anxiety, part 2.

Well, this weekend was rough–the end of October is rough. Yesterday would have been my father’s birthday; 64 years old. Last year around this time, I was totally unaffected; I can’t even remember what I did or who I was with but I don’t think that it hit me as much as this year did.

Friday afternoon–I was busy at work helping with the induction ceremony for the Student Council and National Honors Society. And, we went out with some friends after work. I got home, and my high school friend came over for some wine. I was almost falling asleep, and for some reason thought more wine would help. I don’t drink enough to get completely drunk or plastered anymore–and honestly, I believe that I am in denial of my alcohol intolerance as part of my fibro.

Well, late nights and alcohol are not my thing anymore…and for some reason I wanted them to be. I hung out with my friend, but of course I thought I was my old self—pre fibro. This has been the hardest adjustment for me; I want to be the person that I have always been. Fun, happy, and just not having to plan everything out–I just can’t relax and have fun. I have to dial things back, and I am holding on so, so tight.

Saturday night my mom had my aunt, uncle, and cousins over for my brother’s birthday. I held off drinking until after dinner, and didn’t get so wasted…but my anxiety kicked up that was for sure. I said before my anxiety is like knocking on a door, think “The Raven.” Rapping, tapping, and finally just being coming surrounded.

My anxiety tells me that I am not good enough–my anxiety convinces me that everything I do is never enough, never good enough, and people don’t actually like me for who I am. This is really deep seeded for me–when I was in grade school I had a friend that treated me like dirt. I have since been able to forgive that friend, but I still have the aftershocks of what that kind of treatment and behavior has done to me.

When she and I were friends, everything I did seemed to make her angry at me–there was something I would do, and she would stop talking to me. She was manipulative and nasty, because 7th grade girls are nasty. However, this has so been ingrained in my and effected the way that I deal with friends and relationships–that I need to be constantly convince that what I am doing is right. Because, I am afraid and deep down believe that I am not enough in my friend’s eyes.

I judge my friends a lot on the words that they say to make, and take everything pretty personally. This is something that I have done to family, friend, and sometimes in the classroom (if I am being one hundred percent honest with myself). Well, I think this weekend I hit my rock bottom. I missed my dad, I felt like my friends didn’t want to be around me–and I just had a mini-breakdown.

Sunday. I did something totally our of character for myself, and that was lay in bed almost all day. I was worn out from crying, I was tried from not sleeping, not taking care of myself. I needed a break. Thankfully, I didn’t have much to do. I laid, and I slept a little, and I just relaxed. I realized that I had to get up and do something in order to feel like a real person. So, I painted my nails and stretched.

I blame myself for all the bad stuff, when I feel negative, but I always look to someone else to take that blame away. I look for a reason, or something to heave all this heavy shit off of me. Because this isn’t who I am (I tell myself)! I am better that this (I say, not believing a single word)! It is so easy for me to get wrapped up in the bad shit, that I totally forget all the good that I have. I forget how good my friends are to me. I forget how good my family is to me, and how much people love me.

I truly hate feeling this way at times, because I feel so broken and little. I don’t like showing my cracks or faults, because it makes me feel like that is another reason for people to stop being friends with me–like they are my friends because I try to be strong and there for everyone, that when I buckle or stumble…people aren’t going to be there for me. Which I know isn’t true.

It was good, though; because it got all this emotional shit that I have been sitting on out. It isn’t the worst thing in the word to realize, but I know that I am tired of this problem that I have effect my relationships–I want to be able to enjoy my friends and family. I want to be able to not take everything personally, to realize when people are joking with me, and I want to be able to feel confident in who I am.

I am totally done with second guessing the things that I say and do. I am totally done with not making myself feel important, and apologizing for who I am. I am totally done in not believing in myself.

I have to be okay with not being okay sometimes. I have to ask for help when I need it, and I have to stop trying to be perfect all the time. But it’s okay!

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Anxiety

Anxiety.

I remember when I first started dealing with it; I was in grade school. 7th grade to be exact. Whether it was the joys of becoming a woman, or it was something that I always had inside of me I’m not sure. But, I thought about losing my grandparents, a lot. My father’s parents were older than all my other friend’s grandparents. When I was in grade school, my grandparents were already starting in their eighties.

I wasn’t obsessive, but I thought about it enough to keep me up. Then my anxiety blossomed into something that kept me awake at night. I would think that someone was breaking in, I would rationalize to myself how this wasn’t true. And, I would be lost in this abyss of what ifs and could this happen. It consumed a lot of my nights, and then it started coming during the day.

The thing about anxiety is that is doesn’t tell you what you should and shouldn’t be worried about, it makes those decisions for you. In my life, a lot of the big things that I had going on I had in control, and it was little shit that I had trouble dealing with; so, if the smallest thing went off the rail…. boom. Hit like a train.

In grade school, anxiety was small but it slowly got bigger. Friends and relationships were a large part of my problem. I was insecure, I was smart, I didn’t really fit in, I was heavier than most of the people in my class. But, these were things that I could deal with; I couldn’t seem to keep friends.

When you have anxiety, I found that it is a lot easier to blame other people and situations because you don’t have the deal with the issue at hand. I think of all the times that I was hurt by someone—and I think that I was genuinely hurt by people that I was friends with.

