Directions: Shoot Foot.

I bet there was more than one sailor who, after having gotten used to life on the ship, spied land in his glass and said about the shadow on the horizon, “Turn back! It’s a Sea Serpent!” instead of “Land, ho!”

We may daydream of the great things we would have accomplished, if not for the twisting of fate and of life. We may feel tired and colorless, bored and listless. We may even dare to polish off our resumes and dream about new companies.

But we generally stop there.

I actually caught myself speaking to a recruiter this morning. The job was for a position out of state (which I wanted); it paid better than my current job; and included a lot of the activities I loved in my current job without a lot of the activities I didn’t love. I was thrilled to write my cover letter, and even more thrilled when she contacted me and wanted to hear more. And when she came on the line, I didn’t question the sweating palms or breathlessness. I was excited, right?

A few months ago, I asked my son how he liked his first year in public school. He said it was OK, and then, in a small voice he asked, “Mom, can I go to the same school next year?”

“Of course, honey!” I sang.

The whole scene comes to me as I am telling the recruiter exactly what she needs to hear to place me in the running for this job. Suddenly, my throat and chest swell up with guilty anxiety. I can’t move out of state! I promised my son that he could go to the same school next year! I scrambled to think of things to say that would tell the recruiter the position she had wasn’t for me. And then—voila!—she asked me if I had been using a certain program for a long time. “Oh no,” I answered. “I’d say less than six months.”

“Oh. Well, this position is for someone who has used the program for 3-5 years.”

Whew!

It took me a little bit to catch myself: had I just shot myself in the foot? What was that, looking to get out of a job interview that I had applied for on purpose? For which I had been nearly jumping up and down a few days before? I had remembered my son’s request when I applied, and it hadn’t been a deal-breaker then!

If a door opens in a forest and we slam it back shut right away, was it ever really an option?

Exercising the Demons

I took the advice of my therapist and began exercising at the gym. I've had the gym membership for several weeks, but __ happened and then ___ happend, and basically, I didn't go.

So, for the last three days I've gone every day. I've gotten over my fear of looking around, although I'm still afraid to look at people. I'm kind of still afraid to be over in the free weights section, too. But I've seen all kinds of people, including heavier people like me, and that helps.

It also helps that I took a Weights and Fitness class in HS. I'm obviously not lifting the amount of weight I did in HS, but at least I recognize most of the machines. And I'm doing good. My muscles fatigue, and that's the main point. I work up a sweat, whether lifting or cardio.

I feel fantastic.

I hear about exercise as a way to combat depression, but I've never seen an actual study, and in fact, some of the reports I read are less than encouraging.

But I'll tell you what: exercise beats that feeling of helplessness. There's no way not to feel powerful when you're working out.

I suppose it helps that I have little or no expectation for myself, since I haven't done it in forever. Even with running, I'm starting out super-slow. I'm approaching working out like this: I want to build a good habit, so I'm not going to push myself to out-perform myself all the time, just to go. I just need to build the habit of going to the gym every day, like brushing my teeth.

I've learned from Al Marrewa that I can defend myself if I have to, which reduces the need to turn every potential threat into a full-blown panic.

I'm also just becoming more of myself, and I had no idea how much I missed myself, and how active and tough I was. Like, I was really a badass compared to how I am now. And I can really be a badass again.

I'm certainly not healed; right now, as I work on getting to the gym, the cleaning of the apartment has completely suffered. If my fantastic and amazing BF weren't picking up the slack, it would be terrible. Of course, he's working doubles for the next three or four days, so he will NOT be helping out (I won't let him and he couldn't anyway). so I need to get on that. A load of laundry every day. Putting clothes away. cleaning the cat litter. Making the beds. doing the dishes, taking out the trash, putting things away. Last night I just rested, because I really needed it, emotionally and everything. It was a rare weeknight without the kiddoes, and I just needed to decompress.

But you know what? Everything's just a little bit easier when you're doing something good for yourself, and you know you're not last on the totem pole, nose-deep in the shtuff with the weight of the whole pole on your shoulders.

Note: See the comment below? Albert Marrewa actually responded. How cool is that?

To give full credit and to answer the question: I read "Feminine Warrior" (from the library), which totally kicked ass. So much so I had to buy it (and I'm still dealing with all of the reticence involved in buying things for myself, which makes it a big deal to make a purchase).

But, Mr. Marrewa, you certainly did help! Even just knowing that there are ways to defend myself that aren't overly complicated, and that I could if I had to, helps me feel much more secure, and I feel more empowered to then make decisions on whether or not I will take someone's crap or not. I realize there is actually the element of choice, which I could not even see before learning that I'm not helpless.

