I am coming up on five years of back-to-back abstinence in OA-HOW, a structured way of working the Overeaters Anonymous (OA) program, a Twelve Step program for people wrestling with any food-related compulsion. In OA, abstinence means "refraining from compulsive overeating" or other compulsive food behavior like anorexia or bulimia. In HOW, we put a lot of emphasis on abstaining from negative thinking, which is really hard for me. I am by nature, negative, and the brain does a lot to try to protect us from future heartache; one of its main ways of doing this is by anticipating the worst to "inoculate" us from bad things happening in the future. Of course, this is erroneous, because we just end up suffering twice: in the anticipation of the bad event, and then, if/when the bad event happens.
Pesach (Passover) has always been a miserable holiday for me. It is hard for any observant Jew: imagine preparing for Christmas and moving at the same time. There is a tremendous amount of work to prepare for the holiday, some of it very labor intensive. Even though my husband David carries most of the heavy lifting, I still do my fair share, and the necessities of the holiday preparation -- cleaning, shopping, cooking, entertaining, and staying up late -- really pushes all of my buttons. It activates my chronic pain in a bad way. All of this means that I usually approach the holiday with a lot of dread and negativity. This makes me miserable, but worse, it also erodes David's enjoyment of the holiday.
I have been getting deeper into my mindfulness practice, and I think I am growing weary of the suffering I cause myself. Pain in life is inevitable, but more and more I am clearly seeing that I am the source of most of my suffering. Stress happens, of course, but the stories I construct about what I am experiencing are truly the cause of my misery. There is a massive difference between pain and suffering. So, in an attempt to cut down on my suffering, I decided to try something different for Pesach this year: abstaining from negative thinking, just like my Twelve Step program advises me to do.
I wasn't sure I could successfully keep a positive attitude, but I was determined to try one day at a time. To my surprise, I was quite successful. To my amazement, it made a tremendous difference to the quality of my holiday. Yes, I am still exhausted. Yes, I am still in pain bad enough that it requires narcotics to manage it, which I hate taking. But I have enjoyed this holiday more than any in the past. I was more productive. David said, "You have gotten more done, with less pain to yourself, than you ever have in the time I've known you." My OA sponsor said, "I can tell how much calmer you are." Even my body bears the fruits of my efforts: this is the first time in a decade I haven't had my telltale Pesach cold sore, which is a stress response.
This has made for an infinitely sweeter holiday. It is is profoundly meaningful for my faith -- it is the story of God rescuing the Jews from brutal slavery in Egypt, ultimately leading to our redemption and giving of the Torah at Mount Sinai. This year, freed from the excessive negativity and crap stories I tell myself, I was able to relax and enjoy the holiday, both for what Hashem (God) did for the Jewish people, but also what Hashem did for me: leading me out of food addiction to a saner, freer existence. I used to dread Pesach because I was so driven by the compulsion to eat, I couldn't stay away from non-kosher food, or chametz, leavened food prohibited on the holiday, for even eight days. It was torture. This was a problem for me since adolescence.
To an outsider, it seems like I do a lot of extreme things for my recovery program: I weigh and measure all my food, yes, even in public, even when it's embarrassing. I make at least four telephone calls per day to other fellows in recovery. I do a daily reading and writing assignment. Most importantly, I work the Twelve Steps, which are simple but never easy. Yes, all of this takes time, and I do not always enjoy it, to say the least! However, when I reflect on my greatest blessings of recovery, it becomes clear why this is so worth it. Yes, losing so much weight is amazing. But living with integrity is priceless. Knowing that I won't have to go binge on non-kosher foods during Pesach, or the other 51 weeks of the year -- and end up hating myself for it -- is the biggest blessing. Recovery has given me integrity: my insides match my outsides. No more outwardly living an Orthodox lifestyle, while binging at Burger King, praying no one sees me (and again, hating myself for my "lack of self control" -- I know now that this was the cunning, baffling, and powerful disease of addiction, as the book "Alcoholic Anonymous" describes it). Living my values, having God redeem me from slavery to food addiction is truly priceless. Is my daily OA work worth it? Hell yes!
Sunday, April 8, 2012
Friday, March 23, 2012
Words That Harm, Words That Heal
"Words are, in my not so humble opinion, our most inexhaustible source of magic, capable of both inflicting injury and remedying it." -- Albus Dumbledore to Harry Potter in film "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part II"
"Too much time on my hands, I got you on my mind
Can't ease this pain, so easily
When you can't find the words to say, it's hard to make it through another day
And it makes me want to cry, and throw my hands up in the sky." -- Iron Maiden, "Wasted Years"
I am so grateful to all the friends, family and acquaintances who are reaching out in many ways to express their sympathy to David and me about the recent loss of our unborn child. Most people say something along the lines of, "I don't even know what to say to you." That is unsurprising, because there is very little to say other than, "I'm sorry," which feels inadequate to most people saying it, even though it isn't to me when I'm hearing it. In fact, I would argue that when you veer much beyond that, you risk stepping over a line. I am obviously very public about this, which opens me up to all kinds of comments from well-meaning people. But I've had to reconcile enough painful "condolences" these last two weeks that I want to write a specific post about some do's and don'ts to comfort women who have miscarried. Obviously, every couple is different and every loss is different, so I'm sure there are people who would not be offended by what offends me, or who might not be comforted by what comforts me. But, I'm pretty reasonable, and I think I can provide a place to start. A friend of mine asked me to pen this.
Don'ts
1. Here be dragons! There is one primary thing to avoid when talking to a couple or woman who has lost her baby: please do not say anything along the lines of, "There was something wrong with the baby. That's why this happened." Nothing is less relevant and more hurtful at this time. Grief is a duty of the heart, and this comment is rational, a response of the mind. Yet, if I had a dollar for every time someone said it to me lately, I could treat a dozen friends to Venti-size expensive coffee drinks. Let me qualify this by saying that most people who dole out the "something was wrong with the baby" line are well-meaning people who are trying to help. Quite a few of them are female friends of mine who have miscarried, and this line of reasoning helped them cope with their pregnancy losses. Yet, it cut me like a knife when I heard it, and was only made worse by the people who embellished it with, "Better this than you have a child with an illness or a special-needs child." This is offensive on so many levels, I can't even go here.
