Humility and Gratitude

I experienced something beautiful this week.

My instructor made me and The Boy dinner.

She said that she knew about the divorce and that I was teaching 17 hours and that I was working on my thesis, and she could tell I was stretched thin.

She saw me. She heard me - and I wasn't even speaking. It was one of those moments of sheer compassion.

I'm used to being invisible, and thinking that I don't deserve the kindness of others. To receive the kind of simple goodness that that so freely given - was humbling.

I felt uncomfortable accepting her generosity. She is my instructor after all.

But then I had to realize that perhaps this was the universe sending me help, and that I needed to shut my mouth and accept it. I told her that I was struggling with my pride, and do you know what she said? She said that I needed to be kinder to myself. That no one wants to be a burden to others, but we sometimes have to give others the opportunity to be kind.

I want to be like her when I grow up. Strong, and confident, and generous, and healthy, and beautiful - really truly beautiful.

Thank you for teaching me humility and compassion by showing me what it looks like.
Because of your generosity, I have a new appreciation for the generosity of my friends. Thank you to the friend who saw me mention king cakes in a random post on Facebook, and sent me one :) Thank you to the friend who knew I had to work on my thesis, and loaned me a power converter so I could work in my car. Thank you to the friend who is so very sympatico - who can (rather creepily) read my mind across the miles. Thank you to the friend who is willing to tell me when I'm out of line, and that I need to step up my game. Thank you to the friend who is teaching me how to play.

I am not alone. I am not doing this alone. I have friends who love me. I have complete strangers who care. I am a human being, and I deserve the kindness of others.

Today is beautiful. Thank you for sharing it with me.

Why Would Anyone DO This?

A friend who reads this blog asked me a question a few weeks ago, "Why would anyone want to read this? It is pain. It is a total downer, and no one needs this!"

Which is why I haven't posted for a while. I had to think about what they said. Was I really wasting my time? Was I engaging in emotional exhibitionism?

And then I had to take a domestic violence class this weekend. It really was a horrible class - on multiple levels.

(1) This was a professional development class. I knew the topic going in the door. I knew that there was the possibility of trauma triggers, but it was "professional" - um. no. Somehow the prof didn't get that memo. Random readings from a DV textbook + Lifetime movies = NOT professional.... ended up with my sweater over my head, fingers in my ears, humming "The Sound of Music" to keep out the sound of screaming from the screen.

(2) The class was filled with "professionals" and pre-professionals in the social work and criminal justice fields, and their heads were being filled with ideas like, "women are the victims" and "you can tell who a victim is just by looking at them" and that "once a DV victim - always a DV victim." My horror was waging with my desire for privacy. Whilst I am willing to be open and honest here. I'm not so much willing to spread my business in public - where I have to look at these people again.

So - yes. I do need to share this. The good, the bad, the ugly - and the painful.

Mostly because people (not just women) who are experiencing domestic violence or abuse or molestation often feel alone. In the depths of my depression and isolation, I **knew** that I was the only person in the world experiencing that kind of pain. I couldn't share with other people, because no one believed me. The reflection I was seeing of myself was that I was so broken and worthless, that I deserved the pain.

When someone goes looking for some connection to the rest of humanity - for some sign that what they are experiencing is real - and that there is hope, I hope they find this. Yes. It is painful. So is being abused. Yes, it is unpleasant. So are the lies we tell ourselves to make it through each day.

More importantly - the resources available on the internet and on the inside of bathroom doors all focus on the "getting away" decision. And there just aren't support stories for after. The times where doubt and fear and loneliness and shame have you standing at the door ready to beg to come back. They don't address the times in the middle of the night when you wake crying, desperate to reach out for someone in the night.

Lots of "happy ever after" stories, but nothing for those walking the path. Nothing for those of us learning how to walk. This is for those folks. A fragile thread that connects the human experience for people who are barely hanging on themselves.

