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A Decluttered Life, Part 3

The Energy in Porcelain and Paper

Decluttering my life, both inside and out, has been quite the task.

I mostly think about it as a journey, with u-turns and new destinations that let me know I am finally getting somewhere. But in reality it often feels like an onion. I’m peeling away layer after layer, crying most of the time, and nothing seems to come off cleanly. Just when I think I’ve hit the white, edible meat, I find more purple paper stuck on everything. So I try again, sniffling and stinging, but determined to go on. 

When I hold an object in my hand, be it clothes, books, or trinkets, I listen to whatever part of me needs to talk about it. I want to hear what the object means to me, and feel whatever I need to feel. Usually, I hear about my identity first, and how the object can protect me from being misunderstood or misrepresented. I’ve mostly learned to comfort that part of me and help her relax, so we can let go of things that are only there to prove something. Sometimes that is enough to help me completely separate from the item and donate it. But if I still feel the sting of the onion, I know there are more layers to remove. 

Objects from the past are often hard to let go of. As I’ve said before, they seem to hold the memories and energy of the past. I can hold a trinket that I loved as a child and feel that moment again. Sometimes it’s painful, and I feel the sadness contained inside. But there are also positive moments, that fill me with interest and appreciation for my past self. I can hold an item that I got with my husband on our honeymoon or at a convention, and feel the energy of that place and the original pull to buy it. I can even hold a more recent purchase, something odd I found at the thrift shop, and sense that spark of amusement all over again.

Not all items that make me feel happy also bring joy. This is a small but important distinction for me. I can enjoy how something looks or smile at the memory it brings, but I don’t necessarily feel a spark in my soul or even a true desire to keep it. I am often filled with fear of losing the experience rather than joy in remembering it. As I write this I am thinking of a large, hand painted castle that my mom bought on our trip to London when I was a young child. It has sat in different parts of her house, and then in mine, for decades. I remember feeling the magic in that item when I was young. I would walk my fingers up and down the steps, imagining that I lived in that wind washed castle by the sea. It felt so real to me as a child that I can still access some of that magic in the present. I held that item in my hands just the other day, trying to decide its fate. A part of me knew that I wanted to let it go and another part wanted to be a child again, living in a castle. 

By making an open and curious space for that part, I could hear her concerns. She didn’t want to grow up and live in a world that had no magic in it; didn’t want that part of myself to be discarded. I could almost hear her little voice in my ear: “Shouldn’t we just keep a few things, to remind us of what was? To make sure we can find our way back?” I listened and could understand her concerns. I even felt that some parts of me agreed with her. This castle represented my struggle with many sentimental items, feeling both a pull toward the past and a projection of fear into the future. When I used those books or toys, I could feel their energy move into me. The moment seemed to have more spark and life. As a child, I believed that my things could transport me. They could save me. They could give me what I could not give myself. As an adult, some of that belief remained. I worried that without those special items to remind me of myself, I would lose my experiences and what they mean to me. I also feared for moments in the future when those items would be needed again to inspire and guide me. Would I be a husk of myself without them? Another boring adult moving numbly through the world?

Sitting with those fears, I know that they stem from a distrust of my core Self. Parts of me worry that when important life moments come, whatever they are, I will not be enough on my own—I will need the energy from those objects to pull me through or charge me up. My fear says that every book and porcelain animal I have loved must be there to guide and preserve me. I cannot afford to lose even one. 

When I am present and connect to my true Self, I can hear those worries and answer from a place of compassion and strength. I can be with those worried parts and apologize for not hearing them in the past. I can promise that no part of me is going away, and that saying goodbye to a memento does not mean saying goodbye to any part of myself. I can also be honest and admit that staying true to what I believe is right—an anchor unmoved by the push and pull of the world—has not been easy. I have bowed and broken in the forceful winds of other voices and opinions. I have not trusted my Self, pushing away parts that had valid concerns and important information. But I have also not looked beyond myself, becoming lost in the internal voices and fears. And I have felt the pain of those decisions. But when I am connected to Self, I can acknowledge the truth of my past pain without carrying it into the future. I can see that a painted castle will not save or destroy me.

My core Self looks out on the world with clear eyes. There is no stinging fog, and I don’t need to hide behind objects. I know that the hard moments will come, and so will the beautiful, and we will survive both. I want to navigate this world with truth, courage, and compassion. What I need for the journey is not contained in a sentimental book or figurine; it is in my heart and soul, fueled and sustained by my faith, and not something that circumstances can shake apart. I know this and trusts it completely, feeling connected to something deeper and more expansive than an object can ever be. 

The fact is, my energy and sense of wonder come from within. They are held by sweet and faithful childhood parts I can connect to whenever I want. I remember the joy and excitement of other objects that I no longer have but will never forget, and I know those memories and feelings are safe. I can feel them without the object as a conduit. I am the conduit. So I say goodbye to the castle, but not to my childhood magic. In fact, I now understand that my ability to play and imagine is so much larger than a castle could contain, and even more enjoyable than a favorite story. It is limitless, and comes from those sacred places inside me.   

