Forgiving Myself

October 28, 2014 By

IMG_0850“Were I smarter, more gifted, I could pin down a closer facsimile of the wonders I see. I believe that, more than anything else, this grief of constantly having to face down our own inadequacies is what keeps people from being writers. Forgiveness, therefore, is the key. I can’t write the book I want to write, but I can and will write the book I am capable of writing. Again and again throughout the course of my life I will forgive myself.”
–  Ann Patchett (from The Getaway Car: A Practical Memoir About Writing and Life)

I’m stressed because I can’t do it all.

Traveling and being away even for short periods of time

can screw up my whole routine.

Then I have a melt down.

I’m overwhelmed with things to do.

I’m told I’m a perfectionist.

I am.

I’m told I’m too hard on myself.

I am.

I’m trying to figure out how not to be those things

forgiving myself along the way.

Filed Under: Life, Mental Health, Perfectionism, Quotes, The Process, Travels Tagged With:

The Stigma Of “Crazy”

October 7, 2014 By
Out Birding.

Bird Watching

Word has it that I’m a little crazy. Admittedly, I’m different from a lot of other people, but you’re different from everybody else, too. We can all come up with some crazy ideas. They may be foolish, idiotic, silly, farcical, laughable, nonsensical, or half-baked, but everyone gives birth to them and it doesn’t mean that we’re all mentally deranged.

I do go by the name Batty, sometimes. That’s what my grandchildren call me. My nieces call me Aunt Batty. It started when my granddaughter Zoe, now fourteen, started to talk. I don’t know why she started calling me Batty, but it stuck and is quite an apt name. I much prefer it to Granny, Grammy, or Nana.

To me, Batty simply means different. I may be what others call ditzy or eccentric, but I’m not unhinged. I’m dissimilar to many, but we are all different from one another. Janet, down the street, has red hair and thinks vanilla ice-cream is to die for. John, over on Main, has black hair and loves to skydive. They may be poles apart when it comes to religion and politics.  They are both individuals.

Some of us are more open than others and some of us are happier than others. Some people suffer from depression. Others might be bipolar, or possibly, schizophrenic. They are not crazy. They have a mental illness that in most cases is treatable, just like TB, cancer, or the common cold.

When I was small, the talk amongst family members was that my grandmother on my mother’s side was “crazy.” She apparently did some horrible things that no one ever talked about and was eventually found to be an unfit mother. She became the big, dark family secret. Everyone whispered about her and some wouldn’t talk about her at all. They seemed to think that if anyone mentioned her in public, the neighbors would find out that she was insane and shun the whole family. It was all about how they looked in other peoples eyes.

I was never told what her mental health issues were or if she was ever treated. But as a kid, I adored her. I didn’t get to see her very often, but when I did, I thought she was funny, loving, and an original. Her hair was short, frizzy and dyed a strawberry blond color. She laughed a lot in a loud kind of way and had canaries in cages all over her house. I didn’t believe what everyone said about her. But as I got older and my mother told me a few stories about her, I knew she was mentally ill.

As someone who has often struggled with depression and anxiety disorder, I sometimes thought I might have inherited my grandmother’s problems. I was ashamed and feared that someone might discover I was crazy, mad, cuckoo, loony, or wacko. For me that translated into being, “ A bad and worthless person.” My father’s parents knew about Grandma, and delighted in telling my mother that, “The apple never falls far from the tree.” Because of their cruelty, I’m sure my mother felt great shame and worthlessness.

I’ve been diagnosed with PTSD because of childhood abuse. My father had it as a result of his experiences fighting in World War II. My mother came from an abusive home and she most likely had it, too. They were not crazy, nor am I.

In seeking treatment I’ve worked long and hard to minimize my symptoms by understanding how the brain changes when a person is abused. I know that recovery is possible and can provide us with happy and peace filled lives. Sure, I can still get depressed or have a panic attack, but I know what to do to make myself feel better.

Hiding mental illness by sweeping it under the carpet or making cruel judgments about it, only makes the stigma worse. In todays world, many with mental illness are beginning to speak out about their problems, their need for support, and proper care.

 Let’s stand tall to end the stigma of “crazy” together. Speak out. If you struggle with mental illness seek treatment. You have nothing to be ashamed of.

