PEACE OVER PRODUCTIVITY- My adult ADD diagnosis.

I love me a list.

If it involves bulleted numbers, due dates, and a checkbox that’s even better. Once upon a time, I was rigid about my schedule. Every fifteen minutes of my day was scheduled out in advance and I rarely, if ever, varied from the preset schedule for that day. A model of efficiency, this historical performance-driven behavior explains the shocking (to me) conclusion my family and some of my friends have drawn that I am an organized individual. In fact, I even believed it for a while there.

For about 15 hours in 2016, I considered becoming a professional organizer- like as an actual occupation. I met with one friend who was kind enough to let me practice on her. Four hours and twelve Target runs later it was glaringly obvious to both of us; this was not meant to be. I had so much fun that afternoon, but the reality was we had made zero progress and wasted a good deal of gas. I mean, it never occurred to me to map out the scope of the project as a whole before shopping. My sweet friend broke it to me very gently that she was no longer in need of my services. What she was kind enough to withhold was probably something along the lines of, “Thanks, but I can waste gas and time roaming the aisles of Target on my own, so why would I pay you to do it for me?”

Based on my own circle of girlfriends alone, I am fairly confident I am not unique among women in craving routine. Structure. Beyond purpose, an actual plan for how the day will move from point “A” to point “B.” Maybe it's the hormones, but in about 2.7 seconds my thoughts/feelings can go from, “My children are the most precious things on the planet. I love them so much I never want to be away from them for a second,” to “Sweet Lord, I need 72 hours alone- 24 of them just to sleep...would it be normal to walk into a mental health facility and volunteer myself for a 72-hour hold?” You guys, I’m totally kidding. Mostly.

But seriously, the structure of a schedule ensures that I won’t get lost in every thought/feeling and since those change regularly, and often at the speed of light, that is a good thing. I wish I had $100.00 for every time I walked into a room to do a thing, only to find myself murmuring to no one,“Why did I come in here?” So I do the only thing one can do in that situation; return to the room I came from and try to recover the lost slice of my mind that informed me of what I intended to do next. And repeat.

Clearly, I need my schedule. It gives my days a sense of productivity. And productivity is key, right?  

By nature, I am not organized, but for years I managed to mask that fact with rigidity and sheer willpower. Also, I never cut myself slack. There was no question as to how I would get it all done - I just would. “Yes,” was my favorite response. I would have told you it was because I was capable and reliable. The truth is, I was terrified that if I said, “No,” I would miss out, or even worse, whoever was asking might not like me. (Gasp!) So, I scheduled myself to the minute, never varied, squeezed two day’s work or activity into one calendar day and was perpetually exhausted. I actually believed that productivity was more important than, well, anything. Unfortunately, this pattern continued through the early years of my marriage and into the first couple years of parenting. With my first, I was able to keep up the act and convince myself it was necessary.

Then I had two children.

Personally, nothing else in my life (and I do mean nothing!) has required me to address my innately selfish nature the way motherhood has. At the time I was entirely unaware that I had it pretty damn good with my firstborn. She essentially came out of the womb asking for instructions and clarifying where the boundaries are, so as not to violate them. Had she been an only child, I imagine I might have become an obnoxious version of myself that believes I am far better at this whole mothering thing than I actually am. My second child is my very own slice of humble pie. He has a heart of gold and wants desperately to please me and anyone else he loves. But two children to my one self came with a whole new set of tasks that had to be worked into a whole new routine. And number two, by nature, was simply less compliant than number one.

Turns out, number two has ADHD. I’ll give you two guesses where he got that from?

At 35 years old, I was finally diagnosed with ADD. Much to my own surprise, my first thought was one of intense relief. I finally had an explanation (of sorts) for why I have had to work so hard to stay on top of things. Having a name for this struggle gave me a sense of peace about my reality; without my list and the ability to check things off of it, I wind up feeling unproductive, but now I have a deeper understanding of why. Knowing that “Why” has allowed me to move in the direction of embracing the truth of my own reality instead of circling the drain of the comparison trap. TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK...

-Tawni

#METOO- Using Your Voice to Conquer Shame.

**This post contains potential triggers.

I am that semi-obnoxious (maybe all the way obnoxious but I just can’t own that label completely) person who almost always sits in the first or second row. Most of the time, when I listen to a speaker, attend a class, sit in a workshop, I intentionally choose to sit in the first or second row. Despite what has often been assumed of me, it (usually) isn’t because I need attention or because I want to be the teacher’s pet. The truth of it is I have such a hard time ignoring distractions of any sort. A baby cries, a parent shushes, the heater kicks on, the guy two rows behind me relentlessly taps his pen against his notepad. All of the things. So, I sit in the front so there is less to distract me from whatever it is I am trying to learn from whoever it is that is speaking.  I have done this for as long as I can remember.

