The Source of Strength

Through the course of writing this blog (it's almost 1 year old!), there is a comment that keeps coming up, time and again. It's not one that I mind, but it's one that confuses me.

I write to inspire. I write to encourage and I write to share my story. I written about testifying in court against my mother and how I'd like to approach my own death. I've written about what it's like to skydive, what it's like to have a stroke and what it's like to have PTSD.

The comment / compliment that keeps coming up, throughout my sharing stories with you is about how strong I am.

To this compliment, I normally reply, "At the end of the day, we're a lot stronger than we think we are," and this is true, but it's not the end of the statement.

Yes, I've had a lot happen to me in my short 32 years. Yes, I've had many adventures and weathered many storms, but I don't think I'm necessarily "stronger" than anyone else. When it comes down to it, there are two options of dealing with what this world can throw at you. You can either weather it and let your story continue, or you can let it break you.

Gandhi has a nice quote about this:

Most of the time, I've chosen to weather things, seek help and try to move beyond them. I choose to not surrender. Most of the time, even through depression and Lupus, I convince myself that my story isn't going to end with the latest setback. I remind myself that my story isn't all written, yet, and that there are many shining and brilliant days awaiting me.

Maybe that, in itself, is strength - refusing to "go quietly into that good night."

But, again, I don't see myself as a "strong person." I merely see myself as a person who decided to not let the bottoming-out define me. We all have failures. We all have tragedies and mistakes and oopsies in our past, but we don't have to let them define who we are, forever.

Yes, I'm depressed and have anxiety. Yes, I grew up in an abusive home and I have health problems. But those things are merely facts about me and things that happened. They are not "me."

In the movie, Dark City, a race of aliens is searching for the existence of the human soul by swapping people's memories between different bodies. At the end of the movie, the aliens state that the soul is more than just the sum of our memories. Our past influences who we are, today and in the future, but we are more at our core than just the sum of our memories.

From what I can see, all "strength" is, really, is the ability to pick yourself up when you've stumbled along the way. And if I or any of my readers have done this, then maybe we're all strong people. We all have falling down moments, but in the world of Oriah Mountain Dreamer in her poem, The Invitation,"

"It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up, after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children."

That, I think, is real strength.

So, my lovelies, do you think that you are a strong person? Why or why not? Are you willing to own your strength? Tell me about it.

Until next time,

Love to All My Relations,

-Bri

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This is Water: Changing How We Think

This week, I found this wonderfully amazing video. Before I go on to my thoughts on this subject, please watch it.

Wow! I don't know about you, but that was one of the most amazing videos I've seen, this year.

As much as I try to live my life outside of what people call, "the daily grind," sometimes it sneaks in. Sometimes I do have to go someplace during rush hour in a big city. Sometimes I do need food at peak grocery store hours. Sometimes, life's little annoyances happen to me, too.

And, as much as I try, sometimes I forget my goal. I go into a grocery store in my hometown and see the little brother of an ex-boyfriend. I'm sure he doesn't know why my body posture goes stiff when I see him. I'm sure he doesn't understand why I have to strain for polite words. But his eyes, the eyes that his brother also has, reminds me of a time of great emotional pain.

It is times like these that I remember that I am still struggling with keeping myself grounded, that I am still (despite all my inner work) having a hard time forgiving and that I am not a 100% enlightened being, yet. Still, I do try. In the parking lot, sitting in The Visionary Van, I try to calm my heart rate. I try to find that wise portion of myself which is capable of distancing itself from the memory this boy invoked. I try to feel what it would be like to extend to him, to his family, to even his brother the handshake of friendship and shared experience that I try to offer all of humanity.

My art, my writing, my creativity, my inner emotional and spiritual work. These things are not separate. They are all intrinsically linked to each other. Back before my loads of inner emotional and spiritual work, my art was about pain and longing. It connected with people on an emotional level of shared sadness and suffering. I even received some minor notoriety for it, publishing 3 books and having 1 art showing.

As I began to change and heal, my art and writing began to change. I began to see how we can connect with each other through the shared experience of beauty, joy and (the most basic heart response) love. I began to put my lifelong quest for modes of healing into my writing, into this blog, into seeking out others who are shining out the same light I am.

I know I am not alone in this journey. I know that there are a million souls out there on this planet and beyond that are seeking a connection with each other. We are seeking something more than what we've been shown. We are looking out into the night sky and deep into the eyes of our neighbor, asking each the same question, "Is there anyone that feels like I do?"