 

Filed Under: Compassion, family, Fear, Health and Wellnes, Mental Health, Trauma Tagged With: , , , , , ,

How Do You Know When You Need Some Downtime?

August 11, 2014 By

DSC01745.JPG“Downtime is where we become ourselves, looking into the middle distance, kicking at the curb, lying on the grass or sitting on the stoop and staring at the tedious blue of the summer sky. I don’t believe you can write poetry, or compose music, or become an actor without downtime, and plenty of it, a hiatus that passes for boredom but is really the quiet moving of the wheels inside that fuel creativity.”
Margaret Roach

I finished the third rewrite of my manuscript on Wednesday afternoon. I was cross-eyed, had a headache, and felt like crap. I emailed it to my writing coach, Kevin. Then sent a note to my developmental editor, Dave, telling him I’d have one more look-see in the morning before sending it off to him the following day.

I woke up the next morning, still feeling awful. My eyes were crusted over, glued shut, and when I thought about taking another look at my manuscript, I got nauseous. I’d had a weird dream in which I didn’t know where I was. Though the place I was in wasn’t a prison, I felt imprisoned. I sat around a dining table with a bunch of other women. They were all smiling. Conversation was nonexistent. And there was no food on the table. The dream made me feel scared and very vulnerable.

I ate breakfast, took a quick walk, and sat down at my computer, intending to just glance through my “finished” draft. When it popped up on the screen, I knew I couldn’t do it. I was sick of it. Tired of rewriting, rereading the same-old, same-old, I’d been working on all summer long. Even the two brief “vacations” I ventured on hadn’t been enough to keep this excruciating burn out from happening.

Overcooked, like a stingy pot roast, I simply attached the draft to an email and sent it off to Dave, too exhausted to give a %#$@ about it. I had to get rid of it. I desperately needed time to simply be, without trying to be the perfect writer. A chronic overachiever, I had done myself in again. I cried some, argued with Bill a lot, and was a general pain in the butt, even to myself.

When Bill took off Saturday on one of his long planned theatre trips to New York, I went out into my garden and started deadheading faded blooms. I pulled weeds, tore out a whole section of dead, sun loving perennials that had been overtaken by dense shade, and thought about what to plant in their place next spring …  more ferns, lenten roses, and shade loving hostas.

After lunch, I took time to read a novel I’d been enjoying, then had a nap. When I went back into my studio, my head was much clearer. I started going through the long list of old emails on my computer that I’d been meaning to reread, but now found uninteresting. I deleted many of them. After a dinner of yummy left overs … locally made kielbasa and my fabulous potato salad, I finished the novel and tucked myself into bed at nine-thirty.

I’m on my way back to being my old self, again, but I need more rest and a lengthy break from the mind boggling material I’ve been writing about.  I hadn’t noticed how exhausted I’d become. Or how obsessed I’d been with my story and getting it right. I had just kept on rewriting, forgetting to take breaks when I couldn’t see the computer screen in front of me any longer.

I still need a real vacation. I’ll finish out this week without Bill, by doing as little as possible. Maybe I’ll go to a movie. I’ll start  reading a new book from the huge pile next to my bed, and perhaps sit in the garden in the evening, watching the night come on, listening as bird song is overtaken by the rattle of cicadas, crickets, and tree frogs. I’ll make myself some lucious rice pudding, and take long, lingering naps every afternoon.

Even the things we love doing, like writing, can become overwhelming if we don’t remember to provide ourselves with downtime.

As for perfection … there is no such thing. No matter how many time I rewrite my story, it will never be perfect. And it might actually begin to lose its sheen as I dab away at its yet unseen glow.

Yes, there will be at least one more rewrite, but before that happens, a little self-care is in order.

How do you know when you need downtime?

Filed Under: Being Creative, Dreams, Mental Health, Perfectionism, Quotes, The Garden, The Process, Writing

Why Vulnerability is a Gift in Memoir Writing

June 17, 2014 By
Flicker Creative Commons

Flicker Creative Commons

This week I’m honored to welcome, Kathy Pooler,  my very first guest blogger. Her upcoming memoir, will be published next month.  I’ve enjoyed reading Kathy’s blog posts for over a year and when I discovered that she was writing a memoir about abusive relationships, I wanted to get to know her better.  Abuse is also an important topic for me as well. Last month I got to read her final draft, an uplifting story about emotional, domestic abuse and the two failed marriages she left behind.

