I Will Be Back

Oh my goodness, has it really been a month since I last posted?? Why yes, yes it has. And I am ever apologetic. To you (if indeed I have readers left) and to myself, because writing is truly my lifeline. Unfortunately, since my new grad school semester has started up, I've had little time for pleasure writing (think term papers, tests and an abundance of reading). In addition I've been working and volunteering too, so free time has been a little bit hard to come by. I will write again soon, and hopefully I will get back to my favorite kinds of posts -- the long, drawn out, optimistic, trying-to-provoke-some-thought pieces. But until then, I need to get back studying for a mid-term and writing, sadly, for anything but pleasure.
Rest assured, I will be back...

Blogging for Therapy

I'm no longer a teenager (thank goodness), but I certainly relate to these findings about teens discovering therapeutic value in blogging.

In addition to my passion for writing and the fact that blogging keeps me writing often, I finding blogging about my life to be very therapeutic too.

How about you? Why do you blog? Is it emotionally and mentally healing to relay your thoughts and feelings on the Internet and have people comment on your experiences? Why or why not? I'd love to hear!

I'm Sensitive, and I'd Like to Stay That Way

I am sensitive. I always have been, since I was a wee little girl. I've been know to cry at the drop of a hat over the silliest and seemingly most inconsequential things. And I feel things--things other people may not even pay attention to--incredibly deeply. I have often used the expression "my heart hurts" because there are times when I feel like it actually does. This world can be a cruel place and when I hear about or see terrible things happening, I honestly feel like my heart might actually split right open. I cry for myself, but I also cry for others. I feel the pain of other people, especially those close to me in my life. I don't just worry incessantly about my own life, I also worry about theirs: their okay-ness, their health, their happiness. I've often said that my skin feels so paper thin that life--the outside world, the elements, slings from others--easily rip through to my core. I've been accused by more than one past boyfriend of being "too sensitive". "Just suck it up, Marissa," they've said. "Grow some thicker skin, it's not that big of deal." And to that I've always thought, Hmm, what helpful advice. I should grow some thicker skin. I never thought of that before. I shouldn't be so sensitive. Thank goodness someone finally told me!

Of course I hope the sarcasm is apparent there. Unfortunately, and this is something I've always known, to a large degree my sensitivity is not something I can control. Like the color of my eyes or the composition of my body, I believe my sensitive nature is something I was born with. And to be honest, though throughout the course of my life it's gotten gotten me into trouble in certain circumstances--i.e. embarrassing crying breakdowns in extremely opportune places and situations, many hurt feelings, internalizing the actions/thoughts/feelings of others, etc.--I wouldn't trade this characteristic for the world. As I've said here before, being sensitive also allows me to feel things deeply -- whether tremendous awe over nature's incredible beauty or being able to fall in love so wholly and deeply. And I am grateful that I FEEL. Even though at times, that feeling may be hurt.

Not too long ago I wrote about being a Highly Sensitive Person. I really do think there is merit to this concept. Now, there is a new book out called Quiet by Susan Cain and I am very eager to read it. I think there will be a lot of crossover between what she writes about--The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking--and the sensitivity I discuss above. Though I am an outward extrovert, inwardly, I know I am also an introvert. I prefer quietude to chatter, plentiful alone time to always being part of the group. For those of you out there who can relate, I'd love to hear your thoughts about this book once you've read it. I'd also like to hear about your thoughts, feelings and experiences on living life as a highly sensitive and/or quiet being.

Next January

I thought it would be interesting to go  back one year in time and see what I was focused on writing about last January. Interestingly, it's a very similar (or rather, downright the same) topic to one that has been at the forefront of my thoughts THIS January: my career.

Last January, in my post Creating a Career, I wrote about my desire to take a leap of faith and begin a masters program--leading to a new career--in the field of counseling. This January, in an almost eerily similar post, I've written about how overjoyed I am that I have finally taken such a leap.

This got me thinking, though, how interesting it is that so much in our lives can shift over such a short period of time. Of course I've written about this very thing many times before here, primarily because my life has seemed to transform in major ways over the last few years. So I thought I'd take a trip back even farther into my past, to January 2010, and see what was going on in my life then. Turns out, as a newly replanted Minnesotan (excuse my typo in the title of this post), I was focused on writing about my transition from New York to Minnesota, and all  the great changes in my world that had so recently taken place. I was anxious to kick of 2010 right, and finally settle into the new life I'd spent the past several months creating for myself.

Since I hit 30--and even well before that due to some massive life events--year to year life has really looked different. I know things will continue to shift because the very nature of existence is that we're constantly learning, growing, and moving in new directions. But I am finally in a place in my life that I truly want to remain in. And of course there will be plenty of newness over the coming years--career-wise, family-wise, and so on and so forth--but I feel a need to say that if next January finds me feeling as happy and settled as I do right now, I'll be very much okay with that.