True freedom came with the understanding that it wasn’t the object that held the energy; it was me. All of the emotional charge I felt from those items was not stored up in their porcelain or paper, projecting to me from the past. I was giving them my energy in the present moment. I was the one imbuing them with power and creating their ultimate meaning. Like a superpower gone wrong, everything I touched was turning to gold and I could no longer tell what was really valuable to me. Letting go of sentimental items has taught me so much about myself. I have learned to peel the onion in a way I never thought possible, and feel grateful for every tear and layer. Now I am creating a space that is open, not because it is bare but because it is ready to be filled with whatever my heart can imagine. Perhaps it will hold items again, but it will also let them go with a happy heart.

Disclaimer: This is a blog, which contains a mixture of my current knowledge and opinions. The information is accurate to the best of my knowledge but may contain omissions, errors, or mistakes. I am a psychologist licensed to practice in the state of Washington, but this article does not create a psychologist-client relationship. I am providing psychological information and my own opinions for informational purposes only, and anything I present should not be seen as psychological, emotional, or medical advice or treatment. You should consult with a mental health professional or your primary care physician before you rely on this information or take any action. I reserve the right to change how I manage or run my blog and may change the focus or content at any time.

[innerpowercounseling-blog]

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I Won't Kill Foxes...

I Won’t Kill Foxes in Breath of the Wild

(and I'm okay with that)

I can easily get lost in the kingdom of Hyrule—literally and metaphorically. Playing Breath of the Wild (BOTW) on my Switch, I’m taken in by the soothing sounds of my shoes tapping on the stone and the swishy clank of gear when I run. I’ve spent hours exploring the terrain, cutting through valleys or climbing mountains, looking in every nook and cranny for treasure and Korok seeds. I never take the path on the map.

Within this vast world, and with the aid of divinities and advanced technology, I—in the body of Link—have numerous choices. Combat aside, I can blow up trees for wood, tame wild horses, catch fish with my bare hands, cook my own meals, and move rocks around (not exciting but sometimes necessary). I can also hunt the local wildlife, from mountain goats to squirrels. I choose to live off foraged vegetation, but I have hunted boars or goats as needed and will sometimes kill a wolf if it continues to attack me.

I am not a vegan in the real world. I understand the circle of life and the need to protect oneself, or one’s character, from wild animal attacks. But I do not enjoy the killing of small animals, even in games. I don’t aim for squirrels, birds, or butterflies and I especially DO NOT kill foxes. It’s bad enough that I have to kill wolves when forced, and hear their sad puppy dog cries, but I just can’t do that to the fox.

Unlike wolves and other large wildlife who may charge if you get too close, the foxes are peaceful. They run when they see me, instead of turning to fight. I’ve never been attacked by one, and I mostly see them frolicking in flower fields or playfully chasing butterflies. When they are attacked, the foxes make heartbreaking little sounds, very squeaky, like newborn pups. They don’t even try to fight back; they just turn and run, crying as they go. I killed a fox in the beginning, not really sure of the game mechanics and how much food there would be. My heart immediately broke and I swore “Never again!” So, to avoid a stony heart turned black and icky by the oil of puppy murder, I swore off hunting most wildlife.  

In contrast, I am happy to clear out a band of Moblins and Bokoblins using swords, bombs, fire, electricity, whatever I have. I feel a sense of success when I am faster and more lethal than a Lizalfos, and I’ll proudly take down a Giant Stone Talus or a sleeping Hinox. But I won’t kill a fox. Truth be told, I am not bothered by this. It makes perfect sense to me, defining who I am as a person and as the Hero of Time. According to my moral rules, injustice must be conquered. I am not an aggressive person, but in a world of monsters I think it is appropriate to wield a sword and protect the innocent.

—We could easily launch into a discussion of how to define terms like “moral,” “immoral,” “sinister,” “evil,” “good,” and so on, but that would miss the point of this post. So for clarity, I’m using the terms in their simplest forms because they conjure a clear picture for most of us and we understand how those terms relate to games.—

When I embody a character, I want to give him or her my sense of the world—impart my beliefs, values, and preferences to whatever extent I can. I prefer games where character creation and narrative choices are largely in my hands. When that isn’t possible, I still appreciate playing as a character who shares my worldview in some way. I don’t need or even want to be the hero of my world, but I do like to feel that my presence has a purpose in the game. Link is undoubtedly designed to be a hero in the truest sense of the word—showing courage, strength, and virtue. He is not one of the popular antiheroes, who can sometimes summon enough energy to make good choices in the face of their darker nature, and often still for personal gain. While those characters can also be fun to embody (I like making them do nice things without pay) they typically have a different, more sinister flavor to them, with the message of the games they live in also feeling sinister.

