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anxiety

Grounding my body.

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I have been thinking about the point where the body and the mind split.

Usually I would never try to do that. I’m all about bridging the two, integrating, getting everything in balance.

But lately I’ve been in an interesting space, where pulling the two apart is necessary. And it’s hard to find that point.

When I think about “grounding,” historically for me it has meant bringing me back to the present, getting my brain remembering where I am, what’s going on, and focusing on the here and now – rather than spinning years into the past or miles into the hypothetical future. Grounding for me has been like meditation. Focus on the here and now. Focus on the 5 senses. Focus on what you can see, hear, and feel. Grounding for many I know means taking a deep breath when your brain is taking you to places you don’t want to go. It’s taking a minute in your office to center, or going for a walk during lunch. Grounding – almost literally – is bringing yourself back to the ground, rather than floating off into the abyss of memories, thoughts, worries. I would imagine that many of you reading this are nodding, saying that you do this all the time, even if you aren’t consciously participating or realizing it.

Lately, though, none of those strategies have worked for me. And it’s easy to immediately react with why not, why isn’t it working, let me run through everything I’ve tried, why am I still anxious, why am I still going over past events and memories, why am I stuck on certain thoughts, why why why. (Shockingly, that doesn’t seem to help.) What I’ve realized is that all of my brain/mind grounding strategies are continuing to work wonders. I do them without even having to think about it, more often than not. But it’s my body that needs grounding. And that’s harder, because that’s not something you can control with thoughts. It’s also harder to talk about, for me. While I have spent the last few years sharing the thoughts and inner workings of my brain, anything to do with body feels vulnerable and scary to share.

Grounding techniques help my brain stop spinning. But they don’t stop the anxious pit in my stomach, or the tornado that whirs around in it. They don’t open up my chest so I feel like I can breathe again. They don’t stop the pounding in my eyes and in my head. I believe that we all have experienced something traumatic, or extremely emotional in our lives. Thinking about that event in your own life, can you now see that difference in how you’ve experienced it over the years – sometimes ruminating, thinking, obsessing, remembering, grieving, in your brain, but other times feeling it, literally, in your stomach, in your heart, in your head, in or on your body? Whether it was the death of the loved one, a car accident, a traumatic injury, a sexual or physical assault, an invasive medical procedure, a disease, an intense altercation at work, an emotionally-taxing event – it goes on and on, and it all had an effect on both brain and body. And just as you might keep reliving it in your brain, you might keep reliving it in your body, too.

So. How do I ground my body? What do I do in those times when I’m happily going about my day, and my brain is quiet and calm, focused on work and life, but my body is stuck?

I actually don’t know.

Yoga helps. Bodywork helps. Massage helps. Sometimes exercise helps.

But the rest, I’m still figuring out.

Does this make sense? Can you relate? What do you do to ground your body?

This morning I got stuck in my closet

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Not physically.

This happens from time to time.

Here’s what happens. I go to bed with an idea of what outfit I’m going to wear to work the next morning. Most mornings, as long as I’ve picked out the outfit in advance, I wake up, shower, put on the outfit, and that’s that. Back when I didn’t plan out my outfit, I would stand there for minutes, just paralyzed, knowing I had to decide what to wear yet not being able to decide. So now, I plan.

But some mornings, I put on the outfit that I picked out, and even though I’ve worn said outfit multiple times, and love the shirt and love the pants and love the shoes, I put it on and HATE it. For a variety of reasons. It might be too big too loose too small too tight too itchy. The mirror might be on my bad side that morning and I see my body change in front of my eyes, knowing that’s not truly happening but fighting it nonetheless. And sometimes it just doesn’t FEEL right. And I don’t know how to describe it other than that. An outfit I love and have worn just doesn’t work. Sometimes it’s because the color isn’t right. Sometimes I crave colors, and am repulsed by others. Sometimes I desperately need to wear green, other times if I put on a green shirt I get nauseous. Purple is one of my go-to colors but some days it’s the exact opposite of what I need. Having done a bit of studying over the years of chakras and color theories, I do believe that we gravitate toward certain colors for certain reasons at certain times.

