We Are More Malleable Than We Realize

Posted on by stilllearning2b

Rendering of human brain.

I was in a gifted pull-out program in middle school.  My teacher decided to administer an inventory to determine where each of us fell on a left-brain (analytical, math) / right-brain (creative,language) scale.  Someone who was perfectly balanced (do these people exist?) would secure of score of 0.  Right-brain folks would be assigned positive numbers, and left-brained, negative.  Once we all had our scores, she had us line up along the board in order of our scores, leaving spaces where there were no students with the indicated number.  The entire class fit alongside the front of the room, with one boy straddling the door frame of the trailer classroom.  I was in the parking lot.

The rest of the class had scores within 10 points of center.  I was a 32.  A number which screams, “Danger! Danger!  This person will not be able to function in adulthood.  She will be fully consumed with creative endeavors and will have her head so high in the clouds her feet won’t touch the ground.”

So, as you would expect, I became a math teacher.

Okay, so it wasn’t really that simple.  I was born with that extreme right brain and my early childhood nurtured it, as I was encouraged to participate in all sorts of deliciously creative endeavors.  Once I entered school, I realized that I would have to change in order to be successful in this new environment (I also had a people-pleaser, perfectionistic streak or I probably would have stayed with the finger paints).  I began to adapt.  I learned how to exist in a left-brained world.  The better I got at it, the more I was drawn to math (after almost failing Algebra II, I might add).  It didn’t fully cement until college.  The pendulum swung the other way and I fully embraced the world on the other side of that middle school line.

Silver-tmix07-126b

We are more malleable than we ever think we are.  We develop mental pictures of ourselves from a very early age, formed by our experiences and our encounters.  It is then so easy to live within those confines, to fully buy-in to those early mental constructs.  But we don’t have to.

In order to become more malleable, it is first necessary to soften.  Just as the thermostat helps the body reach that goal in hot yoga, applying warmth to your life helps to make your brain more malleable.  Practice acceptance.  Find support.  Be still and silence the inner critic.  Try to avoid the influence of the cold, as it only serves to make one more brittle.  Picture yourself basking in the sun, the heat softening you and allowing you to assume any form you wish, not limited by any prior assumptions.

And, you never know, you just might become a math teacher.

3 Tips to Recover From a Breaking Point

Posted on by stilllearning2b

We all have our breaking points.  Some are minor collapses, brought on by the stressors of the day piling up while our monkey minds run around screeching.  Others are near-fatal collapses triggered by loss or change.  Although these breaking points differ in scale and recovery time, the tips below can help you begin to plaster the break and rebuild.

A big wave is breaking in Santa Cruz, Californ...

3 Tips to Recover From a Breaking Point.

I used to visualize my breaking points as the collapse of a rock face, permanently marring the cliff.  I am learning to view breaking points as the natural and expected result of the crest of the wave.  I will break under life pressures again and again, but like the water, I can regather and rebuild.

How do you recover from your breaking points?  Do you see them as rock or water?

There’s No Shame in Asking for Help

Posted on by stilllearning2b

"A Helping Hand". 1881 painting by E...

I have always been very independent.  As a very young (and short) child, I would use household objects as tool in order to reach the light switches so that I would not have to depend upon anyone else.  Overall, I believe that this trait has served me well.  Until I got divorced, that is.  Those first few weeks were hell on my body.  I could not eat, causing my already slim frame to waste away to nothing.  My ribs stood out in relief along my back.  My body was racked with tremors, the anxiety too much for mere flesh and bones to contain.  I did not sleep; my body refused to rest.

Those around me encouraged me to try medication.  I resisted.  I was determined to do this alone, without the aid of a pharmacy.  Eventually, my body made the decision for me as days moved into weeks and I saw no improvement.  I ended up with some substantial medication to help me eat and sleep (300 mg Trazadone, if you’re keeping count…and I could still push through that on many nights).  I found peace with my decision to accept pharmaceutical assistance.  Those pills allowed my body to function for the first 8 months.  I let them go when I was able to go solo again.

There is no shame is asking for help.  We accept the fact that those at the at the end of life and those at the beginning of life require assistance, yet we somehow believe that adults should be able to be independent.  Divorce is the death of one life and the infancy of another.  You will need help.

Here are three sources of help you may find you need:

1) Therapy

Depending upon your situation, your prior coping skills, and your support system, you may be in need of therapy.  That is not a sign of weakness or a sign that you are crazy.  You are going through one of the most stressful events that one can endure and you may not be prepared to handle it on your own.  A therapist can be your guide down the road to healing.  Don’t be afraid to try different approaches and different people until you find what works for you.

2) Medication

I had to face the difficult lesson that sometimes you can’t fix your body through sheer will.  Medication may need to be investigated if you are unable to sleep or eat for a significant period or if sadness or anxiety are completely overwhelming.  I know I was afraid of triggering dependency, as I felt that I was in a very vulnerable place.  I discussed this with my doctor and so medications were chosen that were not considered high risk for abuse.

