Self Improvement Junkie

It’s time for me to come clean: I am an addict.

My name is Amber, and I am a self improvement-aholic.

I have spent my life looking for the ultimate high: perfection.

I used to blame my insatiable desire for self improvement on the church, claiming that the teachings I got there had created my problem. But now I see that my Christian upbringing was simply the perfect breeding ground for my addiction, like placing a petrie dish in a humidifier. I carry the self-improvement gene; it was bound to happen.

Until recently, I had no idea that perfection was what I was looking for. I did not know that I was seeking a sort of Garden of Eden-like existence where there things like anxiety, shame, fear, self doubt and loneliness do not exist. I called it “trying to be more like Jesus,” or “seeking out the face of God,” or “giving my life to the Lord,” or some other similar phrase.

The church services I attended and the summer camps that I went to and the Bible studies I participated in all promised me that my life would look and feel better if I was closer to Jesus, and so I waged war against my sin, against my flesh, against the parts of me that put me at a distance from God. Daily I flogged myself with shame and loathing for the evil that dwelled within me and that kept me from experiencing the communion that I so longed for.

I approached my life with a certain ferocity, a warlike posture talked about in the songs of my youth. “I am in the Lord’s Army…I am in the Lord’s Army…” I wasn’t going to be one of the lukewarm Christians that God spits out of his mouth; I was going to be a warrior for Christ, an ambassador for the Lord, a servant of God.

I worked very hard at this, avidly studying the Bible and seeking out the wisdom in it; I went to Bible studies and joined accountability groups. I journaled and prayed and wrote and read. I read and I read and I read. I read every book by every inspirational Christian writer out there from Max Lucado to Beth Moore to Joni Eareckson Tada. I’m not even sure where I got the idea that Beth Moore knew how to get us back to the Garden of Eden, but I was convinced that if I read her book, I would get the missing key that would make me, well…, perfect.

To my endless frustration I could never make the euphoria I experienced outside of chapel worship services or during the decision night at summer camp last longer than a day or two, and so I assumed that I was inadequately following God’s Word. I wasn’t praying enough, or I was caring more about the favor of man over the favor of the Lord, or I was living outside of the will of God. Maybe it was because I wasn’t tithing enough. Or it could be because I wasn’t witnessing to my neighbors. It must be that I’m not witnessing to my neighbors. What was wrong with me that I didn’t want to witness to my neighbors? I should pick up a book on that.

So I bought more books. I went to more Bible studies. I went to the prayer closet at my school and prayed that my heart would change, that I would want to witness to my neighbor, and that I would not want to get naked with my boyfriend. I prayed that I would be more on fire, like that guy in my physics class who grew up as a missionary in Bolivia and regularly casts out demons in villagers at home.

But I never became like him, and I did get naked with my boyfriend, and I continued to beat myself up for it. Until one day when I just got tired of it all. It was all so exhausting, and I couldn’t EVER get the human out of me. The chaplain at my university pulled me aside one day and told me to just let it all go, to stop trying to figure it all out, and to just enjoy life. He suggested I get out of my head, which he likened to a bad neighborhood where one shouldn’t go alone, and that I put all of my Christian inspiration books away. He absolutely banned me from doing any more research on how the Bible was canonized and he told me pick up novels instead. Harry Potter, to be exact.

And so I did. I listened to music and sang karaoke. I met my best friend and went on road trips with her. I read Barbara Kingsolver books and Anne Lammott. I played with emotionally disturbed children and loved them with all of my heart. I decorated my home in shades of green, and took up photography. I stopped journaling and just went to sleep at the end of the day.

What I found was that this abstinence from self-improvement actually suited me! I was happy to let go of the pressure to be perfect and to allow myself to say, “I’m not sure.” It quieted the spiritual track coach in my head that had always been there, yelling things at me like, “Get down and give me 30 prayers, Rice! You’re lagging!” And interestingly enough, I actually became closer to God. God became more of a friend than something to figure out. We had a relationship that was loving and kind and intimate, rather than abusive and terrorizing.

