Category Archives: self-esteem

An Update

ccI haven’t written here since March, and for good reason.  My health sort of blew up in early April, right around the time I was heading to the Associated Writers and Publishers Conference in Minneapolis, MN, which also happened to be the time my busy semester was coming to a head.  I’ve struggled in that time with anxiety, insomnia, migraines, nausea, muscle pains, and weird nightmares, to the point where my doctor sent me to a neurologist to rule out a tumor [side bar: not sure it was the smartest practice for her to use the T word with someone struggling with anxiety, but I digress].

After some preliminary tests, so far it seems there’s no real reason to worry–that what I really need to do is better figure out how to relax so that I can sleep better.  It’s amazing how much of our health depends upon sleep–and how hard it actually is for me to relax, despite trying so hard [Second side bar: I recently had the epiphany that it’s perhaps that I’m trying too hard that is in fact what is preventing it from being natural.  What is relaxing about your mind screaming, “RELAX?  Why can’t you just relax?”  Nothing, actually.  Nothing.  I recently had a horrible experience with a massage therapist who actually took that approach.  She seemed frustrated that she wasn’t strong enough to dislodge some of the knots in my back, and therefore kept exasperatedly asking me to “let go,” to which I got angry and anxious and couldn’t help but retort, “I’M TRYING.”].

To that end, I’ve decided, after prompting from my doctor, to abstain from drinking alcohol (for the most part–I cheated on my birthday and at my brother’s graduation), to restart taking my daily vitamins, to restart a twice daily yoga and meditation practice, to create a bedtime ritual devoid of screens, to try to eat more veggies as the basis of my plate, and exercise every day, supplementing the hard pounding of running with lighter activities like biking and swimming or even just long walks.  It’s amazing how tight my muscles are because of nearly fifteen years of running.  I sometimes catch myself with taut muscles even just sitting at my chair, and once I catch myself, I can coax myself into softening.

Part of the issue is that I just had an overly busy semester: four classes, full load of teaching, belligerent male students, a second job tutoring undegrads in Spanish, lots of travel, helping my brother move, a persistently sick cat, freelance deadlines, applying for the non fiction editor position for our literary magazine.  I am just burnt out.

Throughout all this, my lovely boyfriend has been super supportive, more so than anyone I’ve ever met, and I remain ever grateful that he walked into my life last August.  He is so good to me, so kind, thoughtful, and funny.  I love laughing with him and feel so at home in his company.  At his and my mother’s coaxing, I took the six weeks I had in between my spring semester at UNCW and my summer semester at Bread Loaf’s Oxford campus (where I am now) forgoing new opportunities in exchange for relaxation.  I leisurely read some (not as many as I probably should have, but enough of that) of my books for Bread Loaf at the pool, at the beach, in my apartment on some of the more steamy, humid days.  I worked out twice a day, doing lighter activities, deeper stretches.  I did more with less, and it felt wonderful.

I guess though I’m glad I had the busy spring semester I had, if only because I needed that second job to save up for England, and because I have now arranged to give myself the gift of a third and final year of my MFA [Side bar: I have no idea how anyone does their MFA in TWO years], when I only have to concentrate on my teaching, my thesis, and participating in the editorial work for Ecotone (I got the non fiction editor position, to my surprise and delight).  I will be able to continue to do more with less.

I’m also grateful to be back in Oxford for my final summer with Bread Loaf.  It’s so beautiful here.  I studied abroad in 2008 at Oxford, at Worcester College (for those who aren’t aware, Oxford University is comprised of many colleges that function together much like a federal state under the umbrella term “Oxford”).  It’s just as magical as I remember, if much more congested with obnoxiously large and fundamentally slow tourist groups that make getting from point A to point B a painfully drawn out labor of patience.  I am relieved also to have experience with this city.  I’m amazed at how much is flooding back into my memory as I walk the streets and remember short cuts and favorite haunts.  I’m particularly grateful also to have already done many of the touristy things here so that I can use my time outside of class to focus on my reading and writing.  For example, today a group is heading to Blenheim Palace, the grand family home of Winston Churchill, and I’m staying behind to write here and catch up on work (and to save money for excursions that I haven’t actually tried before).  I also happily feel as confident as I’ve ever felt as a student, thanks to all that has brought me here–a good thing given that I have a ten page paper due next week, and two 18-23 page papers due in three weeks.

I had a hard time getting here, though, which undid a lot of the nice relaxation I managed to gift myself with before leaving Wilmington.  I decided to fly out of Raleigh, to save money, and to book a non-direct flight via JFK to Heathrow.  My flight out of RDU ended up being hours delayed due to weather, which whittled my three hour layover down to minutes.  Having never been to JFK’s airport before, I didn’t realize that I would have to switch terminals and that that was the reason for having a three hour layover in the first place.  I nonetheless sprinted, at 11PM, through terminal 7, dragging my impossibly heavy carry-on behind me (I was instructed it was important to bring all the books I needed for the term on my person in case my luggage was lost and because there was not a bookstore in Oxford guaranteed to have the editions I needed for my primary texts).  My legs were shot by the time I reached Terminal 8 huffing and puffing, only to have an airline employee scoff at me and tell me to just go straight to ticketing to be rebooked, because there was no way I was going to make the flight, since I would have to re-go through security after taking a train ride from one terminal to the next.  I also nearly got on the train to the city proper instead of the terminal, because they are right next to each other (of course) with no signage I could see.  I leapt off at the last second, sweating, after bellowing to the passengers, “WHERE IS THIS TRAIN GOING” in a panic.

