They say you should do one thing everyday that scares you. Fears have the power to constrain exploration and development and therefore keep us from living a full life. If we face our fears, we might learn things aren’t as scary as we thought. But facing something you’re afraid of takes a lot of energy and courage. It often feels unnecessary, so we go on avoiding that which terrifies us because there is something even more worrisome on the other side… not knowing what will happen. I think for many of us, that’s the greater terror.

Some fears are unjustified or irrational. I don’t know why the sight of a spider, even a tiny one, causes me to sharply inhale, freeze, turn pale and perspire. I think it’s the legs. Even the sight of a web is enough to make me abandon a cleaning or gardening project, or pull my car over and search, terrified for the bugger in order to avoid a car accident when it inevitably drops down before my eyes. On the rare occasion I’ve had no choice but to gather the nerve to kill a spider, I cannot kill it enough. It is a hysterical shoe slamming desperation that requires adequate emotional recovery time.

So how did I find myself in line amongst grade school children waiting my turn to hold Rosie, the Butterfly Pavilion‘s resident tarantula? I think it was a combination of two things: I was on vacation and believe you try new things on vacation, and I figured if the kids could do it, so could I. So I handed my brother, Joey my camera and we got in line. Few times in my life I can recall being so simultaneously horrified and excited.

I sat across from Rosie’s handler barely breathing. I couldn’t take my eyes off the enormous and hairy specimen in his lap.

“Whatever you do, do not throw her,” he said as he gently scooped her up with one hand.

I nodded. He took my hand with his free one and held it firmly above his own. As he was about to place Rosie into my sweaty palm, I shrieked and ripped my hand away.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” I took a breath, wiped my palm on my jeans and tried again.  The man was patient.

“Okay, ready?”

I nodded.

Again, I ripped my hand away at the last second. “I can’t,” I said, the heat of panic, tears and defeat rising in my face, and motioned to get up.

“How about I let one of her legs touch you first?” the handler offered.

I looked at my brother, standing nearby, smiling with the camera. I reluctantly nodded.

It took every ounce of resolution to not pull my hand away as Rosie’s front leg lifted toward my fist. I expected it to scratch, and have weight to it, but what I felt instead was soft and light as a feather.

“Okay, I’m ready now.”

Again the handler took my hand palm up and kept his own firmly beneath mine. I tensed as he placed Rosie in my hand. I was amazed by how light she was. I stared at this giant spider, the size of my palm, speechless. Poor Rosie, such a sweet name for such an ugly and terrifying creature.

After what felt like minutes, but was probably less than one, the handler said, “I’m going to have her walk onto my hand now.” He touched her backside and she walked across my hand onto his. The sight of this was worse than the sensation.

Once Rosie was safely with her handler, I exhaled and smiled victoriously. I was given a sticker proclaiming ‘I held Rosie’ and proudly stuck it to my chest.

“Did you see that!?” I asked Joey, as if he was not less than three feet away the whole time. “I held a tarantula! I can do anything now!”

“I was scared you were going to crush that thing,” he answered.

Rosie taught me a lot about fear and the perception of things. I thought she would be heavy, scratchy, and run up my arm, leap onto my face, stare into my horrified eyes and sink her monstrous fangs into my nose. But instead she was almost sweet. The people at the Butterfly Pavilion understood perception when they named her Rosie instead of something evil like Ursula or Cruella.

Ever since I held Rosie I have weeded without gloves, pushed aside webs with my bare hands and even let spiders live! Little did I know I cured my arachnophobia with systematic desensitization, otherwise known as exposure therapy.

I am left wondering what else I’m afraid of. What else is holding me back from living a full life? Is it fear of the thing itself or my perception of the thing? I believe it is the perception, but even greater is the unknown of not knowing what will happen…

I will never forget Rosie. She represents the epitome of fear. I had no idea what would happen. My imagination told me I’d be bitten. Logic told me the establishment wouldn’t allow children to hold a giant spider if it was dangerous. Reality showed me I am brave. I survived, unscathed and better off in the end. What actually happened in the end was more wonderful than any scenario my mind had conjured up when I was staring into the many black eyes of fear.

Maybe not knowing what will happen is all the more reason we need to find out…

Me, horrified. Rosie, chillin.

Today is my birthday.

I have been thinking a lot about what I want my 33rd year to look like. I have also been thinking a lot about what I want today to look like. I’ve had lots of ideas, but made no set plans.

