Tag Archives: self-help

Plot twist!

I’m giving myself a pep talk so that I get inspired and motivated to do more: to write more, to exercise (at all), to make plans with friends. My baseline energy and ability to people is, if not quite in my heels, definitely below my knees. I’d like to get it at least up to my waist – the bra line would be phenomenal.

I’m not sure how because in the past, telling myself “Suck it up and just do it” sufficed. My executive function is off the charts. I accomplish things. I get things done, no matter what. That’s my superpower.

Well. That used to be my superpower, apparently.

My pep talk morphis into a spiral of self-hate and I slap it back. Come on, self, WTF? We don’t need that. Stop. My daughter’s illness, the pandemic, my own brush with COVID and its lingering effects, my divorce, the effective end of a very significant six-year relationship, a complete reinvention of how I earn my living, supporting my youngest son through his transition to public schooling, did I mention, COVID, divorce, new job – all of these things tax the bandwidth. Could I, maybe, cut myself a little slack?

No.

I don’t cut myself slack.

I do things and I don’t whine about it.

That, by the way, is the difference between us.

I do things. I accomplish, I achieve, I execute.

Except I’m not, so now I’m just like you and I hate myself.

Yes. Apparently, I hate you too. Well, hate is a strong word. Don’t feel a lot of respect for, shall we say?

That might be worse.

Myself though, right now, I hate. With a passion.

Stop.

This pep talk is going horribly wrong. And I don’t really hate you. And I don’t disrespect you. I used to even understand you. But I resent you. God, I resent you. Because when you don’t execute, someone else has to and that has always been me, you know?

Spirals within spirals. Stop. Can we just make it about me? Leave you out of it?

Side-spiral: between them, the pandemic and my daughter’s illness, stripped me of compassion and empathy. Completely. I hate all of you. I have a hard time finding my way back to the person who loved deeply if selectively and who understood and empathized with almost everyone. I miss her. She was nice. Also, she accomplished things.

Back to the pep talk.

Just do it. Why can’t you just do it?

Because, I don’t know, I’m tired, can’t somebody else?

No. There’s just you.

Ugh, what a depressing thought.

Another spiral. Stop.

Ok. My daughter’s illness, the pandemic, the divorce. Everything that came before. The end of relationships, the beginning of another, the new job, housing instability, the pressure to be financially responsible for two – now three – households. Let’s not think about the aging parents. They’re not demanding yet – but it’s coming. It’s coming.

Oh, a new spiral. Not fun. Stop.

Pep talk: so many legit reasons to feel drained and tired. And all the important stuff is getting done. I’m not spending my days curled up in the fetal position under the bed. The children are taken care of. The rent is paid. The morning pages written. And I’m even dancing. Sometimes. Going to conferences, teaching. It’s not so bad.

By your standard, I’m doing just fine.

It’s not Kenough.

I’m sorry. I don’t hate you. Really.

Ok, a little. I’m sorry. I’m trying to find my way back. To compassion. To my usual baseline.

I’m tired of being tired and of cutting myself slack. I want to want things and I want to do things. All the things.

Him: Amphetamines?

Jane: Meditation.

I mean… nothing else is working. And it did help me, before. For a while.

Day 1.

Ommmmmmm….

;P

“Jane”

What would a cavewoman do?

i

I feel about modern self-help cults much the way I feel about the patriarchy. I’ve written extensively about how I don’t want to be a better person. I’m not going to floss more and drink less coffee (although I do keep an eye on the wine intake), and while I might exercise more, I’ll always do it resentfully, and… well. There it is.

None of this is to say that I’m perfect. Or that I accept myself as is. I irritate and disappoint myself continually. I wish was kinder. More patient. Thinner, fitter, all the things my Instagram feed tells me I should be. I am not immune to those social pressures.

Just, as I’ve gotten older, I’ve increasingly come to terms with my innate… laziness? Wiring? Whatever you want to call it, it boils down to this: I don’t want to put my limited energy into making myself a work of art.

