A Few of My Favorite Things

It’s been a rough week already. At least the weather has been phenomenal. Going outside does wonders for my mood. Instead of writing about how poorly I’ve felt, I’m making a list of my favorite things in life–the simple things that make me so joyful at times, I feel like I might burst at the seams with excitement for life.

Brown paper packages tied up with strings. These are a few of my favorite things:

1. Climbing trees
2. Walking barefoot in soft, muddy grass
3. Cruising down slight inclines on my skateboard or longboard
4. Tea
5. Good conversation
6. Good conversation over tea!
7. Yoga
8. Coloring in coloring books
9. Coloring printouts with markers
10. Painting
11. Drawing with ink
12. Poetry
13. Sunrises
14. Sunsets
15. Starry skies
16. Hugs
17. When the family cat lays on  my chest & purrs
18. When the family dog jumps all the way up into my arms, without me having to bend over, after I’ve been gone for extended periods of times, because she is so happy to see me.
19. Reading
20. The brief moments when writing is going well, and I completely lose myself in the words and ideas
21. Seeing deer when no one else is around
22. Seeing dolphins in the wild
23. The smell of spring and fall
24. Bonfires
25. Rollerblading
26. Solitary Walks
27. One-on-one conversations
28. Sparkles/Glitter
29. Traveling
30. Waterfalls
31. The sound of water
32. Robins
33. Stickers with sayings I believe in
34. T-shirts with fun or meaningful sayings on them
35. Fountains
36. Butterflies
37. Flowers
38. Camping
39. Hiking
40. Snowflakes in streetlights
41. Cards or letters from loved ones
42. Getting packages in the mail
43. Libraries
44. The first day each year when it is warm enough to be coatless
45. Notebooks
46. The smell of burning leaves
47. Chocolate chip cookies
48. Pizza
49. Sipping microbrews
50. Using positive coping mechanisms like this list 🙂

Back to Normal

My cheeks are pink; I’m overheated. After spending nearly two weeks away from the convent, my body adjusted to normal room temperatures instead of retirement home temperatures. I’ll take the warmth over the bone chilling temperatures we tolerated in my college years, though. Walking around in shorts and a t-shirt is way more fun than trying to see how many layers I can wear while still being able to move.

It was such a relief to see my grandma today. She is finally talking. Her stories of extreme pain resulting from muscle spasms sound like a nightmare. I knew the surgery was a big deal, but there’s still something unsettling about seeing someone we love so close to death. The doctor talked about holding her heart in his hand. He said it nonchalantly in order to explain that it started up again without much outside effort. He said, “The heart started up nicely after I gave it a light squeeze,” and then continued on. Most of us were stuck on those words, thinking Wait, you held her heart in your hand? How strange it is to think that one human can hold such power in one hand!

Today, her entire body was swollen–her hands didn’t look like her own, and her face looked as if she’d had the same jaw surgery my sister and I had as teenagers. That was when we had our jaws surgically broken! My grandma had her heart operated on and her face swelled up like that? Dried spots of blood stained the side of her gown from where they removed some tubes that had somehow been lodged in her. She had blood on her teeth, which she complained she hadn’t been able to brush since the surgery. I was amazed at how independent she was when the nurse brought her the toothbrush and toothpaste. My grandma pretty much sat up on her own. This woman just had her sternum cut open on Tuesday! She has to wear this thing wrapped around her chest with handles. When she coughs, she has to hold the handles together in order to prevent the sternum being ripped apart. What a horrific thing to imagine. The only thing I can connect it to is when they cut the palette of my mouth in half during my jaw surgery. I woke up with a gap on the top of my mouth; it made an awful suctioning sound/feeling when ever I took a breath. It felt so awful that I cringe thinking about it, despite the fact I can’t actually remember the pain or feeling anymore. I try to picture that on the level of a split sternum, and my brain just naturally switches subjects, because I can’t handle dwelling on it.

