Life in Reverse.

I was a really odd teenager. I was terrified of drugs and alcohol. I was horrified at the idea of my parents being upset with me. I was even more worried about God not liking me and so the naughtiest thing I ever did was let my boyfriend touch my boobs under a houseboat on a family vacation to Lake Mead. And boy, did I feel awful about that. A good few weeks of repentant prayer, I'll tell you what.

I was really, really responsible. I studied hard and late into the night. I was in honors courses and took AP English. I was in the student body government for 3 out of the 4 years in high school. I took my job as a Christian very, very seriously and went through devotional books like it was some sort of spiritual porn. I prayed for those who didn't know the Lord, and I prayed for my friend, Amber Rady, who I found out had recently starting smoking cigarettes and who smelled like them after senior lunch last week. I prayed that I would always be focused on God, that I would honor him, that I would continue to grow closer and closer to him.

College wasn't much different. It didn't take long for me to become involved in the student ministries at my school and to be singing with the worship band in chapel. My 21st birthday went by without so much as getting tipsy and I created an accountability group to help rein in my crazy impulses to get naked with my boyfriend. When I walked across that stage and moved the tassel from one side to the other I had never been drunk, never had sex, never watched a porno, never smoked a cigarette, never smoked a joint, and never hung out with someone who was not a Christian. And I had never, ever, believed that it was okay to think for myself.

At 21 years old, I moved into a residential treatment facility for children who were victims of abuse and neglect to work as a houseparent. In short, I spent three years being a full-time mom to 10 boys who were in institutionalized foster care. At the age of 24, I became a licensed foster parent to raise one of these kids who I felt very connected to and whom I loved very deeply. My boyfriend and his two toddlers moved into my first apartment with my foster son and me and- literally overnight- I had become a wife and mother of three. By the age of 25, I had my first panic attack.

The weight of the responsibilities that I had borne were so overwhelming that I drove to a bar at one a.m. and drank 5 shots in a row, just before closing. When I called my boyfriend, I had no idea where I was. What I did know was that I felt like a little girl trying to take care of everyone around her. I was buckling.

The term "over-responsible" was new to me when I read about it in my graduate school studies a few years later. When I saw the word, it was as if it leaped off of the page and stamped itself on my forehead. I knew exactly what it meant. I knew without having to read about it that I would be defined in the sentences that followed afterword. And I knew immediately how it had set itself up in my consciousness.

My dad was a speaker and a writer for youth ministers around the world. He's kinda famous in the whole Christian subculture of America. As a kid and as a teenager, I spent a great deal of time at youth ministry seminars and conventions, surrounded by youth pastors and people like Tony Campolo, Duffy Robbins, Rich Van Pelt, and Mike Yaconelli. It was not uncommon for me to go to conventions like DC/LA or CHIC and have a staff pass so I could eat lunch with the guys from Jars of Clay or The Newsboys, or to have reserved seats with my name on them for the front row. Being my dad's daughter literally gave me a back-stage pass to the world of adults who make a living shaping teenagers into good Christian adults, and I found out really quick that I was hugely rewarded if I showed up as this uber responsible, well spoken, overly-devout, highly moral and on-fire-for-the-Lord teenager. These guys couldn't get enough of it! They would stroke me with compliments to my "maturity" and to my "heart for the Lord." They would soon realize that I was not like most teenagers who only care about sex and getting high and being angsty and hormonal.... no, I was one of them. I was this strange but amazing anomoly in the world of American teens. I was an adult in a teenager's body, not prone to the desires of the flesh but who's eyes were on the prize.

Now I know that the prize I was always seeking was approval from these men and women who were the leaders and celebrities of my culture. And I am also sadly aware that their attention and approval were filling in the space that was laid vacant by the perception that my own father did not see me or acknowledge me. To be seen and to be known, to be stroked and praised, to be acknowledged and recognized by these icons was an addictive salve for the wounded one inside. And so I became who they wanted me to be. I became the miniature adult, shirking the things of youth and vanity and play. I took in the sick and the wounded and the poor. I did mission trips and service projects and made it a point to sit next to the nerds and the weirdos at lunch, even if it meant social suicide. Jesus would have done it. Duffy definitely would have. The devotional I read last night said that I should.

