The Worst Enemy

I have become increasingly convinced that it is not external issues that create the greatest amount of stress and pain in our lives. It is the little voice in our heads that goes on and on, reminding us of our failings, threatens us with worse case scenarios, rehashes old hurts, and sabotages the holding of pleasure in our lives.

Have you ever talked to someone in whose presence your concerns felt respected but greatly diminished? Then as soon as you left that person, your own thoughts pulled you right back to your fears and panic? It actually happens all the time--most of us do this on some issue, with some individual.

This became clear to me last week as I took my mother to the doctor. She had been seeing a young, disheveled MD who never seemed to have read her chart and for whom she had to wait a minimum of one hour in the exam room. Oh--did I mention that Mother was seeing him for hypertension? Needless to say, when he finally did appear, her blood pressure would be soaring and she would be livid. So after nothing about his demeanor or helpfulness changed, I transferred Mother to a smaller community physician's office to see an older doctor who specializes in hypertension. He was delightful. His comments were directed toward Mother, not me, which was how it should be. He took time and heard her discuss her health concerns, my father's recent death, and her feelings of despondency. This doctor could not have been more gentle and kind. He patiently and calmly explained that sometimes people with hypertension need two or three medications in small doses rather than one medication at high dose because each medication has different physiological effects. Mother nodded with enthusiasm, even though on the way to his office she had fumed about having to take more than one pill per day. He discussed her Advanced Health Directive with her and told her to take time to speak frankly with me about what she would like me to do if she collapses at home or has a heart attack in a public place, etc. He helped her get the proper lines signed to make it a legal document. I was delighted.

We went back to her apartment and I filled up her weekly pill dispenser with the exact doses of the three pills she is to be taking. Mother was happy and relieved to have such a fine, patient, and personable physician and seemed contented with life and her circumstances.

This morning she woke up with a full head of steam. She can't get her blood pressure machine to work properly, she doesn't want to sit for 10 minutes before taking her blood pressure ("It feels like punishment to have to sit still for that long!"), and she doesn't want to have to take "all these pills." "I just don't think it's worth it to go on," she lamented. "When I have to deal with all of this, I just wished I could drop dead."

I couldn't believe my hearing. She had just had a wonderful weekend--two concerts that had thrilled her, all day Saturday with us, Thursday cooking and shopping with me, and several meetings Friday. Now she despairs of life.

I believe there is a voice in Mother's head that suggests that she can't survive without my father doing everything for her; that any pain she experiences is a harbinger of imminent demise; and that the worst possible outcome will be realized about whatever issue she is concerned over. Mother has long suffered from anxiety. She has all the symptoms of Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD). We intuitively knew Mother was high strung and jittery, when we were children. It was what made it so much fun to tease her by telling her preposterous stories about ourselves, or to suggest that perhaps one of us girls was pregnant or was in trouble with the law. Mother would all but go into orbit whilst we tried hard not to laugh. Even after we assured her that there was no truth to our assertions, she remained so physiologically aroused that she couldn't calm down. She would fuss and fume for some time about our comments. We found this to be highly entertaining.

I now understand that this is not a fun mental process to have. If Mother ever does take her own life--and I've been concerned in the past that she might--it will probably be because her anxiety and depression have overwhelmed her. When we become worked up about something, our bodies have an immediate stress response. We may feel that flash of adrenalin and be unable to stop the shaky feeling, much as a person would have who had a near miss of an accident on the freeway. When that happens, you have to pull off the road to get yourself back under control: the jitters continue, the rapid breathing, and shock doesn't go away for some minutes.

Our bodies have similar responses when we become concerned about intangible fears: what if the stock market crashes again? What if I fail my test today? What if my husband breaks his neck? The stress hormones flash through our bodies and we respond accordingly. This is because our bodies don't know the difference between being threatened at gunpoint by a slavering lunatic, and recalling a devastating emotional insult by someone at work. We get worked into a tizzy and react to those around us accordingly.

I used to have a roommate whose panic was always surprising to me. When we had a major earthquake at night, we'd all three race out of our beds and stand in our

doorways for protection. Penny would begin to gasp and turn ashen. Even after the shaking had stopped and we had gone back to our beds, she would be pacing about, visibly trembling and very upset. I later found out that she had mitral valve prolapse, which often causes panic responses that don't have very rapid resolution. It was a physiological issue that initiated the panic. Then the voice in her head made her ruminate on the experience until she was sure she was doomed to die. It was very interesting to observe back then. She also had an anxiety disorder: Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.

