Something My Therapist Said To Me That I Forgot To Mention
"You're the data woman; you've got to collate the data..."
Little did she know how accurate she was. My chief function at work is that of data whore as evidenced by all of the pointless reports I am asked to furnish and "calibrate" against other data sets.
In my private life, I have often said "Well, I'm a data gatherer."
Coincidence?
I don't think so.
Friday, January 31, 2003
I did get together with Ms. F last night, and as I learned would be the case from Mr. R. when I spoke to him on Wednesday, he was not there. I have such a nasty propensity toward anxiety when I am at their apartment. It's a visceral reaction to several things, though it doesn't happen all the time. It is the fear that I am always about to find out bad news, or this expectation that the bottom is always about to drop out from me. I started praying about this last night--even though in some ways it doesn't matter, because that apartment is going to disappear in a few short months--but still, whatever I'm associating with it, I wouldn't want to carry over into my relationship with Ms. F., which I fear has already happened.
I don't mean to be daft. I do understand better than I've represented above, what the trouble is. The very first time I stayed over at their place, on a friday night, about a year or so ago, Mr. R. was out on a date, and that knowledge forever soured the experience of being in their place, for me. It is this same root of the fear I have of being socially and emotionally humiliated. Lots to work through.
Other than that, I did have a good time watching television and talking with my old friend. It was probably the last time that will happen since her wedding is so close--and in truth we haven't hung out in quite the same way since she's been dating her fiance, which makes sense, but still makes me sad. When my close girlfriends marry I feel like I am handing them over to a different life that doesn't include me. I am not aware of feeling jealous...just unable to relate to this new experience, and it makes me feel that I am obsolete, like old software that can't be converted into the new updgrade and keep everything humming.
Tidbit:
In addition to Mr. R "playing" music for Ms. F's wedding, he will be singing the song she comes down the aisle to. That wedding song, you know the one...
"Wherever two or more of you are gathered in His name, there is love...."
I don't mean to be daft. I do understand better than I've represented above, what the trouble is. The very first time I stayed over at their place, on a friday night, about a year or so ago, Mr. R. was out on a date, and that knowledge forever soured the experience of being in their place, for me. It is this same root of the fear I have of being socially and emotionally humiliated. Lots to work through.
Other than that, I did have a good time watching television and talking with my old friend. It was probably the last time that will happen since her wedding is so close--and in truth we haven't hung out in quite the same way since she's been dating her fiance, which makes sense, but still makes me sad. When my close girlfriends marry I feel like I am handing them over to a different life that doesn't include me. I am not aware of feeling jealous...just unable to relate to this new experience, and it makes me feel that I am obsolete, like old software that can't be converted into the new updgrade and keep everything humming.
Tidbit:
In addition to Mr. R "playing" music for Ms. F's wedding, he will be singing the song she comes down the aisle to. That wedding song, you know the one...
"Wherever two or more of you are gathered in His name, there is love...."
The Friday Five
1. As a child, who was your favorite superhero/heroine? Why?
Wonder Woman. Three words. Lasso of Truth.
2. What was one thing you always wanted as a child but never got?
I can't think of something I wanted so badly that I never got. I had a pogo stick for goodness' sake!
3. What's the furthest from home you've been?
Tucson, AZ on business.
4. What's one thing you've always wanted to learn but haven't yet?
How to drive a car.
5. What are your plans for the weekend?
After my bout with food poisoning/flu, resting up and not doing anything too weird eating-wise.
1. As a child, who was your favorite superhero/heroine? Why?
Wonder Woman. Three words. Lasso of Truth.
2. What was one thing you always wanted as a child but never got?
I can't think of something I wanted so badly that I never got. I had a pogo stick for goodness' sake!
3. What's the furthest from home you've been?
Tucson, AZ on business.
4. What's one thing you've always wanted to learn but haven't yet?
How to drive a car.
5. What are your plans for the weekend?
After my bout with food poisoning/flu, resting up and not doing anything too weird eating-wise.
Thursday, January 30, 2003
I Call This One 'Fledgling Flower.'
A common motif in my ongoing dialogue with the Lord is the rose. The pink rose, usually, but any rose will do. I am not particularly attached to roses, as a flower. I am fonder, for example, of the sunflower, or even the carnation. In any event, it is the multi-layered conspiculously blooming flower's flower that illustrates His answer to my prayers.
