this woman’s work

Julia and I were talking homeschooling the other day (a big discussion/gentle debate) and she said, I like to think gently, that maybe I liked being the odd parent out and this had something to do with our homeschooling choice. You know, that much of my identity comes from going against the grain.

I’ve been thinking on this. It’s a charge I’ve had leveled at me before especially when I was a disgruntled teen with bad punk rock hair and questionable taste in clothes. It’s true that when I was a teenager that I reveled in my weirdness but that’s just it — I didn’t like to be weird; I was weird. And when I was a teen and grappling with my identity, I wanted to be very in people’s faces about it as teens will be.

So see, it’s not that my identity is wrapped up in being weird like a status symbol; it’s that I am who I am and I’ve learned to be proud of it as opposed to defensive and worried about it. Am I proud of being a homeschooler? Sure. I’m proud that we’re living out our values even though homeschooling has added to our challenges as a family (financially for the most part) and I don’t need that celebrated although it would be nice to have it accepted instead of questioned.

Back to being weird and how it relates to our homeschooling choices. I was an odd kid and pretty early on I figured it out as odd kids will do. It seemed like I usually wanted to do things differently than my friends or had interests that they didn’t share. I’m fortunate that I wasn’t the kind of kid who got harassed much and I’m sure part of this is that my mom (and I think my dad) like me an awful lot and told me so. What made me weird, I learned early on, was also what made me special so I never wanted to pretend to be something I wasn’t.

I think when it comes to intrinsic weirdness having confidence is what saves you from getting harassed. Also as introverted as I am (and this introversion certainly contributed both to my weirdness and my school misery), I do like people and my social skills were always good. You know, “plays well with others” and stuff like that. I’ve always had close knit friends and generally get along with people and my unhappiness with the social world at school had to do with the way I saw it and experienced it and not with how I was treated.

There are two bullies that stand-out in memory — one being some random kid in Chicago who used to follow me home from school and wash my face in the snow. I don’t know how it started or how it ended but I remember the feeling of trying to get across the wide open field between the school and our house during the blizzard of ‘78. The snow was too deep for me to get across quickly, so I’d struggle huffing and puffing and praying he didn’t catch me. The other bully was in middle school, one Eric Bielke who was a big, dumb, mean guy and who had it in for me for reasons I still don’t understand. He’d wait for the Home Ec teacher to leave and then threaten to strangle me. But mostly I had my friends and things were fine as long as I was comfortable with feeling awkward, which I learned to be. Which is to say, again, that my misery wasn’t social misery.

Some weird kids, they have charisma and can wear their weirdness to the top of the pack (my first boyfriend, Joaquin, was one of these). But the rest of us have to make some choices:

• Pretend to be normal as best you can and hope it sticks (it never does).
• Be weird and say screw ‘em.

(more…)

Abby diagnosed me. I was telling her that I can’t do a cartwheel because when I straighten my legs while turning upside down, I panic. It feels like my body is out of control. The last time I did a cartwheel (sometime in middle school or late elementary school) and actually got my legs up, I came down crying and sick to my stomach.

“That’s a sensory issue,” she told me. “You have problems with proprioception.”

Looking at Noah, I already knew I had some mild sensory stuff growing up (and even now — I think introversion is a sensory issue). I used to have to rinse my salsibury steak because I couldn’t stand gravy or anything that masked or mixed food, just like Noah. And I identify with his need to have clothes that fit just so, especially socks. But neither of us are undone by this stuff — we’re just picky.

