EXPECTATION

Expectation

 

 

I was once again in group this past week and got something from something a patient was saying.  Don’t tell them, but I often feel I get just as much from the experience than I am giving!

            We were talking about character defects and naming ones that stood in our way.  Once patient brought up that he has expectations of others that are unrealistic.  He was talking about how he harbors a resentment toward a family member because they don’t offer to help him in a way that he wants them to.  The group countered and asked if he had ever nicely confronted this family member and asked them for the help that he felt he needed and or deserved.  He stated that he had not and that he felt they should know to offer without him telling them.

            This led me to think not only about expectations but also about communication.  People don’t read minds, they never have and they never will.  If you have a need, want or require help, then ask.  You might be amazed at how people with respond in the positive.  Relationships almost always run more smoothly when you are straight and frank with others about what you need and want.  People want to know how to please others.

            I think back to how I expected life to be and how I used to be disappointed when it didn’t magically settle into a Disney version of reality.  I remember being frustrated with poor Frank when he did not intrinsically know what I wanted all the time, when I had in fact never told him.  I think we do our partners a disservice when we fall back on some “Twilight” version of what relationships are supposed to look like, where partners inherently know us and cater to our whims without a thought.

            The fact is that today, my life looks NOTHING like I thought it was going to.  NOTHING.  I was never going to lose a child.  I was never going to have a husband suffer through cancer.  I was never going to be divorced.  I was never going to have bought a house alone.  I was never going to go to grad school.  I was never going to write.  I was never going to write a book (its coming I promise).  I was never going to go to grad school and change careers and I was never going to be in recovery.  But here I am and I am happier than I would have imagined as well.

            What changed?  I let go of expectations.  I started telling people what I needed when I needed it and stopped thinking they could read my distorted mind.  I stopped thinking ahead and placing my life into boxes of fantasy.  I stopped looking at my life through anyone else’s lens but my own.  I started to embrace the here and now and accepting the perfectly flawed reality of my situation.

            In recovery speak there are two quotes I love that I believe are anonymous (they are attributed to too many people to be anything but):

            “Expectations are resentments waiting to happen.”

            “Hanging onto resentment is like taking rat poison and expecting the other person to die.”

            I think it is important to accept the divine reality of any given moment, not placing any undue weight on outcomes beyond our control.  What is in our control is to tell people what we want and need and let them take it from there.  If they respond in the positive, then great, if they don’t, they are a dry well.  But to create expectations is to set ourselves up for future resentments which take us down a dangerous path in recovery.

Pain is Pain

Pain is Pain

 

 

I was in a group session a while ago with some patients and one patient had finished sharing something somewhat heavy about his past.  Another patient started to speak but prefaced his comment with something like, “I know this doesn’t compare to what you went through…” to the other patient.  The first patient wisely said, “Hey man, pain is pain.”

I was thinking about that as I was driving on this last leg of my vacation road trip as both kids were asleep in the back of the car.  You get a lot of thinking done when the kids are asleep in the back of the car!  Frank and I learned about honoring someone else’s pain and meeting it where they are from Dermot.

After Liam died and while Frank was re-gaining his strength from cancer treatments, we got two Australian Shepard rescue puppies.  Two brothers from the same litter that we named King Henry and King Arthur.  They gave us something to love at a time when we had a lot left over and desperately needed somewhere to direct it.  They were great dogs that Dermot knew from birth.  We, unfortunately, had to put Arthur down when he was still rather young but Henry was with us for many years.

Henry was good with our kids but not as patient with other children.  But with and Wren and Dermot, he was protective and tolerant.  He and Dermot particularly had a bond.  To Dermot, Henry was his best friend.  There were times we would wake up in the middle of the night and find Dermot had brought his blanket into our room and curled up next Henry on his dog bed and was fast asleep.  When Dermot was having a bad day and getting into lots of trouble, sometimes snuggling with Henry was the only answer.  Dermot found it easier to read if he could read out loud to Henry and Henry would start his nightly rounds by sleeping on Dermot’s bed until Dermot fell asleep.

So when Frank and I had to put Henry down a couple of years ago, both kids were devastated, but Dermot took it particularly hard.  For weeks after he would burst into tears at the mere thought or mention of Henry and would be hard to console.  Frank and I were supportive but we would often follow up our consoling with some phrase like, “Yes, this is sad, Dermot, but this isn’t like losing a person.”  I don’t even think we realized we were doing it.

