Life in progress


17 Comments

Traces Prompt – Stop Raining on my Parade

On Traces Of The Soul, Oliana wrote: This week the topic will be about negativity and how you react to pessimism. Perhaps you are thinking how you recently managed to get away from the throngs of a negative person in your life, i.e. relationship, friendship, family, work…OR, how you succeeded in turning your own self-destructive side…that inner critic to someone more positive and accepting.

Write a poem, story (real or fiction) about this topic…negative thinking and how it can impact on your life.

The prompt got me thinking about negative people and how I grew up, and most importantly what I’ve learned in the intervening years. First, a little background:

I was a quiet child with no siblings and few friends. My world consisted of my parents and the couple that were their best friends. When I wasn’t quiet – when I got into trouble – my parents spanked me. It was the ‘thing to do’ back then. When I yelled, they yelled back. The point was, they always reacted. Unless I was being good. Then they left me alone.

Fast forward to when I had children of my own. I believed in my parent’s method of raising a child, though not with the hitting part. I admit, I had my moments, but most of the time I refrained from smacking if not from the yelling. There was plenty of yelling – I, like my parents, reacted in kind to my children’s tantrums.

Then, about three years ago I learned something that would change not only my life, but those of my children and the people around me: Applied Behavioural Analysis, or ABA. ABA is widely used to help with negative behaviours in Autistic individuals. But it didn’t take me long to figure out that it can be applied to anyone – even myself.

One of the most important lessons I learned was that everything we do and say when communicating for attention can be considered a ‘behaviour.’ For instance, we smile and say hello to a stranger which is a positive behaviour. The attention we receive back is our reward – it is a reward because we elicited our behaviour for the purpose of getting attention. In the case of my children, I found that when I rewarded their good behaviour with attention and ignored the bad, they quickly came to the realization that if they wanted my attention (or for me to react to them in any way at all) they had to be calm. Yelling and screaming to get a reaction out of me became a thing of the past – and it changed my reaction also. No longer was I screaming at them, because they began to come to me with a reasonable tone of voice in the first place.

As I said, this doesn’t only apply to childish behaviour (though many adults display it on a regular basis). Take internet trolls for instance. They display negative behaviour for what? A reward. Their reward is whatever attention we give them. The whiners of the world? I’ll try once to put a positive light on a comment such as, ‘when will this rain end?’ by saying something like, ‘the grass needs it.’ But when they keep on complaining, I change the subject to something more positive, or walk away. Many of us do this without really thinking about it. But it’s different when you’re talking to someone in a casual setting rather than someone you’re with day in and day out. Politeness goes by the wayside after a while, and you either react to it or give in to it and become, basically, the same negative person you’re with.

Unless, you stop rewarding it.

For more information on ABA, go here: http://www.autismspeaks.org/what-autism/treatment/applied-behavior-analysis-aba where you can find a quick overview of what it’s about.

I’ve always been a ‘cup half full’ sort of person. There have been times in my life when I’ve lost sight of that, I’ll admit. But learning not to react at all to unnecessary negative behaviour (which is not to say that I don’t empathize with people who are genuinely struggling) has made me a more patient, calm and positive person.

Thanks very much, Oliana, for this prompt!


21 Comments

Be Patient, it said.

Be patient. Good things come to those who wait. ~ Fortune cookie.

Really? How long do I have to wait?

I wonder about this saying. Is it really enough to wait for something good to happen? Surely something good will happen eventually.

I have to disagree. If I want something good to happen I need to take action to make sure it happens. If I want to finish my novel, it’s not enough just to wait. If I want a job one day, I’m not going to sit around and wait for one to drop into my lap. So where does this fortune cookie get off telling me to wait?

I suppose there are some things we simply have to wait for, however. Love, for instance. It seems the more I’ve looked for it in my life, the more elusive it is. Giving up looking for it, in my experience, has been the only way it’s found me.

Give it up, get it all. Have you heard that one? Maybe I made it up, because I can’t seem to find it anywhere on Google. It makes a lot of sense to me though. When I give up striving for one thing, other things present themselves as opportunities to get what I wanted in the first place. Tunnel vision doesn’t do anyone any good.

I still doubt patience has anything to do with it. Thoughts? Have you ever given up on something and then got it anyway?

 


67 Comments

You Actually Can’t Do Anything You Want to Do

As a child I was led to believe in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy. I don’t remember when I discovered the truth about the latter two, but I do recall feeling betrayed by my parents when I reached into my stocking one Christmas morning and pulled out a gift with a price tag on it. At first I refused to believe it – they couldn’t possibly tell me such a blatant lie, these two adults who were constantly stressing to me the importance of telling the truth. But alas, we all know how it turned out. I’ve been wary of humans ever since.

