On how we talk about our children, especially teens

When I was in junior high, I remember the teachers saying things to us like, "your brains all go down to your pants. We're just waiting out a few years until you're reasonable humans again" and "you're all so hormonal and difficult to deal with." Yes, they really did say these things to us. Why would any of us try to be easy or reasonable for them? They didn't expect us to.

Kids tend to live up to the expectations others, especially parents, set for them. If we expect that they will be difficult, they will be. The last 2.5 years I've had the privilege (I really do think it's a privilege) to work with a lot of teens and parents. There are common themes that come up with every family: trust, wanting freedom, keeping rules, doing chores, arguing, respect, etc. A lot of the work of therapy is helping the families negotiate these issues in a way that is age and developmentally appropriate. I have had teens say to me, "I argue with my mom because I'm a teenager. That's what teenagers are supposed to do."

Part of this is due to developmental changes happening in adolescence, but that's a topic for another time, another part is definitely expectations. I take this knowledge and try to be conscious as a parent about what I say about my child in front of my child. I try not to complain about her, not that there's much to complain about. I try to talk positively about her body and her future. If you say something to me about how difficult a future life stage will be, I will correct you if my daughter is around. (Consider yourself warned.)

Sometimes being a parent is difficult. I get tired and fatigued and there is never enough time for myself or my social life. Sometimes I get frustrated and lose my patience. None of this is my child's fault. I won't blame her for my stuff. The reality is that she is wonderful, completely, perfectly fantastic. She is healthy and strong, articulate, opinionated, and funny. About a year ago Blake and I were talking about whether we were ready for another child. We ultimately decided that we weren't ready, it wasn't the right time for our family. Part of our conversations centered on our daughter. We feel that we won the child jackpot. Would it be tempting fate to try again and expect to get another child as great as her? There were other very important factors that went into that decision, but how easy she's been to parent was part of the conversation.

I look forward to her being a teenager. I want her to love her changing and growing body. I want to watch her develop her social skills. As she develops greater capacity for self-awareness and abstract thought, I hope to be involved in guiding her to be a compassionate human being who stands up for others. She will be excited by new ideas, developing and using logic; I hope I can engage with her in thoughtful conversations and arguments even if it's just for the sake of arguing and encouraging her verbal and logical thinking skills. I want to watch her discover who she is and try on different identities and friends and styles and music. I want to be inspired by her hope and optimism and wisdom. I expect her to be an awesome teenager and to enjoy parenting her during those years.

On spirituality and trauma

At a meeting at work about vicarious trauma--how therapists can become traumatized by helping others with trauma--I was given this essay about the effects trauma can have on a person's spirituality. The whole thing was great, and particularly pertinent to the journey I've been on, where the trauma was the problems with spirituality.  I want to share the concluding paragraph. I find it inspiring and hopeful.

In receiving appropriate care, compassion, and direction, victims can overcome the destructive impact of trauma, break through restrictive approaches to life, and become more soulful and compassionate beings in the process. Traumatic injuries, when accompanied by love and understanding, do not become places of deadness, denial, and disease. Rather, they become bridges of compassion that connect victims to all sentient beings. Survivors accept that they can be broken, overwhelmed, and rendered powerless. These realizations are not considered shameful (as they were at the beginning of the journey) but are now recognized as the common ground that connects victims to all forms of life. Becoming comfortable with one's inherent capacity to be rendered powerless enables survivors to encounter the brokenness and wounds of others without fear. Survivors want to do everything possible to decrease the gulf of disconnection separating victims from others while simultaneously helping them realize that the loss of their former ways of being in the world, despite the tremendous pain involved, is an opportunity to discover the Spirit living at the core of their being.

This is part of why I love doing therapy. I can play a part in helping someone transition out of deadness, denial, and disease and toward a more soulful and compassionate life. And I think in any context, building bridges of compassion is one of most beautiful things a person can experience.

The world breaks everyone and some become strong at the broken places. ~Faulkner

On the boulevard of broken dreams

I had originally thought to title this post 'The Lonely Road,' and the more I thought about that, I kept thinking of this Green Day song. I know, I know. Go ahead and laugh; I am quoting Green Day lyrics. I'm going to use it to provide some structure to these thoughts that didn't totally have a coherent narrative form yet. 

I walk a lonely road

The only one that I have ever known

My transition with Mormonism has been a lonely road, most definitely. But this is not the only one I have every known. I used to walk a road of community and belonging and certainty. I was happy there. I never went looking to leave that road. It was the only road I thought I would ever know, and I was perfectly fine with that. This road I'm on now is lonely, probably the lonliest road that I have ever known. No one that was on the Mormon road with me can really walk this road with me, and I don't expect them too. What's more difficult though, is that there isn't anyone to talk to about this journey on my road. We don't have a framework in our culture that welcomes or validates the stories of the lonely road. 