After being rebooked on the next flight available–which was to be ten hours later at 9 AM–I meekly asked the ticket agent where I was supposed to spend the night.  “We can’t give you a hotel,” I was told, because my flight over to JFK was American, yet my flight to LHR was British Airways/Iberia.  I’d have to go back to Terminal 7, which I could not do because the trains were no longer running and most employees except the cleaning staff had left, and besides the point, the ticketing agent was deeply doubtful I would get a hotel voucher for a weather-related delay on a “code share” flight (a flight where two or more airlines share in the profits and therefore can shirk responsibility as to who is responsible for putting up delayed passengers).

At this point, I simply burst into hot, soft tears, apologizing to the ticketing agent for crying (side bar: WHY DO WE AS WOMEN FEEL THE NEED TO APOLOGIZE FOR OUR FEELINGS), saying, “I’m just so tired. I don’t know what to do or where to go.”

Somewhat pityingly, the man pointed to a plush arm chair in the business class lounge, telling me it was actually quite comfortable, and that I only needed to wait four hours before I could get in line to get checked-in for my new flight.

Still sobbing quietly, I called my mom and boyfriend, both of whom were still up, and both of whom tried to urge me to find a hotel.  My boyfriend was especially adamant that it might not be safe for me to sleep in the lobby of a terminal, not being through security, in NYC, but he backed off when I started to work myself up into a perfect panic not knowing where I would go or even how to get to a hotel.  I was also just exhausted at this point, not having slept well the night before my trip, and having sprinting while carrying a heavy carry-on bag for what felt like 30 minutes, all with a fist of panic around my heart regarding missing my flight.

My boyfriend then lulled me to sleep (after calling the airlines to give them a piece of his mind for not putting me up in a hotel) with sweet reassurances that I was safe, that he wished he were with me, that he had his arms around me.  I managed to doze in the arm chair next to a Spanish family in the same boat, only to be woken up by an unsympathetic cleaning crew member telling me I had to vacate the business class lounge because he needed to vacuum.  Wanting to retort, “you can’t just vacuum around my snot streaked person, jerk face?  It’s 2 AM for god’s sake,” I nonetheless got up and moved to the middle school esque desk like chairs right by the door that was blowing in cold air from outside and decided I might as well write a blog for Ploughshares that was due that weekend since there was no sleep to be had.

I got through the next day in a blur, only to arrive to my hotel in London very late, where I was overjoyed to discover my room had a large tub.  I took the hottest bath I could manage before drifting off to a deadened sleep after having been awake for nearly 24 hours.

I got to Lincoln College, Oxford (where Bread Loaf hosts their summer session over here) and unpacked, delighted to have my own private little room and bathroom overlooking a grove quad.  I was also delighted about England’s lush green hills and cooler summer weather–a relief after North Carolina’s swampy 100 degree humidity.

I then dashed back to travel mode, having gotten through orientation quickly so I could take a three and a half hour train ride up to Liverpool to participate in a conference on Silence and Meaning Making, at which I’d had my project on  silence and women’s poetry accepted.  The travel there was likewise fraught, as it turned out to the hottest day on record in the UK, and I got lost, only to discover my accommodation was 30 minutes outside the city center and not easily accessible to the conference site, so I arrived quite late.  The ordeal stressed me out so much I decided to come back a day early to Oxford, though I’m glad I presented and had the experience of meeting academics from all over the world who are interested in what I am interested in.  I also am submitting my paper for publication in a book on silence that the conference committee is editing.

Since settling back into Oxford, my favorite moments have been the quiet ones I spend on my own, either at writing at my desk listening to the bells, reading in my little armchair, walking in Christ Church Meadow and looking at the cows (yes, cows), staring up at the spires, sipping tea, wobbling on the cobblestones, waltzing past the tourists into the private, grandiose libraries, or running past the beautiful lush gardens alongside the river at University Parks.  Not to say that there aren’t wonderful people here and social moments–we have BBQs, pub quiz nights, formal hall dinners, lectures, receptions, excursions to London and Stratford to see Shakespeare–but after the semester I’ve had, those quiet moments are the ones I relish the most.

My classes are extremely interesting–the American Novel since 1945 and an independent study on women writers and the sonnet.  My professors are sharply smart and keep stunning me into new ways of thinking about literature and are very encouraging of my interest in creative writing, even going so far as to allow me to do a creative component to my final research papers–something I wasn’t sure I’d be allowed to do at Oxford, but that will set me up nicely for my return to my thesis in the fall.  Furthermore, I was nominated by my graduating peers to the executive committee to help plan Bread Loaf Oxford’s graduation ceremony (a nice vote of confidence in my eloquence, dependability, and organization skills) , so I’ll be doing that here as well.

