Categories
I Work Out Personal Growth (or not)

What’s Wrong With Being Confident?

It’s shortly after 6am on a Tuesday. I’ve got to be to work in a lil bit, but here I sit in my kitchen with hair dye on. I got drastic haircut last night and I can’t un-see that my dyed dark parts are in need of touch up. So there I go. Dying my hair before work. The unworthy pop song pops in my head “What’s wrong with being confident?” This. This and many other things are what’s wrong with being confident.

Normal people wouldn’t seize the moment between Crossfit and work to dye their hair. But, unnaturally self assured people will. Sure there’s benefits to self assuredness, but I’m a living example of some of the pitfalls to it as well.

“Yea. I bet I can do that.” This is the thought that pops in my head often before a number of questionable activities. This thought is regularly followed by reality checks that should curb my behavior. One time I thought I could scale a 6 foot fence with ease. There was no ease about it. It was ug-ly. Reasonable folk would be like, “Hmmm. I guess that’s not in my wheelhouse. Guess that’s okay because I have no need to scale fences.” Folks like me are more like, “I want to climb a fence again.” Why? There’s zero rationale for that thought.

I also get some reminders of my sharky presentation in a number of ways. Important person was at a meeting. I’d asked her if we’d met. She said that we had at a meeting that I’d ran about such and such. We’ve all got way too many meetings to track each one, but I tend to remember the ones that I’m in charge of. My take away from this conversation…Fuck. I probably was acting like I was in charge of the meeting even though I wasn’t. Again.

Confidence builds on itself. When little Billy is tasked with something and he successfully accomplishes that task, he will be more willing to do it again. He will get better; and when he gets better, he’ll get more chances to keep practicing. He gets reinforced with the “I might be good at this” messaging.

Meanwhile little not Billy who doesn’t do the thing also gets his ideas that he’s no good at the thing reinforced. It makes me think of that old expression, “It takes money to make money” in that if you have some confidence you’ll get some more confidence just by feeling more comfortable putting yourself out there.

Challenge yourself to try new things. It should suck when it’s new. There’s no growth without suck. Challenge others to stretch their wings too. This is not a dress rehearsal, so we gotta get all we can out of this run. Live with no ragrets, not even one letter. If there’s messaging in your head telling you that it’s not okay to admit that you can be good at something, squish that voice. It’s being a bitch. If you’re worried that you’ll have an unhealthy amount of unchecked confidence, take that off the table too. The universe has a great way of keeping your shit in check.

I was right. I could dye my hair in the time I had. It turned out well. Then the next day I thought, “Chemical peel, I bet I can do that” and my face melted off. As if the universe plainly stated, “Bitch. Be humble.” Got it. Thanks universe. Message received.

Categories
Blogolicious Social Worky

Social Work Appreciation

As I stood in line waiting to buy 100 tortillas for the social work appreciation breakfast, I had some time to contemplate the universe.

In a perfect world, child welfare social work wouldn’t exist. We’d all be clamoring for some real jobs because kids would have safety, permanency, and well-being without government intervention. That’s not the reality though.

People are pulled to social work. Every worker I know possesses the intelligence and skills to make an easier living. But they don’t. Everyone has their own reasons for doing the job. Some may have experience in the system. Some may have been those weirdos who as a child felt bad for the toys of theirs that didn’t get played with as much as others (eyeroll…it’s me). Some are drawn by the fascination with human behavior. Some want to fight the system from within. Nonetheless, all want to make the world a better place for someone.

There are variances as to what “better place” means, and how to work through “who’s place should be better” in a world of competing priorities. And then there’s those complications of system limitations and good ol’ client right to self-determination. For those non social workers, client right to self determination is best summed with the classic joke: how many social workers does it take to change a lightbulb? One, but the lightbulb has to WANT to change.

Social work is caught between camps that think, 1)we don’t do enough and 2)we do too much.

There’s a  new Netflix documentary right now about a child who was beaten to death by his mother and her boyfriend. 4 social workers were charged criminally for their role in his death. The Trials of Gabriel Fernandez is 6 hours of looking back on a horriific tragedy and trying to assign blame to someone other than the monsters who committed the acts. I’d love to think that it could have been prevented, but I also know that decisions are made hundreds of times a day in which the full impact won’t be known until the story stops somehow. Sometimes our help doesn’t help. We use tools at our disposal and shared decision making in an effort to prevent tragedy, but fully predicting human behavior does not exist. Sometimes, bad things happen despite the very best efforts. The show has caused feelings and conversations filled with critical thinking.

