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Where Was I?

July 10, 2015 //
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I spent yesterday taking care of me: getting some rest, treating symptoms that had flared up, meditating (not at all the same thing as getting some rest), and putting some gentle distance between myself and Wednesday. (It wasn’t that Wednesday was so terrible, it was that small things about Wednesday found me very reactive, and got my PTSD going, which wrecked my sleep…etc; it’s a spiral that has to be interrupted as quickly as practical.) Real sleep was a challenge and other than a very restful nap in the late afternoon, the construction work nearby kept sleep just out of reach until evening. When evening came, I slept easily. I slept well. I slept deeply.

I was so tired I don't remember taking this picture.

I was so tired I don’t remember taking this picture.

I woke this morning at 4:59 am, just ahead of the alarm – my honest preference is to wake on time without the alarm going off. I dislike the sound of it, and hearing the noise of an alarm first thing before I am even awake does indeed ‘alarm’ me. I did not have to hear it this morning, and I woke feeling alert and… ‘ordered’. I don’t have the right word for that. I need a word that means ‘the opposite of disordered’. It would be more easily pursued and goal-worthy with its own name. 🙂

My coffee is a treat this morning, brewed from a blend of Latin American beans in a medium roast (“Pamplona“) it is a departure from my usual morning preference, which is generally for darker roasts. I am enjoying it without expectations or assumptions, and finding it quite pleasant, with rich, complex flavors. There’s really nothing much else going on right now. It is very early, the sky only beginning to turn shades of blue, and even the crows are quiet for the moment. There is no movement outside, beyond the open patio door, there is no sound besides the trickle of the aquarium and the hushed hum of humanity’s existence, and the rhythmic tap of middle-aged fingers on a mechanical keyboard. It’s quite lovely and still.

A bit at a time, I am getting to know myself on an entirely new level – the ups and the downs take on more meaning; I face them alone these days, most of the time. I am learning not to run from the difficult moments, which are often more manageable than my fears tell me they will be. I rarely cry. That’s a strange realization; I do not know what dried my tears. Is it really so hard just living side by side with other people? Has that, all by itself, been so much of the difficulty all along – more than hormones, more than being the older one, or being the one working, or being the one not sleeping, or… well… or any of it? My PTSD flares up less often, and less severely lately. My headaches are somewhat less frequent, and often less intense. I sleep more soundly, more of the time. Wait…am I right about this? Or is it merely the perspective of the moment?

Perspective matters. Is it a forest, or some trees?

Perspective matters. Is it a forest, or some trees?

I frequently make generalizations, and sometimes keep them. I’m quite human. From the perspective of this lovely moment, it is easy to reach back in time and connect it to other moments, create trends out of memories… Is there ever a way to be more certain of the truths on which my perspective rests? I give that some thought, and smile. For me there is; I write that much. I’ve kept a journal since I was a ‘tween; I still have every volume since I was in my twenties, although older ones were lost between moves at some point. I paused my journal writing in 2012; it had degraded into obsessive rumination and was doing more harm than good. When I picked it up again, about the same time I went into therapy in 2013, I focused on observational writing: simple, aware, nonjudgmental [at the request of my therapist, and often in a ‘homework assignment’ or ‘question & answer’ format] – and I continue to write, here in this blog, there in my journal, every day. I make notes about my life and my experience. I can ‘fact check’ myself – and regularly do. I don’t use my notes, or my journal, to attempt to correct the misunderstandings or perceptions of others; it is not my role to build, manage, or maintain someone else’s world view, but I have my own, and it is not easily shaken by argument. I have data.

Coffee and journals.

Coffee and journals.

I recently had a conversation with a friend, about a former associate. He said “she remembers things very differently than you do…” I don’t recall the context, but I recall smiling a certain knowing bitter smile. “I’m sure she does.” I said, preferring to move on without further discussion. There is no argument possible on the details, not only because was I there the first time; I made notes. Simple notes. Observational notes. Notes about actions taken. Notes about things said, and behavior in the delivery. Notes that detail chronology very clearly. I have rather a lot of notes, taken daily and summarized weekly. I can refer to them any time. I make a point of doing so because I am on a very particular journey to become the woman I most want to be. Understanding and perspective on who I am are valuable tools. I make a point of checking my notes when the risk of being mistaken is also the risk of hurting someone who matters to me; I am human, and fallible even in my own memory. Human beings rewrite their recollection of events to best suit their own understanding, and generally, more often than not, to make themselves the good guy, regardless how damaging their actions may be. Cognitive dissonance exists. I know where that bitter knowing smile of mine comes from, and it isn’t a happy place; I know people rewrite the how and the why of their actions to excuse mistreating others, because I have chronicled my experience with being mistreated. No stone throwing from me, I’m also human. Bottom line, it is not possible to rob me of my perspective of events, or persuade me to change my view…unless you bring data to the table.

