When Our Bodies Talk

The end of August was an unsettling time for me. My clerkship, a job I adored, was nearing its end; Alex and I were moving back into the apartment we had subletted to friends; I was exploring the unchartered territory of book writing, figuring out my budgets sans federal income and benefits, and rearranging my travel plans.  Despite the fact that we were in between apartments, I was almost jobless, and I had no idea as to how the next four months would unfold, I felt surprisingly calm.

At least I thought I did.

Two days before my job ended, the air mattress Alex and I had been sleeping on popped. (I blame Alex.)  After moving to the couch, I fell asleep, woke up that morning as usual, and went to work. Half way through the day, I started feeling itchy.  I knew I should have moisturized this morning, I grumbled, as I finished writing my last court order.

As I typed, my eye caught a glimpse of something blotchy, and when I looked down, huge welts spanned across my forearm.  "I'm breaking into hives" I shrieked, running into my co-clerks room and scrunching up my collared shirt to point to the random bumps across my arm.

"What's happening to me?" I lamented about my yet-to-be-diagnosed ailment.  Though they had been conditioned over the year to never take me too seriously, my co-clerks agreed it was probably an allergic reaction.  But they were lawyers, so what did they know?

I gchatted my sister-in-love (not yet by-law) Julia and told her the news.  "I think it may be from sleeping on your couch with that wool blanket," I stated, placing full blame on her.

"Hmm . . . " she considered, "I dunno . . . perhaps it could be stress?"

"No, it's not stress," I scoffed, "I don't feel stressed at all!"

Despite the fact she's a psychotherapist in training, I rebuked Julia's suggestion, and took a close up photo of my skin to show to my friend Hannah, who's in medical school.  Besides being the only person in the world with more "conditions" than me, she knew her diseases well.  "Hives," she texted back.

"Am I allergic to something in my environment?" I texted. 

"Prob. But could be something much more serious." she responded. "C u at dinner." (After a few glasses of wine that night, Hannie proved useless in her diagnosis.)

A few days later, I went home to Canada, where, as I shared previously, my week of relaxation dissipated into job interviews and Spanish tutoring. The hives didn't stop. I would be fine for half of the day, gently feel an itch on my neck, and notice welts breaking out of my skin.

"What's wrong with me?" I asked my mom in an attempt to receive sympathy (and perhaps a new sweater).

"You're fine," my mom responded matter-of-factly. "It's just stress related."

"But I don't feel stress!" I bemoaned, puffy faced, welted up, and engulfed by three Spanish books, research papers for my job interview, and my journals.

I didn't think I was lying to myself. I really didn't feel that stressed.  I was sleeping well (granted I was dreaming in Spanish), eating healthy, laying off the coffee (which I recently observed gives me heart palpitations), and going for jogs.  Could it be that my mind didn't think I was stressed, but my body was telling me otherwise? Does my body have a separate voice from my mind?

This had to be the case.  Over the past few months, I've heard countless stories about people whose bodies communicated to them more effectively than their minds.

Megan survived a terrible plane crash six years ago, and her father tragically died in the crash.  She couldn't remember anything about the incident itself, but a few months after the fact, she accidentally bumped her knee.  The bump triggered countless flashbacks about the crash, and she suddenly had an image of her knee bashing into the seat in front of her.  Her knee had held the trauma of the accident, not her mind.

Katherine had been praying for a prestigious job opportunity with a well-known politician.  The day after she received it, she became physically ill and remained in bed all weekend.  After further reflection, she realized that although she thought she had wanted this job, the prospect of working in the position caused her extreme anxiety.  Her body was telling her something before her mind could register it. She declined the job offer and weeks later found a job she adores.

Six months ago, Anna was studying for her SAT's.  Extremely bright and dedicated, she took countless practice SAT's and performed really well on all of them. When it came time to take the test itself, however, she never scored nearly as high as she did on her practice tests.  She had classic performance anxiety.  After being disappointed once again after a test, her mom asked me if I had any recommendations for her.  I certainly had no insights to offer in terms of vocab or math problems, but I recommended that Anna try some mindfulness techniques.  Soon after, Anna spent a five minutes every few days doing body scans to observe how her body was unconsciously hold stress. Once she acknowledged her mind was holding stress, she effectively dealt with it, and a few months later her test scores skyrocketed.

