Thursday, 2 June 2011
Landslide
Oh mirror in the sky, what is love?
Can the child within my heart rise above?
Can I sail through the changing ocean tides?
Can I handle the seasons of my life?
Well, I've been afraid of changing
Because I've built my life around you.
But time makes you bolder.
Children get older.
I'm getting older too.
Building Self-Confidence 105
I had created a new avatar, a vintage photograph of an anonymous model smiling into a mirror. It was supposed to represent self-confidence. But then I went to my weekly therapy and left owning a few more pieces of me. It doesn't seem right anymore, having a mask. So here is my new one. Me.
It's one of my favourite self-portraits because it shows a me that is both human and ideal. I am in motion, my dark brown curls swinging to half-cover my face. I tried replicating this photograph a hundred times, but there is no replacing the beauty of an individual moment.
I am: smiling.
I am: playful.
I am: young.
I am: curvy.
I am: guarded.
I am: embarrassed.
I am: excited.
I am sitting in a chair that must have been upholstered in the late 80s, staring at the blue carpet, tears streaming down my face, talking about myself.
"I miss it. The family. When I moved it was all gone. All of it."
"And how did that make you feel?"
I frowned. Didn't I say how I felt? Hesitation. "I missed them." What's the right answer here? What is she looking for? "Sad?"
She nodded, but it wasn't enough. "I bet it felt very lonely. I bet you felt very alone."
I faltered, searching the room as though it were a library of my memories. Alone? Yes. Alone? Yes. Still alone? Yes. Each memory, check. Alone. I felt very alone. Breath. Heartbeat. Heartbeat. Breath. Cry.
Still remembering, still feeling, I looked back at her. Her eyes were wet, too, but inside that empathy was a smile. Something in me was letting go. Something in me feels this is right.
Read on the NHS Choices blog.
It's one of my favourite self-portraits because it shows a me that is both human and ideal. I am in motion, my dark brown curls swinging to half-cover my face. I tried replicating this photograph a hundred times, but there is no replacing the beauty of an individual moment.
I am: smiling.
I am: playful.
I am: young.
I am: curvy.
I am: guarded.
I am: embarrassed.
I am: excited.
I am sitting in a chair that must have been upholstered in the late 80s, staring at the blue carpet, tears streaming down my face, talking about myself.
"I miss it. The family. When I moved it was all gone. All of it."
"And how did that make you feel?"
I frowned. Didn't I say how I felt? Hesitation. "I missed them." What's the right answer here? What is she looking for? "Sad?"
She nodded, but it wasn't enough. "I bet it felt very lonely. I bet you felt very alone."
I faltered, searching the room as though it were a library of my memories. Alone? Yes. Alone? Yes. Still alone? Yes. Each memory, check. Alone. I felt very alone. Breath. Heartbeat. Heartbeat. Breath. Cry.
Still remembering, still feeling, I looked back at her. Her eyes were wet, too, but inside that empathy was a smile. Something in me was letting go. Something in me feels this is right.
Read on the NHS Choices blog.
New Avatar
I've updated my avatar to reflect my focus on self-confidence. It's based on a vintage photograph. What is your avatar based on?
Read on the NHS Choices blog.
Building Self-Confidence 104
In another recent post, I wondered why I drop so quickly to these feelings of detachment and emptiness. It isn't depression; it's not anxiety. It's something else entirely and I don't really know how to name it. So, 'suicidal feelings' it is. I hate feeling this way. It's easy enough for me to use healthy thoughts and behaviours to control them, but the feelings still persist. They start up 'randomly' and finish just as randomly.
Theoretically, I understand dissociation. I know I have a dissociative disorder. My therapist and I have talked about how I heavily dissociate my feelings. I have the emotional intelligence of a gnat. But I am trying to treat myself with compassion, love myself regardless of how I feel, and even use my dissociative abilities as an advantage. For example: even though it seems silly or even crazy, I talk to myself.
I know that properly attached children develop such that they have a healthy mum/dad inside themselves. So, even when the mum/dad goes away, the child can still regulate himself. He knows who he is.
