Can You Learn to Love Yourself?

I've been off the radar for a few days trying to figure out some things. It was a good experience, and I learned a lot about myself and how to go on to live the happiest life possible.

The answer to my problem is quite easy--simply put, I need to love myself, to value myself, to see the good in myself.

The problem is, I don't.

I did get it down to that one issue, however, which is actually quite good progress for me.  It turns out that virtually all of my problems cycle back to that one problem.

All I can hear is Whitney Houston singing "The Greatest Love of All", but...well, it's just not that simple.

I am raising three amazing children (well, Emily is pretty much on her own, but she does sometimes text me in the middle of the night to ask random philosophical questions), I am loved deeply by my husband, my mother, my siblings and their spouses, and my nephews. It only follows logically that I am a pretty good mother/wife/daughter/sister/auntie, yet I can't for the life of me see why.  Or maybe it's how.

And I'm not writing this for people to throw compliments at me.  I know I am a good mother.  I know I have some talent at writing and teaching, but I know that both of these have ceased to be easy for me. I know I'm a nice and caring person.

But I don't know it, if that makes any sense.

I guess it's no secret to most people that know me in person or who reads this blog regularly or is a friend on Facebook that I have been struggling with some debilitating Postpartum Depression that ended up waking up a sleeping nightmare of a crime I thought was buried forever (a sexual assault I wrote about here and focused on the repercussions of here), so I've also been diagnosed with PTSD.

I did make a lot of progress over the past few days, though, and I'd like to share some of it in the hope that it can help any of you out there, anyone that has Postpartum Depression, PTSD, or anything else.  

There is still a stigma attached to mental illness, so I am feeling some shame as I write this.  I'm actually going to say that Postpartum Depression is hormonal and affects a large percentage of women and that, you know, I certainly didn't ask to be raped and have it all come back through PTSD. It's not like, I'm really messed up on my own.  I also have some pretty interesting purely medical stuff going on as well.

And I hate myself for writing the above paragraph because, while true, it dishonors those that suffer from bipolar disorder or depression or OCD or borderline personality disorder or whatever.  People that suffer from those are no different than those that are living with cancer or diabetes.  

Yet the stigma remains.

Anyway, I'll get off my (fairly hypocritical) soapbox now and get back to the point.

I was given a list of positive affirmations and encouraged to identify which of those were true for me.  At first, I scoffed.  I mean, we're talking "I pursue my life's purpose" and "I feel fulfilled and joyful", and my personal favorite, "I balance my self-confidence with modesty perfectly".  

Eventually, I found a couple that did resonate with me, so I read a little further and found a few more, and then I decided to make an effort to take it seriously.

I made a list of the positive affirmations that I felt were true about myself.  There were twenty-four of them, but I felt that it wasn't as cut and dried as that; in other words, many of the twenty-four had a disclaimer.  I then decided to write them in my own handwriting along with some freewriting on the topic.

I care for people.  I do, but often to my detriment.  I am extremely sensitive with minimal self-esteem, so I take things very personally.  I know I need to develop a thicker skin.  Either that or stop caring, and I think that's impossible for me.  My parents bought me a beautiful red jacket when I was a little girl of six or seven.  I gave it away to another little girl who lived in a bad part of town and who didn't have a jacket at all.  If my mother's wrath at that event didn't put a dent in the "care dial" on  my heart, I don't think anything will.  It is so hard to care about others, though, when they clearly don't care about you.

Here's another:

I deserve to succeed.  I have done so many awful things that sometimes I really don't feel this, but the truth is that everyone with pure and positive intentions deserves to succeed, and I definitely fall into that category.  This is one I need to focus more on ...

The next step was going through my freewrites and generating questions for each.  I came up with a ton of questions (I needed to get a second notepad at about this point), and then I went through those questions and came up with what I called "Katie's Essential Questions", which means areas that recurred as common themes that ran through my positive self-affirmations.

Virtually every question came back to the fact that I have very low self-esteem, minimal self-confidence, and this pervasive feeling that I am unworthy of love.

I am still wrangling with this issue as I type this (and, boy, does it feel good to use a computer...I had to write in long hand because it was how I could make it be me, but this is so much easier).  I didn't come up with an answer, although I went through my "essential questions" with my mother this afternoon and she helped me see the connection between all of my questions.

