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Skill, Talent, Practice

April 21, 2026 //
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It is a rainy morning. It wasn’t raining when I left the house, but it clearly had been. It is raining now, as I sit parked at the trailhead, waiting for a break in the rain. Sort of. I’m less waiting than taking time to write and meditate before I walk. Seems likely to be a poor morning for sitting quietly along the trail. 😆

[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]

Some long while ago I made a note to myself about the perplexing puzzle (for me) that is boundary setting:

Every boundary we set, however healthy, is an obstacle to the person being advised they may be encroaching on a boundary. That’s just real. It is what it is. We either set healthy boundaries – and respect those ourselves – or the world walks over us.

I made that note years ago on a scrap of paper that I later tucked between the pages of the book I was reading at the time. It was a meaningful and relevant observation in that moment; the boundary I was setting was simply that I was reading and did not wish to be interrupted for chit-chat by my then partner (now ex). I found the note recently, while moving things around on bookshelves, when it slid to the floor, a reminder from a past version of myself that this has been a challenge for me for a long time. Brain damage, cPTSD, and a lifetime of anxiety-driven “people pleasing” mingling to form a persistent bit of chaos and damage. It’s been difficult to “fix” while living it.

I’m grateful that my Traveling Partner is aware of (and alert for) this problematic bit of code in my operating system. He is quick to take note if I am exhausting myself trying to tackle every casual request in an instant, or frustrating myself by walking over my own reasonable boundaries. He reminds me to put myself first, often, and to practice good self-care. He respects clearly set boundaries with genial acceptance. But… The boundary setting is mine to do. It’s up to me to manage my boundaries, to respect them myself, to provide kind reminders when needed – before I’m frustrated, before resentment develops, before I might become likely to snap at someone I care about. It’s basic communication. I have to do the verbs. I find boundary setting uncomfortable. This is one small part of the legacy of trauma and abuse that I’m still dragging with me through life.

Working on this crap is hard, not gonna lie about that, but protecting and nurturing healthy agency is worth the effort required, and I’ve got a partner who truly enjoys me at my whole, healthy, and sane best, even when I set a boundary. I’m much better with boundaries these days, and finding the scrap of paper with the note written on it (from sometime before 2010) is a meaningful reminder that this is something I’ve had to work at for a long time.

I breathe, exhale, and relax. Basic communication skills are something human primates still have to work at to develop those fully. We’re not born as great communicators. We learn as we go. We practice what works – and sometimes what works in the context of trauma and unhealthy family dynamics is not at all healthy, nor particularly functional, outside that dynamic, in the larger world. I still struggle with some of this. Still dragging along some unnecessary baggage. I sigh to myself and imagine setting down a heavy suitcase with busted wheels, scuffed and worn and shabby looking. I imagine letting a heavy backpack slide from my shoulders to the ground. I visualize unpacking them both, and chuckle to myself because this thought exercise actually gives me a real feeling of relief in the moment.

I have no native talent for communication. I work at building my skills in this area – and have done so for years (with considerable success), and I practice what I learn about healthy communication. I improve over time. I’ll continue to work at it until it feels easy and natural. That seems like a better choice than continuing to endure being poor at basic communication. 😆 I have choices. I make choices. I practice. I improve over time.

How many times have I stood in this place, and faced my limitations aware that I have so much further to go? Doesn’t matter at all. The journey is the destination. We become what we practice. Incremental change over time is an effective approach to changing who I am and becoming who I most want to be.

I notice that the rain has stopped. I grab my cane and my rain poncho, and begin again. This is my path. Walking it requires me to do the verbs. 😄

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Categories Allegories, Brain Injury, breathe, Free Will, Frustration, gratitude, health, Healthy Living, Love, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Practices, Relationships, solo hiking, Spring, The Art of Being, The Big 5, Words

Variations on a Theme

April 5, 2026 //
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I woke early, but not ridiculously so. I got up and dressed, hoping not to wake my Traveling Partner. We worked through the day, yesterday, moving things around and restoring order from chaos. Joyful work, but still work, and by the end of the evening we were both fatigued, in pain, and easily aggravated. I called it a night early, expecting to read awhile, but I quickly sank into an exhausted sleep.