So as I sit and wait for Mother in the dentist's office this morning, I wonder what story her head will tell her later today about having to have a crown replaced after extensive drilling, and numbing of her jaw. Will it make her blood pressure go sky high again? Will this make her despair of life once again, because she is so frightened that she has become overwhelmed?

Writing this down is actually a way for me to avoid becoming panicked about her panic--of putting to rest the voice in my head that says I'm not doing enough for her, am not a good enough daughter, can't prevent her from harming herself, can't make her happy all the time.

We are our own worst enemies sometimes.

Health Update

Some weeks ago I wrote a post about how much I wanted to change my health and weight status. This is a report about that. (I assure you that I don't weigh 120, as the person shown above weighs!)

I lost 10 lbs. It was wonderful to be able to fit into some clothes that I haven't worn for awhile. I even looked good in a pale teal two-piece dress that Sam doesn't like on me. This time, he did like it. It was clear that I had lost weight and my appearance was much improved.

I've gained back every single pound.

How does this happen? I have real trouble with two things: sugar, and emotional eating. I can't pass up a dessert for anything. Especially chocolate chip cookies or chocolate. There have been days in the past when I could sniff disdainfully at anything sweet, but those days were precious few. I think I've become addicted to sugar because I eat an inordinate amount of it. It's a set up for getting diabetes and tooth decay. Since the latter is associated with heart problems, I need to be more watchful because of the family history of heart disease.

Then there's emotional eating. It is more about carelessness and bad habits that now have emotional meaning attached. As happy as I am with Sam and with my job, I have been extremely frustrated with other issues. I know this about myself: the more frustrated I am, the more I eat. It is an "enoughness" issue. I feel deprived, or that I should be entitled to have some special meal or menu item (again, usually a dessert). The "better" I am, the more I deserve. There are many issues that are external to me that can be blamed for my eating, but the bottom line is that I do it and I allow it. But,

I hate going to the gym--the inconvenience of going over there

I hate counting calories

I hate it when people constantly talk about how many calories and fat grams are in food items.

I dislike wearing skimpy or revealing athletic clothes--which although they may not be intended to be skimpy or revealing, are that way on my body because they allow others to see much more about my figure than I want them to.

I hate the mindlessness of walking on a treadmill, riding a stationary bike, using all those weight machines.

I hate even more, being overweight and unhealthy.

At 49 years of age, I am not going to become healthy and more attractive by accident.

Tomorrow my friend and I are starting out on a new joint venture. We can't coordinate our schedules and we are successful doing different kinds of health-related activities. We both like to walk, so we will try to walk together once per week. Other than that, we will do different things to make our health improve while relying on each other for encouragement to become more healthy. For me, it will involve several activities and rules for myself about food. I will report in on the first of every month until I have met my health goals for myself. I have 50 lbs to lose and my blood pressure needs to come down significantly. I don't like hearing my heart pound in my ears at night or being out of breath when I walk up one flight of stairs at work. It all has to change.

Perhaps watching that 84 year-old conductor yesterday evening was also helpful. I will not look like that or feel as good as he does if I stay on this course. In fact, if something doesn't change I probably won't be alive. Now there's a sobering thought!

I would like to be like Hulda Crooks, a longtime resident of our town and personal hero of mine. She used to eat very much like I did and as a result, had terrible health. She changed her diet significantly and began climbing mountains. At age 67 she climbed Mt. Whitney, 14,495 feet--the highest peak in the continental United States. She ended up climbing it 23 times, in addition to climbing Mt. Fuji when she was 91 years old. She used to run up Mt. San Gorgonio --an awful climb-- to prepare for climbing Mt. Whitney. In fact, there is a peak in the high Sierras named after her.

Hulda came to speak to my church youth group a few weeks before I took 30 kids up Whitney. She was 94 at the time and full of energy. The kids were spellbound by her stories. She didn't climb mountains anymore, but she buzzed around town on a bike until she was 98. She finally died in her sleep at age 101. We lost a real treasure when she slipped away.