In other words, I didn't have an adolescence. I didn't take any risky behaviors. I didn't experiment with drugs or multiple identities. I didn't get angry at my parents and tell them they didn't understand. I didn't become brooding and hormonal and lock mself away in my bedroom. In fact, I distanced myself away from all things adolescent and held a view of these behaviors as somehow weak, immature, and to be conquered. I didn't belong out there in the audience with the rest of the teenagers. I belonged backstage, here with the adults who were conspiring to wipe out the nasty adolescent bug that lurked in the hearts of the youth of America.

The effect is that I've lived life in reverse. I was a foster mother to teenagers in my early twenties, a stepmother to toddler/schoolaged girls in my midtwenties, and had a baby in my late twenties. And now, in my early 30's, I am finally doing the adolescence that I never had. Its a bit awkward, doing 17 at age 33, but as any psychology 101 student knows... one must complete and master each one of life's age stages. If not now, then you'll have to do it later.

I believe that this dynamic would be happening for me even if I didn't live with my parents in my childhood home, but the fact that I am living here makes everything just oh-so-much-more authentic. Like the fact that my parents walked in on me and a boy. Like how I just want them to leave me alone and pretend I don't exist. Like how I spend as much time as possible now locked inside my bedroom, listening to my music and watching my shows. Like how I hate that they want to know where I've been and where I'm going. Like how everything about them can drive me absolutely fucking nuts, like the way their breathing sounds or the way they scrape their fork across the plate. I want to sneak out every night. I want to punish them with a bad mood.

I find myself daydreaming and fantasizing about the day I can move out and be on my own, as if I didn't do that for 10+ years already. But to me, its as if I have traveled back in time to the Amber at 17 who drove away for college and never really came back until now. My relationship with my parent's didn't age even though I aged. I left at 17 and I am now back at 17, but this time feeling like the annoying, angsty, sex-crazed, wanna-get-high teenager in the audience who is just here to check out the boys.

My parents don't know what to think of me. I think they're worried. They see me taking risks and dating 22 year old boys and getting into trouble and having a bad attitude and they want to know what happened to their responsible, God-fearing daughter. I'm finally doing 17, that's what. Oddly, doing 17 at 33 makes sense to me. I think it actually makes more sense to do 17 at age 33. I can get into bars. I have a job and money. I have a car and can pass as an adult if I need to. But they won't understand that. Parents just don't understand.

Jesus and the Dinosaurs

My friend Billy sent me this with the caption, "I didn't understand evolution until this simple graphic explained the truth!" To me, this just perfectly captures the illogical weirdness that otherwise educated and intelligent people make room for in their belief systems that, when drawn out, just don't make sense. For instance, my friend has a master's degree in organic chemistry and she believes that there really were two of every kind of animal on Noah's arc. Really? Two of every animal? On a boat for forty days? That Noah built? Because God wanted to destroy all humans? Really? Or there's my friend, James, who still believes that we have never landed on the moon. And my friend, Cara, who believes that everyone is gay. Everyone, but we're all in denial.

I know I've got some too. I know that there are some really illogical ideas that I hold as truth simply because, if I question them, I'll realize that they're crazy. And then there goes my whole belief system. Like the belief that I need everyone to like me. And the belief that if someone's mad at me I'm to blame. And the belief that every relationship problem I've ever had is my fault.

This, of course, flows over into my parenting. I already know that every problem Jack will have in his life is because of me. I didn't prepare him well enough, I didn't model setting boundaries for him, I should have stayed home with him, he should have eaten only organic foods... I am your classic guilty parent.

Here's another one: conflict is scary and bad. Maybe this is the biggest one. Maybe this is the belief that I hold onto that drives my crazy behavior. I avoid conflict like the plague. You know that cooking show, Hell's Kitchen? Can't watch it. Or Jerry Springer? Nope. Even most court TV shows like Judge Judy send my anxiety through the roof. I can't stand to watch people in conflict.

Being this afraid of conflict is kind of like my friend, Cara, being angry that her mom won't admit to being gay. Which she isn't. And maybe conflict isn't bad. Maybe conflict is just something that naturally occurs when two or more people are placed in the same space. And maybe it feels bad but that's what gets us to communicate about it and reach an agreement. Or change our minds about the position we're holding. Or agree to disagree and still respect one another.

