Reinvention in the Mirror

"Inspiring you to reinvent yourself"

Dear Friends,

I’ve written five new posts in my imagination since the last one that actually made it to you. (Each brilliant in its own way.) Today, I want to open up a bit of my character for our collective inspection, reflect on the reinvention I’ve been sharing since February, and let you know why I paused.

“It’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye.” Just like the giddily playing kids whose parent must yell this cliché, I began my journey of reinvention with little idea of the risks. For one thing, it did not dawn on me, though it should have, that this blog and my FB pages would be stalked by someone without my best interest in mind. As I hope you’ve figured out, there are aspects of my life that I do keep private, writing nothing about here or on Facebook. Besides simple discretion and courtesy to others involved in my “reinvention,” I am sensitive to the idea, developed in social science, that to observe something is to change it in some way. So, I share with you what I am open to your influence over – you, meaning the innumerable people, currently known to me or not, who may ultimately read these musings. By opening myself to your observation, I know that my experiences themselves are somehow altered. All the more so, as I am describing my life to you with intent and choices; of course I’m aware of and influenced by your presence.

This blog is about growth, learning, joy, gratitude and excitement. In these areas, the more the merrier! Come on in for a swim in these pools of my mind; splash around; make some noise; run, even, if you wish. It’s safe and I welcome it. 

Why did I start the blog this year? Because I have illnesses that have forced me to change direction; because I was too ill to work and what on earth was I going to do with myself? Because I have financial and familial circumstances that one could consider dire. (Okay, that are dire.) Because I am much lesser abled than I ever was, in life-critical ways. Because everything must change because everything has changed.  

My response to those truths is to dwell as much as possible on these equally available truths: that there are also good circumstances in my life, that I have plenty of blessings to count, and that to a great extent, I get to choose my private and public responses to the losses. (Jewish tradition includes very sensible distinctions between public and private mourning.) It is not the circumstance that defines one, but the response.

My cyber-stalker – yes, someone I know – believes that if one is true the other must be a lie. Either I am in dire straits or I am joyful.  If I write about joy and good fortune here, that belies my “claim” of difficult circumstances. If my physical and financial difficulties are true, then – obviously – I am lying to you in this blog and on Facebook. This person has decided that I lie habitually and that I have little integrity.

So I paused. To ponder. To give the stalker less fodder for misinterpretation. To wonder, am I being truthful with you? After much deliberation, I came to this thought: 

Pthththththththththththththth!!!!

It may be harder to burst with joy when counting too few pennies or when feeling knocked off one’s feet, but it is by no means impossible. A stimulating conversation may do it, as may evoking an infant’s smile. 

Watching a cat choose the posies’ planter as a cat bed has done it. Seeing FB photos of former students loving life does it. Chocolate ice cream does it (duh!), as does linguistic and philosophical discourse with a new FB friend.

I don’t yet have the answers to my fiscal well-being, and I don’t know how I will live a productive life with the ailments that limit me. I don’t. I grieve plenty, in private and to my closest confidantes. It scares me not to control the outcome, not even to know it. 

What I do know is that for me, joy is the antidote to fear. Laughter pushes stress away. Creative expression lightens the burden. Loving family and friends soothe my achy soul. And that, my dears, is no lie.

So, after this, back we go: to aspirations, inspiration, and the occasional stinky perspiration. Back to joy, growth, and beauty. Back to learning, reinvention, naysayers be damned.

Thanks for reading!

Love, Rhonda

Unintentionally Slapstick

"Inspiring You to Reinvent Yourself"

Dear Friends,

Years ago, I asked two colleagues to stop talking about their sex lives in front of me: "Don't you understand," I said, in mock exasperation, "I'm unintentionally celibate!" 

They chuckled, left my office, and we went about our week. Except that Sandy giggled every time she saw me, returning repeatedly to the concept of "unintentionally celibate." 

Just as a staff meeting was about to begin, Sandy and I made eye contact across the table; muttering, "unintentionally celibate," she began to laugh again. 

Here's a nice picture of a nice cucumber. No reason. Why?

"Sandy," I said in mock exasperation, "Don't you understand? It wouldn't be funny if it weren't true!"

"Oh!" she responded, thought a minute, nodding her head slowly. 

"Ohhhhhhhhhhh." 

It was an odd concept. Celibacy, as opposed to “not getting any” or “in a dry spell,” connotes choice, virtue. To be celibate is to be well-behaved, disciplined, pure and strong. In control of one’s destiny. I was unintentionally strong and in control? Yes! I'd much rather have been impulsively screwing up a storm every night and bow-legged with exhaustion every morning. It was my age-right, my birthright. I was racking up virtue points when I should have been racking up notches on a bedpost. It was frustrating. And funny.

I often burst out laughing when I recount my frustrations, and, as I saw clearly this week, so do my friends. I’ve been in NYC, down from Albany for a divorce mediation session that took place on Wednesday. I planned 1.5 days free and close by on either side of the stressful event, in case of debilitating potential Fibro flare-ups. (Thanks to the Have Computer Will Work strategy, I am able to be as productive in borrowed digs as I am at home.)

