#TBT: Finding Peace - One Year Later

Scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real.

~ Cormac McCarthy

Posts on La Belle are written with Georgia, Times New Roman, Vivaldi, and Edwardian.  For best viewing, download these fonts.

I

t's Throwback Thursday ~ a day when people usually post pictures of themselves in diapers.  And those are just the college photos!

ENFPs aren’t known for following the rules ~ we like structure, we just like to bend it.  So I usually post videos or links to classic songs (rock and otherwise).  

And today, Kimberly over at Being A Wordsmith reminded me that #TBT can be used to share old posts.

Find Peace Amoung the Pieces was written in August 2013.  It was real.  It was raw.  And it was heartbreaking to re-read.  I remember well the feelings I talked about.  The need to escape.  Standing at the edge of despair.  And then ~ I noticed the date.

August 30. 

One year later to the day, I sat in the bow of a fishing boat, headed toward the adventure of a lifetime.  An adventure I couldn't have dreamed of when I wrote that post a year ago.  An adventure that changed my heart.

Image: © bogdanwanko (123rf.com)

Change isn't always a bright, showy spectacle.  It seeps gently, quietly into the blood.  Or burrows deep in the soil of thought and reflection.  Sometimes, you don't see the flowers or the fruit until much, much later.

And in August 2013, I couldn’t know it, but I planted the seeds.  For months, nothing happened.  Or rather, it seemed like nothing happened.  But those seeds were trying hard to germinate.  It’s just that they needed the salt spray of Kodiak, Alaska to finally take root.  And five months later, they're still growing.

I can't wait to see what blooms next.

Oremus pro invicem,

~ Mikaela

What seeds are you cultivating for a later harvest?

The Measure of Years: Reflections on Turning 40

It’s this freedom that’s the key to becoming visible again. Not caring what others think is freeing. Expressing yourself any way you want is freeing. Having opinions, emotional wisdom, spiritual understanding…these things free you. And in freedom, we find power.

~ Jane Tara, The Happy Endings Book Club

T

 his December I turned 40.

Forty.  A supposedly significant number, but what exactly is it supposed to signify?

In a society that values money, production, , utility, doing and acting, it is easy to look at the past forty years and wonder, What have I done with my life so far?

If I use society’s rule book and compare myself to others, I come up with a depressing list of did nots and do nots:

I don’t earn a six digit income.

I didn’t get a promotion.

I don’t own a company.

I’ve never lived out of my home state.

I don’t have a Masters, much less a PhD.

I don’t own a fancy car.

I don’t own any designer clothes.

I didn’t publish a book.

I didn’t consistently write 500 words a day.

I didn’t publish as many blog posts as I planned.

But as an Idealist (INFP) and an Inspirer (ENFP), these particular "failures" didn’t bother me for long (except the writing, but we’ll get to that later).  That means I value being over doing, reflecting over acting, creating over producing, and relationships over money.

It doesn’t mean I sat and dreamt my dreams and then did nothing to realize them.  Just that my dreams differ greatly from the majority of society.

You matter....embrace and express yourself!
Image: © Sergey Nivens

Some dreams you don’t know you have until you have a chance to live them.  My week long trip to Kodiak, Alaska in September 2014 was a dream; one I walked away from inexplicably changed.  On the surface, you wouldn’t know it.  

But inside….the interior landscape of my soul and my psyche were drastically altered. And that trip allowed me to give the proverbial finger to society’s (and familial) expectations and judgments of where I should be at forty.  

So now my list looks like this:

I have a decent paying job.

My position is low-stress.

I have money and time to support other small business owners.

I read voraciously and care more about learning than earning letters after my name.

I have a car that runs and gets me from point A to point B.

I have more clothes than I actually wear. (And I do own designer, vintage hats!)

I may live in my childhood home, but I have visited Alaska twice and stood six and half feet from a Kodiak grizzly.

Most importantly, I learned to let go of a couple of my most damaging fears.

But I’m human.  And I suffer from depression.  So I’m not going to clean this post up and tell you that everything was peachy keen and I triumphed glamorously through adversity and lived a positive, healthy life the rest of the year.

I made a lot of mistakes and I failed a lot ~ sometimes spectacularly.  The temptation to give up, to despair, to wallow was overwhelming at times and I gave in more than I care to admit.  And I’m still struggling.  To listen to the supportive, loving voices and to ignore and block out the judgmental, critical ones.  To embrace both my light and my dark side.  To regain lost ground.