My best friend in grade school would literally play these mind games with me—she could be mean to me, hurt me, and then I would apologize. Because, in certain cases, she was hurt so I had to apologize. This was a pattern, every so often this would happen, and I would cry. I would let it happen to me. I would be so anxious about this girl not being friends with me and treating me poorly. But, I never stood up for myself.

Once I did, it seemed to set me free. But, I didn’t have friends. I didn’t go out, I felt alone. When I was growing up, I was, as most girls are a sensitive kid. I cared a lot—for other people and mostly about how people saw me. I got caught up in how people saw me and sought out perfection from other places. I thought that my mother didn’t understand me, and to an extent she didn’t.

Part of my huge insecurity deals with not feeling good enough. It seems like no matter what I do, I am always behind the curve. It started with when I was in grade school with my friends, and that still plagues me today. My constant apologizing to my friends in grade school has given me this complex that I am not good enough. Because I have been spinning my wheels. Now, as an adult, I need constant reassurance that I am doing the right thing, and I am doing what is expected of me. How exhausting right?

Well, it totally is. My need for wanting things to be okay, and not wanting to be at fault for things is now getting the point that it is crippling to me. This type of thing holds me back, in my personal growth. As soon as I start making great strides in a certain area of my life, it seems like the other shoe drops and I am back to feeling so small.

Which makes sense that I am like that because when I am hurting the most, when I am hurting myself, and I try to make others feel small as well. And, most of the time I don’t know that I am doing it, because I would never want anyone to feel the way that I do. But, I still do it. And, I usually feel bad that it comes to that.

This is something that I am trying to fix or work on, because this is something that is so deep and so shameful to me—that I portray this strong exterior, but I fear that I am not enough. I constantly fear that I am not good enough for other people, and that goes back on myself.

i feel so much better, part two

Okay, here we are for part two of the summer of change; and why I feel so good. I have been training for a half-marathon! Running deserves a post all by itself because it has been a challenge.

Let’s hit a on a little background. I have always been an active person, however I have always struggled with my weight. When I was younger, my cousins and I spent our summers running around outside, going to the pool, playing games; unless it was oppressively hot outside or raining we were never inside.

When I got older in school, I played field hockey, basketball, and softball. When I was in grade school, I loved playing field hockey—and I was pretty good at it. However big fish, small pond. I was one of the better of the girl athletes in my class of 20. I played basketball, which although my mother said was my best sport, I’d rather watch basketball than play it. Softball, I pitched and played third base. I have a pretty good arm, still—and I thought that going into high school I would have loved to play.

High school. I dropped basketball and stuck with field hockey and softball. My freshman year playing field hockey, myself and two other freshmen were subs for the varsity team because our coach, thought that we would be able to handle it. I barely played a varsity game, but to be thought of as someone that could handle it was cool. We went undefeated my freshmen year, and almost won our league championship; but we lost in double overtime in penalty strokes.

Fast-forward to next year, we get a new coach. I barely play for the rest of my high school career, and my senior year I barely played the entire season. And, I remember why. My senior year, I got involved with our campus ministry program at school, and I was asked to lead a retreat in October (during field hockey season); now, looking back, our campus minister probably should have been more lenient with people and their sport schedules, but I wanted to go on that retreat.  My coach has a problem with that and basically told me that if I decided to go, I wouldn’t play. And, I think I made the right choice.

I wasn’t jaded about high school sports, I wasn’t annoyed that I didn’t play—I was looking at the long game. I was looking at what was going to help me later on in life, because I knew I was never going to go far as a field hockey player.

Well, one of the important things about field hockey was running—I hated it; I was slow, and I still am slow. But, there was no internal motivation. I didn’t really care for the girls that I was on the team with, there were attitude problems, and I was just over it.

So, I have always been active; I just have never been consistent with it. Working out has been something that I have done off and on since I was in high school. I went through a weird cycle. I joined LA Fitness when I was like 17; I went, I think once. Literally. I hated it, but I was also socializing and having fun with my friends. Then I went to college and between my freshmen and sophomore year, I think I gained 30-40 pounds.

But, I didn’t really think anything of it because I was happy—I joined a sorority, I had great friends, I was having fun. But, I wasn’t taking care of myself. Literally, if I wouldn’t have known then, what I know now, my college years would have been a little different. Now, I wasn’t like super crazy with partying; after my junior year it calmed down a little bit. Really, it was after I turned 21, and then it wasn’t fun anymore haha. But, I was smoking…a lot. Drinking…..alot. Eating crap, only walking to class. It just wasn’t good for me. Senior year it kind of kicked in that I needed to do something; my co-operating teacher was really fit, and she was kind of an inspiration to getting my ass into gear. However, this was the spring of my senior year.

So, I ate a little better, I went to the school gym after student teaching, still drinking a little, but not a lot (because my friends would go out on weeknights). And, you can tell in the pictures from my graduation that I had lost that little bit of weight that I gained during my first couple years of college.