A few days ago I went to Grounds for Sculpture. The weather was absolute perfection. I spent a lot of time walking the manicured grounds, listening to leaves rustling in the breeze and feeling the wind and sun on my face. There is a not-so-secret little garden that I knew contained a hammock. There in the shrubbery and bamboo was a single door. I entered and was surprised to find that the door locked from the inside. I turned the lock, walked the footpath over to the hammock and laid down, hidden from the world behind living walls. I watched the clouds. I thought about the year ahead and my goals. It was frustrating because all I could think about was that moment and how much I enjoyed just laying there.

I didn’t know the point of this post until I wrote that last sentence. The past few days I have felt unsettled and it was because today was approaching and I didn’t have concrete plans in place and set goals laid down. Maybe I’m just meant to enjoy today…

Laying on a hill at Grounds for Sculpture

I want to be outside. I know this much. I set up my hammock in my backyard. The sun is out and the weather is perfect. I feel no need to recap my 32nd year. I am more aware of my life and the good and bad in it than ever. I feel no need to plan out what I want the year ahead to look like because I have my 2015 goals in place and after 32 years, I know it doesn’t really matter anyway. Want to make God laugh? Tell him your plans. I love that expression. Maybe after all this time, I am finally learning how to live a more flexible life? I don’t know…

I do know that if today were to be my last day on earth, I could die with this having been my view:

A birthday view from my hammock

Today, and every future day, is what we make of it.  After a rough start, I have the power to turn it around. Byron Katie says that we have the power to be happy under any circumstances. It is so hard, but she is so right. I have cried twice so far today because I have relied on others for birthday joy and allowed them to disappoint me. Maybe it is time I gave myself a birthday gift. Maybe I need to go look at myself in the mirror, wish myself a great big “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” and go feel the sun and wind on my face.

I think I’ll do that. After all, today is my day and I have the power to make it a good one.

Greetings from Colorado! I am currently on vacation, my first in well over a year. I am enjoying the fresh air, change of scenery, and catching up with my brother, Joe.

Time off and down time are very important to me. I am writing this post one year from the day I graduated Saint Joseph’s University. I will never forget the stress of how busy I was while working full time, going to school full time, writing, and co-editing a collection of short stories. It really scarred and changed me and never again will I allow myself to take on so much at once.

There definitely seems to be a glorification of busy in our culture, as if prizes are handed out for those who work the most hours or go on the least amount of sleep. If you’re not busy all the time, then somehow that seems to imply negative things about your character, like you’re not motivated or successful. When asking someone how they’re doing, how often does the response include the words ‘busy’ or ‘tired’ or some variation of both? I hear it all the time. I know that I was busy and tired for two years. My prizes were depression, frustration, weight gain and complete and utter burnout.

This year I have made a conscious effort to limit my use of those words. It hasn’t been that difficult because I no longer feel tired and busy all the time. Sure, there are pockets of stress and times when a lot is going on, but my perspective is different now. I still keep busy, but everything I do is by choice and the deadlines are self-imposed and I am in control over what I do and when. Doing things out of obligation is stressful, but doing them out of choice is passion. It makes a world of difference. I was explaining to my oldest brother the other day how I am keeping busy, but I wished there was another word for it. He said, “Full. Your days are full.” “Exactly!” I said.

So many people fear or look down upon doing ‘nothing’. But it is impossible to ever be doing nothing! There is this sense of shame and regret in doing ‘nothing’, but even if you’re laying on the couch, vegging out, marathon-watching Netflix, you’re not doing ‘nothing’. You’re resting – giving your mind and body a break. We don’t say we’re doing ‘nothing’ when we practice meditation, sitting in silence, trying not to think. Reading a magazine or napping are forms of meditation for some people. It recharges you. Sitting around chatting isn’t doing ‘nothing’, either. I needed to remind my brother of this last night when he said he wished there was something we could do. I was having a good time doing what we were doing.

We need this down time. Napping, vegging, reading for pleasure, hobbies, laying in a hammock watching the clouds even though there are dishes in the sink and you have 50 unread e-mails is important. So many of us put the things we really want to do at the bottom of a massively long to-do list and consider them our reward for finishing that list. But if you’re like me, there have been many times that by the time you got to the bottom of that list you were too tired to do what you wanted to do just for you.

Resting is not a form of laziness. It is necessary. In fact, I would argue that rested people are more productive. I consider myself very productive with a balanced work/home life. I am the happiest and most fulfilled I have been in a very long time.

My advice to you, coming from someone who knows, take downtime. Let’s stop the glorification of busy and feeling guilty about times when we aren’t producing. We’re not machines. There is so much pleasure in looking up from work and obligations. It’s time we realize that almost everything in life can wait a day or at least a few hours, so that we can take a few hours for ourselves.

Make yourself a priority on your to-do list. Remember, it is impossible to ever do nothing.