I have so much I want to blog about. Today, I realized that my last few days overshadowed a lot of the good things that happened during my time away. If I could, I’d write about all of them tonight. But I’m too exhausted–physically, mentally, spiritually, emotionally, sexually (haha okay just joking about that last one. Let’s be real. I DO live with nuns. Just enjoying being silly with adverbs and making sure you’re paying attention 🙂 ).

Hope to do a more reflective blog soon. Peace.

Whirlwind of Chaos

The last couple of weeks have been filled with some intense ups and downs. I’ll start where I left off by mentioning my Ash Wednesday without electronics. I’d made a list of all the things I wanted to accomplish while having no outside distraction. I ended up doing very little of my planned activities. Instead, I just did whatever felt right. The next day, I felt a tinge of disappointment at my lack of productivity until I noticed my mind’s tranquility. I’d been having my typical loud, racing thoughts that come and go as they please in phases throughout the year (maybe month?). Yet without even putting much effort into it–as in no meditating or yoga–just by eliminating distraction, I calmed my mind. I realized that, alone, is a huge accomplishment.

I spent a few days at my parents’ before heading to Chicago for a writing conference. My time at home allowed me to spend time with friends and family I don’t get to see often. It was a nice reminder of what a great support system I have. Being reminded how loved I am does wonders for my mental health.

The actual conference went fantastic. I heard a great variety of talented speakers, ran into old friends from all over, and spent my birthday on top of The Hancock building with a glass of wine, staring at Lake Michigan’s blackness contrasted with the miles and miles of city lights. It was spectacular.

While at the conference, my grandma had a heart attack. My grandma is young; she was often mistaken for my mother all my life. My Maternal grandmother died from a heart attack 5-6 years ago. You’d think that would have taught me how quickly these things can happen. I just didn’t see this coming though. She’s young and gets around great. She even went to visit her brother in Australia just this past November. She’s having open-heart surgery on Tuesday. I’m staying with my family, until at least Wednesday, to be with her during this time.

Also, my friend who shared a room with me received word her best friend’s mom died while we were at the conference. In addition to all of this, I was having some severe, complicated anxiety and racing thoughts. A man walking fast toward my friends and I shouted something at us. I ignored it out of fear we’d get harassed. However, it turned out he was just telling us why the road was blocked off and the street was chaotic. A woman had stepped out in front of the train. This rested heavy on my mind for many reasons. The main reason being that suicide took on a whole deeper level of sadness for me after my own experiences of being suicidal and then being able to experience recovery. Also, I felt guilt about ignoring the man shouting at me. I felt ashamed that I’d judged the man, trying to ask myself the difficult question if the fact the man was Black had been part of my fear. Would I have reacted the same if a white man ran, shouting at me? I’d like to think yes. But, it left me feeling a bit of “white guilt.” However, the next night, something rather traumatic happened where I realized I should have been more paranoid.

***

I’d considered walking alone to meet with my ind. study instructor. She’d offered to pay for me to get a cab since she’d moved the location further away from our original meeting place, making my walk much longer. I’m rather uneasy with people giving me things, especially someone I don’t know well, and especially ESPECIALLY someone I believe is already doing me a favor by even meeting up with me in the first place.

Luckily, I was running late, and had to take her up on her offer in order to make it on time. She gave me twice the amount of the cab ride so I could get home. If she’d not have been thoughtful enough to do that, I would have walked home alone. I wasn’t THAT afraid of walking alone in Chicago. When I was in the city for the same conference a few years ago, my brother lived in town. He’d meet up with me in the evenings after work, and then make me ride the train and walk home alone so he could get home to bed in time to wake up for work.

My brother is 3 years older than me, but only one inch taller and about 20 LBS lighter. He walked alone every day and night, and told me which trains to get on and what way to walk. He said if I just walked confident and didn’t stop for anyone, I’d be fine. I gained a lot of confidence from walking the city alone. I’d usually only be anxious until I reached Michigan Ave, because it’s well-lit and there’s lot’s of people.