So maybe I need to rethink my illogical and weird views on conflict. Maybe my ridgid belief that conflict is bad and should be avoided at all costs is absurd. Maybe it has other people shaking their heads in disbelief, thinking, "You know, Amber is a bright girl but she still believes that conflict is bad. Can you believe it" Maybe this belief has been the big dinosaur in the room of my life... which, by the way, we don't know if Jesus ever rode them. But he probably did.

It's like Three Posts in One!

It seems that, most days, something occurs that prompts me to think, "I have to write a post on this!" There's just a lot going on these days. Good stuff, shitty stuff, painful stuff, laugh-out-loud stuff. I like having this space where I can document my what I'm all about in a given moment of time, like a snapshot into my consciousness that I can share and remember. So, for posterity's sake, I thought I'd show you my photo album of the most recent experiences, ideas, interests, and moods I've had in the past few weeks:

Conversations with Bod, part II
Remember how I said I was going to take me and my body into couples counseling? Because we had turned into a nasty, bitter, abusive old couple who doesn't remember how to say nice things to one another? Well, I did. For the past 10 weeks, I've been attending a process group called Conscious Eating. The philosophy (and one I whole-heartedly agree with) holds that women (and men, for that matter) will often use food to nurture, take care of, and soothe themselves when they are experiencing some kind of distress or disturbance. These disturbances are usually unconscious (we aren't aware that we're feeling scared, worried, angry, overwhelmed, whatever) but our body takes over and says, "Feed me! I need to be soothed! I'm freaking out over here!" So, we end up experiencing HUNGER when we really aren't hungry for food, but comfort.

Friends, family, readers: Whoa. Now, this may not seem like the neuroscience to you, but to me it is fucking shocking and AWESOME. In my work in this group, I am actually learning to distinguish between real hunger and anxiety. I am able to stop myself, mid-stride to the fridge, and say, "Wait a minute, I'm not even hungry! I'm feeling overwhelmed and overstimulated right now! It's not food I want- it's solitude!" And, even better, I'm starting to give myself this stuff that I need. Like, today, I came home from my day job and laid down on my bed for 15 minutes and gave myself a little moment of rest and breath. Normally, I would have come home and stuffed my face with nachos in order to calm myself down. And yesterday, I closed my door at work, sat on the floor of my office, and listened to Cold Play on my Ipod for awhile instead of hitting Jack in the Box for an Oreo Shake.

There's this whole notion in Conscious Eating that we're overeating in an attempt to feed the other hungers in our lives. Like the hunger for meaningful friendships. Or creative expression. Or to feel passionately about anything, like our work or our husband or our hobbies. Me? I hunger solitude. And down time. Leisure is a thing of my past, a treasure I took for granted before Jack, before single parenthood, before two jobs. I am never alone and I crave it like a junkie.

But what really shocks me is this: I have been living with anxiety for as long as I can remember. But I didn't know it! I didn't know that the nagging, jittery, frantic and unsoothed energy in my abdomen that has been there forever was anxiety. I just..., well, it's just always been there. And people, that feels like hunger sometimes. Or, I interpreted it as hunger because food is soothing and numbing, like a hard shot of whiskey, and it quiets down that nervous energy.

Nerpal
About a year ago, my tortoise, Nerpal, who has lived with me since he was just a baby, ran away from home. Well, not ran, but you get the idea. I was super bummed out since he's lived with me for about 10 years now and I always anticipated that he'd be this 137 year old tortoise living with my kids' kids some day. He's an odd little guy because he's barely grown in the ten years I've had him, leaving tortoise experts puzzled and saying only, "Maybe he's a dwarf tortoise." Seriously. And even using the pronoun "he" is a bit of a misnomer since his size makes it impossible to determine if he really is even a he. Anywho, he ran away.

A few weeks ago, I was at one of the tenants apartments doing some move-out paperwork with them. The wife casually mentions that they're almost totally finished moving out except they can't figure out what to do with their turtle. The one they found in the parking lot. A year ago.

So, Nerpal and I have been reunited. I was so excited that I called everyone I knew who knew Nerpal that night, even though it was late. Jack nearly shit a brick the first time he saw him; I hadn't really considered how a two-year old would conceptualize the crawling-rock-with-eyes coming toward him in his back yard.