I know that I never had any healthy attachments, so the 'mum/dad' inside me is quite controlling and protective/defensive. I have to learn to be a better parent to myself (aka treat myself with compassion), which may sound straightforward but isn't really. Because bad parents assume that they know what is best for their children. They don't listen to what their children have to say. They don't let the children express themselves. I admit, I'm guilty of treating myself like that: ignoring my own needs, my own voice, my own desires.
I have so many huge decisions to make right now (jobs, home, kids, marriage), and I've been paralysed because I don't know how to treat the different parts of me with respect. But it strikes me that my child part doesn't really care about any of that (and that's maybe why I've not been able to decide).
[This post was written on May 18th, but I didn't have the courage to finish or share it.]
Read on the NHS Choices blog.
Theoretically, I understand dissociation. I know I have a dissociative disorder. My therapist and I have talked about how I heavily dissociate my feelings. I have the emotional intelligence of a gnat. But I am trying to treat myself with compassion, love myself regardless of how I feel, and even use my dissociative abilities as an advantage. For example: even though it seems silly or even crazy, I talk to myself.
I know that properly attached children develop such that they have a healthy mum/dad inside themselves. So, even when the mum/dad goes away, the child can still regulate himself. He knows who he is.
I know that I never had any healthy attachments, so the 'mum/dad' inside me is quite controlling and protective/defensive. I have to learn to be a better parent to myself (aka treat myself with compassion), which may sound straightforward but isn't really. Because bad parents assume that they know what is best for their children. They don't listen to what their children have to say. They don't let the children express themselves. I admit, I'm guilty of treating myself like that: ignoring my own needs, my own voice, my own desires.
I have so many huge decisions to make right now (jobs, home, kids, marriage), and I've been paralysed because I don't know how to treat the different parts of me with respect. But it strikes me that my child part doesn't really care about any of that (and that's maybe why I've not been able to decide).
[This post was written on May 18th, but I didn't have the courage to finish or share it.]
Read on the NHS Choices blog.
Friday, 20 May 2011
Building Self-Confidence 103
I am anxious.
A 'normal' person would feel anxious in these circumstances.
My department is being restructured. My house has toxic mould growth. My marriage is being challenged. I need to lose weight to get fertility treatments. My mental health diagnoses strongly suggest I shouldn't have children at all. My GPs keep failing to provide adequate and timely assessment of my unexplained physical health problems. I could have cancer. I could have conversion disorder.
In the last month alone, I have 5 silver hairs. I'm not yet 30. I won't finish paying my student loans until I'm 37. My brother is in the most dangerous part of Afghanistan. My father was recently made redundant. He's in his 50s. My sister is waiting for a kidney. My nephew, recently graduated from university, got his ex-girlfriend pregnant. Two of my co-workers are also pregnant.
The common themes are grief, inadequacy, and fear.
I just want to move forward. But the number and weight of the decisions I need to make paralyse me. I grow even more anxious. My reproductive cycle shuts down. My headaches get worse. And to cope, I become even more obsessed with fixing everything.
A lot of 'normal' people in my circumstances would take medication to cope. But because of my mental health difficulties, these current circumstances simply match how I always feel inside: sad, inadequate, and afraid. And since I've survived that way for years, I know I can survive that way for many more years. People experiencing depression or anxiety for the first time often panic. They wonder, "what is wrong with me?" They struggle to cope.
But, feeling sad, inadequate and afraid isn't the hard part.
Accepting those feelings.
Sharing those feelings.
That's the hard part. That's what keeps us from wellness. And that's why self-confidence is so important.
As a result of my mental health challenges, I am experiencing cognitive problems. Words are often difficult to find. I forget how to pronounce others. I lose my train of thought. And sometimes, my sentences don't make sense.
My public speaking skills are a source of pride. So, these changes have been damaging the backbone of my fragile self-esteem. When I first started making these mistakes, I panicked. It's a clear sign I'm going crazy. My mind is deteriorating. I cannot trust myself anymore. I was devastated. What were others thinking?
Three months, still no sign of improving. In fact, it's getting worse. But I've quietly accepted it. And then the next time I mixed up words in a sentence or took three tries to pronounce a word, I didn't panic. I moved on. Somehow, even though it makes me sad, my cognitive decline became a part of me. When I accepted it, what other people thought didn't matter anymore.
I treated myself with compassion.