Even worse than this, in my opinion, is telling kids that they can grow up to be whatever they want to be. I’m sorry, but if you stop growing when you hit four feet, you will not be a Harlem Globetrotter, nor will you be a famous opera diva if you can’t carry a note in a bucket. You will never be President of the United States if you were born in another country, no matter how much you want it.

I don’t care who you are – everyone has limitations. As adults, we learn what these are, and yet I still hear adults lying to generation after generation, promising children who can’t possibly know any better that they can do ANYTHING and be ANYTHING they want to be when they grow up. It’s total, utter bullshit.

In my own case, this on top of being told that everyone is good at something, left me feeling woefully inadequate. I wasn’t about to believe people who would tell me that I was a brilliant singer – these were the same people who told me there was such a thing as Santa. Hindsight shows me that in most cases, it’s just as well. Just look how many end up on TV talent shows only to be laughed at?  So if I couldn’t be good at doing something I loved, what could it be? I tried guitar, figure skating, horseback riding … and ended up a bookkeeper. I couldn’t even type that fast. It’s only in the last fifteen years that I’ve discovered my passion for writing.

But I digress. The incident that brought this whole topic up was a conversation I had with Chris, my Autistic eighteen year old, in the car on Sunday. He told me he wants to be a radio announcer. I know for a fact that he’s been told he can do anything he wants. Radio announcer isn’t one of them, nor will it ever be. He can barely get more than two coherent sentences out of his mouth on the best of days. So I get to be the bad guy. I have to tell him he can’t do it. I tried to explain to him that he needs to get hired in order to talk on the radio, but he can’t understand why anyone won’t just hire him.

I can say with all honesty that I was reluctant to let my kids to believe in Santa. It came down to the question of whether or not to allow them that wonder I remember feeling when I did believe. But I can also say I never really tried to convince them he existed.

I’ve always maintained a realistic outlook for their lives. I’ve been truthful in telling my eldest that he can do almost anything. There are many things Chris will never do and I’ve always tried to steer him towards what is feasible. Alex as well. He will certainly never sing opera – and none of them will ever be President.

I’m sure there are people out there who have become exactly what they wanted to be – we all knew someone who was incredibly gifted and knew what they were cut out for at an early age – but few of them actually turned out to be the superhero they always dreamed they’d be (yes, that was one of my dreams too).

If you were like me and Chris, and your aspirations were outside the realm of what is achievable, then perhaps you’ll agree with me. Or maybe you were more down-to-earth in your expectations. In either case, telling a child they can do or be absolutely anything is something I’ll never do and something I wish others would put a little more thought into. You never know whose dreams you’ll eventually be dashing.

This post was written for Opinionated Man’s Opinion Challenge. Find it here: http://aopinionatedman.com/2014/05/25/harsh-reality-challenge-got-an-opinion/


32 Comments

Stream of Consciousness Saturday – Without

It doesn’t take me long to run out of resources. Energy, both physical and emotional – hell, even spiritual – seem to dry up when I get to a certain level of stress wherein I’m running around like a daddy longlegs with half of its legs pulled off by a willful child.

When I reach that limit I go blank. Nothing works. I must stop moving, I must force myself to try to stop thinking of everything at once. I have, at these times, so many thoughts in my head that I feel as though I will explode. And then I am without.

Without anything to draw from. My brain fires on the remnants of the sparks of what energy is beginning to build up again but I have no control over which way they shoot. Sometimes it’s anger, seeping from my pores like lava, and sometimes there are tears that threaten never to cease. Rarely, it’s laughter. When it is, I know I’ll be okay again soon.

Without resources I feel useless. I exist on a plane apart from the rest of society. I float (yes, I am even without gravity) an inch above the ground, always in danger of taking off. Not up, but away. If I do, I’m afraid nothing will stop me until I’m lost.

Eventually I can once again focus. But only by focusing on myself, and not all of the people who demand my attention all of the time, can I come back to me. To regain my energy, my emotions, and the spirituality that centers me and keeps me in the moment.

I need a vacation.

 

This post is part of SoCS. Find the rules here, https://lindaghill.wordpress.com/2014/05/23/the-friday-reminder-and-prompt-for-socs-may-2414/ and join in!


36 Comments

Psychosomatic or Real?

Since my fall on the ice just before Christmas when I received a concussion, I’ve been having pain in my right shoulder. It wakes me up at night, has caused weakness in my right arm, and is generally a pain in the ass upper body.

So about three weeks ago I finally decided to take it to the doctor. He ordered an x-ray and an ultrasound and two weeks later I called him back because I hadn’t heard anything. His secretary said the tests showed there was nothing wrong.

But it still hurt. I made an appointment to see him.

As it turns out, I have a slight case of arthritis between my collarbone and my shoulder blade. (There’s another one of those rocket scientists at work here – not sure if it’s the secretary or the doctor, but I suspect it’s the doctor. He’s always been a bit of a twit.)

