It's been a while. It's been since the election, actually. These were my thoughts at the time, saved in draft form:
This week has been difficult for me. Deep down, I did not believe that a man who endorses and displays hostility toward a large segment of the population could "win" (though not by popular vote) the Presidency. I have been, along with so many others, disillusioned and horrified.
I had not remembered that the election was when I stopped blogging, but in retrospect, it does not surprise me.
I was just a baby when psychologist Martin Seligman presented his "learned helplessness" theory, but I learned as an undergraduate about his experiments. I won't go into the specifics of the experiments, as they involve dogs (which I love) and electric shock (so yeah, I can't even go there). What he learned, in a nutshell, is that dogs who assess suffering as inescapable will often just lie down, literally and metaphorically, and take it. A theory of depression emerged.
To be clear, as both a mental health professional and a person with frequent flyer miles for travel to and from depression, I do not believe that depression is caused by any one thing. Depression is multifaceted and multidetermined.
But as I talk to colleagues, clients, and loved ones since the election, I am aware that many have been fighting valiantly, using whatever resources they have toward political and social change.
Whereas I and some others I know have mainly been lying down absorbing the shocks.
What does it mean to survivors to have appointed as our national leader someone who flaunts and abuses power, hates and attacks entire populations, and has both gotten away with and endorsed the assault of women?
Every survivor I know has been retraumatized.
When I think about the most damaging aspects of abuse, I think it is less about the actual physical harm and more about the underlying message: You deserve to be mistreated, harmed, and shunned. You are what's wrong with you.
Some survivors reach a breaking point in which they refuse to ingest and digest this toxic message. They fight back in various ways. For some, a kind of fierce self-care and self-advocacy develop which says, I will look out for myself no matter what. I think those survivors are amazing. They are our beacons of light.
In a thousand ways, I have been more of a Seligman dog. Give me mistreatment or misfortune and even the appearance of a blocked escape route, and I will lie down.
What gives me the hope of getting up and staying up is connecting with other survivors.
When I listen to your story and I know in my bones that you do not exist to be a lightning rod for abuse and bad experiences, I can entertain the idea that I have some inherent worth, also.
Maybe that gets me from lying down to sitting up.
When I share experiences with survivors, it is like we are in the shock box together, and we can look at that blocked escape route and wonder together if it's fallible. Or if maybe there's another escape route to be found or made.
Maybe that gets us, together, from sitting to standing.
What you are reading is both my decision to resume my blog writing and my focus for the blog going forward.
Maybe nobody will read it.
Maybe I am alone in my shock box.
Maybe this is a message in a bottle, and it won't reach anyone ever, or it will reach someone after I'm gone.
But even writing it gives me something more valuable to do than lie around absorbing shock.
We matter.
The past can't hurt us, but resignation to suffering, especially if we think we somehow deserve it, can.
Reach out for help and hope, even from a lying down position.
Know your own strength.
Thursday, July 12, 2018
Sunday, February 14, 2016
Valentine's Day Hype and the Invisible Valentine
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.
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.
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.
Monday, November 2, 2015
Wanted: Skilled and Experienced Autumn Leaf Safekeeper
Happy autumn, everyone!
I haven't vanished, but have been attending to all sort of things: writing, seeing clients, Halloween with a spirited 8-year-old, and all the other stuff that usually makes up my blog posts here.
I've also been participating in a very interesting and helpful certificate program in Trauma Informed Therapy through the Trauma Insitute in Northampton (they're doing some excellent work; check them out at www.childtrauma.com), and am excited to share that I will be doing some work for them this month, as well. This feels like both an honor and a joy, as it entails the possibility to help significantly with post-trauma effects in a short period of time. (Read about memory re-consolidation and trauma resolution therapy on the above-mentioned site, if you're interested).
I have also been doing a lot of research recently, especially about the addiction-trauma connection, drug use and recovery among pregnant and parenting women, and Neonatal Abstinence Syndrome (NAS). While there is still a lot of very scary stuff in the news all the time about drug addiction, overdose deaths, and NAS, there is also a growing national movement putting the emphasis on treatment, recovery, and non-incarceration solutions to addiction.
Since I know not everyone who reads this blog is especially interested in the topics above, I will be funneling the majority of this writing to a second blog, Having Hope and Helping Better, which is in the planning stages at this time. If you are interested in it, please let me know so I can send it your way when it's launched.
Ah, the holidays-- I am doing some extra thinking this year about what they mean to me and how to potentially gear them more toward my household/family as they currently exist. Would love to hear about any ways in which you have or plan to reinvent the holidays for yourself, too.