Last night, walking on Michigan Ave, only a couple blocks from where the conference was, we were stopped on a corner talking to someone when a group of three Black men stopped behind us. They seemed to be talking to the kid behind us like they knew him, and after my possible “racist fear” the day before, I didn’t want to overreact. The guy we were talking to (long story as to who he was) started to get paranoid and ran away before we were done talking. Laura saw the kid behind me emptying his pockets and told me to run, so we did. Right when I started to run, I heard the kid get hit in the face. We passed the boy we’d been talking to, and he was calling the police and looked like he’d seen a ghost.

I’ve seen fights at school. I even saw a kid getting jumped by a gang on a Native reservation. With the kid getting jumped on the reservation, it was too dark to really see anything but silhouettes, and I was in a car so I didn’t hear it. Hearing this kid get knocked out right behind me was still probably the closest experience with violence I’ve had. My friend and I ran to the nearest food place that was open, which was surprisingly far even though it was only about 8 pm. While we ran, a taxi almost ran me over, despite that they had a red light. We finally went into a Starbucks to catch our breath before finding food.

I was in a state of constant panic the rest of the night. I’m still rather tense and paranoid this evening. The event just triggered all of my own panic, reminding me that no one is ever really safe and to never let my guard down. The event also caused me to attack my morality, calling myself a hypocrite for believing I could ever be courageous in such a situation. Like, I wondered what I’d have done if they’d jumped my friend. Would I just run and call the cops, or try to be with her? Then, of course, I went through all of the “What ifs?”. What if I hadn’t taken a cab to and from my meeting? What if my friend and I hadn’t been talking to that third guy who called the police? Would I have thought to call the police that quickly in all of my fear? What if they pulled a gun? These thoughts then spiraled into much more irrational “what ifs,” like what if I can’t survive on my own ever? And what if I always am as terrible with directions, short-term memory, and driving anxiety as I am now? How will I survive as a functioning adult?

I’m still very thankful I went to the conference and for all of the wonderful people I got to see during my time there. I’m not yet feeling back to normal. I’m sure the rock-hard, small bed I had to share with my friend, not eating routinely or healthily, not taking my vitamins, and drinking beer when I never drink with the nuns was hard on my body. I need to do yoga or something of the sort tomorrow. Hoping for a good night sleep tonight. It’s a miracle what a solid night of sleep can do.

The God-Sized Hole

In recent days, a couple of lay persons (separate from each other) mentioned the old  “God-sized hole” metaphor people use to describe our natural human state of desire and discontent. I view this as the same thing The First Noble Truth refers to in Buddhism where Buddhists use the term Dukkha to describe that constant longing, natural desire, or discontentment that comes along with being human. I understand the idea behind the “God-sized hole;” however, I’m sometimes frustrated by the expression. Religion, and even just the idea of God, created an even deeper level of suffering for me during my darkest days of depression. I hated myself for my inability to believe. People would say, “Anyone can believe in God,” or “Anyone can be a Christian by accepting Jesus into his/her heart.” I wondered how I was supposed to make myself believe if it didn’t feel true. I wanted to believe. I think religion is a wonderful comfort for people who have it. My experience reminds me of the Anne Sexton quote, “I love faith, but have none.” The nuns here often talk about Faith as a gift. I like this idea, because I’m beginning to believe in the power of Faith–just not conventional faith, and not faith in God. The word faith is taking on an entirely different meaning for me.

It’s a bit cliche to say, but my most confident faith rests in love–in only its purest and altruistic form. That sort of love possesses even more power than hate, but it’s rare that we get to see love in its fiercest form.

Some people believe God is altruistic love. Fine by me. It’s because of that belief that many folks have told me they don’t believe I’m an atheist. This interpretation also provides a way I can talk with the nuns about “God.” For example, one of the sisters I’m closest with here was telling me she read something about how we get answers to our prayers “from God” in our hearts. That doesn’t seem to differ much from what my atheist, pagan, and/or buddhist friends do when they look deep into their hearts for answers.

