This isn't a political rant, I promise.
I have a hate/fear relationship with Home Depot. I hate it because it's filled with things I know nothing about, and there are few things that irk me more than ignorance. I'm afraid of it because its sheer magnitude and volume trigger my anxiety and leave me overwhelmed and overstimulated. It's all too much. But being a suburban wife and mom, I inevitably find myself wandering this vast expanse of hardware and things-I-didn't-know-were-a-thing on occasion. (People buy 3/4" copper pipe? WHY?!) I took a trip there today to buy paint and area rugs, but my dear husband tagged along. He showed me right to the carpet department, and suggested I squeeze between the hanging displays of soft pile. Instant relief. I nestled in, Temple Grandin-style, and felt at ease between the squishy fibers. I can do this, I thought. This is okay.
Later on, I had to run to work to make some copies for tomorrow's school day. Husband called and asked if I would return to the Depot for a forgotten item. No problem, I thought. I could visit my rugs. I parked, went to the necessary department, conducted my business, and left. As I was walking to my swagger wagon, I noticed a car parked next to mine on the driver's side. There were people in it. I got a little uneasy.
As I got closer, it became clear that the occupants of the car were consuming some sort of presumably-illicit substance. They didn't look like altar boys, I can say that much. I briefly considered turning around and grabbing a fresh-faced Home Depot soldier to accompany me out, but I immediately dismissed the idea. My bags were heavy and my chicken-wing arms were protesting, and besides, I'm not a baby. So I walked to my door and fumbled with my keys. The guys in the car got quiet, and my nerves ramped up. I couldn't figure out which damn key unlocked my damn door because they kept looking at me.
One guy whistled. I looked around and saw no one - NO ONE - in the vicinity who could help. (How could this be, when the population of a small town was milling about inside?!) I finally grabbed my key fob when the other one leaned out the window and said, "Hey there, fine piece of ass. We've been checking you out. Why don't you hop in and we'll take you for a ride?"
He was a foot away from me. In that instant I thought, "There are two of them and one of me. There's no one around. I couldn't overpower the Snuggle teddy bear, much less two grown men. I'd fit through their window if they pulled hard enough. Should I scream? Why did I wear my yoga clothes to the store?" In that instant I thought about the time in senior year when I went to the bathroom during math and was pushed against the wall by a boy who thought it okay to shove his hand all the way up my skirt. In that instant I thought about the time I was held to a bed, knife against my neck, by a boy I thought loved me who told me no one would believe me so I should keep my mouth shut and do what he said. In that instant I thought about the time a big boy I trusted told me the boogey man would get me if I didn't give him the pleasure he demanded.
Nothing happened. I got in my car, peeled out of the parking lot, and stumbled back into my home completely unscathed. Well, maybe not completely. Because here's the thing. Sometimes lewd words made by men to women truly are harmless. (Would these junkies have hurt me if they'd had the chance? Maybe so, maybe not.) But even if those words harbor no ill-intent, they still have tremendous power to intimidate, terrify, and traumatize. Women get hurt by men at alarming rates. Think I'm alone in my experiences? According to the Rape and Incest National Network, an American is sexually assaulted every 109 seconds. SECONDS. Additionally, one out of every six women has been the victim of a completed or attempted rape in her lifetime. I'm certainly not alone, though I wish I were.
This notion that "boys will be boys," or that guys just don't know any better, is utter and complete bullshit. When I came home today and told Husband what happened, he was mortified. His first question was, "Did you get their license plate number?" To which I replied, "I was fucking terrified, so no, I didn't." "Oh," he said, "God. Maybe you should carry a gun." He's a good man who has never so much as raised an eyebrow to me much less his voice or his hand. He doesn't take kindly to people who pick on women.
But I don't want to carry a gun, and I don't want to blame myself for wearing yoga clothes to Home Depot. I don't want to blame 17-year old me for going to the bathroom during class and exposing myself to dirtbags trolling the halls for victims. I don't want to blame 13-year old me for trusting my dearest, best friend who turned out to be a wolf in sheep's clothing. I don't want to blame the 5-year old me for... being a little girl, the most vulnerable human on the planet.
We women deserve to walk the earth feeling safe, secure, and confident. We do NOT deserve to believe our bodies exist only for the entertainment and exploitation of men. It's bullshit and I won't stand for it. I have a daughter and I have sons and I have an inner child who's been begging me to speak up for decades. NO MORE. WE CANNOT AND SHOULD NOT TAKE THIS ANY LONGER. If you have a story, please share it. If you are a women, please speak out. If you are a good man - and most of you are! - please don't dismiss the toxic waste that comes out of other men's mouths. Together we can change. Together we can fix this. NO MORE.