No More Complaints

Happy New Year!

As we were driving through some of his old LA neighborhoods last weekend--we were in town for a friend's wedding--I told R. that in the coming year I am going to try to complain less. I never thought of myself as a complainer before, but over the course of 2011, with so many physical maladies, I know I turned into one. I tried my best to remain positive and focus on feeling well instead of crummy, but since another component of my personality is to freak out at the presence of even a minor health issue (like say, a paper cut), I found this kind of hard to do.

My mom recently told me that when I was a little girl, I used to start my days by listing off to her all the things that were WRONG with me. "Today my head kind of hurts, my heart is beating faster than normal, I think my eye is twitching, I'm worried my left ear might fall off..." You get the idea. She used to call me a hypochondriac, and while I can't completely dismiss the notion (after all, the evidence is mounting), I used to tell her the same thing I now tell my husband. "If God forbid I were to just keel over right here and now and you had to rush me to the hospital and tell the doctors all of the things that were wrong with me, you'd be able to!"

It's not that I am complaining, per se (at least, not that I am readily aware of). It's that I'm trying to be as thorough as I can with my information so that on the off chance that something tragic WERE to actually happen to me, my closest loved ones would be able to offer up the information to the correct people. And sure many people, my parents and husband included, have called me crazy (in addition to hypochondriac) over the years, but it's become a hard habit to break when this tactic actually proved useful when I suffered a bleed in my brain just a few years ago. So, as I say to those who love me (or, should I say, despite myself are trying to love me), when it comes to my health, now I'm just a wee tad more vigilant...and vocal. And over the course of the year, there's been stuff. Like the random and still unexplained migraine-like headache that persisted for weeks, and the hip impingement diagnosis followed by surgery, and a concussion after a small child fell on my head (don't ask...), and so on.

This "stuff" (and the aftermath) all really freaked me out. Especially the stuff that dealt with my head. But looking back, I understand that my incessant worrying and ranting about all my symptoms wasn't truly necessary, or probably even helpful. In fact, maybe it kept me stuck in the pain and fear of each situation?

I can't promise that I will no longer fret or want to discuss every last detail of every single physical ailment I endure, but this year I can work on perhaps just writing them down in a journal as opposed to constantly hurling them at my loved ones (yes, honey, you're in luck; I'm referring to you). And just maybe focusing on health, as opposed to sickness, will also play a key role in keeping me able-bodied this year. It's certainly worth a try.

A Forever Changing Year

2012 is fast approaching, and whenever a new year is on the horizon I get a bit nostalgic for the one I am about to close to chapter on. I tend to think about all those things I did -- or didn't -- accomplish, and look forward with hope and wonder about what opportunities the next year will bring. There have certainly been years in my past that have felt more stagnant than others. Years when, in my opinion, nothing big happened. Then there were years that were momentous; earth-moving. The years in which my entire life shifted in gargantuan and forever-changing ways.

2011 was one such year. I decided after many sleepless nights and deep soul searching to change the course of my life. Since I moved back home in 2009, I've changed my life in numerous big and small ways. I married, moved into a house, bought a car, left full time freelance to work in the corporate marketing world. All of these events moved me in a direction much different than the one I'd previously been going in. And of all them felt so extremely right...well, all of them except one.

My oldest brother summed it up nicely once. "At the top of Marissa's priority list is to fall in love." He said that in a video that was made for R.'s and my rehearsal dinner. He was right. I have always been a true hopeless romantic, and love, marriage and all that goes along with it has most certainly always been my number one. But this same brother also said something profound to me, about me, one year ago when I mentioned I was leaving a family business to go back to graduate school. "I understand," he said. "You are the type of person who must do work that is meaningful for you...that nourishes your soul."

I had been saying this same thing all along, for years and years. It was nice to hear him reiterate my own feelings; it made me realize that he knows me well, and that perhaps I wear my self on my sleeve. In other words, through my character and actions, I stay true to who I really feel that I am.

Years back I wanted desperately to make a freelance writing career work. Many people do this, and do it successfully. I was published a lot of times and in various publications, yet I could not steadily pay my bills. That's why when I came back to my home state, I decided to enter Corporate America. I thought I could continue writing while earning a steady paycheck as a marketing professional. But something horrific happened: every single day thereafter I felt a piece of my soul die.

