Tag Archives: Therapy

Perfect Potatoes

Tonight my community group (life group) will host a special guest. One of our pastors is coming to give a demonstration of the Passover meal. A few members of our group have seen him do this before.

I am not one of the few.

The buzz about it has been like the hype that sent everyone running to a “theater near you” when Titanic came out.

I’ve been hoping to do this for a while, so you’d think I’d be ready.

Am I ready?

I spoke to the pastor at church yesterday. When I saw him coming toward me, my mind immediately started spinning out rapid thoughts.

He’s coming tomorrow. We’ll eat a meal together, and then he’ll do his thing. Everyone’s said what they’re bringing, and I know I can count on them. We’ll clean the house today, and then I’ll clean it again tomorrow. (Correctly, by myself). I know what I’m supposed to provide: drinks, ice, all the dining supplies, some kind of potato-

“Are you ready for tomorrow?” he asked, cutting off my thoughts.

So naturally, I responded with the perfect answer.

“I’m trying to figure out what kind of potato to make.”

Confusion registered on his face. Okay, it wasn’t a perfect answer. And that’s really not surprising since I responded to the noise in my head instead of to his question.

He wasn’t asking if I’d solved my potato conundrum. And it’s not what I should have been thinking about.

When I saw him, my thoughts should have jumped to the purpose of his visit. But they didn’t. Not because I don’t care. Actually, I care very much. I’m just distracted by my own role.

Host.

If it was happening anywhere but my house, my answer would have been completely different.

“Yes, I’m ready! I can’t wait!”

But it is happening at my house, and that’s all I could think about. I had let preparation take precedence over purpose.

I was well on my way toward letting a Martha mindset rob me of a Mary experience.

Hosting is Serious Business

I love hosting, though it kinda kills me. The stress is totally my fault, and totally unnecessary. I take everything too far, as I’ve shared before. I host our CG every Monday night, which means I spring-clean my house more often than recommended.

Around here, spring isn’t a season. It’s a day of the week.

Add in food prep, and I’m sure to exhaust myself. This is one reason we don’t eat at my CG. My body can no longer bear the strain my perfectionist mind puts on it.

I can juggle cooking and cleaning well enough. I do it every day for the yahoos who live here. But hosting is different.

Outsider yahoos get a snapshot, and it’s stuck there until they get the next one. I need everything in that snapshot to look and smell good.

How can I make the house smell clean when I’ve been cooking in it?

Exactly the sort of question a perfectionist wants answered. I might as well be asking how my family can live here without displaying any signs of life.

Perfectionism = Fear

I’ve been studying what the experts say about perfectionism, and they all seem to agree. Perfectionism doesn’t mean you have high standards. It means you’re scared.

If you’re a proud member of the picky-pants club, you probably don’t like being accused of fear-driven behavior. There was a time when it would have ticked me off. But I’ve been working on this for a while, really digging into what’s going on inside me, and it resonates as truth.

If my housekeeping standards were only about me, then they wouldn’t change when someone is coming over. My writing standards wouldn’t change when I’m going to share my work.

I sing Judy Garland’s “I Don’t Care!” all the time, thinking I really mean it. But I guess I’m not just wearing picky-pants. I’m also wearing pants-on-fire.

The truth, then? My perfectionism is based on fear.

I’m scared I’m not good enough. I’m scared I’ll be judged. I’m scared that the things I think about myself are the same things others think about me.

So I host like I’ve entered a hosting contest, and I write like everyone who might read my work is searching for an excuse to leave a bad review.

I’ve got some things under control, at least. I know I can get the house looking nice, and I know I can buy some yummy tea. Milo’s, duh. But what if I make the wrong kind of potatoes?

As if that’s a thing?! All potatoes are good.

Facing my Fears

If I’m going to be scared anyway, I might as well do it by facing my fears instead of catering to them. I’ll start by not hosting the way I normally do.

And if I’m doing that, I might as well apply some anti-perfectionism to my writing, too. Otherwise, I might not ever hit publish on this blog post.

That’s why I’m typing this blog right now with no regard for SEO. I’m basically journaling for all to see, admitting that I’m a perfectionist because I’m afraid of being judged. Afraid that everyone else will see how utterly deficient I really am.

I could edit this and miss my own point. I could bow to my fears. But I refuse to do it. I have to pick Noah up from work, take Gabe to work, do some shopping, get the house ready to host, make some dang potatoes … and I’m sitting here typing away, still in my morning yoga clothes, determined to be real and messy and humiliatingly honest.