In ironic contrast to the position of the Netflix show, some kindly gentleman set up camp in front of our office to educate the public his belief that child welfare agencies are over involved. Just a little glimpse in to how hard it can be to find the perfect middle ground in intervention.

The external pressures and queries pale in comparison to the pressure the workers put on themselves.

Some social work decisions end up amazing. Others end up with an unofficial jury of your peers passing judgment on them. Others still end in bad things happening. Many end up with some version of okay. The yuck of it is, most decisions can land anywhere on that scale, and the social worker has no idea at the time.

Social workers want nothing more than to do the right thing. And when that’s not clear, or isn’t going to happen, it can be very hard.

God bless their people and pets for being there for them during tough times. They didn’t chose the social work life, but they still deal with the consequences.

if we were really fair, we’d include support pets and people in the hiring process. “Fluffy, what are your thoughts on having your human come home inexplicably crying and not meeting your cat needs as quickly as you’d like?” “Billy, sometimes mom is going to come home from work and hug you a really long time for reasons that aren’t yours to know. How will you deal with that?”  “What are you going to say when your husband tells people he’s a social worker and people at the barbeque suddenly act different toward you all?”

We don’t do that though. (Thank goodness, because I could never interview a cat. The last one I met bitch slapped me for trying to pet it like a dog. I didn’t know!). But, we do try to support each other. We try to honor the families that we serve by giving them our best work. And once a year we over eat breakfast burritos to commemorate the decision that we make every day to wake up and be a social worker.

Categories
Blogolicious Personal Growth (or not)

Don’t Pick at It

“I want to be a pretty girl.”

This is one of the things I say too often that is funny, but also dead ass serious, but wrapped up again with funny so that it doesn’t seem too serious. For me, that mostly means that I want to look put together and like I take care of myself. Hilariously true statement, when I was younger I just thought that women became glamorous when they hit 25. Surely it would magically happen for me. Well,…it did not. And so began the makeup years.

I made myself orange with effort trying to look attractive. Evidence of my labors were like self esteem clues. Foundation residue on my phone (so gross!). A drawer full of eye shadows that were never quite as awesome as I’d hope they were going to be. Too many lipsticks that were barely used because they weren’t quite right.

I remember very distinctly being at a meeting at the bank and seeing all the down turned mouths of the old guard. I thought that they must all be mad, disgruntled. etc. I vowed that would never be me. I’m sorry to them for misjudging. Motherfuckin’ time makes your mouth turn down regardless of how you feel about the new sales quotas.

Then one day as I sat in another meeting, in another setting a very different thought occurred to me No, it was not “boy, I should really start paying attention in my meetings.” It was, “why do the men at this meeting just have their red spots on their skin without feeling some need to cover it up?” And so I stopped most the makeup. If Dave and Larry can get through their day without foundation, by golly, so can I. I’m not sure if this was a moment of maturity and acceptance, or a moment of giving up.

I feel like I still tried to clean up. I comb my hair on many days. I put some dead dinosaur product on my eyelashes. I still want to be pretty. I don’t know why. If there’s a point in emotional maturation where a person no longer has that desire, I’ve not yet hit it. I don’t need attention, but I also don’t want to disappear. If that makes sense.

So with that hope in mind, earlier this week I called the dermatologist and lucked out in getting a same day appointment for a mild chemical peel. Never had one before, but the process seemed simple: brush shit on, wipe it off, go back to work, wait for miracle of skin regeneration.

And then, the universe rich in irony decided to teach me a lesson on vanity. Hard. “Oh. You’re after a change in your skin? I got you.”

The peel “went more aggressive than anticipated” for reasons unknown by the incredibly apologetic team at the place. I look like a cross between a chipmunk and a sugar crisp cereal puff. I’m swollen and scabby. There’s enough fluid in my face that it jiggles when I walk. For real. I can’t smile nor see over my swollen cheeks. My face is jacked up. The doctor assured me it will be okay. But in the meantime, I get to proudly wear the badges of “I’m vain” and “I want to be pretty girl.” Got it universe. Message received.