But this proprioception, it got me thinking. Proprioception is “the sense of the orientation of one’s limbs in space.” (source) Now I don’t think I have trouble controlling my body in space — I don’t think I’m clumsier than most people although I could be wrong about that — but I think I overreact to not literally having my feet firmly planted. I think my issues are pretty mild ones but still there’s a whole lot that I can’t do:

• Bike in front of anyone. If I’m biking with another person, they HAVE to be in front of me. It scares me to think that someone might be behind me and might knock the bike. I’ve very nearly forced Brett to wreck when I’ve put my feet down in a panic because he’s fallen behind me. I also can’t go fast. I ride my brakes even if I’m going down a very small hill. By the same token, I can’t take curves in a car at the suggested MPH without feeling like I’m going to flip the car. That curve on 315 by Riverside? I slow way down and do the deep breathing techniques I learned in the birth class I took while pregnant with Noah. Scares the hell out of me.
• Jump on a trampoline. No. Just the thought of it makes me sick. It’s insane — how do you know where you’ll come down? How will you control your trajectory as you come back up? I hate it hate it hate it. And it’s only possible if no one is on the trampoline with me or even touching it. Even then it’s torture.
• Swimming. If I’m swimming in a pool and can’t touch the bottom or reach out and touch a side, I get so anxious that I almost can’t breathe. I have to talk myself across the pool to where I can touch something. And if Brett swims by and puts his hand near me? I freak out. (I have trouble watching my kids swim because I project this feeling.) This is huge. I don’t find swimming fun or relaxing AT ALL even if I’m just watching the kids swim.
• Water in general, actually. Like this canoe trip: “I’ll be honest and say I have a fear of water that borders on phobia. I can swim, I can bathe but certain things terrify me beyond reason. A rocking canoe in 2-feet of water is one of those things. I spent the first ten minutes of the trip hyperventilating, which is insane. Let me remind you, 2-feet of water. And we had to wear life jackets.” I could see the bottom but the rocking canoe scared the hell out of me. Ask Brett, we got into the canoe (mind you, we waded to get there) and I started to cry because it felt tippy.
• Skating. Or walking across ice or anything slippery.

I always thought I was just ridiculous but Abby tells me this is a real thing. She explained that the terror I feel? It’s a fight or flight response — it knows no logic.

When I was in high school we had a gymnastics quarter in gym and I very nearly flunked because I refused to do the trampoline or skin-the-kitty on the bars. (You know, where you hang upside down and put your legs through your arms so you flip over?) The gym teacher was yelling at me about how ridiculous I was and I just stared at her and refused to do it and refused to talk because I knew there was no use complaining. She finally gave in but treated me with contempt for the rest of the year. She thought I was just being teenage obstinate and I couldn’t convince her otherwise because it sure sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?

“When I hang upside down I feel like I’m about to die.”

Yeah, I wouldn’t have believed me either.

Anyway. I’m not all that concerned about it because it doesn’t get in the way of my everyday life (as long as I stay out of canoes); it’s just interesting to know that it’s all tied up to the same thing. Who knew?

I just had a happy playdate with 3/4 of the Turn Sharp family. If you read her blog you can tell that she is not an introvert, which made me think of this important coping mechanism.

One of the stresses I have as an introvert is a social anxiety that gets hung up on “Oh I can’t believe I said that! I am such an idiot! I should just go stick my head in a bucket and end my miserable life!” (Introverts are sometimes over-dramatic.) But here’s the thing: Other people don’t tend to notice what idiots we are.

Extroverts don’t notice because extroverts (I believe) are pretty forgiving. Lots of extroverts like people in general so they’re already predisposed to like you. They enter social situations happy to be there and to be socializing. They don’t have all that free-floating anxiety. They don’t fret beforehand about all the ways it might go wrong. So there’s a lot of give in socializing with an extrovert.

Other introverts are so anxious themselves that they’re not going to focus on your screw-ups (they’re too worried about their own). I had a meet-up with a clear introvert a few weeks ago and I could tell that anything I said/did was filtering through their defense system anyway so it seemed like a lot of the pressure was off me.

That’s kind of my point in my last post. It’s not that introversion is all in my head (I know I’m hard-wired that way) but a lot of the way it plays out is all in my head. My internal pep talks before social events are usually about this — that no one likes cold networking; that the extroverts will talk to me if I give them an opening; that the introverts are just as (if not more) tense than I am. It’s telling myself: My feelings are true but my interpretation of the situation may not be true. I will probably always feel a little wrecked after social events but I can stop the anxiety before and after by recognizing my wrecked feelings as feelings — not manifestations of disaster.