Last May I was reading for pleasure for the first time in ages. The book, Kook: What Surfing Taught Me About Love, Life, and Catching the Perfect Wave was a graduation gift from a friend who knew I wanted to spend the summer surfing. The story took place mostly in Baja. While still reading it, I was having a meeting with Reading Glasses co-editor, Amy Holiday, who said she hoped we could wrap up the project before she went to Baja the following autumn.

“Baja! Wow, what a coincidence. I am reading a book that takes place in Baja right now. Who are you going with?”

Amy wasn’t going with anyone, so she invited me. I could hardly believe it. I asked if she was absolutely certain at least a dozen times and then dragged her out to my garage where I asked my husband, Mike if I could go, pulling that famous of kid tricks of asking your parents permission in front of your friend to increase the likelihood of a yes response. Amy’s presence or not, there was no denying my excitement that the Universe was in line and I was meant to go surfing in Baja! Mike gave me the go ahead and I bought my airfare the next morning.

I was finally going to see the Pacific. I was going to Baja. It was a sign that this really was the summer of surfing. The experience belt was getting another notch! My dreams of travel were being realized. I daydreamed about it for the rest of the summer.

Then, on September 15, Hurricane Odile ravaged the Baja Peninsula. The resort we were to stay in the following month was damaged and our reservation was canceled. I was crushed, but there was no denying that it just wasn’t the right time…

When it came time to adjust my airfare, the resort still hadn’t reopened and Amy couldn’t reach anyone about rescheduling. I had ten days to change my airfare or forfeit the $600 credit, and I had no idea where or when to go. I had to go somewhere by June 1, a year from the day I purchased the tickets. Reluctantly I changed my international airfare for the most domestic (and safest) location I could think of with no set plans or confirmed travel companion: Florida.

All the long winter, sunny Florida remained on the horizon, an uncertain trip in my future that gave me anxiety and slight heartache whenever it crossed my mind. The timing was bad for my husband to join me and I could think of few things more depressing than going to The Wizarding World of Harry Potter alone. It’s just money, I convinced myself. So I decided to forfeit the airfare credit and go somewhere where being alone made sense and wouldn’t be depressing. I decided I would go on an R&R retreat at Kripalu Center for Yoga and Health in Western Massachusetts, my own little adventure and birthday treat.

And yet it never moved past the idea phase. A little over a week ago I realized I needed to get a move on with these plans. I still hadn’t canceled my flight or booked my retreat. I began second guessing everything. Manhattan, the shore, Vermont… What did I want to do? Where did I want to go? I had my first week’s vacation in well over a year coming up and I had no idea what to do with it, and I was still torn about throwing away $600 worth of airfare. I even looked into flying to the retreat just so I wouldn’t waste it, but transportation from Albany airport was impractical.

The June 1 deadline was breathing down my neck. Wherever I went, I had to go soon and decide fast. Laying on the floor, irritated by my dilemma, staring at the ceiling and talking out loud, my husband interjected. “Why don’t you go see your brother?” I sat up, squinting as my brain processed this idea.

“That’s brilliant. Why didn’t I think of that?” Within 48 hours I changed my airfare for the third time in almost exactly one year. I would go to Colorado and visit my brother, Joey, who was surprised and excited to have me. We would have our own adventure and I would get to see new things and I wouldn’t be alone. It was a win all around. I leave this Friday.

This trip was a year in the making, and involved a lot of uncertainty and a total lack of enthusiasm. Now, things are certain and I am excited. When I explained my plans to my friend, Kathy who knew how much this had all been bothering me, she smiled. “You had to sit with it for a while,” she said. And I was reminded that things happen when they are meant to, and some stories take a long time to develop.

I thought the Universe had given me a crystal clear sign with Baja, but the longer I sat with it, the more it shifted and evolved. It’s like when someone smiles at you, and that first impression is wonderful, but then they sit near you and you realize they smell bad and the spell is broken. You want to get up and leave, go sit somewhere else. But then they explain they were helping a stranded baby seal and can’t wait to take a shower, so your opinion changes again.

I will get to Baja when the time is right. Or maybe I’m meant to go to Bali instead… The Wizarding World of Harry Potter will still be there next year. Right now, it’s time to go see my brother. I would not be going if it wasn’t for this cancelled trip to Baja and who knows how many more years would have gone by before I’d see him. If everything does in fact happen for a reason, then all is right in the Universe.

I just needed to sit with it all long enough to hear the rest of the story.

I took my intern to lunch recently to thank her for all her great work during the spring semester. As we walked the few short Philadelphia blocks from our office to the restaurant, her excitement mounted. She had only been between the train station, the office, and the Wawa around the corner. This was technically her first outing in Philadelphia.

