“Refuse to fall down. If you cannot refuse to fall down, refuse to stay down, lift your heart toward heaven like a hungry beggar, ask that it be filled and it will be filled. You may be pushed down. You may be kept from rising. But no one can keep you from lifting your heart toward heaven-only you. It is in the middle of misery that so much becomes clear. The one who says nothing good came of this is not yet listening.”
-Clarissa Pinkola Estes
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
The Journey
by Mary Oliver
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Eye of the Storm
"Well, when I was lost, I suppose it's good advice to stay where you are until someone finds you. But who'd ever think to look for me here?" -Alice
I've known I wanted to be a therapist forever, it just seemed that I fought my passion at every new twisty turn that my life took (hence my uber-beneficial english lit degree). It took the entire summer after graduation of sitting on my duff, chain-smoking on my patio, with my parent's watchful and judgmental glares from inside my house for the fire to be lit under my ass. I quickly enrolled in classes to fulfill many essential pre-requisites I needed in which my degree didn't come close to fulfilling. It was at this community college that I began asking questions for the first time ever. These weren't just any questions. They were the heavy-hitting questions that I can only assume many 20-somethings begin to ask themselves when they wake up and realize, "Wait a second, so, not everyone's like ME? Not everyone has been given the same opportunities that I have?" What a grade A douchebag I was.
Obviously I knew that not everyone is blessed with carefree lives. What's that saying about the sun is brighter after it rains or some stupid shit like that? Well anyway, all of a sudden I had an epiphany...Um, Hello, Earth to Caitlin; You want to be a therapist, and yet, you have never experienced anything outside of your comfortable, homogeneous, popped collar-clad world? I shouldn't be surprised that as soon as I left my safe bubble I began questioning things that I never thought to question before. I like to think life works like that- when you're so immersed in an experience, you don't think about (or maybe don't WANT) to question anything that would possibly disrupt the experience you're having. I think it's like getting out of a shitty relationship. When you're in it, you're in it. But when you finally open your eyes and walk away, that's when you begin to question everything, and realize that you probably should have started asking questions A LOT sooner than you did. But alas, I was 22, naive and now extremely curious about the different kinds of people that I had yet to experience.
When I began my program at school, I was surprised at how quickly we were able to choose our very first internship sites. This struck me as a daunting task, and when I arrived at my scheduled meeting with our clinical coordinator, I still had no clue what population I wanted to work with. Partly because of my unexplainable connection with the elderly, (more specifically, the dying elderly), and also due to a magical experience that Allie had when her Grandfather was ill, I've always known I wanted to work in a Hospice care facility. But I also know my own limitations. It would not have been a wise choice for me to work in Hospice during my first experience with clients. (Come to find out, Hospice is not a choice for first-time internship sites, for this exact reason.) So there I was, knowing for certain where I wanted to end up, but knowing that I had far more to learn before I was able to get there. It was then that my professor asked, "What about teens?"
A lightbulb went off in my dimly-lit, dusty brain. DUH. Why hadn't I thought of that? It was when she explained that the alternative high school that I could possibly intern at was located a mere 10 minutes away from my beloved undergraduate university that I was sold. Of course the universe works like that. I was about to enter the "other" world that I had blatantly ignored for the 4 most intensely fun, carefree and fantastic years of my life.
I began my internship working with the kids in January. Everyday has been fun, rewarding and difficult. The challenges I face day to day are personal ones- nothing compared to what my kids face when they leave the safety of the school. These kids push me in every way possible, and it's been intense to say the least. I won't lie, I was frightened to begin. I was certain that they could smell my anxiety and fear and I was right, they definitely could. But I've learned more about myself in the last 4 months than I could have ever hoped to from reading a book, or listening to a lecture.
I've learned that I lack boundaries with other people (I'm working on it). I struggle with wanting people to like me (not everyone, especially not every teenager, I meet is going to be receptive to a weird woman asking them personal questions about their artwork). I struggle with loud and chaotic environments (I need to get over this one, asap). I struggle with things that are unexplainable and unfair (like when one of my kids was absent and his friend told me he was stabbed in his lower back in his front yard because someone didn't like what he had said to them). I struggle with gang violence and murder (Obviously. But when a close friend of many of my students was killed over the weekend by a rival gang member, and I walked in Monday morning completely unaware, I finally had to take off my rose-colored glasses and see straight up what my students live with everyday.)
Have I had bad days so far? Yes. Have some of these bad days caused me to weep messily and loudly and openly while driving on I95 on the way home? Yes. Have I left my internship insulted, disillusioned, and battered? Yes. Have I lost hope for these kids? No fucking way. They have been the coolest teachers I've ever had, teaching me more about myself than I ever thought possible.
Although the bad days suck, there have been many glittering moments of beauty and passion sprinkled throughout my experience so far, and I've been lucky to recognize them while they are happening. I've learned many new slang terms that give me a lot more street-cred (or so I've been told); I've learned that when I don't do my hair in the mornings, people notice (I've been told); I've learned to think before I speak, and not to ask silly, ignorant questions (I've been told); I've learned not to make judgments about groups of people before I get the amazing opportunity to meet them (this one's all mine).
Whether it's been watching with my own eyes the entire student body beat boxing on command for a dance battle with an abstinence dance troupe from D.C. (I will never forget this as long as I live) to listening to a 15 year old girl's parenting advice to me: "Wait to have kids until you have a job, and if youcan wait 'til you have a husband, even better!", they've helped make me a better, stronger, more compassionate person.
Come June, it will be time for me to move on. School is not in session during the summer, and in September I will be beginning my internship at the Connecticut Hospice. I'm not surprised that I've had such an amazing experience working with my kids. In fact, nothing surprises me anymore. I should have known that when I began questioning things about the world, the universe would come through once again, and put me in the eye of the storm. For better, or for worse. But, mostly for the better.
I've known I wanted to be a therapist forever, it just seemed that I fought my passion at every new twisty turn that my life took (hence my uber-beneficial english lit degree). It took the entire summer after graduation of sitting on my duff, chain-smoking on my patio, with my parent's watchful and judgmental glares from inside my house for the fire to be lit under my ass. I quickly enrolled in classes to fulfill many essential pre-requisites I needed in which my degree didn't come close to fulfilling. It was at this community college that I began asking questions for the first time ever. These weren't just any questions. They were the heavy-hitting questions that I can only assume many 20-somethings begin to ask themselves when they wake up and realize, "Wait a second, so, not everyone's like ME? Not everyone has been given the same opportunities that I have?" What a grade A douchebag I was.
Obviously I knew that not everyone is blessed with carefree lives. What's that saying about the sun is brighter after it rains or some stupid shit like that? Well anyway, all of a sudden I had an epiphany...Um, Hello, Earth to Caitlin; You want to be a therapist, and yet, you have never experienced anything outside of your comfortable, homogeneous, popped collar-clad world? I shouldn't be surprised that as soon as I left my safe bubble I began questioning things that I never thought to question before. I like to think life works like that- when you're so immersed in an experience, you don't think about (or maybe don't WANT) to question anything that would possibly disrupt the experience you're having. I think it's like getting out of a shitty relationship. When you're in it, you're in it. But when you finally open your eyes and walk away, that's when you begin to question everything, and realize that you probably should have started asking questions A LOT sooner than you did. But alas, I was 22, naive and now extremely curious about the different kinds of people that I had yet to experience.
When I began my program at school, I was surprised at how quickly we were able to choose our very first internship sites. This struck me as a daunting task, and when I arrived at my scheduled meeting with our clinical coordinator, I still had no clue what population I wanted to work with. Partly because of my unexplainable connection with the elderly, (more specifically, the dying elderly), and also due to a magical experience that Allie had when her Grandfather was ill, I've always known I wanted to work in a Hospice care facility. But I also know my own limitations. It would not have been a wise choice for me to work in Hospice during my first experience with clients. (Come to find out, Hospice is not a choice for first-time internship sites, for this exact reason.) So there I was, knowing for certain where I wanted to end up, but knowing that I had far more to learn before I was able to get there. It was then that my professor asked, "What about teens?"