[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]

We had a great day together yesterday, mostly. Fatigue and pain got in the way a couple times – very human. Today is a new day, and I am not clinging to yesterday’s grief; that’s generally a poor practice. (We become what we practice.)

The morning is quiet and very dark. I reach the local trail ahead of the sun. I decide to wait for the first hint of daybreak before I begin my walk. I’ve got my headlamp, but I’m not in any hurry. Even though it is Easter Sunday for many, there are no early morning events planned here (I checked before I chose this trail).

Yesterday, in the evening, I managed to hurt my knee somehow and managed little better than a slow painstaking limp, gripping my cane to steady myself through each painful step for the rest of the evening. The muscle running up the back of my thigh from the pit of my knee to my ass still hurts, but I’m not limping and for most values of “okay”, I’m okay. I’m just sore from the work of moving things around (and there is more yet to do).

I don’t personally enjoy the chaos of moving, and I’m grateful this is a very limited version of that experience. I’m delighted to have my space back, less so about the bangs and bruises of having my mental map suddenly destroyed. I laugh at myself for a moment, recognizing that as lasting consequences of brain damage go, it could be much worse that needing some time to rebuild routines and to restore a sense of object placement. This may also say something about my fondness for familiar walks and trails. I sit with that thought for a moment.

… Novelty is uncomfortable, but may be better for my cognitive health, long-term…

I sigh to myself as I recognize and acknowledge sore muscles. The walk will be good for me. I think about the day ahead. More to do, and today includes a bunch of basic housekeeping. I’ve been working from home more, which takes the pressure off the weekend, and let’s me spread things out more, and my Traveling Partner no longer requires full-time caregiving (barely any at all now), and has been resuming many household tasks he handled entirely before his injury. Fuck it’s good to have him back! … It’s still Sunday and there are still household chores to do. 😆

It’s funny, I had had it in mind to “put things back the way they were” when the Anxious Adventurer moved out… But things have changed, life has moved on, and that isn’t a useful solution in many cases. (I don’t think I have an accurate recollection to work from, either.) Change is. There are different paintings hanging in the library now, and my studio just “feels different”. I’m not even complaining or fighting it; it’s mostly better in obvious ways. There is room for further improvement and this is a choice opportunity for such things. I’ll relearn where everything is, all over again.

… And maybe even change it again, in favor of something better still…

I reflect (with some amazement and a whole lot of respect and admiration) on the way my Traveling Partner embraces the opportunity for change to completely change various elements of his work and creative spaces. I’m astonished by how little such things disrupt him. There’s a lot to learn from that.

I sit awhile longer reflecting on moves and moving and change. It’s a useful metaphor. My mind quickly wanders to art and painting and I am eager to make use of my studio, although it will see use as my office before then. Monday is almost here. I put that thought aside firmly. Neither Monday nor work need my attention today.

I look over the list of things yet to do. The sky has taken on a hint of deep dark blue. I can see the trail. Steps on a path are calling me. It’s time to begin again.

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Categories Allegories, art and the artist, Brain Injury, breathe, forgiveness, Free Will, Frustration, gratitude, health, inspiration, joy, Love, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Practices, Relationships, Spring, The Art of Being

Strategies

May 15, 2024 //
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I’m sipping my coffee and thinking about brain damage. Specifically, one of the consequences (for me, of mine) and the way I have (and do) cope with it – poor memory. It’s not that the memories don’t get into “long-term storage” at all, it’s more that “my file system is corrupted” and I have difficulty retrieving them – or recognizing they are still available. Having an object or photo associated with an event has long been my preferred strategy for dealing with that. Handling something as mundane as a rock picked up on a beach can do so much to help me recall that day, that beach, that memory… Without the rock? No recollection. Same with pictures; a picture of a particular dewy rose brings to mind that specific spring morning, a walk after a rainstorm, the scents of the flowers all around, the feel of the sunshine in that moment – and even the thoughts I was thinking at the time. No picture? No memory. This coping strategy, unfortunately, has a noteworthy downside. Clutter. Mementos that are meaningless to anyone but me, and lacking in any intrinsic value.

