12/16/21 12/16/21

A Tale of Two Work Days

About a month ago, I discovered an anxiety coach who specializes in the treatment of OCD. The long and short of it is, I suffer from OCD. Before meeting this therapist, I had so many misconceptions about OCD. I thought it was germs and handwashing and checking the stove. Turns out it can look very different than that. For me, OCD is perfectionism and arbitrary “rules” and mental checklists and checking and re-checking and always always a feeling of failure and overwhelm.

I’ve done therapy before. I tried positive thinking and re-writing the narrative. I tried prayer and prescriptions. Nothing helped. In fact, the persistent dread and unflinching anxiety only added to my sense of failure. Now I was failing at therapy, too. Failing to be a good Christian. Why can’t I just believe that God loves me? Why can’t I just be happy? And on and on I would freefall down the spiral.

How can I describe the shift in my world when I learned that my deepest fear can be treated as an unwanted intrusive thought, an obsession? That there is treatment for what I always believed, no, knew to be my greatest moral failing? That there is a reason that past treatments have failed. I was treating the wrong thing, the wrong way, and there is no way I could have known.

I have started treatment, and already I am experiencing relief, freedom, progress, hope. More so than ever before.

Perhaps a comparison would be helpful.

Teaching with OCD (what I like to call Teaching With Poison –the name I have given my OCD)

8:12 am.

I arrive at the coffee shop to start my work day. As I pour creamer in my steaming cup of house coffee, I think about everything that must get done: grading, lesson planning, responding to student emails. I write out my to-do list in my Moleskine notebook. I add the most pressing tasks first, but the list doesn’t stop. Aren’t they all pressing? I draw a vertical line in red ink, splitting the page in half with one side for each class that I teach. As the ink bleeds, I feel equally split open. My heart pounds, my hands tingle, and I am paralyzed. A pit of dread sits in my stomach. As I write tasks–plan PPT, plan in-class activities, prepare online alternatives, print all the things, post all the things–I am overwhelmed with despair. Overwhelmed with–I don’t know how else to put it–overwhelm. There is no way I can get it all done. Today is one of my two designated work days and I’m already failing. Already behind. I should have finished this last week. I should be more on top of lesson planning. I should be able to grade faster. Deciding what to teach shouldn’t take so long. I’m failing. I’m failing. I’m failing.

And once I’m overwhelmed, the failure becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. I can’t concentrate. I start planning out one class, but my brain is ping-ponging between cataloging past failures and predicting future disasters. I plan an activity then scrap it because of course it won’t work and it was a stupid idea to begin with. I try to grade a few papers, but my brain is wandering and foggy and I’m not giving clear feedback and I’ve never given good feedback and remember that time that one student complained about my grading and that will surely happen here. You are a failure and an imposter and a fraud.

Hours pass like this. I finish the bare minimum for class, cobbling a lesson together fueled by the fumes of adrenaline at my ever-approaching deadline –class with real students! I finish the lesson, but I don’t feel any sense of satisfaction or accomplishment. By the end of the day the fear is true–it shouldn’t take this long to get everything done.

2pm Class One

“Alright, today we’re going to talk about genre analysis. Can anyone tell me what a genre is?”

I look out at the students who are suddenly making eye contact with anything except me. Scared of the silence, the blank stares, and the student scrolling through the phone that glows not-so-hidden under her desk, I start to answer my own question, even though I know best practice is to wait.

“Well, we all know about genres in terms of music or movies. What are some common movie genres?” I ask.

Silence again. The students adjust their masks. I feel like I’m suffocating in my own.

Scared I’m not explaining it clearly enough, I start talking faster, filling more words into less space. This isn’t what I planned. This isn’t what I want. I’m failing I’m failing I’m failing and their faces are proof. The silence is proof. I glance at the clock as I pass out a worksheet and put the students into groups. I talked for way too long. I berate myself internally and speed through the last activities.

I end the class with a pit in my stomach. I should have come up with better questions. I should have planned better activities. I should have known.

4pm Class Two

My second class proceeds in much the same way. On the outside, I am presenting PPTs and facilitating class discussion, on the inside, I am at war. The fears are looping. The fears are endless.

I’m scared of letting my students down. Scared of not being a good teacher, not maximizing class time, not using class time the “best” way, not explaining a concept clearly, being disorganized, not appearing confident or in control, coming across as too confident, dropping the ball/forgetting to mention some key point, and running out of time.

I’m scared of not planning for every contingency. I’m scared of not being perfect.