Join My Radish Commune
I'm becoming a communist. Or, I want to. There's so much to say about this that maybe I should save it for another entry. Let's just say that I'm over this notion of living separated and disjointed from one another, from the earth, from our children, and from ourselves. I am longing for community, a sense of togetherness and support and common purpose. I think we are all dying from disconnection; everywhere I turn I see overwhelmed, unsupported, unknown people who have no one to reach out to. No place to plug in. No place to feel useful or wanted or meaningful. I see this especially in children who feel herded from one place to another, from school to the after-school day care to the TV at home. We are outsourcing the parenting and soul-development of our children to others. I'm guilty, too, but not for long. It's my intention to live differently, in intentional community.

Jack

Which leads me to Jack, who colors my world and my walls and without whom my life would be so much easier. But who wants easy when they can have this:(mascara)

I am enough.

So, I tried out a new therapist a few weeks ago in the hopes of finding someone who could say to me, "Oh, silly Amber, here's the problem. You just need to do this and you'll feel better." Which is crazy because, as a therapist myself, I know that this rarely happens. But still. I wanted him to help me unearth this thing, this deeply rooted thing that creates so much discomfort in my life and help me kill it good.

Instead, we talked about a lot of things, about this sense of urgency I have to get a job that supports myself and my son, about how I hate my line of work, about how I get both excited and depressed at the idea of leaving Jack at daycare. We talked about how I have irrationally believed that we are all on a sinking ship and that Jesus left me in charge of fixing it. He told me that I was anhedonic- that I have an inability to experience pleasure- and that I need to learn how to let go of this idea that if I am good to myself then others will suffer.

I told him to try growing up in Sunday School and not get that idea. I also told him that he has never seen me in a karaoke bar and if he had, he would not describe me as anhedonic.

I also told him that I do experience pleasure in my life, but then I immediately experience anxiety about it. Pleasure is something I was taught is bad, is not to be trusted, is sinful and indulgent. Be ye not of the flesh, says the Bible and about every youth pastor I ever listened to. Week after week at Bible study I would sit amongst my peers and listen as some girl the youth pastor had recruited to share her "testimony." Head down, voice filled with shame, tears falling down her cheeks, she would recount her story of debauchery and flagrant hedonism. She would tell us about how Satan had deceived her into thinking that using drugs, having sex, and listening to rock-n-roll would make her happy. She would talk about the abortion she had and how she thinks about her unborn baby every day, how she can't go to sleep at night without crying. She would beg us to listen to her story and to give our lives over to God, to be chaste and chase away the temptations of the flesh.

While I think that the intention of her story was to help us avoid creating needless suffering in our young lives, I think that I came away with a different lesson: pleasure = disastrous consequences. This, paired with my totally ridiculous sense of over-responsibility for other people's suffering, makes it very difficult for me to even be aware of what I might just like to do with my life.

LIKE to do with my life. Not should do. Not need to do. Like to do.

(By the way... does anyone know of any job openings for a professional ice-cream over-eater? Or a lay-out-by-the-pool-reading-Candace-Bushnell-novels-
while-sipping-margueritas-er? Perhaps you know someone who has a couch that is in need of someone to lay on it while watching marathons of Project Runway and My Life on the D List. If so, let me know and I'll send them my resume.)

Jesus, who was my Michael Jordan, was a martyr. As it was told to me, he died because the world was so shitty that God was going to kill it unless someone sacrificed his/her life. I wonder if Jesus ever really had fun. I wonder if he went through life feeling really responsible for everybody all of the time. I wonder if he ever said to himself, "You know, there's that leper colony over by Nazareth that I really should go and heal but dammit, I'm tired of sick people. I'd really rather go snowboarding today."

I'm reminded of the time when he was surrounded by needy people and he just vanished into thin air to get away from them. Jesus, I can relate. How did you give yourself permission to take care of yourself? Did you feel guilty for not sticking around?

During dinner tonight with a friend, I was describing this restless malcontent that I experience when I'm not out crusading for something big and important. I've done a lot of crusading and it appears that I have a great deal of my identity all wrapped up in being a savior. I'm having a hard time just being enough as I am right now, a single mom who works as a nanny and an apartment manager and who is exhausted by 7:30pm every night. I'm not "using" my degrees, I'm not writing a book, I'm not contributing to a cause, I'm not reading anything important. This all makes me very nervous. And yet, I can't think of anything that I want to crusade for.