I considered moving out of the country until my skin recovered, but naw. It would be an injustice not to capitalize on a conversation starter of this magnitude, right?

The purpose of this entry is not to compliment fish. I will fake punch you in the throat if anyone starts that. The purpose is that now that my insecurities have been forced in to the open, maybe it can open a dialogue about all of ours. It’s okay to want to look nice. It’s okay to make efforts to do that. It’s also okay when those efforts fail horribly. It’s called taking your lumps and it’s nature’s way of keeping self-importance in check. I will embrace it, and hope that embarrassment brings a lovely hue to my cheeks.

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Blogolicious

Lady Carhartts

“Hey.” the voice calls to me with a confidence. It knows my efforts to resist will be useless. My lady Carhartts beckon to me. Assuring me that the time and willpower does exist to complete a likely unnecessary project.

“Girl. You know we’ve hated that navy blue toilet and sink since we moved in here. It’s time.”

And just like that, the spontaneous powder room remodel was underway.

My double knee chocolate brown duck cloth has seen some things. They’re present at every half cocked endeavor that’s crept into my brain. They give me a sense of handyman self-assurance that will maybe someday be backed up with evidence. I try, but I know I consistently make things more difficult than they need to be. It has to be hard to watch. Nevertheless, me and the pants struggle through.

Most of my projects really boil down to exercises in humility. I’ve seen projects on TV. I watched Brian and Gino and my boys do things. All the things look easy. When I do them, they’re not easy. They’re not easy at all. In the course of a weekend I can learn several new things that I’m bad at. Looking at nuts and estimating what socket I need, bad. Moving the old toilet without breaking it, bad. Hanging drywall, bad. Setting tile without crying, bad. Avoiding hitting my head on the faucet over and over, bad.

Makers and fixers must be appreciated. A pair of soft Carhartts is a sign of accomplishment. The human attached to them has been very useful. My Carhartts are not soft. They were bought for a specific purpose nine whole years ago. Even though I try to make sure they’re used often, they still look like Carhartts owned by a social worker. They are disrespected by being laundered foo-fooey. Carhartts should not smell like fabric softener. They should smell like grout, wood oil, taping mud, and other smells of achievement. Their loops and pockets should be packed with needed implements instead of my cell phone that I again use to watch the YouTube video about how to take out a toilet. (God bless YouTube tutorials!)

Despite the lack of ability I bring to the equation, the powder room is coming along nicely. I think the tears are a great solvent to clean my tile glue overspray. Me and my pants are excited to get it done. Not only because that hideous toilet is gone, but because it means we can move on to the next things to learn about and attempt to accomplish. I call back to my pants, “Hey girl. Look at how that border around the trees is all uneven due to the roots.” My pants fake nod back at me with knowing and approval. “I got you. Let’s be useful.”

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Blogolicious

I’ve Been Thunderstruck

Conceptually, I understand how music is made. The person does the thing, the thing is recorded, yadda yadda, Britney Spears comes out my head phones letting me know I “better work, bitch.”

But knowing about music is no substitute for feeling it. I know that I over use the word “magical,” but it’s only because I over feel things and see them as magical. So it’s with that knowledge that I say; live music is fucking magical.

To watch the making of music is to me like watching wizardry. “So, seriously? You just strum your fingers on those strings and music happens? Whoa.” It really doesn’t matter what music it is, reggae festival, rock concert, marching band, bagpipes, even country music; it all sounds better live.

Watching the music unfold with other people can be almost transcendent.

I’ve been lucky over the years for all the music I’ve experienced. My first concert was when I was 14. I’d been grounded for my behavior. Rightously so. But we’d already paid the $16/ticket to see Howard Jones in Davis. You are instantly in my tribe if you have any idea who that is. His biggest hit was something along the lines of “whoa, whoa, whoa-oah, whao, whoa.” The only thing more 80’s than his frosty bowl cut and the broach he wore at the top button of his shirt was his overdependence on his synthesizer. Mom took me, offering a brief stay from my grounding. We were immersed in the smell of clove cigarettes and artificial angst. It was the kind of show you were supposed to look gloomy for. As if 80’s kids at a concert at a university really had any reason to be gloomy. Geez. Bless my mom for her patronage. She made the best of it. Did some hairdresser research by asking some rando what products he used to get his mohawk as rigid as it was.