It's funny, because I am your typical ADHD person ... even my brain is disorganized.  It was very hard for me to systematically take on this task, because it seemed both stupid and overwhelming and, most of all, a supreme waste of time.  I used a notebook and a half to realize something that I already know ... that I am not the world's biggest fan of myself.

What I lost sight of, at least for a moment, was that there are twenty-four statements I now own, in my own bastardized print/cursive hybrid, that are at least in some ways true.

The one that speaks the most to me is "I am a kind, caring, and decent person". I put it on my list and know it to be true, yet the question remains ...

Can you learn to love yourself?  And, if so, how?

On (Gulp) Guns

I have played around with the idea of writing about guns on here since the Newtown shooting, but I was hesitant.  I mean, who wants to offend what is likely a fairly high percentage of people that read your blog?

But then I got thinking about the purpose of my blog, at least in my mind.  I WANT people to have conversations.  It is my deepest desire that people will engage in meaningful discourse, and that's not going to happen if I'm not willing to get into tough subjects.

So here goes ...

I hate guns.  In fact, I hate violence of any sort.  In my dream world, nobody would ever feel the need to resort to hurting other people physically.

That being said, I recognize the need for guns to exist.  Furthermore, I agree with the right of American citizens to bear arms.  If you feel the need to own a gun to make yourself feel safer, you should have that right.

The problem that I have with the status quo is twofold ...

1.  Based on the increasingly common instances of gun violence being perpetrated by mentally unstable individuals who should never have had access to firearms, guns are clearly waaaaaaaaaaay too easy to get your hands on.

I don't understand why people that want to own guns for legitimate purposes (hunting, home protection, target shooting, whatever) would have a problem with there being oversight in terms of gun ownership.  The second amendment gives you the right to bear arms, and it doesn't put a cap on how many arms you can choose to bear, but is there any sort of compelling reason that there shouldn't be a record of this?

I see it more as public safety ... as a parent, a teacher, and a human being grateful for every breath of air I take in, I see no feasible argument against keeping track of where guns are and who owns them.  You have the right to bear arms, I have the right to live in a world where a maniac isn't going to start shooting up a movie theater with guns he should never have had access to.

2.  At Sandy Hook Elementary School, 20 children were slaughtered in a matter of a couple of minutes.  In fact, that's more measurable in terms of seconds.  When we're talking about firearms that have the capacity to cause that degree of destruction in such a short period of time ...

Well, we shouldn't be talking about it.  I do not see any compelling reason for weapons capable of destroying large numbers in seconds to be available to the general public.  I have yet to hear anybody give a compelling reason for why these types of guns should be accessible to people without good cause.

And, I'm sorry, but "Because it's my right as an American citizen" is not, in my humble opinion, good cause.

Someone explained to me that the second amendment was originally meant as a checks and balances kind of thing against the government.  In other words, the American government could not go running completely amok because the American people had the right to be prepared to do the whole militia thing under the provisions of the second amendment, and the government was completely aware of this.

With all due respect to the U.S. Constitution, it was a document drafted in the 1780s.  Many parts of the original piece would be downright offensive now; amending the Constitution is neither new nor out of line, so why people froth at the mouth when it comes to the second amendment in particular is just beyond me.

I should mention that I've been avoiding news coverage on what's going on with Congress bickering over semantics and President Obama talking about executive orders and so on because it is such a hot button issue, and one I'm not sure that anyone is fully taking the time to think through, instead doing the whole "knee jerk" thing, which scares me perhaps even more.

What are your thoughts?  

Connection Between Creative Genius and Being "Different"?

One of my students once asked me, "Why is it that every author is crazy?"  I thought about avoiding the question, actually, because who wants to go there, really?

First of all, there's that word "crazy" ...  (which, incidentally, is why it took me five minutes to come up with a title for this post ;-))

It's almost impossible to define "crazy", or I suppose we all have our own individual parameters as to what the word means.  Kooky?  Dangerous to yourself and others?  Impossible to understand?  Unique?  Those who beat to the march of their own drummers?  Manipulative?

And yet that long-ago student stumbled upon a kernel of truth that I had always been aware of on some level but had never really contemplated particularly deeply.