I swear I’m going to do that, even if it means I sit here until there’s not enough time to do all the other things the way I normally do them.

So here’s the truth.

I’m scared. Ugh. I care what people think. Double-ugh. I really didn’t want that to be true about me. But it is.

I won’t host perfectly tonight. But that’s okay, because no one is coming to see (or smell) my clean house or to enjoy my perfect potatoes.

They’re coming to learn something new. To experience something in a deeper way. And I want that, too.

Are you a perfectionist?

Tell me if you struggle with this. And especially tell me if you have advice about how to beat it!

How to destroy gluttony … along with yourself.

Last night I experienced something amazing. Something worth sharing with the 95 people sitting there ready to listen to me.

And then I picked up a microphone and killed it. But not in a mic drop way.

In a mic wasting way.

Who Am I?

I posted several months ago about learning that I’d been misunderstanding (or misdiagnosing, since that’s the way I treat it) my personality.

I’m an enthusiast.

The Enthusiast: Spontaneous, Versatile, Acquisitive, Scattered

It was a shock to learn that about myself, because I wasn’t living like an enthusiast. I was so unhealthy that I was living like a reformer. This is like being a juggler in a space too small to throw a ball.

The Reformer: Principled, Purposeful, Self-controlled, perfectionistic

Reformers are awesome! Enthusiasts need them, because without them, we’re like untethered helium balloons. But when an enthusiast acts like a reformer, all is not well. At least, that’s the case for me.

I need a little dash of the reformer, but 7’s aren’t known for little dashes.

The Sin of the Seven

A type 7 struggles with gluttony. I hate that word, hate being associated with it. I balked at the description. It even made me doubt my diagnosis personality.

I can’t be a 7, because I don’t struggle with gluttony!

True, if you restrict it to its foodish connotation. I don’t overeat. Quite the opposite.

I get teased for eating like a bird, thank-you-very-much!

I’m so sick of trying to figure out who I am that I’m starting to think the need to analyze my personality is the only thing wrong with me.

Maybe I’m not a 7. Maybe there is no 7. But I can’t deny, when I see it in its broader sense, gluttony fits me.

Example 1: My friend and I decided to make terrariums last year. She made 2. I made 10.

Example 2: I own over 50 pairs of pants.

I could go on, but the point is … I’m a glutton. I take everything to the extreme.

And that includes how far I restrict myself.

I do this naturally. If I “diagnose” something about myself, I go after it the way I collect pants and ecosystems-in-a-jar.

Example 1: When I did the keto diet, I ate under 6 carbs/day and under 600 calories. I lost weight all right, but it made me very sick. I still have the jeans I wore when I was skeletal, just in case I ever do that to myself again.

Example 2: I wasted the mic last night. I had something of value to say, but I kept it to myself.

And why did I do that? Because I’ve convinced myself that my gift is my curse. That my love of words has to be quenched.

Brevity: The Author’s Ball & Chain

As a writer, my gluttonous tendencies have to be restrained. Right?

Right?

King says proper book editing means cutting everything unnecessary. He’s right, of course. He’s the king.

But my brain takes his advice and runs with it. Too far. Always too far.

Say it in as few words as you possibly can.

Unfortunately, my word-cutting often yields the same results my diets do. In no time at all, I’ve taken my healthy story and turned it into a skeleton.

Don’t Keto Your Soul

Both ministries I serve in keep me running. This is my fault, of course, because I add work. I love work. I love ideas and crafts and making things better, always better, always more.

Last night at Journey Groups I was forced to do something I hadn’t done in years.

Be in the worship service.

I have some auditory issues (Misophonia) so I avoid spaces where I can’t control or escape noises that trigger me. This has led me to avoid the worship service.

It works for me, because it makes me available in my place of service longer. I’m able to help people in the lobby while everyone else is singing.

Win-Win, Right?

But last night I had to go into worship, because I needed to make some announcements afterward.

I was trapped in the room, surrounded by singing and prayer, and something happened. It got to my soul. Shook me. Fed me.

It’s been years. YEARS! Oh my gosh, it’s been years since I stood in that space, allowing myself to be a part of the worship service.

When I took the mic, I didn’t want to make noise and ruin the way I felt, the way I assumed everyone else felt. And I almost shared it, almost allowed myself to speak and cry and use my gift for words and vulnerability.

