1/31/22 1/31/22

Captive

I cup my hands as water sloshes. Hold it there, steady, steady. Not a drop wasted, squandered, lost.

Take every thought captive, the Bible says. Make it obedient to Christ.

What if your thoughts are a flood, a torrent, a deluge? What if capturing thoughts is like trying to hold a gallon of water between leaky palms?

“Here, hold this,” I thought God said. “Here are your thoughts: keep them, cherish them, do not waste them, purify, and sanctify them. Hold this for me, I’ll be back in a minute.”

I took Him literally. Scared to waste, to drop, to move, to fail. Account for every droplet. Every minute. Every action until they submit to obedience.

I press my fingers together, but the tighter I grip, the faster the water spills out. Plip plop, plip plop. Failure drips through my fingers, cramped and frozen.

I can’t find the leak.

No, I am the leak.

I press harder and harder, but the dripping speeds.

Until a therapist asks a question. What if it’s not God? What if it’s an Obsession? A Compulsion? Disorder? What if you stopped trying to hold it all? What if I taught you how?

Could I do that? Just. Let go?

I am learning. Re-wiring. Releasing my hands.

I am not holding the water. I let it hold me. I am floating on my back. Sun kissing freckles on my face. Cool water lapping at my ears. I glide my fingers across the water’s surface, imagine the ripples bubbling out of my wake.

1/20/22 1/20/22

My favorite name

Aidan Mariano: I call him Bub, Bubs, Bubba, Bubby, Bubbalicious, Bubsicle, My Boy, Snugga Bugga, Boo, Boo Boo, Stinker, Stinky Dink, hey you stop that! Let’s go let’s go do you have to go potty? Yes, you! Only sometimes, his given name, Aidan. One half of a palindrome. One half of my children. Aidan Mariano, Mariano after his great Uncle Nong. He shares the thick, straight lashes, deep brown eyes, and Filipino last name: no, not Padres like the baseball team, Prah like bra (yes, I said bra) and dez like Pez dispenser, if those even still exist. Aidan Mariano Prades. My you-made-me-a-mom boy. My Bub.

Nadia Merrill: I call her Sis, Sass, Sissaman, Squisherman, Sass Patrol, Sassapants, Saskatchewan. Also Stinky Dink and Bugga Boo. Bugga boozle, snoozle, schnoozle, can I get a schnitzel with noodle? Rarely, rarely, the mirror image of Aidan: Nadia. Never Nadia Merrill. Merrill, the middle name I hated because the Joshes and the Kevins of elementary school thought I said Merle, rhymes with Earl, a man's name. No, two syllables, Mare-ull like Streep, but not with the Y. Like Mrs. Merrill my third grade teacher. Merrill like my mother and grandmother and great-grandmother and I've lost count of how many before. The first born daughters. I passed on the Merrill: family pride won out over childhood shame. Nadia like Comaneci. Nadia means hope. The first name we chose before her brother was born. We named him Aidan with hopes a Nadia would follow. We might end up with a Nadio, we joked. We didn't. He got a sister, and I got my Sis.

I call them every name under the sun except the names we gave them. They cry whine whisper yell, “mama.” Just mama.

And it’s my favorite name.

***

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 “A Name”.

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.

***