That experience could’ve turned me against concerts, but it was the 80’s-90’s. Tickets were cheap and travel was easy. I saw some ridiculously good shows. Scorpions, INXS, Black Crowes, No Doubt, most of Lynrd Syknyrd, to name a few. Far and away during those days, the best was AC/DC.

I’d plotted for weeks. My outfit had to be on point, suitable for moshing, and also easy to travel in. I stuck with the black tank dress. I took the more conservative route by wearing leggings with lace on the bottom. Also, black. (Goth is not a phase). My work buddy drove us to Sacramento , and we were thunderstruck. It was so good. So loud. Such energy. It was perfect. We couldn’t hear for days. Luckily, Denny’s has pictures on it’s menu so we were able to at least nourish on our way home. It was *murmur murmur years ago, and yet I can recall exactly how it felt when they took the stage.

Live music frequency decreased, but appreciation has only increased. (The best show I’ve seen in decades, Highly Suspect, gets a post all of it’s own some day.) Nowadays, I mosh less. I dance less. But stare in wonder just as hard as I ever did. “How do they do that?”

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Blogolicious

Camaro Crush (Literally)

Better Off Dead is a fucking stellar movie. If you haven’t seen it, I urge you to do so.

It came out in 1985, roundabout the years I was learning to form my own opinions and tastes. I fell madly in love with someone in that movie too, Lane Meyer’s ’67 Camaro. It’s probably the first independent car opinion I’d formed. She was sleek and powerful but her flared hips gave her a feminine edge. I knew I would need a first gen Camaro. Need.

In high school, I had a boyfriend who had a ’69 Camaro. Their hips aren’t as flared, but the ’69 has cool shark gill looking accents on her rear fenders. It was a lovely rust primer color. Most of the value in the car was in the pioneer cd player where Thorogood blared too loudly for the quality of the system. It was barely road worthy. One evening as we drove home, the rear window just fell out, tumbled down the trunk and shattered on I5. You know, like happens never.

Life moves on. I was, married, settled, still jonesing for a Camaro to call my own. Brian called me one day, probably from a bag phone. “There’s a ’67 in yard across from my work. It’s only got one dent in it.” My guy failed to mention that the one dent started at the headlight and ended at the tail light, but that didn’t stop me. The car “slept in an auto cocoon”  (-Better Off Dead quote) for a couple years. A beacon of hope cloaked in a tarp. Next to another symbol of dreams, the bored-out 350 from a totaled ’77 Chevy pickup.

More life moving on, it was time. We needed a shell. I placed an ad in the Nickel (that’s how freaking long ago this project was) seeking a body for my running gear and transmission. One was found and the project began in earnest.

You don’t really think about how much goes into car restoration until you find yourself ordering things such as window rollers,  braided hoses, shift pedal, the little slidey thing that controls the heater, so many things. The order frequency was enough that toddler Daniel developed an affinity for what he called the P.U.S. man and went dressed as parcel deliverer for Halloween. Hands were cracked from sanding, blood pressure was experiencing intermittent highs. There were very few battles. I wanted gloss black. Brian worried about it showing imperfections. We compromised as in, she’s pearl white with rally stripes that are a turquoise akin to the color of money. There was also debate about the spoiler on the trunk in which we compromised again, as in it didn’t go my way.

She turned out to be my kind of imperfectly perfect.

Built on a budget. Made with love. Her interior almost matched itself. The paint done in a fellow tuck mechanic’s garage gleamed. The door would close all the way if you did lifted it just so as you were closing it.

Driving her makes me feel alive. I like the sense of accomplishment that comes from such adventures as when I drove her and the kids by myself to the coast. Jamming the gears, feeling the horsepower. Intermittently pushing the visor back up and hoping the tape will hold it out of my way. She got compliments which she loved, because what girl doesn’t. She was responsible for some random stranger proposing marriage to me.

It takes courage and skill to drive her competently. The steering wheel is more like a suggestion for where the tires should go. The interior looks like every crash test dummy’s nightmares. I have to concentrate and REALLY be present when I’m piloting her. It causes a connection to the adventure of travel that’s absent in driving newer cars. It causes my cheeks to flush and my heart to race. There’s few things better than having her out on a warm summer night all to myself.