I don’t want a world where we must do evil in order to do good. That does not make sense to me. I want a world where we fight evil by doing good, even when it is very, very hard. I want to be the person who makes the tough but right decisions, knowing that it will save my heart from stony blackness. I am not that person in every moment, but that is what I’m reaching for and I’m glad my gameplay reflects that. For me, it isn’t necessary to play through immoral decisions in order to feel and explore the weight of a wrong choice. I know what wrong choices will lead to, and how they feel. I want the experience of making a lot of valuable but difficult decisions, of being brave when I am afraid, and of being kind when I could be blindly enraged.

When we play video games, we invest our mental and emotional energy in the narrative or characters, often finding that the games become more real to us the more we invest ourselves in them (Bailey, Wise, & Bolls, 2009; Jin & Park, 2009; Lewis, Weber, & Bowman, 2008). We enter a virtual space but we remain self-aware, with some arguing that our moral choices in games still have real implications and that it is our moral awareness that actually makes in-game decisions meaningful (Sicart, 2009). If I go into a game deciding that all morality is out the door, then I don’t have to make tough decisions and nothing I do really matters. Essentially I’ve made the only real decision I’m going to make and there is no need to seek development as a character. I am just going to slash and dash, end of story.

If I choose to engage with my moral center intact, and be a version of myself in that game, then I have interesting choices ahead of me. Maybe I will help the widow, even though she cannot pay me. I won’t murder innocent people or rob them. It will probably take me longer to earn what I need when I could just steal it, but maybe that is how I make the game truly interesting—I survive by doing good in a world designed for atrocity.

Holding it all together, the good and the bad, I love games. I believe in their ability to impact and shape us, and I have hope that in the right hands games can be globally transformative (McGonigal, 2011). I know the power of what I interact with. That being said, I feel really good when I pass a little red fox moving peacefully through the grassy meadows of Hyrule. I am on my way to conquer the ultimate evil, and he is trying to eat a butterfly. The world is as it should be.         

References

Bailey, R., Wise, K., & Bolls, P. (2009). How avatar customizability affects children’s arousal and subjective presences during junk food-sponsored online video games. CyberPsychology & Behavior, 12(3), 277-283. doi:10.1089/cpb.2008.0292

Jin, S., & Park, N. (2009). Parasocial interaction with my avatar: Effects of interdependent self-construal and the mediating role of self-presence in an avatar-based console game, wii. CyberPsychology & Behavior, 12(6), 723-727. doi:10.1089/cpb.2008.0298  

Lewis, M., Weber, R., Bowman, N. (2008). “They may be pixels, but they’re my pixels:” Developing a metric of character attachment in role-playing video games. CyberPsychology, 11(4), 515-518. doi:10.1089/cpb.2007.0137

McGonigal, J. (2011). Reality is broken: Why games make us better and how they can change the world. New York, NY: Penguin Books.

Sicart, M. (2009). The Ethics of Computer Games. Boston: MIT Press. Retrieved from http://ezproxy.baylor.edu/login?url=http://search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&db=nlebk&AN=259281&site=ehost-live&scope=site

Disclaimer:This is a blog, which contains a mixture of my current knowledge and opinions. The information is accurate to the best of my knowledge but may contain omissions, errors, or mistakes. I am a psychologist licensed to practice in the state of Washington, but this article does not create a psychologist-client relationship. I am providing psychological information and my own opinions for informational purposes only, and anything I present should not be seen as psychological, emotional, or medical advice or treatment. You should consult with a mental health professional or your primary care physician before you rely on this information or take any action. I reserve the right to change how I manage or run my blog and may change the focus or content at any time.

[innerpowercounseling-blog]

A Decluttered Life, Part 2

Items and Identity

Let’s begin at the beginning.

As I mentioned in Part 1 of this series, I recognized the need to start from scratch, giving myself the space and time to literally examine every object I owned, from clothing to paper clips. The only way to understand the impact of the things in my life was to surround myself with them. Viewed in their totality, there was nowhere for me to hide and no excuses. So I began to follow the KonMari method* in earnest, pulling out all the items in a certain category and holding each one in turn. Then I allowed myself to honestly experience the feelings and thoughts associated with each item. I soon learned that most of what I owned had more insidious ties than I had expected.

For such a long time I had battled with myself over the things I owned. I knew the life I wanted to lead, both personally and professionally, and worked hard to give myself permission to pursue that life, no matter what anyone else thought. I felt increasing clarity around the difference between the way of living that I valued and the life it seemed I was expected to lead. I knew what looked good—important position, fancy office, big house, nice things. But for my husband and I, it wasn’t what felt good. It did not bring life or joy. Accumulation is the norm for a lot of us, and we each have our own reasons for owning things—for soothing ourselves through what we consume. I do not believe that every item we own was bought in an effort to soothe ourselves or meet an inner need, and I do not believe that big houses are the enemy of the soul. What I do know is that I fell into the trap of accumulation and appearances way too many times, and stayed there for longer than I wanted.