Yesterday evening my Traveling Partner delighted me with a (second) new earring rack for all my many (many, soooo many) pairs of earrings, so that they can be more organized, and available at a glance. So convenient. It’s too much to put them all in the bathroom, though. So… casual fun 3D printed earrings are right there in the bathroom by the mirror – great for every day. The second rack? In my bedroom, with my somewhat less casual semi-precious gemstone earrings, and earrings of great sentimental value or a bit more worth. My best/fanciest earrings are safely tucked away in my jewelry box for “occasions”. Seems quite tidy, which I enjoy. Getting to that point, though, brought me up close and personal with the clutter that had definitely been accumulating in my personal spaces on this whole other level since my partner’s injury last fall, and the dust… omg, the fucking dust. I’ve been letting my spaces go to shit because I just don’t have the energy to keep up with every-fucking-thing all the damned time. It’s hard. I’ve failed myself in a number of small ways that, initially, don’t matter as much to me and feel more negotiable…but… I have gotten to that place where the clutter and untidiness (and the fucking dust) are unhealthy for me. It’s been on my to-do list for a while now. Yesterday I just felt pushed to do some small thing about it.

…I managed to tidy up one entire wall of my bedroom, including 3 bookcases (13 shelves, many dozens of books) and all the miscellany that had accumulated on their shelves. Knick-knacks, bits of things, scraps of paper, just… junk and crap and whatnot to deal with. So… I mostly dealt with it. Meaning to say, I grabbed a small box and anything I couldn’t figure out “where it goes” at a glance (to put it there immediately), I dropped into the box. (I dusted as I went.) At the end of this process, once the entire room is thusly dealt with, I’ll go through the items in the box one by one and probably throw a ton of that shit out – or put it where it obviously belongs, because by that point it should become clear. It felt good to get some of that done, and to have a strategy. I had my Traveling Partner’s support and he didn’t grief me over not hanging out – having that encouragement and emotional safety to do the thing needing to be done helps make it doable at all. Now I just need to keep at it.

One of the challenges is that this process involves touching a ton of little items that evoke memories. Some good. Some less so. It can be an emotional process, and I’m less skilled at making it less so. The way out is through; there are no shortcuts on emotional journeys. I say something about it, generally, to my Traveling Partner, and he comments that perhaps some of these memories are not worth keeping, or working so hard to keep, maybe. His memory works very differently; he struggles to let things go, and remembers too well, too long, too easily. That’s a struggle of another sort, for sure. I’m not saying I’d rather have that one, either, it just means we have a very different perspective on memory and memories. Useful, actually. That rock I handled while I took things from shelves and placed them in the box? The one that reminded me of that very blue sunny afternoon when I lived at #59, feeling alone and unloved, lonely not solitary, mired in despair? Finding that whimsically painted rock in the fork of a tree on my rather sad walk that day really lifted me up, but when I handle the rock now, I remember finding it, yes, and the joy that came of that moment, but I also remember that very blue afternoon, and how heavy my heart was. It’s a visceral memory of sorrow and aloneness. Do I need to keep that one? Is there value in feeling that feeling just because I handled a rock?? My Traveling Partner’s observations with regard to memory are, even now, quite thought-provoking for me.