We are decently bright people, and we understand the science quite well; biology was my minor and remains an interest, and I was a health writer. Furthermore, as common as miscarriage is (very), it is actually not well-understood and varies case-by-case. An acquaintance of mine related this "something wrong..." line in the name of her husband, a paramedic. When I whined to a friend of mine -- a very advanced health-care professional with a 23-year career in obstetrics -- about this she gave the deliciously snarky reply: "Wow. I'm so impressed that her husband the paramedic has figured out what the best researchers and physicians in my field continue to study and struggle with." In other words, it's complicated. In fact, a reproductive endocrinologist has since explained to us that there are five main categories of miscarriage, and there being a problem with the baby itself is just one of those five. That leaves four other possibilities.
Even if you have miscarried and even if it comforted you to believe that the pregnancy terminated because of a specific problem, it is enough of a potential bombshell that it's probably best to avoid saying it to someone else.
2. No Medical Advice, Please: Pirkei Avos (Ethics of the Fathers) states, "Who is wise? He who learns from all people" (4:1). However, there are limits to this, and if there is one thing I excel at, it's taking care of my wellbeing. My journey with Lyme Disease and fibromyalgia has ensured that I have to be a fierce advocate for myself; I have spent years learning how to make the health care system work for me and my family, and I don't accept any half-assed medical care. So, I don't want to sound haughty, but my experience is that most people who don't have an M.D., NP, or PA credential after their initials don't have much to teach me about medicine. I get my referrals from top-rate doctors who know my health history and my personality well. I had a cousin recommend I get tested for a clotting disorder that runs in the family, which I really appreciated, and still many others say, "Let me know if you need medical referrals." I appreciate all that, but not much more specific advice unless you have had the same problem that I have and have specific information that could help me. I acknowledge that until now, I have had no experience with reproductive problems, so what I do value is other women's and couples' experiences who have been on this journey. However, if one more person tells me that acupuncture would prevent a miscarriage, I'll hurl on their shoes, I promise.
Seriously, I'm thrilled you're pregnant: Don't be afraid to tell me you're expecting. Just tell me in private if we're close friends. I'm genuinely happy for my friends who are expecting, and perhaps selfishly, I never want to become someone who isn't happy for people who are pregnant. It's just important to me. I think I've done a good job of holding my own disappointments in one hand, and the joy of my friends expecting children in the other.
Etc.: Another thing that has been hard for me to handle are any kinds of statements about my personal faith through the tragedy of a miscarriage. As I mentioned in an earlier post, I bristled at someone's comments to me along those lines. I think it's probably best not to make any presumptions on this topic. The other thing that annoyed me is people who ignored this because of their own awkwardness; it's a big deal to us, and no, we don't expect you to fix it, or even really comfort us. So, with all that said, what does help?
Do's
1. Gifting Yourself: The number one helpful thing that other people did for me in the aftermath of the miscarriage was spend time with me. I had friends come over and hang out with me, hold me while I cried, and walk the dog with me. Sometimes all three! These visits lasted from 45 minutes to three hours, and they really helped. Other people checked up on me with frequent phone calls, text messages, e-mails, and Facebook messages. That also made me feel cared about. My religious community kindly cooked meals for our Sabbath, so David and I wouldn't have to worry about feeding ourselves; that was hugely helpful, and made us feel really cared about. Other people sent cards, which also felt good. Again, people just reaching out to say, "I'm so sorry," is really what mattered to us.
When I asked David what most helped him in the immediate aftermath of the miscarriage, he said, "When people asked me things, rather than told me things."
2. Prayer: 'Nuf said.
"Too much time on my hands, I got you on my mind
Can't ease this pain, so easily
When you can't find the words to say, it's hard to make it through another day
And it makes me want to cry, and throw my hands up in the sky." -- Iron Maiden, "Wasted Years"
I am so grateful to all the friends, family and acquaintances who are reaching out in many ways to express their sympathy to David and me about the recent loss of our unborn child. Most people say something along the lines of, "I don't even know what to say to you." That is unsurprising, because there is very little to say other than, "I'm sorry," which feels inadequate to most people saying it, even though it isn't to me when I'm hearing it. In fact, I would argue that when you veer much beyond that, you risk stepping over a line. I am obviously very public about this, which opens me up to all kinds of comments from well-meaning people. But I've had to reconcile enough painful "condolences" these last two weeks that I want to write a specific post about some do's and don'ts to comfort women who have miscarried. Obviously, every couple is different and every loss is different, so I'm sure there are people who would not be offended by what offends me, or who might not be comforted by what comforts me. But, I'm pretty reasonable, and I think I can provide a place to start. A friend of mine asked me to pen this.
Don'ts
1. Here be dragons! There is one primary thing to avoid when talking to a couple or woman who has lost her baby: please do not say anything along the lines of, "There was something wrong with the baby. That's why this happened." Nothing is less relevant and more hurtful at this time. Grief is a duty of the heart, and this comment is rational, a response of the mind. Yet, if I had a dollar for every time someone said it to me lately, I could treat a dozen friends to Venti-size expensive coffee drinks. Let me qualify this by saying that most people who dole out the "something was wrong with the baby" line are well-meaning people who are trying to help. Quite a few of them are female friends of mine who have miscarried, and this line of reasoning helped them cope with their pregnancy losses. Yet, it cut me like a knife when I heard it, and was only made worse by the people who embellished it with, "Better this than you have a child with an illness or a special-needs child." This is offensive on so many levels, I can't even go here.
We are decently bright people, and we understand the science quite well; biology was my minor and remains an interest, and I was a health writer. Furthermore, as common as miscarriage is (very), it is actually not well-understood and varies case-by-case. An acquaintance of mine related this "something wrong..." line in the name of her husband, a paramedic. When I whined to a friend of mine -- a very advanced health-care professional with a 23-year career in obstetrics -- about this she gave the deliciously snarky reply: "Wow. I'm so impressed that her husband the paramedic has figured out what the best researchers and physicians in my field continue to study and struggle with." In other words, it's complicated. In fact, a reproductive endocrinologist has since explained to us that there are five main categories of miscarriage, and there being a problem with the baby itself is just one of those five. That leaves four other possibilities.
Even if you have miscarried and even if it comforted you to believe that the pregnancy terminated because of a specific problem, it is enough of a potential bombshell that it's probably best to avoid saying it to someone else.