Once in 1996 I'd been given a pink rose by a good friend, Rebecca. It was beautiful, long-stemmed, and a first. No one had ever given me a rose before. I remember her asking me if it was the right colour. I told her that it could have been polka dot and it would have been the "right" colour. A day or so later I was sitting in my office at work wrapping up the day and feeling gloomy about the fact that at age 23 I was still single, no prospects anywhere. My gloomy mood morphed into true sadness, and I began to talk to God out loud as I often do when I am alone. Complain, more like. In the middle of my tirade, I heard him whisper to me to "sit down." I was so shocked at the absolute certainty of having audibly processed another voice that I immediately complied.
So, upon sitting, His voice continued. "Look at your rose."
I did.
"What colour is it?"
"Pink." [out loud, I'm answering, mind you]
"What makes pink?"
"Red and white."
"And in the language of roses, what do 'red' and 'white' mean?"
"Red is for passion, or romantic love; white is for purity and innocence."
"That's the kind of love I'm preparing for you."
[End of dialogue. Sic.]
Several years later, praying with two other women in my kitchen, I received a vision of a sickly looking flower, somewhat generic, not specifically a rose, not not a rose, either.
God gave me an impression this time. I knew that this flower was my relationship with Mr. Renaissance, in its then current state. God showed me that everything this flower would need for blooming, it already possessed--that no amount of watering, pruning, repotting, or uprooting and replanting would do it any good. All it needed was to be left to itself, to grow in its own time. In fact the lesson was that poking and prodding it would deter growth. Further, I intuited that Mr. R. would need to come to his own conclusion about how he felt about me, and that when he did, that's when our relationship would be what it was capable of becoming. But I needed to wait and not try and coax him into a realization. I guess he is also the fledgling.
A common motif in my ongoing dialogue with the Lord is the rose. The pink rose, usually, but any rose will do. I am not particularly attached to roses, as a flower. I am fonder, for example, of the sunflower, or even the carnation. In any event, it is the multi-layered conspiculously blooming flower's flower that illustrates His answer to my prayers.
Once in 1996 I'd been given a pink rose by a good friend, Rebecca. It was beautiful, long-stemmed, and a first. No one had ever given me a rose before. I remember her asking me if it was the right colour. I told her that it could have been polka dot and it would have been the "right" colour. A day or so later I was sitting in my office at work wrapping up the day and feeling gloomy about the fact that at age 23 I was still single, no prospects anywhere. My gloomy mood morphed into true sadness, and I began to talk to God out loud as I often do when I am alone. Complain, more like. In the middle of my tirade, I heard him whisper to me to "sit down." I was so shocked at the absolute certainty of having audibly processed another voice that I immediately complied.
So, upon sitting, His voice continued. "Look at your rose."
I did.
"What colour is it?"
"Pink." [out loud, I'm answering, mind you]
"What makes pink?"
"Red and white."
"And in the language of roses, what do 'red' and 'white' mean?"
"Red is for passion, or romantic love; white is for purity and innocence."
"That's the kind of love I'm preparing for you."
[End of dialogue. Sic.]
Several years later, praying with two other women in my kitchen, I received a vision of a sickly looking flower, somewhat generic, not specifically a rose, not not a rose, either.
God gave me an impression this time. I knew that this flower was my relationship with Mr. Renaissance, in its then current state. God showed me that everything this flower would need for blooming, it already possessed--that no amount of watering, pruning, repotting, or uprooting and replanting would do it any good. All it needed was to be left to itself, to grow in its own time. In fact the lesson was that poking and prodding it would deter growth. Further, I intuited that Mr. R. would need to come to his own conclusion about how he felt about me, and that when he did, that's when our relationship would be what it was capable of becoming. But I needed to wait and not try and coax him into a realization. I guess he is also the fledgling.
The Doctor Is IN: 5 Cents Please
I have been wondering, for weeks now, how my first official counseling session would begin--what issues would surge to the forefront immediately--which ones would wait for weeks or months to come barreling out...
Mr. R came up immediately, in the context of the question, what was I doing back in the city where I presently live? My answer, in addition to the standard answer I give of preferring the city to the suburbs, was 'unfinished business.' Which begged the question 'What unfinished business?'
There you have it. Mr. R.
We also touched on my anger, my family dynamic, my sense of self....
