Racconto YEG

I started a course through my gym called FUEL which focuses on "identifying personal values, missions, visions & goals, to pinpoint motivational triggers and barriers to change." In essence, it is the work of therapy put into guided action. We started with a discussion of what values I feel drawn to. From the list given, I had three values aligned with "feeling" (courage, perseverance, forgiveness), which work to develop inner strength of character.  I felt like I had some components of these values but certainly have not learned how to keep to them all the time, nor how to identify when or where to push certain values and not others. "Feelers" struggle more with goal identification (ie. knowing the right goals, setting realistic strategies/timelines) and also struggle with emotional/mental boundaries. My other four values aligned with "doing values" (compassion, encouragement, intentionality, and balance) which catalyze action a

My SACE therapist called me out today for being combative and contrary. While this isnt the first time I have been told this, I guess it was startling to be told right off the bat by someone who I had only met once before. We probed why it was important to me to push back or negate the things people say and I think it relates to needing to "prove" myself. To feel the information I provide will lessen the chance of being misunderstood, as I often do. I guess I am striving to make connections but in pushing away I create disconnection. We also discussed my coping methods--reading exercise, painting--and the fact that all of those gave me a sense of accomplishment and why did needing satisfaction or accomplishment seem necessary when I was coping with difficult emotions or situations? I wasn't aware how closely I tied surviving   with accomplishment-- is there some legitimate connection here? Why is accomplishment even necessary for self-care anyway? In fact, self-care

“It feels like the whole world” I am feeling fragile, friends. And these words from Wil Wheaton made me feel vulnerable and seen. Trying to overcome childhood trauma—even when those around me would say I didn’t have it so bad, that I wasn’t terribly abused or mistreated—feels like this. It is shattering and overwhelming and distressing. I want what I can’t have: to go back in time and protect that little girl from feeling so alone. To have loving and supportive parents who didn’t terrify her or mess up her gender identity; to have someone protect me from the hitting or the pinching or being locked outside during mealtimes. I go back to that empty well for love often, still, even as I take steps and set boundaries to protect my fragile and broken heart, but it is still empty and fractured. I don’t need pity, just understanding.

When I started learning how to paint, I did so to reconnect with my Chinese heritage. I began with watercolours simply because it was easier to procure than the traditional ink and grindstone. I did eventually use those tools but I always gravitated back to watercolours. I am not much of a creative painter, preferring to look at others' work and try to observe their brush strokes and colour gradients. Painting eventually became more of a meditative practice and it served as a good conduit for my own energy. When I was hospitalized, one of the major components of my time was doing art therapy. It was soothing and helped me find some daily satisfaction and self-efficacy. When my fatigue became overwhelming, though, art was the first to drop by the wayside.  I found my way back to it after more than 6 months of not painting, last week. In preparation for the upcoming Chinese New Year celebrations for the Year of the Rat, I observed a dozen iterations of rat painting

I was afraid to go in, I won’t lie. All the worst case scenarios existed like a scrolling line, running through my head. But, I went anyway. And I spoke calmly about it my expectations and disappointments and they responded within seconds. I was brought in, and immediately they went to work fixing what was left undone/flawed. I felt heard and understood; And everything was corrected. I learned, then, that I didn’t have to fear the mistakes made, that I could be present and firm without being overbearing or rude in my request; I learned that my voice and my opinion mattered.

I am often asked what I want to get out of things. And it is a hard question to answer since I am unclear about how to move myself forward in all ways. What do I want out of my fitness goals? Uh....I want to feel comfortable in my own skin. What do I want to get out of therapy? Uh....I want to feel comfortable in my own skin. Is that too lofty a goal? It is certainly not a SMART (specific, measurable, achievable, realistic, or timely) goal and I don't know any component that would make it so. I feel somewhat like I am groping through the dark for the light switch--not knowing what obstacles exist in front of me, not being able to discern how close or far away it may be, not even sure what shape or size the switch may be. What I do know, however, is that I am in a dark place but I am not the darkness. And I know that once I reach that switch, I will know what it is. And so, here I am. Looking. Reaching. I started the next round of therapy yesterday. It is with the Sexual

