tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-81239488239752982452024-02-20T13:28:15.961-06:00My Aura is OrangeErika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.comBlogger82125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8123948823975298245.post-55099347059139325712019-12-30T10:09:00.000-06:002019-12-30T10:09:00.345-06:00It's been so longIt's been so long since I used writing to work through what was going on in my head. There are a few reasons for that, not least of which is fear. I was ready to wrap this part of me in a shroud, let it die quietly somewhere unseen and gone forever. I wasn't <i>ready</i>. I was <i>desperate</i>. You see, I'm afraid that all of the strides and positive steps I have taken would be undone by honesty. Honesty that I'm not doing great. That I'm never really doing great. There are parts of my life, of my day-to-day that are great, but overall, I always struggle. I might always struggle.<br />
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When my life looks right, so many people who love me breathe a sigh of relief. Thank god that's over. She's herself again. We can all get back to normal life. So, for their sake, I want my life to look right. Sadly, it looking right on the outside and it feeling wrong in the inside is a pretty narrow tightrope I walk and no one but me even knows I need a safety net, much less that I can't see one.<br />
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The irony is that it was honesty that provided so much healing in the first place, <i>back then</i>. So, I thought I'd try it on again, like an old dress that used to make me feel glamorous. It doesn't fit the same, just like my dresses. They're still them, but I'm not me. Honesty is strength, but I am weak.<br />
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In some ways, rock bottom was easy. When you have nothing left to lose, why not bare it all? It felt good and empowering. Though I'm sure it would offer the same sense of strength, now there is so much to lose....credibility, reputation, friendships, the comfort of those who no longer feel they have to worry for me.<br />
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But I feel the panic rising up in me again. It's been building recently. It's loss and gain. As losses trigger sadness and that desperation to protect, gain triggers that sense of something to lose, and I feel a shadow creeping along behind me, ready to overtake me. It's fear of the unknown, which for so long felt like adventure when things were better. Maybe I'm simply destined to live in the in between, not quite good, not terrible. Maybe I publish this but tell no one, walking that line....not full exposure, but not quite hiding. Maybe.Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8123948823975298245.post-14900768319906141132016-04-06T20:58:00.000-05:002018-01-20T18:58:15.227-06:00What happens when...You even out. When normal is normal for longer than what was once normal, you start feel normal. And in feeling normal, you are able to look back and sift through the experiences, big and small.<br />
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Like after the tide has retreated, each grain of sand becomes an individual piece of the larger, beautiful expanse of beach that stretches out so far, but no longer seems <i>too</i> far. I can see the moments, the hurts, the incidents, the reactions and the beach goes on as far as the eye can see.<br />
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So, now, I start sifting. I've evened out.Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8123948823975298245.post-34836885876354583922016-01-02T09:09:00.003-06:002018-01-20T18:58:15.380-06:00"New Year, New You"So, they say.... Rather, I'd like to find authentic me. That's not yoga speak, I promise. It's not a deep, spiritual(-appearing) venture. I want to strip away all the stuff, the expectations, the effort, the impressions and just figure out who the hell I am. Right now, I'm the girl who struggles to complete stupid online personality tests because I truly don't know if I'm tea or coffee...<br />
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Truth is, I'm probably both. I've always been an imbalance of extremes. Woods or grids, silent or loud, all or nothing. Maybe that IS me, that indefinable who knows what. Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8123948823975298245.post-84204446159622321292015-12-28T14:58:00.002-06:002018-01-20T18:58:15.640-06:00#bitchI have been in the midst of the most fascinating transformation... <div>
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I've decided to stop being a pushover. That statement requires a bit of explanation. I am not a victim. I never have been, even when I have been, objectively speaking, victimized. Rather, my flaw is that I am a pleaser and a fixer, and a tad too trusting. I want others to be happy and, somewhere along the way, I took that desire on as a responsibility. </div>
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Where has being overly accommodating ever gotten me? And no, it's not all about what I can get, but it sure is about what I've chosen to give up. I'm redefining what is important to me and I'm sort of high on the list. </div>
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So am I going to become a #bitch? Ha ha, I doubt it. Rather, I'll need to start creating new expectations for myself. Today, I stood up for something that didn't make sense to me (and believe me, it was outside my comfort zone to do so). I was perfectly polite, had a positive interaction, and ultimately the outcome was favorable to me, but the entire time I was in the middle of it, I felt like a bitch. I felt like "that lady" who requires accommodation for every whim. Really, my request was pretty reasonable and it was granted and the outcome is better, but I felt bad for asking. </div>
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That will need to get better. </div>
Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8123948823975298245.post-12340599607152453012015-11-06T00:44:00.001-06:002018-01-20T18:58:15.126-06:00How?How do you forgive yourself for all the things you've done? How can you forgive when you know there is no forgiveness? <div><br></div><div>How do you turn off the fear? The panic that you haven't done enough...the fear you have of not making it long enough to undo all the harm. </div><div><br></div><div>How can you fail time after time after time without wondering when it will end?</div><div><br></div><div>How do you let time pass when nothing ever changes?</div><div><br></div><div>How can you find quiet when there is always so much noise?</div><div><br></div><div>How do you be everything that everyone deserves when you can't find all your pieces?</div><div><br></div><div>How can you move when your heart, your soul is lead?</div><div><br></div><div>How? </div>Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8123948823975298245.post-15414987276668519112015-09-28T21:49:00.000-05:002018-01-20T18:58:15.252-06:00The ShadowSometimes that dark thing, that shadow, rises up in me. Sometimes it is swift, obvious, and debilitating. Sometimes it creeps, slowly taking over every rational thought, each ray of light, all hope. <br />
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I keep thinking that, as circumstances change, things will change. I will change. Somehow, I always forget that I am always me deep down. Suddenly, I have more time than ever to do the things I love and explore things I think I'd like. Instead of contentment, I feel guilt. I have a...I'm at a loss at what to call it because it doesn't feel like what it should...a business? Career? Calling, perhaps? Yet, I still feel like a failure of a partner to my husband, a bad example of a human to my children, and a fraud to the rest of the world that has known me. I have these big ideas that burst into my consciousness only to find that I am incapable of follow through. I want so badly to create something, to inspire, but the impulse flickers on and off like a light in a storm. <br />
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I can't seem to do small, so everything in my mind is huge. Failures. Obligations. Disappointment. Regret. FEAR. Sadness. Deep, deep discontent. A desperate desire to find a quiet place for my mind and my self-criticisms to rest.<br />
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Every night I go to sleep with ghosts. Every morning I wake with the best intentions, only to find that dark days follow dark dreams. I sit, glassy eyed, wishing I could do one of the thousand things I feel like I should do, trying to remember what it is I like to do. I go outside and feel the sunshine and breeze on my face and feel alive for just a moment and then the sensation fades, so I go back into hiding. <br />