I might have stayed in this place for a long time except that the self improvement junkie in me roared its ugly head once again. It was a gradual demise, one that was brought on by a miserable relationship and other life choices that really weren’t serving me. My unhappiness led me to the self-help sections of Barnes and Noble like a drunk to a bar, and before you could say “Ram Dass” I had filled up my bookshelves with new authors: Gary Zukav, Wayne Dyer, Joan Borysenko.

I fell off the wagon. I went to therapists and meditation centers and purchased The Secret and What the Bleep do We Know. Like any addict, my problem affected everyone around me; I dragged my ex to relationship seminars and weekend retreats, forced people to talk deeply and openly when they just wanted to chat, bought them workbooks to help them unblock their chakras and release limiting beliefs. I went through four years of intense, graduate level schooling in Spiritual Psychology and Counseling Psychology and gathered a whole new arsenal of self-improvement weapons: self counselings, projection work, inner child work, free form writing, ideal scenes…
I was a junkie once again, analyzing every one of my behaviors, every layer of my consciousness, every aspect of my relationships in order to figure out what I was doing or not doing that was creating the less-than-Nirvana-existence I thought I should be experiencing. I dialogued with my inner child, created vision boards, feng shui’ed my house, and made a meditation corner in my bedroom. I visualized myself thinner, less anxious, making more money, not wanting to strangle my child in the middle of the night, and when these things didn’t happen I assumed that I was the problem. I wasn’t visualizing it with enough feeling, or maybe I had the wrong color in the wealth and prosperity corner of my bagua. It could be that I wasn’t meditating long enough. It must be that I’m not meditating long enough. How come I don’t want to meditate longer?

My junkie friends didn’t help. They would offer me books, tantalize me with emails about the new Indigo-Child parenting workshops, invite me to peace meditations and labyrinth walks. They would explore the issue with me: “Have you done a self counseling on this? What might be the projection here, Amber? Have you created an ideal scene of what it is you really want?”

So, as you can see, I have to let Christianity off the hook. It’s not its fault, although you won’t see me at any church potlucks any time soon. I’m just a sucker for this notion that there’s a way, some way, to rid myself (and the world) of all of the stuff that is between me and perfection, the stuff about me (and others) that I have labeled bad and wrong, the stuff that I keep blaming for my (and others) unhappiness. Maybe the Buddha was right: “Life is suffering.” Maybe Jesus was right: “In this life there will be sorrow…” Maybe Rhonda Byrnes is right: “Everything in your life is your fault because you suck” – okay, maybe I’m paraphrasing a little.

The point is that I’m tired. For now, I’m quitting self-improving, cold turkey. No more book stores, no more graduate degrees, no more dharma centers. I’m going to pick up the new Harry Potter book, go to Sea World a lot, and watch a lot of bad reality TV without assessing what it is about me that needs the validation of watching really pretty people be completely vacant and idiotic. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll develop a relationship with myself that is more loving and kind and intimate, rather than abusive and terrorizing.

Dear Diary...

Another excellent excerpt from my junior high diaries:

10/28/89 Friday (note to reader: just turned 13)

I got home from Jr. High Camp today. God really moved in my life. I am now doing devotions every night. Kelly Malanga and Jody Hansen were my counselors. I had a rad cabin, too. Amber, Shay, Andrea Munden, Ruth Obregon, Jaime Slagel, Jaime White, Jennifer Jeremiah. I'm gonna keep track of what I learn in my journal. It should be great! You know what's strange? I think I finally like someone again. His name is Justin Weeks. He's Mr Weeks (our principals) son! He's cute, considerate, and VERY nice to me. He plays guitar very well. He is a Christian. Only one problem: he's in 7th grade. BUT, he's supposed to be in 8th. He's 6 months older than me, too. If he asked me, I might say yes. Well, gotta go!