I’m beginning to see how many of the spiritual disagreements are really just a fight about the language used to articulate spirituality. It took many arguments with others about how they define my own beliefs for me to decide how to handle answering when someone asks me if I believe in God. I ask them to define God. If they’re talking about a Person-Like Being in the sky that judges me like Santa Clause, then no. Absolutely not. If they’re talking about the energy we all experience that goes beyond what our five senses can absorb or our language can capture, then sure. I’m just scarred by the word from growing up. Yet, I find people sometimes replace the word GOD with another way to refer to the same idea when I express my trouble with the word. Yet, they still preach to me about this old-school idea of God, simply using a different word. Trust me, I’ve tried praying to “The Great Spirit,” “Higher Power,” or even using Mother instead of father. Changing the word isn’t enough to help me get rid of the guilt and fear based deity from conventional religion.

On a separate, but somewhat similar note, tomorrow is Ash Wednesday. I can’t even remember the last time I observed a Lenten holy day. It’s not that I suddenly believe in the significance of the day; however, I still plan to use tomorrow as a day of reflection–refusing to even touch my computer, phone, TV, or Ipod. This might not sound all that difficult for only one day, but keep in mind I don’t have school, work, or friends around to help me pass the time. I’ve been craving some stillness in my life due to feeling increasingly chaotic. With my 9 day hiatus from the convent fast approaching, I understand the chaos could grow increasingly worse while I break my routine for all sorts of fun activities. Since the sisters will already be fasting and reflecting all day tomorrow, it seemed like a good time for me to do the same.

I’m not sure if I’ll blog during my nine days away from the convent, which will start this Friday night. Because of this, I hope to blog one more time  before I leave. Maybe I’ll have some grand epiphany tomorrow during my day of silence to blog about on Thursday–however my “grand epiphany” is usually the same–about how I can’t force epiphanies, and most of my personal growth and realizations are much more subtle, and I need to respect that. I suppose it’s time I had another one of those epiphanies about how I need to stop seeking epiphanies. That will be my goal for tomorrow 🙂

Brushing Up on Life

The last few days, I conducted an archeological dig through a bunch of my old writing–some of it from as far back as 7th grade. It proved to be an emotional roller coaster–thankfully not the kind that go upside down, because I’m not puking as I type this. Yet, it sure yanked my gut around. It was like reading a piece of literature where the audience knows something the character doesn’t. For example, the irony I felt when I found the blog entry where I’m rationalizing my choice to stop taking my anti-depressants. Writing about how healthy I felt, I knew I wouldn’t fall back into the depths of despair I’d been in. I had learned too much about the illness to let it take over my life again. Keep in mind about six months after I wrote that, I was in an even deeper depression than I could have imagined. Reading it felt like I was watching a scary movie where the killer was hiding in the shower, and I wanted to shout, “Don’t do it!” while the character turns the knob to the bathroom. God, I hate that type of movie.

While there were plenty of embarrassing parts, I also felt compassion for my younger self. Some of my young reflections really impressed me. I was sharing excerpts with one of my best friends, and she said, “Geez, no wonder you were a lonely kid. Who thought about these things at those ages? My God, who are you?” I laughed, but felt validated in a way that I never had been. I think that is why I’m so quick to favor children I observe off alone and thinking a lot (when I work with children in the summer). I understand they are extra sensitive and perceptive, so I try to love and encourage them with everything I have. It, hopefully, helps them gain confidence while also helping me make peace with myself as a child. As a child, I had overwhelming amounts of guilt and self-hate. It’s a shame to think about, because I’ve recently realized what a thoughtful and sensitive kid I could be.