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What I know now that I didn't know then is that there is a deep, burning inside me that is stronger than the darkness that surrounds it. Honestly, it's almost harder this way than it was when I felt truly hopeless. I recognize what is lost and what there is to lose. Instead of being overwhelmed with it all at once, my heart feels each individual ache. It's excruciating, paralyzing, but not numbing. Not this time. Not yet.<br />
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<br />Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8123948823975298245.post-56098551359172329682015-05-14T11:00:00.000-05:002018-01-20T18:58:15.459-06:00ProgressProgress is a fickle thing. With each arduous step forward, I find myself slipping backward. I thought to compare myself to Sisyphus, tasked with apparent forward progress just to watch his efforts slide back down the hill and have to start again and again. But Sisyphus was cunning and unapologetic. He was prideful. I am not. <br />
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In fact, with all the progress I display, whether it's casual optimism like, "Yeah, things are going great," or simply silently suffering through my fear and feelings of worthlessness, there is no better. There is no ending. Perhaps there is no progress at all.<br />
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I know I am approaching danger when I start to hide, figuratively speaking. I stopped writing in September. I moved away from the more raw, honest work to a half-optimistic, half-bullshit attempt at hope, at "healed." The truth, of course, is that although it can get better for a time, it can also get worse for a time. It is a constant internal struggle between accepting me as I am and striving to be better than I am.<br />
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It is a constant effort to navigate my life at an even keel, cautiously optimistic about any "progress" yet fully expecting the storms. And the storms come. I got to a strong place where I weathered the storms on the deck, sails and steering managed, knowing that if I wanted better, I had to go after it. I had to fight. Though I make it though each storm now, I find myself retreating below deck, pulling the covers over my head, hiding, hoping it will pass. I spend much of my time in a room with curtains because I'm anxious again of what is "out there." I'm not terrified, I can leave the house, but I'm glad I can see out and no one can see in. It's progress, I suppose, but I still take steps back. Frequently.<br />
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I am fearful again of sharing where I am at. What once felt so therapeutic, so honest and freeing, seems risky. I have something to lose again because, though I struggle, I have come so far. I have new people in my life who know nothing of my spectacular fall from someplace better. I am doing everything that I can to move in a direction of peace and love. Acknowledging the darkness that sits so uncomfortably inside me makes me feel like a fraud. How can the two exist together? They do. Perhaps that is the nature of my affliction and why I can't find balance. Perhaps that's why there will always be a hidden, internal conflict, and progress will always be a struggle between will and nature.<br />
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But, as a wise friend shared with me, "There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you." -Maya Angelou So, I will tell me story again.<br />
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<br />Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8123948823975298245.post-14211200022930673272014-09-16T14:53:00.000-05:002018-01-20T18:58:15.176-06:00Turning InwardI love Fall. I love how it slows down my life, as we stop scrambling to use all the daylight hours, complete outdoor tasks, travel and take advantage of all the things that are enjoyable in the summer months. I love returning to the routine of "back to school." Ask me in a few months, and I'm sure I'll be singing the praises of all things sunny, lazy and refreshing, but for now, I'm happy the seasons are changing.<br />
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With the change, though, I notice myself turning inward. This isn't necessarily a bad thing. There is much good that can come from slowing down, leaving the outside world outside ourselves, and focusing back in on oneself. It allows me to revisit burning questions like, am I who I want to be? Do the things in my life serve me or can I simplify? Sadly, this self-evaluation always dissolves into an internal dialog of all the things I'm doing not well enough or downright wrong. <br />
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What starts out as healthy self-reflection quickly becomes a critical deconstruction of every matter I've ever undertaken. It is in these moments that I feel the ground begin to fall from beneath me once again. I am healthier than I have been in a long, long time and I am able to rationalize and to hang on, but I do get tired of the struggle. <br />
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And so today, and as long as I feel trapped inside my head, as the seasons change and the quiet of Fall sets in, I will hold on to these thoughts and work to challenge opinions that feel like truths:<br />
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"You're problem is you are too busy holding on to your unworthiness." Ram Das<br />
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"Never forget that once upon a time, in an unguarded moment, you recognized yourself as a friend." Elizabeth GilbertErika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8123948823975298245.post-25503416154897878782014-08-19T11:38:00.001-05:002018-01-20T18:58:15.303-06:00Practice what you PreachSince I've been teaching yoga, I've had a lot of opportunities to impart "wisdom" on my yogi friends. Here are some things that I've suggested that I really need to incorporate into my life for more than the hour a day that I'm teaching....<br />
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Don't take yourself too seriously. We all fall down sometimes. Just get back up.<br />
"Take into account that great love and great achievement involve great risk." (Dalai Lama)<br />
Don't compete. Start where YOU are. Do what YOU can.<br />
"Follow your bliss and the Universe will open doors where there were only walls." (Joseph Campbell)<br />
"Yoga teaches us to cure what need not be endured and endure what cannot be cured." (BKS Iyengar)<br />
Be present. For the next [insert class length here], your sole purpose is to be here, doing this. Nothing else.<br />
"Yoga is the journey of the self, through the self, to the self." (The Bhagavad Gita)<br />
If it doesn't challenge you, it doesn't change you.<br />
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I need to learn to shut off my every day-brain and listen to my yoga teacher-brain.<br />
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<br />Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8123948823975298245.post-78705873694432105922014-08-12T18:31:00.000-05:002018-01-20T18:58:15.589-06:00Fallen StarsIt is immensely tragic to watch such a bright star fall from the sky, to see his light die as it falls into a space unknown but for its darkness. For my part, I was already breaking in my own misery yesterday long before the Robin Williams news broke. Often when my depression is deep and parasitic, I am drawn back to humanity by tragedy. It hits me so hard that I am able to rise for the suffering of others. I'm great in a crisis. <br />
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The news of the death, of the suicide, of Robin Williams, a man who by all accounts was so generous with his kindness and his gift for joy and laughter, destroyed a part of me that still had hope. As the world mourns a man that so many loved, I can't help but slip a little deeper into my own world, most recently defined only by pain and suffering, a separate hell I share with strangers who suffer from deep, soul-crushing depression. I can't say whether anyone else feels heartsick as I do. But as is often the case with depression, there is a darker, scarier emotion resting just below the surface emotions and often it is fear.<br />
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Robin Williams wasn't the poster child for depression or addiction or recovery. In fact, his battles were mostly fought much more privately than we often see in celebrities. So why the connection between his fall and my own fears? To watch someone so extraordinary and beloved, with the resources and the wherewithal to seek help, <i>still</i> fall to depression, leaves me without hope for my own battle. Will I fight and fight just to lose in the end too?<br />