When I owned certain items or books, I felt that they said something about me. They told the world who I was and what I liked, as if those objects were my credentials. “See, I am a smart and valuable person. I love Sartre and here is the proof: I own his books and plays. I am also interesting and unique, as well as a real female nerd. Look at my varied collection of figures and video games. I am a good wife and mother. See my nice pillows and tidy kitchen?” The items also told me something about myself: “I affirm you. As long as you own me, you are still connected and valuable. You have not lost the magic of your childhood. Hold onto me, and you will have light in the darkness and way to protect yourself.” I heard and I believed.

I now understand that I did not feel like a full person with a connection to my core Self. My internal house was constantly at the mercy of my own tornado. I experienced my life in pieces—different parts of me swirling around at dizzying speeds, lost and without a tether. I wanted to own my experiences and love what I loved simply for myself, but as long as I believed that I needed the approval of others, I was stuck. I had to vigilantly search for—and hide away—any part of me that did not fit what others seemed to value. I created closets upon closets of dirty secrets, shoved away whenever company came over. Messy bedroom? Close the door. Extra weight? Hide it. Tatoos? Wear long sleeves. Doctor Who figures? Put them away when “real adults” come over and pull them out when nerdy friends pop by.

It is exhausting and lonely to know yourself only through the opinions of the outside world. And while some people are open with their judgments, most are not. So we take on the maddening task of inferring what other people think, painstakingly sieving through every look and conversation. And we scan the outside world, religiously taking in the pictures and comments of others, hoping they will tell us what is good and how we can become valuable. What we actually want or need gets lost. And that is where I found myself—pulling back and realizing that not all of my life was authentic. Not all of me wanted the things I was collecting and striving for. But where was my true voice? Sometimes I could barely hear it.

What I want for myself, and for my family, is a life of true love—fueled by the joy of creativity and connected to the souls and minds of others. I cannot reach that place by staying the same and simply accepting what comes. I cannot connect to others when I am afraid of myself. So whatever gets in the way of being in that genuine place needs to be examined and re-examined. I want to know within myself who I am and what I stand for, unshaken by the opinions and judgments of others. When I believe in myself and my family, then I do not need to show others who I am, and my life does not depend on their decisions about me. I do not need other people to believe I am intelligent and professional. I will show them with my actions, or I will not. But no book on my shelf or clothing on my body can do that for me. I do that for myself.

Staking claim to my Self happened in many forms, including the decision to truly discard the trappings of success and identity. If I held an object in my hands and felt that I owned it to please someone else, I let it go. If I knew that a book was only on the shelf in hopes that the right person would see it and think highly of me, that book needed to move on. With a gentle kiss (yes, literally) I thanked the item for its help and placed in gently in a donation bag. As I did this, I not only saw my external world expand, my internal world lightened as well.

I felt connected to the power within me—the power I had placed my hope in even before I was certain it existed. I could reach up my hands and gently remove the blindfold. In my blindness, I had assumed my weights were chained tightly to me, burdened with locks I could never break. Now I could see the truth. There were many weights, yes, but the chains were weak and most of them had no locks. If I wanted, I could stand up and walk right out.

The internal world is a complicated one, and I admit that I had to walk out of the same door more than once. A few times I found that an object held layers of meaning for me and while I could recognize that it was tied to my identity, I still found it hard to let go. Often, those items had nostalgic, emotional energy as well, and needed to be revisited. I had to acknowledge the part of me that feared the loss of emotional connection as well as the part that longed to be seen and valued. With complex items, I also made a promise—from my Self, to every part of me. We would not squander our new freedom. While our chosen path would wind and narrow at times, looking very unlike the path of our neighbors, we would be faithful to ourselves and those we loved, walking in trust and faith. I believe we will not be disappointed.

References

*Kondo, M. (2014). The life-changing magic of tidying up: The japanese art of decluttering and organizing. New York, NY: Ten Speed Press.

Disclaimer:This is a blog, which contains a mixture of my current knowledge and opinions. The information is accurate to the best of my knowledge but may contain omissions, errors, or mistakes. I am a psychologist licensed to practice in the state of Washington, but this article does not create a psychologist-client relationship. I am providing psychological information and my own opinions for informational purposes only, and anything I present should not be seen as psychological, emotional, or medical advice or treatment. You should consult with a mental health professional or your primary care physician before you rely on this information or take any action. I reserve the right to change how I manage or run my blog and may change the focus or content at any time.

[innerpowercounseling-blog]

A Decluttered Life, Part 1: Re-Examining

My journey toward a decluttered life has lasted several years. I’ve taken the slow, winding road, sometimes finding myself back in places I thought I’d left for good.

Eventually, though, I have noticed new terrain and higher elevations. I’m am not wandering the same circular trail anymore, but it took a lot of effort to recognize the path I was stuck on and move to another one.

