Work In Progress

I recently acknowledged my one year "back-to-work-iversary" after two years off after a deep dive into depression and anxiety--hospital stays--support groups, medication and therapy.  To borrow a word from Glennon Doyle Melton, it is Brutiful.   It is Beautiful.  Tender, raw and vulnerable, falling forward into blinding fear and self-love --where everyone is doing the best that they can---really.  Undone by the spectre of judgement and perfectionism no more. Brutal.  Tender, raw and vulnerable, falling backward into blinding fear and self-doubt -- where everyone is doing the best that they can? ---really?  Undone by the spectre of judgement and perfectionism! No more.... It is the flip side of the same coin and each day is a new toss. I have been favoured with more Beautiful than Brutal.   Life is Brutiful But... Brutal stalks my peripheral, winking, as I cast a furtive glance over my shoulder, my feet pounding the ground...

I feel like we flipped from winter to summer and skipped spring all together. Everything is suddenly green, I have mowed the lawn twice and all I want to do is get my hands into the earth and start planting things.  Each day, I "tour" my small backyard garden to evaluate the new appearances and there seems so much to do to get ready.   I can't help but to make comparisons to my life.  I have gone from "on long term disability" to someone waiting for the rehabilitation specialist to call (which I thought, would be quite quickly after receiving his e-mail that he would call....) to get started back to work.  Again, I feel like there is a lot of work to do!   Three times a week I Body Flow and Zumba my way away from the evil scale numbers; not yet where I would like to be; the summer before last's capri pants remain unbuttonable.  Combined with cutting out wheat and sugar for over a month, I was able to edge away from the number on the scale I had...

As human beings, we are hardwired for connection.  It is the common thread that connects everything I read these days regardless of the title, theme; whether it is on the bestseller list or notes I have taken while in the hospital programs.   Last summer I read Brene Brown's The Gifts of Imperfection and I wrote as I read.  It was a bit like shopping for new clothes.  I tried on her words.  What did they look like if I put them on?  Which ones fit me?    It was harder then.  I had felt like the hospital programs had helped me identify and discard many unhelpful patterns of though and behavior. The problem was, while I was working hard to let them go, I was struggling with who that left behind.  It was an identity void.  The things that had defined me, were also the things that had destroyed me, but they were also the things that had made me successful and carried me far in life.   I held up "need for connection" ...

I am back at the Leaning Tower of Pisa that started this whole blog over 80 posts ago (and yes that is me in the foreground).   Back then, I was an observer; intellectualizing the Tower and the path in my head as I took a few steps in the general direction to  plant a shovel here and there, probing the soil for a good point of entry.  Work in Progress signs were hung and after a few weeks the digging began.  And like any project--there were delays--and unexpected circumstances which allowed me to emerge from the musty subterranean tunnel to gulp down the fresh air I didn't know I was missing while searching for the broken part in me that made me so off balance.    But it's been months and months and I am far below the Tower, digging; the cool dampness compressing my lungs; words and thoughts  absorbed by the loamy damp earth; each shovel exposing more and more of my damaged spirit.  It has been heart a...

Exhaling, zipper up,  material straining across hips, thighs compressed, the truth of my lack of motivation to do anything about my weight stared at me in the mirror in the form of a muffin top. Joy, confidence and self-worth sat discarded like the cotton, blue and while flowered sundress I'd abandoned in favor of something warmer as the sky shifted from light blue to pinks and purples.  They whispering amongst themselves, and refused to look my way when I tried to catch their eye.   These were my too-big-size-six-Old Navy-on-sale-I-know-I-am-a-perfect-size-four-at-Old-Navy-but-they-were-on-sale--capris .  As purple spread across the sky I slipped a loose sweatshirt over my head that covered the offense, reminding myself to look up a recent post I had done on being defeated by a red dress.... how long ago was that?  Time is a slippery thing.  WeekENDs do not distinguish them...

Elbow deep in my bag on my arm, my fingers walked  quickly  over the contents, quickly identifying and then rejecting each item in a blind attempt to locate my wallet. The last few items beeped through the scanner as drops of sweat formed and slowly rolled down the back of my shirt.   The cashier shifted from one foot to the other, letting out an audible sigh. She shared a knowing smirk with the growing line behind me.   "It's in here somewhere".  My purse puddled on the counter in front of me, I continued to dig, feeling a flash of warmth ricochet around my body.  My hand returned over and over to my sister's wallet that I was carrying for her as she scanned the birthday cards for an appropriate selection.   "Let me grab my sister."   As I bolted from the cashier line, I saw her heading my way and waved her forward.  The line collectively shook there heads.   I quickly fi...

The subtitle for this chapter is Letting Go of Perfection.  I have blogged about my challenges with perfection....my perfectionista persona and my glaring lack of self-compassion.  I can excuse others for many things, but in therapy I used words like failure, incompetent, stupid and weak like a whack a mole hammer to beat myself down.  My therapist was always commenting that I was incredibly hard on myself.  I am not sure I ever agreed with her.  Brené Brown writes that our attempts to be perfect are our attempts to avoid shame, blame and judgement from others. The problem is, the more we strive to be this unattainable perfect the more we have to keep it up--to do better--to avoid letting people see our true, flawed, vulnerable selves. She says perfectionists are looking for approval and acceptance, not from themselves, but from others.  This is self-destructive because you cannot control the perceptions of others.  Continuall...

 Like many of the things Brene Brown talks about in The Gifts of Imperfection, Authenticity is not something you have or don't have, it is something you have the potential for, it just takes practice. So those people who practice it daily have become really good at being honest, showing up and "letting their true self be seen". The fact that many of the concepts she talks about--perfectionism, courage, compassion etc. are all choices makes me feel hopeful. I can have or be any of these things.  But it is also daunting.  It means I have to practice. Some of it may feel familiar, like riding a bike, I just need to get on a pedal a bit and I have it, but other parts are going to be like handing me a baton again.  Yes, I took baton lessons when I was about 8 --but I am surely going to clunk myself in the head a lot before I can get the damn thing spinning around properly.  And with anything that is hard, or hurts, who wants to try that each and every day...