Countless studies also show that after physical or sexual abuse, survivors have an increased tendency to suffer from unexplained stomach pains. Like Megan's story, their bodies may hold unresolved trauma in the gut.

All of these stories evidence that our bodies communicate to us even when our minds don't listen. 

As much as I wanted to believe that my hives were a product of allergies (itself indicative of the fact that I didn't want to admit stress), I have no doubt that the hives were stress-induced in large part because once I admitted to myself that I was stressed, the hives started to subside (with a healthy remedy of baths, yoga, and remembering to breathe).  It was if my body was screaming to me in the only way it knew how: "listen to me woman; calm yourself down!" And, only after my mind acknowledged what my body was communicating did I start to feel better.

I can't escape my issues through mental repression.  Undoubtedly, my body will hold the tension until I am ready to deal with it, and only after I align my body with my mind will healing occur.

Being Me Wherever I May Be.

Last week, my younger cousin Molly and I sat across the table from each other at a Thai restaurant. After recapping our week, I questioned her about my book and my blog. "Be honest," I began, "do you have any critiques on my writing?"

I knew she would truthfully respond. Molly is family, and my family has never refrained from letting me know when I'm doing something wrong, being annoying, or acting stupid.  Molly also has the gift of conveying exactly what she's thinking, even if it makes the other person slightly uncomfortable.  I value this trait because I have a hard time speaking my mind if I know it may cause conflict.

"Actually, yes, I do have some ideas on your blog," Molly started, gazing up at the ceiling as she slowly chewed her pad thai.  "I really like it when you share your own thought processes and describe your whole train of thought."

"Mmmhmm...continue," I pressed.

She shoved another forkful of pad thai in her mouth.  "No offense, but I don't like it when you do a lot of analysis on the situation and start to quote other philosophers.  I don't believe that you actually know what you're talking about when you analyze, so just sharing your own thoughts is better."

"Hmm . . . ok, that makes sense?" I responded, lingering on the phrase "you have no idea what you're talking about," but ultimately agreeing with the comment. I took out my most faithful companion, my notebook, and jotted down "no idea what I'm talking about."

"And definitely lay off the descriptive sentences about scenery. They bore me."

"Interesting,"  I stated, which is my go-to word when I have no idea how else to respond. "This is hard though because I'm receiving conflicting messages from people," I countered. "Someone just read some of my work and told me that I needed way more analysis and more sensory imagery."

Molly looked at me for a few moments, just blinking.  "Yeah, I mean, it's totally up to you what you want to do. I'm just saying what I think."

"Yeah, I know," I mumbled. I mindlessly played with my food, which I do when I'm nervous, and mentally weighed which writing style I should pursue.

I know it's up to me. I have received countless suggestions to "just be me" when I write, but that's the hard part, figuring out what my truest voice sounds like.  I think I know what it sounds like, but just when I get in to a groove, I start to question it.

I'm not saying this is bad per se.  I think it's healthy to be open to our own malleability and explore different styles.  That being said, on a larger scale, I'm still figuring out not only how to write like me, but how to be me wherever I am.

It sounds like an easy concept, but it can be hard being myself--my most authentic self--in every social situation.  I often find myself catering my discussions to whom I'm talking.  For example, I'll talk politics with my friends from college, but rarely religion; I'll talk religion with my religious friends , but never politics; I'll talk about my interest in certain legal issues with other lawyers, but won't talk about my book writing; I'll express my discomfort at a racist or homophobic comment to some, and completely ignore such comments to avoid confrontation with others; I'll put on my happy-go-lucky side in a social situation, when really I'm feeling quiet and introverted. 

While this could be considered, in some form, emotional intelligence or social etiquette, when I choose my conversations based on the comfort level of others,  I'm actually catering myself to who other people are.  I'm creating a social construct of self and choosing whether to share my "public" or "private" persona depending on who I'm with.

