Category Archives: Health and Wellness

A Day In The Life

low-self-esteem

I’m my own worst enemy.

I’ve been contemplating the vicious cycle of low self-esteem this morning.  It always takes the form of an internal conversation, between Me and The Bully (also me). It looks something like this:

Me: I really need to start training for that thing in July.

The Bully:  You haven’t even finished the laundry you started yesterday!  Or done the dishes.  Or cleaned up the gardening tools,  which have been sitting out for a week.  Or filled out the kids’ passport forms. You should get those jobs done first, slacker.

Me: But I’m tired.  I’m tired all the damned time.  And if I exercise, I’ll have more energy, and feel better about myself, which will, in turn, inspire me to do more.

The Bully:  You talk a good talk, but you never walk the walk.   Why don’t you start slowly, do the dishes, have another cigarette, play on Facebook a bit and then see how the day goes?

Me: That’s what I always do!  And it’s not working!  I feel like shit.  I look like hell.  When’s the last time I washed my hair?  If I could just get UP and DO, I’d be so much better off.

The Bully:  You think so?  You think you’re made of the same stuff as the people in all those inspirational YouTube videos you watch late at night while gnoshing pretzels, capable of overcoming tremendous adversity one step at a time?  You think you can deal with the challenges, frustrations and setbacks that come with any grandiose plan (of which you’ve had many)?  You think you can stick with it?  When have YOU ever stuck with anything?

Me: Well…I…

The Bully:  That’s right.  All the things you’ve “accomplished” thus far have been flukes.  It’s not like you’ve ever really tried hard to do something, get something, be something.  You just kind of lamely fall in to situations, and wait.  You’ve never been the proactive type.

Me: But…my university degree…motherhood…my writing…?  Surely those count as accomplishments?

The  Bully:  The only reason you started any one of those is because you had time to fill.  Let’s keep it real.

Me: But…I…

The Bully:  Allrighty, then!  I think we’re done here.  Let’s go have that cigarette and stare aimlessly off the porch for a while and dream impossible dreams for a bit before tackling the laundry.

Me: Okay.

It’s crazy-making.  And what makes it worse is that all the brains in the world can’t suss out how to stop The Bully from dropping in unannounced.  This isn’t something that is ruled by logic and reason. If it were, it would be so easy to build myself back up by looking at all I’ve done, as opposed to focusing on what has been left undone.  I could practice daily Stewart Smalley affirmations.

I could get a subscription to “O” and believe everything I read about self-love.

“Yogurt is the next Prozac!”

I could do yoga and start believing in chakras, and thereby clean ’em out.

I’m fairly certain I’m not doing this right.

Ah, folks.  It’s a hard row to hoe, sometimes.  I don’t have any answers.

But today the sun is shining, and I’m going to get out there and enjoy it, laundry and Bully be damned.

♪ I’m prancin’…they be hatin’ ♫

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Driven To Distraction

Focus

Soon silence will have passed into legend. Man has turned his back on silence. Day after day he invents machines and devices that increase noise and distract humanity from the essence of life, contemplation, meditation. ~ Jean Arp

In these busy times, I am finding myself more and more resembling those of the Video Game Generation; unable to focus solely on one thing for more than a few minutes at a time, easily distracted by the minutiae that clutters my day-to-day.  My mind, I’ve said in the past, works very much like the Internet…one thought/link leads to another, and another, until I am so far away from my starting point I’ve forgotten what I wanted to find out in the first place.  Tangential thought processes…I’m sure some of you can relate to what I’m talking about.  It may be a great ability to bring to that dinner party (and lethal when playing Six Degrees Of Kevin Bacon),  but I tellya, in regular life it can leave you reeling and directionless.   And tired.

Here at home, I wander from chore to chore aimlessly.  Jobs that take longer to do simply kill me – I’m much more of a sprinting girl than a distance runner.  I’ve had many a friend suggest yoga and meditation, but to tell you the truth, I’ve always been a Tae Bo type personality; I like kicking and punching and jumping and hiiiiiiiya!ing far better than feebly attempting to sit quietly and focus on my breathing, or, God help me, empty my mind.

Thing is, though, I maintain that stillness is always good for a person.  Cultivating that stillness long enough for it to become effective, though, now that’s a tall order.  But heed this warning; what you don’t contemplate and accept today will simply grow exponentially until you are unable to concentrate elsewhere.

