Feeling guilty has been a predominant theme in my life. As a child, I learned to feel guilty about eating, ashamed about my body and, for some reason, (irrationally) responsible for my family’s collective happiness…
Category Archives: Nostalgia
7 Tips For Overcoming Impostor Phenomenon
FeaturedI grew up in Flagler County Florida, where surfing rules, brah.
When I was in middle school, being a surfer was the popular social designation. It trumped any other athletic pursuit—soccer, lacrosse, football, cheerleading, wrestling—they all deferred to surfing.
Surfing defined a predominant part of our kiddie culture, complete with special slang and the coolest gear. They were the cool kids; the inner circle—at least, that was the way it seemed to me.
They were amazing.
I was not a surfer. I was also painfully shy. I had friends, but mostly existed on the periphery, excessive awkwardness crippling any chance of breaking into the elite crowd. I was never bullied directly, but, in my mind, I had constructed such a vast disparity in social ranking between myself and the surfers that I would suffer strange psychological symptoms including, but not limited to, panic attacks in their presence.
In our school, one of the biggest, baddest, most respected insults a kid could hurl at another was being called a “poser.” This label was used liberally and enthusiastically by the popular kids as they called out others for misrepresenting themselves through speech and style.
“The Parent-Pleasing Trap”
Featured[READ THIS ON ROLEREBOOT]
My mom is first and foremost a Pragmatist.
Straightforward and matter-of-fact, she doesn’t typically let emotion distract her. I have to assume that these characteristics are innate, for this has been her nature as far back as I recall. Compounding that, it could certainly be argued that 14-plus years of raising severely Autistic children has necessitated an intensified level of efficiency and practicality.
To the nth degree.
From my own perspective, these traits can sometimes seem remote or standoffish. If I am in a particularly emotionally raw state, her straight-forward manner can feel critical and disapproving. I need to emphasize that this is How I Experience our relationship, and may or may not be accurate.
My relationship with my mom is complicated and confusing. Landmines, just under the surface of our 33-year connection, threaten to erupt at every interaction. I am her first-born. And her only girl.
Naturally, there is the implication that dreams in the realm of “feminine” glory or success are my responsibility to fulfill. How could it not be intense? My mom wanted so much for me. She has done so much for me.
As her firstborn, she literally made me the center of her life from the very beginning. Looking through my baby books, her devotion is apparent; milestones and other details are painstakingly recorded in beautiful handwriting. Thousands of pictures are neatly labeled and arranged.
She guided my educational path by teaching me to read as well as supplementing my classwork with workbooks, tutoring and other resources. During elementary school, she advocated I.Q. testing so that I had the opportunity to enter the Gifted and Talented program.
I became, and continue to be, an avid reader and capable writer as a result of my mom’s influence.
She encouraged and supported me in the undertaking of any extra-curricular activity in which I demonstrated an interest.
She taught me morals and ethics. She read me The Bible and brought me to church.
Through the years, she created homemade Halloween costumes of professional quality and indulged my childish whims.
Together we drew, completed projects, took walks and baked cookies.
My Mom is a really amazing person. A really good mom. However, as a highly emotional, rapid-cycling Bipolar, Eating Disordered adult-child, I struggle with a lot of internal, self-imposed pressure in relation to our dynamic. Regardless of how objectively successful or unsuccessful I happen to be, I have always felt as though I haven’t pleased her. Fallen short of the mark. Without exception.
The underlying concern that I am “not good enough” isn’t a recent sentiment. I didn’t begin feeling this way during my recent and significant struggles with physical and mental health. It didn’t start when my marriage dissolved, I claimed bankruptcy, lost my job and fell into legal trouble. It’s not a neurosis stemming from angst-riddled teenage years or even from middle-school.
This desperate desire to “perfectly please” my Mom has been with me always. I remember the anxiety in elementary school, in pre-school even. I probably was a stressed-out, high-strung baby.
One particularly traumatic memory from 3rd grade demonstrates both the longevity and irrationality which characterize my fears.
My teacher, Ms. F, had administered a pop-quiz in which students were to complete sentences utilizing appropriate punctuation. Apparently, the teacher was having a bit of an off-day because her reaction to the less-than-stellar performance of the class was over-kill. In a loud and (what I remember to be) intimidating voice designed to humiliate, she listed the students names who had failed to use periods at the end of their sentences and would, therefore, be receiving an F-Grade. I remembered being terrified to go home that day, dreading the inevitable confrontation in which I would have to present my mother with such a shameful abomination of school-work.
I suppose this was my first experience with failure, and I was unprepared to handle it. Ridiculous as it sounds, that experience shook me to the core. The terror in potentially disappointing my mom was sufficient to remain in my memory to this day.
From that moment on, my subconscious had become altered. My preexisting anxiety to please became augmented by the new knowledge that I possessed the capability to disappoint. The sheer inevitability of it was overwhelming.
I felt as though I was defective, somehow.
At age 33, there’s a part of me that remains overly reliant on her for validation and approval. This is an entirely different type of acknowledgment than that of which I seek from the ever-evolving relationship with my father. With my mom I feel childish and stunted, as though I’m still earning gold stars to stick onto one of those achievement poster boards lining the sad, fluorescent hallways of any school, Anytown, USA.
I am the first to admit that, given my genetic predispositions (Bipolar I, Anxiety and Borderline Personality Disorder diagnoses), I experience the parental dynamic at a higher intensity than others. However, I am not alone in the seemingly uphill battle that is parent-pleasing.