We were seated near one of the walls that had been opened up to the sidewalk since it was such a gorgeous day and we talked as city life streamed past us. Everything excited her; being in a city restaurant, her “delicious!” sandwich, watching the preoccupied passersby. On our walk back, cherry blossoms in bloom, she stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, threw her head back, spread her arms, laughed and said, “I love this!”.

That night, capturing the happiest moment of my day, I wrote about my intern’s enthusiasm. I folded up the scrap of paper and dropped it into my happiness jar with a smile on my face. It was one of the best lunches I ever bought.

Her excitability was one of the reasons I offered her the internship. It is contagious and incredibly sincere; it also overflows into laughter. She reminds me of myself… and I am left wondering why there isn’t more enthusiasm in the world.

Is it maturity, experience, intelligence or disapproval that curbs our enthusiasm? Probably all of the above. Why do we stop proclaiming that our ice cream is the best ice cream in the “whole wide world!”, or that this day is the “best day of my life!” Countless times I have been told to settle down, or given wide disapproving eyes that made me self-conscious of my enthusiasm. I sometimes feel the need to apologize after an excited outburst, never because I am sorry, but because I am given the impression I did something wrong and I should. Enthusiasm seems to be misconstrued as superfluous, or a sign of immaturity. It’s unfortunate.

Thankfully, I have also been told that my passion is my best quality. It happens to be my personal favorite thing about myself and I am thrilled that there are people who see it and appreciate it, too. I feel genuine enthusiasm and excitement over any number of random things, foods, sights, sounds, jokes; you name it. In fact, I would scream from the mountaintops right now that I LOVE ENTHUSIASM! It makes me feel alive. To experience, enjoy, and speak of things with genuine excitement, so much so that it cannot be contained and it bursts out of your body in movements and words, is a gift.

Witnessing my intern’s enthusiasm delighted me. I hope she never loses that lust for life and new experiences. I hope I never do, either. It’s that enthusiasm that compels me to try new things, to imagine, to feel joy… and to truly appreciate the smaller things in life, like a delicious week day lunch or watching a lightning storm on your front porch, rather than living only for the big things.

In addition to writing down the happiest moment of my day, every day, I also use a 365 day/5 year journal. Every day I answer a different question and then the following year on that day I will answer the same question below my previous year’s answer. These exercises have slowed my life down. Contemplating my days and living more in the moment, I can no longer say things like, “I don’t know where the week went!”. I know exactly where the week went because I was paying attention.

The following two journals help me slow down and capture smaller moments – you can find them on Amazon: One Line a Day: A Five Year Memory Book, and Q&A a Day, 365 Questions, 5 Years, 1,825 Answers.

Following is the continuation of a 2 part story. Please click this link to read Part 1.

The day after I was diagnosed with PMDD and prescribed Sarafem, an anti-depressant specifically geared toward treating the symptoms of PMDD and that can be taken for two week stints leading up to menstruation, I had an appointment with my wellness counselor. I explained to her that I didn’t want to take the pills and that maybe I should work harder on a more holistic approach. “I could give it a month. Really mark out the calendar so I know when to do what. Inversions, more vitamin B, more carbs and protein, more naps, more meditation, more avoidance of emotional triggers.” We agreed I should give it a shot. She also pointed out that sometimes having a diagnosis makes a big difference in and of itself because there is a better understanding of what’s happening.

A few days later, I confided this latest development and my plan with my friend Kathy, who immediately whipped out a piece of paper and started drawing a calendar.

“Here,” she said, enthusiastically circling a square on the impromptu calendar, “is when you need to start increasing your magnesium. Pumpkin seeds and Epsom salt baths. Here,” drawing an arrow, “is when you need to start putting legs up the wall. It is so good for your body. Make sure you have plenty of healthy junk food in the house. And here,” voraciously circling a square repeatedly, “is when you need to be extra gentle with yourself. Dr. Christiane Northrup says that in a perfect world, women would stay home and rest their first day of menstruation.”

I had my plan and shared it with the most important people in my life, the ones directly affected by my behavior, and had their support. I would insulate myself against PMDD with sleep, the right food, vitamin B, meditation, yoga, and magnesium. It would be great. I would defeat the beast with graceful shoulder stands, indulge in healthy junk food and meditate whenever destructive emotions arose within me. I would be poised against the storm.

