, a little or a lot, depending on the nature of the criticism. We all want to be perfect, please all of the people all of the time. But a healthy, mature person not only knows that's impossible, but that criticism can actually make you grow. So a healthy, mature person (and I've spent a lot of years working to become a healthy, mature person) can set aside the pangs, dig through the criticism for seeds of truth, plant those, thank the person, and go on.
Last week, in the throes, this was happening. But it was not all that was happening. I was in turmoil! In way too much pain to suit the circumstances! What, I demanded of myself, was going on? Why do I overreact so, at least sometimes?
That's when I realized there was a whole different beast involved, quite aside from the normal (momentary) human desire not to ever fail or be perceived as failing. I dug it out and looked at it, and decided there might be others who could benefit from the digging, so here we are.
To be continued. . .
Still digging, trying to find bedrock so we can restore the breach and not have it fall down again.
Debbonnaire
Eleven years ago, I married a man who loves me. Who loves me! Who loves me! And who is nothing if not stable and steady. I tell him I embroider his life with color and excitement, and he gives me sturdy, even cloth on which to embroider.
Often we can see this as the good thing it really is.
So here I am. I get a criticism. A normal part of a normal life, if you're not spending all your energy hiding out in the cave so nobody can see you, let alone shoot at you. And what happens? Well, just at first, any normal person is hurt, a little or a lot, depending on the nature of the criticism. We all want to be perfect, please all of the people all of the time. But a healthy, mature person not only knows that's impossible, but that criticism can actually make you grow. So a healthy, mature person (and I've spent a lot of years working to become a healthy, mature person) can set aside the pangs, dig through the criticism for seeds of truth, plant those, thank the person, and go on.
Last week, in the throes, this was happening. But it was not all that was happening. I was in turmoil! In way too much pain to suit the circumstances! What, I demanded of myself, was going on? Why do I overreact so, at least sometimes?
That's when I realized there was a whole different beast involved, quite aside from the normal (momentary) human desire not to ever fail or be perceived as failing. I dug it out and looked at it, and decided there might be others who could benefit from the digging, so here we are.
To be continued. . .
Still digging, trying to find bedrock so we can restore the breach and not have it fall down again.
Debbonnaire
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Tales of Woe
So there I was, a two-year-old baby, with scarlet fever, and a temp of 106.8 F, according to my mother. Who knows what brain damage that inflicted?
Explains a lot, doesn't it?
Anyway, she also says I changed completely, from a lively, active baby who never met a stranger to a quiet, shy introvert. I have no memory of this, naturally, but I do certainly remember growing up so timid I rarely spoke unless spoken to.
For those who know me, I realize this boggles the mind, but trust me - it's true!
A decade later, I began experiencing emotional trauma I don't propose to go into here. And in college, there was an episode where I suddenly started having some rather alarming physical symptoms for no discernible reason. When that passed, (and I still don't know the reason, although it has occurred to me recently that there may have been a tick bite - two-inch hard red circle, with a white center. . . Might I have had Lyme disease? Might I still have it in some form??)
What on earth does this have to do with my ability to take criticism??
Well, from that point I have had lifelong difficulties with my memory and with clumsiness. You know how people talk about "senior moments" beginning in your 40s, or even your 30s? Try 21. I began forgetting not just small things, but things of great importance, either to myself or to others, or both. Try as I might, I could not remember. I missed important appointments, failed at previously simple tasks, lost things. . .
There followed another couple decades of emotional trauma including divorce, poverty, single motherhood, and depression, just to name the major ones. People never remember or function well under extreme stress. I recall I once measured 700something on that stress scale where anything over 300 is supposed to mean you're riding for a fall.
It was somewhere in there that I wrote that journal entry I mentioned, about being flat in the mud but determined the enemy of my soul was not going to laugh over my limp body.
So the little donkey got up and took one more staggering step. . .
To be continued. . .
Restoring the Breach,
Debbonnaire
Explains a lot, doesn't it?
Anyway, she also says I changed completely, from a lively, active baby who never met a stranger to a quiet, shy introvert. I have no memory of this, naturally, but I do certainly remember growing up so timid I rarely spoke unless spoken to.
For those who know me, I realize this boggles the mind, but trust me - it's true!
A decade later, I began experiencing emotional trauma I don't propose to go into here. And in college, there was an episode where I suddenly started having some rather alarming physical symptoms for no discernible reason. When that passed, (and I still don't know the reason, although it has occurred to me recently that there may have been a tick bite - two-inch hard red circle, with a white center. . . Might I have had Lyme disease? Might I still have it in some form??)
What on earth does this have to do with my ability to take criticism??
Well, from that point I have had lifelong difficulties with my memory and with clumsiness. You know how people talk about "senior moments" beginning in your 40s, or even your 30s? Try 21. I began forgetting not just small things, but things of great importance, either to myself or to others, or both. Try as I might, I could not remember. I missed important appointments, failed at previously simple tasks, lost things. . .
There followed another couple decades of emotional trauma including divorce, poverty, single motherhood, and depression, just to name the major ones. People never remember or function well under extreme stress. I recall I once measured 700something on that stress scale where anything over 300 is supposed to mean you're riding for a fall.
It was somewhere in there that I wrote that journal entry I mentioned, about being flat in the mud but determined the enemy of my soul was not going to laugh over my limp body.
So the little donkey got up and took one more staggering step. . .
To be continued. . .
Restoring the Breach,
Debbonnaire
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Personal Issues
WARNING! Wordy, wordy, wordy!
I debated at some length whether to post this in my blog. For one thing, I've promised myself my blog entries will all be short. For another, it's all about personal issues, and while I know most blogs are just that, I always wonder, "Does anyone find this stuff interesting besides the blogger's friends?"