I would like to be like Hulda Crooks. It won't happen by accident. When I was in my 20s and 30s I climbed Mt. Baldy, Mt. San Bernardino, Mt. San Jacinto, Whitney, Half Dome, Baldy Notch. I want to be up in the mountains again. That is where I feel most alive.

Olga and I are getting started this morning by having a good long walk together. Then I am on my own this week, trying once again to get my eating under control. Life is too precious to feel dragged down physically and emotionally because of the limitations of my health. I hope to report real change to you by next month.

Nobody saw it

Found here

Yesterday evening I went to an evensong concert. It was a reunion concert of a group that existed back in the 1970s. The conductor was 84 years old and quite a commanding and much beloved figure. The singing was fantastic in that old wooden floored church with tremendous acoustics. They started out with an eight-part choral piece that went up to a high C in it: "Glorious Everlasting." The Mormon Tablernacle Choir has recorded this and it gives me chills whenever I hear it.

At some point, two violinists stepped to the front to play an obligato along with the choir. It was a piece called "The Snow" by Elgar. It seemed to wander, but had beautiful harmony. Thereafter, one violinist rejoined the choir and one went back to sit against the stage wall behind the grand piano with one of the pianists. Most people could only see their heads above the piano. I could see their legs. I'm not sure what drew my gaze to their legs, but I began to notice something: the violinist leaned her leg into the man's knee and he rubbed his knee back and forth on her leg. Both had on stage smiles that could be seen up above the piano while this was going on below the line of visibility under the grand piano.

This went on for some time during a rather long choral piece. Occasionally they'd look at one another and smile. They'd lean into each other and grin. They probably didn't think anyone could see them. Why this was of interest to me was that both the violinist and the pianist were married--just not to each other. I also remember the violinist from 30 years ago as part of an orchestra I was a soloist with. She had been flirtatious with the men back then. Maybe the pianist was someone she had had a relationship with back in college and now that they were at an alumni event, they had reverted back to previous behavior. I found it all quite intriguing.

When I got home last night, I found myself wondering what those two were doing. Did they sneak off somewhere together? Had they only been flirting and teasing? Were they merely good buddies who truly love one another in a brother-sister kind of way? Would they do the same thing by playing "kneesies" if their spouses were present or if they realized that someone else could see what they were doing?

There are little things we do every day that belies what is inside of us: what we are made of and what our beliefs are. It comes leaking out from time to time and someone is bound to see. We just think that we can control what people think about us and we don't realize that who we are leaks out in the most interesting ways.

What will your actions and words say about you today?

Faux Pas

"Mr. Jonas, it's time to get out of bed and walk in the hall."
She was a perky little 17-year old nursing student: very young, very bright, and very pretty. Mr. Jonas didn't seem to realize she was speaking to him.
"Hey, Mr. Jonas!" one of the other men in the ward called. "Get up and start walking now." The three other male patients in the room looked his way with big smiles across their faces.
Cindi was used to these kinds of looks and leers. She was so pretty that the old men in the hospital couldn't refrain from commenting, or glancing at her admiringly.
You couldn't tell that anything was wrong with Mr. Jonas just by looking at him.
Cindi pulled the curtain around his bed. "Maybe I should check your dressing before you come with me," she said, trying to sound as old and authoritarian as she could. Pulling up his gown, she looked at the dressing over his newly acquired penile implant. She was mortified, but too cheerful and fast-moving to let him know.
"Good!" she said, leaning over his bed, inspecting the dressing. "Now, let's get going." She grinned at her patient, who seemed a bit withdrawn.
He ambled up out of bed and linked arms with her. As they left the room, the teasing voices of the other men could be heard. "Way to go, Mr. Jonas!" "Hey, Mr. Jonas, nice job!"

Cindi was his student nurse for two days. She made sure he was well fed, his sheets were changed, and he was bathed. She also walked up and down the hall with him whenever she ran out of things to do. He was always very cordial but awkwardly so. Not much of a conversationalist. Mr. Jonas just seemed to be trying to say and do the things she requested. She noticed that his roomates ribbed him constantly and that he didn't say anything back to them. It was a bit odd, but she felt sure it was because of her age and looks.

After she checked his bandage for the last time, she explained that she wouldn't be back the next day. It was her last day in that particular hospital unit and she was going to be moving to a new practice site. He wished her well and she said goodbye.