11/6/89

I didn't realize how long it's been since I last wrote. Amber Rady went out with Justin, and when I found out I was so-o-o-o jealous. I told Amber that I was, too, because that way Satan can not get to me as bad.

But now, Amber's thinking of breaking up with him because they don't communicate as well as when they used to when they weren't going out.

If Justin were to ask me, which he might, maybe, possibly do, then I don't think I'd go out w/ him just because I know it won't last and when they break up, it's like they aren't friends anymore, and they're mad and so on.

Today was report cards and I got all A's and B's (big smiley face).

Dear Diary...

So, I found my junior high and high school diaries the other day and I have been absolutely horrified and delighted by them ever since. I was a WEIRD kid. I mean, weird. And while I would love to keep some shred of dignity in my life, I feel strongly that these jewels must be shared with the world.

So here they are. Enjoy!

March 31 (Easter) 1991 (note to reader: age 13) Long time, no write. I (heart) Kevin Chase. The guy I met at the Mexicali Outreach at the showers, who I've kissed, cried over, and become girlfriend to. I met him on March 25, sometime after 3:00 (he gave me that statistic). We hung around each other and for the rest of the best week of my life, we were known as a couple and I never felt so good. The people from San Andreas Community Covenant Church loved me so much and accepted me and I (heart) them all so much. Kevin called me twice today, and first asked me to be his girlfriend then told me he missed me and loved me. I told him the same. Oh. He's 17 and a Jr. He'll be 18 on Dec 5.

June 19 (the very next entry) Well, Kevin and I are still going out, but I think I need to break it off. I love Kevin and I would die for him. But since I (heart) him, I feel like I need to let him go to be free. We'll see each other once this summer at CHIC and I know that we'll just kiss and hug and hang all over each other like we did in Mexicali, but I also KNOW (underlined) that God doesn't want us together and that he has something better for me. But, I've already made a tape for Kevin and we're gonna see eachother, etc., and it's SO (underlined) hard. Plus, I need and want to be free, myself. I don't know how to tell Kevin this and I don't want it to be like we never write or talk ever again afterwards. I think I'll wait till after CHIC to break-up. BUT (underlined), I MUST HOLD MYSELF TO IT. I WILL!

I'm on ASB for the next year as the sophomore sec/treas. I LOVE (underlined) ASB. We've had a campout and a meeting so far -> both were great. The campout was great because I met Jeremy Buegge (heart heart heart)! He's SO COOL! But... Kevin...

ANYWAY, the meeting was w/ the administration and we got a LOT accomplished and disgussed (reader, note the spelling). I felt involved the whole meeting. I put my 2 cents worth in and a little more.

I can't wait to start working w/ everyone on ASB this summer and next year. I called today to see about the class of 94's account and I had been told that there probably would be only about $200 in there. But... there's $813.40 in it! I'm so stoked! I can't believe it!

Current events:

1. Swim -> Heartland swim is SO (underlined) hard. Bethany Anderson and I are doing it together and we are about to die. It will get us in shape, though.

2. Mom -> diet with Jenny Craig. So far, so good. She's lost more than half the weight she wants to.

3. ASB -> Buegge, Buegge, Buegge.

4. Nate -> Forest Home (I miss him)

Couples, or who likes who:

1. Amber Rady (I think) likes Jean. She did, and they had a little scuffle, and now she doesn't. It'll blow over.

2. Lisa Gawf and Bubba (Dave) Parris -> SCARY!

3. Steve Rees and Tammy Scenna -> CUTE!

4. Bethany Anderson is in (heart) with Brian Winkleman -> OKAY?

5. Meesha likes Brian Togabot -> AGAIN! OH NO!

6. Sarah Woolsey and Mike Murphy -> who knows?

Okay. Gotta go. It's 11:46pm.

Why Jack Will Need Therapy

I nearly killed Jack last night. On purpose.

