“Sweetheart,” I advised, “you’re going to want to move out of the road. You could get hit by a car.”
I’d seen the little, white, fluffy dog from a distance – wondered briefly if it was a gigantic squirrel – and laughed at myself a bit as I moved toward the crest of a hill. I was walking east – directly into the rising sunlight – and had seen the basic shape of a creature in the middle of the road.
This isn’t unusual in my neighborhood. Just this morning, I saw three dogs running loose and it’s a symphony of barking each and every time Chienne and I embark on a meandering journey through the neighborhood. I live in a giant subdivision of single family homes in the south – we have a lot of dogs here.
Little, white, fluffy dog was a bit different in his firm refusal to move from his spot in the center of the street though. Most dogs – when faced with vehicles that are slowing – will scoot out of the way. The outcome of a tiny dog vs. giant truck battle is pretty predictable, after all. This little guy was eating some garbage out of the street and absolutely refused to budge. Two trucks reached the top of the hill, crept toward the dog, then stopped. I watched little, white and fluffy stare them down until they gently curved their path to avoid him and his garbagey snack.
I approached and offered my sage wisdom to the creature, scolding Chienne for lunging toward the garbage herself. I decided I’d scoot the gross delicacy over to the curb so the dog would at least be out of the way. But as I approached, I couldn’t keep complete control over my large hound and little, white and fluffy began to growl menacingly. If he hadn’t budged for the truck, there was no way in hell a woman and floppy eared animal were taking his snack.
“Chienne, no!” I jerked on her collar and rolled my eyes when she didn’t even glance at me – her laser-like focus was directed on this white canine and whatever he had found to eat. Chienne wanted both of them desperately. As little, white and fluffy bared its teeth, I gagged over whatever it was he was eating, then decided to say screw it.
I didn’t want to touch that grossness, even with my foot. It was gushy and icky and smelled bad. I’m not crazy about little lapdogs. Not that there’s anything wrong with the little, white, fluffy breeds – they’re just not my preferred sort of canine. I’m quite fond of the goofy mutts from the shelter – too big to pick up and tote around, but painfully sweet and smart. As little, white and fluffy crouched in preparation to lunge, teeth bared and impressively mean sounds emanating from its tiny body, I didn’t know what to do. It might bite me if I tried to move the grossness and if I got close enough to the grossness to move it, Chienne would certainly eat some and I would be forced to gag again. Plus, the little dog was mean!
“OK, I’m leaving.” I told little, white and fluffy - a bit irritated. “But you really should be careful.”
Chienne and I had made it maybe 25 yards when a turquoise sports car zipped past us. I waved my arm at the driver, hoping she would at least slow down so I could warn her about little, white and fluffy, but talking on the phone was apparently too distracting to notice me. I had time to brace myself and hope for the best before I heard the thud.
“Oh, no.” I whispered. “No, no, no.” Perhaps sensing my distress, Chienne abandoned the shrub she’d been sniffing and cuddled close to my leg. I lifted my hand – encased in a black, chenille glove – to my mouth and turned to watch little, white and fluffy hop and yelp as it moved out of the road and toward one of the houses.
Hop, yelp, hop, yelp, hop, yelp.
I continued to look up the hill as the turquoise car pulled into the nearest driveway and parked. I couldn’t see the woman get out – I was too far downhill as I stood on the opposite side of the street, some distance away, hand to mouth, dog leaning against my leg.
“I don’t know what to do.” I told Chienne. She tugged me away from the accident so we could continue along our route. Driven by indecision and intense guilt, I followed her and moved away from the injured animal. I felt sick.
Nothing good ever happens on this street! I vowed not to walk this way again – my desire to take different routes to break the boredom of my morning strolls had screwed me over. Now – once again – I felt sick with not doing what might have helped someone out. I’m a bad person, I told myself. A bad, bad person.
Well, selfish at least, I decided as I turned to head south, then made another movement right to return to my house. This strategy of mine – to just take care of what’s mine, to limit the scope of what’s mine and to remove anything unpleasant from my little sphere of ownership – can’t be applied broadly if I am to feel good about the person I’m becoming.
The world is big.
Lately - for months and months, actually, I’ve felt so very small.
Instead of trying to be bigger, I’ve decided to shrink the world. Or at least the world to which I attend.
“Do you remember [name I can’t remember]?” Friend asked this weekend as we drank coffee.
“It sounds familiar, but I can’t place it.” I said after wrinkling my nose in thought for a moment.
“He was involved with the dirty bomb plot, allegedly.” She informed me. “He’s been imprisoned for years.” She told me how many, but I was already tuning her out. “He can’t see anyone, read The Koran. He has no contact with other people. Even the guards who bring him food wear shields so he can’t see their faces.”
“La, la, la.” Went my brain. “That’s unpleasant. Don’t think about it. It’ll only make you feel badly. Think about something else. La, la, la.”
“Apparently he’s no longer sane.” She said, and I could see the concern and frustration on her face. I spared a moment – remembering when I would care passionately about such issues – then forcibly directed my attention elsewhere. Not my problem. Nothing I can do.
“People are scared.” I think I said. “We know people hate us and want to hurt us. We don’t know what to do. It’s terrible – absolutely inhumane and awful – but I don’t know what the answer is.”
And then I picked up some meager clutter in my kitchen, took out the trash and finished getting ready to go to Cousin’s house. I take care of what’s mine. The prisoner – whose name I don’t even remember – isn’t mine. Thinking about him makes me feel sick and sad. I don’t want to feel that way, so I won’t think about him.
I give money, I soothed myself. To lots of charities! Habitat for Humanity, Easter Seals, March of Dimes. Feed the Children, Leukemia & Lymphoma, Cystic Fibrosis, local food banks, my church, ASPCA. But it’s a few mouse clicks in the online banking system, then I toss away the request letter, never to think of it again.
I’m careless with people lately. I think I’ve subconsciously pushed Friend away a bit. Not a lot, mind you, and not on purpose. But she’s legitimately unhappy about a few things, and I don’t know how to help. Feel badly when I think about her problems. So I don’t think of them. She deserves better - I just don't provide it.
I didn’t respond to an email a week or so ago – not out of any malice. I just didn’t think about it. Had no idea it would matter. But it hurt someone's feelings when she needed support. And knowing I screwed up made me feel small and sad.
But rather than making myself bigger – more generous and attentive – I try to shrink my world so it fits me better. Shameful, I thought. Bad, bad person.
I arrived home from my walk, put a piece of cheese in my purse (to lure the dog if need be), a red blanket in the car and set off toward the crest of that hill. The turquoise car was still parked awkwardly in the yard and the front door was standing open. I assumed someone had cared for little, white and fluffy so I came home. I grabbed a quick shower, curled my hair, put on makeup and dressed for work. I arrived, walked to the office while admiring my pretty black flats with the little bow over the toes and sat at my desk, otherwise feeling very fragile and tiny. After answering a couple of emails, I went to my appointment.
I sat down, Dr. Counselor closed the door and faced me from across his desk. “Have you been good since I last saw you?”
“I saw a dog get hit by a car this morning.” I offered. He cocked his head at me, so I elaborated – talked of how I felt nothing over the paper, did little to help those who needed it, was becoming a bad person.
“I just don’t feel enough.” I whimpered, tossing away my fifth or sixth tissue I’d used since arriving minutes before. In our last two meetings, my tears have been mild. Easily wiped away, a couple of tissues per hour, then away I go. Not this time. “I thought about helping – I knew I should. But then the little dog irritated me, so I wrote it off. Just ignored it and moved on with my walk. I assumed it’d be fine, but I was naïve again! The world is mean! Bad things happen all the time! People lie and I’m heartbroken and then someone offers asinine advice. Someone leaves garbage in the street and the dog eats it and then someone hits him with a car! It’s awful and it hurts and I hate it.”
“Well,” Dr. Counselor offered after a moment, “I don’t think your problem is that you don’t feel enough. You appear to be feeling quite a bit right now.”
I took a break from wiping the continuous stream of tears away and blew my nose. Nodded.
Then we talked as I continued to cry. I’m angry, but I’m told that’s OK. “Be pissed off.” He said. “Then understand that the anger only hurts you. So push it away – as many times as you need to push – and make space for the good feelings.”
I’m scared, but he said that’s OK. It will pass. I won’t be like this forever – I’m not even as bad as I think I am now.
“I see no evidence that you’re a bad person.” He soothed. “It wasn’t your dog – you weren’t responsible for taking care of it. You didn’t put the garbage in the road. You weren’t the one who hit the dog. There were all sorts of people who could have done something differently.”
“But I was there. I knew I should help!” I insisted.
“You tried to help. It didn’t work out. You can’t save every stray animal.”
“I should try to keep the ones I see from getting hit by cars!”
“When you should yourself, you feel guilty. Feeling guilty isn’t so good for you, is it? Does it help you feel more open to helping people? Doing your work and providing support for your friends and family? Being open to feeling happy and useful and hopeful?”
I shook my head. Tossed a tissue in the trash and reached for a clean one.
“I’d like to see you again.” He said much later, as we neared the end of my session. I was gathering my composure but was startled into laughter.
“I bet you would.” I said, smiling and sniffling at the same time. "I’m not exactly the picture of emotional health.”
“Do you want to get better?” He asked, regarding me thoughtfully. Kindly.
“Very much.” I said immediately.
“Then you’re fine. And you will keep improving if that’s what you want.”
I just hope little, white and fluffy can say the same. I really hope that a lot.
Monday, December 11, 2006
Sunday, December 10, 2006
Beans and Checkmarks
I have – for days now – been reading through paper descriptions, making decisions on whether or not to include them in a comprehensive group analysis. Software exists for such a task and I’m doing the work at Carrie’s request. It’s really not that difficult.
It has, however, felt endless. Nearly 400 conditions in about 100 papers. And reading about how the experiments were done and on which populations and under which specific circumstances – all the while remembering the detailed selection criteria… It makes me very tired. I don’t want to make mistakes so I tend not to work on the little program for very long.
That one stays so I leave that checkmark alone, I think sleepily. This one is werid, so no checkmark for you. Keep, lose, go, stay. All these decisions that were complicated because the application of exclusion criteria isn't always as simple as it seems. I continued to return to the task, scrolling down, making decisions, clicking checkmarks on and off. Finally, I was able to email Carrie the results with some feeling of accomplishment.
I yawned and searched for distractions, noting crossly that few people update blogs on weekends. I would update my blog, I thought, but have nothing to say. I'm starting with a cold, so I'm stuffy and exhausted. All I want to do is sleep and blow my nose. Then I was reminded – via my little software checkmarks – of my tutoring experience. I could tell a story about that!
I see 4 boys in 5th grade on Tuesday afternoons. This caused me a bit of concern until I realized how much I had enjoyed the single male in my group last year. Plus, I’m an adult. I can handle 10 year old boys!
“How many classes are there?” I asked Juan on my first day. I trailed one of the teachers down a hallway in the 5th grade wing of the second floor while we found my 4 new friends.
“Six.” He answered softly, still looking at me with some suspicion. I wasn’t too worried though – I’d come armed with Starbursts.
I happen to adore all of them, proving that prior worry is no indication of future outcome. Having a standard of reference – working with students last year, two of whom arrived to say hello, offer hugs and take candy (I miss them) – makes this tutoring experience infinitely easier. Less stressful. More manageable.
There was one piece of advice the director of the program offered several weeks ago when we met over coffee.
“You can use the activities in any order.” She said, encouraging and kind. “But I wouldn’t do Find That Number until at least the 5th meeting. It’s hard! We don’t want to intimidate our students, do we?”
I shook my head obediently in the coffee shop.
Then I played Find That Number on the first day with my new friends.
In my defense, the folder was on top. Director wanted to show me the game since it was so difficult. I personally liked it, but I could wait until I knew my group better. But after I went through my introductory speech, offered candy and watched them instantly like me (I buy affection – it works.), I pulled out the top folder and asked if anyone had scissors to cut apart the clues.
They were looking for scissors, I was using the giant paper cutter and lamenting the fact that I decided to wing it for this first meeting. I’m better when I plan. But we soldiered on – clustering shoulder to shoulder around the cardboard sheet that listed numbers 0-100 in a grid pattern.
I took out 2 baggies of beans – some white, some brown – and handed the pink clues to Jarrod. He began to read.
After painstakingly making our way through all 6 statements that would lead us to Jarrod's number, I gently nudged them to select the most general clue first – only then remembering that this was one of the most difficult activities we’d have to tackle and wincing. But I’ve long believed that once you’re in the middle of something, you just fake it. Singing a solo, giving a talk, interviewing, talking to a date – just continue on as if everything’s fine and most of the time it will be.
The first piece of information we selected was that Jarrod’s number wasn’t odd. After an intense discussion about which color beans to use, they decided to do a pattern while blocking out the odd numbers so they didn’t distract us from our search. Then we took the small pink paper that indicated multiples of 5 weren’t candidates.
Upon a unanimous decision that the pattern was too complicated (I abstained), we used all brown beans to mark off the squares and listed multiples of 5 to make sure they were all removed from the search. After going through 2 more clues, we were left with a list of 6 possible numbers. Jerome wrote them on the board. After adding the digits of each and seeing if the sum was odd or even, we subtracted the digits to get an integer less than 7.
Much fun was had by all when the five of us stared at a single number circled on the board.
“47!” Jarrod said. “My number was 47!”
After celebrating with Starburst, we did one more. I left feeling pleased with them and eager to return the following week. We’d done the most difficult of activities successfully. I had a bright group, and though they’d tested my limits a bit, it wasn’t bad at all.
But last week was tougher. I had trouble keeping them in the room (everyone needed a drink of water, then the bathroom, then to get a book from his locker) let alone at the table (needed to write on the board, look at those computers, borrow a marker from the library.)
They asked to complete the final 2 Find that Number clue sets so we sat down to work on them.
“This time,” Demarke asked, “can we use the beans to mark numbers that might be right instead of wrong?”
“Sure. Let’s see how that works.” Then I smiled at him and helped define vocab words located on the clues, checked to make sure the beans were in the proper squares and made the right encouraging noises. Then I noticed Juan was scurrying around the room.
“Why don’t you sit down.” I threw over my shoulder, taking a break from my “7 times 1 is… 7 times 2 is … 7 times 3 is…” spiel since Demarke’s number was a multiple of 7.
“Now.” I said a moment later, more firmly and with a questioning look in Juan's direction. “You can work with us or go back to class, Juan. Seriously.”
He moved toward the table, hands full. He had scissors, pencils, markers – all sorts of school supplies. Seeing my frown directed at his loot, he smiled.
“Want a pencil?” He offered one of the 7 he held.
“No, thank you. I think you should put them back. They’re not ours to use. I have a pencil if you need one.”
“We can use them! That’s why they’re there!”
“I don’t know why they’re there. But that box wasn’t open when I got here. I shouldn’t have let you open it. We don’t need those pencils and they’re not mine to give you. Please put them back.”
“There’s this group who uses this room and they give us pencils.”
“A group?”
“Yeah, they come in and play games with this stuff and give us pencils!”
“Put them back. Please.”
“But the group!” He said, shaking his head at me. Then he smirked a little and started to go through the items he’d taken.
I raised my eyebrows at the other boys and they shook their heads at me. I nodded at them and offered more of the minty candy I brought this time.
“Juan.” I demanded his attention. “You will not lie to me. Am I clear? I will not tolerate you lying to me. Ever. About anything. Now you will put the pencils back where you found them. Now.” Realizing I was starting to raise my voice, leaning toward him in a manner that was far too angry for the circumstances, I took a breath. His smirk fell away and he blinked at me. The nice candy lady had a problem with lying. But he moved to put the items away where he found them. I watched, then thanked him. And we went from there, finding 2 more numbers (18 and 45) spent the remainder of the hour quite pleasantly.
I’ve understood last year that I might learn more than the students through this tutoring experience. So far I’ve decided I’m more confident the second time around – less rigid about lesson plans and more comfortable with their questions and ideas. I’ve enjoyed this group a great deal already when I faced last year with a mixture of nerves and intense focus. It’s not bad to relax. The decisions are easier to make somehow. Practice helps.
With maturity, however, comes the ability to use beans to isolate qualities I require from those people with whom I interact. And while I used to enjoy men (or boys) who were charming to get what they wanted, any sort of false statement now draws only wrath.
Whether you’re crossing off the negative or covering the positive so they can be more clearly considered for the next clue, I think it’s important to narrow the field. To make some go/no-go decision on qualities and skills and personalities that are allowed into my life.
Then it’s important to keep those preferences in perspective and not lose it when someone pisses me off. It’s still a work in progress, apparently.
(This didn't end so well, but I'm so intensely tired. I just can't fix it right now. So sleepy...)
It has, however, felt endless. Nearly 400 conditions in about 100 papers. And reading about how the experiments were done and on which populations and under which specific circumstances – all the while remembering the detailed selection criteria… It makes me very tired. I don’t want to make mistakes so I tend not to work on the little program for very long.