Back to Molly.  A few months ago, we were sitting around a party and someone shared an inappropriate joke.  I pretended I didn't catch the punch line and avoided eye contact with the joke-teller.  Molly, on the other hand, nicely, but firmly, asked, "I'm sorry, I don't quite understand what's funny about that."  It was awkward,  I'm not going to lie.  But Molly did it in such a way where she was honoring herself and her beliefs and not shying away from speaking her mind, though it shifted the mood of the environment. I really respected her for that.  She said what she meant.

I'm currently practicing this new thing called "only saying what I mean."  For example, if I run into an acquaintance on the street and I know that we won't get together, I don't say "let's get together sometime and catch up." If someone asks me how I am, and I'm feeling tired, I don't respond, "I feel great!" If someone asks me where I want to eat, and I have an opinion on it, I tell them where I want to eat. If someone asks me for advice and I know it could be hard to hear, I'm trying to just share what I really think.

I am slowly learning that I can't successfully be my truest self if I'm constantly catering my opinions, thoughts, advice, or vocabulary to other people. As Shakespeare said (sorry Mol-I'm quoting someone), "to thine own self be true."  One of the reasons I write is because it clears away all my facades and personas that I may put up during the day and sheds light on my deeper, more authentic Self. I'm trying to own my own voice, regardless of what others may prefer.  It's part of my practice of being me wherever I may be.

The Pain of Expectations

Last Monday, I flew home to my lake house in Canada for a week of relaxation. On the plane,  I sat in the window seat, staring out the window and envisioning a week of early morning risings, hours of writing, long beach walks, and family time.  In an attempt to create a more disciplined writing schedule, I set a goal to write six blog entries and another ten pages in my book.

After picking me up at the airport, my mom and I returned home, and I breathed a huge sigh of relief upon seeing the water.  I put my suitcase upstairs, caught up with my parents, and then opened my email.

Emails, unfortunately, have become mood dictators in my life.  When I see bold unread messages from friends, my heart quickly flutters in excitement. When I see bold unread spam, I get annoyed at having to go through the ten second routine of unsubscribing.  When I see bold unread messages from the organizations to whom I have applied for jobs, my stomach quickly churns.

Now normally when I open my email, I don't receive anything specifically new and exciting.  But this particular Gmail occurrence was Christmas in a box.  I found out that I had won an essay-writing competition and was chosen to attend Donna Karan's WIE Symposium, a conference relating to Women and Power--the very topic of my book.  I also received two job interviews, both for organizations for whom I'd love to work.  One of them scheduled a phone interview for that week, and the other scheduled an in person interview for the next.  After being informed that part of the latter interview would be in Spanish, and realizing that I hadn't practiced my Spanish in five years (panic!), I googled "emergency Spanish tutor Buffalo, New York," and immediately scheduled five consecutive days of one-on-one Spanish refreshment classes.

Just like that, after reading those emails in the first hour of being home, my week of writing dissipated into job preparations, tutorial sessions, and driving back and forth to the city.  While the actual act of speaking Spanish to an old Chilean man was not particularly stressful, nor was preparing for my phone interview, nor was submitting my bio to the conference, mentally I was stressed.  In light of the conference and job prospects, I was not only was considering postponing my flight to Kenya, but canceling it in replace of a Costa Rican Spanish immersion.  My "just take time out of your schedule to dedicate to writing" plan was now in question and my visual expectations of how the next few months would unfold was turned upside down. 

What I really found amusing (translate: sickening) was that wonderful opportunities were causing me stress . . .  because they were unexpected.  They say the only thing that is certain in life is change.  So why am I surprised when my plans don't go as scheduled? Why do I get flustered when the unexpected happens? These past few weeks I've been reflecting on the unexpected, and I've thought about how it's not the unexpected that causes me stress, but rather the fact that I had expectations to begin with. 

Not all my expectations are big.  I may have 25 small, seemingly trivial expectations in a given day.  I expect I will accomplish certain things on my to do list;  I expect that my subway train will timely appear; I expect that people will act in a civilized matter (so not always the case); I expect that my computer will turn on when I want it to; I expect that I'll get through the day safely, and so on. 
By placing these unnecessary expectations on my day, I set myself up to feel frustrated when these things don't go as planned.  