Sunday, October 23, 2016
Friday, October 14, 2016
The Thief of Joy
There's this lady in my church who appears perfect in every way. She has silky blonde hair and sparkling white teeth and feminine style and a demure, gentle personality that leaves me convinced small animals must follow her through the woods when she takes walks. She even has a pair of perfect, blonde, well-mannered children who have probably never been dirty or sticky in their entire young lives. I hate her. Or rather, I hate what she brings up for me. Being in the same zip code as this girl inflames my own insecurities. My hair is pretty cool, but it cost a lot of money and someone else had to do it for me. My teeth are crooked and stained. My style, while authentic, won't be on the cover of Vogue any time soon. And my kids? They're amazing, but they're also loud and very, very grimy. If this lady is New York City, I am Hoboken.
How can it be that I try so hard to look like I've got my shit together - unsuccessfully, on most days - and other people can just roll out of bed with rays of light beaming from their skin? They're prettier than I am, more approachable, smarter, funnier, kinder, and damn it all, so, so much thinner. (I imagine we all have one marker of our own failings that cuts a little deeper than the rest; this is mine.)
And don't even get me started on accomplishments. I am blessed with some remarkably talented, hard-working friends, who collectively have an entire alphabet of credentials after their names. Comparing my professional achievements to theirs is like comparing a street mongrel to a pedigreed show dog. These people have done things! Real, important, meaningful things! I'm pretty confident my students like me, and I love what I do, but there are no letters after my name. (Perhaps I can ease my anxiety about this by forcing my students to address me as, "Your Highness," or at the very least, "Esteemed Madame." Might be a tough sell with sixth graders.)
What is a girl to do when she's surrounded by people so obviously, glaringly better than she? I've tried a couple techniques in the past. I call the first one pure, unfiltered bitterness. It fails almost immediately, because while it's briefly cathartic to think, "You're more __________ than I am and I hate you for it," it's pretty lonely and toxic. The second technique relies on a sort of reverse comparison. Instead of finding yourself in the down position, seek out people who make you feel superior. This one is actually fairly easy - "Well, at least I don't wear slippers to bring my kids to soccer like that poor sap," - but it fails because it is profoundly unkind. You will end up feeling just as miserable and inadequate as before, but with an added scoop of guilt and shame. The third technique, which has been my default for as long as I can remember, is to harshly berate yourself for your deficiencies and do whatever possible to fix or hide them. For me this technique forms the spine of my decades-long eating disorder. "You are good, I am bad. I don't know how to be as good as you, but I can be thinner, or I can die trying." The logical fallacy here is crystal clear: The negative self-obsession simply leaves no room for actual constructive growth.
There's a fourth technique I've considered but haven't tried. It's a strange concept I'll dub Empathic Realism. This technique presumes that all people - regardless of how perfect and sparkly they appear - experience pain, fear, and self-doubt. We're really not so different at all. Even the Disney princess in my church has likely cried herself to sleep, yelled at her kids, fought with her partner, and felt inferior to someone else. Here's the power in Empathic Realism: it's an equalizer. It levels the playing field for all of us and invites us to see each other the way we really are. What we see on the outside is almost never the whole picture. A lady with a dazzling smile may be hiding deep distress. A husband who brings his wife flowers every day may be hiding infidelity. A guy with a successful career may be distracting from an addiction. A 1950s-worthy wife and mom may be hiding desperate, aching loneliness. That's the realism. The empathy piece comes when we acknowledge the humanity, not the veneer. When we look at someone and say, "I see the real you in there. I'm right there with you."
That acknowledgement must extend to ourselves, too, for this technique to reach maximum effectiveness. Am I perfect? Ha! We're already determined that's not the case. But I try to to the right thing. I try to be honest, act with integrity, and serve others. I stumble often, but I get back up. In the end, it's the soldiering on that's the true mark of success. When we can soldier on together, in solidarity and shared humanity, we've achieved the best success of all.
How can it be that I try so hard to look like I've got my shit together - unsuccessfully, on most days - and other people can just roll out of bed with rays of light beaming from their skin? They're prettier than I am, more approachable, smarter, funnier, kinder, and damn it all, so, so much thinner. (I imagine we all have one marker of our own failings that cuts a little deeper than the rest; this is mine.)
And don't even get me started on accomplishments. I am blessed with some remarkably talented, hard-working friends, who collectively have an entire alphabet of credentials after their names. Comparing my professional achievements to theirs is like comparing a street mongrel to a pedigreed show dog. These people have done things! Real, important, meaningful things! I'm pretty confident my students like me, and I love what I do, but there are no letters after my name. (Perhaps I can ease my anxiety about this by forcing my students to address me as, "Your Highness," or at the very least, "Esteemed Madame." Might be a tough sell with sixth graders.)