That one stays so I leave that checkmark alone, I think sleepily. This one is werid, so no checkmark for you. Keep, lose, go, stay. All these decisions that were complicated because the application of exclusion criteria isn't always as simple as it seems. I continued to return to the task, scrolling down, making decisions, clicking checkmarks on and off. Finally, I was able to email Carrie the results with some feeling of accomplishment.
I yawned and searched for distractions, noting crossly that few people update blogs on weekends. I would update my blog, I thought, but have nothing to say. I'm starting with a cold, so I'm stuffy and exhausted. All I want to do is sleep and blow my nose. Then I was reminded – via my little software checkmarks – of my tutoring experience. I could tell a story about that!
I see 4 boys in 5th grade on Tuesday afternoons. This caused me a bit of concern until I realized how much I had enjoyed the single male in my group last year. Plus, I’m an adult. I can handle 10 year old boys!
“How many classes are there?” I asked Juan on my first day. I trailed one of the teachers down a hallway in the 5th grade wing of the second floor while we found my 4 new friends.
“Six.” He answered softly, still looking at me with some suspicion. I wasn’t too worried though – I’d come armed with Starbursts.
I happen to adore all of them, proving that prior worry is no indication of future outcome. Having a standard of reference – working with students last year, two of whom arrived to say hello, offer hugs and take candy (I miss them) – makes this tutoring experience infinitely easier. Less stressful. More manageable.
There was one piece of advice the director of the program offered several weeks ago when we met over coffee.
“You can use the activities in any order.” She said, encouraging and kind. “But I wouldn’t do Find That Number until at least the 5th meeting. It’s hard! We don’t want to intimidate our students, do we?”
I shook my head obediently in the coffee shop.
Then I played Find That Number on the first day with my new friends.
In my defense, the folder was on top. Director wanted to show me the game since it was so difficult. I personally liked it, but I could wait until I knew my group better. But after I went through my introductory speech, offered candy and watched them instantly like me (I buy affection – it works.), I pulled out the top folder and asked if anyone had scissors to cut apart the clues.
They were looking for scissors, I was using the giant paper cutter and lamenting the fact that I decided to wing it for this first meeting. I’m better when I plan. But we soldiered on – clustering shoulder to shoulder around the cardboard sheet that listed numbers 0-100 in a grid pattern.
I took out 2 baggies of beans – some white, some brown – and handed the pink clues to Jarrod. He began to read.
After painstakingly making our way through all 6 statements that would lead us to Jarrod's number, I gently nudged them to select the most general clue first – only then remembering that this was one of the most difficult activities we’d have to tackle and wincing. But I’ve long believed that once you’re in the middle of something, you just fake it. Singing a solo, giving a talk, interviewing, talking to a date – just continue on as if everything’s fine and most of the time it will be.
The first piece of information we selected was that Jarrod’s number wasn’t odd. After an intense discussion about which color beans to use, they decided to do a pattern while blocking out the odd numbers so they didn’t distract us from our search. Then we took the small pink paper that indicated multiples of 5 weren’t candidates.
Upon a unanimous decision that the pattern was too complicated (I abstained), we used all brown beans to mark off the squares and listed multiples of 5 to make sure they were all removed from the search. After going through 2 more clues, we were left with a list of 6 possible numbers. Jerome wrote them on the board. After adding the digits of each and seeing if the sum was odd or even, we subtracted the digits to get an integer less than 7.
Much fun was had by all when the five of us stared at a single number circled on the board.
“47!” Jarrod said. “My number was 47!”
After celebrating with Starburst, we did one more. I left feeling pleased with them and eager to return the following week. We’d done the most difficult of activities successfully. I had a bright group, and though they’d tested my limits a bit, it wasn’t bad at all.
But last week was tougher. I had trouble keeping them in the room (everyone needed a drink of water, then the bathroom, then to get a book from his locker) let alone at the table (needed to write on the board, look at those computers, borrow a marker from the library.)
They asked to complete the final 2 Find that Number clue sets so we sat down to work on them.
“This time,” Demarke asked, “can we use the beans to mark numbers that might be right instead of wrong?”
“Sure. Let’s see how that works.” Then I smiled at him and helped define vocab words located on the clues, checked to make sure the beans were in the proper squares and made the right encouraging noises. Then I noticed Juan was scurrying around the room.
“Why don’t you sit down.” I threw over my shoulder, taking a break from my “7 times 1 is… 7 times 2 is … 7 times 3 is…” spiel since Demarke’s number was a multiple of 7.
“Now.” I said a moment later, more firmly and with a questioning look in Juan's direction. “You can work with us or go back to class, Juan. Seriously.”
He moved toward the table, hands full. He had scissors, pencils, markers – all sorts of school supplies. Seeing my frown directed at his loot, he smiled.
“Want a pencil?” He offered one of the 7 he held.
“No, thank you. I think you should put them back. They’re not ours to use. I have a pencil if you need one.”
“We can use them! That’s why they’re there!”
“I don’t know why they’re there. But that box wasn’t open when I got here. I shouldn’t have let you open it. We don’t need those pencils and they’re not mine to give you. Please put them back.”
“There’s this group who uses this room and they give us pencils.”
“A group?”
“Yeah, they come in and play games with this stuff and give us pencils!”
“Put them back. Please.”
“But the group!” He said, shaking his head at me. Then he smirked a little and started to go through the items he’d taken.
I raised my eyebrows at the other boys and they shook their heads at me. I nodded at them and offered more of the minty candy I brought this time.
“Juan.” I demanded his attention. “You will not lie to me. Am I clear? I will not tolerate you lying to me. Ever. About anything. Now you will put the pencils back where you found them. Now.” Realizing I was starting to raise my voice, leaning toward him in a manner that was far too angry for the circumstances, I took a breath. His smirk fell away and he blinked at me. The nice candy lady had a problem with lying. But he moved to put the items away where he found them. I watched, then thanked him. And we went from there, finding 2 more numbers (18 and 45) spent the remainder of the hour quite pleasantly.
I’ve understood last year that I might learn more than the students through this tutoring experience. So far I’ve decided I’m more confident the second time around – less rigid about lesson plans and more comfortable with their questions and ideas. I’ve enjoyed this group a great deal already when I faced last year with a mixture of nerves and intense focus. It’s not bad to relax. The decisions are easier to make somehow. Practice helps.
With maturity, however, comes the ability to use beans to isolate qualities I require from those people with whom I interact. And while I used to enjoy men (or boys) who were charming to get what they wanted, any sort of false statement now draws only wrath.
Whether you’re crossing off the negative or covering the positive so they can be more clearly considered for the next clue, I think it’s important to narrow the field. To make some go/no-go decision on qualities and skills and personalities that are allowed into my life.
Then it’s important to keep those preferences in perspective and not lose it when someone pisses me off. It’s still a work in progress, apparently.
(This didn't end so well, but I'm so intensely tired. I just can't fix it right now. So sleepy...)
Saturday, December 09, 2006
Briefly
"I forgot to think of a blog post." I said, somewhat surprised, on the drive back to my house from Cousin's. I'd been busy with cookies and washing dishes. Utterly surrounded by sweetness - seeing, smelling, tasting nothing but goodies laden with sugar - I forgot to think about anything of interest.
I'm exhausted - I'm shocked that I have remained awake until now. So I plan to sleep until I'm not tired anymore. If that happens at 1AM, I'll do some work I have in mind since the house is nice and clean already. If I can't roll out of bed until 8AM, I'll take a walk then get ready for church. For now, I'm enjoying the freedom and contentment of the simple pleasures. Cookies, family, friends, Christmas lights and indulging in sleepiness.
It was a good day. I think I needed one where I didn't think about much at all, save which color frosting to use on the sugar cookies and how much longer the snowballs had to bake.
I'm exhausted - I'm shocked that I have remained awake until now. So I plan to sleep until I'm not tired anymore. If that happens at 1AM, I'll do some work I have in mind since the house is nice and clean already. If I can't roll out of bed until 8AM, I'll take a walk then get ready for church. For now, I'm enjoying the freedom and contentment of the simple pleasures. Cookies, family, friends, Christmas lights and indulging in sleepiness.
It was a good day. I think I needed one where I didn't think about much at all, save which color frosting to use on the sugar cookies and how much longer the snowballs had to bake.
Friday, December 08, 2006
Subject: Decision on your Manuscript XXX-D-05-021NNR1
To: Katie
From: [Journal folks]
Date: Thursday, December 7, 2006 11:07 PM
Subject: Decision on your Manuscript XXX-D-05-021NNR1
XXX-D-05-021NNR1
[Title of paper I thought would be accepted]
[My name]
[Carrie, η, Grad Advisor]
Dear Dr. [Me]:
We are pleased to inform you that your manuscript has been accepted for publication in [their journal]. Your paper has now been sent to Production and any further correspondence--including proofs and copyright information--will be with the Log-In and Production departments.
If you have any questions regarding your accepted manuscript in production, please do not hesitate to contact Author Support at authorsupport@elsevier.com.
Congratulations!
Best wishes,
Editorial Office for [name removed] Journals
To: Carrie, η, Grad Advisor
From: Katie
Date: Friday, December 8, 2006, 1:14AM
Subject: FW: Decision on your Manuscript XXX-D-05-021NNR1
Yay! Little [project nickname] is finally going to see publication!
I'll send proofs and citation information when it's available. [Journal] isn't exactly setting the world on fire with the speed it displays in the review process, so I'm sort of expecting the paper to sit with Production for some time as well. :)
Thanks, Katie
I shouldn't have to fake excitement over an acceptance email, I mused, sitting on the loveseat after waking in the middle of the night. I'd been asleep for hours already when I wanted to check on the Chienne. She'd been limping badly before bed – refusing to put any weight on her left front leg. She typically improves quickly, but I was concerned nonetheless.
She wagged her tail at me and I talked to her for a moment before messing with her leg. She allowed me to move it around, sighing just a bit at my peculiarity. I covered her with a blanket and opened Nick to see what was up with the outside world.
My stomach – used to receiving rejection - clenched tightly when I saw the subject line. I'd fully expected them to accept the paper – the comments had been completely addressed and we'd even made some extra improvements. It's a good paper. But hearing they didn't want to print the work at this late stage would deliver a large blow and it wasn't something I expected to hear right now.
But the news was good. After glancing at the first congratulatory line, I wrote to the coauthors to share our good fortune. Then I wondered why I didn't care at all. Frowning, I rubbed my stomach soothingly. "We're OK." I told it. "Try to be happy." But it – along with my heart and brain – stubbornly refused to do anything much at all. I read the email again and waited for some emotional response.
"Nicely written email." Brain finally offered. "Maybe we could go back to bed now."
Brain was busy arguing with itself a few hours later.
"Good morning, sunshine!" One side chirped, insisting I roll to look at the clock. Almost 5. I should probably get up.
"Sleep." Mumbled the majority of my brain. "It's nice and warm here, but cold and dark out there. We can get ready in 15 minutes. Sleep until 5:30 or 5:45 and we can still leave by 6."
But that way lay certain defeat, and I didn't want to miss this particular experiment. So I wiggled out of bed – dog cuddled to my right side, cat on the left – and brushed my teeth. As I gulped cold coffee, I allowed my caffeine-inspired attention to drift to the computer again. No new email, few new bloglines feeds. So I picked up some clutter, put a few plates in the dishwasher and dealt with the dog and cat – feeding, cleaning, watering. Then I left the house early – about 10 minutes to 6.
Arriving on campus after I speedy commute (people who leave home before 6AM do not screw around. I adore them and wish we could always be best friends. Alas, they get up too early.), I secured an excellent parking spot and decided to walk to the office.
It's impressively cold here the past couple of days. I wore a jacket and actually used the gloves I'd tucked in its pockets. I could see not only my breath as I moved briskly across the still dark sidewalks, but steam also poured from the drainage grates near the curb. As my face and ears went numb and my legs – pretty, but largely unprotected in my dark brown slacks – grew uncomfortably cold, I smiled.
It's like my southern state heard a rumor about what winter was really like – gray skies, cold temperatures, biting wind, snow falling from the sky. Then it looked to its northern counterparts and said sweetly, "Look! I can do that too!" I am, of course, suitably proud.
Of the weather. Not my paper.
To be honest, I'd forgotten all about it until I woke my pretty computer at the office and dealt with email while I ate some yogurt. Arriving early had allowed me time to settle in before leaving for our scheduled experiment.
To: Mom @ work
From: Katie
Date: Friday, December 8, 2006, 6:32AM
Subject: FW: Decision on your Manuscript XXX-D-05-021NNR1
Hi Mom,
My paper got accepted - the one I thought would do fine after revision. It'll probably be awhile until it comes out, but it's officially in.
I'm not happy so much as relieved, but I'm also pretty moody. So I'll feel more like celebrating in another couple of days.
Love you lots and lots, Katie
More careful consideration revealed that I wasn't really relieved at all. Just…numb. And though my nose and ears were defrosting quite nicely, my heart stayed stubbornly silent.
To: Friend
From: Katie
Date: Friday, December 8, 2006, 6:39AM
Subject: FW: Decision on your Manuscript XXX-D-05-021NNR1
I got up at 1, saw the subject line and cursed though I'd expected they'd take the revisions. It's not a bad paper at all. But I read it - a very nice acceptance letter - and felt absolutely nothing. Vague relief, I guess, but not happy at all. Am I dead inside? Do I really need to get out of research? Because apart from getting grants, aren't papers supposed to make me the happiest?
Very moody, but on campus after a numbing walk in (I'm much happier about how cold it is than the paper!) and eating my yogurt before the scan.
I think there's something wrong with me.
Katie
Concerned, I did what I do to cope. I started a blog post with the emails I'd written so far. It was shortly time to leave my warm office, carefully decorated with photos of people I love, pretty pens and pencils in a ceramic pot, my little bear holding a flower and a thriving violet plant. So I went, I scienced, I learned. I returned to speak to Boss about general grant strategies, remaining blessedly numb. I'll write it, but I don't care. It fails to generate any emotion at all – not dread, not excitement - just a curious set of ideas of what to write, but as if I'd be doing it for someone else. It's as if it doesn't affect me at all, though in terms of professional life, it could provide an impact unlike anything else.
Bemused, I started to revise a protocol for CIL (Committee I Loathe) for no other reason than it's been on my list the longest because I don't want to do it. If I don't want to do anything, might as well get that out of the way. But I didn't work long before writing another email.
I'm sad, Charlie. I just feel impossibly heavy and bleak today. I'm not sure if it's just a mood blip that will pass quickly - because I've really been doing pretty well lately with Christmas coming - or if the cold that I love so much is getting to me or if I'm just tired. But one of my papers got officially accepted to [Journal title], which should be really fantastic and I feel absolutely nothing. Not happy, not really relieved. Just numb. So I'm wondering if I've conditioned myself not to care about this stuff anymore. I'm rewriting the grant and that's fine - Boss wants me to do it, so I'll do it. But I'd rather not get the money.
I really think the time is coming that I'm just going to opt out. I'm not sure how long to wait before admitting this just isn't working for me.
Or maybe it's just not such a great day. :) In which case, next week will be better.
It's actually not a bad day – that's my thought as I'm reading it again. It's quite good – eveything's going as well as could possibly be expected. I'm baking cookies with Cousin tomorrow and I love spending time with her. I'm being productive and everyone has been unfailing kind to me this morning, not that they normally aren't. But the feeling of being disconnected is as persistent as it is confusing. It's not how I normally am, but I'm somehow stuck.
It was on my walk back to the car, retracing the steps I'd taken that morning, that I realized I view my job a lot like that commute. Drive to work - walk to the office - work. Walk to the car - drive home - sleep. Repeat. It's all so futile, I decided. Think of something - do the experiment - write. Redo experiment/reanalyze data - rewrite. Receive yet another soul-crushing rejection - throw tantrum out of anger and/or sadness. Have ability to graduate withheld until paper gets accepted - have minor breakdown and leave anyway. Different paper accepted - weep with gratitude, graduate. Years pass - continue to rewrite - wait for 13 months for a review process. Revise again - get acceptance email.
Maybe it's no wonder there's nothing left to feel...
Thursday, December 07, 2006
First Impression
I found myself in grad school city two months after receiving my precious gray sweatshirt. It was the official open house weekend. Three days of lab tours, social engagements and absolute nervous exhaustion. There was palpable tension as 22 people – each about 22 years old and taking time from senior year of undergrad to visit graduate programs, name tags proudly displayed – formed 2 groups and were herded like well-dressed cattle around labs and through presentations.
I looked around the table when, at about 10:00 and nearly 3 hours after beginning our day, we all sat in a single group around a conference table. I recognized all the names and most of the faces. After learning of my acceptance in January, I quickly nailed down my advisors and labs. Then I embraced my new department with all the passion and devotion I possessed in my egotistical little heart. I had arranged a social gathering the night before our official morning meetings and had met most of the students who might study with me.