Last but not least, I have to say I have been really enjoying the vibrant autumn colors this year. My daughter routinely collects leaves she finds especially beautiful and then gives them to me for "safe keeping". I am not sure I am remotely qualified for the job of autumn leaf-keeping, but I do love to see the ones she finds for us.
Wishing you well,
Susan
Friday, October 2, 2015
Zumba for Depressed People
It's been a while. I have been focused on such mundane things as car repairs and my child's acclimation to second grade, so writing has been on the back burner for the last few weeks. But I'm ready to get back to it.
I got back to something else tonight. I went to a Zumba class. Not too long ago, I was going regularly, but this went by the wayside recently, too.
The class was pretty good (though I felt the missing weeks in my muscles, my lungs, and my coordination). It was a new instructor tonight. I've had a handful of them, and their styles have varied considerably-- one had a kind of ballet-on-steroids presentation, another was very muscular and looked like she was dancing with invisible barbels, and a third had a take on the standard Zumba moves that looked more cheerleading than dance. But those three, along with tonight's teacher, had one thing in common. They were super cheerful.
Maybe this is a requirement for being a good Zumba teacher.
I like Zumba. I'll never be skilled enough to teach it, but there have been times when I've imagined a Zumba class I'd like to teach. It would be Zumba for Depressed People.
I would start the class with the question, "How many found it a Herculean task to get here?"
I would say that they should do what they can, take breaks if they need to. I would say they should not berate themselves if they make a mistake.
I wouldn't coddle them. I wouldn't push them. I would be friendly, but not exuberant. I would let them know that wherever they were physically, emotionally, was okay.
And in my fantasy about this, they would know that I am no stranger to depression and anxiety. That some days are harder than others. But that you don't have to be super-enthusiastic to go to a Zumba class. You just have to take that leap of faith that the music, the moves, the process of doing this one act of self-care can leave you feeling better at the end of the hour. Not ecstatic, mind you. But better.
This society tends to stigmatize depression and anxiety. It's supposed to be our dirty secret, something that keeps us skulking around our homes, away from Zumba classes and well-adjusted people.
Some of the best people I know have survived bouts of depression and/or anxiety. It is not who we are, but it is part of who we are. And we shouldn't hide or be embarrassed and ashamed. Depressed and anxious do not equal weak, flawed, or damaged.
I'd like to have us all in a big room doing Zumba in a very low-key, accepting, courageous way.
I got back to something else tonight. I went to a Zumba class. Not too long ago, I was going regularly, but this went by the wayside recently, too.
The class was pretty good (though I felt the missing weeks in my muscles, my lungs, and my coordination). It was a new instructor tonight. I've had a handful of them, and their styles have varied considerably-- one had a kind of ballet-on-steroids presentation, another was very muscular and looked like she was dancing with invisible barbels, and a third had a take on the standard Zumba moves that looked more cheerleading than dance. But those three, along with tonight's teacher, had one thing in common. They were super cheerful.
Maybe this is a requirement for being a good Zumba teacher.
I like Zumba. I'll never be skilled enough to teach it, but there have been times when I've imagined a Zumba class I'd like to teach. It would be Zumba for Depressed People.
I would start the class with the question, "How many found it a Herculean task to get here?"
I would say that they should do what they can, take breaks if they need to. I would say they should not berate themselves if they make a mistake.
I wouldn't coddle them. I wouldn't push them. I would be friendly, but not exuberant. I would let them know that wherever they were physically, emotionally, was okay.
And in my fantasy about this, they would know that I am no stranger to depression and anxiety. That some days are harder than others. But that you don't have to be super-enthusiastic to go to a Zumba class. You just have to take that leap of faith that the music, the moves, the process of doing this one act of self-care can leave you feeling better at the end of the hour. Not ecstatic, mind you. But better.
This society tends to stigmatize depression and anxiety. It's supposed to be our dirty secret, something that keeps us skulking around our homes, away from Zumba classes and well-adjusted people.
Some of the best people I know have survived bouts of depression and/or anxiety. It is not who we are, but it is part of who we are. And we shouldn't hide or be embarrassed and ashamed. Depressed and anxious do not equal weak, flawed, or damaged.
I'd like to have us all in a big room doing Zumba in a very low-key, accepting, courageous way.
Friday, September 11, 2015
Partly cloudy with rain on your parade
It was in the forecast, so I knew to expect it. Yesterday, it was slated to rain during the annual county fair parade my daughter had her heart set on attending.
Still, I started from a place of denial. I went about my morning at work thinking, The meteorologists got it wrong. The weather will be fine.
Meanwhile, gradually, the rural backdrop took on a definitive shade of gray.
By mid-afternoon, I had changed tactics and was trying to figure out a scenario that included rain but did not include me getting soaked at a parade. Maybe the parade would be cancelled! Concern about soggy floats might prevail, never mind about drenched children.
