Conquering Insecurities--One Step at a Time

Okay--I've read over half of "The Tender Heart--Conquering Your Insecurities." Guilty as charged. Like many aspects of my personality, if I'm in for a penny, I'm in for a pound. There are three checklists--one for tenderheartedness, one for insecurity, and one for childhood experiences that might account for insecurity. I'm practically off the chart for the first two, but have zero check marks on the third. Because I'm insecure and married a person who couldn't, or wouldn't, say he loved me and since I stayed in a verbally and emotionally abusive marriage for 17 years, various people have assumed I had parents who abused or neglected me. Nope. Not even a little.

The closest thing to trauma I can remember is having two teeth (next to my two front top teeth) that came in as small, pointy vampire teeth. I hid my smile during my elementary years with my hand. I considered myself homely because of it and those early self assessments don't go away easily. In junior high, a not gentle dentist (fine, I bit him once, but I still think he started it) pulled the offending teeth, gave me a partial plate, and left me with a life long irrational fear of dentists.

The only other thing I can point to is that when I was about ten, my mom went back to work and my brothers left for colleges back east within two years of each other and then four years later left for missions.  No face time back then, and long distance calls were expensive.  I remember the first time Larry called at Thanksgiving. I couldn't even talk to him. I just cried. My brothers were my best friends when I was little and I grew dependent on their support and approval.

So, compared to the horror stories of other people I've heard about and observed, my childhood was idyllic . Still, my insecurities have joined with my inherent tender heart qualities and plague me. Junior high was a nightmare, high school only marginally better and college was filled with self-doubts and counseling. I married at 24 to someone who reminded me often that I had never gone to a Prom (he had; he told our children that he'd be the one who would help them with dating) and that I was lucky he had married me because no one else had ever wanted to. One of his last messages before the separation and divorce was that he hoped I could find someone who could love me. As if. And now, 20 years later, of course I haven't.

I'm working on loving myself and some days are great and I feel good and whole and secure. Even when I feel insecure, I'm always aware of my blessings and gifts. It's a wonderful life. And then other days happen.

While Black Friday Christmas shopping, I found gifts for almost everyone on my list--12 grandchildren, and my kids and their spouses. But I also found presents for myself. Unplanned purchases on a very tight budget. I bought myself a beautiful rose colored cardigan for $9 ($36 regular price), an art set because my wonderful friend Sandra is going to teach me how to watercolor ($12 instead of $30), scrap-booking supplies ($20 instead of $50) and a silver chain for $12 instead of the overpriced $70 it was marked. Great deals. But I didn't need any of it and can't afford it. Somehow, I couldn't shake the feeling that no one would buy me anything so I deserved to buy myself presents. Ridiculous. Normal, forgivable, but ridiculous nonetheless.

That was three days ago. This morning on the way to Zumba, I started to say something to a third person in my daughter's car and she subtly, but surely, frowned, shook her head and mouthed 'no' to me. She was so sure I was going to say something stupid or offensive. I wasn't and didn't, but I guess I have in the past because in public she does the same thing on a regular basis. I adore my daughter and she treats me with love and kindness 95% of the time. But the other 5% devastates me. I don't want it to--I want to smile and love her and disregard her minor imperfections--she doesn't even know she does it. Unfortunately, it takes me right back to my marriage when my husband wouldn't sit by me in Sunday School unless I would promise not to raise my hand. Frankly, I make thoughtful and appreciated comments in classes. It didn't matter.

I left Zumba with a stomachache and wrote this blog entry on paper in a little classroom. I feel better. Step one should be to not let unintended hurts cause pain. Little by little, I will overcome this paralyzing insecurity. I am a valued, loved daughter of God. Feeling small does not befit me. But, I'm not going to lie. It's hard.

There's No Such Thing As Too Much Heart

I've been called  kind-hearted and warm-hearted. Out of my range of hearing, I've maybe been called cold-hearted (I was a middle school teacher, after all!). I've known stout-hearted people, but I don't think that applies to me. Brave-hearted doesn't ring any bells of recognition either.