2. No Medical Advice, Please: Pirkei Avos (Ethics of the Fathers) states, "Who is wise? He who learns from all people" (4:1). However, there are limits to this, and if there is one thing I excel at, it's taking care of my wellbeing. My journey with Lyme Disease and fibromyalgia has ensured that I have to be a fierce advocate for myself; I have spent years learning how to make the health care system work for me and my family, and I don't accept any half-assed medical care. So, I don't want to sound haughty, but my experience is that most people who don't have an M.D., NP, or PA credential after their initials don't have much to teach me about medicine. I get my referrals from top-rate doctors who know my health history and my personality well. I had a cousin recommend I get tested for a clotting disorder that runs in the family, which I really appreciated, and still many others say, "Let me know if you need medical referrals." I appreciate all that, but not much more specific advice unless you have had the same problem that I have and have specific information that could help me. I acknowledge that until now, I have had no experience with reproductive problems, so what I do value is other women's and couples' experiences who have been on this journey. However, if one more person tells me that acupuncture would prevent a miscarriage, I'll hurl on their shoes, I promise.
Seriously, I'm thrilled you're pregnant: Don't be afraid to tell me you're expecting. Just tell me in private if we're close friends. I'm genuinely happy for my friends who are expecting, and perhaps selfishly, I never want to become someone who isn't happy for people who are pregnant. It's just important to me. I think I've done a good job of holding my own disappointments in one hand, and the joy of my friends expecting children in the other.
Etc.: Another thing that has been hard for me to handle are any kinds of statements about my personal faith through the tragedy of a miscarriage. As I mentioned in an earlier post, I bristled at someone's comments to me along those lines. I think it's probably best not to make any presumptions on this topic. The other thing that annoyed me is people who ignored this because of their own awkwardness; it's a big deal to us, and no, we don't expect you to fix it, or even really comfort us. So, with all that said, what does help?
Do's
1. Gifting Yourself: The number one helpful thing that other people did for me in the aftermath of the miscarriage was spend time with me. I had friends come over and hang out with me, hold me while I cried, and walk the dog with me. Sometimes all three! These visits lasted from 45 minutes to three hours, and they really helped. Other people checked up on me with frequent phone calls, text messages, e-mails, and Facebook messages. That also made me feel cared about. My religious community kindly cooked meals for our Sabbath, so David and I wouldn't have to worry about feeding ourselves; that was hugely helpful, and made us feel really cared about. Other people sent cards, which also felt good. Again, people just reaching out to say, "I'm so sorry," is really what mattered to us.
When I asked David what most helped him in the immediate aftermath of the miscarriage, he said, "When people asked me things, rather than told me things."
2. Prayer: 'Nuf said.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Waking Up Is The Hardest Part
"You are getting your PhD in grief." -- My mom, to me
In the last ten months I have lost my father and two children. I can say, definitively, that for me, waking up is the hardest part of grieving. I have always -- for better and for worse -- sought refuge in sleep, so even in the midst of tragedy, I am a sound sleeper. There is little worse than waking up from a deep sleep, and in those first flutters of consciousness remembering, "Oh, shit. That was not a dream." David and I found out on February 27 that this baby, like the one last summer, had not made it. I woke up the next three days sobbing when I realized the memory of the miscarriage wasn't some messed up nightmare, but our reality. I had this same exact experience in the week or 10 days following my dad's death: wakefulness, consciousness, heartbreak.
February 27 was a day of sickening deja vu. Being at the radiology clinic almost 11 weeks pregnant, a pessimist and worrier of the highest order hoping that my bleeding would turn out to be the spotting that about one-third of women experience in a pregnancy. I knew the minute I saw the ultrasound that we were in trouble. Again. You then have to endure the worry for your spouse, the "I'm sorry's" from the doctor, the getting out of the clinic and into your car while sobbing or trying not to sob in public, all the while passing women with swollen bellies or children already born. I am so over crying in public now, which is part of the PhD in grieving. My crying comes in waves. Sometimes I'm fine, sometimes I collapse in a heap, and that can be in my kitchen, if I'm lucky, or if I (and others) aren't so lucky, I might be in public. I've learned that the best thing I can do is let it come, wash over me, and then fade away. The more I try to fight it or stifle it, the longer it'll stick around. So I surrender to the crying, even if I look like the crazy person on the bus.
The bad deja vu continued with the consultation with our obstetrician followed by the D&C at Sibley, although this time it was less nerve-wracking since I knew what to expect.
Blimey, what can I say about this? There are so many feelings, all of them personal, though I'm pretty public, if you haven't noticed. One thing I can say with surety is that I am pissed off at God. This is not a feeling that is helped by the rapidly-depleting pregnancy hormones leaving my body; you get postpartum moodiness without the postpartum joy of a kid. I got enraged seeing David pray on February 28. I said, "It pushed my buttons seeing you pray to a capricious, cruel God." He had a brilliant and true response: "You don't know what I'm saying to Him." Someone left us a voice mail in the days after the miscarriage commending David and me on our faith and expressing some envy of it. I was thinking, "Are you fucking serious?!" Me, whose spirituality after this event ranges from giving God the Silent Treatment to cursing at God?
I don't feel bad about this in the slightest, by the way. I think God can handle my wrath, and Yisroel (Israel) doesn't mean "struggle with God" for nothing. I just see this as continuing my Jewish tradition of fighting with God. I have told my Jewish spiritual teachers that I am pissed at God, and they all say, "Sounds about right. You should be." I only went to services on Purim night to support my husband performing in the shpiel; I survived being there by knitting through the entire megillah reading [reading the book of Esther]. It was that or Xanax, kids, and I chose the non-pharmaceutical approach. I was ok there until I recited mourner's kaddish for my father, the memorial prayer for the dead, and became wracked with grief over the child we had just lost. I felt like I was saying kaddish for him or her too, and it completely knocked me off my feet. If I had thought about it before hand I probably could have anticipated this, but I didn't, and it bowled me over. Once again, the crazy lady sobbing in public!
I went to services last night, and approached them with mixed feelings. Sometimes I just took comfort in the familiarity of the melodies and prayers. Sometimes I was the master cynic. For example, singing "Yedid nefesh, av ha'rachaman..." -- "Beloved of the soul, Father of compassion...," I thought, "Seriously? Father of compassion? Try again!" Sometimes I just thought, "You suck, HaShem," even as my heart acknowledged that I don't have all the answers, or access to the master plan, if there even is such a thing. I don't know, nor do I particularly care. My friend said to me of the miscarriage and my anger at God, "Sarah, this is not a matter of God. God wants life. We are fragile, biological creatures, and this stuff just happens." Perhaps she's right.
