I've just finished a month of intense emotions: from huge highs to intense lows, work stress, kid stress, personal growth stress, you-name-it stress. I went to California twice last week for family, attended a few therapy sessions that knocked my socks off, and survived a week of Fall break with three boundary-crossing tweens.
I just dropped my dog off for major surgery and all I want to do is eat sugar. I stared at the sky from a Starbucks patio couch today, eating a piece of pumpkin loaf, my favorite, which I only indulge in when I feel especially low. "Would you like that warmed up?" the barista asked. "Hell yes," I replied. If you're going to go to gluten-dairy-carb Hell, make sure it's an extra delightful ride.
Usually when I feel anxiety like this (the "heart attack" kind, as opposed to the fluttering butterfly kind), I either write or eat. Or both, as the case today. I look through photos or sleep, or sit in my car and cry. Or both. It's kind of a little dance. Today though, I turned my engine off after sitting in the driveway for ten minutes, put away the Halloween gear, rifled through Audrey's trick-or-treat bag for a mini box of Dots, and opened my screen up to a photo I found on my old MySpace account from 7 years ago. It stopped me in my tracks. October 2009 - the first time I took a pic of my three kids sitting on their pumpkins.
For this year's annual photo, they were too big to sit on pumpkins for the first time. Their personalities are the same as they were in 2009, a little hazy in some areas and firmly rooted in others (Audrey's expressiveness on point, both at ages 4 and 11). Those were some heady years. I was home with Aedan all day, Liam to Kindergarten and Audrey part-time preschool. A man-made lake lay outside our backyard, so every afternoon I'd strap the two A's in the double stroller and help Liam with his shoes.
We'd walk along the lake path to the local playground, where someone always had to pee within ten minutes and where of course no bathroom could be found. Many twilights we'd stroll home, someone upset, someone hungry, and someone either dragging way behind or running far ahead. I let them watch far too much TV during the dinner "witching" hour, waiting for Brendan to walk in the door and stir them into a frenzy with tickle/wrestling fights. While they were distracted, I would slink away and sit on my bed, staring at the wall, before the bedtime routine began.
That me experienced anxiety too, but it was more of the survival kind. The kind that didn't linger since there were few times each day with no one around. I pushed through mild depression and PTSD, and found a way to make fun days for my kids--and for myself too, when I really stop to remember. The voices I'd make reading to them, the hysterical laughter from Aedan when I'd throw them on our bed, me silently chuckling to myself listening to the funny observations they'd make to each other.
When you have three kids under four years, all with special needs, you survive and flourish at the same time. You don't' have the luxury of self-reflection, which can be both a blessing and a curse. You feel grateful for simple endeavors like reading a book or driving by yourself in a silent car. You don't realize, however, that having too much time once your kids grow up can wreak havoc on your sense of self.
When Aedan went to kindergarten I rejoiced. Then threw myself back to work, happy to contribute to our practice's growth and help Brendan manage it. I felt like I won a battle with the spoils of war being three well-adjusted kids, learning and fighting and navigating the world with a solid foundation, though messy and slightly unpredictable.
The kids in the most recent Halloween picture are all limbs, messy hair and attitude. They have definite opinions about the world and what they want, and they leave me alone probably more than I want. They fight and squabble over video games, but will go for hours sometimes without asking for me. They are grudgingly learning manners and responsibility, what is disrespectful to say to an adult (a half hour conversation in the car last week) and what is appropriate. I still sit in the corner and laugh at the funny things they say. But now it feels different, a whole world away from the year they all dressed as Superheroes and were too shy to ring a doorbell to say "trick or treat."
Now I sometimes have too much time to absorb life’s shock waves. I chide myself for having anxiety, for not being able to fully enjoy life's blessings. I wish I weren't such a fragile flower, now I’m out of survival mode. I can handle a lot, put on a smile, and muster up a ton of energy when I need to. Which is often.