In spite of the note taking, the study, the archived emails, “being right” is not important to me as an experience, and I dislike arguing. It is not a successful way to build an intimate connection, or to enjoy my experience, and my perspective is not subject to outside persuasion in that fashion. We are, however, each having our own experience. That doesn’t take anything from the underlying facts, and whether any one human being can or does acknowledge a fact does not alter the existence of the fact, itself. (More easily expressed as “science does not care what you believe”.) The point I’m making is… of course we each remember things differently than each other, even when we share an experience; our perspective is our own. My violent first husband didn’t consider himself a bad guy, or that his actions were ‘wrong’, generally. I certainly know how damaging his actions were, and the lingering damage definitely suggests he wasn’t ‘a good guy’. Perspective is a very big deal – I rely on my own these days, although I am also learning to listen deeply to the perspective expressed by others, whether I agree or not – it improves my understanding of that human being, what they are capable of, and the relationship we share.

People get very invested in ‘being right’. It isn’t for me to decide that is a mistake for anyone but me – I know my stress level went down a lot when I let go of that baggage and allowed myself to be open to change, open to new understandings, open to learning new information, open to being wrong, and to being mistaken. Being open takes so much less effort than being ‘right’, and it is so much less likely to find me being factually incorrect while demanding that my error be given validation as a truth. Being ‘wrong’ turns out not to be particularly scary, and it opens all sorts of doors to new knowledge, improved perspective, growth, and perhaps at some point, wisdom.

Walking my own path, finding my own way, seeking illumination.

Walking my own path, finding my own way, seeking illumination.

Today is a good day for perspective, and a happy genuine smile; my perspective is my own and can’t be taken from me, even by force. Today is a good day for growth, and just being, instead of ‘being right’. Today is a good day to embrace authenticity, and take ownership of my journey – we are each having our own experience, and I am my own cartographer. The map? Yeah, it’s still not the world.

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Categories Brain Injury, Fiction, Free Will, Logic & Reason, Mindfulness, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Relationships, Summer, The Art of Being, The Big 5, women, Words

The Secret to Great Coffee

July 9, 2015 //
0

One thing I do know about making a great cup of coffee in the morning is that the wait for that first sip is greatly shortened by actually turning on the stove, coffee machine, espresso machine, or whatever device or process gets things going. lol Apparently I learned this, this morning at about 6:30 am, after waiting almost an hour, not noticing the time passing, and finally wondering ‘where’s my coffee?’.

Yep. First thing this morning, 100% mindfulness fail. [Metaphorically picks self up off the playground, dusts off knees, straightens clothes, moves on.]

This morning, also very uncharacteristically, I ‘hit snooze’ when my alarm went off. Not the easy way, with the snooze feature; I don’t even know how to use that when I am not quite awake because I don’t use it. Instead, I squinted at the clock next to the lamp I had turned on out of habit, and reset the alarm for a half an hour later. If I’m going to try to grab more sleep, I’m not playing around with 6 minutes! It’s a rare choice; it means cutting into my leisurely morning time, but I slept badly, and my interrupted sleep did not provide the rest I needed. When the alarm went off this morning, I was not able to wake myself more than it took to reset the alarm and return to sleep. I didn’t even turn the lamp off.

These are some of the effects stress has on me that quickly worsen if I don’t practice really excellent self-care. Today is a day full of opportunities to choose – what are the choices that will result in the best self-care outcomes over time? I sip my coffee and consider it. The weekend is almost here – it’s tempting to shrug off my needs and push taking care of me to the weekend, but doing so likely would be more compromising than self-supporting, and could have hidden professional consequences due to noise sensitivity or loss of emotional resilience.