A huge problem in our society today, domestic violence, both physical and psychological, destroys lives and families all around us, every day. Many women, and men, too, stay with their abusers, afraid to leave them, believing that he or she will mend their ways and become the dream spouse they thought they had married.

Kathy’s courageous story is about her journey through hell and back in order to protect her children and herself.  She transforms from a submissive, naive young woman, into a mature, take-charge  adult, willing to take risks in order to become the confident and loving wife and mother she is today.  It’s filled with lessons for those among us who find themselves in similar relationships.

Do keep an eye out for Kathy’s book next month.  You won’t be disappointed.

***

 Only when we are brave enough to explore the darkness will we discover the infinite power of our light.” ― Brené Brown

Kathy Pooler

Kathy Pooler

How do you write about pain that was so deep, you don’t even remember how you felt?

You blocked it, buried it, stored it away for another time, then went about the business of your life. Going through the motions, Doing the best you could . Trying not to think about it.

Too. Darn. Painful.

That was me at age thirty with two small children, knowing I had to leave their father. And again at age forty when I had to flee in broad daylight with my children from a second marriage for fear of physical abuse. I had no choice. It was a matter of survival.

For years, I lived with guilt and shame when I faced the reality that my choices led to two emotionally abusive marriages and years of turmoil for myself and my two children. That shame hung around me like an uninvited guest who taunted and harrassed. I journaled my way through it, went to counseling sessions, prayed, cried, shared with friends, but all of that did not change the fact that I could not un-do the damage that had been done. I lingered in a sea of self-doubt, confusion, regret that was too painful to confront head-on.

In my upcoming memoir Ever Faithful to His Lead: My Journey Away From Emotional Abuse, I expose my vulnerabilities and flaws in order to find the answers to the question that plagued me for years:

How does a young woman from a loving Catholic family make so many wise decisions about career, yet so many poor decisions about love that she ends up escaping with her two children from her second husband for fear of physical abuse? 

 In order to write this story, I had to revisit the past I kept hiding from. I had to dig deeply and keep digging. In doing so I had to be willing to look at my mistakes and failures.

I had to allow myself to be vulnerable.

None of this was easy or painless.  Many times, I put the story aside to give myself some breathing room.

When I was in the midst of the writing, I didn’t even know what my story was. I just kept writing whatever came to mind.

I began searching. I looked for pictures from the mid-70s of a young father reading to his children who were nestled in his lap. I listened to 1970s music. “Jeremiah was a bullfrog, from Joy to the World took me back to the night we were engaged. Happy faces. Hopes. Dreams.

The marriage that couldn’t be started with the same hopes and dreams of any twenty-something couple in the 1970s then took a turn down an unfamiliar road, a point of no return. And again, in the 1980s when a second chance marriage at the age of thirty-nine left me fighting for my life.

Through the vulnerability—the raw, searing pain of self-discovery—I slowly began to feel compassion for the young woman who tried so hard to have a loving relationship and provide her children with a stable home.

Writing helped me to heal. After a while, I began to experience compassion and a spirit of forgiveness toward the men I chose to marry.

I embraced my inner strength and developed insights into my motivations and decisions.

I forgave myself.

The guilt and shame melted away as I realized I acted in good faith. In writing Ever Faith ful to His Lead, I discovered that I had become a stronger person as a result of all I had endured and it has left me feeling transformed and empowered.

Vulnerability is not a weakness. It took courage and perseverance to break down the tight shell I had created around myself to protect myself from the truth.

“And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful that the risk it took to blossom” Anais Nin

I had to face the darkness before I could see the light.

In writing my memoir, I have let the pain go with a spirit of forgiveness, compassion and understanding. Ever Faithful to His Lead provides a message of hope, resilience and courage that I want to share with those who need it the most—women who need to claim and honor their own strength within to find freedom from abuse.

Vulnerability has been a gift that has allowed me to heal and share a healing message.

***

 Kathleen Pooler is a writer and a retired Family Nurse Practitioner whose memoir, Ever Faithful to His Lead: My Journey Away From Emotional Abuse and work-in-progress sequel, Hope Matters: A Memoir are about how the power of hope through her faith in God helped her to transform, heal and transcend life’s obstacles and disappointments:  domestic abuse, divorce, single parenting, loving and letting go of an alcoholic son, cancer and heart failure to live a life of joy and contentment. She believes that hope matters and that we are all strengthened and enlightened when we share our stories.