Making time to connect with friends through the week, I had lunch at a café, dusk beside the Central Park Reservoir and dinner at a corner Italian place. After each get-together, my abs ached and my cells felt over-oxygenated from belly laughter. The stories were the sort that are over-the-top funny because, well, they aren’t really funny at all. Self-deprecating slapstick: Not so-and-so slipped on a banana peel; rather, that’s me slipping on the damned banana peel that I threw down to begin with!  

My friends and I laughed about grunting like old, arthritic men every time we move, the relationships that went insanely south, the most bizarre moments of those relationships, and the grief of lost love and trashed dreams. Conversation sloshed between sharing real pain and giggling over it, being worried and being giddy and strategizing and caricaturizing.

I could barely catch my breath or hold my bladder. At the café, the woman behind us could barely hear herself think. At the reservoir, self-satisfied runners just barely managed to ignore us. No matter – we were thoroughly enjoying the fruits of our failures.

Often, I describe my body with Fibro as a carnival fun house mirror – everything’s warped and unreal. “It would be hysterically funny if it weren’t true,” I say. But enjoying this week so much and remembering back to “unintentionally celibate,” I now see that if it weren’t true, it wouldn’t be funny.

Are you enjoying these posts? Please do share them. It’s fun to see what new countries people are reading me in. I don’t have anyone in Africa or Scandinavia yet. Let’s go, people!

Love, Rhonda

PS. Need writing or editing help? Write me at rhonda@reworkediting.com. 

When the Fibro Flares

"Inspiring you to Reinvent Yourself"

Dear Friends, 

I planned a month of driving, visiting, meeting strangers, eating out and on-the-go, and sleeping different homes: NY, NJ, DE, MD, VA, NC, SC, GA, FL, GA, SC, NC, VA, MD, DE, PA, NJ, NY. I knew that Fibro fatigue would catch up with me and Fibro pain would strike. So I planned for broken plans, sprinkling several longer than necessary stops throughout the trip so that I could rest. 

I build in flexibility, knowing that my body would insist on taking control. 
(Fibro/chronic pain travel hint #1)

What happened was a quick onset, stress induced Flaming Fibro Flare just south of Orlando. 

Orlando was meant to be my three-night rest stop. 

When Couch Surfing, I request to stay where a bed in one's own room is offered. I can nap at will and groan in pain to my Fibro heart's content. (Fibro/chronic pain travel hint #2)

I made Couch Surfing plans that sounded great with a wonderfully reviewed host, who turns out to be a terrific and interesting man with a lovely girl friend to boot. And an artist and a man who has turned every room of his house into a renovation zone. I needed guidance to walk through. 

Belongings were piled everywhere. I snaked my arms past a wall of half filled paint-rinsing jars to wash my hands. While "my" bedroom was the neatest and the bed was nicely made, there were still things piled and leaning every which way.

Some of you know that I spent many years living with a hoarder. Not a fun experience; sometimes a horrible one. So, while I make no judgment on my host's relationship with things, I felt deeply uncomfortable in his home.

First, I took a brief nap. (Remember, my energy was already wearing thin; this was meant to be my recuperation stop.) When I awoke, I found myself lingering in bed. 

An inner dialogue began: I'll just stay in bed until tomorrow. That would be rude. Where would I sit out there? I can't stay here! Well, you can't insult them, they opened their home to you. I feel myself sinking. Stay the night and find another place tomorrow. 

A pause, and then a different inner voice. The health superego I've been trying to develop, the one who guards me against wantonly putting others before myself: 

You cannot stay the night. Your anxiety is rising and you will end up in a huge Fibro flare. You're already on the brink of one, which is why you're not thinking straight, but really, Rosenheck, you must leave now. Sit up. Good. Put your things back in your bag. Good. and now, go out to the living room and say something. You can do this.

"Hi," I began. "I need to share something. I lived with a hoarder for a long time and while I know that you're in the middle of renovations, the amount of clutter here is bringing on an anxiety attack. I'm sorry, I cannot stay with you. If not for my background, I'd be excited to learn about all the work you're doing on the house. But I have to go. I'm so sorry."

They understood. They wanted me to be comfortable. They asked where I'd stay. I threw out the name of a place nearby, though I'd not made plans. I grabbed my bags, slipped past mounds of things following my host to the door, and practically ran out. 

From the car, I booked a last minute hotel deal nearby. 

When using AirBNB and Couch Surfing to travel, have a just-in-case budget available for an inexpensive hotel room. Keep Priceline's app handy on your phone to book an immediately available room with express deals at 50-60% off their normal prices.
(Fibro/chronic pain travel hint #3)

I couldn't forestall the anxiety attack; it arrived full force just as I was driving away. I pulled into a gas station to let it safely work its way through my body. I cleaned every bit of rubbish out of the car, reorganized my snacks bag, and strove to slow my breathing. When I felt calmer, I drove to the hotel and spent three days and two nights in a blessedly clean room riding out a major Fibro flare.