Then I go home for good; I joined a gym, I tried to eat a little bit better, but I was still going out with my friends to places like Applebee’s and drinking almost every night of the week. It was a bad cycle. I was substitute teaching as different public schools, I barely had any money, my student loans were coming in, I didn’t have a full time job, and my summer job was just causing my so much stress and problems that I would literally have anxiety attacks.

And, I would hold all of these things in. The inadequacy I felt from not having a full time job, the unnecessary stress that I felt from my summer job, paying my bills, and not having control of little things in my life. I remember standing in my kitchen on night, talking to my mother, and completely breaking down. I blacked out, couldn’t breathe, and all I could do was cry, scream, and sob.

I felt like shit, I thought that I was shit. I was controlled by the opinions that other people had of me, I looked for validation and every turn. I didn’t believe that people wanted to be around me; I was depressed and holding on to a very frayed rope. This was probably the darkest time in my life because my faith suffered, my health suffered, and my mental health suffered.

I learned to shut certain things out. I shut people out because I thought that couldn’t possibly understand what I was going through—Now, I am very aware that when I was going through this tough time, I liked being the martyr. I wanted someone to feel bad for me, but I would shrug off their sympathy or empathy because how could they possibly understand what it means to be me. Now, I realize, no one will ever truly understand…and that’s totally okay. It’s okay because we all have to go through our shit. And, sometimes other people’s shit is like ours and we can be there for each other.

I don’t think there was ever an “Ah-Ha” or a “Come to Jesus Moment,” because I think from where I was in my life, I slowly has to climb out of my cave. Working at a Catholic school, brought me back to my foundation of my faith, which I think has miraculously helped me in how I handle things that are thrown at me. There have been some bumps since, but I think that I this foundation has helped my build myself up again.

The biggest and longest struggle that I have with myself is feeling wanted, feeling that I deserve happiness, and accepting myself for who I am—and not changing myself because someone doesn’t like it. Most of this has been because I liked being a martyr of sorts, I would make problems bigger than what they were because I wanted someone to be upset for me and with me. I didn’t want to feel alone. And, I was so busy trying to quantify what people thought of me, the love that people had for me, and making sure that they were never going to push me aside; I never enjoyed the love and I appreciated the people that I had in my life.

Which, I was something that I think that the loss of my father taught me about—that people in your life as semi-permanent as they can be. And, you must cherish and realize that the people in your life effect the way that you act and are—something that I never realized. When I was going through this dark time, I was with people that weren’t helping me out of it, their solution was to drink the issue away or have fun or talking about something else. It was getting around the issue, not dealing with it front of your face.

But, when my father died—I saw the people that were truly there for me. They dropped what they were doing to be there for me and my family, they brought us food, they spent time with us. This is what love is; this is what I realized I was missing out on; it was so wonderful and all encompassing, and I didn’t want to make the same mistake twice.

The icing on the cake was really being diagnosed last summer; I really like to think about it as a blessing in disguise. I could be mad at myself, and realized that the shit that I have held in is what manifested this disease—but I want to look at the positive. I beat myself up for so long; physically, emotionally, and mentally. My body is now beating itself daily, and I am not even doing anything!

So, enough was enough. Fibro has taught me what it means to take care of myself. It was a wakeup call that I needed; honestly. And, thank God it wasn’t something more serious. I realized that I can’t do the things that I used to do, BUT THAT’S OKAY! At first I was bummed that I would never feel the same again, but then I realized how much better that is for me! Drinking and smoking was hard to tailor back on, but keeping up with some fitness regimen wasn’t too bad. My doctor’s appointments, and a brief scare about my blood pressure scared me into quitting smoking—which, despite a few slips, I have been consistent with.

But, then I needed another challenge. After doing my second color run, I wanted so badly to do a half-marathon. So, in the middle of the summer, I started looking at half’s and finally I just signed up for one. Realizing that just thinking about it wasn’t getting my anywhere, I needed to be about it, too.

The things that I wrote about in the post all surfaced when I was running. Things that I needed to realize, things that I needed to learn, and the uncomfortable emotions that I never wanted to think about. There are runs I have done and I have pushed myself and started crying. But, there is something in common that happens after every time I run—I feel this amazing sense of accomplishment. I feel like I conquered something that has been sitting on my chest for years, or I am able to zone out and listen to rhythm of my footsteps.

Yesterday I was having an off day. I was up at 4:30 (not on purpose). I laid in bed until 6, finally decided get up and run and get yourself some coffee. I had to run 4 miles, lucky for me Dunkin’ is two miles up and two miles back. So, I ran. I tried to out run my tired, but it caught up to me. I went to mass, because of the Holy Day. I worked all day at my summer job, but it was cloudy and that came with a break. I was able to leave early, I went shopping (why?), came home, and I had to fix my bed.

So, I have discovered that I am a little handy—however, when it’s 10 pm and all you want to do is sleep from a 20 hour day…you don’t want to be handy. I was at my wits end with how to fix this draw. I literally tried putting the screw in the same place twice, I tried wood glue, and I was about to lose it. Finally, I decided to try something that I probably should have done in the beginning. I “drilled” my own hole and screwed in the screw, and almost cried when I was finished.