Well, I can tell you, my lovelies - YES! There are millions of us out here. You are not alone!

When we change the way we think, when we change the way we view our own world, our lives begin to change. Nights that were once spent alone and terrified of our aching need to be loved are replaced with nights where we are alone and comfortable in our solitude because we know that we are never, ever really "alone." No matter what we have gone through or what we desire to create, another soul in this vast place has felt and desired the same thing.

No matter where you are in your journey, just keep remembering that what you look for, you will find. Just keep reminding yourself to be kind, to seek your truth, to be as creative and joyful and peaceful as you can. We will meet, one day. Of that, I am certain. And, oh do I look forward to that meeting. I can't wait to see your eyes as you see that, yes, I am a real person and, no, you aren't really alone.

Choose what you desire your life to be and seek to make it so. Remember - this is water!


Until next time, my lovelies, please remember that we are all visionaries. We just have to figure out where we excel.

Love to All,

-Bri

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In a Bad Funk

Today, I'm in a funk. My body doesn't feel right. My head isn't clear. In general, things suck.

Even I have days like this.

I'm in the grocery store at 10 o'clock at night, staring into the frozen food cases. My shoulders are slouched. My hair is pulled back in a low ponytail. I don't have on any socks or makeup and I'm wearing pajama pants. Through the frost-coated glass doors, I'm trying to figure out what flavor of ice cream contains the secret to getting my happy back.

I know this won't work, but everything else I've tried has failed.

It's snowing out. There are clouds from horizon to horizon, so there's no sun to bathe in. When I get home, I know that hubby and the kids have bathed, so sitting down in the shower and letting hot water run over me? Not going to happen.

Cookie Dough? Pistachio? Strawberry? Super-Fudgy-Chunk?

I stare at the rainbow of little pint containers. Finally, I select one I haven't tried before. "Maybe it's just that I've not tried ALL the flavors, yet," I think to myself.

Again, I know this isn't true, but I'm grasping at straws.

As I'm walking to the checkout line, it hits me. Potato chips. I want salt. I bypass the checkout line and stroll down the aisle with different colored mylar bags just winking at me in the florescent light. "Why do stores keep putting florescent lights in? Don't they know that it just makes people feel worse?" I think.

I select a bag of popcorn instead of the chips and I think, "These are healthier . . . I think." The bag is black and I remember how a cashier once, about 4 months ago, who told me that she didn't feel any smarter after eating the bag of corn, despite what the company who made it was called. Some cynical remark about the cashier's intelligence that I don't mean skitters across my brain like a beetle.

Then a song so depressing comes on the PA that it feels like the world is just conspiring with my funk to keep my shoulders slouched.

 
At home, I sit with a spoon, watching some comedian's special on my television for the 20th time. I know the jokes. I'm not laughing, anymore. But, somehow, the familiar voice cadence of a routine that I know by heart makes me less agitated. I love the lilts of the comedian's voice. I love the little laughs and sidetracks that happen in the moment.

I spoon the ice cream in my mouth. Then, when I'm done, I mute the television. I pull out my laptop and I write, "Today, I'm in a funk."

I can't change the fact that I'm in this strange funk that nothing seems to be able to penetrate, so I try to do something with it. I put it down on the page. In words or art, I put it down. I try to get it out of me so that it doesn't stay and wreck the next couple of days.

I think back to what may be the root of my malaise. Is it the fact that there hasn't been sun in a couple of days 'cause it's winter in Indiana? Did I do too much at that television interview and now, with my Lupus, I'm paying the price for it? Did I miscalculate my spoons? Did the nightmares that I woke screaming from cause me not to get enough good sleep, again?

It's pointless to try and figure it out. It may be one, all, or none of those reasons and knowing doesn't help me, at all. So I write. And I write. And I write some more. I pour it out on the page.

That's what I do when things are crap and nothing seems to make them better. I watch television. I eat ice cream. I take my pills and I type on my computer. I read books. I play with Pookie while sitting in bed. Maybe it's just my body trying to tell me that I need this cave time - that I need to hunker down and just not be as many things to people as I usually am. Or maybe this is just another one of those things that come with having Lupus.

So I try to get by with my ice cream and comedy specials. And maybe tomorrow I'll feel better. Maybe tomorrow the clouds will break and the wind will quit blowing stinging snow in my face and I can get out and take a walk. Maybe I'll go into a store and not hear depressing songs in minor chords. And maybe there could be Alfredo for dinner. Tomorrow. All tomorrow.