Things were going okay. Until they weren’t anymore. After a particularly hellish morning, another one in which getting to work was a victory in and of itself, I was distracted and emotional. I could hardly wait to get home to start my medication, desperate for some relief from myself. The holistic approach clearly wasn’t enough. I was going crazy. But like my counselor had suggested, knowing what was wrong was a little comforting. Countless times I had wondered, what is happening to me!? Not this time. This time I knew. And even though I didn’t think there was any room in my toolbox for medication, I started to think that I had been wrong. Maybe needing a little extra help wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Maybe it didn’t mean I was a failure and a fake. Maybe I had been denying myself a very useful tool that had its place amongst the other tools. I am no stranger to depression and anxiety. I had exhibited great strength at times overcoming those emotions. One of my past yoga teachers once said that going into child’s pose, a resting pose, takes great strength because it requires you to admit that you need rest. I decided when I got home that evening and took my first antidepressant in over a decade that it wasn’t a sign of weakness, but one of strength. Here I was admitting I couldn’t do it alone and I needed help.

I was only on the pills for three days the first go around. I am a big fan of the placebo effect, and even though the pills were no placebo, they had an instant calming effect on me.

I recently finished my second go around taking the pills (this time for 2 weeks) and I noticed a difference. I spoke to my Mom briefly once my period had started. We agreed after my diagnosis that since our relationship is on the mend, it may be best if we didn’t speak leading up to my period. “You sound good!” she said. “I feel good. I slept a lot, which is unfortunate, but I don’t think forcing productivity would have been very successful. I prefer to sleep when my body needs it rather than be awake and emotional. The pills help me think clearer. Everything doesn’t seem so hopeless.”

I decided that I’m okay with needing a little help. I only feel better – emotionally and about myself – because with the help of this mild antidepressant, I have more control and can see a little more clearly and not be so reactive or destructive. I can still feel. Before going to see my doctor, I was downright scared of what was happening inside of me. I had a therapist who said, “That’s the thing about preventatives. You never know what you may have prevented.” She’s right. I consider my pills a preventative that have earned their place alongside my vitamin B.

Please keep in mind that in no way am I undermining the holistic approach that I had tried. I still continue to do these things every month and I do believe that they are beneficial. But right now at this point in my life, while I am cracking my nut open and wounded, it unfortunately just isn’t enough.

I am fortunate that I only feel this way a couple weeks at a time. For countless people, this is their daily life and there is no escape from their black pit of despair. If you have no idea what I am talking about, then I am happy for you, but I ask that you please have some compassion for those who have depression, mood and anxiety disorders, because the struggle is real.

I was torn as to whether or not to tell this story and admit all this to the world. I am worried what you all will think of me. But I went a long time without any help and seeking it out is now part of my journey to becoming a gentler, happier woman, and I am dedicated to sharing that journey. Also, I think it is important that we keep the dialogue open about mental and hormonal health and prescriptions and work on breaking down the stigma that medication is bad or for the weak-minded. Also, if you or someone you know, like your spouse or girlfriend, appears to be a different person before her period, maybe this story will encourage you to talk about PMDD.

I don’t plan to need these pills forever. I do believe that as I continue to crack the nut on my suffering and work toward a life more reflective of the one I want that I will be happier. Right now, I am rubbed raw, so the lemon juice hurts. Maybe in the not so distant future, new skin will have formed and things won’t be so painful.

But for now, this is where I’m at and I am meeting myself in the present.

This journey thus far has been an exercise in cracking the nut on my suffering; letting the light in to allow me to see better. I don’t always like what I find. But I’d much rather see, than continue to live my life with blurred vision, never really being able to make things out for exactly what they are. Through mindfulness and self-awareness I am finally seeing more clearly, and have detected some patterns in my emotions and behavior.

I have always been an emotional person, but at times those emotions are volatile. As a teenager my mood swings were chalked up to a chemical imbalance and I was diagnosed as bi-polar and prescribed medication that I rarely took because I thought it made me inauthentic. Over time, I just seemed to grow out of it, except for the one to two weeks leading up to my period, and then it was chalked up to PMS. I wonder now if my problem had always been hormonal…

Some months are better than others, depending on my life at the moment. PMS is an intensifier, like lemon on a wound. If life is going okay and stress is under control, it’s like a scratch, and a little lemon juice isn’t so bad. But if life is painful, an open wound, then PMS can make it downright unbearable. Nothing experienced during this time is disingenuous, just exacerbated. For women who are already emotional on a good day, this monthly roller coaster ride of hormones can be debilitating and destructive, disrupting work and damaging relationships.

