Tag

writing

Stream of consciousness

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No edits, no beautifully-crafted blog post, just honest snippets of thoughts as they are:

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I am having a hard time. Everyone’s having a hard time. I am not unique and yet I am. Everyone’s circumstances are different and yet everyone’s circumstances are the same.

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I go through periods of positivity and gratitude and periods of deep despair and anxiety. Sometimes within a day or even an hour. I try so hard to be upbeat and positive for the girls, but sometimes it’s all too much and I can’t. And then I kind of hate myself for it.

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I never went back to work after maternity leave, because school closed. Instead, I transitioned from maternity leave to Working Full Time while Parenting Full Time. This is an impossible situation, and I am well-aware I’m not the only one in it. I miss my students, my coworkers, my work routine, my normalcy.

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I feel horrible at my job when I can’t answer emails or get things done because I’m with my kids. I feel horrible as a mother when I can’t give my kids my undivided attention because I have to get work done. I feel horrible as a wife when I have no energy left at the end of the day or when I take out my frustrations on my husband.

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This is not a pity party.

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My friend and I talk about this so much: you need to find a balance between acknowledging your feelings about the situation, along with focusing on your privilege, but without letting knowledge of your privilege incite self-judgment for having a hard time.

It’s a fucking battle every second of every day.

This is all so hard.

And.

I am so lucky and privileged.

Feel your feelings with awareness but without judgment.

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But the judgment comes because who am I to be frustrated that there are so many dishes and so much laundry and so much stress and so many temper tantrums and diapers and so much work to do when there are people with actual problems I am so privileged I am such a brat stop whining stop complaining I’m a horrible human.

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My biggest fears as a child were that something could happen that could cause the world to end or loved ones to die. Everyone told me those were just unfounded fears.

They’re no longer irrational fears.

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Getting outside helps. I don’t even need warm spring days (though that would be heavenly), but I need sun. I need to get Maya outside and I need to be outside.

I feel the best when we are outside and I see the trees, hear the birds, dig in the dirt, and see that nature is continuing on, see that there’s a world out there.

The days that I wake up to gray and rain my heart sinks and I can’t breathe again.

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I am having an increase in food and body thoughts.

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It feels like all I do is pick up toys, wash dishes, cook, and clean. Nurse, play, parent, work. Lather, rinse, repeat.

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It has been really nice reconnecting with old friends.

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I feel so worried for people’s mental health after this trauma. Because this IS a trauma, for so many.

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My heart breaks for Maya on a daily basis. She is old enough to understand something is wrong and different but not old enough to understand why. She is more than fine, she is so privileged and lucky and FINE. And yet. She is sad and confused and her life has been completely shaken up and I hate that. She asks for her friends and school and to please go somewhere, Mama, and when will everywhere stop being closed? I don’t want this to be her life but I know she’s fine but I also don’t like it.

Again. Who am I to complain.

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I’m tired. Every minute of every day. Maybe it would help if Maggie would sleep well at night. Maybe it wouldn’t matter.

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I think the only way anyone can survive this is for us to all share our thoughts and feelings. It has been so nice having multiple people reach out and share what’s going on for them. I think it’s making people more emotionally-aware and looking to connect on a emotional level where maybe they hadn’t in the past.

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Often times in my life I’ve felt alone in my anxieties and worries and obsessive thinking and despair at things. I no longer feel alone because everyone else is feeling it, too. Which makes me sad, and also grateful.

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I am profoundly grateful for social media as a means for connecting with people during this.

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Will I ever feel safe in the world again, even when we are able to go back to a quasi “normal”? Will the anxiety I have around getting sick, that I had before this even started, ever go away? Will my children live the lives I am hoping for them? Will we all be okay?

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Now. Right now. One moment. One breath. Try. Try. Try.

Why I’m not writing

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Every day I have a desperate urge to write and every time I sit down to write, nothing comes out. It feels like more than writer’s block.

When I first started blogging, I wrote about my work with kids on the spectrum. Not a lot of people were writing about that wonderful population at the time, and many reached out and said they got helpful ideas from what I wrote, and that made me happy.

Then I started writing about my life with anxiety during a time where nobody was writing about anxiety, and I was this big Truth-Teller, and people came out of the woodwork to tell me how brave I was, that they had anxiety too, that they could relate, that my bravery in sharing made them feel less alone and less stigmatized. And that was amazing. Except now – anxiety is just something widely accepted, that everyone has, that every celebrity talks about, that people admit to, that really isn’t stigmatized much at all anymore. So, why bother writing about it?

And then, again, I became this Brave Truth-Teller when I started writing about sexual assault, and yet again, people came out of the woodwork to tell me “me too” and share their experiences and say that me writing about it helped them talk about it or acknowledge it, and it was amazing and I connected with people and felt like again, I was making a difference. Except now, again, everyone is talking about it. Between the “me too” movement and the Kavanaugh hearings, and the USA gymnastics, and Time’s Up Now, it’s EVERYWHERE. And that’s amazing too, and I’m glad it’s so public, and while I know that there are still plenty of people keeping it a dark shameful secret, it’s so out there in the media that is there really any point to little tiny insignificant me writing about it more?