Dear People Learning to be Professionals,
          Domestic violence is experienced by folks of all sexes and all genders and all ages from all walks of life. You cannot tell who suffers just by looking at them. Domestic violence is more than hitting. Wounds from words, from silence, from distance, from financial manipulation are still wounds. Our legal system has only recognized domestic violence (battering) as a crime in the last 40 years. This is not enough time for the social values represented by those laws to fully become social norms in society. This means that folks who experience domestic violence need support before, during, and after leaving the situation. This also means that people experiencing domestic violence may not even understand that is what is happening to them, and that they may blame themselves for the violence in their lives.
          Please, these folks - **I** - don't need your patronizing rescue fantasies.  We need support. We need to hear that we can learn different ways of talking to ourselves. We need to hear that we need to take care of ourselves first, and that we aren't being selfish by taking care of ourselves. We are strong people. By standing in front of you - by surviving - we are the strongest people you will ever meet. We need to learn to treat ourselves with respect and dignity and compassion. Don't write us off because we get scared and go back. We are humans, and we are terrified. Don't judge us until you have walked in our shoes, until you have felt our pain, and cried our tears. You do not have that right.

Learn compassion before judgement.

Thank you.
A.

Hate is a dangerous word

When my kids were little, they would get mad and scream, "I hate you!" We - and that is an inclusive we - would tell them, "You can only hate someone if you truly love them, and it is impossible to hate someone you love."


Ok -the logic was very circular, but they were 9 and 5, what did they know?


So, I ran across this quotation last night on Pintrest:

No one falls in love by choice, it is by chance.

No one stays in love by chance, it is by work.

No one falls out of love by chance, it is by choice.

I would really like to hate my partner. I would really like to feel apathy (because that is the true opposite of love). I would like to NOT think about my partner.

And then, I realize I don't want to be the kind of person who is capable of hate. I don't want to ever look on another human being and feel apathy. But I would really also like to stop hurting - any day now would be good.

I did fall in love.

I didn't always know how to work on my relationship, and sometimes I did my work badly. And The Therapist took great pains to try and convince me I had done everything I could to make my relationship work. (And My Monster voice just popped up and said, "Obviously not, he still left, decided not to work on our relationship, and didn't come back." Hush a minute - I'm working.)

I have to accept that he fell out of love by choice - and that is incredibly painful. Unconsciously/consciously - for whatever reason, he did make that choice. 

I wish I knew how to make the same choice. But then, I come back to the circular argument of - I don't want to be the sort of person who can do that. 

Ugh. 

Recovery

Hi. My name is A----. I over commit myself on a regular basis. I try to please other people, and feel insecure in the face of censure and criticism. I made poor choices in the past that make my life more difficult now. I try to avoid conflict because I'm scared of people leaving me. I have problems being honest when I'm scared. I would rather deny my own needs than have someone angry with me.

The difference now is - I know this about my self.

So tonight, when I was completely honest with someone for the first time - ever - I had to catch myself and bite my tongue. The desire to cave and appease was so incredibly strong. I just wanted everything to be OK.  I wanted to be loved and reassured and comforted, and I had to not take that path - on purpose - and it was so incredibly hard.

And I am still breathing. And the world didn't end. And relationships change. And I don't have to like it, I just have to let it be what it is.

Still.... while part of me feels strong and in control and true to me, there is a part of me that would really like a hug right now. There is still fear/panic that my honesty, my vulnerability will be used against me. Being genuine is scary. Being an adult is scary. There isn't anyone here to hold your hand or to let you know that you are doing the right thing.

My friend has quotations from Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and Gandhi around her desk, and whilst looking for one of her quotations, I found this, "Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about the things that matter." I learned a long time ago that there was safety in silence. That if I was silent and still enough, that people wouldn't see me. If they couldn't see me, they couldn't hurt me.

Unfortunately, in my current situation, it made things worse.

I wish I had had the voice to say, "No, Stop. What you are doing is wrong."
I wish I had had the presence of self to say, "Fuck you. I'm done. I'm out."
I wish I had had the words to say, "I feel taken for granted. I feel over-whelmed. I don't know what to do, and I need help."
I wish I had had the courage to say, "Kiss my ass."

