Measuring Up

I've been feeling a little (well, a LOT) overwhelmed for the past couple of months. I'm embarrassed about that because I'm only working part-time. I look at the moms who work and are good parents and STILL keep their houses clean. I'm "just" a housewife. The critical part of my head tells me I should be able to do a better job with everything, and that I am failing at most of it. I'm barely keeping up with general cleanliness around the house (yesterday I discovered a dried lake bed of dog urine hidden under a table and still haven't gotten it all cleared off, bleached, and mopped up) even with all the time I have.

A friend recently mentioned that the most abusive relationship she's ever been in is with herself. She would never tolerate anyone "real" being as critical and unsupportive, as downright hurtful, as she is to herself. I've been thinking about that a lot. This morning, as I switched from email replies to typing minutes to website administration to cleaning the kitchen I paused. First I berated myself for not concentrating on and actually finishing something. Then I took a step back and marvelled at just how many things I was trying to do at once. Finally I decided to write down the names of the various hats I wear on a regular basis. Here's what I came up with:

- Girl scout troop leader
- School webmaster
- Property manager for 9 houses
- PTA volunteer
- CSC representative (secretary)
- Part time employee (3 days/wk)

Then I added the things I spend time on but don't really consider a "job"

- Student (or at least trying to be)
- housekeeper (dishes, laundry, cleaning)
- calendar keeper/social directory
- cook (at least 10 prepared meals a week for 4, plus packing lunches for three 5 days a week)
- writer
- emerging athlete (so it's a stretch. At least I'm trying!)
- parent
- teacher (to my kids)
- friend
- knitter
- random tasks assigned by W
- webmaster for W's business

For today at least I have decided that the criticism being spouted by the abuser in my head is utter nonsense. Sure, there's dog hair in every corner of the house. And yes, I do spend more time than is prudent farting around on social networking sites. But I do measure up (even if it is a short ruler).

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

Slept enough last night to dream, but wasn't rested when I woke. Sad scary thoughts are passing through my head at night.

I dreamt of climbing mountains with friends. The rocks were steep and the views spectacular, but I was uncomfortable and felt like I was going to fall. Suddenly I looked down into a crevasse and there was a woman there, obviously in distress. She was bleeding. I tried to tell everyone she must have fallen, she was bleeding from internal injuries. I watched the pool of blood grow and we looked down on her and could do nothing, we couldn't reach her. A man came up and told us there was a knife accident, that he had stabbed her in the stomach. We sat at the edge, looking down 100 feet and she lay there and bled and died, and I couldn't do anything.

I dreamt a friend called, a dear friend. He was crying and his voice was all wrong. He said he was glad I was there for the interview, because it was really upsetting him and he'd broken the door and hurt the gerbils. But I wasn't there, and I couldn't help from so far away. I couldn't do anything.

The worst of these nightmares was many years ago. I was held in a concrete basement, eyes propped open, bound to a chair. For hours I was held and forced to watch a film reel of the horrific murder of dozens of people, one after another, and I knew that it was my fault, I had caused it, I had done nothing and they were dead and it was all mine. That was more than 20 years ago and it is still vivid enough to bring tears to my eyes.

I saw a therapist after that one. She excused my poor psyche and told me these dreams were about my sense of responsibility. I don't remember anything else she told me about them. All I know is sometimes I wake up feeling like I have failed someone, that I could have, should have done better. And I carry that feeling with me through my days and nights, even when I don't have those dreams.

Through Another's Eyes

I've often wished my friends could both see themselves as I do and believe the marvelous things I see. So many of the people I know don't have faith in themselves, and few realize how impressive they truly are. I've been told that's true of me, as well.

I don't know when I lost my confidence. I think it was gradual, starting in middle school right around the time I was first bullied. Apparently it didn't show; I walk tall and pretend I am more confident than I actually am (fake it 'til you make it), but for years my foundations slowly eroded until I had no faith in anything about myself: intelligence, parenting, friendships, writing, my job. Above all I never believed I could accomplish anything. I've been embarrassed for years about the disappointing trajectory of my life.

I hit rock bottom around December of last year. I considered walking away, abandoning my current life. I thought about suicide a lot, even knowing I could never do that to the people I love. (As the child of a suicide I know something of the aftermath.) I thought about getting counseling, even though the last counselor I went to essentially told me I was being ridiculous. I almost opted for pyschopharmacology, which again would require going to a counselor.

I don't know what shifted, but in January I took control of one aspect of my life: my health. I started eating better, exercising, and getting more sleep. I started to feel better about my physical self. Then, instead of just griping about a toxic situation I was in I allowed myself to be irresponsible for once and walked away. With the encouragement of a new/old friend, I gave myself permission to stop trying so hard to make people like me. And I've started taking ownership of my life again.

I still have a great deal of rebuilding to do. It's been more than twenty years since I saw myself as someone worthy of friendship. Those doubts still creep up on me regularly – the bullies of yesteryear are unwelcome residents in my mind. However, I'm trying.