Yes, supporting me is important to me. I’m not afraid or ashamed to say so; I’m just not reliably skilled at it. One of the things that stressed me out so much yesterday (that is truly a small thing in the moment, but that for me presents real terror in the future) was a news article quoting a presidential candidate as saying Americans ‘need’ to ‘work more hours’ – what a load of bullshit! If anything, it’s criminal we’re not all happily thriving on a 32 hour work week, with overtime prohibitions, at a higher hourly rate of pay. There are certainly enough other people who would like to work, and many of us are indirectly robbing the marketplace of job opportunities by continuing to be pressured into working longer hours as it is, instead of insisting businesses hire the staff they really need to do these jobs, and go ahead and take the appropriate hit to their bottom-line. Human beings are not components, and exploiting them for profit ought to result in the exploited similarly profiting, themselves. Okay, okay, end rant. I know I should not be reading the news – definitely not on a therapy day, when my emotions are out in the open, and I am all raw nerve endings and shards of damage. It’s at least not a best practice for me. Media trolls bait me way too easily.

I continue to sip my coffee and consider my day. I am tired and not well-rested. My head aches, as does my back. I could quite possibly go back to sleep right now with great ease, even after my coffee. [Speaking of coffee, this morning’s words are fueled by St John’s Coffee Roaster‘s Misty Mountain Hop espresso, a roast with an interestingly complex flavor. I enjoy this local coffee roaster both for their coffees, and their great customer service.] I may choose to leave work ahead of my usual end of day and try to get the rest I am needing, rather than pile on more fatigue and stress and risk aggravating my symptoms, or finding that I have exceeded my ability to manage my injury efficiently. It’s a hard call; like so many working adults, I often find myself capitulating to the needs of the business that employs me, to my detriment both short and long-term. I often ask myself what a paycheck is really worth, and whether I am being appropriately compensated for expending my limited life force – and time – in this way.

As with great coffee, the tasks I face  – large and small – have steps, and between the steps there are choices. The choices matter. The ability to choose matters. The outcomes… yeah, those  matter too – and it isn’t always clear to me which outcomes are connected (truly) to which steps, and which choices. Lab rats in mazes have a much easier time of things, I suspect, although perhaps it is very similar. I am learning that when I can let go of the expectations and assumptions that drive reflexive choices in favor of employment, in favor of social image-craft, in favor of mainstream society’s demands (or frankly in favor of anyone/thing but what I want for myself and the world I live in), over time my outcomes tend to sort themselves out in a positive way without much other investment beyond generally choosing as mindfully as I can to take care of me while doing no harm. (That’s ‘doing no harm’ to people, living things, and the world we share; I am not bamboozled into thinking corporations are people. They are not.)

Flowers do not have to be cultivated, or bred into complex forms, to be lovely. It is enough that they are flowers.

Flowers do not have to be cultivated, or bred into complex forms, to be lovely. It is enough that they are flowers.

It’s a lot of words to say ‘today I will take care of me the best ways I can, and I will put me first’, isn’t it? 🙂

Today I will tend the flowers in the garden of my heart.

Today I will tend the flowers in the garden of my heart.

Today is a good day to take care of me; when else will I get to it? Today is a good day to recognize that the world, too, is part of me and needs my very best care, my best choices, and a handful of verbs.

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Categories Anxiety, Brain Injury, Free Will, gardening, Healthy Living, Logic & Reason, Metaphors, Mindfulness, more than a little bit of bitching, pain, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Sleepless Nights, Summer, The Art of Being, The Big 5, women, Words

A Woman of More Than a Few Words

July 6, 2015 //
0

I will not ever be described as ‘a woman of few words’. I use a lot of words. I don’t, myself, mind that I tend toward verbosity in both speech and text; I tend also to attract people who similarly enjoy words. My traveling partner once noted “you have a lot to say”. Maybe. I certainly say a lot. Sometimes it gets in the way of saying what I most mean to say, or need to say most urgently. I can take a while getting to the point. I seriously overuse metaphors. I sometimes don’t notice the glazed look in someone’s eyes when they are finished listening before I have finished talking. It makes asking ‘do I ever actually finish talking?’ a worthy question.