But I didn't.

I CAN speak now though. I'm a different person now than I was then. And that is a good thing. The person I am now wouldn't last a minute in that relationship.

So, I apologized to the person I care about for being a brat. I apologized for not knowing how to take care of my own needs. I apologized for not being honest. I apologized for not taking care of myself.

I don't know if the person was in a place where they could hear me. Not so much for me, but so that they know that THEY were heard. Doesn't excuse their behavior and choices. Doesn't make poor behavior OK. But I hurt someone, out of fear, out of anxiety, in silence, but I still hurt them. And I regret that more than anything.

Still Not Procrastinating... Honest

That said, I just dropped in to let the exactly zero people world who read my blog, that I haven't fallen off the wagon.  I am, admittedly, hanging on with fingernails.

I am getting back on track with grading, got some of my thesis actually written (!), and have met with my committee to revise and readjust scope.

I have also resorted to bribing The Boy to help me clean the house (a copy of Minecraft + $20) and rearrange the furniture. I also adjusted the budget so that I will be eating oatmeal and peanut butter for the rest of the month, but I washed all my clothes and bedclothes at the laundromat, and sent my shirts to the cleaners so they could be ironed.

I **DO** have a more regular (free!) laundry arrangement, but the amount of laundry I had today would have been taking advantage of that particular situation. Since I will NEED that situation for the rest of the month, I had no desire to wear out my welcome.

As for the shirts... COULD I have ironed them? Yes. Could I have done it for a heck of a lot less than I am paying? Absolutely. I am trying to free up time in my life though so I can spend time on this dang thesis, and I am not having any luck with the "not sleeping" thing.

I even resorted to ordering the cat's wet food and his kitty litter from Amazon. I can't decide if that is shameful or practical as heck. I'm going to argue that at this point in my life, it doesn't freaking matter.

On top of the usual "no time to breathe", I managed to go in for a dental cleaning, and came out with an emergency root canal, antibiotics, pain pills, and not a whole lot accomplished this week. I did sleep. Like. A. Log. But didn't get a whole lot done otherwise.

That said, the dentist gave me a Novocaine injection, and the nearly constant pain that I've had going on - went away! It was total magic... so magic I was going to sleep in the dental chair, during a root canal. Exhaustion + pain relief = Sleep.

So, I am caught up with online grading, stats grading, and have at least a lesson plan in place for tomorrow. Still need to get up in the morning and write a lecture. This whole teaching thing was easier when I didn't use PowerPoints - sigh. Yes. I caved to student pressure to produce them. At least now, I will have them in place for next term.

That's good, right?

Honesty Sucks Toe-Jam Crusted Socks

Over the past week, during my many moments of spare time, I have revisited several authors' works on emotion. I even called my therapist up and had a phone session with her.

This idea that rage is a natural response to anger or frustration has really been bothering me.

This lead to a lot of questioning about "acceptable" and "should" and "natural", and the general consensus has been that feeling angry is healthy. It tells you something is WRONG, and that you need to stop, figure out what it is, and do something about it. There is even some agreement that rage could be a response to anger. However, everyone (books, therapist, friends who are willing to debate these things with me without taking the conversation as a personal attack) resoundingly agrees that while someone can choose to respond to feelings of anger with rage, I don't have to stand around and be part of it, and that being honest with myself - and others - means that I need to be clear that I will not tolerate rage.

Which beg the question: Why do I keep letting myself get caught in other people's shit storms of rage?

As part of my wonderings (wanderings??), I revisited Alasko's book, Emotional Bullshit. I've read and reread this  book a number of times over the last year or so. This time, I think I was in a place where I could think about the principles Alasko outlines.

For example, I am currently in a whole world of shit.

I am over-committed at work. I am teaching 17 hours this term.
I am over-committed at school. I need to write a thesis and I'm taking six hours (because that way financial aid will pay for my classes).
I am over-committed at home. The Boy has a list of activities. I am trying to maintain my home.
And I have no real budget that plans for long-term expenses.