3) Time

Divorce is exhausting.  Adding to that, you have to adapt to your new responsibilities, navigate the court system, and somehow find time to process the whole mess.  This is a time when taking some leave from work is acceptable; your self-work needs to take priority for a while.  If you are parent, ask someone to watch the kids so that you can have some time alone.

It is far better to temporarily suffer the embarrassment and discomfort of asking for help than to permanently suffer in silence.  Ask for a hand, and let it guide you through.

When Can I Call Myself a Writer?

Posted on by stilllearning2b

penulis = writer

Labels are such interesting little buggers.  Those simple words, either self-applied or applied by others that seem to form our self-concept and either expand or limit how we see ourselves.

I recently had someone refer to me as a writer. It gave me pause, as I have not thought of myself that way.

Until my husband left, I never wrote anything that wasn’t assigned by a teacher or professor. I suppose I was okay, but I never felt compelled to write and certainly never had a passion for it. As soon as he left, I purchased a spiral notebook and a green pen (the green was very important at the time). And I began to write. The writing was purgative, words never meant to be seen by another. However, I was putting pen to paper under my own volition. Is one a writer by act regardless of purpose or intended audience?

Was I a writer then?

In those early weeks, as I saw the shock and interest in the faces of the police and attorneys, I realized that this story needed to be told. The writing left the spiral notebook and went on a pilgrimage to the computer, where it began to be crafted into a book. Those words were only shared with a select few and were never fully formed into finished chapters. Is one a writer when crafting for an audience, even if imaginary and existing in some ambiguous future?

Was I a writer then?

Almost two years went by without much progress on the book. As I felt driven to write again, I decided to start this blog. Apparently people read it. Did I become a writer when my words were posted in the public domain?

Was I a writer then?

Now, I have been published in the Huffington Post. Let me pause here for a brief interlude. Oh. My. God. I am in the Huff Post. Deep breath.  So.  Freakin.  Surreal.  Okay, now I can continue. Does being asked to contribute to a major publication make one a writer?

Am I a writer now?

At some point, I would love to be paid to write. Is receiving remuneration for authorship services required of one who is designated as a writer. In other words, does the IRS need to see me as a writer in order for me to qualify?

Will I be a writer then?

How about when my book is completed and published (hey, now, I’ve got to dream big!!)?

Will I be a writer then?

It is strange how writing has permeated my life these last three years when it has been all but absent for the previous 31 (okay, so I actually couldn’t write for the first few of those…). I spend time every day mentally composing and then crafting posts. I enjoy the process of writing and I love hearing feedback from those who read my words. Writing has become a way to reflect and to share.  It is now both purgative and restorative.  At this point, it has become part of who I am.  I feel like I’ve embodied its spirit to the point where I cannot imagine its exit from my life.  I think that is what makes me a writer.

Signs in the Rearview Mirror

Posted on by stilllearning2b

Rear View Mirror

How could I be with someone for 16 years and not realize he was leading a double life?  I have asked myself that question more times than I want to admit.  It dominated my thoughts for a long time; how could I be so blind?  So foolish? So naive?

My marriage was a familiar road, a path well-traveled.  I knew every curve, every bump, every blind drive.  It wasn’t always that way.  In the early years, I thoroughly invested each novel feature of the road.  But, over time, I learned to trust in its characteristics.  I never had reason not to.  My husband had proven himself trustworthy time and time again.  It took me several years, but I eventually placed my total and utter confidence in him.

We had a good marriage right up until the end.  We were affectionate, intimate, spent time together, and talked about (what seemed like) everything.  That never changed.  He held me tenderly and kissed me passionately when he dropped me off at the airport to see family.  He left while I was still on that trip.  Hours before the text that ended the marriage, I received one that said, “Love you. Have a good night:).” Those words and acts were consistent with the man I knew.  Or the man I thought I knew.

He never appeared to be hiding anything.  He would leave his smart phone laying about and even encouraged me to use it.  His computer was open access.  He never got defensive if I asked him a question.  He never withdrew. I had no reason to look for signs.  No reason to doubt him.  I know now that he was frantically covering any signs along our shared road with camouflage netting, ensuring they stay invisible.  A task he was very skilled at.

There are some signs that are only visible in the rearview mirror.  I can now look back and see how some pieces of the puzzle fit together.  He had severe hypertension, to the point where he would lose consciousness, those last few months.  I realize now that it must have been from the stress he was under.  But, I certainly didn’t think then that he might be stressed from planning a wedding.  He took the jacket he wore on our wedding day to the cleaners.  How was I supposed to know it would have a starring role in another wedding within the week?  Those signs meant nothing because there was no precedent for what was being concealed.  I could not have even imagined what was going on under the cover of the brush alongside our marriage.

Ultimately, I will never know what happened.  I could drive myself crazy analyzing every encounter, every word, looking for clues I could have spotted.  Perhaps should have spotted.  That seems pointless to me, however.  I choose to live my life looking forward through the windshield rather than keeping an eye in the rearview mirror.