What is a girl to do when she's surrounded by people so obviously, glaringly better than she? I've tried a couple techniques in the past. I call the first one pure, unfiltered bitterness. It fails almost immediately, because while it's briefly cathartic to think, "You're more __________ than I am and I hate you for it," it's pretty lonely and toxic. The second technique relies on a sort of reverse comparison. Instead of finding yourself in the down position, seek out people who make you feel superior. This one is actually fairly easy - "Well, at least I don't wear slippers to bring my kids to soccer like that poor sap," - but it fails because it is profoundly unkind. You will end up feeling just as miserable and inadequate as before, but with an added scoop of guilt and shame. The third technique, which has been my default for as long as I can remember, is to harshly berate yourself for your deficiencies and do whatever possible to fix or hide them. For me this technique forms the spine of my decades-long eating disorder. "You are good, I am bad. I don't know how to be as good as you, but I can be thinner, or I can die trying." The logical fallacy here is crystal clear: The negative self-obsession simply leaves no room for actual constructive growth.
There's a fourth technique I've considered but haven't tried. It's a strange concept I'll dub Empathic Realism. This technique presumes that all people - regardless of how perfect and sparkly they appear - experience pain, fear, and self-doubt. We're really not so different at all. Even the Disney princess in my church has likely cried herself to sleep, yelled at her kids, fought with her partner, and felt inferior to someone else. Here's the power in Empathic Realism: it's an equalizer. It levels the playing field for all of us and invites us to see each other the way we really are. What we see on the outside is almost never the whole picture. A lady with a dazzling smile may be hiding deep distress. A husband who brings his wife flowers every day may be hiding infidelity. A guy with a successful career may be distracting from an addiction. A 1950s-worthy wife and mom may be hiding desperate, aching loneliness. That's the realism. The empathy piece comes when we acknowledge the humanity, not the veneer. When we look at someone and say, "I see the real you in there. I'm right there with you."
That acknowledgement must extend to ourselves, too, for this technique to reach maximum effectiveness. Am I perfect? Ha! We're already determined that's not the case. But I try to to the right thing. I try to be honest, act with integrity, and serve others. I stumble often, but I get back up. In the end, it's the soldiering on that's the true mark of success. When we can soldier on together, in solidarity and shared humanity, we've achieved the best success of all.
Wednesday, October 12, 2016
Owning Your Story
It's been awhile, friends. Life got demanding, like a toddler in the toy aisle. I've thought for months about writing, but there were too many demands on my time and attention. (Full disclosure: I've been afraid to write. Vulnerability can be a real hindrance to military-grade productivity.) Today I took a moment to check my blog, and I had a private message from a reader in South Korea. As it turns out, I have a lot of readers in South Korea. Who knew? (To my friends in the far East, thank you, I see you, and you are loved.) Anyhow, this reader was succinct: "I need to hear your words. Your story is like my story and I don't know how to tell mine. Please write." Wow.
Now, there are a few directions I could've taken with this request. My initial thought was, "Oh my God, what have I done? This poor kid thinks I'm some kind of a role model. I'm a disaster. I need to take down my blog." That was followed with, "Hey, look at me! People on another continent have read my stuff!" Finally - mercifully - I thought, "Okay. Here's proof that all the shit I've been through, all the shit I still face every day, has a purpose. It means something. It'sfor something."
As luck, or fate, or God, would have it, this message was followed almost immediately with a lunch date with the new pastor of my church. A little background may be helpful here. My old pastor recently retired. Before she did so, in addition to being at my hospital bedside when my babies were born, she was my spiritual wingman through multiple rounds of eating disorder treatment. She was gentle when I started to slip and a real hardass when I was dying. In short, she was a rock star in the concert of my life. Fast forward to this new gal, and I was hopeful but cautious. I didn't introduce myself with, "Hi, I'm Cassie, I'm a longtime church-member and chronic anorexic!" I didn't mention it at all. During our lunch date, after finding common ground in kids and work and books, she recommended I read Glennon Doyle Melton's Love Warrior. I downloaded it as soon as I got home, and that's where this tornado started blowing.
I'm not far into the book, but one thing's for sure: it strikes awfully close to home. (I highly recommend it, by the way. Unfiltered truth is the best.) The book's beginning describes Melton's descent into bulimia and addiction and her willingness to sacrifice her body for a fleeting, insincere sense of value. I get that. I thought about my own past, with its two decades of starving and purging and cutting and lies and false perfection, and I thought about my friend from South Korea. "I need to hear your words. Your story is like my story and I don't know how to tell mine. Please write."
Message received, universe. Here's the truth: I'm having a hard time. Would I love to be 95 pounds again? Absolutely. I'd do it in a minute. No questions asked. Every single day I put food in my mouth reluctantly, spitefully, resentfully. I eat for my family, I eat for my students, I eat for all the people I don't want to disappoint again, since I've disappointed them so many times before. But here's the thing. As agonizing as this process is, there's joy in it. There's joy in the knowledge that I'm looking at my past and saying, "Nope, not anymore." There's joy in the ability to climb out of bed in the morning, take my dogs for a walk, and share breakfast with my kids. There's joy in the progress I've made, even if there's still a long way to go.
I'm owning my story, because one person in one corner of the world asked me to do so, and because one new pastor - who, jury's in, is wonderful - prodded me out of my comfort zone. I'll be writing more. I'll be sharing more. I'll be vulnerable, despite the hit it may strike to my robotic productivity. There has to be a reason I've seen and survived what I have. I intend to own it.