Unfortunately for me, that is precisely where I was sitting in a room full of 14-18 year-old girls the moment I quite suddenly “remembered” the account of my experience as a victim of sexual abuse.  In the second row.

“You are all valuable. Precious,” she said.  

“You don’t have to give any more of yourself to the world than you want to. Anyone who tells you otherwise…” Fade to black.

Well first, grey, then black, then full technicolor panic.

My lungs seemed to have collapsed under what felt like the weight of a boulder suddenly pressing down on my chest. I was dying. I was certain I would never breathe again. And my stomach. Was it trying to crawl out of my body through my mouth? Or had it just dropped into my toes? There was this sensation in my head; like someone had taken a sheet of metal and sliced through my forehead and then left it there. That feeling you get if you bite on a piece of aluminum foil, or miss the food on your fork and clamp down on the metal instead of the food. But in my temples.

I hadn’t ever had a panic attack or an anxiety attack so I couldn’t make sense of all of these sensations. I just knew I had to get out of the room. I couldn’t ever make sense of the image that had just flashed in my mind while I was sitting in that room. I stumbled out into the foyer of the building and was soon met by one of the adult chaperones of our group whose name I don’t remember but the sensation of her hand stroking my back and the comfort of her presence I will never ever ever forget.

I was 16.

When I was seven, I was a victim of sexual abuse. While staying with family, my cousin and his girlfriend invited themselves into my bed and molested me; forced me to perform sexual acts with each of them. The strongest evidence I’ve ever experienced of the ferocious power of the mind, it’s ability to protect us from things we dare not face-for whatever reason, is this: I was so afraid that the words and my voice would fail me so that I couldn’t tell anyone what had happened. I was so deeply convinced that I could not ever speak about what had happened that I managed to even persuade myself to believe that this never happened. I repressed this memory for nine years.

It is important for me to tell this story. To speak it out. To use my voice. For myself and possibly for someone else. Also, it is most imperative that I tell you this: I can only share this story because I am now free from the grip of shame.

I am free from it and now I know...I know that every damn dollar spent on therapy and exercise and learning how to breathe again- These were the beginning of loving myself. Knowing myself and loving me, and loving the little girl whose youthful innocence and bright shiny goodness were spoiled with the taste of narcissism and the stench of strength misused. These were the beginning of learning how to listen to her. To me. Now I know… I recognize what it sounds like and how to use it freely to shout to myself, to the world, to anyone who cares to listen that I am worth knowing and loving. Without feeling small or ashamed or unworthy, I get to take up space in the world that has been gifted to me.

And you too. Just in case you need a gentle reminder, can I say this? Encourage you with this hard-won truth…?

You get to take up space in the world.

No one has the right to enter that space without your permission.

You get to use your voice to say, “No” or “Yes” or “Me too” or if you want, to say nothing at all until you are ready.

I hope this is not your story.

But, there is a one in four chance that it is.

This reality breaks my heart. That so many of us have been violated in a way that strips the soul’s soil of nutrients; uproots the potential of life, of self-love, of hope and worth. This thought brings me to the deepest sadness and the hottest of rages I think I am capable of feeling.

And yet…

There is HOPE.

Can you hear it? It's a growing army-choir of truth-telling hope angels. Amongst the clamor of the worst the world has to offer, there is a crescendo of voices being found and raised. In every shouting, whispering, squeaking out through fear and tears, “ME TOO.”

There is HOPE.

Because my story is still being written. Your story. Our collective story. We are writing them now. The middles, the ends, the beginnings, we are the authors. The thieves, the violators, they stole a page, a chapter even. But WE write the next page. We decide when it is written and where and with whom.

Have you ever noticed that the moment we say the thing out loud, call it what it is, that it loses power? The thing we could never say because “How could I even?”  But then we do. In the moment it's strange to even hear ourselves saying the words, but then it's done and we get to move on to the next part. The healing of the wound. The moving through to moving passed to moving on. All because we SAY THE THING.

So, yes. #METOO

-Tawni

ARE YOU AFRAID OF FEAR? How to be less afraid and more honest.

It’s November.

I have no idea how this happens; it just keeps happening.

Every year we arrive here and my head is left spinning at the speed with which time sprints past, leaving me staring out my windows at the blur of what I think may have been an entire year that escaped inside of one breath. I mean, I’m fairly certain I blinked and June became October and then… Here. We. Are. Waist deep in the colors (Vibrant reds! Fiery orange! Luscious purples!) and scents, (Fires burning! Freshly fallen rain on pavement!) and sights, (The leaves! Misty mornings followed by clear night skies riddled with stars!) and all the feels that are fall. Even writing the word makes me want to abandon all responsibility, escape to the coziest spot in my house, cuddle up with a book in front of a fire for hours on end, and drink tea (Or wine. Probably wine. In a mug.).