When any of those things happen, I get stuck. I freeze. I often put on shirt after shirt, pants after pants, outfit after outfit. Often times the more something feels wrong, the more everything else feels wrong. Everything keeps feeling too big, too tight, too itchy, too light, too heavy, too nauseating. And then I realize that the time is ticking away and oh crap I needed to leave five minutes ago and the more I realize how I’m running late the more my heart pounds and the more anxious I get and the harder it is for me to put on clothes. And then sometimes I say Just do it and I pick something and I get to the door of my apartment but then I think But what if I should’ve worn x, y, or z? And then I’m back in my bedroom starting all over again. But what if I feel “wrong” all day and then I will have a bad day and really I should’ve just changed my outfit and tried again? And that’s when I have to remember my tendencies toward obsessing and compulsing and need to (gently) just get myself out of the bedroom and out the door.

It doesn’t happen often. But when it does, it is not a good feeling.

Anyone else ever get stuck in their closet? (Literally, figuratively, take your pick.)

The contraction “let’s”

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One of my 4th grade groups is learning about contractions. They all know what they are, but one very rigid, very anxious student refuses to use them in writing (and often in speaking), just because he likes saying both words better. And another misuses them, saying “I’m” instead of “I’ve”. So it was time for a re-teach and review.

We went through what each contraction stands for, we practiced taking each one apart and putting it together, and everyone was getting the hang of things (despite my anxious little guy, constantly checking, “But I do not have to use contractions, right???”). Then we got to the contraction let’s. We talked about how it stands for let us, but how most people say Let’s because Let us go play on the swings or Let us play a game sounds kind of strange, and it sounds more regular to say Let’s go play on the swings or Let’s play a game.

One of the students raised his hand. “This is kind of off topic, but…. [the number of times I hear that statement in a day…!] well, it’s kind of on topic. It’s about the contraction let’s.” I told him to go ahead and share.

“Well, you know how we just learned that it stands for let us?” he began. “So that means it’s what more than one person is doing, not just one person. But sometimes people use it wrong. And, I’m not trying to be rude or disrespectful. But teachers use it wrong all of the time.”

I was intrigued and asked him what he meant.

“Well, when a kid forgets to take out a pencil, teachers always say Let’s get out pencils now when it’s not the teacher that has to get one out, it’s just the kid. Or if a kid is having a hard time, the teacher says Let’s take some deep breaths even though the teacher doesn’t need to take deep breaths. You guys always say stuff like that. And I think I know why. It’s because it makes a kid feel better. If you tell them You need to get a pencil out or You need to take a deep breath it can sound kind of rude, you know? Like you’re singling the kid out. But when you use let’s, it makes everyone feel better, cause it makes them feel like they’re not the only one. It’s like everyone’s on a team and all working on things together. And so I think it’s a good thing you do that. Because it’s much nicer.”

I was speechless. “Wow,” I told him. “You are so right. Teachers absolutely do that, and I am so impressed that you were able to figure out why. I’m so glad it makes you feel better when teachers say that.”

“And,” he continued. “Well, you know how I love Minecraft and I have my own server? Well, sometimes players break the rules or something. They might swear or do something not good. So I tried using that. And I tell them Let’s not use swears. And it works! And I think they listen way better than they would if I told them You can’t swear.”

At that point I had to move on, because one student had started singing a Maroon 5 song, another one was humming the Mario theme song, and the third was increasingly unhappy that we were slightly off topic. You know, the usual.

But three days later, I can’t stop thinking about that incredible, amazing exchange.

Last week’s IEP meeting

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Last week we had an annual review IEP meeting for one of our 8th grade students. Because he is now 14, he came to the meeting for a few minutes, to discuss his transition plan. This boy is one of the most empathetic students I have. He carries a tremendous amount of anxiety, which I am willing to bet has to do with his diagnoses and learning challenges, but also with trying to figure out how to be such a sensitive soul in this world.