Now, before I go any further, please believe me when I say that I love my son more than anything, even Taco Bell, and that given normal circumstances and enough sleep I genuinely enjoy him and like to be around him. He is – to some of my non-mom friend’s disgust, and quite frankly my own of women who said this before I had Jack – my entire life and life without him would simply be unlivable. So, don’t think I’m a total monster. Think of me as a sort of lesser monster, like Elmo or Oscar the Grouch: still a monster, yet harmless and kind of cute.

Okay, so qualifications done, I did want to kill my son last night. He just wouldn’t sleep, again, and at 3:30 am he was kicking and squirming and fussing and driving me over the edge of reason and sanity. Now, I can’t quite explain it, but there are these nights where I go totally ballistic when Jack won’t sleep. It’s like the slumbering rage-a-holic in me awakens every fortnight to feast on chubby baby legs. I am on the very verge of out of control, hot blood racing through my veins, adrenaline spiking, fists clenching. I feel like punching things, and often do (my bed, people, my bed!) and have had to replace my comforter cover because I tore it Hulk-a-maniac style a few months and a bad night ago.

I have told my mother, who does not seem to get how insane I become. If she did, she would probably take Jack away. What’s even more disturbing is that she sort of dismisses it, usually waving her hand as if batting at an annoying fly, and says something like, “I know! They can just drive you crazy, can’t they?” I guess I am supposed to be relieved that I am not the only one who wants to seriously injure my child, but it only makes me wonder what she did to me...

What’s weird is that there will be many days – weeks, even – that Jack will wake up, fuss, cry, need my attention, etcetera, etcetera, and I’m fine. I’m good. I’m what you might imagine a Care Bear would look like with its little baby. I’m all nurturing and cooing and sweet. Radiant, even. That’s why these little “occurrences” are so disturbing. It’s like the Care Bear ate after midnight and suddenly grew fangs, claws, and leathery bat-like ears, Gremlins style.

So, if you’ll permit me, I will explain to you what went down last night. Jack sleeps in the bed with me, which may cause you to write me off already. People have made it very clear to me that I am forever damaging my child by allowing him to sleep in the bed for fear that he will be 8 years old and still sleeping alongside his mama. Let’s just hope that in 8 years he’s still alive and I’m not behind bars. Jack sleeps with me because he’s up every 10 minutes and there’s no way I’m getting upright that often. That, and I’m kind of a hippie and like the whole family bed thing. See Dr. Sears, naysayers.

Anways, I’m sleeping - on the edge of the bed already because somehow his little 20 pound body takes up a lot of bed surface area - and it’s about 3:00am. I have been asleep for about two and a half hours. I hear his little “heghmff” sound and I know I’m on so I scoot him over and whip out the boob. He nurses for about 15 minutes and I wait to move until he seems very asleep. I very gingerly McGuyver him back into his little swaddled position, insert the pacifier, and pat his back which is the usual sleep-producing regimen that must be followed every single damn mother fucking ti- excuse me. (Exhale..,) Every time.

Except that this time it doesn’t work. I hear his little pacifier go “chink” as he spits it out, followed by another “Ugghmfft” sound. My hand frantically – yet quietly - sweeps for the pacifier on the sheets. He’s in that delicate place between sleep and awake, his body beginning to stir. The window is narrowing and I’m patting and soothing, trying to ease him back into sleep. But then I feel an arm swing at me and I realize he’s become totally unswaddled.

Damn.

Maybe he wants to stretch, I think, optimistically. Naively. Desperately. I take the blanket away and he pulls up into a big, yawning stretch and then turns over onto his belly. Oh, so he just wanted needed a change of position, I say to myself, and I help him move his arms into comfortable positions. After replacing the pacifier into his mouth and a few minutes of gentle patting, I lay my head back down and begin to drift.

But there it is again. “Chink,” followed by a “Heghmmft.”

Dammit!

My hands sweep the bed again, but this time I hit the pacifier, sending it flying down between the headboard and the mattress and onto the ground.

Goddammit!

