I’ve always sensed my sister-in-law doesn’t like me. She never wants to chat. She never invites me to do things. When I drop something off at her house, she usually doesn’t even open her door all the way.
This morning she called to say she was coming by to pick up something. I went out and started sweeping my yard. I found myself hoping she’d arrive in time to see me. Maybe she’d think, “Why, look--I’ve misjudged Poe; she's industrious. I want to make her my best friend and queen of the world.” (I'm telling the truth--this is the way my mind works.)
By the time sister-in-law rang the doorbell, I had long finished sweeping. Opening the front door, I realized I'd never cleaned the doorstep, which was absolutely filthy with leaves and debris.
Big sigh.
Oh well...
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Saturday, August 22, 2009
“These Seats Are Saved," Part Two
November 1997: One of my favorite Al-Anon speakers, Father Tom W, is doing a Twelve-Step workshop in San Jose, a town I’ve never visited. Eager to hear him again, I do a most brave thing—drive up there by myself. I follow the map, everything goes fine.
Until I enter the church where the workshop is. I find myself in a huge room filled with dozens of large round tables. Several hundred strangers are taking their seats. I stare around the room. Panic. Junior High. How will I find a seat when I don’t know a soul?
But I have been in Program for seven years. So I pray, “God, show me where to sit.” Immediately I feel a Powerful Nudge toward one table. Only two people are sitting there, lots of empty seats. I go up and say, “Okay if I sit here?”
They respond, “NO! WE’RE SAVING THESE SEATS.” (In every organization there are always a few people who don’t “get it.”)
But I feel like I’d been slapped. I respond with a cheery “Oh, okay!” like getting shut out at an Al-Anon event is everybody’s favorite experience. I stumble to an empty table and drop into a chair, shaking with shame and humiliation. But mostly with anger. (“Hey, God, I thought you were my friend. Did I not ask you for a safe place to sit? Why did you direct me to that snake pit?)
People come up to my table. Of course I let anyone sit there who wants to. The whole time I am still thinking,: “Why Why Why? Does this just confirm what I’ve always known-- nobody likes me? Born human by mistake?”
Then I notice a late-comer, a young woman with a very familiar deer-in-the-headlights expression. She obviously doesn’t know a soul either. But by now all the tables are filled.
I call out, “Would you like to sit at our table? We’ll make room for you.” Relief lights up her face. We find an extra chair, everyone scoots over, and waitstaff brings another place setting. Suddenly I am not in a room full of strangers; the young woman and I become instant friends. (Now THAT’S the Al-Anon way)
Clever Reader, do you get my meaning: God is in how I respond—Will I succumb to shame and resentment or will I let Badness motivate me to do the opposite?
“If in the course of a day you run into somebody who doesn't like you, that happens sometimes. If in the course of the day you run into three or more people who don't like you, you’re the one who doesn't like you.”
Father Tom W, paraphrased
Until I enter the church where the workshop is. I find myself in a huge room filled with dozens of large round tables. Several hundred strangers are taking their seats. I stare around the room. Panic. Junior High. How will I find a seat when I don’t know a soul?
But I have been in Program for seven years. So I pray, “God, show me where to sit.” Immediately I feel a Powerful Nudge toward one table. Only two people are sitting there, lots of empty seats. I go up and say, “Okay if I sit here?”
They respond, “NO! WE’RE SAVING THESE SEATS.” (In every organization there are always a few people who don’t “get it.”)
But I feel like I’d been slapped. I respond with a cheery “Oh, okay!” like getting shut out at an Al-Anon event is everybody’s favorite experience. I stumble to an empty table and drop into a chair, shaking with shame and humiliation. But mostly with anger. (“Hey, God, I thought you were my friend. Did I not ask you for a safe place to sit? Why did you direct me to that snake pit?)
People come up to my table. Of course I let anyone sit there who wants to. The whole time I am still thinking,: “Why Why Why? Does this just confirm what I’ve always known-- nobody likes me? Born human by mistake?”
Then I notice a late-comer, a young woman with a very familiar deer-in-the-headlights expression. She obviously doesn’t know a soul either. But by now all the tables are filled.
I call out, “Would you like to sit at our table? We’ll make room for you.” Relief lights up her face. We find an extra chair, everyone scoots over, and waitstaff brings another place setting. Suddenly I am not in a room full of strangers; the young woman and I become instant friends. (Now THAT’S the Al-Anon way)
Clever Reader, do you get my meaning: God is in how I respond—Will I succumb to shame and resentment or will I let Badness motivate me to do the opposite?
