No dinner. It is just me, the few snacks I have over thought and the clock counting down to the book groups arrival. The children have been sent out of the house with the hubby leaving me to fester in the stress. As the time ticks by my anxiety fog gets denser until I am sweating and pacing. My level of fear would suggest I was prepping for a firing squad to arrive instead of the dozen neighborhood women I enjoy discussing books with each month. By the time the door bell arrives, I muddle through the evening knowing the worst part awaits. Interacting with everyone, sharing wine, discussing the The Hunger Games, devouring guacamole, trading stories of motherhood and life in our hood usually leave me feeling happy as the last guest leaves. Then I climb into bed and the negative thought wave kicks in. In the dark, all my actions and words from the evening go under the microscope of my insecurities and distortions. And the firing squad begins.
I have social anxiety. It has only become clear to me in the last couple years as it has gotten more and more crippling and isolating. My desire for solid friendships are hindered by the thoughts and distortions I tell myself, about myself. It prevents me from opening up, showing I care, and trusting others. Anything that is said or happens, my anxiety will twist to harm me. As I laid in bed watching my thoughts attack my pleasant evening, I realize my only way through this attack on myself is to be with each distortion and see it as the enemy instead of myself. I didn't get much sleep.
The next morning I did my walk in a daze of sleeplessness and vulnerability. Pandora sent me "Help I'm Alive" by Metric. My fears perfectly summarized. Sometimes surviving the event is only the beginning of the struggle. As I learn to accept my struggle with social anxiety, I believe it will deliver me to a place of self-acceptance. Self-acceptance, so I am told in my psychology textbook, is the foundation of solid relationships. So, there is hope. Truth be told, I can remember these fears and distortions all the way back to 2nd grade. When you choose to ignore something for so long, it can spin into an ugly monster. So, as me and my monster work through our issues I will clunk through more social events and gatherings so I can offer myself the challenge of working through it.
It's a start, right?
Help I'm Alive by Metric
Monday, September 26, 2011
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Disorientation
Frustrated and sweaty, I started trekking back to the Campus Center. Every person I spoke with on campus in the last hour was unable to help me because I didn't have my passphrase. Feeling old and disoriented, I began to doubt my choice of coming back to school.
Maybe I really am too old.
Ten years ago I remember walking up to the bank teller like counter at the MATC registrar with an enrollment issues and watching the lady with 25+ years experience and plenty of weight with the professors, resolve the issue with a sigh, eye roll while filing her nails. I didn't need a passphrase just a carbon sheet with the right boxes checked (or else endure an additional eye roll) and a deep breath to rebound the negative energy. No additional walking, tracking down professors or specialized advisers who are happy to help on days they aren't telecommuting. Just you and some lady named Jean who was the enrollment goddess, ready to unleash her wrath with her Wisconsin accent and strong dislike for people from Illinois.
When I decided to go back to school this fall not everyone was excited for me. I can't even call myself excited about it. I am more resolute. It is something I must do. The critics voices walk with me on the 90 degree, passphraseless day on the quad of IUPUI as I pass the library. Questioning my age, my major in psychology and my constant need to win over my critics, I realize I am only walking with my fear of failure. Now I really feel old, because this fear has been with me for as long as I could remember and has prevented me from starting many things.
As I cross under the bridge, and enter the thick of the WOW festivities, I realize I am on a college campus. I am not the only one here with a fear of failure. I am not the only one here who will question a chosen major. I am not the only one here gaining knowledge of a subject in an effort to define myself. How am I ever gonna know if I am going to fail if I don't try? And so what if I do. "Failure isn't failure if a lesson from it's learned." I believed those words when Garth Brooks sung them 13 years ago when I moved from Illinois to Wisconsin, and they are going to pull me through now. Or at least until I figure out my passphrase.
Maybe I really am too old.
Ten years ago I remember walking up to the bank teller like counter at the MATC registrar with an enrollment issues and watching the lady with 25+ years experience and plenty of weight with the professors, resolve the issue with a sigh, eye roll while filing her nails. I didn't need a passphrase just a carbon sheet with the right boxes checked (or else endure an additional eye roll) and a deep breath to rebound the negative energy. No additional walking, tracking down professors or specialized advisers who are happy to help on days they aren't telecommuting. Just you and some lady named Jean who was the enrollment goddess, ready to unleash her wrath with her Wisconsin accent and strong dislike for people from Illinois.
When I decided to go back to school this fall not everyone was excited for me. I can't even call myself excited about it. I am more resolute. It is something I must do. The critics voices walk with me on the 90 degree, passphraseless day on the quad of IUPUI as I pass the library. Questioning my age, my major in psychology and my constant need to win over my critics, I realize I am only walking with my fear of failure. Now I really feel old, because this fear has been with me for as long as I could remember and has prevented me from starting many things.
