Dear Invisible Valentine,
This is not short and it's not a Hallmark card. But it's specifically for you, anyway. Yes, you. The person who finds yourself, during the "holiday of love", feeling alone and invisible.
I know you're embarrassed about feeling the way you do today. You're telling yourself it's a first world problem, a frame of mind you think you should be able to think your way out of. But I see you and can tell you, I know that it's really not so simple.
You know how sometimes kids get right to the heart of things that adults struggle to understand and explain? Recently, a writer friend posted on Facebook about a grocery store incident she witnessed in which a young child in the middle of a meltdown tearfully hollered to his mother, "I just want you to see me!". Almost immediately after the post appeared, comments started flooding in. Boy, did that child's comment resonate with people! And while it's anybody's guess what a child's comment taken out of context actually meant, one thing was clear in the discussion which followed on social media. The experience of feeling invisible is not unique.
Holiday hype can take that feeling of invisibility and magnify it exponentially.
Valentine's Day, in particular, can be experienced as a statement of that people belong in one of two camps: the seen and the invisible, the loved and the unloved, the acknowledged and the unacknowledged.
These ideas are instilled and reinforced at an early age. When I was a kid, for instance, a February school fundraiser involved the selling of Valentine's Day carnations to be distributed to one or more designated people on the 14th. Invariably, during the very public distribution of flowers, there were kids who received bunches, and kids who received none. You, over there, are liked, but you, over here, are not.
As adults, we are wise enough to know, at least intellectually, that flowers, candies, and cards do not equal love. But most of us aren't completely immune to societal messages about Valentine's Day, which is why we can find ourselves feeling disappointed or rejected when the day unfolds as an ordinary one, devoid of demonstrative gestures of someone else's love for us. Or why, in other instances, we're baffled when we receive Valentine's Day tokens of affection and regard and find ourselves still feeling alone. And sometimes, invisible.
This is for you, Invisible Valentine, whatever your history or situation. I may not see the particulars of your life, but I see the feeling underneath it all, and in that way, I see you clearly. Maybe you are recently uncoupled, or estranged from your family, or without a longed-for child to give you handmade Valentines. Maybe someone dear who always remembered you on Valentine's Day has passed away recently, and you wonder if you will ever feel so connected and acknowledged again, on Valentine's or any day. Maybe you are struggling financially, or working a thankless job, or desperately seeking a job, or grappling with an illness, disability, or chronic pain that makes you feel invisible to the legions of people who have their physical health. Whatever the case, you don't feel seen or connected, and this day of hearts and lace and flowers can feel like salt in that particular wound.
I'm not going to tell you to write a gratitude list or turn your attention to giving to others (though both of these practices can be good medicine in certain situations). Instead, I'm going to tell you to see yourself today, in the form of using Valentine's Day as a good excuse to treat yourself extra well. I'm going to tell you that, in the throws of Feeling Invisible, your sense of your own visibility and worth have no relationship whatsoever to whether others can see you and how much you matter. And I'm going to tell you that, in my professional role as a therapist and in my personal role as someone who can grapple with the invisibility thing from time to time myself, I have never known it to last forever.
And I'm going to tell you that I see you, Invisible Valentine. And I'm wishing you, if happiness itself eludes you right now, at least the solace, self-compassion, hope, and strength to get you through a tough time.
Keep on keeping on.
Sunday, February 14, 2016
Friday, January 22, 2016
Own worst critic? Maybe you're not qualified.
A writer friend told me her 11-year-old son didn't want to slow her the poem he wrote for homework because "it isn't any good". She answered, "Honey, how could you possibly know?"
She wasn't criticizing his judgment of writing in general, of course, but pointing out that writers are seldom in a position to evaluate the quality of our own work. Sure, we might do some decent technical revision, especially if we've put a particular piece aside and returned to it afresh. But to assess the quality or worthiness of a creative piece, especially when we've just written or are still in the process of writing it? Not so much.
The idea that I am not necessarily in any position to judge my own writing is not a brand new concept for me, but it reasserted itself recently as I tried to understand two of my most problematic writing (and non-writing) behaviors: dropping my writing practice/routine, and leaving pieces of writing unfinished. (Not that all writing needs to or should become something other than practice, but that's another topic for a different post).
When I asked myself recently how I can tell when a work is worth finishing or is in fact finished, I thought, "I'll know because I love it when I read it." But when I shared that idea with another writing friend, he laughed out loud.
"If that were my criteria, I wouldn't finish or submit anything for a very long time. Maybe forever."
He has a good point. In general, and especially if one has a habit of being self-critical, which is true of me and, I would guess, of most creative types.
So I have made an agreement to share work with another writer regularly. I don't have to share everything, but I do have to keep my mind open that an objective reader might find value in something I've started to write but then abandoned as crap.
