the best part of me

So, the first thing I wrote for the title of this post was "healing a wounded heart."  Then I immediately erased it. Why? Because, first, it made me feel bad about myself, and second, I remembered hearing somewhere that we all have control over our own narratives and we get to decide how we tell ourselves our own stories (or something along those lines).

**I just looked it up and this isn't where I first heard it, but it's the same idea: story editing.  Based on Psychology Today's article Rewrite Your Life,"we are the stories we tell—and we are compelled to create stories to understand ourselves... Our ability to make sense of, and create meaning from, memories defines how we feel about ourselves and shapes the identity we create throughout our lives...We can't change the past, but we can change how it affects us and who it makes us. When we tweak what we tell ourselves about the past, we can redirect our future. In our relationships, through our life choices, or at our jobs, we can recognize our mistakes, move on, and start to embody a different story...Rewriting helps you organize your thoughts and feelings and put them into words. This, in turn, helps you gain perspective, sort out your emotions, and increase narrative coherence—your understanding of who you are, how you became that person, and where you are going."

Exactly.  So I have decided that rather than telling a story that feels self-deprecating-and makes me feel stupid for being a victim in my own life-I would much rather focus on a story that highlights my strengths as a caring, accepting, giving and strong woman.

That doesn't mean my heart doesn't look like this.  It does.  (What can I say? It's been through a lot). But the thing that I have to keep reminding myself is that there is nothing wrong with that.  It is not bad or shameful or negative to have a heart like mine; it is what it is.  It's had some burns and bruises along the way and it is not as carefree and innocent and open as it used to be.  But it is mine and it is beautiful. (Just typing that is still really hard for me. If I keep writing it and saying it, eventually I will believe it right?) My heart is beautiful.

This whole subject came up when a lot of feelings, that were buried down pretty deep, got stirred up today.  A friend at my work that I've known since high school brought up a memory that I had completely blocked from my mind--it was a concert we went to together with a group of friends in Flagstaff, Az 16 years ago!  He remembered tons of details about it and I vaguely remember even being there.  I definitely don't remember how we got there, where we stayed afterwards or much of anything during the actual show. (Well..ok, that's not entirely true.  I DO remember the hippy girls dancing with giant hula hoops in the grass. Pretty great).  I also remember being there with a guy that I ended up marrying a year or so later for all the wrong reasons that turned out to be a deceitful manipulator in our relationship.  Not so great.  (Hence the memory blocking).

This happened to me.  I married a guy when I was 19.  I met him the summer I graduated high school when I was working at the Grand Canyon.  I was a young, naive, 18 year old brand-new high school graduate, on her own for the first time, and was very religious, faithful, and full of positivity, adventure and passion for life.  I had always been kind of a shy person, but had a new found confidence in being on my own without anyone I knew and a summer of hiking adventures ahead of me!  I met this guy that was completely different than me and I was intrigued...he was a Jewish, spiritual-hippy southern boy from Louisiana with a big personality (and I found out later full of hidden insecurities, fear and weed).  As an innocent little Mormon girl, this was an odd pairing to say the least.  Our tree-hugging tendencies made up the basis of our connection and I got caught up in the idea of who I thought he was without being able to recognize the unhealthy behaviors he was exhibiting. These became more clear later on after he came back to Utah with me, converted to Mormonism (which was intricately tied to my identity at the time), stayed in my parents house with me, somehow convinced me to get engaged (this is still boggling to me because I was planning to leave for Switzerland for five months to live with my aunt and uncle as a nanny for their four daughters AND I had always vowed not to get married until I was 25). Well, we ultimately ended up eloping the next summer (even after I had tried to break it off with him multiple times) and didn't get divorced until four years later.  Again, it's hard not to paint myself as the victim in the story.  There are two sides to every relationship and I had my part in it; I need to own up to that.