Today, it's time to be honest. It's time to write. Today, there's the truth of everything and the power of being authentic - of not pretending that everything is okay.

Today, I'm in a bad funk and I can't figure a way out.

Boundaries and the Sacredness of "No"

Throughout my life, I have had a problem with boundaries. For a long time, in my formative years, I was not allowed to have boundaries. I was not allowed to set parameters of what I would and would not accept as situations in my life. Even a boundary of, "When I'm in the shower, that is a time for privacy. Do not come in and talk to me while I"m naked," I was not allowed to have.

Secret thoughts written down in a journal? No. My journals were taken, read aloud, and I was made to pay a psychological and emotional toll for "thought crimes." Any possession that I had was subject to being taken from me on a whim. A pocket knife given to me by my father? Taken. Books of poetry that expressed any thought other than happiness and rainbows? Confiscated.

"Did you grow up in some sort of strange cult?" you might ask me. The answer is yes and no. This is one of the tolls on a person's mind and emotions when they're living with an abusive parent.

After I got out into the world and my life became my own, it took quite awhile for me to learn how to respond appropriately when my boundaries were crossed. It took therapy, medications, meditation and a lot of deep breathes to center myself when presented with conflict.

In the depths of being in this emotionally vulnerable state, I recall one such boundary breech situation where I did not respond well. Though I constantly strive for higher understanding and sharing of the force and experiences that unite us as people, I am human. And sometimes I miss the mark, make a mistake and don't respond as well as I could have.

In my hometown, there are no 24 hour coffee shops or diners. When I need to write, these are the places I prefer to go. From the age of 18 on, instead, I began to frequent a local bar. I would sit in a booth by myself with my books and my journals and I would drink coffee. Always coffee. And, since I got known for being very quiet and not causing trouble, I was allowed to stay in the bar past "all ages" time. I became so familiar there that they allowed me to get coffee refills, myself, whenever I wanted. The hours that I've spent in this bar have been great.

For years, I would venture out into the world, trying to find my place in it. But I would always come back to my bar. Employees came and went, but the new ones quickly learned who I was. Sometimes, I had no money and they let me drink coffee for free. If I had a dollar or two, I'd give it as a tip to the lovely bartenders who were always so kind to me. Over time, I got to know them and became their friend. Many a time, I counseled them through good times and bad, and I became known as the "bar therapist." If that bar is the hometown bar from the TV show Cheers, then I am the "Frasier" of The Inn.

Once, while at my bar, I left my journals and books on the table and I went to the bathroom. This was not uncommon. Every common patron of the establishment knows (at least) of me and, with it being such a small town, no one had ever bothered my things. 10 years I went to that bar doing the same thing and never once did I experience a problem. Until one day. (There's always an 'until' that comes after a 'never,' isn't there?)

On this particular day, I went to the bathroom, then stood at the bar chatting with the girls. When I returned to my table. I was horrified. The bar was mostly empty, yet there were two men sitting in my booth. It was obvious that they'd done so on purpose and, horror of horrors, one of them was flipping though and reading my journals.

When I saw this, I felt so violated. It's not that this man that I barely knew was reading my journals, he was peering into my mind. He was seeing into my heart and soul, deep thoughts I'd never uttered. And he was doing so without my permission. I instantly became panicked and afraid. I stormed up to the booth where the men sat and they looked up and me. I exploded at the man holding my journal.

"What are you doing!?!"

"Oh. We didn't know that this stuff was yours," he lied.

"Yes, you did! Everyone knows that I'm the only one that comes he with books and writes! Get out of my booth!!!"

"We can sit anywhere we want." The man's friend taunted me.

"Fine!" I yelled. "At least stand up and let me get my purse."

"No." The men refused to get up, so I did the only thing I could think of to do. I dropped down on the floor, crawled under the table and retrieved my purse. Then I stood up and took all the books and the journal off the table and out of their hands. Immediately, I bolted for the door and deposited the things in my car, which I locked.

I went back into the bar and told the bartenders what happened. I don't really know what I wanted them to do. I wanted the men kicked out, yelled at, arrested. Something! In my mind, you couldn't just violate a person's space like that and get away with it. Talking to the bartenders, it became clear that they, basically, couldn't do anything about what happened. Nor should they. It was not their wrong-doing or their fight and I knew it. I calmed down and went back to the table.