The other thing I’ve been thinking about is that a lot of this is skill and we can learn skills. I met two guys who both have this incredible ability to remember people’s names and details about their lives. I asked them both how they do it and they both said: HARD WORK. One of them said he actually took a class to learn the techniques. I was a little bummed out because I was hoping they would say, “Oh I was just born this way!” thereby letting me off the hook for not being able to remember anybody’s name ever.

If socializing well is a skill, I can get better at it. It’s like how special ed teachers work with kids who have a learning disability. They don’t try to cure the disability; they try to help students learn how to cope with that disability. Or how people will work with children who have autism to recognize other indicators of emotion since they have trouble recognizing facial expressions and tone. So I think, this may not come easy to me but it can come easier. The more I push myself, the more I can build coping mechanisms and eventually I won’t be as held back by this twitching left eyelid I’ve got going on.

Until then, it’s the chocolate and caffeine. Hey — these things take time.

Because Julia decided I was worth $10.46 (the cost of the book plus shipping), I’m reading The Tipping Point and loving it even though I’m years late to the party. (Soc major interested in marketing and social relationships, yeah it’s my kind of book.)

Julia wanted me to read it because sometimes it feels like I’m spinning my wheels — doing lots of little things to try to get myself to the next place career-wise in both my marketing career (i.e., $$$) and my artistic career (i.e., bigger opportunities). She wanted me to see that every little thing you do makes a difference and any of those little things could take my career(s) past the tipping point.

I am loving this book. And I’m also trying to see how the things I’m bringing to the table help me and what I can do to help myself more.

I keep running up against my introversion. See, I think I might be a connector because I know a lot of people (although a lot of you are virtual; I’m just building my in real life rolodex) and I love to fix people up. I mean I LOVE it. I love helping my friends become friends with my other friends; I love helping people find someone who can answer their questions; I love saying, “I know who can help you with that” and then handing them an email/phone number. BUT these things also totally deplete me.

I know so much of getting along in the world is attitude but I also know that when I’m depleted I feel sad and hopeless. Given that I need alone time to recharge and given that I need MORE alone time if I’m spending time around people and given that I don’t get a lot of alone time because I have kids (being with Brett, as I’ve said, is as comforting as being alone), I want to figure out other ways to self-care. (Right now I’m relying way too much on caffeine and Cadbury eggs, which is not doing myself any favors, lemme tell you.)

I’m trying to do more self-talk like, “It’s ok. It’s not that bad. Breathe in, breathe out.” I’m trying to actively wrench my depleted mind around to feel less overwhelmed. I’m trying not to fret over the Cadbury eggs and caffeine too much. I mean, yes, exercise is good and eating well is good and getting enough sleep is good but at the heart of it is my introverted self trying not to just get by but actually to THRIVE in an extroverted world. I want the things I want — success, a good income, more opportunity — and giving in to my weaknesses isn’t going to get them for me. I want to be an active participant in my success instead of just waiting around for the marketing equivalent of Prince Charming.

I had a second interview today for the job I interviewed for last week and I have a playdate this afternoon, then homeschool fair tonight, then Power of the Pen judging tomorrow, then volunteering for the Purim carnival on Sunday, then taking Madison to a raucous play-center birthday party for one of Pennie’s friends Sunday night not to mention lots of work and leaving for Portland at the end of next week and the whole thing makes me want to cry. But I also want to do these things (even though my left eyelid won’t stop twitching). I want to be able to do those things without going insane, which means figuring out how not to go insane when my whole BEING rebels against this much action.

