Soul Thumping

If I Could be Anything I Want to be Today

• I might want to be a balloon.  I could easily float for miles and see what everyone is up to.  Oh wait, I would eventually lose air and I might land somewhere altogether undesirable.

• Perhaps a fish.  I could swim and swim, and hang out with cool aquatic life for a bit.  Oh wait, I would no doubt be eaten by a fish bigger and meaner than me.

• A cat maybe?  I could sleep all day and humans would wait on me endlessly and I'll simply meow when I want something, like ringing a bell.  Scratch that (no pun intended).  The lack of opposable thumbs would leave me feeling as though I have no control over my own destiny.

• I think I will just be be me today.

 

One of my favorite songs ever:  Tree Hugger by Kimya Dawson - all about being someone else...

 

 

 --Fortuitous Observer

New Year's Resolutions - Go Small, People

Photo:  Calvin and Hobbes, from inquisitr.com

I adhered to a fast and hard rule (with a death grip) for many years:  Do not make resolutions for the new year.  Why?  Because I, like many, chose to go for broke.  I will be at the gym 5 days a week.  I will cut down on my frivolous spending and put more money in savings.  I will be nicer to people.  I will give up diet soda because I don't want to be drinking formaldehyde.  I will live greener.

Like most humans, I'm doomed from the get-go because these are vague, broad and H U G E promises I'm vowing to keep, predetermining my failure.  The inevitable breaking of these resolutions leaves me feeling more like a walking emotional implosion than ever!

Having realized this, yet still possessing the urge to continue on my never ending journey of self-improvement, I have resumed with the resolution making, only I am keeping my goals modest and obtainable.

We can stop beating ourselves up.  It's simple...we over-commit.  Nearly 90% (I got that statistic from somewhere, but for the life of me, can't remember where) of those who make resolutions, fail.  Let us all change that stat!  Think big, sure (as in the big picture the future), but go small.

For example, I am fairly certain I will not give up diet soda (I don't mind a little formaldehyde in my blood)...but I can cut down.  I can say with certainty that you will not see my behind in the gym 5 days a week this year, but I've been running an average of 3 days a week, and I can maintain that.  I know I will not cut out all frivolous spending this year, but I can choose to allow myself a new pair of jeans for maintaining my weight!  Me being nicer to people in general is never going to happen, but I will promise to go out of my way to be nice to those who don't piss me off.

Happy 2012 everyone.  Do your best!

 

--Fortuitous Observer

Self Overhaul. Presto...I'm Now a Flake! - Managing Anxiety and Depression

You know the over-used adage:  "If you can't be 'em, join 'em" (this is my more colloquial version of the saying)?  I've gone and done it.  After spending decades trying to "cure" my chronic depression and anxiety with slight results, an epiphany of sorts led me to this realization:  there is no cure for anxiety, depression and stress.  There just isn't that one magic bean I have been hoping for to make me anxiety and depression-free.

In my early twenties I began a daily regimen of anti-depressants that seemingly helped with obsessive thoughts and I believed for a while I was "repaired," until my next episode of depression came out of no where.  Meds and therapy for the next decade, same results.  Last year, 2 years ago I added neurofeedback to the mix.  Magic bean?  No, but it has helped me re-train my brain to function more appropriately to stressful plights, allowing me to react more rationally in situations rather than immediately going into super-charged anxiety mode.  Without the neurofeedback, I doubt very much I would have had my revelation, which in 2 months time has led to an entirely new way of dealing with myself, and an arsenal of new tools I'm incorporating into accepting and, dare I say, embracing my anxiety and depression.

The phrase for today is "managing."  There is no "curing" anxiety and the related depression, it all comes down to accepting it is there, thereby "controlling" it so it doesn't control me.  I accept that I'm going to be anxious most hours of the day, breathe my way through it, and decide to function after all.  It is that simple (though it has taken me a rather long time to reach that mesa).

Now what?  The crow sandwich part.  I have myself become one of those people I haughtily judge as "flakes."  I'm taking a more holistic approach to living with anxiety and depression since I now realize the anxiety fairy will never leave the magic bean under my pillow.  I'm eating "happy" foods (see my earlier post on happy foods), I'm having massages, I'm researching homeopathic doctors and acupuncturists in my area, I've started seeing a chiropractor to repair some of the damage my anxiety and stress has inflicted on my poor innocent spinal column, and I'm continuing my neurofeedback (though I'm down to monthly instead of weekly).

I repeat positive mantras to myself throughout the day, and I'm attending online "anxiety and the creative soul" seminars, and I am now attending group meditation each week. 

I continue to take my antidepressants daily, but will remain at my lower dose.  I just purchased a new set of relaxation and meditation cds that use brainwave entrainment technology on my alpha, theta, and delta waves, similar to the neurofeedback, and of course, I still run a few nights each week because the endorphins are the star player in knocking the wind out of anxiety and depression.