Going back to the one that had read my journal, I asked if I could speak to him outside. In the parking lot, I apologized for flying off the handle. Then I asked him why he got into my things. "I don't know," he said and I never got an explanation. But what happened next shocked me to my core.

"I read that thing about being a mountain. Did you write that?" Hesitantly, I replied that I had, knowing that he had stumbled upon a guided meditation I'd written for a friend. "I really liked that. The part about the goats? I didn't know anyone else thought like that. Sometimes, I go and sit and just watch the sun set, lying on the hood of my car. I didn't know anyone else thought stuff like that, at all."

Here he was, this man that had just pried into my inner world without my permission and he was standing there telling me that he didn't know that others in the world thought like he did. 'What a lonely life,' I thought.

"You liked it?" I asked, still hesitant. "Yeah," he said. I felt my shoulders relax and my anger subside. "Well," I said to him, "I'm glad. But you still shouldn't have gone through my stuff. That wasn't right." "I know," he replied, looking at the ground.

This man violated a boundary of mine. He invaded my personal things. He shouldn't have done that, but I did calm down, we did talk it out. I ended up giving him a connection in this world and he knew, finally, that he was not alone in his experiences.

Still, I continue to set boundaries and I continue to enforce them. These days, though, I try to be more understanding and more level-headed when they are breached. I, occasionally, even overstep someone else's boundaries; most of the time on accident. When it is brought to my knowledge that I've done so, I apologize.

I have always thought that saying "yes" to life was a sacred thing. It opens you to new experiences, new lessons and new levels of understanding. But, in this new Visionary Bri project, I have come to learn that saying "no" can be sacred, as well. When I say "no," I am not denying another person. Instead, I am standing up for and honoring my own integrity and self.

No, I cannot be your unpaid web developer.

I'm sorry, but I can't run your business for you.

No, you must make your own art, your own path, your own life. I will give you advice and help, but I can't do it for you.

Saying "no" allows each "yes" I say to be a full extension of my being. It means that I have committed to bring myself fully to the experience I am agreeing to without reservations. If faced with a choice, if it's not a 100% yes for me, then it's a no. And, once this is understood, people often take my "no's" a little easier because they understand that I can not be with them, fully, in the way they are asking.

But I am working on ways where I can say "yes" more often. I am receiving so many requests for help that I am coming up with a way to offer creative counseling sessions by the hour. This way I can say "yes, I can help you" and my needs can be met in that exchange of energy, as well.

Look for more new and exciting this coming up, here, in 2013. I will announce them when the time comes on this blog, on my Facebook and on Twitter. So be ready! When I open up the spots for Creative Counseling, I will only have a few spots available and they will be first come, first serve.

As always, my lovelies, I hope that you can take something from this post for use in your own life. Please feel free to leave me a comment and I'll reply back to you ASAP.

Remember that we are all visionaries. We just have to figure out where we excel.


Love to All,

-Bri

The Nightmare Should Be Over: Dealing with PTSD

♫ And though the nightmare should be over
some of the terrors are still intact
I hear that ugly, coarse and violent voice
and then (s)he grabs me from behind
and then (s)he pulls me back ♫

The lyrics above are from a song by Meat Loaf called "Objects in the Rearview Mirror May Appear Closer Than They Are." 

Those lyrics strike very close to home for those of us with PTSD. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder can happen for a myriad of reasons. Basically, it boils down to a person being exposed to stress where they feel that their life or safety may be in danger. If this happens often enough over a period of time, the body and the mind can be effected long after the stressful situation has passed.

For those of us who have survived abuse or trauma, our lives can be ruled by the effects of PTSD. We avoid certain places. We alter our habits. The most seemingly innocent things make us uncomfortable, scared, or even (in the cases of war survivors) violent.

I am not the first of my family to have PTSD. My dear father's father killed himself by carbon monoxide poisoning when my dad was 18. My dad found the body and tried to perform CPR on a body that had already gone through rigor mortis. To this day, the smell of car exhaust fumes in a confined area makes my father sick to his stomach. It reminds him of that horrid day and brings up all the emotions associated with how his family fell apart, after that tragedy.

 My father at 18 years old

In the case of having been abused either by a parent or lover, after one gets away, they may unconsciously put themselves back into a different abusive relationship. And a person may do this because that is what "feels normal" to them. I know that's what I did and it took some real inner work to break that cycle.