The most shocking of my old writing was a poem I wrote in 7th grade. It was an assignment for an English class called, “I Remember.” We had to start each line of the poem with “I remember…”  The poem itself is not any good (I mean, let’s be real, I was like 12?) Yet, there were several things that shocked me. First, I talked about how time was moving too fast, and I felt like I couldn’t control it. I also reflected on how I complained of being bored as a kid, but I would give anything to have time to be bored. The real kicker comes when I talk about how I used to be afraid of failure and hated how hard it was to succeed. Apparently at the wise age of twelve, I’d realized that failure is necessary to succeed and success only feels rewarding because it is so challenging to attain. I read that, thinking, “My God, Child, you aren’t gonna even BEGIN to know that in your heart until everything you’re terrified of happens when you’re 21.” This realization made me accept that despite having “failed,” or at least having failed in the eyes of my old self, I’m still afraid of failing. Why? Apparently life is a series of cumulative exams. Just “knowing something” once isn’t enough. When I feel anxious about the future, I will have to pull out the flash cards I’ve been studying since 7th grade. Brushing up on life, preparing for the next test.

Bad Writing

Winter has officially arrived. I shouldn’t complain since it normally sets in around November, but it got cold fast. My sinuses can’t handle the pressure that comes with 40 degree temperature changes, so I’ve spent the past few days ingesting different forms of decongestants, in addition to moping around in sweatpants.

Last night, I finally got to see the documentary “Bad Writing.” It starts with the director, Vernon Lott, talking about how in his late teens and early twenties, he thought he was born to be a writer. Like many young artists, he wanted to be the next Kerouac or Ginsberg. He’d never taken a writing class or even graduated high school. Yet, like many young wannabe writers, he liked drinking and smoking and felt certain he had an artistic talent that went unappreciated because he was ahead of his time.

The director is now in his thirties and has just found the boxes of writing he saved in his mother’s basement. With ten more years of perspective, he realizes his writing is painfully bad. This realization, that his writing days were a delusion, mixed with the fact he now studies writing as an undergraduate, got him reflecting on what makes writing good or bad. He takes this question on the road, interviewing a great variety of professional writers and teachers.

It’s a great film, but painfully awkward at times. The director is such a sympathetic character, because he doesn’t hide his awkward vulnerability. In fact, one of the writers he interviewed (wish I could remember which one) was reflecting on beginner writers. He said even though the writing might be “bad,” it possesses  an “embarrassing sincerity” that can’t be discredited. The movie has an element of that embarrassing sincerity–not in a bad way, but in a way that is relatable, and a bit of a painful reminder about the vulnerability that comes with being an artist. I think the better we get at the elements of craft, the more of a protective barrier we feel between the raw subject matter and ourselves. This documentary reminded me that it takes courage to write, even if we don’t ever show another human being our work. To sit down and face ourselves in something concrete like words, is hard and sometimes scary.

I think that’s why I always adore my creative writing teachers. I respected all my profs in college, regardless of subject. I appreciate what they do, and I’d even like to teach at the college level some day. I always called them “Dr. ____”  and interacted very formally with them. I even started doing that in my intro to creative writing class. However, I quickly realized that a creative writing class will never be like a biology class. I decided if I had to turn in all of these personal, messy first drafts to someone, then I’d better be on a first-name-basis with him or her. Luckily, I’ve never met a creative writing prof who is uncomfortable being addressed by his or her first name. It is also a deeper, more respect-filled relationship because students get to read the instructor’s work too. I don’t know any other subject where you get to learn so much about your instructor’s personal life. It really creates a powerful connection. So, in that sense, I suppose the movie also reminded me to appreciate the wonderful mentors I’ve had in my young writing life.

Having time to watch all these neat documentaries and learn about anything and everything is really a gift I can’t begin to explain. Today, I slept most of the afternoon and evening. I felt down about myself and was beating myself up about “being lazy.” Luckily, I’ve gained a healthy perspective back (thanks to my great support system), and I realized I’ve been absorbing new information around me at rapid speeds this week. I’ve had a lot on my mind, and the sisters are quick to remind me that Sunday is a day of rest. I guess, I took that quite literally. I shall go back to being content and learning tomorrow. For tonight, I’ll just learn to both BE and be okay with it.

2 in 1

The Bible and I have been frenemies for a variety of reasons throughout my life. I wasn’t very old when I realized some of the stories weren’t as nice as they seemed. First, it hit me that the cute Noah’s Ark story I drew pictures of in catechism was actually more like a genocide than God choosing cute little animals to take a boat ride. Then I realized the Abraham story was really cruel, and I hoped my parents wouldn’t sacrifice me to an angry God. However, I dismissed my confusion as part of my youth, agreeing to allow authority figures to interpret The Bible for me.

