does planking count as self harm?

Last night, my daughter Lee came to my bedside and announced that she can’t get rid of the urge of wanting to hurt herself.

She, of course, didn’t come to announce this. I had to pry it out of her. Something that was a near impossibility when this all started around the age of 17, but has become much easier now that she is 22.

At first, she asked whether she could possibly smoke some weed in the house. She doesn’t need my permission to smoke - in fact, it was I, who once talked her into starting to utilize marijuana for therapeutic purposes. She was 19 and I had to leave the country for a few weeks, leaving her home alone. At that time, I had just been informed by her therapist that she had gone from scratching to cutting herself. This news cloaked me like a scarf thrown onto a cat, rendering me nearly unable to move or spring into any useful action. How does one keep constant track of the whereabouts of every sharp object in the house? It’s impossible. And yet, I tried. Hiding scissors, micro-needling rollers, razor blades. Pointless measures to create an illusion of control for myself.

I was going to approve the in-the-house pot smoking, because when she went outside for this the last time, she got chased down by a crazy man, "wide-eyed and screaming", as she told the story, although that description could have probably applied to her as well. New York City was never a safe haven, but these post-pandemic streets are just a whole other level of unpredictable.

“You haven’t smoked in two weeks, right? Why now? In the middle of the week, when you have to be up early,” I asked.

She hesitated to tell me, which is where the prying came into play. It was to find yet another way of dealing with the thoughts of wanting to harm herself.

Lee has, for a while now, been struggling with depression, anxiety, an eating disorder and a slew of other “fun” comorbidity symptoms which often accompany these mental health challenges.

After years of therapy, she is much better at applying coping strategies to not actually hurt herself. Self-harm, ironically, serves as a pain release of another sort. It’s all the struggle within, the racing thoughts, the anxiety, the feeling of being overwhelmed that seem to find an outlet with a physical injury, she explained.

“But how would I even pull this off nowadays?” she wondered, considering the fact that she had developed a pretty debilitating fear of seeing blood or needles, often losing consciousness when in the presence of a phlebotomist at work. “I can’t cut myself .. I’ll pass out.”

“So when you’re fighting the urge, what do you do?” I asked
“I crochet, I call a friend, I do a crossword puzzle, just anything to distract myself,” she said.

“But those are just distractions, ... I think, maybe, you need to address the root of the impulse. ... Figure out how to find a healthy release for that urge”, I said, “and try to avoid idle time.”

Of course, the root of the problem is not the urge of self-harm itself. Ideally, she will, one day, find the reason for this impulse, but at that moment, as she looked at me with tears in her eyes, I felt like this would be a good place to start.

I suggested - partially joking - planking in the morning. There goes your pain right there.

Other ideas included joining a jiu jitsu gym or running her heart out on a treadmill, as she is convinced she’d get murdered if she were to run on the streets. #morepostpandemicfears

When I later spoke to my mother, who is an actual psycho-therapist (unlike me, the wanna-be-analyst) she pointed out that I cannot fix anything for her. She is already doing the work and the fact that she is employing coping strategies on her own is amazing progress. It is only time and continued patience as she goes through the motions that will create change.

when your love language is expletives

My first-born daughter's love language is physical affection. I wonder why life has given her a mother who doesn't like to be touched. I so desperately want to give her the love she needs, and she needs it, oh so desperately. She requests constant confirmation that I haven't changed my mind over how I feel about her. I don't know why. What have I done that this kid does not believe her mother's love is a permanent condition? I thought, I am a pretty conscientious parent -- I have always made an effort to talk about our feelings, good and bad. But, I guess, all my kid wants is to be held every day and even though I would die for my children, giving out hugs is a task requiring great effort where there should be none. My hugs feel mechanical and my daughter comments with amusement over my somatic shortcomings. Nonetheless, she reaches out to be touched every day.

To make things worse, I also have this bad habit of slipping with my language when I care about someone. Combined with my animal-like morning self, I'm a ticking time-bomb in the hours between approximately 6am and 9am. This psycho version of me is no stranger to my kids. When my younger daughter Nini was three years old, she once quietly woke me up with a piece of artwork she delivered to my bedside. 