I make some notes for later. Things to do to get ready for camping. A note to remember to go to the store for some essentials. Lists and notes and reminders are another way I cope with the consequences of brain damage (and PTSD). They reduce the likelihood I’ll forget some time-sensitive task, which is definitely a thing I am prone to. All the bills are on auto-pay, where that’s available – just another strategy for coping with poor memory. Effective.

Is the strategy effective?

Is the outcome useful – and intended?

I sip my coffee and consider strategies – and brain damage. It’s been a lifetime. Some of my strategies were formed before I understood what I was coping with in the first place. Some of my strategies have been less than ideally effective. Some of them even had problematic unanticipated other results. This too, has been a journey. I breathe, exhale, and relax. It’s a lovely sunny morning, and there’s work to be done. I have that moment of amusement that I often do when I take notice of “how easy” work often feels compared to life – and in this particular moment I realize it’s likely because the strategies are purpose-built, and often built on foundations of many people and processes over long periods of time, tested and refined and reviewed and analyzed. Of course that feels easier; I’m not making it up as I go along. lol Something to think about.

I sometimes borrow work strategies and try them out in my life (sometimes they work very well). That’s okay, too – it’s just another strategy. What works, works. I try not to continue practices that don’t work, and try to avoid relying on strategies that are not effective. My results vary. I keep practicing.

I smile at the blue sky beyond the window. It’s a nice day to begin again. I’ve got a strategy in mind… and that’s a good place to start. 😀

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Categories Allegories, Brain Injury, breathe, Healthy Living, Moments, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Practices, Spring, The Art of Being

The Demon Chorus Laughs in the Background

April 2, 2019 //
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Things have been so peculiarly perfect in some regards, it’s been easy to become complacent about how good life is day-to-day, and how content I feel, generally. Tactical error, I agree.

I woke groggy this morning, head pounding from the headache I spent the night with (not a metaphor – I wish it were). I woke with Pink Floyd in my head. I don’t know what that says about anything. I also woke feeling vaguely embarrassed and slightly ashamed of myself. No point to any of that, it’s just my demons enjoying their moment to shine. I’m over it already. Drinking coffee, beginning again.

Frustration is my kryptonite. Last night, yet again, the closed captions on YouTube videos were on (I don’t use them, haven’t turned them on). This has come up before. It frustrates me, and creates some internal resistance to conversation, some irritability, and causes me to question my sanity – and to feel as if my partner questions my competence, every time he seeks to help with this. Hell, depending on which device I access, the closed captions are not even turned on, at all. Glitch? Bug? Well, maybe, maybe not, but it irritates the hell out of me, and leaves me feeling as if the fucking internet is gas lighting me.

…Do you see where this is headed?

So… yeah. My partner offers to help. I perceive “a tone” (doesn’t matter whether there was a tone, it’s the perception that triggers the reaction, and I explicitly understand this). I react, rather childishly, and although it wasn’t any sort of “thing” really, it created an uncomfortable moment rich with hurt feelings on both sides. I could almost hear my fucking demons laughing their asses off. We got past that; we’ve been together too long, and worked too hard on our own issues, to let something so ridiculous ruin a lovely evening. My headache wasn’t helping. Still, the evening ended on a good note, affectionate, connected, and real. It wasn’t left to chance. I made a firm point of very specifically letting all that bullshit go, even announcing that it was my intention to do so – which is probably a weird thing to say out loud, however effective it may be. It was still some minutes before my chemistry began to return to some sort of normal. (I find it helpful to remind myself that as with ingested substances, our chemistry can provoke “a high” specific to the chemical involved, and the “come down” – both in intensity, and in duration – varies with the circumstances and with the chemistry.) I still felt a bit distant when I finally called it a night and went to bed. I wasn’t sure I’d sleep with this headache…

…I guess my headache got some sleep too; it’s ready for a new day, today. lol (groan)