“If in the course of a day you run into somebody who doesn't like you, that happens sometimes. If in the course of the day you run into three or more people who don't like you, you’re the one who doesn't like you.”
Father Tom W, paraphrased
Monday, August 17, 2009
Shyness and Bathrooms
Most folks have no idea how shy I am. Last Saturday, someone said I “light up a room.” She’d never guess at that moment I was fighting the urge to run and hide in the bathroom.
A Recent Event:
In the grocery store parking lot, I spot a neighbor, a very nice woman-- friendly and pleasant; my daughter used to feed her cats when they went on vacation. But I am so afraid of engaging that woman in conversation, I turn so she can’t see me. Later I ask myself what I was so scared of. I have no idea; I guess I always expect that if people get to know me, they will reject me.
It all started in seventh grade. For the whole year, I was persona non grata. Nobody wanted to be my friend. Imagine the pain of going every day to the lunchroom, knowing you’d have to sit all alone. Sometimes I couldn’t even do that: “You can’t sit here; All these seats are saved.”
Finally I just stopped going to lunch, and spent the whole lunch hour hiding out in the restroom. What did I do all that time? I’d walk around and around and around. Scrape paint off the radiator. Look in the mirror and comb my wretched curly hair. Worry that someone would come in and find me. Of course I got terribly hungry. Sometimes I sneaked out into the hall and bought a pecan pie from the vending machine.
By eighth grade I’d found a couple of other losers to eat lunch with. Then in high school I became a hippie. That way I could pretend it was me rejecting them, not the other way around. I found a whole crowd of like-minded kids to hang with.
But in college, the fears started all over again. I spent most of my time reading in my room, too scared to go out and risk rejection. It was terribly lonely. I’d discovered this new magazine, Ms, and ached for someone to discuss it with.
One day I saw a poster advertising a feminist retreat and signed up. I drove there on a Friday night, checked in, and took my suitcase to my room. Then I panicked. I couldn’t go out and face all those strangers; I just couldn’t. I would spend the weekend in the room. I saw no other option.
Then a funny thing happened. I thought, “That is just too stupid, even for me. I paid money to come to this retreat. Am I gonna let it go to waste?”
I felt like I was walking into the valley of death, but I went out into the dining room, sat at a table and forced myself to talk to people. Today I consider it one of the bravest and best moments of my life.
But I still have a long way to go.
A Recent Event:
In the grocery store parking lot, I spot a neighbor, a very nice woman-- friendly and pleasant; my daughter used to feed her cats when they went on vacation. But I am so afraid of engaging that woman in conversation, I turn so she can’t see me. Later I ask myself what I was so scared of. I have no idea; I guess I always expect that if people get to know me, they will reject me.
It all started in seventh grade. For the whole year, I was persona non grata. Nobody wanted to be my friend. Imagine the pain of going every day to the lunchroom, knowing you’d have to sit all alone. Sometimes I couldn’t even do that: “You can’t sit here; All these seats are saved.”
Finally I just stopped going to lunch, and spent the whole lunch hour hiding out in the restroom. What did I do all that time? I’d walk around and around and around. Scrape paint off the radiator. Look in the mirror and comb my wretched curly hair. Worry that someone would come in and find me. Of course I got terribly hungry. Sometimes I sneaked out into the hall and bought a pecan pie from the vending machine.
By eighth grade I’d found a couple of other losers to eat lunch with. Then in high school I became a hippie. That way I could pretend it was me rejecting them, not the other way around. I found a whole crowd of like-minded kids to hang with.
But in college, the fears started all over again. I spent most of my time reading in my room, too scared to go out and risk rejection. It was terribly lonely. I’d discovered this new magazine, Ms, and ached for someone to discuss it with.
One day I saw a poster advertising a feminist retreat and signed up. I drove there on a Friday night, checked in, and took my suitcase to my room. Then I panicked. I couldn’t go out and face all those strangers; I just couldn’t. I would spend the weekend in the room. I saw no other option.
Then a funny thing happened. I thought, “That is just too stupid, even for me. I paid money to come to this retreat. Am I gonna let it go to waste?”
I felt like I was walking into the valley of death, but I went out into the dining room, sat at a table and forced myself to talk to people. Today I consider it one of the bravest and best moments of my life.
But I still have a long way to go.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
News Bulletin 8-16-09
Ms. Poe is giving her favorite New York cousins a tour of Yosemite. Amazingly enough, her decisions have not caused grief; in fact, even Poe's husband seems to be having a good time.
