Resisting the Book of Rules

The world is so full of plots to thwart the good intentioned who are trying to follow the rules.  In a given day, the shear number of plots I encounter to discourage me in this goal is mind blowing.  For most of my life, I had a set of rules to follow.  As I moved to adulthood, I referred to them as the Book of Rules.

Examples:  My toothbrush goes in only one place in the cabinet and no where else.  I sleep in my clothes prepared for anything.  I can’t eat the same thing more than once a day.  In order to make sure I completely clean my plate, I avoid putting too much food on it at one time.  When I am done eating, I am done even if there are only two or three bites left in the container.  (This makes my partner crazy for good reason.  Imagine a refrigerator filled with containers with two bites of food in them.)  I try to eat my food only on my favorite plate color which means I put the plates away so my favorites are on the bottom ready for my use.  I use toilet paper to blow my nose as Kleenex is only for when I’m really sick despite the fact we have Kleenex boxes all around the house.

Living with me has never been easy.  However, living with me when I am determined not to break a rule I hold dear even when I have no idea why a particular rule exists is just plain exasperating.  Over the last few years, I have come to realize, at least theoretically, that my desire to identify and follow rules was how I learned to deal with childhood abuse.  I learned that if I can control not making a mistake or “breaking a rule,” I can hopefully avoid punishment.

More recently, I have been struggling to notice when I am following a rule and ask myself why.  This may sound simple.  In my reality, it is a mammoth struggle.  Each rule was established for a reason even if I have no clue any longer what the reason was.

It’s a bit like our civil laws over the long haul.  There may have been a perfectly good reason why a law was created 100 or 200 years ago.  However over time, the law has become unpractical or ridiculous.  A mark of healthy growth is to recognize when such laws, or as with individuals, behaviors, expectations, or patterns cease to serve us.

When I am doing something that makes no sense, I try to identify the rule I am following.  Once I have that information, I can begin to slowly unwrap my motivations to figure out why the rule exists.  Then, I need to determine if I want to continue to have such a rule.

I grew up in a family where teenagers have bad acne.  My mother waged a holy war against the acne on my face.  The acne was hideous.  There are very few pictures of me from this time.  However in waging this war, my mother was against any type of grease, oil, or cream that might clog pores on my face.  As a result, I hate grease, oil, or cream.  I hate it on my hands and face.  I have trouble rubbing cream on any parts of my body.

I think it’s pretty obvious that my dislike of these products is an overdone strength.  In fact, the rule to never put cream or lotion on my face is just plain stupid.  It gets in the way of sun screen and chapped cheeks.  It gets in the way of addressing any other dry spots.  The rule was drilled into me.  In fact, I remember washing my face with pHisoHex numerous times a day to get the grease off my face at my mother’s instruction.  (Now, we know skin grease is not what causes acne and pHisoHex is now considered toxic.)  

The thing is I know this thinking is unhelpful.  I know my face needs sunscreen.  But, it feels TERRIBLE to me to have greasy or creamy stuff on my face.  It feels wrong, bad, and yes, like I am breaking a rule.  How do I overcome this?

I know now that the most effective way is to make a new memory pathway for my mind.  Put cream on my face once a week for a year?  At some point, maybe it won’t feel so wrong.  On the other hand, how much energy do I want to put into this little project and what’s the downside of not making the effort.  In this case, dry or sunburned skin.  In other cases, it could be something worse.

Wandering around in my native habitat, I am aware of things that are not right and appear to be the result of efforts to keep them from being right.  The word that most often comes to me is that it’s a PLOT.  

Sometimes, a cabinet door isn’t closed completely. The screen door isn’t clicked closed.  A picture is crooked again.  Didn’t I just fix that?!  I look at my parked car.  Does it look crooked?  My inner voice is pleading with me to “Let it go!  Let it go!  It’s not important!”  While my rule voice is saying, “It’s not right!  Fix it. Do whatever it takes.”

What are “They” (the Omnipotent They) going to try on me next?  Signs and coffee tables are crooked.  The rug on the floor isn’t square.  I adjust them but they never seem fixed.  I can’t seem to not correct my grammar or punctuation in a text or email.  Who cares?  Is this part of, “Everything is an interview?”

Rules, compulsions, obsessions.  Life is a bloody mess.  I’m holding on with my hands, fingers, arms, feet, legs, and occasionally my teeth.  I feel pressured to figure this out so all the laid back joys of life will be mine.  I’m afraid time is running out.  “Really, Joceile, a little cream on your face won’t hurt you.”

“Says who?...”

L’Chaim.