I am teaching and I am ruminating. I am teaching and I am performing mental compulsions trying to figure out if I am failing in any of those ways.

6:45pm

Class is over and I must figure out what went wrong. As I walk (or scooter!) to my car, I replay the students’ facial expressions. I rewind and relive every anxious moment. So and So seemed bored, that question about too much homework means I must be giving the wrong workload. I simmer in the memory of the silence when I tried to elicit a response to a question they should have known the answer to so I just kept rambling and said something stupid and then ran out of time at the end. We didn’t get to ____. We didn’t get to _____. We didn’t get to ______. I should have explained ____ differently. I should have been more prepared. I should have known that activity would take longer. I should have planned it out differently. It’s my fault I failed. I failed. I failed.

7:30pm

I’m tucking my kids into bed and thinking I should have been more prepared. Instead of noticing their sweet faces or delighting in the familiar routine of books and teeth and bed, I am planning out my next work day. I must figure out what I did wrong and adjust accordingly. I must prevent this future failure. I must be a better planner, a better worker, a better teacher. Surely the answer, the formula, the fix, is just around the corner.

9pm

I am watching a show with my husband and I am still beating myself up. I don’t deserve to relax. I don’t deserve to feel good. I must figure this out. I am stuck.

Teaching in recovery (teaching without Poison)

I am learning a counter-intuitive way to approach my fear, my OCD. Instead of avoiding or shoving it down, or compulsively trying to solve it, prevent it, prove or disprove it, figure it out–

I am learning to allow the fear. Acknowledge and accept it. Identify it for what it is–not the Truth (even though it feels so real), but my OCD playing a trick on me, taunting me, threatening me, trapping me. I am learning to stop performing mental compulsions. I am learning–I am choosing–to become unstuck, to move on.

8:12 am.

Instead of pushing down that thought, that fear, I welcome it. Name it for what it is: Poison.

“Oh hey, Poison, thanks for sharing. You’re right. Maybe I will drop the ball. Maybe I will feel disorganized. Maybe I won’t get it all done. I will cross that bridge if I get to it. Right now, I know my first task and I will focus on that.”

The anxiety doesn’t magically dissipate–the adrenaline is already pumping. But the nagging fear feels less scary. So what if I fail? So what if I don’t get it all done? Has anyone ever died because their teacher didn’t explain TESL pedagogy correctly? Would I actually be fired if we end up rushing our last class activity? This is not a life or death situation, so why is my anxiety an 8 out of 10?

What does feel like magic–or at least progress–is that I am able to move on. I am able to focus on the task at hand. Prep the one activity. Grade the one paper. I am able to be present with my life.

This is not the part where I tell you that I got it all done. This is not a life hack or a secret way to improve productivity. The point is I worked. I focused. I moved on. Poison kept popping up. You’ll drop the ball. You’re going to fail. This is taking too long. You’re failing now.

But now I know how to respond.

“Oh hey, Poison. Thanks for sharing. Maybe I’m not using my time effectively. Maybe I’m not doing this “right.” I am not going to figure this out right now. I will keep going through my task list and we’ll see how it goes.”

2pm Class One

Poison again: Ah, you feel anxious. See, you are failing. You are unprepared.

“Oh hey, Poison, you again. Maybe I will feel stressed during class. Maybe I will be thrown for a loop. Maybe I will run out of time. It is not my job to worry about that right now.”

I take a deep breath and begin the class session. I trust myself. I trust my plan. Yes, the students still look bored and avoid eye-contact. Yes, we run out of time at the end. The activities are no different, but perhaps my demeanor is more peaceful, less frenzied. More present, less flustered.

Again, the outcome is not the point. It’s not that the class went perfectly or that the students could even discern a difference. The difference is internal. I am no longer at war with myself.

4pm Class Two

My stomach growls, I am tired and hangry. I should have eaten a bigger snack. I should have planned better. I should have….

Oh wait, I know what this is. Who this is.

“Oh hey, Poison. Thanks for sharing. Maybe I didn’t plan this right. Right now, I am going to focus on class and be present.”

And I am present.

I hand out papers and explain Communicative Language Teaching. I set up group work and answer questions. I notice that we’re a couple minutes behind schedule and I adjust. A student throws out a question I hadn’t prepared for and I answer it and move on.

I am teaching and only teaching. I am not teaching AND analyzing AND critiquing AND ruminating AND cataloguing all of my faults. Just teaching. And it feels like cheating.