Not only do I place expectations on my day, but I place them on my relationships, be it with friends, family, or strangers.  Unconsciously, I always have an expectation as to how someone should react, and when they don't, I feel hurt.  If I smile at someone in line and she scoffs back at me, I'm taken aback.  If a friend doesn't call me back when I planned, I feel hurt.  When a family member doesn't support me in the way I want to be supported, I feel saddened. 

Alex and I had a long talk a few nights ago about this topic and he artfully said, "we set ourselves up to feel frustrated when we expect the people around us to act like we would act."  Meaning, we place the expectations of what we would do on other people.  If Alex responds to a situation in a way different than I would respond to a situation, and I think that I respond to the situation better, I get frustrated with him.  This is not only unfair, but causes pain to both of us. Instead of figuring out how he failed my expectations, I need to reassess what my expectations are, why I even have them, and how these expectations lead to disappointment. This entry easily segues into the difference between conditional and unconditional love, but that's a topic I'll explore later.

How can I stop having expectations altogether?  I'm not entirely sure, but I'm working on it. Phillip Moffitt wrote an article about The Tyranny of Expectations, wherein he discerned the difference between falling prey to expectations and opening to unknown possibilities. Perhaps, slowly, I can start to loosen my expectations as I go, reminding myself that the unexpected is more sure than the expected and finding excitement in the possibilities of a constantly changing and unpredictable life.

The Comparison Condition

It was one of those days when all I wanted to do was curl up in a chair and not think.  I didn't want to do anything but engage in a mindless activity, whether it was watching TV, perusing through facebook, or picking up a trashy magazine.

So I mind-numbingly picked up my computer. Within ten minutes, I began to feel "ill."

It had started innocently enough.  I read the Huffington Post and NY Times, checked my gmail, read a few blogs, and then stared at my computer hoping that a cool website would pop into my head.  When it didn't, I logged into facebook (despite the small voice that begged, "don'tdoit").

Ten minutes into reading people's status messages, I began feeling what I can only describe as "weird."  I read about someone's yoga class and felt ashamed at my constantly deprived yoga practice. I read about someone's trip to Argentina and felt antsy to travel.  I read about someone's job success and felt inadequate in my own job hunt. I read about someone's gourmet home-cooked meal, and felt guilty about the fact that I've barely cooked all summer (I've helped people chop vegetables, does that count?).  I read about someone meeting the President of Rwanda (yes, that's you Elizabeth), and was inspired, but then wondered what the heck I was doing sitting at my desk job. The next thing you know, I had contracted the "comparison condition."

My family will be the first one to tell you that I have a tendency to self-diagnose myself with illnesses. Speech dyslexia? Check.  Perpetual Morning Hands?  Check.  Thin Skin Condition that results in me breaking out into a heat rash every time I take a shower?  Check.  Fatty Forehead Syndrome? Check. (No, but really, if you press my forehead hard, your fingerprint will remain embedded in my forehead for a good five minutes. Ask my siblings).

And now, I can add Comparison Condition to my list. This condition is defined as follows:

Comparison Condition:  mild virus caught through social media exposure or direct contract with another person who has certain qualities or opportunities that I don't have.


Symptoms: initial curiosity or inspiration turned into dull pangs of anxiety (often felt in the gut), inadequacy, frustration. Shortness of breath. Deep sighs. Longer blinks. Slumped shoulders.

The at-home remedy? This is what I'm experimenting with.  I'm currently trying the good ole Stop. Drop.and Roll.  Stop what I'm doing (close magazine, turn off computer) and stop the downward spiral of thoughts.  Drop the comparisons (replace comparative thoughts with affirmations). Roll onward (focus on breath and keep moving).

The irony about most of my "mindless" activities is that they are anything but mindless. Are they entertaining? Certainly. Do they require little effort? Of course.  But what happens during and after I engage in these type activities is that I become emotionally drained--I start to compare myself to people and convince myself that I am not complete as I am. I then expend energy thinking (falsely) that I need to be more like "them" to be happy or at peace or successful, as opposed to learning how to utilize my own unique gifts and purpose. If I constantly spend energy and time thinking about what everyone else is doing, I will have nothing left to spend on myself. And when I do spend energy on myself, what type of energy do I want to surround myself with? What if I replaced unkind words with affirmations? What if I replaced thoughts of inadequacy with thoughts of power? What would happen? Perhaps my immune system would be better at warding off the comparison condition, maybe that's what.