I’d rather put it into making works of art.

And, loving my children.

ii

Question from a former lover who never understood me: Everything in your life and its quality remained the same but you didn’t have children. Would you choose that option?

Answer: Never.

Also, the fact that you’re asking that question is one of the reasons, maybe the reason, I don’t love you anymore.

You never understood how important my children are to me. How they shape my work, how they fuel me, transform me – drive me. How they are an inseparable part of me – three living, independent beings that exist outside of me but whose every pain and joy I feel in my own flesh.

I could not love as I do, live as I do, write as I do if not for the joy and pain (there is a lot of pain, I won’t lie) my children bring. So the “Everything in your life and its quality remained the same but you didn’t have children” statement is not possible. The question is something only a psychopath would ask.

Right, I forgot. You are a psychopath.

(I knew he was a psychopath when I loved him – I probably loved him because he was a psychopath, but that’s another story.)

I don’t tell him all of that, by the way.

I just say, “Never,” and move on.

iii

My good friend, who works on herself a lot, often says, “I work on myself so that I can be a better mother.” I never say anything in response – just make supportive sounds – but the phrase always bothers me.

Being a mother is… well, it just is, right? I try my best, every day. Sometimes, I fail, spectacularly. Sometimes, I’m amazing.

Sometimes – like that day, ugh – I’m barely adequate. Not even adequate. Sub-par.

On those days, I wish I was a cavewoman and that doing my best meant not letting the children get eaten by the neighbourhood tiger. 

That must have been very high stress, high stakes, of course, but also, very clear: Woo-hoo, child alive! Good job! Fuck, child mauled and devoured. I fucked up and  have increased my chances of becoming an evolutionary dead-end.

I don’t suppose a cavewoman ever said, “I work on myself so that I can keep my children from getting eaten by a tiger.”

She just, you know. Did her best to keep her kids alive.

iv

Recently, though, I have been thinking that I should, perhaps, exert a little more effort on Project “Be a better person.”

Peri-menopause is coming, is possibly here, and the happy “I’ll adjust and love you no matter what” hormones are leaving and the “Smash all the things!” hormones are spiking. I suppose I could take drugs to balance them out, but, to be honest, I want to see what the “Smash all the things!” hormones do to my work (and the patriarchy). 

It could be amazing.

So, no drugs. But also, no temper tantrums – not with the kids, not at work. (But in the work, maybe. Things need to be smashed.)

Instead, what? Meditation? Actively working to be a better person?

Maybe. I’m thinking about it.

Or, you know. I might just yell at the tigers.

What would a cavewoman do?

Xoxo

“Jane”

PS Alas, most cavewomen were dead before menopause hit, so this last question does not arise. 😉

I believe I can fly

 

It’s a sunny but cold Tuesday in December, and I pack Ender, also a lunch that consists mostly of oranges, into the car. Maggie the runty Boston Terrier I don’t really love—but oh, Ender loves her and she loves him too, they are littermates—jumps into the car with us. Fine. It’s not so cold that she will turn into a dog icicle when I leave her in the car while we explore the Reynolds-Alberta Museum. And she loves car rides. Also, she loves Ender, and he already has his arms wrapped around her. She’s coming.

I trudge back into the house for some pillows and blankets, make them a nest. Have everything? Child, dog, lunch. Water bottle. Ender’s wearing his rainbow crocs—I toss a pair of winter boots into the trunk in case we get stranded on a rural Alberta road and have to walk somewhere. The car’s 12 years old and plucky, but still. December on the prairies. Snowstorms come, ice sneaks up on you, cars flip.

Final check… child, dog, lunch, water bottle, winter boots.

Coffee.

We go.

The Reynolds-Alberta Museum is 246 km, or two hours and twenty minutes, away from Calgary, in the metropolis of Wetaskiwin. It’s dedicated to the spirit of the machine, and it’s full of tractors and vintage farm equipment, old cars, and also, planes. And that’s really all I’m going to tell you about it, because this is not a museum review.