As I cross under the bridge, and enter the thick of the WOW festivities, I realize I am on a college campus. I am not the only one here with a fear of failure. I am not the only one here who will question a chosen major. I am not the only one here gaining knowledge of a subject in an effort to define myself. How am I ever gonna know if I am going to fail if I don't try? And so what if I do. "Failure isn't failure if a lesson from it's learned." I believed those words when Garth Brooks sung them 13 years ago when I moved from Illinois to Wisconsin, and they are going to pull me through now. Or at least until I figure out my passphrase.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Nothing much
The Rolling Stone magazines are piling up on the entry table. The pop station and Pandora are seeing me through. As for singing, I am going back to the standards which make me smile because they can sound so good with little effort. Cooking is mostly done on the grill which is not my domain. Cleaning is limited to emergency and speed pickups. The laundry...well this was my recent Facebook post about that....
"Dear Family, Laundry requires time at home. If I am not home it apparently doesn't get done and put away. So before you walk away in an exasperated huff, throw in a load. Return in 30 minutes to complain, and throw it in the dryer. It is the secret formula I have been using all these years. Love, Me"
A state of noticeable disorder usually comes at a high price of guilt and generates considerable thought garbage. So much guilt that I wouldn't hear my children's laughter. So much thought garbage that I would ignore my husband's jokes. So much guilt and thought garbage I still wouldn't get anything done because I had to think about how bad I felt. With two boys, disorder has been my natural state for the past 8 years which means feeling bad about myself has also been my mental state.
This school year, I came up for air. By mid April, I started anticipating the summer chaos that would disrupt my fragile order. My first instinct when overcome with anxiety and possible disorder is to plan it away. I would cope with free time with safety net of sign ups, lists, trips and camps. However, Alex asked for a summer of nothing. At first this only heightened my panic, but with thought I realized won't the summer go better if he is doing exactly what he wants or in this case doesn't want to do. So, early May they each picked one 3 day camp, and all other brochures were recycled. All guilt went in the bin. I would be the camp director, and I only had one lesson plan. Follow their lead.
There has been plenty of spontaneous outings, playing with friends and even more Spongebob. We are laughing, playing and most of all listening to each other. The clarity and happiness is worth more than all the folded laundry and organized papers time has to offer. There is still plenty of fighting, frustrations (see above post) and anger which comes with too much togetherness. They are kids, so they are immature and still unable to handle these situations, as can be expected from children. My only adjustment is to stop expecting them to be adult.
Yesterday, I was singing along to one of my all time favorite songs, "Float On" by Modest Mouse. I first heard it when my life was at its most disorderly with 2 boys under 2, my husband pushing through a post-doc, and the constant feeling of there was never enough time to right the ship. Six years later, with bowls of ice cream and some pretty impressive chair dancing, the boys and I were able to float past those days and soak up the moment.
"Dear Family, Laundry requires time at home. If I am not home it apparently doesn't get done and put away. So before you walk away in an exasperated huff, throw in a load. Return in 30 minutes to complain, and throw it in the dryer. It is the secret formula I have been using all these years. Love, Me"
A state of noticeable disorder usually comes at a high price of guilt and generates considerable thought garbage. So much guilt that I wouldn't hear my children's laughter. So much thought garbage that I would ignore my husband's jokes. So much guilt and thought garbage I still wouldn't get anything done because I had to think about how bad I felt. With two boys, disorder has been my natural state for the past 8 years which means feeling bad about myself has also been my mental state.
This school year, I came up for air. By mid April, I started anticipating the summer chaos that would disrupt my fragile order. My first instinct when overcome with anxiety and possible disorder is to plan it away. I would cope with free time with safety net of sign ups, lists, trips and camps. However, Alex asked for a summer of nothing. At first this only heightened my panic, but with thought I realized won't the summer go better if he is doing exactly what he wants or in this case doesn't want to do. So, early May they each picked one 3 day camp, and all other brochures were recycled. All guilt went in the bin. I would be the camp director, and I only had one lesson plan. Follow their lead.
There has been plenty of spontaneous outings, playing with friends and even more Spongebob. We are laughing, playing and most of all listening to each other. The clarity and happiness is worth more than all the folded laundry and organized papers time has to offer. There is still plenty of fighting, frustrations (see above post) and anger which comes with too much togetherness. They are kids, so they are immature and still unable to handle these situations, as can be expected from children. My only adjustment is to stop expecting them to be adult.
Yesterday, I was singing along to one of my all time favorite songs, "Float On" by Modest Mouse. I first heard it when my life was at its most disorderly with 2 boys under 2, my husband pushing through a post-doc, and the constant feeling of there was never enough time to right the ship. Six years later, with bowls of ice cream and some pretty impressive chair dancing, the boys and I were able to float past those days and soak up the moment.
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