I drink my coffee. Reflect on my good fortune. Take time for a moment of gratitude, and to appreciate my Traveling Partner; he “gets me”, and understands my issues nearly as well as I do myself. We do okay. Last night fell short of supremely awesome, but it was still spent in the good company of this human being I love. That definitely matters more than a moment of stress. Life is filled with moments. A few of them are going to be more challenging than delightful. That’s just real. I’m okay. There’s no lingering ill effect, which is lovely. This moment, right here, is just fine – aside from the headache, which will hopefully pass. My coffee is warm, and delicious. The workday ahead should be a more or less routine one. I decide to ride the light rail again this morning, for ease, and laugh at myself because I said as much yesterday, ended up driving in and parking on the waterfront. (Yep. In the minutes between deciding to take the train, and getting the car onto the street to go to the park-n-ride, I entirely forgot that was my intention. lol) This morning, I think I’m firm on the decision-making… I’m probably not; I’ll know when I get in the car and “feel the day”. Maybe a lovely drive before dawn on a Spring morning is exactly what this headache needs?

I smile, thinking about my garden. There are flowers sprouting in big colorful pots, already. A couple of the roses have buds on them. I came home yesterday to an excellent new hose, and a new spray nozzle, which delighted me greatly. I sip my coffee reflecting on that moment, and enjoying how well-loved I am, and feeling an intoxicating mix of gratitude and love for this human being who loves me so. I notice the time, and instead of rushing off promptly, I remember that my day needs to end a bit later than usual, and so I have time to linger. Feels good. I hear my partner stirring in the other room. Coffee together, too? Maybe so… Great start to the day.

I begin again. 🙂

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Categories Anxiety, Brain Injury, forgiveness, Free Will, Frustration, gardening, gratitude, Healthy Living, Love, Mindfulness, Moments, pain, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Practices, Relationships, Spring, The Art of Being, The Big 5

Pits and Pitfalls

October 10, 2015 //
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This morning is a very different morning than I had expected. I find myself sorely regretting allowing myself expectations, at all. I am struggling with this moment right here, when all evidence indicates that this moment right here isn’t a bad one taken in the context of nothing more than this moment.

I made a hash of the lovely morning I expected to be having with my partner. It’s that simple; a handful of insensitive words, poorly timed, and the whole thing goes sideways. Complicated fancy fucking monkeys. I feel frustrated with myself. Disappointed with the situation, and still struggling just to get a grip on the sudden spilling over of needlessly intense emotions into every damned thing. My demons dance happily in my tears; today they won. Now my head aches, and I can’t seem to stop these loathsome tears from falling. I am angry with myself for lacking ‘control’ – as if forcing myself to feel specific emotions, or display them quite correctly based on some set of rules, is the point of this whole mess. (It isn’t.) I am disappointed to have hurt my partner’s feelings – and being a fucking primate, I am admittedly even more disappointed to have blown my chances at having sex today. (We’re really good at it together, and I like it just about more than anything else, and it has become a rare thing for a number of reasons, not the least of which are simply geographical distance and calendar conflicts.) I am filled with regret and sorrow – which is a completely shitty emotional experience.

At least for the moment, I have lost touch with my sense of purpose or of progress. I feel stalled. I feel overwhelmed.

Getting it wrong first thing can be hard to take, but there is still a whole day ahead to work with. Choose.

Getting it wrong first thing can be hard to take, but there is still a whole day ahead to work with. Choose.

…We didn’t even finish our coffees together; the realization launches a flood of new tears, and they cascade down my cheeks, hot, plentiful, and resented. I cry more when I notice that I forgot to ask him to help me put on my locket; my fingers haven’t successfully worked the clasp for two days now, and I ache with a strange subtle hurt every time I notice I am not wearing it.

He didn’t leave me alone like this willingly. I sent him away. I write those words through even more tears. What the fuck is wrong with me? I don’t feel any sense of the progress made over time. I seem unable to connect with how good I have felt lately, or how well-loved. I feel cut off from intimacy – and it’s self-inflicted, a byproduct of the combination of my chaos and damage, and an injury so old I don’t understand why am still dealing with it now.  I am child-like with my misery, weeping unreservedly until I’m all cried out.