That day during post-conference, Mrs. Beltz asked if anyone wanted to discuss their patient's condition and the treatments that had been required. No one spoke up.
"Cindi," she said, "Why don't you share your patient's history and condition with us?"
"Ok." Cindi began. "Mr. Jonas is a 67 year-old man status post penile implant. He is--"
"What did you say his name was?" Mrs. Beltz asked.
"Mr. Jonas."
Mrs. Beltz closed her eyes momentarily as if in pain. "And did you call him Mr. Jonas for both days you took care of him?"
"Well, yes. I always call patients Mr., Mrs., and Miss." Cindi paused. "Why do you ask?"
"His name is Mr. Smith. He has a Jonas penile prosthesis."
Cindi looked confused.
Mrs. Beltz spelled it out: "His name is not Mr. Jonas."
That explained everything. Cindi was so embarrassed that she couldn't bring herself to go back and apologize to her patient. But it did explain why the other men were so interested in everything she did for him.
Sometimes the best we can do isn't quite good enough.
Poor Mr. Jonas...

Those of you who know us realize that these fake teeth played a part in our first meeting. Landing in the Midwest from California, Sam got off the plane with these "Bubba" teeth in his mouth because even though he had seen pictures of me, he was concerned that I wouldn't turn out to be someone that he was interested in, or that was interested in him. So to lighten the mood, he wore these. It would either make or break us, he thought.

I never saw the teeth--just his eyes. I even kissed him --a little peck--and still missed the fact that he had these teeth in. I had a vague realization that he had more of an overbite than I remembered seeing in his picture, but quickly dismissed it. "He's such a nice man." Sam was beaming at me and oddly quiet. When finally, I heard him slurping as he hugged me to him, trying to keep the teeth from falling out, I leaned away from him and got the full picture. He was cracking up, trying to keep from laughing outright. He hauled them out of his mouth and the first words he said were, "Thank God --you're gorgeous!!"

He looked significantly better without these teeth. They distort his entire face because they're so large and change the structure of his mouth so much. Which is why they're so hilarious. I cannot not laugh when I see him in these.

Sam's appearance could have been really shocking to me. Except that I had a pair on my desk at home that I had come close to wearing to the airport. Can you imagine what kind of first meeting that would have been?

In any event, Sam still thinks I'm gorgous (now I'm the one saying, Thank God!) and he still makes me laugh. I still only see his eyes, even though the rest of him is nice to look at, too.
It has been an interesting and wonderful journey, these five years we have been married. My heart is resting in your hands and I would marry you again, Honey.

Happy Anniversary!

Staying the Course

Found here

Today I sat with Mia, a young woman who wants to be able to sleep better at night. She clenches her jaw, grinds her teeth, and has to massage her face to open her mouth in the morning. While she spoke today, her fingers danced across the edge of the couch. Then up and down her right leg to her knee cap, over to her left knee cap, and up to her thigh. Her hands folded momentarily in her lap.
It was hard work to keep her on task. As soon as I verbally took note of something significant, she was off again, her words spewing from her mouth as though she was racing away from my comment. Watching her mouth move, her hands fluttering up and down her legs and across the couch cushion, I fantasized that she was a water spider, flitting across a pond--so quickly that she barely penetrated the surface.
We covered all sorts of things--an ailing relative, her responsibilities at work, how teenagers irritated her, how she tries to stay in control all the time, her sleep problems, her cat--it was one thing after another. My interjections and observations reigned her in temporarily, but then off she'd go to something else. It was like driving 90 m.p.h. on a circuitous road.

I knew what was happening, but the two doctoral students observing this from behind a one-way mirror, did not. They had been having trouble with their own therapy and I had invited them to observe me at work--something that seems to help students. They need to see different ways of doing therapy and to hear different ways to say things, phrases to use, mannerisms to consider for their own use. And here I sat, touching on every topic known to man whilst my students were probably falling into a coma of boredom in the next room:

You call this therapy? I can't believe anything is happening in there--they're just talking. She's all over the place. I don't want to be like that. Barbara should be more focused and settle that woman down.