I was miserable, and not in that passing and just "sort of sad" kind of way. Miserable. I mean really, awfully, desperately miserable. And this was something I'd never experienced before. My husband, fiance at the time, didn't know what to do with me. He felt terrible because, as most men are prone to feeling, he simply wanted to make it better. He tried and tried, offering countless solutions and pep talks. All which fell on deaf and defeated ears. Why? Because I now know, truly and deeply, I didn't want to make it better. I wanted to get out.

We started talking about all the different possibilities. I told him that writing was really everything to me, and if I were going to make a career out of something other than that, it needed to really reflect my values, beliefs, and passions. He told me to make a list of all the things that I wanted in a job. I am sure he meant things like: a good boss, the ability to write, a positive work atmosphere, etc. But instead, what I wrote was: 1) I want to help people, 2) I want psychology to be involved, 3) I love fitness, that could be involved too, and 4) I want to write.

As a real professional and a logical, excel spreadsheet, linear thinking kind of guy, my poor husband just didn't know what to do with that. "Um, maybe become a fitness instructor?" he offered, "Or a yoga teacher?"

And while yes, both are professions I could actually see myself one day doing, they weren't the soul-nourishing paths I was searching for. Then, like a lightning bolt, one night the answer finally hit me. Actually, I should clarify: it had hit me before, many times. I just managed to ignore it. Years back I decided to go back to school to get my master's in social work. I went through the entire application process...only to never send my applications in. I chickened out. Then again a couple years ago, I decided I should look into it again...and once again, I said to myself, "I'm already on a path. I better just stick to it."

But this past year, in 2011 when the lightning bolt struck again, I listened. I researched local graduate programs and various counseling master's degrees, and finally selected both the school and program that felt right for me. And as of May, 2011, I've been happily working toward my master's degree in marriage and family therapy. Where will this take me? I'm not exactly sure, and that's Ok. Perhaps I will be a marriage counselor? Perhaps I will work with adolescents as I've long wanted to do? Perhaps I will do both? At this juncture, I'm not 100 percent certain, but I do know through the course of school I will figure it out. And I also know that whatever it is, it will be GOOD because THIS is the type of meaningful work I have always wanted. This is the soul-nourishing career that was nagging at me to pay attention to it, and to make it happen, every day over the last few years. And though difficult at times as school is prone to be being, I no longer have any of those miserable days. I no longer feel as though I am living a lie or a fake life. And for that, I am ever so grateful.

So here's to 2011 - a year in which my entire life shifted in gargantuan and forever-changing ways. It has been a challenging year, to say the least, but in the very best sort of way. And I look with renewed hope and faith toward the coming year, and vow to keep living a life that is true to my values and self.
May each of us in the coming year have the courage and faith to live the lives we desire and love.

Happy 2012!

Day of Loss

My dad passed away four years ago today.  I find that impossible to believe -- that we lost him four entire years ago.  Today I plan to spend some time thinking of him, and smiling at all of my warm, wonderful memories.  Then I will go to his grave to pay my respects, and sprinkle a bit of Brilliant, his most favorite vodka (that man REALLY loved his vodka), around him.  In memory of that day four years ago, I wanted to share this piece I wrote, which is now part of my e-book, From Loss to Healing: Personal Tales About the First Year of Bereavement.  

Surviving Dad – Recounting the Day of Loss, December 22, 2007

As I slung my purse over the back of my chair, I heard Dad’s voice in my head: “Don’t ever do that, honey. Someone could easily reach in and steal your wallet and you wouldn’t even notice.”

I knew he was right. In fact, two years ago he’d been proven right when someone stole my credit card out of my bag while I was on a dinner date. But here we were at a family style diner on Long Island, New York, a good 40 minutes away from Manhattan – the scene of the aforementioned crime and my home since 2002 – and I was pretty sure none of these upstanding, well-to-do people were pining for the five dollars, outdated cell phone and wadded up gum wrappers I was carrying in my purse.

But because my bag was dangling from the back of my chair, and out of hearing range, I didn’t hear my phone the first time it rang. When I finally did hear it ring, I decided not to answer because I was sitting at a big round table with my boyfriend at the time, and his family. I didn’t want to be rude. I figured the caller would leave a message.

But then it rang again, and seconds later, my boyfriend’s phone rang. It was my brother. Something was wrong.

My widened eyes were already brimming with tears. “Get it,” I gasped.

As instinct took hold and the hard lump in my throat forced my breaths to become dangerously shallow, I was painfully aware something terrible had happened, and that life as I knew it would never be the same.

From the time I was a little girl, I’d had an awareness that my dad, 48 years my senior and with a weak heart and clogged arteries to boot, might not live to see me grow all the way up. The imaginary timelines started well before junior high: If I get married at 25, Dad will be 73. If I have kids by 27, Dad will be 75. Well the biggest gift I received my 25^th birthday was a perfectly wrapped package of anxiety and the cruel realization that timelines don’t carry weight in the real world. Even at 30, none of these life events had happened for me yet.