A lightbulb went off in my dimly-lit, dusty brain. DUH. Why hadn't I thought of that? It was when she explained that the alternative high school that I could possibly intern at was located a mere 10 minutes away from my beloved undergraduate university that I was sold. Of course the universe works like that. I was about to enter the "other" world that I had blatantly ignored for the 4 most intensely fun, carefree and fantastic years of my life.
I began my internship working with the kids in January. Everyday has been fun, rewarding and difficult. The challenges I face day to day are personal ones- nothing compared to what my kids face when they leave the safety of the school. These kids push me in every way possible, and it's been intense to say the least. I won't lie, I was frightened to begin. I was certain that they could smell my anxiety and fear and I was right, they definitely could. But I've learned more about myself in the last 4 months than I could have ever hoped to from reading a book, or listening to a lecture.
I've learned that I lack boundaries with other people (I'm working on it). I struggle with wanting people to like me (not everyone, especially not every teenager, I meet is going to be receptive to a weird woman asking them personal questions about their artwork). I struggle with loud and chaotic environments (I need to get over this one, asap). I struggle with things that are unexplainable and unfair (like when one of my kids was absent and his friend told me he was stabbed in his lower back in his front yard because someone didn't like what he had said to them). I struggle with gang violence and murder (Obviously. But when a close friend of many of my students was killed over the weekend by a rival gang member, and I walked in Monday morning completely unaware, I finally had to take off my rose-colored glasses and see straight up what my students live with everyday.)
Have I had bad days so far? Yes. Have some of these bad days caused me to weep messily and loudly and openly while driving on I95 on the way home? Yes. Have I left my internship insulted, disillusioned, and battered? Yes. Have I lost hope for these kids? No fucking way. They have been the coolest teachers I've ever had, teaching me more about myself than I ever thought possible.
Although the bad days suck, there have been many glittering moments of beauty and passion sprinkled throughout my experience so far, and I've been lucky to recognize them while they are happening. I've learned many new slang terms that give me a lot more street-cred (or so I've been told); I've learned that when I don't do my hair in the mornings, people notice (I've been told); I've learned to think before I speak, and not to ask silly, ignorant questions (I've been told); I've learned not to make judgments about groups of people before I get the amazing opportunity to meet them (this one's all mine).
Whether it's been watching with my own eyes the entire student body beat boxing on command for a dance battle with an abstinence dance troupe from D.C. (I will never forget this as long as I live) to listening to a 15 year old girl's parenting advice to me: "Wait to have kids until you have a job, and if youcan wait 'til you have a husband, even better!", they've helped make me a better, stronger, more compassionate person.
Come June, it will be time for me to move on. School is not in session during the summer, and in September I will be beginning my internship at the Connecticut Hospice. I'm not surprised that I've had such an amazing experience working with my kids. In fact, nothing surprises me anymore. I should have known that when I began questioning things about the world, the universe would come through once again, and put me in the eye of the storm. For better, or for worse. But, mostly for the better.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
I could tell you my adventures...
"I could tell you my adventures — beginning from this morning, but it's no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then." -Alice
I'm no stranger to the impact that creativity and artistic expression can have on someones life. DUH. Why the F would I be going to school to become an art therapist if I didn't get that? Art can help relieve stress, build self-esteem, foster resilience, promote healing, and aid in forgiveness. Forgiveness, you say? Forgiveness, I say??
I'm currently enrolled in a course at school which is mandatory in our curriculum, and is essentially our own art therapy. How fitting! How lovely! How friggin' intense. They offer this course for the obvious reasons, and for the not-so-obvious reasons; we should be able to use the same language that we will be asking our client's to use: the nonverbal kind. We are expected to be well-versed in this secret, symbolic language that everyone is fluent in. Yes, I said everyone. It's just not everyone that chooses to communicate this way.
My initial enthusiasm for the class was probably because I've experienced first-hand the wonderful things that art can do for a person: Signing up for a pottery class in high school gave me a healthy outlet to vent typical teenage frustrations; it gave me a sense of accomplishment, helped to ease a rapidly growing battle with anxiety attacks, and was the only A on my report card aside from the ridiculous "child development" classes I took. Yeah- I wasn't even getting A's in gym! Ha! (Oh, and BTW- the modern-day feminist in me screams in horror at the idea that I signed up for a child development class- and yes, this was the kind of class that gave all of us sweet little Mommy's-to-be a cute little electronic baby, that cried (screeched) every time it was hungry (or every time you let it's head snap backwards--whoops!))
So I was super pumped for this class. Totally ready to be directed in my own personal growth via my artwork. Totally ready to be a model "client/student" in the class, and to create bangin' pieces of art while I was at it. Totally ready to be guided through the soothing, calming aspects of artistic expression that I have grown to love. Well, fuck me. I wasn't ready for A-N-Y-T-H-I-N-G.
Our latest assignment was given to us two weeks ago. We usually have three weeks to complete our finished pieces on the given topic of our professor's choice. The topic is one word. It's a simple word, an easy one on any spelling test. Only 4 letters to be honest with you. A word that I use flippantly in conversation on a daily basis, many of us do. It's a loaded word, casually mis-used for us all to sound more descriptive in the telling of our daily happenings:
Rage.
Oh, shit. We have been asked to remember a time that we have felt rage- not annoyance, not anger- actual, full-blown rage. The kind of memory that still makes our blood boil, our hearts beat faster, our breathing to speed up or stop completely. The kinds of memories we all would rather forget. Oh, shit.
I haven't begun my piece yet, and to be honest, I don't want to do it. It's not that I haven't felt rage before- unfortunately, many of us have. But the idea that I will have to channel the memories that usually just sneak up into my mind on bad days, the kind that I shake out of my skull because remembering makes me dizzy with a fury that is unrivaled...this makes me uncomfortable. This pisses me off. THIS enrages me. (Oh, irony.)
Why can't this emotion stay locked in it's sweet little box, gift-wrapped in my unconscious, to continually remain invisible until it pops up again and I need to remind myself to forget?
I'm confident in my choice to become a therapist. Some days, I feel like it's the only thing I'm confident about anymore. So, I understand on a basic level that in order to be a better therapist, (and dare I say, human?) I need to be on speaking-terms with feelings I have felt, and experiences I have experienced in the past, in order to be stronger in the future. How would I deal with a client who struggles with bouts of their own rage, if I had yet to tap into my own sources of inner rage? That wouldn't be good for my client, or for me.
So, I guess this is why they make you go to school before they send you out into the world all wide-eyed and naive, fully expecting all of your client's artwork to be beautiful pictures of smiling, shining faces and blooming flowers upon lush and vibrant landscapes.
No ones life is continuously filmed on a backdrop of a lush and vibrant landscape. But damn, I don't think I'm ready to give up drawing pretty pictures of blooming flowers just yet.
I'm no stranger to the impact that creativity and artistic expression can have on someones life. DUH. Why the F would I be going to school to become an art therapist if I didn't get that? Art can help relieve stress, build self-esteem, foster resilience, promote healing, and aid in forgiveness. Forgiveness, you say? Forgiveness, I say??
I'm currently enrolled in a course at school which is mandatory in our curriculum, and is essentially our own art therapy. How fitting! How lovely! How friggin' intense. They offer this course for the obvious reasons, and for the not-so-obvious reasons; we should be able to use the same language that we will be asking our client's to use: the nonverbal kind. We are expected to be well-versed in this secret, symbolic language that everyone is fluent in. Yes, I said everyone. It's just not everyone that chooses to communicate this way.
My initial enthusiasm for the class was probably because I've experienced first-hand the wonderful things that art can do for a person: Signing up for a pottery class in high school gave me a healthy outlet to vent typical teenage frustrations; it gave me a sense of accomplishment, helped to ease a rapidly growing battle with anxiety attacks, and was the only A on my report card aside from the ridiculous "child development" classes I took. Yeah- I wasn't even getting A's in gym! Ha! (Oh, and BTW- the modern-day feminist in me screams in horror at the idea that I signed up for a child development class- and yes, this was the kind of class that gave all of us sweet little Mommy's-to-be a cute little electronic baby, that cried (screeched) every time it was hungry (or every time you let it's head snap backwards--whoops!))