She lives with her husband Wayne in eastern New York.

She blogs weekly at her Memoir Writer’s Journey blog: http://krpooler.com
Twitter @kathypooler     https://twitter.com/KathyPooler
LinkedIn: Kathleen Pooler: https://www.linkedin.com/pub/kathleen-pooler/16/a95/20a
Google+:Kathleen Pooler: https://plus.google.com/109860737182349547026/posts
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/user/show/4812560-kathleen-pooler
Facebook:
Personal page,
Kathy Pooler : https://www.facebook.com/kathleen.pooler
Author page:
Kathleen Pooler/Memoir Writer’s Journey: https://www.facebook.com/memoirwritersjourney
Pinterest  (http://www.pinterest.com/krpooler/)

One of her stories “The Stone on the Shore” is published in the anthology: “The Woman I’ve Become: 37 Women Share Their Journeys From Toxic Relationships to Self-Empowerment” by Pat LaPointe, 2012.
 Another story: “Choices and Chances” is published in the  “My Gutsy Story Anthology” by Sonia Marsh, September, 2013.

 

Filed Under: Abusive Relationships, Domestic Abuse, Memoir, Mental Health, Navigating Through Life, Trauma Tagged With:

EXERCISING MIND AND BODY

June 3, 2014 By

IMG_1643It’s June. Half the year is shot. I was glad to see winter melt into spring, but the worst of Virginia weather is before us with its heat and humidity. Summer is not my favorite time of year here.  Spring and the fall are my favorite seasons at the base of the Blue Ridge Mountains.  On the best of days the temperature is just right, somewhere in the mid-seventies. There’s usually a nice breeze and lots of sunshine. Often afternoon showers water my garden for me.

I rise early, walk the dogs, then I leave the dogs behind and go on what I call a “Hood Hike.”  I pick up my speed and get my heart pumping, rather than lollygagging around every shrub and blade of grass, so that Max and Sam can read the doggie newspaper.

There are lots of hills in the neighborhood. They work just about every muscle in my lower body.  A former neighbor named the worst one, “Killer Hill.” I don’t even like driving up it.  It feels like I’m shooting for the moon.  But it’s rather short and sweet and I try to do it a couple of times a week to really get my heart going. I’ve seen several people run up, but I’d rather die.

This past winter on one of our worst snow days, the kids in the area built moguls on that snowy incline, sliding down on sleds and trays over, and through their hand-made obstacle course. Parents stood at either end guarding the route so that nobody would get hit by a car.  Most of us never use that hill under those conditions anyway. It’s too steep and would be impossible to navigate unless you have four-wheel drive.

With warmer temperatures just days away, I’m beginning to plan my summer exercise strategy.  On hot days I’ll get up even earlier to walk.  But if I can’t get myself out of bed, I’ll use my old cross-trainer in my air-conditioned studio.  I could also walk at dusk, but sometimes it’s even too hot then.

For a few years now I’ve often spent hot days cooling off in my neighbors pool. But they’re filling it in now.  I don’t blame them a bit.  It’s a lot of work to keep a pool clean. They also have two young grandchildren who visit frequently.  Those kids would need to wear life preservers all the time to keep the adults from stressing out. However, there is a very nice city pool nearby that I’ll probably start going to during lap time, when there are no kids making waves.

Exercising my mind, I’ll spend several hours each day sitting at my computer as I rewrite my memoir.  I have already gotten started and am having lots of fun with it. I enjoy this part of the process even more than writing the first draft.  Now I have all the puzzle pieces before me. All I have to do is put them back together again in a new way.  It’s like working on one of those huge, complicated jig-saw puzzles you open up when you visit the seashore during the late fall or early winter and the wind is howling. It’s too cold to walk on the beach and you don’t feel like reading.

It is easier said than done, of course. There is always lots of frustration included in the fun.  But when the puzzle is finally put together in just the right way, it spells out masterpiece.

What do you do to  exercise your body and brain during the heat of summer?

 

Filed Under: Exercising, Healthy Living, Memoir, Mental Health, Puzzles, The Seasons, Writing Tagged With:
« Previous Page
Next Page »