Joceile

1.24.18

[Picture:  Sheet of notebook paper that says, “Book of Rules” listing:  Temperature, Trucks/Cars, Food, Hygiene, Pets, General Philosophy, Travel, Clothing, Security, Great Questions of the Ages.]

The Troops

I used to have disturbing characters in my mind.  They were part of an organized dissociative response to extreme childhood trauma.  Fortunately, the story doesn’t end there. Although, it could have and often does for many others. 

After decades of mental health work, I slowly made peace with the most troublesome character, Sasifraz.  He had said many things like, “You’re stupid.  You should be dead.  I’m going to kill you.  The planet would be better without you.”  He was the first line of resistance to my recovery. 

As things resolved with him over a very, very long period, I no longer heard his voice. Instead, there was a collective of scared little children in my head. I call them the Troops. Their needs are different than Sasifraz. They are young and afraid. They are more worried about having enough food to eat and whether there are monsters outside. 

Over the last ten years, I’ve worked to understand their needs in relation to my adult self. Some are similar to Sasifraz when I’m upset. “You’re stupid.”  Others are the plaintive cries of little ones. “We’re hungry.  Is that a monster?  Don’t yell at us.”

I’m writing about this now as I am realizing we all have parts that need to be recognized.  Mine are more distinct which makes them easier to identify.  As I’ve worked with the Troops, I’ve slowly learned to listen to what they are saying and respond better.

“Oh, you’re hungry.  We can eat now.”  “That noise was not a monster.  Look, you can see the shape of a tree.”

It’s been a long, evolving process.  If they say, “We don’t think you can do that.”  I am learning to stop responding with, “Shut up.  You don’t know anything.”  Most recently when a stress reaction caused me to stop eating, I found myself pushing them away when they said, “We’re worried about food.”  I responded, “I don’t want to talk about it,” which didn’t help either of us.

Now when I hear them worry, I try to say, “I get that you’re worried.  It’s a problem.  I’ll get help eating.”  The message from me is, “I’m listening. I’ll  do something about your worry.”  It’s important that I follow up when I say I will do something.  Like children, they notice when I don’t do what I say I’ll do.  I also have to remember to say thank you to them for helping me out.

I know everybody has an internal critical voice.  These voices say things like, “I’m stupid.  I’m ugly.  I’m too old.”  We sometimes buy into that voice failing to hear what we are actually saying to ourselves and considering how destructive that messaging can be.  

Over the last few years, I’ve worked to incorporate the Troops into helping me with my own fears and struggles.  It’s my opportunity to marshal all my parts.  When I’m really scared about something I need to do like make a public presentation, I’ve learned to say, “Okay guys, I really need your help on this.  You are smart and can contribute good things.  Work with me so we can do our best.”  

They are helpful when I do that.  I might be afraid about a potentially volatile interaction.  “I really need your help, guys, to find the right words.  You have skills to add.  Help me find the words I need here.”  (I call them guys but they are many genders.)  I am able to enter these scary interactions or presentations or whatever with more confidence knowing that I am using more of my brain and not just part.

We all have resources we don’t utilize.  Like our computers, we only use 10-20% of our capacity.  We have skills that are unknown or untapped.  When we ignore the critical voice in our head or blindly obey it, we’re not using a resource.  If we don’t show curiosity about, “What is this,” those resources remain dormant.

Sometimes, it’s asking a question like, “What do I really need to do about this,” and listening for the answer.  Occasionally, the answer is something we don’t want to hear. “I need to find a new job.”  “I need to eat more nourishing food.”  “I need to be more patient with my child.”  Often I learn the things I need to do if I just stop, be still, and listen. I don’t always like what I hear. But, it’s information. My job then is to turn that information into something that serves all of me.

My goal is to remember to include the Troops.  My guess is we all have these parts we can invite to help improve our lives. To that end:  What’s the question most pressing in your mind?  What’s the answer no matter how far fetched?  What are you going to do about it?

I tell the people I love and work with:  Take care of yourself.  It’s up to you. Nobody is going to do it for you... unless maybe, you invite the Troops. 

L’Chaim.

Joceile 

1.3.19

[Picture of cartoon drawing of a Troop member discovered called the Little Hoodlum with messages saying he is a smart, strategic thinker who helps me think outside the box. Hence, he helps me solve tough puzzles.]

Now Watch Running Dog Go

What does Running Dog with Sheba look like?  Here’s 10 glorious seconds.  This isn’t even her fastest speed.  It gives her great joy and fills my heart at the same time. We’re two lucky dogs.  (Press link below left of picture to watch.)

