Abandoning Discovery

I spent years of research, trekking new trails, scanning fresh shorelines.  I marched past enemy lines and lugged my baggage upon bowed shoulders, seeking ultimate answers.  I was on a quest to discover.  Titles littler my bookshelves: “Find your perfect career”, “Find your self-worth”, and “Discover your purpose”.  I swapped hair colors by the week and traded flip flops for heels, testing new personas in efforts to figure out who I was, who I wanted to be, and attempting to capture dreams built on changing winds.  I read the magazines: Is he right for you? Find your perfect jeans? Introvert or Extrovert – take our 5 question quiz.  I looked outward, collecting seashells of truth in my pockets, fitting pieces together as I waited for the finale image to be revealed.  I looked outward to discover myself, scanning the scenery for hints of a well-lived life, clues that would unveil who I was and where I should place my next step.  I looked outward for discovery. 

I had it all backwards.

The world around me screams with orders: Look this way! Act this way! Carry this purse to ensure happiness! It dictates rules for living that aim to fit us all into the same narrow box of status quo.  If I heeded the chaotic tides, I’d take my place in the mass single file line, striped of individuality, an automatic pawn in pursuit of superficial pleasures, gagged to ensure toeing the line. 

It’s not about discovering who I am.  Rather, it’s a process of uncovering.  It’s beginning a different starting block, gathering mindful intentions, and then turning inward.  The answers are buried beneath the soot of errands and daily stresses, rusty after years of trying to fit into another’s’ mold. 

Uncovering is a solo quest, a return to the ancient knowing that we are all blessed with a G-dly spark, the flame of purity that whispers our answers from the heart of our soul.  I had it wrong.  There’s no need for treks and distant shores.  The horizons to explore necessitate stillness, a sweeping away of fears and hurts, shovels to unearth my core, digging to uncover my self.  I am, as we all are, complete right now, holding my answers even when I am unaware of their existence.  The jewels I search for are tucked within my history, solutions emanating from a deeper knowing.  Joy results from uncovering forgotten laughter and dusting off simple blessings.  Meaning shines from a glance backwards to our roots, to our loved ones, to the lands we have traveled and the lessons we have learned.  I don’t need to discover who I am.  I already know.  I simply need to remember and then have the courage to polish it off and hold it up to the sunshine. 

It’s easier to explore new destinations and seek absolution by addition: adding new identities along with trinkets, falling prey to ‘more is better’, ‘more equals happiness’ and ‘more is always the goal’.  Uncovering your own beauty relies on subtraction.  We strip away the expired rules and childhood grudges.  We erase the falsities lining our walls and focus our gaze on our inner flame.  Uncovering requires quiet patience and a willingness to retrain our eyes, a readjustment to the truth we already know, acceptance of our essential self, and a reconnection with the holiness that flickers within. We are all well schooled in discovering, urged on by the neon lights of a world that never sleeps. 

But as we strive to begin anew, to examine our lives, carefully eyeing snags needing repair for the coming year, the answers lie in turning our eyes away from distant shores.  The answers lie in uncovering our joy, excavating our soul, exposing our true self and allowing it to seep from our pores.  Now is the time to uncover.  Now is the time to remember our answers and grasp them with the strength of our soul. 

The Judges' Table

It’s the million-dollar question, the thought that steals sleep and lurks at the edges of routine.  We buy books and hold yoga poses, repeat meditative mantras and jot down New Year resolutions.  It’s the fear that urges forgiveness and prompts deathbed amends. We want it more than fame and fortune, more than unbridled success and lavish second homes.  It’s a universal craving.  We all want to have lived a well-lived life.  But how to define a good life? It seems the criteria lies entirely in the grasp of the asker.  Are we judging our own days or the moments of a loved one we mourn? Are we comparing our minutes to his, our family to hers, our good deeds to Mother Theresa?