Stopping to Sit.

After sitting at my desk for eight hours, I decided to end my day with a long walk in Prospect Park. I hadn't yet explored the depths of the park and was eager to get lost amidst a land of green. As I entered through the main gate, I found myself behind an older woman who was, quite literally, dragging her pet poodle behind.  The poodle, a middle-sized black ball of puff, would take three steps and sit down in the grass. "Muffy!" the woman yelped, snapping the lease forward, "come on, let's go." Muffy would then get up, prance a few steps, take a look around, and sit back down.

As this cycle continued, I couldn't help but smile, although I was unsure of who I felt more bad for--the woman who obviously wanted to take a walk but couldn't leave behind her uncooperative pet, or the dog, obviously bothered by the owner's walking agenda, who just wanted to sit and relax in the park.

After a few more moments of watching the owner drag Muffy against her will, I quickened my pace and wandered through the unknown terrain.  As I walked, my mind fluttered with the thousand thoughts that swirled in my mind--what I had to finish up in my last week of work, what cover letters I needed to edit, what outfit I should wear to an upcoming wedding, and which friends I needed to call back. Every once in a while, images of grassy knolls and kites and ponds would interrupt the thoughts, and remind me to breathe. (I have a tendency to forget to exhale when I'm lost in thought). Between a fluctuation of being present and being totally zoned out, my eye suddenly caught glimpse of a man under a tree on a hill.  He sat quietly beside his tipped-over bike with his legs crossed, hands gently clasped in his lap, and his two thumbs touching. His eyes were closed; his lips slightly parted. He was undoubtedly meditating.  A faint breeze gently ballooned his loose fitting tee-shirt as it passed. That looks so wonderful, I thought to myself as I walked by. I should do that some time--just sit in the park and meditate.

Of course, it didn't occur to me right away that I could do exactly what he was doing.  Unfortunately, I have an uncanning ability to convince myself that I should do something in the future, while ignoring the fact that I could just do it now. So, it took me thirty more minutes of walking before it dawned on me that I could sit down in the park and meditate.

Since moving to New York City, I desperately crave moments of stillness. My walks to and from work are often filled with daydreams of finding nooks of quiet, be it on the East River, or a park bench, or a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop. It's so rare, however, that I listen to this craving and just sit.  Getting to my next meeting on time is more of a priority than carving out time to sit. At times, it is much too hard to resist inertia. Most days, I am both Muffy and the owner--a part of me begs to sit down and be still, and the other part ignores this desire and drags me along. 

Suddenly sick of being dragged, I attempted to find the perfect place to sit (no shade, no remnants of dog crap, no crying children, no underage kids with flasks, and no random wet spots), and finally settled into a shady spot under a tree. After doing ten push ups (I was still "supposed to be" working out, afterall), I laid in the grass in savasana, took a deep breath, and stared at the clouds.  I hadn't done that in a long time, and let me tell you, it is wonderfully freeing to watch billows of clouds move across a soon-to-be-dusk sky.

                                                                      (Image from Rosier/Daily News)

Once my hunger for stillness subsided, I got up (with a slight feeling of vertigo compliments of low blood pressure) and slowly looked around, eyes awakened to the diversity of colors, ears opened to the subtle sounds of a lone cricket, touch sensitized to the subtle breeze, and breath deepened. I walked slowly, so as not to disrupt the quiet with my footsteps, and cherished the peace before reaching the nightly noise of the Brooklyn streets. Ten minutes later, I neared the entrance. And wouldn't you know, who did I see on my way out . . .  but Muffy and her owner.  And this time, Muffy was pulling the owner along, and I couldn't help but feel victorious.

Inenoughness

So about this book. Over six months ago, I shared my "DSquaredS" (aka Deepest Darkest Secret), which was that I didn't really believe in myself. Soon after, I started doing the Artist's Way by Julia Cameron, a book that encourages us to "unleash our creativity" through a twelve week dedication to morning pages (the process of writing three pages each morning) and affirmations (positive statements about ourselves).