I put drilled in quotes because I couldn’t find the right bit to fill the drill (which, I think was my father looking down on me, honestly) and I just twisted the drill bit around until I made a hole deep enough for the screw. I was going to lose my patience, but I started talking to my dad to guide me through the process. And, I think that he helped me to the right direction. As soon as I got that screw in, I got up and walked around the house. Zero people in my house were awake, but I stood there excited from what I hoped I accomplished. The test was getting the drawer in, and once it worked…I was so tempted to scream. I was so excited.

But, I tried to keep the same mindset as when I run. There are times I want to quit, and say I have had enough—but I just walk, breathe, and push myself further. And, it worked. I realized that half of the game in mental, those are the things that have been holding me back. But, I just try to get around them. With running, I try to channel those thoughts into running, and shed that negativity with every mile I run; that way I can leave it all behind me.

 

sometimes you have to go down the death trap slide.

So, as the school year is winding down, teaching seniors makes me a little nostalgic about high school. I had a decent high school experience—my high school was great, the teachers were awesome people, and the people that I went to school with were overall pretty nice people. It felt like a family atmosphere. Mostly, because families either knew each other or were related to each other. For example, when I was a senior in high school, I had a cousin in my grade, two cousins in the grade below me, and my brother was a freshman. There were five of us from the same family in high school together. And, we were not the exception.

A few of my students asked me what I was like in high school; and I really didn’t know how to answer the question. I was…normal. I was…like I am now. I was….well, I wasn’t popular, but I wasn’t a loser. I was smart, but I wasn’t at the top of my class. I was average. This, my students, did not believe. “You had to be popular, ma’am. Come on!”

I don’t think that I ever cared what my social status in high school was; I was happy where I was.  I wanted normal high school experiences, and I got into a few situations that didn’t reflect the girl that I was then. I was, like to think, the woman that I am today—except I was a little more insecure and I was more of a people pleaser.

I was never a girl to follow trends—I wore what I wanted, watched the shows that I wanted, watched the movies that I wanted. I was an old soul desiring to have an authentic high school experience…but I never really got it. I never had a relationship in high school, and that bothered more than I probably would have admitted back then. And I definitely struggled with embracing who I was, because I wanted to be something different. People liked me for me, but I couldn’t see that. I was so busy worrying about what other people did, and what people thought of me that I never learned to like myself for who I was.

There is one thing that I always look back to when I am fighting with who I am and what I want to be. I have a memory before I was in high school of being at the pool that I work at. It was the end of the summer, the pool was getting ready to close, and the one thing that I wanted to do was jump off the really high lifeguard stand into the pool. So, I did it. I climbed up and dove head first 20 feet into the water. The impact was hard, my back hurt, and I realized that if I hit the water a different way I probably could have been really hurt.

But, I did it. It was amazing, scary, and I felt fearless. This was the girl that I always wanted carry with me…I wanted to dive off a lifeguard stand because I wanted to do it and feel free. Monday and Tuesday, we had a class trip to the Poconos at an indoor water park. There was this intense slide where the bottom dropped out from underneath you—I hate heights, I hate 90 degree angles, and I hate climbing stairs.

Well, I was sitting, relaxing by the pool and the boys talked me into riding the death trap of a slide. I panicked the entire way up the stairs. The boys were like “Ma’am, you’re going to be okay. You’re going to be fine. You’re really that afraid of heights?” I never used to be, and I wanted to do this death trap slide because my reputation was on the line. Was I glad that I did it? Kind of, I would never do it again, but I did go on a mountain roller coaster that I would do again. A coaster that you were able steer down the mountain side and it was so cool!

Something I ask myself what happened to that girl that wanted to do things her way; that wasn’t afraid of adversity or pain and wanted to do something for the experience? I think there were a number of things that happened. I probably was made fun of for being different. I was too out there, I didn’t conform to what I “should” have been. And, I wanted to be like everyone else that didn’t stand out. So, what would I say to that girl now?

I would look her in the eye and I would confront her what all those uncomfortable times that made her question who she was and what she wanted. She wanted to be fearless, but instead of being fearless she became ridden with fear. She started caring about what other people thought, she started hanging out with people that didn’t give her what she needed, and she started chasing  things that weren’t good for her. I would remind her of the time she was on top of lifeguard stand and ask her to remember the feeling of falling into the water. The feeling was freedom, the feeling of letting it all go, and the feeling of freedom that you can do anything at all.

I got that feeling on the mountain coaster and the death trap water slide. I remembered what it was like to feel free again and feel like I could do anything. It was awesome. Embracing that side of me made me realize a few things—how much I have grown up, how much I have experienced in my life that is so awesome.

In high school I was able to see Julie Andrews in person, attend a papal mass in New York City, and travel to Italy for 10 days. I have seen the Sistine Chapel, the Roman Colosseum, and the Trevi Fountain. In college, I attended a Phillies World Series Parade, joined a sorority, learned value skills of time management and compassion for others. And, as an adult, I have learned value lessons and skills that I never thought that I would be able to learn. It’s all be such a cool, crazy ride.

Part of that ride includes all the heartbreak and problems that I have had in my life—they make up that map. It’s not something that I want to forget because those things have made me who I am today. Through my dad’s death I have learned how important it is to listen to people and to be there for people regardless of what is going on in our lives. Part of life is helping other, giving of yourself to people, and that was something that my dad always taught me.