When she was in the build phase, there were bets laid about how long it would take for me to wreck her. She’s so light and powerful, and I’m so easily distracted, I completely understood the worry. I play safe with her. I mean, yes, I will try to destroy the tires burning out every chance I get. And, yes I will cram through her gears as quickly as possible. But, all safe. So far. And,…no tickets yet. I pitched her sideways right in front of RPD the year before last. The mercy given to me was probably because it was Kool April Nites week and I’m sure they thought that my keeper would take my keys away before I hurt anyone. “Yea. There’s no way that middle aged woman did that on purpose.” Which is true. That one was an accident. All my best burnouts are. It’s a curse.

I’ve called her mine. I know she’s not just mine. Over the years I’ve done things to confound the message of to whom she belongs. Like the year that I bought Brian a gear drive for her for his birthday. (Jerk move on my part, but damn does it sound good!)

I wanted to take her to the drag strip last year. I’ve never raced. I was excited and nervous. Brian tuned her up. Which immediately led to him losing control of her in front of the house and putting that beautiful baby into the fence. In retrospect, “what the fuck?!” should have come AFTER “are you okay?” I am thankful that it happened here instead of where someone could’ve been hurt.  But I’m still sad.

She’s not totaled but because her uniqueness, I don’t know when she’ll get back to fighting shape. She came to me as a rusty pile, so I suspect that there’s an opportunity for her to reclaim her beauty. Just give me another couple decades.

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Blogolicious

Everything is a Competition

I have what some would say is a “problem” with competition.

It’s a thing I’d hope to grow out of, but that kind of maturity seems to have alluded me.

Of course there are upsides to being competitive, it causes drive, focus, perseverance etc., etc. But man. Those downsides are embarrassing. Even the synonyms for the word are unsettling: gung-ho, bloodthirsty, aggressive. None of that sounds like labels I want to wear.

I like to pretend that I have it under wraps. That maybe people can’t tell that I am so uh….spirited. But people know. In a big meeting once, we were asked if we’d made new year’s resolutions. I’d said that I was going to work on being less competitive. The hysterical laughter from the crowd was a rather clear sign that I’m not as secretive as I’d like to be. I revised that resolution. I intended to get better at cutting vegetables more uniformly.  I did pretty well at that one.

The competitive nature has persisted over time. When it appears, it’s not necessarily rational. If I was aggressive and needed to fight off wild animals for food for my family, that’d be fine. But when I make a fake race with the neighbor, there’s no benefit to behold. Poor Suzy. She had no idea that for months we were racing to see who get out the door fastest to get our kids to school. The fact that she didn’t know made my losses sting even harder.

If you’re wondering if I was able to let my kids win board games when they were little, yes. Not without some eye twitching, but yes. When they figured out games and such though, naw. Perhaps this is why young Dirty would angrily sweep the Payday board clean ruining the game when he was losing. I think conquering something should feel good. It’s probably wrong for me to think like this, but easy things hold less value. It’s difficult to appreciate hard work when everybody gets a trophy.

I hope that my nature doesn’t make me come across as overly self-important. I want to do better at the things I do, but I want you to do better also. I like being pushed, so the better Suzy is at getting her kids out the door, the better I will have to be too. Doing better by others doesn’t mean doing less yourself. It’s not a pie. We can all do better together.

I guess that, like most things, it all comes down to balance. That perfect sweet spot in between passive and cutthroat. If you’ve found it, please let me know your secrets. I’ll take on information with an open, and try really hard to squash thoughts about trying to be even more balanced than you. Bwah ha!

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Blogolicious

Dirty’s Daunting Decision (again)

18 is fun. Biology is telling you that you’ve got the world on lock down. The world says back “Not so much.” There’s an expectation that a magical moment occurs and suddenly you’ve figured out the things. Once you’ve lived for exactly 6,570 days, you’re able to enter into legally binding contracts, register to vote, serve on jury of your peers, and other grown up things.

Thankfully 18 doesn’t have to mean the end of figuring things out. Coincidentally, neither does 48.

When it was time for young Dirty to go back to school following the holidays, he got the opportunity to flex his adulthood muscle. It was just a few days before he was due to go back. He wanted to go to lunch. My spidey senses should’ve tingled.

As we sat down to our street tacos, “Crystal, I wanted to have a talk with you in a public place. I’m not going back to school. I’m joining the Army.”