He walked into the room, and took a seat. He looked around the table and said “hi” to his mom, and then quickly addressed every single person at the table and said “hi” to them, too. Our IEP team facilitator greeted him, told him that we would all love to hear a bit about what’s going well for him.

“So, maybe tell us, what’s your favorite class?” she asked him.

“Oh, uh…Science.” he replied. Then, scanning the room, realizing that several of his teachers were there, but not his science teacher, he quickly added, “But, uh, I love Math too. And Reading is okay. And Language Arts. And hey Jen, I like Speech, too.” There were a few smiles, but I felt myself getting teary. I totally got what he was doing. He was terrified of offending one of us. So much so, that, his math teacher responded, “It’s okay. I know you don’t love math. And I would never be upset with you for saying so.”

Our team facilitator moved on. “You and your counselor met to talk about what you’d like to do in the future. You mentioned that you would love to stay at [our school] for high school, and that after high school maybe you would work with computers or animals.”

His counselor jumped in. “Yup, and we talked about way down the road, where you might like to live. Remember, you told me that one day you would like to live on your own, and not with your parents?” he nodded, agreeing with her, and then caught his mom’s eye and froze. Oh no, I could imagine him thinking. What is Mom going to think to hear that I don’t want to live with her? 

“Uh, Mom…” he tried to explain. “I was just thinking that one day I’d like to have an apartment. But, uh, it’s not that I don’t love you. Because I do. You and Dad have been really good to me. But it’s just…” his voice trailed off as his eyes quickly darted from person to person.

His mom smiled, and gave a kind laugh. “It’s okay, buddy. I would hope you want to live on your own some day!”

After talking a bit about his career aspirations, and his love for computers and cartoons, his counselor sensed his mounting anxiety and backed up a little bit. “Now, all of this is going to be a long time from now. And we’re talking about things that might happen. But is it okay if your ideas change?”

“Uh…I guess so…” he said.

“Will anyone be upset with you if you change your mind about what you want to do or where you want to live?”

“Uh…I guess not…”

“Right. Because we’re just thinking. None of these are decisions that we have to follow. We’re just imagining. But just because we’re imagining does it mean you have to do these things?”

“Uh…no?”

“No, it doesn’t. And we don’t even have to worry about those things. Those are your long-term plans, but right now, our main focus is that you’re going to finish 8th grade and then go to 9th grade.”

“Um. Okay. Yes.”

He headed out of the meeting then, after saying goodbye to every single one of us, and giving his mom a hug.

I think we were all overcome with emotion. And I totally got it – I understand that desperate need to please everyone, the fear of what people will think of you if you don’t give equal attention or love or praise. For the rest of the meeting, we talked through his IEP goals, but we kept coming back to his sensitivities and anxieties. Because among his autism, among his language and learning disabilities, sensitivity and anxiety are at his core. They affect every part of what he does every day. And the same is true for so many of our kids. I truly believe – there are times when noncompliance or overreactions, or other behaviors, are just a mask for that panic inside. And I am not autistic. I don’t have a language disorder. And it’s taken a long time for me to be able to identify my anxiety and sensitivity and put it into words. So I can only imagine what it’s like for our kids. And I feel really blessed to get to help them do just that.

Shame

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When I discovered Brené Brown’s work on shame, specifically her most recent book, I grabbed hold of it (literally!), thinking, this is IT. This is what I’ve been trying to put into words. This is what I’ve been trying to understand. And it was almost a sigh of relief; I don’t have to spend my life figuring it out, because she did the research and put it to words.

And so over the last however many months, or maybe a year, I’ve been thinking about shame and compassion even more than ever. I’ve tried to express my own thoughts on the subject. I’ve written a poem about it. I’ve jotted down notes. I’ve tried to briefly explain that the fear of shame is what makes us lack compassion for ourselves.