Throughout my life, my mother was severely psychologically and emotionally abusive to both my father and I. There was physical abuse thrown in there, as well, but it happened less frequently. My mother controlled what we ate, how much we were allowed to sleep, what clothes we could wear, almost every aspect of our lives. She accused us of "crimes" we didn't commit. She spread rumors about us, lied to us, stole from us and generally made our lives miserable. If her whims weren't satisfied, we paid the price. 

My father and I even developed our own sign language to communicate with each other so she couldn't hear us. It got so bad that she even manipulated how my father and I could even speak to each other. And, when we did speak, she pitted us against one another.

When you're a person who is trapped, living with a crazy-making person like my mother was, you almost develop a sixth sense. Other abuse survivors I've talked to have this sense, as well. This extra sense is the ability to read the energy of a room. You learn this as a survival trait. If you can "sense" when your abuser is mad, even before seeing them, you can try to preemptively soothe them or maybe steer clear and avoid their wrath. 

To this day, I notice very small modulations in people's speech, tiny differences in the way their face moves that may indicate either anger or sadness. When I think someone may not be 100% on stable mental turf, I still try to almost instinctively soothe them. Living a life on the edge of distaster with an abusive person made me hyper-aware of changes to my surroundings.

It wasn't until I was 27 and my parents got divorced that I realized how bad it really was in "The House of Unending Hostility." Once I got some physical and psychological distance, I realized how badly she had effected both my father and I. Five years after their divorce, my father and I still talk about it, we still try to process those years and we still sit in disbelief. Yes. It did happen. No, we're not crazy and we're not making it up. It really was that bad.

When an abused person gets out and then goes back to what we think is "normal," the cycle is incredibly hard to break. When I left college at age 20, I moved in with a boyfriend who turned out to be an abusive alcoholic. For 2 years, our electricity got turned off periodically, but there was always whiskey and beer in the refrigerator. 

Living with him was a dark time of high drama and he literally tried to killed me, once. There are times, still, in my nightmares, when I can still feel his hands around my throat, feel myself losing breath and see the world going dark.

♫ And now I still believe (s)he never let me leave
I had to run away, alone
So many threats and fears, so many wasted years
before my life became my own ♫

Now that I haven't spoken to or even been in my mothers' presence for 5 years, I can see how bad it was. Now that I can begin to distance myself and reflect on the relationships of my past, I can begin to heal the wounds and scars that they left.

The day before Thanksgiving, I went to the store where the abusive alcoholic boyfriend was employed while we were together. I haven't spoken to him in 9 years, but I live back in the town where he and I lived, together. It's hard. There are businesses I refuse to go in because of the association with him. There are people I am afraid to talk to, even though I'd like their friendship, because I'm afraid that information about me will get back to him and I'll have to run for my life across state lines, again. It's irrational. I know this. But that's how PTSD works. The fear for your safety is so ingrained that it turns into either fight-or-flight or complete shut-down when the memories are brought back up.

Through counseling and medication, I've come to accept that the abuse that has happened to me wasn't my fault and that I don't have to let those past traumas rule me. I can begin to retrain my brain to remember that I'm no longer back there, in those situations. I am safe. My daughter, Pookie, and my hubby are my reality, now. 

I haven't completely been able to forgive the perpetrators for their actions, but I've begun to challenge and beat the fear.

Today, I went to his store. I hadn't set foot in there for 9 years. I used to take him his lunch every day. He brought home dinner from this store. I walked in there, so many times, with a smile plastered on my face, yet afraid that someone could read on my face what was really going on. He had made it very clear that, for office politic reasons, it was important that I impress these coworkers by being a "dutiful girlfriend." I was terrified of displeasing him. I was petrified that they would see through my eyes and down into my heart, all the way down to my wrenching desire to be loved and the desperation I was experiencing.

I parked The Visionary Van outside and I looked up at the store's sign. Even 9 years later, just seeing the logo of the store made me want to run, to pass on by, to avoid. Deep breaths, I thought. Deep breaths. He's not here. He hasn't been here for a long time. None of the people that work in there would probably even remember who he was. I talked myself into walking across the parking lot, opening the wide glass door and going into the store. You're safe, I told myself. 

Still, I found myself glancing at every employee, ready to run. See? They're not even wearing the same uniforms. It's okay. You're just a customer. Look around.

As I browsed the store, I noticed that the various departments weren't even laid out in the same manner that I remembered them. That helped. Making my way through the new layout, I wandered down aisles. To any on-looker, I was just another customer perusing the shelves. But, inside, this was monumental. My heart wasn't pounding in my ears. My feet weren't backing away. 