One day I think one of us said this to Dermot again after he had become upset about Henry and some memory and he stood at the top of the stairs in tears and said, “I hate it when you guys say that!  I’ve never lost a person so to me this feels like everything!”

We had been comparing our loss of a son to his loss of his best friend, the dog.  We had automatically compared and judged his pain less.  I was horrified by what I had been saying to him and glad he had said something.  How could he possibly know how we had felt?  He is a child, he has no children and I hope he never knows the loss of a child.  He lost his best friend and in his world that was everything and I had been giving him the message that his pain wasn’t justifiable.

Now, thanks to Dermot, I know not to compare pains, losses, trials and despairs.  People feel what they feel and their pain should be honored for what it is and where they are.

Pain is pain.

"What Would You Do If It Happened to Wren?"

“What Would You Do If It Happened to Wren?”

 

            I was rocked by the election, like many of us were.  I feel the nation is divided and that is unsettling at best.  I watch the news every day and little by little my trust in our democracy is getting chipped away.  I feel de-valued as a woman by this election, I feel de-valued as a woman by the proposed new health care act.  I feel like I, as a woman, am a walking pre-existing condition. I feel objectified, unheard and talked-down-to. I don’t understand why we elected a man who talks about and treats women like he did and does.  This coupled with the fact that I am studying about some of the darker aspects of human nature in grad school as I work toward becoming a psychologist means my faith in humanity is fading. I know there are people who feel the same and that there are people who will read this and adamantly disagree but I have to tell my truth today about what just happened to me because the “locker room talk” is not acceptable, it never was and it never will be.  The “locker room talk” breeds disrespect, objectification, in-equality and rape culture.

I started off working from home this morning because Wren had a choir concert this morning that I wanted to attend.  When the concert was over I stopped at Wawa on my way into the office to get cash and a coffee.  I was getting my coffee cup and a male employee walked past me paused and said, “good morning.”  I smiled and warmly said “good morning” in reply as I looked up.  What I saw was him staring, actually leering, at my chest with a big grin on his face.  He walked behind the counter where the coffee urns were lined up and went up to one of his male co-workers and loudly whispered something.  I didn’t catch it all but what I did hear was, “put my face in that.”  You can draw your own conclusions as to what the whole phrase was.  They both then turned to leer at my chest together and laughed.  I was in shock so I didn’t even look to see what their name tags said.  I just looked at them and said, “REALLY?”  I paid for my coffee and left.

I called Frank from the car as I drove to work and told him about Wren’s concert which he will attend tonight and I mentioned what had just happened in Wawa.  He asked me what I was going to do about it and I said I probably wouldn’t do anything because that sort of thing happens from time-to-time.  It has happened to me all my life but happens less and less the older I get which is another topic altogether about how women seem to become invisible as they age in society’s eyes.  But then he asked me, “What would you do if it happened to Wren?”

Well now that stopped me in my tracks.  We could have a whole discussion as to why I would march up to the manager and demand action for my daughter’s sake but not value myself enough to do anything for my own sake but that is something that I will have wrestle with for a while.  What I am doing instead is writing about it and tagging Wawa.  I am writing about it because this happens every day and it has happened to all the women I know at least once and it just isn’t ok.  I know this is not Wawa’s fault, but I hope they address the issue and model common decency in their workplace.

It isn’t ok that our daughter is about to enter puberty, which is a hard enough time for any kid, but our daughter is growing up under an administration that will think that what happened to me while I was just trying to get a cup of coffee is no big deal.  An administration that thinks there is nothing amiss when decisions about women’s healthcare are made without the council of women themselves.  An administration that thinks my three C-sections are pre-existing conditions.  An administration whose leader said this and we elected him anyway:

“I did try and fuck her.  She was married.  I moved in on her like a bitch, but I couldn’t get there.  And she was married.  You know I’m automatically attracted to beautiful.  I just start kissing them.  It’s like a magnet.  Just kiss.  I don’t even wait.  And when you’re a star they let you do it.  You can do anything…  Grab them by the pussy.  You can do anything.”

For those who disagree with me, if it happened to your daughter what would you do?  

