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Personal Growth (or not) Social Worky

Fish Movie Boundaries

One of the thing I do is to volunteer at the a theater as an usher/clean up crew. It’s been pretty cool. I see things I would have never otherwise seen like Japanese drumming, symphony, and now short films about trout. The people are generally very polite and congenial. It’s clear which of the people there have had too much to drink and maybe say things they wouldn’t otherwise, but they are rare.

Last night there was a dude who was different. He loomed up over me and started with common questions about what the show was.

“Is this about fish?”

“Uh,…yah.”

“Is it fiction?”

“I dunno man. I just open the door.”

“You just open the door?….is it like a Scorsese film.”

“Ha. I don’t think so.”

“So, is it like a Scorsese?”

I’d noticed that he’d moved in closer. With my back against the wall, I did not like having a large man only inches away from my face. I kept turning away to hold the door and engage with other folks. He wasn’t budging.

He asked if I fish. I told him no. He asked if I camp specifically “in the raw” (whatever that means). My gut did not like his questions, proximity, or his inability to pick up on my cues that I felt I had fulfilled my usherly courteous obligation.

This seems like the time to point out that I’m NOT the type to overreact to challenging social interaction. I wouldn’t call myself a tough girl, but I really do spend a lot of time in enough very tough situations without panicking.

“I’m from the mountains. I just come down to town to see what’s going on. Are you from the mountains?”

“No.”

“Oh, you’re from Redding. Are your parents living?” What the actual fuck?

I continued to try to dismiss him. He proceeded to let me know about his daughter and his wife that moved back out of the county. (Shocking.) He talked about his family in so cal. “Do you surf?” As I type it out, it all seems benign. But his insistence and his continued closing in on me was unsettling to say the least.

A bunch of thoughts were in my head. Why the fuck did my fellow door man, Rose, not show for her shift? Why when I try to throw ESP signals to security are they not looking at this dude? Am I being overdramatic? Have I become instantly soft? Thankfully the gods of drunk men gave me a chance to dispel some of that. As this went on, some beer-spiller totally interrupted creepy guy and called out “you’re beautiful.” He was drunk (and inaccurate) but somehow not creeping me the fuck out. This told me I was reacting to this specific creeper for some reason.

Creepy guy continued to pepper with questions that I did my best to parry away. He’d look down on me and “hmmmm.”

At one point he let me know that his deceased mother warned him about women like me.

I’m literally just there to open the door for people to see the trout movies. He asked how I spent my time as a child. I didn’t answer him. He didn’t take the hint and asked again. “I’m not comfortable answering any more of your questions.” He then said something about how he never tries to take married or taken women.

Luckily I saw someone I knew and dipped. The someone I knew was with some other person who was able to say that he saw the creeper and that it was really weird. I felt relieved, but then then a bit annoyed that it was like I needed someone to confirm the strangeness of the encounter. I should know that my comfort level doesn’t to be sanctioned by others. My boundary is mine to define and needs no defense.

I wandered over to security and let them know there was a creeper. They don’t know me. I felt (right or wrong) that they suspected I may have been overreacting. I mean, what can I expect strutting around in that fanny pack and lanyard. Whether they thought my concern was warranted or not, they still kindly said they would “keep an eye out” and walk me to my car at the end.

The dude disappeared. The trout movies were actually pretty cool. And my night ended with me un-murdered. Win-win-win.

Because I overthink things though, I ruminated about my imaginary murderer.

It made me think of a great book I read close to 20 years ago; “The Gift of Fear” by Gavin DeBecker. It was given to me by my MSW internship supervisor, Gayle. I wondered if it was intended to turn me into someone who just knows they’re always about to become some sort of victim. That’s not who I want to be and that’s fortunately now how the book read. It was more about “listen to your gut.”

He did however talk about the trap that folks can fall in when they’re being agreeable. This is probably a grossly inaccurate paraphrase, but essentially, bad guys use our niceness against us. I think most people want to be nice and assume positive intent from others. However, that doesn’t mean we have to compromise our boundaries or ignore our gut when it sends up the red flag.

The creepy dude reminded me of some people I’ve known in my work who’ve experienced unspeakable traumas and as a result sometimes never develop appropriate social skills. I have empathy for those folks. That empathy doesn’t need to result in me tolerating what feels unsafe.

“Wow Crystal. You’re putting way too much in to a weirdo hitting on you.”