Maybe for some, wealth does equal happiness, and the joy from the finer things earns her a gold star.  For some, wealth becomes an avenue to better the world, the means to support charities and establish endowments ensuring blessings for generations to come.  There are those who pursue pleasure at any cost, cramming maximum bliss into our mortal eye blinks. They live a good life by avoiding pain, indulging the senses, soaking in happiness absent of the ponderings of long-term consequences.  If your belief is that this is all there is, this short earthly jaunt, then a life of laughter and chocolate ice cream might add up to a well-lived life.  But even if you set out for bliss and chase contentment round each bend, we all know that tears are inevitable.  Man cannot stand as an island without building a narrow sorrow, isolation bred from loneliness and small boxes of rules and solitude.  But loving carries side effects of loss and connection invokes heartache.  Plus, a single pleasure track might derail mine.  So who has the right of way? Whose train matters more?

And then there’s the philosophy of good deeds, humanitarian acts and toiling for causes that add up to a good life.  Perhaps a life well lived is the one that leaves the biggest mark and improves the widest sphere.  Much like beauty, it seems the winner lies in the eye of the beholder.  We are all our worst critic, blinded by regrets and failures, ‘should have’s’, ‘could have’s’ and ‘if only’.  I will always come up short in my own comparisons as I handpick greatness and then weep at the gaps between us.  And yet, who are we to judge?

 Was my best friend who died at 16 from cancer less worthy of the prize simply because her allotted days ran out? From my viewpoint, she had a well-lived life, spreading smiles and hope within hospital hallways, and extending friendship to a lost girl visiting after school.  Her hugs soothed souls and her generous love inspired those of us lucky to know her.  But from an objective criterion, she wasn’t famous or rich.  She didn’t cure cancer nor stop genocide.  And sometimes she was cranky, snapping at her parents and frustrated with her team of doctors. So what’s the answer?

Of all of those I’ve loved and lost, I arrive at the same conclusion.  They all mattered, all were successes, and all journeyed a well-lived life.  Perhaps I’m biased.  None of them show up in history books or earned medals of Honor.  But for me, the measure of a good life sprouts in casual seeds, small gestures of comfort, hands to hold and words of care.  My criteria roots on a small scale, listing company in tears and laughter over completed crossword puzzles.  I catalogue investments of time, notes of support, silent hugs and meaningful glances.  

There are souls that wander our personal hallways, simply loving presences, touching lives with gentle kindnesses, and improving the world one smile at a time.  We can’t know the lives we touch.  We stay blind to the impact of a simple ‘thank you’ or nonchalant words that stir a heart.  We walk along, trapping in our worries and comparisons, perceived failures set on a grand-scale stage, never knowing our own greatness, never relaxing into our well-lived lives as we come up short and reach for higher peaks.

It can’t be measured in moments or even days.  Any random slice of life will be lacking, absent of essential ingredients for a final well-lived decree.  The whole is greater than the sum of its parts.  We need a wide-angle lens and cheerleaders to sing our own value.  I could drive myself crazy with higher strivings and ambitions of moral perfection.  I could set requirements of faith and success, wealth and birthing of a legacy.  I could compare myself to grandparents whose list of volunteer activities put me to share, or mold myself into a woman I think the world asks me to be.  I could define my life as worthless without children, nest eggs, or injustices not righted.  Or I could stop.

 Maybe it’s not for me to judge, or at least not yet.  Maybe I am not the best critic for my own hours.  Maybe it’s been a well-lived life because I smile at the checkout counter and snuggle with my puppy during chilly mornings.  Maybe my life matters because there are those who love me and those I adore.  Maybe I don’t get to judge because I can’t possibly know, as none of us can, how we better the world simply by being in it. 

It’s a million dollar question and I don’t have the answer.  But I do know this: we all could do better, act better, be better.  But of all of those I cherish, my life is made better because I know them.  And that awards their days with the title of a well-lived life. 


dedicated to benjamin dov...

I'm pretty sure it's wednesday...

I'm pretty sure it’s a Tuesday…pretty sure…although my Tuesdays do bear striking resemblance to Saturdays lately. Even so, I'm almost positive that it’s a weekday and not any sort of national holiday. Which begs the question, what are all of these grown-ups doing here? It’s 2 pm and the park is filled with picnics and games of catch, dogs romping and owners strolling across grassy fields.

