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coping

Acceptance, people, tools

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I was talking with someone today about how sometimes our brains tell us things that in hindsight we laugh about. We think, Wow, I can’t believe I ever entertained that thought!  For example: at the beginning of every school year I have a brief moment where I think, Crap. What if I just forget how to be an SLP? What if the kids walk into my office and I have no idea how to help them? This person had a similar experience, where today she thought, What if I walk into my class tonight and just can’t teach, what if I just forget how? We laughed about both of those thoughts, but in the moments they grab at us and we see them as hard truths, rather than just thoughts.

That got me thinking about similar moments- have you ever had a really awful moment or day, or maybe during a panic attack, or a crying spell, and you just think, What if this never ends? What if I cannot move through this? What if this does break me? [I just know in my heart that nearly every person has had this moment at least once – am I right?]

I rely on three things in those moments:

  1. Acceptance. I have found that the number one thing I can do to make those moments worse is to panic and fight them.

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The more I entertain thoughts of, I can’t do this, I’m freaking out/panicking/hysterical/upset, this will break me, I am broken, I can’t move through this, it will never end, the harder it is.

A tiny space of calm is found within the storm when acceptance is embraced. I am having a really hard time right now. Oh. Okay. Yes. This is what’s happening. This is where I am. Okay. I’m fully here.

2. People. Not all people. And not most people. But the people who Get It, or who Get Me, and will love me through it, who will remind me, This will not break you, who will be present with me wherever I am. Those very few people are the lily pads leading me across the lake.

3. Tools. I don’t know about you, but in the moment, tools are really hard to remember to use. Also sometimes hard to believe that they’re going to do anything. So I find that practicing strategies and tools during calm moments, and semi-stressful moments, make them much more automatic to use during the super hard times. I think I could probably write a whole post on tools, and I think I will.

There are so many, good, concrete, realistic strategies out there. Some, we teach our kids each day at school or at home. Some, we learn ourselves. I think we all know that tools are more than just “take a deep breath” which my ukele-playing, beyond-insightful kiddo will tell you “doesn’t work” and “makes it worse!!!!” And you know what? Sometimes she’s right. So often the go-to advice is, “take a deep breath.” But really, a deep breath doesn’t always help. In the moment, it doesn’t initially matter how deep the breath is, it matters where it comes from. An attempt at a deep breath that involves a shallow breath where the shoulders raising up high is going to physically feel awful. But a breath from your stomach, where you put your hand on your stomach and try to breathe into it – that breath is going to feel good. And it will gradually deepen on its own.

 

So – while I ponder a post about my own tools that I’ve gathered and discovered over the years, I welcome any and all thoughts: What works for you during a hard time? Are there certain thoughts that grip you in terror but later you laugh about? Have you ever tried to accept where you’re at, however hard that may be?

Not the thoughts themselves

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(Sometimes I feel like a broken record, because I kind of say the same thing over and over again, just in different words and different ways. But maybe that’s kind of the point, because what we internalize and truly know in one moment, we doubt and don’t believe in another moment. So maybe the point is to keep saying it, over and over again, because each moment we capitalize on our truth is a moment that the truth solidifies more and more in our cores.)

I have been noticing lately (again) how the automatic thoughts that were such a part of my life for so long continue to linger. I have been empowered lately (again) that I have the choice to act on them or not.

One of the best, most freeing truths I ever came to internalize, was:

What matters is my reactions to the thoughts, not the thoughts themselves. 

Today, I felt embarrassed about the way I handled a conversation. I perceived myself as sounding incompetent, immature, and annoying. (And maybe I did sound that way, or maybe I didn’t, all the ruminating in the world won’t send me inside the other person’s head to know how she perceived me. It would be up to her to tell me – not my job to guess.) And it fascinated me how quickly after I heard the thoughts in my brain:

I am going to the gym right when I get home.
I am going for a run even though it’s hot.
I’m not going to eat dinner.

I no longer panic about those thoughts, though I don’t love them. But I’ve come to realize that my brain is wired this way. Maybe it’s genetic, maybe it’s neurological, maybe it’s synapses that were created in middle school and high school and college and still exist to this day. But also? Maybe it doesn’t matter why the thoughts come. Maybe (definitely) what matters is how I choose to react. And there’s nothing more empowering than that – knowing I have a choice.