"What's that?" I inquired.

"This is Mommy - angry in the morning," she explained like it's the most natural thing in the world.

As my kids have grown older, I've become even more relaxed. Too relaxed for someone who doesn't allow cursing in the house. I have developed, like my father when I was a teenager, the double-standard that I, as the parent, am allowed to use crude language when needed, but for the children to use a foul word would be a down-right abomination. Never mind the fact that, from hearsay, I know that my 18-yr-old curses like a sailor when she is with her friends. 

The other day, I yelled at Lee to wash her effin' hands and to eat her effin' french toast already (and, no effin-s but the actual F word were used). Granted, it was before 9 a.m., but who does that?! For all the self-control I can exercise throughout the day - some call me the queen of diplomacy (okay, nobody does, but I'd like to think I am) - in the morning hours, I am pure animal instincts. When the kids were younger, there were times I would simply just growl at them. Like a mother bear, but not in the affectionate way one might imagine this now.

When Lee later reminded me of my schizophrenic behavior in the morning and recommended to perhaps avoid interaction with other people before noon, I went into a bit of guilt-driven introspection. What I emerged with was that, while I may in fact be a different person in the morning who is best left alone to adjust to the waking life, the expletives targeted at my kid earlier in the day were ultimately driven by worry and love. I love my child and she is systematically starving herself into a body that more resembles a victim of famine than an average, athletic American teen from a loving, somewhat middle-class home.

When I presented my theory to her, she rolled her eyes. 

"I think my love language takes the form of expletives," I said.

"Your love language is acts of service, Mom", Lee responded without looking up from her phone.

Okay - so much for today's attempt at self-analysis.

Maybe my daughter does know how much I love her.

the ugly face of a mother's love

My relationship with my first-born daughter Lee has been giving me nightmares.

I hate it when my fear whispers into my dreams, wrapping its fingers around my neck, pulling me out into entirely too early morning hours to remind me, as I awake with a gasp, that sh** is out of balance.

Last night, I dreamed that I had yet another argument with Lee, who is now 18 years old. She can vote, she could start her own, independent life, but she is far from it. She is, at heart and in essence, still a child. I don't know what we argued about, but I remember that, once again, I walked away exasperated, recognizing that the only solution to the problem would be for me to care less.

"You know what's the best part about life?" she asked as I walked away.
"What?" I asked with a tone.
"Death,"  she said, effectively taking a hammer to my heart.

I imagine, this dialogue sprang from my fears over thoughts of hopelessness Lee shared when she was deep in depression a few months earlier.

I am not sure whether caring less would be a viable solution.
Aren't we always afraid for the lives of our children?
How can the average mother ever discard the care for her child? Kids become adults, but mothers remain mothers. The problem is that mothers don't usually express their concerns for the well-being of their children with picture book examples of "care taking". Their true love and worry for their kid is often manifested via compulsive micromanagement and an ongoing guilt-trip commentary. I know it from my own mother, who surely loves me more than anything. So why does a mother's care assume this ugly form of condescension and continuous critique?

Even though I know my disapproval of pretty much every one of my teenager's actions isn't helping, the words still leave my mouth, sometimes creating havoc, sometimes disdain, but definitely always - discontent and, probably, a dented self-confidence as I have yet again established that I am superior in my ways of thinking. Forget that my ways may actually be better sometimes (e.g. "yes -- you do, in fact, need to eat real food and can't just have a toddler sized meal once a day and assume that will do in terms of nutrition.") -- it's not the point.

I don't know how to let go. The only way to disengage from this un-motherly behavior would be not to care at all.
The fact that my daughter seems to have issues with food (one can count the things she eats on two hands) is a permanently lodged thorn of concern. She also doesn't regulate her sleep, her electronics use, her insane work load from school, or the general need for physical activity and sun-light. As a result of the mismanagement of all these variables, she often dips back into anxiety and depression.