I was hoping that writing about my experience would help me process the heaviness I feel in my heart right now, but I still feel stuck... so I googled "manipulator in relationships" and what I found is helping me identify why I still feel upset.  A manipulative relationship is one-sided and unbalanced, advancing the goals of the manipulator (him) at the expense of the person being manipulated (me)...Manipulative people twist your thoughts, actions, wants and desires into something that better suits how they see the world and they mold you into someone that serves their own purposes. Some of the characteristics of a manipulator include: forcing their insecurities on you, causing you to doubt yourself, making you responsible for their emotions, and making you believe you want what they want." 

In retrospect, and with the help of google, I think I can pinpoint how this happened. I embodied what can be described as an "emotional caretaker", which basically means "a person who sincerely wants to please others and are generally nice people, but can be easily manipulated by others...They tend to be passive and overly compliant with high levels of guilt and obligation, or fear of anger in others. An emotional caretaker would rather feel hurt, angry, or depressed themselves rather than have the person they care about experience any of those feelings. This makes them highly vulnerable to being taken advantage of and mistreated in relationships with people who are highly self-oriented and selfish."  That basically sums up our relationship.

According to LifeEsteem, these are the common traits of those who are vulnerable to manipulators (I would say also pretty common of Mormon women, including myself at the time):

•  You feel useful and loved only when you can take care of the needs of other people. 
•  You need to have the approval and acceptance of other people.
•  You fear expressing negative emotions. 
•  You are unable to say no. 
•  You lack a firm sense of your own self.

What is the cost of being an emotional caretaker in a manipulative relationship?

• loss of  self-esteem
• increased anxiety and depression
• a growing sense of hopelessness and helplessness
• exhaustion
• a sense of emptiness
• increasing hurt; fear; and frustration.

I think why this story made me feel so upset today is because I was reminded of the part I played in allowing myself to be manipulated. I still carry around some fear inside that some of those past tendencies are going to taint my marriage now; and I worry that I am inherently flawed or weak because of it, possibly incapable of having healthy relationships at all because of my past experiences.

This must be where the re-writing comes in.  I have a watercolor I painted with the affirmation "allow the past guide you, not define you," hanging on my bedroom wall to remind myself to move forward with love, acceptance and faith rather than fear, anxiety and doubt.  My identity and my choices are fluid--I am not who I was and I know the future is not determined by my past.  My rational mind understands this and I want to believe it.  But to be honest, it's really hard to get rid of the fear, anxiety and doubt that I feel inside sometimes- it's really trying to hold on. 

Maybe a poem will help...

The Best Part of Me
my heart is big and full
like the grinch's heart bursting out of its metal box on a crisp Christmas morning,
it feels smooth and strong, 
like a small stone polished by a wandering river carving a deep canyon.
my heart feels heavy in my hands, 
brimming with love and care for the world;
yet malleable, silky and supple,
like wet clay waiting to be shaped, molded, transformed.
my heart allows me to sing in the wind and dance in the clouds;
it is warm and subtle, yet quiet and fierce.
Sometimes it appears fiery magenta, radiating light and sparks,
sometimes it emits a soft, pale blue, like a faint star in the morning sky emulating the brightness of the sun's glory
my heart is regal and fragile, 
wrapped in a royal sheet made with golden threads 
my heart is beautiful and brave;
fearless like a child,
my heart is my heart
and it's the best part of me.

Now this is how the story goes: I value myself and treat myself with as much respect as I do others. I value my own wants and needs and preferences. I set boundaries that don’t allow others to invalidate me, put me down, or ignore what is important to me. I care for myself first before offering to care for others.

Re-writing is the first step.  The next is to practice with discipline. I must change my self-perception and truly believe in the person I want to become.  Guided meditation has been helping me, but I struggle to stay consistent. 

Any tips?  What do you do to keep yourself disciplined?  Have you been able to change some of your deep seated behaviors and beliefs?

I am a workaholic.

Workaholic Owl by Redilion on DevianArt

It's true.  In elementary school I stayed up late re-organizing the furniture in my room.  In high school I stayed up late working on dozens of paintings for my AP Art class portfolio.  In college I pretty much always took 18 credits of classes on top of working a part-time job twenty hours a week.  The past 14 years I worked in the non-profit world and I almost always brought some work home with me.  Now that I'm a mom and work full-time, I've gotten a little better at leaving work at work, but I still check my work email on my phone at home. or on the way home. or before work.  Even when I'm at work, I always feel compelled to write just one more email before I take my lunch break.  (Which means I either forget to take lunch, am late meeting co-workers for lunch, or remember at 3pm and then give up and just eat a snack at my desk).

