The postings on this site are my own and don't necessarily represent IBM's positions, strategies or opinions.
Don't Worry, and Unexpected Encouragement
In my previous entry, I meant to mention that I plan to try working with a therapist again. I had seen one since college, depending on where I lived, and until several years ago, but probably, I was not ready prior, as I always felt like most often, I just went in there and told stories and entertained us...or myself, anyway.
So we'll see.
Something helpful happened already as a result of last night's blog-entry. A colleague from work wrote to me and relayed, though our life circumstances differed from each other, the colleague felt that the colleague could have been the entry's author.
Certainly, I wish this mood on no one else, but since at least one other person in the world has told me that this person could relate to my account, I feel less alone in the struggle and I hope my colleague does a bit, too.
Showing posts with label vulnerability. Show all posts
Showing posts with label vulnerability. Show all posts
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Day 2 of Freedom
The postings on this site are my own and don't necessarily represent IBM's positions, strategies or opinions.
Inspired by My Friend Helen
Pat has gone to pick up the stray mini-pumpkins from last night's jack-o-lantern lighting fest at the Presby Iris Gardens and I can see from the web-cam that she has her work cut out for her.
My friend Helen has been blogging super-honestly and it's heartening to read -- picks me up, even when the entries are sad, and makes me feel more connected to humanity. I'll try to follow her example:
Anyone who knows me knows that I'm known for my enthusiasm. So how can such an enthusiastic person be depressed? It's a good question, and it *is* unnerving to be so, as I'm used to being easily delighted, highly-appreciative, observant of my surroundings and generally ready to laugh when provoked.
Thankfully, Pat still can provoke me. From the silly to the hilarious, Pat can make me giggle. Yesterday, during a lower-than-typical point -- my period had finally arrived -- I heard a huge diesel engine expelling exhaust on our street, and said, "What's that?" even as I knew.
"It's me," Pat said. That's just silly. And from a few weeks ago, a friend of my mom died, who she never allowed herself to be romantic with, as she believed he had served in the Norwegian version of Hitler Youth as a kid. When he died, Pat said, "He may have been an anti-Semite, but he was *her* anti-Semite." Hilarious.
Do I feel free, coming out as depressed? Sort of. I'm grateful that my employer does not discriminate based on genetics -- and though I've got no proven connection between my genes and this depression, somehow that non-discrimination policy is encouraging me to be myself.
I woke up, reasoning, hardly anyone reads your blog in any case, Sarah....No offense meant to anyone who does, and thank you for doing so. In other words, if I weigh what it has been costing me to stay silent, rather than write and share my actual feelings against playing it safe and avoiding this topic of prolonged sadness, I feel less ultimately vulnerable in choosing to share it.
The other day, I was speaking with a friend who will be visiting us from a faraway country. I have not seen my friend in years. She was joking (or not) about how she'd need to abstain from chocolate, so that she wouldn't be heavy when she saw us.
I told her, "I wish my head weren't so heavy. I don't think I'm the person you remember first meeting anymore," and then I began to cry.
"Oh, Sarah, I haven't yet made my flight-plans. Let me know if you want me to take an extra day off and we can just sit in the house and talk if you need to."
I didn't accept my friend's offer, and then I almost wrote to her later, agreeing. Discretion won for once, though, and I opted to let her go home on schedule.
I need to thank God that this depression isn't grandly-justified, and really, is probably based on low-humility; I thought I would be further along in life by now -- even saying that aloud makes me feel ungrateful. It's irrational, as on the one hand, in my early-twenties, I couldn't imagine what the future held, and certainly didn't expect it to be what it has become -- with a partner of 17 years so far; and a chunk of time spent in India, doing meaningful work; and being cat-parents to two sister-cats; and being a highly-successful grad student; and being the aunt of four great kids; and living in a gorgeous town in a great house, but still....
I care too much about what others think of me; I'm not yet a famous writer; I did not have a child organically or otherwise, and haven't yet determined how in any case to leave a meaningful legacy; and in my ego-centric mind, I thought I'd be more famous generally by now. I think these are my main reasons for the depression.