I know. I overthink things. But I wanted to talk about it. My story at home included “dude wasn’t reading the signs at all” which was met with “You were answering the questions. What do you mean he wasn’t reading the signs?” I’m sure Brian was caught off guard by my strong and abrupt position. But it was an instantaneous highlight of how we can accidentally make people feel like it’s their fault when someone encroaches on our boundaries. It’s not. I didn’t cause the film fest creeper.

Your boundaries are not a list of do’s and don’t’s. They’re the guardrails for what you will accept and not accept. They don’t require justification and it’s not your fault if someone violates them.

If your boundaries are tested today, that is not a reflection on you. It’s a reflection on tester. It doesn’t matter if it’s socially awkward grown ups or if its your hamster’s physical therapist holding a hand out for a post Hamster PT tip; no is a complete sentence.

Thanks for reading!

Categories
Social Worky

Machine Washable Gladiators

Believe it or not, there was a time when I didn’t work for public non-profit child welfare.

I had a starter career in the bank. I liked it. Especially when I got to do extra cool things like fly on the company plane to exotic places like Cresent City to train people. But it didn’t seem like it was the kind of job to spark my soul. I got serious about the college thing, found psychology classes to be captivating, and yada yada yada was working near child welfare, but not quite in it.

As a foster family agency social worker, I would have infrequent need to unearth some court clothes and go to hearings with children, parents, and foster parents. I remember very clearly when THE social workers would arrive. The ones from the County who had direct involvement in whatever matter was at hand. I know it will sound cheesy and fake, but they seemed so cool to me. They’d walk up the stairs in a group typically and it wasn’t a far stretch to for my imagination to see a theatrical slo-mo walk accompanied by music that indicates they’re bad. Ass!

I wanted to be a part of it. The difference between private and public child welfare is that the worker is more directly involved in cases. They are the ones who report recommendations directly to the court. In child welfare social work, if the court becomes involved, every major decision is made by the court based on the social worker’s reports of the work by parents. It’s important to remember that it IS the parents who do the incredibly hard work required of participation. They will succeed because of themselves. But the worker also works very hard. They cheerlead, have difficult talks, direct towards things that can help, hold accountability, and have a level of responsibility that is intense. It sounds straightforward enough, but it’s actually quite complex.

It’s by design that that our system has people in everyone’s corner. This is intended to give balanced information by which incredibly important decisions are to be made. Differing perspectives lead to conflicting ideas about what the right thing to do with a family may be. And it’s in those times of conflicting ideas that social worker determination is tested hardest.

I’ve worked with a lot of workers in my time, and every single one has taken on the task because they genuinely want to help kids and families. They may have varying approaches for how that happens, but it is their purpose.

So, when you take someone who really believes they’re making the best recommendations and enter them into a gauntlet of criticism, it can take a toll on a social worker. Common are the moments for social workers in which no matter what steps they take, they know someone will be outraged.

Add to this the unending stack of demands from all angles, feelings, and seemingly unreasonable expectations and it can become a stew only the strong can stomach.

And they do.

Each social worker can without a moment’s hesitation recall stories of things that went so well they can give you goosebumps. I don’t know if for all of the workers if it’s those moments that get them through times that seem unreasonable, but I know those stories are what keeps me going.

Baby social worker me was very confused about the amount of influence those action hero county workers had. I imagine every social worker goes through a developmental milestone of their own when that realization hits. Nevertheless, they persist because it’s what they believe in.

I wish our system didn’t need to exist. But it does for good reason. And when I can think about any number of incredible things that happen every day, I’m more than inspired to continue. I’m fiercely dedicated it in a way that’s probably considered a pathological loyalty. And to the rest of the machine washable gladiators that also signed on to do the same honorable work, thank you! If you have an idea for what the slo-mo walk up song to department 11 should be, let me know.

Thanks for reading!

Categories
Blogolicious

New Phone. Who Dis?

There’s weird things to take pride in as an adult. You know, those little indicators of stability like maintaining the same cell phone number for over 2 decades I’m not sure what made me think of that this morning. Maybe I was looking hard for some random win to assign myself, but for whatever reason; it popped in my head.

The phone number I have used to ring only very rarely to a receiver attached to a curly-q cord weighted by a battery that was heavier than a small infant. The phone only worked when plugged in to the car. Particularly for me, a sensible previous rental purchase Pontiac Grand Am.