I smiled as I my gaze found its way around the table on our first morning, ever so pleased with my prospective classmates. Impressive students, they were also funny and interesting. I wondered which of them would decide to fall madly in love with me. I hope it was that one – I’d spend most of the upcoming summer flirting with him. I continued looking around the table, being as subtle as possible. The presentation was mind-numbingly boring and running rather long. I was growing tense with moving off the pretty schedules that were printed - I'd memorized mine already.
I would go out with him, I decided, settling on a short guy who I’d eventually dislike strongly. He seemed funny, I decided about another prospective student. He was a bit older than the rest of us, but we’d walked to the bars together the night before. He brought a light jacket, deciding it was springtime in the upper Midwest. But we were suffering from a brief but intense cold snap and he froze, complaining with a good nature that was inherent to his personality. I liked him. I liked all of them, actually.
Except him. I frowned across the table with the utmost disapproval. He was sleeping over there. How disrespectful! How lame! How hungover.
He’d arrived at my carefully planned gathering late the night before. He’d gone out with students from the research group he hoped to join prior to our evening outing. Arriving to meet us, he was nearly stumbling. I moved closer to the guy on my left, making room for my crush to move closer on my right. Dave pulled a chair up the table, proclaiming loudly that wasn’t going to eat – he’d eaten with the lab group he’d just joined.
“Drank some too.” Crush said softly, and I smiled at him. I liked him. But not this new guy.
Dave dominated the remainder of the conversation. There was no topic on which he could not pontificate. At length. Telling stories, trying for jokes that fell flat, demanding all available attention. He was ruining everything! I preferred quiet conversation among smaller groups. Not a captive audience for Dave’s lame stories!
I fumed quietly until the presentation ended. Someone nudged Dave awake and he blinked as the lights switched on in the conference room. Then we all moved toward our next labs.
“Let’s switch groups!” Suggested the graduate coordinator as we were gathering coats, bags and papers to leave the room.
Let’s not. I thought crossly. I had Crush in my group! And a girl who seemed very nice. Cute Canadian (whose name I still use for email passwords) and Guy Without Coat. I was content with my current friends and had no desire to meet Dave. I didn’t like him at all - that decision had been made.
He ended up in my group, of course, and he smiled at me a bit blearily.
“What did you write on your nametag?” I asked, squinting at his sloppy block letters under the pre-printed name on the badges that were clipped to our button down shirts or sweaters.
“The lab I picked.” He stated, puffing out his chest so I could see more clearly. “That way nobody tries to get me to sign up with them. I’m already taken!”
“Oh.” I said, blatantly unimpressed. Who would want him? Egotistical, drunk/hungover and kind of a twit. I had picked a lab already too, but I was attentive and trying hard to impress with every single faculty member we met! He was taking my exquisite little weekend - my perfect outfit, shoes, jewelry and list of considerate questions, and making a mockery of it. I was less than amused.
“I didn’t like you very much when I first met you.” I later told him, comfortably tucked in the corner of his sofa, cuddling one of his throw pillows – he had both green and burgundy because “girls like pillows.” I was likely in pajamas. There has been no man other than Dave with whom I was so completely comfortable. I can't remember ever trying to impress him since I had been so underwhelmed by his initial impression. I’m sure we were watching some sporting event – baseball, football, basketball, hockey. He was insane about any and all of the above.
I was likely washing clothes in his apartment – I was insane about the idea of having your own washer and dryer. No quarters needed! I just brought over dirty clothes and hung out with Dave. He was quite the homemaker – always had a clean apartment, food, sometimes even baked goods! He gave me a look.
“Oh, I knew.” He shook his head. “You’re less subtle than you think.” I nodded and laughed softly. I also learned that I was a bit dramatic and emotional that first year in grad school - that came from Crush. Dave went to fetch another local beer from his mini fridge purchased to hold only yeasty alcohol (Yes, I rolled my eyes at it.), and offered me another drink. He’d mix something fruity in his blender or buy diet soda. M and I usually came together, but when her boyfriend was in town, I’d arrive at Dave’s alone. It was fine either way.
“Sorry.” I offered sheepishly. “But you were so…” He glanced toward the couch from the kitchen and raised an eyebrow. I wrinkled my nose. “Loud! Drunk! On the very first night! Then you slept during a presentation! And you wrote on your nametag. Not cool, my friend. Not cool.”
“I know.” He shook his head, pausing to yell something at the TV as he took his seat on the other end of the couch, offering me another pillow he’d tossed to the floor. “The drinking wasn’t really my fault though. The lab forced those margaritas on me! And I couldn’t admit weakness on the first night out with them.”
“Uh huh.” I smiled. “I love you now though.” I offered because I did. I wasn’t easily swayed, completely convinced that he wasn’t worth my time. But as classes started, I found him to be consistently prepared and completely bright. He was also one of the most generous people I’d ever met. He’d always host parties and study groups. I spent many nights before exams around his dining room table. He and his roommate carefully placing books and drinks on the glass tabletop his aunt had provided to him upon moving to grad school city. We’d work problems, review old exams, analyze our corrected homework. Passed around study guides, made sure our notes matched. Drew graphs and wrote lists.
We drew strength from each other – M, Dave and I. Complained over the workload, then traded phone calls to figure out labs. Laughed over some silly mistake, then went for lunch after difficult exams. Told each other how smart we were then bemoaned the fact that our grades might not reflect that.
It wasn’t such a big deal eventually – his fondness for talking too much, his insistence upon drinking a lot, the beard it took M and me a year to convince him to shave. What became important – and what changed my opinion of my ability to judge people instantly – were his kindness, generosity and humor.
Dave left grad school when M did and the loss was enormous. I still miss them both dearly. But I emailed M today – she’s such a sweet presence. Like a pink ball of fluff, chattering away in her sweet little voice and cute personality until you finally realize that she’s incredibly smart and strong. Dave was more bumbling and loud – it took a great deal of time to truly appreciate him. I continued to be profoundly grateful – in random moments – that he allowed me the opportunity to move past disdain and into affectionate acceptance.
I had a dream the other night. Upon waking I realized that life is fascinating. Some people disappoint me terribly. They can behave more badly than I could have predicted. Lie, cheat, offer blatantly hypocritical advice, be judgmental, ugly or otherwise offensive. But there are others that surprise me in the good way.
I can’t remember what the dream was about, but I was busy doing something – completely involved and focused. But I turned around, saw Dave and was filled with joy. The same feeling flows effortlessly each time I see him - when he'd come back to grad school to visit, on one of my weekends to see him (he's always allowed Chienne to come with and has this amazing guest suite), or when he paid for a trip to Las Vegas (and went with me to get massages when M backed out). The happy feelings are the same each time. Someone who loves me! Someone I love! So, in my dream, I raced toward him – throwing my arms around him and squeezing tight, wondering for the thousandth time why I couldn’t feel that elusive tingle of attraction for him rather than the pure love of friendship.
Regardless, when I take an instant dislike to someone – which happens more rarely than the opposite – I think of Dave. And try to leave myself open to gaining a treasured friend, even when I wince over a first impression. When I'm prone to writing people off at the slightest provocation lately, it's a good story for me to write.
I looked around the table when, at about 10:00 and nearly 3 hours after beginning our day, we all sat in a single group around a conference table. I recognized all the names and most of the faces. After learning of my acceptance in January, I quickly nailed down my advisors and labs. Then I embraced my new department with all the passion and devotion I possessed in my egotistical little heart. I had arranged a social gathering the night before our official morning meetings and had met most of the students who might study with me.
I smiled as I my gaze found its way around the table on our first morning, ever so pleased with my prospective classmates. Impressive students, they were also funny and interesting. I wondered which of them would decide to fall madly in love with me. I hope it was that one – I’d spend most of the upcoming summer flirting with him. I continued looking around the table, being as subtle as possible. The presentation was mind-numbingly boring and running rather long. I was growing tense with moving off the pretty schedules that were printed - I'd memorized mine already.
I would go out with him, I decided, settling on a short guy who I’d eventually dislike strongly. He seemed funny, I decided about another prospective student. He was a bit older than the rest of us, but we’d walked to the bars together the night before. He brought a light jacket, deciding it was springtime in the upper Midwest. But we were suffering from a brief but intense cold snap and he froze, complaining with a good nature that was inherent to his personality. I liked him. I liked all of them, actually.
Except him. I frowned across the table with the utmost disapproval. He was sleeping over there. How disrespectful! How lame! How hungover.
He’d arrived at my carefully planned gathering late the night before. He’d gone out with students from the research group he hoped to join prior to our evening outing. Arriving to meet us, he was nearly stumbling. I moved closer to the guy on my left, making room for my crush to move closer on my right. Dave pulled a chair up the table, proclaiming loudly that wasn’t going to eat – he’d eaten with the lab group he’d just joined.
“Drank some too.” Crush said softly, and I smiled at him. I liked him. But not this new guy.
Dave dominated the remainder of the conversation. There was no topic on which he could not pontificate. At length. Telling stories, trying for jokes that fell flat, demanding all available attention. He was ruining everything! I preferred quiet conversation among smaller groups. Not a captive audience for Dave’s lame stories!
I fumed quietly until the presentation ended. Someone nudged Dave awake and he blinked as the lights switched on in the conference room. Then we all moved toward our next labs.
“Let’s switch groups!” Suggested the graduate coordinator as we were gathering coats, bags and papers to leave the room.
Let’s not. I thought crossly. I had Crush in my group! And a girl who seemed very nice. Cute Canadian (whose name I still use for email passwords) and Guy Without Coat. I was content with my current friends and had no desire to meet Dave. I didn’t like him at all - that decision had been made.
He ended up in my group, of course, and he smiled at me a bit blearily.
“What did you write on your nametag?” I asked, squinting at his sloppy block letters under the pre-printed name on the badges that were clipped to our button down shirts or sweaters.
“The lab I picked.” He stated, puffing out his chest so I could see more clearly. “That way nobody tries to get me to sign up with them. I’m already taken!”
“Oh.” I said, blatantly unimpressed. Who would want him? Egotistical, drunk/hungover and kind of a twit. I had picked a lab already too, but I was attentive and trying hard to impress with every single faculty member we met! He was taking my exquisite little weekend - my perfect outfit, shoes, jewelry and list of considerate questions, and making a mockery of it. I was less than amused.
“I didn’t like you very much when I first met you.” I later told him, comfortably tucked in the corner of his sofa, cuddling one of his throw pillows – he had both green and burgundy because “girls like pillows.” I was likely in pajamas. There has been no man other than Dave with whom I was so completely comfortable. I can't remember ever trying to impress him since I had been so underwhelmed by his initial impression. I’m sure we were watching some sporting event – baseball, football, basketball, hockey. He was insane about any and all of the above.
I was likely washing clothes in his apartment – I was insane about the idea of having your own washer and dryer. No quarters needed! I just brought over dirty clothes and hung out with Dave. He was quite the homemaker – always had a clean apartment, food, sometimes even baked goods! He gave me a look.
“Oh, I knew.” He shook his head. “You’re less subtle than you think.” I nodded and laughed softly. I also learned that I was a bit dramatic and emotional that first year in grad school - that came from Crush. Dave went to fetch another local beer from his mini fridge purchased to hold only yeasty alcohol (Yes, I rolled my eyes at it.), and offered me another drink. He’d mix something fruity in his blender or buy diet soda. M and I usually came together, but when her boyfriend was in town, I’d arrive at Dave’s alone. It was fine either way.
“Sorry.” I offered sheepishly. “But you were so…” He glanced toward the couch from the kitchen and raised an eyebrow. I wrinkled my nose. “Loud! Drunk! On the very first night! Then you slept during a presentation! And you wrote on your nametag. Not cool, my friend. Not cool.”
“I know.” He shook his head, pausing to yell something at the TV as he took his seat on the other end of the couch, offering me another pillow he’d tossed to the floor. “The drinking wasn’t really my fault though. The lab forced those margaritas on me! And I couldn’t admit weakness on the first night out with them.”
“Uh huh.” I smiled. “I love you now though.” I offered because I did. I wasn’t easily swayed, completely convinced that he wasn’t worth my time. But as classes started, I found him to be consistently prepared and completely bright. He was also one of the most generous people I’d ever met. He’d always host parties and study groups. I spent many nights before exams around his dining room table. He and his roommate carefully placing books and drinks on the glass tabletop his aunt had provided to him upon moving to grad school city. We’d work problems, review old exams, analyze our corrected homework. Passed around study guides, made sure our notes matched. Drew graphs and wrote lists.
We drew strength from each other – M, Dave and I. Complained over the workload, then traded phone calls to figure out labs. Laughed over some silly mistake, then went for lunch after difficult exams. Told each other how smart we were then bemoaned the fact that our grades might not reflect that.
It wasn’t such a big deal eventually – his fondness for talking too much, his insistence upon drinking a lot, the beard it took M and me a year to convince him to shave. What became important – and what changed my opinion of my ability to judge people instantly – were his kindness, generosity and humor.
Dave left grad school when M did and the loss was enormous. I still miss them both dearly. But I emailed M today – she’s such a sweet presence. Like a pink ball of fluff, chattering away in her sweet little voice and cute personality until you finally realize that she’s incredibly smart and strong. Dave was more bumbling and loud – it took a great deal of time to truly appreciate him. I continued to be profoundly grateful – in random moments – that he allowed me the opportunity to move past disdain and into affectionate acceptance.
I had a dream the other night. Upon waking I realized that life is fascinating. Some people disappoint me terribly. They can behave more badly than I could have predicted. Lie, cheat, offer blatantly hypocritical advice, be judgmental, ugly or otherwise offensive. But there are others that surprise me in the good way.
I can’t remember what the dream was about, but I was busy doing something – completely involved and focused. But I turned around, saw Dave and was filled with joy. The same feeling flows effortlessly each time I see him - when he'd come back to grad school to visit, on one of my weekends to see him (he's always allowed Chienne to come with and has this amazing guest suite), or when he paid for a trip to Las Vegas (and went with me to get massages when M backed out). The happy feelings are the same each time. Someone who loves me! Someone I love! So, in my dream, I raced toward him – throwing my arms around him and squeezing tight, wondering for the thousandth time why I couldn’t feel that elusive tingle of attraction for him rather than the pure love of friendship.
Regardless, when I take an instant dislike to someone – which happens more rarely than the opposite – I think of Dave. And try to leave myself open to gaining a treasured friend, even when I wince over a first impression. When I'm prone to writing people off at the slightest provocation lately, it's a good story for me to write.
I wish I were sleeping.
At 8:30, I went to find some papers to work on my grant - document opened next to the application to which I am to emulate. Suddenly struck by the need to rest while I was looking through the bag I keep in my bedroom, I decided to take just a brief nap. Rest my eyes - just for a few moments.
At some point, I accepted reality and placed the glasses that had been resting in my palm on my table. I was cuddled in bed, easing into a deep sleep. The dog woke me - barking wildly outside my bedroom windows. Times like those are the only ones I scowl at my lovely dog door. She likes to bark sometimes - a drawn-out howl/bark with a "wooooo" type sound. And she's free to go outside at will and make said noises.
"Wooooo. Ruff ruff ruff." She said. "Wooooooooo." Then she paused and I rolled over to cuddle a different member of my pillow population.
"Woof." She spoke softly, and I sighed.
"Chienne." I gave a warning that I knew she could hear through the wall. I don't even get out of bed anymore. I used to creep carefully out back, peering around the house and out to the street. There's never anything there. And though it wasn't yet 10PM, the neighbors have a baby. Barking should be kept to a minimum.
"Woof. Woof. Woof." Still soft, but increasing slightly in volume. I followed her lead and ended up waiting for her "Woooooo" to stop so I could shout her name followed by a firm "No."
I heard her tags jingle as she headed toward the warmth inside. "What is the freaking problem?" I asked out loud. I don't even have the excuse that I was speaking to the dog - she didn't come to see me, knowing she'd be scolded. "Barking at nothing, like an idiot. For crying out loud. Cat runs and plays - makes all sorts of noises in here. Dog woooos and ruffs and woofs outside."
But the house became blissfully quiet and I eased back into sleep. But the barking always makes me uneasy. What if - just this once - she's actually barking at something real? There have been people walking across the street - harmless, I'm sure, but a warning bark never hurts if they happen to be considering robbery or murder. And while I try to avoid the thought that someone is going to "get me" as Mom is fond of saying (which reminds me that I failed to send my evening email informing her that no one, in fact, did me any harm during the day and that I am safe and warm here at home), it sneaks in sometimes.
I had disturbing dreams, but that was to be expected. So when she woofed softly a couple of times, I smiled. I wasn't sure how much time had passed, and though I'd been sleeping, it had been marked by unpleasant nightmares. Chienne didn't want to get in trouble, I knew, but the urge to speak was irresistible. But then she started to bray at something outside the office window. It's the one that looks out onto the front porch, so I was concerned.
It's fine, I soothed myself. Don't wake up. Eyes closed, breathe deeply, staying asleep. If you get up to check, you'll be up for a while. Sleep is nice. Warm and safe.