So I was super pumped for this class. Totally ready to be directed in my own personal growth via my artwork. Totally ready to be a model "client/student" in the class, and to create bangin' pieces of art while I was at it. Totally ready to be guided through the soothing, calming aspects of artistic expression that I have grown to love. Well, fuck me. I wasn't ready for A-N-Y-T-H-I-N-G.
Our latest assignment was given to us two weeks ago. We usually have three weeks to complete our finished pieces on the given topic of our professor's choice. The topic is one word. It's a simple word, an easy one on any spelling test. Only 4 letters to be honest with you. A word that I use flippantly in conversation on a daily basis, many of us do. It's a loaded word, casually mis-used for us all to sound more descriptive in the telling of our daily happenings:
Rage.
Oh, shit. We have been asked to remember a time that we have felt rage- not annoyance, not anger- actual, full-blown rage. The kind of memory that still makes our blood boil, our hearts beat faster, our breathing to speed up or stop completely. The kinds of memories we all would rather forget. Oh, shit.
I haven't begun my piece yet, and to be honest, I don't want to do it. It's not that I haven't felt rage before- unfortunately, many of us have. But the idea that I will have to channel the memories that usually just sneak up into my mind on bad days, the kind that I shake out of my skull because remembering makes me dizzy with a fury that is unrivaled...this makes me uncomfortable. This pisses me off. THIS enrages me. (Oh, irony.)
Why can't this emotion stay locked in it's sweet little box, gift-wrapped in my unconscious, to continually remain invisible until it pops up again and I need to remind myself to forget?
I'm confident in my choice to become a therapist. Some days, I feel like it's the only thing I'm confident about anymore. So, I understand on a basic level that in order to be a better therapist, (and dare I say, human?) I need to be on speaking-terms with feelings I have felt, and experiences I have experienced in the past, in order to be stronger in the future. How would I deal with a client who struggles with bouts of their own rage, if I had yet to tap into my own sources of inner rage? That wouldn't be good for my client, or for me.
So, I guess this is why they make you go to school before they send you out into the world all wide-eyed and naive, fully expecting all of your client's artwork to be beautiful pictures of smiling, shining faces and blooming flowers upon lush and vibrant landscapes.
No ones life is continuously filmed on a backdrop of a lush and vibrant landscape. But damn, I don't think I'm ready to give up drawing pretty pictures of blooming flowers just yet.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Saturday, March 27, 2010
“We are well advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not. Otherwise they turn up unannounced and surprise us, come hammering on the mind's door at 4am of a bad night and demand to know who deserted them, who betrayed them, who is going to make amends. We forget all too soon the things we thought we could never forget.”
Joan Didion
Thursday, March 25, 2010
You can't make this stuff up.
"When I was your age, I always did it for half-an-hour a day. Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast." -the Queen of Hearts
I don't claim to know everything. In fact, I claim to know close to nothing, which can come in mighty handy sometimes. This afternoon I finally met Deb. Deb is the newest character in my life, introduced at a pivotal time in my story. Recently, my plot has thickened, and I know that she is here for reasons both essential and unexplainable.
Deb is a psychic, a life coach, a holistic healer, an unconventional counselor, a mother, a wife. As I write these silly letters on this silly page, I know they don't do her justice. As I took the turn up her long driveway this afternoon, I didn't know what I should be expecting. I got so much more than I could have hoped for.
She met me at the white door which she told me led the way to her office, and as I followed her, I realized I was holding my breath. We sat down across from each other, and she just looked at me. The words that came out of her mouth next made my jaw drop, my head go fuzzy, tears come to my eyes, laughter escape my lips, my mind to go blank and my heart to open:
"You're adorable, you look just like I envisioned. Just like Alice from Alice in Wonderland. You know, Lewis Carroll's character?"
You just can't make this stuff up. I'm still speechless.
I don't claim to know everything. In fact, I claim to know close to nothing, which can come in mighty handy sometimes. This afternoon I finally met Deb. Deb is the newest character in my life, introduced at a pivotal time in my story. Recently, my plot has thickened, and I know that she is here for reasons both essential and unexplainable.
Deb is a psychic, a life coach, a holistic healer, an unconventional counselor, a mother, a wife. As I write these silly letters on this silly page, I know they don't do her justice. As I took the turn up her long driveway this afternoon, I didn't know what I should be expecting. I got so much more than I could have hoped for.
She met me at the white door which she told me led the way to her office, and as I followed her, I realized I was holding my breath. We sat down across from each other, and she just looked at me. The words that came out of her mouth next made my jaw drop, my head go fuzzy, tears come to my eyes, laughter escape my lips, my mind to go blank and my heart to open:
"You're adorable, you look just like I envisioned. Just like Alice from Alice in Wonderland. You know, Lewis Carroll's character?"
You just can't make this stuff up. I'm still speechless.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
I've been waiting for you to come to me.
"If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense. Nothing would be what it is, because everything would be what it isn't. And contrary wise, what is, it wouldn't be. And what it wouldn't be, it would. You see?" -Alice
My program at school has a few essential focuses for their students. They want us to know ourselves. They want us to be the best selves that we can be. They want us to understand that our life, our choices and decisions, our minds and bodies, our passions and desires, our mistakes and failures are not random happenings on our way to getting our diplomas. They want us to enjoy our journeys. They want us to be in touch with nature, and all it has to offer us. They want us to understand that the journeys we each are on are cosmically and universally destined. There is a reason we are here. There is a reason YOU are THERE.
I haven't updated my blog in a bit of time. It's been a long couple weeks. I guess I should have started this entry out with saying I'm hypocritical. I sit here in front of my laptop and claim that I don't believe in coincidences and that everything happens for a reason, and I give everyone in my life the advice that I should probably be taking myself. Once again, the universe has taught me a big lesson. The lesson this time around was trust. But DAMN universe, you certainly put me through the ringer this time.
Without boring whoever reads this little blog with the dirty details, 2 weeks ago I was emotionally sucker punched by someone that I was supposed to trust. More than trust, I was supposed to depend upon to help shape my image of what a therapist says and does. For the sake of my "uncensored" quest, I'll just say it: I go to a therapist. Well, went to a therapist is more like it. In my ideal, perfectly compartmentalized mind, I decided to take the advice I give to EVERYONE and go to therapy. I'm going to be a therapist, right? Well, who would go to a teacher who has never been a student before? I hope no one.
I began seeing her in December, and I convinced myself we were the perfect fit. I was the naively eager, highly motivated graduate student ready to soak up everything she had to tell me about my future profession. She was a PhD-wielding, ugly sweater-set wearing doctor with a corner office 10 minutes away from my house and bad hair. Perfect fit, right?
She was nice up until the moment she wasn't. And when she chose to not be nice anymore, she was cruel at best, and at worst, she was Satan's daughter brought to earth to personally torture me for the 3 minutes it took her to insult, degrade and humiliate me. I walked out of her office into the brilliant sunshine, hobbled to my car, emotionally crippled, and lit up the best god damned cigarette of my entire life. Fuck the sun.
I really am all about lessons. I think every situation you are put in offers you the opportunity to work on yourself in at least some small way. I am NOT going to pretend that I was searching for any lessons in this situation. I was furious, devastated and broken. I ping ponged between desperate neediness and rageful anger for about 3 days. I couldn't understand how the universe could have let this foul, wretched bitch try to destroy me. What the fuck did I do to deserve that? Well, nothing. I've said it before and I'll say it again, people can truly be assholes. And this woman was just that. An Asshole.
But what next? I couldn't stay in this pathetic and dark place for the rest of my life. I couldn't continue to exist remembering her words, BELIEVING HER WORDS. Later that day I had a gut instinct to contact someone that I have believed was put in my path for a reason since the moment I met her last September. All who meet her love her, and I am no exception. I emailed her, set up an appointment, and held my breath for 6 days waiting to find out why I felt this desperate need to talk to her. Well, I certainly found out.