I held my carne asada and narrowed my eyes, “You grossly underestimate my willingness to cause a scene. It’s a Sunday in Los Gordos. That won’t stop my words.” (maybe not the best way to start, but like said…it’s still okay to learn at my age too.)

I was pleased that he was able to have a difficult conversation. He clearly articulated his position. He’s forever wanted to join. I will be incredibly proud of him at such time that he does join, so any uncertainly on my part has nothing to do with army. It had everything to do with my worry that he was going to make a decision based on a short term need that would have long term results.

What followed was exhausting agony. Just like when debated which school to enroll in. He thinks hard about things before doing them, and puts a lot of pressure on himself. He was advised that he would go back to Cal Poly because the plane ticket was already paid for and his shit is there. But zero pressure about what he should do after that.

He said a lot of things about what he intended to do with his new plan. I’m not sure if he was trying to convince me or to convince himself. I apologized to him and said that part of his struggle was my fault. In my efforts to make him confident, I overshot and gave burdened him with an over inflated sense of self importance. None of us are that important. But most of my words were for my benefit only. The only ones I said that were seriously considered were “You’ll never be able to afford a Denali.” That. All my social worker mumbo jumbo fell out the ears, but conceptualizing earnings potential comparisons by talking about a pickup? That caught his attention.

Tuition was due a few days after he got back. He was saying that he didn’t want it paid if he wasn’t going to stay. This was kind to my wallet, but also possibly a tactic to put the decision off of him. That was not what was going to happen. He’s put in more than 6,570 days. They’re his decisions to live with. It literally came down to 28 minutes left to pay before he decided. Me and siri got some important shit done as I drove home from Chico. I didn’t know how it would turn out (and still don’t) but it was worth every penny to the decision to stay in school be HIS decision.

Needless to say, when you put your mom in what feels like a hostage ransom situation, there will be feelings. I was very disappointed in my phone’s inability to capture the seething tone with which I’d dictated my texts. Despite there not being a “you are on such thin ice” font in which to send texts, I think he knew my position. There were several days of radio silence.

Then a text, “Crystal.” “Yea?” “How much water do you put in the instant pot when you’re making rice?” His existential crisis had been replaced with problem solving how to meal prep in his dorm room. Wha?

This week he talked about his housing plans for next year. He starts a job on campus  Monday. It’s like the army blip never happened. If adulting is still as I know it to be, that doesn’t mean all our “crises” are over, but I feel happy for him that he was able to get through this one. He practiced seeking help, decision making, and living with the result.

Just because we’re adults doesn’t mean we never need help. Thank you for all the people who helped him problem solve. And thank you to those who helped me and listened to me bitch about it. (I really have no idea where he comes by the emotional roller coaster tendencies he may have. No idea! Oh my GOSH! NONE AT ALL!)

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Blogolicious

Validation: It’s Not Just About Parking

In the last couple weeks I’ve had several “opportunities” to think about “feelings” in an attempt to experience “personal growth.”

It’s been “fine.” (intentional excessive use of quotations)

Don’t worry. There’s no dramatic reveal here. Just my notes on some introspection. I won’t be offended if your read stops here.

Validation. Why do some people need it more than others? And what are they to do with that need?

In a fun cycle of events, my curiosity about why reassurance can be so important led to reading up on it, then writing about it, which technically is looking for reassurance.

Nevertheless, here we be. Still.

The most common explanation I found on reassurance was that we’re biologically wired for it. The idea is that we’re born dependent,…yadda yadda,…social creatures,…blah blah.

Cool. But how does someone know if their need for validation is normal?

I think I was looking litmus test of “if you ____, you’re too needy.” It turns out, that’s not how it goes. Your needs are interdependent with the needs of others.

The first step is becoming aware of what your needs are. This requires more honesty than everyone may be comfortable with. Don’t weed out the needs that you think are inappropriate, or paint you in a light different than what you’d like to be. Take the freedom to lay it all out there.

You can take comfort in being honest with even your most uncanny needs, because…guess what? Just having a need does NOT create an obligation for it to be filled.  There is so much worth and freedom from the knowledge that we’re not that important.

After individual needs are called to awareness, the next step is to see if those needs are:

        1) Realistic: Everyone must think pistachio truffles are the best.               