6:45pm

Class is over and I have this nagging feeling that something went wrong. I must figure it out.

Oh wait. I know that trick.

“Hi, Poison. Thanks for sharing. Maybe something did go wrong. Maybe that wasn’t a perfect class. But I am not going to spend the rest of the night figuring it out. I did my job and I am moving on.”

I scooter back to my car. I notice the wind on my face. I giggle to myself as I whiz past college students staring at their phones. I thank God for the night, for the kids I am going home to, for this newfound freedom to think my own thoughts. To think about what I want to think about!

I get back to the car and start my workout playlist. “Stand out” from A Goofy Movie comes on. That nagging feeling persists. I shouldn’t listen to music, I should figure out what went wrong. It’s the responsible thing to do.

“I did my job and I am moving on.” I repeat. “I may have failed, but I am moving on.”

I let the words of the song bubble up from whatever place all the 90s movie soundtracks are stored in my head and soon I am belting it out.

“I am driven by the rhythm like the beat of a heart and I won’t stop until I start to stand out!”

7:30pm

By the time I get home to tuck in the kids, a smile still plays on my lips and I chuckle at my own carpool karaoke, astonished that I ENJOYED myself–that I’m enjoying my night, my life.

I brush my fingertips across my daughter's smooth cheeks. I curve my body around my son's sleeping frame. I thank God for the breath rising and falling from their chests. I notice the smile dancing on my lips.

And I am present.

***

This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Contrast".

5/20/21 5/20/21

Relapse

“Good morning. Aly Alcoholic,” I say to the Zoom squares on my laptop as the kids pop in and out of their makeshift rocket ship made of scooted together stools and a crinkly emergency blanket.

The classic, “Hi Aly” of AA is replaced with muted waves on the screen. This is recovery in a pandemic.

“Activate!” my son yells as my daughter starts a countdown to blast off.

I take a deep breath and begin to share with the women listening on the other end.

…

I don’t know any other way to say this except to come out and say I’ve had some relapses since I stopped drinking a little over 4 years ago. I want to come clean to you, dear internet.

Relapse is probably too strong of a word. But it’s the word that reverberates in my brain in the dark hours of the morning. It’s the word that equals failure in my mind. It’s also the word that led me to seek help.

…

My first “slip” was around the 2020 election. Surely, you understand. Three years of sobriety can easily go out the window when the election is in the balance and people on both sides are making ludicrous claims and everything feels so uncertain.

I snuck a beer while frantically cleaning the bathroom baseboards. For a few golden minutes, my belly burned not with anxiety but with a happy tingling, an eraser, but it didn't last.

I woke up in a different world, to a different reality.

A world where I still hid my drinking.
A world where my perfect record vanished.
A world where I was an internet liar.

It was just a couple of drinks. In secret. I deserved it after the last four years, the last four months, heck, the last four hours before the kids’ bedtime.

An alcoholic can convince themselves of anything. That’s the scary part.

I told my husband about the drinks and texted a bunch of friends soon after. Everyone was encouraging, kind about it. But I felt like a fraud.

Do I write an addendum to Coffee and Crumbs, an open letter, an apology?

Is it really any stranger's business if I drink or don't drink? But I've shared this, you see. I put it out there and I can't take it back and it may be what's saving me.

I didn’t drink again for months because I just didn’t want to keep everyone so darn informed. The last I’d said on the internet was that I had my drinking (or lack thereof) under control.

And everyone believed me. I wanted to believe me.

…

The second time, last February, I didn’t tell anyone. It was only a couple drinks again. Just enough to help me sleep. I didn’t even wake up with a hangover. A shame hangover, yes, but not a physical one.

“I could do this,” I thought. “I could keep drinking and no one would have to know.”

Cold dread flooded my body. This is what I’d worked so hard to give up. The shame. The secrecy. The gnawing hole in the pit of my stomach. I probably could do this, but did I want to?

…

A couple weeks after that second slip, I listened to a podcast where a college friend spoke to her husband about his experience with alcoholism. He shared his story. He talked with great reverence and respect about AA. He made it seem like an exclusive club. He made it sound almost…fun.

I went to my first meeting that day. My heart pounded as I sat on the cold folding chair and worried about the room’s ventilation and the alarming number of people whose masks did not quite cover their noses.

For the first time in my journey to leave alcohol behind, I was not alone.

I now have been plugged into a great group of women who meet on Zoom and outside in a local park a couple of times a week.