The biggest struggle for me was the attachment I developed to items. I’ve carried this habit from my childhood. As a little girl, my very favorite things were my books and small figurines. I was intimately acquainted with every piece and would play with or hold them almost daily, displaying my favorites in a shadow box on my wall. I remembered where each item was, and the story behind it, even into adulthood when they spent most of their lives packed away.

As an adult I would occasionally get the books and figurines out, loving hold each one, and feel connection. It was the connection I had created as a child, when I used all of my energy to transport myself into other worlds. I somehow felt that these pieces were my link to that past magic, that keeping them was how I honored and protected my younger self; to lose them felt like annihilation. Yet eventually, that is what I faced.

I moved to the Seattle area in the wake of a brutal trauma. I did not have the internal or external resources to process what had happened to me, or handle the flashbacks of earlier trauma that were being triggered. I was in the present pain but also tormented by transportation to the past. Looking for a reprieve, I visited my sister and her husband in Seattle. I felt the relief and promise of an untainted place and a different mindset, and decided for various reasons that I would move to Seattle and continue graduate school there.

The move meant that I was going from a house with plenty of storage to a small apartment. I had moved many times before, but had always held onto my favorite childhood items. This time, I realized that I needed to let most of those things go. I carefully organized each figurine into its original set and lovingly prepared them for donation. I held every book tenderly before placing it into the donation box. Then I sent them away.

The losses haunted me for a long time, and I was confused by how much regret I felt. There was a conflict between my adult self, who knew they were simply a child’s toys, and the child part of me who believed those toys were her lifeline. For a year or so I had very little, just the clothes and books that I needed. Then, slowly, I began to collect again. This time, it was objects or books related to my interests. I felt the familiar pull of holding a book or small figure in my hands and feeling satisfied. There were wounds in me I was trying to heal, and those magical items seemed like the cure.

I could see that my patterns weren’t helping, and often left me feeling empty, but recognition alone was not enough to help me break the spell. I wanted those tiny figures and some part of me felt that I needed them; not a part I could reason with, but a part stuck in the past, who found comfort in her favorite things. It didn’t matter how much I rationally understood that an object could not save me.  

Doing my own inner work allowed me to gain a deeper understanding of the healing I needed, and feel compassion for the part of me that was trying to soothe herself. I brought things into my world to heal it, as I had done as a child, but that had barely worked for me in the past and it was certainly not working for me in the present. The items I bought to make myself happy felt more like chains that held me underwater than buoys to kept me afloat.

I could see that the clutter in my life really reflected what was happening inside of me. Many of the clothes, books, and objects I owned were in my life because they held me captive. They tied me to the past with guilt and nostalgia, and to the future with “what ifs” and the fear of missing something that was gone. Every item seemed to have meaning, as if it held an energy that connected me to myself and others, and I worried about what would happen if those things were well and truly gone. I remembered how much it hurt to let the objects of my childhood go, and feared hurting myself again.

Around that time, I encountered the KonMari method*. I found the book randomly, as it had recently been released in the U.S. While I had not heard of Marie Kondo before that day, I felt a connection with her philosophy. I read her book over the weekend and felt inspired. New ideas opened to me, and while I was not yet in the place to fully put her method into practice, I was struck by some of her principles.

I took with me the understanding that the objects in my life had already fulfilled their role by making me happy in the moment of purchase or gifting. I could thank them for their service and let them go, creating a life that honored the present moment instead of getting stuck in the past. If an item did not bring joy, I questioned why I had it and what its real purpose was.

So I had to start over. I had to re-examine everything I owned and give voice to the parts of me that held emotional ties to those items. Until I heard what those parts were afraid of, and what each item meant to them, I could not guarantee that letting the items go would be a victory rather than a trauma. It was scary, but I went for it. I revisited the KonMari method and used it as a guidebook on my journey.

In this series, I want to explore what I learned about myself and my connection to objects. By examining every single item in my life, I found three overarching themes:

The items I owned represented my identity. I used them to declare who I was because I did not trust in my own ability to own and represent my true self.

Objects from the past held the memories and energy of those experiences. I feared that without them I would lose who I had been and what I experienced.

Things equaled comfort and control. I felt prepared and soothed (briefly) by finding interesting or useful items and owning them. Without the ability to soothe myself, I needed more things in order to maintain that feeling.

I hope you will join me on this path, ongoing and ever widening. It’s very personal to me, and not easy to talk about, but I believe it holds value. At least for me. Even as I write this, I see myself more clearly and can think of at least one thing in my house that I need to re-examine, being even more truthful with myself about its purpose.

References

*Kondo, M. (2014). The life-changing magic of tidying up: The japanese art of decluttering and organizing. New York, NY: Ten Speed Press.