I spend a great deal of my time these days not talking. Living alone, and not being the sort to talk to myself, generally, there are often hours where there is no sound of human speech in my living space. I don’t talk to my fish (very often). I don’t talk to inanimate objects, or my Barbie dolls (yes, I said it, and it’s true; I still play with my Barbies). I am not in continuous communication with other human beings, or in regular daily communication with any but my traveling partner…and you, right here. Facebook gets a share of my attention, but it rarely feels like ‘conversation’ as much as it feels like passing notes in class. I am, oddly, not at all talkative – until you place another human being in front of me. Then… yeah. I don’t seem to even notice how continuous the flow of words are then. Eventually, I may become aware that I’ve gone on too long, but… I lack sensitivity to those cues. I am a beginner, still working around the edges of life’s curriculum, and hoping for a passing grade reflected in good quality of life, and good relationships over time. I am learning to be patient with myself – it’s slow going on some points.

I interrupt a lot. I’m working on it, however it can be slow going when I lack continuous awareness of my tendency to snag any breathing space between someone else’s use of language to continue my own. It’s rude – admittedly so, but without ill will, I assure you. My brain injury doesn’t excuse the resulting poor behavior, just puts the challenge in front of me (often) to be addressed over time. What’s so irksome for me is that I really enjoy listening to other people – they have stories to tell, a different perspective and history than my own, they are a living record of their slice of the human experience – and I love hearing about it. I want to know more…If I can only stop myself talking.

I was concerned that living alone would worsen the tendency to talk over people, to interrupt people, or to ‘talk too much’ (I define ‘talking too much’ as exceeding that point at which people no longer want to listen, or having crossed some boundary by continuing the discussion). Interestingly, that seems not to be the case in conversation at all; I’m finding it somewhat easier not to interrupt – perhaps simply losing the habit of continuous speech because I am not with people almost 24/7? On the other hand…my writing tends to be somewhat more verbose these days, exceeding 1k words in almost every post. Seems harmless…you can always set it aside and come back to it later. Or not.

I think my point this morning is that I had some expectations of myself and my behavior in the context of living alone that seemed well supported by what I understood about myself, and those expectations proved to be every bit as unreliable as any other untested expectations. I was incorrect. It seems instead that living alone is doing something positive to help me build the skills to bridge the communication gaps that have gotten in the way for so long. (I’ve wrecked some valuable relationships because someone dear to me just couldn’t get a word in edgewise. Ever.)

"Taking Another Look at Me" 11" x 14" acrylic on canvas w/mirror 2011

“Taking Another Look at Me” 11″ x 14″ acrylic on canvas w/mirror 2011

Part of my commitment to myself this past Independence Day is to allow myself – to require myself – to step away from my own assumptions about who I am, and take another look at the woman in the mirror – change is, and perspective matters. What about you? When was the last time you took a look at who you are with beginner’s eyes, really accepted the changes that have molded you over time, and paused to reflect on where you are right now, with yourself, with who you are, and with what  you really want of life? When was the last time you swept away the expectations and assumptions that hold you back, and limit your decision-making freedom, or your growth?

What could be more worthy of study than communication? Even though we are each having our own experience, we are all in this together.

What could be more worthy of study than communication? Even though we are each having our own experience, we are all in this together. (detail from “Communion” )

Today it won’t take 1k words to be this woman I am, and to be open to the vast number of options, decisions, choices I am free to make. If I can let go of my assumptions about myself, if I can set aside my expectations of myself based on those assumptions… can I similarly do so in all my interactions, with each person…today? It’s a good start on changing the world. (I just need to give the world room to get a word in edgewise!)

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Categories art and the artist, Brain Injury, Free Will, Logic & Reason, Love, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Relationships, Summer, The Art of Being, The Big 5, Uncategorized, Words

Anxiety is a Liar

July 4, 2015 //
4

I woke around 2:30 am, drenching in cold sweat, feeling a vague sense of panic, breathless, heart pounding…and anxious. I tossed and turned for some moments until I was awake enough to realize I was struggling with, rather than responding to, my feelings.

"Anxiety" 10" x 14" - and she feels much bigger than that, generally.

“Anxiety” 10″ x 14″ – and she feels much bigger than that, generally.