I couldn’t tell you one single phone call I made or received on that behemoth, but I carried it diligently as though something very important could need my immediate attention at any time. I’m also sure that I carried it in to my job to prevent theft. Along with the face plate for my Alpine stereo.

I’m sure I justified my purchase and soul-stealing monthly fees in some completely logical way, but I’d be lying if I didn’t acknowledge that part of it was just because I wanted to be cool.

Bag phones were a technological bridge. Before them, the next coolest thing a regular human could afford was a cordless house phone. Or for the really lucky, a second phone line. Make no mistake, cordless phones changed the world. I remember how the harvest gold kitchen phone cord could snake all the from it’s very important perch near the breakfast bar all the way to the hallowed space of my parents’ laundry room. You could certainly be on the phone, tethered to the wall, but still able to cook my favorite after school snack (a fried grated potato with ketchup and mayo).

The phone at the other end of my parents’ Amen Lane home was in their bedroom. It was a rotary dial desk model of a bone color. It’s freedom benefit was the cord that connected it to the wall behind their dresser was probably 30 feet long. That phone was carried all the way to behind my bedroom door for many a chat and more than a few prank calls. “You hang up.” “No, you hang up.” “I’m looking at the moon, are you looking at the moon?”

In these days, car phones were something only the stupid rich had. They closest I’d come to seeing one was on Dukes of Hazzard. In some episodes, Boss Hogg had a car phone. It was literally just a receiver and that pigtail cord stuck in the dash. Boss Hog’s acting though sold it as completely real. “Rosco, If we ever get out of this alive, I’ll kill you!”

When the first person in any circle I was involved in got a car phone, it was the time of legend. Middle schoolers came from all around the Evergreen Elementary School District to see if the rumors that Connie’s dad had a car phone were true. We had to be careful when looking at it. Extra caution was taken to make sure no buttons were inadvertently touched. Calls cost $20/min ( or whatever exorbitant amount we were told). We stared in awe. Car phones are real. And Connie’s dad must be incredibly important.

Skip forward a decade, and Brian got one from his job and I “needed” one as well. No more would I need to pull off at the next pay phone to return a call that had come to the bank beeper.

It feels like it’s only been the blink of an eye until I’m at this point like a lot of us where we’re carrying 2 phones that have more technology than ever thought possible. I mean, with just a couple of clicks I can place Daniel’s face on the side of a milk jug and instantly send it to whatever far off place he’s at to let him know his mommy misses him. I also get to see video of young Dirty doing cop things taken and shared by people I don’t know at all.

It all comes with a trade off and it’s come full circle. I’m still just as tethered to a phone as I was at 13, just in a different way.

Thanks for reading!

Categories
Blogolicious

Make Your Mark

Beyonce has it wrong. It’s not girls who run the world. It’s makers. (Some of which are girls obviously).

Makers have great responsibility. Through their art, creation of functional implements, music and the like, they tell the history of our world through their perspective.

I’ve always admired the makers. I’m not one, but I sincerely respect them. I do try to do some making in my own “good-weird” way. You know, making things that are absent of comparisons. For example, I’m fairly certain my over-sized door decoration of the abominable snow man was the best around. It was also the worst around. Why? Because it was the only one around. I didn’t have to worry that my work neighbors had higher quality door yetis than mine. Or that they had practiced their craft longer than I highlighting my inadequacies in upholstered office doors. Making weird things has been my own private oasis of being able to try to be creative with none of the risk.

Obviously, makers drive the world. Whether it’s caveman grog who made the first hammer, or a current artist just trying to create beauty; we need makers.

I’d like to think that I’ve been able to appreciate the artistry that goes in to creating sculptures, crafts, projects, and the like. But I don’t think I’ve fully appreciated the vulnerability that’s associated. I’m sure that vulnerability is not the word that some burly dude creating a manly thing is thinking, but it’s there. Makers take some thought in their head, and turn it in to something that others can experience. It’s like an invitation to their brain. Not in a zombie fuel way, but in a “welcome to the world as I see it” way.

I’m sure not every person or every project comes with doubt, but I’ve seen (and conducted) enough unfinished projects to know that at least some of the time there’s uncertainty there. Once you finish a project, you’re saying “this is the best I was willing/able to do on this.” That can be hard to put our there.

Luckily, there are a lot of different ways to succeed in “making.”