There is a process to therapy, however, and it can be trusted. Mia was someone who used to look at the picture on the wall and disappear into it, in her head. Now she was able to stay present with me for the entire session, even though today, she was having a much harder time finding a landing spot. I knew Mia would eventually slow down and I could almost predict how the bridge would be made to her presenting issue in the last part of the session. Sure enough, at about 10 minutes to the hour, the session became focused, intense, and moving. It was the crux of the work and it took place in about 8 minutes. A couple minutes later as we stood to leave the room she said, "I feel really different now." That was obvious. Her face was no longer contorted and she looked peacefully satisfied.
Whew.

It sometimes feels like a crapshoot--where the client(s) will go with the issues over the course of an hour. Or which issue they will choose to address. Once, a client divulged that she had been abused, then promptly crumpled into a dead faint and urinated on my couch. Another client who was explaining a distressing situation, suddenly vomited in my wastebasket. "Big John," a man with paranoia problems, once began tearing the pictures off my wall because he was sure that my hidden transisters were relaying his image to the CIA. These things happen. But one thing is sure: there is a predictability to the process of therapy even though the individual journey may be different. Change will occur, ideas will crystalize, emotions will bubble up, and insight will expand. Staying the course and not giving in to my anxiety that the process won't work--this is the essence of being a therapist.

Salvation is like this.

Jesus has promised to will and do in us of His own good pleasure. It doesn't seem like it's going to happen when we look at ourselves and what we bring to the task. We either decide that it's too slow going and decide to push things along by forcing ourselves to do right (which can bleed over into legalism), or that it doesn't matter what we do, so just do whatever we feel like and God will forgive and forget (cheap grace). Or we blither and blather to God instead of making room for His voice in our lives. But there is a process to salvation--a process we can trust. It is a science and there are good rules laid out for how to reach for this experience. It is a "God Thing" and what He begins, He will finish and do well. The challenge is staying the course: managing our own anxiety that we will never be good enough, acceptable enough, righteous enough. We begin to wrestle ourselves out of the arms of God.

We can trust the goodness of God. We can trust the process of His righteousness through Christ. For it is greater than our eyes have seen or our hearts have imagined. For what He has promised, He will do. Corrie ten Boom knew this when she wrote, "Don't wrestle, just nestle."

Keep me on course, God.

Congratulations!

On Thursday my sister successfully defended her dissertation. She now holds a PhD in nursing education from Louisiana State University. Her dissertation was entitled, "The process of maintaining balance during the surgical wait." It is a grounded theory study in which she examined the experience of 34 adults in hospital waiting rooms while their loved one underwent surgery. I have all of her data, revisions, and the dissertation defense slides in a file on my computer which she titled, "Donna's Glorious Works," because she was afraid her computer would crash by accident and she would have nothing. So just as I sent her my data for safekeeping while I was writing my dissertation, she sent me hers. Donna is on the faculty of James Madison University in Harrisonburg, Virginia.

Today, a very dear friend successfully defended her dissertation at Emory University. Her degree is in religion and psychology. The study examined attachment styles of individuals who have large gaps in their memory (ie., who may not remember a year or years of their childhood or adolescence). Her data includes drawings of what it is like to be without memory, extensive interview transcripts, and findings from her attachment instrument. In her 380-page dissertation, she points out that individuals with memory gaps most often have serious attachment problems. I can't wait to read her tome (yikes! It's lonnnnng!) She will probably have the dissertation published as a book. This friend is the director of an institute that promotes the integration of spirituality and clinical work.

The process of writing a dissertation is a very isolating experience. This is especially painful for extroverts, who begin to feel desperate if left alone without being able to talk or be around people for too long. For example, just to find mental clarity in order to write about complex data means that one must go off alone and stare at a computer screen for hours, days, and weeks. If you don't work on your data at least twice a week, you forget what you were doing or how you were thinking last time you were "into the data." Then you have to take time and find your bearings once again. This goes on for several months in the beginning--particularly if you have lots of statistics to think about or interviews to code. After it become apparent that it takes too much time to continually reorient yourself to your work, the logical conclusion is that it would be better to cut back on work and throw yourself into it for hours each week. It may be an entire weekend day, or a couple afternoons per week. But it has to be worked on in blocks of time. If a friend asks you to go out for dinner during those sacrosanct times, you must refuse. If you do end up going out, all you can really think about is the rows of numbers in the tables you are constructing, or how to perform axial coding to include your field notes. People who are writing dissertations recognize that they can be extremely boring and socially off-kilter for the larger part of a year, if this is how long they are analyzing and writing. This is why people who have just defended their dissertation are like bats who are flushed out of a cave on a sunny day: squinting around at things they've only guessed about for so long. "Now I can do ________!" It never fails--this hope of finally realizing their goals by having time to quilt, do woodworking, write a novel, take up hiking, learn a language, or do nothing at all--this has kept them going for months.