Are they all writers like me, cruising for inspiration? Self-employed workers who take two-hour lunches? Trust fund children frolicking without the heavy duty-filled bag of needing to fix the world that would keep me chained to a 9-5 desk, working for no pay simply out of guilt? We are close to Hollywood, so it’s entirely possible that these cut-off clad dog owners are shockingly famous and I'm the only one fooled by their commoner disguise.  Still, I’d be willing to vouch for unemployed, self-employed, or on a ‘mental health’ day.

I'm not complaining. It’s nice to have company; nice to be reminded I'm not the only one that thinks 2 pm on a Tuesday afternoon is the perfect time for a park visit. 

I wonder if they feel the same anxiety, the anticipatory avoidance to the inevitable question: So where do you work? And the measured edginess that slips into my responses to “Where are you looking to get an actual job?” I wonder if my retorts of being happy and following my dreams sound like idealistic fiction, if they turn around with knowing glances laden with ‘try paying the rent on dreams and amateur writing’.

I read into the silences, projecting judgment in pauses and filing criticism within inflection.  I feel required to justify, pressing superfluous words into defensive answers, compelled to dissipate the whiff being lazy or spoiled, of lounging in silk nightgowns, popping bon-bons while watching Oprah.  I serve rationales of current sickness, unemployment, applications sent and self-imposed 40 hour weeks, while ignoring the obvious: It’ the middle of the afternoon and I'm still in boxer shorts and my brother’s old t-shirt cuddling on the couch with my puppy.

What crisis do I think I'm evading by ensuring that ‘They’ know I'm working hard, quite busy actually, working just as hard as they are. What is my aversion to a gracious acknowledgement that yes, Life is good; yes, I'm happy and I love writing and yes, I love the freedom of living by my own schedule.  What would be so disastrous if I said out loud, Yes, it’s wonderful to wake up in the morning and write, and wonderful not to commute or punch time cards or answer to a cranky boss.  Yes, it’s my dream to be a writer and yes, it’s wonderful to sleep in if I feel like it. What is my objection to dipping a toe in the ‘spoiled’ neighborhood, so distasteful that I stock up on highlighted maps and complicated theories to ensure maximum distance between any spoiled association and my name.

It’s an irrational fear, 7 letters never used as my adjective, and still I run from its shadows, terrified of who I would become should I be perceived as spoiled, ungrateful, or not having to work hard for my smiles. I flee from ‘ungrateful’, glancing over my shoulder lest it adheres and casts contaminating spores that will permanently color the way I am perceived.  And so it pops up again – them.  I'm running from what They might think of me, how They might judge, and how They might scorn and think less of me. 

And the truth is, there is no them.  It’s not the strangers at the park whom I want to impress.  It’s not to my friends that I need to prove my worth.  Even if there are the few sarcastic jokes about having it good, the only reason they register is because they’re eerily familiar.  The judgments I see reflected in others’ eyes originate within me.  They’re my soft spots, my insecurities, my unchecked doubts.  Do I really care if the acquaintance thinks I'm spoiled or the neighbor writes me off as not knowing what hardship is? Do I really to allow the people behind me in the checkout line to define my self-worth?

It’s a Tuesday afternoon and I'm sitting under a tree, breathing in the sun and scribbling reflections, keeping one eye on my puppy as she takes on the Siberian husky that trots by.  It’s the middle of the week, and I'm at the park.  Regardless of why the other patrons are there or what twisted decrees my brain invests to condemn me in others’ eyes, it’s time to bury my defenses and brush off the guilt.  It’s Tuesday afternoon and I am lucky – lucky to have a home and ways to pay the rent, lucky to have my puppy for company, lucky to spot the blooming gardenia plants, and lucky to have the trickle of possibility to write as a career.

But most of all, I'm lucky because it’s a damn good life, and thank goodness every moment doesn’t have to be a struggle.  Call me spoiled.  Call me ungrateful.  Call me lazy. And I’ll practice quieting my own judgments from the inner ‘Them’ while I savor the sunshine and take a deep breath.