I know I am tender-hearted, except the dictionary says only good things about that term and I think there are negative connotations as well. I am compassionate and feel empathy for others. I do feel things deeply. But I have been called too sentimental, too emotional, too reactive.  I wonder if there is a term for tenderbutwaytoosensitive-hearted?  I just read a book preview on The Tender Heart: Conquering Your Insecurity by Joseph Nowinski. There's a questionnaire in it that describes me in scarily accurate ways, but "Nowinski explains that insecurity is not a flaw or shortcoming, but rather a personality trait that reflects both temperament and life experiences. And, most important, he shows how insecurity can be conquered so that one can thrive -- especially in work and love."  

I would like to believe Nowinski.  I am not overly confident about changing a trait that has been with me since elementary school when a fourth grade peer made a disparaging remark about my religion and I cried so hard that I stood hiccuping in the hallway, unable to stop. "Breathe, Pamela, breathe." But I want to be more confident about it. I've made a decision to try. I may even buy the book--it's pretty cheap on Amazon!

What I would like people to understand is that some of us have hearts that break easily. I'm going to learn to get over things more quickly. I'm going to forgive more quickly. I'm not going to blame people for unintentionally hurting me--but I am also going to stop blaming myself for it like I always have done. I don't think I'm too emotional--I may be too reactive. I'll work on that.

I look back at the cute little girl who I was and all the times she helped other little people (and more than a few animals) and I love her so much. Then I look back at her and all the times she cried because someone was less kind than they could have been and I love her even more.

It's only been a short while that I have been able to publicly admit that I was in a marriage for 17 years where I was emotionally and verbally abused. It wasn't his intention to hurt me, but he did from the day we were married on. I cried for awhile and then I just buried it. When the marriage finally imploded, I cried for months.  Maybe that's part of the reason I am still so easily hurt. I just can't hide it anymore, even when the hurts are small and unintentional.

I wrote a poem between the legal separation and divorce. (I wrote quite a few!) While I was being healed by a loving Heavenly Father and my Savior, Jesus Christ, I wrote the following:

I understand now.
I'm being remade,
remodeled, reborn.
I trust you
and know it is a good thing.
But allow one request,
please.
Make me strong.

Not like rock--
rock only seems strong.
It erodes with dripping water
and crumbles under pressure.

Not like steel--
steel is cold
and cruel.
Steel hurts.
He was like steel.

Make me like silk.
Silk is strong.
I can shield my children
with soft embrace.
I can protect myself
wrapped in beauty
and encircled in warmth.

pamela hunter-braden

I wrote that more than 20 years ago, but life is funny. (strange, not ha-ha) I'm currently going through another major remodel. I wanted to be all done with change by the age of 63, but it seems Heavenly Father is intent on helping me be the daughter of His I am meant to be. A daughter who is tender-hearted but not so insecure. I guess I can't serve Him effectively if I cry every time someone makes a disparaging remark.

So, once again, I am asking a kind Father to make me strong. As I was writing this, the following song came up on Pandora. It seemed like another song that I should hear and remember.



"Beautiful Dawn"
by The Wailin' Jennys

Take me to the breaking of a beautiful dawn
Take me to the place where we come from
Take me to the end so I can see the start
There's only one way to mend a broken heart

Take me to the place where I don't feel so small
Take me where I don't need to stand so tall
Take me to the edge so I can fall apart
There's only one way to mend a broken heart

Take me where love isn't up for sale
Take me where our hearts are not so frail
Take me where the fire still owns its spark
There's only one way to mend a broken heart

Teach me how to see when I close my eyes
Teach me to forgive and to apologize
Show me how to love in the darkest dark
There's only one way to mend a broken heart

Take me where the angels are close at hand
Take me where the ocean meets the sky and the land
Show me to the wisdom of the evening star
There's only one way to mend a broken heart

Take me to the place where I feel no shame
Take me where the courage doesn't need a name
Learning how to cry is the hardest part
There's only one way to mend a broken heart

I Still Remember That Girl

Oh, my goodness, I love this song. I just heard it for the first time on a new Pandora station (Brandi Carlile) and had to look it up so I would understand it and why it was written. Turns out it was written for me! And millions of other women like me. Of course, I'm not the waitress in the Broadway play that the character in the song reflects, but believe me, I am that girl.