Don't know where it goes

But it's home to me and I walk alone

I don't know where this road goes. I don't know where I'm headed, and that's scary. I do know that there is no going back. Even if I go back to full activity, that road will never be the same. A Pandora's box has been opened. The things that were unleashed can never go back in the box. There are some things you can't un-see and things you can't un-know. That road I was on is gone forever. I don't know where the road I'm on ends; it's unsettling. Part of what I have lost is that certainty of knowing where I was going, how my life would turn out. The trajectory was all laid out.

I walk this empty street

On the Boulevard of Broken Dreams

Boulevard of broken dreams indeed. All these dreams I had for myself, the plans for where my life was going and who I would be are gone. Sometimes this brings to me a feeling of deep sadness. It's a kind of grief and mourning and loss that is profound and yet ambiguous. And sometimes as I look at the broken dreams I feel betrayed. I did everything right. Why didn't my life turn out the way it was supposed to be? Where was the warning? How could this have been prevented? There's really no sense in entertaining those questions though, because it's done.

Where the city sleeps

And I'm the only one and I walk alone

The city sleeps. This is another part that's lonely. I've been going through this dramatic life change, a heartwrenching journey, and no one seems to know. No one is there to wtiness my journey. It happens alone, in the dark, while everyone else peacefully sleeps. [It's not so much that I think people are sleeping, as in unaware, it's just that I'm using the lyrics of the song here. No one be offended.] There's a temptation sometimes to think that no one cares. As soon as this thought enters my mind, I know it's not true. It's not that my friends and family don't care; I know they do. It's that there isn't cultural validation for this story; there's no precedent, no framework. If someone has an illness or experiences a death in the family, we know to go to them. We know to listen, to hug, to bring meals. We give them lots of space to talk and cry and grieve and question. Blog posts or facebook statuses about these topics are met with sympathy and support. We don't know how to handle the stories about leaving church. It's scary. What if the things that caused this crisis in my life cause one for you too? It's safer not to go down that road. What do we hear about why people leave? They've sinned in some horrible way, want to sin, are lazy, or have been deceived by the devil and/or anti-mormon literature. Better stay away. I completely understand why people react this way. And yet, it leaves me out in the dark, all alone.

My shadow's the only one that walks beside me

My shallow heart's the only thing that's beating

Mostly this is true, I keep myself company; I comfort myself. However, I've also come across a most welcoming and supportive community of strangers. The ex-mormons out there, mostly online, caught me in a free-fall and helped me find some solid ground again. I don't think I can overstate how much this community of people has helped me. They have all walked the lonely road before. They gave me people to talk to about my journey--this undoubtedly saved many of my relationships, perhaps even with you. They helped me avoid pitfalls. They showed me how to prioritize my relationships, not make rash decisions while in crisis, not become bitter, and not throw out what is still good in my life and my faith while in this difficult transition. And the thing is, they used to be people I was afriad of. I assumed they had some axe to grind, were out to destroy, and yet I found them to be a supportive, warm, thoughful, and caring community. Why do these people leave the church and not leave it alone? I can't speak for everyone, but my sense of the community is that Mormonism will always be a part of them and that they still care deeply about the people. They are the people that walk beside me, metaphorically speaking though, as most of my interaction with them is online.

Sometimes I wish someone out there will find me

'Til then I walk alone

On finding my limits

I'm an ambitious person. I like being busy. I usually feel fulfilled and energized when I've accomplished a lot. The last year or so has been an exercise in finding my limits over and over again.

Working full-time is tiring. The company I work for is particularly difficult. Another therapist in the area said of the agency I work for, "that place is the absolute trenches. If you can make it there, you can make it anywhere." I've been here for 2.5 years. It's wearing on me.

The transition I've gone through with Mormonism has devastated me. It has totally turned my life upside down. The changes have affected almost every relationship in my life. It has been absolutely exhausting.

The combination of these circumstances in the same time period has drained my reserves. It has been so difficult for me to come up against my limits over and over again. I have to say no to birthday parties I want to go to, I don't cook like I wish I did. I don't keep in touch with people I miss. I don't run. I don't do too much for myself aside from the bare minimum. This is about all I can do. I just don't have it in me to do much more.

For a while this was completely discouraging. I've come to a point where I know what's going on. I understand why my energy reserves are low, and it makes sense. I am hopeful about the future. We are working on making changes in our lives to alieviate some of the pressure on me at work. I'm in a better place with my faith. I think I've gone through the worst, am on the other side, and ready to rebuild. I have some ideas about how to replenish and renew, and I am hopeful.