I remember a class at Shasta College back in the 1900’s. There was discussion about preferences in what people read. I was too old for what was said to be new information, but basically the point was that there’s not so much writing that is good or bad. There’s just writing that you do, or do not, like. The precise example that I conjured when considering this at that time was Pulp Fiction. I love everything about it. But not everybody does, and that’s okay. I mean, they’re wrong,…but that’s okay.

What work is good is based on my definition. Just because I don’t like something doesn’t mean it’s bad.

So to the makers of all things, thank you for what you do. It can be a challenge to put your efforts on display. Thank your deciding it’s worth it to help put your stamp on the world.

Thanks for reading!

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Blogolicious

Happy Father’s/Shepherd’s Day

I count myself lucky that I have as many great examples of fatherhood as I do in my life.

Obviously my own dad knocked it out of the park with his fathering. His way included making sure he was a great provider who instilled important values such as hard work, self-determination, and how to start off on a hill with a stick shift. He also passed down his wicked sharp sense of humor. I look at the two smarty pants I spawned and directly trace their razor sharp wit back to their grandpa. I’m thankful for the work he did.

His dadding style is one of many. There’s not one exact right way to be a dad. There’s a lot of right ways.

I went to a wedding last night for some children. They’re not really children, but they’re the same age as my children so therefore I can not accept that they are of a suitable age for marriage. (Where does the time go?) I got to see multi-generational examples of quality dads. There were many differences between them be it age, culture, adversity, etc. But there was also the commonality that in their own ways, their goal was to do raise their kids the very best they can.

In the grand scheme of things, our time to parent is short. The chaos and hard work that it takes can sometimes make it feel like it’s never going to end, but all too quickly, it does. In that short window, you have choices in how you’re going to approach your crucial tasks.

I saw a cool thing on the internet recently that talked about the difference between trying to engineer your kids versus shepherding your kids. Essentially, it says that parents do not get to design their children. Smart doctor man who shares the info says that all children are born with 400 psychological traits that develop as they mature. He shatters (some) beliefs when he adds that how those develop has nothing to do with the parent. He says that children are not a blank slate on which parents get to impose their will. Smart doctor man tells parents to instead think of themselves as a shepherd to a unique individual instead of as someone who can force a particular outcome.

He goes on to describe the critical importance of shepherds. They pick the pastures where the sheep grow, they make sure they protect the sheep from harm. But no shepherd is going to turn a sheep into a something other than the sheep they were born as.

Smart doctor man wasn’t saying that children are mindless sheep. He was making a parallel between the vulnerability of kids and the importance of knowing our role as parents.

Kids are unique individuals who will, too soon, grow and prosper. Build them the habitat, then enjoy watching it unfold in whatever glorious fashion it does. Maybe you are raising the D-1 football player. Someone is. Maybe you got the funniest kid in 3rd grade. Maybe you’ve got the kid who will overthrow a regime even if it’s a regime that only exists for them. Cherish it any which way it develops.

All the amazing “kids” I saw last night have parents who’ve done this to varying degrees. Folks who’ve chosen pastures for their kids in which their uniqueness can flourish. I don’t know that these dads and moms think of it in those terms, but when you can see that there’s admiration and pride in the individual kids, you know it’s there.

As a wise man says, making children and raising children are two very different skill sets. I don’t know if there’s a more true statement. So on this day in which we honor the dads, thank you to those who’ve done what you could to make sure your kids were safe, cared for, and allowed to grow in to the unique beings they are.

Happy Father’s Day!

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Blogolicious

Are You There, Judy Blume?

It’s me, Crystal.

Last night I accidentally landed on a documentary about the person who singlehandedly made me a reader, Judy Blume.

As I watched it; it occurred to me that she probably covertly also set a lot of other values of mine (and millions of other humans).

My Judy Blume days technically started in 4th grade. I don’t remember much about 4th grade, but I do remember Mrs. Wilson reading us “Tales of a 4th Grade Nothing.” It was funny. Before her reading this book to us, I had no idea chapter books could be funny.

In 5th grade, I got the boxed set. I eventually read all 5 books, but like others (I hope), I went straight to the goods to start my read; “Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret.”  

This book was THE thing discussed in my peer circle at Evergreen Elementary. There were quiet whispers about all that Margaret was going through. Much like there were quiet whispers about what some of us were starting to experience. And since I’m pretty sure I skipped the special school day about “our changing bodies”, this meant there was a lot of pressure on Margaret and Judy for my education.