Almost.

Say it in as few words as you possibly can.

I quenched it. I had the opportunity to be vulnerable (which I love doing) with the group I’m there to serve. And I edited, King-style, a moment that should have been allowed to breathe.

Here’s what I should have said.

“Hi, I’m Rach. I struggle with a need to share words and a fear that no one wants to hear them.”

There’s so much more I wanted to say. A whole lesson in how to work on yourself without taking it too far. How to prune without killing. How to come through re:generation and still be yourself afterward.

Stuff the Journey Groups campus director should say!

But I didn’t say it.

Because I struggle with a fear that no one wants to hear what I have to say, I made my announcements, dismissed everyone to their small groups, and went back to running around.

Oh, well. There’s always next week.

The Pinkish Cup

Am I crazy? You be the judge.

I recently confided to my bestie that I might actually be bonkers. Maybe not diagnosable, but at the very least, missing some mental hardware.

My Confession

I’m sure we all have quirks we don’t talk about. Maybe everyone experiences moments of doubt about their sanity. We talk to ourselves, possibly even to inanimate objects.

But does everyone try not to hurt a cup’s feelings? Because that’s what I do.

I’m sharing this, not because I really believe I’m crazy, but because I think I just figured out that I’m not. Bestie told me when I confessed this bit of weirdness to her that I’m not crazy. She’s a therapist, so she knows what she’s talking about.

But I don’t take anyone else’s word for it. I had to do this myself.

Therapy is good. So is not needing it anymore. Knowing when you’ve stopped needing it is key.

I’ve stopped doing EMDR, stopped seeing a therapist at all. I figured out that I work through the process naturally now. Most people gain that ability after a while, but I did it fast. It’s probably because I’m a writer, always seeking hidden connections and the ever-elusive why? In this case …

Why do I try not to hurt a cup’s feelings?

You may not be ready for the why yet. I’m sure the how has eluded you. Yes, I’m aware that cups don’t have feelings. In my brain, I’m aware. But my practice suggests it hasn’t quite squared up in my heart.

How to Hurt a Cup’s Feelings

I have a coffee mug warmer. Aside from my towel warmer, it’s the best gift my husband has ever given me. Now I can sip hot coffee all day with nary a visit to the microwave. It also allowed me to narrow my collection of lidded coffee mugs down to two. Anything that couldn’t sit on the warmer had to go.

My minimalist son would say one cup is enough. He’d toss out the less preferred one with no regard for its feelings. But I kept two, and they sit side-by-side in the cabinet. One is red and white striped, the other pinkish with faded print that once proclaimed Mommin’ Ain’t Easy.

The two cups are the same shape, weight, and size. They feel the same in my hand and on my lips. They maintain equal toastiness. They’re both faded to the point of ugliness. The pinkish one enjoyed its hay day when I had a daughter, the red and white one after I lost her.

Don’t get sidetracked!

My feelings about Izzy are not the point of this post. I’ve processed the love and loss of the foster child I dreamed of adopting. I don’t think I avoid the pinkish cup because of some unresolved pain associated with it. A future post may refute this claim, but it’s still not the point.

I choose the red and white cup every time it’s available. And I feel bad every time.

The worst is when the pinkish one is in the cabinet alone, but I know the red and white one is clean. I must either settle for the pinkish one or close the cabinet on it and go get the red and white one from the dishwasher. There’s no hiding the rejection when I choose the latter.

I’m feeling a sickness in my tummy as I type this. How must the pinkish cup feel when I close the door on it? It’s right there waiting for me, oh-so-convenient, but I go out of my way to choose the other.

I’m crazy, right?

I’m not stupid, after all. I know the pinkish cup feels the way all cups feel. Like cups, which don’t feel. The problem isn’t what I know.

It’s how I feel. Guilty. Cruel. Icky. Then stupid for feeling that way. What’s wrong with me? Do I actually have to overthink everything?

Yes, actually. It’s what EMDR trained me to do. That may not be an accurate assessment of EMDR. I’m not a therapist. But it’s the best way I can relate how I experience this process.

I take something I view incorrectly, like that I can hurt a non-feeling object’s feelings, and seek out why I see it that way. This requires me to be still and quiet, to allow myself to feel things I hate, to think things that come up while I feel that way, and to let connections writhe around until they click together.

What I realized today is that I don’t feel sorry for the less-loved cup. I AM the less-loved cup.