What my new therapist did ask me was this: "What is the most important thing to you right now?" Without hesitation I answered, "That Jack get a good start at life. That I provide him with a solid foundation from which he can flourish." He then asked me, "Are you doing that?" And I knew that I was. I am doing what is most important to me and yet I still feel like it's not enough, that I'm not contributing, that I'm never going to feel useful again.

It's time to unravel this mess of pleasure equals hurt and usefulness equals worthiness. I'm just not sure where to start.

Flood

In psychotherapy, we use the term emotional flooding to describe the sensation of experiencing many emotions bursting forward at the same time, which can be a very overwhelming experience. In plumbing, we use the term water damage to describe what happened to my apartment two weeks ago when some flooding of the non-emotional sort took place. Also a very overwhelming experience.

I know that there is some sort of symbolism in water flowing out of my front door like Niagra Falls, but I don't want to explore how my outer experience is a reflection of my inner experience. In fact, I don't even really want to be present to my life right now. I would much rather numb out with TV and peanutbutter ice cream, lock my doors and turn off my cell phones and just sort of go away. I would, if it weren't for Jack, who yanks me out of unconsciousness with his demand to live life fully.

I've been angry at Jack for slapping me awake, wishing he would just let me sleep for ten minutes. Please. Just ten minutes. But maybe life knew that to allow me to do so would be quite dangerous and so sent Jack to be my EMT, always shouting at me, "Stay with me! Stay with me!" But oh, how I just want to shut my eyes sometimes.

WWJD

I’m going through another phase, as I often do. It's a phase in my thinking, one that I will think will change my life forever- once I figure it out. But I said that last week about about a diet program I saw on TV. Anyways, this current life-changing phase revolves around these two suffixes: –ish and –less.

When placed behind the word self, two new words are created that have very different meanings. Due to my Sunday School teachings and various after school specials, I learned that selfish = bad, while selfless = good. I mean, let’s face it. Jesus was the epitome of self-less: went through hell, was tortured and crucified for the world, etc. And we’re all supposed to try to be like him, right? Isn’t that what it means when it says, “Deny yourself, pick up your cross and follow Jesus?”

I heard a lot of stuff about selfish vs. selfless. Selfless people were always revered on Sunday mornings at church. There would be a slide presentation about the Walsh family in Peru who were living amongst the aborigines who would daily threaten the Walsh children’s lives by putting deadly snakes in their cribs and dragging them down to the river to be eaten by the crocodiles. And yet the Walsh family continued to be of service to the Lord and to the Tichian tribe of Peru by spreading the good gospel. And would you consider sending $20.00 – just the cost of a cup of coffee a day – to the Walsh family so that they can buy the necessary vaccines and snake venom antidotes that they need to continue their ministry?

They never did a slide show on the Stewart family that took a rejuvenating vacation to Cabo that summer after a long year of being a soccer mom and VP of sales at Qualcom. They didn’t talk about how great it was that the Stewarts flew first class and ate at five-star dining establishments in an effort to enjoy themselves and the beauty of the world around them. (Unless, of course, the Stewarts spent their time in Cabo passing out tracks and reciting the sinner’s prayer with other beach goers on vacation. Then they might get a nod from the pastor).

In fact, as a child I was often able to detect a hint of disdain from the pulpit for families like the Stewart’s. It seemed that I was warned against this kind of hedonism, this blatant soothing of the flesh that has no reward in heaven. “Do not build up your treasures here on earth,” “do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit,” “no one should seek out his own good but the good of others,” etc. I was groomed to be a martyr, to care more about others than myself, to feel guilty every time I walked past a homeless man without offering him my last silver coins. I was taught that by choosing a cup of coffee instead of sending my allowance to Peru, I was choosing to let children die.

So, fast forward 10, 20 years and here I am, still wrestling with my guilt over buying my venti iced coffee instead of sending $29.99 to end genocide in Darfur. And I’m serious, folks. I feel like I am choosing to let children die every time I enjoy that sweet, milky coffee that seems to switch me from off to on every morning. How could I be so selfish, the preacher’s voice inside my head asks? How could you deny Jesus in this way? How could you care more about your own comfort over the lives of dying women and children in Darfur?