Sometimes it's hard to focus on the distant horizon when the shadows and silhouettes of the chaos and damage seem so near.

Sometimes it’s hard to focus on the distant horizon when the shadows and silhouettes of the chaos and damage seem so near.

The phone rings. He reaches out to tell me it wasn’t all me, and it’s a message I need to hear. I don’t understand it as a given that when we interact we’re both in it, both involved, both using verbs – and words. We both forget about my injury – and the unfortunate resulting lack of impulse control, and the peculiar communication challenges that are much more significant when I am first waking up. He’s gentle with me over the phone, reassuring, reminding me that love is, and that he loves me; this is a shared journey, as much as any journey can be. I still have this headache. It will pass. I will be okay – I am, in fact, actually okay in this moment right here. I make a point of expressing appreciation that I am able to [emotionally] safely and comfortably ask him to go when I need to take care of me – that’s not something everyone has in their relationships. I still feel like a dick for being insensitive and hurting his feelings; it is irrelevant to feeling hurt whether that hurt was delivered willfully or cluelessly. Hurting hurts.

So. Here I am, alone, and mostly feeling pretty crappy with an entire autumn weekend stretching before me, nothing on my calendar, no plans, nothing that much gets my attention to do with my time; this is not a weekend to be running away from me with entertaining distractions. I’ve logged off of Facebook. Logged off of my social media accounts. No announcement or vaguebooking statement required; I am just taking some time for quiet and stillness. There are very few things that help with this particular shit storm of emotional disregulation; meditation is the most powerful tool in my arsenal, alongside cannabis. My Love arrived before I had time for either, and before my prescription Rx for my pain management, or my thyroid condition had time to be effective. The timing of his visit was itself enough to increase the risk that something would go wrong. We both know a lot about my limitations in that first 90 minutes or so after I wake; we made choices based on how much we miss each other, how much we want each other, and the convenience of opportunity. 😦

I am still working on me.

I am still working on me.

I’m not writing all this down to evoke pity or sympathy – if you find yourself feeling either, I thank you for your good nature, and your concern. I’m okay – well, I feel pretty ick right now, but I will be okay. I am taking the time to share this for two reasons: the most important and first reason is that ‘using my words’ is a perspective-providing tool that tends to most efficiently help me dial down the ferocity of my emotions. I make an effort to be quite clear, and reasonable, and careful to be truthful, accurate, and fair to other people when I write a blog post. When I write in my private journal, I am more prone to spiraling negative self-talk, or skewed perspective that can be punishing, or accusatory – neither is helpful, and both have the potential to build damaging narrative that fuels drama. The second reason to take the time to write about the hard stuff, the bullshit, the hurting, and the chaos is also about perspective; it’s not easy to cope with and rehabilitate a brain injury, and it’s not easy working through the hurting of PTSD.  There are verbs involved. My results vary. Change and growth over time are incremental…and sometimes the increments are fucking small. It can be very discouraging, and I think there is value in being real about the work involved. It won’t always be easy – it may not ever be easy – but there is value in trudging through, practicing the practices, and beginning again when I falter. (You, too.)

I’m fortunate to have such a strong partnership with someone who really does love me supporting me emotionally through all this, and realistically I can’t help but be aware that there is some risk this love won’t survive my struggles; at some point it may really just be too much to ask. That’s part of what hurts so much; there’s no knowing with certainty when that point has been reached, until I get there. Scary.

Begin again.

Begin again.

Today is a good day to take care of this fragile vessel, and to take another step on this journey; the steps add up. Today is a good day to begin again.

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Categories Anxiety, art and the artist, autumn, Brain Injury, grief, Love, medical marijuana, Mindfulness, more than a little bit of bitching, pain, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Relationships, The Art of Being, The Big 5, Words
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