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.
Monday, August 17, 2009
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.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Three-Minute Memoir
The first time Dad came home from rehab, he was crazy—just mad, mad, mad all the time. He even laughed angry: “HA! HA! HA!” with eyebrows down. He blamed all his mistakes on the rest of us: “You made me take the wrong turn. You made me lose my temper. You made me break the TV.”
In those day, the man of the house was God. You did not question him. I knew I must be a very bad girl indeed.
Fast forward thirty years. It’s the morning of my daughter’s 5th birthday party. We’ve gone out to buy party favors. But when we leave the store, our car won’t start. Rats. The party’s three hours away.
Fortunately my parents live just a few miles away. Mom says she’ll send dad right over, so my daughter and I sit down on the curb and wait. And wait. And wait.
Nervously I remember all the years when he’d get drunk and forget to pick me up at school or the park and I had to walk home. But he’s been sober eighteen months now. What could have happened? An accident?
Forty-five minutes later, he pulls into the parking lot. Sheepishly he says, “Sorry. I got lost.”
Instantly I go into a blind rage. As my daughter and I get in, it’s all I can do to keep from screaming at him, hitting him.
Meanwhile dad is chauffeuring us all over town so we can get everything else we need for the party.
I know I'm nuts, but I can’t stop.
I try self-analysis: Am I feeling angry because even in recovery he’s still not the father I always wanted? Is anger bubbling up from years I was the weak, powerless child, terrorized by an all-powerful, violent Dad?
If anything, my rage increases.
I tell myself, Dad is sober now. He made his amends to you months ago.(Actually he felt so bad he made them twice.)
This has no effect.
Finally, at wit's end, I try praying, “God,I turn my life and my will over to you. Show me how you want me to be.”
Suddenly my hand reaches over and pats dad on the knee. I find myself saying, “You know, you’re the best dad in the whole world.” I’m not putting on, it’s exactly how I feel. With no effort or thought on my part, all my rage has simply evaporated.
Dad looks surprised. He says, “Well, thank you. I think you’re the best daughter.” With this, he pulls into our driveway in plenty of time for what turns out to be the best party ever.
In those day, the man of the house was God. You did not question him. I knew I must be a very bad girl indeed.
Fast forward thirty years. It’s the morning of my daughter’s 5th birthday party. We’ve gone out to buy party favors. But when we leave the store, our car won’t start. Rats. The party’s three hours away.
Fortunately my parents live just a few miles away. Mom says she’ll send dad right over, so my daughter and I sit down on the curb and wait. And wait. And wait.
Nervously I remember all the years when he’d get drunk and forget to pick me up at school or the park and I had to walk home. But he’s been sober eighteen months now. What could have happened? An accident?
Forty-five minutes later, he pulls into the parking lot. Sheepishly he says, “Sorry. I got lost.”
Instantly I go into a blind rage. As my daughter and I get in, it’s all I can do to keep from screaming at him, hitting him.
Meanwhile dad is chauffeuring us all over town so we can get everything else we need for the party.
I know I'm nuts, but I can’t stop.
I try self-analysis: Am I feeling angry because even in recovery he’s still not the father I always wanted? Is anger bubbling up from years I was the weak, powerless child, terrorized by an all-powerful, violent Dad?
If anything, my rage increases.
I tell myself, Dad is sober now. He made his amends to you months ago.(Actually he felt so bad he made them twice.)
This has no effect.
Finally, at wit's end, I try praying, “God,I turn my life and my will over to you. Show me how you want me to be.”
Suddenly my hand reaches over and pats dad on the knee. I find myself saying, “You know, you’re the best dad in the whole world.” I’m not putting on, it’s exactly how I feel. With no effort or thought on my part, all my rage has simply evaporated.
Dad looks surprised. He says, “Well, thank you. I think you’re the best daughter.” With this, he pulls into our driveway in plenty of time for what turns out to be the best party ever.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
A Little "Acts of Kindness" in the Night
I'm feeling a little low today, so I will list ten good things I did this week.
1. I got exercise three times.
2. I had a disagreement with a friend, but listened to her side first, then repeated back what she’d said before giving my side. (I had never done this before and I highly recommend it.)
3. When dining away from home, I use my own bamboo silverware instead of plastic. (Available at REI.com under the name To-Go Ware)
4. I scraped somebody’s car in the parking lot, but I left a note with an apology and my phone number.
5. I worked really hard to not beat myself up for the above, mostly by telling myself that these things happen to everybody.