It was as if she knew why I was there before I even told her what happened. When I arrived, she had a book, a phone number and tissues in front of her already. I left with a direction, a path, a fierce, new outlook. I received the number to another woman, who happens to be a life coach. But not just any life coach, dear friends. A PSYCHIC life coach. (I've already set up an appointment.)
How did this woman that I went to see because I listened to my intuition know my perfect fit? How did she know that this is exactly what I wanted, searched for, and needed so desperately? She put it far more perfectly than I could have hoped to: "I've been waiting for you to come to me. It didn't take as long as I feared it would."
Thanks, Universe. You certainly do work in mysterious ways.
My program at school has a few essential focuses for their students. They want us to know ourselves. They want us to be the best selves that we can be. They want us to understand that our life, our choices and decisions, our minds and bodies, our passions and desires, our mistakes and failures are not random happenings on our way to getting our diplomas. They want us to enjoy our journeys. They want us to be in touch with nature, and all it has to offer us. They want us to understand that the journeys we each are on are cosmically and universally destined. There is a reason we are here. There is a reason YOU are THERE.
I haven't updated my blog in a bit of time. It's been a long couple weeks. I guess I should have started this entry out with saying I'm hypocritical. I sit here in front of my laptop and claim that I don't believe in coincidences and that everything happens for a reason, and I give everyone in my life the advice that I should probably be taking myself. Once again, the universe has taught me a big lesson. The lesson this time around was trust. But DAMN universe, you certainly put me through the ringer this time.
Without boring whoever reads this little blog with the dirty details, 2 weeks ago I was emotionally sucker punched by someone that I was supposed to trust. More than trust, I was supposed to depend upon to help shape my image of what a therapist says and does. For the sake of my "uncensored" quest, I'll just say it: I go to a therapist. Well, went to a therapist is more like it. In my ideal, perfectly compartmentalized mind, I decided to take the advice I give to EVERYONE and go to therapy. I'm going to be a therapist, right? Well, who would go to a teacher who has never been a student before? I hope no one.
I began seeing her in December, and I convinced myself we were the perfect fit. I was the naively eager, highly motivated graduate student ready to soak up everything she had to tell me about my future profession. She was a PhD-wielding, ugly sweater-set wearing doctor with a corner office 10 minutes away from my house and bad hair. Perfect fit, right?
She was nice up until the moment she wasn't. And when she chose to not be nice anymore, she was cruel at best, and at worst, she was Satan's daughter brought to earth to personally torture me for the 3 minutes it took her to insult, degrade and humiliate me. I walked out of her office into the brilliant sunshine, hobbled to my car, emotionally crippled, and lit up the best god damned cigarette of my entire life. Fuck the sun.
I really am all about lessons. I think every situation you are put in offers you the opportunity to work on yourself in at least some small way. I am NOT going to pretend that I was searching for any lessons in this situation. I was furious, devastated and broken. I ping ponged between desperate neediness and rageful anger for about 3 days. I couldn't understand how the universe could have let this foul, wretched bitch try to destroy me. What the fuck did I do to deserve that? Well, nothing. I've said it before and I'll say it again, people can truly be assholes. And this woman was just that. An Asshole.
But what next? I couldn't stay in this pathetic and dark place for the rest of my life. I couldn't continue to exist remembering her words, BELIEVING HER WORDS. Later that day I had a gut instinct to contact someone that I have believed was put in my path for a reason since the moment I met her last September. All who meet her love her, and I am no exception. I emailed her, set up an appointment, and held my breath for 6 days waiting to find out why I felt this desperate need to talk to her. Well, I certainly found out.
It was as if she knew why I was there before I even told her what happened. When I arrived, she had a book, a phone number and tissues in front of her already. I left with a direction, a path, a fierce, new outlook. I received the number to another woman, who happens to be a life coach. But not just any life coach, dear friends. A PSYCHIC life coach. (I've already set up an appointment.)
How did this woman that I went to see because I listened to my intuition know my perfect fit? How did she know that this is exactly what I wanted, searched for, and needed so desperately? She put it far more perfectly than I could have hoped to: "I've been waiting for you to come to me. It didn't take as long as I feared it would."
Thanks, Universe. You certainly do work in mysterious ways.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Tip-Toes
“Everything has a moral, if only you can find it.” -the Queen of Hearts
I do lots of awkward things on a pretty day-to-day basis. I unknowingly make weird and creepy facial expressions until someone points it out in bold and embarrassing ways. I sing passionately and do the "upper-body-dance" at the steering wheel until I notice the passengers in the car next to me joyfully laughing at the preppy chick belting out Sir Mix-A-Lot's Baby Got Back on the highway. My lips move silently along with TV characters as I sit in front of the tube (I have no idea why, and it creeps A LOT of people out). I lose my balance. I always hit my funny bone. I have recently began snorting when I laugh. As awkward as I am on a daily basis, there is one awkward secret that I have kept forever. Not many people notice it, and the people that do are extremely astute indeed. I walk on my tip-toes.
This plagued Claire when I was learning to walk. She brought me to my pediatrician, always with the same complaints, always fearing the worst: Were my leg muscles not growing correctly? Was I on the Autism spectrum? (Gee, thanks mom.) Would I need surgery to correct this obscene deficiency in my development? No, no, no. I just wanted to walk on my tippy-toes, damnit. Sheesh, can't a girl get a little support as she's learning how to teeter her chubby little behind around her playpen? Well, Claire finally let it go. She assumed I'd grow out of it. She assumed wrong.
To be honest, I didn't realize until college that this wasn't the way everyone walked. Someone noticed my mismatched, sock-wearing tippy-toes as I was walking to the lounge, and called my ass out on it. What the F? Sheesh, can't a girl get a little support as she walks to the lounge to scope out hotties? After this interaction, I called Claire up and told her to fill me in. Sure enough, I had been walking on my tiptoes for my entire walking-existence. Now things made sense. My insanely toned calf muscles were not just gifts from the heavens, unknowingly bestowed upon a gal who would rather call a cab for a 30 second walk than actually exert any energy. My staggering ability to wear KILLER high heels for upwards of 6 hours at a stretch without so much as flinching wasn't a talent I abruptly acquired when my addiction to ridiculous shoes manifested itself at age 17. My near-constant ankle/knee injuries made a little more sense now; I was simply putting the wrong emPHASis on the wrong sylLABle. Or rather, the wrong emphasis on the wrong muscle group that the normal person does when they walk. Innnnneresting.
This blog was born as much from Austin's pleas that the ridiculous happenings in my life be publically recorded as it was for my need to stop censoring myself. Lately, I've been struggling with doing and saying things in ways that conform to an image that I portray. Through an intensely beneficial conversation with Allie (another leading character in my life), I have realized that not even I can live up to the near-impossible standards I set out for myself. Perfection is boring, and plus, the idea of it gives me a stomachache.
When I was dabbling with the idea of blogging, I promised myself that I would let this be a platform for what I was going through at the moment that I sat down to write. When I was unloading groceries an hour ago, I was standing in front of the fridge, and noticed that I was standing on my tippy-toes as I was sorting through the bland produce that I've promised myself I'm going to eat this week. Of course I was standing like that, I always do. But in this instance, I saw my usual walk as a metaphor for something bigger than just an awkward way to get from point A to point B. How can I be surprised that I've literally tiptoed my way through life, when I have figuratively been tiptoe-ing through life as well?
My inability to express negative emotions has always gotten me into trouble. I don't like confrontation. I don't like hurting people's feelings. I don't like letting people down. But, what happens when my feelings are hurt and I'm let down? Usually, I swallow it, suppress it, ignore it until I forget about it. And I'm going to be a therapist? Yikes. But alas, this has been my choice for many years, and it has led to many frustrating lessons. Lessons that I probably would have learned much quicker and much less painfully if I had learned that it was okay to express crappy feelings in a healthy way.
This is what I mean when I say signs and symbols and guidance can be found in the oddest of places. Who would have thought walking on my tiptoes could have given me any insight into my present struggle that I'm trying to overcome? So this brings me to the promise I'm making myself to become more assertive. No more tip-toeing through life.