@Wawa this happened at store #924, 949 Montgomery Avenue, Narberth, PA 19072

Apples vs. Pears

Apples vs. Pears

 

            The other day I was with the kids and found myself telling them about my paternal Grandmother.  We used to travel to England every year and visit both sides of the family.  My paternal grandparents were my favorites. 

            They lived in a little village called Ugham and there was a pub called The Forge that had a shop next to it that sold candy from jars with scoops.  I can remember the colors and the smells and the wax paper sachets they gave your candy to you in after twisting them at the top with a flourish.  Beyond The Forge was a little war memorial to the local men who had died in both World Wars and further still a bridge over a small stream where I would go and catch tadpoles in jars and skip stones.  As I grew older, I would take a book down to the stream and read, listening to the water babble by.  It was one of the most peaceful escapes of my childhood.

            But best of all was waking up in the morning and crawling into bed with my Grandmother.  She was a big lady and very cuddly and warm and she would read us books and tell us stories until my Grandfather came upstairs with breakfast on a tray for us all, singing out-of-tune all the way.  He would get up early and make us a full English breakfast.  Eggs, bacon or sausages, beans and toast with butter and jam.  Sometimes he would also give us black pudding (blood sausage) but I could never bring myself to eat that!  I’d hear the Grandfather clock downstairs chime and then he would appear with his tray.  I can’t express how loved I felt.  My paternal grandparents weren’t perfect, they fought at times.  I can remember them getting into frequent squabbles; one ending with my grandmother throwing a packet of biscuits at my grandfather’s head and him muttering (loudly) “Damn and blast”!  But they were very loving and very interested in everything that we did.

            In any case I was telling my kids about my Grandmother and the breakfast-in-bed memory and stated to them that they would have really loved her if they had had a chance to meet her.  Dermot asked me if they would have liked my maternal grandmother.  I thought for a moment and then said, “My Grandmother on my mother’s side was a lot like my mom.”  He paused for a second and then said “Well I guess that the apple didn’t fall far from the tree in your mom’s case.”  I nodded and then raised my hand and said, “But this one did.  In fact I think I may be more like a pear!”

            At which point he rushed at me and gave me the warmest hug.  It is the kind of hug he used to give me so much more often when he was little and not so self-conscious and tweeny.  From this embrace he raised his head and said, “And I’m so glad you’re a pear Mom!”  And then I predictably cried.

            My point in telling the story is that trauma and addiction are frequently systemic and multi-generational.  I have come to see people through a lens of both love and tolerance, but also now with the beginnings of a clinical mind. 

I can look at my maternal Grandmother and my mother now as women who must have suffered in their own pasts.  I see them now as women who were sick and lacked the resources to get better.  I think they also lived in times where mental illness was not spoken of and certainly any abuse would not have been discussed.  We, as a society, don’t speak about abuse or addiction or mental illness readily even now so I can only imagine how swept under the rug it must have been when they were both growing up.  My healing didn’t begin until I started talking about it though.

I firmly believe that you have to bring these things into the light in order to start getting better.  You have to examine all aspects of these things no matter how painful it might be.  You have to be brave and you have to get up after you fall.  If you don’t then the cycle won’t be broken and that would be a tragedy.

For the record, I’m glad I’m a pear too.

The Chumming

“The Chumming”

 

“When we put pen to paper, we articulate things in our life that we may have felt vague about.  Before you write about something, somebody says, ‘How do you feel?’ and you say,’Oh, I feel okay.’ Then you write about it, and discover you don’t feel okay.”  Julia Cameron

 

Every therapist over the course of my lifetime (and there have been many) has encouraged me to journal.  I always blew this off.  In my mind it was an exercise in futility.  My creative side identified as an actress and a singer and I thought I only had room for them.  It wasn’t until my second stint at rehab had me so utterly de-moralized and desperate that I was willing to try everything that was suggested to me that I began to journal.

I found a simple, almost hokey-looking journal at the Caron bookstore and bought it.  It has a stick figure on the front and is entitled, “Me, A Personal Journey”.  For each day you fill in one side with answers to questions like “What is the weather today?  What is in the news today?  What are the events for friends and family today? Who brightened your day?  What did you do to brighten someone else’s day?”  As I said, it sounds pretty hokey, but it is the perfect way to start the day and get my mind on track with what is on the agenda and what I am grateful for.  I answer the questions about what has affected my day using what happened the day before given that I choose to journal in the morning.  The flip side of the page is blank and I usually write an inspirational quote and them journal about whatever comes to mind.