Even if you’re a Ninja.

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You’re Supposed To Sing (Or Dance)

Life

I’ve been doing a fair bit of pondering on this remarkably journey we’re all taking.  Each person doing exactly the same thing – living – while at the same time, each doing it in a totally unique way.

In the Western world, there appears to be a set pattern for at least the first 17 years, and that’s school.  Lots of it.  Pre-school, kindergarten, elementary school, sometimes a middle school for the 6th to 8th grades, then high school.  Afterward, many of us go on to university and post-graduate work.  Then the jobs, or, for  some, the careers.

That’s all well and good; I know several people who traversed the system relatively unscathed and are currently living fulfilling and happy lives.

However, looking back, if I were to speak solely to my own experiences, I’d posit that the established ‘system’ didn’t particularly work for me.

In elementary school, I was a shining star.  I was polite and well turned-out, I knew my lessons, had many friends, was active and happy.  I loved to be  quizzed on what I knew, be that math, spelling, geography, or what-have-you.  I drew and wrote constantly. I was going to be a writer, an artist, get married at 24 and have two, perfect children (the paper fortune teller confirmed this).  The world was full of promise.

FortuneTeller

In grade six, I moved to Toronto for the school year.  Scared the shit out of me, that did.  I continued to write, though; it had become a refuge.  The city was unfamiliar, grey, loud and dirty and the kids didn’t like me all that much (except for Max H. and Connie C., without whom I’d never survived, who took me in and introduced me to good music and community).   Grade seven brought me back to Burlington, but by then, all of my friends had formed new groups and I spent the next two years feeling like an interloper.  I had great hopes for high school, starting fresh.

Ah, yes…high school.  While I can’t honestly say it was a torture, I don’t look back on it particularly fondly.  I had already begun to lose my way, getting in trouble fairly frequently, my grades suffering, my relationships beginning to appear more than moderately unhealthy. I was intelligent, but bored and unchallenged, and that made my way treacherous. My writing trailed off around then.  Yet throughout those years, I’d always maintained this niggling suspicion in the back of my mind that I was destined for better things…and when It came along,  I’d know It when I saw It.

Cut to 25+ years later…I’ve been out in the world, I’ve worked, I’ve seen a whole bunch of neat stuff, done a whole bunch of cool things, married, had children.  And yet that Itch For The It remains, and I believe much of that is due to a lifelong inkling that I’m the idiomatic square peg attempting to conform to the round hole (at least when it comes to the traditional way of doing things).

I now have a daughter who is a bit of a square peg, herself.  I thought of her as I listened to this talk Music And Life by Alan Watts, and realized that her journey is really just starting out, and the paths and possibilities are endless.  I have resolved to become far more diligent in reminding her that this journey, this pilgrimage, is a musical thing, and that you’re supposed to sing, or dance your way through it.

In doing so, I hope to remind myself, and perhaps move ever closer to that elusive It.

For more information about the wonderful Alan Watts, please go here.

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Bully For You!

FarkusCry, cry for me crybaby! Cry!

BULLY (n.)
1530s, originally “sweetheart,” applied to either sex, from Dutch ‘boel,’ “lover; brother,” probably a diminutive of Middle Dutch ‘broeder’ meaning “brother.”

We’ve come a long way, baby.  Just not in the right direction.

This weekend, my daughter was the victim of bullying.  I’m not talking about your garden-variety meanness here; the kid in question called her a fucking bitch, fuck face, told her she was a ‘ho,‘ proceeded to hit her with a stick and then pushed her into a tree.  This all happened at the end of my street.

He’s eight years old.  And in her class at school.

I have mixed feelings about the situation.  I have a very headstrong daughter, and when he continued to call her names, she continually went back to tell him to stop, though the older girls she was with asked her repeatedly to just come along with them.  I spoke to my girl about this, and told her that her friends had been correct; they should have either come straight to me at the onset or found another known adult to help them.  As it turns out, another parent who lives closer to the end of the crescent had heard the commotion and went out to investigate.  Witnessing the abuse, she approached the group of boys and berated them for their behaviour.  Emma’s attacker ran off, but the others stayed.  One of the boys, frightened by this unknown adult, called his parents, who arrived within a few minutes.