This month I have been graced with a glimpse of how others saw me for my first twenty years. As part of my college re-application process I went looking for some very old records -- IB and SAT scores in particular. My mother, bless her, had not only those but all my report cards from kindergarten through the end of my years at UWC. In each document someone had written a few words summarizing their experience with me. I read through them with tears in my eyes. I was described as bright and delightful to teach. Instructors saw me as a leader, a teacher, an intelligent and enthusiastic student. They believed in me.

For years my biggest fear has been that I am a completely forgettable person -- reliable, dependable, but the person in your yearbook you don't remember at all. I've been surprised by the outreach on Facebook from people I barely knew. Maybe I just need to see myself through their eyes.

One Shot

Look, if you had one shot, or one opportunity

To seize everything you ever wanted in one moment

Would you capture it or just let it slip?-- Eminem, "Lose Yourself"

Seventeen years ago I dropped the ball, big time. My "final" semester of college I had a 3.68 GPA, was on the dean's list for the fourth time, and was looking forward to graduation. And then I imploded. There are any number of excuses -- the end of a three-year relationship I had thought would lead to marriage and a white picket fence; starting a full-time job for the university president that felt like a conflict of interest; an arrogant professor with whom I couldn't work; a calamitous new roommate situation. It doesn't matter. I self destructed and a year later was given an "administrative withdrawal" with a final GPA of 1.85, two Fs on record, and no degree. I was 3 credits short.

This week I decided that, as a 40th birthday present to myself, I'm going to start the process of getting my degree. It's the first step towards my next goal: a teaching license.

I am terrified.

I have a habit of starting projects I don't complete. My university career was perhaps the biggest, but certainly not the last. I have abandoned friendships, ruined at least one relationship, and walked away from a career. I have tucked away five or six half-finished sewing projects, crocheted three or four partial baby blankets, written just the opening of too many stories and essays to count. Each of those is part of my personal litany of failures, the cumulative effect of which is a crushing sense of self-doubt and imminent failure. I can't even host a dinner party without a moment of panic that no one will show or I'll inadvertently poison everyone who does make it.

Now I am faced with the prospect of two or three years of classes -- assuming they'll accept me as a transfer student with that final GPA – just to get my bachelor's degree, and unknown more to get a teaching certificate. Looking at my track record, the doubts are coming hard and fast.

There is one saving grace. I believe teaching is my calling. More than twenty years ago a fellow student in my algebra class leaned over and asked "are you going to be a teacher?" I've been asked that same question, or a variant on it, hundreds of times since then. And the truth is, I love teaching; it comes naturally to me. So, if I have to get my degree to do it, I have a reason to finish.

This time, maybe I'll make it. I'm older, wiser, and have fewer distractions than I did 17 years ago. Plus, the stakes are higher: this is my one shot.

Wish me luck.

These are a few of my scariest things . . .

I have been challenged by a friend to write more, and to prompt me (and a few others) she gave us assignments. This week, every day I am supposed to write something, anything, on what scares me. All day today I have been ducking the assignment, because it's so personal for me. But I promised, so here goes . . .


I have always been a talker. In middle school I talked, trying to impress; in high school I talked to hide my fear; in college I talked because isn't that what college is about? I talked about politics and philosophy and music and art and traveling and dreams and fears. I talked to anyone who would listen, and many who didn't really want to, but had no choice.

Somewhen along the way, I slowed down. I stopped talking during movies. I practiced listening at coffee houses. I began focusing on the unsaid that happens between words. I learned to hear. And I became embarrassed about how much I had spoken. All along I had talked about me and me and me and me. None of the talking had gotten me anywhere. I didn't have many friends. I wasn't invited to parties. So I tried listening. I listened to heartaches and triumphs. I listened to secrets and facts. I listened until people would call me just to to talk, because they knew I would listen.

I felt important when I talked. I felt needed when I listened.


The problem is, lately I have been doing neither. I have become untethered, and my fear is that I am becoming irrelevant, and therefore invisible. I am fading, becoming a background person. Some people are the center of attention. They have charisma and shine with a particular light. Others are like movie extras. They are necessary to make the shot complete, but they blend into the background. They are invisible to the story. They are familiar and comforting in their presence, but their absence doesn't have a real impact. In fact, during the important moments, their presence is intrusive and unwelcome. 


I don't know how to fix this. I wish I could take a potion and become charismatic. I tried making myself relevant through volunteer work and community activism. I do my best to be a good neighbor, and I reach out the hand of friendship to pretty much everyone. But being useful is not the same as being a friend, and my outstretched hand is often ignored. So I retreat, finding myself hiding in books like I did 30 years ago, and, now, writing. At least with the internet I know my voice will not fade, no matter how ghostly I become.

Forgiveness and Action

I forgave myself yesterday. I didn't apologize for the mess or overdue tasks or dirty hair. I just took a deep breath, said I'd take care of it in time, and forgave myself. Then I took a guilt-free nap.

Later, after I picked the kids up from school, we all went to the museum, exploring and touching and asking questions until the security guard announced that the museum was closed and even then he had to pry us out of the exhibit because we wanted to try that thing just one more time.

My world didn't collapse because I continued ignoring "THE LIST". We had fun.

And today I was recharged and already have gotten the top three irksome, bothersome, dreadful things on my list taken care of.

Forgiveness, followed by action. Now I just need to practice. And maybe do a little laundry, too.