Back in February, I experienced one of my lowest points so far this year. My mood changed directions like a weather vane in a tornado and a sense of sadness permeated my soul. On a regular day, I wake with energy and a mission before me, maintaining a fairly positive attitude as I work out, enjoy a healthy breakfast, prepare for work, fix my lunch and walk my dog, Cooper. I am focused and productive at work and my energy stays up through the evening as I continue to be productive. But some days, like back in February, getting out of bed requires monumental effort. I am exhausted, filled with dread and hopelessness. Nothing has meaning. I lay in bed as my tears soak my pillowcase and conjure possible call out excuses. Only maturity and the reality that work is a valuable distraction and that not going will only increase my anxiety gets me to slowly swing my legs out of bed. Working out doesn’t even cross my mind. By now, I will most likely be late for work anyway. I have no appetite so I skip breakfast and figure I’ll just buy lunch, something I don’t like to do, but I don’t care about money or routine. Cooper gets walked because he has to, but I don’t enjoy it, and I feel fatigued after 20 minutes. Driving to the train station, I daydream about car accidents and Cooper being left without his Mommy, and wonder if anyone would miss me…

This particular day back in February, no tool I had learned – meditation, yoga, nor positive thinking combatted the intense hopelessness and frustration that was interfering in my life. Everything was wrong. Desperate, I did something I hadn’t done in a very long time. I called my Mom and sobbed into the phone and explained every ugly emotion I was feeling. I needed sympathy, understanding, and advice. Out of my desperation came a phone call that would single handedly bring our relationship back from the brink of destruction, because she was everything I needed.

“I am so, so sorry you’re just like me,” she said. Together, we identified what might be going on. It was the same thing she had dealt with since she was in her early thirties: Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder (PMDD), PMS’ larger, uglier, angrier sister. Since underlying depression and anxiety are common in both PMS and PMDD, it’s possible that the hormonal changes that trigger a menstrual period worsen the symptoms of mood disorders, hence why emotions are so intensified. It made sense. I exhibited every symptom.

My mom listened and consoled, and urged me to see a doctor. “You have to call tomorrow,” she said. “If you don’t, in a few days you’ll feel better and then you won’t think it’s a big deal anymore. You need to see him while you’re feeling this way. You can’t go through this every month.”

“Can I ask for a hysterectomy?” I cried, dead serious. “You can ask, but menopause is no picnic, either.” We talked until exhaustion set in.

With some reinforcement from a friend (because the next day I felt better and the matter lost its sense of urgency), I did call the doctor. The morning of my appointment I was a mess. I sat in the chair, holding back tears. When the doctor arrived and asked what brought me in, I choked on my words. “You have no control of your emotions.” I don’t know if it was a question or an accusation, so I just nodded and let the tears stream down my face. “We can fix this,” he said.

Within minutes I was given a diagnosis of PMDD and a prescription that burned in my purse. I was back on the elevator heading down to Walnut Street, my mind reeling.

My feelings have been medicated. There wasn’t even any discussion of alternatives. Sure, what I’m feeling is extreme, but these are my feelings, and I want to FEEL them. I don’t want to be numbed! Pills kill creativity and passion – they will change me. How can he prescribe me so quickly? This isn’t just a prescription, but a stigma. What will people think? I have endured for a long time through emotional turmoil and I have done it without medication. There is no room in my toolbox for medication. Healthy, happy people don’t take medication. This isn’t who I want to be…

Already as vulnerable as a seedling during a frost, I struggled greatly with this development and all my preconceptions against medication that would never even cross my mind had anyone but myself been prescribed. But despite the struggle, I still felt a desperation. A desperation that pulled me to the pharmacy to pick up my prescription. The bottle would sit in my purse for a few days, and then the medicine cabinet for weeks… unopened.

To be continued…

Please click here to read Part 2.

I was reading an article about child-rearing in the April edition of Real Simple and came across an acronym for adults to keep in mind when their child is having a melt down. The acronym is H.A.L.T. and it stands for the four feelings that cause a child to become upset: hunger, anger, loneliness and tiredness.

I thought, shit, I’m thirty-two and those are the same reasons I get upset! Surely, I’m not the only adult who grows irritable when hungry (I get hangry). And who hasn’t vented and cried only to eventually say, “I’m just so damn tired.” Loneliness? Absolutely. And anger? Well, that’s obvious. We all feel these things, and most of us allow them to upset us. We are human.

It’s incredibly easy to identify with these four feelings… when we’re not upset though.

The hard part is to H.A.L.T. in the moments of upset and irritability, bring mindfulness to the situation and get ourselves what we need, be it some food or a nap. If angry, we need to stay focused on what’s making us angry and not let it snowball and get redirected. For example, one morning a few weeks ago I opened a brand new container of spring mix to find it wilted. I was annoyed. Before I knew it I was angry at things I hadn’t even thought about yet that morning. My husband reminded me I was just pissed at the lettuce and I immediately retaliated with “Noooo! Everything sucks today!” or something equally as over-reactive and dramatic. The truth is: I was pissed at lettuce.