The book did not disappoint. I’m pretty sure there was some stuff about God and whatever, but mostly I remember it normalizing all the feelings associated with wondering if you’re developmentally on track. Bless her for doing that.

The documentary talked about how this was really revolutionary for the times. It showed commercials from the era where that business our bodies do monthly was referred to as “the curse.” But here was some New Jersey suburban mom telling millions of young girls that it’s okay. She had to fight to share her message. It’s pretty wild when you think about it, breaking barriers to discuss unavoidable biology. She appears fearlessly authentic about her passion to take away the power of secrets.

I know that Judy Blume wasn’t the inventor of importance of body autonomy or self awareness, but for a lot of girls she was very effectively getting those messages to burrow into brains and change future perspectives. Judy Blume couldn’t have gotten in to my brain if it weren’t for publishing, Mrs. Wilson, my mom, etc. But because all those things, her words did get in my head and proceeded to stay there for decades.

My love for Judy Blume books impassioned me so much that one of my two dream jobs was to be an author. The second was an attorney. If I’d known about social workers, it may have made my wish list seeing as how it requires a lot of writing and a lot of time in court.

Social work is similar to the dream jobs, but waaaaay different. Social work requires respect for the dignity and worth of a person and a lot of humor. You also have to be able to tackle uncomfortable topics. Sure, Judy Blume wasn’t talking about all the things that are challenges in people’s lives today. For instance, the moms in her books didn’t work let alone deal with other pressures; but the books still addressed many topics that seemed taboo.

It’s entirely possible that I would have become a social worker even if I’d never met Margaret or Sheila the Great. I mean, millions of those books were sold and we still have social worker openings so clearly not everyone who reads those books lands in my field.

**But just in case it is as simple as “those who read those books will be social workers”, here’s the link to how to apply for county social work positions 😊 https://g.co/kgs/1rKAW7

It’s also conceivable that I would have developed my attitudes about independence and the importance of demystifying biology without those reads as well. I’m thankful for the positive memories of the books either way.

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Blogolicious

Mother’s Day Musings

“Happy mother’s day,” said the baby Walmart grocery pickup lady as she handed me a nice gift bag of candy I ate within 45 seconds.

I tried to do a quick assessment of if I was supposed to say “you too.” My apologies to Walmart lady if I denied her a fitting “Happy Mother’s Day,” but after my cost benefit analysis, I determined to not say it.

Am I overthinking things? Duh! It’s one of the only two modes I have, the other being “full send.” But time and life experience make me realize that you can’t just go flinging “mother’s day” sentiments out there all willy nilly.

It is 100% accurate that we all have at least one mom and at least one dad. But that’s where it stops as far as things we can count on.

Beyond that, anything else is presumptive.

Some people choose not to have children. Some people desperately want to make their own but their bodies aren’t going with the program. Some people make humans in times when the universe has decided (for one reason or another) that it’s not their season. Cultural norms, addictions, life circumstances, and absence of support can result in women finding themselves in a spot where they aren’t able to raise the humans they grew in their body.

I count myself as incredibly lucky. When it came time to become a parent; it was planned for, miraculously successful, and embraced by my circles. (not that I had any extra strangeness that means my baby growing stories were in any way more challenging than anyone else’s….it’s just when you think about it….how humans are created is pretty f’n wild!)

I’m not sure if you’ve heard about my kids, but they’re pretty incredible. (See,…it’s funny because they’re about all I talk about).

When I look at how they got to be the amazing people they are, I have to be honest and say that it’s not because of how their dad and I raised them, but more likely in spite of our efforts.

We didn’t go out of our way to make them need therapy; but like every parent we did the best we could with the resources we bring to the table. We set the examples and hoped for the best. I’ve said it before, their teen years felt absolutely like showing up for a big final when you’re fixing to find out if you’ve studied hard enough for the test that’s about to come. “I took my prenatal vitamins. We’ve worked hard. We signed them up for hopefully the exact right amount of extracurricular activity. Hopefully not buying those f’n extra spring school pictures doesn’t result in them turning to a life of crime.” Notwithstanding my overthinking, they turned out way better than I could hope for.

But that’s just my experience.

Mother’s Day makes me think of my moms. One who desperately wanted a kid who is married to a man who (despite how he grumbles sometimes) desperately wants to make her happy. They didn’t stop at anything until they built the family they wanted. They made every sacrifice they could to create environments in which we all could thrive. If you’ve ever thought that I’m a tad over-confident, thank my mom. She instilled in the core of belief that we possess the ability to accomplish anything we set our minds to.