There is, in my opinion, an unquestionably correlation between creative genius and ... well, I'll call it eccentricity.  Michelangelo ... Marlon Brando ... Kurt Cobain ... J.K. Rowling ... Charles Dickens ... and so on.

And the so-called "27 Club" seems more evidence to support this theory than mere coincidence.    

I face it head on now as a teacher, usually through the unfortunate Edgar Allan Poe.  Before we read any of his stuff, I give my students notes about his life (I don't give proscribed notes very often, but I do when introducing Poe's biography).

Consider Poe's tragic existence ...

Dad left the family, Mom died when he was just a little kid of tuberculosis, his foster father didn't have much use for him, his foster mother died when he was still fairly young (also of TB), he had a gambling problem, his military career was a disaster, he married his thirteen-year-old cousin when he was in his late twenties (and said cousin died of TB ... gee, wonder if Poe was a carrier or something?), couldn't hold a job because he was by most accounts a hot-tempered and opinion twit, had a severe addiction problem, and died under very bizarre circumstances.  (That's the nutshell version, obviously)


When reading Poe's works (and I personally think he was a writer of prodigious talent), you can see the tragedies that shaped his life all over the place, an autobiographical legacy from a writer that will be remembered for being ... well, crazy.


There are very few writers, artists, actors, musicians, or any sort of master of a creative outlet who appear to have had "normal" lives.  (I know, "normal" is about as difficult to define as "crazy", right?)


Speaking for myself, I know for a fact that I would not be the writer I am were it not for those traumatic events that have shaped my own life.

And while I'm pretty sure I'm mentally sound, I have definitely been impacted by the learning disabilities that have complicated my existence, not to mention insomnia.

If I ever achieve the degree of fame as a writer where a biography would be written about me, it would probably make for an interesting read (not because I'm an interesting person but because I have somehow had so many interesting experiences).

Anyway, that's my take ... interesting life experiences (and, sadly, the more traumatic the ... better?) and/or mental illness foster creative genius, without a doubt.

What do you think?

Part of the Problem ... or Part of the Solution?

Everyone has crap in their lives.  It's a fact.

And when it all seems to add up--as it always seems to do--it's really easy to wallow in it, to get bogged down by it, to bring yourselves to the same low level as people you have absolutely no respect for.

It's funny, when I start to feel totally overwhelmed by the garbage that seems to me like unspeakably heavy lead weights attached to my legs while I'm swimming in the ocean, it always occurs to me to remember that I have the power to make a choice.

Do I want to be part of the problem?  Is it my desire to keep on trying to swim, held back and stuck in one place by those blocks of lead that are tied to me?  Is there any point, really?

It's much easier to be part of the solution, to figure out a way to cut the ropes that have tied the weights to me in the first place, to recognize that the blocks of lead will still be there, will always be trying to wrap their way around me again ... but that I do not have to let it happen.

And so tonight, I'm taking a deep breath.

I cannot change, understand on any sort of rational level, or try to help (a mindset that always ends up backfiring in my face), no matter how hard I try, someone who is so mentally ill that the only person that matters to himself is ... well, himself.

I cannot change people in positions of power that are completely blind to reality.  All I can do is the best I can and hope that these people either open their minds a little bit or are replaced by more qualified and competent individuals.

I have no power over the life dramas that add up--things like dogs barfing between the cracks of the hardwood floor, head lice, dead car batteries, abscessed teeth, mail that gets lost, cell phone cases that break, not being able to access work e-mail from home, writer's block, losing a book I'm really into when I have two chapters left, friends that disappear unexplained from your life, and so on and so forth.

And so sometimes, you just have to stop, do a quick self-reflection, and ask, "Am I part of the problem?"

Usually, no matter how much you want to think otherwise, the answer is yes, either because of clumsiness or insensitivity or irresponsibility or impulsivity or whatever.

So then I have to put on my big girl panties and strive to instead be part of the solution.

This isn't always possible.  In fact, sometimes you are going to get metaphorically screwed, and there's absolutely nothing you can do about it.

The three big things that are wearing me down, I do not believe that I am part of the problem, no matter how many different angles I am looking at them.

I honestly don't see how I can be part of any solution, which makes me sad and full of regret, but there is nothing I can do.  I mean, when you can say with a 100% clear conscience that you have tried everything in your power, you have to just do the best you can and have hope that things will change for the better.