I reached out to a sober acquaintance and now we have a little group of three women. We Marco Polo and share about alcohol, our progress, our demons and downfalls that keep cropping back up. We cheer each other on and remind each other what we’re fighting for.

I’ve realized it wasn’t that I didn’t have enough support in my life; I just didn’t have anyone who had walked the same road.

A relapse doesn’t make me a fraud; it makes me human.

…

I am still practicing that word on my lips—alcoholic.

But more than shame, that word has brought me community.

I worry what my kids think when I introduce myself as “Aly Alcoholic.” I feel an ache when I think of them growing up knowing that label applies to me.

I can get caught up in the brilliance of illumination. The high of the confession. The polished ending to an essay. It’s harder to show up every day and keep letting the light in. To live my struggle not in the shadows, but at the kitchen table as my tiny astronauts launch into space.

I worry my kids will think I’m weak. I pray that illuminating my own struggles will make them stronger in the end.

More able to cope with their own demons. More willing to put in the work to grow. More able to be honest with themselves about where they’re really at, how they’re really doing. More able to ask for help. To say, “hey, I’m having a rough time here.” To seek out community.

And, like all parents, I hope my weakness will be their strength. Maybe they won't wait so long to let the light pour in.

***

You can read my essay for Coffee and Crumbs on quitting drinking here: Dirty Laundry.

And my three-part blog series here:

10/22/20 10/22/20

Spin

I could be right, stick to my judgement and my metaphorical guns and I-told-you-so's, or I could be happy. Soaked in sweat and pulsing with endorphins, happy. I chose happy.

Jaw clenched and lips pursed, I stared at the screen in front of me but didn’t really see the latest student essay in need of grading.

“How much is it?” I asked.

“$2,000,” he said, and quickly added, “I can sell the car and get something cheaper. We can use that money to pay for it.”

“I won’t use it,” I stated matter of factly. I tried staring harder at my computer, switched tabs to my work email.

A judgy sigh slipped out before I had a chance to stop it. There were so many other ways I would prefer to spend our money.

“Fine, if you sell the car, you can get the Peloton.” I conceded.

“But I still won’t use it.”

***

A few months earlier we drove 45 minutes to go for a mask-wearing test drive in 100 degree heat only to discover the car in question had a “mystery sound” the salesman conveniently forgot to mention before we wasted a morning of childcare on it. So when my husband presented the car swap for a Peloton, I felt reasonably certain it wouldn’t happen any time soon.

But then my dad, ever the schemer, hatched a plan. We would do a three-way car swap. He would pass his truck along to my younger brother who would pass his wife’s CRV onto my husband who would pass his too-tiny-for-two-kids Lexus to my Dad. My husband and I would drive out of the deal with an SVU and--apparently--a Peloton.

***

The Peloton took two months to arrive because of Covid-gyms-are-closed demand.

I nearly forgot about it when the delivery guys carried the bike up to our loft.

I wasn’t going to use it, you see. I have principles, you see.

It all started with a tweaked neck. I had been working out pretty consistently considering the state of everything in the world, but a strained muscle in my neck had sidelined me for a week or two.

And my anxiety was at an ALL TIME HIGH. I cried every day. I hated getting out of bed in the morning. I’ve known for a good while that exercise endorphins work better than any prescription medication I’ve tried for anxiety and depression, but this workout hiatus just proved it again.

Still in pain, I walked up to the Peloton screen and created an account. Just to see how it worked.

A “How to Adjust the Bike” tutorial popped up, so I lowered the seat, setting it to my hip level and scooting the saddle (spin speak for seat) forward.

All I'd have to do is pedal. No neck or arm movements involved.

I had a decision to make.

I could be right, stick to my judgment and my metaphorical guns and I-told-you-so's, or I could be happy. Soaked in sweat and pulsing with endorphins, happy. I chose happy.

With my husband working downstairs in the office and my kids as my witnesses, I hopped on and started pedaling.

It was so quiet! Eerily so.

“Mama’s gonna do a bike workout now,” I told the kids as I popped in my Airpods and let Usher drown out their whining. They bumbled around the loft, pretending to be Marshall and Sky from the Paw Patrol as I broke my first delicious sweat in two weeks.

***

I have done a spin workout 12 out of the last 12 days since my first ride and did a happy dance when my own pair of special clip-in shoes arrived. I would like to write that I am thoroughly embarrassed about this, but I'm not. I'm too busy feeling happy--must be the dang endorphins.