I'm not saying there isn't more mystery to uncover, but it was a pretty thorough catch all for an opening session. I feel good about where it's all going.
I have been wondering, for weeks now, how my first official counseling session would begin--what issues would surge to the forefront immediately--which ones would wait for weeks or months to come barreling out...
Mr. R came up immediately, in the context of the question, what was I doing back in the city where I presently live? My answer, in addition to the standard answer I give of preferring the city to the suburbs, was 'unfinished business.' Which begged the question 'What unfinished business?'
There you have it. Mr. R.
We also touched on my anger, my family dynamic, my sense of self....
I'm not saying there isn't more mystery to uncover, but it was a pretty thorough catch all for an opening session. I feel good about where it's all going.
Blowing Chunks Into My Polyester Hair
I made it one third of the way into work on Tuesday morning. First of all, I woke up not feeling quite right. My stomach felt as though it had a huge knot in it. I felt, in general, "off." I figured my less-than-ideal dinner hadn't really settled well, and that things would work themselves out. I finished my morning routine and hoped for the best. Off I went. Once on the train, I settled into my usual seat, and prayed that I would be able to hold everything together. About half way through the trip I gained a seatmate. As soon as this poor, unsuspecting woman sat down next to me I tossed my cookies right onto the floor without warning. I apologized and she hurriedly moved to a different seat. The man across the aisle from me handed me a wad of paper napkins. He was completely grossed out and who could blame him?!
So I sat there waiting for the conductor to come by so I could tell him what had happened. He brought me a wad of paper towels, wet naps, and some cold water to drink. He was so sweet; he made sure I knew that he didn't expect me to clean up the floor. He just wanted me to get cleaned up, and to have a cool drink so I'd feel better.
I detrained with everyone else at Union Station, took the opportunity to call in sick (thus abandoning my post as PSR back up guru), and turned back toward home, where I spent the day tossing my cookies with great regularity.
The plot thickens.
Sarahbina, after a morning of looking after me, began to experience my same symptoms. I know I'm melodramatic, but I fully expected us both to die. Between the chills, yet being so hot, the stomach cramps that lasted for five minutes at a time, and the complete inability to move around without exerting full effort was enough to do anyone in. I called people who would not mind doing so, and asked them to pray.
Sarahbina called up Michael at about 4 a.m. to go and get her some things from the pharmacy, which he did.
I left Mr. Renaissance a voicemail message about our illness on his cell (sounding sufficiently pathetic, I'm sure). He got it the next morning and called to check on me. We talked for a few minutes about how I was feeling better, and how pet/housesitting for his parents has made him morbidly introspective, and how much he's looking forward to resuming his normal life.
Pretty stellar.
I made it one third of the way into work on Tuesday morning. First of all, I woke up not feeling quite right. My stomach felt as though it had a huge knot in it. I felt, in general, "off." I figured my less-than-ideal dinner hadn't really settled well, and that things would work themselves out. I finished my morning routine and hoped for the best. Off I went. Once on the train, I settled into my usual seat, and prayed that I would be able to hold everything together. About half way through the trip I gained a seatmate. As soon as this poor, unsuspecting woman sat down next to me I tossed my cookies right onto the floor without warning. I apologized and she hurriedly moved to a different seat. The man across the aisle from me handed me a wad of paper napkins. He was completely grossed out and who could blame him?!
So I sat there waiting for the conductor to come by so I could tell him what had happened. He brought me a wad of paper towels, wet naps, and some cold water to drink. He was so sweet; he made sure I knew that he didn't expect me to clean up the floor. He just wanted me to get cleaned up, and to have a cool drink so I'd feel better.
I detrained with everyone else at Union Station, took the opportunity to call in sick (thus abandoning my post as PSR back up guru), and turned back toward home, where I spent the day tossing my cookies with great regularity.
The plot thickens.
Sarahbina, after a morning of looking after me, began to experience my same symptoms. I know I'm melodramatic, but I fully expected us both to die. Between the chills, yet being so hot, the stomach cramps that lasted for five minutes at a time, and the complete inability to move around without exerting full effort was enough to do anyone in. I called people who would not mind doing so, and asked them to pray.
Sarahbina called up Michael at about 4 a.m. to go and get her some things from the pharmacy, which he did.