They always do eventually.

But I refuse to swim around with those lead weights tied around me anymore.  I have to harden my heart, which is so anti-me it's not even funny, but it's the only way I can be free.

It's the only way I can possibly be part of the solution instead of possibly perpetuating the problems.

I believe in a higher power, and I believe in karma.  I live my life doing the best I can for other people, and I am able to look in a mirror with a clear conscience.  I have no ulterior motives for any of my actions that are intended to hurt other people, and I know in my heart that I am a good person.

Somehow I know that the people at the root of my current conundrums can't say that about themselves.

And with that realization, I think I'll be able to sleep tonight :-)

Honoring a Marriage That is Over

Nine years ago today, I got married.  I took marriage very seriously, and I certainly never intended for it to ever end.  As a child of divorce myself, it was vitally important to me that I make the commitment of marriage only if I was 100% sure.

Obviously, things didn't work out the way I'd intended.

Mental illness and alcoholism brought on by stress and long-suppressed memories changed the man that I married--and he was a good man--into an unrecognizable monster.

There are two people in every marriage, and there are two people that contribute to the destruction of one.  I have a boatload of faults, and I do not pretend to have been the perfect wife.  I wish that my ex-husband could have communicated his concerns to me before reaching for the bottle.  I wish that with all my heart, because we had a really good marriage for a very long time.

I will never be sorry that I was married to Pythagorus.  Ever. (And we had an extremely unpleasant phone conversation last night that falls under "bullying" and "verbal assault" as defined by my school and by pretty much anyone with a clear mind, so these words carry greater weight today, as far as I'm concerned, than they would have yesterday at this time)

The most obvious reason that I don't regret my marriage is obviously Belle, a magical, funny, beautiful, intelligent miracle of a child.

But there is a lot more.

The man I married had a wonderful sense of humor.  We spent hours laughing together, sharing stories from our days, discussing current events that crossed into bizarre territory, and finding entertainment everywhere we went.

He was unfailingly kind.  He would give the shirt off his back to a stranger, and I completely mean that.  I watched him, over the course of our marriage, offer assistance to human beings of every age and walk of life, and he did it without expecting anything in return.  I can't remember him ever raising his voice--much less his hand--to me for the lion's share of the years we dated and were married.

Pythagorus was a master at finding random adventures.  We would get into the car and just drive, talking the whole time, and ending up in many different and unexpected locations.  It's a rare person that can find excitement in the seemingly mundane, and Pythagorus was a genius at this.

Pythagorus unquestionably made me a better person.  I was at a very low point in my life when I met him, and his positive attitude and appreciation for things like sunsets on a mountain or flying a kite on a windy day dissipated the bitter, cynical attitude I had adopted toward life.  Many of the good parts of who I am today are because of the love, support, and patience that Pythagorus gave to me.

I do not trust easily, and there were things I never told Pythagorus about my past (in retrospect, I'm relieved, because he's turned into the kind of jerk that would find a way to use some of these things against me), but I did fully believe in him and completely trusted that he would always be there for me just as I intended to always be there for him.

My husband, for all intents and purposes, died several years ago.  It's only recently that I've fully realized that, and I still grieve for him.  I loved him very much, and I still miss him.

However, the man with Pythagorus' face today, the bitter and cynical and mistrustful liar that has taken over his body, is not that man.

Which makes it even worse.

When somebody that you love passes away, the pain is enormous.  Death is the ultimate closure, in a way, because you have to forge ahead with life and figure out a way to live without a loved one.  You can look back fondly, can visit a cemetery, can appreciate the difference someone made in your life and honor that person through words and deeds.

I lost my stepdad and my grandfather, both great men in terms of their families and of the larger world, within a few years of each other.  I loved them both very much, and I miss them every day.  Their legacies live on, though, through memories and stories shared at family events and, yes, through those of us they left behind.      

It is impossible to honor the Pythagorus that exists today.  There is nothing--not one single thing--noble or fine about him.

The fact that he was once a great man makes the cruelty of not being able to honor who he used to be even more difficult.  The face I once loved is still in the world, spitting out lies, bullying, manipulating, endangering the lives of other people, and thriving on mind games.

It makes it difficult to even mourn the man who was my husband, and that just breaks my heart.

But I can still honor our marriage, and so that is what I do today.