The point is, since I found out what the problem really is with my shoulder, it’s been feeling better. Is it possible to be given information that there’s nothing wrong and believe it so much that the symptoms go away? I think it is. But in my case, I’m sticking with the belief that now I know it’s not the joint, I’m no longer afraid of doing more damage. Muscle pain I can live with. I can stretch through it and I can work through it. I know now that if I use my arm more and re-build the muscle, my condition will improve.

I also know I am susceptible to psychosomatic disorders. When I get stressed it affects my skin. I itch. And no matter how much I know this to be a fact, and that there is really nothing wrong with my skin, it happens.

I posed the question above, is it psychosomatic or real, but is a psychosomatic illness any different than a real illness? They say attitude can help with the symptoms of sickness – it works both ways. It’s not all in your head. But some of it is. The mind is a powerful thing.

Have you ever suffered with something you knew was psychosomatic, and yet it persisted?


22 Comments

Leading With the Right

The good news is, I’m getting some editing done. I’m allowing my imagination to wander and I’m picking up on my character’s vibes; getting their words from their mouths to the page, as well as their actions and their thoughts. Spending some serious concentration on my novel is something I’ve been trying to do for a while, though it’s not likely to last into the weekend. Unfortunately, my ex crapped out on me yet again, so I have the kids. Again.

The bad news is, it seems that all I’ve been able to do for the last couple of days is be creative. So while my right brain takes the lead I haven’t been able to come up with anything to write about on my blog. I’m all kinds of imagination and no real life. It’s a good way to be – I think so anyway.

Still, in a way it’s frustrating. When I’m “in” my novel, I walk around the block on my paper route and I see nothing around me. The absence of photos these past few days (is it weeks already?) is proof. I go into this trance-like state, sometimes even walking right past the houses I’ve been delivering to for two and a half years now, and having to back-track. My family has to say things to me three times before I understand the words. Which is interesting to me, because according to the research I just did, the left brain (that I’m not using very much of these days) is responsible for words, among other things.

I suppose I should be pleased about this. In my experience it’s hard to get to the point I’m at right now, able to use my creative side.  When I’m pulled out of it usually, by having someone interrupt me when I’m trying to write, I get so annoyed that it takes me hours to go back, if I can at all.

It must, however, be extremely inconvenient for anyone who tries to interact with me when I’m like this.  Wouldn’t you hate living with a writer? I would.

I must check to see if I start off with my left foot to go up and down stairs when I’m right-brained…


45 Comments

Quantifying Stress

Stress is something everyone feels, if not on occasion, then constantly. Though we’re all different, and there are certain things or combinations of things in our lives which cause it, it has approximately the same effect on us all.

It raises our blood pressure, causes in us either adrenaline or exhaustion, usually one on the heels of the other. It does wondrous things to our bodies – gives us headaches, makes our skin break out in rashes and can give us pain where we didn’t think it was possible to have it.

But. There’s always a but. Stress is invisible. It can’t be counted; it can only be felt. It can only be seen by the ripping out of one’s hair and the stomping about of one’s feet, or the squealing of one’s wheels on dry pavement. Explaining it is near impossible to someone who doesn’t understand how much we’re under.

There are scales for pain: you can see them hanging on hospital walls. But what if there was such a thing as a stress scale? How would it look?

On a scale from one to ten, for myself, one would show a picture of me banging my shin against the foot of my spare bed, that has been out to get me since I inherited said bed with the house I’m living in.

Three would be the bed plus dropping everything I touch in the space of fifteen minutes. I have days like that.

Five might be getting in the car and turning the key to a click instead of the firing of pistons when I have an appointment to get to.

Seven to eight is being interrupted ten minutes after I sit down to write, and I just have my head in whatever I’m trying to concentrate on… eight being the fifth time in as many minutes.

But ten? Ten is having my son tell me he’s tired and putting my ear to his chest to find that his heart is in arrhythmia, going 90 beats per minute for a few beats, and then down to 30 for a few and back again. Adds up to a decent 60bpm, but there’s still the question, do I take him to the hospital or not? I’m alone with two kids, neither of whom can be left alone. This is where my stress level was two nights ago.

And so I thought, maybe I should make up a scale for my family so they know when not to push my buttons. Because no one wants to get in the line of fire when I’m reaching five, let alone ten.

What do you think – not for me, but for yourself? Might a stress scale lessen the number of stress-induced conflicts in your home? Something to consider, I think.


31 Comments

What would you do?

How do you deal with people who are slowly but certainly losing their mind? They’re becoming paranoid. You want what is best for them but they just don’t understand. You go out of your way for them: do everything in your power to be kind – but that’s not what they can see. Rather, they see you as cruel; manipulative; out to get them. Nothing you do can ever be good enough.

How long do you keep trying before you give up?

What if you love them?