But I also think of my other mom. The one for whom I was a secret. The one whose extreme sacrifice led to the happiness of another family. If she had random well-intended Walmart ladies wish her a happy mother’s day, I hope it didn’t sting too badly. She did a great thing and was braver than most could ever be. I simply cannot imagine what it must have been like for her. I want to make better for her any unsettledness she may have felt in her time. I can’t do that, but I can make the best attempts I can to live well for all my parents. I can also continue to bask in the blessing that is getting to know the rest of her/our family. Not kidding, this stuff is better than what they write in movies.

So on this day, I want to hope the best for every mom out there regardless of how their story is written. You grew a human (or you cherish your humans/fur-babies/etc. with an unmatched ferocity), be proud of a job well done. And for all y’all; please take a second today to recognize not only your mom, but those moms for whom the day goes a little differently.

Thanks for reading!

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Blogolicious

I Would Never..!

With age comes perspective. There’s down sides to aging. Like being asked by the nice kid at the Goodwill if I want the senior discount. But the changing of perspective make the wrinkles worth it.

It’s fun to look back at how things used to make you feel or how you expected things would be and compare them to current status.

I was a baby when I worked at Tri Counties Bank in Raley’s. A baby who was trending towards adulthood, but not quite set. I was not yet a mom, but moms need things from Raley’s so I got to see lots of examples and form lots of uncooked opinions.

There was one unruly preschooler who was under no control of her parent. Said child climbed up on the carefully designed watermelon display, pulled down her shorts, and pissed on a whole stack of produce. In horror, I declared I would never let my kids behave like that.

I am pleased to report, that to my knowledge, my kids never emptied their bladders on groceries. However, they did plenty of things to help reset my thinking about what was in my control in parenting.

Maybe not surprisingly, most of my stories about the unauthorized behavior of my children involves someone whose name rhymes with Shirty. Not that Daniel was above shenanigan, he’s just far better at subtlety.

So as the years went on, I know that other people looked at my parenting and had their own moments of “I would never…!”

“Oh Crystal, you’re being dramatic. I’m sure that didn’t happen.”

Really?! Then how about the time at the BBQ when unnamed child was on a terror and the woman twisted her face to me, gestured towards my pre-schooler and said “is THAT yours?”

One of my favorite times I would have judged from the outside was when it was me and the boys at an agency event. My employer really supported our families being involved in our events. Context: at this point in my career, my job included coaching parents on interacting with children who’d been removed from their care. I was to use my training and education to help them elevate their parent/child interactions.

And,….scene!

My toe-headed 4 year old was playing baby air hockey with a kid with whom my agency was working. It was neat to stand beside the parents of the other child and watch our kids just exist in kid land. Until it wasn’t.

Young Derek has always preferred to win. So when he wasn’t, the situation was quickly devolving. I tried my verbal skills. Nothing. He threw his air hockey paddle at the other child. I scooped him up before it got worse. He was less than pleased. With many eyes on us at this point, he started to hit me and yelled out (and I quote), “Shit head mommy!”

To say parenting has humbled me is a gross understatement. But it’s not just the kid rearing things that I needed reset on.

Some folks are wired better than me and started with more humility. Some of us need to be still having such lessons repeatedly pounded into their heads. I’m the latter.

It would seem much of my adult life has been one exercise after another of the importance of perspective. I was never going to get a tattoo. I was never going to run a stop sign. I was never going to get another perm. I was never,…

It’s not just a matter of lowered expectations. Some of my “I would never…” still haven’t happened. I made it through kid-raising without the mini van. There is never laundry on my couch waiting to be folded.

But as I sit here trying to come up with other examples of things I said I would never do, it’s clear that I’ve said that less and less as time has gone on. Age has shown me that such absolutes are unreasonable and do not take into account human conditions that lead to people’s circumstances.

I’m very thankful for many of the experiences that have helped me reframe my opinions and given me greater understandings. And, I hope that as time goes on, I continue to grow in my insights. If I miss that mark, my secondary wish is that I never piss on a stack of watermelon at a grocery store, because I would never….!

Thanks for reading!

Categories
Personal Growth (or not) Social Worky

Trusting Yourself

It’s the time of my prepping for bikini competition where I have moments of doubt coupled with moments of time to think. That’s not the best combination.