(Tune in tomorrow for the usual tale of neurosis and trauma and drama.)
(Tune in tomorrow for the usual tale of neurosis and trauma and drama.)
Saturday, August 8, 2009
In Case No One Can Tell, I Am Neurotic. The Only Cure is For Me to Tell You About It.
Next week my cousin and her daughters are visiting from NY. They’ve never been to California before, so a trip to Yosemite is in order. I also thought about taking them for a steam train ride outside the park.
But then my husband hates the idea of the train ride. He’s not even keen to go to Yosemite. He insists we take them hiking in the High Sierras instead.
I panic.
In alcoholic homes we learn to discount our perceptions and tolerate abuse. All my life I’ve been told that I have no common sense, that I do everything wrong. It doesn’t help that I married the kind of guy tells me I put dishes away in the wrong order.
Despite my feminism, I still carry within me the resounding attitude of “Men Always Get It Right.” This was Accepted Truth for my first twenty years. Beliefs like that just don’t go away when society changes--they stick in you, crowding in at inopportune moments. Like when planning this trip. How do I tell who is right here--me or JR?
I ask the advice of two friends who tell me, “Do it your way.” Still I can’t move. What if I’m wrong and everybody has a bad time? What if JR gets mad?
Meanwhile I need to make arrangements quick because time is running out.
“You see?” says my brain, “You are a loser because you’re not taking care of this.” (This is the way folks talked to me as a kid. It never fixed anything, but I still carry on the tradition.)
I think, “This is JR's fault for always being so critical of me. Tomorrow I’m splitting with my half of Community Property.”
But first I need to decide about the cousins.
The Amazing Solution
Finally I sit down at kitchen table and imagine I am my own loving mother, the kind I needed as a kid. I tell myself, “Look at wonderful you, sitting at the kitchen table. I approve of you, I bless you. You don’t have to do it perfect."
Immediately I know just what to do: Take the train ride, see Yosemite, skip the High Sierras. I call, make reservations (scared to death it’ll be too late and the person on the phone will sneer at Stupid Me. But there's plenty of room.)
I call JR and say, “I know you wanted to do it your way, but I need to develop the confidence that comes from doing what I think is right.”
Bless him, he says the magic words: “If it makes you happy, I’ll be happy.”
Total Triumph!
Virgin mother bless me, so vagrantly insecure.
I need your assurance
No one is mad at me.
I can breathe.
Just guide and accompany me
My faery Queen, my loving support,
Mother Over All
Guide me, nourish me, bless me.
But then my husband hates the idea of the train ride. He’s not even keen to go to Yosemite. He insists we take them hiking in the High Sierras instead.
I panic.
In alcoholic homes we learn to discount our perceptions and tolerate abuse. All my life I’ve been told that I have no common sense, that I do everything wrong. It doesn’t help that I married the kind of guy tells me I put dishes away in the wrong order.
Despite my feminism, I still carry within me the resounding attitude of “Men Always Get It Right.” This was Accepted Truth for my first twenty years. Beliefs like that just don’t go away when society changes--they stick in you, crowding in at inopportune moments. Like when planning this trip. How do I tell who is right here--me or JR?
I ask the advice of two friends who tell me, “Do it your way.” Still I can’t move. What if I’m wrong and everybody has a bad time? What if JR gets mad?
Meanwhile I need to make arrangements quick because time is running out.
“You see?” says my brain, “You are a loser because you’re not taking care of this.” (This is the way folks talked to me as a kid. It never fixed anything, but I still carry on the tradition.)
I think, “This is JR's fault for always being so critical of me. Tomorrow I’m splitting with my half of Community Property.”
But first I need to decide about the cousins.
The Amazing Solution
Finally I sit down at kitchen table and imagine I am my own loving mother, the kind I needed as a kid. I tell myself, “Look at wonderful you, sitting at the kitchen table. I approve of you, I bless you. You don’t have to do it perfect."
Immediately I know just what to do: Take the train ride, see Yosemite, skip the High Sierras. I call, make reservations (scared to death it’ll be too late and the person on the phone will sneer at Stupid Me. But there's plenty of room.)
I call JR and say, “I know you wanted to do it your way, but I need to develop the confidence that comes from doing what I think is right.”
Bless him, he says the magic words: “If it makes you happy, I’ll be happy.”
Total Triumph!
Virgin mother bless me, so vagrantly insecure.
I need your assurance
No one is mad at me.
I can breathe.
Just guide and accompany me
My faery Queen, my loving support,
Mother Over All
Guide me, nourish me, bless me.
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