Inspired by My Friend Helen
Pat has gone to pick up the stray mini-pumpkins from last night's jack-o-lantern lighting fest at the Presby Iris Gardens and I can see from the web-cam that she has her work cut out for her.
My friend Helen has been blogging super-honestly and it's heartening to read -- picks me up, even when the entries are sad, and makes me feel more connected to humanity. I'll try to follow her example:
Anyone who knows me knows that I'm known for my enthusiasm. So how can such an enthusiastic person be depressed? It's a good question, and it *is* unnerving to be so, as I'm used to being easily delighted, highly-appreciative, observant of my surroundings and generally ready to laugh when provoked.
Thankfully, Pat still can provoke me. From the silly to the hilarious, Pat can make me giggle. Yesterday, during a lower-than-typical point -- my period had finally arrived -- I heard a huge diesel engine expelling exhaust on our street, and said, "What's that?" even as I knew.
"It's me," Pat said. That's just silly. And from a few weeks ago, a friend of my mom died, who she never allowed herself to be romantic with, as she believed he had served in the Norwegian version of Hitler Youth as a kid. When he died, Pat said, "He may have been an anti-Semite, but he was *her* anti-Semite." Hilarious.
Do I feel free, coming out as depressed? Sort of. I'm grateful that my employer does not discriminate based on genetics -- and though I've got no proven connection between my genes and this depression, somehow that non-discrimination policy is encouraging me to be myself.
I woke up, reasoning, hardly anyone reads your blog in any case, Sarah....No offense meant to anyone who does, and thank you for doing so. In other words, if I weigh what it has been costing me to stay silent, rather than write and share my actual feelings against playing it safe and avoiding this topic of prolonged sadness, I feel less ultimately vulnerable in choosing to share it.
The other day, I was speaking with a friend who will be visiting us from a faraway country. I have not seen my friend in years. She was joking (or not) about how she'd need to abstain from chocolate, so that she wouldn't be heavy when she saw us.
I told her, "I wish my head weren't so heavy. I don't think I'm the person you remember first meeting anymore," and then I began to cry.
"Oh, Sarah, I haven't yet made my flight-plans. Let me know if you want me to take an extra day off and we can just sit in the house and talk if you need to."
I didn't accept my friend's offer, and then I almost wrote to her later, agreeing. Discretion won for once, though, and I opted to let her go home on schedule.
I need to thank God that this depression isn't grandly-justified, and really, is probably based on low-humility; I thought I would be further along in life by now -- even saying that aloud makes me feel ungrateful. It's irrational, as on the one hand, in my early-twenties, I couldn't imagine what the future held, and certainly didn't expect it to be what it has become -- with a partner of 17 years so far; and a chunk of time spent in India, doing meaningful work; and being cat-parents to two sister-cats; and being a highly-successful grad student; and being the aunt of four great kids; and living in a gorgeous town in a great house, but still....
I care too much about what others think of me; I'm not yet a famous writer; I did not have a child organically or otherwise, and haven't yet determined how in any case to leave a meaningful legacy; and in my ego-centric mind, I thought I'd be more famous generally by now. I think these are my main reasons for the depression.
Friday, October 30, 2009
"Freedom's Just Another Word..."
The postings on this site are my own and don't necessarily represent IBM's positions, strategies or opinions.
What's the Worst That Could Happen?
What's the worst that could happen if I revealed my sadness further? And basically admitted that the mood from my last blog-entry, where I became happy again, was just an interlude? What's the worst that could happen if I said I've been feeling depressed for some time?
I can hear my mother now: "Why tell the world?"
"Mom, I tried writing it by hand in a journal and I got no relief."
I'm not really even sure how this depression became sticky. I've had plenty of sad moments across my life-span so far, but this moment has stretched. Was it from since we left for India? Since we got back? Since my mom had her car accident and convalescence two Marches ago? Since I saw "Snow Cake" the other night? Since my friend Susan interviewed me earlier in the week, anonymously, for her class, about how adults make changes, and about a change I was unable to make over the past two years, and which I'd wanted to, and how not being able to made me feel?
What's the worst that could happen? What's the worst that could happen if I didn't tell you?