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I've spent the last year learning about depression, from my experiences, from my therapists and doctors, and from other experts. I was immersed in it in the hospital, that education. Over time, I've taken in useful bits and pieces of information. Unfortunately, when the conversation gets bigger, because of a high profile loss, you hear a lot more opinions with a lot less understanding. A psychiatrist speaking about Williams' suicide actually said that depression is curable. They say depression has a root cause, insinuating that the root cause isn't the disease itself but some controllable factor. (<a href="http://www.mindbodygreen.com/0-14897/why-youre-depressed-not-getting-better.html" target="_blank">Why You're Depressed & Not Getting Better</a>) They say that depression is just a series of bad habits that can be broken with the right routine. (<a href="http://books.google.com/books/about/Undoing_Depression.html?id=TszcYw12gYoC" target="_blank">"Undoing Depression: What therapy doesn't teach you and medication can't give you"</a>) And those are the opinions of just a handful of "experts." Imagine all of the things ordinary people offer!<br />
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They say, "Well, what makes you feel good? Do that," which translates to, "if you're unhappy, do something about it," which presumes that YOU have control over your emotions and this "disease." They say, "What could you have to be depressed about? You have a roof over your head, food to sustain you and people who love you." They say "Suicide is a permanent solution to an impermanent problem."<br />
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That's just the thing, isn't it? Did Mr. Williams take permanent action to resolve an impermanent problem? I don't think so. I don't think it was "not so bad." I think that when you've sat there and surveyed your life, the damage your depression has caused, the people it has hurt and will continue to hurt, you can logically see why stopping it, ending it, is a valid solution. I understand it. I have lived it. When I see my daughter struggle because she knows that her mama is sad but doesn't understand why, I am wracked with guilt and confusion. Am I really doing her more good than harm still on this earth? My children deserve far better than me. And those are just the altruistic reasons. What about those nights when you've lain awake for hours, contemplating how horrible everything feels or how nothing feels at all. When you look back over the weeks and years of your life and you wonder if it will ever end. Living with depression is no way to live. When you've sought help and you still fight year after year, day to day, minute to minute, breath after breath. Why? What could possibly be the point in continuing this doomed journey?<br />
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I do see the other side, the loved ones that are left grieving, wondering why they weren't enough to keep him here. We think we know better than you. We think that your perception is wrong. We KNOW that we are all the terrible things that our disease tells us we are. We KNOW that you will be better off without us. We even know that it will be painful for you, but then all of the suffering our existences have caused you will end. You fantasize that the people you love will move on and find some happier life than the tumult you brought to them.<br />
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Without knowing him, without even knowing much about his history before his passing became news, I think I can understand Robin Williams and his choice. I ache for his family as I ache for him. I desperately hope he is at peace because sometimes it feels like the peace of the afterlife, or at least no longer living this life, is all one can cling to in the darkest moments. What a heartbreaking loss to the world, to the private world of those of us who suffer similar afflictions, to those who knew and loved him, and to those who didn't and still do. <br />
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As an aside, let me say that I entertain no thoughts of suicide at this place in time. This piece, my words, come from a place that I think of as understanding. It comes from my own experience, my soul, and the beast that resides within me. I want to also say that I harbor no delusions of grandeur here. My opinion is no more valid that anyone else's. It feels kindred, somehow, but I know that I cannot truly reflect on someone else's suffering. I can only offer my own perspective, cast it into the growing pile of countless other unsolicited opinions and points of view. Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8123948823975298245.post-16837833110333894472014-08-11T15:27:00.000-05:002018-01-20T18:58:15.277-06:00Cleaning Up the MessToday I am wallowing in sadness and regret. Recently, I decided it's time to walk back toward the darkest time of my life and survey the damage. I imagine it like the first time you walk back into your home after a fire. Your whole life, everything you had worked for up to that point, sitting blackened, charred, almost unrecognizable. In fact, you wouldn't believe it was your life except that you remember the heat of the fire and the scream of the sirens as you crumbled under the realization that you have ruined almost everything that ever meant anything to you. And although you're not ungrateful, you know how lucky you are to have your people, your "health," and a future to rebuild, you feel as though you've lost everything. <br />
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I'm stuck between feeling completely and absolutely responsible for the wasteland that is my current state of affairs and feeling like it's just not fair that I suffer this. I was good at what I did until my brain decided to scramble, create things that did not exist, and refuse to let me continue to participate in my own life. That doesn't seem fair. On the other hand, I can't shake the responsibility for the hurt I caused, albeit unintentionally. <br />
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There are so many small decisions I want to undo today. There are so many times I want to go back and ask for help when I didn't. There are so many times I meant to help when I hurt. But I think what is most devastating is that I don't really get the opportunity to go back and undo. I hardly get the chance to even provide an explanation. Those who love me understand and those who I'd like to offer one to have already made up their minds. <br />
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It sucks pretty bad to be broken. I knew that. Sadly, having it reflected in the mirror, when you were hoping that maybe your version of things was exaggerated, is brutal.Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8123948823975298245.post-36803481687596665322014-08-07T11:51:00.002-05:002018-01-20T18:58:15.407-06:00WorryI don't think I used to be someone who worried a lot. In fact, I likely took more than my fair share of risks over the years. I wasn't afraid to try anything once.<br />
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I've noticed, particularly over the past few months although I suspect it's been a growing problem, that I have become incredibly cautious, paranoid even. It started as little things, some of which most people might identify with, but most of which were not "me." I started to worry about how I looked, what people must be saying about me, entering a room full of people that I knew well, but uncomfortable because I hadn't seen them in a while. I'd be certain I'd horribly offended someone or done something that someone perceives as awful. It wasn't anticipatory worry, which I think plagues a lot of people. Rather, the minute I was about to leave the bathroom, step out of the house, make a phone call or enter that room, I have an immediate and overwhelming sense of discomfort that doesn't ease for hours, days sometimes.<br />
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Over time, that somewhat normal, not uncommon anyway, self-consciousness became more pronounced. My fear over what people must think of me and say about me has spread from total strangers or at least mild acquaintances to people who are dearest to me. I've stopped having "real" conversations with many people. I have opinions on why that might be, but I hesitate to reveal them, ironically, out of fear of how they might be perceived. <br />