One of most valuable lessons that Dad taught me, through his actions, was that regardless of your shit…people have other shit going on, too. And, unless you stop to listen to someone and care about that person…you are never going to learn what is going on. You don’t compare your situations to other people, because it’s going to help anything. Comparison only brings sadness and anxiety, and doesn’t allow you to open yourself up to the people that might need to hear from you.

Dad’s passing highlighted a lot of things for me. I learned who was there to support me because they loved me, and those who supported me because it was something they thought they should do. It made them feel better. That’s fine, because not everyone know who to deal with death. There is not handbook that you get when a parent dies that says, “Hey, you should do x, y, and z to help yourself.” No magic pill, and no magic way to tell people how to treat you. You show people how to treat you. You have to let yourself lean on other, and some will support and others will buckle a little bit. But, that buckle might not be because they don’t love you…it just might mean that they need a little support, too.

This is so, so important to recognize because you are recognizing and appreciating what someone is giving you. But, at the time, of course it feels like your being slighted. Because you expect people to step up, and when they don’t it’s disappointing. But, you have to remember, just because you focus in about your situation 99% of day doesn’t mean that other are going to, or have to. People are busy, people have other lives, people have families. But that doesn’t mean that they don’t love you.

This is all much harder to accept that it sounds. Really hard. Because in the moment, you feel alone and helpless. You feel that people have stopped caring about you, stopped thinking about you, but that’s not true. It’s just that they aren’t thinking of you right now. And, like a lot of things in life, only the people that get it really understand it. They know what it’s like to have your thoughts consumed, to want a break from the world, and to realize that certain bullshit just doesn’t matter.

Two years ago if I had gotten a text from my best friend about someone in our class that either got married or had baby, and ridiculing them for their decisions I would have taken the bait. I would have checked out the post on the Gram or Facebook and made the same comment. But now? Who the eff cares? Bullshit drama at work? Who the eff cares? People making more money that you? Who the eff cares? Someone got fat? Who the eff cares? The people that you see on your timelines and feeds, they are on their own paths. They are doing them, and if it makes them happy to post…who the eff cares? Don’t want to read it? Unfollow or unfriend. Or, instead of making fun of them, how about seeing their happy in the situation?

I came across a post of a girl that I knew in high school, and that I always said was copying my every move in life. She now has her master’s and just got a new job. My first thought was, “Oh my God, she’s trying to be me.” Um, hello? How productive is that? How is that helping me? It’s now. Comparison is evil, and I was succumbing to it.

How much of an ego could I possibly have to think that? Ew. That’s not me; and that never was me until I left my little shelter of growing up and entered the real world. Well, in this world you get to choose the things you care about. You get to choose the people in your story. You don’t like the people? Write them out. But, don’t forget that just because you’re the main character means to get to ignore everyone else.

Yes, I have started saying “Who the eff cares?” about the little things, but the people that you care about in your world and you have been your support system are the big things. And, they go through shit too. Shit that sucks just as much as your shit sucks. People have shitty jobs, shitty relationships, shitty friendships; but if it means something to them it means that you have to listen to them. Even though it doesn’t add up to the shit that you have been through. That’s not their path.

I am thankful that none of my friends have had to lose a parent or even a grandparent. That’s rough shit, but I try to use that experience to make me more compassionate and more patient. My cross might be big, but that doesn’t mean that someone else’s has to be, too. If I can use that experience and help my friends carry their crosses, I consider that a win; because I want the people that have been there for me to know what I will be there for them.

depending on something bigger than myself

I have always had a special place in my heart for the Easter Triduum. I am sure it goes back to when I was altar serving in 8th grade. As an older kid, I was responsible for teaching the younger kids how to serve during the masses. And, when your priest is a nonsense Polish man that loves a high mass—you get everything right.

I remember the only time that I was openly disrespectful for a teacher—it was during on practice for Holy Week. Father would call every single altar server out of class to practice for the Masses during Holy Thursday and Good Friday.

Somehow, I was never slated to serve the Easter Vigil. I have never, in my life been to one. My mother won’t go back to one because when she was grade school, she was in the choir and had to stand for 3 hours. She said she remembered deliberately dropping her hymnal so she could bend her knees. So, we always served the 7 am mass on Easter Sunday.

Anyway, my teacher wouldn’t let me and other 8th graders leave for practice, even though we were allowed. I told her that we had to leave, and she got this big attitude (for the record, this woman probably shouldn’t have been a teacher. She was a little nutty) and said that if Father had a problem, he could take it up with her. I snapped back at her and told her that she didn’t teach anything anyway, so what would it matter? Somehow, I didn’t get in trouble and she let us leave.

Holy Thursday was always required more practice than Good Friday. Holy Thursday we had to practice the incense, we had to practice the washing of the feet, the procession around the ENTIRE church during the benediction. It was a big church, and it always seemed to take an hour. We must have ran through the entire mass three or four times, and it must of stuck with me because at every Holy Thursday mass, I remember what we did, when, and I notice if it’s not done at other churches. For instance, during the Gloria—two altar servers go back and forth ringing the bells during the entire hymn. It’s the last time the bells ring during the Triduum. My parish doesn’t do that, I remembered that. I have been to parishes that don’t really do a procession—which I always find odd.