As I got a little older, I wasn’t satisfied with what my catechism teachers and priests were telling me, so I decided to read the book myself. I probably made resolutions to read the thing from cover-to-cover ten different times throughout my teenage years. I’d always give up not too far into Genesis, and then feel like both a moral and intellectual failure for not sticking with it.

I lost my faith late in my teens, which relieved the pressure of learning The Bible for morality purposes; however, around that time I became a religion minor, so I still had a relationship with the book from a scholarly perspective. In many of my secular religion classes, we didn’t interact directly with The Bible. Although, for the first time in my life, I read all four gospels for a class I took on the historical Jesus. Actually, now that I’m thinking about it, I probably didn’t read all four. I was supposed to read all four, but I probably only read pieces, making sure to go to class and underline important passages we talked about. To be fair, this was the year I was falling into my worst depression, so I did what I had to in order to get by.

The Bible anxiety came back again tonight. I’ve been meaning to read The Book of Job ever since listening to a radio show about depression and spirituality about five or six years ago when they compared Job’s despair to depression. I’ve never really had the time to look at it. It seems like in the past few months, everyone has been talking about Job. The reading at mass on Sunday was even from Job. So now that I’m getting my reading confidence back (I couldn’t finish a book if my life depended on it in the past few months) after completing one book in less than a week and nearly being done with another, I’ve decided to dive into Job. I’ll be sure to blog about how that goes at some point.

***

The priest who lives here is a kind man. I disagree with him on a good majority of political and moral issues, but I like that he listens. He even seems to enjoy conversations with me, especially if he wants a young, secular perspective on something. I was flattered the other day when he handed me an article he printed off specifically for me. He said, “Now, I want your honest opinion on this. I think this guy’s right on, but don’t sugar coat your response. It just reminded me of several of our conversations about the necessity of patience and waiting.”

A few days prior, he’d asked me how writing was going. I told him I haven’t been writing much, but I feel my spirit shifting like something good is near. I explained I spend my days absorbing a strange variety of information between all of the documentaries, radio shows, articles, and books I read. It’s all mixing together, waiting to pour out when the time feels right. He connected this to a conversation we’d had about a month before when his sister passed away. I’d asked him if he was taking time to grieve, and we agreed on the importance of allowing ourselves to really feel grief and learning from it–instead of ignoring the feelings only for them to resurface later in life, most likely in unhealthy ways.

This article he gave me was written by a priest who was reflecting on a time when a plane abroad was delayed for 28 hours with no explanation or food for the passengers. He talked about how furious and indignant the Western passengers became during that time while the other passengers from a variety of other locations stayed calm. He then went on to talk about how our culture, especially with the improvements in technology, portrays having to wait for something as bad. I, too, agreed with a good portion of the article. I liked that the man used a metaphor of “negative experiences,” such as grief, as a pregnancy, suggesting if we let the pregnancy develop, it will birth something new. My only discomfort was when the writer started getting into sexual morality, claiming my generation never learned how to wait for anything, so how could we learn to wait for something as powerful as sex. The priest and I had a great dialogue about what sorts of cultural changes have taken place to make some of the old “sexual morality” unrealistic. We agreed it’s not just my generation being impatient.

There’s been a lot of uncomfortable conversations around me about all of the political controversy about the government so-called infringing on religious freedom. I usually don’t say much, because I agree with the new legislation completely. Once in a while I’ll defend an over-generalization I overhear, but usually I sit in silence. It was a wonderful surprise that the priest went out of his way to print an article that made him think of a discussion he’d had with me, and then take it a step further to want my honest thoughts. It reminded me about how healing my time here has been. I have far less anger toward The Church thanks to the gracious and pious individuals here where I live.