Now, there are a few directions I could've taken with this request. My initial thought was, "Oh my God, what have I done? This poor kid thinks I'm some kind of a role model. I'm a disaster. I need to take down my blog." That was followed with, "Hey, look at me! People on another continent have read my stuff!" Finally - mercifully - I thought, "Okay. Here's proof that all the shit I've been through, all the shit I still face every day, has a purpose. It means something. It's
As luck, or fate, or God, would have it, this message was followed almost immediately with a lunch date with the new pastor of my church. A little background may be helpful here. My old pastor recently retired. Before she did so, in addition to being at my hospital bedside when my babies were born, she was my spiritual wingman through multiple rounds of eating disorder treatment. She was gentle when I started to slip and a real hardass when I was dying. In short, she was a rock star in the concert of my life. Fast forward to this new gal, and I was hopeful but cautious. I didn't introduce myself with, "Hi, I'm Cassie, I'm a longtime church-member and chronic anorexic!" I didn't mention it at all. During our lunch date, after finding common ground in kids and work and books, she recommended I read Glennon Doyle Melton's Love Warrior. I downloaded it as soon as I got home, and that's where this tornado started blowing.
I'm not far into the book, but one thing's for sure: it strikes awfully close to home. (I highly recommend it, by the way. Unfiltered truth is the best.) The book's beginning describes Melton's descent into bulimia and addiction and her willingness to sacrifice her body for a fleeting, insincere sense of value. I get that. I thought about my own past, with its two decades of starving and purging and cutting and lies and false perfection, and I thought about my friend from South Korea. "I need to hear your words. Your story is like my story and I don't know how to tell mine. Please write."
Message received, universe. Here's the truth: I'm having a hard time. Would I love to be 95 pounds again? Absolutely. I'd do it in a minute. No questions asked. Every single day I put food in my mouth reluctantly, spitefully, resentfully. I eat for my family, I eat for my students, I eat for all the people I don't want to disappoint again, since I've disappointed them so many times before. But here's the thing. As agonizing as this process is, there's joy in it. There's joy in the knowledge that I'm looking at my past and saying, "Nope, not anymore." There's joy in the ability to climb out of bed in the morning, take my dogs for a walk, and share breakfast with my kids. There's joy in the progress I've made, even if there's still a long way to go.
I'm owning my story, because one person in one corner of the world asked me to do so, and because one new pastor - who, jury's in, is wonderful - prodded me out of my comfort zone. I'll be writing more. I'll be sharing more. I'll be vulnerable, despite the hit it may strike to my robotic productivity. There has to be a reason I've seen and survived what I have. I intend to own it.
Wednesday, November 11, 2015
When "Help" Is a Dirty Word
It was my turn on the Playground Duty rotation recently. I'm love my middle school kids, but it's always fun to hang out with the little guys. The kindergarteners and first graders gave me hugs and high-fives and showed me their missing teeth. One asked me to tie his shoe, another to zip her jacket, yet another to open his squeezable yogurt. I started keeping track of these requests. By the time the bell rang, I had been asked for help twelve times. In twenty five minutes. None of these appeals came with an embarrassed, "I'm sorry, I hate to bother you," or the ashamed admission, "I know I should be able to do this myself, I'm just a mess right now." The kids needed help, they asked, I helped. Pretty straightforward.
Except it's not always straightforward, at least for some of us. When a five-year old has a problem she needs solving, she thinks nothing of reaching out to someone bigger, wiser, and with better fine-motor skills. When a 31-year old (me) has a problem she needs solving, she vows to work ten times harder to figure that problem out on her own, all the while maintaining perfect composure and refusing to admit there's anything wrong. That approach wouldn't work for the five-year old; the shoes would go untied and be tripped over, the jacket would stay unzipped and a chill would be caught, the yogurt wouldn't open and there would be tears. The approach doesn't work so well for the 31-year old either, as it happens.
Somewhere along the way I developed this notion that asking for help is a sign of weakness. I taught myself to be self-sufficient, and when that didn't work, I taught myself to lie and manipulate in order to cover up whatever calamity I was mired in. I'm not sure when this shift took place. A long time ago, if I needed a cup in a high cabinet, I would've asked someone to get it for me. I wasn't born resistant to help. That behavior hatched and grew like a parasite until eventually my whole brain was contaminated. I think it's normal for teenagers to go through this phase; they're flexing their independence and they need space to try, fall, and try again. Most people realize in early adulthood that everyone needs a hand sometimes, and they lighten up.
Some of us don't. Some of us become so revolted by the mere notion of asking for help that we'd rather die trying to do it ourselves than admit we're struggling. We want to be strong. We want to be capable. We want to be needless, wantless, anti-dependent. We love when people ask us for help, of course. The helper is in the power position. God forbid we should need to be rescued ourselves, though. Can you imagine?