Maybe she just has to go through all of this to understand the importance of self-care. Maybe she has to hit rock-bottom and pull herself out on her own to learn how to live a good life. But it is hard to simply bare silent witness to this learning process - and if we are lucky, it will be a learning process. The fear in my head not allowing me to STFU is based on all the scary stories out there, how depression can lead to suicide, skipping (or discarding, rather) the whole part of learning and process.

In my dream last night, I didn't respond with care or compassion. I, as in real life, expressed my worry in the form of anger and what I said came out as a dismissive and furious guilt-trip.
Well, if you're going to kill yourself, then I hope you're aware that you are going to be taking not only a sister from your sibling, but also a mother. So you'd be taking at least three lives, not one.

Maybe my nightmare was only a portent of what was to come.
My daughter had been feeling so much better after almost a year and a half of an ever growing anxiety and depression. Finally she seemed to have come out and back into the light. She wasn't scratching her face anymore, she reconnected with her friends, she made us laugh with her bubbly personality every day, and she regained her appetite. But when she returned from her father's house later that day, I realized my dream had been a premonition, or perhaps just an intuitive connection to my child's well-being. She had changed during the few days she spent at her Dad's. She was exhausted and not feeling well. Not feeling well in the way she does when she is dipping deeper into a dark mood. Four days of sitting inside the house doing nothing but stare at a screen did immediate damage to her fragile and only recently recovered well-being.

Now it is up to me to make sure she eats a few nutritious and balanced meals, gets enough sleep, and goes out for social contact and some sun. But, it can't always be me. I have to figure out how to let go and she has to figure out how to take over.

if you want your kids to remember you one day, be a monster (apparently)

This evening, as I sat with my daughters at the dining room table, engaged in post-dinner conversation, with the occasional interjected order of mine toward the older one to eat her vegetables, the question arose about how faulty human memory can be.

Do you have any memories from your younger years? Maybe around the time you were four or five or so?  I asked my second-born, Nini, who just turned 13. She shook her head, pulling her face into a clueless expression.
I remember something! Lee exclaimed, pushing away the carrots I had heaped on her plate.

I was excited to go down memory lane with her, when she revealed that the only vivid memory she seemed to be able to produce was when I supposedly almost choked her as a 6-year-old. I was mortified! I did no such thing! I practically shouted. Nini chimed in, apparently making the mnemonic connection immediately, from just hearing that one sentence. They both then recounted the story of how I once decided that Lee, the eternal "meal-refuser",  needed to eat the ravioli I had prepared, not via any stern or demanding commands, but by apparently grabbing her mouth and practically forcing a piece of ravioli into it. I found that hard to believe. I was that worked up about ravioli?! Knowing myself, that thing was not something I slaved over by hours of dough-making or whatever it is one needs to do when making ravioli from scratch. It probably came out of a can. Not exactly a meal to be proud of. No nutritional loss on my child's side here. In fact, probably would have been a good thing not to serve them this stuff in the first place.
But, my kids insisted that I lost it over those raviolis. They were crying tears from laughter at this point, embellishing the story with probably imaginary details. I, on the other hand, was almost in tears about how monstrous this act seemed to me in hindsight. I apologized profusely and explained to them that I do not recommend exposing oneself to motherhood of small children and working full time without help. Living with little kids is like living with tiny schizophrenia patients. But, sometimes, it can be mom who just goes crazy from stress and exhaustion. .... Just make sure you have an adult (!) partner and the proverbial village, I lectured as I fumbled for another excuse which would, perhaps more successfully, make me feel better.

After a minute or so, though, I wondered --- so, you are telling me .... that you don't remember ANYTHING from your childhood ... the thousands of times I exercised patience when you wouldn't eat your food, or would tell me the meal I just slaved over for an hour tastes like curtain, ... THAT composure you don't remember? Or the fact that I laid down with you every night to read and sing to you and often wait until you fell asleep. You don't remember that? Or the weekly outings to the park or the family art projects, .... all the endless spoiling basically ... for nothing? So .. THE ONLY REASON you remember that it was, in fact, ME who raised you so far, is because I once stuffed ravioli down your throat?! If I hadn't given you this one horrible memory, you may as well have been raised by someone else cuz clearly I could be anyone. Just swap me out.