Sheba running safely along road bordered by woods. 

https://youtu.be/N08PeH1nCiM

For the original story, go to Running Dog and I:  https://joceile7.blogspot.com/search?q=Running+dog+and+I

Joceile
12.17.18

“Illified”or Pick Your Poison?

While occasionally struggling with illness, with not so much as a by your leave from the universe, I have been contemplating other illness management systems.  With all the new tech tools, I’d like to see a new start up create an algorithm with a survey health regimen to assist us with managing our illnesses.

We would get a random email spewed out from some computer server somewhere around the world.  Basically, a True/False questionnaire prior to our developing an illness.  It would go something like:  

“Joceile, we see you have not been ill lately.  Due to random sampling, we believe it is your turn.  Please answer the following questions so we can better determine how best to serve you:

1.  Are you ready to take on the burden of being ill?  T or F.

2.  Do you feel up to managing a long term chronic illness?  T or F

If true, answer the following.  Do your preferences lie in the following categories:

1. Life threatening?  T or F
2. Cancer or any of its derivatives?  T or F
3. Immunological illness?  T or F
4. Neurological condition causing mobility impairment?  T or F
5. Metabolic illness such as diabetes or high blood pressure?  T or F
6. Injury requiring a trip in an ambulance?  T or F 
7. Loss of limb?  T or F
8. Heart attack?  T or F 

3.  Would you prefer a brief non-serious but terribly inconvenient illness such as a cold or flu?  T or F

If true, would you prefer:

1. Cold?  T or F
2. Flu?  T or F
3. Short bout of Bronchitis?  T or F
4. Fever and chills?  T or F 
5. Sore throat with annoying cough?  T or F 
6. Upset stomach?  T or F

4.  Do your preferences go more toward sprains and strains?  T or F 

If true, would you prefer:

1. Sprained ankle?  T or F
2. Tennis elbow?  T or F
3. Slipped disk?  T or F
4. Neck pain?  T or F
5. Global or specific joint pain? T or F
6. Other?  T or F  (Please describe in comment box below.)

5.  We do have an increasing need for mental health conditions.  Would you be up for handling a mental health issue?  T or F

If true, would your preference be:

1. Significant anxiety for less than 3 months?  T or F 
2. A psychotic break requiring hospitalization?  T or F
3. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder?  T or F  (Note:  This option comes complete with traumatic event.)
4. Something in a Bi-Polar range?  T or F
5. Basic Schizophrenia mostly controlled by medication?  T or F

Thank you for providing us with this information.  Once it is compiled by our highly trained autonomous assessment specialists, we will let you know what illness you will be awarded and the approximate time frame.

Please read our Terms of Service and hit Agree:  Once a final decision is made, you may not opt out of our service.  We do not have an appeal process.  We do not factor in things like health insurance, paid sick leave, or financial or housing resources.  You will be entirely at our whim.  However, you may opt out at any time prior to determination and take your chances with Nature.  Note:  If you have a specific illness you would like to explore, please email us. We read all emails.”

With this new tech product, we could smooth out medical practices, service provision, and lack of hospital beds by simply timing illnesses. 

It is worrisome, however, that at some point hackers in the guise of Predatory Capitalism would intervene by allowing people to buy non-sick credits to get out from illness obligations.  In response, the government would have to put in mandatory illness servitude and develop a regulatory agency to identify and prosecute fraud.

This new agency could then get filled with bribe taking bureaucrats many of whom will ultimately quit the agency and work as consultants for the illness avoiding rich.  It could then happen that most rich people would never get ill again creating ever more inequitable lifestyles even leading to dramatic population decline. This could negatively impact the available workforce for needed service jobs.

This concept gives me great pause.  In thinking this over deeply and having my algorithmic biological brain spin out likely outcomes, I have decided that maybe it’s just easier to be illified when it’s my turn. 

L’Chaim. 

Joceile 

12.19.18

[Picture of woman with graying hair with thermometer in mouth and Kleenex at her nose.]

Mom and the Hats

My mother has been sending me hats in the mail for a couple years now.  She sends them certified requiring my signature at exorbitant rates which likely costs more than the hat.  My mother is an exceptional second hand shopper.  Living with very little money most of her life, she had to be good at it to be stylish.  I assume she finds them at Value Village.

I spent many hours at the Goodwill as a kid.  I learned how to sort through clothing to find acceptable items.  My mother, a seamstress, is also very skilled at reading labels to identify fine clothes for herself.  I have never minded wearing second hand clothes as long as they are clean, undamaged, and the style I want.