She barked again - sharp, warning ruffs - and I blinked twice, rubbing my eyes for a second before reaching for my glasses. I hadn't deadbolted the front door after turning on the Christmas lights, though it was locked. What if the garage was open again and someone was pulling in? So I shuffled toward the living room, watching Chienne prance out of the office toward me, pleased I was moving about.
With a Lassie-esque "What is it, girl?" I headed down the hall, peeking out the peep hole to an empty porch and front walk. She whined eagerly beside me, so I continued to wonder if someone was out there. Walking back down the hall and peering around the wall, I looked out the window Chienne had earlier used. Well, presumably. Maybe she just had a bad dream and was warning other nightmares away. She does have a semi-scary voice. There was nobody out the window. The garage door was also firmly down.
"Why?" I asked the dog, still sticking closely by my side - happy to have me awake. "What was the problem? Honestly. Don't just bark for fun. It's sleepy time! Night!"
Then I settled on the loveseat with the laptop because, as expected, I'm a bit fuzzy but awake. I'm not going to work on the grant, but I did put on lip gloss and water - I remember thinking briefly I'd like to have both at some point earlier, but didn't want to wake to fetch them. I'm now hydrated, and the animals are resting around me, though I'm not a big fan of the dog at the moment.
It seems a shame to follow a post that was followed by such incredibly lovely comments with nearly incomprehensible rambling. About...how I'm awake and wish I wasn't.
At some point, I accepted reality and placed the glasses that had been resting in my palm on my table. I was cuddled in bed, easing into a deep sleep. The dog woke me - barking wildly outside my bedroom windows. Times like those are the only ones I scowl at my lovely dog door. She likes to bark sometimes - a drawn-out howl/bark with a "wooooo" type sound. And she's free to go outside at will and make said noises.
"Wooooo. Ruff ruff ruff." She said. "Wooooooooo." Then she paused and I rolled over to cuddle a different member of my pillow population.
"Woof." She spoke softly, and I sighed.
"Chienne." I gave a warning that I knew she could hear through the wall. I don't even get out of bed anymore. I used to creep carefully out back, peering around the house and out to the street. There's never anything there. And though it wasn't yet 10PM, the neighbors have a baby. Barking should be kept to a minimum.
"Woof. Woof. Woof." Still soft, but increasing slightly in volume. I followed her lead and ended up waiting for her "Woooooo" to stop so I could shout her name followed by a firm "No."
I heard her tags jingle as she headed toward the warmth inside. "What is the freaking problem?" I asked out loud. I don't even have the excuse that I was speaking to the dog - she didn't come to see me, knowing she'd be scolded. "Barking at nothing, like an idiot. For crying out loud. Cat runs and plays - makes all sorts of noises in here. Dog woooos and ruffs and woofs outside."
But the house became blissfully quiet and I eased back into sleep. But the barking always makes me uneasy. What if - just this once - she's actually barking at something real? There have been people walking across the street - harmless, I'm sure, but a warning bark never hurts if they happen to be considering robbery or murder. And while I try to avoid the thought that someone is going to "get me" as Mom is fond of saying (which reminds me that I failed to send my evening email informing her that no one, in fact, did me any harm during the day and that I am safe and warm here at home), it sneaks in sometimes.
I had disturbing dreams, but that was to be expected. So when she woofed softly a couple of times, I smiled. I wasn't sure how much time had passed, and though I'd been sleeping, it had been marked by unpleasant nightmares. Chienne didn't want to get in trouble, I knew, but the urge to speak was irresistible. But then she started to bray at something outside the office window. It's the one that looks out onto the front porch, so I was concerned.
It's fine, I soothed myself. Don't wake up. Eyes closed, breathe deeply, staying asleep. If you get up to check, you'll be up for a while. Sleep is nice. Warm and safe.
She barked again - sharp, warning ruffs - and I blinked twice, rubbing my eyes for a second before reaching for my glasses. I hadn't deadbolted the front door after turning on the Christmas lights, though it was locked. What if the garage was open again and someone was pulling in? So I shuffled toward the living room, watching Chienne prance out of the office toward me, pleased I was moving about.
With a Lassie-esque "What is it, girl?" I headed down the hall, peeking out the peep hole to an empty porch and front walk. She whined eagerly beside me, so I continued to wonder if someone was out there. Walking back down the hall and peering around the wall, I looked out the window Chienne had earlier used. Well, presumably. Maybe she just had a bad dream and was warning other nightmares away. She does have a semi-scary voice. There was nobody out the window. The garage door was also firmly down.
"Why?" I asked the dog, still sticking closely by my side - happy to have me awake. "What was the problem? Honestly. Don't just bark for fun. It's sleepy time! Night!"
Then I settled on the loveseat with the laptop because, as expected, I'm a bit fuzzy but awake. I'm not going to work on the grant, but I did put on lip gloss and water - I remember thinking briefly I'd like to have both at some point earlier, but didn't want to wake to fetch them. I'm now hydrated, and the animals are resting around me, though I'm not a big fan of the dog at the moment.
It seems a shame to follow a post that was followed by such incredibly lovely comments with nearly incomprehensible rambling. About...how I'm awake and wish I wasn't.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
All about a sweatshirt (but not really)
I frowned at the bright red garment. I tend to wear the same sweatshirt as a jacket all week for walks, then rotate the next one through. This is a red week, but it would clash badly with my purple stripey sleepy pants. I considered switching the knit pants for another color, but realized I was closer to my coat closet. Perusing my never-used winter coats and my rarely-worn midweight jackets, I smiled and reached for a gray fleece pullover. Then I headed out to take a walk, pulling out a peppermint I left in the front pouch the last time I wore the soft shirt.
“Do you remember what you were like at 22?” I asked Friend some time ago. I can’t remember where we were, but I do remember glancing over at her. She smiled and made some affirmative noise.
“Did you have everything figured out?” I continued my inquiry.
“Of course.” She replied kindly. “I was going to be a doctor!”
Briefly distracted by the horrifying thought of what med school must be like, it took a second for my self-centered nature to kick back in.
“I knew everything.” I sighed. “What do you think happened between now and then?”
I arranged a pre-open house visit to my graduate campus on the day I turned 22. That will be 6 years ago next month. I woke very early in my parents’ house, opened my presents, received birthday hugs and kisses, then assured Dad we’d be careful. Mom and I got in the car and headed northish.
After several hours, she dropped me off at the designated door, squeezed my hand and wished me luck as I clutched the printed email in my hand. The other information – careful notes on specific labs, copies of my transcripts and glowing recommendations they already possessed with my application materials, a schedule that had been memorized in order to visualize the meetings, a list of questions when I only had one I needed answered - were tucked neatly in a folder.
I entered an insanely hot entryway – it was always overly warm in those few feet of space – and moved through one more door. Straight down a hallway where I paused to face the wall at my left. There was a glass case full of photos – all the members of the department. Faculty, staff, students. Post-docs were few and far between in my graduate department. I looked at the tiny head shots and thought of how smart they all must be. How lucky they were to have been accepted – to have gained entry in a group to which I desperately wanted to belong.
Undergrad had been good to me. I was finishing easily in 4 years after changing majors before beginning my third semester. I delighted in my Suma Cum Laude status – nearly assured even before beginning my final term. I had excelled in honors courses, felt moderate stress, but was always confident in my ability. My GRE scores didn’t put me in the genius category, but they were well above average. I’d had enough involvement in extracurriculars and volunteer groups. If we decided not to speak of the subject test of the GRE (and I prayed that we would decide exactly that throughout the day), I was an excellent candidate. I even came with a year of funding! Like a free gift with purchase!
But, well, I’m Katie and I’m a worrier. I didn’t know if they would allow me to study there. I entered the office and introduced myself – beginning a day of receiving guides and handbooks, papers and descriptions of labs that I would spend hours reading after my return home. I got an agenda on pretty stationary and ran my fingers over the raised seal at the top corner. I met the chair, whose name I had carefully practiced until the strange syllables rolled off my tongue more naturally. I would train other prospective students to say it in later years when I was involved in recruitment.
Then I met with the man who would share advising responsibilities for me throughout my first year. He also chaired the admissions committee and had invited me to visit alone – before the large group of students would appear to tour the department and make lab selections. He explained the process to me – finding a mentor who not only shared my interest, but had money with which to pay me. We discussed courses and how well my background was suited to their program. I was attentive and asked all the right questions, offered all the correct responses. But my stomach was tight with the need to know my status. The committee had finished meeting – they knew what they wanted. And I needed to have the knowledge as well.
“When will I know about the admission decision?” I bravely asked. Then rapidly backed away from the information, terribly frightened about being denied something I wanted so badly. “I don’t have to know now.” I said quickly, for he let silence hang in the air habitually and I would nervously seek to fill it. “I just wondered about the timeline. I so badly want to be here.” I finished, then sat as he nodded at me.
“Katie.” He finally said after considering me for a moment. “I wouldn’t have asked you to visit unless we very much wanted you to join us next year. You’re the ideal candidate, honestly, and we think you’ll do very well within the program. At this point, we’re hoping to give you enough information to make a good decision for yourself.”
“I want to be here.” I said, quickly, sincerely and with a growing feeling of joy.
“Then you’ll be here.” He smiled and I must have glowed from the relief and happiness and overwhelming confidence that the world was full of perfection. If something happened to go badly? That was fine! Because I had somehow landed here – the heartbreaking knowledge that I didn’t get the guy was replaced with the certainty that he would have screwed up the plan that landed me in that department at that time. If I had to move away from home, I was ready. This was worth it. Lovely. Exactly right.
At the end of the day, still having boundless energy and happiness, I opened the door to the car when Mom picked me up.
“I’m in!” I announced on a giggle before I had even closed the door behind me.
“What?” She asked, already smiling back at me.
“They want me to come here! I said I would! I’m in! It’s so amazing and wonderful and right!”
“Oh, Katie.” She breathed, turning to pull into traffic. “Congratulations. You deserve this and I’m so happy for you.”
“I’m happy too! Mom, everything led to this! I’m going to learn all this amazing stuff and do research and write papers. Everyone is so smart and welcoming, and I think I know where my desk will be. I picked two labs and both advisors are excited about me. About me!”
We went for pizza. Talked and laughed over salads and campus specials – we were trying to fit in. It was the only time I ever had the campus special. When I had finished providing details about every person, lab, moment, she told me how she’d done some shopping, some driving around. She approved of the campus and general area. It was the right place for me to be.
When we returned the hotel, she handed me a shopping bag. “Happy birthday and congratulations.” She smiled.
And I peeked in the top to see my gray fleece shirt. It had a tiny seal on the left side, encircled by the name of the university. “Because you’re going to go here next year.” Mom said, her hand on my back as I pulled out the shirt to more closely examine its wonderfulness.
Whenever I wore it during that last semester of undergrad, I was reminded of how I’d figured out my life. I had a plan and though I didn’t have a job in mind, one – the right one – would certainly present itself. I would meet the right man – I had lost all the weight I needed to lose and was quite pretty. He would love me madly, of course, seeing all those qualities that the guys so far had somehow missed. It was all going to be fine. No, better than fine. Perfect.
At some point, I stopped wearing that sweatshirt. The peppermint I pulled out this morning? It was very, very old. I am different now than I was at 22. Not all the changes have been good, nor have they been all bad.
“I don’t know.” Charlie offered once. “I think the more you learn, the greater your ability to see how much more there is to know. It’s hard not to feel intimidated by that.”
I do know a tremendous amount – years of courses, research, training – both given and received...years of living have given me information and the ability to use it. I’m developing an educational plan – complete with classes I need to take – and am focused on topics I should learn. 5+ years after beginning focused study on this very topic, and I can make an impressive list of courses that I could really use. It’s hard not to feel inadequate.
And though my graduate experience was gentle compared to some (perhaps most) and my post-doctoral experience has been even more so, I’m left with all the feelings of being inadequate and wrong and lame. Maybe I didn’t deserve my degree, I mope. I don’t know how to do that! I whine. Why can’t I figure this out? I wail. It’s frustrating, and the idea that this was somehow meant to be – some great learning experience on the way to the next stage that is also meant to be? Not so much.
The job I knew would materialize and give me purpose along with more money than I could spend? It never showed up! I still don’t know what I’m doing. The man who was supposed to love me forever? Laughable. 6 years of crushes and dating, seeing friends and not being able to shift into romantic. Going to bars and deciding that wasn’t for me (though someone did once drunkenly profess his love for me. I ducked my head and walked by without making eye contact – I don’t enjoy drunk people – but perhaps that was ill-advised…), more blind dates than I care to number (though I did count them earlier - it was in February. You could click the arrow and see if it changes to a triangle!).
I think I slowly trained myself to accept the negative. The crushing feeling that I not only screwed up but that I was wrong about everything being right and wonderful? That’s just embarrassing. I hated being so wrong. And whether though self-fulfilling prophecy or just that the world sucks sometimes, expecting the worst means I’m most often right.
You won’t get that grant, I think. I don't share my negativity all that often - try mightily to remain peppy and sweet. That's probably why those feelings flow so easily on my blog. That paper is going to bounce back to you, needing revisions at best or rejected at worst, I predict. It’s hard to find faculty jobs and after you get one? That’s going to suck too. More time and energy and effort than any one person can reasonably produce.
He’s going to break up with her. She was just using him to fill time until someone better came along. They got married, but they’re likely unhappy. Isn’t she embarrassed that his job isn’t going well? See how he winced when she wore that dress to the department party! He'll cheat on her. She's delusional for believing otherwise.
People get sick. Patient 4 can’t participate in the study anymore because he’s in too much pain. The cancer came back. Do you know how frustrating and heartbreaking it is to study cancer on a clinical level? It makes me ill some days. The horror of that disease - of many diseases - just defies description.
My advisor wasn’t supportive. My computer is broken. I have another headache. I’m gaining weight again. How many times did I order pizza this week? My favorite TV show was cancelled. That book I eagerly anticipated wasn’t so good. This study should have been helpful, but the paper is indecipherable. That professor ignored me. This one made me cry.
So if I’m pushing away the negative at frequent intervals (aka all the time)? It’s because I trained myself to do otherwise. I got tired of being wrong and disappointed and decided to be right or surprised. The retraining - trying to find the balance between reasonable and positive - isn’t going to be as simple as I’d like. And while I miss facets of Katie at 22, she was also rather condescending and irritating. Perhaps by 34, I'll really hit my stride!
In the meantime, I've learned a lot. Made two amazing friends I love like sisters at 22. Published my first paper at 23 (from summer undergrad research). Left the country for the first time at 24. I found my Chienne online that same year. Went to Kyoto (gave my first conference talk) and London (all by myself!) at 25. I loved a wonderful man (but not enough), was awarded a doctoral degree and bought a house at 26. As for 27? I wrote a blog. I fell in love and it felt - for a while - exactly as I wanted. I submitted a grant (and I did work on it today). I published more of my graduate work. Connected with friends, though they're far away. Made a new one I enjoy very much (though I realized she was likely thinking "I also remember what it was like to be 27, you sanity-challenged weirdo." in the conversation I mentioned earlier).
But that's OK. At 27, I also started working on my mental health. And I still have over a month to learn to be more positive than I currently am before I start making the Age 28 list.
“Do you remember what you were like at 22?” I asked Friend some time ago. I can’t remember where we were, but I do remember glancing over at her. She smiled and made some affirmative noise.
“Did you have everything figured out?” I continued my inquiry.
“Of course.” She replied kindly. “I was going to be a doctor!”
Briefly distracted by the horrifying thought of what med school must be like, it took a second for my self-centered nature to kick back in.
“I knew everything.” I sighed. “What do you think happened between now and then?”
I arranged a pre-open house visit to my graduate campus on the day I turned 22. That will be 6 years ago next month. I woke very early in my parents’ house, opened my presents, received birthday hugs and kisses, then assured Dad we’d be careful. Mom and I got in the car and headed northish.
After several hours, she dropped me off at the designated door, squeezed my hand and wished me luck as I clutched the printed email in my hand. The other information – careful notes on specific labs, copies of my transcripts and glowing recommendations they already possessed with my application materials, a schedule that had been memorized in order to visualize the meetings, a list of questions when I only had one I needed answered - were tucked neatly in a folder.
I entered an insanely hot entryway – it was always overly warm in those few feet of space – and moved through one more door. Straight down a hallway where I paused to face the wall at my left. There was a glass case full of photos – all the members of the department. Faculty, staff, students. Post-docs were few and far between in my graduate department. I looked at the tiny head shots and thought of how smart they all must be. How lucky they were to have been accepted – to have gained entry in a group to which I desperately wanted to belong.
Undergrad had been good to me. I was finishing easily in 4 years after changing majors before beginning my third semester. I delighted in my Suma Cum Laude status – nearly assured even before beginning my final term. I had excelled in honors courses, felt moderate stress, but was always confident in my ability. My GRE scores didn’t put me in the genius category, but they were well above average. I’d had enough involvement in extracurriculars and volunteer groups. If we decided not to speak of the subject test of the GRE (and I prayed that we would decide exactly that throughout the day), I was an excellent candidate. I even came with a year of funding! Like a free gift with purchase!