Instead of fighting the changes or obsessively trying to control or explain them, I simply accepted them. I wish I could do the same thing for my new grey hairs or our infertility or my past. I wish I could trust other people. I wish I could share how I felt. But my feelings are still wholly unacceptable to me.
Read on the NHS Choices blog.
A 'normal' person would feel anxious in these circumstances.
My department is being restructured. My house has toxic mould growth. My marriage is being challenged. I need to lose weight to get fertility treatments. My mental health diagnoses strongly suggest I shouldn't have children at all. My GPs keep failing to provide adequate and timely assessment of my unexplained physical health problems. I could have cancer. I could have conversion disorder.
In the last month alone, I have 5 silver hairs. I'm not yet 30. I won't finish paying my student loans until I'm 37. My brother is in the most dangerous part of Afghanistan. My father was recently made redundant. He's in his 50s. My sister is waiting for a kidney. My nephew, recently graduated from university, got his ex-girlfriend pregnant. Two of my co-workers are also pregnant.
The common themes are grief, inadequacy, and fear.
I just want to move forward. But the number and weight of the decisions I need to make paralyse me. I grow even more anxious. My reproductive cycle shuts down. My headaches get worse. And to cope, I become even more obsessed with fixing everything.
A lot of 'normal' people in my circumstances would take medication to cope. But because of my mental health difficulties, these current circumstances simply match how I always feel inside: sad, inadequate, and afraid. And since I've survived that way for years, I know I can survive that way for many more years. People experiencing depression or anxiety for the first time often panic. They wonder, "what is wrong with me?" They struggle to cope.
But, feeling sad, inadequate and afraid isn't the hard part.
Accepting those feelings.
Sharing those feelings.
That's the hard part. That's what keeps us from wellness. And that's why self-confidence is so important.
As a result of my mental health challenges, I am experiencing cognitive problems. Words are often difficult to find. I forget how to pronounce others. I lose my train of thought. And sometimes, my sentences don't make sense.
My public speaking skills are a source of pride. So, these changes have been damaging the backbone of my fragile self-esteem. When I first started making these mistakes, I panicked. It's a clear sign I'm going crazy. My mind is deteriorating. I cannot trust myself anymore. I was devastated. What were others thinking?
Three months, still no sign of improving. In fact, it's getting worse. But I've quietly accepted it. And then the next time I mixed up words in a sentence or took three tries to pronounce a word, I didn't panic. I moved on. Somehow, even though it makes me sad, my cognitive decline became a part of me. When I accepted it, what other people thought didn't matter anymore.
I treated myself with compassion.
Instead of fighting the changes or obsessively trying to control or explain them, I simply accepted them. I wish I could do the same thing for my new grey hairs or our infertility or my past. I wish I could trust other people. I wish I could share how I felt. But my feelings are still wholly unacceptable to me.
Read on the NHS Choices blog.
Thursday, 5 May 2011
Building Self Confidence 102
I’ve experienced some pretty scary long-term abuse and neglect. I am not perfect. I may not even be ’enough’ for whatever you wish to measure me against. But everything I am includes those scary times. I work hard. I learn quickly. I think differently. These traits you know and love so well aren’t despite of my pain. They are because of it. And some days, I hurt too much to work hard, learn quickly, and think differently. So I work even harder, learn even more, and challenge everything. These lows give me the skills and the strength to reach higher. Lows happen. I accept them, because in accepting them, I learn to accept myself.
By denying or ignoring or covering up the experiences that continue to shape me, I deny, ignore, and cover up myself. Instead I should be celebrating. I should be painting my internal scars all over my skin so you see them as boldly as I do. I am not whole, clear, unblemished. I am formed, fragile and prismatic.
Beautiful.
Read on the NHS Choices blog.
By denying or ignoring or covering up the experiences that continue to shape me, I deny, ignore, and cover up myself. Instead I should be celebrating. I should be painting my internal scars all over my skin so you see them as boldly as I do. I am not whole, clear, unblemished. I am formed, fragile and prismatic.
Beautiful.
Read on the NHS Choices blog.
Sunday, 17 April 2011
Building Self-Confidence 101
“I'm trying.”
I haven't written. Not for weeks. I rarely do when I'm feeling poorly or I'm in transition. The last few months, I've been both.
Change comes too quickly to record. And before I can explain, I'm off again, tackling the next problem. It's been three years since I joined the system. At least you can call me patient and hard-working.