6. I finished the rough draft of my Easy Reader.
7. When I went grocery shopping, I bought an extra can of food to donate to the food bank.
8. I wanted to overeat but called my friend Nance instead.
9. I was subbing for my meeting’s secretary and remembered to get there on time.
10. I bought books from a small local bookstore instead of a chain.
You know, it's funny how hard it is to list positive things like that, but they always lift my mood.
Maybe some of my readers could send me a list of good things about themselves, either here or in an e-mail. How about it?
1. I got exercise three times.
2. I had a disagreement with a friend, but listened to her side first, then repeated back what she’d said before giving my side. (I had never done this before and I highly recommend it.)
3. When dining away from home, I use my own bamboo silverware instead of plastic. (Available at REI.com under the name To-Go Ware)
4. I scraped somebody’s car in the parking lot, but I left a note with an apology and my phone number.
5. I worked really hard to not beat myself up for the above, mostly by telling myself that these things happen to everybody.
6. I finished the rough draft of my Easy Reader.
7. When I went grocery shopping, I bought an extra can of food to donate to the food bank.
8. I wanted to overeat but called my friend Nance instead.
9. I was subbing for my meeting’s secretary and remembered to get there on time.
10. I bought books from a small local bookstore instead of a chain.
You know, it's funny how hard it is to list positive things like that, but they always lift my mood.
Maybe some of my readers could send me a list of good things about themselves, either here or in an e-mail. How about it?
Saturday, July 11, 2009
A Writer’s Day: Saturday, 7-11-09
Woke--Meditated, prayed, affirmed
Met a friend in order to give her confidence for a presentation she's doing next week.
Went to Al-Anon. Told how I hired someone to motivate me to write, then rebel against her, thinking, “She can’t tell me what to do.” Everyone laughed.
Took call from a friend who's feeling ashamed for going off her diet. Calmed and encouraged her.
Fed cats.
Lunch.
Stepped in cat barf.
Cleaned up cat barf.
Started writng an Easy Reader.
Felt anxious so made some 5-minute ice cream
(see Posting 3-9-09)
Did another chapter of Easy Reader
Felt anxious so went ouside and pulled weeds. Thought how Shakespeare's lines "Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player who struts and frets his lone hour on stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing" match my life exactly.
Felt anxious re wasting time. Ate rice cakes
Turned on computer so I could write my blog. Instead looked at photos of Michael Jackson, Farah Fawcett, and Karl Malden
Thought I heard kids vandalizing the school behind our house. Got a ladder to spy on them, but couldn’t see past the trees lining our fence so pulled more weeds.
Came inside and tried to think of something to blog about. Turned off computer.
Went outside and pulled weeds. Thought how I should be writing.
Called husband to see what time he’d be home.
Pulled weeds and thought, “If I was a successful writer, what would that look like?”
Fed cats. Put cat outside so she can step in her own barf.
Journalled, mostly about how I can’t take it any more.
Wrote blog.
Husband came home.
Posted blog.
Dinner.
Wondered if anyone will read blog and whether they will find it interesting or boring.
Bed. Prayed, affirmed. Obsessed over not returning a call from someone I sponsor. Finally dropped off to sleep.
Met a friend in order to give her confidence for a presentation she's doing next week.
Went to Al-Anon. Told how I hired someone to motivate me to write, then rebel against her, thinking, “She can’t tell me what to do.” Everyone laughed.
Took call from a friend who's feeling ashamed for going off her diet. Calmed and encouraged her.
Fed cats.
Lunch.
Stepped in cat barf.
Cleaned up cat barf.
Started writng an Easy Reader.
Felt anxious so made some 5-minute ice cream
(see Posting 3-9-09)
Did another chapter of Easy Reader
Felt anxious so went ouside and pulled weeds. Thought how Shakespeare's lines "Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player who struts and frets his lone hour on stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing" match my life exactly.
Felt anxious re wasting time. Ate rice cakes
Turned on computer so I could write my blog. Instead looked at photos of Michael Jackson, Farah Fawcett, and Karl Malden
Thought I heard kids vandalizing the school behind our house. Got a ladder to spy on them, but couldn’t see past the trees lining our fence so pulled more weeds.
Came inside and tried to think of something to blog about. Turned off computer.
Went outside and pulled weeds. Thought how I should be writing.
Called husband to see what time he’d be home.
Pulled weeds and thought, “If I was a successful writer, what would that look like?”
Fed cats. Put cat outside so she can step in her own barf.
Journalled, mostly about how I can’t take it any more.
Wrote blog.
Husband came home.
Posted blog.
Dinner.
Wondered if anyone will read blog and whether they will find it interesting or boring.