During this time, a friend and I have had countless conversations on this topic. Over and over again, we wonder: why do we think the worst about ourselves, but highly of each other? Why do we feel nothing but deep compassion for each other’s experiences and thoughts, but feel shame for our own? Why do we think we are the outlier or the exception?

And after thinking a lot, (I know, you’re shocked), I have a tentative conclusion: shame is (sometimes) somewhat of a self-protective mechanism.

I always used to say that I was pessimistic and didn’t get my hopes up about things, because that way I didn’t have to worry about disappointment. The fall is a lot less painful when you never left the ground, versus when you’ve climbed to the top of the tree. I think shame is similar. We preemptively shame ourselves so that if others shame us, it hurts less.

Have you ever gotten up the courage to share something with someone, something that was important to you, for whatever reason? And have you ever had their response be to tell you that you’re being dramatic, exaggerating, or just looking for attention? Boom. The shame response is born. From that moment on, we expect that the next time we share something, we will face the same response, which we can’t bear to experience. So we protect ourselves. We pre-shame ourselves, if you will. We preface our stories with, “I know it’s not a big deal, but….” or “I’m sure this isn’t what you want to hear, but…” or “This is really f***** up, but….” It’s protection. It’s setting the bar low, so if we are met there, no harm done.

(By the way? Even if we were being dramatic or exaggerating or whatever. The first thing we learn in our fields of work is that behavior=communication. It’s a principle we are taught to apply to all of our kiddos. And it applies to us, too. So there was a reason we once said or did what we did. We needed something from it; we were trying to express something, trying to release something. Even if at the time we weren’t sure what. And in the same way that we help our kids learn to express what it is that they truly are trying to say, we need to help ourselves. It’s a process.)

The interesting thing is, we expect to be shamed, but we would never shame others in that same way. Which is why we preface our stories that way, but if a friend were to tell the exact same story, or share the exact same idea, and preface it that same way, we would say things like, “Of course it’s a big deal” or “I do want to hear anything you want to say” or “It’s not messed up, tell me.”

If we were to tell our stories, to share our thoughts, without that preface, we’d be putting ourselves at risk. Which isn’t inherently something we want to do. We’d be standing on the edge of a cliff and trusting we aren’t going to fall. Which is terrifying. Even just writing this post, I want to put a whole long list of disclaimers, like, Feel free to disagree with this and I’m probably wrong but I’m just trying to share my thoughts and it’s fine if you think it’s stupid…..etc. But I won’t, not this time.

Part of it, I believe, is our culture. We live in a shame-filled society. If you think about the news, there is stigma placed on so many things, so it’s no wonder why we expect shame as anyone’s response.

I think the solution is to practice little bits at a time. And it’s HARD. A friend and I have a rule that we never apologize for texting the other. We’ve established that if the other person is busy, or not in a place to text or chat, they won’t until they’re ready; so we never need to apologize. But we find it funny that without a doubt, when we’re in a vulnerable place and text the other, we apologize. We say, “Sorry, I’m sure you’re busy, but….” and “Ugh I’m probably stressing you out more.” And then the other person says, “No apologizing!” So I’m certainly not saying it’s always doable. Especially when we’re vulnerable, or spinny, or anxious, or just out of balance.

But find that person with whom you’ve been vulnerable, with whom you’ve shared something, something that you worried would have a shame response, and didn’t. And the next time you talk with this person, try not to preface your stories. Just say them. Trust that you will not be shamed. Trust that this person is not going to suddenly think less of you. Trust that you trust this person for a reason. Trust that you’ll be met with compassion. Oh, it’s hard. But I’ve done it before, with a handful of people. And the feeling of just talking, just sharing, without those self-shaming or self-deprecating comments, is so liberating.

You deserve to release shame into the wind and breathe compassion in.

Accepting the storm

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When a wave of anxiety hits me, be it for a moment or a day or a week, my first thought is always panic. Why am I anxious, what am I anxious about, why is this happening, what can I do to feel better, why are none of my coping mechanisms making me feel better, why is it a day later and my heart is still pounding? Then is a little bit of, What do I do what do I do what do I do??? And then I breathe. And I remember. I have a choice.