I have to sit up fully now and reach down for the pacifier. Jack is stirring. He bends his knees underneath him, sticks his little diapered butt up in the air, and then sits up and surveys the room. He looks dazed and bewildered, like he’s not sure how he got upright.

My hand moves wildly on the floor and I find it.

Yes!

But my arm is stuck.

Son of a fucking bitch!

Jack blinks, makes eye contact with me, and starts to wail. I can feel myself getting angry, my blood boiling, riling me up to a state where it’s almost impossible for me to fall back asleep even if Jack does. The realization that this is happening to me just makes me angrier.

My frustration taking hold, I yank my arm free and grab his little tiny body. Anger is just oozing out of my body. My face feels hot and I feel like throwing things. I’m watching myself lose it; the force of my rage has broken through what little patience I had left, fatigue having rubbed a hole in the wall that held it back. I wrap him up again and stick the pacifier into his mouth, cursing and muttering under my breath the whole time. I do everything a little too hard: the swaddling, the rocking, the bouncing… I have these horrible, yet totally soothing fantasies of swinging him by the ankle and smashing him into the bed or taking him up to Corey and Janna’s apartment and throwing him at them.

Of course, none of this is soothing to him and he wails even louder, undoubtedly because he realizes his mother’s gone postal and is now jamming a pacifier into his mouth with a little more than a tad bit of hostility. I feel myself slipping further and further into insanity and the awareness that I am ready to squeeze the life out of him sobers me. I take him to his crib, lay him down and walk away, all the while fuming with this indescribable and totally irrational rage. My blood is pumping so loudly in my ears that I can barely hear his frantic sobs from his bedroom. I lie down on my bed, pull the covers over my head, and yell to him, “Mommy’s going to sleep. I don’t know what you’re doing, but Mommy’s going to sleep!”

I wanted him to feel bad. I wanted to punish him for being so damn needy, for requiring so much from me. I wanted him to see how irrational he was being, waking up in the middle of the night and demanding more and more and more. I wanted to scream at him, “What the hell do you want from me? I can only do so much! Can’t you understand this?”

I pounded the bed with my fists and threw some pillows across the room, letting myself have the temper tantrum I had been holding back. My hearing came back after a moment and suddenly I was aware of him again. I could hear him crying, crying these racking, miserable sobs, gulping for breath and air, hysterical and alone. Nine months old and banished in the middle of the night.

Enter self loathing.

I hated myself. I hated myself for leaving him alone, for being rough with him, for exposing him to such unsafe, scary energy. I hated that I had raged at him and then abandoned him simply because he had asked for his needs to be met. I hated that he didn’t understand any of this, that he could internalize this event and decide that asking for things is dangerous and wrong.

Shame, mixed with grief and sadness overcame me and I cried. I cried and I cried and I cried, the tears taking with them my anger and anxiety and fear. I curled up around myself and held the younger one inside of me who so desperately needed comfort, and I stayed there with her for a moment. This was what I needed now, to be held and nurtured, to have Someone bigger than me wrap Her arms around me and breathe with me. My body relaxed into this embrace and I let go of whatever it was I was holding onto: the fear of losing control, the ideas that I am not enough, the belief that things will not get better. Soothed and held, sanity returned to me and I opened my eyes.

I went into Jack’s room where he stood in his crib, his hands wrapped tightly around the bars of his crib, his face wet with tears. He was such a wreck that he didn’t even see me before I scooped him up, my heart filled with compassion. I held him close to me while he tried to catch his breath between sobs. “Forgive me, Jack. Please forgive me. I get so tired. It’s not your fault.”

I sat with him in the rocking chair, his body hot and unyielding. He shook with emotion as I whispered mantras of love into his ears. I prayed that he would forgive me, that I would forgive me, that this moment of repair would heal what had been broken.

After a while, his crying slowed down. His body became heavier and he laid his head down in the bend of my arm. He sighed, placed his hand upon my chest and began to breathe with me. Soothed and held, he let go of whatever he was holding onto, closed his eyes and drifted into sleep.