My happy place

Why is it that those with the least amount of reserve are sometimes the ones giving the most to others?

In healthcare there is a thing called caregiver strain. Those caring for a loved one or working full time caring for patients in a hospital or other healthcare facility can actually get burned out from giving so much emotionally and physically to the ones they serve. And it can be detrimental to THEIR health.

With a bit of introspection (and the help of a trained professional) I learned today that I continually give to support others even when my own reserves are running dry. As my children are learning in school, there are cup fillers and cup drainers. I fill the cup of those around me, even if it means that my last drop is given away. Can you say the same? Do you get as much support from others as you, yourself, give? Or are you the one always getting support but you don’t give a lot in return? No judgment here, just a question.

So I need to find things on a regular basis that fill my cup again. I’ve been given a prescription to do something I enjoy and that helps me relax. I guess I’m bad enough at relaxing that I had to be given a prescription for it. Now, to find that relaxing thing…

Back in the day, I wrote poetry and songs and stories, I painted…lately my only release has been exercise but I haven’t been able to do it in 3 weeks. This is not good for my mental health! So back to that poetry…here goes my first assignment…

My Happy Place

The sun setting on the horizon

The breeze gently blowing through my hair

I sit in my comfy chair on the porch

Curled up in my favorite blanket

Listening to the crickets and the frogs and the owls just waking up.

The kids are in bed

Tucked under the covers

Gentle purring comes from their rooms.

Not a care in the world

My heart slows and keeps beat with the bullfrogs in the water.

I watch as the first stars come into view in the darkening sky

And start to see the moon’s reflection on the calm water of the lake.

Out in the yard

I hear the crackling of the campfire

The delicious smell of the freshly fallen wood taking flame fills my nose.

I join my love by the fire and watch the dancing flames.

This is my happy place.

I’ve got CRS

At what point do you start to wonder about dementia? Is it too early to worry about it when you’re in your thirties? I mean, seriously?! Where the f#%! did I leave my keys? Where are my favorite boots? What time did I schedule that appointment? Which child has their conference tonight? Where’s my phone?!?! Oh yeah, it’s in my hand. Ugh…

I work in neurology, so sometimes I feel like I know too much. But sometimes it’s just enough to make me think I’m a hypochondriac. I mean, when you’re in your twenties and thirties, you shouldn’t forget things as often as I do, right??

I have my calendar on my phone now, because I couldn’t remember where I had my pocket-sized calendar. I don’t remember when my kids met all their milestones anymore, but I can tell you they were ahead of all of them. BUT, I can tell you what my first AND second drivers license numbers were, a few phone numbers from when I was a kid, my social security number, and some random other facts that have somehow managed not to escape my brain. And I can remember which room in the hospital many of my patients were in, way back to the year 2000 when I was a nursing assistant.

And do I really worry about dementia? No. I know it’s really just stress. I’ve been so stressed for so long that I can’t even hold onto memories. Sometimes I think it’s my brain’s way of protecting me from things that were painful and I don’t REALLY want to remember them anyway. But unfortunately not all the memories that slipped away were painful. I wish I could have them all back, but I guess some things in the movie Inside Out were spot on – after a while the old memories get shoved to the dump never to be retrieved again.

So I suffer from stress-induced CRS disease. Can’t. Remember. Shit. …….ugh. My kids remind me of things, thankfully, and some of the memories come back when they say things or do things that they used to do. And I’m grateful when those memories pop back into my mind, instead of heading off to the dump. But I still can’t rattle off my favorite recipe for tater tot hot dish. I’ll still pull it up on my tablet and scroll through it as I cook. It’s on the menu for tomorrow night. I better go find the link…

Am I 13 or 39?

Running down the hall for the front of the building, trying to get out the front doors before they can reach me and punch me in the back, pull my hair, or push me. Hearing them yell at me, call me names, talk about me as I walk past them in a busy hallway. Listening to them on the other end of the phone as they say I better be scared because they’re going to kill me. They called me a whore, a slut, ugly, stupid. I had only even kissed one boy by this time, I was at the top of my class. But I ended up in the principal’s office trying to defend myself from these attacks, and no one believed me…

This is all so very real in my memory. I can see it all as it happened. I was 13 years old, in one of the most impressionable times of my life. I had all the confidence in the world up to this point. I had written an essay about my dream car for English class – it was going to be a black Mustang convertible with red racing stripes, and a license plate that read “GODDESS”…because I was THAT sure of myself. I was a straight A student, very naïve, didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t drink, I didn’t do drugs, I didn’t sleep with boys, I didn’t dress provocatively. But my best friend that I had since preschool started being friends with the girls who came from the juvenile detention home, and she started doing drugs and drinking with them, and she wasn’t happy that I wouldn’t join her, so she joined them in attacking me instead.

