Work In Progress

Today I am not at work.  Instead, I am catching up on missed television episodes, folding laundry, knitting, writing and resting.    In the hopscotch of fall colds, everyone in my house has toppled--except me.  I remain one hop ahead and a day on the couch helps me keep my balance.   Tomorrow, it will be one month since I returned to work after an almost two year absence.  So far, the hardest part has been deciding what to wear.  I would like to blame it on the fact that the past two years my choices were limited to a variety of shades of stretchy pants and I am out of practice, but it has always been this way.    Three days a week--soon to be back to five--I put on something professional looking and venture out into the "big world", drive 15 minutes to my new location of work, wave hello to colleagues, grab a coffee and press the button that brings my computer to life.   It is hard to describe the feeling of being the...

I have written often of the "small world" of my back deck - here and here - and here  and (sheesh) here  where I cocooned my first summer after my crash, reading, writing and just learning how to live inside my body and yet be part of the world that existed just outside my patio doors. It was my haven---a morning glory entwined gazebo, purple-pink sunrises, warm breezes and warmer coffee.  From the comfort of my chair, I could watch the "big world" go by over my fence.   Each morning, mass transit swallowed waiting patrons, only to spit them out at the end of the day as they returned home.  I imagined them all going to work-- happy, competent, well adjusted and 'normal'.  At the end of the day, they came home--- mostly looking like their same happy, competent, well adjusted, 'normal' selves.   It made me feel small and broken and terrified---and definitely not normal.      The "big world" was too much for me...

It has been 18 months since my foundation gave way and I came crashing down, admitted to the Adult Mental Health Ward and started this soul work; this journey toward self a.k.a. "thehardestworkIhaveeverhadtodo.   It's still hard. Every day.   Following the masculine power model; I was pretty sure if I just set out a few goals, created a plan and checklist of things to complete I would be able to get back to juggling the forty seven things I always tried to do perfectly with no help, while swallowing managing my asthma, IBS, ear infections, two kids and  my anger at how inept most other people were. It felt a bit like a recipe: Start with a big dose of therapy Sprinkle liberally with medication  Dump in two, eight week courses of group therapy  Pour all into "ME" and bake until done. Problem is, there is no "done". Right now the work rehabilitation guy and I are playing phone tag.  He e-mails, I c...

Last summer, I wrote about my small world. The world of pink and purple morning sky, hot coffee and birdsong on my back deck.  Flowing dresses, birdsong, warm breezes caressing my skin; I was trying to find peace in this small world as the big world over my fence zoomed by in cars and busses carrying people to work---the one place that had contributed so highly to my breakdown.  Since then, I have applied myself to finding tools and people to help me feel settled in my own skin. To sit and do nothing and fall back into old habits would have been infinitely easier than to do the work.  It is the work of the soul; to find your way back to the you that has always been there.  I found Brene Brown, Inner Mean Girl Reform School, Mood and Anxiety Group at the hospital, my therapist, the Sisters Social, meditation, Eat, Share, Love group, my Sista Perfectionista...and all of it helped me take myself apart and put it back to...

The reason I became a morning person is not because I couldn't sleep in any longer, which I hear happens as you grow older, nor  was it because I had to get to work; but rather, I became a morning person because of 20 lbs. of black, fuzzy, four legged Scottie-poo dogginess that liked me insofar as much as she liked to hold my hand---in her teeth. I grew up with dogs and as most kids do, played with them for 2 minutes at a time and grumbled about calling the CDC every time you were ordered to pick up the dog poo, or child services if you had to take them for a walk.  Parents could avoid a lot of unnecessary yelling if they just acknowledged that THEY are indulging themselves when getting a dog, and abandon the illusion that it is a "family" pet.  You are only fooling yourself. So that is what I did.  I told everyone the dog would be mine.  I would feed and walk and bathe and clean up after said dog.  Hel...