My new therapist gives me lots of homework: pages and pages of self-referential statements to agree with or dismiss. It's busy work mostly, while we work on building our therapeutic relationship, but the secondary goal is to tackle my low self-esteem.
The biggest barrier to change is my insecure attachment. I'm 'Avoidant-Fearful' which essentially means I don't trust you, no matter how many pretty smiles I give you, and the more you know me the more dangerous you become. I'm also moderately perfectionist/obsessive which essentially means I work very hard to provide you with everything you need/want from me, often at my own expense.
How did it happen?
I had no significant, stable relationships growing up, notably my parents who were emotionally unavailable and abusive.
Why does it still happen?
I can quite successfully avoid conflict by being perfectly blameless: making no mistakes, and moreover, keeping everyone at a distance.
How do I do this?
I analyse you constantly for even the faintest signs of disapproval and, depending on the risk, adjust my personas or withdraw completely from the relationship.
What is the problem?
I've been doing this so long, I have no cohesive sense of self -- quite a vulnerable place to be. Naturally, I'm quite skilled at putting up defences to protect you from discovering this. I suppose this makes me especially complex to treat: a rapid-cycling wheel of disordered personalities.
I've always refused to take medications. So when I go home from therapy and the sheets covering my emotions slip away, it is up to my body alone to weather and recover from the deep shuddering fear and shame. My choices make the difference: what I eat, how much I sleep, who I interact with, what I think.
It would be much easier to suppress every emotion, as I have done, than risk being sucked into a deep depression. But, 'sucked in' is often where I go, paralysed by insecurity, because behind all of those beautifully crafted walls stands a girl propped up on hope alone.
“Don't take this the wrong way...”
No one should start a conversation this way, most especially a therapist. It doesn't help that I already knew the evidence. I've seen the NICE guidance. I know it is your clinical responsibility to ensure people with enduring mental health problems do not reproduce. But why doesn't that responsibility extend to women who drink alcohol or smoke? What about the morbidly obese? Shouldn't every parent be required to pass an attachment interview or else be prescribed an abortion?
This is what we call inequality. If it were a physical or economical disability, the government would bend over backwards to ensure I was able to be a good enough parent. But since I have a mental health disability, they are obliged to advise me that I should not even try.
Is there a 'right way' to hear someone confirm everything you've already read in the literature? See, there I go intellectualising again. Let's try that again.
Is there a 'right way' to hear your therapist reinforce the same unrelenting beliefs you abuse yourself with?
Perhaps I did it the right way: nodding amicably, reassuring her and moving on. Funny, how the 'right way' always feels like I'm smothering myself. Would the 'right way' have been to burst into tears? Say how I know it will be very hard, but I want more than anything to be a family? That, against all odds, I feel safer, more secure, and more myself with children. That I'm not just a different person... I'm a person, with a clear sense of self. Being a mother means something to me.
Being told we can't have children naturally has been a massive loss. Being told I shouldn't have children because I won't properly attach to them is something else entirely.
“I'm trying.”
When I left my last therapist, I was terribly wounded by several things she said. I did not give her the opportunity to acknowledge my hurt. The interim/assessing therapist asked me what I was afraid of, and I couldn't answer.
Why am I so afraid to reveal how scared and hurt I am? Actions speak louder than words, but in my case they both drown out my emotions. I act like I'm fine. I say that I'm fine. And we smile together; how nice to be on the same page, isn't our relationship great? But my anger builds inwardly with each lie I give you. I give the same lies to myself.
“I'm trying.”
The key to making progress in therapy is to think and act differently. I could let it go, like I let everything go, and do my homework like a good girl (it's what she expects and wants, isn't it?). Or I could put the homework aside and tell her how I feel. What I believe. What I want. Because all three of those should matter, even if you (or the best available clinical evidence) don't agree with them. This is called Building Self-Confidence 101 (it's a practical lab).
It was the single most important thing I've ever said in therapy. If you blinked, you might have missed it, the bonafide inner Child. See me. Hear me. I want to make you proud.
“I'm trying.”
“I know you are.”
Read on the NHS Choices blog.
I haven't written. Not for weeks. I rarely do when I'm feeling poorly or I'm in transition. The last few months, I've been both.
