A Vulnerable Life Update

I’ll be honest. I’ve had more than one conversation in the past few months about how I am a sensitive person. They weren’t, for the most part, people telling me how great it is to be sensitive. I’ve often been told I’m sensitive like it’s a bad thing.

I’ll own it, though. Sensitive comes from the Latin sentire, or feel. And I feel things.

I also allow myself to be vulnerable. Or at least, I try. Vulnerable comes from the Latin vulnus, or wound.

I feel wounds.

I may be sensitive by nature, but I am vulnerable by choice.  And I think everyone should strive for more vulnerability.

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Seven years ago today I graduated with my undergraduate degree. I was living in Boulder, Colorado in university-owned apartments at the bottom of campus called Smiley Court. I rode my bike uphill to the main campus in first gear, dripping in sweat, for classes. I coasted back down the hill to my home with nothing but forward momentum, sometimes barely keeping control I was going so fast , and I was usually helmet-less. .This is not the kind of vulnerable I advocate for.

My mom had, a year earlier, jumped off a bridge in a suicide attempt. My last year of college was spent living two lives: the student who tried to blend in while learning about foreign policy and allowing herself dreams of changing the world, and the daughter who drove 6 hours every other weekend to the state mental hospital to visit her mentally ill mother, going through metal detectors, speaking to social workers and doctors (though, in all honestly, my husband and dad did much of that, as I tend to get angsty with authority figures).

For anyone who knows me, this isn’t news. It’s just my story.  I graduated college, we all moved to North Dakota, and lived happily ever. Right?

No.

Vulnerable stems from the word wound, but its modern definition is:  the state of being open to injury, or appearing as if you are. It might be emotional, like admitting that you’re in love with someone who might only like you as a friend, or it can be literal, like the vulnerability of a soccer goal that’s unprotected by any defensive players. (Vocabularly.com)

You see, I didn’t want to be vulnerable. Not then. I just wanted to make things tidy, and help my parents get moved to this utopia I’d created in my head: Fargo, North Dakota. I thought it would be everything they needed, and my husband Alex and I could move to Washington, D.C. after spending a summer helping them get settled in and, to be honest, me fulfulling my need to mother my parents.  But we’d taken a road trip to D.C. to check out our future. I saw myself walking those streets, changing the world.

Then my mom had emergency bowel surgery late that summer, and we didn’t move.

Okay, one more year would be okay. We put in our notice on our apartment the next May, and moved everything to my parents’ garage.

Then my mom got respiratory distress and was hospitalized in the ICU for a few scary days before being sent home with orders to live a different, healthier, life.

We didn’t move. Another year would be okay, just to make sure everything was okay. Okay?

I slowly felt my dreams changing. Like John Mayer sang in Born and Raised, ‘I’ve still got dreams…they’re not the same…they don’t fly as high as they used to.’ 

My husband and I had a baby. I decided to go back to school to be teacher instead of a politician. It seemed Fargo was our destiny. I believed in destiny, after all.

Back when we’d all moved from Colorado to North Dakota, it was me convincing both my mom and dad it would all we’d hoped for and more. I remember signing my mom out of the state mental hospital after a long year. She had no money, no possessions. She loved Colorado. She loved it so much. But I had lived in Colorado since 7th grade and it was just another boring state to me.

“North Dakota is where you belong, mom,” I said, and she protested that it was a stupid idea but I was stubborn and she had no leverage.

I didn’t realize how emotionally vulnerable it is to move. I had expectations, and vague memories of my younger years in Fargo. When these didn’t pan out, I grew mad at North Dakota. I didn’t WANT to be vulnerable.

I felt stuck, though. The perfect solution – the only solution- was a temporary move. It was the only way to do something good for Alex and I without sacrificing too much time away from helping my dad care for my mom.

And so in 2013, we made a purposeful, vulnerable decision. We moved to Scotland for one year, dates set.  My husband’s family was there, and our son got to know his other grandmother, his cousins, etc.

When I stepped into my new classroom in Scotland, I recognized the buzz I got from new experiences. From exposing myself, emotionally. I guess I always knew this, but it was during this year abroad (where everything seemed condensed- our flat, my quickly-forged friendships, my writing) where I felt I was really able to look at my husband and son clearly. From a distance, everything in the USA seemed clearer, as well.

It’s always a risk to lay yourself out there. I think I learned to be purposefully vulnerable, and not just sensitive, when I was in Scotland that year.

And while my blog often speaks of authenticity, I think being vulnerable is an important part of that. It leaves you open to being hurt. It leaves you open to fail. But it also leaves you open to great things, new things, better things.

The only way to know…. is to be vulnerable.

I think social media (and I’m a fan, I am) encourages us to hide our vulnerability. I try not to. I do, on a quite regular basis, have old friends contact me to ask if everything is ‘okay’ for me? (And if this is you, I actually really appreciate it  and I love people showing they care). When this happens I wonder if I’m being *too* visibly vulnerable. But that quickly passes as I realize it’s actually a bit like a pat on that back that I am doing it right – being authentic, being vulnerable.