The more times I read this

The more times I read this, the more brilliance seeps out of it. It captures both the racing thoughts that come along with depression, falling into a depression, and healing from said depression. Consider checking it out:

How To Be Emotionally Stable Without Getting Bored « Thought Catalog.

 

OR, if you don’t like reading, or absorb things better by listening to them with music in the background. Check this out:

 

Conquering A Blank Screen

I just deleted three paragraphs. It was shallow, bordering on cheesy. A blog is both a tremendous gift and a creativity killer. I love that I can share my thoughts with people who care about me. It is also helpful, because I get a lot of support from readers that motivates me to keep writing when I don’t feel like it. Yet, writing for such a general audience where I can get immediate feedback sucks the creativity right out of me. It’s unlike any other form of writing. Even with the small publications I’ve had, the writing starts out as so private. First drafts are so vulnerable and scary. Normally the only people who get to see my first drafts are other writers who understand how raw, messy, and self-absorbant first drafts can be. This allows me to write without the paranoia (or maybe I should say with less paranoia) about what other people will think of me.

With a blog, I try to treat it like an online journal, to allow people who care about me into my mind. However, I know how the internet and social media work. It’s not just people who care about me who read this. Knowing that I don’t know who all reads this combined with the fact that I don’t get to do a million drafts and receive feedback in between each post, there’s a necessary guard up between my readers and me. I’m disturbed by this because I’m staying with nuns and trying to write a confessional memoir because I believe in truth and the importance of human connection. Yet, I find myself giving a false sense of transparency on here.

Examining this, I realized that this false sense of transparency is a defense mechanism I developed young. It is why people have always been so shocked whenever I experience a major depressive episode and whatever consequences roll in along with that. They will have been certain I was so happy. I apparently can make people feel like they know me very quickly. And I do try to be open and let people know me easily, especially if they take a genuine interest in getting to know me. It’s difficult to explain, but I have valued honesty and integrity above all in my life, which caused me to learn to lie to myself in order to prevent lying to others. I’ve experienced great states of denial about many things, but mostly my own mental health and emotional well being. I used to be able to talk myself into believing just about anything. And I still struggle with the fact I tend to believe what other people say about how I’m feeling over how I’m actually feeling. It comes down to the fact that I don’t trust my mind. It plays tricks on me, so I don’t always know what’s true.

My ability to unintentionally talk my way around things can cause problems where I accidentally mislead therapists sometimes. For example, they will ask how I feel, and I genuinely don’t know. So I will give them some long-winded technical answer trying to psychoanalyze myself saying things like: I’m feeling good emotionally, but I’m still having sleep problems, but I worry I’m over-thinking the sleep problems, and then I remember I felt depressed two days ago, but that was probably just a bad day, and I had some nightmares, but everyone has bad dreams, and a friend told me I seemed depressed when I didn’t feel depressed so that made me depressed, but then another friend told me I was radiating positive energy when I was feeling anxious, so I took a few deep breaths until I felt some of the positive energy she said I was radiating…

I’ve talked far too many therapists out of believing I had a problem. Even my new therapist seems a bit too impressed by my politeness and ability to articulate more complex feelings. She even admitted to being more familiar working with angry troubled teens who come in saying nothing but “F-this and F-that and F-them” as opposed to young adults like me who come in with existential crises. I suppose I should admit I don’t feel challenged enough yet. I don’t see her all that regularly, so I’m sure it’s hard to challenge me when she doesn’t know me that well.

The only real update in this entry: I’m currently experiencing a lot of positive shifts in my way of thinking the past week or so, and I’m not yet ready to put it into words. Maybe I’ll try writing poetry this week–just to get the words flowing.

So, basically, this negative sounding blog is simply a long rant to explain why I’m not doing much writing on my own, or even producing the quality of blog entries I’d like to be.  It is also just my way of conquering the glaring blank screen and the fact that I hadn’t blogged in a bit. Take that, blank wordpress page!