Emotions gain so much momentum so fast and it takes practice to slow it all down and think rationally in the moment and consider the source. I still suck at this most of the time.

It’s not unlike when we want to eat. We’ve all heard the advice that we need to assess our hunger. Are we really hungry, or just bored. Maybe we’re just thirsty?

H.A.L.T. is another checklist I am adding to my toolbox. I was upset nearly all of 2014; it is what started me on this journey. And I can tell you now it was largely because I was tired and lonely. But if you had asked me then, those two feelings would have been amongst a laundry list of other complaints and emotions. Now, when I am feeling upset I need to go through the list and be responsible for my emotions and keep them under control.

Am I hungry? If so, I need to eat something and it’s probably best if I don’t interact with anyone until I do. Am I angry? If so, what am I angry about?  Can I keep the anger directed and try to work through it there? Am I lonely? If I am is there someone I can talk to or who can give me a good hug? Am I tired? Can I stop what I’m doing and nap, or at least take a night off and have some couch time?

I believe that I can spare myself a lot of unnecessary upset if I remember to H.A.L.T. and address these underlying emotions.

Obviously, there are times when we are upset for reasons outside of these four emotions. Our lives are much more complicated than children’s. But I definitely think it doesn’t hurt to H.A.L.T. and see.

Large or small, a victory is still a win, and winning is a wonderful thing. It’s nearly impossible for a win not to bring a smile to your lips and reinforce some sort of positive behavior like dedication, willpower, or practice. Be it your first home run, handstand, or eating your salad in the breakroom without indulging in the communal Doritos inches in front of you, these are victories. Victories that took effort on your part; victories that lead to something bigger.

A lot of people overlook small victories or play them down. That’s really unfortunate because they aren’t giving themselves enough credit. For example, I quit smoking on January 1, 2015. Every single day that my head hit the pillow without my having a cigarette was a victory that made me smile. I didn’t say, “It’s only been three days so far – no big deal.” I said, “I haven’t smoked in three days – can you believe it!?” and then did a little jig. All those days of small victories have added up and now I am still cigarette-free in April – a major victory. No matter what happens, as long as I keep this up, I can’t ever say I am a failure or that I achieved nothing this year. That alone is worth its weight in gold.

There is no reason to downplay small victories, because they really do add up. Some people want everything immediately and go so hard so fast. This is how people get hurt or why they quit – impatience or failure. Change doesn’t happen overnight. It takes 64 days to create a habit so whatever you want to do, be it running, quitting smoking, writing a novel, or changing your diet, it has to be sustainable for at least 64 days. It’s not uncommon for a writer who hasn’t written in a while to suddenly declare they are going to write 750 words a day for a month. Once they fall a few days behind, they’re faced with needing to write thousands of words to catch up. It’s overwhelming, and so they give up.

Anything worth working toward will most likely happen incrementally. When I started yoga I never thought I’d be able to close the gap between my face and leg in a seated forward bend. A few months ago I touched my nose to my left knee for a second. Now, I can bring my cheek to my knee and let it rest there. Soon, I hope to bring my forehead to the floor beside my knee.

I probably wouldn’t even still be practicing yoga if I had forced my nose to my knee in the beginning because I’d be injured, or I would have been overwhelmed by the work ahead of me and how long it would take and I’d have quit. Here I’d sit, wishing I could bring my nose to my knee, having given up on another dream. Time is going to pass regardless…

It took me a very long time to get my bachelor’s degree. When I finally enrolled at Saint Joseph’s University and decided to wrap this up once and for all, I calculated that I’d obtain my degree at age 31. That seemed such a long ways away. Then I remembered that I was going to turn 31 anyway, so it may as well be with a degree. And seven days before my 32nd birthday I graduated. From start to finish, the goal took 13 years to achieve. Every enrollment, every course, was a small victory that contributed to something grand.

So relish in your small victories. Every unsmoked cigarette, every passed up potato chip, every baseball or yoga practice, and every writing session is a victory. Pat yourself on the back, do a little jig, and smile at your accomplishment, for you are VICTORIOUS.

Happy Easter and Passover to all those who celebrate! Although I am Catholic, I attended Good Friday mass at an Episcopalian church and today, I will be attending meditation practice at a Buddhist Sangha (spiritual community).