And so now I feel stuck. Blogging to me used to feel like this exciting, brave thing I was doing, because I knew how many people I was reaching and impacting. I would sit down and think, “What would one of my younger selves – my 7-year-old self, my 15-year-old self, my 28-year-old self, need to read?” and then I would write it. Because nobody else was. But what do I write about now? Do I stick with those same topics and carry on, hoping there are still people out there who will benefit? Do I write about boring and mundane topics like the fact that I’m still a sensitive person blah blah blah and motherhood is amazing and exhausting blah blah blah and here is how I’m managing my anxiety blah blah blah? Or do I stop? I really just wonder if I did my thing, made my difference, and now it’s time to let this blog go.

Write and breathe

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Did you know that exhaling activates the parasympathetic nervous system? That’s the part that calms you down, brings you back to baseline. I love that fact. I love it in part because it means there’s actually something really easy we can do when we’re anxious: exhale. Long exhales. I also love it because I knew, for years, that “take a deep breath” was not always helpful. There are about a million reasons why. But I think one of them is because breathing in, in and of itself, actually isn’t the solution. If we aren’t careful, we breathe in too quickly, or too deep, and exhale too short, and we end up hyperventilating and more anxious than we started. The key is to breathe overall. In deeply if it’s helpful and cleansing – but out, slowly, for longer.

I have felt anxious on and off the last few days. This isn’t anything new for me. Anxiety comes and goes, it’s a part of me, and in learning and accepting that, I don’t worry when I’m anxious. I very infrequently panic, like I used to, What if I’m anxious forever? It just doesn’t work that way. There’s nothing to panic or worry about. I will be prone to anxiety forever – I will not be in an anxious state every moment of every day forever. And anxiety in and of itself, while at times unpleasant, isn’t a bad thing.

Anxiety means one of two things: something is happening or upcoming that is on my mind, or something is subconsciously working itself through – meaning I’m not (yet) aware of what it is, but it’s doing its thing. These things aren’t brilliant revelations – but having spent years thinking I was anxious “for no reason”, it’s always a comfort to remind myself that there IS a reason. I just might not know it. And in a way it’s kind of cool (kind of), that my body can work things through even before it has been able to effectively communicate to my brain. Quite efficient. Sometimes unpleasant, yes, but efficient nonetheless.

Oh, goodness. There isn’t a point. I can’t always have a point of writing, can I?? Mostly what happened is that I haven’t written in so long. And the more I don’t write, the more I feel it building inside of me wanting to burst. Kind of like when you have to pee (I know, but seriously, it’s a good comparison). And then today I thought, Ugh, I wish I could just write something, I know it would feel freeing and cathartic. And then I told myself Uh, you can. Just go write something. And then I argued back, But I have nothing profound and no words of wisdom and no good moral or lesson. And then I countered, Right. But. Who cares, remember?

Ah, right. Who cares. Write from the mixed-up middle, and you don’t need an ending, and you don’t need a beginning, and you don’t need a point.

Let’s try this again

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I haven’t sat down to write all summer. Except once, one half-hearted post.

I have missed writing so much.

I could attribute it to working 10-12 hour days, or the heat, or being so exhausted, or writer’s block, or my computer breaking, or just simply not having enough time.

But really, it doesn’t matter why, does it?

What matters is that I have missed it. I need it back.

Writing is so good for me.

There’s so many posts that have been swimming around in my head. Words and sentences floating about that want to be collected and transformed into some semblance of coherence.

I’m going to try.

I have so much to say. About work, about kids and meltdowns and strategies and lessons. About life, about authenticity and discovery. About stories and truth-telling and being real. About everything.

And yet.

I think about finally having this time, and I freeze. My fingers freeze, my mind stops. I can’t find the words and the paragraphs I had so eloquently written in my head are nowhere to be found.

But gently, I will coax them out. Gently, I will return to this habit. Gently, I will find my voice again.

I can’t wait.

Mixed-up middle

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I haven’t written in so long. Maybe a month. I hate not writing for a month. As with anything, the longer I don’t write, the harder it is to sit down and write. I can’t think of the perfect post. The words won’t come. I have nothing to say, even though I have everything to say.

So why not just start right here, somewhere in the mixed-up middle of words and ideas?

Like: I’m puzzling over the little details I’m noticing about myself. I’m thinking so much about my cravings to be busy at work, and my difficulty with free time. I’m trying to gently figure out what each means and be observant without being judgmental.

Like: Some days a sunset brings me to tears that yet another day is over already. Other days a sunset brings a sigh of relief, that a new day will dawn soon.