Holy Thursday always required a lot of planning, and it seemed like it was most important mass of the year since we practiced, literally for a week.

Good Friday was always much simpler—not a mass, veneration of the Cross, communion, and that’s it. Cake walk compared to Holy Thursday. However, there was one Good Friday that I thought we were going to be a man down. We had a very old monsignor—he must have been almost 90. My pastor had directly told him, when we prostrate do not lay down. So, when we processed in, our three other priests prostrated on the ground and one altar server tugged at my sleeve. I looked around, and there was the old Monsignor laying on the ground.

I went into the panic. What are we going to do? Is he going to be okay? Are we going to be able to get him up? Well, that’s exactly what we had to do. We literally had to hoist him up off the ground, and he just started laughing. I mean, it was amazing that he still wanted to do that, but it was definitely not practical.

So, I have always loved the ceremony behind the masses—I think they are beautiful and deeply meaningful to Catholics during this time. But, I have not always had the sense of connection and love for this time.

Before I started working at my school now, I was a substitute teacher in my Catholic school system. Looking back on those days, they were some of the most trying times in my life. My anxiety was a lot higher, I was really trying to figure out who I was, and looking back at it now it was a lot of growing pains.

I experienced a lot of failures at a particular school that I worked out. I was having trouble figuring out what kind of teacher that I wanted to be, I was struggling with who I was professionally and personally—there was this separation of it all, I think, and I just wanted my life to be different. This was all over a period of three years. I worked at this school for about six months, but in that six months—I gained something that I hadn’t gained in other places. I felt, in a way that I belonged—I liked the community and I really thought it was what God has planned for me. But, when we plan, God laughs.

So, after my six month stint, I kept going back to this school—I started helping a friend of mine in her office, because I was unemployed (This was the spring before I was hired at my full time job), and I needed something to do. Thankfully, that panned into a per diem job. But, then my grandmother died. Another shock to my system. I didn’t have a job, and I lost one of the closest people in my life. How could it get worse?

Oh, wait it did!

There was a guy that I worked with that I ended up really liking—he was everything that I thought that I wanted. Catholic, loved his job, and just was a great person. After months, maybe a year of interpreting and misinterpreting signs I told him how I felt. I actually believed that the feelings were reciprocal—and a lot of other people did, too. This was something that I never did before, and to do it took a lot of balls.

Part of my wanted to finally have an answer, and another part of my wanted to stop feeling like I was crazy or unhinged. So, I told him. However, the feeling was not reciprocal, and looking back on it—all the anger that harbored toward him was actually anger that I had toward myself. I was angry that I thought that I looked foolish—and put myself out there. Understandably, my ego was hurt. And, I thought that my life was spinning out of control.

I was unlucky in love, unlucky in my job, and I had lost my grandmother—I could and thought about giving up. But, I didn’t. This time was different, I prayed harder than I even could have in my life and tried to make peace with everything that had happened to me.

But, too this day, I am working on this. I still have bouts of self-doubt and jealousy of all those people that I worked with. After I left that place, it was like my connection to them was completely severed. Everything that I had done, and everything that I given of myself was just left there in a weird limbo and I hated it. I hated myself for being upset and scared, this was not who I was working to be and not who I wanted to be.

When you are hurt by someone and something that deeply, it is really hard to get over. But, guess what? It’s all going to be okay. Because, at the end of the day I still have my family and friends that still love me and still support me. I know the people that are supposed to be in my life. My friend Judy once told me about “reasons, seasons, and lifetimes.” There are people that are in your life for a reason, season, or a lifetime. But you don’t realize when or for what at the moment. I think now, those people that I used to work with were a season—they were there to teach me something about myself that would eventually make me stronger.

Learning how to deal with heartache and disappointment, but also being able to rely on God are what helped me through the death of my father. Something that rocked my world to the core, I was able to remember that I am that I need to lean close to God, not against Him. It was something that I learned to go through all that when I worked at the school, but in terms of what I have gone through now…it’s a blip. But, it was blip that made me learn.

So, this Holy Thursday—I actually went to my home parish for the first time. I was in so much pain from the fibro that kneeling and standing were taking such a toll on me—but, I persisted. I was thinking about how Holy Thursday has carried such an anxiety and disappointment for me that it was hard to focus on anything but that. But, I think that was what I was supposed to do.

I focused on the difficult things. The things that made me cry, the things that broke my heart, the things that had made me feel so small and so insignificant. I broke myself in front of God, because I wasn’t afraid anymore of my brokenness or of what was thought of me. I knew who I am in the eyes of God and in the eyes of the people that matter the most to me.

When Father took the Blessed Sacrament around the church, I had this heaviness of my heart. From everything that I was worried about, and once he walk by me…my heart felt light. As soon as he walked to the Repository and placed the Blessed Sacrament inside…my heart was light. Jesus had taken my suffering from me, and held with him until the next day—where that suffering would be shown on the Cross.