I left Mr. Renaissance a voicemail message about our illness on his cell (sounding sufficiently pathetic, I'm sure). He got it the next morning and called to check on me. We talked for a few minutes about how I was feeling better, and how pet/housesitting for his parents has made him morbidly introspective, and how much he's looking forward to resuming his normal life.
Pretty stellar.
Monday, January 27, 2003
Hide When Tempted to Show; Show When Tempted to Hide
This saying functions as a helpful litmus test of the purity of one's motivations for wanting to share information with someone. The idea is that if you are not sure if you should impart some piece of knowledge, ask yourself if you are too excited--hoping for a specific reaction--to achieve some sort of status for having done so. If the answer is yes, then you shouldn't, at least not right away. You get the idea.
This saying functions as a helpful litmus test of the purity of one's motivations for wanting to share information with someone. The idea is that if you are not sure if you should impart some piece of knowledge, ask yourself if you are too excited--hoping for a specific reaction--to achieve some sort of status for having done so. If the answer is yes, then you shouldn't, at least not right away. You get the idea.
The City Cafe
After an exhausting grocery store run Sarahbina and I lunched at the City Cafe, a few streets over from our apartment, yesterday. We both got chicken salad sandwiches on white with a slice of bacon and french fries on the side. We discussed some of the pitfalls of the contemporary Christian subculture, how it misses the mark for one trying to live out a life of faith that is characterized by authenticity. As the years have progressed I feel that I have become more and more fringe, in terms of the classic protestant evangelical paradigm. My issues are not with the ideology of Christianity, but with the perception of many believers that true faith has a prefabricated, shrinkwrapped kit of clothing, preferred music, acceptable artistic expression, etc. I am not anti standards or opposed to fundamental Christian principles. But there is so much room for interpretation where so many things are concerned--and too many of the brethren have made black and white what needn't be.
I came to understand a few years ago that any man I would even consider marrying needed to be just as committed to his faith in a fringe way as I am. Who knew that "rebellion" and conservatism could co-exist? As long as it's taken, I feel that I can finally embrace the ambiguity of my own preferences and opinions, and can make room for blurred edges. in some instances, anyway.
With that being said, Let's get this show on the road!
After an exhausting grocery store run Sarahbina and I lunched at the City Cafe, a few streets over from our apartment, yesterday. We both got chicken salad sandwiches on white with a slice of bacon and french fries on the side. We discussed some of the pitfalls of the contemporary Christian subculture, how it misses the mark for one trying to live out a life of faith that is characterized by authenticity. As the years have progressed I feel that I have become more and more fringe, in terms of the classic protestant evangelical paradigm. My issues are not with the ideology of Christianity, but with the perception of many believers that true faith has a prefabricated, shrinkwrapped kit of clothing, preferred music, acceptable artistic expression, etc. I am not anti standards or opposed to fundamental Christian principles. But there is so much room for interpretation where so many things are concerned--and too many of the brethren have made black and white what needn't be.
I came to understand a few years ago that any man I would even consider marrying needed to be just as committed to his faith in a fringe way as I am. Who knew that "rebellion" and conservatism could co-exist? As long as it's taken, I feel that I can finally embrace the ambiguity of my own preferences and opinions, and can make room for blurred edges. in some instances, anyway.
With that being said, Let's get this show on the road!
My styrofoam coffee cup is marred by burgundy striated lip prints (mine); the coffee inside is tepid. The day is half over; I've already eaten my lunch. The PSR meeting has been rescheduled for tomorrow. I've only gotten one e-mail this morning. I am thinking of a line from a Joy Harjo poem.
This is how it is at precisely noon/if anything touches me/I am ashes.
This is how it is at precisely noon/if anything touches me/I am ashes.
State of the Union
I am pleased to report that things are happening just as they should, no matter how screwed up it can sometimes seem, this story is not off course.
My relationships are all at an even-keel. My finances are stable. My hair is still holding up (though showing the expected wear and tear of a style that is a week old). My expectations have swung back around to "reasonable." The PSR is holding its own with all updates in at this juncture.
Superbowl Sunday Highlights
Had an unexpected, frank discussion about sex with friends just after the half-time show.
Week At-A-Glance
Monday: PSR meeting splits the day in half
Tuesday: Gearing up for Wednesday
Wednesday: Week is half over; go to 1st full-on counseling session and begin taking a pick axe to my issues
Thursday: Post counseling epiphanies; dinner and Friends with Ms. F and Mr. R.