I have a very open mind when it comes to religion and spirituality. Raised Catholic, I received my sacraments in the Catholic Church, except for my marriage sacrament, which I received in a wonderfully welcoming Methodist church because the Catholic church my husband and I hoped to marry in was disappointingly difficult and unfriendly to work with. Before Christmas I attended the Episcopalian church for the first time and found the sense of community and touch of informality incredibly refreshing compared to the rigidity of the traditional Catholic services I was used to.

Several years ago on assignment from a Comparitive Religions course at Saint Joseph’s University, I chose to visit the Buddhist Sangha. I had no idea what to expect and was quite nervous, but with a tinge of excitement, too at experiencing something brand new. The sparse website instructed me to arrive 15 minutes early. During a brief introduction all those years ago, I would receive my first meditation lesson from an English scientist who practiced Buddhism. And in the basement of a Unitarian church, where the Sangha meets every Sunday evening, I would practice meditation for the first time. Although I felt incredible afterward, it would be years before I would practice again…

When I set out on this journey to become a more compassionate and gentler person, I had no backpack full of tools and books, nor any advance training. My anger and frustration was snuffing out my life so in one last act of desperation I walked out the door and started down this path with nothing more than a desire to change. It wasn’t until I had begun my journey that I began to recognize tools, pick up books, really listen to those who lived the life I wanted for myself, and start canceling out some of the noise. The constant path that weaved along mine, intersecting here and there freely, has been the path of Buddhism. Cracking the nut on my suffering, allowing the light in, has been the start of my awakening.

Contrary to popular belief, Buddhism is not a “religion” by the common application of the word; it is a living tradition. Buddhism is a practice. By practicing Buddhism, one practices compassion, acceptance, kindness and meditation in an effort to end suffering.

Two weeks ago I visited the Mongkoltepmunee Buddhist Temple in Bensalem, PA. Again, I was nervous, but excited. The website was sparse and terribly outdated. I knew there would be Tak Bart (almsgiving) so in my research I learned that meant I was to bring food to offer to the monks.

Walking into the Temple felt as if I had left the West. The gold statues of Buddha, the altars and flowers, the monks in their bright orange robes… Not one word of the entire four hour service was in English, and yet I felt welcome, just like I did when visiting the Sangha for the first time.

The Altar at the Mongkoltepmunee Buddhist Temple

The day before I visited the Temple, I was in Philadelphia near my favorite Cathedral, The Basilica of Saints Peter & Paul, where I attended mass almost weekly when my Mom was battling cancer. I knelt before Mary in the alcove dedicated to her and prayed.

As I knelt before a statue of Buddha the very next day (before the communal [and free] lunch comprised of the copious left-overs from the offerings to the monks), the contrast was not lost on me, nor was the similarity. In both cases, I knelt before a symbol of someone whom I revere and expressed my gratitude and prayed for guidance and blessings for my loved ones. (Kneeling before Buddha I also apologized for having no idea how to “pray” to him. I like to believe he found the whole thing humorous.)

There are so many similarities. At the beginning of Lent, it struck me that I was also in the midst of another 40 day long tradition, empowering my mala with my mantra. At mass on Friday, the Bishop delivered a wonderful sermon about the four pillars of faith. When he spoke of prayer, he explained that prayer is not talking, but listening. It is about paying attention, he said, being present and seeing what needs to be done. There he was, an Episcopalian Bishop, more or less explaining that prayer is meditation.

I am happy to be a Catholic who practices Buddhism and occasionally attends Episcopalian mass. It is what works for me. To me, it’s all about something bigger that gives us hope, love and guidance, and about trying to be a better person. I am going to use every tool I come across on this journey of mine in an effort to reach that end.

I encourage you to explore and check things out for yourself, even just from a comparative or curiosity standpoint. Apprehension is natural. But I assure you, your interest is welcome. Just attending is a sign of respect. Just do what everyone else does – you’ll catch on. For example, at the Episcopalian church, all the parishioners stand in a circle and give Communion to one another. At the Temple, a lovely Thai women led me by the hand into the kitchen and helped me to arrange my organic fruits onto a platter then led me to one of the monks, where I slid my offering before him with an awkward (unknowing) bow. She walked me around the Temple explaining a few things in broken English and guided me in some of the rituals, like when we poured water into tiny bowls in honor of one of the monk’s birthdays and then went outside in our stocking feet to pour it into the earth to symbolize life.

I do not intend to return to the Temple – the Sangha is more appropriate for what I am looking for. But I will say it was a wonderful experience and made me feel a little more traveled and experienced, despite only being 45 minutes from home. There are so many wonderful things to experience in our own backyards that may provide a sense of adventure or peace, perhaps even a Quaker or Franciscan retreat house. Explore and observe; see what works for you, even if it is a little of everything.

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