I have a lot more to say about this, including a pointed post about what to not say to someone who has miscarried! All of it is heartbreaking and awful, though I feel like I am finally coming back to life at this point. Laughter is coming more easily, the tears slightly more infrequently. I am starting to talk to people I was avoiding. I want to blog again; I was so sick during my pregnancy that anything optional went out the window, including writing.
I am trying to balance grieving a tremendous loss in a healthy, mindful way. I'm not avoiding the painful feelings by: staying too busy; numbing out with food, alcohol, or illicit substances; or engaging in self-destructive behaviors. I'm trying to give myself room to take care of myself while not sliding into outright depression. So, yes, I nap when I need to, but I also am getting together with supportive friends, working out as much as I can, and making plans for the future. It is truly a day at a time, and some days are better than others. Heck, some hours are better than others.
I want to close by saying that I am so thankful that David and I haven't gone through this alone. Our friends' and families' practical and emotional support has been invaluable to us. They have cooked meals for us, come to spend time with us, called/emailed/texted us, sent cards and flowers, and just generally been there for us when we've needed to cry, vent or talk. Many of my friends have helped me collect myself when I wanted to haul off on one of the many people who said something heartless to me in my grief. For all this and more, we are grateful. Loss of a pregnancy is hard enough to go through with the support of loved ones. We have so many friends who have miscarried and told nobody, and I can't imagine going through this alone. I'm grateful we don't have to. Love you all.
In the last ten months I have lost my father and two children. I can say, definitively, that for me, waking up is the hardest part of grieving. I have always -- for better and for worse -- sought refuge in sleep, so even in the midst of tragedy, I am a sound sleeper. There is little worse than waking up from a deep sleep, and in those first flutters of consciousness remembering, "Oh, shit. That was not a dream." David and I found out on February 27 that this baby, like the one last summer, had not made it. I woke up the next three days sobbing when I realized the memory of the miscarriage wasn't some messed up nightmare, but our reality. I had this same exact experience in the week or 10 days following my dad's death: wakefulness, consciousness, heartbreak.
February 27 was a day of sickening deja vu. Being at the radiology clinic almost 11 weeks pregnant, a pessimist and worrier of the highest order hoping that my bleeding would turn out to be the spotting that about one-third of women experience in a pregnancy. I knew the minute I saw the ultrasound that we were in trouble. Again. You then have to endure the worry for your spouse, the "I'm sorry's" from the doctor, the getting out of the clinic and into your car while sobbing or trying not to sob in public, all the while passing women with swollen bellies or children already born. I am so over crying in public now, which is part of the PhD in grieving. My crying comes in waves. Sometimes I'm fine, sometimes I collapse in a heap, and that can be in my kitchen, if I'm lucky, or if I (and others) aren't so lucky, I might be in public. I've learned that the best thing I can do is let it come, wash over me, and then fade away. The more I try to fight it or stifle it, the longer it'll stick around. So I surrender to the crying, even if I look like the crazy person on the bus.
The bad deja vu continued with the consultation with our obstetrician followed by the D&C at Sibley, although this time it was less nerve-wracking since I knew what to expect.
Blimey, what can I say about this? There are so many feelings, all of them personal, though I'm pretty public, if you haven't noticed. One thing I can say with surety is that I am pissed off at God. This is not a feeling that is helped by the rapidly-depleting pregnancy hormones leaving my body; you get postpartum moodiness without the postpartum joy of a kid. I got enraged seeing David pray on February 28. I said, "It pushed my buttons seeing you pray to a capricious, cruel God." He had a brilliant and true response: "You don't know what I'm saying to Him." Someone left us a voice mail in the days after the miscarriage commending David and me on our faith and expressing some envy of it. I was thinking, "Are you fucking serious?!" Me, whose spirituality after this event ranges from giving God the Silent Treatment to cursing at God?
I don't feel bad about this in the slightest, by the way. I think God can handle my wrath, and Yisroel (Israel) doesn't mean "struggle with God" for nothing. I just see this as continuing my Jewish tradition of fighting with God. I have told my Jewish spiritual teachers that I am pissed at God, and they all say, "Sounds about right. You should be." I only went to services on Purim night to support my husband performing in the shpiel; I survived being there by knitting through the entire megillah reading [reading the book of Esther]. It was that or Xanax, kids, and I chose the non-pharmaceutical approach. I was ok there until I recited mourner's kaddish for my father, the memorial prayer for the dead, and became wracked with grief over the child we had just lost. I felt like I was saying kaddish for him or her too, and it completely knocked me off my feet. If I had thought about it before hand I probably could have anticipated this, but I didn't, and it bowled me over. Once again, the crazy lady sobbing in public!
I went to services last night, and approached them with mixed feelings. Sometimes I just took comfort in the familiarity of the melodies and prayers. Sometimes I was the master cynic. For example, singing "Yedid nefesh, av ha'rachaman..." -- "Beloved of the soul, Father of compassion...," I thought, "Seriously? Father of compassion? Try again!" Sometimes I just thought, "You suck, HaShem," even as my heart acknowledged that I don't have all the answers, or access to the master plan, if there even is such a thing. I don't know, nor do I particularly care. My friend said to me of the miscarriage and my anger at God, "Sarah, this is not a matter of God. God wants life. We are fragile, biological creatures, and this stuff just happens." Perhaps she's right.
I have a lot more to say about this, including a pointed post about what to not say to someone who has miscarried! All of it is heartbreaking and awful, though I feel like I am finally coming back to life at this point. Laughter is coming more easily, the tears slightly more infrequently. I am starting to talk to people I was avoiding. I want to blog again; I was so sick during my pregnancy that anything optional went out the window, including writing.
I am trying to balance grieving a tremendous loss in a healthy, mindful way. I'm not avoiding the painful feelings by: staying too busy; numbing out with food, alcohol, or illicit substances; or engaging in self-destructive behaviors. I'm trying to give myself room to take care of myself while not sliding into outright depression. So, yes, I nap when I need to, but I also am getting together with supportive friends, working out as much as I can, and making plans for the future. It is truly a day at a time, and some days are better than others. Heck, some hours are better than others.