Figuratively, of course.
I do lots of awkward things on a pretty day-to-day basis. I unknowingly make weird and creepy facial expressions until someone points it out in bold and embarrassing ways. I sing passionately and do the "upper-body-dance" at the steering wheel until I notice the passengers in the car next to me joyfully laughing at the preppy chick belting out Sir Mix-A-Lot's Baby Got Back on the highway. My lips move silently along with TV characters as I sit in front of the tube (I have no idea why, and it creeps A LOT of people out). I lose my balance. I always hit my funny bone. I have recently began snorting when I laugh. As awkward as I am on a daily basis, there is one awkward secret that I have kept forever. Not many people notice it, and the people that do are extremely astute indeed. I walk on my tip-toes.
This plagued Claire when I was learning to walk. She brought me to my pediatrician, always with the same complaints, always fearing the worst: Were my leg muscles not growing correctly? Was I on the Autism spectrum? (Gee, thanks mom.) Would I need surgery to correct this obscene deficiency in my development? No, no, no. I just wanted to walk on my tippy-toes, damnit. Sheesh, can't a girl get a little support as she's learning how to teeter her chubby little behind around her playpen? Well, Claire finally let it go. She assumed I'd grow out of it. She assumed wrong.
To be honest, I didn't realize until college that this wasn't the way everyone walked. Someone noticed my mismatched, sock-wearing tippy-toes as I was walking to the lounge, and called my ass out on it. What the F? Sheesh, can't a girl get a little support as she walks to the lounge to scope out hotties? After this interaction, I called Claire up and told her to fill me in. Sure enough, I had been walking on my tiptoes for my entire walking-existence. Now things made sense. My insanely toned calf muscles were not just gifts from the heavens, unknowingly bestowed upon a gal who would rather call a cab for a 30 second walk than actually exert any energy. My staggering ability to wear KILLER high heels for upwards of 6 hours at a stretch without so much as flinching wasn't a talent I abruptly acquired when my addiction to ridiculous shoes manifested itself at age 17. My near-constant ankle/knee injuries made a little more sense now; I was simply putting the wrong emPHASis on the wrong sylLABle. Or rather, the wrong emphasis on the wrong muscle group that the normal person does when they walk. Innnnneresting.
This blog was born as much from Austin's pleas that the ridiculous happenings in my life be publically recorded as it was for my need to stop censoring myself. Lately, I've been struggling with doing and saying things in ways that conform to an image that I portray. Through an intensely beneficial conversation with Allie (another leading character in my life), I have realized that not even I can live up to the near-impossible standards I set out for myself. Perfection is boring, and plus, the idea of it gives me a stomachache.
When I was dabbling with the idea of blogging, I promised myself that I would let this be a platform for what I was going through at the moment that I sat down to write. When I was unloading groceries an hour ago, I was standing in front of the fridge, and noticed that I was standing on my tippy-toes as I was sorting through the bland produce that I've promised myself I'm going to eat this week. Of course I was standing like that, I always do. But in this instance, I saw my usual walk as a metaphor for something bigger than just an awkward way to get from point A to point B. How can I be surprised that I've literally tiptoed my way through life, when I have figuratively been tiptoe-ing through life as well?
My inability to express negative emotions has always gotten me into trouble. I don't like confrontation. I don't like hurting people's feelings. I don't like letting people down. But, what happens when my feelings are hurt and I'm let down? Usually, I swallow it, suppress it, ignore it until I forget about it. And I'm going to be a therapist? Yikes. But alas, this has been my choice for many years, and it has led to many frustrating lessons. Lessons that I probably would have learned much quicker and much less painfully if I had learned that it was okay to express crappy feelings in a healthy way.
This is what I mean when I say signs and symbols and guidance can be found in the oddest of places. Who would have thought walking on my tiptoes could have given me any insight into my present struggle that I'm trying to overcome? So this brings me to the promise I'm making myself to become more assertive. No more tip-toeing through life.
Figuratively, of course.
Monday, February 22, 2010
An eye for an eye will make the whole world blind.
I find it coincidental* that my last post was about my bad temper, and today at my internship I spent 5 hours with my students comforting them about a dear friend that was shot and killed this past Friday night due to USELESS VIOLENCE. Anger is one letter short of Danger. Lessons learned today.
*I don't believe in coincidences.
*I don't believe in coincidences.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Never go to bed mad. Stay up and fight.
“I warn you dear child, if I lose my temper, you lose your head. Understand?”
–the Queen of Hearts
My mother tried in vain to raise my sisters and I to grow into delicate, proper young women. Her attempts, through lists of forbidden television shows, movies, words, behaviors and even friends, went entirely ignored and overlooked. Poor Claire. When I was younger, it seemed like everything posed a threat to my mom’s difficult job of keeping us sheltered, over-protected and literally in the dark to any of life’s harsh realities. Now that I’m older, and my mom has entirely given up on her dream of proper young women, I’ve realized how hard this job was. And how hard we made it for her. In our defense, my mom should have taken a good look at the three disheveled, loud and sassy chicks she had eating fruit loops at the breakfast table with her, and given up then.
But give up, she did not. I remember vividly my childhood attempts of getting my mom to break out of her blazer-clad, pearl-wearing shell. The first attempt, when I was six, went something like this:
Me: “Mommy, what’s the difference between a boy and a girl?”
Mommy (looking shocked, disgusted and appalled): “Caitlin, don’t be crude, you know that answer.”
A couple years later, my attempts were getting bolder:
Me: “Mom, what’s a hooker?”
Mom: “A lady of the night! Keep walking!”
These colorful memories are the things we belly laugh about together around the dining room table now. I’ve asked my mom many times if she realized that for a large part of my childhood, every time she took my sisters and I out at night, I thought the four of us were hookers?
I can’t blame my mom for trying her hardest to shelter us from reality. Just like she can’t blame us for growing into opinionated, strong-willed, vivacious girls. And why would she? It’s probably the happiest mistake of her life. Unfortunately, there is one tiny aspect that I don’t think either of my parent’s banked on when raising us: our tempers. More specifically, our crappy tempers.
My mom is a fiery redhead. There are only a couple things in life she will lose it about. These include someone leaving an almost-empty container of chocolate ice cream in the freezer, messy bedrooms and anyone fucking with her kids. Just one of these assaults on my mom’s world is enough for the air in the room to turn chilly, and make you run for your cardigan sweater. (Just don’t fuck with one of her kids, while eating the majority of her chocolate ice cream, in the middle of a messy bedroom.)
Otherwise, Claire is one calm, cool and collected chick. In fact, she loses her cool so rarely that I only consider her fiery because of her gorgeous red hair and the deep love she has for the people in her life.
So this leaves me wondering, where the FUCK did I get my temper?
Gee, thanks Dad.
–the Queen of Hearts
My mother tried in vain to raise my sisters and I to grow into delicate, proper young women. Her attempts, through lists of forbidden television shows, movies, words, behaviors and even friends, went entirely ignored and overlooked. Poor Claire. When I was younger, it seemed like everything posed a threat to my mom’s difficult job of keeping us sheltered, over-protected and literally in the dark to any of life’s harsh realities. Now that I’m older, and my mom has entirely given up on her dream of proper young women, I’ve realized how hard this job was. And how hard we made it for her. In our defense, my mom should have taken a good look at the three disheveled, loud and sassy chicks she had eating fruit loops at the breakfast table with her, and given up then.
But give up, she did not. I remember vividly my childhood attempts of getting my mom to break out of her blazer-clad, pearl-wearing shell. The first attempt, when I was six, went something like this:
Me: “Mommy, what’s the difference between a boy and a girl?”
Mommy (looking shocked, disgusted and appalled): “Caitlin, don’t be crude, you know that answer.”
A couple years later, my attempts were getting bolder:
Me: “Mom, what’s a hooker?”
Mom: “A lady of the night! Keep walking!”
These colorful memories are the things we belly laugh about together around the dining room table now. I’ve asked my mom many times if she realized that for a large part of my childhood, every time she took my sisters and I out at night, I thought the four of us were hookers?