By the time an hour had passed by it was clear that self-compassion, reassurance, and a little meditation were not sufficient to put this particular anxious moment to rest. I got up for a few minutes and did some yoga (specifically a sequence of postures that are described as ‘calming’). I took a Benadryl (over-the-counter, fairly safe, and one of the oldest pharmaceutical anxiolytics). I got comfortable in bed, with some soft dim light, and read something light and entertaining for a few minutes. I got back to sleep.

I woke this morning, having slept in until past 7 am, anxious. Great. It’s going to be that holiday weekend, is it? I remind myself of two things as I head for my coffee: I overslept my usual timing on my thyroid medication, that can sometimes make me feel anxious, and anxiety is a liar.

  • My anxiety tells me ‘something is very wrong’. There isn’t anything actually wrong, based on observation of my environment and circumstances right now.
  • My anxiety tells me I have clearly done something terrible to feel this way. This is more a reflection of learned responses; as an anxious child, my parents reinforced the idea that anxiety is an indicator of unstated guilt. (Anxiety may or may not be associated with feeling guilty – it is a separate emotion, and correlation would not prove causation.)
  • My anxiety tells me I am ‘not good enough’ and backs that up with delusional ‘examples’ that ‘prove it’. (Taking a look at each offered example from another perspective derails the seeming factual nature of those arguments – but the anxiety exists; it is its own thing, requiring no ‘proof’, and refuting an example successfully doesn’t end the anxiety, it feeds it with attention.)
  • My anxiety reminds me that ‘time is running out’ – which, while true, is more about playing on a basic understanding of ‘how things work’ to terrorize me from within; what I do with my time is what sets the pace of my experience, not the sweeping second-hand on a clock.
  • My anxiety is a very physical experience that dissipates quickly if it can’t get a solid emotional foothold and a steady infusion of new chemistry; it will whisper anything it has to into my vulnerable consciousness to achieve emotional domination. Anxiety is a bad ass – but not to be counted on for truths.
  • My anxiety finds ways to put doubt, insecurity, and fear in my path; if I am consumed by those I stop questioning the anxiety and build it a home, instead.

Sometimes a bit of anxiety may be a healthy indicator that I am stepping outside my comfort zone in a positive way – that’s not what this morning is about. I am nauseated, and my body is enduring physical sensations I associate with imminent threats, terror, impending physical attack, terrible consequences, and future preventable loss followed by the dismay of others on a ‘how could you??’ level. It isn’t real. How am I so sure it isn’t real, when it feels so real? Because both thoughts and emotion lack substance until we give them substance. Emotions are physical experiences that manifest themselves both in physical and cognitive ways. Feelings. I feel. However, I am also able to make some sense of reality (in whatever limited way is available to me as a human primate with a complete set of common place senses and faculties) – and there is nothing in my environment that would cause this experience.

I am so human. Without question there are circumstances and experiences in my adult life that might cause some moment of mild anxiety…but this is not that. This experience qualifies as ‘disordered’, if for no other reason because it is very clearly and demonstrably not based in my real experience of now. Still, the small things that tend to drive small anxiety hop right into the ring with the Anxiety-with-a-capital-A of the morning; there is a chance that putting those to rest one by one may ease the Anxiety, but it isn’t a given, and is as likely to make things much worse if I become frantic or driven over it, by becoming invested in the outcome.

I am drenched in sweat. The apartment is a comfortable 72 degrees, and I am not exerting myself. Hormones? Still? Maybe – or just the anxiety, over coffee. Oh hell yes I am still having my morning coffee – with caffeine – in spite of the anxiety. Basic self-care demands it; the headache I’d be having later today if I don’t have my morning coffee would only put me at risk of being less able to continue to work through the anxiety if it lingers.

I have PTSD, and anxiety is part of my experience sometimes. I have a brain injury that results in executive function impairments – one of which is that I lack skill at managing strong emotions; I tend to put it all right out there, and find it difficult to ‘wrap things up’ in a timely way, sometimes remaining immersed in an emotional experience that is long behind me. These two things do not play nicely together. I write those simple words and tears start falling (I still find being quite so broken a sad thing, I mean, fuck – I’m 52 and still dealing with this bullshit!) – quite possibly the healthiest thing I could do for me right now are these honest tears – the science suggests that this will bring my cortisol level down more rapidly than most things I could do right now. Still sucks. I feel like a big cry baby (yeah, I hear the beratement and derision there, and recognize my demons on the war path, attacking me when I am vulnerable – it’s not helpful to treat myself callously right now).