I’m home right now. I’m sitting on my couch. I had a snack because working outside all day left me shaky and dehydrated. The air conditioning is on. I’m writing. I will eat dinner tonight. I don’t have the energy for the gym, so I won’t go tonight. I might go for a walk later if I want to gently, slowly stretch out my body. I will not harm myself. I will be gentle and kind.

Years ago? I didn’t have that separation between thoughts and actions. A thought was acted on, because there was no other option. But that’s no longer the case. And the presence of thoughts doesn’t erase years of progress, years of moving forward. It doesn’t mean failure and it doesn’t mean regression or relapse. The presence of thoughts means nothing except just that….that there are thoughts in my brain. (And? If I do or did act on the thoughts? That also doesn’t erase years of progress, moving forward, or mean failure. It means that all of us, myself included, are human. And perfection doesn’t exist. And that’s just life. And okay. And real.)

And so now I know.

I can notice the thoughts. Listen to them. Acknowledge them.

And gently send them away.

Meltdown

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She paces frantically in circles, reminding me of a caged bird. A primal look of fear crosses her red, sweat-streaked face. I’m trapped, I sense her trying to say. Words are not accessible to her right now. I sit in silence. I wait. She shrieks. “I can’t breathe!” She screams, “I’m going to hyperventilate!” My heart breaks. Subliminally, telepathically, I tell her, I get it. I know this panic. I know how terrifying it feels to not be in control of your own body. I know. Please believe me. I know. I’m here. She makes eye contact with me for a millisecond, and I send love from my eyes to hers, just before the meltdown seizes her again, and she throws her water bottle as hard as she can onto the ground, into the dirt. She stomps over, picks up the bottle, and upon seeing how dirty it is, she lets out a scream and bursts into sobbing tears. I stand up, and softly ask, “Want me to wipe it off?” “Yes!” she shrieks. Wordlessly I wipe it on my shirt and hand it to her. A few moments later, she catches my eye again. I’m here, I tell her with all the energy I can muster. I know you’re scared. You’re safe. This will pass. Time passes. The guttural moans quiet. The sobs turn to whimpers. Words emerge, here and there. She hears me again. Her vision clears. She holds my eye gaze for longer and longer. I quietly ask, “Do you want to go get a snack?” She says, “Yes” in a loud voice, but not a yell. We walk. I match her pace. She brings up a preferred conversation topic. We talk. Fifteen minutes later, after she finishes her snack, I feel her gaze on me. I look up. “Thank you,” she says. And what I want to say is, Thank you for trusting me to keep you safe. For being real and letting it out and letting me see your pain. You are 12 years old, but I admire you and your bravery. Thank you for trusting me in your most vulnerable moments. But instead, I look at her, smile, and simply say, “You’re welcome.”

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.

The silly 911 script

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I’ve written before about scripting, how it’s safe and comforting to our kids, how it’s often a way for us to get “in” to their brain and form a connection, how scripting can be so positive and we should utilize it. (And as a side note, I thought of another real-life example of scripting. When my favorite yoga teacher ends a class, she always, ALWAYS ends it with, “Drink water, be good to yourself.” And it’s a routine and I love when she says it, and if she didn’t, I would feel unsettled)

There’s a script/routine that I do at least once a day with one of my kiddos, Joey [not his real name]. Joey has high anxiety and often feels as though a problem is an emergency, and will react as such. For example, in the past, his anxiety combined with his impulsivity would lead Joey to push a child if he lost a game, call a peer stupid if Joey wasn’t picked to go first, or just get stuck ruminating if he wrote his name messily. Joey has learned all about the problem scale and though in a moment of calm he can understand and identify what’s an emergency and what’s a glitch, and what’s in between, he has a hard time accessing that in the moment.

When I teach the Problem Scale, to any of my kids, I often say that since a number 5 is an emergency type problem, if there’s a problem for which we don’t need to call 911, it’s probably not an emergency (e.g., though your pencil falling on the ground might feel like an emergency, we don’t need 911 to help with it, so we don’t need to react as though it’s an emergency). Joey latched onto this almost as a security blanket, and for whatever reason, it clicked in his brain.