WHY DO I DO THIS???!!!

'       https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/57/94/a5/5794a5db33dac8be0d7004a362289ad0.jpg

http://www.gunaxin.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/12/Beehive-State.png

 I blame Utah.  At least partially.  I am a bonafide Utahn, so maybe it's hard to separate the blame from the person.  (Now maybe not all of these activities can be considered "work," but it's the act of keeping oneself "busy" all the time that gets to the heart of it).  The roots of my identity are anchored by the Utah Pioneers, both in genetics and cultural heritage.
I AM the "Beehive State."  The industry, hard work, and (can we call it art?) of busy-ness that Utah so proudly stands for, runs through my veins.  Unfortunately, I also inherited the guilt and self-righteous attitude that comes along with the belief that sacrificing your personal needs for the needs of others is noble and the act of "being productive" and staying "busy" makes you valuable and righteous and worthy of love... 

When I was in elementary school I got paid to do extra chores for my mom like folding socks (she gave me 10 cents per pair and I actually made decent money for an eight year old) -- genius. She also paid me to help organize the unfinished portion of the basement (or did she?)  I did this several times.  (Talk about being busy for the sake of being busy).  There were mountains of laundry that either needed to be washed or folded, bags of random craft supplies, clearance Christmas decorations and random fabric and sewing patterns (for future projects that would never get completed, or even started).  Maybe I did it because I just felt the need to get rid of trivial "stuff."  It's just stuff right? (My siblings and I call that part of the basement "the landfill," or the "dungeon", and yes, it still exists. Once it's clean, mom just buys new "stuff" to fill it up again.  "It was on sale"). I've since given up on that endeavor.  (Though I could probably get easily get roped into doing it again if I believed it would actually stay clean and organized).


I'm glad my parents taught us that you need to work to get things that you want.  I don't know if it was out of necessity or if they were intentionally trying to instill in us the value of hard work, but either way, I think we got the message.  My grandma genuinely embodied the value of hard work and sacrifice throughout her life. My four siblings and I took turns going to her house on Saturdays after my grandpa died (brain cancer).  On our day, she would pick one of us up at our house in Sandy and drive us back to her house in South Salt Lake for a day with grandma.  We loved it.  It typically looked like this: we would help her do a small house project like planting her tomatoes and marigolds or painting a section of the fence, or helping her organize the garage, and she would pay us $20 for maybe 2 hours of work.  Then she'd get us KFC or Arctic Circle for lunch and we'd bring it back to her house to eat on real dishes and drink sprite with bendy straws in the kitchen.  Next we'd play card games all afternoon on the kitchen table with her and our aunt while eating cookies and fudge and rice krispy treats until it was time to go back home -- it was the best.  That's how it was in my family -- even play days with grandma involved some kind of "project," no matter how small.  I'm fairly certain my grandma did it to instill in us the value of hard work (and to give her an excuse to give us money).  

I started working my first "real job" at 14, mainly so I could earn money to get gear and passes to go snowboarding with my friends.  I had a paper route every day for maybe a year (where I had to wake up at 4am to deliver newspapers on my bike, or from the back of my dad's Chevy blazer when I woke up late--poor dad, sorry I roped you into it too!).  I also worked at my dad's Packaging Store occasionally on Saturdays, until I turned 16. Once I started high school and could legally work up front and handle cash, I started working after-school too and even took work release my senior year so I could work full-time hours and save up money for my dream of going to Europe after I graduated...

I'm not quite sure what the moral of this story is, except to say that for me, working has always been an important part of my life.  Now that I'm a mother, that needs to change.  Not the working part, because obviously being a mom is hard work.  And working a full-time job and being a mom is also very hard work.  What needs to change is the value I put in "work" and tying my sense of self-worth to the "work" I do.  Honestly, the reason that I have always worked in the non-profit industry up until now is probably because it helped me feel proud and important and "busy" while helping people and the community at large.  