I don’t like writing about anxiety…but if I were to omit this experience from my writing in a willful way, then I would also be a liar, leaving you thinking that somehow I had magically cured my anxiety issues with some sitting still, a few good books, and the occasional walk in the sunshine. It isn’t that easy. If it were, I wouldn’t be 52 and crying over my coffee because I am just that anxious on a lovely summer morning, utterly without cause. Writing about it, in a practical way, without ruminating over the details that my Anxiety would like to direct my focus to, seems helpful this morning; I am (after 1000 words or so) considerably less anxious now. Experience tells me it may surface again a few times over the course of the day or weekend, ready to become a weapon of mass distraction in some future interaction; today I will continue to take care of me.

Huh – there it is again. Is it my commitment to taking care of me this weekend that is actually causing the anxiety? Just now, as I considered taking yet another day focused completely on taking the best care of me, my anxiety shot through the roof… interesting. Am I still harboring feelings of guilt over putting me at the top of my agenda day-to-day? It’s a question worth considering some time.

Few things are more delightful than a leisurely morning over coffee with someone I love dearly.

Few things are more delightful than a leisurely morning over coffee with someone I love dearly.

…It is hours later now, about 2 and half hours actually. My writing was interrupted by the door bell. I checked through the peephole expecting someone canvasing the neighborhood for sales or prophet, and to my great delight my traveling partner was on the other side! We shared a leisurely morning coffee, catching up on small things, celebrating life, love, and enjoying each other’s company greatly. His is that rare presence that nearly always eases my anxiety, regardless of circumstances. I find myself on the other side of the anxiety, feeling comforted, safe, and assured that ‘all is well’. Good practices, trusting that the anxiety will pass, being frank about its appearance in my experience, and refraining from investing in holding on to it all help greatly – the addition of a pleasant intimate connection with another human being finished it off.

It’s a promising start to the day. I put on music, make a second coffee, and consider this pleasant moment. What could be worth more time, study, investment, or practice than Love and loving? 🙂

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Categories Anxiety, art and the artist, Brain Injury, Free Will, Healthy Living, Hormone Hell, Logic & Reason, Love, Menopause, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Relationships, Summer, The Art of Being, The Big 5, women, Words

Hormones and Holidays

July 3, 2015 //
1

I struggled with a bad bit yesterday. It was the first significant experience with loss of balance, volatility, and my chaos and damage since I moved. The lovely morning began to slide sideways fairly early in the day, as I reacted to fairly commonplace work stress while also struggling with my hormones. I made choices that caused both to be more serious challenges than they might otherwise have been.

I realized where my state of being was taking me around mid-day, and made the choice to start the holiday weekend early. A hot day, no clear agenda, enough background stress to repeatedly find myself clenching my jaw…I followed up my early departure from work with the choice to head to the nearby mall…an odd choice for me these days, but I found myself wanting to window shop and consider my quality of life ‘to do list’ for home and hearth, and enjoy the colder a/c for a time.

Choices matter. This choice was not ideal for me, fortunately I still have free will.

Choices matter. This choice was not ideal for me, fortunately I still have free will.

Clenched jaw. Headache. Irritability. Backache. A persistent feeling of frustrated anger simmering in the background. Feeling disconnected – and unable to connect. I felt very aware that the issue was my own, and not something anyone else was causing. As I wandered the aisles of ‘retail paradise’ I repeatedly pulled my focus back to ‘now’, working to maintain awareness, and presence in the moment. I was not expecting to find myself unable to find joy in the varied colorful displays of merchandise offered for my consideration; “retail therapy” used to be something I could easily rely on for a diversion, if nothing else. It was not working yesterday; I am not the person I once was.