I can’t blame my mom for trying her hardest to shelter us from reality. Just like she can’t blame us for growing into opinionated, strong-willed, vivacious girls. And why would she? It’s probably the happiest mistake of her life. Unfortunately, there is one tiny aspect that I don’t think either of my parent’s banked on when raising us: our tempers. More specifically, our crappy tempers.
My mom is a fiery redhead. There are only a couple things in life she will lose it about. These include someone leaving an almost-empty container of chocolate ice cream in the freezer, messy bedrooms and anyone fucking with her kids. Just one of these assaults on my mom’s world is enough for the air in the room to turn chilly, and make you run for your cardigan sweater. (Just don’t fuck with one of her kids, while eating the majority of her chocolate ice cream, in the middle of a messy bedroom.)
Otherwise, Claire is one calm, cool and collected chick. In fact, she loses her cool so rarely that I only consider her fiery because of her gorgeous red hair and the deep love she has for the people in her life.
So this leaves me wondering, where the FUCK did I get my temper?
Gee, thanks Dad.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Which came first, the chicken or the egg?
"There's no use in trying; one can't believe impossible things." -Alice
After many years of thinking, "I'd love to try it," one year ago I found myself in a predicament that led me to one of the best decisions I've ever made. Stuck between a rock and a hard place, I found myself getting advice from every direction in my life. Finally I decided to stop listening to everyone else, and started listening to myself. So, I finally made my long-wished for appointment with a psychic named Kathrine.
So many signs led me to finally saying F it, and booking my appointment. I had plans to visit my friend Marissa (Riss) that weekend, and she had had her own incredible experience with Kathrine, (I even came up in her reading!) so I decided to give Kathrine's shop a call. Not expecting much, because in typical me-fashion, I was calling with a ridiculous request to possibly be seen the very next day (I am an asshole who has poor time management skills). Who would have guessed, she certainly had an hour available the next day, and would be happy to see me! Oh, shit. This is when panic sunk in. What if she tells me I'm going to die in an hour? What if she tells me my life will be a hopeless mess, so give up trying? What if she tells me I'll never be the size 2 that I'm convinced will make all of my problems go away? Like I said, OH, SHIT.
When Riss and I finally got to the shop, "Oh, shit" had morphed into sheer terror at the prospect of my future. My present sitch was so grim, the idea of Kathrine telling me anything remotely negative was enough for me to second guess my decision to book an appointment in the first place. Riss graciously let me go in for my session first (another apt had opened in the slot following mine, and she jumped at the opportunity to talk to Kathrine again) and so began my awesome psychic rollercoaster ride.
Now, as scared as I was, I also told myself I was not going to be duped. I can be very naive and impressionable at times (some of my shittiest qualities, thank you very much) and I forced myself to be cautious. As I sat down in the chair, words immediately began flying out of my mouth that went something like this: "Hi! I'm so excited to be here, oh my god, I can't believe I'm actually here, and doing this and it's actually happening, oh my god, it's just so great! Ahh, I can't believe it, ok but you can't tell me anything bad, oh my gosh, nothing bad at all, I really am not the kind of person that can hear anything bad, oh my god, I'm so excited to be here, this is great, oh my gosh, so great, but nothing bad!!!" She answered with a blank stare. Great start.
I get a lot of questions when I tell people I've been to a psychic and that I was lucky enough to go to one that was too legit to quit. For the record, all she knew was my first name. Caitlin. That's all she asked for over the phone. Unless she had some high-tech caller ID service where she got my number, took my first name, hacked into my cingular family plan, and talked to my mom for 4 hours that morning, there is no possible way she could have known all of the personal stuff she offered to me as proof of her abilities. So, she sold me on my past. I figured the present would be the easiest for her to tell me about. I totally had that post-breakup, perma-scowl on my face. You didn't need to read fortunes to be able to tell that someone had fucked with me bad. Sure enough, in 5 seconds flat she had rationalized any fear/guilt/anxiety/sadness I had about the messy situation. Phew!
This was the part I had been waiting for. My Future. What would it hold? My decision to make an appointment with Kathrine had been made because I was starting over in so many different ways, and wanted to know how it would all turn out. She began by telling me exactly what I was applying to school for, the "healing arts" as she said, that I would be accepted in March of 2009 (bingo-March 26th), and that I would be in school for three long years (wahhhh). It's been so fun having kind of an "in" with the universe this past year. When Kathrine's predictions first began coming true, I tried to be realistic and think, wow, what a coincidence. But how many coincidences can really happen before you realize, okeedokee, there's something goin on here? (And like I said, I don't believe in coincidences!) It's also been fun knowing when things are going to happen. Realistically, I don't have a timeline written down in my room or anything. Kathrine left a lot of mystery so I can still enjoy the little things, but it's very fun to sit back, relax and enjoy the ride.
She also explained that the rest of 2009 would be a year of healing and growth for me, and that the following year would be the best year that I would be able to remember. Which brings me to the question, which came first, the chicken or the egg? Would I be just as happy if a psychic had not told me I would be? Or am I happy just because I am? Do I care? Nope.
PS. If anyone has ever been inclined to go to a psychic...GO. (Let this be YOUR sign!)
After many years of thinking, "I'd love to try it," one year ago I found myself in a predicament that led me to one of the best decisions I've ever made. Stuck between a rock and a hard place, I found myself getting advice from every direction in my life. Finally I decided to stop listening to everyone else, and started listening to myself. So, I finally made my long-wished for appointment with a psychic named Kathrine.
So many signs led me to finally saying F it, and booking my appointment. I had plans to visit my friend Marissa (Riss) that weekend, and she had had her own incredible experience with Kathrine, (I even came up in her reading!) so I decided to give Kathrine's shop a call. Not expecting much, because in typical me-fashion, I was calling with a ridiculous request to possibly be seen the very next day (I am an asshole who has poor time management skills). Who would have guessed, she certainly had an hour available the next day, and would be happy to see me! Oh, shit. This is when panic sunk in. What if she tells me I'm going to die in an hour? What if she tells me my life will be a hopeless mess, so give up trying? What if she tells me I'll never be the size 2 that I'm convinced will make all of my problems go away? Like I said, OH, SHIT.
When Riss and I finally got to the shop, "Oh, shit" had morphed into sheer terror at the prospect of my future. My present sitch was so grim, the idea of Kathrine telling me anything remotely negative was enough for me to second guess my decision to book an appointment in the first place. Riss graciously let me go in for my session first (another apt had opened in the slot following mine, and she jumped at the opportunity to talk to Kathrine again) and so began my awesome psychic rollercoaster ride.
Now, as scared as I was, I also told myself I was not going to be duped. I can be very naive and impressionable at times (some of my shittiest qualities, thank you very much) and I forced myself to be cautious. As I sat down in the chair, words immediately began flying out of my mouth that went something like this: "Hi! I'm so excited to be here, oh my god, I can't believe I'm actually here, and doing this and it's actually happening, oh my god, it's just so great! Ahh, I can't believe it, ok but you can't tell me anything bad, oh my gosh, nothing bad at all, I really am not the kind of person that can hear anything bad, oh my god, I'm so excited to be here, this is great, oh my gosh, so great, but nothing bad!!!" She answered with a blank stare. Great start.
I get a lot of questions when I tell people I've been to a psychic and that I was lucky enough to go to one that was too legit to quit. For the record, all she knew was my first name. Caitlin. That's all she asked for over the phone. Unless she had some high-tech caller ID service where she got my number, took my first name, hacked into my cingular family plan, and talked to my mom for 4 hours that morning, there is no possible way she could have known all of the personal stuff she offered to me as proof of her abilities. So, she sold me on my past. I figured the present would be the easiest for her to tell me about. I totally had that post-breakup, perma-scowl on my face. You didn't need to read fortunes to be able to tell that someone had fucked with me bad. Sure enough, in 5 seconds flat she had rationalized any fear/guilt/anxiety/sadness I had about the messy situation. Phew!