The worst that could happen has been happening:
I've been too ashamed of my depression to blog, since I didn't think I could blog authentically without acknowledging it. The Lady Liberty bobble-doll on the shelf above my desk is smiling and nodding her head in approval at my honesty.
Why couldn't I go to the pumpkin-lighting at the Iris Gardens with Pat this evening? Why couldn't I have the weekend off instead of having to write a literature review for school? Why can't school be over? What will I do without the stimulation I get from there once I graduate?
Why can't I sleep better? Why is my pre-menstrual time so dark, so often? Why doesn't expressing my gratitude pull me out of my mood? Why isn't swimming helping? Why do I feel so vulnerable, describing all of this? Why does it give me a bit of relief at the same time?
What's the Worst That Could Happen?
What's the worst that could happen if I revealed my sadness further? And basically admitted that the mood from my last blog-entry, where I became happy again, was just an interlude? What's the worst that could happen if I said I've been feeling depressed for some time?
I can hear my mother now: "Why tell the world?"
"Mom, I tried writing it by hand in a journal and I got no relief."
I'm not really even sure how this depression became sticky. I've had plenty of sad moments across my life-span so far, but this moment has stretched. Was it from since we left for India? Since we got back? Since my mom had her car accident and convalescence two Marches ago? Since I saw "Snow Cake" the other night? Since my friend Susan interviewed me earlier in the week, anonymously, for her class, about how adults make changes, and about a change I was unable to make over the past two years, and which I'd wanted to, and how not being able to made me feel?
What's the worst that could happen? What's the worst that could happen if I didn't tell you?
The worst that could happen has been happening:
I've been too ashamed of my depression to blog, since I didn't think I could blog authentically without acknowledging it. The Lady Liberty bobble-doll on the shelf above my desk is smiling and nodding her head in approval at my honesty.
Why couldn't I go to the pumpkin-lighting at the Iris Gardens with Pat this evening? Why couldn't I have the weekend off instead of having to write a literature review for school? Why can't school be over? What will I do without the stimulation I get from there once I graduate?
Why can't I sleep better? Why is my pre-menstrual time so dark, so often? Why doesn't expressing my gratitude pull me out of my mood? Why isn't swimming helping? Why do I feel so vulnerable, describing all of this? Why does it give me a bit of relief at the same time?
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Destiny
The postings on this site are my own and don't necessarily represent IBM's positions, strategies or opinions.
Kitties Will Be Kitties
It has been nearly 13 months since we adopted Phoebe and Toonces, who are five-year-old, sister-cats. Phoebe was just rooting around in the closet to my left because...she must; Phoebe was made to root.
More than 20 years ago, when I first came out, I learned that it was a truism/stereotype that every [American] lesbian liked playing softball and all of them had cats. I tried softball again in my 20s, even as I had traumatic memories from elementary school, but I resisted the cat concept.
And also failed again at softball.
Softball was one thing, but cats were never going to be part of my household; of that, I was certain. I hated the way their food smelled, how they shed everywhere and their apparent lack of loyalty to the hand that was feeding them.
Lesbians Will Be Lesbians
Circa 2009, I am a loving cat-parent. Cliche or not, they're sweetening Pat's and my life gigantically. They are whimsically/mercurially/only occasionally affectionate, but even just watching their little, baby-tiger bodies walking around the house melts me.
And I feel such a tenderness when I feed them, even though their food does smell awful. Always, they act like they're starving till I put the double-dish down in front of them. And then their twin-ness is the most apparent as they seem to crouch and lap at their Supreme Suppers identically.
I resist writing about them because I sound so mushy-platitudinous.
Being Dog-like Myself
Earlier this week, a dear friend of mine from a faraway timezone said, "Sarah, you're the most honest person I know. You're so trusting and I think you get hurt because of it sometimes. You remind me of a dog who lies on his back, so that we can pet his stomach -- so trusting, but it leaves you vulnerable."
It was a vivid analogy and metaphor. Pat and I talked about it later and realized that being trusting might be one of the traits we have most in common. "I'd rather go through life being too trusting than being cynical," Pat said.
And then another colleague, a relative stranger, asked me to mentor him at work because of another colleague's endorsement: "She said you're passionate, candid and trusting, and that's what I need." That friend is also from a faraway timezone.