Friday: Meeting up with my baby sister after work (for real this time)
I am pleased to report that things are happening just as they should, no matter how screwed up it can sometimes seem, this story is not off course.
My relationships are all at an even-keel. My finances are stable. My hair is still holding up (though showing the expected wear and tear of a style that is a week old). My expectations have swung back around to "reasonable." The PSR is holding its own with all updates in at this juncture.
Superbowl Sunday Highlights
Had an unexpected, frank discussion about sex with friends just after the half-time show.
Week At-A-Glance
Monday: PSR meeting splits the day in half
Tuesday: Gearing up for Wednesday
Wednesday: Week is half over; go to 1st full-on counseling session and begin taking a pick axe to my issues
Thursday: Post counseling epiphanies; dinner and Friends with Ms. F and Mr. R.
Friday: Meeting up with my baby sister after work (for real this time)
Sunday, January 26, 2003
Equilibrium
I am often the culprit behind my own meltdowns. As a long-time friend put it "I think you like to put your chocolate chips on a heating lamp." Always ready with a clever turn of phrase, she is. In short, of course creating awful scenarios in my head and then working myself up into a state about how awful it would be if this thing happened is unproductive. I am hoping that I will learn, in counseling, to stop myself from going down these bendy paths. And learn to have proportionate responses to events--good or bad. Now I am like a yappy dog. Everything is a crisis. When you spend your life trying not to be in a state of emotional turmoil, and focus all of your energy on not feeling anything much, when you do have a feeling it is overwhelming. The sky is always falling on me, from my perspective. When will I learn to look up and say "Oh. It's just rain."?
Ms. F's wedding is in May. Yesterday was January 25th. By 9:00 p.m. last night I had myself convinced that I just wouldn't go to her wedding, 4 months away, because what if being there caused me to be socially and emotionally humiliated? When I am in that mindset it doesn't matter to me how such a decision would affect anyone else. In a moment like that, I believe I am the only one with anything to lose, that my withdrawal from engagements, people's lives, events, or whatever is totally justified.
Sometimes self-preservation is just selfish.
That is so difficult for me to write because I perceive myself as the person who is always supposed to be hurt. The preordained loser of every game.
What if I refused to play that role?
I am often the culprit behind my own meltdowns. As a long-time friend put it "I think you like to put your chocolate chips on a heating lamp." Always ready with a clever turn of phrase, she is. In short, of course creating awful scenarios in my head and then working myself up into a state about how awful it would be if this thing happened is unproductive. I am hoping that I will learn, in counseling, to stop myself from going down these bendy paths. And learn to have proportionate responses to events--good or bad. Now I am like a yappy dog. Everything is a crisis. When you spend your life trying not to be in a state of emotional turmoil, and focus all of your energy on not feeling anything much, when you do have a feeling it is overwhelming. The sky is always falling on me, from my perspective. When will I learn to look up and say "Oh. It's just rain."?
Ms. F's wedding is in May. Yesterday was January 25th. By 9:00 p.m. last night I had myself convinced that I just wouldn't go to her wedding, 4 months away, because what if being there caused me to be socially and emotionally humiliated? When I am in that mindset it doesn't matter to me how such a decision would affect anyone else. In a moment like that, I believe I am the only one with anything to lose, that my withdrawal from engagements, people's lives, events, or whatever is totally justified.
Sometimes self-preservation is just selfish.
That is so difficult for me to write because I perceive myself as the person who is always supposed to be hurt. The preordained loser of every game.
What if I refused to play that role?
Saturday, January 25, 2003
I am overwhelmed with fear at the moment--fear of the consequences for having felt so hopeful for the last week--and I am waiting for a shoe to drop on my head. I hate that I feel this way. I hate that my hopes always seem to ruin me. I feel doomed to always have to ask "What's the catch?" "What's the angle I didn't consider?" I am horrified at the thought of being humiliated. Again.
The latest scenario I've envisioned? Ms. F's pending wedding. I am imagining Mr. Renaissance bringing a woman as his date to that event, and me having to sit there, alone--tormented, embarrassed, hurting so badly that my throat constricts, that my mind mocks me and echoes the terrible refrain "You are a cosmic loser" over and over again. If this seems left field to you, it's because you don't know that I have had this very reaction when I've either heard about him being on a date, or accidentally bumped into him while he was out on a date.