I lived in denial for a really long time that the situation is as messed up as it is. I was surviving - well, to be honest, I wasn't dead, and grades were being turned in. The Boy was fed, and no one could call the health department on the state of my house.

I lived in a world where I thought if I just ran faster, I could get everything done, and people would stop yelling at me. This is all important because as I read through Alasko's book this time, I finally understood one of the scenarios he uses to explain his philosophy - *I* was the person who kept saying, "Yes" in a desperate attempt to be accepted. *I* kept agreeing to do things that I really had no capability to complete, because agreement (and then failure) was easier than the potential for conflict I associated with telling someone, "No."

Being honest with myself and others means I am going to have to tell them, "No" sometimes, and that scares me. "No. I don't have time to come visit today." "No, I really can't take on another class." "No, I really can't commit to serving on your committee." "No, I can't meet you except for during office hours." "No, I can't have this conversation with you right now."

Right now, I find myself in the rather uncomfortable situation of knowing I am over-committed for this term, and not being able to change my commitments. I have to work. I have to finish the thesis. I have to take care of my kid and myself. And, I don't know where to start.

That isn't true. I know what I have to get done between now and tomorrow, because I have classes that are tomorrow, and papers that have to be returned. I need to grade about 100 papers, write two lectures, and pack food. Tomorrow is my long day. I get up at 4:30 and I don't stop until 11 at night. I will drive about 110 miles tomorrow. So, what it looks like I need to do is stop writing here (no matter how good it feels to think these things through with no one but the universe listening), and get busy.

Peace.

Sociological Autobiography

So - I am one of those teachers who prefers to lead by example.
Usually, I am enthusiastic about that philosophy.

Right now, I'm mostly wishing I was one of those teachers that just issued a standardized test twice a term and called it a day.

I have asked my students to create a writing portfolio, and they will have a scaffolded assignment that begins with looking at their own story through a sociological lens, and progresses through the academic writing process (annotated bibliography, culture studies, family interviews) culminating in a teaching activity where they teach the class about a particular culture group as they have experienced it. Sounds really awesome - on paper - right up until a student says, "But, I don't have any understanding of what a sociological autobiography looks like. Can you show me an example?" And you realize, there aren't any examples lying about on the internet... and you have to write one for your students.

This gets particularly uncomfortable when you realize you made a commitment to your students to be honest with them. So. Yeah.... fuck.

I did limit the first assignment to 1000 to 1500 words. I wrote, and edited, and wrote, and cried a little, and edited. And I think I ended up with something that is honest, sociological, and appropriate for sharing with students... ok... I probably should have edited the profanity out of it, but I justify leaving it in because it is honestly me.

-------------

The first thing I remember is my mother. She was sitting on the floor painting cartoon animals on the wall. She was pregnant. She had a cigarette in her mouth, in a way I now recognize as the exact same way her mother held a cigarette in her mouth. She had a paintbrush in one hand and a glass of red wine in the other, and she was laughing. I don’t know what she was laughing about, I just remember feeling warm, and safe, and loved.

My mother grew up in what sociologists call absolute poverty. She knew dirt floors, homemade clothes, and work – hard work. She was one of six children. Her father was blinded in a coal mine accident and her mother was responsible for supporting their family. This is important because her experiences shaped how she raised me. My mother taught herself how to read when she was teaching me. My mother insisted I attend college. My mother made sure I could also clean house, raise babies, and live frugally. I learned some of her lessons better than others.

My parents were from the part of Appalachia where the only occupations available to them were farming, the coal mines, or joining the military. My dad joined the military. He volunteered to serve in the Vietnam war. He eventually made a career out of the military, and to a little kid – all this means is that daddy isn’t home - a lot. My dad celebrated my birthday with me twice. Once was during a move across country. They forgot to get me a birthday present, so they stopped at a Kmart and bought me a blue school satchel with silver clasps and some pencils. As a grown up, I understand the craziness that happens with a move from Virginia to California with a limited budget and four kids in tow. As a little kid – I felt forgotten. This is important because I often felt forgotten or not wanted.