Disclaimer:This is a blog, which contains a mixture of my current knowledge and opinions. The information is accurate to the best of my knowledge but may contain omissions, errors, or mistakes. I am a psychologist licensed to practice in the state of Washington, but this article does not create a psychologist-client relationship. I am providing psychological information and my own opinions for informational purposes only, and anything I present should not be seen as psychological, emotional, or medical advice or treatment. You should consult with a mental health professional or your primary care physician before you rely on this information or take any action. I reserve the right to change how I manage or run my blog and may change the focus or content at any time.

[innerpowercounseling-blog]

Read my new blog post: My Fear — My Self right over here! https://www.innerpowercounseling.org/blog/my-fear-my-self

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“Communication leads to community, that is, to understanding, intimacy and mutual valuing.” Rollo May

#community #intimacy #value #mentalhealth #powerofconnection (at Columbia City, Seattle) https://www.instagram.com/p/Bvz18xFnRwz/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=17enqb31nokjd

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May the loves in your life give you the kindness, compassion, and respect you deserve. Not just today, but every day.

[innerpowercounseling-blog]

Take all the warmth and tenderness you feel for your favorite person, and turn it inward. Find the parts of yourself that need kindness, and fill them with it. 💛💛💛 #selfcare #selflove #love #kindness #tenderness #valentinesday #youreworthit #mindfulness #mentalhealth #heart (at Columbia City, Seattle) https://www.instagram.com/p/Bt4EVpoBstU/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=18dpycph7v3qb

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Past Vs Gratitude

There are moments when the past comes dripping back to me. Sometimes it’s a specific memory I have not seen in so long that I am surprised by it. Other times it is a chain of fragmented scenes, moments that were not my best, or words and actions that entered me like stingers. I am taken to a place where the air is darkened with regrets, and at first I am frozen; immobile in the thickness and confused by it.

A few years ago, these were the moments that transported me so far away it was hard to claw back. I would feel the past swarm around me and for that moment believe I was still there. The weight of pain and regret would slowly fill me with liquid metal, creating a nebulous sense of guilt and danger that I didn’t understand but could not drain away.

Quiet suffocation.

I am thankful for the therapy and inner work I’ve done over the years, and the acceptance I have found in myself and my circle of loving, safe people. They have helped me drain the power from many demons, learn from my past, and clear myself of traumas that used to burrow inside and pulse under my skin. Maybe that is what makes these other moments so painful and confusing—knowing that it can be better and yet feeling in that moment like it isn’t. I am holding both the knowledge of how it feels to be free from the past and the very real pain of seeing pieces of it still with me.

When it happens now, often late at night when I’m lying awake, I don’t feel the same despair of the past. I know there is still more work to be done in me, and that is okay. That is being human. I search for the truth, knowing that this bubbling anxiety is misplaced; it cannot be right. And so I put one hand on my heart and one on my solar plexus (the soft area above the stomach and just below the chest). I breathe deeply and feel the warmth from my hands. I find the truth. I find it in my son, my husband, my family and friends, my faith, my pets, the games and crafts I enjoy, the books I read, the place where I live, the work I’ve done for my career. Those are not perfect things, but they are real and true. They represent what is good in my life, what really matters, and I allow myself to fill with gratitude for them. I focus on them, with as clear a picture as I can get, and feel what it means to be connected, even in a small way. I let myself be aware of the excitement, joy, love, interest, and even sadness that I feel. I let the hope and truth move around and do their work. The jagged edges soften inside me, and that stinging liquid metal becomes a nourishing orange warmth.

Yes, I have made terrible mistakes in the past, and have been terribly hurt in ways that no one deserves. So many of us have. But now I have a beautiful family. I have a small circle of trust and love that I have created and that has formed around me because I, like all of us, deserve love and acceptance. Lying in bed, afraid, I help myself remember that I will wake up and play with my son. If I want, I will reach out to a friend. I will have coffee with my husband. I will breathe and eat and feel and move. I will do the work that I love, even though it is hard. If nothing else, I will look around and see that the room I am in, the warm bed and soft blue walls, they exist now. They do not belong to the past. Thank God for that. When all else fails, I know that I will wake up in the present. That it is my true place, and I am grateful.

There is always something to be grateful for. I truly believe that. Even in the really lean times, even when we are lonely or hurting. We are still moving forward, by a day or even a minute, and we still have more days and minutes in front of us. I look back and gently hurt for my little past self. I see the things she did wrong, but I am so thankful to her because she did not give up. At times she wanted to, but she didn’t. She hunkered down when she needed, did the best she could with what she had and what she knew, and then she just kept moving. Thank you, little one, for all of it. Rest now, here with me, and I will take care of everything. The past is behind us. I feel within me that she hears this and understands. In this way, the past is a vital part of us—one that I personally would not trade, pain and all—but in the battle for our mind and soul, let gratitude be the largest banner on the field. The past does not win.