She also was into antiques.  She, my brother, and I went up and down Highway 99 (before I-5) going from little antique stores, Goodwills, St. Vincent De Paul, etcetera, through the Kent Valley, Tacoma, and in and around Olympia.  We didn’t have a lot of money so she was very choosy.  Because my grandparents owned a service station, we had a lot of gas.  Hence, the driving everywhere.  

She had certain collections of pink Depression era glassware and Story Book Dolls from the 30s which were miniature porcelain dolls with a story book motif.  Although I never asked, in my imagination, she always wanted the special dolls as a child and either couldn’t have them or only had one.  I kept her collection for awhile of nearly 50 before passing it on to my niece.

I have retained the second hand skill set.  One summer not too long ago, I went on a very successful short sleeve shirt hunt several times in Goodwill.  I easily snagged some very fine Eddie Bauer shirts that I still wear.  When I pay $2.50 for a quality shirt, I can explore color styles easier.  I still end up favoring the same colors but can give the unsuccessful candidates back to Goodwill to resell again.

Back to the hats, here is the most recent I received today:

[Picture of me wearing an indescribable white on black Tyrolean hat, 2018.]

The hats are all of the same style which I discovered is called a Tyrolean hat.  They have various ugly designs.  I have no idea why she is fixated on this hat style.  I never respond to these “gifts,” because her responses are so unpredictable, and I don’t want to encourage her.  

In my younger adult years, I always had a favorite hat which mostly leaned to felt fedoras.  However, during the last ten years of baseball fandom, I have mostly worn baseball hats.

The only conclusion I can make on her hat choice is from this picture, May 1967:

[Black and white picture of me in hat with matching dark skirt and jacket, my mom with 60s big hair with sleeveless patterned summer dress, and my 6 year old brother dressed in white pants and white Buster Brown shirt.]

I had gotten the hat from the Washington State Fair in Puyallup.  It must have been from the previous fall.  I was very proud of that hat.  It had my name in script written on it.  I’m pretty sure my name was spelled wrong.

My guess is that my mother keeps buying me that hat over and over.  Since we don’t talk, she could be trying to create a link to me through the past.  I wish it was safe to reach out to her.  I send her a card and flowers for her birthday in May.  She sends me a card for my birthday in December along with the occasional unexpected hat.

Sometime in the last two decades she started signing her self as “Mother.”  I never called her mother.  I always called her “Mom” and when I was younger, “Mama.”  Out of deference to her apparent preference, I refer to her in my cards as Mother, although, I’m not sure who that really is.

I’m sitting in my recliner now wearing the latest hat, because why not?  The cat and the dog don’t mind and Ronnie is being tolerant.  I’m thinking of my mom and wondering about the hat connection.  Sending my love to you, mom, until my next card in May.

L’Chaim.

Joceile

12.15.18

What’s Going On?

I ask myself, “What is it?”  That’s always the question when I’m upset and don’t know why. “What’s going on?”

I ask the deepest part of my brain. I wait for the answer. Sometimes, I have to give that part of my brain a little confidence in my motives. “I’m listening. I’m interested. Let me know what’s going on.”

I don’t know if other people have issues like this with their brain, body, or soul. As I kid, my truth was shut down by my parents.  “You don’t know what you’re talking about. That’s not true. Where did you get a crazy idea like that?”  So, I learned to doubt myself. Some of my most disturbing truths got deeply buried.  As part of my mission to be healthy, I’ve had to learn how to coax out my truth and encourage myself to care enough to want to know what’s buried. 

It hasn’t been easy. I developed complicated coping mechanisms to protect myself from uncomfortable truths. They also worked to protect the adults in my life that should have been held accountable. It’s been a long process of nurturing my inside parts. “I care. I want to know. Tell me what’s going on.”

I’ve had to demonstrate integrity with myself. I’ve had to prove to those buried parts that I will do constructive things with the information and not use it to further hurt myself. The pattern of self harm I’ve lived with was modeled by my being hurt as I kid by those in charge. “Don’t talk back to me!  Who asked you?”  This meant to me, “Don’t say things I don’t want to hear about how you feel. Your feelings don’t matter.”

The first way I discovered I was hiding information from myself was when I felt suicidal and did not know why.  Feeling suicidal has always been a harbinger of hidden secrets for me.  It started when I was twelve.  I’ve had to learn to get to the bottom of it.  It’s pretty much a do or die situation, obviously.

One of the first memories I have of understanding this was when I was 17.  I had been extremely suicidal and had no clue why.  My best friend, Sue, did her best to support me.  At her wit’s end one night while driving me around, she said, “Jo, just tell me what’s going on.”  (All my sports buddies called me “Jo.”)

