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.

Some thoughts about happiness or lack thereof

I’m sitting here, looking up at the branches of this beautiful tree _ the leaves are rustling steadily in the summer breeze of this exceptionally perfect day _ and I am not happy. I don’t understand how a sight that made me smile just a few months ago, has now no power to ignite even a speck of joy. “I should be happy”, I think. Why can’t I remember how to be happy? Like .. how is it done? 

If happiness comes from within then why can’t I create it in times of need? Why are outer circumstances stronger than I am – the supposed happiness creator.

Lots of mundane things bring me joy. I’m simple that way. It’s probably why I am usually a pretty content individual. The sound of crickets, the smell of fresh-cut grass, my morning coffee, a baby’s chubby cheeks, pretty sun rays, a parking spot in Manhattan.

Alas, I am in the midst of a transitional phase I did not anticipate. A phase of required emotional adjustments on my part. A time of change. [ A break-up with someone I thought I would grow old with. Chemo companion for a best friend. Another BFF with cancer and now a hole in her heart. My teenage daughter moving across the globe to go to college. ]

It’s been weeks now of dark clouds over my head as I frantically try to stay so busy that I have no other choice but to ignore the collection of uncomfortable realities around me. Unfortunately, my usually terrible-at-multitasking type of brain seems to be excellent at concurrently juggling depression and everything else. 

I know this sadness won’t last – because, for one – I am grateful to report – this isn’t clinical, but also, as I’ve been learning or not learning – but always the hard way: nothing lasts forever. … Then again, there are plenty things that last forever. So maybe the saying should go most things don’t last forever.. not very poetic.

A few days ago I dreamed that I lost some of my front teeth. I tried so hard to wake myself up in the dream … hoping to realize that it isn’t real, but I couldn’t. So I had to sit with the perceived reality that my teeth were coming loose into my hands until I finally woke to my alarm – my blessed, usually despised 6:45a.m. alarm.

Losing teeth in a dream usually means the loss of something important.
Didn’t need anyone interpreting that for me. 

A few summers ago, I was equally depressed as I recovered from a could-have-been-prevented-had-I-listened-my-inner-guidance heart-break, but I cannot actually remember or even relate to the sorrow of that time. I don’t know how it felt. .... So * – will I, one day, also not remember the overwhelming sadness I am feeling now? How long will it be until this is just a memory, something in the distant past? It seems so hard to imagine when you’re fully experiencing the grief of the moment.  And while I contemplate these questions, I remind myself: This too shall pass. …. This too shall pass.

* i was going to say "I wonder", but I'm not trying to pretend to be Carrie Bradshaw over here. Although - my Gosh, I wish I had that gorgeous Gramercy Park apartment she gets in the new (they're all in their 50s now) season.

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.

you should do this

If someone were to ask you to describe the perfect day in a most perfect future, would you be able to do it? I've heard about this exercise and its seemingly magical power a few times now, but who finally convinced me to sit down and do, it was a guest on the Tim Ferriss show (if you're not listening to Tim's podcast, you're missing out on some truly deep and enlightening conversations).

Debbie Millman talked about not only her own success with this exercise, but also reports how many of her students, whom she has assigned said exercise to, reconnect years later to, incredulously, share how their perfect dream lives have become reality.

I already know how certain visualizations can manifest themselves, however, I've never gone to this specific extreme. I have to say, even though I was convinced I needed to do this exercise, I found myself at a loss of what my perfect day 5 years from now would look like. I suppose, it may have been due to fear of wishing for the wrong thing (like when I desperately wished to meet my soulmate, forgetting that I was already married. Not only did the manifestation of this dream ruin my marriage, it also "trapped" me in a deeply dependent love with someone who was highly dysfunctional and ultimately lost the battle with his demons, leaving me devastated and in grief for years.)
I also had just passed a paragraph in Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat Pray Love, introducing a character who, for several years prayed for nothing but an open heart and then received his wish ... in the form of open heart surgery. So, I was a tiny bit apprehensive.

But, the other day, I finally decided I'm just going to sit down and let it flow out of me, with care and consideration, but without fear. I ended up writing for almost three hours. I couldn't believe it when I looked up at the clock. Furthermore, I had immersed myself so deeply into the writing of my dream day of the future, that I actually felt the moments of the day. I experienced love and excitement, an increase in my heart rate, a warmth in my chest, a shot of adrenaline and dopamine. I was so deep in, that I found myself disoriented when "my day" came to an end and I put the pen down.

Even if nothing becomes true, it was an amazing feeling to write this perfect day of 2022. Even just for that, it was worth doing it.

Now - I wait and see, I guess. Wait and see and keep moving.

making sense of things (and not)

I usually just write my own stuff (with a quote here and there), but this piece in New York Magazine really struck a chord with me and since nobody seems to have the attention span to read a long article anymore, I've pulled a few paragraphs to summarize Mr. Sullivan's point (or at least, my perceived point of the article):

"American democracy has been able to thrive with unprecedented stability over the last couple of centuries even as it has brought more and more people into its embrace. It remains, in my view, a miracle of constitutional craftsmanship and cultural resilience. There is no place I would rather live. But it is not immortal, nor should we assume it is immune to the forces that have endangered democracy so many times in human history." [...]

"In Eric Hoffer’s classic 1951 tract, 'The True Believer', he sketches the dynamics of a genuine mass movement. He was thinking of the upheavals in Europe in the first half of the century, but the book remains sobering, especially now. Hoffer’s core insight was to locate the source of all truly mass movements in a collective sense of acute frustration. Not despair, or revolt, or resignation — but frustration simmering with rage. Mass movements, he notes (as did Tocqueville centuries before him), rarely arise when oppression or misery is at its worst (say, 2009); they tend to appear when the worst is behind us but the future seems not so much better (say, 2016). It is when a recovery finally gathers speed and some improvement is tangible but not yet widespread that the anger begins to rise." [...]
"But the most powerful engine for such a [mass] movement — the thing that gets it off the ground, shapes and solidifies and entrenches it — is always the evocation of hatred. [...] And what makes Trump uniquely dangerous in the history of American politics [...] is his response to all [...] enemies. It’s the threat of blunt coercion and dominance.

And so after demonizing most undocumented Mexican immigrants, he then vowed to round up and deport all 11 million of them by force. “They have to go” was the typically blunt phrase he used — and somehow people didn’t immediately recognize the monstrous historical echoes. The sheer scale of the police and military operation that this policy would entail boggles the mind. [...]

[Trump's] movement is clearly fascistic in its demonization of foreigners, its hyping of a threat by a domestic minority (Muslims and Mexicans are the new Jews), its focus on a single supreme leader of what can only be called a cult, and its deep belief in violence and coercion in a democracy that has heretofore relied on debate and persuasion."
____

It's an older article but the analysis is still (tragically) on point...

http://nymag.com/daily/intelligencer/2016/04/america-tyranny-donald-trump.html