I think ‘real life’ also encourages us to hide our vulnerability or not seek it out. No one wants to be seen as weak, right? No one wants to look like they’re floundering.

But it’s no secret I am a flounderer. And I don’t mind floundering for a bit, as long as my family is safe.

This summer, my husband, son and I are moving back to Colorado Springs. After seven years of trying to make North Dakota work for us, we just know the life we want for ourselves and our son Alistair lies elsewhere. It’s nothing against North Dakota. I’m like Josh Duhamel. I will wear shirts that say Fargo and go on the TODAY Show and talk about how wonderful it is, if they want me.

 

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An entire Daily Mail article on his North Dakota attire 

 

Because…if you have what you need here, North Dakota can be nice. If you have a house (not a tiny apartment) — to get you through the cold winters with a space to run and play — the winters can be okay. If you have auto-start on your car, you don’t HAVE to freeze. If you have ‘toys’ for summer – a boat, heck, a paddle board – and a place to go, summers can be lovely. The people ARE as nice as everyone says, as a general rule. I’ve found great community within my church and within a local mom’s group. If you have your people here, North Dakota can be great.

But we don’t have a house, a paddle board, a lake, auto-start or a clan. Our ‘people’ move a lot (thanks, friends, for always moving away -ha-), the family we ARE in touch with in this area don’t live close to us at all (except my dad, but he is part of ‘we’ , my immediate family) and the magical life we envisioned for my mom never happened. (She’s in Minnesota’s mental health system, which, for the record, isn’t any better than Colorado’s….)

So, we are returning to Colorado in stages this summer. I find Colorado to be MY roots and they are Alex’s American roots. The details are tedious, but by summer’s end, me, Alistair, Alex, my dad AND my mom should all be back in Colorado.

My mom, who kept telling us over and over as we drove through the midwest to bring her up to North Dakota, ‘This is a bad idea!’ is not going to be left behind. She’s under a psychiatric commitment until September, but essentially lives in a central Minneapolis slum nursing home. I’ve never seen anything like it in Colorado. The housing couldn’t be worse than where she is, so it seems like a good time to bring her back to where she raised me. (She has two sisters in the Minneapolis area who are very, very good at visiting her and being there for her, but they are the same sisters who used to visit us in Colorado, so same difference, more or less). Most importantly, it ‘s my mom’s ‘dream’ to return to Colorado.

And if we can make dreams come true….we should.

Life goes in cycles.

I’m goin’ back to my roots.

———————————-

I think this blog post goes under YAGE.

See ya later, Fargo. Hello, graduation, teaching, and a fresh start…..again.

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A heart shape in the sand. Woooo. 

 

Since this blog was mainly autobiographical , I’d suggest this TED Talk for an actual expert opinion on being vulnerable:

 

 

 

 

Day Three: My fitness foe

Five years ago I lost 20 pounds doing Weight Watchers. I went to weekly meetings because I liked, and knew I needed, the accountability. I was able to use the internet to track my progress, but I was still given a booklet and a hand-held points calculator. I did well with this system: pen and paper, and a calculator sitting in my kitchen, daring me to defy it.

Fast-forward into the age of apps, and the popularity of the free and easy-to-use My Fitness Pal. Dozens of people have suggested to me, and it’s sat latently in the background on at least my past three smartphones. I’ve gone through spurts of using it, and I always end up discouraged.

For one thing, it tells me I should be eating 1350 calories a day. And maybe I should, I don’t know. I could lie to tweak the app’s setting- it can’t call me out on it – but I’ve left it as it is, and each day watched myself dive into the red. 1350 calories just seems SO FEW. And the second I’m -200, my brain just goes “Screw it. You’ve already gone over for the day. Try again tomorrow.”

For another thing, it’s not asking to be completed in the same way an empty line on a log book is. I don’t have a completed product at the end of the week. And it sits neatly on my phone, obscured by Facebook notifications and the weather application. It doesn’t taunt me like a Weight Watchers calculator.

But the worst thing of all, to me, is how clear it makes it where I’m nutritionally lacking. I’ve never once met its requirements for fiber or potassium or iron, and I’ve always gone over in sugar. And I just don’t wanna know about it. Lalalala. *fingers in ears*

But for the sake of my renewed endeavors, and for the sake of this blog, I am going to track every thing I eat every single day for one week. And I’m going to turn reaching (and staying with the limits of) the nutrition guidelines a goal of mine. I’ll pretend it’s a game. Or something.  There are limits to what you can trick yourself into thinking is ‘fun.’

But the app deserves a fair shot before I decide it’s not for me.

We’ll see just how good of friends My Fitness Pal and I are truly are, next Saturday.

(Oh, if it seems obvious from this post that I should just try Weight Watchers again….I might. But I’m going to attempt some free versions first)