When I was little, my older cousins molested me. I remember them saying what they were doing was OK, “because this is what grownups do when they love each other.” I believed them. I believed that I had to do what they wanted, if I wanted them to love me. This is important because it shaped all my relationships with men. I would often put up with abuse or neglect or shame, because I was scared of not being loved if I objected. I was scared of being abandoned if I said, “No. Stop. What you are doing is not OK.”

About a year after the molestations started, they stopped. I had learned to stuff my feelings down with food. I had started getting fat. My cousins didn’t want sex with fat girls, so they left me alone. Unfortunately, I had already learned that fat girls are invisible in our society. No one sees them, and no one notices them, and they are generally left alone – except for the bouts of teasing. For me, the bouts of teasing, and the crushing loneliness were better than being noticed by men. I had learned to hide in my burqa of fat. This is important because my self-compassion was crushed, and I thought I deserved to be treated with abuse. This impacted my health care decisions, my mate selections, and even how I parented my child.

My son is the most important thing to ever happen in my life. He lifted the veil on my burqa. My son was born to a 14-year old girl addicted to street drugs. I was told he would never walk or talk, and that I should put him in an institution – that he was only going to cause me pain. I remember coming home from the doctor’s office and really REALLY wishing I had told the patronizing asshole of a doctor to fuck off. I have spent the time since then proving the fucker wrong. This is important because for the first time in my life, I had someone other than myself to fight for. I learned compassion and empathy, because my son needed it more than other kids. I learned that rocking the social boat was necessary, because my son needed unconventional accommodations. I learned to educate myself, because I had to educate others. I learned to get angry and say, “No. What you are doing is not OK, and you will NOT treat my son like that.”  

Because of the lessons I learned from my son, I was able to start applying those lessons to my own life. I am learning to treat myself with compassion. This is important because our society does not treat fat women with compassion. We are treated as if we are lazy or stupid, as if fat sucks our brains out of our heads and hides it with the jelly doughnuts around our stomachs. I know I am fat. I wake up every day and see that I am fat. I know I am fat every time I get a dirty look from a woman eating lettuce with carrot juice while I eat something that tastes like real food. I know I am fat every time I walk around the block, and hear people laugh. Thanks, I’ve figured out I’m fat. Fuck off now and let me get on with living.

I have learned that consent – real consent – might piss people off, and they might leave, and that really is OK – because I really am better off without them. This is important because in our society we don’t have honest conversations about what consent is and what consent is not. I have learned that if I think my choices are (a) have sex or (b) my partner will have sex with someone else, then my choice needs to be (b) – besides, my mother always said I should share my outgrown toys with the less fortunate.

I have learned that anger sometimes is a responsible, and adult choice. I have also learned what I do with my anger is more important than feeling anger. This is important because in our society, women have been taught, historically, to be silent, and that an angry woman is probably just hysterical. I can feel angry, and still not pull a scene reminiscent of Jerry Springer. I can feel angry, and still communicate effectively and get my needs met. This is one of those lessons I’m not learning as well as some of the others. There are still people who I let push my buttons, and I turn into a raging lunatic. I’m also having compassion for where I am in my journey, and forgiving myself – after I apologize, of course.

 I have learned that other people have their own shit to deal with, and 98% of the time, their shit has nothing to do with me. It is their own anger/shame/hurt coming out sideways to dump on the easiest target (read that: person most likely to take the shit and not complain too much) available. This is important because it takes a lot of courage for me to say, “Do you mean to sound like an asshat?” This is important because conflict, particularly conflict coming from women is interpreted as bitchiness in our society. The message I internalized was that either I could let people treat me as a doormat or I would be ostracized for being a bitch. Loneliness always scared me more than pain, so I let people walk all over me. I wasn’t honest with them, or with myself about my needs and wants and desires in life.