The kids could not stop laughing. And instead of producing one nice, balancing memory, they thought of another incident, when I apparently chased them into the room so I could spank Lee on the bum for whatever reason (knowing Lee, there probably was a reason, but that's beside the point).

Anyway ... so now I'm really wondering... wth was it all for,  if they seem to only remember the bad stuff? What's the point of trying to be a good mother?!!

The bad moments are certainly outweighed at 99% by good or normal/non-traumatic regular family stuff. And, even if it is just at 80%, it is still a pretty darn good childhood they're getting. But apparently, all my efforts won't matter, because what they will walk away with, is the memory of that one time when I force-fed Lee a piece of canned pasta.

what i woke up to this morning (straight from my head onto paper it went)

It is the last free day before school starts again and I will be returned to a forced schedule of daily 6 a.m. risings. I lay in bed with my eyes refusing to open, ignoring the commando of yesterday's self, which set an alarm for a reasonable hour as to slowly adjust to the harsh reality of the upcoming schedule change.

Over are the 3 a.m. bedtimes of winter vacation. No more sleeping til noon just cuz I can. Good bye, sufficient hours of sleep. Welcome back, rings under my eyes.

I am holding on to this last morning of leisure like a small child attached to its mother's leg, attempting to stop her inevitable departure into the work day.

Dreams and reality exchange secret, complicated hand shakes as I drift in and out of sleep. In my head, I create brilliant story snippets and paragraphs, which turn out to be utter nonsense when briefly examined during intermittent, awake moments. Turtle-esque, I retract my head back into the protection of my covers, escaping too much light and too much world.

At last, one of the children appears at my bedside.
- "Weren't you gonna get up early?"
- "Go away!" I moan melodramatically.

Fine. I capitulate. Sleep has lost. My dreams now only surreal memories, I reluctantly unravel myself from the sheets to seize the day (or, let's start with a humble bathroom visit first and leave the "seizing" for a bit later.)

school dress codes: a form of slut-shaming?

After reading this (and watching all the embedded videos) ...
http://www.dailykos.com/story/2016/10/23/1578415/-Damn-those-dress-codes-Young-feminists-are-taking-a-stand

.... I had to take a moment to comment:

I have several things to say here…. as a female, a feminist, and mother of two teenage girls.

1.) A dress code isn’t teaching boys that it is okay to harass women/girls if they’re showing skin. Their upbringing, their character, and the company they keep will nurture or shun such Neanderthal behavior .. which brings me to point number 2...

2.) The last video snippet mentions, dress codes are *teaching* boys that they are “biologically programmed” to objectify women. No offense, but aren’t they (the great majority, anyway)? … They are biologically programmed to spread their seed. #facts

3.) I don’t understand in which way teaching girls how to dress more modestly (and with more awareness) is slut shaming. But honestly, I’m still not completely sure what slut shaming *really* is. Schools' clothing policies are just an attempt to reverse a different type of dress code. One that seems to be deeply embedded in most teens of today’s society: the hyper-sexual dress code imposed on our girls by the media, only that they seem to be so “brain-washed”, they don’t even know they are adhering to a code.
I can’t tell you the drama that goes on in my house about clothing choices every morning. Why? Why?! You are going to school. Throw on some jeans and a T-shirt. Done. It’s not a fashion show. You’re going there to learn...which brings me to point number 4....