She Used to Be Mine    by Sara Bareilles

[Verse 1]
It's not simple to say
That most days I don't recognize me
That these shoes and this apron, that place and its patrons
Have taken more than I gave them
It's not easy to know
I'm not anything like I used be, although it's true
I was never attention's sweet center
I still remember that girl

[Chorus 1]
She's imperfect, but she tries
She is good, but she lies
She is hard on herself
She is broken and won't ask for help
She is messy, but she's kind
She is lonely most of the time
She is all of this mixed up and baked in a beautiful pie
She is gone, but she used to be mine

[Verse 2]
It's not what I asked for
Sometimes life just slips in through a back door
And carves out a person and makes you believe it's all true
And now I've got you
And you're not what I asked for
If I'm honest, I know I would give it all back
For a chance to start over and rewrite an ending or two
For the girl that I knew

[Chorus 2]
Who'll be reckless, just enough
Who'll get hurt, but who learns how to toughen up
When she's bruised and gets used by a man who can't love
And then she'll get stuck
And be scared of the life that's inside her
Growing stronger each day 'til it finally reminds her
To fight just a little, to bring back the fire in her eyes
That's been gone, but used to be mine
Used to be mine

[Refrain]
She is messy, but she's kind
She is lonely most of the time
She is all of this mixed up and baked in a beautiful pie
She is gone, but she used to be mine


Now, here's the incredible good news. A miracle if you will. The fire is back in my eyes. I'm not stuck anymore. I've asked for help and I am rewriting the ending.

I'm Just Like Laundry--I'll Never Be Done!

Sometimes I wonder if I'd been born in a different time and a different place, would my life have been so overwhelmingly involved in setting goals? If I were a real Heidi (my favorite book at one point in my childhood which I just looked for on the bookshelf where it should be and isn't there and I'm going to worry about that all day), would I have set goals? "Today, I will pick 3 bouquets of wildflowers and give one to Grandfather, one to Peter and keep one for myself." or "Today, I will fix my hair differently to see if Peter notices and maybe lose that last 5 pounds." His name was Peter, right?

All I know is that my life has revolved around setting goals. In a rather pitiful journal entry from December, 1985, when I should have been writing all the adorable things my 11 month old baby girl was doing, here's what I really wrote: "I've been reading my journal. When I am 99 1/2 years old, an excerpt from my journal is sure to read: 'Boy, has it been a long time. I need to set goals again. My goals are: 1. Read scriptures, daily prayer 2. Clean house, better meals  3. Lose 5-10 pounds  4. Catch up on laundry  5. etc. etc. etc.'  On the next page in very large lettering, it says:
"I'm tired of making no apparent progress. For years, I've been setting the same goals. Why can't I ever succeed on them?"

That was 32 years ago and I swear that I have set those exact goals within the last 2 weeks. Now, some of you may say there's something wrong with my goals and I would agree. I actually used to set about 25 goals, track my progress on them for a month and then grade myself. Exercised 20 days out of 30 this month? Sorry, that's a 66%--a D.  Better luck next month!

But seriously, anyone who has talked to me in the last 5 months knows I've been on a nauseatingly self-absorbed self improvement journey. I've actually lost about 30 pounds which puts me right in that lose 5-10 more pounds category. Can I have some laughter here? Feel free to use this as an example of irony, Language Arts teachers out there! I've also confronted some very real issues that deal with my relationship with my oldest son and how I should not try to control him and his very real and heartbreaking addiction issues. I'm so grateful for the help I've received in that area with a real life life coach (I know, how cool is that?) and the wonderful family support arm of the Addiction Recovery Program through the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Cody and I have a much less co-dependent relationship where we can love each other without doing damage.