Especially when it comes to following my passion for the written word. 

There’s no way around that one.  I failed consistently at being consistent with my writing.  And as writers know, the most important aspect of being a writer is to show up, sit down, and put words on a page.  My failure to do this is directly tied to both my depression and a deep-rooted fear of rejection and indifference.  And both of those fears are directly tied to family of origin issues.  Not an excuse, just something I need to stay aware of.

Which means there is no easy solution, no magic potion, no “just do it” way to overcome it.  I do have excellent help and loving support, and a firm belief that healing is possible and attainable.  Still, it's going to take more hard work, openness, and suffering.  Something that I need to allow to bleed onto the page.

That's raw.  That's real.  That's honest.  That’s life.

That’s a significant forty years.

Oremus pro invicem,

~ Mikaela

How do you measure the worth of your years? 

How to Have a Healing Father's Day: Reblog from Leslie Leyland Fields

When my father would yell at me, I told myself someday I'd use it in a book.

~ Paula Danziger

June is the FLX/WordCount Blogathon!  Join us for 30 Days of blogging madness!

L

ove.

We learn it first from our parents.

And more often than not, it’s an imperfect lesson.  Because our parents are human.

Today is a tough day for some people.  Either because they had a rough childhood, or because their father has died without there being a resolution to the past.

 

Image credit: whatwillmatter.com

Today, I’d like to direct you to read a post by author Leslie Leyland Fields, author, Alaskan fisherwoman, and leader of the Wilderness Writers Workshop I’ll be attending this fall!  In her post on What Are Fathers For, she explores this often painful relationship and offers some advice on how to cope and live your life in the present.

Read and be moved.  And let’s talk some more on Monday.

Oremus pro invicem,

~ Mikaela

What will you do to celebrate Father’s Day today?

Messengers of Healing: Drowning Out Negativity

Words are thought descriptors. They project thoughts from anonymity. They transfer thoughts into messages. Messages move the world.
~ William E. Jefferson

June is the FLX/WordCount Blogathon!  Join us for 30 Days of blogging madness!

M

essages bombard us every day.

Buy this now – so you’re just like everyone else!  Even though you’re already in debt and the economy has stalled.

Try this pill – it cures everything!  Even though it may cause death.

Eat this burger– it’ll make you feel better!  Even though it doesn’t look anything like that in real life.

Don’t eat that butter – it’ll make you fat! Even though everyone agrees poor body image is too prevalent and eating disorders are on the rise.

And those are just the messages we hear from the outside.  The ones we tell ourselves are often even more damaging:

I’ll never get that promotion.
Why am I always so stupid?
I can never do anything right!
I am unlovable / undesirable /untouchable / unworthy.

What makes this more damaging is that while we repeat them over and over to ourselves, we sometime end up repeating them to others.

Changing the Messages We Hear
You can’t give what you don’t have.  So if we’re filled with self-loathing or feel unworthy of love, we aren’t able to love as freely or as warmly as someone who is confident in their worth.  And so the cycle of negative messages continues.

It’s been said that we can never fully erase the hateful messages we tell ourselves, and it certainly seems that way in my experience.  No matter what positive things I tell myself or that my therapist or close friends tell me, the negative ones come back ~ and hit the positive ones over the head with a big, heavy stick.

Image credit: alyssaandbrianna.blogspot.com

And yet, the only reason the ugly ones stay is because they’ve been repeated, over and over and over.  So in order to get rid of them, we have to repeat the positive ones over and over and over.   

Until they play over top the negative messages.

This process isn’t easy and it takes time.  Most of us have heard these negative messages for years, some of us since childhood.  

You can’t overcome 30, 40, or even 60 years of emotional brainwashing in just a few months or even a couple of years.

The upside to healing?  You then become a messenger of peace and positivity and stop the cycle of negativity.

As for taking that death pill with that fatty burger in that new car you can’t afford – turn off the idiot box and get outside, read a book, or spend some time with friends and family.  You can always stream a show later - minus the negative commercials.

Your awesome body and your bank account will thank you.

Oremus pro invicem,

~ Mikaela

What messages hold you back?  What are you doing to drown them out?