On the upside though, it creates circumstances where I try to learn new things. Thanks Spotify for the pod casts and (judge if you must) guided meditations. Before you cast me in to the group that is convinced the illuminati are to blame for the price of eggs, hear me out. If you can overcome the painfully soothing voices and spa music, some of those meditations have some decent messages worth listening to.

This morning, the one that rotated through was on self trust.

When I “relaxed inside myself” did I really see an orb of pure white light that moved from the size of a pinpoint to (ironically) the size of a watermelon? No. Not in the slightest. I’m not judging if you do these things and you do end up with melon orbs, but that’s just not my experience.

The experience wasn’t wasted though.

The melon orb was supposed to signify “intuition.” K.

At the end of the calming directions, auditory Xanax said, “Ask your intuition what you need to know.”

There was still time remaining in the tanning bed (gotta be Oompa Loompa colored for bikini comps *eyeroll), so as lame as it seemed; I did internally ask myself what I need to know.

I was metaphorically crisply slapped into attention with the thought “it’s going to be okay.”

After I stopped being shocked that anything came to my brain, I began to promptly over think things. “What’s going to be okay?! Am I missing the opportunity to worry about something?!”

I was able to promptly come up with a list of things about which to worry. Some big, some small, some of my own creation, some outside of my control completely. But then I thought it again “it’s going to be okay.” It was like that’s the branded answer for whatever ______(insert worry here) was.

Okay. That’s not a bad message I guess, but where does a thought like that come from?

One of my Sunday post gym fave things to do is to try to learn stuff on ye olde computer.

Today I landed on a video about 8 Signs You Don’t Trust Yourself. It sounded like maybe it’d be about how someone shouldn’t have a credit card or be solely in charge of whether or not they cut bangs in their hair.

It was an interesting 6 minutes that wasn’t about credit or hair at all.

They start in the classic pop psychology/graduation speech fashion of having the definition of a word. “Trust is firm belief in the reliability, truth, ability, or strength of someone or something.”

According to the cute little cartoon guy, the signs to know if you struggle to trust yourself are:

  1. You second guess your decisions: A cue for of this applies is when you struggle to decide. Their example was choosing between pancakes and waffles, but I’m sure this could apply to lots of other decisions too, like things at work.  
  2. You overthink everything: After cartoon guy landed on pancakes, he wondered how good the waffles were and if he made the right choice.
  3. You trust other people’s opinions more than your own: How is a cartoon guy supposed to know if pancakes or waffles are better?!
  4. You don’t validate your own experiences: The cartoon guy had the feeling of “I swear that I remembered to do that” but then completely felt that he hadn’t and doubted himself. In my life, this one looks like I’ve walked a fair amount away from the car and then feel like I didn’t lock the car so I walk back and “boop” the key fob again just in case.  
  5. You’re afraid to speak up; you back away from being the center of attention: Cartoon guy was afraid of being judged even in groups of close friends.
  6. You try to control everything: Cartoon guy found himself taking charge and planning ahead with hypervigilance. The message was that religiously planning ahead can be a result of worrying that you don’t feel like you can trust yourself if there’s curve balls. Think person who gets their fam to the airport at 2 am for the 8 am flight.
  7. You struggle to recognize your worth: Cartoon guy felt embarrassed when people compliment him. And no matter how many compliments he got, he continued to sell himself short.
  8. You’re overly critical of yourself: Cartoon guys is always the first to point out his own mistakes. He maybe follows it up with some statement to normalize falling on a sword that no one asked him to with comments like “it’s my Catholic guilt” or whatever.

I resonated with some of the 8 signs. Especially that one where you don’t want to be the center of attention (Golden State Championships bikini competition 3/25 in San Jose BWAH HA!). But the rest of that resonating can be daunting. How is knowing that maybe you don’t trust yourself supposed to be helpful?!

Thankfully cartoon guy brought it back around. You can cultivate self trust. You can doubt, but still have hope that you’ve got the internal tooling to make good choices.

Essentially, just listen to your own illuminated watermelon and know that it’s all going to be some kind of okay.

Thanks for reading!

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Put a Pin in It: Acupuncture for the Win

I’m old, and I try to pretend I’m not. My current workouts are great (thank you Troy and Arin). I never have any acute injury buuuuuut,…when you’re 51 and trying to keep up with (or trying to beat) 21 year olds, then go sit at a desk for too long; there’s bound to be some aches.  