4.) There are some disturbing comments being made by school administrators in these videos. ("Not all behinds look cute in leggings" .. ?!! Ehm, what?!) …. Not only are such comments distorting the message, but they are also insulting, thus creating a rebellious response.
This shouldn’t be about rebellion — it should be about education. The problem is that schools are trying to undo damage that has already been done. .. Or, let’s say “change” instead of “damage”, only that I still have to be convinced it’s the former and not the latter. I’m not a total prude, I swear, but I have lived long enough on this planet to know that it is NOT just a saying that “boys will be boys” … it’s a fact. And, if these boys/men have learned how to behave themselves, which many of them have, they’re still thinking things…. and this brings me to my last point…

5.) I would like to see some interviews with boys and men about the subject matter. All we are hearing here (in the videos) are girls’ opinions. Us wishing that most men are not driven by sexuality, is naive. They simply are. Most of them, anyway. Which is why women’s bodies sell products so well. Which is why female models, on average, make 70% more than male models. .. It’s sad, but it’s a fact. … And, ultimately, that fact should make you, as a female, want to cover up, for such an act will be truly rebellious, make your body yours (and I don't mean burka-style, obviously). Divert the attention to what should matter only — your intellect, your talents, your character. … But… yea, okay .. that’s wishful thinking, too. That’s never going to happen. People are entirely too superficial to not care about appearances. (big sigh)


PS: In the meantime, I am trying to package this message in a way that doesn’t result in me slut-shaming my daughters, who are vehemently supporting the ideas outlined in the above linked article. In the end, all I want is children that think critically, walk with self-awareness as well as self-respect, and who understand the basic workings of this world. I also want them to have the courage to change what they see as wrong and take a stand about the things they're passionate about. However, I’m not sure if this here is a misguided fight...What should be our/their target is the media and how it portrays (and dresses) women and girls.

wishing to be sick is stupid

Everytime I make the mistake of telling someone how I haven't been sick in so long, I become ill the next day. This pattern has been so reliable that, when I was tempted to utter the dooming words to a friend, I stopped myself, mentioning the above jinx, and then shut up. Alas, the damage was done.

Maybe it's that I just know when I'm getting sick and then I think about it until - by law of attraction - I make it come true. It's the altered mind state of sickness, the excuse to sleep during the day, watch movies, and read without time limits that gets me to "fantasize" about it. Of course, reality always looks different. Once the aching body and stuffy nose have arrived, I am reminded that I cannot afford to be out of commission, for the chores and duties of motherhood haven't gone out sick together with me and there is no "other half" to pick up the slack. There is homework to be helped with, children to be chauffeured around, dinner to be prepared, and unusually large and messy spills to be dealt with (because those only happen when you either have no time for it and are on your way out the door or are at the brink of collapse from exhaustion).

heart-stopping saturday

Today I actually wanted to write down how our Pisa and Florence Trip went last week but then Nayla drank some sort of poisonous oil and Maia got lost at one of the biggest markets of the year.

It all started relatively well. I woke up late, although not too smoothly,which always gets me cranky no matter how long I sleep. D took me out of a dream, which seemed to address my current self-reflection attempts. Just as I was about to figure out why I had to crawl through that tiny, stony, dark, and claustrophia-triggering tunnel to get to that huge (ancient) beautiful room (more like a temple-hall), Dario woke me up to get some. And he got some, alright. A piece of my mind, is what he got. "The ONE time the kids decide to leave me alone in the morning so I can sleep a little longer, you really had to decide to take their place and wake me?!?!"
I got breakfast in bed and that shut me up.
After a short heart-attack about Nayla having pulled out all the keys of my laptop's keyboard, I made a huge cup of coffee, which I just didn't get to and then proceeded to get the kids ready for our lunch invitation at my friend Sabi's house.
The meal was great, we had a nice time, decided to move on quickly to all go the big market in our village together. Apparently this is a yearly event and draws people from all over the state and even across the borders (Germany and Switzerland).
Before we left (and Sabi was on a tight schedule) I asked for just one cup of coffee. I had one sip before Nayla (now 2.5 yrs. old) appeared next to me with her mouth wide open and a certain guilty look on her face.
I saw a trace of brown above her lip and decided to smell her mouth. It reeked of some pungent volatile (essential) oil. The stuff you put in a tray over a candle.
I looked around and found a small, half-empty bottle on the floor. When I read the label, I tried not to panic .... which meant not to show it to Dario, who really is the one who always panics about stuff like that.
Keep away from children!
health-hazardous.
can cause lung-damage when ingested.
do not induce vomiting!
contains cassia-oils, which can cause allergic reactions.
etc.
I made her drink water, wiped her mouth with a wet towel, called my father (a doc), who wasn't home; we called Sabi's neighbor then (also a doc), who thank God was home and who finally advised us to call poison control.
I am not used to these kind of worries. Maia stopped taking choking hazards into her mouth when she was two (she understood ....or let's say...she adhered to the rules), and we were glad if she drank or ate anything at all. Nayla on the other hand - a great eater, which we are endlessly happy about - really does try anything, and that means everything. She is one of those kids you don't have to force to drink her medicine (when needed) and who you are going to have to keep the cleaning agents away from, for she will probably try it. The other day she traded a piece of candy for an olive. The girl is special, I tell you. ;)
Anyway, the lady from the poison-control hotline was very helpful and gave me a list of things to watch out for, none of which seemed to appear, thank GOD.
So we continued with our afternoon plans of hitting the market, leaving my full but now cold coffee cup sitting on the kitchen table. (This whole coffee skipping routine today got me to make myself a cup right now. ...probably not the smartest thing, given that it is after 10pm.)