Disclaimer: This is a blog, which contains a mixture of my current knowledge and opinions. The information is accurate to the best of my knowledge but may contain omission, errors, or mistakes. I am a psychologist licensed to practice in the state of Washington, but this article does not create a psychologist-client relationship. I am providing psychological information and my own opinions for informational purposes only, and anything I present should not be seen as psychological, emotional, or medical advice or treatment. You should consult with a mental health professional or your primary care physician before you rely on this information or take any action. I reserve the right to change how I manage or run my blog and may change the focus or content at any time.

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Playing in the snow with my 3 year old, following "tracks" to find Arctic foxes, and I was taken in by the patterns the snow made on these stones. Winter moss! 💙❄️❄️💙

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Doing the Hard Stuff

Over the last few months I have found it harder than usual to do the things I need to: finishing paperwork and notes, doing the dishes, taking my 3 year old son for walks. I was still taking care of the adult pieces of my life (building my business, going to work, caring for my son and playing with him) but in a diminished capacity that lacked the joy and fulfillment I wanted. I’ve been under heavy personal stress that has taken its toll on my family, and while I’ve been trying to hold my experience lightly, staying aware of how it affects me, there are many difficult moments.

About a month ago I saw dishes piling up in the sink, and I was aware (as always) that it bothered me. I value being clean and taking care of what I own. But in that moment, it felt easier to play Zelda than clean, and that was all I wanted to do. I had passed the kitchen on other days and let it go, opting for something that seemed easy or fun. But it never felt right, leaving me unsatisfied and sometimes more depleted that before. I started to reconnect with the part of me that knew avoidance wasn’t actually easier. Yes, it allowed me to skip out on a chore, but it didn’t leave me feeling fulfilled or energized. I always felt worse, and even Breath of the Wild lost its luster when my own wilderness was growing up around me.

So in that moment, aware that I wanted Zelda but needed to do the dishes, I chose the dishes. I fell into the rhythm of soaping and rinsing, and soon felt a sort of zen mode kick in. I let my mind wander to questions in my mind and parts of my life I was curious about, and found that the dishes were over before I knew it. I was reminded of the reflective nature of chores, enjoying the same mental space that I often I get when driving, showering, or taking a walk. Not only that, but I felt energized and proud of myself. Suddenly I was bursting with the desire to clean and organize everything! And I felt confident in my ability to do so. By the end of the day I had a much tidier house and bags filled with items for donation. I was happy and filled with life—not because of the outer accomplishment but because I took care of my internal needs. My house was still organized chaos (just how I like it) and probably didn’t look different to anyone but me, but that wasn’t the point. I had listened to myself and done the harder thing, which turned out to not be hard at all.

Doing one hard but meaningful task unlocked the doors to other tasks and released the useful energy inside me that I couldn’t have found a few hours before. And as a bonus, my day didn’t fly by in a meaningless blur. Often when spending hours doing something mindless that I was not truly connected with, I would look up and see that hours had flown by, but that I didn’t feel any more rested or content. I felt like my day was gone, and I had missed it. Instead, this day felt like it stretched out its hands to me, and showed me just how much I could do with the time I had.

The next day, I went on a walk with my son. Instead of playing inside where it was warm and easy, I said yes when he asked to go for a bike ride (which means me pushing him on his tricycle that still has the adult handle on it). We got out his little bike and bundled up to face the crisp day. As soon as we reached our condo parking lot he was filled with stories about the world around him. A pile of gravel became a volcano with an ash pit for finding treasure in. He searched carefully for special rocks and placed them delicately on the curb between the splotches of moss. We listened for dinosaurs and hunted for bad guys. So many adventures in such a tiny person, and I felt transported. We spent hours outside, talking and exploring. The next day, we did it again. Being outside with him was energizing and magical, and I noticed parts of our neighborhood, even our parking lot, that I had never seen before and certainly hadn’t appreciated. What hits me is the fact that I have gone with him on many, many walks. Nothing about the scenery was new, but when I just let myself be with him and not think about what was next or what I left behind, I was gifted with something new and inspired by it.

These experiences rekindled what I already knew inside of myself but had lost sight of in my sadness and stress. The whole time, I knew what I needed in order to help myself and move through the difficult times, but I chose not to see it or not to act on it. I chose to avoid it and make excuses, despite the voice inside me that knew I was making unhelpful choices. I don’t tell you this because I think my experience is a revelation. I’m sharing it because I think it is what we all know but cannot always see. I tell you this because I need to tell myself, again and again. For the last month I have been telling myself, and more often than not I’ve been choosing the road that seems harder. Then, when the dishes are done or my admin work is finished, when my son is asleep after a day of playing, I can do the fun things that I love without reservation. I can explore Hyrule with a full heart, giving my whole self to my passions and feeling filled in return.