We have hit a deep freeze here and it means that, currently, we are the coldest place on the planet. At -47 in the windchill yesterday, I kept the small kids home for a snow day since my garage door was complaining about working in the cold and I had to push it up manually in order to get my vehicle out.  It warmed up to -36C today so I sent them to school. N and I packed on our winter clothes--snowpants, hats, mittens, neckwarmers, heavy jackets., clumpy boots. The doorknob on the front door was frosted *on the inside* and the air cut our faces the minute we walked out. The snow made a satisfying squeak--the sound that only deep freezes produce--under our feet and we walked in slow motion, carrying us towards the school. We could feel the cold suspend our breaths even before they left our mouths and noses, the moisture creating icicles inside of us. N held her neckwarmer to her cheeks, I snuggled my face down into my jacket. It didnt help my glasses from freezing onto my

I started my therapy session talking about my insecurity about speaking up about the way my hair dye job came out. I said that I felt conflicted about speaking up and that I felt partially responsible for not speaking up sooner and that I felt the door for that conversation must surely be closed. She disagreed that I should have spoken up sooner, since I had, of course, put myself willingly into the hands of people who were the "experts" and that I, the customer, didn't have that expertise to draw on. But that, regardless of anything else, I had the right to express dissatisfaction if things didn't work the way I had wanted them to. I HAD THE RIGHT TO BE UNHAPPY. I went on to note that my parents have returned home now and I am experiencing an uptick of emotion since they now believe they can return to things the way they were before we "took a break" from contact. I felt pinned by their phone calls, FB posts/messages and upcoming gift giving. ANd when

I decided awhile ago that I would like to dye my hair something unexpected--something ombre tones of blues, purples, mermaid hair, perhaps. I think that i was as much for a shock factor as it was to try to try on new identities. I have struggled with *knowing myself* for a long time and I felt sure that this would help. I went into the salon with a picture in hand and an idea of how things would play out. I chose a reputable (see: expensive) place in the hopes that they had enough vision and experience to help to mold my desires into reality. I gave some instruction, and some allowance for their own abilities to come through. All the way through the four hours I spent in the chair, I was reassured that it was going to be "fun" and "wasn't I excited?" and even a small critique that I didn't sound excited enough. (What is that level of excitement, anyway?) I told her pointedly that something depression didn't help, sounding excited being one o

This time last year I was being registered in-patient on a psych ward. I was in a dark and terribly anxious place with many unknowns plaguing my waking and sleeping hours. I was sleeping between 17 and 20 hours per day and in the times I was awake, I felt disconnected and unaware of my own capacities. I couldn't follow a plot in a TV show or book, I struggled to make conversations. I began having nightmares of my prior abusive relationship and of my childhood. I was unable to discern voices that were in my head and voices in the room. I spent hours simply dissociated from life for a month in the hospital. I didn't socialize with other patients and I kept largely to myself. Mostly I was glad that I didnt have to worry about anything except getting myself to therapy sessions, for mealtimes, and to rest. In the first set of therapy (Partial Psychiatric Hospitalization Program) after I was released, I learned about the basics of cognitive therapies and general ideas related to

"Speech to the Young: Speech to the Progress-Toward" Say to them, say to the down-keepers, the sun-slappers, the self-soilers, the harmony-hushers, "even if you are not ready for day it cannot always be night." You will be right. For that is the hard home-run. Live not for battles won. Live not for the-end-of-the-song. Live in the along. -Gwendolyn Brooks

I have begun to work with a therapist who specializes in sensorimotor psychotherapy--it has allowed me to explore the relationship between my somatic symptoms (such as numbness in my hands and feet, tense shoulders), and my trauma responses (night terrors, tightening of chest, racing heart). I can tell already that my awareness of myself has shifted my awareness of my emotions and processes. It makes me extremely tired but I feel ready to delve further.

We came to Lake Minnewanka to skate but really what we did was stand on the lake and get blown across its surface by the fast and ferocious winds that whirled around the lake. It was a lesson in patience, a lesson in resilience, a lesson in perseverance, and, mostly for me, a lesson in just letting go of control and allowing myself to get carried into the unknown.

New Year's Eve was small and lacked excitement, not for lack of trying, but perhaps it was for the best. I overshot my boundaries by planning a big deal when I really wanted to go to bed early. Still, things could have been worse than a night of preschool monster hunting, and traditional post-midnight scream-e-oke. Cheers to the teenage years, friends.