And of course, we are all listing off all the things we are grateful for one day at a time on whatever social media platform we find most affirming. (Or feeling guilty that we are now a full week behind on that #gratitudechallenge we swore we would do this year. Just me? Oh.) The relentless pursuit of authenticity is kinda my jam, so I am most sincere when I say I am deeply thankful for this beautiful/crazy/brutal/amazing life we live. I believe with my whole self that the practice of gratitude is essential to fully experience being alive. And without hesitation, I readily admit to “hater” status when it comes to all the things/peoples/corporations/consumer-obsessed-culture-vultures who insist on the practice of skipping Thanksgiving. I am still waiting for a response to the email I sent in 2015 demanding Starbucks create a Thanksgiving-themed cup. But amidst all the pumpkin spicing the shit out of, well, everything, I’m gonna pause here just one minute to call bullshit on myself while you watch. (Ahem. **clears throat** While you read.)

About 11 years ago, whilst I voraciously pursued perfecting the art of parenting, at the potential expense of my first child, I came across a blog post about Halloween and FEAR. Written by a beautiful soul whose voice and perspective I deeply admired (and still do!), my world was rocked as I poured over her exquisitely articulated expression of her disdain for Halloween. “Why,” she implored, “would we choose to celebrate fear as a national holiday?” As I read, I could hear the voice in my head (one of many, perhaps) chanting a resounding, “Yes!” “Yes!” And again, “YEESSSSS.”  To most of what she had to say. I hated fear. Along with anger, and disappointment (and a few choice others). I was convinced that fear is a “bad” emotion. My only reference for fear was a long list of experiences that inextricably linked fear with pain. Pain was to be avoided at all costs. Soooo, I found it quite easy to whole-heartedly agree with the writer’s perspective. Halloween celebrates fear. Fear is linked to pain. Pain is bad. Therefore, Halloween is bad. We just stopped celebrating it.

These days, around here, we still have an interesting relationship with Halloween. We are basically 0 or 100 mph. It’s all or nothing. Over the years we have vacillated from one extreme to the other, occasionally pausing somewhere between the two. We have both skipped it all together and spent hours meticulously planning and creating elaborate homemade costumes our children don with pride (in full character, of course.)

At this juncture, I would venture to say that we have been released from the grip of our previous overly-ambitious parenting selves, lightened up a bit, and embraced trick-or-treating, pumpkin carving, dressing up in costumes, all in the name of fun, rather than fear. If we were sitting at my favorite coffee shop having this conversation, I would probably say, “I’m done hating fear. I’m okay with pain. I think I have evolved.”

And here is where I have to call myself out.

Because my relentless pursuit of authenticity is actually really important to me.

And because deep down in the place where all the voices are quieted and stillness is actually possible- in my gut - I know the truth. The truth, my truth, is…the fear, of fear, is still very real.

I don’t want to be afraid. I want to be fearless. I want to face my fears with bravery and conquer them with intensive behavioral therapy (and perhaps the occasional liquid courage). I want to be who I know myself to be. Bold. Fierce. Free.

And sometimes I am.

Sometimes, I am not.

I am both/and. We are both/and.

We are not bold before we are timid.

We are not strong before we are weak.

We are not brave before we are unsure.

We are not fierce before we are fearful.

We are not free before we are able to recognize our chains.

We cannot conquer our demons before we know what they are; whence they came.

We can only truly know joy; deep down in our knower joy, to the depth of which we have met its predecessor. Pain.

I am afraid of pain. Especially the emotional variety. (For reasons we may explore another time.) Knowing that about myself, owning the painful pieces of my story gives me a sort of emotional permission, if you will, to experience the pain of life without being swallowed whole by it. I can be afraid of the thing. Then the thing happens. I am vulnerable and brave. And I survive.

We survive. Hell, we may even thrive.

But if we don’t see the fear, if we ignore it or worse, pretend it isn’t there, we miss out entirely on the invitation to walk through it to the other side. And what if? What if on the other side of that fear/pain/insecurity/weakness/anger/self-doubt/fill in the blank here_____, is a version of our life more beautiful than we can fathom?

So far, my survival rate of painful experiences is 100%.

Am I still afraid of pain (Especially the emotional variety)? Yep.

But I am also bold/brave/fierce/joyful/strong/self-loving/free/ Fill in your blank here_____.

It’s November, again. And I am afraid. But I am less afraid than I was before. Less afraid; more honest. More authentically me. More grateful. Most importantly, I am more alive.

-Tawni