I want to close by saying that I am so thankful that David and I haven't gone through this alone. Our friends' and families' practical and emotional support has been invaluable to us. They have cooked meals for us, come to spend time with us, called/emailed/texted us, sent cards and flowers, and just generally been there for us when we've needed to cry, vent or talk. Many of my friends have helped me collect myself when I wanted to haul off on one of the many people who said something heartless to me in my grief. For all this and more, we are grateful. Loss of a pregnancy is hard enough to go through with the support of loved ones. We have so many friends who have miscarried and told nobody, and I can't imagine going through this alone. I'm grateful we don't have to. Love you all.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Retreat Morning Schedule
So, how did I spend my semi-silent retreat? This one was a little unusual in that usually retreats either allow speaking, or they're conducted in silence. In this one, we were in silence from 9 p.m.- lunch the next day, with silence always maintained in the dormitories. Most people spoke during the non-silent times, but a few retreatants chose to maintain their silence and the group respected that. Here was our weekday schedule through lunch, with some explanation. The afternoon and evening schedule will be my next post.
6:00 a.m. Wake up: Because I was fighting for a spot amongst eight other women in a tiny bathroom, I roused myself around 5:45 a.m. to allow adequate time to use the bathroom, wash my face, and brush my teeth. I'd dress and mosey over to the main lodge, where all of our retreat activities took place. I had a couple of glasses of water and a cup of coffee, in silence, before I settled on my meditation cushion.
6:30 a.m. Meditation (aka "Sit"): This was seated meditation. Some people sat on cushions that they brought. Others fashioned impromptu meditation seating with pillows, blankets, towels and yoga mats. Some people always sat on chairs, and people who spoke with instructors about it first were allowed to meditate laying down, if appropriate. I had to do this, especially by the end of the day: my back isn't strong to begin with, and the 3-4 hours of seated meditation we did every day really took its toll on me. The first night I was there, I needed a narcotic to calm my pain enough to sleep. The original purpose of yoga asana, poses, is to give yogis the strength they need to sit in meditation for hours. I never really understood that until this retreat!
At one point I asked an instructor when would be a good time to leave programming to lay down on my heating pad to soothe my back and neck pain. He said, "What would keep you from bringing your heating pad to meditation and laying on your back?" I said, "Nothing!" As someone who has chronic pain, I have learned how to meditate laying down. I have tricks to ensure I don't fall asleep, like not practicing this way when I'm too sleepy, keeping my eyes only 3/4 of the way shut, putting my knees together, or holding my hands in such a way that if I fell asleep I would jerk to attention. I think I only came close to falling asleep once in this position. My preference is to sit on a meditation cushion with blankets supporting my knees, but I utilized the cushion, a chair, and laying on my yoga mat at different points in the day, depending on what my body needed. Usually, I started the day upright and ended up laying down late afternoon before returning to a chair or cushion again.
7:15 a.m. Chanting: One of the most amazing gifts that came to me from this retreat is the knowledge of how much chanting moves me. This is a common Eastern spiritual practice, but instead of Sanskrit, we chanted Hebrew. We did three chants from the morning blessings in the schacharit service (see below) every morning, and then did a few other chants based on other Jewish sources. There was something tremendously powerful about living in an intentional, albeit temporary, community, our voices joining together in praise of God. Four things resonated with me: the meaning of words we were chanting, the beautiful tones of the chants we were singing, the group nature of the activity, and the vibration of my voice inside my body. All of those elements combined to make it a powerful spiritual technique for me.
At home, I have continued my chanting practice after my morning meditation, and although it's not as potent as it is in a group, it's still useful. It's a meaningful way for me to give thanks to God and to set my intention for the day, and the verses have become mantras for me. Sometimes I'll find myself humming them throughout the day, which of course reminds me of their meaning. Verses from schacharit like, "My God, the soul You placed within me is pure," are things I need to remember, especially when I get drawn into the Trance of Unworthiness. Reminding myself that God made me in God's image is one antidote to the Trance.
7:30 a.m. Shacharit: This is the Jewish morning service. Other than on shabbat [sabbath], all of the prayer services were silent, so people could pray in the style most appropriate for them. We had a huge range of religiosity from people completely a-religious and Jewishly uneducated, to people who were Orthodox and had learned in yeshivot for years. I think it was easier to have unstructured prayer time than to try and conduct a service to make everyone happy, and that kept us in our silence, which was particularly nice after a night of silence and 30-45 minutes of seated meditation. During prayer time, some people prayed, some went to get cups of coffee, and others did yoga or meditated.
8:00 a.m. Breakfast (silent)
9:15 a.m. Sit & Instruction: The instruction was basically Vipassana (insight) meditation 101, where the instructors explained the basics of meditation. The first day they gave instructions on posture and using the breath as an anchor. Other days they talked about using alternate anchors (like sounds or sensations), how to handle emotions that came up during meditation, etc. We also had instruction on topics like the five hindrances to meditation, which will certainly come up in most people's meditation, and some of the antidotes to those hindrances. We covered the traditional Buddhist lovingkindness (metta) meditation; I didn't love the way the teachers taught that one, but since I was already familiar with it, I just practiced the form I'm more comfortable with.
When I went to Tara Brach's talk and guided meditation class the other night, I loved that she led us in a body scan and relaxation exercise before we started to meditate. It really provides a nice transition from "up and active, engaging with the world," to "on my cushion now, settle down." I need to start incorporating this in my home practice, and if I had experienced it before the retreat, I would've let the leaders know on my evaluation form that this would've been awesome.
9:45 a.m. Walk: this was walking meditation performed in the room we were using. It's just another form of mindfulness where instead of using breath or something else as an anchor, you are very focused on your feet hitting the floor. After 45 minutes on my butt on a cushion, I was always very eager to walk. I really zoned out and got into this, and I could see why Thich Nhat Hanh encourages this so enthusiastically (there are videos on You Tube of Hanh and others teaching this). I have tried to make one of my daily dog walks one where I practice walking meditation.
10:00 Sit
10:45 Yoga: The daily asana practice was so amazing it's getting it's own post later.
11:45 Sit + Group Interview: For more details on what transpires in group interviews, please see my earlier post.
12:30 Eating Instructions: This was only on the first day of retreat, but it was instruction in mindful eating. The teachers passed around a bowl of different foods, including different types of nuts, raisins, and granola. The guy with major food allergies practiced this with an apple. We were instructed to first smell the food; touch it to the lips; put it in our mouths and slowly move it around, seeing how it tastes and feels in different regions of our mouth. It was really enlightening for me to see how mindless my impulse to swallow is: the teacher said, "notice the impulse to swallow," after I had already swallowed my raisin. Oops! After mindful, deliberate chewing and experiencing all these bites of food had to offer, we were instructed to swallow in our own time.
I had heard of this "raisin meditation," and after hearing a friend's jeering review of it, I was skeptical. However, I liked it and found it put me in the right head space to both of my daily silent meals in mindfulness. After all, that was the point: not just not talking for the sake of not talking.