I've done a lot of growing and healing over the last several years, but this is one of the issues I still struggle to overcome. I love looking like I have all my shit together. There's no drug quite like hearing someone ask, in awe, "How do you do it all?" Well, friend, since you asked, I do it all by sacrificing every last shred of sleep and sanity. (Probably not the expected answer.) The truth is, I do it all because I'm absolutely terrified of what might happen if I don't.
I can ask for the simple, practical things. "Can you watch my kids for a half-hour?" "Can I borrow your stapler?" "Would you mind covering me for five minutes so I can run to the bathroom?" There's no guilt attached to that stuff. But sometimes I want (need) to say, "I'm really having a hard time. Can we talk?" or, "I'm scared that things aren't going well. I'm not sure what to do." Those are the things I don't speak aloud. Those are the things with sacks full of shame and guilt tied to them like anchors. Incidentally, those are the things that are the most important. Funny how that works.
My challenge to myself - and to any of you who battle the insecurity demon - is to be more childlike. Instead of attaching all sorts of self-deprecating connotations to asking for help, let's just throw caution to the wind and DO IT. What's the worst that can happen? Someone says no? Worse, we get judged? Well, is that such a big deal, since we've been judging ourselves this whole time anyway? If someone says no or cops an attitude, we'll just move on to the next person. Lucky for us, there are lots of them out there. Maybe we'll be pleasantly surprised. Maybe people will be glad we asked. Maybe someone will say, "I've been sitting here for months watching you drown, just waiting for you to ask for a life preserver. I'm glad you finally did." Maybe someone will even say, "Wow, you need that? I do too. Maybe we can help each other."
In the interest of starting off strong, here I go: Friends, will you help me take this challenge?
Except it's not always straightforward, at least for some of us. When a five-year old has a problem she needs solving, she thinks nothing of reaching out to someone bigger, wiser, and with better fine-motor skills. When a 31-year old (me) has a problem she needs solving, she vows to work ten times harder to figure that problem out on her own, all the while maintaining perfect composure and refusing to admit there's anything wrong. That approach wouldn't work for the five-year old; the shoes would go untied and be tripped over, the jacket would stay unzipped and a chill would be caught, the yogurt wouldn't open and there would be tears. The approach doesn't work so well for the 31-year old either, as it happens.
Somewhere along the way I developed this notion that asking for help is a sign of weakness. I taught myself to be self-sufficient, and when that didn't work, I taught myself to lie and manipulate in order to cover up whatever calamity I was mired in. I'm not sure when this shift took place. A long time ago, if I needed a cup in a high cabinet, I would've asked someone to get it for me. I wasn't born resistant to help. That behavior hatched and grew like a parasite until eventually my whole brain was contaminated. I think it's normal for teenagers to go through this phase; they're flexing their independence and they need space to try, fall, and try again. Most people realize in early adulthood that everyone needs a hand sometimes, and they lighten up.
Some of us don't. Some of us become so revolted by the mere notion of asking for help that we'd rather die trying to do it ourselves than admit we're struggling. We want to be strong. We want to be capable. We want to be needless, wantless, anti-dependent. We love when people ask us for help, of course. The helper is in the power position. God forbid we should need to be rescued ourselves, though. Can you imagine?
I've done a lot of growing and healing over the last several years, but this is one of the issues I still struggle to overcome. I love looking like I have all my shit together. There's no drug quite like hearing someone ask, in awe, "How do you do it all?" Well, friend, since you asked, I do it all by sacrificing every last shred of sleep and sanity. (Probably not the expected answer.) The truth is, I do it all because I'm absolutely terrified of what might happen if I don't.
I can ask for the simple, practical things. "Can you watch my kids for a half-hour?" "Can I borrow your stapler?" "Would you mind covering me for five minutes so I can run to the bathroom?" There's no guilt attached to that stuff. But sometimes I want (need) to say, "I'm really having a hard time. Can we talk?" or, "I'm scared that things aren't going well. I'm not sure what to do." Those are the things I don't speak aloud. Those are the things with sacks full of shame and guilt tied to them like anchors. Incidentally, those are the things that are the most important. Funny how that works.
My challenge to myself - and to any of you who battle the insecurity demon - is to be more childlike. Instead of attaching all sorts of self-deprecating connotations to asking for help, let's just throw caution to the wind and DO IT. What's the worst that can happen? Someone says no? Worse, we get judged? Well, is that such a big deal, since we've been judging ourselves this whole time anyway? If someone says no or cops an attitude, we'll just move on to the next person. Lucky for us, there are lots of them out there. Maybe we'll be pleasantly surprised. Maybe people will be glad we asked. Maybe someone will say, "I've been sitting here for months watching you drown, just waiting for you to ask for a life preserver. I'm glad you finally did." Maybe someone will even say, "Wow, you need that? I do too. Maybe we can help each other."
In the interest of starting off strong, here I go: Friends, will you help me take this challenge?