I had been struggling for weeks with rampant thoughts of suicide.  Sue said, “Just ask yourself what it is.  Notice the first thing that pops in your mind.”  I wanted to know.  I didn’t want to know.  Dare I do this?  Listen to the first thing that pops into my mind?

“Okay,” I said.  I took a deep breath.  I said to myself, “Okay, what is it?  The first thing that pops into my mind.  That’s it.”  I waited.  The sentence came to me, “I’m a lesbian.”  

I nearly choked.  “Oh, god, no,” I thought.  “Anything but that.”  In my upbringing, it was made clear to me that being gay was worse than being dead.  “No, no, no.  It can’t be.”  I kept hearing that terrible sentence repeating in my mind.  “I’m a lesbian.”  It was the worst.

Sue asked me what it was.  I didn’t know how to tell her.  I didn’t want to tell her.  I wanted so bad for it to not be true.  “Okay.  I’ll tell you.  But, you have to tell me right away if you hate me so I can jump out of the car.  Promise?  You’ll just tell me if you hate me?”

“I promise.”

“Okay.  I’m not sure.  I’m hoping it isn’t true.  It really couldn’t be, but I might be a... lesbian.”  I told her and held my breath.

Sue responded with the most perfect message in the world.  “So?”

All that churning inside of me.  All that self hatred came down to one word:  So.  “Do you hate me?”

“No.  Why would I hate you?  I’ve known you loved women.  It’s okay.  It’s not a bad thing.  It doesn’t matter to me if you are a lesbian.”  I was stunned.  I had told my best friend this secret so awful that I was willing to die rather than know, and she said, “So.”

Rebuilding a structure of trust within myself has taken the greatest amount of courage I have ever had to harness. More courage than facing the fact that I had to break up with my child’s other parent because she was untrustworthy and hurtful.  More courage than facing the death of a loved one. More courage than telling my truth to someone of great power in my professional life.  More courage than going out in public in a wheelchair and letting people see me as a chair user.

There have been other issues I’ve had to face that being suicidal brought up.  Later in my twenties, I was struggling, working with my counselor.  I was trying to get more healthy but my system was set on self destruct.  With my counselor’s support, I asked myself what it was.  What was the awful thing that I couldn’t face?  It came to me.  “My father raped me.”  The words echoed in my mind.  My uttering those words aloud gave me the feeling that the whole world

would collapse.

In that sentence, my whole family contorted into this giant collusion of keeping that secret.  When I finally told my mother, her response was, “If you tell anyone, I will tell your grandparents how crazy you are.  How you’ve manipulated your counselors to be against me.”

I was pissed and tired of being threatened.  “Mom, you just do whatever you want.  I’m just going to tell my grandparents first.  I’ll just call them now.  Tell them my father raped me and that they’ll be hearing mean things from you about it.”  I did tell my grandmother about it and what my mother said she would do.  My sweet granny never said more about it to me.  When she died, I found the vilest, cruelest, meanest letter it’s ever been my pleasure to read that my mother had sent my grandparents.  It didn’t work.  My grandparents didn’t reject me.  I moved on with the work I needed to do to recover from knowing what my mind was hiding.  My mother’s response just supported the truth of it.

By working on this internal integrity, I have gained confidence in entering into uncomfortable external dialogues as well.  It helps me tell my favorite coworker how unhappy I was when he did something that I didn’t like.  It helps me have tough conversations with the employees I support that no one else will have with them.  It helps me tell my partner that something she did hurt my feelings.  More importantly, it helps me listen to her tell me how she felt when I hurt her feelings. It helps me listen to my daughter tell me what I did that didn’t work for her when she was growing up without getting defensive. “Ya, that’s what happened. I’m really sorry I made that choice.”

We all have stuff we hide from ourselves because we think it’s not okay.  Mine is just more extreme which can make it easier to spot.

I’m pretty sure this is part of what gets in the way of many of us reconciling our internal worlds with our external ones.  It gets in the way of generations of families not holding themselves accountable for the patterns of abuse, alcohol and drug use, or other bad behavior.  It includes whole countries not listening to each other and failing to create paths for reconciliation.  It includes major corporations doing environmental damage without holding themselves accountable and fearing the accountability brought by the public. If we as humans can’t listen and hold ourselves accountable. How can our organizations from the small and intimate to the large and global do any better?

It’s a small question, full of huge impact. “What’s going on?”  If we don’t ask the question and patiently listen for the answer, we’ll never be better. 

L’Chaim. 

Joceile 

12.11.18

[Picture of woman with partially gray hair wearing white shirt with lavender tie with rimless glasses staring at something away from the camera.]