I miss my family, my Daisy, and my boyfriend something fierce, however, and can’t wait for them to come visit me for the graduation, followed by a week trip up to the Lake District.  After my parents leave, Jason and I will stop off in London for a few days to stay with friends.

All in all, of the 15 resolutions I made in 2015, I have been successful at keeping all but five, and as we’re only halfway through the year, I still have time to work on 1. developing a better editing routine for old work 2. writing more poems 3. submitting work 4. maintaining my twitter and 5. blogging here more regularly (though my Ploughshares gig does mean I’m regular in one venue, even if not here).

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Gratitude and Self-esteem

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how we talk to ourselves.  I don’t mean in a crazy voice in my head kind of way, but in the way our background narration of our lives carries us through the day without most of us tuning in too closely.

I woke up this morning thinking about the time I did community service learning with Alternative Spring Break in Detroit (side bar: my favorite part of the experience was the ways in which we were sternly lectured NOT to embody a “white savior” complex but instead to consider the service “learning” on OUR parts–learning about the grace and dignity of the grassroots movements already in place in the city most have written off).

One of the days we, a bunch of college-aged females, were directed to run a self-actualization workshop in a middle school for young girls who had had some trouble fighting and generally being mean to one another. We decided to have them write positive attributes about one another so that each girl would go back with a list of things the others admired about her.

A talk with one girl who felt stuck turned to me asking her what she liked about herself.

She was horrified.  “I can’t talk about what I like about myself because then others might think I’m full of myself.”

Even to this day, I recognize that feeling even as it makes me sad and I want to condemn it. I wonder too at the gendered implications.  Is it still hard for women to proclaim what they like about themselves?  I think about the parody of that in Mean Girls, where Cady, having not been raised in the United States, awkwardly offers up that she has bad breath in the morning when she is unable to think of something to hate about herself in the mirror with the rest of the plastics.  It’s certainly been something I’ve been aware of lately: how little I tend to applaud, admire, or thank myself, how easy it feels to in fact do the opposite in my self-talk somehow without even paying much attention to what I’m doing.

Last week was Thanksgiving, so it seems appropriate this morning that I try to start with myself to start changing that negative self-talk, to be confident without being conceited.

Here’s a list of things I’m grateful to myself for:

1. My resilience.  I’ve lived in three states and two countries.  I’ve taught ESL, Spanish, and Creative Writing in tough schools with little guidance.  I conquered countless rejections and career changes and am in the process of earning three Master’s Degrees.

2. My sense of humor.  There’s nothing like having a little pun.

3. My body.  it’s changed a lot over the last ten years, but I feel strong.  I eat what I like.  I work out.  I lift weights in Body Pump twice a week and have run so many Half-Marathons and 10ks I’ve lost count.  I’m curvy and need high waisted pants, but damn it, I look good even if I got junk in my trunk.

4. My face.  I like my smile.  My (sigh) ever-browning blonde, sometimes straight, sometimes wavy hair.  My hazel eyes, sometimes gold, sometimes green, sometimes brown.  My small pores and acne prone T zone and chin.  My thick eyebrows that I’ve never bothered to pluck after I made myself cry the first time I tried in middle school.

5. My tiny, skinny ankles.  Boys used to call me chicken legs in middle school because of how disproportionately skinny they are.  They make me clumsy and make it impossible to find slip on shoes that won’t slip off, but they also make me look great in boots and belie a ton of strength to run many miles.

6. My compassion. I don’t have many friends.  I find it exhausting to be surrounded by crowds.  I don’t always feel many people get me or have the patience for my neuroses.  But to those I do count in my circle, I have a lot to offer in terms of my empathy and my grace and my willingness to drop whatever to talk, cook, or drive you to the ER.

7. My temper.  It’s taught me a lot about restraint.

8. My creative brain.  It lights up in the presence of a good poem or novel. I am the perennial teacher’s pet–except when I’m trying to teach the class for them. I love to write and cook and knit and paint.

9. My drive. What I seek to accomplish gets done.  My planner is a sight to behold.  I am organized to a fault.  I plan out each day by the hour.  I don’t always get things done as quickly as I plan, but I do get the job done.

10. My love of adventure has brought me countless exciting experiences, from learning to snow shoe and then alpine tour (i.e., ski UP) the Pyrenees, to zip-lining in a rainforest, to hiking solo in the dark and camping out above the tree-line, to scaling rock face up to the Kitchen Mesa, to swimming with Dolphins in Hawaii, to snubbing a wreck in the Caribbean, to white water rafting down the Rio Chama, to surfing the Atlantic, to flying across the world to hike down the Taroko Gorge to bathe in natural mineral hot springs alongside a rushing river.  The only thing that I will probably never do is learn to scuba dive because for some reason the thought of relying solely on a tank for air freaks me out (that and prohibitive costs also likely rules out ever climbing Everest).

Though I certainly could have more easily come up with 20 things I don’t like about myself, and though I certainly have faults and lots to learn in layers with all of the above, I want to encourage everyone, especially gals, no matter how young or old, to take a minute to write out ten things you’re grateful to yourself for, and to challenge you to be full of gratitude for yourself without feeling bad or apologetic about it.

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