In other words, I am leaving the judging of at least a portion of my work to someone more qualified. Not skill-wise, but perspective-wise.
Hmm. Perhaps this applies to judging one's own parenting, too?
Food for thought.
She wasn't criticizing his judgment of writing in general, of course, but pointing out that writers are seldom in a position to evaluate the quality of our own work. Sure, we might do some decent technical revision, especially if we've put a particular piece aside and returned to it afresh. But to assess the quality or worthiness of a creative piece, especially when we've just written or are still in the process of writing it? Not so much.
The idea that I am not necessarily in any position to judge my own writing is not a brand new concept for me, but it reasserted itself recently as I tried to understand two of my most problematic writing (and non-writing) behaviors: dropping my writing practice/routine, and leaving pieces of writing unfinished. (Not that all writing needs to or should become something other than practice, but that's another topic for a different post).
When I asked myself recently how I can tell when a work is worth finishing or is in fact finished, I thought, "I'll know because I love it when I read it." But when I shared that idea with another writing friend, he laughed out loud.
"If that were my criteria, I wouldn't finish or submit anything for a very long time. Maybe forever."
He has a good point. In general, and especially if one has a habit of being self-critical, which is true of me and, I would guess, of most creative types.
So I have made an agreement to share work with another writer regularly. I don't have to share everything, but I do have to keep my mind open that an objective reader might find value in something I've started to write but then abandoned as crap.
In other words, I am leaving the judging of at least a portion of my work to someone more qualified. Not skill-wise, but perspective-wise.
Hmm. Perhaps this applies to judging one's own parenting, too?
Food for thought.
Tuesday, January 19, 2016
Parenting, writing, and becoming who we are
"Also, being a parent, while wonderful in many ways, has not been conducive to writing for me. Other than that, I imagine I'm closer to death than ever before, and I better get my book done." - Debbie Anderson
Recently, I spent a Saturday afternoon that I'd hoped to spend writing learning a new card game from my 8-year-old. She needed that kind of focused attention from me that day (and many days), so I did what was called for, and admittedly had some fun. Writing, however, did not happen.
I also celebrated a birthday recently, an inevitable reminder that I don't have an eternity in which to meet my goals.
I have a commitment to my daughter, not just to feed, clothe, and shelter her, but to connect with her regularly. I sometimes think she wants more of that than the average kid. That said, I think she sometimes experiences me as more distracted and less available than the average mom. She has said to me during my preoccupied times, "Sometimes even though I'm with you, I miss you." Catching me in an episode of emotional and intellectual absence.
I know what it means to me to commit to my daughter, and also to the clients I work with. But what does it mean to commit to one's writing?
Last winter and spring, I wrote often. I created and shared blog posts, worked on a novel daily, journaled, created drafts of short fiction and poetry.
But in the latter part of the year, I fell off the writing wagon. A powerful inertia took the place of my writing practice. I felt like I was suffering from not just writer's block, but writer's paralysis.
But it's a new year, and I'm putting my toes in the writing water again by asking myself some basic questions about what makes writing meaningful for me. Trying to carve out writing time with renewed commitment. And seeing if I still remember how to write a blog post.
What about you? What meaningful activity or practice are you trying to recover or sustain this year? What gets in your way, and which of those impediments can be solved?
May 2016 be a year for becoming more fully who we are.
Recently, I spent a Saturday afternoon that I'd hoped to spend writing learning a new card game from my 8-year-old. She needed that kind of focused attention from me that day (and many days), so I did what was called for, and admittedly had some fun. Writing, however, did not happen.
I also celebrated a birthday recently, an inevitable reminder that I don't have an eternity in which to meet my goals.
I have a commitment to my daughter, not just to feed, clothe, and shelter her, but to connect with her regularly. I sometimes think she wants more of that than the average kid. That said, I think she sometimes experiences me as more distracted and less available than the average mom. She has said to me during my preoccupied times, "Sometimes even though I'm with you, I miss you." Catching me in an episode of emotional and intellectual absence.
I know what it means to me to commit to my daughter, and also to the clients I work with. But what does it mean to commit to one's writing?
Last winter and spring, I wrote often. I created and shared blog posts, worked on a novel daily, journaled, created drafts of short fiction and poetry.
But in the latter part of the year, I fell off the writing wagon. A powerful inertia took the place of my writing practice. I felt like I was suffering from not just writer's block, but writer's paralysis.
But it's a new year, and I'm putting my toes in the writing water again by asking myself some basic questions about what makes writing meaningful for me. Trying to carve out writing time with renewed commitment. And seeing if I still remember how to write a blog post.
What about you? What meaningful activity or practice are you trying to recover or sustain this year? What gets in your way, and which of those impediments can be solved?
May 2016 be a year for becoming more fully who we are.
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