Thanks! For the book and for responding, which is still so cool I can hardly breathe.

Powerlessness

That's what we talked about today.

Powerlessness.

The rage, the anger, the frustration, the anxiety, the feeling overwhelmed. That shaky-core feeling you feel right before your eyes start to well up...

...that feeling that chokes you and makes your stomach and chest heave while you're watching a movie, and trying not to cry, damn it!

Powerlessness.

Where does it come from? Where is it going? What can I do with it?

Like a lot of abuse victims, I have to let go of my rage. A little at a time, I have to let out the little punky girl who says, "How DARE you...." to her abuser. I know you have one. I have one, too. She shakes her fist. She gets in your face, and she's what makes you bite your lip. You bite your lip to hold her back, because she's angry.

But I don't know what she's going to do.

She might just want to exercise, to feel like she's punching or running.

But right now she's making me shake.

Powerlessness. I'm powerless against her. I'm powerless once I let her out. I'm powerless holding her in, because she is my power. she's the Source.

If I respected women at all, she'd be the Goddess in full Retribution mode.

That's what she should be. Not an angry brat, but a vengeful goddess with lightning in her hair.

Feeling Better today

I changed the kitty litter. I forgot the cat food, but my wonderful boyfriend rescued me and bought some last night.

I ate dinner.

I got the children dressed and to school on time.

I bought myself gobs of earings, and it was hard to do.

I talked to my son about using a respectful tone, without raising my voice, guilting him, or anything else. I just noted to him that his tone was very demanding of me, and that I don't require that he tell me what to do; I'm very willing to help him out with whatever he needs. He apologized.

I talked to my other son about being nice, when his teacher corrected him gently for asking mean questions to a hypothetical new student for an assignment. I talked to him about the types of questions, and he showed me the nicer questions that he wrote after his teacher talked to him.

I like it when the teachers and I are on the same page.

I feel better today;

I did some work on an assignment that's been lingering over me for months now. I confronted it and I did 2/13 of the work, and I made it easier to answer the remaining questions by uploading their Substance of Concern list into my database.

I feel better today; I've requested my books, ordered my self-defense DVD.

I feel better today; I've talked myself into going to the gym this evening, because I don't need to spend hours there, just 15-25 minutes, and the kids can play in the kid room, even if the gym is busy.

I'm telling myself today that no one has the right to boss me, or push me around. I am telling myself today that I am going to be stronger, and not let people boss me around. That I am going to work toward being someone whom people don't even try to boss around, and the person who just smiles inwardly at people attempting to boss her around, because she knows, she absolutely knows, that they have no say.

I think healing isn't about being uber-watchful and suspicious, defensive and angry, and handing my power out to everyone and everything but me. I think healing is knowing that no one can make me do something. I may choose between the lesser of evils, but the choice is always mine.

I think healing is finding that quiet place inside, the one that lets other people have their opinions and doesn't get so worked up. I think healing is knowing that if so and so doesn't settle down, that I can take them down if I had to, I simply won't have to.

And already, that little voice in my head (who sounds suspiciously like my soon-to-be-ex) hisses: "And how long will this Zen moment last? As soon as you feel behind in your work? As soon as you are late going somewhere? You can't sustain this!"

Synthesis

Today I'm trying to get back on the train, and out of the funk. It's hard to get out of the funk. I need to do so much, and so much of what I do and what I need is scattered to the four winds.

The trick of integrating my life is hard, too.

Here we go….

OK, so the trick I'm learning--that I've been learning--is that I'm not seven different people. I am not a mother separate from a girlfriend, separate from a worker-bee, separate from an artist, etc., etc.

All of these people are me, and functioning in one role does not mean that I can't do the things from the other role. It's like I need one massive To-Do list, that's categorized by the role...but again, it doesn't matter what role it is. Hell, half the time it doesn't even matter if I do something at home or at work; it all blurs into the same thing.

Getting organized, getting my life on track, staying on top of the activities and the needs of everyone, especially myself (I have to remind myself, because I'm healing and I don't always remember to take care of myself), all of that is chaotic and scary.

And it doesn't help me to have with-it people telling me how to do it, because you know what? They've found their way and that's great, but their way isn't always my way. And my way hasn't been found yet. And they're not going to be the ones to find my way...I am.

So I know you mean well, all you wannabe Franklin Covey's out there. I know you think that telling me that "breaking down things in small chunks will help me feel better" will help me feel better, but it actually makes me feel MORE overwhelmed. Because if you had any clue as to how many things I do in a day, for how many different people including myself, you'd have your own heart attack.