Friday, September 4, 2015
Maybe Buttons Were Made to be Pushed
I love being a teacher. I especially love being an English teacher. I get to explain language to children every day. I get to introduce narrative prose, persuasive writing, and poetry to young minds. I get to guide kids on the path to proper grammar, solid spelling, and the nuances of sentence structure. I get to be present for innumerable "aha moments." There's nothing better than that.
Not all of my job is punctuation and Longfellow, though. A surprising amount of my time is taken up with the social, emotional, and familial challenges of my students. Here's a little secret: teachers are 50% educators, 50% social workers. We have to mediate peer conflicts. We have to bolster self-esteem. Sometimes we have to help our kids cope with their difficult, unfair, chaotic lives.
I have a student right now whose personal challenges mirror my own when I was her age. I see myself in her struggle. I hear her talk, watch her cry, and I see my 5th grade self in all of her pain and confusion. She makes me remember. It hurts. I have a hard time balancing my professional obligations with my personal connections. I ache. I want to wrap her up in my arms and insist to her that someday it will be okay. In doing so, I'm wrapping up my younger self and insisting the same. She is who I was. She hurts like I hurt. She's scared like I was scared. She's at risk for the same things I was: depression, self-harm, eating disorders. She'll face things I shied away from: drugs, alcohol, boys. She sits on the very same precipice I did almost two decades ago.
I can't help but project my own life onto her. I can't help but think, "No, stop! Just pause for a minute. I know how you feel. No, really. I KNOW. But hang on. Keep going. Do that homework, even though you've got a thousand things going on at home. Read that book even though the noise in your house is almost unbearable. Keep your head down. Believe in your own strength. You can rise above this. You WILL rise above this. But you mustn't give up." I don't know if I'm talking to her or to the child me.
But does it matter? Maybe the reason this child is in my life is to push those buttons. Maybe this child is in my life because we both need to heal and to breathe. Maybe she's been placed in my care because no one in the world knows her story better than I do. Yes, it brings up difficult memories. Yes, I want to run from it. But I also have the gift of time, of hindsight, of victory. I'm largely at peace now. I've learned to forgive. I've learned to understand, and to accept what can't be understood. I've cultivated a beautiful, productive, joyful life. She can too, and I know this with certainty, because I was her.
The next time you encounter a person who pushes all your buttons, I invite you to get introspective. It wouldn't have such a profound impact if it didn't hit a deep nerve. What about this person reminds you of something? How do you relate to him/her? What do you have to learn? More importantly, what do you have to teach? Because in the end, that's what our life experiences allow us to do. Teach. Show the next generation that it will be okay. That they are not alone. When our buttons are pushed, we must determine what we have to give. That's what makes our survival worthwhile.
Not all of my job is punctuation and Longfellow, though. A surprising amount of my time is taken up with the social, emotional, and familial challenges of my students. Here's a little secret: teachers are 50% educators, 50% social workers. We have to mediate peer conflicts. We have to bolster self-esteem. Sometimes we have to help our kids cope with their difficult, unfair, chaotic lives.
I have a student right now whose personal challenges mirror my own when I was her age. I see myself in her struggle. I hear her talk, watch her cry, and I see my 5th grade self in all of her pain and confusion. She makes me remember. It hurts. I have a hard time balancing my professional obligations with my personal connections. I ache. I want to wrap her up in my arms and insist to her that someday it will be okay. In doing so, I'm wrapping up my younger self and insisting the same. She is who I was. She hurts like I hurt. She's scared like I was scared. She's at risk for the same things I was: depression, self-harm, eating disorders. She'll face things I shied away from: drugs, alcohol, boys. She sits on the very same precipice I did almost two decades ago.
I can't help but project my own life onto her. I can't help but think, "No, stop! Just pause for a minute. I know how you feel. No, really. I KNOW. But hang on. Keep going. Do that homework, even though you've got a thousand things going on at home. Read that book even though the noise in your house is almost unbearable. Keep your head down. Believe in your own strength. You can rise above this. You WILL rise above this. But you mustn't give up." I don't know if I'm talking to her or to the child me.
But does it matter? Maybe the reason this child is in my life is to push those buttons. Maybe this child is in my life because we both need to heal and to breathe. Maybe she's been placed in my care because no one in the world knows her story better than I do. Yes, it brings up difficult memories. Yes, I want to run from it. But I also have the gift of time, of hindsight, of victory. I'm largely at peace now. I've learned to forgive. I've learned to understand, and to accept what can't be understood. I've cultivated a beautiful, productive, joyful life. She can too, and I know this with certainty, because I was her.
The next time you encounter a person who pushes all your buttons, I invite you to get introspective. It wouldn't have such a profound impact if it didn't hit a deep nerve. What about this person reminds you of something? How do you relate to him/her? What do you have to learn? More importantly, what do you have to teach? Because in the end, that's what our life experiences allow us to do. Teach. Show the next generation that it will be okay. That they are not alone. When our buttons are pushed, we must determine what we have to give. That's what makes our survival worthwhile.