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Most recently, it's become bigger again. There was a time that I was so paranoid that if a car followed me on the highway for more than a few exits, I could become convinced that it was intentionally following me. Lately, that's manifested itself in that I don't like to let my children out of my sight. I don't like them to go to sleep without me being there and if they have to, I need to peak in and see each of their faces before I can comfortably go to sleep myself. I terrified of the idea of going away for a weekend without them, despite that I know that they would be in excellent care. I'm terrified to send them back to school. It's not that I think I take care of them so much better than anyone else, far from it. And it's not that I think something terrible is bound to happen. My logical mind remains intact. It's just a "fear" for no reason at all. <br />
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It almost feels like they're the last good thing left of me and if I blink too long, they might disappear too. Or worse, maybe they'll begin to see this version of me that I'm fighting so hard is just who I am. I don't want to believe that and I certainly don't want them to believe that. I don't even want the stranger on the street who has a two second interaction with me to believe that. Deep down, though, I think that's where this crippling fear is coming from. I think I believe it and the more time that goes by when I am not well, the easier it is to believe it. Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8123948823975298245.post-33672598910883677202014-08-02T21:44:00.000-05:002018-01-20T18:58:15.355-06:00AwarenessI have been familiar with depression since the time I was a teenager. I learned the term from a therapist I began seeing when I just couldn't stop crying. Nothing was wrong, but I cried and cried. That's one of the tip-offs for most people with depression and one of the most misunderstood hallmarks of the illness. People always want to know what is wrong or what has happened to that person to cause their depression. Certainly there is "situational" depression, where a situation or set of circumstances sends someone into a prolonged period of sadness, but that's not the depression I experience. For me, one day I can be fine and the next, without any change in my external life whatsoever, I fall apart.<br />
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So with all of this experience, history, and, since I've become an adult, education, how is it that I miss the onslaught until I'm so deep in that I'm convinced I must be losing my mind? How can it go so far that I've lost weeks before I recognize that I'm buried in uncontrolled anguish? And why, oh why, can't I simply manage it?<br />
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To that end, I've started seeing a psychiatrist again. As part of my treatment, I will be seeing a therapist regularly again as well. I will begin a new medication. I will try again to wrangle the beast that hides in the dark places in my mind. I have fallen hard back into a place that sucks the breath, the life, out of me. I have a new diagnosis.<br />
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In the hospital, as I have been before, I was diagnosed with depression. The anxiety that went along with it this time was new. Depression has become a rather recurrent nightmare in my life, particularly since I have had children. The pressure of keeping up with their needs, coupled with my desire to be a whole person for them has been a struggle. I'm not sure if it has truly exacerbated my depression or if it has simply made me more aware, but I vow over and over to get better for them. So, as I slip deeper into a place of alternating pain and numbness, I went back for help.<br />
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My present working diagnosis is bipolar II. It is not a DMS-defined illness. My psychiatrist referred to it as "baby bipolar." Tell that to the two sides of my emotional train wreck of a brain as they shriek at each other. As suspected, he recognized symptoms of both depression and mania, with depression being the far stronger of the two. With that said, because I don't report at least a week of mania (ever), I don't qualify as bipolar. Fine with me, except it still leaves me in this place in my head. Hence, the "softer" diagnosis. It's on the "spectrum." I didn't know bipolar had one.<br />
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In fact, I learned all sorts of new words relating to the bipolar spectrum, many of which may or may not define the madness that is my life at the moment: dysphoria, hypomania, manic depression (something I thought had been re-termed bipolar, but which is actually its own thing). I thought my head would be spinning with all of the new information, but mostly I'm just tired. I'm tired of being yanked from one version of crazy to the next. I'm tired of feeling anything and so mostly I am numb. Numb and tired.<br />
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For those of you not familiar with bipolar, you may assume that it is simply "being moody" or "up and down." It's more complicated than that, of course. For me, depression has always been the obvious, more dominant mood. My depression is fairly classical, low mood, withdrawal from activities that I used to enjoy, lack of appetite, requiring too much sleep, sometimes alternately not being able to sleep, crying without reason or control, thoughts of hopelessness, suicidal ideation. My mania has been more elusive. <br />
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I started to notice patterns, starting with drastic differences in my energy. I'd be scrubbing the floor on my hands and knees while jam was setting after having reorganized the hall closet, when just four days before I'd dropped the kids off at the babysitter and gone back to sleep for four hours, skipping lunch so I could sleep 15 minutes longer. Then I started to notice the more subtle shifts. I'd go from cuddling on the couch with the kids for hours so I didn't have to pretend to get up and do something to being able to sit still with them for 3 minutes before their intermittent movements made me so agitated that I would jump off the couch ready to claw my own skin off. I'd go from calling landlords to check on studio spaces for my someday yoga studio, creating color palates and picking out decor, and ordering business cards to being nervous to teach my weekend class. <br />
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Taken individually, these things did not seem significant. Even now, they seem insignificant until I line them up in a row and then add the chatter that's constantly in my head, a non-stop list of hyperbolic "to dos" or a barrage of self-deprecating commentary. Rarely do I just feel okay. I feel tightly-wound, anxious and irritable or I feel horribly empty and broken. Some people's mania is euphoric. They feel awesome, invincible, like the world is at their fingertips! That comes with it's own dangers because often their judgment is horribly skewed. For me, mania presents as severe irritation. I am so agitated that I feel like I'm on fire with it.<br />
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I also learned that as you get older, episodes of depression and/or mania tend to get more intense and more frequent. So it made sense that I had sought help for depression first at 17, then at 25, then at 29 and 32 and 34. It had all been happening and right under my nose. So, why have I struggled so much recently? And why didn't I see it for what it was? I suspect that it's so many things. I suspect I wasn't aware enough. It isn't something we talk about and that has to change.<br />
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Although I am afraid of the idea of a "mood stabilizer," I do hope to even out. I'm terrified of side effects. I have had some pretty terrible ones in the past. I'm terrified of being "altered," of being recognizably different to my children. Then again, I don't particularly want them to remember this version of me someday. So what's the difference? I know I need to do something different. Everything has lost color again and I miss it.Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8123948823975298245.post-63665992095903581952014-07-03T11:13:00.000-05:002018-01-20T18:58:15.485-06:00MetaphorsI imagine my life in a series of metaphors. That habit has grown as I've kept this blog, lived the last year of my life and had to explain a lot more than I used to what happens in my head. To share with someone who doesn't understand mental illness, even well-meaning people who just can't wrap their heads around it, a metaphor can neutralize buzz words and offer a more relatable explanation. <br />
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As I delve into this next level of my . . . I struggle for a word here. Recovery? I've accepted that recovery, for me, is not a reality. Treatment? I suppose this fits, but it sounds so clinical and the path of my life, of my "treatment," hasn't been sterile the way that those words connote. Perhaps I will just say care and hope that the remainder of my words are able to better convey my feelings. As I delve into this next level of my care, I'm stuck feeling like I'm starting from scratch but with a history that belies truly beginning. <br />