I went through this as a newlywed. Sam and I got married in March. I defended my dissertation at the University of Minnesota in early July. I used to kiss him "goodbye" in the morning and retreat to the study, closing the door behind me so I wouldn't be distracted by his good looks. Usually I could stay in there for a couple hours at a time, but I would often burst out and rush into his arms for a quick hug, kiss, and heartfelt apology that I had to shut myself up like that. Coming out of that room at the end of the day, I was almost mute. Sam could talk about things he had seen and done, but I could not. There was nothing except statistical jargon about how I had run my ANOVA or regressions on SPSS. His eyes would glaze over if I even went there. So I was the proverbial bump on a log--smiling stupidly with nothing to talk about, only to listen and comment on things in the house. It was not fun. But Sam could not have been sweeter about it all. When I finally did defend, he was sitting right there across from me where I could see and feel his support.

So I salute two women of whom I am very proud. It is an enormous milestone and you both had to battle within and without just to get this degree. But you did it. May you both enjoy your time, and energy in new ways. And your PhD! I'm absolutely delighted!

March 16, 1959

Today I turned 49 years old. The girls were only too happy to point out that next year I'll be 50 "and then it will really hit you, Barbara!" When I reminded them that now I'm half of a century old, the youngest said, "How depressing! It must be terrible to be that old. Is it?" How can I explain that actually life has never been better?

We all went out to Carolyn's Cafe where we were served by a cheerful middle-aged woman wearing a fuschia T-shirt and blue jeans. Then we had a great time going through model homes. Of course, the girls thought we should buy every house we saw. Now they understand what we've been going through for months, trying to figure out the best choice in housing.

My birthday gift was a beautiful new ceramic birdbath for the back lawn. How delightful!

I must say that I have never dreaded getting older. I am the age I have always looked forward to being: middle-aged.

So I'm at the peak of my life. After taking stock, I have had to say that life is good. I adore Sam and my job is a joy (albeit, one that runs me happily ragged). Life as a stepmother has become somewhat predictable. Mother is fairly happy and making a new life for herself. My sister successfully defended her dissertation on Thursday and a dear friend is defending hers tomorrow. My friends are close to my heart and my needs are all supplied. Life is good and I am so grateful to be alive. Happy Birthday to me!

"Feeling the Heartbeat" found here

He was a six year-old child with uncombed, rooster-tailed hair, crumbs on his chin and an only partially tucked in blue and yellow polo shirt. Mark and his mother were finishing up a quick lunch together before he was to go back to his cousin's house for the afternoon. "I don't like having to be around Aunt Shiela and Uncle Mortie!" Mark hit the table with his fist for emphasis. "They talk to me like I'm a baby. ...I'm not a baby, Mom, and I don't like it."
Mom was a bright woman who encouraged her son to process things and express his feelings in articulate language. "How do they talk to you like a baby, honey? What do they say?"
"They don't say stuff that makes me feel that way." He paused. "It's something like how I feel around them." He looked off into space while he collected his thoughts.
"And how do you feel around them, son?"
"Like, ...when they're talking to me, they're really not talking to me. To someone else. Like...I'm not there."
"Like you're somewhere else?"
Mark straightened in his chair. "No. Like that guy on The Fantastics, that no one could see."
"Invisible?"
"Yeah, Mom. That's what it was. I don't like it. It makes me feel not real."
It was an important moment: one that Mom wanted to use to give him building blocks for life. "Is there someone who you like to be with because you don't feel invisible with them?"
"Yes!" he cheerily said. "Sarah. I feel REAL with her!"

Sarah was a family friend who often had long talks with Mark. From watching them together, I could see that indeed, Mark felt anything but invisible with her.

A phrase from today's student presentation is ringing in my head tonight: "A child needs to feel "felt."" A child need to know that you see them and are impacted by them. A child who is "felt" is an empowered, child with more hope of developing a healthy self esteem than a child who does not feel "felt," but who feels invisible. That they don't matter.