I’m a strong believer in the philosophy (if you can call it that) that anyone, no matter what their circumstance, can choose to be happy. But what about those with mental illness? It seems that the decision to be anything isn’t an option. Depression, dementia … any number of disorders, are rife within society; within my own scope of experience. Those who voluntarily care for people with mental illness should be granted sainthood, at the very least.

But what of us with only life experience, and no formal training or expertise?

How long do you keep trying?

What if you love them?


12 Comments

It’s Been a Day … And a Half

My day started with a nightmare and a strange noise at 1:30am. The dream terrified me, the noise that I woke up to paralysed me for about five minutes. It sounded similar to my tormentor, Giggling Bob, only closer: Giggling Bob is in a box on the opposite side of the house to my bedroom. Other than not being quite the same noise, it wasn’t Bob’s usual time of 3:14. The conclusion can only be that Bob has invited a friend into the house.

So after five terror-stricken minutes, I picked up my cell phone and called my best friend John, who luckily is working nights this weekend. I wouldn’t have called him otherwise, knowing how precious sleep is. Being the nice guy he is, he talked me down from my panic to the level where I was able to put on pants and get up to check that all the doors were locked. They weren’t – the garage door was open. But after a quick trip around the house to make sure the kids and I were alone (with John still on the line) I went back to bed and, after a full hour of being on the phone, went back to sleep.

To properly explain the next part of my story, I must back up a bit. Last week I scratched the roof of my mouth. It’s been so resistant to healing, and so painful, that I decided to fast today to give it a break. Knowing that the kids would be going with their dad tonight, I wasn’t worried about being hungry well into the evening – I could go to bed early. I’m exhausted anyway from my adventure of the wee hours of the morning. Two proverbial birds with one stone and all that.

Can you hear the scratching of a record needle? Of course you can. My ex texted me to say he wasn’t coming.

In the meantime, I had a doctor’s appointment for my shoulder (which has been hurting since January) so I thought, why not ask him to take his handy-dandy light thingie and shine it in my mouth to see what’s wrong in there. One prescription later, I’m now the proud owner of something I didn’t know existed – steroid-laced dental paste.

Dry your palette with a paper towel, the pharmacist said, (eww) and then put the paste on your thumb and spread it on the roof of your mouth. But don’t try to rub it in. It has to stay there. Just a layer of paste for at least half an hour. And don’t lick it.

….

Do you have any idea what happens to your mouth when you can’t allow your tongue to touch the roof, and you’re thinking about it? You drool. Try to swallow without touching your tongue to your palette. Go ahead. Do it now.

See what I mean? Now sit like that for half an hour.

Now it’s 10:40pm on the same day I woke up terrified. I’m exhausted, waiting for Alex’s feeding pump to finish doing its thing, I’m starving, I’m drooling, and I still haven’t figured out if I have yet another possessed toy in the house to terrorize me in the middle of the night.

If I do find the toy though… it’s going home in my ex’s trunk the next time he picks up the kids. WITH Giggling Bob.


21 Comments

O is for … Openness

Do you ever wonder how much you’re giving away of yourself when you write? Details of a writer’s psyche must show through, since all we really have to draw from are our experiences and our emotions. Our backgrounds: our genetics, our nature and how we were nurtured as children make up who we are, and are inherent in everything we do. Whether a writer of fiction, personal accounts, poetry… what creates our literary “voices” is our individuality.

I worry–not as much now as I used to–how much personal information I’m putting out there, whether intentionally or not. I worry that my kids will read what I write and be embarrassed or scarred – who wants to read their mother’s love scenes after all? How do they know how much of it comes from my imagination and how much from experience? I certainly won’t hand my own mother my novel and say, here, enjoy it. But then she judges me more harshly than anyone on the planet.

Of course, not everything we write comes from experience. I often say that if Stephen King did, he’d long be imprisoned. It’s not as though he goes around killing people, or feels the pain of being hit by a car. … oh wait, never mind. I watched a Youtube video the other day, in which he spoke to a room full of students about his process in writing, among other things. He said that one of the questions he is asked most often is what his childhood was like – what kind of trauma he went through in order to write the things he does. He said there was absolutely nothing… but if there was, he wouldn’t tell.

For myself, I went through an obsession with death after my father passed away suddenly. Not surprising since I was only fourteen years old. Is it why I write horror on occasion? I’m not sure. It was certainly the only traumatic thing I went through as a child. Yet paternal abandonment, in whatever form, shows up in every major work I’ve written to date. It took four novels before I realised it.

This is what I am open about. What about the stuff I’d rather not be? I ask again: do you ever wonder how much of yourself you’re giving away when you write? Is there anyone in your life you’d rather never read your work – or are you careful just in case they do?

Illustrated in light erotica, on my fiction blog here: http://lindaghillfiction.wordpress.com/2014/04/17/o-is-for-oh-jupiter/