“Hello?” My boyfriend’s voice wavered as he answered the phone. “Don’t worry. I’m with her,” he assured my brother before he handed me the phone.

                                                                                               

“Danny?” My voice was small, like a child’s.

“Dad died.”

Those were his words. His only words.

My tears were instant and forceful.

“You’re lying!” Through heaving sobs, I screamed this, incoherently, at my brother for minutes. I knew he wasn’t lying – as soon as my boyfriend’s phone rang, I felt the disastrous truth deep in my soul. I knew the way a mother intuitively knows that her child has been hurt; the way a daughter intuitively knows her father has taken his last breath.

I looked up and saw the entire restaurant was staring, horrified. They all knew too. My chest and head felt like they were going to explode. What happened to the air? Why couldn’t I breathe? I felt like a caged zoo animal, wounded and blubbering, on display for everyone’s entertainment. I had to break free.

I ran from the table and found an empty corner near an exit sign. Where was the door? Why was there no door near the sign? Isn’t that what exit signs are supposed to indicate? A place to exit? To get outside, into the fresh and free air, and mourn the sudden, unexpected loss of one’s father in private?

“You’re lying!” I screamed it again. It would have been the cruelest joke my prankster brother had ever played, but at that very moment, I would have given anything for him to say “Just kidding.”

He didn’t. And he was crying, too. I’d never heard my brother cry.

“Dad died, Marissa. I’m serious. I am in just as much shock as you.”

“What? I don’t understand. How is this possible? HOW? How did this happen?”

I’m not sure I ever heard his response, and it’s possible that at this point in time, mere minutes after the incident occurred, he didn’t yet have the answers. But I was suffering from such an overwhelming mixture of agony, disbelief, embarrassment and worry that I’d physically lost the ability to hear, and process, information.

We left the restaurant immediately. The minute we got into the car, I called my mom. As shaken and shocked as I was, I knew she was worse.

“Mommy’s right here,” my aunt said when she answered my mom’s phone. I hadn’t called or referred to my mom as ‘mommy’ since I was a little girl, but in this moment, it was the exact thing I needed to hear. I needed a mommy. Daddy was gone, but I still had a mommy.

I was hysterical and she couldn’t understand a word I said. But I heard her calm, even tone and knew immediately she was in shock. This shattered the broken pieces of my heart into even tinier fragments. I was in New York, and she was in Arizona, where she and my dad had recently begun spending their winter months to get away from our home state of Minnesota’s bitter cold. I needed to hug her, help her, be with her, and I couldn't. I needed her to hug me, help me, and be with me, and she couldn’t.

The rest of the day was a blur, but I know I had many phone conversations with each of my four older siblings. We were all enduring the same mix of violently shifting emotions. One minute we’d be laughing at a funny thing Dad had recently said or done, and the next we’d be bawling so hard we’d lose the strength required to hold our phones to our ears.

None of us could understand what had happened. Dad was a warrior. He had conquered so many health issues in his life, from heart disease to prostate cancer. He’d recently undergone a surgery that was supposed to be routine. Unfortunately, he died from complications of that very procedure we were all assured was “no big deal”. My brother said it best when he commented, “It would have made sense if Dad had a heart attack, but I can’t comprehend this at all.”

Somehow I managed to get myself packed that night, and on a plane to Minnesota for my father’s funeral. Somehow, I managed to write his obituary and eulogy. Somehow, I managed. That is my dad in me. The persevering, “life is for the living”, mentality. That is my dad.

Dad, a positive, upbeat, jolly guy, would be very disappointed in me if I fell apart. He always taught me, even in the most difficult situations, to view life’s bright sides. If he could speak to me now, he would say, “This was the moment you were terrified for your entire life. But it happened. And you are still here, alive and surviving. You can do this.”

And then, as he expressed to me every time I was nervous for a new life experience, “You are always so afraid to try new things, honey, but then you go, and do them beautifully. This time will be no different. You can, and you will, do this beautifully.”

Just like the warning about hanging my purse over the back of my chair on the morning he passed, Dad’s voice was, and is, still speaking loudly to me. He may not physically be around to walk me down the aisle or play grandfather to my future children, but I now realize he spent my lifetime prepping me for these big moments, instilling within me valuable life lessons, and molding me into the person I am proud to be. And I am certain I will continue to hear him – his words of wisdom and loving guidance – throughout my life. Dad resides within me now. And contradictory to my childhood fear that he wouldn’t be around to see me grow all the way up, it is this belief that assures me he will be with me for the big moments, and every other moment too.