I could fight it. I could wish it away. But that doesn’t work.

I could allow helplessness to consume me. I could decide that there’s nothing I can do, so I will drown.

Or I can accept it.

Because I know how to tread water.

Accepting it isn’t the same thing as submitting to it. Acceptance is peace. It’s mindfulness. It’s riding whatever wave is carrying me, whatever weather the universe is bringing. I don’t fight it. I don’t curse the storm. Nor do I submit to it. I don’t go outside barefoot and in a thin t-shirt and allow myself to be soaked. Accepting it means putting a raincoat on when I go outside into the storm because no, I can’t stop the storm, but I can protect myself.

The power of coping with anxiety is that balance. There is power in acceptance. In knowing, this is where I am. This is what’s happening. I might know why it’s happening, I might not. I might be able to see the way out of it, I might not. But in this moment, I can protect myself. I don’t have to fight it. And I don’t have to submit to it. Just as I can’t fight a riptide, nor do I need to let it pull me away. I know how to tread water. I know how to breathe. I know how to keep myself safe – while being in it – until the waters subside. I don’t need to know why the riptide is happening. I don’t need to understand why the storm hit. I can just be.

And in the meantime? I tread water. I rest. I write. I read. I stretch. I light a scented candle. I color. I drink tea. I breathe. I reach out. I look at the sky. I accept hugs.

And eventually, the storm subsides.

Dropping the rope

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This summer, I spend time talking with one of our campers who refuses to walk away when another camper is upsetting him. “But then he will win,” he tells me. “I have to argue back until he accepts that he’s annoying me.” I explain that by walking away, the same message gets sent. Drop the rope.

One of our kiddos walks into a situation where another camper is, who triggers her. She tenses up, then takes a deep breath, and asks, “Can I please move to a different location?” She drops the rope.

I am losing consciousness and about to pass out. I fight it, I’m determined to beat it. But I’m losing. So I stop fighting it and let it go. Whatever happens, will happen. I drop the rope.

I’m in a moment of increased anxiety. A few thoughts and fears spin and swirl around my head and I am so tempted to focus on them, dig into them, pull them apart. And I do, at first. I think and spin and check and worry and try to push everything out of my head. But it just increases my anxiety. So I breathe. And I sit with it. I drop the rope.

This concept is new for me. But now that I’m thinking about it, I realize that it’s everywhere, in all of my life. At work, with kids, with friends, with loved ones, with myself. 

When you find yourself in a tug-of-war, there are two ways to handle it. You can pull and pull until you can’t pull anymore. Or you can drop the rope and let it go. And it’s a concept that it’s hard for….well, everyone, I think. It’s something we teach our kiddos all the time. Ignore, walk away, focus on a different thought, take a breath, you’re okay. And it’s so hard for them because they want to fight the anxiety, the meltdown, the annoying peer, the fear. And really, I can’t blame them. I want to fight all of those things too. Sometimes there’s a worry, “But if I’m not fighting, I’m giving in. I’m giving up. I’m losing.” Giving in is not the same as giving up. Surrendering is not the same as losing. You are still in control. You’re still making the choice. There’s a peace that comes by dropping the rope. Which isn’t to say that the trigger, the thought, the person, the situation goes away. But it’s empowering (albeit hard and scary) to take control of the situation and decide to let go. 

You know I love metaphors and analogies – they help me understand everything, my work, myself, life. So. If you find yourself dumped into a big pool of water, your instinct is going to be to panic. To flail, thrash, scream. You’re panicking and the more you panic, the more you fight, the worse your fear gets, the more exhausted you get, and you accomplish nothing. But if you breathe. If you lay on your back. If you float. You’re still in that pool of water. You might still be scared. But you’re giving yourself a breath, a lift. You’re accepting where you’re at, and you gain both physical and emotional strength by doing so.

Sit with it. Drop the rope. 

And gain strength.

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