So when a problem arises, like he spills water on his worksheet, he often turns to me and mimics dialing on a phone and says, “Do it, boop boop boop.”

And I hold out my palm like a phone and I pretend to dial and the noise I make for the pretend numbers is, “Boop boop boop.”

I hold up my “phone” to my ear and I say, “Hello, 911? Yes, we have an emergency. Joey spilled water on his sheet. Oh. Really? Hmm. Okay. Thanks. Bye.”

Then I “hang up” and tell Joey, “911 said it’s just a glitch and they don’t need to come.”

And Joey laughs and laughs and then moves right on. Calm. Comforted. Reassured.

We have done this countless times. For not winning a contest, for tearing a corner of his paper by accident, for not getting to have speech one day if there’s an assembly, for losing a game. The script is always the exact same, and it brings Joey comfort. For whatever reason. The reason doesn’t matter.

So yesterday when there was an assembly and a something happened that Joey perceived as upsetting and problematic, he tugged on my sleeve and I knelt down and he mimicked dialing, so we whispered the script to each other – and he was fine. He rocked that assembly and not only was I psyched that the script worked, but I was proud. He sought it out, he used self-advocacy, he knew what he needed and what he needed was reassurance, and this is how he got it. And that is no small accomplishment.

The Big Storm

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I went to the doctor’s yesterday, to get a TB test for one of my jobs.
My plan was to get there at 3:30 for a 3:45 immunization, and be gone by 3:50. I had a plan in my head, the rest of my day felt contingent upon that plan, and I felt confident knowing my timeframe.

But, they couldn’t check me in, something was wrong in the computer, they ran late because of that, there was only one nurse available, she was running late, I had to have the test done in a chair instead of laying down, I wasn’t allowed a band aid after, I ended up having to go back and wait in line to get my parking ticket validated because I was there far longer than the free half an hour. Now, all of those are seemingly little factors. And maybe if one of them happened independent of the others it wouldn’t have been a big deal. Or maybe if it was a different day, if I was more or less tired, more or less stressed, more or less hungry, it would have been more or less of a big deal. But on this day, under those circumstances, it was a Big Deal. And I ended up crying in that chair. And then a few good minutes of bawling in the bathroom after. Why? I don’t know. It felt Big. It was a swirly, shabby, pounding storm within me and it needed to get out. And it came out in tears.

And I couldn’t help but think of our kids. Look, I’m neurotypical. I have a good amount of inhibition. I have coping mechanisms. I have words that I can access. I can be flexible. And still…..still, I was frustrated, annoyed, irritated, stormy. Because I’m human and because sometimes with a certain set of circumstances, you just get stormy. But if I had even a little less inhibition, less access to coping methods and words? I might have screamed. Or kicked. Or bitten. Not because I had some sort of malice, mean intentions. No, simply because those would be as reflexive as crying was to me yesterday. I didn’t decide to cry. There was no intent. Just as there wouldn’t be any intent if I had acted out physically. Like one of our kids might. It’s not a temper tantrum and it’s not purposeful. It’s a reflexive way for their bodies to release the Big Stormy feelings inside. Like tears did for me.

And it thought about how we work on the Problem Scale with our kids. And how sometimes when a kiddo is frustrated or mad about something, we remind them that it is just a “glitch.” But right before I had started crying, if someone had said, “Jen, this is just a glitch,” I might have screamed! It would have felt so invalidating – like, how dare I feel this way. So it reinforced why we need to validate our kids’ feelings. How we need to acknowledge that it might feel like a 4 or a 5 [on the Problem Scale] but we need to react like a glitch. And sometimes just that validation is enough. But to dismiss how it feels isn’t fair. Because the feeling is physical, it’s reflexive. Hearing that they shouldn’t feel a certain way is completely unsuccessful, detrimental.

Our kids do the best they can with what they’ve got. Sometimes in different moments they have more or less. And that’s how we are too. Ultimately, we are all human. Ultimately, we are all doing the best we can in that moment.