You don't own me anymore, I thought. You're not going to live rent-free in my head anymore. You can't hurt me. See? I am strong. I'm getting over all the crap you beat me down with. I'm not angry, anymore, and I'm not scared. I will not let this rule me.


I looked at Christmas gifts for my Precious Pookie. Amid all the colorful softness of the toy aisle, I felt so thankful that I had come so far. I had the little girl I had always wanted, but never thought I'd have. Holding a stuffed lady bug, silky soft and sweet, I just knew that Pookie would giggle with delight when she saw it. In that moment, my eyes welled up with tears of joy. To come full circle and to stand on the exact same cream and brown tile floor, so happy, where I had once stood and been so sad and scared, my heart broke open and I wept.

I wish that, when I left that store, that it was magical. I wish I could tell you that I walked back to The Visionary Van with my fist raised to the sky in victory. I didn't. I wish I could tell you that I fell to my knees and thanked every god that ever was for helping me on this road. I didn't. I just walked back to my purple minivan.

That was it. Plain, simple and innocuous. No triumphant music gave any clue to the world what I had just stared down. Memories. Past. Fear. Helplessness. To any observer who doesn't know my history, who doesn't have these memories or this heart that was crushed by people who professed love, the title of this blog post would have been, Today, I Browsed Christmas Gifts In a Store.

Dear souls, as you go about your lives, please occasionally try to remember this. That person who just cut you off in traffic? Maybe their sister just died. That lady who was three cents short for the ice cream? Maybe she just faced down a personal demon and was rewarding herself. (Psst! That was me!) 'Cause we don't get theme music rocketing down from the ether at significant moments in our life. We're just people going about our day and living. We're just little beings, trying to make the best of the hand we've been dealt. And, in my book, that's worth a little ice cream, from time to time. 

 My father (today) with his awesome girlfriend and my daughter, Pookie

Lovelies, this isn't the end of my story or my struggle, no. This Earth-shaking day was only one step in a process. Coming out the other side of trauma and abuse can have a happy story that follows it. No matter what you've gone through, your story can continue past fear. It can continue past pain, past betrayal, past hurt and lies, negative self image, anger and the urge to run away.

And maybe your path will take you far away. To mountains and oceans. Maybe you'll be known by a different name. And maybe, just maybe, the road will wind and bend you gently back to the town you started in, to friends and family that will sing triumphant out-of-tune songs with you while passing the chocolate syrup.

 

Whatever you're facing, my dears, please remember that we are all visionaries. We just have to figure out where we excel.


My heart goes out to you and joins with yours.
I send you hope and serendipity.
Love to all,


Bri



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Inner Critics and Niggling Doubts

What would you say if I told you that your best and most powerful tool in your creative arsenal, you already posses? And what would you say if I told you that your biggest hindrance to that bountiful, glorious, creative life that you want, you already have, as well? I'm sure you'd agree with me about that second question, rather than the first. Why are we so ready to believe the negative things about ourselves, rather than the positive? I'll tell you why. Because we've all got those same little doubting, niggling little voices in our heads. The most powerful tool we have and the biggest hindrance to us is the same. It's our own brains.

Think about it. Who's the person that most often tells you that you "can't" do something? Who is the person that beats you up for attempting something new and failing? Who is the person that sees everything wrong with us, from how our bellies are too fat to how much better of a car we should be driving? That's right. It's the voices on our own heads.

Sure, the voices in our heads may take the shape of someone we know, or that we have known in the past, but it's our own brains that replay these tapes of their voices over and over throughout the course of our lives.

For me, sometimes those horrid little voices take the form of kids I went to school with. Sometimes, the voice is that of my own mother. But, most often, that inner critic that points out every single little flaw in my life, however minuscule, is the voice of my 3rd grade teacher, Mrs. Regenbogen. She is no longer alive, so I feel empowered to actually state her name as the most horrible little voice that I've ever encountered which grates on my self esteem, downplays all my accomplishments and wears me down, mentally, to nothing but a nub.

Mrs. Regenbogen had absolutely no business teaching children. She was strict, stern and full of razor-sharp remarks that cut even the most gregarious and outgoing child's self-worth to the quick. Once, I was sick and I missed school. That night, my parents called her and put me on the phone with her to get my make-up work. I wanted to make sure that I had reached the right person. "Is this Mrs. Regenbogen?" I asked into the phone. "Yes," she replied. "Is this Mrs. Vera Regenbogen," I asked, again trying to confirm that I'd reached the right person. When she, again, confirmed her identity, I began to ask about my assignments.