A very dear friend of over 20 years recently sent me a message containing this excerpt:
So my dad was here for the week. He asked about you and we were reminiscing about that trip to the Keys. He loved telling everyone that he would wake up before dawn to go out and monitor your runs. I think I joined you once and then just kept sleeping the other times. Haha. And that wretched barracuda encounter while snorkeling. He is so fond of you and really wishes you well. Isn’t the father-daughter dynamic so strange…I am still constantly trying to impress him and win his approval even at this age. (Husband’s name) teases me about it. I tell him to remember this for his own two daughters – he needs to give them constant praise and approval.
This, to me, demonstrates that no one’s relationship with their parents is perfect. No one is exempt from the desire for parental approval….and (sometimes) the feeling that it’s just out of reach.
The truth is, I haven’t failed my mom. Not at all. Even at my rock-bottom, my mom has loved and supported me unconditionally. Yes, she may scowl, speak sharply or give me the silent treatment. But it’s less about whether I have achieved that all-so-elusive state of “success” (whatever that is) and more about her wanting “more” for me. No matter what, she wants more. More for me. And more for my brothers.
Because she loves us, she wants more.
More than anything.
[READ THIS ON ROLEREBOOT]
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I Believe in Unicorns!
FeaturedWhen I was growing up, I was definitively not a tomboy.
I liked girly things.
Valentine’s Déjà vu
FeaturedHi!
Below you’ll find a fun re-blog! from last year’s
Valentine’s-themed-window-of-blogging-opportunity.
Please enjoy! And if you are a silly goose who pronounces Valentine’s Day with an “m” substituted for the “n”, you can just move along. 
From as far back as my memory allows, Valentine’s Day has consistently borne a great deal of significance to me.
In elementary school, I relished the activity of constructing a personalized “mailbox” that would allow classmates to “send” me cards and candy.
Then there was the shopping trip with my mother to select the box of cards that I would be sending out. I have always had trouble making decisions, especially when presented with many choices. This particular errand was a true testament to her patience as I painstakingly deliberated over the selections. In my childish estimation, my card selection was the utmost important decision I would make in all of February, if not the entire school year!
Which design??
Did I want The Little Mermaid or Garfield?
Wait, they have ones with yellow lab puppies! And New kids on the Block!! er… NKOTB! (yeah, cooler to say it that way!)
What did the cards say?
Did at the least one of the cards in the box communicate the precise sentiment to send (fill-in-the-blank) with whom I was currently “in love”?? Continue reading
Barbie’s Body
FeaturedWha..
I just did a double take. Barbie’s got some curves!
The look of Mattel’s Barbie IS CHANGING, and it’s catching up with positive body image awareness.
Finally.
The new line of Barbie and friends embraces what I like to call *The Beauty of Distinction*.
Mattel calls it: The Evolution of Barbie (Feels a little Darwinian?).
T.E.O.B. “This is just the beginning. From offering products that feature more empowering and imaginative roles to partnering with best in class role models, we believe in girls and their limitless potential”. -Mattel
Their tag Line? #YouCanBeAnything
Awesome. Seriously, I do think it’s awesome.
The empowering/career/imaginative roles part of the campaign? NOT GETTING ENOUGH AIR TIME.
But we’ll go ahead and talk about what everyone’s talking about. You know- the body image part? Great.
Check out Barbie’s New Figure:
![emperor1[1]](/wp-content/uploads/2016/01/emperor11-424x200.jpg)
Protected: The Emperor’s New Meds
Featured
Protected: Magical, Mutable Systems
Featured
Loss
FeaturedSomething very sad happened a little over seven months ago. I’ve been trying to motivate myself to write about it, but, oddly enough, every time I’ve begun to type up a draft, all my words are just…wrong. I sound childish and whiny.
Because I’m a perfectionist bordering on absurdity, I’ve put it off and, in doing so, made it that much worse for myself.
I’m at the point now where I’m completely tortured. See? Histrionic already, and I’m not even warmed up.
I can’t help it; my heart is so broken.
My dog, Rennie, was killed in May. I had her for 14 years, and I loved her very much. She had been by my side through an incredible amount of life experiences. In fact, she had moved with me 11 times over the years.
Aside from immediate family and surrounding neighbors, I’ve kept her passing entirely private. The traumatic nature of her death was my main reason for not sharing right away.
Back in May, just after Memorial Day Weekend, and I was working in my Front Yard Garden with Rennie close by me, in one of the garden rows. It was late afternoon, approaching early evening. This, of course, was at the end of Spring, beginning of Summer, when the daylight lasted well into the evening.
Rennie was basking and investigating the plants.
At this point, a woman on a bicycle came up the street. She was being led by a very large dog on a leash. As they got closer to my house, the dog spotted Rennie in my yard, and crossed the street towards us. Rennie (who was not on a leash since we were in my yard) headed towards the property line, yapping at the huge dog.
A lot of things happened at once:
- The large dog pulled the woman off of her bicycle.
- Overpowered, the woman let go of her dog’s leash.
- The woman yelled at me to get my dog to protect her from her dog.
- I jumped to grab Rennie but did not get her in time because I lack animal reflexes.
Rennie’s torso was clamped tight in the large dog’s jaws. And she was shaken brutally, as if she were a toy.
The woman and dog fled the scene.
I picked up my precious, shredded baby and screamed so hysterically that every one of my neighbors on the entire street came running out of their houses. My neighbor directly across the street, Matt, dropped everything he was doing and rushed us to the emergency vet, blowing through every red light to get us there.
Matt pulled into the parking lot and I opened the passenger door, stepped out, cradling Rennie carefully. Matt’s car interior; the seat, the handle, the locks, everything, it had all been smeared with blood. It was gruesome. There was so much blood for such a little dog.
I walked straight into the Animal E.R. with Rennie, screaming and sobbing for someone to help me. The vet took one look and said, I’m Sorry.
Rennie had died in my lap on the way there.
I don’t think I want to write anything else about it.
2015: You hurt me so much.