Looking back, I am a long way away from that little girl who watched her mom paint cartoons on the wall. I do remember what it feels like to feel safe and loved and whole. That is more than what some people have. Those feelings of security and love were pretty rare for me for a very long time, and I tried to fill the hole where they were supposed to be with a lot of different things – mostly sex and carbohydrates. I didn’t know I could fill that hole myself, that I didn’t need other people (or cupcakes) to fill it for me. Right now, I can look at the statuses I have in my life: mother, partner, teacher, student, daughter, friend – and feel mostly OK about them. The changes I need to make in them will come in their own time and in their own way, and I am OK with the journey. 

I want to learn to sing.

I've been thinking about HOW I want to develop change in my life. I haven't really been procrastinating (hence, no recent blog posts). As that is my usual mode of operation, I think it is important to clarify that THIS time I wasn't procrastinating. I was hibernating, and letting ideas germinate and grow.

I wasn't coming up with answers for the longest time. Checklists discourage me, because I forget to do them, and then I feel guilty - and G_d knows, I already have enough shame and self-loathing in my life, I don't need to go looking for it.  Accountability partners haven't really worked out in the past, and everyone I know is working on their own growth. I have problems imagining anyone would be interested in helping me be accountable for learning to treat myself with compassion. After all, we live in a society where we are trained from infancy to be our own worst critics.

Then, I went to Mass on Sunday (yes, I KNOW it is Thursday - bear with me). The Boy was participating with his usual 10% enthusiasm, there was standing room only, we were seated in a back corner next to the garbage can, and I had an elbow in the bookshelf. To be fair, it was the first Sunday after the term started, and new students + desperate prayers to pass another term = extra bodies in an already outgrown space. I was feeling a bit disgruntled.

At the end of Mass, we sing a hymn. This Sunday, it was "We Three Kings," one of my favorite Christmas carols. A former student joyfully sang along at the top of his lungs, and I realized it was the most beautiful sound I had heard in a long, long while. My student doesn't have the ability to speak. He can vocalize and communicate, but it isn't typical speech. And he didn't give a fuck. He sang and sang and sang, bright and beautiful and glorious. I realized in that moment, I felt envy.

He has what I want - the presence of self to do what fills him with joy, and fuck any one who doesn't like it.

So when The Boy commented after Mass that the man sang like a wounded hippo, I said, "I know. I want to learn to sing like that." He thought I was joking. We were able to have a parenting moment, where we talked about courage, and honesty, and joy and giving 110%, and about judgement. But, that is his story, not mine.

My story is - I want to learn to sing like my student. I want to live my life out loud. I want to be honest with myself and the rest of the world.

 I'm still not sure HOW to do this, but I think I have a better idea of what that might look like now.

About that Walking Business

A while back, I commissioned some personal mascots from Willie Hewes. (She is brilliant, incredibly intuitive, and knits - what other recommendations can I give?) I have three - the one I use as my online icon, another that is eerily creepily spot on, and this one.

This one has my monster in it. The creature in my head that talks to me an awful lot. It usually is saying things like, "Jesus, A----! Could you be more stupid?" or "Is that person laughing? I bet they are laughing at you because you have done something incredibly stupid." Mostly though, especially lately, he says things like, "Christ. No wonder your primary personal relationship is such a failure. You can't even manage to get out of bed!" and "You do know that the teaching police will figure out you don't know what the hell you are doing, and come take your students away. It is just a matter of time." and "Your kid is going to be such a fuck up, and IT IS ALL YOUR FAULT!"

I do understand (Thanks, Willie!), that my monster is just trying to keep me safe, and that if I can just learn to talk to my monster, we can share the space in my head a little more cooperatively. Unfortunately, I'm in a place where I hear him screaming at me - and I freeze up.

This really is relevant. I promise.

The rest of the picture is the tarot card - The Fool.

Willie and I had a fantastic, engaged, fully present conversation on Skype about this particular mascot.

That ledge there - it could be just a few inches, or it could be a cliff - and I don't know, and won't know until I start walking. I don't know where exactly I'm going because the road is long and twists, and I can't see the end of it. My monster is there to hurry me on my way, and to try to keep me safe.  He has teeth though, so sometimes he isn't as gentle as I would like.  I have my burdens to carry on the way, because this isn't a fairy tale. Willie took great pains to portray me as I am, so I could clearly visualize ME taking that first step. I've just spent the last several years (lifetimes?) being too scared to start.