Like: I don’t fit either early-bird or night-owl. My energy has been shifting and I can’t quite make out the pattern of when I am most energized and why.

Like: My hyper-sensitivity is off the charts lately. Today: my heart hurting when I stepped on tree roots, fearful that I was hurting them. (Notice, don’t judge, I remind myself. I am who I am.)

Like:  “The world is unsafe” feeling is big. I find myself unable to read about, or think about, the events around the world because it’s just too big for my soul to hold right now.

Like: Books have been my saving grace ever since I was a little girl, and the comfort I find from knowing I can spend 10 minutes, an hour, or a day reading, is akin to what a child gets from clutching their blankie.

That’s it. That’s what I’ve got for now.

It’s a start, perhaps. A foot in the door at writing again. And this quiet period will end, as it always does, and at some point my fingers will frantically start typing the words again. But for now, we wait.

Writer’s Block

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I could write about the activities we’ve been doing in speech, but I don’t have anything new and innovative to talk about.

I could tell you the funny things my students have said, but it’s hard to convey the humor in written form.

I could write about how much I hate MCAS and PARCC but it’s nothing that others haven’t said.

I could tell you what’s been going on with Bella, and share the latest social story I wrote, but do people want to read that?

I could write the follow-up from my Musings post, but I’m avoiding it.

I could finish the post I’ve been trying to write about panic and anxiety, but I just can’t get it right.

I could write a “10 Reasons I Love My Cats” post, but really, who wants to read that?

I could do a book review of a great series that I read recently, but I don’t know if I’d do a good job.

I could try to write a fictional piece, but none have come to me.

Really, I just feel like this.

What should I write about? What do you want to read?

Musings

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I’ve started weaving words together, into sentences. I’ve started toying with the idea of it. I’ve started thinking, “This is what I would say if I told my story.” I’ve started thinking what I would include and what I wouldn’t. I’ve started thinking about how the way in which I write it is more important than giving all the details.

Someone said to me, “You’ll get there, you’ll be ready.” I told her, “I AM ready.”

Which made me pause.

What’s stopping me? If I am ready, truly ready, to do this, to say what I feel is necessary, for my own reasons, then why am I not typing it out and pressing “Publish”?

Because of others! Because I don’t want to offend! Because I don’t want to upset! Because I don’t want conflict! Because I don’t want disagreement! Because I don’t want negativity!

Oh.

As the Queen of Feeling Other’s Feelings, and working to step down from the job of Head Security Guard for People’s Well-Being, my fears go something like this:

What if reading it makes someone upset? What if it hurts them? What if someone thinks I should’ve been more or less specific? What if someone I love is disappointed in me for sharing? What if they don’t understand? What if they tell me I shouldn’t have done that?

What I’m reminding myself over and over again in the hopes that it will internalize: People can choose what they read. People can stop reading at any time. People are allowed to have different opinions. People can have different reactions. My job is not to avoid doing what I believe in my heart to be right – but rather to do it, in spite of the fear. This blog is mine – mine. I write for me, above anything else. People don’t have to agree with that. It’s all good.

I have lived my life saying and doing, or not saying and not doing, based on how it would affect others. And I’ve justified that under the umbrella of “I am a considerate person who thinks about others’ feelings, which is what makes me a good human.” But as with anything, it isn’t black and white – it CAN’T be black and white. It’s not obsess over it vs. never think about it. In reality, it’s a middle ground, where you take into account other’s feelings, balance them with your own needs and feelings, and make a decision.

But middle ground is scary. 

Yes. It is. Because it’s vulnerable. And I am striving towards vulnerability. Isn’t this whole blog about vulnerability? A year ago would I have ever dreamed of writing the words, about the topics, that I have today? Would I have ever imagined I’d write candidly about anxiety, depression, grief? Haven’t I relished in the feedback I’ve gotten about it? Haven’t people come out of the woodwork to talk to me about things I’ve written about, to share their own secrets? Haven’t I meant it, truly meant it, when someone has told me that they haven’t read a blog post because it’s too emotional or upsetting and I’ve responded, “That’s okay”?

And this – this back-and-forth, this messy excuse of a blog post – this is reality. This is vulnerability. This is it.

All propelling me forward. To write more, to share more, to tell more.

Because I can’t stand the silence anymore. The fear and the shame and the sadness and the loneliness that so many people are drowning under. I know how that felt, I lived it, and I can’t bear the fact that so many others do, too. I sit in meetings, look around at conferences, and know that of all those faces I see, some are feeling it too. Living in that place.

Each voice that speaks heals a piece of anyone who hears. Chips away a bit at the shame. Erases a bit of the stigma. Glues back a bit of the brokenness. Kindles a bit of bravery.

And so.

It’s almost time. Whatever form it takes. However many words I write. However cryptic it needs to be.

Because one person, or the world – it doesn’t matter which –  is waiting.