Sunday, August 2, 2015
What Recovery Is (and What It Isn't)
I love AA meetings and the people who attend them. I have never had an alcohol or drug problem, but I still feel more at home in a 12-step circle in a dusty church basement than I do almost anywhere else. If I had to pinpoint the origin of my love affair with this community of revolutionaries, it would be in a dusty church basement (where else?) in Wickenburg, AZ. My eating disorder rehab center offered transportation to the meeting, and since I didn't have anything better to do in the middle of the desert, I tagged along one morning. I squeezed in between an old, gray-haired biker in a do-rag and an older, grayer-haired cowboy complete with hat and spurs. ("And you felt at home there?!" I'm getting to it.) I nervously introduced myself, "Hi, I'm Cassie, and I'm an addict." The words felt awkward leaving my mouth. That wasn't really true, was it? I wasn't an alcoholic, wasn't hooked on drugs like those other people. The more I considered it, though, the more I realized how true the statement was. I was an addict, hopelessly dependent upon self-starvation to dull the pain of life. As the folks in that basement read from the Big Book and shared their experiences, I nodded and thought, over and over and over, "I've been there." Their pain was my pain. Our poisons may have been different, but our ailments were identical.
There's another thing I love about my friends in AA. They're never "recovered." They keep going back, keep returning to those church basements, month after month, year after year, decade after decade. After I had settled in to the Wickenburg AA, I got familiar with some of the regulars. Over the coffee maker one morning I asked one of the old cowboys why he stuck with it after over 20 years of sobriety. "Kid," he told me with his hand on my shoulder, "if I quit coming, I'll die." It was as simple as that. My pal, and tens of thousands of his comrades, understood an absolute about recovery from addiction: You work it, or it doesn't work.
Someone asked me recently if I think it's really possible for everyone to recover from addiction. The caretaker in me wanted to rush forward and insist, "Of course it is! There's always hope! No one is too far gone!" The realist in me (downer that she is) was much more cautious. I ended up telling my friend the truth as gently as I could: "I think anyone who makes up her mind to recover, and keeps making up her mind every single day, can stay sober, no matter how long or how severely they'd been down the hole. Some people just won't make up their minds, and in the time it takes before they finally come around, the damage can grow too great." I know that's not the most optimistic analysis, but I think it's the honest one.
At the end of the day, no matter how many thousands of stories I've heard in AA and in eating disorder treatment, I can only refer to my own story with any certainty. And this is what I know. Recovery isn't going away to rehab for a month or two and coming home fixed. Recovery isn't finding God and instantly abandoning all your vices (though the finding God part can be a really big asset). Recovery isn't quitting cold turkey because your loved ones ask you to. Recovery isn't a one-shot deal, it isn't neat and tidy, and it doesn't come in a bottle or a doctor's office or your dream job.
Recovery is the choice we make every single day to suit up and show up. It's the thousands of mundane choices we make daily that bring us closer to the life we want, and further from the life we had. It's being willing to sit through the discomfort, the cravings, the ache of loneliness and the fire of rage and the crushing emptiness of sadness, reminding ourselves that this too shall pass. Recovery is seeking out the people who will lift us up, and avoiding the people who will pull us down. Recovery is a state of perpetual motion. Like my cowboy friend observed, if we quit coming, we die.
There's another thing I love about my friends in AA. They're never "recovered." They keep going back, keep returning to those church basements, month after month, year after year, decade after decade. After I had settled in to the Wickenburg AA, I got familiar with some of the regulars. Over the coffee maker one morning I asked one of the old cowboys why he stuck with it after over 20 years of sobriety. "Kid," he told me with his hand on my shoulder, "if I quit coming, I'll die." It was as simple as that. My pal, and tens of thousands of his comrades, understood an absolute about recovery from addiction: You work it, or it doesn't work.
Someone asked me recently if I think it's really possible for everyone to recover from addiction. The caretaker in me wanted to rush forward and insist, "Of course it is! There's always hope! No one is too far gone!" The realist in me (downer that she is) was much more cautious. I ended up telling my friend the truth as gently as I could: "I think anyone who makes up her mind to recover, and keeps making up her mind every single day, can stay sober, no matter how long or how severely they'd been down the hole. Some people just won't make up their minds, and in the time it takes before they finally come around, the damage can grow too great." I know that's not the most optimistic analysis, but I think it's the honest one.
At the end of the day, no matter how many thousands of stories I've heard in AA and in eating disorder treatment, I can only refer to my own story with any certainty. And this is what I know. Recovery isn't going away to rehab for a month or two and coming home fixed. Recovery isn't finding God and instantly abandoning all your vices (though the finding God part can be a really big asset). Recovery isn't quitting cold turkey because your loved ones ask you to. Recovery isn't a one-shot deal, it isn't neat and tidy, and it doesn't come in a bottle or a doctor's office or your dream job.