I have also tried very hard to identify the gifts I have been given so that I can use them to serve others. This is not an easy thing for me and I'm guessing it's not an easy thing for most women I know. I don't know about men. I don't understand men. Period. But my friends and I seem to constantly question our gifts. I can see theirs as plainly as I see the sun in the sky and perhaps they see mine, but what's up with that? Gloria carries a calmness and peaceful dignity within herself that makes her an incredible friend and an amazing elementary school teacher. Debbie is the most supportive person I know when I have needed support but every time I talk to her she concentrates on what she's not doing. Sheila--well, okay, Sheila is aware that she is the best massage therapist in the world--but I don't know if she always appreciates the example she sets in other areas. She is my number one mentor in how to handle the whole co-dependency thing. I could go on and on. I have a lot of friends who don't acknowledge their gifts. Maybe they are just appropriately humble.

I am currently going through my semi-annual depressive stage. I blame Quinn. He and Eden needed some babysitting help for a couple of weeks and I was surrounded by grandchildren morning to sometimes middle of the night (not 24/7 of course! Just when their work schedules overlapped when school started!). I didn't spend enough time with Sam's darling kids, but enough to add more layers of love for them.  I was so happy reliving my rearing children days without all the worry and work. I came home and even though Jana is pretty generous about sharing her children, the truth is that I mostly live alone with a depressed, tired woman of a certain age.

Meanwhile, back to goals. I believe in them. Mostly. Formerly mentioned life coach scared the heck out of me a few weeks ago with this definition of Hell: On the last day of your life, you meet the person you could have been.  Yikes! Who wants that? I want to return to my Heavenly Father having magnified my gifts and talents, not having to confess that I buried them.

But how do you accept that you are enough the way you are and still challenge yourself to be more? How do you like yourself and not judge yourself and still acknowledge that you need to improve and change? These are questions I do not have the answers for but I have to end now. I have laundry to do and my house is a mess!!

Where I Am Now

When I was a teenager, I wrote two yearly inventories--one on New Year's Eve and one on my birthday. Since it was my birthday yesterday, I will continue this new blog with where I am right now. If I can figure out where I am. It changes daily.

As always, I am writing this for myself. If you happened about this blog accidentally or thought it would be vastly entertaining, it's not too late to stop reading. If, like me, you think that overthinking is a worthy pursuit, even when it's about someone else, then, by all means, read on!

I am 63 years of age. I don't feel 63. That seems old to me and I don't feel old. I feel about 55, whatever that is supposed to feel like. Some people my age seem like my mother, whom I loved, but she was well, old. Most of my friends are younger than I am and those who are older seem like big sisters to me. I am a youngest child and I have embraced that role with a passion, so that may be why I feel younger than I am. It's possible that I have assigned value to being younger, which is probably not good. It's also possible that my role as youngest child has caused me to be less mature than I should be when it comes to wanting people to take care of me and love me. I have mixed feelings about progressing beyond that. Childhood was lovely. I have, by the way, loved and taken care of many people, especially my children and grandchildren, so I am not one-sided about care and love.

I am fairly healthy. I have multiple sclerosis, so I am not exactly a perfect picture of health, but I feel healthy. Most days. If I get enough sleep. And it's not hot outside. I walked a 5K a few weeks ago and hiked for a couple of hours last week. My MS affects me mentally and emotionally more than in regards to mobility, but I can still write a blog and do crossword puzzles. I don't want to talk about my emotional issues. Maybe later. I take a few medications and have fatigue most days that I can only compare to first trimester of pregnancy. I have recently lost almost 30 pounds and between that and retirement, I'm sure my health is on an upswing right now.

I was a teacher. I loved it. I started teaching when I was 15 as an aide in a Child Development Center where I continued my career after finishing a degree in Child Development and Psychology. I began my own preschool when my children were born, and after the end of a 17 year marriage, I returned to school to get my teaching certificate. I taught for 14 years--6th through 8th grade, mostly Language Arts. I retired in the middle of a year when my MS got in the way of me teaching and managing adolescent behavior effectively and it broke my heart until I slept for a week and realized I would get to see my grandkids whenever I wanted. I've adjusted to it very well.