At the end of each chapter, the Artist's Way poses a few questions. One of these questions asked, "if you could be anything, what would you be?"  I immediately wrote down author. Then I paused. "Author?" I asked myself incredulously, "that's strange."  But the more I thought about it, the more I realized how often I feel called to write. From a young age, I kept a journal under my bed, filled with poems about my dead bunny, daily concerns, or aspiring careers. (Like most nine year olds, I wanted to be a marine biologist or zoologist. This is strange considering I don't even like animals that much.) I would spend hours planning and writing about what my funeral would be like when I died. (I've always had a small obsession with death). I would write down every positive and negative quality that each of my friends and family had and would try to figure out how I could deal with their negative traits. (My sister Shannon always reminds me of this entry, which now reminds me of one her negative traits: she is a snoop). 

Writing has always been an outlet to me, which is why I felt drawn to blogging two years ago.  The Artist's Way, however, triggered something even deeper in me--and that was to write a book.  But on what? 

As I completed my daily affirmations, I noticed how hard it was for me to write positive comments about myself, particularly comments that encompassed notions of my own power.   The idea of power has always been something I struggled with--internally debating whether it was something I innately had or something I wanted to avoid. In my morning pages, I started to explore what it means to "powerful," not just relationally, but spiritually.  Part of power is the belief that we are complete as we are.  

Most of my life, I have struggled with the feeling of "Inenoughness"--that is, the feeling that I am not enough as I am. I always had to be smarter, faster, more athletic, stronger, thinner, happier, more spiritual, etc.  A constant dialogue played inside my head, whispering that I needed to be "more of this" and "more of that."  I didn't know it at the time, but I was constantly being unkind to myself. 

Through writing and reflection, I discovered that my inherent power was missing—which was the first step in getting it back. Some people are lucky to have a profound epiphany where they wake up and are enlightened, i.e., Eckart Tolle's experience in The Power of Now.  But for me, re-harnessing my power is a slow journey of small and unremarkable conscious decisions.  My power is not always as accessible as I'd like, but now that I realize that I have it, I can't ever return to the state of believing that it doesn't exist. 

So, my book is on Women and Power. I will explore how we define power, when we have felt/feel powerless, and what tools we can utilize to overcome our feelings of inenoughness. This book cannot be written by me alone.  It will also be written by other women who have shared their stories, insights, and fears.  I don’t have all the answers, but I think all of us together, including you who reads this now, have most of them.  Through our stories, we can share the collective journey of power and completeness.

If you or anyone you know would like to share your thoughts on this, please email me and kerrydocherty@gmail.com.  Any comments or questions will inspire me.

The Vulnerability of Exposure

I haven't written a blog in a very long time.  It's been so long that the mere act of writing a blog entry is strange to me.  It makes me uncomfortable and vulnerable.  Did I always feel this vulnerable sharing?
                                    
(I know this picture is random-but how else better to capture vulnerability than through a picture of an exposed limb washed ashore on the beach? Note: this is why I'm choosing to be a writer and not a photographer).

I took a break from the blog because a few months ago, I decided to write a book. (I'll talk about that next time). Actually, I think I decided to write a book when I was 5 years old and started chronicling my normal, if not mundane, existence, but it's just been recently that I decided I was going to "take the plunge" and put my feelings into more than just my battered journal.  Since then, I've been drowning in my own thoughts, gasping for breaths of clarity and cohesiveness.  I certainly don't have trouble sitting down to write, it's just that when I write it results in page after page of garbled gook--full of random sentences and quotes and paragraphs of questions and wronged word choices and rhymes.  It's been a scary and wonderful and frustrating process so far. Part of this process, however, needs to be the reincorporation of my blog. 

I need to share my writing because it makes me feel exposed and feeling exposed makes me vulnerable and vulnerability makes me reflect on why I feel vulnerable and reflection allows me to speak in my truest voice.

So, I'm back to blogging; undoubtedly sharing some of my incomplete chapters and my confused reflections. Here's to vulnerability. And doll's limbs on abandoned beaches.