I'm not overwhelmed because I don't know how to deal with goals and plans. I'm overwhelmed because I don't deal with them. I can break them down to bits, but if I don't clean out the kitty litter, the kitty litter doesn't get cleaned out.

Oh yeah, I have to buy cat food.

Don't add a list of "shoulds" to my burden. I know what I should do, but the question is what will I do today and tomorrow. And I may not do much today, and I may do four times the amount you do today, I don't know. But in the end, I have to live with it, not you. So quit telling me how I should do it, and either help me do it or get out of my way.

OK, that rant aside....

Integration and synthesis

No, we're not doing calculus any time soon. That's not what I mean about integration. I mean putting my Inner Child in the same room with my Mommy-side, and making sure that their needs are met. Some of their needs include needing to be expressed from time-to-time. It's a good thing I have supplies for that:

• Paint
• Paper
• Charcoal
• Clay
• Construction Paper
• Scissors
• Pipe Cleaners
• Pom-poms (the little craft ones, not the cheer-leader kind)

Everything one needs for some major expression.

Now, before anyone gets on my case about expressing the Inner Child too much and the Mom too little, let me just set the record straight here. The mom and the Inner child can express equally well through any medium. The variety just makes sure that if they wish to express in different media, they can.

But before this all becomes a chore (I'm exploring Self-Defense today, too), let's be sure to note that all of this is optional. Because I have actual chores I need to do, like change the kitty litter, buy cat food, eat dinner, etc.

But something feels trapped inside of me. Not like it's trapped on the inside, but something that lives inside of me is feeling trapped.

Sometimes it's rage that feels stuck. There's a lot of quivering and inappropriate crying (inappropriate because crying isn't a rage-response, it's a repression-of-rage-response)

Sometimes it's fear that that feels stuck. The fraidy-cat in me, the real victim-victim, sometimes gets stuck inside and can't show me how afraid she really is. That's when everyone thinks I'm OK, but inside I'm crawling and puling and dying.

Sometimes it's creativeness and light that gets stuck, and then I feel anxious.

Sometimes it's anxiety that gets stuck, and I feel hopeless.

Sometimes it's sadness that gets stuck, and I feel irritated with everyone.

When won't I be so fucked up?

When Is It Enough?

It makes no difference if he was stalking me again, or if he interfered with my ability to get help for my children, or even if he left a nasty message in my mailbox. It makes no difference if he left a terrible phone message or he simply told me that if I do this, he will do that. My abuser has his own pattern, and your abuser has his or her own pattern.

What matters is that he did it again today.

He does it every couple of weeks.

Yes, I got an order of protection. My second for him. Yes, I have a lawyer. Yes, I'm working on "finding myself", and I am eating, praying, and loving. Yes, I have rediscovered my inner child, my psychic self, and my sexuality. Yes, I am undergoing therapy. I even decorated my apartment with a tree, and rocks, and moss: all of the things my inner child needs around her in order to feel safe.

But I don't feel safe.

My boyfriend's abusive ex-girlfriend followed us in her car yesterday, honking and swearing...

When is it enough?

When do I draw my line in the sand and say, "No more"?

Maybe today.

It Doesn't Take Much

He got to me again today.

God, it doesn't take much: 3 cell phone calls (1:43pm, 1:45pm, and 1:46pm). I finally picked up that last one, and in 1 minute and 24 seconds felt anxious, gulity, harassed, scared...

He was supposed to pick up the car at 2:30.

I'm at lunch with my boyfriend. A great lunch--romantic, sweet. He slides out of the car while Ogre is talking to me for 1 min, 24 seconds. I drive toward work. I get to work, and Ogre is standing in front of a parking spot, at the front door of my workplace.

He's scowling.

As I open the door, he comes right up to it. I put my head down, and wouldn't even know I did it except in my memory, the top part of my vision only goes up to the bottom of the window, with the corner of the window filled by red jacket.

Why am I holding the door so it doesn't hit him? I wish I could just hit him. I should bash him with it, yell, "Get out of my way!" but I don't. He wouldn't think twice of doing either of those things to me.

Instead, I slither out, feeling guilty, looking guilty. I barely open the door, not even allowing myself the permission of moving freely, not even giving myself the basic human worth of space. I hurry toward the door of work, toward escape.

"By the way," he says, and what I hear is, "I'm about to tell you something that you'd know already if you weren't so obtuse..."

"I put gas in the car last weekend," he says to me.

Do you want a cookie? I say to myself, and feel guilty. "I put $20 or $30 in it this week," I say. Why am I explaining myself?

I scurry inside.

When I get to my desk, a message.

It isn't much. The whole encounter isn't much. But it isn't in the encounter, or even the activities themselves, it's in the positioning. He had the power. I was the victim.

Again.