The most important change?  I breathe.  Breathing is critical to punching my way out of the anxiety paper bag.  I was not aware, until my therapist told me last year, that I'm breathing from my chest, and not my diaphragm, which does not give my brain enough oxygen.  OK, done!  I've practiced breathing enough that it has become automatic.

Another hugely important issue came up a few months ago:  I was diagnosed with hypothyroidism and have been prescribed Synthroid.  Depression and anxiety can be caused and exacerbated by thyroid issues, so I urge everyone to have blood work done and make sure they test your thyroid!  I know, it is yet another pill I have to take everyday, but it is most certainly worth it!

Presto...no magic beans, but now that I'm a flake, I have yet another great reason to laugh at myself.

 

--Fortuitous "Flaky" Observer

Oatmeal and Peanut Butter Make for a Happy Breakfast

In 2009 I blogged about a spoonful of peanut butter for breakfast because that was my choice for the all-important first meal of the day, and I had nothing better to write about that morning than what I ate for breakfast.  I then added half a banana to the mix and breakfast became a spoonful of peanut butter and half of a banana.  I christened this my "Elvis Breakfast" for kicks.

Recently I read an online article, published by Redbook I believe, that discusses foods that can improve mood.  The witty title of the article is "Happy Meals" and I found it to be an enlightening piece, especially for those of us trying to get a handle on stress, lousy moods, or anxiety and depression.

Desiring another tool for my arsenal against my own anxiety, I decided to make a conscious effort to incorporate some of these foods into my diet.

But wait, peanut butter is not on the happy list!  "Okay," I thought, my breakfast plan is going to have to change.  Peanut butter, I will miss you, but as it turns out, the first peppy food on the list is oatmeal and I like oatmeal.  Another trick I've added to my repertoire of defensive against anxiety/depression is to cut out as many preservative-filled foods as possible.  I had purchased the Weight Watchers brand oatmeal, but it left a strange after taste in my mouth (I could be wrong, but it probably contains aspartame or another sugar substitute), so I nixed the WW brand and switched to Mom's Best Naturals Better Oats brand.  I stumbled upon this brand in the "Natural" section of my grocery store.

This oatmeal for breakfast routine was working very well, then I remembered another goodie on the good food list, walnuts, so I started tossing some walnuts in my oatmeal to liven up the party.

Even though I had embraced my new breakfast plan, I began missing my spoonful of peanut butter and my half of a banana in the mornings.  Last week I had a flash of brilliance (which does not happen often):  oatmeal and walnuts are good for the brain and the body, and peanut butter and bananas are good for the body (even if they failed to make the cut for the "happy list"), so why not marry them, creating a breakfast of ambrosial harmony?

So I did.  My oatmeal is now sprinkled with walnuts and bananas, and I have a teaspoonful of peanut butter every other day with my oatmeal.  Me, my oatmeal, my peanut butter, and my half of a banana are blissfully happy!

 

--Fortuitous Observer

 

Today, I'm Revisiting The Kingdom of Spaz

Growing up, I'd heard the word "spaz," most frequently it was because someone was calling another someone a "spaz" and I was never sure, really, what that term meant, but it didn't stop me from using it, calling my sister or a friend or my little brother a spaz when I felt like it.

I had not been called a spaz myself until my friend Betsy called me a spaz.  I was 21 I believe, and she was 25.  She was teaching English to pre-school children in Japan, and I was visiting her for a few days.  We took the train to Kyoto to visit the touristy Shogun house.  She bought her ticket, and while she waited at the side, I bought mine.  I fumbled for my Yen, and finally gave it to the cashier selling the tickets, and when she game me back my change, I was in such a hurry to get out of other people's way, that I fumbled around again to put the change away, dropped half of it on the ground, fumbled around on the ground to retrieve my coins, when Betsy said, "You are such a Spaz."  I knew what it meant then!  I WAS being a spaz.

I was not aware of this about myself until she said it, and I totally got it.  Spaziness is being so flustered, usually, at least in my case, because one is insecure about what they are doing, or trying not to look as if you don't know what your are doing, etc., that you make guffaws all over the place, dropping things, like a blundering idiot!  That was me!  I became more conscious of this, and forced myself to slow down, and that it doesn't matter if you don't always know what you are doing.  Who cares?  I was able to take that to heart and live life as a non-spaz.

Last weekend, Pat was doing something goofy, in too big of a  hurry, etc. and I told him, "You are a spaz.  I'm just telling you for your own good so that you know what you are doing, just like someone once told me."  I meant it to be helpful of course, but I suppose calling ones spouse a "spaz" to his face isn't going to be received as "helpful."  Nevertheless, I felt it was time he knew.