Once I made that connection, I went out onto my patio and got very still and quiet. I let all the memories that support my false-belief that I’m less-loved come to the surface. I watched them weave themselves together, creating a pathetic, but somehow convincing, story about my lessness.

And like magic, the straw appeared. You know the one. Its back-snapping weight is legendary. I isolated the single event that took my penciled-in ugly self-view and carved it in stone.

Favorite is a Four-letter Word

I knew I wasn’t either of my parents’ favorite child. I wasn’t my teachers’ favorite student. I had the Jan Syndrome, caused by a superior older sibling.

But there was one person I felt confident about. Granny Jacobs. I wasn’t her favorite. I couldn’t be, but neither could anyone else, because she didn’t have them. And that was enough for me. Loved equally was my happy place.

Until it wasn’t.

The Straw

We’d planned to give Granny a special gift. I don’t recall what it was or for what occasion, but it was a big deal. We didn’t buy it. We made it. One of those paint-it-yourself crafts. Since I was the most gifted artist in the family (meaning I colored in the lines, drew decently, and had mastered the art of putting dots at the corners of my letters) I did the work.

And since I’m the dramatic princess that I am, I planned out the giving of the gift as well, casting myself in the lead role. Princess Rach would place the gift into Granny’s hands.

My work garnered praise. My plan, not so much. I probably needed to be brought down a notch, but what actually happened was far worse. It turned me into a pinkish cup.

“Tim should give it to her,” I was told.

I’m sure I asked why. My heart has a fist on it right now as I recall trying to understand why my masterpiece would be better delivered by Marcia, Marcia, Marcia.

“Because it will mean more coming from him. He’s her F***rite.”

Little Rach tumbled down the rabbit hole, tiara askew, when she discovered she was less-loved, even in the most sacred place. In Granny’s perfect, non-favoring heart.

No one knew what happened to me that day. Not even me. But some forty years later, I’m still tumbling, grasping, disoriented, convinced that someone else could occupy my space better than I can.

I’m pinkish, but I’m no cup.

Am I less-loved? Or do parents sometimes say things without thinking and miss the holes they punch into their children’s hearts? I know I’ve done it. It’s possible the dreaded f-word wasn’t even used and that’s just how I understood it and now translate it. It’s also possible that no one favored my Marcia.

Oh, the journey I’m on! It seems, despite powerful prepubescent evidence to the contrary, I may not be a cup at all. I may be more loved than I’ve ever known.

Sabbatical

Day One

I’ve never taken a trip by myself before. While I was in re:generation, I stayed one night in a hotel to do my inventory. I made the mistake of booking close to home, and as soon as I was finished with my work, I went straight there. This time I found a cabin 3 hours from home and booked a 3 night stay.

The Drive

I knew before I hit Rockwall (meaning, within 30 minutes of driving away from my family) that this was going to be difficult. I cried before I left the house, then again when I turned down the first unfamiliar road.

All I could think about was doing this incredibly selfish thing–leaving my family for 4 whole days of rest. Would they eat well while I was gone? Would Gabe get to his classes on time? Noah likes to be alone, so I worried less about him. But Phill. Trying to work and drive Gabe places and feed everyone. Maybe even himself?

I’ve been married since I was 19, a mother since I was 21. Somewhere along the way, I lost who I am. I’ve been trying so hard to find her. So far, I haven’t located her in Oklahoma. It’s beautiful here, but like I told my husband this morning, it’s also beautiful at home.

Slow Start

I’m feeling a little panicky, because I’m still me here. I came all this way, but no magical unlocking of my block has occurred. Episode 131 of Carousel is still open on my computer, still not getting written.

No one is interrupting me. If I can’t write here, I can only blame myself. Maybe that’s what I came here to learn.

I kind of hope so.

EMDR

In my first EMDR session, I learned that I don’t know what I’m talking about. Not that I didn’t know. That I still don’t.

It’s not a terrible place to be, because I like to learn. Also, the less I know, the less I’m afraid I’m forcing things to happen. It felt a bit that way, anyway. I’m tap-tap-tapping, letting my mind do its thing, and when it stalls, I try to make it move. I want to get something out of this, and going blank feels unproductive.

How can I reprocess a memory if no memory comes to me?

The process felt a bit like playing with an Ouija board. (Yes, I did that when I was a kid. No, my Baptist preacher father wouldn’t approve.) Looking back, I know someone was moving the triangle thingy, and I’m pretty sure I know who it was. Sometimes it was me. It was funny, and I’m not sorry.