The three girls ran back to my house to tell me what had happened.  I immediately took them back to the park and had them play on the climber while I went over to find out what I could.  By the time I arrived, however, three parents from my street were standing in the park facing off with the one child’s parents. I approached the group, and after a few minutes of listening to the adults shout at each other, I interrupted and said to the mother, “Hello.  My name is Erin.  I’m the mother of the girl who was bullied here today, and I’m hoping we can talk.” At which point I reached out my hand to shake hers.

I got this:

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Not gonna happen.

 

She was really on a tear, and extraordinarily defensive.  I understand that no parent wants to hear that their child might not be the angel they believe them to be, however even after listening to the adult and several kids who had witnessed it, she steadfastly refused to believe her child had been involved.  I told her, calmly, that I had three girls who backed up each others’ accounts, to which she responded, “So where is the girl?  Where is the girl this happened to?  Is she here?”  I replied that yes, my daughter was present, however there were a few things I wanted to clarify as adults beforehand, and I had instructed her to play on the climber.  I said, “You have to understand that my eight-year-old is distressed right now, and it would upset her if she were to be asked to come and speak to an angry adult she doesn’t know.”  To which she responded, “Why do you make it sound like her age is important?  My son is eight, too, so what? I keep hearing these stories from everyone else.  I want to talk to her, now!”

Ahem.  Let me pause, here.  My policy when in the midst of an emotional power keg is to transform into a Zen Master.  I speak calmly, quietly and unexcitedly.  I smile sincerely.  I employ body language that allows the other person to understand I’m truly listening to them.  However, at this point, when the woman repeatedly referred to my recently-traumatized daughter as ‘she’ and ‘her’ and ‘the girl,’ and for some reason believed I would actually make my kid face off with a raving, batshit-crazy adult, I realized I wasn’t in the least interested in continuing the conversation.  Fortuitously, she was distracted by a baited comment from someone else, and I moved away.

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Buh-bye!

Over the next few minutes I spoke to the remaining kids and got their side of the story.  They admitted there was bad language, though they weren’t in agreement as to whether or not my daughter was hit with a stick.  They asserted my daughter continually went back and engaged the boy, until she was called away by her older playmates.

This morning before school began, I had a meeting with the school principal to apprise him of the situation.  He agreed that he would speak to the teacher, and ensure that at no time of day would my daughter and the boy be left alone without adult supervision.  He will be speaking to one of the girls my daughter was with, who, as a school lunch monitor, has apparently witnessed the boy bullying Em and others in the past.  He will get the names of the other boys who were present.  He will take the boy to a different classroom for lunchtimes (when no teacher is present).  He will be calling the boy’s parents.  All these things I agree with, but I have to say I’m still concerned with potential run-ins on the playground and in our neighborhood.  What to do other than reiterate to my girl that in the event she cannot avoid this boy and he bullies her again, she needs to either a) walk away, b) run away c) run away and get an adult, pronto?

I have this inkling that 30+ years ago, this would have been handled differently.  I’m quite sure the school wouldn’t have become involved, and that I’d be speaking directly to the boy’s parents.  Thing is, in this world of BureaucracySpeak, I find myself out of my element, because my common sense reaction is no longer necessarily the most efficacious route to resolution.

What would YOU do?

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Dunno.

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Suburban Soul Fillin’

Envy

“Envy is the art of counting the other fellow’s blessings instead of your own.”
― Harold G. Coffin

Recently I have been exploring the differences between envy and jealousy.  I was always pretty clear on the latter, but have found more than one meaning of the former.

One says that envy consists of “a feeling of discontent and resentment aroused by and in conjunction with desire for the possessions or qualities of another.”  Okay.  Got it.  However, the second maintains that envy is “best defined as a resentful emotion that “occurs when a person lacks another’s (perceived) superior quality, achievement or possession and wishes that the other lacked it.”

Now, see, all this time, I’ve avoided using the word jealousy,  because it alludes to a fear of personal loss.  I used envy instead, because in most cases, I simply coveted some thing or quality possessed by someone else.  That said, I don’t recall ever crossing the line and wishing the other person didn’t have it…just that I wanted it, too.

This is all blather until I put it in some kind of context.  I should do that, now.