But, being a sensitive person doesn't go away. I give myself permission to look back at 2009 and remember how hard those days were, as well as honor the journey it's taken to get through 2016. As my therapist said last year, "if you weren't exhausted and out of steam I would be concerned about you."
Because I am tried. Sometimes my nervous system revolts to the strain I throw on it. I feel healthier than ever in many ways, and have learned all the tools I need to feel my best and manage my stress. I just sent my sister a care package of supplements that helped me wean out of survival mode. I feel like a hypocrite though, on my down days, counseling her on how to find herself as I still have days treading water.
There needs to be a balance between quiet and movement, action and inaction, taking on projects and saying no to others. My anxiety presents as a worried friend, knocking on the door in the quiet hours when I'm not expecting anyone. She knocks anyway, to check in and remind me that I need company.
It’s important to pause and recognize all the inner and outer work I've done this year. Honor my anxiety instead of feel guilt over it, in order to tap into a space of wisdom that it points to. Not everything needs to feel so big: neither emotions nor activities. I find tremendous strength in small, deliberate actions as well as big steps and movements with exclamation points behind them.
I love the little kids in the first pumpkin photo, and the mom who gave all of herself to them. I honor the scrappy, hilarious, high-maintenance big lugs in today's pic, every day trying to give their mom my blessing as well. The 2009 me longed for personal time and would be chagrined to hear that the 2016 me, with all of her free time, still experiences anxiety and moments of losing herself.
I am glad I take the photos I do. Each year tells a story not only of a family and of the smiling (or sometimes stone-faced) kids, but also of the mom who fixed issues and took on new risks, even as she failed and found both constructive and not - so constructive things to do with her free time.
She every day learns to work with her anxiety to let movement settle into her consciousness. Because what is life but the flow between opposites: pain and joy, suffering and blessings, quiet and noise, action and silence. When we make peace with the spaces in between, we really learn to live.
Before I know it, the kids in the annual Halloween photo will be holding the pumpkins, moving into the next stage of their own lives. Their mom will guide them, as she always tries to do. And then develop the wisdom to let them go.
I just dropped my dog off for major surgery and all I want to do is eat sugar. I stared at the sky from a Starbucks patio couch today, eating a piece of pumpkin loaf, my favorite, which I only indulge in when I feel especially low. "Would you like that warmed up?" the barista asked. "Hell yes," I replied. If you're going to go to gluten-dairy-carb Hell, make sure it's an extra delightful ride.
Usually when I feel anxiety like this (the "heart attack" kind, as opposed to the fluttering butterfly kind), I either write or eat. Or both, as the case today. I look through photos or sleep, or sit in my car and cry. Or both. It's kind of a little dance. Today though, I turned my engine off after sitting in the driveway for ten minutes, put away the Halloween gear, rifled through Audrey's trick-or-treat bag for a mini box of Dots, and opened my screen up to a photo I found on my old MySpace account from 7 years ago. It stopped me in my tracks. October 2009 - the first time I took a pic of my three kids sitting on their pumpkins.
For this year's annual photo, they were too big to sit on pumpkins for the first time. Their personalities are the same as they were in 2009, a little hazy in some areas and firmly rooted in others (Audrey's expressiveness on point, both at ages 4 and 11). Those were some heady years. I was home with Aedan all day, Liam to Kindergarten and Audrey part-time preschool. A man-made lake lay outside our backyard, so every afternoon I'd strap the two A's in the double stroller and help Liam with his shoes.
We'd walk along the lake path to the local playground, where someone always had to pee within ten minutes and where of course no bathroom could be found. Many twilights we'd stroll home, someone upset, someone hungry, and someone either dragging way behind or running far ahead. I let them watch far too much TV during the dinner "witching" hour, waiting for Brendan to walk in the door and stir them into a frenzy with tickle/wrestling fights. While they were distracted, I would slink away and sit on my bed, staring at the wall, before the bedtime routine began.