Bed. Prayed, affirmed. Obsessed over not returning a call from someone I sponsor. Finally dropped off to sleep.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
More on Popeye
I got so homesick in college,I spent most of my first year hiding out in the library basement, eating bread, honey, and candy bars. By the end of Sophomore Year, I’d gained twenty pounds.
Thus I made the biggest mistake of my life—dieting. It made me utterly nuts. Every day I walked down the supermarket aisles, thinking, “When this diet is over I’m eating Duncan Hines and Sara Lee and Little Debbie and...” Sure enough, once I got down to my goal weight, I ate everything in sight, including foods I’d never even liked before.
Through long, miserable years I’ve learned that going on diets is like going to war—each one only brings about the next.
Here is Poe’s Famous Non-Diet
I have to treat food like it’s something holy. Sitting down in front of the TV and scarfing down a gallon of ice cream only prostitutes that which is meant to nourish.
So
Before eating, I clear the table--off comes the mail, the half-finished art projects, dirty dishes, crumbs. No more standing up, eating out of the pot I cooked the food in. I only eat sitting down and make heavy use of pretty centerpieces and candles. Placemats are a necessity, as well as napkins and good china--even for a snack.
I imagine the food is communion, the Catholic kind where every bite is literally the body of the Christ. Chewing slowly, I imagine love radiating into me. I focus on the tastes and textures. No books, no newspaper, TV is off, the radio is off, computer is off.
Doing this, I’ve lost 11 pounds in as many weeks.*
But do you realize what a royal pain this is? I’ve spent my life opening the frig and gobbling whatever I see. Munching on dinner while I fix dinner. Leaving the table while still chewing the last mouthful. Eating before work, to calm me down (also during work and after, ditto.)
Chew slowly? Sit down at a pretty table? Good God! I want food to be fun. I want my freedom! Forget all this spiritual garbage.
Only Popeye saves me from myself.
Consider: How do you think he feels about carrying that damned spinach around all day? Try it some time. A can of spinach bangs into your chest, falls out at inappropriate times. Not to mention looking really silly.
But you don’t see Popeye dissolving into self-pity: “Why me? Normal people don’t have to keep a can of spinach in their shirt all the time.” **
Just like my hero, I must do my duty, because without it I am at the mercy of every bully I meet.
But with it, I too am strong to the finich.
* P.S. I also do the Weight Watchers thing and have three "body buddies" I report to every day via email.
**Equal time—My daughter reminds us all, “Cartoons are not real.”
Thus I made the biggest mistake of my life—dieting. It made me utterly nuts. Every day I walked down the supermarket aisles, thinking, “When this diet is over I’m eating Duncan Hines and Sara Lee and Little Debbie and...” Sure enough, once I got down to my goal weight, I ate everything in sight, including foods I’d never even liked before.
Through long, miserable years I’ve learned that going on diets is like going to war—each one only brings about the next.
Here is Poe’s Famous Non-Diet
I have to treat food like it’s something holy. Sitting down in front of the TV and scarfing down a gallon of ice cream only prostitutes that which is meant to nourish.
So
Before eating, I clear the table--off comes the mail, the half-finished art projects, dirty dishes, crumbs. No more standing up, eating out of the pot I cooked the food in. I only eat sitting down and make heavy use of pretty centerpieces and candles. Placemats are a necessity, as well as napkins and good china--even for a snack.
I imagine the food is communion, the Catholic kind where every bite is literally the body of the Christ. Chewing slowly, I imagine love radiating into me. I focus on the tastes and textures. No books, no newspaper, TV is off, the radio is off, computer is off.
Doing this, I’ve lost 11 pounds in as many weeks.*
But do you realize what a royal pain this is? I’ve spent my life opening the frig and gobbling whatever I see. Munching on dinner while I fix dinner. Leaving the table while still chewing the last mouthful. Eating before work, to calm me down (also during work and after, ditto.)
Chew slowly? Sit down at a pretty table? Good God! I want food to be fun. I want my freedom! Forget all this spiritual garbage.
Only Popeye saves me from myself.
Consider: How do you think he feels about carrying that damned spinach around all day? Try it some time. A can of spinach bangs into your chest, falls out at inappropriate times. Not to mention looking really silly.
But you don’t see Popeye dissolving into self-pity: “Why me? Normal people don’t have to keep a can of spinach in their shirt all the time.” **
Just like my hero, I must do my duty, because without it I am at the mercy of every bully I meet.
But with it, I too am strong to the finich.
* P.S. I also do the Weight Watchers thing and have three "body buddies" I report to every day via email.
**Equal time—My daughter reminds us all, “Cartoons are not real.”
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