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You see, I'm about to see a psychiatrist for the first time in more than six months. I'm also seeking a new diagnosis. Seeking? Yes. Although I have suffered the same, obvious symptoms of depression for years, when I stopped rushing through my life and started living with some awareness, it became clear to me that a diagnosis that I once greatly feared for its stigma may very well provide me the relief that my several stints in therapy, in the hospital and on various anti-depressants have failed to. <br />
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I have to take a deep breath before I type these words. I have said them to many close friends, but those people support me and won't judge. They won't stereotype me when even I have stereotyped. I believe I am bipolar. I think it's been missed for years because I have only sought therapy in the midst of my very worst bouts of depression. Once I feel better, I stop treatment. It makes it difficult for a professional to recognize the ebb and flow of the cycles of mania to depression and back. <br />
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I won't pretend it hadn't weighed on my mind in the past. In fact, when I first started the longest stretch of therapy that I've ever received, my first explanation was that I thought I might be bipolar. It was quickly dismissed because, admittedly, I was living a very stressful, unsupported life with a history that explained a simple diagnosis of depression and anxiety disorders. It was readdressed as I started my hospitalization and I simply said I didn't know. I acknowledged to my psychiatrist there that I certainly fit the criteria, but that I wasn't sure. It's easy to find something you relate to in a list of "symptoms." Everyone could. So, we watched and waited. Unfortunately, I stopped watching and waiting. I obediently took medication that didn't do enough for me, until I decided it wasn't doing enough and then I quit taking it. I made massive changes in my professional and personal life, all of which alleviated a lot of daily stresses I was previously experiencing. <br />
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When I stopped with the medication and ultimately with any therapy at all, I stopped being present with my mental illness. I was focused on other things, celebrating unrelated victories, growing my life in other ways. But for me, that meant ignoring what was happening in my mind. Then I started crying again. I spent too much time sleeping. I started to pay attention again.<br />
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So I'm heading back into this variety of self-exploration. I need some relief from the mess in my head again. I'm going to give it more time and see it through. So what's with all the metaphor talk? What's the big deal? I imagine it like a broken bone that didn't heal right. It feels better than it did when you broke it. You can walk on that leg again, but every time that you do, you notice it's just not quite right. You have some pain, and you've lost some of your range of motion. It's not unbearable, but you know it will get there eventually. You know that to fix it properly, there going to need to rebreak the bone. And you know that it's going to really hurt to go back in. You're starting from scratch in that you've got to start at the beginning (with the broken bone or the life stories) and yet you've got scar tissue and baggage and all that plays a role in this starting over. <br />
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<br />Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8123948823975298245.post-3214541799867771092014-06-25T20:55:00.000-05:002018-01-20T18:58:15.329-06:00ReflectingWhen I considered the title of this blog, I was thinking in terms of looking back. Ironically, as I've been contemplating my feelings as this anniversary arrives, I think the reflection refers to that which I see in the mirror. I'm looking at the same face, the same fears, the same darkness that I saw a year ago. I have made changes and grown stronger, but I'm still so totally broken. <br />
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I've cycled back through depression, to recovering, to healthy and back to depression. I did well when I worked at it constantly, which required that I step away from my life constantly. As I drew back together again the pieces of my life, pieces of that recovery, the tools, fell by the wayside. I have slipped back. <br />
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As always, I will keep fighting. I will stay brave. I will try very hard not to hide, not to retreat, although it is against my baser instincts. I want to hide and to sleep and find a safe corner to bury myself in. Thankfully, I have a good life and that life will continue. I hope to continue to move forward as life moves forward.Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8123948823975298245.post-71720641176723910622014-05-17T20:26:00.004-05:002018-01-20T18:58:15.563-06:00FearI received a certified letter in the mail today. I nearly threw up. It's been a very long time since I've had to face my past. As I have cocooned myself in beautiful, positive, supportive people and experiences lately, much of the negativity in my life has naturally fallen away. Although I remain me, deep to the core, much of the cynicism that plagued me has also departed. I have embraced what feels like a whole new world and it has been cradling me in this wonderful space of comfort and, dare I say it, trust that things not only will get better, but are better. <br />
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Then I walked in the door tonight from another transformative day of yoga and friendship to find this glaring piece of mail. I was horrified that my husband had to sign for it. I felt violated that the separation of my former business' post office didn't protect my home from this stuff invading it. I cried and I paced. My husband offered to open it for me. He says he doesn't care what it says. I know he knows, he has always been here, but I didn't want him to see it on paper, the accusations of an entity that knows nothing of me or my struggles. And while I have come into this place that I know is a better, righter place for me, I know that whatever it says, it will shake me loose again. I don't want him to see how far I have fallen.<br />
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So, in a moment of blind bravery, I opened it, like jumping over the cliff knowing that there's deep water there, but not quite sure how badly it will hurt when you break the surface. Although I am not surprised by it, the harsh language and threats, meant to spur my action, were still devastating. <br />
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In this journey that started now nearly two years ago, I've found what is often most painful is what everybody doesn't know. I'm not offered the opportunity to explain my past, my pain or my deep, deep regret. Instead, I am judged on my face with little inquiry and less understanding, and the oversimplification of the words "dishonest conduct." <br />
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No part of me defends the impact my past year has had on those near me. But I can't help but be a little bit broken at the characterization of what has been an incredibly painful, but never dishonest period of my life. Tonight I feel like my safe space has shrunk and I'm trying so, so hard not to let this topple me back into oblivion. I had no idea how still totally wounded I am and how easily my happy could be penetrated and attacked from the inside out. <br />
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I hope I will be brave and strong some day. I hope I will truly and completely overcome not only this mental illness that still lurks in the dark corners of my soul, but also the year that I lost to all of this, the year that came storming back into my life tonight. Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8123948823975298245.post-12671030718914090262014-03-23T18:18:00.000-05:002018-01-20T18:58:15.151-06:00Yoga :)What a weekend! I've already described my struggle to <a href="http://myauraisorange.blogspot.com/2014/03/surrender.html" target="_blank">surrender</a> and while I certainly haven't mastered such a momentous lesson, I have wholeheartedly embraced the intention. In fact, after a difficult night Friday, I have had the most incredible weekend. While I hesitate to call it a transformation, because that might suggest that the journey is over, I am experiencing what I have to call the start of one. <div>