I am single. When I was a teenager, if someone had asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would have said a wife and mother. Same answer would have been given during college and the two or three years before I actually got married. But not everything goes as it should. Or maybe things go exactly as they should. I'm still not sure. All I really know is that I had a very unhappy marriage. No one knew. I loved being a mother, I loved teaching preschool, I loved working in my church. When I realized how unhealthy my marriage was and had always been, was when my life got messy. The divorce was 22 years ago and I'm still trying to resolve it. Weird thing is that I still want to be a wife. Go figure. It will be awhile; I'm still not ready. Lots of fear.

My identity as a mother and grandmother is firm. It is the most important work I have done and I do it to the best of my ability. Parenting is difficult, especially as your children become adults. I have influence, but no control. Grandparenting is bliss. Three of my four children are married; I truly love my son-in-law (a perfect match for my daughter), and my 2 daughters-in-law are incredible (and heck yes, they are good enough for my sons!). I have 12 grandchildren under the age of 11 and love each one individually and completely.

I am a writer. Or was. Or will be. I really don't know. I've been writing since I was in junior high--poetry, short stories, essays. Writing brought me peace and clarity. I took classes, produced a few decent works and then mostly settled into the work of teaching preschool and parenting. When I turned 40, I decided to write for children. I had read hundreds of children's books and thought I could join the ranks of successful authors. I wish I could resurrect that confidence. At any rate, I formed a writing group with 4 amazing women and decided I would write five books in five years, and the last one would be worthy of publication. Two and a half years in, the marriage I was still trying to save imploded. A year later I was diagnosed with MS. My oldest son started drinking and using drugs and another year later, my mother died. My children and I were extremely close to my mom and I wonder to this day how we got through it. I went back to school to obtain my teaching certificate and began a phase I call survival. I still wrote some. I have a collection of therapeutic poetry, I won a couple of essay contests, I even went to a writer's retreat where my writing was received with compliments and encouragement. I had an article published in an education journal that still gets read once in a while. I started a blog and wrote in my journal some, but the dream of writing for children died.

I don't consider myself ambitious. My definition of success has always been happiness and I am happy. (Yeah, yeah, I know, life isn't perfect, and I struggle, but those emotional issues will be in a later blog.) I am optimistic and faithful about almost everything and my life is full. Unfortunately, I want to live many, many more years and I believe in growth and progression, so I am reevaluating my life and to be honest, I have areas where growth is badly needed. I applaud change in others, but dislike it in my own life. It is hard and I don't always have energy. It can be painful and I don't always have the confidence I'd like. It seems like when I finally look in the mirror and like myself, a voice in the back of my mind gives me a number of reasons why I shouldn't.

The purpose of this blog is to find clarity and reason to my life and silence the voice that says it's too late to dream. Wish me luck.

Telling My Story Begins

Considering the difficulty I have writing on my first blog, it seems a bit of a stretch to start a second one.  On the other hand, I often have several journals going at once.  A travel journal, a journal for quotes, a regular life journal, a journal to record every piece of food that enters my mouth, a poetry journal or two.  Of course, I rarely write in those either.  My grandmother left yearly diaries, very accessible and easy to read.  My mother left nothing on purpose, although I have a record book of bills paid and I once found a diary of sorts of a diet she was on. She'd be mortified. When I die, not that I'm planning on it, my children may or may not choose to open everything that looks like a journal just for fun.  There will be many.  I start and stop.

There is a black journal, completely filled, that I started in 1977.  It goes for about 10 years, with fewer entries every year. It has tragic elements. I hope I'm dead before they read that one. It holds the most truth.  Some of those entries comprise a memoir I'm writing that may never be read, but needs to be written nevertheless. Perhaps this blog will be part of that memoir--the parts that I think are important that I won't mind if someone reads.  According to the plaque my daughter gave me, my story matters. I personally think everyone's story matters.  

My other blog (somethingsmattermorethanothers.blogspot.com) is a collection of essays. This one will be a collection of my story--my beautifully messy complicated story.