God never give us anything that we can’t handle in our lives. He doesn’t test us, nor does he enjoy watching us suffer. However, in times of struggle, we lean on God for what was cannot get from other people. There is a safety net about God; that can handle things that we cannot. And, being able to rely on Him during times of struggle has been something that I have needed in my life. It was powerful, moving, and I just felt like I could sing. I finally felt at peace, and it was the best feeling in the world.

getting over the hump.

Well, blogging has not been my strong suit for the last few weeks. I had this idea of blogging during Lent, and now it’s almost Easter. Good intentions…good intentions. For what it is worth, I only seem to want to blog when I can’t keep my head quiet. Recently, my head has been filled with theoretical theories and comparative education–so, other thoughts have been pretty non-existent.

But, today I did something for the first time in 15 years…I got on a bike. I know, this is like meaningless to some people, but the amount of physical and mental fear that I had about getting on a bike has been inappropriate for someone my age. Yesterday, inspired by the beautiful weather, I decided to get outside and exercise. I even had it in my head that I was going to run.

Before fibro, I was getting into running. I had run two 5ks before the summer, and I was really proud of myself. But, after school let out, my body started showing symptoms, and it was really not into working out over the summer. Since it is supposed to be nice in the Philly region for the next few days, I was hoping to do something different.

So, I ran. Walk/jogged actually for about 2.25 miles. Hey! It’s a start. And after work this afternoon, I thought it would be a good idea to get out again. So, I went home changed and headed back out. Today was definitely harder. I walked a quarter of a mile, and then ran another, but my body was just telling me to slow it down. I got through the first mile and a quarter and I decided that I wanted to do something different.

The farm park has these bikes that you can rent, free for under 2 hours. So, I said what the hell. First, it took my ten minutes to try and figure out how to unlock the damn thing. That was a production. Second, I got on and my body immediate seized up, and I almost fell. Then I laughed and thought “It’s not like riding a bike, people forgot.” Cue an existential crisis about actually wondering if someone can forget how to ride a bike, and you have my afternoon. After I calmed myself down, I tried it again. And, got myself going. Until I tried to turn, yet another panicked moment , even greater than the last.

In case you are wondering, when I was in 5th grade, I once broke my elbow when I was 11 falling of a bike. I went down a hill too fast, when over a bump, slowed down too suddenly, and just toppled over. To make matters worse, my parents didn’t think that my elbow was broke (not sure how because I couldn’t move it at all), and I walked around for 10 days and practiced and played a softball game with a broken elbow. I remind my mother of this, constantly. During softball practice, she was yelling at me to get my glove all the way down (couldn’t because I was in searing pain), and my coach had to tell her to take my to the doctors. She, of course, blames her mother because my mother said that Mommom would have done the same thing to her. Right. Logic.

I actually blame my father more than my mother, because I am pretty sure out of fear my Dad convinced Mom that it was just bruised because this was during his watch, and she was probably afraid of the wrath of my Mom. My father was the parent that let me pull out my own tooth when it was loose. Mom did not enjoy this. He also used to take me and the dog on midnight walks and to Giant (because where else can you go grocery shopping at midnight).

Anyway, fear and anxiety were at record levels–all because of a bike. But, once I got going, it was awesome. And, I remembered why I used to ride my bike all the time–until they inevitably got stolen. It felt so freeing riding around and enjoying the outside. I was able to move and go about, slowly at time, but I did it. The hardest parts came at the hills. Holy crap, I almost walked them. At one point, I was like I am just going to stay here forever and never go home. This is my home now. I am bike girl and I will make a fort. Dramatic, yes. But, I haven’t pushed myself like that in years. Then I accidentally switched gears.

Almost fell off and had a heart attack simultaneously. However, I got to the top of the hill, and took a break. The only think I could think of was how GOOD I felt. It was like I hit a new high, like I climbed Mount Everest. And if you saw this slight incline, you would definitely know how dramatic I am being at this very moment. But, I freaking did it. I conquered a fear and kicked my ass a little doing it.

Mondays, am I right?

The Release Project: Guilt

I have a guilty conscious. I am the person that walked into a store, looks around but doesn’t buy, and walks out hoping that the people don’t think that I just stole something. Yup. I am the person who thinks, “Did I do that?” When I most certainly hadn’t seen, or communicated with that person in weeks.

Some people would classify this as “Well, you care too much about what people think about you?” Yes, but no. I care about what the people are that the closest to me think of me. If I cared too much about what people think about me, I could never do what I do daily. Teaching is getting up in front of children and not caring about how they view you, because you’re there and they are there. The purpose isn’t a standoff, the purpose is to make sure that they learn something in that time you have them.

I care that my students think that I am fair, kind, and there for them. I don’t care that they think that I’m a tyrant for giving them work as a 4th quarter senior (They keep trying to make this a thing, but it’s not). Before lunch, two of my students literally were so annoyed at the work I keep giving them, they wrote a declaration of how they weren’t going to do work. I laughed at them.

So, no….I don’t get wrapped up in what people think about me. However, I am sensitive. I have always been sensitive. Being sensitive has always been something that I haven’t been totally comfortable with, but it seems that I have start getting comfortable with it because it is most certainly part of me. I am the girl that cried during The Hunchback of Notre Dame when Esmeralda lost consciousness and Quasimodo lifted her up over the cathedral. I was six, and I was sobbing. Why was I crying? I don’t remember at all, I didn’t understand what unrequited love was, but I knew that this was a strong emotion and I had some response to it.