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I returned to my yoga mat on Saturday and had an amazing practice on Saturday morning that challenged me, strengthened me and reminded me both that I am capable and deserving. This morning, we worked on a series of poses, breaking them down and practicing them. Then we taught each other, thirty-two sun salutations in all. For those of you who don't practice yoga, that's roughly twelve poses repeated thirty-two times in a row. It was both brutal and absolutely beautiful. Working my body and my mind in that way brought so much joy and peace. </div>
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I had some wonderful conversations with some women who are fast becoming friends whose insight I so admire. I had some realizations about my body, that I carry my stress in my shoulders and that I don't really even know how to let it go, and my mind, that when I harness joy and actively cultivate it, I can maintain it, even if the face of darker moods. I also committed this next two weeks toward surrender and yoga. If you're looking for me, I'll be at the studio. </div>
Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8123948823975298245.post-37262347934525046322014-03-22T21:00:00.000-05:002018-01-20T18:58:15.433-06:00SurrenderSo much has happened in these last two weeks, emotionally, that I'm not sure where to start. I've had a difficult time. I'm enrolled in yoga teacher training at a fantastic studio, with an incredible master teacher and a wonderful group of fellow students. The last time we met, our master teacher walked us through an exercise and meditation that was supposed to help us overcome a suffering. Because it is the area of my life that feels most unsettled, I chose "career." We were to write "I feel" statements on the left side of the paper that reflected how this area of our life was causing suffering. For example, "I feel disappointed because I'm no longer practicing law." Or "I feel ashamed that I am not contributing financially." <div>
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So, about halfway down my first sheet of paper (I completed five), I began having a panic attack. It's the first I'd had in months, unfortunately, it wasn't the last for the week. I had to leave the studio and go outside because I was gasping for air and gagging. Thankfully, I didn't throw up and, after a few minutes, I was able to return to the exercise, with the shakes and the sweats being the only outward signs left of the episode. </div>
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Once we had completed the exercise on the left side of the page, we were to oppose those "I feel" sentences with their positive counterparts. So, for example, "I feel satisfied that I've chosen to pursue my passion for yoga" or "I feel proud that I am able to pursue my dream and my family does not need my financial contribution." After that, we meditated as a group, performed a burning ceremony and went on our way. Unfortunately, despite the support most people felt during the meditation, all I could think of was how I couldn't believe I was back to having panic attacks and that I hadn't realized that my feelings about the situation were still so raw. Perhaps more unfortunate than that, the result of the exercise was to rip wide open a gaping wound that I had forgotten was there. I spent the rest of the week sobbing on and off. I had two more panic attacks. I slept and sulked and accomplished nothing this week, which only makes me feel worse. </div>
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I walked into yoga last night and it was palpable how wrong I was feeling. I couldn't sit still or focus. I couldn't look anyone in the eye. In yoga, we talk a lot about energy. There was no doubt I was emanating self-loathing, sadness and fear. I shared my experiences of the week prior through tears that threatened to choke me at times. As always, I had the support of the group around me. I felt better to get it out, but still broken by all the intimacy and honesty. My master teacher, who inspired my two wrist tattoos, "vulnerable" and "powerhouse," suggested a third: "Surrender." </div>
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She is right. I grasp so tight onto this life I thought I cared about leading. It was a life that made me miserable, that bordered on self-abuse. There were weeks at a time where I slept only 3 hours a night and sustained myself with Red Bull and coffee. I was so far gone in my own head that I barely remember anything. We didn't even really celebrate my son's birthday last year, and I usually go all out with handmade invites and homemade cakes. What am I holding on to? It is fear that drives us to hang on to what we know even when we know it isn't right. So my intention this week is to explore surrender.</div>
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The irony about surrender is that it is the opposite of what I thought my life was about, never giving up, never saying never. I could do everything, and for a while I did. But that's not a life and it didn't last. So instead, I will be working to let go and surrender to where life that is trying to lead me.</div>
Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8123948823975298245.post-82317102964398066392014-03-16T20:29:00.000-05:002018-01-20T18:58:15.614-06:00Deeper watersI've been treading water lately. Although I hadn't been feeling like I was getting worse, it has become clear to me that I'm no longer getting better. I am getting substantially worse. I've slipped back into deeper waters.<div>
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I find myself wrapped tightly in negative emotions. I can't let little injustices go and they eat me from the inside out. I can't take normal, childish behavior from my children in stride. I can't stand noises, whether it's several at a time or a single startling noise. Every time one of my children knocks something over, falls down, bumps into me or nearly tumbles, I practically leap out of my skin. I can't stand to be around people, almost anyone. I don't want to leave my house. I don't want to cook. I don't want to shower. I don't want to move. </div>
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But for the endless string of stay-at-home mom obligations, work and teacher training, I might not move. I have stopped enjoying any of it. Even snuggling on the couch with my children has become a chorus of complaints because they can't sit still, agree on a cartoon or be quiet enough for me to tune out completely. I spend the days aching for bedtime to come and the evenings lamenting the day past, all its failures, and dreading the next day, knowing I won't manage it any better.</div>
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Today I spent most of the day sleeping, yelling or crumpled in the corners of my house sobbing. My children are frightened and even my dog is wary. The adults in my life don't know what to say. My kids lend support like, "I still love you when you yell at me, Mommy," and offering a beloved toy. They are such selfless and honest gestures and yet it doesn't help, which makes it so, so much worse. </div>
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I'm sinking and the water is deep. </div>
Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8123948823975298245.post-65897078931990307802014-03-05T19:14:00.000-06:002018-01-20T18:58:15.511-06:00VictimI'm super mad right now and although the thing that precipitated my absolute frustration is a totally "normal" thing to get upset about, I'm on the verge of a panic attack raging. In trying to get my head around why I would be SO mad about something that, ultimately, has resolution, it's because, frankly, it's just not fair. <br />
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Today I was involved in a car accident with an individual driving across the parking lanes of a parking lot, while I drove, properly, down the aisle. Because I was watching for cars backing out in front of me, I didn't see the driver come barreling toward me from my left, that is, until I ran directly into the passenger's side of their door. This person was in the wrong. Right? That seems fairly clear. Three other things aggravated the situation. First, it was the end of Kaia's day of celebration for her fifth birthday. We just wanted to get home, enjoy some cake and relax and we ended up stuck for over an hour. The stress wasn't welcome. Second, the driver didn't have a valid license. Last, the car and driver were uninsured. To top off the frustration, the officer couldn't ticket the driver for the driving error because we were in a private parking lot. The driver later called me to ask for my insurance information. Really.<br />