While it may be jealousy, on some level, it feels so much more devastating than that. That would imply that I don't want him to be happy. I do. Instead, it is like a violation of what I believe I know about the future. If I didn't think he was the person for me, I would want him to date someone else. And I don't know if I'm right, but I can't help that I believe this--and as long as I do--I will hurt everytime this scenario plays itself out.
I don't know what to do with my feelings for him. I feel, sometimes, that I need to make a decision not to want him and then stick to it--but then something encouraging happens, and I can't deny that I don't want to not want him. I cannot convince myself that I believe I don't belong with him, ultimately. But between now and ultimately there is so much pain.
The questions I keep asking:
Why am I in this situation?
What should I have learned already that I clearly haven't?
How do I need to respond differently so this madness will end?
The latest scenario I've envisioned? Ms. F's pending wedding. I am imagining Mr. Renaissance bringing a woman as his date to that event, and me having to sit there, alone--tormented, embarrassed, hurting so badly that my throat constricts, that my mind mocks me and echoes the terrible refrain "You are a cosmic loser" over and over again. If this seems left field to you, it's because you don't know that I have had this very reaction when I've either heard about him being on a date, or accidentally bumped into him while he was out on a date.
While it may be jealousy, on some level, it feels so much more devastating than that. That would imply that I don't want him to be happy. I do. Instead, it is like a violation of what I believe I know about the future. If I didn't think he was the person for me, I would want him to date someone else. And I don't know if I'm right, but I can't help that I believe this--and as long as I do--I will hurt everytime this scenario plays itself out.
I don't know what to do with my feelings for him. I feel, sometimes, that I need to make a decision not to want him and then stick to it--but then something encouraging happens, and I can't deny that I don't want to not want him. I cannot convince myself that I believe I don't belong with him, ultimately. But between now and ultimately there is so much pain.
The questions I keep asking:
Why am I in this situation?
What should I have learned already that I clearly haven't?
How do I need to respond differently so this madness will end?
Forgotten Songs
After munching on some mediocre thin crust delivery pizza, Sarahbina and I unwound from the week by listening to excerpts from her greatest hits/live recordings of Dan Fogelberg, Jim Croce, Fleetwood Mac, Pat Benetar, and John Denver. I remembered again, how I was the weird kid in sixth grade who listened to the easy listening station almost exclusively, who cried in her room while she mouthed the words to Barbra Streisand's "Evergreen." There were so many memories tied up for me in those lyrics. Like the sense of smell, memories of songs can put you sqaurely back in time, to the precise experiences that make the songs so meaningful.
A Common Phenomenon
As a kid when I was sick enough to go to the doctor, a strange thing would always happen when we got to my pediatrician's office. I always felt better and my symptoms would seem to go into hiding. My energy would return to me, the fever would break, or I wouldn't cough that body-racking cough I'd had for days. So it is with my decision to go into counseling. I have felt fairly well-adjusted, hopeful, and positive about my self-image for the last couple of weeks or so. In the last few days I've tried to catalogue my reasons for seeking out therapy--and though I know what they are--I can't seem to list them off with any conviction at the moment.
It is because the hope of help is imminent, I think, and this gives the afflicted elements of us a new sense of will--the effort to make a showing--because there is the understanding that things will be different at some point.
After munching on some mediocre thin crust delivery pizza, Sarahbina and I unwound from the week by listening to excerpts from her greatest hits/live recordings of Dan Fogelberg, Jim Croce, Fleetwood Mac, Pat Benetar, and John Denver. I remembered again, how I was the weird kid in sixth grade who listened to the easy listening station almost exclusively, who cried in her room while she mouthed the words to Barbra Streisand's "Evergreen." There were so many memories tied up for me in those lyrics. Like the sense of smell, memories of songs can put you sqaurely back in time, to the precise experiences that make the songs so meaningful.
A Common Phenomenon
As a kid when I was sick enough to go to the doctor, a strange thing would always happen when we got to my pediatrician's office. I always felt better and my symptoms would seem to go into hiding. My energy would return to me, the fever would break, or I wouldn't cough that body-racking cough I'd had for days. So it is with my decision to go into counseling. I have felt fairly well-adjusted, hopeful, and positive about my self-image for the last couple of weeks or so. In the last few days I've tried to catalogue my reasons for seeking out therapy--and though I know what they are--I can't seem to list them off with any conviction at the moment.