I have bought and filled half a dozen of these journals over the past three years.  I haven’t gone back and read a single one of them and I’m not sure that I ever will, we’ll see.  The point is they calm and focus my thoughts.  I can speak for many people in recovery and some not in recovery that our thoughts are all over the place.  My thoughts swirl and eddy around in my mind and it can be overwhelming. 

When I am anxious about something it gets worse and I have manic thoughts.  I have been assessed to see if my mood swings would give me a diagnosis of Bi-Polar disorder and they do not, but they are significant enough to affect my life.  I will make a list of things I have to do and it becomes colossal within minutes because my mind is telling me that I have to get it all done and ridiculous things that don’t really have to be done in one day appear on the list as well making me ever more anxious and manic.  The racing in my head feels like a chumming with my mind throwing out fish to the sharks of thought.

There is an article from the website PsychCentral that does a good job of outlining the effects of old-fashioned journaling (http://psychcentral.com/lib/the-health-benefits-of-journaling/).  It is a short read and outlines some significant psychological AND physical benefits to writing.  I knew about the psychological benefits but reading that journaling strengthened some forms of immune cells was fascinating and encouraging.

Writing to me is a form of mindfulness.  Mindfulness is something that should be taught to people in the fast-paced world of today.  Something about the act of physically putting pen to paper and forming the letters give you a singleness of purpose and concentrates your energy.

It turns out that the benefits of journaling have opened up my mind to a new form of creativity and spirituality that I will ever be glad I made room for.  It helps me to process my feelings and thoughts and slows me to a pace that means I actually accomplish more and stress less.  It also turns out that I am a pretty good writer.

The Best Divorce Ever

 

The Best Divorce Ever

 

Last year I spoke for a graduate counseling class about addiction.  The professor is the daughter of a former neighbor of ours from our days in Annapolis.  This neighbor saw me at my worst whether she realized it at the time or not and has been a big support to me from a distance ever since.  She had mentioned me to her daughter and I was happy to oblige.  She asked me to come back this year and speak and asked if maybe Frank would be willing to go as well and speak from the perspective of a family member.  Frank agreed to go and we drove up to NJ together.

I will admit that I was unexpectedly nervous to speak, because I would be doing so in front of Frank, and then I would be hearing what he had to say.  Now, over the past nearly three years I have spoken at meetings and rehabs and conventions and events and have written in detail about my addiction and it affects, but here I was nervous about what my ex-husband would hear and say, as if he hasn’t heard it all before.

I started speaking and discovered that it isn’t all that different speaking in front of Frank, in fact as the class wore on and I had said my piece and he had said his, we stood together and answered questions.  It became easy and flowing.  It was easy to tell, I guess because it is our story after all, his and mine, spoken from two different viewpoints that sometimes overlapped and sometimes veered off in different directions, but ours none-the-less. 

What a difference time makes.  If someone had asked me three years ago, or even a year ago if we would be able to do this I would have looked at them in utter disbelief.  I am proud of what we have forged and I look forward to co-parenting and enjoying life with Frank in this way till the end.  We joked the other day that we will have to get adjoining rooms at the home when we are old.  Which is not to say that we don't ever get on each other's nerves.  I won't even mention the near disastrous family shopping trip to IKEA earlier this year, but still!

I was talking to a co-worker the other day about our divorce and she said there isn’t a word for it.  She said it’s so rare it’s like a unicorn, something you hear about but never see.  I have to agree.  I hear of other peoples’ situations and there almost always is overwhelming resentment and anger and bitterness on one or both parts and it makes me sad, especially if there are kids involved.  If you have to get divorced (and oddly I will say I am not a proponent unless you have really tried everything), then for the sake of your children you have to do some work.

This is not to say that it was easy.  It may look easy now but the effort it took on both our parts was Herculean and the grief, anger and discomfort were, at times, oceanic.  But it is doable. 

Frank and I were having a painful late lunch together at a diner after Thanksgiving last year when I asked him for a divorce.  It was a bit of an out-of-body experience.  We were once again hashing things over and trying desperately to fix something that couldn’t be fixed.  When it came over me that this wasn’t all about me and it wasn’t all about alcohol.  There were other things involved, fears and hurts that Frank had that I could not control and in some cases had nothing to do with.  I realized that we were causing each other pain just being together as a couple, even though we care very deeply for one another and always will.  It came over me that I no longer wanted to be a source of pain in his life.  If being with me meant he couldn’t be the best version of himself and vice versa, then we had to make a painful change.  It was as if I heard my inner voice say, he does not want to be with you anymore and you no longer want to be with him anymore and it no longer matters why.