Change comes too quickly to record. And before I can explain, I'm off again, tackling the next problem. It's been three years since I joined the system. At least you can call me patient and hard-working.
My new therapist gives me lots of homework: pages and pages of self-referential statements to agree with or dismiss. It's busy work mostly, while we work on building our therapeutic relationship, but the secondary goal is to tackle my low self-esteem.
The biggest barrier to change is my insecure attachment. I'm 'Avoidant-Fearful' which essentially means I don't trust you, no matter how many pretty smiles I give you, and the more you know me the more dangerous you become. I'm also moderately perfectionist/obsessive which essentially means I work very hard to provide you with everything you need/want from me, often at my own expense.
How did it happen?
I had no significant, stable relationships growing up, notably my parents who were emotionally unavailable and abusive.
Why does it still happen?
I can quite successfully avoid conflict by being perfectly blameless: making no mistakes, and moreover, keeping everyone at a distance.
How do I do this?
I analyse you constantly for even the faintest signs of disapproval and, depending on the risk, adjust my personas or withdraw completely from the relationship.
What is the problem?
I've been doing this so long, I have no cohesive sense of self -- quite a vulnerable place to be. Naturally, I'm quite skilled at putting up defences to protect you from discovering this. I suppose this makes me especially complex to treat: a rapid-cycling wheel of disordered personalities.
I've always refused to take medications. So when I go home from therapy and the sheets covering my emotions slip away, it is up to my body alone to weather and recover from the deep shuddering fear and shame. My choices make the difference: what I eat, how much I sleep, who I interact with, what I think.
It would be much easier to suppress every emotion, as I have done, than risk being sucked into a deep depression. But, 'sucked in' is often where I go, paralysed by insecurity, because behind all of those beautifully crafted walls stands a girl propped up on hope alone.
“Don't take this the wrong way...”
No one should start a conversation this way, most especially a therapist. It doesn't help that I already knew the evidence. I've seen the NICE guidance. I know it is your clinical responsibility to ensure people with enduring mental health problems do not reproduce. But why doesn't that responsibility extend to women who drink alcohol or smoke? What about the morbidly obese? Shouldn't every parent be required to pass an attachment interview or else be prescribed an abortion?
This is what we call inequality. If it were a physical or economical disability, the government would bend over backwards to ensure I was able to be a good enough parent. But since I have a mental health disability, they are obliged to advise me that I should not even try.
Is there a 'right way' to hear someone confirm everything you've already read in the literature? See, there I go intellectualising again. Let's try that again.
Is there a 'right way' to hear your therapist reinforce the same unrelenting beliefs you abuse yourself with?
Perhaps I did it the right way: nodding amicably, reassuring her and moving on. Funny, how the 'right way' always feels like I'm smothering myself. Would the 'right way' have been to burst into tears? Say how I know it will be very hard, but I want more than anything to be a family? That, against all odds, I feel safer, more secure, and more myself with children. That I'm not just a different person... I'm a person, with a clear sense of self. Being a mother means something to me.
Being told we can't have children naturally has been a massive loss. Being told I shouldn't have children because I won't properly attach to them is something else entirely.
“I'm trying.”
When I left my last therapist, I was terribly wounded by several things she said. I did not give her the opportunity to acknowledge my hurt. The interim/assessing therapist asked me what I was afraid of, and I couldn't answer.
Why am I so afraid to reveal how scared and hurt I am? Actions speak louder than words, but in my case they both drown out my emotions. I act like I'm fine. I say that I'm fine. And we smile together; how nice to be on the same page, isn't our relationship great? But my anger builds inwardly with each lie I give you. I give the same lies to myself.
“I'm trying.”
The key to making progress in therapy is to think and act differently. I could let it go, like I let everything go, and do my homework like a good girl (it's what she expects and wants, isn't it?). Or I could put the homework aside and tell her how I feel. What I believe. What I want. Because all three of those should matter, even if you (or the best available clinical evidence) don't agree with them. This is called Building Self-Confidence 101 (it's a practical lab).
It was the single most important thing I've ever said in therapy. If you blinked, you might have missed it, the bonafide inner Child. See me. Hear me. I want to make you proud.
“I'm trying.”
“I know you are.”
Read on the NHS Choices blog.
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