I loved school, I loved my friends…up to that point. I lost most of my friends, including my best friend. It had been instilled in me that in our family, we didn’t fight. So I didn’t fight. I ran. And I cried. And that made them pick on me even more, because I didn’t fight back. I became an easy target.

My mom asked me what I had done to have them treat me like this, because it didn’t make sense that it would start out of nowhere. None of it made sense. The school principal didn’t believe that things like this could be happening on school property. The sheriff, who was also a friend of the family, said there’s no way these girls would do something like that, because they’re trying to improve their lives… so what?… I must be lying??

All of the adults in my life that I trusted were questioning me. My parents chose to do open enrollment at the end of the school year and transfer me to the school in a neighboring district. I never got picked on again like that. In fact, the first year I was there, I was voted in as Snow Queen for our snow days celebration, then I was voted in for class officer. But I never got over the initial insult… Transferring to another school, while it was the best thing for me, helped me further cement the idea that running away was always the best option. Fight or flight, right? I couldn’t fight, so I flew, I ran.

With the help of my therapist, we’ve identified that this was a changing point in my life. I went from a carefree, confident kid to a people-pleasing, indecisive one. I put on a face of confidence, but any bit of critique knocked me down. I’ve never cared for confrontation, and I didn’t know how to stand up for myself. I knew how to run. That started a destructive time in my life and led to some decisions that I can never take back…but that’s a whole other conversation…

At 39, I have triggers that send me back to that school hallway and I feel like that same little 13-year-old who couldn’t defend herself and had people saying and doing awful things to her. My heart starts racing, I have panic attacks. I get sick to my stomach when I have to have adult conversations. I get upset and I cry, because that’s all I’ve known. But with the help of my therapist, I’m slowly gaining my confidence back. I’m slowly getting to the point that those memories are just that – memories – and they no longer control me. I am not the things those people said I was – I never have been. I’m learning to speak my feelings, and realize that the world doesn’t end when I voice my opinion, and it’s possible to have calm conversations with differing points of view – everything doesn’t have to be an argument.

Why do I share this? Because I’m working on shame resilience. I’m working on fixing me rather than putting bandaids on my injuries. And I’m hopeful that by sharing my experiences, it will help even one other person to feel like they can share their experiences and realize they are not bound by them. You are not the awful things mean people say about you. You are worthy, you are valuable, you are deserving – of something so much more than what you think you are. I’m looking forward to a time in the not-too-distant future where I can have passing thoughts of junior high that don’t set off a panic attack, and I’m able to just be me. Because I like 39-year-old me.

Hello there!

Let me introduce myself…I am a mother of 3 crazy boys, work full time, would rather spend more time in nature…oh yeah, and I’ve been divorced twice. How’s that for a blind introduction?

I’ve had a crazy past couple of years, which it turns out actually has been longer than a couple years. While doing a lot of reading for personal development, I realized I wasn’t where I wanted to be in life. I tried to get my partner in crime to grow with me, but instead we grew apart – badly. And I ended up in therapy. How am I the one to end up in therapy? Who knows, but I’m glad I did. I learned that my troubles started long before husband #2 came into the picture…even long before husband #1!

Adulting is hard. Parenting is hard. Spousing (is that even a word??) is even harder. I’m about to embark on a journey that I’m hoping will help at least one other person out there on the word wide interweb. I’m sure I’m not the only one who has struggled with perfectionism, wondered if she was a good enough mom/wife/sister/daughter…wondered if she made the right choices…wondered how in the world she got where she is… Am I??

If you are even a little bit intrigued as to what kind of stories I might share, please bookmark my page, share as you see fit with other stressed out mamas out there, sit back with a glass of wine, or beer, or tea or coffee or water…and read on…