Five Minute Friday is an ever-growing group of bloggers who write for five minutes flat each Friday on the same prompt that Lisa Jo Baker posts each Thursday evening. It’s five minutes to see what comes out: not a perfect post, not a profound post, just five minutes of focused writing. Those without a blog can post their five minute piece as a comment on Lisa Jo Baker’s blog. For more details, visit Five Minute Friday.

I'm Too Tired to Go Out: The Care and Feeding of Depressed Friends

A kind gesture can reach a wound that only compassion can heal.

~ Steve Maraboli, Life, the Truth, and Being Free

May is National Mental Health Awareness Month.  Join me in blogging to erase the stigma of mental illness so our loved ones can seek the help they need.

M

isery loves company. Especially if that company also enjoys watching episodes of Psych.

A few weeks ago, I suggested to one of my local gal pals that we needed to institute a regular Girls Night In with Fake TV Boyfriends.  As we’re both WhoLock fans and Psych nerds, this turned out to be a brilliant plan.

Until the other night, when we realized that we really weren’t in our twenties anymore and apparently couldn’t handle two bottles of hard cider and talking until 3am.

But despite our cranked out sleepiness the next day, we discovered that we were better for having laughed, cried, and eaten comfort food together.

We took comfort in the fact that we were in this mental illness dance together.

The Care and Feeding of Depressed Friends

It’s tough to know what to do for your friends who are depressed.  Even though I suffer from it, I’m at a loss for words sometimes.

Image credit: Shiny Starr Light

So here’s my Top Ten list of how to care and feed your friends who are depressed.

1.       Find out what their Love Language is.

2.      Send them a card or write them a note.

3.      Give them a call.

4.      Listen.

5.      Make a care package for them.

6.      Go over for a visit.

7.      Take them shopping.  Not for clothes.

8.     Schedule a spa date for the two of you.

9.      Send them flowers.

10.  Bring/cook them dinner.

The key is to listen and engage with them.  Respect their level of energy.  If it’s really low, stay in and watch movies and order pizza.  If they’re having a good day, go get massages. Bottom line?  Let them know you care and that they’re loved and not alone.  

You don’t know whose life you may be saving with that unexpected phone call.

Oremus pro invicem,

~ Mikaela

Show your friend support today!

The Ivory Tower has a Rock Bottom: When Depression Taught Me Humility

And this mess is so big

And so deep and so tall,

We cannot pick it up.

There is no way at all!

~ Dr. Seuss, The Cat in the Hat

May is National Mental Health Awareness Month.  Join me in blogging to erase the stigma of mental illness so our loved ones will seek the help they need.

I

f you get up and go outside/go to the party/stop sleeping so much ~ you’ll perk right up!”

“You’re not praying/meditating/centering enough.  You would feel so much better if you were.”

“You wouldn’t be depressed/have schizophrenia/be bi-polar if you went to church regularly/volunteered/did something for someone else.”

Willfully Blind

Can you imagine going into a hospice and telling everyone in there that they’re just being lazy or selfish and that if they weren’t, their cancer would go away?

You would get disbelieving stares, some disgusted glares, and might even be thrown out on your rude and ignorant ass.

 

Image credit: DepressionIsReal.org

Yet people who suffer from mental illness are routinely bombarded with hurtful and rude statements like those I listed above.  As a Christian, the refrain of “God heals all your ills” is just one such thorn in my side.

Before I found my current kick acre therapist, I would hear these words, cringe, and add on another hour of prayer, and feel worse than before.  Or scrupulously re-examine my conscience and mentally beat myself up. 

After all, I must have done something very heinous indeed to feel so wretched and worthless.

Now that I’ve been in therapy for a while, I hear these phrases, roll my eyes, think to myself ~ what a dumb ass ~ and say,

“Oh yeah?  Did He heal your leg when you broke it last year or did you go to the ER and have a doctor set it?”

They mean well.  But they have no idea what it’s like to suffer from mental illness.  Best case? They awkwardly show support for someone in pain.  Worst case?  Their words cause more harm than good.

Woefully Ignorant

Someone with a family member with cancer once told me, “If you don’t know what to say, just hold their hand.  Or cook dinner for the family.  Best thing  ~ do, and not speak.”

The same could be said for mental illness. 

Today, we have knowledge at the touch of a finger.  Want to know the feeding and mating habits of the Mexican grey wolf?  Just “Google” it.

Want to know all the No. 1 hits of 1980?  Type it and hit “enter.”