But grownup Rach tried very hard not to force anything during therapy.

The sessions went like this:

  1. Install a safe place
  2. Choose a memory to reprocess
  3. Reprocess chosen memory

Last time I blogged, I thought I would be going from session 1 to session 3, so that’s why it’s been two weeks instead of one since I shared anything. And actually, we didn’t even do the memory we said we were going to at session 2. He started me on a lower anxiety one, a memory I’ve told many times and thought was just a funny (though scary) thing that happened to me once.

The Bull

This memory popped up unexpectedly, and though I always laugh when I tell it, it made me cry during the session. Could be my hormones–they make me cry over everything–but I got stuck pretty hard. And that’s kinda the point.

Remembering it made me feel stuck. Constricted throat, heart pounding, frozen with fear.

When I was around 7 years old, I was staying with my Sunday school teacher at her house in the country. She had a bull. I saw her go in its pen to feed it and decided it must be tame since it didn’t charge her. We had bulls at our house, too. We rode them, didn’t fear them.

This bull didn’t know me and didn’t want me in its pen. It lowered its head and thundered toward me. I had only just stepped inside, and it had a long way to run. I could have stepped out and closed the gate, but instead, I just stood there. Stuck. Frozen with fear.

Reprocessing

We started with the way I felt as the bull charged me, and then my mind took over. This is where I get iffy. Am I correlating things on purpose, or is my brain working on my behalf? What’s the difference? My therapist said not to resist, so I tried to let it happen. And it went all over the place.

Laughing memories, terrified memories, stuff I can’t explain, and stuff I can. I get why my mind jumped to a time when I was in college. A guy bullied me, and my roommate stood up for me. (Thanks, Meg!) Then she told me I needed to learn to stand up for myself.

Next I jumped to a time when I was very young, toes curled around the end of a high board, too scared to dive. Then I was at my desk, scared to hit publish. Then with my brother, fleeing an angry turtle. (Did you know they can hiss?) He threw a rock on its back and cracked its shell, because I was too stupid to back away from it. From a turtle!

I revisited a trauma that occurred when I was 18, when freezing took something from me I can never get back.

Then I jumped to a fun game my brother and I played on rainy days. Reading books by flashlight under a mattress tilted against the wall. No idea how or if that correlates.

Finally, I went back to the original memory, where we assigned it a negative idea I believe about myself. By we, I mean me. I chose the phrase that correctly expressed my thoughts in that moment. When applied to all the other memories, especially the one when I was 18, it shattered me. And it felt utterly true.

I Can’t Protect Myself

This surprised me. Not so much that I felt that way as the bull charged me, though I could have protected myself simply by stepping out of the pen. It makes sense to feel helpless when you’re 35 pounds, too scared to move, about to be speared or launched by a raging hunk of beef.

But that it’s affecting me today? That it’s not just a funny memory I tell to explain to people that I’ve never handled fear appropriately. I’m a freezer. I get stuck. And apparently, I have a core belief that I can’t protect myself. Anyone who knows me is unlikely to think I feel this way.

I’m a beast. Don’t mess with me, because I DO WHAT I WANT! I actually wrote I do what I want on my name tag at re:generation instead of my name. That’s how sure I was that I’m in control. I even drew a little crown on it.

But guess what I picked as my new message to myself. Tearfully, I might add.

I’m In Control Now

I can’t say for sure that I accomplished anything. We reprocessed the memory, changing “I can’t protect myself” to “I’m in control now.” I definitely felt different the last couple times we visited the memory. It makes me laugh to recall myself standing there like a dummy while murder came rushing toward me. But then, it always did. Hopefully, the tone of my laughter has changed.

My therapist said the processing will continue after the session, and he wasn’t wrong. Memories keep popping up, adding to the list of times I’ve frozen. Physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually. I don’t know yet if it’s helping me, but I definitely know more about myself than I did before starting EMDR.

Next week, we’ll tackle a new memory. I won’t even bother to predict how that’s going to go.

Radical Rest

Not a Napper

Someone commented to me several weeks ago that they’d never seen me do anything halfway. I assured them there were things, and when they asked for an example, one word came out.

“Rest.”

I do that halfway, if at all.