But, well, I’m Katie and I’m a worrier. I didn’t know if they would allow me to study there. I entered the office and introduced myself – beginning a day of receiving guides and handbooks, papers and descriptions of labs that I would spend hours reading after my return home. I got an agenda on pretty stationary and ran my fingers over the raised seal at the top corner. I met the chair, whose name I had carefully practiced until the strange syllables rolled off my tongue more naturally. I would train other prospective students to say it in later years when I was involved in recruitment.
Then I met with the man who would share advising responsibilities for me throughout my first year. He also chaired the admissions committee and had invited me to visit alone – before the large group of students would appear to tour the department and make lab selections. He explained the process to me – finding a mentor who not only shared my interest, but had money with which to pay me. We discussed courses and how well my background was suited to their program. I was attentive and asked all the right questions, offered all the correct responses. But my stomach was tight with the need to know my status. The committee had finished meeting – they knew what they wanted. And I needed to have the knowledge as well.
“When will I know about the admission decision?” I bravely asked. Then rapidly backed away from the information, terribly frightened about being denied something I wanted so badly. “I don’t have to know now.” I said quickly, for he let silence hang in the air habitually and I would nervously seek to fill it. “I just wondered about the timeline. I so badly want to be here.” I finished, then sat as he nodded at me.
“Katie.” He finally said after considering me for a moment. “I wouldn’t have asked you to visit unless we very much wanted you to join us next year. You’re the ideal candidate, honestly, and we think you’ll do very well within the program. At this point, we’re hoping to give you enough information to make a good decision for yourself.”
“I want to be here.” I said, quickly, sincerely and with a growing feeling of joy.
“Then you’ll be here.” He smiled and I must have glowed from the relief and happiness and overwhelming confidence that the world was full of perfection. If something happened to go badly? That was fine! Because I had somehow landed here – the heartbreaking knowledge that I didn’t get the guy was replaced with the certainty that he would have screwed up the plan that landed me in that department at that time. If I had to move away from home, I was ready. This was worth it. Lovely. Exactly right.
At the end of the day, still having boundless energy and happiness, I opened the door to the car when Mom picked me up.
“I’m in!” I announced on a giggle before I had even closed the door behind me.
“What?” She asked, already smiling back at me.
“They want me to come here! I said I would! I’m in! It’s so amazing and wonderful and right!”
“Oh, Katie.” She breathed, turning to pull into traffic. “Congratulations. You deserve this and I’m so happy for you.”
“I’m happy too! Mom, everything led to this! I’m going to learn all this amazing stuff and do research and write papers. Everyone is so smart and welcoming, and I think I know where my desk will be. I picked two labs and both advisors are excited about me. About me!”
We went for pizza. Talked and laughed over salads and campus specials – we were trying to fit in. It was the only time I ever had the campus special. When I had finished providing details about every person, lab, moment, she told me how she’d done some shopping, some driving around. She approved of the campus and general area. It was the right place for me to be.
When we returned the hotel, she handed me a shopping bag. “Happy birthday and congratulations.” She smiled.
And I peeked in the top to see my gray fleece shirt. It had a tiny seal on the left side, encircled by the name of the university. “Because you’re going to go here next year.” Mom said, her hand on my back as I pulled out the shirt to more closely examine its wonderfulness.
Whenever I wore it during that last semester of undergrad, I was reminded of how I’d figured out my life. I had a plan and though I didn’t have a job in mind, one – the right one – would certainly present itself. I would meet the right man – I had lost all the weight I needed to lose and was quite pretty. He would love me madly, of course, seeing all those qualities that the guys so far had somehow missed. It was all going to be fine. No, better than fine. Perfect.
At some point, I stopped wearing that sweatshirt. The peppermint I pulled out this morning? It was very, very old. I am different now than I was at 22. Not all the changes have been good, nor have they been all bad.
“I don’t know.” Charlie offered once. “I think the more you learn, the greater your ability to see how much more there is to know. It’s hard not to feel intimidated by that.”
I do know a tremendous amount – years of courses, research, training – both given and received...years of living have given me information and the ability to use it. I’m developing an educational plan – complete with classes I need to take – and am focused on topics I should learn. 5+ years after beginning focused study on this very topic, and I can make an impressive list of courses that I could really use. It’s hard not to feel inadequate.
And though my graduate experience was gentle compared to some (perhaps most) and my post-doctoral experience has been even more so, I’m left with all the feelings of being inadequate and wrong and lame. Maybe I didn’t deserve my degree, I mope. I don’t know how to do that! I whine. Why can’t I figure this out? I wail. It’s frustrating, and the idea that this was somehow meant to be – some great learning experience on the way to the next stage that is also meant to be? Not so much.
The job I knew would materialize and give me purpose along with more money than I could spend? It never showed up! I still don’t know what I’m doing. The man who was supposed to love me forever? Laughable. 6 years of crushes and dating, seeing friends and not being able to shift into romantic. Going to bars and deciding that wasn’t for me (though someone did once drunkenly profess his love for me. I ducked my head and walked by without making eye contact – I don’t enjoy drunk people – but perhaps that was ill-advised…), more blind dates than I care to number (though I did count them earlier - it was in February. You could click the arrow and see if it changes to a triangle!).
I think I slowly trained myself to accept the negative. The crushing feeling that I not only screwed up but that I was wrong about everything being right and wonderful? That’s just embarrassing. I hated being so wrong. And whether though self-fulfilling prophecy or just that the world sucks sometimes, expecting the worst means I’m most often right.
You won’t get that grant, I think. I don't share my negativity all that often - try mightily to remain peppy and sweet. That's probably why those feelings flow so easily on my blog. That paper is going to bounce back to you, needing revisions at best or rejected at worst, I predict. It’s hard to find faculty jobs and after you get one? That’s going to suck too. More time and energy and effort than any one person can reasonably produce.
He’s going to break up with her. She was just using him to fill time until someone better came along. They got married, but they’re likely unhappy. Isn’t she embarrassed that his job isn’t going well? See how he winced when she wore that dress to the department party! He'll cheat on her. She's delusional for believing otherwise.
People get sick. Patient 4 can’t participate in the study anymore because he’s in too much pain. The cancer came back. Do you know how frustrating and heartbreaking it is to study cancer on a clinical level? It makes me ill some days. The horror of that disease - of many diseases - just defies description.
My advisor wasn’t supportive. My computer is broken. I have another headache. I’m gaining weight again. How many times did I order pizza this week? My favorite TV show was cancelled. That book I eagerly anticipated wasn’t so good. This study should have been helpful, but the paper is indecipherable. That professor ignored me. This one made me cry.
So if I’m pushing away the negative at frequent intervals (aka all the time)? It’s because I trained myself to do otherwise. I got tired of being wrong and disappointed and decided to be right or surprised. The retraining - trying to find the balance between reasonable and positive - isn’t going to be as simple as I’d like. And while I miss facets of Katie at 22, she was also rather condescending and irritating. Perhaps by 34, I'll really hit my stride!
In the meantime, I've learned a lot. Made two amazing friends I love like sisters at 22. Published my first paper at 23 (from summer undergrad research). Left the country for the first time at 24. I found my Chienne online that same year. Went to Kyoto (gave my first conference talk) and London (all by myself!) at 25. I loved a wonderful man (but not enough), was awarded a doctoral degree and bought a house at 26. As for 27? I wrote a blog. I fell in love and it felt - for a while - exactly as I wanted. I submitted a grant (and I did work on it today). I published more of my graduate work. Connected with friends, though they're far away. Made a new one I enjoy very much (though I realized she was likely thinking "I also remember what it was like to be 27, you sanity-challenged weirdo." in the conversation I mentioned earlier).
But that's OK. At 27, I also started working on my mental health. And I still have over a month to learn to be more positive than I currently am before I start making the Age 28 list.
Monday, December 04, 2006
Therapy: session 2
“Now you try.” He urged. “Breathe in through your nose.” He paused and waited while I pulled air in, avoiding eye contact with him. “And out through your mouth.” He said, breathing out in an “ahhh.”
I don’t make noise when I breathe. It's a general rule I have unless I’m stuffy or otherwise sick. So I skipped the “ahhh” but felt my tension ease with the breathing exercise. Dr. Counselor nodded approvingly.
“Now,” he said, “put your water down and put your palms on your knees.” With an inquiring and long-suffering look, I placed my water bottle on his desk and rested my hands on my legs. “We’re going to feel all the negative.” He began and I nodded. I had just confessed that I – at some point and without my permission – had become pessimistic. I expect the worst. I’m becoming this sucking hole of darkness and it’s not at all what I want. I used to be bright and happy, and sometimes I find the energy to sparkle a tiny bit, but I’m mostly very gray. Gentle, but gray.
“We’ll raise our hands slowly.” He put actions to words and I followed his example. “All the fear and doubt, all the worry and anxiety. Every thought that you’re not good enough or pretty enough. That there’s not someone out there for you. That you’re not a good enough friend or that people don’t like or approve of you. We’re pushing that away. Giving it to God because He wants to take it from you.”
I blinked back tears, nodding at him as he kept his voice soft and soothing, hands lifted at chest level as we sat across the desk from each other.
“Now,” he continued after pausing a moment, “we’re going to turn our hands over. Think of a flower blooming in those time lapse photos. A pink flower if you’d like, or blue – you like blue, right?”
My tears vanished behind a giggle I choked back. I didn’t bring my dream journal and even if I had, it isn’t blue. I hadn’t been to the gym as he advised and told him I dreaded coming because I hadn’t completed my assignments. He nodded and thought for a moment. Made some decision about me and changed his approach. I like the current one better.
We’d covered my resistance to revising this grant. I’d planned to write a cute little post about how he used an abortion analogy for it. I hate it when grants are babies, and taking it to the abortion vs. offer it nutrients and see the gynecologist more often doesn’t help that aversion at all. I coached myself not to laugh at him when he went through those few moments, drawing out his analogy, offering me options, listening as I spoke.
I was back to that feeling – appreciating his effort, drawn by his sincerity but feeling as if he’d crossed the line into ridiculous and being unable to follow. He must have noticed and spoke to regain my attention.
“We pushed away the negative. It’s gone – doesn’t belong to you anymore. So we’re changing – our hands are facing up.” I looked down to make sure mine were. Met his eyes when I saw I was doing OK.
“Now we’re open to receive what God wants for us. All the peace. Joy. Hope. The knowledge that life works out. People find love – in friendships, romantically, for children – be they delivered by you or adopted or if they have other parents. You’re receiving that love. Laughter.” He continued, but I don’t remember what else I was receiving.
I started to cry. Tried to hold it together, then told myself it was OK to be moved by God. To feel the relief of moving the negative away and being open to the positive moving in. So I let tears fall, reaching for a tissue with my left hand while remaining open – palm stretched outward and face up – with my right.
I wanted a method for being more positive. He offered one. I can visualize myself pushing the darkness up a hill - it's heavy and difficult, but then God takes it away. I'm stronger for having shoved it away and more capable of appreciating the goodness. It's a bit...much, I know, but it worked for me today.
I bounced toward the stairs when leaving. Instead of praying nobody would see me as I exited the building (as I had last time), I smiled at a cute boy on my way out of Dr. Counselor’s office. He smiled back, so I assume my tears had been adequately wiped away.
I return next Monday.
“I’ll see you again.” He said, writing my name in his tiny appointment book. Then we stood at he squeezed my hand. “I really think I can help you.”
“I think you already have.” I said, squeezing back. I appreciated his effort – his gentle guidance, his insistence upon offering options rather than assignments so I don’t feel guilty for not completing something. We talked about dating and the grant. My attitude and church. “Thank you.” I said softly. “Really.”
He put his arm around me squeezed after asking permission. I leaned into him for a second and touched my head to his shoulder.
My therapist likes me, I thought cheerfully as I headed back to the office. He realized it’s important to me that he does. I feel comfortable there – even with the analogies that aren’t great and the notes that contain my fondness for the color blue. I do think he can help right now, and I’m not dreading going back. I drank more water this afternoon and did aerobics for 45 minutes. I got work done and actually started revising my grant.
I feel good.
For today, that’s more than enough. And for tomorrow? I suspect I'll be taking deep breaths and focusing on pushing away the negative and pulling in the positive. So if you see me with my hands stretched in front of me, I'm doing an exercise from therapy.
I don’t make noise when I breathe. It's a general rule I have unless I’m stuffy or otherwise sick. So I skipped the “ahhh” but felt my tension ease with the breathing exercise. Dr. Counselor nodded approvingly.
“Now,” he said, “put your water down and put your palms on your knees.” With an inquiring and long-suffering look, I placed my water bottle on his desk and rested my hands on my legs. “We’re going to feel all the negative.” He began and I nodded. I had just confessed that I – at some point and without my permission – had become pessimistic. I expect the worst. I’m becoming this sucking hole of darkness and it’s not at all what I want. I used to be bright and happy, and sometimes I find the energy to sparkle a tiny bit, but I’m mostly very gray. Gentle, but gray.
“We’ll raise our hands slowly.” He put actions to words and I followed his example. “All the fear and doubt, all the worry and anxiety. Every thought that you’re not good enough or pretty enough. That there’s not someone out there for you. That you’re not a good enough friend or that people don’t like or approve of you. We’re pushing that away. Giving it to God because He wants to take it from you.”
I blinked back tears, nodding at him as he kept his voice soft and soothing, hands lifted at chest level as we sat across the desk from each other.
“Now,” he continued after pausing a moment, “we’re going to turn our hands over. Think of a flower blooming in those time lapse photos. A pink flower if you’d like, or blue – you like blue, right?”
My tears vanished behind a giggle I choked back. I didn’t bring my dream journal and even if I had, it isn’t blue. I hadn’t been to the gym as he advised and told him I dreaded coming because I hadn’t completed my assignments. He nodded and thought for a moment. Made some decision about me and changed his approach. I like the current one better.
We’d covered my resistance to revising this grant. I’d planned to write a cute little post about how he used an abortion analogy for it. I hate it when grants are babies, and taking it to the abortion vs. offer it nutrients and see the gynecologist more often doesn’t help that aversion at all. I coached myself not to laugh at him when he went through those few moments, drawing out his analogy, offering me options, listening as I spoke.
I was back to that feeling – appreciating his effort, drawn by his sincerity but feeling as if he’d crossed the line into ridiculous and being unable to follow. He must have noticed and spoke to regain my attention.
“We pushed away the negative. It’s gone – doesn’t belong to you anymore. So we’re changing – our hands are facing up.” I looked down to make sure mine were. Met his eyes when I saw I was doing OK.
“Now we’re open to receive what God wants for us. All the peace. Joy. Hope. The knowledge that life works out. People find love – in friendships, romantically, for children – be they delivered by you or adopted or if they have other parents. You’re receiving that love. Laughter.” He continued, but I don’t remember what else I was receiving.
I started to cry. Tried to hold it together, then told myself it was OK to be moved by God. To feel the relief of moving the negative away and being open to the positive moving in. So I let tears fall, reaching for a tissue with my left hand while remaining open – palm stretched outward and face up – with my right.
I wanted a method for being more positive. He offered one. I can visualize myself pushing the darkness up a hill - it's heavy and difficult, but then God takes it away. I'm stronger for having shoved it away and more capable of appreciating the goodness. It's a bit...much, I know, but it worked for me today.
I bounced toward the stairs when leaving. Instead of praying nobody would see me as I exited the building (as I had last time), I smiled at a cute boy on my way out of Dr. Counselor’s office. He smiled back, so I assume my tears had been adequately wiped away.
I return next Monday.
“I’ll see you again.” He said, writing my name in his tiny appointment book. Then we stood at he squeezed my hand. “I really think I can help you.”
“I think you already have.” I said, squeezing back. I appreciated his effort – his gentle guidance, his insistence upon offering options rather than assignments so I don’t feel guilty for not completing something. We talked about dating and the grant. My attitude and church. “Thank you.” I said softly. “Really.”
He put his arm around me squeezed after asking permission. I leaned into him for a second and touched my head to his shoulder.
My therapist likes me, I thought cheerfully as I headed back to the office. He realized it’s important to me that he does. I feel comfortable there – even with the analogies that aren’t great and the notes that contain my fondness for the color blue. I do think he can help right now, and I’m not dreading going back. I drank more water this afternoon and did aerobics for 45 minutes. I got work done and actually started revising my grant.
I feel good.
For today, that’s more than enough. And for tomorrow? I suspect I'll be taking deep breaths and focusing on pushing away the negative and pulling in the positive. So if you see me with my hands stretched in front of me, I'm doing an exercise from therapy.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
I win! I lose. I win! I lose...
I not only made things Christmasy, but I switched over to the beta layout from my snazzy old template.
I'm so tired. I even turned down a dinner invitation so I could continue work on the archived posts section. But I have a few notes to share:
Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus are among my most cherished possessions. Grandma painted them and displayed them every year. I've stared at those characters for as long as I can remember and love having them on my mantle.