Caitlin Crosby-Imperfect is the new perfect

A woman taking a step in the fight...an amazing song

We Have an Epidemic

How Skinny is Too Skinny? JPost Blog by Elana Sztokman
Knesset Bill could ban too skinny models - The Forward: Sisterhood Blog

On one hand, I'm thrilled.  Taking a stand against the portrayal of emaciated models deserves a round of applause. Kudos to Israel for being the first to propose such a bill.  With the “Photoshop Law”, any models with a Body Mass Index (BMI) of under 18.5 would be banned from appearing in ads.  Well Done.  I vote Yes!

On the other hand, will this bill really make a difference? Does the law target the right population? By focusing on the models and requiring them to toe a line on the scale might just encourage more body consciousness, albeit in a healthier direction.  Don’t get me wrong – I'm all for the bill.  But perhaps, instead of making the models pay the price, it would be more productive to target the advertisers, clothing designers and companies at the source of the message. Rather than induce weigh-ins where models are fired for dropping below or above a magic number, could we instead somehow target the source?

And the answer is it’s much easier to hone in on a particular number and then set out to enforce it than to shift the theme of the advertising messages.  Dove had the right idea a few years ago when it launched it’s Love Your Body campaign, filled with ‘normal’ woman and commercials of little girls, girls who should have been swinging on playgrounds and doing summersaults, talking about how they wanted to be skinnier. 

It’s a bit of a catch-22.  I value free speech, but I also value our children, our teenagers, our women and men who spend lifetimes pursuing just five pounds less, one more mile to run, one more body part to fix before they contemplate happiness.

It is an epidemic. 

It’s a worldwide crisis that no one wants to touch, a virus that lurks around the edges and muzzles us, each of us too enmeshed to see the truth.  It’s not a women’s problem or a United States problem.  It’s not a teenage issue or simply vanity.  We have a world of humans carving off pieces of their stomach along with their soul, shedding layers of fat mixed with personality, shrinking their thighs while shrinking their lives.  We have Atkins, Lo-Carb, Lo-Fat, Lo-Taste and “Lose 25 pounds by Friday”.   We have diet pills, caffeine pills, methamphetamines, and laxatives as weight loss tricks.  We have ‘just a few more pounds’ and dry salads, cottage cheese with a side of body hatred.  We have ‘The Biggest Loser” and “Losing it with Jillian”; calorie counts at McDonalds and ten more sit-ups.  We have anorexia, bulimia, eating disorders Not Otherwise Specified.  We have eating disorder support groups, 12-step meetings, treatment centers, and hospital wings.  We have a world that slides along the Eating Disorder Spectrum, where no one gets out untouched.  You’d be hard-pressed to find anyone who can confidently state “I wouldn’t change one things about my body” or who doesn’t know someone suffering from the more fatal end of the spectrum.

We have an epidemic where little girls run laps on the playground and push aside their butter because “Mommy and me don’t eat butter.” We have an epidemic that supports a billion dollar enterprise, stuffed with scales and fat calipers, diet magazines, weight-loss gimmicks, ‘slimming’ jeans, and diet pills with pesky side effects of heart attack and death.  We have an epidemic that seeps onto our forks, popping up in the mirror to taunt us with our imperfections.

And yet, we stay silent.  We shake our condemning heads at the model who is composed of photo-shopped body parts and tsk at the withering figures draped in the latest couture.  We lament the evils of the media while we order our dressing on the side.  We break glass ceilings and walk on the moon, secure only when the scale flashes our magic number. 

I'm not advocating obesity or a lack of self-care.  I'm not asking you to gain 20 pounds in media protest.  I'm not suggesting that we all aim to shatter our mirrors and dine only on ice cream.  But I am suggesting that it’s time to speak up.  I am suggesting that it’s time to shout our protests and march for our bodies.  I am suggesting that we stop basing our worth on the number on the scale and putting off happiness until we lose the last five pounds.  I am suggesting that we have to fight for peace of mind, and start educating our children on what real bodies look like, and how to love our lumpy parts. 