Well, I have decided, shrugging philosophically, this is a new blog, and my friends are the only ones reading it! If I get rich and famous, maybe my adoring fans will want to know what it is that causes that odd tockety in my tick. And I'll just point them to my blog and say cheerfully, "Second entry - February 1, 2006. You'll learn more about me there than you ever wanted to know!"
In the past few days, I have been hit, then hit again, then knocked down, then kicked while down. I feel (just like the rest of the race, no doubt) that I have a worse time than most people getting up and going on from these disasters.This has all happened, mind you, right after that noble first post in which I advocated the virtues of courageously getting up and taking one more step toward home, like the brave little. . . ahem! . . .donkey. . .I am!
This last kick has made me think about issues which are central to the living of my life. Maybe to the living of all lives, which is another reason I decided to post, after all.
(I did warn you this was wordy, right?)
It was a painful criticism. And I just couldn't seem to stop brooding. Time and again I turned my mind to other things. I talked to friends, who comforted me. I prayed continuously. Nothing seemed to help for long. And really, I thought I had grown up enough by now to handle criticism better than that! I advocated, in my book Gardens of the Soul, the following lofty word picture of how to deal with criticism:
"Here's an idea. When someone throws rotten fruit at you, the first thing to do - as always - is to call on the Gardener. Then, together, hold your nose, put on gloves, and pick through it to see if there are any seeds of truth there. Uncomfortably often, you will find some. If you find any, plant them! Compost the rest, and it will eventually enrich you, despite the intentions of the fruit-thrower. And if there are not good seeds to be found, compost it all! Your criticizer's loss is your gain." (p. 140)
But you see, this was a criticism, rather a strong one, of something I thought I had done unexpectedly well. And this morning I finally figured out what the kernel of truth was. It has to do with a pretty major hole in myself - one I've always feared might prevent my accomplishing many of the things I hope to accomplish in life. One I don't know what to do about. One that makes me want to just go back into my cave and not bother.
And to understand it, I have to go right back to the beginnings of my life.
Wordy, wordy. . .
When I was two years old, I had scarlet fever. My temperature, according to my mother, rose as far as 106 degrees F. I thought you died with fevers like that. I do know they cause brain injury. We were quarantined. They gave me quinine. Is that the right medication? I'm probably remembering this story all wrong. And my mother says that after that things were never--
I just had the greatest idea! I can keep my blog entries short, and raise suspense levels at the same time. I'll just put to be continued. . .
Which means I'll have to tell all those future adoring fans to read February 1 ff. Well, that's all right. By then, they'll love my Way With Words, and especially with Word Pictures! Right?
More tomorrow.
Repairing the Breach,
(especially when it's in my own heart)
Debbonnaire
I debated at some length whether to post this in my blog. For one thing, I've promised myself my blog entries will all be short. For another, it's all about personal issues, and while I know most blogs are just that, I always wonder, "Does anyone find this stuff interesting besides the blogger's friends?"
Well, I have decided, shrugging philosophically, this is a new blog, and my friends are the only ones reading it! If I get rich and famous, maybe my adoring fans will want to know what it is that causes that odd tockety in my tick. And I'll just point them to my blog and say cheerfully, "Second entry - February 1, 2006. You'll learn more about me there than you ever wanted to know!"
In the past few days, I have been hit, then hit again, then knocked down, then kicked while down. I feel (just like the rest of the race, no doubt) that I have a worse time than most people getting up and going on from these disasters.This has all happened, mind you, right after that noble first post in which I advocated the virtues of courageously getting up and taking one more step toward home, like the brave little. . . ahem! . . .donkey. . .I am!
This last kick has made me think about issues which are central to the living of my life. Maybe to the living of all lives, which is another reason I decided to post, after all.
(I did warn you this was wordy, right?)
It was a painful criticism. And I just couldn't seem to stop brooding. Time and again I turned my mind to other things. I talked to friends, who comforted me. I prayed continuously. Nothing seemed to help for long. And really, I thought I had grown up enough by now to handle criticism better than that! I advocated, in my book Gardens of the Soul, the following lofty word picture of how to deal with criticism:
"Here's an idea. When someone throws rotten fruit at you, the first thing to do - as always - is to call on the Gardener. Then, together, hold your nose, put on gloves, and pick through it to see if there are any seeds of truth there. Uncomfortably often, you will find some. If you find any, plant them! Compost the rest, and it will eventually enrich you, despite the intentions of the fruit-thrower. And if there are not good seeds to be found, compost it all! Your criticizer's loss is your gain." (p. 140)
But you see, this was a criticism, rather a strong one, of something I thought I had done unexpectedly well. And this morning I finally figured out what the kernel of truth was. It has to do with a pretty major hole in myself - one I've always feared might prevent my accomplishing many of the things I hope to accomplish in life. One I don't know what to do about. One that makes me want to just go back into my cave and not bother.
And to understand it, I have to go right back to the beginnings of my life.
Wordy, wordy. . .
When I was two years old, I had scarlet fever. My temperature, according to my mother, rose as far as 106 degrees F. I thought you died with fevers like that. I do know they cause brain injury. We were quarantined. They gave me quinine. Is that the right medication? I'm probably remembering this story all wrong. And my mother says that after that things were never--
I just had the greatest idea! I can keep my blog entries short, and raise suspense levels at the same time. I'll just put to be continued. . .
Which means I'll have to tell all those future adoring fans to read February 1 ff. Well, that's all right. By then, they'll love my Way With Words, and especially with Word Pictures! Right?
More tomorrow.
Repairing the Breach,
(especially when it's in my own heart)
Debbonnaire
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