In my case, passionate might be a polite way of saying intense, rather than being a euphemism for having a bad temper. Could I change my candid, passionate, trusting nature? Would I want to? Or is it my destiny?
Kitties Will Be Kitties
It has been nearly 13 months since we adopted Phoebe and Toonces, who are five-year-old, sister-cats. Phoebe was just rooting around in the closet to my left because...she must; Phoebe was made to root.
More than 20 years ago, when I first came out, I learned that it was a truism/stereotype that every [American] lesbian liked playing softball and all of them had cats. I tried softball again in my 20s, even as I had traumatic memories from elementary school, but I resisted the cat concept.
And also failed again at softball.
Softball was one thing, but cats were never going to be part of my household; of that, I was certain. I hated the way their food smelled, how they shed everywhere and their apparent lack of loyalty to the hand that was feeding them.
Lesbians Will Be Lesbians
Circa 2009, I am a loving cat-parent. Cliche or not, they're sweetening Pat's and my life gigantically. They are whimsically/mercurially/only occasionally affectionate, but even just watching their little, baby-tiger bodies walking around the house melts me.
And I feel such a tenderness when I feed them, even though their food does smell awful. Always, they act like they're starving till I put the double-dish down in front of them. And then their twin-ness is the most apparent as they seem to crouch and lap at their Supreme Suppers identically.
I resist writing about them because I sound so mushy-platitudinous.
Being Dog-like Myself
Earlier this week, a dear friend of mine from a faraway timezone said, "Sarah, you're the most honest person I know. You're so trusting and I think you get hurt because of it sometimes. You remind me of a dog who lies on his back, so that we can pet his stomach -- so trusting, but it leaves you vulnerable."
It was a vivid analogy and metaphor. Pat and I talked about it later and realized that being trusting might be one of the traits we have most in common. "I'd rather go through life being too trusting than being cynical," Pat said.
And then another colleague, a relative stranger, asked me to mentor him at work because of another colleague's endorsement: "She said you're passionate, candid and trusting, and that's what I need." That friend is also from a faraway timezone.
In my case, passionate might be a polite way of saying intense, rather than being a euphemism for having a bad temper. Could I change my candid, passionate, trusting nature? Would I want to? Or is it my destiny?
Saturday, March 1, 2008
For Art's Sake
The postings on this site are my own and don't necessarily represent IBM's positions, strategies or opinions.
Pat's Dad's Name Was Art
...but that's not the Art I'm referring to.
This morning, I talked to another friend of mine who's a visual artist, telling her that I was unnerved by e-mail I received this week from a classmate, who told me that while reading my learning-leadership-life history over this week, he wished he could have put his arm around me and offered me some friendly advice.
"Sarah, once you put your art out there, it's public property. Don't you think that if you publish a book and you sell 100,000 copies, there'll be 100,000 opinions?"
She liberated me, at least for today. It was freeing to realize that just because people reacted to my writing, didn't mean I needed to subscribe to all of their reactions.
Last Monday, our professor asked, "Who wants to go first?" i.e., who wanted to have his or her history interpreted during the next class?
I raised my hand.
There were to be two official readers, who would kick off the discussion while the rest of the class also had to read it, though not as carefully. Will I regret having taken this class after Monday night? Or will it prove to be transformational?
Pat's Dad's Name Was Art
...but that's not the Art I'm referring to.
This morning, I talked to another friend of mine who's a visual artist, telling her that I was unnerved by e-mail I received this week from a classmate, who told me that while reading my learning-leadership-life history over this week, he wished he could have put his arm around me and offered me some friendly advice.
"Sarah, once you put your art out there, it's public property. Don't you think that if you publish a book and you sell 100,000 copies, there'll be 100,000 opinions?"
She liberated me, at least for today. It was freeing to realize that just because people reacted to my writing, didn't mean I needed to subscribe to all of their reactions.
Last Monday, our professor asked, "Who wants to go first?" i.e., who wanted to have his or her history interpreted during the next class?
I raised my hand.
There were to be two official readers, who would kick off the discussion while the rest of the class also had to read it, though not as carefully. Will I regret having taken this class after Monday night? Or will it prove to be transformational?
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