12:45 Lunch (silent)
After leaving dining hall, continue silence or enter speech.
6:00 a.m. Wake up: Because I was fighting for a spot amongst eight other women in a tiny bathroom, I roused myself around 5:45 a.m. to allow adequate time to use the bathroom, wash my face, and brush my teeth. I'd dress and mosey over to the main lodge, where all of our retreat activities took place. I had a couple of glasses of water and a cup of coffee, in silence, before I settled on my meditation cushion.
6:30 a.m. Meditation (aka "Sit"): This was seated meditation. Some people sat on cushions that they brought. Others fashioned impromptu meditation seating with pillows, blankets, towels and yoga mats. Some people always sat on chairs, and people who spoke with instructors about it first were allowed to meditate laying down, if appropriate. I had to do this, especially by the end of the day: my back isn't strong to begin with, and the 3-4 hours of seated meditation we did every day really took its toll on me. The first night I was there, I needed a narcotic to calm my pain enough to sleep. The original purpose of yoga asana, poses, is to give yogis the strength they need to sit in meditation for hours. I never really understood that until this retreat!
At one point I asked an instructor when would be a good time to leave programming to lay down on my heating pad to soothe my back and neck pain. He said, "What would keep you from bringing your heating pad to meditation and laying on your back?" I said, "Nothing!" As someone who has chronic pain, I have learned how to meditate laying down. I have tricks to ensure I don't fall asleep, like not practicing this way when I'm too sleepy, keeping my eyes only 3/4 of the way shut, putting my knees together, or holding my hands in such a way that if I fell asleep I would jerk to attention. I think I only came close to falling asleep once in this position. My preference is to sit on a meditation cushion with blankets supporting my knees, but I utilized the cushion, a chair, and laying on my yoga mat at different points in the day, depending on what my body needed. Usually, I started the day upright and ended up laying down late afternoon before returning to a chair or cushion again.
7:15 a.m. Chanting: One of the most amazing gifts that came to me from this retreat is the knowledge of how much chanting moves me. This is a common Eastern spiritual practice, but instead of Sanskrit, we chanted Hebrew. We did three chants from the morning blessings in the schacharit service (see below) every morning, and then did a few other chants based on other Jewish sources. There was something tremendously powerful about living in an intentional, albeit temporary, community, our voices joining together in praise of God. Four things resonated with me: the meaning of words we were chanting, the beautiful tones of the chants we were singing, the group nature of the activity, and the vibration of my voice inside my body. All of those elements combined to make it a powerful spiritual technique for me.
At home, I have continued my chanting practice after my morning meditation, and although it's not as potent as it is in a group, it's still useful. It's a meaningful way for me to give thanks to God and to set my intention for the day, and the verses have become mantras for me. Sometimes I'll find myself humming them throughout the day, which of course reminds me of their meaning. Verses from schacharit like, "My God, the soul You placed within me is pure," are things I need to remember, especially when I get drawn into the Trance of Unworthiness. Reminding myself that God made me in God's image is one antidote to the Trance.
7:30 a.m. Shacharit: This is the Jewish morning service. Other than on shabbat [sabbath], all of the prayer services were silent, so people could pray in the style most appropriate for them. We had a huge range of religiosity from people completely a-religious and Jewishly uneducated, to people who were Orthodox and had learned in yeshivot for years. I think it was easier to have unstructured prayer time than to try and conduct a service to make everyone happy, and that kept us in our silence, which was particularly nice after a night of silence and 30-45 minutes of seated meditation. During prayer time, some people prayed, some went to get cups of coffee, and others did yoga or meditated.
8:00 a.m. Breakfast (silent)
9:15 a.m. Sit & Instruction: The instruction was basically Vipassana (insight) meditation 101, where the instructors explained the basics of meditation. The first day they gave instructions on posture and using the breath as an anchor. Other days they talked about using alternate anchors (like sounds or sensations), how to handle emotions that came up during meditation, etc. We also had instruction on topics like the five hindrances to meditation, which will certainly come up in most people's meditation, and some of the antidotes to those hindrances. We covered the traditional Buddhist lovingkindness (metta) meditation; I didn't love the way the teachers taught that one, but since I was already familiar with it, I just practiced the form I'm more comfortable with.
When I went to Tara Brach's talk and guided meditation class the other night, I loved that she led us in a body scan and relaxation exercise before we started to meditate. It really provides a nice transition from "up and active, engaging with the world," to "on my cushion now, settle down." I need to start incorporating this in my home practice, and if I had experienced it before the retreat, I would've let the leaders know on my evaluation form that this would've been awesome.
9:45 a.m. Walk: this was walking meditation performed in the room we were using. It's just another form of mindfulness where instead of using breath or something else as an anchor, you are very focused on your feet hitting the floor. After 45 minutes on my butt on a cushion, I was always very eager to walk. I really zoned out and got into this, and I could see why Thich Nhat Hanh encourages this so enthusiastically (there are videos on You Tube of Hanh and others teaching this). I have tried to make one of my daily dog walks one where I practice walking meditation.
10:00 Sit
10:45 Yoga: The daily asana practice was so amazing it's getting it's own post later.
11:45 Sit + Group Interview: For more details on what transpires in group interviews, please see my earlier post.
12:30 Eating Instructions: This was only on the first day of retreat, but it was instruction in mindful eating. The teachers passed around a bowl of different foods, including different types of nuts, raisins, and granola. The guy with major food allergies practiced this with an apple. We were instructed to first smell the food; touch it to the lips; put it in our mouths and slowly move it around, seeing how it tastes and feels in different regions of our mouth. It was really enlightening for me to see how mindless my impulse to swallow is: the teacher said, "notice the impulse to swallow," after I had already swallowed my raisin. Oops! After mindful, deliberate chewing and experiencing all these bites of food had to offer, we were instructed to swallow in our own time.
I had heard of this "raisin meditation," and after hearing a friend's jeering review of it, I was skeptical. However, I liked it and found it put me in the right head space to both of my daily silent meals in mindfulness. After all, that was the point: not just not talking for the sake of not talking.
12:45 Lunch (silent)
After leaving dining hall, continue silence or enter speech.
Friday, January 13, 2012
Retreat Logistics
Location: I was retreating at Pearlstone Retreat Center in Reisterstown, Md., outside of Baltimore. This is a really lovely, hilly, wooded property with lots of places to duck away and take walks. There is a central housing unit that has has single, double and six-bed dormitory style rooms. All of the activities took place in the central lodge, or outside. Kayam, an educational farm, is connected to this facility, so every day I tried to spend some time hanging out with the goats and chickens.