I like the cars. They remind me of Cuba.

Ender likes the planes best.

On the way there, Ender snoozes most of the way, Maggie in his arms. I listen to Martha Beck’s The Joy Diet, and bemoan that I am now the kind of person who listens to books like The Joy Diet. Remember when I used to be the kind of person who just enjoyed living her life? Where is she?

She’s at the Reynolds-Alberta Museum, taking a selfie in a tractor with her 10-year-old son. Hello, me.

He’s very, very happy.

Did I mention he likes the planes best?

When I brought Cinder here—I think I brought Cinder here? Surely, I brought Cinder and Flora here when they were younger—he was fascinated by the insides of  all the machines and spent hours playing with the hands-on gears, pulleys, inclined planes, and levers.

Ender pokes at all of them with mild interest, and returns to his aesthetic enjoyment of the vintage cars. He likes the colours, the lights, the moving parts, the things that go—but he’s not particularly interested in their insides. Me neither. Let’s just look at shiny things.

Look! The workshop! A welder!

We watch the sparks for a while, but neither of us, to be honest, is interested by the science behind the process.

We spend a lot of time in the airplane hangar. As I’ve said twice before—he really likes the planes.

And they are rather magic, if you think about it. First production-style automobile—1885 or so. First manned flight, 1903. The Ford Model T didn’t roll off the assembly line until 1913.

And before the end of World War I, humans were killing each other from airplanes.

Ah, progress.

Fun Fact:

The first country to use [airplanes] for military purposes was Italy, whose aircraft made reconnaissance, bombing and artillery correction flights in Libya during the Italian-Turkish war (September 1911 – October 1912). The first mission (a reconnaissance) occurred on 23 October 1911. The first bombing mission was flown on 1 November 1911. (Source: Ferdinando Pedriali. “Aerei italiani in Libia (1911–1912)”(Italian planes in Libya (1911–1912)). Storia Militare (Military History), N° 170/novembre 2007, p.31–40, via Wikipedia)

I do not give Ender a history lesson. But I tell him a little bit about the speed of these inventions. He doesn’t really care. He’s starting to get concerned about Maggie. Wants to know how long she’s been in the car.

Two hours.

Too long, he decides. Also, he’s done with the museum. We trudge outside, across the prairie field dotted with melting snow, so very well suited to being a rural airport. Car. Dog.

She bounds out of the car like a crazy person—er, animal?—and runs around the empty parking lot. Pees on a clump of snow.

Ender tries to give her some water to drink, but she’s too excited. Runs a few more loops. Then leaps back into the car.

“Is she cold?” Ender asks. I shrug. It’s not pleasant, despite the still-shining sun. The winter winds on the prairies are brutal. But, although she is definitely a creature of comforts—she’s convinced the electric blanket on our couch exists for her pleasure—she is, above all, a pack animal. She’s not taking any chances on being left behind.

We drive back as the sun sets. Maggie snoozes in Ender’s lap. He gazes out the window for a while. Then pulls out his iPad and watches a show. Falls asleep with headphones on, the dog in his lap.

I listen to The Joy Diet. Don’t really hear much of anything. Through the rearview mirror, I see Ender’s happy face.

He had a good day.

So did I.

This is a very prolonged happy moment.

xoxo

“Jane”

10 Surefire Ways to Achieve World Peace, Eternal Happiness and Total Creative Fulfillment by Friday

photo (22)

  1. Don’t click on, and for goddsake, don’t READ, anything called “10 Surefire Ways to Achieve World Peace, Eternal Happiness and Total Creative Fulfillment by Friday.”
  1. …

…

…

Yeah, I got nothing else.

But I’m pretty sure I just gave you an immense gift of time. What are you going to go do with it?

xoxo

“Jane”

P.S. “That’s it?”

“That’s it. Hey, I threw 3000 words—written in strappy knee-high, gladiator sandals, did I mention?—at you last week. This week—I give you the gift of time. Don’t squander it. Or, you know, do. It’s yours to do with as you will.”