All journeys begin with a single step - all assuming you know how to walk.

I've had lots of people in my life screaming at me (some literally) to just get up and walk (figuratively). To just stop feeling sad. To just lose weight. To just get my thesis done. No one has taken the time to teach me how to have compassion for where I am, and for who I am. That is fine - yes - I am serious. I think most people don't know how to do those things for themselves, and needs and wants and resentment all get twisted up and come out sideways and it is easier to lash out at an easy target. It doesn't make their behavior OK - it is what it is. I have to take responsibility for teaching myself how to walk, how to live, how to be. The people passing judgement, yelling, hating - they can't help me because they can't help themselves. Neither of us would get anywhere if I tried that route - I know - I've tried.

My friend asked me tonight if I had made any New Year's resolutions. I quipped back that I already had more than my fair share of self-loathing, why would I set myself up for failure by making resolutions that I would end up breaking, and then feel guilty about?

I think I finally have an answer for her nearly two and a half hours later...

I resolve to be kinder to A----. She has been through hell, and this coming year isn't looking much better than the last. She really needs all the compassion and kindness she can lay her hands on.

I think I will think on this some more, and consider using some variety of the ideas laid out in The Happiness Project. I like the idea of monthly themes. I just know how I am when I commit to something and then don't follow through (please revisit Hyperbole and a Half's Adventures in Depression if you would like pictures to illustrate the depths of my self-abuse. I swear - She. Has. A. Peephole. In. My. Brain.)

Pondering.....

Hi, my name is A----..

and I identify as a feminist. That probably isn't the most important thing about me - but it is what shapes this blog, so it is important to get out there right off.

Because I am a feminist who also teaches sociology, I believe that my lived experience shapes my version of reality, and in turn shapes how I interact with the rest of the world. Since you (my readers) are the part of the world, I think it is fair to let you know how my position in time and space impacts my writing.

Wow - that sounds like mental masturbation - even to me.

Try this again...

Hi. My name is A----. I am a female human who lives in the United States. I grew up in a politically conservative household - although I've gotten better. I have survived sexual molestation and domestic violence. I am a non-traditional student. I am a mom. I live with major depressive disorder. I weigh 260.8 pounds. I teach college students. I also knit socks... for fun... seriously.

I do not know how to treat myself with compassion. I have learned - really well - how to be "nice" to other people, but not myself.

My goal for the next year is to learn how to be honest with myself, and to live a more authentic life. I can feel the academic in me wanting to contextualize "to live a more authentic life". I've been reading a number of books over the last year, and I have a pretty good idea of what that is SUPPOSED to mean - but I don't know what it means to me. Is it the reality I've been shaping for myself for the last 30-some-odd years? That seems/seemed pretty darn real, especially since I had no clue that life can/could be lived any other way. Or is it the reality I wish my life could be? That seems pretty darn "magical thinking" - and more likely to set me up for failure. I honestly don't know the answer.

A few things have come together lately that have indicated that this blog is necessary. Obese people experience stigma, cruelty, and generalized lack of compassion on a daily basis. Sometimes lives have to fall apart, so they can be rebuilt on a solid foundation of honesty. And no matter how much I beat myself up - or let others beat me up - I can only do what I can do right now. And, most importantly, I realized that I cannot be a decent parent without learning to treat myself with compassion.

I am the person who is supposed to teach my son how to be a grownup. And I honestly don't like the grownup I have become. I've read The Happiness Project and Dr. Neff's book on Self-Compassion. I've taken Jeff Brown's NVC workshop and read Marshall Rosenberg's books. Mostly, I feel rather the same about my life as I do my thesis - I've been doing a lot of research, and very little writing. So - I am going to do my best to write myself out of this hole. I think that I need to learn how to live, and I think that other people need to know they aren't alone out there. I'm not promising you a happy ending. I do promise to be as honest as I know how to be.