I checked the official website for fair-related events, and saw that the parade would not, in fact, be cancelled.
Hmmm. Maybe my daughter would forget it was on the schedule? (Yeah, right.) Maybe I could fabricate a working-late excuse and ask her to forgive me? (She surely would, but the image of the disappointment in her face was enough to make me cross that one off the list).
Eventually, 90 minutes before the parade and with rain pummeling the windshield of my car, I thought, "OK. A parade in the rain. There have to be ways to make the best of this."
And I actually came up with some. The long rain coat for my daughter rather than an umbrella, so she would not get wet sitting on the curb. The plastic bag for her soggy candy, since rain would certainly not detour her from scrambling to get some. An umbrella and comfortable clothes for me.
Relapse prevention work is like this. If you're trying to stay clean and sober, there are avoidable triggers. Stay out of bars. Avoid the high-stress family reunion where others will be drinking and/or drugging. Forgo, at least initially, the leisure activities which are paired so completely with substance use in your mind and experience that you can't imagine doing one without doing the other. In other words, if the goal is recovery, avoid avoidable triggers and high-risk situations. Don't set yourself up.
Some things, though, you can't avoid. And then the task is to figure out how to navigate them while still accomplishing your main goal. Maybe you bring a long-time sober friend as a support person to a family function where people will be drinking. Maybe you turn down the offer for a ride to that big event and choose to drive yourself, so you can leave immediately if you're feeling tempted to steer off-course.
In my case, avoiding the parade altogether would have meant a deeply disappointed daughter. But I also didn't want to go and be terrible company for her because of a terrible mood, which seemed like a distinct possibility when I thought about parade-watching in the rain. So I took steps to minimize our discomfort, worked on reframing my negative thoughts, and tried to pay attention to the novelty aspect, as we were surely making a memory of The Year it Rained on Our Parade.
In the end, we had a pretty good time. We both got pretty wet. Much of her candy was indeed soggy. But I was not cross and negative, and she was in great spirits.
Sometimes it does rain on our parade! Sometimes it's even in the forecast-- we see it coming.
And still it can all be okay.
Still, I started from a place of denial. I went about my morning at work thinking, The meteorologists got it wrong. The weather will be fine.
Meanwhile, gradually, the rural backdrop took on a definitive shade of gray.
By mid-afternoon, I had changed tactics and was trying to figure out a scenario that included rain but did not include me getting soaked at a parade. Maybe the parade would be cancelled! Concern about soggy floats might prevail, never mind about drenched children.
I checked the official website for fair-related events, and saw that the parade would not, in fact, be cancelled.
Hmmm. Maybe my daughter would forget it was on the schedule? (Yeah, right.) Maybe I could fabricate a working-late excuse and ask her to forgive me? (She surely would, but the image of the disappointment in her face was enough to make me cross that one off the list).
Eventually, 90 minutes before the parade and with rain pummeling the windshield of my car, I thought, "OK. A parade in the rain. There have to be ways to make the best of this."
And I actually came up with some. The long rain coat for my daughter rather than an umbrella, so she would not get wet sitting on the curb. The plastic bag for her soggy candy, since rain would certainly not detour her from scrambling to get some. An umbrella and comfortable clothes for me.
Relapse prevention work is like this. If you're trying to stay clean and sober, there are avoidable triggers. Stay out of bars. Avoid the high-stress family reunion where others will be drinking and/or drugging. Forgo, at least initially, the leisure activities which are paired so completely with substance use in your mind and experience that you can't imagine doing one without doing the other. In other words, if the goal is recovery, avoid avoidable triggers and high-risk situations. Don't set yourself up.
Some things, though, you can't avoid. And then the task is to figure out how to navigate them while still accomplishing your main goal. Maybe you bring a long-time sober friend as a support person to a family function where people will be drinking. Maybe you turn down the offer for a ride to that big event and choose to drive yourself, so you can leave immediately if you're feeling tempted to steer off-course.
In my case, avoiding the parade altogether would have meant a deeply disappointed daughter. But I also didn't want to go and be terrible company for her because of a terrible mood, which seemed like a distinct possibility when I thought about parade-watching in the rain. So I took steps to minimize our discomfort, worked on reframing my negative thoughts, and tried to pay attention to the novelty aspect, as we were surely making a memory of The Year it Rained on Our Parade.
In the end, we had a pretty good time. We both got pretty wet. Much of her candy was indeed soggy. But I was not cross and negative, and she was in great spirits.
Sometimes it does rain on our parade! Sometimes it's even in the forecast-- we see it coming.
And still it can all be okay.
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