Food: Luckily for me, Pearlstone has a strictly kosher kitchen under the supervision of the Star-K supervising agency of Baltimore. They are so strict that they don't allow in any outside water bottles into the lodge building. Small amounts of food can be kept and consumed in your bedroom. I was a basket case about this part of the retreat: I follow a strict food plan that eliminates gluten and sugar, and requires that I separately weigh everything that I put in my mouth. That means foods like casseroles don't work so well for me. Most of the time, I handle this by bringing my own food, but Pearlstone's strict kosher standards meant I couldn't do that.
I had to contact the dining coordinator and tell him all about my restrictions. I called, emailed, and even sent him a copy of my food plan. He assured me everything would be ok, but didn't actually provide answers to specific questions I asked, like, "When you serve pasta with cheese at lunch, what protein could I get at that meal?" Ultimately, I had to just jump in and know that I did my best to get my dietary needs met, and that I would have to turn the results over to God. I knew I wouldn't eat compulsively, which is the reason I am so guarded with my food in the first place. To my delight, everything worked out beautifully and deliciously! They had separate foods for me that I could weigh at any meal like chickpeas, tofu, hard boiled eggs and plain tuna fish. We had three scheduled meals a day. Every night I eat one protein and one fruit serving as a snack, so I always grabbed a hard boiled egg and fruit for later before I exited the dining hall after dinner.
Every meal had a large garden salad and fresh fruit. They even got us gluten-free and sugar-free challah for shabbat [our Sabbath observance]. Typical entrees included hearty bean soups, stir-frys or acorn squashes stuffed with quinoa and tofu. We had fish twice. No meal except Shabbat dinner had meat, and when there was meat or fish there were always vegetarian entrees. They made delicious veggie side dishes like eggplant salads and ratatouille, and one lunch was falaffel, homemade hummus (to die for!) and Israeli salad.
Everyone was surprised at how awesome the food was. Pearlstone puts a lot of emphasis on fresh, healthy meals. They try to use seasonal produce when available. Furthermore, there is always hot coffee, a tea station, and a basket of fresh fruit in the lobby. I loved that the dining hall is green: they provide compostable to-go containers if you request them, but otherwise we ate on real dishes.
Accommodations: I was expecting to share a room with one other woman. As it turns out, I had four other roommates. I have to say, I'm glad I didn't know that ahead of time; if I had, I probably wouldn't have gone, and thus would've cheated myself out of an awesome experience. When I realized I had four other roommates, I initially freaked out: I'm 35 and used to doing things my way, turning out the lights when I want to, etc. I took a deep breath and realized that this would be a good opportunity to stretch my comfort zone and prove I can be flexible when circumstances require it. It turns out my roommates were really cool, nice women; if anything, I inconvenienced them more than they bothered me, because I was usually last to sleep and first to wake up.
Sharing a bathroom was probably the hardest part of the accommodations. There were 9 women sharing one primary bathroom; you could duck into others on the floor if they were empty, but each small bathroom -- containing one sink, toilet, and shower -- was basically shared between one or two rooms. I have big issues around bathroom cleanliness to begin with; if nothing else in my house is clean, the toilet is. People were slovenly in the bathroom, leading me to tape a little note to the mirror kindly asking people to clean up after themselves to make the experience of sharing a bathroom as pleasant as possible. That made an immediate difference.
This is going to sound ridiculous, but I was inordinately proud of myself for handling the shared space issue so well. Before I left for the retreat, someone told me, "I'm very set in my ways; I wouldn't be willing to share a room." I decided I didn't want to be that way, personally. I didn't like sharing a room, but I wanted to prove to myself that I could do it if I wanted to. That said, if I go to another retreat at Pearlstone, which I hope to do, I would spring for a private room if I had an option to do so. It would be much easier to maintain silence in solitude at night. Having my own room would be essential for my Sabbath observance in a group setting, but on the Pardes retreat, everyone agreed to be Shabbat-observant in public spaces and in dwelling quarters.
In forthcoming posts, I am going to write more about how we spent our time on retreat.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
On Honesty, Openness, and Vulnerability
I just came back from a six day meditation and spirituality retreat. We were silent from 9 p.m.-1 p.m. daily, and during the afternoon we had religious study related to mindfulness and transformation, and were able to engage in mindful speech if we chose to. We had a lot of opportunities to share our personal experiences with the whole group, and I took advantage of that.
If you look at my blog from 2011, you'll see that I have virtually no posts. It was hands-down the worst year of my life. Here's the summary: February, massive pain flare leading to huge setback in physical ability; April, my husband gets very sick with mystery illness I; May, lose my 59 year-old father to cancer; June, lose my nine week old baby to God-knows-what; August, my husband gets terrifyingly sick with mystery illness II; October, major depressive episode; December, husband needs emergency surgery. The whole year, since May, was set against a backdrop of the after-effects of my father's poor estate planning, which left me with a lot of emotional pain, anger and resentment. I was so raw, I didn't want to write about anything going on, and I didn't feel able to write about anything else. I also really struggled with the idea of how open to be on this blog. My readership on my blogs has always been highest when I'm raw, transparent and vulnerable. That's a scary place to be among loved ones, or just yourself, let alone on the void of the Internet where the crazies loom.
Anyway, I decided if I was going to get anything out of the retreat, I had to be honest about where I was. The group of people I retreated with made a really safe space to do that in, but even before I knew them, I took the leap. For example, the first group interview on the second full day of the retreat was a little intense. The background is that six of us were in a circle, and each of us, in turn, had a personal conversation with the meditation instructor about our practice (we had individual interviews at other times) while the others just listened. Most of the other participants said things like, "I can't keep following my breath during seated meditation. What do I do?" or "I get really sleepy." Some delved a little deeper, touching on the general nature of their distractions. Finally, James gets to me and I pour out the following:
"I'm anxious. The focus of that anxiety during my meditation is how many needs I have, and how terrified I am of not having those needs met. I'm scared of there not being food here I can eat, I'm scared I won't be able to sleep with four other women in my room and how badly that will make my pain flare, I'm scared of there not being an available bathroom when I need one. I'm scared of having to wait 25 minutes for a shower! Worse, I hate that I have all these special needs, and I'm just so aware of how fucked up that makes me feel. I feel fundamentally broken, screwed up, weird and unlovable. And I hate it."