I did string the lights around my bushes out front. They are also adorned with pretty red bows! I'm also fond of the berries they grew - my plants are so cooperative!
Then the defeat interspersed with minor victories began.
I couldn't make my pictures show up for some reason, so rather than throwing away more time on the old template, I switched to beta.
You can click on the header to return to the main page. You can also click on the "About Me" graphic (which I'm pretty sure only appears on the main page) to get to...the main page. I did that near the end and was too exhausted to find that section and fix it.
I'd changed all the column widths and spacing issues (that I know bother only me) when I designed the other blog. I mistakenly believed that this upgrade would therefore be quick and easy.
Until I remembered I wanted to tweak the way the archives are presented. I like the functionality of the hierarchy structure. I don't care for how it looks. Specifically, those triangles bug me. It's a minor thing, so I don't mind it on other blogs. But I wanted something different on mine.
I spent hours trying to get something different. Learned html codes for symbols. Went though over 60 pages of text - doing reading, searching for lists, changing something, breaking the code. It was unpleasant.
I finally got the little arrows to appear, and I was quite pleased with them.
They're only there until you click on them. Then they revert and stay as triangles. I have no idea where in the code they're being told to be triangles. I've looked. I've searched online. I've tried to learn more CSS. I can't figure it out.
So this is my story: The little images are triangles by nature. They'll try to be pretty arrows - slender and with a delicate point on the end - but it requires a great deal of focus. If you shatter the concentration by asking an arrow to show you some posts, it forgets to remain an arrow and turns into a triangle again. Then, I don't know, it remembers how easy it is to be a triangle and stubbornly decides that if you can't love it as a triangle, you probably don't deserve to look at it anyway.
Did I mention I left my undergrad major because I got a B in C++? Stories like that amused my roommates but didn't make me any more persistent in fixing my coding assignments. So I'm leaving it broken for now.
I really am tired. And I never got to work on the grant. I'm not sure I even love the images I made, but I'll love Mr. and Mrs. Santa enough that I'll leave it alone.
Added: So Friend let me know the arrows weren't functioning. So I got hysterical watching them turn to triangles, then frantically switch back to being arrows. I can get it to work now, but sometimes the page automatically scrolls to the top.
Let's be honest though. Who reads my archives? So it's not really a big deal at all! But if you're up for a laugh, picture me breathlessly giggling over my triangles and arrows. Too much html does strange things to my brain.
I'm so tired. I even turned down a dinner invitation so I could continue work on the archived posts section. But I have a few notes to share:
Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus are among my most cherished possessions. Grandma painted them and displayed them every year. I've stared at those characters for as long as I can remember and love having them on my mantle.
I did string the lights around my bushes out front. They are also adorned with pretty red bows! I'm also fond of the berries they grew - my plants are so cooperative!
Then the defeat interspersed with minor victories began.
I couldn't make my pictures show up for some reason, so rather than throwing away more time on the old template, I switched to beta.
You can click on the header to return to the main page. You can also click on the "About Me" graphic (which I'm pretty sure only appears on the main page) to get to...the main page. I did that near the end and was too exhausted to find that section and fix it.
I'd changed all the column widths and spacing issues (that I know bother only me) when I designed the other blog. I mistakenly believed that this upgrade would therefore be quick and easy.
Until I remembered I wanted to tweak the way the archives are presented. I like the functionality of the hierarchy structure. I don't care for how it looks. Specifically, those triangles bug me. It's a minor thing, so I don't mind it on other blogs. But I wanted something different on mine.
I spent hours trying to get something different. Learned html codes for symbols. Went though over 60 pages of text - doing reading, searching for lists, changing something, breaking the code. It was unpleasant.
I finally got the little arrows to appear, and I was quite pleased with them.
They're only there until you click on them. Then they revert and stay as triangles. I have no idea where in the code they're being told to be triangles. I've looked. I've searched online. I've tried to learn more CSS. I can't figure it out.
So this is my story: The little images are triangles by nature. They'll try to be pretty arrows - slender and with a delicate point on the end - but it requires a great deal of focus. If you shatter the concentration by asking an arrow to show you some posts, it forgets to remain an arrow and turns into a triangle again. Then, I don't know, it remembers how easy it is to be a triangle and stubbornly decides that if you can't love it as a triangle, you probably don't deserve to look at it anyway.
Did I mention I left my undergrad major because I got a B in C++? Stories like that amused my roommates but didn't make me any more persistent in fixing my coding assignments. So I'm leaving it broken for now.
I really am tired. And I never got to work on the grant. I'm not sure I even love the images I made, but I'll love Mr. and Mrs. Santa enough that I'll leave it alone.
Added: So Friend let me know the arrows weren't functioning. So I got hysterical watching them turn to triangles, then frantically switch back to being arrows. I can get it to work now, but sometimes the page automatically scrolls to the top.
Let's be honest though. Who reads my archives? So it's not really a big deal at all! But if you're up for a laugh, picture me breathlessly giggling over my triangles and arrows. Too much html does strange things to my brain.
Sunday Stream of Consciousness
I made a cake on Friday night. Chocolate with buttercream icing. I burned it a bit – my oven isn’t calibrated properly, I guess. After having two pieces for breakfast rather than the requisite yogurt – which has failed dismally at becoming requisite – I threw the remainder away.
“Can’t be trusted.” I said, the voice in my head taking on a lyrical Irish accent. My audiobook is delightful in that I finally picked up the way vowels sound from Irish or British people. I’ve never been able to replicate it – even internally – before. I tried out an Irish accent on my way home from Friend’s last night. It made me giggle, but it was a decent effort, I decided.
So I – with my internal Irish monologue cheerfully in tow – slashed the cake into pieces, then tossed each one into the nearly full bin of rubbish (too much? Really? OK.) in front of a riveted animal audience. 40% of the huge pieces (that would be 2) ended up on the floor, cake side down, and I scowled and swore. These accidents lead to a thorough sweeping moments later.
I just got back from walking this morning – my ears burning as they acclimate back to their typical defrosted state. I normally let Chienne choose our route – or at least our initial direction, but she chose to walk into the wind immediately. I think she likes the way it blows her ears about. But I decided the brisk air would feel best on the way home – after climbing several hills and warming up my muscles. So I tugged her the other direction and we headed… Let’s see. The sun rises at the back of the house, so that way (points right) is east. South. We headed south…ish. Maybe.
My subdivision – a massive collection of single family homes – fascinates me. I’ve yet to see a home precisely like mine, though I avoid the many cul-de-sacs that form the neighborhood and stick to streets that actually go somewhere. But I love my house – partly because it’s a good floorplan and pretty structure. Mostly because it’s mine and that glow of ownership – of my first property, no less – makes me smile upon seeing the light brick nearly every time.
I returned home last night to unload my purchases – watch and frames from Kohl’s (Friend could tell you I was absolutely mad (It’s the Irish monologue again!) about getting to Kohl’s before the sale ended at 1. Sorry, Friend. But I saved so much money that I was nearly bouncing with joy by the time we left, gray bags firmly in hand), and over $100 of miscellaneous items from WalMart. I scoled Chienne – she found her 2 gifts under the tree in my absence. Opened them, ate the bag of treats and played happily with her pink plush blowfish. Then I placed gifts in boxes, cushioned with my newly acquired tissue paper, and began to wrap the remaining presents.
I took a break to complain to my parents. “They’re ruining Christmas!” I said with drama. “Sprout keeps batting ornaments from the tree and Chienne opened her presents!”
“Just hers?” Mom asked.
“She tore a tiny hole in one of Brother’s, but then realized she didn’t need a watch and moved on. So, yes, just hers.”
I heard them laughing and whined some more, enjoying their response.
“Tell them you can’t have anything nice.” Dad advised. “It’s what we always told you and Brother when you ruined something.”
And we all laughed. I told shopping stories and listened to more tales of snow removal. Then we said goodnight and I turned up the television.
I noticed I was still straining to hear it a few moments later and wondered why I had selected this particular level. I felt a vague discomfort as I made it louder and paused to consider its source.
Ah, I realized. I’d spent time in Friend’s apartment – watching a movie (which was surprisingly enjoyable) and professing my love for my favorite of her cats (She’s the prettiest and nicest and she likes me too. What more could I want?) – and had drifted back into the apartment mindset. A noisy puppy clomping about above our heads. And – from me – the gut reaction that I shouldn’t bother anyone myself, so all noise must be kept to a minimum.
That was my least favorite part of living in an apartment. Being so damned considerate. Making sure to pick up dog messes at once after their creation. Spraying dutifully for bugs to prevent building-wide infestation. Keeping careful watch of any baking or cooking to prevent smells or worse – the setting off of smoke alarms. And keeping quiet – television and stereo at moderate levels, dog quickly shushed, quiet conversations, walking gently on my floors.
After setting the TV a bit too loud, I smiled. I love owning my house. Hanging pictures, then moving them. Playing in my flower bed. Adding a cat to my little family without asking anyone for permission or paying extra pet rent. Having more than adequate storage and tons of garage space. I really am happy with this choice. I love my house.
Leaving my beloved abode this morning (see, I came back to it), Chienne and I headed southish, away from the more established part of the area (my home is 10 years old now) and toward the new construction. It’s less than a mile away and the grades of the hills get steeper in that direction. I decided we’d go down the hill immediately (heading west), then complete our southerly stretch, climb one of the larger hills to come east, then finally face the wind to walk north, back to the house.
Pleased with this plan, we set off. At first, I thought distinctly uncharitable thoughts, directed at a particular pair of people. I could share them – I played with the wording quite a bit, smiling and impressed with how vindictive I could be. In fact, the title of that post would have read “In which I am vindictive.” And insulting adjectives get really easy for me to remember at some point – must be that darn pessimism. But writing out those thoughts helps no one, I decided. And only makes me look unhappy and pathetic, though my insults really are valid and true. I don’t want to be sad and mean, I decided, so I shall keep those thoughts to myself. Someday soon, I prayed, I’d like them to leave completely. But then I thought of another appropriate descriptor and winced. Perhaps not quite yet.
At that point – for said thoughts took up a good amount of time – I had reached the new homes. I like it when the doors aren’t yet on and I can peer inside from the street. Look at the staircases and see how the living space eases into the kitchen. Calculate how many windows each bedroom must have. Estimate how long it will take to mow such a small yard – less than 1/3 of the time I spend, likely. Then I noticed how close together the houses were. Cute – with their varying shades of siding and brick – but probably about 15-20 feet between their walls. As I was looking between two houses, I noticed there were no windows on the side walls. None. On any of the houses. How icky, I thought. I have windows on every side of my house. Then I tilted my head to indicate my superiority.
It’s a good section of the neighborhood, I decided, heading back into the wind toward home. I don’t notice the siding that should be pressure washed or the trash in the yard, as in some of the older houses. Instead everything is shiny and new. Clean and smelling of construction – drywall, paint and glue. But my house doesn’t have construction dust and I do like the size of my yard, I thought, pulling the zipper of the my sweatshirt up farther and wincing. The air had drifted to the other side of pleasantly cold and into biting.
Here I broke off writing to get ready for church – I woke up this morning and groused about having to go to work, then smiled when I remembered it was Sunday. My first happy thought? Church! I had paused, wondering at the difference between guilty motivation and eager attendance. And it was lovely – really, really wonderful. Eunice put a hand on either side of my face and said, “Miss Katie! I’m so glad you came back.” Her husband smiled indulgently and shook my hand – his name is Don. Donna – my after-church friend from last time – introduced me to her granddaughter and explained that they would sit in the back in case someone needed a potty break. But next week, she promised to sit with me.
“I’m OK.” I said. “I don’t mind sitting here alone.”
“No.” She shook her head firmly. “We’ll sit together. Next week – I’m looking forward to it.”
“Me too.” I said honestly, smiling at her.
It’s just perfect here, I kept thinking from the same chair I used on my initial visit. The candles lit by scruffy looking teenagers – the same sweatshirt-clad youths who collected the offering. Putting ornaments on the tree during children’s time and the subsequent hymn. The sermon that included mention of world events, personal stories and the meaning of advent.
“People are searching for meaning and many of us hope to find that in God. I think there are all sorts of reasons for coming to church – to feel comforted, to have hope, to see friends, to observe family tradition. But I think we’re all here looking for God in some way, on some level.
“Christmas is the time to remember that He came looking for us.”
I was so moved – by that particular line, and throughout the readings – displayed on the overhead screens so I can follow along, the songs – the choir is absolutely exquisite, the prayers – silent, guided and group, and the overall sense of rightness that seems to emanate from my being there. I’m profoundly grateful – incredibly pleased that God lead me there.
“I needed it.” I wrote to Carrie in an email I titled, “[software name], [project name], and how I’m crazy.” It also discussed how therapy was going. “I think God finally realized how badly I was doing and sent me to this amazing place that works really well for me. It’s wonderful.”
“I need that church too!” She whined in her reply, entitled “[software name], [project name], and how you’re sanity-challenged.” In addition to addressing other topics, she spoke of how my finding a church was fantastic and she wished she could do the same.
Perhaps it’s perspective. It’s easier to see what I need – what I like – after observing what’s out there. I love my house even more after picking apart the elements of the lovely new homes down the street and getting a tiny taste of apartment living. After years of searching for a good worship service, I can greatly appreciate the fit of this particular Presbyterian wonderland. After feeling badly about my cake-filled morning yesterday, I was pleased with and proud of my whipped yogurt this morning. When hearing the ridiculous Irish accent in my head, the way I sometimes eat the ‘g’ in words ending in ‘ing’ doesn’t seem so awful.
For the afternoon (since this hasn’t been nearly rambling or meaningless enough), I’m going to wrap my front bushes in white lights and red bows. Then I want to make a Christmas template and make some progress on my grant. I’ll probably think in an Irish accent the whole time and consider how wonderful it would be if I wrote a book (for my audiobook is about publishing, not because I have any hope or desire to actually pen a novel). Then I’ll likely giggle at how silly I am. It’s a good day today after a rough evening last night.
I’m all about perspective.
“Can’t be trusted.” I said, the voice in my head taking on a lyrical Irish accent. My audiobook is delightful in that I finally picked up the way vowels sound from Irish or British people. I’ve never been able to replicate it – even internally – before. I tried out an Irish accent on my way home from Friend’s last night. It made me giggle, but it was a decent effort, I decided.
So I – with my internal Irish monologue cheerfully in tow – slashed the cake into pieces, then tossed each one into the nearly full bin of rubbish (too much? Really? OK.) in front of a riveted animal audience. 40% of the huge pieces (that would be 2) ended up on the floor, cake side down, and I scowled and swore. These accidents lead to a thorough sweeping moments later.
I just got back from walking this morning – my ears burning as they acclimate back to their typical defrosted state. I normally let Chienne choose our route – or at least our initial direction, but she chose to walk into the wind immediately. I think she likes the way it blows her ears about. But I decided the brisk air would feel best on the way home – after climbing several hills and warming up my muscles. So I tugged her the other direction and we headed… Let’s see. The sun rises at the back of the house, so that way (points right) is east. South. We headed south…ish. Maybe.
My subdivision – a massive collection of single family homes – fascinates me. I’ve yet to see a home precisely like mine, though I avoid the many cul-de-sacs that form the neighborhood and stick to streets that actually go somewhere. But I love my house – partly because it’s a good floorplan and pretty structure. Mostly because it’s mine and that glow of ownership – of my first property, no less – makes me smile upon seeing the light brick nearly every time.
I returned home last night to unload my purchases – watch and frames from Kohl’s (Friend could tell you I was absolutely mad (It’s the Irish monologue again!) about getting to Kohl’s before the sale ended at 1. Sorry, Friend. But I saved so much money that I was nearly bouncing with joy by the time we left, gray bags firmly in hand), and over $100 of miscellaneous items from WalMart. I scoled Chienne – she found her 2 gifts under the tree in my absence. Opened them, ate the bag of treats and played happily with her pink plush blowfish. Then I placed gifts in boxes, cushioned with my newly acquired tissue paper, and began to wrap the remaining presents.
I took a break to complain to my parents. “They’re ruining Christmas!” I said with drama. “Sprout keeps batting ornaments from the tree and Chienne opened her presents!”
“Just hers?” Mom asked.
“She tore a tiny hole in one of Brother’s, but then realized she didn’t need a watch and moved on. So, yes, just hers.”
I heard them laughing and whined some more, enjoying their response.
“Tell them you can’t have anything nice.” Dad advised. “It’s what we always told you and Brother when you ruined something.”
And we all laughed. I told shopping stories and listened to more tales of snow removal. Then we said goodnight and I turned up the television.
I noticed I was still straining to hear it a few moments later and wondered why I had selected this particular level. I felt a vague discomfort as I made it louder and paused to consider its source.