The only thing I can compare it to is how some people loathe public speaking. (Ironically I like public speaking, which seems strange I know but I’m better with a role to play so I’d rather be a featured speaker than be milling around at a dinner party where I don’t know anyone.) That hyperventilating fear that some people have before public speaking is kinda what I have before almost anything that involves meeting new people UNLESS I have a role to play and even then it’s stressful. Now this has gotten better in the past year of aggressive networking. I don’t cry in my car as much before meetings anymore (rarely, actually) and I’m more willing to make dates with people I’ve never met. So that gives me hope that I can get better at this other stuff, too.

Don’t get me wrong — I’m hoping to put in all this time upfront so that I can retreat back into happy aloneness further down the line but I realize a girl has gotta earn her stripes before she has the privilege of happy aloneness, which is why I’m willing to do this stuff. But today — sitting here in my office basement with my left eyelid spasming like mad — I needed to bitch about it a little as a way to cheer myself on. Argh.

Yesterday I couldn’t lift my head up. I spent the day trudging through my chores and feeling all was wrong with my world. I couldn’t figure out what it was because it was absolutely unconnected from the actual happenings of my life; I had no reason to be sad. Finally I came to the conclusion that I was strung out from a busy week ending with a very busy Friday.

I’m a classic introvert. I pretty much would always rather be home with my family (and sometimes without them) than socializing — even with people I adore. When we lived in Portland I had a coffee routine that I dropped as soon as the counter people started recognizing me and chatting me up in the mornings. I dread events where I have to meet new people. Thursday night, before my big meeting day, I dreamt about the people I was meeting because I fret in my sleep. Sometimes even my bulging email inbox feels invasive.

But I fake it. My mom thinks I learned to fake it early on because I was sandwiched being two extroverts. That could be true. I think both my parents are introverts, too, although I think my dad is like me and has learned to operate as if he isn’t. (I think this because as outgoing as he is, he’s pretty studied about it.)

Faking extroversion comes at a cost. From the nighttime anxiety in the days leading up, to the heavy emotional come-down the day after, I pay in spades. But such is life. I just need to learn how to manage it. Like scheduling alone time to recharge and reminding myself when all seems dire that I might just be wrung out from a very busy week.

Still. It’s hard. It’s hard before and after and it’s sure hard during. Sometimes my worries during a meeting make me act more boisterous than I feel and not always in a good way. (It’s yet another reason I’d never never drink at anything even marginally work-related and hardly any other time either — I’m already operating slightly impaired. But I love it when everyone else is a little drunk because I count on their fuzzy thinking to soften my rough edges.)

I’m just thinking on it since yesterday was such a bad day and it was my first free day after a rough and tumble week. I need to learn how to cope with it better and recognize the gloom for what it is. (I wanted to work on a business plan yesterday but was feeling so down that I knew it was a bad idea to try. I took the day off from work entirely since anytime something work-related crossed my mind I got pointlessly teary.)

The world is built for extroverts since, after all, they’re 3 to 1 to us shyer types. People look askance at those of us who would rather be alone and don’t always understand why we can’t meet for coffee straight from some other event. And the business sphere is definitely made for go-getters. I want to be successful, which means learning to go against my natural inclinations (I’m hoping that at some point I can cut back on all this moving and shaking though — I’m putting in the work now in the fervent hope that I won’t have to do it as much later.)  The result is that people don’t believe me when I tell them I’m shy. Granted I say it while we’re chatting it up in a crowded room where I seem to be a fun-loving gal with an always ready quip. So it’s hard to believe it when I tell them that I’m sweating through the back of my shirt and feel like bursting into tears — especially when I say it with a smile.

The saving grace for me — and I think it’s how my father operates — is that I know that my public self isn’t really me (it’s my stage persona), which makes me feel protected somehow. The challenge, at least, is interesting to me. I do like to push myself.

I may put my brakes on my bike when I’m rolling downhill and be terrified of going in water over my head and I may be too scared to put on ice skates or roller skates (i.e., I am a total physical wimp) but when it comes to stepping outside of my emotional comfort zone, I kick ass. I try to take some pride in that — gear myself up by delivering an internal inspirational speech before heading into a meeting. But until I learn how to deal with the draining come-down, I’m only half-way there.