I got an icy cold creamy chocolate-y coffee beverage ‘for medicinal purposes’ (yes, in my experience the combination of chocolate and coffee does help with hormone challenges). I sampled some fruit teas, and bought a nice one for iced tea for the weekend. The mall had nothing else to offer [for me], unless perhaps I had a much bigger kitchen, and an unlimited budget for high-end kitchen gear – neither of which are the state of things. I felt irritated with the noise – I went to the mall while I was struggling with noise sensitivity, too? What was I thinking? I headed for home feeling pretty low, and rather dismally disconnected from self.  The heat of the day contributed to being so cross by the time I got home that I was near tears. I sent my traveling partner a heads up that I was dropping offline for a while to take care of me, and that I was not at risk of self-harm; worrying loved ones doesn’t help with longer term stress management.

As soon as I got home I reached for the checklist. Mine is personalized with some additions that are specific to my own needs. First things first – I went down the list and checked off what I knew I had already managed and discovered something I wasn’t fully aware of; there were some significant misses. I set the check list aside, and in a ‘first things first’ sort of way, had a leisurely shower to rinse off the stickiness of sweat and the heat of the day, and changed into ‘comfy clothes’ [for me that’s yoga pants and a loose tank top]. At that point I put down everything else – including my concerns, doubts, stress, and emotional weirdness – and took time to meditate, no timer. It was a struggle. My mind wandered, again and again, fussy over nothing, irritated with minutiae, distracted and out of focus, and feeling vaguely sad. Each time I came back to my breath it got a little easier, and I felt a little more calm. My headache began to ease. My clenched jaw finally relaxed.

Another look at the checklist, and I began working my way down the list item by item…a healthy meal…some exercise…music, dance, yoga…I picked up and completed a couple small projects, and planned the weekend around taking care of me, and enjoying some leisure time. I stayed away from social media, and video brain candy. I looked into the face of my anxiety fearlessly, and allowed myself to consider that I might go completely to pieces that evening and find myself in crisis management mode, and affectionately accepted that I have challenges to deal with, even now, and that life isn’t about ‘perfect’ or ‘happily ever after’ and that the variability and intensity of my emotional life is also part of how I feel the intensity of the love, passion, and delight that I do in other moments. I reminded myself this would all pass, as things typically do; the intensity is not really sustainable.

The hormone piece is a real bad-ass as challenges go; I’ve passed menopause, and the tendency is to think this means I am done with complicated mood swings and whatnot resulting from the reproductive hormone cycle, but that’s a gross oversimplification, and this week I had screwed up the timing on my HRT – which means hormones became a factor that needed acknowledgement, attention, and self-compassion. The disinhibiting qualities of my TBI contribute to my volatility; I have trouble managing intense emotions, however fleeting, and the stress caused by my fears that I may ‘lose my shit’ unexpectedly and lash out in a socially inappropriate way doesn’t make it any easier.

Over the next few hours of taking care of me with my whole attention, and nothing else on my mind, I managed to find my way to a more comfortable place. I didn’t stop when I got there, and enjoyed several more opportunities to meditate, to treat myself with compassion and tenderness, and to restore order to my thinking through the living metaphor of restoring order to my experience, and my environment.

This morning I woke at the usual time, without the alarm, and got up long enough to take my medication on time, and return to sleep for a delicious additional 2 and half hours. I woke easily, feeling content and comfortable in my skin, and in my head. I overslept my original plans, but didn’t feel disappointed; I have a plan B. I enjoyed a few minutes of conversation with my traveling partner, in the digital world, and made coffee. I took time to enjoy my coffee without distraction, feet up, listening to music. Meditation, yoga, and dancing got my on my feet and enjoying the pleasure of movement. I took on a couple small household projects, like reorganizing the pantry for the shelves that will arrive next week, and making a home for the bin in which my journals remain packed (I once needed to see them displayed all around me to feel secure). The additional living space and order feel very good, and I recognize that the lack of order was causing me stress; these were details that felt very much that I wasn’t finished moving in.

Blooming in my own time, when conditions are right; I am learning to tend the garden of my heart more skillfully.

Blooming in my own time, when conditions are right; I am learning to tend the garden of my heart more skillfully.

It is one truth that I will face my demons until they are vanquished. It is another truth that although I have taken many steps, there are many more ahead of me. It is yet another truth that I am okay right now, and right now that’s enough.

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Categories Anxiety, Brain Injury, Epsom salts, Free Will, gardening, Healthy Living, Hormone Hell, Logic & Reason, Love, Menopause, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Summer, The Art of Being, The Big 5, women
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