Ah, I realized. I’d spent time in Friend’s apartment – watching a movie (which was surprisingly enjoyable) and professing my love for my favorite of her cats (She’s the prettiest and nicest and she likes me too. What more could I want?) – and had drifted back into the apartment mindset. A noisy puppy clomping about above our heads. And – from me – the gut reaction that I shouldn’t bother anyone myself, so all noise must be kept to a minimum.
That was my least favorite part of living in an apartment. Being so damned considerate. Making sure to pick up dog messes at once after their creation. Spraying dutifully for bugs to prevent building-wide infestation. Keeping careful watch of any baking or cooking to prevent smells or worse – the setting off of smoke alarms. And keeping quiet – television and stereo at moderate levels, dog quickly shushed, quiet conversations, walking gently on my floors.
After setting the TV a bit too loud, I smiled. I love owning my house. Hanging pictures, then moving them. Playing in my flower bed. Adding a cat to my little family without asking anyone for permission or paying extra pet rent. Having more than adequate storage and tons of garage space. I really am happy with this choice. I love my house.
Leaving my beloved abode this morning (see, I came back to it), Chienne and I headed southish, away from the more established part of the area (my home is 10 years old now) and toward the new construction. It’s less than a mile away and the grades of the hills get steeper in that direction. I decided we’d go down the hill immediately (heading west), then complete our southerly stretch, climb one of the larger hills to come east, then finally face the wind to walk north, back to the house.
Pleased with this plan, we set off. At first, I thought distinctly uncharitable thoughts, directed at a particular pair of people. I could share them – I played with the wording quite a bit, smiling and impressed with how vindictive I could be. In fact, the title of that post would have read “In which I am vindictive.” And insulting adjectives get really easy for me to remember at some point – must be that darn pessimism. But writing out those thoughts helps no one, I decided. And only makes me look unhappy and pathetic, though my insults really are valid and true. I don’t want to be sad and mean, I decided, so I shall keep those thoughts to myself. Someday soon, I prayed, I’d like them to leave completely. But then I thought of another appropriate descriptor and winced. Perhaps not quite yet.
At that point – for said thoughts took up a good amount of time – I had reached the new homes. I like it when the doors aren’t yet on and I can peer inside from the street. Look at the staircases and see how the living space eases into the kitchen. Calculate how many windows each bedroom must have. Estimate how long it will take to mow such a small yard – less than 1/3 of the time I spend, likely. Then I noticed how close together the houses were. Cute – with their varying shades of siding and brick – but probably about 15-20 feet between their walls. As I was looking between two houses, I noticed there were no windows on the side walls. None. On any of the houses. How icky, I thought. I have windows on every side of my house. Then I tilted my head to indicate my superiority.
It’s a good section of the neighborhood, I decided, heading back into the wind toward home. I don’t notice the siding that should be pressure washed or the trash in the yard, as in some of the older houses. Instead everything is shiny and new. Clean and smelling of construction – drywall, paint and glue. But my house doesn’t have construction dust and I do like the size of my yard, I thought, pulling the zipper of the my sweatshirt up farther and wincing. The air had drifted to the other side of pleasantly cold and into biting.
Here I broke off writing to get ready for church – I woke up this morning and groused about having to go to work, then smiled when I remembered it was Sunday. My first happy thought? Church! I had paused, wondering at the difference between guilty motivation and eager attendance. And it was lovely – really, really wonderful. Eunice put a hand on either side of my face and said, “Miss Katie! I’m so glad you came back.” Her husband smiled indulgently and shook my hand – his name is Don. Donna – my after-church friend from last time – introduced me to her granddaughter and explained that they would sit in the back in case someone needed a potty break. But next week, she promised to sit with me.
“I’m OK.” I said. “I don’t mind sitting here alone.”
“No.” She shook her head firmly. “We’ll sit together. Next week – I’m looking forward to it.”
“Me too.” I said honestly, smiling at her.
It’s just perfect here, I kept thinking from the same chair I used on my initial visit. The candles lit by scruffy looking teenagers – the same sweatshirt-clad youths who collected the offering. Putting ornaments on the tree during children’s time and the subsequent hymn. The sermon that included mention of world events, personal stories and the meaning of advent.
“People are searching for meaning and many of us hope to find that in God. I think there are all sorts of reasons for coming to church – to feel comforted, to have hope, to see friends, to observe family tradition. But I think we’re all here looking for God in some way, on some level.
“Christmas is the time to remember that He came looking for us.”
I was so moved – by that particular line, and throughout the readings – displayed on the overhead screens so I can follow along, the songs – the choir is absolutely exquisite, the prayers – silent, guided and group, and the overall sense of rightness that seems to emanate from my being there. I’m profoundly grateful – incredibly pleased that God lead me there.
“I needed it.” I wrote to Carrie in an email I titled, “[software name], [project name], and how I’m crazy.” It also discussed how therapy was going. “I think God finally realized how badly I was doing and sent me to this amazing place that works really well for me. It’s wonderful.”
“I need that church too!” She whined in her reply, entitled “[software name], [project name], and how you’re sanity-challenged.” In addition to addressing other topics, she spoke of how my finding a church was fantastic and she wished she could do the same.
Perhaps it’s perspective. It’s easier to see what I need – what I like – after observing what’s out there. I love my house even more after picking apart the elements of the lovely new homes down the street and getting a tiny taste of apartment living. After years of searching for a good worship service, I can greatly appreciate the fit of this particular Presbyterian wonderland. After feeling badly about my cake-filled morning yesterday, I was pleased with and proud of my whipped yogurt this morning. When hearing the ridiculous Irish accent in my head, the way I sometimes eat the ‘g’ in words ending in ‘ing’ doesn’t seem so awful.
For the afternoon (since this hasn’t been nearly rambling or meaningless enough), I’m going to wrap my front bushes in white lights and red bows. Then I want to make a Christmas template and make some progress on my grant. I’ll probably think in an Irish accent the whole time and consider how wonderful it would be if I wrote a book (for my audiobook is about publishing, not because I have any hope or desire to actually pen a novel). Then I’ll likely giggle at how silly I am. It’s a good day today after a rough evening last night.
I’m all about perspective.
Saturday, December 02, 2006
Bitter pill to swallow
I’ve never been able to swallow pills. I simply didn’t take any when I was growing up. Suffered through a 10 day migraine – vomiting nearly constantly, pure and miserable pain – with zero drugs in 5th grade. I would hide them under my tongue until Mom left. Then I’d spit them out, repulsed by the thought of having to swallow something whole.
“Think of it like an M&M.” My pediatrician advised. I can remember being doubled over in her office, Mom patting my back in worry. “Advil has a candy coating, so you won’t even taste the medicine. You’ll just swallow it. It’s easy, really.”
“Who would swallow an M&M?” I grumbled as Mom helped me to the car. I’d been given a shot, which speaks to the degree of that particular illness. When faced with an MMR vaccine upon starting my current job, I thought about quitting. But I dealt with it – trembling with nerves, then begged them not to take any blood. I sobbed quietly while they did – during an orientation with many new employees walking about – and thought it was the most miserable experience.
My point is that I hate shots. But I hated pills more at the time.
If you’ve read me for any length of time, you’ll know that little surpasses my current adoration of pain medication. So things have changed. At some point, with Dad insisting I should just throw my head back and swallow, Mom looked at my face, set with stubborn refusal, and said,
“Katie, just chew them. It’ll taste gross, and you could swallow them if you wanted, but get them down. It really will help your head.”
Since then, and to this very day, I chew pills. Sometimes just a single crunch to break it into smaller pieces, but I never just swallow a pill. My throat closes and, try as I might – gulping water, holding my nose, focusing intently or trying to think of anything else – I can’t do it. But I can chew them – I’ve adapted to that quite well. I don’t even mind the taste, though it is unpleasantly bitter. I love the effect – the release of throbbing pain or onset of irresistible sleep. So that’s how it’s gone.
Therapy is irritating me. Well, the thought of therapy, actually, since I haven’t returned since my first session. Dr. Counselor is a nice man – I really do like him and am grateful he wants to help. But he wants me to eat better. Go to the gym. “Release my fear and relax.” Which – even when reading in email – shocks me into speechless incredulity.
“How?! Tell me how to ‘relax and release all fear’ and I’ll do it!” I ranted to a friend on the phone. “I don’t want to be afraid or nervous or worried! I’d like to be peaceful and kind. The kind of woman that people smile over and think ‘how very serene she seems. She must be a very happy person.’ I just can’t figure out how. I drift toward the negative – first about myself, then about other people. I don’t know how not to do that, and I don’t see how eating more vegetables and running on a treadmill will help that.”
“You’d feel better about yourself.” Rachel offered gently, “and then maybe you’d start feeling better about other people.”
“Yes.” I agreed. “But change is hard, my dear. I’ve lost weight before and gained it back. I clean my house – it’s very pretty right now – and make it a couple of days before I let clutter start to accumulate again. Maybe I’m just a bit negative. I love people – sincerely think they’re funny and interesting and lovely. But they’re also complicated and selfish and awful. Or they can be. And the older I get, the less hope I have, I think. In myself. In other people. Because we are who we are. Without some huge effort, this is how we’ll remain. You know?”
I waited. Then I waited some more. Took the phone from my ear to make sure we were still connected, then lowered my eyebrows in a frown as I turned up the volume of the phone even more.
Rachel was crying softly. And as soon as I realized it, I sniffled sympathetically. Soon after, without really knowing why, I was crying too. I’m having a bit of a hormone issue right now. It was dark in my living room – the Christmas tree providing a soft, comforting glow. I’ve just explained it takes little to push me into sadness, though tears don’t usually surface so quickly.
“Rachel?” I asked gently, gulping back a sob, “why are we crying?”
“There’s another woman.” She whispered. “Again.”
“Fuck.” I said softly, then apologized. I’m reading a British novel and they use the word a lot. I let language patterns sink in pretty quickly, but I hadn’t mean to use quite such a bad word. Though after a moment’s consideration, I decided the announcement deserved it.
When she didn’t speak, I thought about what to say. I fought her relationship with her husband at first. With great passion, excellent stories, nifty little pep talks. I begged, cried and coaxed. I called, drove to visit, sent email. And she stopped talking to me – not in a cruel way, just in an avoidance of something unpleasant way.
I understood. Constant criticism of a choice you’ve made starts to get irritating. It suggests a deficiency in your thought process or a belief that you’re not capable of making good decisions. I think highly of Rachel – she’s so smart, beautiful, resourceful, funny, passionate and sweet. She was my favorite person at one time, and it’s hard to get my attention at all sometimes.
We talked once – years ago – when I was visiting my parents. She apologized for calling my cell phone. She hadn’t known I was home that particular weekend and expected me to be in my grad school city.
“That’s OK.” I said, heading to a bedroom and closing the door. I settled myself on the bed – I think better lying down – and listened as she explained her problem. She’d looked through her boyfriend’s (fiancé? Husband? I can’t remember what his status was at the time.) cell phone and found a particular number showing up far too often in both the dialed and received logs.
“He doesn’t pay attention to me anymore. We never talk. He goes outside to answer the phone. He spends weekends with his friends. Works late. He’s sleeping with her.”
“Sweetheart, it could be something else. I know it looks bad, but have you talked to him? Asked some careful questions?”
“He won’t talk. He yelled at me the first time – said I had to trust him. Then he threatened to leave. I let him – cried for 3 days – but then he came back to ask if he could stay and I let him do that too.
“But it hasn’t stopped.
“So I called her.”
“Oh, my.” I breathed. “What happened?”
“She admitted it. He’s been having sex with her.” Then she cried more. “I love him!” she wailed and I winced. Might have rolled my eyes. How can she let someone treat her so poorly? When she could do so much better? It’s just ridiculous – to feel that much pain when she could move on. But I didn’t want to lose her again.
“OK.” I gathered my thoughts and started to speak. “You have the information, so don’t torture yourself with it. Don’t think about her – she’s pointless and so inferior to you that she doesn’t deserve a single second of your time. You won’t talk to her again.” I said sternly. “But what do you want from him? Do you want to fix this or do you want him to leave and stay gone?”
“I don’t know. What do I want? Tell me what you think.”
“I think… Well, you know he’s cheated on you before. I want nothing more than to see you leave, Rachel. To offer money or help or move there for a few months – anything to make you see you deserve so much more. But since you haven’t left him before now, I don’t see you leaving him this time either. You’ve decided he’s the one. I don’t agree, but I do respect you to know your own mind. I can’t see you walking away, so try to think about how to fix this.”
She did. And has thanked me several times – each to my wincing response – for understanding her and offering something I didn’t want to give.
“I think it’ll happen again.” I said at one point. “You’ve allowed it more than once. It’s a distinctly disrespectful gesture that you’ve chosen to tolerate. I think he will cheat on you again.”
The problem with being so negative – expecting relationships to fail, people to disappoint, myself to screw something up – is that I’m often right. Change is hard. Somehow I always end up chewing pills. Rachel’s husband cheats and treats her otherwise poorly, and she stays with him. It’s sad – it hurts me terribly.
Less than 2 months ago, I met a little tablet that’s supposed to help my depression. And it has – when I started feeling moody lately, I started to look forward to my nighttime dose even more. I like the stability it offers. And one night, I just swallowed it.
I shared my triumph with Chienne, and she’s a good sport. She wagged her tail, pleased with my excitement and gave me a kiss on the chin before curling up to sleep again. Then I wondered eagerly if I could do it again. Since I have no desire to mess up my brain chemistry, I waited until the next night to try again. And down it went – simple and easy, with no chewing involved.
I’ve tried with Advil – I can do that. Tylenol PM hasn’t yet been conquered. But something clicked – I thought about it enough (as happened with clipping Sprout’s claws), I was just ready, I learned enough, there wasn’t any pressure. I’m not sure of the exact explanation, but I can do it now. It’s new. I’m surprised. But there you go.
I hope – even as I fret and offer prayers – that something clicks for Rachel. That she finds a way to be as happy as she deserves – whether with him or without him. I worry that it won’t happen, but I’m reminding myself that it could.
“Think of it like an M&M.” My pediatrician advised. I can remember being doubled over in her office, Mom patting my back in worry. “Advil has a candy coating, so you won’t even taste the medicine. You’ll just swallow it. It’s easy, really.”
“Who would swallow an M&M?” I grumbled as Mom helped me to the car. I’d been given a shot, which speaks to the degree of that particular illness. When faced with an MMR vaccine upon starting my current job, I thought about quitting. But I dealt with it – trembling with nerves, then begged them not to take any blood. I sobbed quietly while they did – during an orientation with many new employees walking about – and thought it was the most miserable experience.
My point is that I hate shots. But I hated pills more at the time.
If you’ve read me for any length of time, you’ll know that little surpasses my current adoration of pain medication. So things have changed. At some point, with Dad insisting I should just throw my head back and swallow, Mom looked at my face, set with stubborn refusal, and said,
“Katie, just chew them. It’ll taste gross, and you could swallow them if you wanted, but get them down. It really will help your head.”
Since then, and to this very day, I chew pills. Sometimes just a single crunch to break it into smaller pieces, but I never just swallow a pill. My throat closes and, try as I might – gulping water, holding my nose, focusing intently or trying to think of anything else – I can’t do it. But I can chew them – I’ve adapted to that quite well. I don’t even mind the taste, though it is unpleasantly bitter. I love the effect – the release of throbbing pain or onset of irresistible sleep. So that’s how it’s gone.
Therapy is irritating me. Well, the thought of therapy, actually, since I haven’t returned since my first session. Dr. Counselor is a nice man – I really do like him and am grateful he wants to help. But he wants me to eat better. Go to the gym. “Release my fear and relax.” Which – even when reading in email – shocks me into speechless incredulity.
“How?! Tell me how to ‘relax and release all fear’ and I’ll do it!” I ranted to a friend on the phone. “I don’t want to be afraid or nervous or worried! I’d like to be peaceful and kind. The kind of woman that people smile over and think ‘how very serene she seems. She must be a very happy person.’ I just can’t figure out how. I drift toward the negative – first about myself, then about other people. I don’t know how not to do that, and I don’t see how eating more vegetables and running on a treadmill will help that.”
“You’d feel better about yourself.” Rachel offered gently, “and then maybe you’d start feeling better about other people.”
“Yes.” I agreed. “But change is hard, my dear. I’ve lost weight before and gained it back. I clean my house – it’s very pretty right now – and make it a couple of days before I let clutter start to accumulate again. Maybe I’m just a bit negative. I love people – sincerely think they’re funny and interesting and lovely. But they’re also complicated and selfish and awful. Or they can be. And the older I get, the less hope I have, I think. In myself. In other people. Because we are who we are. Without some huge effort, this is how we’ll remain. You know?”
I waited. Then I waited some more. Took the phone from my ear to make sure we were still connected, then lowered my eyebrows in a frown as I turned up the volume of the phone even more.
Rachel was crying softly. And as soon as I realized it, I sniffled sympathetically. Soon after, without really knowing why, I was crying too. I’m having a bit of a hormone issue right now. It was dark in my living room – the Christmas tree providing a soft, comforting glow. I’ve just explained it takes little to push me into sadness, though tears don’t usually surface so quickly.