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So, yes, this is one of those things that all well-meaning people love to call "normal." You freak out about how you treat your kids? We all do that. You're normal. You don't love being a stay at home mom/work outside of the home mom? We all feel that. You're normal. Not only does this accomplish the opposite of supporting a person struggling with these questions, as it minimizes the importance placed on them, but it suggests that everyone walking around has any idea what it's like to live in my head. That was an off-topic rant, but in my defense, I admitted that I was pretty angry already.<br />
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So as I've rolled this over in my head tonight, because sadly, I can't shake it, it occurs to me that it makes me feel like a victim with no recourse. Not only has this driver forced me to pay a deductible to my insurance company under my uninsured motorists coverage to pay for the damage their actions caused, but they come after me trying to get <i>my</i> insurance to pay for <i>their </i>damages?! I have the sick feeling that a lawsuit is brewing and I hate accepting the stereotype that the kind of person that would drive like an idiot, without insurance or a license would also be the kind of person who would try to get anything from anyone they think they could....victimize.<br />
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I've worn the victim shoes before. I am not brave enough to walk through that story in this kind of public forum. I know that sounds dramatic, but it was and when I recalled it for various therapists and psychiatrists and friends, it has been. What's left behind is an ember and, given the right environment, a twinge of similar feelings, regret for my role in the matter, for not having stopped it or not having been able to, frustration at the price I paid for their action, disappointment that people can be so unfeeling, it's like a fire fed with gasoline. <br />
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I'm not really that mad about the accident. That's what insurance is for, right? And frankly, my car doesn't even really need to be fixed. But I didn't have insurance for some of the lessons that life has taught me. I wasn't prepared for the losses I've suffered at others' hands. It makes it very difficult to trust and it amazes me how quickly I can be thrust back into a state of terror at the control others have the ability to exert over my world. There are beautiful and inspiring quotes about how people only affect you in the way that you let them, by reaction, by behavior, etc. It's just not true. Sure I can control whether I'm angry or sad, but I can't undue damage, neither physical or emotional, simply by having a good attitude. I rarely feel like a victim. I'm strong and I don't care to let others impact my life, but sometimes something bigger than your inner strength can handle happens and it leaves a permanent scar. Those marks resurface now and then and this is one of those times. <br />
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Tonight is the first time I've taken a fast-acting, anti-anxiety medication since I stopped taking my daily medication. I feel weak and I feel out of control. I'm frustrated that I feel like I let someone drive me to this (ha ha, pun sort of intended) space where I'm recalling old wounds. I can accept and live with the choices I've made, but I really struggle to accept the actions of others that have changed my life so deeply that I can't just let a simple fender bender go.Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8123948823975298245.post-10028504982559260782014-02-25T15:05:00.002-06:002018-01-20T18:58:15.101-06:00Tangled I'm having such a hard time focusing and understanding lately. I keep bouncing from one perceived failure to another. I say "perceived" because I can't, frankly, recognize what is true failure and what is simply self-criticism.<br />
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Here are some truths I think that I know. I am incredibly short-tempered. I would rather be alone than with anyone most times of most days. I have so much that I want to do and I accomplish so little. I am angry at almost everything and everyone. I seem unable to stop myself from looking back at all that I used to be able to do and regret how useless I feel now. I cry a lot. <br />
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I feel tangled in a web. Every time I struggle to better my position, I become more entangled, trapped. It's hard to keep struggling. It's hard to bother when I don't see a solution to the problem. It's hard to do anything other than just succumb. </div>
Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8123948823975298245.post-68784171452635423352014-02-23T20:19:00.000-06:002018-01-20T18:58:15.537-06:00HumbledI don't keep a blog to air my complaints to the world. Even my <a href="http://thisismebecomingmommy.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Mommy blog</a>, which is largely complaining, isn't to complain. Each serves its own purpose. The Mommy blog makes light of the often tedious task of parenting, while this blog has allowed me to shed layers and layers of facades to reveal what is true to me. <br />
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Yet tonight I am humbled by the struggle of another and feeling a little guilty about what feels like complaining when recognizing what he is going through. Rarely are those facing a struggle deserving of the suffering they endure. Whatever we are presented with, we can choose courage and grace or we can cower. Truth be told, no one escapes the cowering completely. I certainly feared and floundered and fled. But I try to stand tall, to be brave, and to be honest, and I know he will do the same. Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8123948823975298245.post-91070216121782109312014-02-18T14:12:00.001-06:002018-01-20T18:58:15.666-06:00The HeavinessMy mind feels heavy. It's too thick to feel, to reason. I watch the hours of the days tick by waiting, only to realize that nothing is coming. I am either in a state of complete defeat or desperation for change. In defeat, I sit, silent, wishing "it" would be over. I don't have the capacity to focus on what "it" is supposed to be. Sometimes, in defeat, I grasp onto desperation. What can I do to stop feeling this way? I make pages and pages of lists: things to do, habits to change, things that inspire me. I frantically clean the house, rearrange my closet, work on my book, DO something, anything, but nothing makes me feel <i>better</i>.<div>
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It's like there is a disconnect from my mind to my body to my soul. My mind has ideas and feelings it wants to instill into my soul, through use of my body. Sadly, my mind can't convince my body to be consistent enough to impact my soul, which sits hollow. Something broke in me, probably a long time ago, probably as a result of a thousand hurts and disappointments and betrayals. Without realizing it, I think I wrapped my soul up tight, locked it in safe, and lost the combination. Absolutely there have been times where its light has burst through the cracks and I have felt whole and alive. Lately, my mind has missed the completeness that an unbroken, free soul brings to life. </div>
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I know I'm missing something, I just can't find it. And, to tell the truth, it's so much worse than those darkest days when I didn't realize that it, that I, was broken. </div>
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Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8123948823975298245.post-14882950671620715012014-02-12T19:13:00.001-06:002018-01-20T18:58:15.201-06:00I'm ListeningAlthough I'm starting to write, for the first time in my blogging history, I haven't come up with a title first. That might sound dramatic, but I think it's rather significant. Of course, there's a title now that you're reading it, but as I'm writing it, I'm letting it come to me. In fact, the same is true for the content of this blog. I'm letting it come to me. Oh, I have a general theme or two I'm thinking of, but we'll see what comes of those. Instead, I'm going to share a narrative and see where that leads. <div>
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I started my new gig at the yoga studio today. In what seemed like absolute fate, or as my master yoga teacher would describe it "a hole opening up in the universe," shortly before my teacher training was about to begin, my studio was looking for new reception staff. I applied, despite the express warning from loved ones that I should prepare myself for disappointment due to my "over qualification." It's true, of course. Someone might look at my background and wonder what on earth happened to me that I'm seeking a reception position. Fortunately for me, though, the studio owner already knew my deep dark secrets because she'd interviewed me for my training and, let's face it, I can't really explain why yoga is so important to me these days without an explanation of where I've been.</div>