The next day, before we began our lessons, Mrs. Regenbogen called me up in front of the class. "Bri, what's my name?" The tone in her voice withered me on the spot. In a small voice, my eye fixed on her terrifying gaze, I replied, "Um. . . Mrs. Regenbogen?" "Good!" The word that came from her mouth carried no innuendo of its meaning. "You call me that!" I dropped my head and concentrated, very intently, on my shoe laces. After she had humiliated me, she sent me back to my desk and began class for the day.

Thinking back on that year in school, I can't remember saying another word to her or in class, in general, unless I was singled out specifically. I spent the rest of that year with my head down, reading or drawing, trying desperately not to draw her attention to me.

I'm 31 years old, now, and I still carry the scary demon of Mrs. Regenbogen in my head. No matter what I do, it's never good enough and it always draws her ire. If a line I draw isn't perfectly straight, I can hear her snort in disapproval. If I happen to misspell a word while writing, her voice comes to the forefront of my thoughts, "I knew you could never do anything right," I can hear her spit at me.

Mrs. Regenbogen is dead. Part of me rejoices at this thought, but the deeper and wiser portion of myself knows that, really, it's my fault for carrying her memory around and letting her undermine me from the grave. It's my brain (in her voice) that's criticizing me. It's not really her. She's living rent-free in my head and I'm letting her do it. It's the same with all those wheedling and annoying voices in your head.

Whenever Mrs. Regenbogen, the kids in my class or my mother's voice come to the front of my brain, I have to take active measures to not let them get to me. I've learned that ignoring them doesn't do much good. They only get louder. For me, I have to acknowledge them and I do this in a couple of ways.

The first way I can get them to shut up is just to give my brain what it wants. I turn the page in my sketchbook and I let those nay-saying voices run rampant. I write down every hurtful thing they say. I give them free reign to criticize me, pull me down and make me feel like crap until they've said their piece. Most of the time, I can then just turn the page, forget them and continue along my merry way, relieved that they're gone. Other times, I sit down with each of their negative things and I write out whatever response I want to give them. Here are some examples of this:

You're too fat.
Not as fat as you (Mrs. Regenbogen was a rotund woman). At least I don't have anorexia and look like a skeleton. At least I still get invited to dinner parties. And so what if  I am? My hubby loves cooking for me and we still have an awesome sex life. I still know how to enjoy myself, so which one is more important?

You never did learn how to spell.
So what? That's what spell-check and editors are for! I may be a bad speller, but my bad spelling is putting food on the table for my editors' children and I don't see anything 'bad' about that.

All your friends are just pretending to like you.
And? If they are, they pretend pretty damn well AND did I mention that I still get invited to dinner parties? Plus, one of my friends invited me to witness her baby being born. I don't think that's a pretend gesture.

Who do you think you are, attempting to dispense advice? You're not all that special.
Well, apparently there are other people who think differently because my blog gets comments from people I don't know and the response seems to be overwhelmingly positive. Plus, have you seen all the list of countries that people live in who are reading what I write? Pretty damn impressive, wouldn't you say? And I get new countries added to the list and new readers every week, so there!


See? Our greatest hindrances and our most powerful weapon against them is our own brains. For this week, in your sketchbook, whenever those nasty inner critics rear their heads, I want you to write it down. I want you to write down or draw all that negative stuff that's running around in your brain. Get it out of you. Let all the negativity and vitriol flow down on the page until there's nothing left to say. Let this take as long as it needs.

After it's all down on the page, I want you to answer all the voices in writing. Tell them exactly what you think about them. Do you have a writing teacher in your past that gave you an 'F' and tore your creative pieces to shreds? Tear them a new one on the page. You can be as mean as you want to be to them. At one point, I had an elemenry art teacher who offered commentary on a clay sculpture that I was particularly proud of, a mask of Princess Leia. "It looks like you've put this through the spin cycle," she said. In my sketchbook, I countered her. I'm an adult, now. I can stand up and I can tell her exactly what I think of her. In my sketchbook, I wrote:

"You know what? I was really proud of that sculpture. I thought it was the best thing I'd ever created, at the time. And I'm still proud of it. I don't care if you think it looks like "it's been through the spin cycle." Have you ever seen Jackson Pollack's work? What would you have said to him? You fat, old, bitter woman, you have no business teaching children. Children should be encouraged and celebrated, not used as defenseless verbal punching bags for adults who are insecure in their own lives. How dare you insult me! How dare you embarass me in front of peers who already thought I was strange! You were a teacher and, thus, in a position of authority. When you make fun of a child, the other children take that as free license to pick on each other and that's not right! You're a horrible person and you've never made any positive impact on anyone. You were an art teacher. You had a sacred trust placed in you by The Creator to teach, enoucrage and nourish the creative-selves of young children, not create deep emotional scars that follow them into adulthood. I grew up and have been able to come back and tell you that you are full of shit, but others haven't been so lucky. Now, I'm out in the world healing the scars that you and others like you have made in the beautiful, gentle souls of the world. So you can just sit down, shut up, and fuck off 'cause I'm done with what you said to me and I'm done with you!"

The feeling of getting all of that out there? So awesome! So empowering to finally tell that woman off, even if it was only in my own head. This week, I encourage you to do the same. Take back your power. Write it down and let your inner bullies know that you will no longer be standing for any of their crap. You're an adult and you're in control, now. Their residence in your head is no longer welcome. As Wesley Snipes says in the movie To Wong Fu,

 "Approval neither desired nor required!"

Go rent To Wong Fu, if you haven't seen it already. Awesome movie!

If you like, after you finish, you can destroy the sheets of paper you've unloaded on. Taking them out in the back yard and setting them on fire is very freeing. Burying them can work, too, but I find that burning pages is an especially liberating way of releasing that energy back into The Universe so it can be recycled back to us as something positive and uplifting.

Remember, you're not alone. We all have inner critics and niggling doubts when we attempt something new. Don't let them get you down. I'm here to be your cheerleader. You can do it! You don't have to be controlled by your past. You can let it go. You can put it down and not carry it with you. You can be free!



And, most of all my lovelies, please remember that we all, yes all of us, are visionaries. We just have to figure out where we excel!

Visionary Friends: Invisible Vanguard

My friend, Yorgo, wrote this blog post. I think it adequately sums out how my "gap generation," in general feels about life. Please also feel free to browse around his little corner of these interwebs, Invisible Vanguard and tell him that Visionary Bri says "Hi."

There's a kind of malaise that's come over us and, in the wake of George Bush Jr. and so many people trying like hell to drag us backwards into a less tolerant society, it's very easy to get downhearted. I will always be hopeful that things, for everyone, can be better. Yet, I know that we can feel lost, sometimes. If I didn't acknowledge this general ennui, I would be doing a great disservice to those around me.

I put this on my personal Facebook page, saying "I just had to repost this, because I feel like this, sometimes. 'We have do so much, yet we feel the future will never be better for us.' Le sigh:"

Receptionist: Don't you feel like your generation is just lazy?
Person: Lazy? I'd say apathetic.
Receptionist: Isn't it the same?
Person: No. My generation is criticized and toiled with, and I don't see why not - just turn on the TV and watch what they're feeding us. But my generation is not lazy. My generation fought in Iraq and Afghanistan. My generation fought for women's rights in a fury that hadn't been seen since the 19th Amendment. My generation got our first black President elected. My generation fought for Gay rights for the first time in American history. And with all that, we are apathetic, and that's because things aren't going to be better for us down the road. We are the first generation expected to make less than our parents. We are the first generation to see America lose its status as a super power. We've lived through the worst economic times since the Great Depression, and are forced to take out thousands of dollars in student loans at the same time, all while our college degrees slowly turn into a high school diploma. We've done plenty, and expect nothing. So no, I wouldn't say we're lazy, just apathetic."

 

So, what do you think? Does this reflect how you feel in the world? Any suggestions about how we can get ourselves, as a group, out of this funk we seem to be in?

 I look toward personal empowerment. How about you?

 

 

 

 

 

When the Words Hurt

Our words, our thoughts and our feelings all have immense power in this world and, sometimes, those around us can say things that cut us right to the quick.

I have Fibromyalgia and suspected Systemic Lupus. Because of these things, I have lots of doctors appointments, take many medications and have tests run on me fairly regularly. I have this idea in my head that my friends care about how I'm doing, so I guess I run down the latest medical updates, unbidden, at times.

It seems that someone who I thought was a close friend just, apparently, got tired of hearing about it and said, "So, what's wrong with you, today?" His eyes rolled behind his glasses. My heart skipped, my reply froze in my throat and I turned in upon myself. How deflated I felt. How utterly betrayed. In that moment, I was not supported in my illnesses by one of my best friends and his words tore through me like a knife.