I could easily write a book about all the ways Frank has wronged me or hurt me over the course of time knowing him and trust me he could probably write three about me, but what is the point?  What is the point of hanging onto all of the negative and ignoring the positive?  When I hear people bash their exes I often long to say to them, “what does that say about you”?  After all you chose that person, so there must have been something good in there at some point.  Why not try and focus on that.  I know there are some serious exceptions to this, but not all situations are so bad that you can’t at least try and see some things from the other person’s perspective.

We tearfully drove away from lunch together knowing we were entering a period of fear and grief but both feeling a great sense of relief.  I remember relaxing into the idea and seeing him as my friend again.  I made a decision right then and there that we could literally have the best divorce ever and I told him so.  Luckily for me and for the kids, he jumped on board with that idea and we began the work of re-building what being “us” looks like.

I think people feel societal pressure to “stick it out for the sake of the kids”.  I get that, I really do, but what if you staying together is actually bad for the kids?  I know that our kids are better off seeing their parents as friends and not enemies.  I also know that our kids have not come out of this unscathed, but I know that this is part of their story now and that we can’t shield them from all pain.  I know we can honor the pain they feel about the divorce and work together to support them as best we can.  What Frank and I can do is become better chapters in our kids’ stories and our own going forward. 

So much about living a congruent life is acceptance.  It is a concept I learned in recovery.  In order to live congruently, which is something most of us strive to do, it means you have to accept the divine reality of situations and life in general.  If you can do that, then you can move forward with integrity and faith. 

And for the record we are going out for dinner on the 29th of December on what would have been our 15th anniversary, because why not?

“Somewhere in the Middle Lies the Truth”

 

“When you talk, you are only repeating what you already know.  But if you listen, you may learn something new.” Dalai Lama

 

These are divisive times for sure.  Whether you voted for Trump or Clinton you are probably looking at friends who voted the opposite and wondering how they can think the way they do.  I have been caught up with it this week myself, but then I remembered something very simple.  It is a principle I know all too well from growing up and moving through life in recovery.  That principle is, “there are two sides to every story, and somewhere in the middle lies the truth”.

It should no longer astound me that people can look at the same thing and see it very differently.  My brother and I grew up in the same family, in the same house with the same parents and had vastly different experiences.  I can state with assurance that my father was an alcoholic, my brother would argue (and has) that my father was not an alcoholic.  I would tell you without hesitation that my mother is mentally and has been since I was a child.  My brother would tell you that she has dementia that started only a few years ago.  It would appear that we are both right and we are both wrong and somewhere in the middle lies the truth.

I look at my children.  They have the same parents, lived until recently as a family unit and share mostly the same life experiences but they could not be more different.  They see the same incident and come away with different perspectives often.  Wren has her reality and truth and Dermot has his own reality and truth.  But here is the thing…  They have SHARED experiences and they STILL see things differently.  Now imagine if they had vastly DIFFERENT experiences and think how vastly different their realities could/would be?  That is what is being highlighted now I believe.

A close friend of mine posted a cartoon on his Facebook page the other day and I shared it on.  It shows two men facing each other and looking down at a number painted on the floor.  One says, “six”, the other man standing opposite looking at the same number says, “nine”.  They are both right and they are both wrong.  They are seeing the same number but they are looking at that number from different perspectives.

I guess my hope is that we recognize that we are looking at the same number (or country) but some are seeing “sixes” and some are seeing “nines”.  I am attempting, by listening, to make my way at least halfway around the issue to see the other number so I can understand the perspective.  In understanding I think we can find a way to work together and not against each other.

For the record, I agree with peaceful protests but I abhor violence.  I am a fan of debate, as long as it is civil.  I know where I stand on humanitarianism, refugees, immigrants, race, gender and orientation, not I want to understand where others stand on those same issues so we can move forward.  I will continue to post the things I believe in and I will continue to listen to those who see a “six” when I see a “nine’.  Because in the end, “there are two sides to every story and somewhere in the middle lies the truth”.