Today, I decided to bring my lunch outside, along with my laptop and do some writing in the fabulous late summer air.  It was a gorgeous day so I sat outside next to the man-made river that runs through my business campus.  I brought my antipasto salad and some water with me.  A gentle breeze blew, but not too much.  I spread out my salad, my fork, and my napkin.  As I was removing the lid to my salad, my napkin blew off of the table.  I put my fork down and went to chase it.  I began eating again, when I dropped an olive on my new dress.  Fortunately I was able to lift it from my dress so carefully, like I was performing surgery, that it left no spot on the dress!  Yeah.  I was busy congratulating myself, when I accidentally knocked my entire salad bowl off the table and into my lap.

Oh God, now what.  I was afraid to move, but I gently stood up and flicked the salad back into the bowl, and looking at my frock to inspect the damage, there was almost no remnants of olive, olive oil or lettuce!  It could have been so much worse.

Even though the outcome was tolerable, it doesn't change the fact that today, I reverted back to my own spaziness.  The spaz I thought I had left behind long ago still exists inside of me.  I'm unsure if I should laugh or cry, so I think I'll just say,"Hello old friend.  How have you been?"

 

--Fortuitous Observer

I Saw Something Yesterday as Elusive as the Unicorn...a Teenager Mowing the Lawn

That's right folks.  I saw it with my own eyes on my way home yesterday.  At the time, I was inclined to think I had gone mad, but when I mentioned what I had seen to Poseidon, he confirmed that he saw this rare phenomenon as well:  a teenager actually mowing her parent's lawn (yes, I said "her"), and I'm not talking a riding lawn mower with a cushy seat, I'm talking plain old-fashioned push mower.  I just don't see that these days so I was quite impressed.

For many of us Gen-Xers, growing up in suburbia meant we were assigned chores.  Manual labor if you will.  My sister and brother and I shared the duty of mowing not only our yard, but my grandparent's yard.  My dad was a carpenter and would build things and sell them like plant stands, vegetable bins, magazine racks, clocks, etc., and we got paid for sanding and staining the wood before he assembled his masterpieces.  Manual labor.

I may have resented it at the time (Wait...may have?  Of course I did, I was a teenager), but I learned some valuable lessons.  I can't think of any right now, but I know I learned something.

 

--Fortuitous Observer

 

One Happy Circle of Niceness and No Straight Jacket Required

This weekend I had a massage and forced myself to concentrate on making the day all about relaxation and thinking and being only in the now, which is extremely difficult for someone with anxieties, as anyone who has, knows.

After my massage, I was so happy because at having done something nice for myself, focusing solely on me, not worried about Poseidon and what he was doing, or what other errands I needed to run, just all about me.  Then it hit me:  I had to make a stop at the grocery store on the way home, and if you've read any of my previous blogs about my experiences with the grocery store, you know I would rather chew my own pinky off, or stab myself in the ear repeatedly with a blunt object (blunt, not sharp...want to make sure it's excruciatingly painful) than go inside.

I took a deep cleansing breath, pulled into the parking lot, chanting a mantra to myself, something about happy flowers and little bluebirds following me.  Once inside, I quickly grabbed everything on my list without irritation, in a zen-like state, and as I walked out of the store (I paid first, don't worry...I haven't started shoplifting yet), I noticed that I was smiling, without trying, which made me notice that everyone I passed smiled, which made me smile even more!  It was one big smile circle at Kroger on Saturday it seems.  I felt all warm inside and I didn't leave the store in the same state I usually leave:  hugging myself, rocking back and forth, repeating, "I'm almost home, I'm almost home," then rolling myself into a little ball on the floor in the living room as my cats walk circles around me trying to decide if I'm coherent enough to feed them or should they go find Poseidon.

 

--Fortuitous Observer

 

Escape from Inadequate Mountain...

What I find the most difficult about being married to a wonderful, sensitive, truly caring soul, is that I am not one.  I'm hyper-vigilant with repressed anger issues, wreaking with constant anxiety, and my "psyche is more complex than most."  I put quotes around that last bit because that is what my therapist read to me when revealing the results of my Rorschach test last year (I recommend everyone visit a Psychotherapist and take the Rorschach test --a.k.a. the ink blot test.  It is eye-opening and the results are eerily dead-on...spooky).

This means a great deal many things, but an important aspect is that I'm so hyper-vigilant and will do anything to protect my feelings from being trampled on at all costs (which also explains why I didn't get married until the age of 41).  I'm not a therapist, and I'm not pretending to be one, but let's just say my entire adult life has involved sitting in the Big Chair (that is a reference to Tears for Fears album, named for the shrink's chair in the movie Sybil) and spilling it to a therapist every week, so I'm familiar with the drill and I am fully aware of what my issues are, whether or not I work on them, well, that is another story.