As a result, every so often me going from sitting to standing looks exactly like the evolutionary chart. Sometimes I get stuck in the position that is in the line right next to the monkey. It’s painful and embarrassing.

I thought I’d see if acupuncture could help. I’m a curious creature, and since the whole needles in humans thing has been a practice for over 3000 years, I figured it may be an adventure.

I purposefully didn’t look in to what to expect from the experience. For me, sometimes doing that will set up an expectation then instead of experiencing the event in a be still status, I’ll spend mental energy thinking about the things I read or heard and trying to compare those things to what I was encountering.

The place I went is Flow Community Acupuncture. Booking was incredibly easy to do on-line. The price is reasonable and is on a sliding fee schedule with no questions asked. The initial appointment is $50-$60 and follow ups are $25-$40.

In the fashion to which I am accustomed; I screamed in there later than I would have liked to have been. Not the right tone to start an internal calming process. Also, it’s a place for spa voices. You know, like my gentle gossamer volume.

The talking part was brief. He told me what to expect as far as when the pins go in. His form had 3 lines for “what brings you in today?” 1. Low back 2. Knee 3. Curiosity

Off the lobby is the community room. Lit for ambiance with soothing music. There were several people reclined who looked cashed out.

He whispered me through the pin part. Checking for if I was comfortable. He told me he keeps a close eye on the room and that I should relax for 25 minutes to an hour. My skeptical-self took note of the clock. I had the feeling that I was going to struggle to chill in a chair for any amount of time. Then in a hushed tone he said, “Enjoy the ride” and spa-walked away. (It’s like real walking only quieter)

I had a pin (or maybe more) in my forehead. That didn’t stop me from wanting to roll my eyes. I thought, “this is going to be lame, and then he’s going to ask how it was, then my desire to be polite will make me have to tell him some fake story about how awesome it was.” Yes. I do over think things.

I looked at the clock and less than 5 minutes passed. Fuck.

I’m not sure where in the next minutes those hair-thin pins took over my consciousness, but it was commandeered fully. It was, in fact, a ride. I don’t know the order events occurred. But I know I felt things. There were (I dunno) power surges (?) that felt like they coursed through my body. I was simultaneously hyper aware of what my body was experiencing and absolutely unaware. I know that doesn’t make sense. None of it did. How can dude put a pin in my foot and all the sudden I’m having deep dreams interspersed with blinding flashing white lights in my brain. It was bizarre. I’d have moments where I knew I was trying to fight this ancient Chinese mysticism, I was convinced I’d still have to tell the guy it didn’t work. Then I’d quickly slip away to some other internal realm.

At one point, a loud snore caught my attention. I can only assume it was mine. My eyes opened. As promised, pin guy instantly saw that I was alert and came immediately over. “How was it?” I only had juice to nod and smile. “You look like you were pretty deep in there for a while.” My inner voice was using not spa volume to gleefully yell “In where?! What the fuck just happened?!” But I knew with my feelings of “whoa!!!!” I’d be completely unable to moderate volume or read cues about if I’m being too much, so I said nothing.

I looked at the clock. I’d been in that chair for nearly an hour.

I gathered my self and put my shoes back on with all the dexterity of a drunkard mincing tomatoes. Me and my half-mast eyes wandered to the car. I probably sat there another 5 minutes before I felt alert enough to operate a motor vehicle.

I was struck by how relaxed to the bone I felt. The feeling of “it’s all good” lasted for days. My back was notably better. My sinuses were something I didn’t even know to complain about and they felt remarkably better. I know this’ll sound weird, but I had a generalized feeling that my system had been flushed of bad stuff. Like them silly pins were like some body-draino, or something.

When I got home, then I did my research on the whole acupuncture stuff. It’s used to treat a myriad of conditions; pain, sleep issues, mood stability, addiction, anxiety headaches, nausea, etc. A list that diverse would make someone think it has to be bunk. But one of the most interesting things about my research is that acupuncture is something that many insurances cover.

I don’t think this guy does the insurance thing, but the fact that companies who don’t give money unless they absolutely have to are willing to pay for this bolstered the legitimacy of the treatment. That and the aforementioned tidbit that it’s been practiced for over 3,000 years.

I promptly booked another session.This this experience was a good one and I’m happy to try it again. Plus….I tried to keep up with those dang 21 year olds again this week and could probably stand some more tune up.

If you’ve done it or if you do it, let me know about the experience.

Thanks for reading!