Reflecting on this, it is also a rare adult to adult relationship (outside one's spouse or family member) who makes a person feel "felt." How does one do this? Do you know what I'm talking about when I use this term? It means taking the time to see, hear, and sense the person in front of you. To look deeply and to connect with her in a way that she knows you "get" her. That what she says finds a safe resting place with you. To treat a child as though s/he is as important as a visiting dignitary. Getting down to his eye level, talking to him in non-instructional, non-sing-songylanguage and inviting responses to complex questions. Listening to her give an entire explanation. Taking time to reflect on her words and give a response that an "important" adult is worth of. Understanding his worldview and validating it by a thoughtful (not flippant or hurried) comment.

Do people around you feel felt because you were there?

Running Scared

Found here

I am sleeping in a small bedroom, on a soft bed with a quilt over me. It seems to be a cabin out in the country somewhere. I'm not sure where, and I think I'm alone in the house. I wake up suddenly aware of some noise, someone prowling around outside under my bedroom window. I slowly slip out of the bed, trying not to make a sound. As I get closer to the window I can see a shadowy form tinkering with the screen, removing it. It won't take much to break in. It's such an old place with old fashioned, brittle wooden window sashes and locks. I've got to get out of here, quick! Maybe through the livingroom door at the front of the house. If I can sneak out the door and run to my car, I can get away without the guy at my window seeing me.

Trying to conceal my heavy breathing by holding my hand over my mouth, I run quickly to the livingroom. I only have on my bathrobe. It's a good thing I have on something half way presentable so when I dash down the street or into the car, I will be decent.
What's this? Someone is shining a flashlight in through the livingroom window's sheer curtains, trying to see inside. I'm afraid to move. It looks like only one person is there but I'm not sure. He begins to rattle the doorknob. I turn to run back to the bedroom but I hear the window in there slowly sliding open. Should I go back to the livingroom? There aren't any other rooms in the house except the bathroom and the door doesn't have a lock. I back up to the wall. The rattling of the front doorknob intensifies. The man outside is pushing his weight against the door. I hear it creak and groan as he fidgets with the door hardware and leans against it.

There is the sound of footsteps coming from my bedroom into the hall. The wooden floors do not mute the sounds of his shoes--clip, clip, clip. He is walking slowly and deliberately toward the livingroom. Should I try to hide behind the couch? No. It is under the window and he will see me. There are no long curtains to hide in, no table for me to crouch under. The man in the hall is almost to the livingroom now. I press my back against the wall as if it will pull me into the siding. There is the sound of splintering wood as the front door yields under the force wielded against it by the man on the porch. A blinding light shines into my eyes as the flashlight is slowly raised and pointed at my face. I can hear loud breathing behind me.

There is no place to hide, nowhere to go. I can't escape this and I think I'm about to die. I am panic stricken.

Scary, isn't it? This is the dream I had one year ago on the first night I attended Camp Good Grief as a counselor. I woke up out of breath with my heart racing. My jaws were tense and I was gripping the blankets up around my neck for all I was worth.

A simple nightmare, right?

Why do you think I had that dream while I was getting ready to lead a group of young boys through a weekend to resolve their losses? Most likely because I had not yet resolved my own. It had been six months since my father had died and for many reasons I had not been able to concentrate on grieving. My job, my responsibility for my mother who was languishing across the country, my own shock. Plus the fact that I never got to say goodbye. Daddy had donated his body to science and I never saw my him after he died. I had just been carrying on, relatively unmoved and amazingly composed.

Now I was going to have to face grief coming and going. There was no place to go, nowhere to escape to. I would be hearing about the boys' sadness, numbness, grief, emptiness. And mine was going to be tapped and drained.

It was an oddly predictive dream that immediately resonated with me. Over the next three days I entered into the experience of the boys: hearing their stories of loss, questioning why, memorializing the dead. My own healing began. My dreams had known.

Tomorrow I am going back to Camp Good Grief as the therapist for the weekend. I hope to see "my" little boys again this year. Six of the nine from last year are slated to be in my group. We formed a bond. They asked about my pain and I witnessed theirs. This year however, I am not trapped. I go freely, feeling ready and much more settled in my heart. No more looking over my shoulder and no more running scared.