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The Strength of Vulnerability

I cannot think of a more appropriate topic to start with, as I challenge myself to write openly about the ups and downs in my life, trusting anyone who reads this with a piece of myself. I did not learn about vulnerability until I was in graduate school, working in a community counseling center. By that time I had, like many others, personally experienced enough hatred and violence to make me wary of the world and the people in it. I guarded myself, and alternately feared both the impact I would make by saying or doing the wrong thing and that I would be too unimportant to make any impact at all. I was also working through a recent traumatic experience which left me withdrawn, easily startled, and experiencing a lot of intrusive memories and thoughts. It was a difficult time.

The Supervisor at the counseling center held weekly meetings for all the students who worked there. We discussed the business of the clinic, but more importantly, at far greater length, we discussed ourselves. We had “check ins” in which each person was free to talk about what was happening in their personal lives. Our Supervisor modeled an egalitarian and respectful circle of trust, in which she talked to us like fellow humans, not lesser students. She shared openly about her own life and never forced or anyone to talk or shamed them for silence. Instead of jumping in to give her perspective, share a story of her own, or provide a solution to our problems, she empathized with us and thanked us for sharing.

She sat in silence as we talked, and often after, letting the quiet sit with us like a blanket. At first the blanket was heavy and itchy, as I felt uncomfortable in the quiet and compelled to dismiss it. I also felt a pit of fear in my stomach before it was my turn to share, and it often took me the whole meeting to swallow the fear enough just to make words come out.

But eventually I learned what a gift the space and the silence was. Our Supervisor was just letting us be, without judgment. We were free to ask for input, but often I didn’t. I just wanted to be heard and understood, to let what I said stay in that space without the fear that it would be used against me. Some people filled every inch of the space between us, while others chose to sit in it quietly, and I think both ways produced something special. We worked through some tough moments together, each of us learning how to share only from our own experiences and how to not give unwanted advice or fill the quiet with rhetoric.

That kind of compassionate space changed my life. That sounds like an exaggeration, but it is the truth. The change came slowly, over several years of practice, but it came. Having a group of people sit with me, holding my stuff as I held theirs, gave me power. Not power over them or even my problems per se, but power within myself to move forward and trust my voice, my experiences, my gut. Slowly, I shared more about myself. And even more slowly, I learned to stop beating myself up for what I shared, combing through it to find every word, spoken or unspoken, that could leave me vulnerable and embarrassed. I understood that my vulnerability and honesty could drain the power from my pain, and that by closing myself off I had given my power to those to whom it didn’t belong. I could take that power back and use it to heal myself and charge up my relationships. I also learned that it was not weird or wrong to share, and that when I swallowed my fear and went for it, other people opened up too. I could pass on the gift that my Supervisor had given me.

Later, that same Supervisor gave us another gift through a special monthly meeting called Soul Care, where we were challenged to think about our internal and external lives, what motivated us and gave us life, and to share only what we felt comfortable with. We were again asked to create a safe, respected space where we offered no advice, insights, or stories, where we did not ask questions we thought we knew the answers to, and where we shared only from what we knew. By that time I understood enough about the power of vulnerability to dive right into the task, fear and all. I was with a few cohort members whom I had never gotten to know particularly well, and they later remarked at how shocked they were to hear me share and how much it meant that we got to know each other in this deeper way. And I felt the same—closer than ever to people who had always been physically close, but whom I had kept at an emotional distance.

I think we underestimate the power of a safe but vulnerable space, to both heal and create closeness. And when we are brave enough to be the first vulnerable person, it gives others permission to be vulnerable too. I think we all want to share and be heard, but we don’t want to be hurt. When one person models vulnerability, and does it well, others respond with the same openness.  

Since that time, I have approached life and relationships in a new way. I am more open with what I know and honest about what I don’t know. I have shared my hardest secrets and scariest fears with those I knew could safely hold the space for me. And I have never regretted that choice. I still meet regularly with the people who shared that sacred space with me, and we do the same thing we have always done—sit in vulnerability together and power each other up.

Disclaimer: This is a blog, which contains a mixture of my current knowledge and opinions. The information is accurate to the best of my knowledge but may contain omission, errors, or mistakes. I am a psychologist licensed to practice in the state of Washington, but this article does not create a psychologist-client relationship. I am providing psychological information and my own opinions for informational purposes only, and anything I present should not be seen as psychological, emotional, or medical advice or treatment. You should consult with a mental health professional or your primary care physician before you rely on this information or take any action. I reserve the right to change how I manage or run my blog and may change the focus or content at any time.

[innerpowercounseling-blog]

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On an adventure with my 3yr old | He began collecting "special marshmallow rocks and dinosaur eggs" and placing them carefully in the space between the moss. Sometimes I wish we lived in a beautiful old neighborhood where he had a big yard to play in and enchanted woods to explore. But he found magic in our condo parking lot! ✨✨✨

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On a walk with my family and we made this little wreath from the pinecones, lichen, moss, and rocks we collected. It was a simple, spontaneous act, but it helped me slow down and enjoy the moment and place we were. A simple way to bring joy to the day.