        2) Able to be filled by the required entity: I want pistachio truffles, but this director doesn’t make truffles. He gives oranges.

        3) In conflict with the needs of others: I want to eat all the pistachio truffles, but Karen also wants to eat all the pistachio truffles. Uh oh.  

        4) In conflict with other perceived needs: I need the soothing sensations that come from chocolate gorging, but I also need to not suffer the consequences of chocolate gorging. Looks like you win this round, Karen. This round.

        5) Actually a need:  What’s really at stake if I don’t get pistachio truffles?

(Sure, the intention of this post is about emotional needs, but when given choice to talk about feelings or pistachio truffles, the truffles will win. Every time.)

The next step is determining if you can articulate the need.

If you can’t, you don’t get to be pissed if it’s not met. Also, if you can’t, what’s driving that? Run your need through the list above and see where the change needs to happen.

I’m sure as fuck not an expert, I’ve got no idea where the sweet spot is between emotional self-reliance and inter-dependence. There’s some magical emotional place where we can know that we can draw on our own resources to get our needs met, without becoming too guarded or isolated.

As of now, there is no blood test developed to determine if a person is the right level of inter-dependant. Sadly, there is also not yet a pharmaceutical way to recalibrate someone’s need for validation.

So; until that time, the best I can strive for is to take responsibility for my emotions. Responsibility is power. Blaming external circumstances gives power away (someone’s brilliant words, but not mine).

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Blogolicious

Star Wars Made Moral Ambiguity a Thing

Hear me out.

Back in the day, there was this bad guy named Darth Vader. He was the quintessential bad guy. Great clothes, great theme music, horrible behavior. Dude could care less about your title, or your degree of loyalty. If you were in between him and his intended outcome, he’d kill you. He’d blow up entire planets just to show dominance and force. Sometimes he’d let people fight, sometimes he’d just choke them out without touching them. Spoiler alert (for a movie that was made 40 years ago…sooooooo,…if this spoils it for you, that’s on you): Vader was so bad, he cut off his own son’s hand to win a battle.

The first movie, New Hope,  came out when I was 6. Vader wore all black, did awful things, and had a theme son g that called the hairs on the back of my neck to attention. “Ah. He’s a bad guy. Got it!”

When Empire Strikes Back came out, I was 9. He was still that guy. He’d upped his game. He was using some psy ops to futher mess with people’s heads. He was being a barrier to true love by ordering Han frozen in carbonite. He lusted for power, and oozed wickedness. His imperial march that played as he strode about was synonymous with corruption. As my little brain was growing, all this was helpful. I knew I’d be able to navigate future life experiences by paying attention the characters in black with their own march music.

Then, things got complicated.

Return of the Jedi came out when I was 12 years old. For reasons unknown to my 12 year old self and also unknown to my 48 year old self, we all learned a lot about Vader. We were funneled into compassion for him. He was unmasked. A face that looked like skin after a bandaid had been left on too long was revealed. Think about when you’ve been in the water so long that you’re pruney or maybe finding a grape when you’ve done that seldom task of moving the fridge to clean below it. That’s what Vader looked like.

The loss of his ability to strike fear wasn’t caused only by the stripping of his nefarious exterior. We were emotionally influenced by his intent with taking the mask off. He wanted to see his son with his real eyes instead of through his mask. Is that right, Vader?  I’m just saying, the mask didn’t seem to be an issue when you CUT OFF HIS HAND.

Surely that’s as weird as it will get, right? Wrong. There’s a “heartwarming” scene where Vader is spiritually dwelling with Obi Wan and Yoda. The same Obi Wan that he killed. They were just chilling with no hard feelings. 12 year old me had some real “What the frick?!” moments.

The movies were re-released when I was a mostly formed adult. I was still saddened that Vader couldn’t have just stayed bad. Three more movies were released that furthered the narrative that Vader was complicated. That perhaps in the absence of adverse childhood experiences he’d have been good guy.

I’m not sure if movies are where we’re supposed to formulate our values, or if they’re a reflection of them. In my social work heart, I know that everyone has a back story. We are all products of our life experiences. And, grown up me knows that the world is very complicated. There is a whole lot about humaning that was left out the brochures. Maybe that’s what makes me miss just regular old bad guys. He’s fictional. We don’t need to try to help him live his best life. We should be able to dislike him and be okay with that.