Recovery is the choice we make every single day to suit up and show up. It's the thousands of mundane choices we make daily that bring us closer to the life we want, and further from the life we had. It's being willing to sit through the discomfort, the cravings, the ache of loneliness and the fire of rage and the crushing emptiness of sadness, reminding ourselves that this too shall pass. Recovery is seeking out the people who will lift us up, and avoiding the people who will pull us down. Recovery is a state of perpetual motion. Like my cowboy friend observed, if we quit coming, we die.
Friday, July 10, 2015
Self-Sabotage (or, How to Get Out of Your Own Way)
My dreams are coming true. My classroom, the interior design equivalent of my personality, is ready to accept my apprentices. My carefully-constructed lesson plans map out a (hopefully) captivating journey through the English language. My eldest son, who will count himself as one of my students, is expecting great things. I will be teaching what I crave more than oxygen: words. Serendipity, you might say.
"You're too fat," the gremlin whispers. "You need to be the thinnest teacher. You're obviously not talented enough to be a great educator, so the least you can do is be the smallest one." Damn. What? Why this? Why now? I've worked my ass off to put my disease behind me. I have 18 months of solid, honest recovery under my belt. I've set goals, reached them, and set new ones. I'm happy. I'm healthy. Life is good. So what the hell? "Just a few pounds," the demon croons, "to make everyone else a little jealous. 'How does she do it?' they'll ask. 'A teacher, a mom, a wife, a student, and still so thin? She's superhuman!' You know you want it," she entices. And damn if I don't buy it. But there's a real benefit to having some recovery mileage under my belt. I can play the tape forward.
Say I acquiesce to my anorexic compulsion. Say I cut back on my food, slim down a little. Suddenly I'm obsessing. It's not my students I'm thinking about, it's my weight. I can't concentrate on engaging lessons and social/emotional development, I'm too busy calculating calories. I lose a few more pounds. My jeans hang off my pelvic bones, and that feels great, but I'm tired. So, so tired. I fall asleep when I'm supposed to be grading papers. I'm irritable and snap at my coworkers. I'm cold. My heart resumes its arrhythmic two-step and I wonder if I'll make it through the day. My students will wonder what's wrong with me. My friends will shake their heads in disappointment. My family will just cry.
OR.
I resist the temptation. I defy the gremlin and insist that I am destined for far greater things than skinniness. I follow my meal plan, eating as much as I ought to when I ought to every single day. I have energy. I'm focused. I stay attuned to my students' intellectual and emotional needs. I create innovative lessons, usually in advance but sometimes on the fly, that key my kids in to the brilliant universe of language. I feel good. I can push through the fatigue, but I can also acknowledge when rest is more valuable than work. I smile, and I mean it. I collaborate. I inspire. I live.
So as I sit on the precipice of my life's ambition, I have a choice. Heed the demon and crumble, or resist and fly. There are children who need to learn how powerful words can be. I can teach them. That's a lot more meaningful than sliding into a pair of size 0 jeans.
"You're too fat," the gremlin whispers. "You need to be the thinnest teacher. You're obviously not talented enough to be a great educator, so the least you can do is be the smallest one." Damn. What? Why this? Why now? I've worked my ass off to put my disease behind me. I have 18 months of solid, honest recovery under my belt. I've set goals, reached them, and set new ones. I'm happy. I'm healthy. Life is good. So what the hell? "Just a few pounds," the demon croons, "to make everyone else a little jealous. 'How does she do it?' they'll ask. 'A teacher, a mom, a wife, a student, and still so thin? She's superhuman!' You know you want it," she entices. And damn if I don't buy it. But there's a real benefit to having some recovery mileage under my belt. I can play the tape forward.
Say I acquiesce to my anorexic compulsion. Say I cut back on my food, slim down a little. Suddenly I'm obsessing. It's not my students I'm thinking about, it's my weight. I can't concentrate on engaging lessons and social/emotional development, I'm too busy calculating calories. I lose a few more pounds. My jeans hang off my pelvic bones, and that feels great, but I'm tired. So, so tired. I fall asleep when I'm supposed to be grading papers. I'm irritable and snap at my coworkers. I'm cold. My heart resumes its arrhythmic two-step and I wonder if I'll make it through the day. My students will wonder what's wrong with me. My friends will shake their heads in disappointment. My family will just cry.
OR.
I resist the temptation. I defy the gremlin and insist that I am destined for far greater things than skinniness. I follow my meal plan, eating as much as I ought to when I ought to every single day. I have energy. I'm focused. I stay attuned to my students' intellectual and emotional needs. I create innovative lessons, usually in advance but sometimes on the fly, that key my kids in to the brilliant universe of language. I feel good. I can push through the fatigue, but I can also acknowledge when rest is more valuable than work. I smile, and I mean it. I collaborate. I inspire. I live.
So as I sit on the precipice of my life's ambition, I have a choice. Heed the demon and crumble, or resist and fly. There are children who need to learn how powerful words can be. I can teach them. That's a lot more meaningful than sliding into a pair of size 0 jeans.
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