In this past year and a half, my self-esteem has taken a severe beating, for the most part self-inflicted.  Due to a back injury, I was unable to work out and had to abandon a career path with a strong physical component.  That was the one part I wasn’t responsible for.  Then I got depressed.  I mean, really depressed.  The kind of depression that allows you to only be productive enough to piggle your toenails all day, drink too much and slop together a meagre meal for the fam.  I stopped writing.  My hair got stringy.  Yoga pants became an essential part of the uniform.  And thus began a vicious cycle.

In the meanwhile, though, life was toodling merrily along without my input or presence.  Solipsistic Erin was first amazed, then quickly crestfallen.  How can  So-And-So still write so well?  How can So-And-So be so clean all the time?  How can  So-And-So avoid drinking for a whole month?  How can So-And-So be going on vacay?  How can  So-And-So go jogging, eat Paleo, talk professionally, meet cool people, get a job, be out in the world so confidently?

I really got envious of So-And-So, lemme tellya.

Thing is, I never wanted  So-And-So to lose what she or he had to start with, I just found myself fantasizing about how lovely it would be to have those things/qualities, too.  Lord knows I had intentions toward getting ’em, but I’ve been hearing bad things about intentions and now avoid them when at all possible…like corn oil or Nestlé products.

One of the only rays of sunshine in being a directionless, unemployable SAHM is that you’re available to yak to other like-situationed pals during they day, because hey, no job.  One friend of mine in particular has been trying to find his groove for years.   Our circumstances are quite different, however our mutual feelings about the whole mess bear a striking resemblance.  Generally we commiserate and hate on the world for a bit, however this morning we really got into the guts of it.  After indulging each others’ need to rant, he sent me this:

I for one have learned something about myself since 2002:

Number one:  you must be honest with yourself.  Life altering self-initiated changes don’t make a lot of sense when you know deep down that you’re denying yourself the opportunity be happy;  it almost always ends in tears and regret.

Number two: position yourself to include all the things that you really enjoy.  Denying yourself these opportunities will leave you unhappy and second-guessing your decisions.  Surround yourself with what fills your soul.

Though I had come to these conclusions myself at one time or another, I think I must have thrown them in a drawer somewhere, or on top of a bookshelf, because when I went looking for them, I found them all dusty and giving off a kind of mildewy smell.  Dusted them, sprayed them with Lysol, and now they’re looking – if not totally shiny and new – definitely passable.

So I’m back here, for better or worse, and have picked up an old W.P. Kinsella I haven’t read in a while.  Not a bad start.  In any case, today it fills my soul.

Matisse woman-reading

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Apathy, Animosity and an Apology

What can I say?  I dig alliteration.

It’s January 2012.  Can you freaking believe it?  Jaysus, the time has flown.  Wish I could tell y’all it’s because of all the fun I’ve been having, but that would be a fib.  Best part of Christmas was finding that extra bottle of red in the cupboard on Boxing Day, no word of a lie.

You see, I threw my back out about eight weeks ago; likely an old sports injury.  (I love saying that, ‘old sports injury.’  It’s like I can claim athlete status, even though I’m a post-Yule blob of lard at present…but obviously I wasn’t, always!)

Back in my university days (UWO King’s College, Class of ’03), I played squash.  I played A LOT of squash.  I was constantly calling my much-younger friends and asking nagging at them to meet me at the court.  It was my heroin, for a while.  That should have been a sign that something had to give.  I’m not Hayley fucking Wickenheiser.

One day, without warning, I jumped up out of bed (not surprising) and promptly fell down (surprising), writhing in pain (surprising and decidedly unpleasant).  As soon as I was remotely mobile, I went to the Fowler Kennedy Sport Medicine Clinic on UWO’s main campus, was told I overdid it and that I had to stop playing squash so much and to cut out wearing my backpack on only one shoulder (no matter how cool and artfully indifferent it made me look), and have a round of physiotherapy.

So.  No problem.  Did as they instructed, breezed through the physio, and the back healed up.

Wait for it…

Cut to 2006 or thereabouts.  By this time I had little kids at home, and though I’d endured two C-sections, was feeling pretty good, physically.  One fateful day, I happened to notice a dessicated corn flake on the floor, and casually and nonchalantly bent to pick it up, which is when my back screamed an audible Fuck You!  I was out of commission for a couple of weeks, walking stooped over and all.  That’ll teach me to do housework, thought I.  Don’t need any more convincing than that!  It’s dangerous, and to be avoided at all costs.