And I am suggesting that I start with myself. 

It’s easy to rant and point fingers at the media.  It’s easy to sign up for the National Eating Disorders Awareness (NEDA) newsletter while flipping through the latest magazine.  It’s easy to lick my lite frozen yogurt while advocating body love.  It’s not so easy to actually love your body.  It’s not so easy to shift from critical to acceptance.  It’s not so easy to mute the mirror’s taunts and choose health over stick figures.  It’s not so easy to define a new ideal: a woman who takes up space, who lives out loud. It’s not so easy but it’s essential. 

So I think this ‘Photoshop Law’ is a good start.  I think we need all the small steps we can get.  I think the protest starts at our kitchen tables and our rallies need to show up in the bathroom mirror.  I think we start anywhere we can to diminish this epidemic.  Choose high taste over low-carb.  Choose playing in the park over treadmill calorie counters.  Choose gratitude for the miracle of our bodies over lists of parts to fix.  Join the underground community of woman refusing to lose, who stand up for their spot in the world. 

If you want a bigger life, you might have to wear bigger jeans (Anna Kowalski)

It’s time to donate jeans that mock of ‘some day’ and slide into a life that matters.  It’s time to vote yes for any bill that helps portray healthier women and to take our cue from Israel as we muzzle those that profit from our self-hatred.  We take small steps. We start local. 

We start with ourselves, including me. 

Power Failure

I keep a flashlight on the shelf and candles in the drawer just in case.  Should there be a power failure, I am armed with bottled water, battery-operated alarm clocks, and matches. So, if left with no electricity, I could still go about my day.  A day without electricity… No emails or text messages, no computers to play music on or breaking news alerts beeping from my cell phone.  It wouldn’t be so bad, this slice of simplicity nudging me to grant myself gadget-free hours. But after a day, I'm guessing I’d be ready to reconnect with chuckles shared through phone wires and the ability to match my mood to my favorite songs.  I have managed to refrain from forming a love affair with my blackberry, keeping it in my pocket when with friends and reminding myself that my phone is for my convenience rather than for being perpetually on-call. Still, I am fond of the cell phone. Plus, I’d miss being able to see more than six inches from my nose. And the breeze of the fans.  And the ability to keep my ice cream from melting.  And my morning coffee.  Ok, I’d rather keep my electricity.

I depend on power, automatically flipping the light switch when I walk in the door.  So why do I fumble through hallways and trip over old rules, choosing to ignore the lamps in favor of living in darkness? We are all powerful. We get to claim our own lives, choose which road to turn down, elect ourselves as Monarchs guided by our inner sparks.  We are powerful beings, and yet, it’s not enough to know where the outlets are located. We actually have to raise our fist in triumph and stake out our lands; we have to plug in the cord to ignite our personal flame.

Rationally, I know that I am an adult; able to define what I believe is a good life versus simply adopting the nearest perspective. I realize that no one is subverting my personal power without my knowledge. Instead, I hand it over at the whisper of a request.  I stay powerless by choice, continuing to stub my toes on past baggage and bruising my knees on old wounds.  When faced with a fork in the road, I wait for the majority vote before turning.  I jockey for your approval and hers and his, trying to maneuver my life to avoid conflict, disappointment, anger, and consequences.

 I let my electricity bill gather dust, convincing myself that I am happier this way, that I like having no power, that power is overrated.  I maintain that it’s better to please you, easier to live by your rules than deal with the potential fallout from living by my own.  I revert to a childish mindset and forget that today I am 30, and therefore juvenile thinking has long since expired. I attempt to reclaim my power, entering the world armed with flashlights and pep talks, maps of electrical outlets stuffed in my pockets.  I walk confidently until I glimpse the first cloud of anger, dropping my supplies as I race back to well-trodden people pleasing lined with the safety of approval. I lose my bearings; forget where the power outlets are and how to operate the light switches.

I have become so accustomed to traveling in the dark that the light hurts my eyes, casting blurry dreams and hopes tinged with a glare. 