Tara Brach, a popular D.C.-based meditation teacher, talks a lot about the "trance of unworthiness" that people, particularly Westerners, feel. This was at the heart of what I was expressing to James in that group interview. I heard this come up in other guises at the retreat, and was shocked to learn that even seemingly perfect people, like Demi Moore, feel this way. In a February interview in Harper's Bazaar magazine, Moore described her greatest fear: "What scares me is that I'm ultimately going to find out at the end of my life that I'm not really loveable, that I'm not worthy of being loved. That there's something fundamentally wrong with me ..."
But back to me. James says in his lovely James-ian voice (now permanently etched in my head), "It's ok to have needs. The first thing I want you to do is acknowledge that you want things: you want to have food to eat. You want to sleep. You want to shower. That's ok. The second thing is, when you encounter this, I want you to say, 'not me.' It's not you. You may have needs and you may have anxieties, but they are not you." I'll have more to say about this in another post about Jan. 6, but in the meantime, I'll leave this with a comic illustration of this proposition.
I felt so odd after I spilled my deepest-held feelings about my trance of unworthiness in front of five strangers. After our interview, two retreatants who were there came up to me and thanked me for sharing so openly. They said it took guts and helped them. Emboldened by the votes of confidence, I started putting out really personal, embarrassing things during our afternoon group discussions if I thought it could help other people, or would otherwise be relevant to our discussion.
At the end of the retreat, when we were saying goodbye to each other, the feedback others' consistently gave to me was how thankful they were that I shared such intimate things. That it helped them immensely, and gave them hope that they could be resilient and make it through some pretty awful times. After about 15 people said that to me, it really reinforced for me that I am most myself when I am open and honest, especially on my blog. I don't do inauthentic well. It's not that I'd share everything (ok, I would share almost everything...), but I am going to just try and be myself and accept the consequences. I also take a lot of inspiration in this from Heather Armstrong, who was so open about her mental health problems, especially as they concerned her second pregnancy, and has taken a huge amount of crap from the true Internet crazies for it.
So, I hope that 2012 is a much more active year for this blog, and that I can be myself, make myself vulnerable, and hopefully enrich someone else's life because of it.
If you look at my blog from 2011, you'll see that I have virtually no posts. It was hands-down the worst year of my life. Here's the summary: February, massive pain flare leading to huge setback in physical ability; April, my husband gets very sick with mystery illness I; May, lose my 59 year-old father to cancer; June, lose my nine week old baby to God-knows-what; August, my husband gets terrifyingly sick with mystery illness II; October, major depressive episode; December, husband needs emergency surgery. The whole year, since May, was set against a backdrop of the after-effects of my father's poor estate planning, which left me with a lot of emotional pain, anger and resentment. I was so raw, I didn't want to write about anything going on, and I didn't feel able to write about anything else. I also really struggled with the idea of how open to be on this blog. My readership on my blogs has always been highest when I'm raw, transparent and vulnerable. That's a scary place to be among loved ones, or just yourself, let alone on the void of the Internet where the crazies loom.
Anyway, I decided if I was going to get anything out of the retreat, I had to be honest about where I was. The group of people I retreated with made a really safe space to do that in, but even before I knew them, I took the leap. For example, the first group interview on the second full day of the retreat was a little intense. The background is that six of us were in a circle, and each of us, in turn, had a personal conversation with the meditation instructor about our practice (we had individual interviews at other times) while the others just listened. Most of the other participants said things like, "I can't keep following my breath during seated meditation. What do I do?" or "I get really sleepy." Some delved a little deeper, touching on the general nature of their distractions. Finally, James gets to me and I pour out the following:
"I'm anxious. The focus of that anxiety during my meditation is how many needs I have, and how terrified I am of not having those needs met. I'm scared of there not being food here I can eat, I'm scared I won't be able to sleep with four other women in my room and how badly that will make my pain flare, I'm scared of there not being an available bathroom when I need one. I'm scared of having to wait 25 minutes for a shower! Worse, I hate that I have all these special needs, and I'm just so aware of how fucked up that makes me feel. I feel fundamentally broken, screwed up, weird and unlovable. And I hate it."
Tara Brach, a popular D.C.-based meditation teacher, talks a lot about the "trance of unworthiness" that people, particularly Westerners, feel. This was at the heart of what I was expressing to James in that group interview. I heard this come up in other guises at the retreat, and was shocked to learn that even seemingly perfect people, like Demi Moore, feel this way. In a February interview in Harper's Bazaar magazine, Moore described her greatest fear: "What scares me is that I'm ultimately going to find out at the end of my life that I'm not really loveable, that I'm not worthy of being loved. That there's something fundamentally wrong with me ..."
But back to me. James says in his lovely James-ian voice (now permanently etched in my head), "It's ok to have needs. The first thing I want you to do is acknowledge that you want things: you want to have food to eat. You want to sleep. You want to shower. That's ok. The second thing is, when you encounter this, I want you to say, 'not me.' It's not you. You may have needs and you may have anxieties, but they are not you." I'll have more to say about this in another post about Jan. 6, but in the meantime, I'll leave this with a comic illustration of this proposition.
I felt so odd after I spilled my deepest-held feelings about my trance of unworthiness in front of five strangers. After our interview, two retreatants who were there came up to me and thanked me for sharing so openly. They said it took guts and helped them. Emboldened by the votes of confidence, I started putting out really personal, embarrassing things during our afternoon group discussions if I thought it could help other people, or would otherwise be relevant to our discussion.
At the end of the retreat, when we were saying goodbye to each other, the feedback others' consistently gave to me was how thankful they were that I shared such intimate things. That it helped them immensely, and gave them hope that they could be resilient and make it through some pretty awful times. After about 15 people said that to me, it really reinforced for me that I am most myself when I am open and honest, especially on my blog. I don't do inauthentic well. It's not that I'd share everything (ok, I would share almost everything...), but I am going to just try and be myself and accept the consequences. I also take a lot of inspiration in this from Heather Armstrong, who was so open about her mental health problems, especially as they concerned her second pregnancy, and has taken a huge amount of crap from the true Internet crazies for it.
So, I hope that 2012 is a much more active year for this blog, and that I can be myself, make myself vulnerable, and hopefully enrich someone else's life because of it.
Monday, October 17, 2011
Link to Other Blog Post
Hi! I just wanted to include a link to my latest piece on the Georgetown Patch. It has to be exclusive content or I'd post it here.
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