Throughout the years since, I’ve had various flareups, usually not lasting longer than a week.  However sometime around November, I started getting ‘twinges,’ nothing to be alarmed about, I thought, until gradually, over the following weeks I became so hunched over that I could have posed with Esmeralda and no one would have blinked.

Whee!  I’m swinging on a big bell!

Now I’m in physio again.  The therapist is not only young enough that I could have babysat her; I’m pretty sure I’m old enough to be her mother, had my youth been just a soupçon more misspent.  I’ve got a massage booked for tomorrow morning and a set of exercises I’ll be doing daily.

But that’s not what I came here to talk about.

Between the back thing putting me not only off my feet but also off my 7-day a week workout schedule, and my annual dose of S.A.D. kicking in bigtime, I fell (see: allowed myself to fall) into a bit of a funk.  As mentioned, Christmas held very little excitement for me, and the prospect of 2012 starting with such a pathetic whimper was depressing as all hell.  I stopped writing, I stopped eating well.  I had no drive, no capacity for caring a whit. I started to hibernate, isolating myself like an injured animal, snarling at anyone who ventured too close to my cave.

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi had nothing on me.  NOTHING.

Well.  I don’t know which of the Powers That Be decided to kicked me in my astral ass, but I’m grateful to them.  Just blinked one day, and things just seemed…different.  Less dull.  A little more shiny.  Better.

So I’m opting for a Re-Do. I apologize for not being here for you.  I resolve to be present.  I resolve to growl less.  I resolve that in the days and weeks to come, I’m gonna be inundating you with stream-of-consciousness ramblings, biased and ill-informed opinions, nostalgic wanderings, music/film/art reviews and other really cool stuff, you just wait and see.

I’ve missed y’all so much.  Happy New Year, everyone.

Erin

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Linda & Me

The unknown future rolls toward us.

I face it, for the first time, with a sense of hope. ~ Sarah Connor

(Or at least with the knowledge I won’t be mowing down an entire Fortino’s chicken for dinner with chocolate mint ice cream for dessert.)

~Erin Lee McBride

Just finished Jillian Michaels30-Day Shred, now starting ‘Ripped In 30.’  Four weeks, four levels.  I hear Level One of Ripped is much more difficult than the same level of the Shred.

I am preparing to have my ass handed to me.

Update: Finished Day 5, Week 1 of ‘Ripped In 30.’  It’s been fine, this first week.  There’s a couple of exercises I hate, but that’s par for the course.  I just swear at the TV more.

I’m up between 0520-0545 every morning (except Saturday and Sunday, usually around 0700 if I’m at home).  For the first month, this sucked.  Then, after the haze cleared, I realized I had this beautiful time all to myself guaranteed, for every day I was willing to drag my sorry tuchus out of bed.  I have anywhere from 2-2.5 hours each morning to work out and anything else I can fit in, including coming here to write.  It’s an important and significant gift I give myself.  I’m still generally tired all the time, but that’s my own fault; hitting the sack at a decent hour has never been my forte.

I decided at the beginning of this process that I want to be Linda Hamilton, minus the marriage to James Cameron and all the crazy.  When I first laid eyes on her then-new bod in Terminator 2: Judgment Day, I was in awe.  Holy crap!  Those shoulders!  That back! Those biceps!  Those triceps!  And though she’s quite obviously petite, she lacks that anorexic Lara Croft vibe (sorry, Angie).  She’s a veritable Slim Jim, a compact package of sinewy awesomeness.  You know that bit near the end of the movie, when Morphing Silver Guy has pierced her right shoulder, and she can still load the gun single-handedly and blow him to bits?  It’s my favourite badass chick moment of all time, even beating out the gorgeous, over-the-top cheesiness of Demi Moore screaming “suck my d***!” at Viggo Mortensen in G.I. Jane.

This hasn’t been easy, and I know that some days I don’t ‘bring it’ as hard as I should.  When things start getting difficult, though, I think of something Jillian says in this workout:  “It is what it is.”  For me, this means, you’re here, you’re not getting out of it, you may as well welcome or at least ignore the pain, because you will not stop.  Also, I read a quote the other day which read, “Don’t look back – you’re not going that way.”  There is only forward.

Girls can be strong.  Girls can be tough.  And strong, tough girls can be dead sexy.

I’ll check back in soon.

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