But during these summer days where the sunlight lasts into the night, I start to remember.  I start to remember that shutting off my electricity is still exercising power, just in a detrimental way. I memorize locations of outlets, and practice changing light bulbs.  I buy a nightlight, casting ripples of empowerment, content to start small in my quest to regain my throne.  I note the moments I still blow out my flame, and take the opportunity to explore my lingering fears, strong values, and distinctive worldview. My problem isn’t that others are stealing my power, but that I leave it sitting on the curb, free to any takers.

I make sure I pay my electricity bill on time, and I stock up on light bulbs and batteries. I keep my apartment well lit.  Why don’t I do the same for my life? Benjamin Franklin already discovered electricity.  There’s no longer an excuse for tripping over childish fears in the dark. 

It’s time to blast the music of individuality, illuminate moments with intention, and dust off the forceful sockets.  We are all powerful.  We are all equipped with adapters and halogen bulbs.  So will I remember to walk with purpose, propelled by inner strength along bright hallways? Or will I choose to ignore the fuse box and settle for a powerless life?

I'm already familiar with darkness.  It’s time to be empowered.  Time to get acquainted with the light. 

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I'm Lauren and I'm an addict...

It’s time for me to stand up and admit it: I am addicted to approval. The approval I look for doesn’t necessarily come attached with prizes, but rather a sense of being able to breathe, an air of confidence that gives me permission to trust myself, as if I am only ok if others think I'm ok. It's no different from the host of other addictions that we hear about.  You still need to make the drug deal, schmooze the dealers, fork over the payment, tie yourself off just right so that when you take that compliment hit or inject the praise, you ensure the desired high. And then there’s the increased tolerance – the need for more – always more, no matter what the subject matter or bestowal of praise, the ante is upped.

This addiction to approval drives me to bend and twist, contorting myself into the shape that fills your holes; begging to please you, to become indispensible, to be valuable in a way that guarantees you won’t leave me.  But it’s not just about plugging the fear of abandonment or being a people-pleaser.  Approval addiction is a well-oiled machine, sucking the personality and individuality right out of its host. 

We forget that you are not God and that even if you disagree, we will have the opportunity to continue to breathe should we so choose.  We forget that we are also valuable opinion-holders and that we were blessing with the gift of thinking for ourselves.  Forced to make a decision without any outside input, the paralysis sets in.  I pace and ponder.  I pretend that I'm giving advice to a friend.  I make lists of possible outcomes, graphs of expectations, charting the pros and cons until I end up at the same balanced dead end.  I forget that what you think is the right answer might not be the right answer for me.  I forget that in life, there often isn’t a right answer at all, and often both choices are threaded with pain.  I discard my own feelings, writing them off as inconsequential, and aim to make decisions based on how I can hurt my loved ones the least.  I forget to count myself in that list of loved ones. 

I forget that at the end of the day, I'm the one living out my choices, that it’s my life, and that I have that right simply because I'm alive. Instead I poll my friends, doctors, and strangers at the bus stop, painting hypothetical scenarios as I plead with them to tell me what to do.  I con myself into thinking I have lofty reasons: I'm trying not to hurt others, I don’t want to screw up, believing every choice is a life and death matter with no return flight. I compromise, allowing her approval to stand in for yours, even if it’s yours that I truly hunger for.  In the absence of the pure drug, we’ll go for the joint laced with poisons and lint, because any hit of acknowledgement is better than the silence that lives in my head.

Rock bottom is the dependence on others to make you ok.  The belief that I'm only good, smart, funny, loving, kind, worthwhile, or a valuable human being if you think so.  All of the ways I conceptualize myself, the roles I slip into costume for, the identities I don, the traits I shoulder in my backpack – these are transient. They slip out of my grasp as soon as you glance at me sideways or answer with a tinge of annoyance.  Lost in the clouds of your disagreement, I scramble after my self, desperately trying to remember why it is that I shouldn’t care, why I am allowed to have my own views, why I’ll still be able to go on if you don’t give me your validation.  Or even worse, I watch my self float away as I turn my back, no longer caring about this abandonment of self. I stand on the shorelines and insist that ‘this is the last time, I’ll start over tomorrow, I’ll do better tomorrow’.