Have a family member who’s been diagnosed as Bipolar II?  The DSM will give you pages of information, GoodReads will recommend books, and Google will give you pages of both information and support groups in your area.

There is no excuse for ignorance.

There may, however, be a reason for it.

The Ivory Tower has a Rock Bottom

I admit it.  For years I was a hard-ass, rigid, know-it-all.

People who hear me wax poetic about sustainability, organic farming, and the beauty of Alaska will say I still am, but I digress. . .

I had been blessed with the TRUTH and therefore I was obligated to:

speak it at all times;

hit people over the head with it;

feel sorry for those who didn't know it.

Pride was the blanket I wrapped my heart in.  If I knew it all, then pain couldn't touch me.  I wouldn't get hurt, and my heart couldn't break.  And I could be sure I was doing the right thing.

But despite my best efforts, one day, the unthinkable happened.  I fell from my ivory tower and hit rock bottom quicker than Monsanto pays off politicians.  Suddenly, everything I thought I knew was called into question.

But I’m grateful that it happened.

I’m grateful I got sucker punched by depression.

I’m grateful the lines got blurred.

I’m grateful for the humility it taught me.

Because my penthouse view had a foundation of elaborate defense mechanisms and emotional walls that I began building at the age of five.  And once all that rot was torn down, it was obvious how much pain I’d been ignoring all these years.

So now, when well-meaning friends blab clueless platitudes about psychology vs. spiritual healing that make me want to simultaneously gag and punch them in the nose, I take a deep breath and remember that no one had a perfect childhood.  And that underneath all of the well-meaning phrases is probably the saddest ignorance of all:

Denial of their own pain.

And I wouldn't be able to see that if I hadn't had my own blinders ripped off.

Say Something (and) I’m Giving Up on You

Short of getting knocked on your proverbial backside, the best advice I can give about supporting those who suffer from mental or emotional illness is the one my friend gave me years ago:  say nothing and just offer the comfort of your presence. 

Or do something for them as you would anyone who had a physical illness: bring them dinner.  Offer to clean their house.  Watch the kids for a night.  Most important?  Do all this without judgment and without comment.  I assure you, we already feel like the lowest of the low, thanks to our biggest critic: 

the one inside our head.

Oremus pro invicem,

~ Mikaela

What are some other ways to support someone with mental illness?  Share in the comments, Tweet them to me, or post on my Facebook wall!

X if for X-Ray: Your Words Pierce My Very Soul

Words can be like X-rays if you use them properly -- they’ll go through anything.

You read and you’re pierced.

~ Aldous Huxley, Brave New World

Back in January, I began the One Page a Day Challenge and immediately threw away my quill.  Now in April, I’m participating in the A to Z Blogging Challenge and prepping for a Wilderness Writers’ Retreat.  I need ink, a stiff drink and therapy.

W

ords are dangerous. 

That’s why the First Amendment is, well, first.  The freedom to speak one’s mind is actually a guarantee of all freedoms. 

Because when you strip away that right, it keeps your enemy from stirring up support for the opposing side.

Words are powerful.  They have the power to reach the isolated, to inflame the broken-hearted, to comfort the wounded.

Words also have the power to hurt, to wound, to tear down. Especially words spoken to us in anger, frustration or stress.  And if those words are spoken to us in our formative years, they are likely to remain with you forever.

X is for X-ray: Words Pierce the Soul

That’s why it’s so important to respect words and to choose what we read and what we say, wisely.  Because they can even engender feelings in us that are not our own.  Or at least, they are not on the surface.

Now that's a book boyfriend!
Image Credit: Unknown, Google Search

Case in point, I just finished reading a book where the female protagonist goes through a vomit-inducing tornado of emotions.  I felt her agony, her moral qualms, the pain of her choices. 

My visceral reaction was a result of one part my NF personality, one part character identification, and one part the author’s talent with words.  Her weaving of the story and the emotions of the characters was masterful.

Don’t think it happens to you?

Think of the last news article or controversial Facebook status you read.  How did those innocuous little bunches of letters make you feel?  Upset?  Happy?  Pissed off?  Did you passionately deny, support, defend the ideas?

Or just shrug and read the next headline?

So remember the next time you read something:  what does the x-ray of those words you have said or heard reveal about your heart?

Oremus pro invicem,

~ Mikaela

Okay, maybe this post is a stretch for the Letter X.  “But you gotta admit, that’s sexier.”*