We finally made it to the market around 3:30pm. Our little village looked like Chinatown today. Buzzing with people. We had a good time walking around, mingling, looking at all the stands, letting the girls ride on the kiddie-train and going up with the fire-engine's ladder ..or crane..whatever it is called. It was damn high, I tell you but the kids loved it.
After an hour or so we said Goodbye to Sabi and her family and decided to continue strolling for a last round before heading home up the hill.
Just after D bought his newspaper-rolled funnel full of hot chestnuts, Maia disappeared.
What followed was a search going from casual, to more intense, to near panic at the end.
I called so many people to help find Maia's whereabouts. I had neighbors go on a search around our house to see if she had gone home (by herself). I asked one of the many Djs to call her out missing. I left my number at the icecream parlor at the center of town, in case someone dropped her off (per instructions from the DJ's announcement). I squeezed through the masses, up and down and across, over and over again. I asked vendors to look out for her and to catch her if she walked by. I told Dario to stop calling me, for my battery was blinking low and I was waiting on call backs. He finally left the stroller on the side of the street and joined in the search, with Nayla on his shoulders.
After about an hour of searching without success I started to lose my cool. As I felt the tears well up, I took a deep breath and reminded myself of where I was: This is not a problem. This is freakin' Vorarlberg. Kids get lost and returned here all the time.
But the little paranoid mom in me kept on reminding me that this was still the 21st century and anything can happen anywhere. The likeliness isn't as high here and with this thought I decided to stick. It worked. I didn't lose it.
I walked through the bustling market one more time and then pulled out my phone to call the cops. Just as I was going to ask someone of the Austrian equivalent of 911, I received a phonecall from someone telling me that my daughter was waiting in front of the electronics shop....just a few feet from where she was lost.
I thanked whoever that was and bolted over there.
The couple (with a group of friends) who I found standing with her had apparently waited with her for the past 45 minutes and were just about to go to the police themselves.
I was so relieved I wanted to hug and slap that kid at the same time. I went with the hug and told her how much she had scared me.
I was told that Maia had approached the woman and had told her that she can't find us anymore. When she was asked where she lived, Maia apparently answered "in a cave". (whatever the heck that is supposed to mean.) and when asked where her father worked, she responded "in a cave, too." ;) ...hmmm maybe it's the way you get to our house...or maybe the fact that our apartment is very shady.....but I sure don't hope it's because of the fact that Dario has been super-lazy with taking them out these past two weeks. (I've been complaining about that already.)

Anyway, I am glad as I can be that she was o.k. ...and I gotta teach that child our phonenumber and address!!!! My neighbor recommended to write the kids' phonenumbers on their arms with a marker when going out to such places (full of people).

I told Maia, later in the evening, that she was going to have to remember our number and this way, if she ever would get lost, she would know.
"But I don't have a phone," she dryly said. ;)