Now, this type of reaction would carry with me my entire life; and I would spend half of my adult life trying to stifle it. Sensitive was a word that I heard very often after this movie. I would cry, scream, express emotions at inappropriate times, usually. I would hold emotions in until I couldn’t take it anymore, and then explode. I was a rollercoaster; most of this was puberty and hormones finding their home, but I can still be a little unpredictable with emotions.

I hated that people called me sensitive. Women in my family aren’t sensitive, they are strong. They are bold, and they don’t let emotions hold them back. I felt like none of these things when I was growing up. I felt disconnected, I felt like I was a black sheep, and I thought that everything that I was annoyed my family. Completely disconnected and totally lost in life, I sought out different ways to cope with these feelings.

I was friends with people that I probably shouldn’t have been friends with in high school, I started (not excessively), drinking, and most of all I started smoking. My mother, my grandmothers, my aunt, and my uncle were all smokers at some point in their lives. Somehow, in my delusional mind, I made the connection to smoking with a family thing—maybe that I would belong or something. I was so lost that I tried everything that I could.

So, smoking and I have had a relationship for the past ten years, on and off. Mostly on. After I mended my relationship with my family and my mother, I started thinking “Why am I still doing this?” It didn’t make sense, because I was doing something that was hurting me. But I thought it was helping me. At this point, smoking made gave me a lot of outs in life—if I felt uncomfortable or annoyed, I could step outside, if I felt awkward I could leave, it was a moment of quiet in my life. It didn’t make sense at all, but to me it did.

My friend, Judy, has been there through the whole smoking ordeal—and I have put her through a lot. I used to lie about this habit, and still partially do, to everyone. My family, my friends, students, coworkers. Because to me, this isn’t me. This is not something that I am, or something that I do. This lie has hurt a lot of people—including myself. But, lying about it hurt a lot of people in my life. It especially hurt my relationship with Judy. I lied about it constantly, and I just never listened to her. Partially, because it was because I wanted to do my own thing, and sew my oats. At that time, I was disconnected with smoking, because I was hiding it the best that I could, but it wasn’t really that great.

So, recently, I have been thinking about giving this habit up for good. It just doesn’t make sense for me—I have been working on me, who I am, and what I stand for. I had this habit, but I was going to yoga, I was working out, I was trying to eat healthy, but I was still smoking. I would break off of my cigarettes, but then I would experience something that would send me back to my habit. Fibro pain, my father’s death, stress, nervous breakdowns. I was sifting through so many things, that I didn’t know which way was up—who was I?

Since I started this “journey” (that I haven’t been consistent about documenting), I have been doing a lot of thinking. Mostly about who I am, and embracing myself completely; faults and all.  And, I have been trying to answer this disconnect this question about why I still have this habit that I swear I will stop, but seem to pick it back up. I have learned to cope with my own stress (I have really tried to bad stress in my life completely, because of the fibro), I have come to grips with my father’s death (and still go back and forth with grieving), and all the ups and downs in life I have learned to deal with it all.

So, how do I connect the dots now with smoking and my life. Well, there is no connection. For the past few days, I have been feeling low energy. I feel like I am giving out more than I am taking in The kids, people that I work with, there are things that have been out of my control that have been taking a toll on me. Like I said before, I have always been sensitive and I take on a lot from other people. A lot of problems that are not my own, I seem to take them on.

One of the girls that is in my grad class seems to be having a hard time, and I don’t know the whole story but I got a little stressed out for her. I don’t even know the whole story, but I felt so bad for her that she was feeling bad. I couldn’t make sense of it all. It was totally misplaced and weird, because the pain became my pain. How does this make sense? It doesn’t. Somehow, now smoking and stress has becoming to feeling stress and pain for other; overly empathetic. I felt that strong urge to start smoking again because of the pain that I was feeling for another person.

I have been thinking about this a lot the last few days, and I think that I found the connection for my disconnect. I experience and feel pain that is not my pain to feel, so I go back to something that should not be part of me. So, now I am struggling to put this habit down—the last few days I have slipped with letting this habit go. I pick it up, but them immediately regret it. It’s like I go into a trance when I want a cigarette. It’s all I think about, I legitimize it, and I make it reasons why I should do it. I know that I shouldn’t, I know that I don’t need it, but for some reason I think that if I just do it a little bit—it won’t be that bad.

But, now it’s hurting me in so many ways. It hurts my body, physically and it’s hurting my emotional game as well. I am relying on something that does not give anything back to me, at all. I have this abusive relationship with smoking, I know that it hurts me and doesn’t respect me but I keep going back to it and cannot break up with it. But, I want to make that change. I want to make that move. I have all these plans to be healthier and get better. I ordered all these vitamins, I have doing yoga, my prayers have definitely been off, but I think I need to fix that when I feel the urge to smoke. I need to be patient with myself, I need to forgive myself for the times that I have hurt myself, but that doesn’t mean that I need to continue down this road or make this my life.

Time to break up with the bad,  and get in a relationships with the good.