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I came in for class on Saturday morning, a week after submitting my resume, and she greeted me with a huge smile. She conspiratorially uncovered my resume from a stack of paperwork and confessed that she'd been meaning to call me. She shared that the position would be nights and weekends and that she wasn't sure if I would be interested in light of my family obligations. I was. She said she'd call to set something up and off to yoga class I went feeling light as air. </div>
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Sunday, Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday went by and I started to panic that maybe I hadn't shown enough enthusiasm. Just when I was starting to give up hope, I heard from her! (Turns out I transposed two numbers on my resume and she had to track down my phone number.) She confessed that she'd had a lot of applicants and the work was largely grunt work. But she had an idea. She had some projects that would better utilize my skill sets. She still wanted me for the studio! The work is so right up my alley. It's like a hole opened up in the universe.</div>
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So, back to the beginning, I started today. The first thing I noticed was how laid back things were. When you're used to working on billed time (and expensive billed time), there's no room for chit chat, niceties or basic human consideration. I once had a client ask whether he would be reimbursed for the time another attorney stopped in to say hello while we were waiting for a mediator to return after talking to the other party. I was introduced to anyone that came in the studio. I was given background on some of the cool people I'll be working with. We talked about our families, our pets, our health. Because there is only one computer, I had a bit of time to wait. I picked up a few of the holistic and natural-themed magazines. As I read them, I settled further into the state of relaxation and peace that began the minute I walked in the door.</div>
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As I sat there, immersed in that environment, I felt led. Although I'd contemplated my next career move and how I might incorporate yoga, as something I feel passionate about, I hadn't yet tried to listen to what just felt right. As I was reading, I wandered into my emotional self. What have I done that feels good? What do these significant, painful experiences reveal to me and how can I use them for good? How can I incorporate a yogic lifestyle into my work, not just the hour a day I practice yoga? How can I maximize the time I feel truly inspired? </div>
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I'm a very closed person, or at least I have been these last few years. I've felt so trapped by the individual masks I've been wearing: lawyer, mom, wife, neighbor, daughter, sister, friend, woman. I got so lost trying to do things right that I never considered what "right" was to me. I might have mastered textbook right or magazine spread right or expectations of others right, but none of it fit. </div>
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As I slip into something more comfortable with this very different path, a new, stronger me is emerging, an empowered me...the only "me" I have to be. Pursuing these next steps in my life, I will remain aware of being authentic. I will embrace me, even when my McDonald's coke habit doesn't jive with the vegan ways of so many yogis. :) It's who <i>I</i> am and I'm starting to believe that when I decide to be exactly who I am, no adjustments or apologies, good things will come. </div>
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I have some big ideas about my future and while I'm not quite ready to share the details, or maybe they're not clear enough yet for me to piece together, I'm starting to recognize that letting things come to me, like blog titles, career paths or mentors, will yield happy, fulfilling results for me. </div>
Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8123948823975298245.post-6378405771197909662014-02-07T22:42:00.000-06:002018-01-20T19:02:28.122-06:00Get UncomfortableSo I started my yoga teacher training tonight (yay!). On Fridays, we practice sangha, which is a sanskrit word meaning "community," getting to know each other, discussing our struggles and triumphs and understanding how those affect our yoga practice, with the support of our community. Cool, hippy idea, right? In theory, it's right up my alley. On the other hand, it expects a lot of intimacy. Four of the fourteen of us cried while making introductions tonight. Many of us have a painful past that draws us to the practice of yoga, myself included.<br />
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I was a coward tonight and shared the PR-ed version of my experiences and the crash that drew me to this self-reflective journey. In the end, I shared the less air brushed version of the truth with a woman who talked about her own mental health struggle and I felt better for it. If I could go back, I'd put the whole thing out there. Alas, there is time and these people will most certainly get to know me better. <br />
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Although I don't want to detail the experience too much, partly because that's not what <i>this</i> blog is about and partly because I don't want to publicize the mystique of what I'm doing, but I did have some pretty intense observations tonight and I'm thrilled by that. It means that this training, this journey, will be exactly what I'd hoped it would be. Self-illuminating. <br />
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We did a walking meditation exercise tonight. We started out walking slowly, looking at the ground. I walked too fast. I didn't leave the circle until another student did. I knew where the instructor was at all times. I barely breathed, despite that this was a meditation exercise and breathing is fundamental in all things calming. I couldn't shut my spinning thoughts up.<br />
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After a time, we were to look at waist level, but without making eye contact. Then we moved to shoulder level without making eye contact. Last, we were to continue this slow walk, while making eye contact with another and moving toward them. We stood across from each other and simply looked into each other's eyes. This may sound silly if you've never done it, or if you don't have any issues with confidence and intimacy, but it was difficult for me. A feeling of almost embarrassment washed over me, like M might see right into my dark, broken soul. I flushed. After a moment, we were instructed to tell the person the first word that pops into our head to describe the other. <br />
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I am disappointed to admit that I was most interested in what the two instructors said to describe. Why? It's about pleasing. They are the ones in charge, so they are the ones to please. I seek their approval above that of my peers. Of course, I think that both instructors would suggest that no part of this exercise should have been about approval from anyone, but in the support of the community around me and learning to bond with those I will travel this path with.<br />
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My instructor, who is a psychic and intuitive medium, said I was vulnerable and a powerhouse. I love to hear that. She's right on, of course, with the vulnerability. I was practically cocooning myself while I walked. The assistant instructor said I was unpredictable and unexpected. I like the idea of not meeting expectations, surprising, despite my innate desire for approval. There were a few others, but over and over I heard "strong." <br />
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There is a very real part of me that believes those folks are wrong. There is a growing part of me that hopes that maybe they're right and it's me who has been wrong. I've felt so weak throughout this process. I haven't felt strong or brave, two words that my wonderful, supportive friends have used over and over. The tiny, evil voice in the back of my head instantly responds with "fraud" when I hear that kind of accolade.<br />
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Tonight, though, in the warmth of the circle of new friends of my yoga community, not only did I feel the kinship that the exercise was designed to inspire, but I felt the tiniest spark inside. In true yoga fashion, which I affectionately refer to as "hippy," I'm visualizing that spark into a raging fire. That spark is hope and it's burning.Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com0