It is because the hope of help is imminent, I think, and this gives the afflicted elements of us a new sense of will--the effort to make a showing--because there is the understanding that things will be different at some point.
Friday, January 24, 2003
Make Mine The P-Funk
Okay, so I'm 2 hours out from the close of my work day, the PSR has been put to bed for the week (though changes are piling up for the monday rework as we speak!), I am nursing a hot chocolate with a bottled water chaser, and my cubicle is a colossal MESS. It's possible I'm meeting my youngest sister for some on the fly bonding at the train station before I head back up to the charming city I call home.
So what'll it be for music on the way home? Well, maybe some vintage funk (Flashlight, Neon Light a la Parliament), or maybe some yearning Christian alternative. Either way, I'll find the groove.
Peace out, you beautiful people... And if someone asks you, just say "Make mine the P-Funk."
Okay, so I'm 2 hours out from the close of my work day, the PSR has been put to bed for the week (though changes are piling up for the monday rework as we speak!), I am nursing a hot chocolate with a bottled water chaser, and my cubicle is a colossal MESS. It's possible I'm meeting my youngest sister for some on the fly bonding at the train station before I head back up to the charming city I call home.
So what'll it be for music on the way home? Well, maybe some vintage funk (Flashlight, Neon Light a la Parliament), or maybe some yearning Christian alternative. Either way, I'll find the groove.
Peace out, you beautiful people... And if someone asks you, just say "Make mine the P-Funk."
What's your brand of sexy?
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Intellectual-Sexy.... You are the brains behind every operation, and it shows. The precision with which you lure the boys is unsurpassed. You need someone as intelligent as you, which seems to be your greatest problem, as no one is that smart. Give some of us neanderthals a break!
Thursday, January 23, 2003
Initial Impressions
I went to the intake meeting and felt a strong sense of benevolence the moment I walked in the door. I met with Mr. Brantley, the husband of Dr. Astra Brantley (the counselor I'll be seeing), who conducted my session just by having me fill out some forms; there wasn't much to the process, but his manner made me feel welcomed and cared for. He took my coat, poured me coffee, thanked me for my patience while he helped out others, and I just knew I was in the right place.
Because this organization is Christian faith-based as well as psychologically sound, my therapy will be grounded in the world view that is so foundational to me, my choices, how I feel and process information... and while I was not originally going to insist on that combination, I believe it is the best for me.
and I loved that Mr. Brantley asked me if I am praying for a husband. He wasn't suggesting that this is a solution for me. He was just being personable, wanted to know more about me--and it got right to the heart of a desire of mine. I believe that question was God ordained. I told him that I was--that I felt that God had spoken to me quite directly about it. He encouraged me to pay attention to that, then told me the story of how God brought his wife, my soon-to-be counselor, to him.
It gave me courage to believe that this whole process is not just for my general emotional well-being, but for the fulfillment of my hopes.
I went to the intake meeting and felt a strong sense of benevolence the moment I walked in the door. I met with Mr. Brantley, the husband of Dr. Astra Brantley (the counselor I'll be seeing), who conducted my session just by having me fill out some forms; there wasn't much to the process, but his manner made me feel welcomed and cared for. He took my coat, poured me coffee, thanked me for my patience while he helped out others, and I just knew I was in the right place.
Because this organization is Christian faith-based as well as psychologically sound, my therapy will be grounded in the world view that is so foundational to me, my choices, how I feel and process information... and while I was not originally going to insist on that combination, I believe it is the best for me.
and I loved that Mr. Brantley asked me if I am praying for a husband. He wasn't suggesting that this is a solution for me. He was just being personable, wanted to know more about me--and it got right to the heart of a desire of mine. I believe that question was God ordained. I told him that I was--that I felt that God had spoken to me quite directly about it. He encouraged me to pay attention to that, then told me the story of how God brought his wife, my soon-to-be counselor, to him.
It gave me courage to believe that this whole process is not just for my general emotional well-being, but for the fulfillment of my hopes.
PSR: Week Two
Until further notice, this document is in my charge. It hasn't been so bad this week, owing, I'm sure, to the fact that I was off on Monday. But today is the day it will be issued, so things might get frantic as the hours go by. I find that "the agency" likes to send me updates at the last minute. I'm a real time kind of girl, so I revise the report as I receive the revisions, not in a lump, but still--this thing is so dynamic--it is meant to reflect status up to the very moment, and keeping it straight has gotten hairy a few times.