This was the part I had been waiting for. My Future. What would it hold? My decision to make an appointment with Kathrine had been made because I was starting over in so many different ways, and wanted to know how it would all turn out. She began by telling me exactly what I was applying to school for, the "healing arts" as she said, that I would be accepted in March of 2009 (bingo-March 26th), and that I would be in school for three long years (wahhhh). It's been so fun having kind of an "in" with the universe this past year. When Kathrine's predictions first began coming true, I tried to be realistic and think, wow, what a coincidence. But how many coincidences can really happen before you realize, okeedokee, there's something goin on here? (And like I said, I don't believe in coincidences!) It's also been fun knowing when things are going to happen. Realistically, I don't have a timeline written down in my room or anything. Kathrine left a lot of mystery so I can still enjoy the little things, but it's very fun to sit back, relax and enjoy the ride.
She also explained that the rest of 2009 would be a year of healing and growth for me, and that the following year would be the best year that I would be able to remember. Which brings me to the question, which came first, the chicken or the egg? Would I be just as happy if a psychic had not told me I would be? Or am I happy just because I am? Do I care? Nope.
PS. If anyone has ever been inclined to go to a psychic...GO. (Let this be YOUR sign!)
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Friday, February 12, 2010
"We're all mad here."
"We're all mad here." -The Cheshire Cat
Hilsy (my sister): "Mom, have you seen Caitlin's new blog? It's all about her wild sexcapades!"
Mom: "Yeah right! Maybe in her dreams!"
Hahaha, not sure life could get more awkward than that right there folks.
Hilsy (my sister): "Mom, have you seen Caitlin's new blog? It's all about her wild sexcapades!"
Mom: "Yeah right! Maybe in her dreams!"
Hahaha, not sure life could get more awkward than that right there folks.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Shadows
"If you drink much from a bottle marked 'poison' it is almost certain to disagree with you, sooner or later." -Alice
I've always been preoccupied with my destination. I've been reminded of the quote, "It's not the destination, but the journey that counts", and thought that the person who said it obviously had nowhere important to go. But January 1st of this year came and went, and like every other person, I racked my brain for a resolution. After bypassing the obvious ones, (get into shape-too unoriginal, and quit smoking-too hard) I came to the conclusion that I needed to relax and "enjoy the ride". Ugh. Typing it makes me realize what a cliche I've become. Oh well.
First, a little background. Since graduating from Fairfield (womp, womp) I've been living at home, first taking pre-reqs needed to apply to grad school. I was accepted into a program 6 minutes away from my parent's house. (The only art therapy program in CT was located THIS close to my house--and people ask me how I could believe in signs? Ha!) So, most of the time I'm fine with living at home while I'm going to school. In fact, a lot of times I really, really love it. I've grown closer to my parents, and right now moving would be unreasonable and silly for me. But of course there are times when my inner voice starts whispering in my ear, "you're going to be 24 and living at home...25..26 yrs old.....?" And as the age gets higher, and as the end of grad school seems farther away by the day, I have to remind myself that I'm not insane, I'm not hearing voices, I'm not psychotic or schizophrenic, and I need to take a fucking chill pill.
My resolution hit me on the cusp of one of these mental freak-outs that yours truly had at the beginning of this new semester. Sweet and all-knowing Claire (my mom-she'll be coming up a lot on my blog because she's brilliant) sat my ass down and gave it to me straight damnit! In the way that only a Mom can do, she simultaneously verbally bitch-slapped me back to reality while remaining sensitive to my anxiety that I will quite possibly be living at home until I am FUCKING FORTY and have a herd of cats trailing behind me. (She rationally told me that this would never be the case, because she hates cats and would never let me bring even one into the house, let alone a herd of them- like I said, she's brilliant.) So, long story short (I'm sure I'll say this a lot too, and just for clarity's sake, my stories are never short) for the first time in my life, I have made a resolution that stuck. And, it's made my life better. And easier. And calmer. And happier. Wow, who woulda thought? I guess that guy who had nowhere important to go, huh?
So, since school began again, instead of wrestling with nonsensical brain garbage, I've been focusing my energy into things that will help me be a better student, therapist, daughter, friend, PERSON. One of the cooler things I've been reading about is archetypes. An archetype, in the simplest terms, is a symbol universally recognized by all. In psychology, an archetype is a model of a person, personality, or behavior (thanks to wikipedia for that quick and painless definition!) There are so many archetypes in existence, and they are also said to be present in artwork, fairy tales, folklore and literature since, well, forever! If you think hard enough, you can find recurring archetypes in your own life through personal experiences, dreams and other topics you are interested in. They can even take the form of an animal (mine are eagles and elephants). Maybe now the theme of my blog is making a little more sense? Thanks to Lewis Carol for making Alice an archetype that almost every 20-something gal can relate to, ya dig?
The archetype I've found the most fascinating so far is the Shadow. It is everything in us that is unconscious, repressed, undeveloped and denied. These are the dark and rejected aspects of our being (there is also lightness in there too, don't worry!) Everyone has a shadow. Hey you don't need to go to school to recognize that there are some parts of yourself that even you don't like!
A confrontation is happening with your 'shadow self' when you feel irrational, angry, uncomfortable, annoyed and even pissed off (as well as other negative feelings) by something or someone. Acknowledging this confrontation is where self-awareness begins. Because we reject and ignore our shadow selves, we often attract this confrontation through the mirrors of other people. Essentially what I'm getting to is, do you ever notice that the same 'life lessons' keep popping up all over the place? Time and time again, it can seem like you're getting burned for the same situation that just showed up at your door in a different costume than the last time. Once again you'll find yourself thinking, THIS AGAIN?? SERIOUSLY, UNIVERSE? COME ON. Well, we've all felt like the universe has played a trick or two on us before, when in reality, we could just be tricking ourselves. Yikes. Deep. Heavy.
I'm a girl that appreciates darkness. That sounds crazy, let me rephrase. I'm a girl that can now say she appreciates when someone can be honest about their true, nitty-gritty feelings. This has not always been the case, dear friends! I remember my own discomfort not too long ago when someone would say something true and harsh and honest, and I would close up tighter than a clam. I would think in my head, "How could they just say that about [themselves, school, life, religion, etc. the list goes on...]?" Finally being able to acknowledge my own discomfort with other people's lack of personal censors made me realize how highly censored I had become. Now please, don't get me wrong. It's not as if I walk around now saying whatever the hell I want whenever I want. But in all honesty, just having acknowledged this small part of me that I never recognized before has helped me to release it. I'm trying to apply the shadow archetype to other aspects of my life too.
I know this idea is hard to grasp. In fact, it totally and completely blew my mind when I first started learning about it. We're taught that what makes us feel shitty is wrong and bad. But imagine how different your life could be if instead of looking at the negative things as just crappy happenings, you started looking at the negatives as doorways that could lead you to a happier you?
I've always been preoccupied with my destination. I've been reminded of the quote, "It's not the destination, but the journey that counts", and thought that the person who said it obviously had nowhere important to go. But January 1st of this year came and went, and like every other person, I racked my brain for a resolution. After bypassing the obvious ones, (get into shape-too unoriginal, and quit smoking-too hard) I came to the conclusion that I needed to relax and "enjoy the ride". Ugh. Typing it makes me realize what a cliche I've become. Oh well.
First, a little background. Since graduating from Fairfield (womp, womp) I've been living at home, first taking pre-reqs needed to apply to grad school. I was accepted into a program 6 minutes away from my parent's house. (The only art therapy program in CT was located THIS close to my house--and people ask me how I could believe in signs? Ha!) So, most of the time I'm fine with living at home while I'm going to school. In fact, a lot of times I really, really love it. I've grown closer to my parents, and right now moving would be unreasonable and silly for me. But of course there are times when my inner voice starts whispering in my ear, "you're going to be 24 and living at home...25..26 yrs old.....?" And as the age gets higher, and as the end of grad school seems farther away by the day, I have to remind myself that I'm not insane, I'm not hearing voices, I'm not psychotic or schizophrenic, and I need to take a fucking chill pill.