I used to listen to this voice religiously. Out of a tremendous sense of responsibility for the world’s poor and sick and hungry, I sent my money to Compassion and Amnesty and the Red Cross. I ate a completely vegan diet for two years when I realized how the raising of farm animals devastated the earth and its resources. I’ve lobbied congress, sent letter to my senators, complained on the White House comment line. I became a social worker and a foster parent to rescue abused children. I only buy clothing made in the US in order to prevent the proliferation of sweat shops… but I still feel guilty. I still feel guilty for the amount of water I waste every day, for spending $25.00 on a pretty shower curtain, for wanting to give birth to another child instead of preferring to adopt one. I feel guilty for having what I have and for wanting more. I feel guilty for taking up space on the planet at all.

I’m tired of feeling bad for enjoying a cup of coffee. I want to be done with the anxiety that comes along with this tremendous sense of over-responsibility and I am ready to embrace the beauty of the world around me without apologizing for my first-class plane ticket. But I don’t know how yet.

Perhaps there is a clue to this issue of suffixes in the question written on the slap bracelet I used to wear so proudly: What Would Jesus Do? This always seemed like an easy question: give your stuff away, die for each other, turn the other cheek, become a doormat, etc. But maybe this isn’t accurate at all. Perhaps I had Jesus all wrong. As I recall, he did put Judas in his place when Judas chastised the woman for “wasting” expensive perfume on Jesus’s feet. Judas argued that the money could have been used for the poor, but Jesus told him, “There will always be poor, but I won’t be around long. Enjoy me while I’m here.”

So, what would Jesus do? Seems to me that he might just order the venti iced coffee, and add a blueberry scone to go with it. He might even have done so in designer sandals. Maybe there is a way to enjoy the bounty and beauty of this life without feeling guilty, without feeling as if I’m stealing from the poor. Maybe.

Can't See The Forest for the Zzzzzz's

I tend to overthink things, sometimes. I mean ridiculously, neurotically overthink things. Like the time my ex-boyfriend was watching a TV commercial for orange juice and said, "Man, a glass of orange juice sounds good right now," and I immediately thought that he was disappointed in me for not having our refrigerator stocked with orange juice. Maybe this is more of an example of how pathetically insecure I am, but I think it could also point to my overthinking as well.

Symantics aside, this little trait of mine roared its ugly little head recently when I called my good friend, Donovan, in the middle of the night in a state of total despair. See, my son, who I love more than anything, even the TV show LOST, is apparently allergic to sleep. He has never slept more than a few hours at a time since the day he was born which was ten months ago. A typical night looks like this:

go down at 8:30
wake up at 10:00 - rock for 15 minutes
wake up 11:45 - nurse and rock for 25 minutes
wake up at 12:30 - needs pacifier
wake up at 1:15 - pat butt for 10 minutes
wake up at 2:30 - nurses for 15 minutes
wake up at 3:45 - wants to play; makes "bob, bob, bob" sounds; needs to be re-swaddled and rocked and nursed back to sleepy mode - 45 minutes
wake up at 5:30 - more butt patting
wake up at 6:30 - butt pat, pacifier
wake up at 7:30 - up for the day.

So, when I made the call to my friend, Donovan, I unloaded onto him about how much resentment was brewing in my body toward Jack, how little I was enjoying him lately, and how frustrated I was becoming with him during the night. I was worried, real worried, about what this all meant, about how I might be making all of the wrong choices in raising him, how maybe subconsciously I wanted him to wake up or that maybe we were too enmeshed. I started doubting myself as a parent, as a good person, and began to wonder if I had been abused as a child and the rage I was experiencing was a result of buried, subconscious and unresolved trauma. I worried about how this would all affect him someday, and envisioned him as a brooding, black-eyeliner-wearing teenager who listens to the Dead Kennedy's and refuses to open his bedroom door. I cried and cried and cried on the phone, my life looking bleak and utterly complicated, and then Donovan said to me:

"Amber, I think you just need some sleep."

Internet, I swear that this had not occurred to me. These words hit me like the proverbial fry pan to the head. Could it really be that simple?

He went on. "I could sit here and process all of this stuff with you, Amber, but I really think that you're just sleep deprived."

Sometimes I need people to just point out the obvious to me, to show me the forest amongst the trees, to give me a big helping of some good ol' fashioned common sense. Maybe I do just need sleep.

He was right, of course, and I got some (thanks to Mirna, Janna, and my Mom).

Now I need to go get some orange juice.

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.

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.