I’ve been working on myself, following themes that I believe come from God. Trust was a big one. Coming out of my cave, wanting to live again. Pride is ongoing. Pretty sure that one will be around until I die. But rest is the first one I’ve bucked at.

God told me to rest, and I had one question for Him.

“But what do I do while I rest?”

Spiritually, I might as well be five years old, drumming my heels on my kindergarten mat. Because I hate this. I don’t want to do it. I want to be busy. Thinking about resting makes my tummy tense up. Can’t breathe!

I have a new therapist, acquired in similar fashion to my previous one. Someone else’s doing. Because I’m not going to seek help. But if it’s thrown at me, I tend to allow it. So here we go, back into the swamp of my thoughts.

EMDR

We started EMDR last week. By started, I mean we installed my safe place. I already had one from doing a couple sessions with my previous therapist.

Granny’s Porch.

If you’ve read my book, Summer, According to Sam, then you’ve already visited Granny’s porch. It seemed to me like the perfect place to call safe, because I have only happy memories there. Sitting in her swing, shelling purple hulls, watching the sunrise while sipping my coffee flavored sugar-milk. Granny’s there, too, watering her plants from a re-purposed milk jug.

But after testing it out, my therapist said I needed a new safe place. Why? Because when he asked me how I felt on Granny’s porch, I gave him a non-restful answer.

“Eager.”

That’s how I feel. Not at peace. Itching for adventure. That sounded right to me, because eagerness sounds safe. Being still doesn’t.

I loved sitting with Granny, loved the peas and the coffee and the sounds of whip-poor-wills. But my feet can’t wait to hit the ground. I was supposed to be trying to stay on the porch, but every time he paused to ask what was going on in my head, I was somewhere else.

On my motorcycle, playing hide-and-seek in the woods. On the trails down to Lake Texoma. Busting rocks to find the ones with sparkles in them. Running, cartwheeling, climbing trees. Granny’s porch isn’t a safe place. It’s a launchpad.

The Boat

He asked me to choose a new safe place, one that didn’t propel me into adventure. I deflated, rebelling on the inside, but not telling him that, because even my therapist doesn’t get to see the really, really, really, real me.

I know me, though, how desperately I want to be anywhere but with myself. So I knew this had to be a place I couldn’t escape. I didn’t think my therapist would approve of a cell with no door, so I went the other way.

Unfathomable space.

The boat is simple, more like a raft, really. No motor, no oars … it can only drift. The sky is clear, the sun doesn’t hurt my eyes, and the water is so still it barely licks my floating platform. I can’t google anything, answer any texts, clean up any messes, learn a new craft. No one can ask me for anything. I can’t win or lose any games. Can’t entertain anyone. I just lie there on my back, not even imagining the next scene I’m going to write, because I can’t type it out anyway. Everything gets really quiet. I take a deep breath. And it comes out quivering.

Ahh, this is what rest feels like?

At first I tense up, because I need to swim ashore and do all the things. Someone needs to clean the kitchen. Make sure Phill eats, because he doesn’t take care of himself either. Wash Gabe’s karate uniform. Get Noah to work.

My terrariums aren’t gonna water themselves!

Actually, they do. That’s kinda the point. But I won’t let them, because I can’t leave the lid on. Gotta tweak, gotta replace a plant, gotta move a rock or a shell. I can’t rest. I can’t stop working, even when it’s all done and I’m just creating work for the sake of staying busy.

But on the boat I have to stop. There’s literally nothing I can do there. It’s not just rest. It’s radical rest. And I had no idea how much I hungered for it. When we test it out, I don’t leave the boat. I’m breathing differently there, and it feels so good, even the lure of adventure can’t budge me.

Tomorrow we’ll use my freshly installed safe place to start a journey. We’ll seek–and hopefully destroy–the voice that tells me I’m not good enough. The voice I’m trying to silence by staying busy. By publishing the best episodes, having the cleanest house, taming a terrarium so ferociously it might as well have plastic plants in it.

And after I confront that voice, I’ll rest.

Chaos

I happened upon a little boy, sitting on the ground beside a hole filled with baby snakes. He was stirring it with a stick, watching them writhe. When he noticed me, he accidentally flicked the stick. Out popped one baby snake, which slithered away.

Dozens remained inside, but his eyes followed the escaped one, and then he looked up at me, mouth sagging, and uttered one pitiful, shame-filled word.


“Chaos.”