My resolution hit me on the cusp of one of these mental freak-outs that yours truly had at the beginning of this new semester. Sweet and all-knowing Claire (my mom-she'll be coming up a lot on my blog because she's brilliant) sat my ass down and gave it to me straight damnit! In the way that only a Mom can do, she simultaneously verbally bitch-slapped me back to reality while remaining sensitive to my anxiety that I will quite possibly be living at home until I am FUCKING FORTY and have a herd of cats trailing behind me. (She rationally told me that this would never be the case, because she hates cats and would never let me bring even one into the house, let alone a herd of them- like I said, she's brilliant.) So, long story short (I'm sure I'll say this a lot too, and just for clarity's sake, my stories are never short) for the first time in my life, I have made a resolution that stuck. And, it's made my life better. And easier. And calmer. And happier. Wow, who woulda thought? I guess that guy who had nowhere important to go, huh?
So, since school began again, instead of wrestling with nonsensical brain garbage, I've been focusing my energy into things that will help me be a better student, therapist, daughter, friend, PERSON. One of the cooler things I've been reading about is archetypes. An archetype, in the simplest terms, is a symbol universally recognized by all. In psychology, an archetype is a model of a person, personality, or behavior (thanks to wikipedia for that quick and painless definition!) There are so many archetypes in existence, and they are also said to be present in artwork, fairy tales, folklore and literature since, well, forever! If you think hard enough, you can find recurring archetypes in your own life through personal experiences, dreams and other topics you are interested in. They can even take the form of an animal (mine are eagles and elephants). Maybe now the theme of my blog is making a little more sense? Thanks to Lewis Carol for making Alice an archetype that almost every 20-something gal can relate to, ya dig?
The archetype I've found the most fascinating so far is the Shadow. It is everything in us that is unconscious, repressed, undeveloped and denied. These are the dark and rejected aspects of our being (there is also lightness in there too, don't worry!) Everyone has a shadow. Hey you don't need to go to school to recognize that there are some parts of yourself that even you don't like!
A confrontation is happening with your 'shadow self' when you feel irrational, angry, uncomfortable, annoyed and even pissed off (as well as other negative feelings) by something or someone. Acknowledging this confrontation is where self-awareness begins. Because we reject and ignore our shadow selves, we often attract this confrontation through the mirrors of other people. Essentially what I'm getting to is, do you ever notice that the same 'life lessons' keep popping up all over the place? Time and time again, it can seem like you're getting burned for the same situation that just showed up at your door in a different costume than the last time. Once again you'll find yourself thinking, THIS AGAIN?? SERIOUSLY, UNIVERSE? COME ON. Well, we've all felt like the universe has played a trick or two on us before, when in reality, we could just be tricking ourselves. Yikes. Deep. Heavy.
I'm a girl that appreciates darkness. That sounds crazy, let me rephrase. I'm a girl that can now say she appreciates when someone can be honest about their true, nitty-gritty feelings. This has not always been the case, dear friends! I remember my own discomfort not too long ago when someone would say something true and harsh and honest, and I would close up tighter than a clam. I would think in my head, "How could they just say that about [themselves, school, life, religion, etc. the list goes on...]?" Finally being able to acknowledge my own discomfort with other people's lack of personal censors made me realize how highly censored I had become. Now please, don't get me wrong. It's not as if I walk around now saying whatever the hell I want whenever I want. But in all honesty, just having acknowledged this small part of me that I never recognized before has helped me to release it. I'm trying to apply the shadow archetype to other aspects of my life too.
I know this idea is hard to grasp. In fact, it totally and completely blew my mind when I first started learning about it. We're taught that what makes us feel shitty is wrong and bad. But imagine how different your life could be if instead of looking at the negative things as just crappy happenings, you started looking at the negatives as doorways that could lead you to a happier you?
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Welcome
"I wonder if I've been changed in the night? Let me think; was I the same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a little different. But if I'm not the same, the next question is, 'Who in the world am I?' Ah, that's the great puzzle!" -Alice
How do you introduce yourself to the internet? Hi, I'm so-and-so and I love to read, like to cook, nap entirely too much, and hate, but continuously wear uncomfortable shoes? I guess I should begin with a disclaimer. This blog was the brainchild of a Ms. Austin, because she has been saying for years that the awkwardness of my life desperately deserves a platform for others to enjoy. Thanks, Austin. Because many of my stories are A. humiliating, and B. ragingly inappropriate, this is your disclaimer. SCRAM. If you are somehow related to me and have continued reading this, SCRAM!!! Okay, you're not leaving? Fine, just don't tell my mom. Or Nana. Thanks.
Let me just say right off the bat, I'm not a creepy Disney-fanatic. No, quite the opposite actually. Last April when my family and I took our "Last Hoorah" family VK to Disney, I spent more time searching for the 'designated smoking areas' than I did taking in the psychotic-manic dream world that old Walt dreamt up in his quest for immortality. (FYI: The designated areas are SUPER hard to find, and Disney vacationers are exceptionally judgmental of smokers. I'll never go back without Nicorette, and an extremely practiced and believable "I-don't-care-if-you're-judging-me" scowl.) But back to what I was saying...
I'm not obsessed with Disney, but I am obsessed with symbols and signs, and have been my whole life. I'm lucky to have found myself right where I am at the moment, which is going to school to become an art therapist. Art therapists are skilled in picking up nonverbal symbols that can be expressed through the creative process. I'm very passionate about people, and how they tick. I firmly believe that had I not been open to the signs along my personal journey, I would not be as happy and healthy as I am today.
So why did I choose an Alice's Adventures in Wonderland themed blog? Because I don't believe in coincidence, I believe in fate. Because signs are not just found in brush strokes and crayon drawings. Signs and symbols and guidance can be found in the everyday monotony of our lives. They can even be hidden in a children's story that you haven't read, watched or thought about in years, when suddenly, BOOM! You, yourself fall down the rabbit-hole, and realize that the journey you're on needs to be shared.
So, welcome. Welcome, welcome, welcome! Please excuse rambling, poor spelling and grammar, and my filthy fucking mouth.
How do you introduce yourself to the internet? Hi, I'm so-and-so and I love to read, like to cook, nap entirely too much, and hate, but continuously wear uncomfortable shoes? I guess I should begin with a disclaimer. This blog was the brainchild of a Ms. Austin, because she has been saying for years that the awkwardness of my life desperately deserves a platform for others to enjoy. Thanks, Austin. Because many of my stories are A. humiliating, and B. ragingly inappropriate, this is your disclaimer. SCRAM. If you are somehow related to me and have continued reading this, SCRAM!!! Okay, you're not leaving? Fine, just don't tell my mom. Or Nana. Thanks.
Let me just say right off the bat, I'm not a creepy Disney-fanatic. No, quite the opposite actually. Last April when my family and I took our "Last Hoorah" family VK to Disney, I spent more time searching for the 'designated smoking areas' than I did taking in the psychotic-manic dream world that old Walt dreamt up in his quest for immortality. (FYI: The designated areas are SUPER hard to find, and Disney vacationers are exceptionally judgmental of smokers. I'll never go back without Nicorette, and an extremely practiced and believable "I-don't-care-if-you're-judging-me" scowl.) But back to what I was saying...
I'm not obsessed with Disney, but I am obsessed with symbols and signs, and have been my whole life. I'm lucky to have found myself right where I am at the moment, which is going to school to become an art therapist. Art therapists are skilled in picking up nonverbal symbols that can be expressed through the creative process. I'm very passionate about people, and how they tick. I firmly believe that had I not been open to the signs along my personal journey, I would not be as happy and healthy as I am today.
So why did I choose an Alice's Adventures in Wonderland themed blog? Because I don't believe in coincidence, I believe in fate. Because signs are not just found in brush strokes and crayon drawings. Signs and symbols and guidance can be found in the everyday monotony of our lives. They can even be hidden in a children's story that you haven't read, watched or thought about in years, when suddenly, BOOM! You, yourself fall down the rabbit-hole, and realize that the journey you're on needs to be shared.
So, welcome. Welcome, welcome, welcome! Please excuse rambling, poor spelling and grammar, and my filthy fucking mouth.
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