I got myself out of an unhealthy situation and into a restorative one after only an hour or so of hesitation. This was huge!

I continued my trip the day I felt well again. Made one more stop before reaching my folks' place. Spent hours catching up on freelance work in the Co-Op Cafe, a fantastic natural foods place in Fort Pierce, FL, https://www.facebook.com/OYPoypcoop. Watched pelicans swan dive for fish off a pier. Got another good night's sleep. Then, at last, I arrived in Boca and fell into my mom's compassionate arms, just in time to help with the Passover preparations. 

by Mary Theresa Streck, former nun, hopeful future Catholic priest

Hope you all had a terrific holiday. Mine was just right! 

Love, Rhonda

Fibro Smog: A Toxic Mix of Brain Fog and Bad News

"Inspiring You to Reinvent Yourself"

Dear Friends, 

Reducing stress has become a source of stress in my life. I am certain that many of you have just said, "Yes!" or some such outburst of agreement. After all, doesn't research indicate an inverse correlation between overall health and stress levels? When stress rises health erodes. Health improves as we reduce stress.*
*Two notes for this past paragraph: a. Please don't ask for citations, facts are not what this post is about; and b. Please remember that correlations are not cause and effect -- which is the chicken and which is the egg, and what if both sides of the correlation are, I don't know, parallel donkeys?

Reducing my stress in a world going mad has become tricky. Picture the Ostrich with her head buried in the ground. Do you imagine her to be relaxed? I don't. I see her haunches quivering with fear. I see her breath held, awaiting the inevitable approach of unseen terrors, increasing in monstrosity every second. By hiding in plain sight, our mythical Ostrich has ceded control over her fate to others and made herself a near perfect target for adversaries.

I gained a long-held belief from my family's history that self-blinding (e.g. naivete about humankind's potential for evil) is the handmaiden of self-destruction. I look with pride on being third generation American across the board (very unusual for a Jewish woman of my age from central and eastern European origin). All eight of my great-grandparents left Europe at the turn of the 20th century. These ancestors looked the danger from increasing anti-Semitism in the eye. Decisively, they each risked and invested everything in survival, freedom, and a fair chance for their children, my parents, my brother and me (and cousins) and our next generations of offspring.   

I learned to pay attention. Follow the news. Listen to my internal alarm. And because my parents were the offspring of these alert ancestors and highly liberal New Yorkers, I learned that bigotry, injustice or violence toward anyone should ring that alarm.  

Stress exacerbates Fibromyalgia symptoms. I strive not to watch the news, read past the newspaper's comics or agonize long over other people's (and peoples') pain. But this effort itself produces anxiety: I know something is happening out there, but what exactly? "Stay informed," whispers my entire bloodline, "It matters." So, eventually, I catch up.

The straw that broke my Fibro body's back earlier this week was this article in The Atlantic Monthly. Consider yourself warned -- follow the link at the risk of never sleeping well again. http://www.theatlantic.com/features/archive/2015/02/what-isis-really-wants/384980/ 

This terrifying analysis landed on a huge pile of straws my weakening back was already balancing*: 
*I'm speaking broadly below, folks, to show you my mindset.

• Concerns about my own resources for living, now and into retirement;
• A nation that finds shooting unarmed, Black men viscerally acceptable and acts as if child shooting deaths have little to do with gun laws; 
• My beloved President pussyfooting around international issues important to me and disdained and hobbled in Congress regarding social issues important to me. 
• The spread, influence and government sanction of obscene greed. 
• Women's rights put up for discussion and erosion again, as if they are less than human rights.
• Ancient forms of anti-Semitism awakening as people and governments grow desperate, frightened and enraged.

Two days ago, I read The Atlantic Monthly's article and could not sleep. I vibrated with near-panic level anxiety, collapsed for a few hours in the morning and awoke with Fibro Fog (reduced mental acuity) and a body that ached as if inflamed everywhere. Today, I am still striving to recuperate from the spike in symptoms, known in the Fibromyalgia community as a Flare. 

I dubbed this bout of unwellness "Fibro Smog" because I feel polluted and sickened by empathy's poor showing against indifference and hatred. 

Yes, I am restarting a mindfulness meditation practice; yes, I am reflecting and writing; yes, I am walking. Yes to following all the recommendations for stress reduction. Yet I am not yet reaching a healthy balance between self-care and engagement in the world. 

It is very stressful, failing to manage my stress. 

Please, world, a little cooperation? Pretend that everything is all about me. What I need from you is kindness, goodness, generosity, curiosity, patience, joy, laughter, and a laying down of aggressors' and defenders' swords at the same time. Is that really too much to ask for the sake of a good night's sleep? I don't think so. Thank you so much!

Love, Rhonda