That me experienced anxiety too, but it was more of the survival kind. The kind that didn't linger since there were few times each day with no one around. I pushed through mild depression and PTSD, and found a way to make fun days for my kids--and for myself too, when I really stop to remember. The voices I'd make reading to them, the hysterical laughter from Aedan when I'd throw them on our bed, me silently chuckling to myself listening to the funny observations they'd make to each other.
When you have three kids under four years, all with special needs, you survive and flourish at the same time. You don't' have the luxury of self-reflection, which can be both a blessing and a curse. You feel grateful for simple endeavors like reading a book or driving by yourself in a silent car. You don't realize, however, that having too much time once your kids grow up can wreak havoc on your sense of self.
When Aedan went to kindergarten I rejoiced. Then threw myself back to work, happy to contribute to our practice's growth and help Brendan manage it. I felt like I won a battle with the spoils of war being three well-adjusted kids, learning and fighting and navigating the world with a solid foundation, though messy and slightly unpredictable.
The kids in the most recent Halloween picture are all limbs, messy hair and attitude. They have definite opinions about the world and what they want, and they leave me alone probably more than I want. They fight and squabble over video games, but will go for hours sometimes without asking for me. They are grudgingly learning manners and responsibility, what is disrespectful to say to an adult (a half hour conversation in the car last week) and what is appropriate. I still sit in the corner and laugh at the funny things they say. But now it feels different, a whole world away from the year they all dressed as Superheroes and were too shy to ring a doorbell to say "trick or treat."
Now I sometimes have too much time to absorb life’s shock waves. I chide myself for having anxiety, for not being able to fully enjoy life's blessings. I wish I weren't such a fragile flower, now I’m out of survival mode. I can handle a lot, put on a smile, and muster up a ton of energy when I need to. Which is often.
But, being a sensitive person doesn't go away. I give myself permission to look back at 2009 and remember how hard those days were, as well as honor the journey it's taken to get through 2016. As my therapist said last year, "if you weren't exhausted and out of steam I would be concerned about you."
Because I am tried. Sometimes my nervous system revolts to the strain I throw on it. I feel healthier than ever in many ways, and have learned all the tools I need to feel my best and manage my stress. I just sent my sister a care package of supplements that helped me wean out of survival mode. I feel like a hypocrite though, on my down days, counseling her on how to find herself as I still have days treading water.
There needs to be a balance between quiet and movement, action and inaction, taking on projects and saying no to others. My anxiety presents as a worried friend, knocking on the door in the quiet hours when I'm not expecting anyone. She knocks anyway, to check in and remind me that I need company.
It’s important to pause and recognize all the inner and outer work I've done this year. Honor my anxiety instead of feel guilt over it, in order to tap into a space of wisdom that it points to. Not everything needs to feel so big: neither emotions nor activities. I find tremendous strength in small, deliberate actions as well as big steps and movements with exclamation points behind them.
I love the little kids in the first pumpkin photo, and the mom who gave all of herself to them. I honor the scrappy, hilarious, high-maintenance big lugs in today's pic, every day trying to give their mom my blessing as well. The 2009 me longed for personal time and would be chagrined to hear that the 2016 me, with all of her free time, still experiences anxiety and moments of losing herself.
I am glad I take the photos I do. Each year tells a story not only of a family and of the smiling (or sometimes stone-faced) kids, but also of the mom who fixed issues and took on new risks, even as she failed and found both constructive and not - so constructive things to do with her free time.
She every day learns to work with her anxiety to let movement settle into her consciousness. Because what is life but the flow between opposites: pain and joy, suffering and blessings, quiet and noise, action and silence. When we make peace with the spaces in between, we really learn to live.
Before I know it, the kids in the annual Halloween photo will be holding the pumpkins, moving into the next stage of their own lives. Their mom will guide them, as she always tries to do. And then develop the wisdom to let them go.