I woke up laughing. I’m not big on dream interpretation, but this one felt like a slap. That little boy was me, and though I don’t love having my work compared to a pit of snakes, the way I treat my books sometimes makes the comparison hit.

My Chaos

That baby snake could be a questionable comma or an uncomfortable plot. Or something vulnerable about me that shows through my writing. It could be my focus on attention for myself instead of a heart for the work. And when it gets flicked out, it’s all I can see. Everything else is in order, but I cry, “Chaos!”

So dramatic.

I got sick over the holidays–so sick I missed church and Journey Groups. It went on for weeks, making me skip Christmas gatherings. I even got off schedule with my writing and publishing, though you would think I could do those things while stuck on the couch. But my brain was mush.

I had finished Sam, (book coming soon!) but I came to a dead stop on The Misadventures of Mia Gibbs and barely stayed above water on Carousel. And as for promoting? Nope. I went from dreaming of readers to hoping everyone was too busy to read. I felt like a failure, with a pit too stuffed to stir.

Reset

Being knocked down was the best thing that could have happened to me. All the pointless baby snakes slithered away, leaving my pit less crowded. I confronted my fear of getting behind … by getting behind.

Then I made a new plan. Not to plan. To lean into who I am. Not just a Vella writer, or even just a writer. I don’t mind letting the wind take me where it will, because my Father makes the wind.

I’m back! Writing, editing, publishing, and loving it. Until the wind takes me somewhere else ….

A Time for Everything

No Time Like the Present?

Or no time BUT the present? I live in a constant state of frantic hurry, chasing moving targets, burning myself out. I take pictures so I can look back, forgetting to look around in the moment. I nearly did that today, even after my son counseled me last night to slow down.

Take deep breaths. Clean out the clutter in my mind.

Time to Celebrate!

I published the final episode of Summer, According to Sam today. The book was finished years ago, accepted for publication, and run through the entire editing process. So I could just shrug and not make a thing of this.

But it is a thing. A thing that made me weep with joy today … and I nearly didn’t tell anyone. I nearly didn’t write about it. If you’ve read the story, especially the final episode, the reason for this post will be obvious to you.

I’ve been doing some thinking, the same way Sam did.

Time to Make Amends

It’s easy to forget that people love me and that it hurts them to watch me struggling. I’ve made no secret of my fight to find joy again, to even want to be here at all. I’m not sorry for that, because I believe people need to know they’re not alone. I believe in being truthful. The part I regret is how rarely I share my good days. Days like this one.

Writing is therapy to me, so naturally, I do it more when I’m low. Even now, I’d rather get up and do something else. The house is half-decorated for Christmas, there are dishes in the sink, and I still have two stories to update on Vella.

But here I pause. And I say thank you. Thank you to my readers, to my family, to my herd, to my Father. Thank you for good days and second and third and fourth chances.

Flat on My Back

Last week was rough. I feel less like I’m on a roller coaster now and more like I’m on a seesaw. Still up and down, but not nearly as exciting.

Re:generation is hard. Inventory is hard. I thought I had knocked it out. On the first week of inventory, I got a hotel room and plowed through it. I even wrote insightful little summaries about each category. Then I found out I had skipped an important step. I had to face some hard stuff–stuff I didn’t even want to think about, let alone share with my group.

I hadn’t knocked it out. It had knocked me out.

Back to Start

Inventory again. Not where I wanted to be. Instead of getting another hotel room, I visited my childhood church, intending to approach my new problem using an old, trusted method.

There used to be these huge cement tables behind the building. Once when I was young, I spent hours lying on my back on one of those tables, asking God for help. I had nowhere to live and no idea what I was going to do. I think back to that day when I’m at my lowest, and I remember feeling like God met me there. So it seemed a great place to visit.

After packing up all my re:gen stuff, I drove to Providence, Texas. I needed a date with God, lying flat on my back. I brought a plastic table cloth, because the last time I had seen the tables, they were covered in weird fungi and droppings from the trees. Nothing was going to stop me climbing up there.

And this is where the tables used to be.

Rerouting …

Now I’d driven more than an hour to lie on a table that didn’t exist anymore. I stood there and cried about it for a minute, feeling rejected. The same way I felt the last time I was there. I showed up for my date, but where was God?

Not knowing what else to do, I went around the building, searching for a place to sit that might mean something to me. But I’m allergic to wasps, and they seemed to be in all the cozy places. Alone, no EpiPen, hardly a signal on my phone, I wasn’t risking getting stung.