I wish there were a PSR for my life. I am very encouraged by the idea that progress is being made, even if the bottom line hasn't changed. And this is the one element of this beastly waste of time assignment I can get behind. It tracks the smallest movement, in any direction, that is occurring on a given publication. If someone made a telephone call to find out the number of someone else to call to find out information, that gets recorded. It encourages productivity, It implies, then states "next steps;" it tells you, by section, who "owns" the responsibility to make a move. It is the ultimate in "Whose Court Is This Ball In, Anyway?" politics.
Until further notice, this document is in my charge. It hasn't been so bad this week, owing, I'm sure, to the fact that I was off on Monday. But today is the day it will be issued, so things might get frantic as the hours go by. I find that "the agency" likes to send me updates at the last minute. I'm a real time kind of girl, so I revise the report as I receive the revisions, not in a lump, but still--this thing is so dynamic--it is meant to reflect status up to the very moment, and keeping it straight has gotten hairy a few times.
I wish there were a PSR for my life. I am very encouraged by the idea that progress is being made, even if the bottom line hasn't changed. And this is the one element of this beastly waste of time assignment I can get behind. It tracks the smallest movement, in any direction, that is occurring on a given publication. If someone made a telephone call to find out the number of someone else to call to find out information, that gets recorded. It encourages productivity, It implies, then states "next steps;" it tells you, by section, who "owns" the responsibility to make a move. It is the ultimate in "Whose Court Is This Ball In, Anyway?" politics.
Wednesday, January 22, 2003
The Cacophony of Rejection
I will admit that I watched the first installment of the second season of American Idol. I am amazed at the sincere belief so many people have that they are truly and deeply talented. Is their desire to be validated, to have commercial credibility, so overwhelming that they are blind to the miserable deficit of any performance gift in themselves?
First of all, what often passes for talent in the industry is often just marketability with a smidge of vocal styling and some canned dance moves thrown in. This from the woman who still holds that NSYNC, unlike the other groups they are often lumped with, possess actual talent. But that is another soap box.
Anyway, my heart hurt for most of these contest losers who will never be famous, except briefly, for sucking so badly at their audition that they should have done something, anything, that day, except audition. Who are their friends and why didn't they tell them how terrible they are in private so their humiliation didn't have to become public? Simon Cowell has developed a reputation for being a meanie, but he's said to these unmarketable and talentless scrubs what someone should have said to them a long time ago.
Then again, I live my life avoiding even a hint of embarrassment. Save for one social/romantic gaffe almost two years ago, I always remember my place, and don't think more highly of myself than I ought to. It's not about martyrdom or false modesty. It's just being aware of what's true.
What this all comes down to is that people desperately want to be loved, and they want to believe, even in the face of opposing facts, that they have something that is widely accepted and acknowledged as being lovable. Their efforts to demonstrate this, however, often sound like train wheels screeching on a track.
I will admit that I watched the first installment of the second season of American Idol. I am amazed at the sincere belief so many people have that they are truly and deeply talented. Is their desire to be validated, to have commercial credibility, so overwhelming that they are blind to the miserable deficit of any performance gift in themselves?
First of all, what often passes for talent in the industry is often just marketability with a smidge of vocal styling and some canned dance moves thrown in. This from the woman who still holds that NSYNC, unlike the other groups they are often lumped with, possess actual talent. But that is another soap box.
Anyway, my heart hurt for most of these contest losers who will never be famous, except briefly, for sucking so badly at their audition that they should have done something, anything, that day, except audition. Who are their friends and why didn't they tell them how terrible they are in private so their humiliation didn't have to become public? Simon Cowell has developed a reputation for being a meanie, but he's said to these unmarketable and talentless scrubs what someone should have said to them a long time ago.
Then again, I live my life avoiding even a hint of embarrassment. Save for one social/romantic gaffe almost two years ago, I always remember my place, and don't think more highly of myself than I ought to. It's not about martyrdom or false modesty. It's just being aware of what's true.
What this all comes down to is that people desperately want to be loved, and they want to believe, even in the face of opposing facts, that they have something that is widely accepted and acknowledged as being lovable. Their efforts to demonstrate this, however, often sound like train wheels screeching on a track.