Now that I have a job in the corporate world for the first time, I am realizing that I have come to a crossroads.  For the first time in my working career, I don't feel an outside pressure or guilty feeling prompting me to work all the time -- that's one of the things that attracted me to the company I work for now -- they make intentional efforts to encourage a healthy work-life balance and strive to keep employees happy.  I also do not have the luxury of working as much or as long as I want to, or as much as I pressure myself to, because now I am a mother and that is my top priority (and I have to pick at daycare before 6pm every day).  Yet, despite this flexibility and major change in my identity and purpose, the pressure I feel to work all the time has not changed.  (The ridiculous part of all of this is that although I am very good at "keeping busy," I am not always the best at "being productive" and accomplishing tasks in a timely fashion.  I get involved in too many projects at once, which actually makes me less productive in the long run).  Maybe that's why "workaholic" is a fitting diagnosis for my condition.  No matter what the "job" or "project," I always tend to pressure myself to "do" or "accomplish" something at all times during the day, even when I'm not "working."   It's true that I value hard work and take pride in the work I do, but I struggle every day to let myself stop working and simply enjoy the small beautiful moments that make up our rich lives, like going to the playground with my adorable child and husband after work, or eating a picnic together on the porch, or taking a hot bubble bath, or just sitting in stillness for a moment or two to admire the mountains without "doing" anything.  

source: quotesfest.com/download/fdfa41e6bd5ff3248c7ed2e0ffbafd83f3b97c5a.html

If the first step in overcoming addiction is admitting you have a problem, then check!  I have a problem.  (Don't get me wrong, I don't feel hopeless.  I've made some small progress in trying to be more present with my son and making time to be in the moment, but I still definitely have a problem).  So what is the next step in ending the addiction to work?  How do I overcome my workaholism? (I'm pretty sure I made that word up).

I am from...

#1

I Am From

(inspired by "Where I'm From" by George Ella Lyon

I am from trampolines and television sets,

diet cherry coke and folger's coffee;

from pop can crushers and nintendo,
microwave popcorn and rice krispie treats.

I am from a cookie cutter suburban house growing kentucky blue grass in a desert cul de sac  

that smells like homemade chex mix and homegrown tomatoes.

I am from the sandy bottom of an ancient lake;

the mighty Cottonwood tree, whose long limbs I remember as if they were my own, 

snowing cotton fluff all over the grass. 

I'm from card games at grandma's, 

hay fever and high blood pressure.

I'm from Mr. Rogers and Marcia Marsha Mae; 

from do-it-yourself cooking adventures,

showing up late and sleeping in.

I'm from "jesus wants me for a sunbeam" 

and "come home when the street lights come on"

I'm from dozens of cousins

sliding and diving at grandma and grandpa's pool, 

and red rock river camping and cb radio road trips.

I'm from Holiday, Utah and pioneer wagons 

tater tots and fry sauce 

(and tabasco sauce too).

From Lorna Crane Rogers, 

who grew up thinning beets on a sugar beet farm in the country,

and planted marigolds with tomatoes in her backyard in the city. 

Their pictures hang on my wall;

a leather-bound book of my mormon ancestry sits on the bookshelf collecting dust,

and family recipes hide in the recipe box among spices and honey in the cupboard above the stove.

from rivers and rocks,

from judgement and sacrifice,

from love and acceptance 

among silence,

I am from these memories and moments.

                                                                                       (my fam, July 2014)

#2 Bon Hiver

winter is melting. small patches of snow linger on the valley floor.  the tulip bulbs are pushing their first green leaves out of the wet ground, like little fingers reaching for the warmth of the sun.  up in the mountains winter seemingly expands with a new blanket of fluffy powder and kisses the steep rugged slopes with ice and frost.  

but the sun is warm.  the snow is soft.  the earth beneath is wise.  she knows the appearance of winter is an illusion. spring is coming. I can feel it in the wind.  I can hear it in my heart.  I can see it in my breath.... change is coming.

(My friend Karin and I snowboarding together at Brighton Ski Resort after 10+ years!)