Back to my original idea.  Poseidon and I had an argument last night that was not pretty.  I won't go into the details, but during our heated battle of words, he called me a name, and this name feels like a brick being hurled at me with brut force, and it causes me to feel inadequate, some things from my childhood, etc.  I immediately shut down and revert back to childhood, pouting, sucking on my thumb, and curled up in bed in the fetal position with tears running down my face.  The only difference between this happening now versus when I was a child, is that mascara is now involved, and instead of tear stains on my sheets, I have tar stains, like a paving job gone severely wrong.

I've made strides in overcoming those past feelings of being inadequate and feeling lower than just about everyone else, but the brain always reverts back to those times stored where emotions were the strongest, and it isn't easy to retrain the brain, though I have been trying and making steps forward...even if they are only baby steps, at least they are heading forward, not backward.

 

--Fortuitous Observer

Baskin Robbins Contributed to my Neurosis...Sort of

Dear mint chocolate chip ice cream.  I blame you for the start of my anxiety problems...

When I was 8 or 9, I discovered Baskin Robbins.  Baskin Robbins 81 Flavors of ice cream (OK, it was actually 31 flavors, but for a kid of that age, 31 flavors was more than my little mind could comprehend...if it was more than 5, it didn't matter if the number was 31 or 81).  It was one of the occasional treats that my parents could afford, so of course I cherished every precious minute I spent in one of those parlors.

Each time we went into the B&R store, I didn't even have to put my greasy little fingers on or breathe on those bewitching glass cases filled with rows of dazzling, creamy, sugary (we can't forget the sugar) vats of decadent delight (at that age, decadent wasn't a part of my vocabulary, but I'm telling this tale as a 40-something and that word describes the scene beautifully).  I knew exactly what I wanted:  mint chocolate chip.

We didn't go to Baskin Robbins often, but each trip started out the same:  I would sit in the car, already knowing I wanted mint chocolate chip, I would stare into space and beat myself up mentally for not trying any one of the the other 30 flavors.  I would try to talk myself into trying another flavor.  It seemed wrong to always choose the same when there were so many other flavors screaming out, "Try me, try me!"  I used to actually become anxious and nervous and upset with myself for not trying a new flavor.  I know, it is strange, but if you've read my blog before, you know all about my anxiety issues.

I sometimes convinced myself to try something else like the bubble gum or the rasperry, but 9 times out of 10, it was mint chocolate chip, and a ride home filled with self-loathing, and repudiation seemed natural.

Of course, I hadn't realized I did this to myself as a child until recently.  I don't eat ice cream so much now, but Poseidon and I were repainting our bedroom a mint green shade and it all came flooding back like a massive crack in the Hoover dam.

Last weekend, while running some errands, we walked by a Ben & Jerry's store.  As mentioned earlier, I don't really ever have a strong desire for ice cream, but I told Poseidon I wanted a milk shake.  I walked into the store, full of resolve.  I would end my childhood anxiety over ice cream once and for all.  I took a deep breath, and without looking into those charming, captivating cases, I responded to "Hey, how can I help you?" with "I'll have a mint chocolate chip milkshake please."

 

--Fortuitous Observer

 

 

I Blame the Bolts Holding the Toilet to the Floor

Poseidon and I are getting ready to put our house on the market, which means some home improvement is needed, but neither of us are what I would call "handy" (which is a crying shame because my father was a carpenter and an airplane mechanic crew chief in the Air Force and Poseidon's dad, though an Econ. Professor by day, he was a sculptor/builder on the weekends), so we are totally winging the home improvement projects (in other words, we are probably going to have to pay for people to come and fix the shit we royally screw up).

My problem is (who am I kidding...like I only have "1" problem) my time management skills suck beyond belief (which isn't good because I'm a project manager) when it comes to home repair.  For example, we are re-tiling the bathroom floors, so I think it should only take an hour total.  OK, that was about 6 days ago.  I realized we needed to take the toilet up, and silly, stupid me, thought it should take only 5 minutes to unbolt the toilet from the floor and put it in the hall.  The bolts are 30 years old and corroded beyond repair, yet I didn't take that into account.  It took a couple of days to get the toilet off of the floor.  I won't go into the entire pathetic, slit-my-wrists-now story, but we had to order a new toilet from Lowes and we are going to spring for the $99 charge to have them install the thing.

I blame God, Buddha, Vishnu, etc. for swinging down the hammer of karmic retribution.  Everything unsettling (aka life) that happens to me I blame everyone within a 50 miles radius plus God, Buddha, and Vishnu, then I start dwelling on everything  bad that has ever happened to me, including stitches in my head, sore throats, a nail in the bottom of the foot, growing up poor, not getting to buy the coolest socks, my father dying, etc.

If I could only blame the bolts instead of me, I think we could make real progress...

 

--Fortuitous Observer