“Rachel?” I asked gently, gulping back a sob, “why are we crying?”
“There’s another woman.” She whispered. “Again.”
“Fuck.” I said softly, then apologized. I’m reading a British novel and they use the word a lot. I let language patterns sink in pretty quickly, but I hadn’t mean to use quite such a bad word. Though after a moment’s consideration, I decided the announcement deserved it.
When she didn’t speak, I thought about what to say. I fought her relationship with her husband at first. With great passion, excellent stories, nifty little pep talks. I begged, cried and coaxed. I called, drove to visit, sent email. And she stopped talking to me – not in a cruel way, just in an avoidance of something unpleasant way.
I understood. Constant criticism of a choice you’ve made starts to get irritating. It suggests a deficiency in your thought process or a belief that you’re not capable of making good decisions. I think highly of Rachel – she’s so smart, beautiful, resourceful, funny, passionate and sweet. She was my favorite person at one time, and it’s hard to get my attention at all sometimes.
We talked once – years ago – when I was visiting my parents. She apologized for calling my cell phone. She hadn’t known I was home that particular weekend and expected me to be in my grad school city.
“That’s OK.” I said, heading to a bedroom and closing the door. I settled myself on the bed – I think better lying down – and listened as she explained her problem. She’d looked through her boyfriend’s (fiancé? Husband? I can’t remember what his status was at the time.) cell phone and found a particular number showing up far too often in both the dialed and received logs.
“He doesn’t pay attention to me anymore. We never talk. He goes outside to answer the phone. He spends weekends with his friends. Works late. He’s sleeping with her.”
“Sweetheart, it could be something else. I know it looks bad, but have you talked to him? Asked some careful questions?”
“He won’t talk. He yelled at me the first time – said I had to trust him. Then he threatened to leave. I let him – cried for 3 days – but then he came back to ask if he could stay and I let him do that too.
“But it hasn’t stopped.
“So I called her.”
“Oh, my.” I breathed. “What happened?”
“She admitted it. He’s been having sex with her.” Then she cried more. “I love him!” she wailed and I winced. Might have rolled my eyes. How can she let someone treat her so poorly? When she could do so much better? It’s just ridiculous – to feel that much pain when she could move on. But I didn’t want to lose her again.
“OK.” I gathered my thoughts and started to speak. “You have the information, so don’t torture yourself with it. Don’t think about her – she’s pointless and so inferior to you that she doesn’t deserve a single second of your time. You won’t talk to her again.” I said sternly. “But what do you want from him? Do you want to fix this or do you want him to leave and stay gone?”
“I don’t know. What do I want? Tell me what you think.”
“I think… Well, you know he’s cheated on you before. I want nothing more than to see you leave, Rachel. To offer money or help or move there for a few months – anything to make you see you deserve so much more. But since you haven’t left him before now, I don’t see you leaving him this time either. You’ve decided he’s the one. I don’t agree, but I do respect you to know your own mind. I can’t see you walking away, so try to think about how to fix this.”
She did. And has thanked me several times – each to my wincing response – for understanding her and offering something I didn’t want to give.
“I think it’ll happen again.” I said at one point. “You’ve allowed it more than once. It’s a distinctly disrespectful gesture that you’ve chosen to tolerate. I think he will cheat on you again.”
The problem with being so negative – expecting relationships to fail, people to disappoint, myself to screw something up – is that I’m often right. Change is hard. Somehow I always end up chewing pills. Rachel’s husband cheats and treats her otherwise poorly, and she stays with him. It’s sad – it hurts me terribly.
Less than 2 months ago, I met a little tablet that’s supposed to help my depression. And it has – when I started feeling moody lately, I started to look forward to my nighttime dose even more. I like the stability it offers. And one night, I just swallowed it.
I shared my triumph with Chienne, and she’s a good sport. She wagged her tail, pleased with my excitement and gave me a kiss on the chin before curling up to sleep again. Then I wondered eagerly if I could do it again. Since I have no desire to mess up my brain chemistry, I waited until the next night to try again. And down it went – simple and easy, with no chewing involved.
I’ve tried with Advil – I can do that. Tylenol PM hasn’t yet been conquered. But something clicked – I thought about it enough (as happened with clipping Sprout’s claws), I was just ready, I learned enough, there wasn’t any pressure. I’m not sure of the exact explanation, but I can do it now. It’s new. I’m surprised. But there you go.
I hope – even as I fret and offer prayers – that something clicks for Rachel. That she finds a way to be as happy as she deserves – whether with him or without him. I worry that it won’t happen, but I’m reminding myself that it could.
I went to sleep.
I was going to post something last night - I'm not sure what, exactly, but I typically figure something out. But I fell asleep early and I'm grateful enough for natural rest that I don't pull myself from it unless absolutely necessary.
But I woke up and took Chienne for a walk through the wonderously chilly morning.
Special note to my southern neighbors: When there's frost on your windshield, go ahead and scrape that off before starting to drive. I find it relatively amusing when I first see you, but then when you understandably fail to move over and head straight for me and my little hound (because I know you can't see me - or anything else), it's a bit scary. But then you wave, so that's friendly, at least. We'll call it a draw until you actually do hit me.
In related news, someone did actually hit my car yesterday. Not hard - I can't even see where on the car she hit - but she was avoiding a blowing box of some sort and I, apparently, don't need any room at all to drive my car. She was apologetic, I - because I'm not my father - just let it go. Then I came home and rested from my traumatic experience for the rest of the day.
Amidst my resting, I wrapped Christmas presents, of which I have many. I've been diligently collecting them over time, which leaves me delighted when I pull out items I'd forgotten. I'm off to Kohl's with Friend (after she finishes yogaing) later today, which means I should be showering rather than blogging. I shall also have Thai food and perhaps catch a glimpse of new cats. I'm eager for the former and not holding my breath on the latter.
For now, I want to finish cleaning the kitchen floor around my houseplants. Friend calls it "the jungle" and Sprout has apparently taken ownership of this space. I was severely scolded when I started to water, prune and sweep. He refuses - even when nudged with a broom - to budge from guarding his jungle. And when I moved one plant so he could see out the window, he glared, then - tail twitching in what I assume was irritation - started nibbling on the new plant he could reach. (Will this kill him? I mean, many of the lower parts of my plants are bare of leaves already, so I'm guessing not. But there's nowhere else for the greenery to go! And he likes to eat them.)
Lame Saturday update, I know, but I wanted you to know I'm contentedly decorating and wrapping, cleaning and explaining my actions to my cat.
But I woke up and took Chienne for a walk through the wonderously chilly morning.
Special note to my southern neighbors: When there's frost on your windshield, go ahead and scrape that off before starting to drive. I find it relatively amusing when I first see you, but then when you understandably fail to move over and head straight for me and my little hound (because I know you can't see me - or anything else), it's a bit scary. But then you wave, so that's friendly, at least. We'll call it a draw until you actually do hit me.
In related news, someone did actually hit my car yesterday. Not hard - I can't even see where on the car she hit - but she was avoiding a blowing box of some sort and I, apparently, don't need any room at all to drive my car. She was apologetic, I - because I'm not my father - just let it go. Then I came home and rested from my traumatic experience for the rest of the day.
Amidst my resting, I wrapped Christmas presents, of which I have many. I've been diligently collecting them over time, which leaves me delighted when I pull out items I'd forgotten. I'm off to Kohl's with Friend (after she finishes yogaing) later today, which means I should be showering rather than blogging. I shall also have Thai food and perhaps catch a glimpse of new cats. I'm eager for the former and not holding my breath on the latter.
For now, I want to finish cleaning the kitchen floor around my houseplants. Friend calls it "the jungle" and Sprout has apparently taken ownership of this space. I was severely scolded when I started to water, prune and sweep. He refuses - even when nudged with a broom - to budge from guarding his jungle. And when I moved one plant so he could see out the window, he glared, then - tail twitching in what I assume was irritation - started nibbling on the new plant he could reach. (Will this kill him? I mean, many of the lower parts of my plants are bare of leaves already, so I'm guessing not. But there's nowhere else for the greenery to go! And he likes to eat them.)
Lame Saturday update, I know, but I wanted you to know I'm contentedly decorating and wrapping, cleaning and explaining my actions to my cat.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
When I grow up...
Grandma liked to tell a particular story. I can’t remember how many times I heard it – it could have been once and just stuck with me or could have been multiple times that encoded it into memory.
“When Aunt was little,” Grandma said, “she was sitting in school one day. The teacher asked them to go around the room and tell what they wanted to be when they grew up.
“Aunt came home that day and was so sad. She told me about how everyone had made fun of her. How they’d laughed and laughed when she told what she wanted to do with her life.” Grandma shook her head disapprovingly and said I could be anything I wanted to be. And if anyone teased me? Well, they were just wrong. I was smart and special and strong. Beautiful and loving and kind. Like a princess, only better. (Grandma loved me a tremendous amount – I still miss her terribly.)
I miss having a constant source of support. Someone who rarely told me I was wrong. She simply offered comfort and love. Smiled gently and kissed my forehead. Radiated gentle confidence that things would work out because I deserved good things. God loved me and would care for me. It would all be OK.
I was thinking about Aunt recently after my first appointment with Dr. Counselor. He asked what I would like to be doing if I could be doing anything at all.
“That’s the thing.” I said, exasperated with myself. “I just don’t know! I think… I guess…” Then I twisted my mouth and thought – I want to be alive. I like myself, think the world is ridiculously funny and remarkably fascinating. So if I could have anything – do anything – what would I want?
I found myself making a statement similar to what Aunt said as a child, standing proudly in a classroom to take her turn.
“I want to get married.” She said with a smile, for she wanted to do what her mother did. What she saw as profoundly important and loving and right. “I want to be a mother and a wife.”
I’m afraid of picking the wrong man (justified if you consider my romantic history). I’m worried about giving too much and expecting too little (also valid). I’m terrified of ending up alone. Devastated over the idea that I might not have children.
I’ve thought about the last one though – I’m having one. I’d rather not do it alone – plan to try like hell to meet someone wonderful – but I can if need be. But I could also be good at being married – sharing my life with someone.
I don’t think my way is the only way. My heart hurts much more over the woman who couldn’t hold her daughter’s hand because she was smoking and drinking a can of soda as they walked down the sidewalk than it ever would over a strong, capable woman deciding children aren’t in her plans. I understand feeling awkward around children – I sometimes do. But when I think of my life and try to imagine being alone – having a career and pets, wonderful friends and the opportunity to travel. Time to read and write and have incredible hobbies. Money to indulge myself. All those facets – pieces of what sound like a good life – leave me with an empty spot. I’ll always be looking around, wondering where the man is, when the children will come. That's just me.
So I’ve been thinking lately. About what will be right for me. About the intense stomach flip that I thought I needed so much, but perhaps is just throwing me off. Perhaps gentle strength and stability is (or should be) more appealing than dark and brooding talent. (Ah, brooding talent…) Sweet sincerity should win out over easy flirtation. Respect should matter more than heat. I’m getting it, I think. It gives me no small amount of comfort that I can see what I need and can get used to finding it attractive. I might be moving closer to what I want.
While having these thoughts, life goes on though. I put up my Christmas tree this morning. Locked Sprout in his room last night so I could sleep – the running and noise must stop at some point (and by “some point” I mean at, um, 9:00 when I’m too exhausted to stay awake until later). I took Chienne for a walk this morning. Started a project for Carrie. Made progress on another for Steve. Submitted some revisions on a paper after meeting with Boss. Had another meeting with a good collaborator. I’m productive – even after heading down the hall to find clothes while moaning “I don’t want to go!”
I’m continuing to collect lists of charities for holiday giving. I’m eager to attend church on Sunday. I have therapy tomorrow (well, I’m dreading that a bit, but that’s OK. I’ll let him know I was dreading it and see what he says). I’m not feeling nearly so sad as I was at one time – Christmas reminders help me out a lot. (I really like my tree.) I felt guilty – miserably so – for being so vulnerable and hopeful in my search for someone to love. That particular pain – whether through time or prayer or something else – has eased. I think it’s good for me to want this particular future. It’s OK that I’m sometimes sad that a part of my life I consider important is missing.
I’m good at my job. I can do this, if only I find the energy to do so. I’d be good at having a family. I’m a good daughter, an OK sister, a fantastic aunt. I have my faults – many, many quirks and habits and flaws that make me non-ideal. But I feel good about my goals. I, after all, can do whatever I want to do.
Grandma said so. Mom and Aunt would certainly back me up. And these are women more amazing than any I’ve been lucky enough to know. I badly want some young woman to be able to say the same of me some day. And lately, for some reason, I'm oddly hopeful that she will.
“When Aunt was little,” Grandma said, “she was sitting in school one day. The teacher asked them to go around the room and tell what they wanted to be when they grew up.
“Aunt came home that day and was so sad. She told me about how everyone had made fun of her. How they’d laughed and laughed when she told what she wanted to do with her life.” Grandma shook her head disapprovingly and said I could be anything I wanted to be. And if anyone teased me? Well, they were just wrong. I was smart and special and strong. Beautiful and loving and kind. Like a princess, only better. (Grandma loved me a tremendous amount – I still miss her terribly.)
I miss having a constant source of support. Someone who rarely told me I was wrong. She simply offered comfort and love. Smiled gently and kissed my forehead. Radiated gentle confidence that things would work out because I deserved good things. God loved me and would care for me. It would all be OK.
I was thinking about Aunt recently after my first appointment with Dr. Counselor. He asked what I would like to be doing if I could be doing anything at all.
“That’s the thing.” I said, exasperated with myself. “I just don’t know! I think… I guess…” Then I twisted my mouth and thought – I want to be alive. I like myself, think the world is ridiculously funny and remarkably fascinating. So if I could have anything – do anything – what would I want?
I found myself making a statement similar to what Aunt said as a child, standing proudly in a classroom to take her turn.
“I want to get married.” She said with a smile, for she wanted to do what her mother did. What she saw as profoundly important and loving and right. “I want to be a mother and a wife.”
I’m afraid of picking the wrong man (justified if you consider my romantic history). I’m worried about giving too much and expecting too little (also valid). I’m terrified of ending up alone. Devastated over the idea that I might not have children.
I’ve thought about the last one though – I’m having one. I’d rather not do it alone – plan to try like hell to meet someone wonderful – but I can if need be. But I could also be good at being married – sharing my life with someone.
I don’t think my way is the only way. My heart hurts much more over the woman who couldn’t hold her daughter’s hand because she was smoking and drinking a can of soda as they walked down the sidewalk than it ever would over a strong, capable woman deciding children aren’t in her plans. I understand feeling awkward around children – I sometimes do. But when I think of my life and try to imagine being alone – having a career and pets, wonderful friends and the opportunity to travel. Time to read and write and have incredible hobbies. Money to indulge myself. All those facets – pieces of what sound like a good life – leave me with an empty spot. I’ll always be looking around, wondering where the man is, when the children will come. That's just me.
So I’ve been thinking lately. About what will be right for me. About the intense stomach flip that I thought I needed so much, but perhaps is just throwing me off. Perhaps gentle strength and stability is (or should be) more appealing than dark and brooding talent. (Ah, brooding talent…) Sweet sincerity should win out over easy flirtation. Respect should matter more than heat. I’m getting it, I think. It gives me no small amount of comfort that I can see what I need and can get used to finding it attractive. I might be moving closer to what I want.
While having these thoughts, life goes on though. I put up my Christmas tree this morning. Locked Sprout in his room last night so I could sleep – the running and noise must stop at some point (and by “some point” I mean at, um, 9:00 when I’m too exhausted to stay awake until later). I took Chienne for a walk this morning. Started a project for Carrie. Made progress on another for Steve. Submitted some revisions on a paper after meeting with Boss. Had another meeting with a good collaborator. I’m productive – even after heading down the hall to find clothes while moaning “I don’t want to go!”
I’m continuing to collect lists of charities for holiday giving. I’m eager to attend church on Sunday. I have therapy tomorrow (well, I’m dreading that a bit, but that’s OK. I’ll let him know I was dreading it and see what he says). I’m not feeling nearly so sad as I was at one time – Christmas reminders help me out a lot. (I really like my tree.) I felt guilty – miserably so – for being so vulnerable and hopeful in my search for someone to love. That particular pain – whether through time or prayer or something else – has eased. I think it’s good for me to want this particular future. It’s OK that I’m sometimes sad that a part of my life I consider important is missing.
I’m good at my job. I can do this, if only I find the energy to do so. I’d be good at having a family. I’m a good daughter, an OK sister, a fantastic aunt. I have my faults – many, many quirks and habits and flaws that make me non-ideal. But I feel good about my goals. I, after all, can do whatever I want to do.
Grandma said so. Mom and Aunt would certainly back me up. And these are women more amazing than any I’ve been lucky enough to know. I badly want some young woman to be able to say the same of me some day. And lately, for some reason, I'm oddly hopeful that she will.
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