Trees & Such

After several unsuccessful attempts to blog in the past few days, I made a resolution to sit here until I come up with something to post tonight. My last two entries received a lot of positive feedback. Such encouragement helps me fight the negative voices and laughter in my mind about how naive I must be to think anyone cares what I think. That being said, I used the slight feeling of accomplishment to put pressure on myself, thinking I had to post something reflective and topic-driven every time I blog. I’ve accepted that my ordinary thoughts are just as much part of my experience, if not more–since I deal with them daily.

Today was a sleepy day. I woke up restless before my alarm, but part of my mind remained asleep all day. It was the sort of day where, while getting around this morning, I thought: I need to brush my teeth, only to realize by my minty breath and clean feeling teeth that I already had. That mindlessness occurred all day. I tried reading poetry to ignite my desire to write, but couldn’t stay awake. I can barely remember eating lunch, and I slept a good portion of the afternoon away. I’m thankful I woke up in time for a nice walk before dinner. I was able to practice some mindfulness, and it was miraculous temperatures outside–record highs. I didn’t even have a coat on, and it’s January!

I walked the labyrinth here and wore my thick Columbia fleece: a gift from a friend in the psych unit. I don’t even know her last name or how she recovered. That’s usually the nature of psych unit relationships–probably for good reason most times. This woman had gained a tremendous amount of weight due to some of the medications she took. Because of this weight gain, she couldn’t fit into the brand new fleece she’d gotten at Christmas. She had her husband bring it to me one day, asking if I’d like to keep it. I loved it but couldn’t wear it unless I let the nurses cut the elastic bands around the bottom of it. I didn’t want them to ruin it, so it sat in my locker until my release. It’s rare that I’m mindful enough to remember where it came from, but as I walked the labyrinth this afternoon, I wondered how my friend was doing. I tried to send healing energy her way while I inhaled the fresh, spring-smelling air and listened to the trees.

While hiking with my good friend, Adam, once, we took a break, listening to the trees. He said he believed God to be “the sound the trees make in the wind.” I still think of this quote often. In fact, today, I was thinking about how if I had to pick something concrete to pray to, I’d choose trees. They possess such a divine radiance.

Here, I’m surrounded by more trees than ever. Some of them are older than I can comprehend. I love to think about how huge the roots must be, underground, to enable all the giants to lean and seemingly defy gravity like they do. I have a favorite tree I like to visit here. I call it the “WTF Tree”, because that’s the typical expletive reaction when anyone sees it the first time. It splits in the bottom, making it look like it has two trucks. The one branch splits off into the other direction, only to take a  strange turn back into the trunk where it merges back into the tree like it never happened. It’s incredible. I like to step through the oval created by the tree’s strange acrobatics; it feels like the tree holds me in her arms. It takes me back to childhood when I had a tree friend instead of an imaginary friend. I named her “Kristy” after my favorite character from The Babysitters Club series. I’d climb up on her branches, telling her about my day.

This past weekend, one of my best friends came to stay. I’d had visitors here at the convent, but no one has ever stayed enough to really get a taste of what my life is like here. Saturday night, we stayed up chatting most of the night, like she and I have been known to do since we first became friends. Then out-of-nowhere, she said she couldn’t stop thinking about how proud she was of me. Startled, I had to ask why. She said after being able to experience my schedule and my lifestyle, she realized how much motivation, courage, and determination it takes to live a solitary life without the distraction of school or work to fall back on, in addition to not having any friends or family around.

This friend is the same friend who took me to the ER for my hospitalizations and gave me rides to and from the hospital for my day-programs. She’s seen me at my absolute worst, and probably my absolute best. She emphasized how far I’ve come in my recovery and continued to compliment my writing, thought-process, and dreams. When I had a lazy day today, I reminded myself of her words. Living such an unconventional lifestyle, I don’t get a lot of validation. It’s not that anyone is unsupportive, it’s that they need something concrete to focus on. For example, at least one person every day asks me how writing is going. This is a fair question, because I came her to write a book. The writing is not going as planned, though, and the journey has turned into something much more complex than a writing retreat. It’s nice to be reminded I’m accomplishing different types of success–even if I’m not accomplishing the original success I came here to achieve.