And so it is in addiction: our truths become lies, our reality set on the fault lines of relationships, our selves shrugged off, and our brain convincing us that there’s nothing wrong, no presence of illness, no problem to fix.  Addiction: the only disease that tells us we don’t have it.

The addiction to approval is widespread.  We see it in employees basing their self-worth on their yearly reviews, and in romantic couples that change their clothes, perfumes, accents, and hobbies to be elevated in their partner’s eyes.  We see it in friends who call to enlist you after having been slighted, needing you to agree ‘absolutely, He’s a jerk. You were right to have walked away.’ We see it in little girls who keep their gaze focused on their parents, stepping forward only after the nod of agreement, giving answers based on making others’ grins grow wider.  I even see it in my puppy as we stroll through my neighborhood.  She pauses and looks back, waiting for the ‘Good girl Gracie’ to move forward, tail wagging.  And I am her enabler.  I praise her at every step, dispensing treats when I suspect she feels neglected, criticized, unappreciated.  I encourage this dependence, thinking that I'm helping her become trained, successful, and a better pet.  Perhaps with dogs, approval dependence can be overlooked. But for myself, it takes on a life of it’s own. 

My brain is powerful force, spewing forth lies disguised as commandments.  It tells me I’m ok if he likes me, if she wants to be friends.  I’ll know I'm enough if she smiles back, if they invite me in. I'm a writer if I'm published, if I can make a living on my words, if that magazine wants to run my article.  I'm a good sister if I send you notes, remind you of birthdays, sign the card from the two of us. I'm a good friend if I buy you trinkets; feed you cookies, call just to say hi.  I'm a good relative if I stay in touch, if I send new years cards, if I come to visit.  I'm a good daughter if I make you proud, if I follow your advice, if I call and if I can stand on my own too feet.  I've earned my space in this world if I contribute, if I try to improve my tiny corner, if I smile pretty while I offer up my talents, if I say please and thank-you, if I don’t bother anyone, if I make myself useful.  I'm a good soul if I'm kind and sweet, if I pray, if I believe, if I laugh at your jokes and make the right decisions. 

Mostly, this approval addiction renders me deaf to my own instincts and mute in the face of conflict.  I lose myself, and even worse, I forget I have I self to find. We’re a group of misplaced souls, utterly dependent on our neighbors, waiting for someone else to save us a seat because otherwise we’ll be relegated to wait by the door.  We are brought to our knees just like any addiction and eventually we must choose: do I want to continue doing what I’ve always done and getting what I’ve always gotten or do I want to change?

I suppose one could attend meetings and believe that the first step is admitting we have a problem, giving ourselves over to a higher power, and trying to make amends.  But it seems to me that we have already spent a lifetime giving ourselves over to higher powers.

For me, recovery from approval addiction means learning to think for myself, carving out moments where I must choose right or left, yes or no, without surveying all who walk by.  I practice checking in, trying to remember where I left my intuition and inner knowing. I ask for guidance – and although I wish you would just tell me what to do, I know that the guidance I need is the nudge to rely on myself, the refusal to react, but instead to encourage me to take a stand, even if it means I might fall.  I rehearse the scene, repeating my lines so that I don’t throw the script out the window at the first hint of anger. 

Recovery involves living in the question and feeling lost without black and white answers.  There are slips and steps backwards. I slowly mark the successes and let go of the failures. I pick myself up and try again, as I slowly get introduced to this self who has been hiding in the corner.  I learn who she is, how she thinks, what she values and believes in.  I learn that mistakes are part of living and that very few decisions are actually life and death matters.  I learn that anger won’t kill me and others’ disapproval stings but doesn’t suffocate.  I learn that I have a long way to go before my own approval matters to me more than yours, but I catch a glimpse of it on the horizon.  I learn that I am ok, I am good, and I am enough, even if you don’t think so. 

Even though I really want you to think so, for the moment, I’ll refrain from asking…