I took a few pictures as I wandered.

I love taking pictures, but it wasn’t what I came for. So I kept walking, eventually into the cemetery. Providence is a small community, so I knew a lot of the names on the headstones. It was nice, and a little sad, to think of them. I loved this broken headstone that used to say GONE HOME.

Reading Into Things

I wondered if God was telling me to go home. I couldn’t do what I came for. I wasn’t really trying to accomplish anything specific anymore. Just reminiscing, trying to make some use of what felt like a pointless trip.

And then I came across this, and it brought me to my knees. I knew Carolyn and Buddy were there, because I had been to their funerals. But this was the first time I saw their headstone.

They were the answer to that prayer I prayed the day I was on the table. Carolyn came and got me and took me home with her.

A New Perspective

Maybe not completely new. I’ve come to the conclusion many times that my story isn’t one of abandonment, but one of rescue. It’s easy to lose perspective when you’re listing every horrible thing that ever happened to you.

This was the reminder I needed. I’m not doing this alone. I can’t see the full plan yet, but there is one. God showed up for our date, just not where I thought He would. His plan was better than mine, as usual.

I wasn’t supposed to lie on a crusty table, focusing on feeling lost and alone. He wanted me to remember that when I’m flat on my back, I should be on my knees. Still looking up, but also forward, because there’s something good on the way.

I made a little wildflower bouquet for Carolyn and Buddy, and then I spent some time right there, thanking them both for what they did for me. And I’m still processing why I also felt like I needed to apologize to them. I’ll be working on feeling like a burden for a while yet, I’m afraid. But at least I know I need to work on it.

Leaving it Behind

The last picture I took is a reminder to myself to put the past where it belongs. I have to dig some stuff up in my recovery process, but I don’t have to dwell on it. I certainly don’t have to relive it. It’s time to let it go.

Glitter Pen Girl

I’ve always been a pencil person. I have a power sharpener by my desk, and I zip a pencil in it every time I so much as jot down an item on my grocery list. Then back into the pencil cup it goes, tip upward, one yellow beast in a bouquet of wrist stabbers.

The Point?

Mistakes get erased. No dull-tipped pencils, and certainly no pens, ever cross my desk. My eraser dies before I run out of graphite, so I keep a pack of extra erasers handy. Because what good is a pencil if you can’t erase mistakes? What good is any writing utensil if it betrays you by revealing your imperfections?

This is, of course, why I have 15 novels sitting here unpublished. When I was in therapy, I told my therapist what I felt my headstone should say.

Here lies Rachel.

She nearly did so many things.

On Valentine’s Day, my friend gave me a gift. A journal and a pack of glitter gel pens. I’ve had some of these babies before. I doodled with them, admiring the slick way they lay down ink, turning the page to watch the sparkles. But I’ve never really written anything with them. Especially not in a wonderful new journal! It’s even my favorite color!

So what was I to do? Every pretty pen I’ve ever owned has dried out, wasted, owned by the wrong girl. A pencil person, unable to shine. Girls like me don’t deserve shimmery ink. Do we?

Trying Something New

Deep breath. It’s just a pen and a journal. The pages can be torn out. I worried that I would have bad penmanship or get behind trying to record a scripture while the pastor was talking. I worried that the ink would bleed through the page. I hate that. I might misspell a word. The horror.

But, wielding a glitter pen, I committed words to the page. And I made a mistake. I knew it! No eraser. I needed to start over, maybe tear it out and rewrite all my notes later. Then it occurred to me that I could take notes in an ugly notebook, in pencil of course, and then transcribe carefully, slowly, into the journal. That’s when I realized that my perfectionism was rearing its ugly head, not only making me feel horrible, but causing me to miss the sermon.

So I stopped. And I wrote this verse, because it was from my re:generation book, and it had hit me just right.

“For freedom Christ has set us free. Stand firm therefore, and do not submit again to a yoke of slavery.”

I wrote it in green glitter and then added some red, which made it look like a bad attempt at making it 3D. But I didn’t care. I’m free. Flawed, but loved. I went back to my sermon notes and scribbled out my error, and it made a nice little glittery blob on the page. Man, you could really see the sparkles in a blob! Beauty from ashes.

Glitter Pen Girl

I’m officially a glitter pen girl now. I still try to turn my mistakes into perfect round spots, or even better, hearts or flowers. But I’m not so worried about erasing everything now.