A couple of days ago, I had to make a visit to the emergency room. Like most, I definitely hate sitting there for what always seems like a waste of time. You get charged for a gazillion exams before being told, “We don’t see anything. Just make an appointment with your primary care physician.” Like, my three-year old gives me better care when she’s pretending to be my doctor. Nevertheless, there I was. When the ER physician finally came to see me, he was totally dismissive. There was no urgency in his movements. His energy was just bad. Maybe it was Mercury retrograde or something. I really don’t know. He sat back in his chair listening to me speak of my pain with a look of disdain. He was so totally disinterested. I attempted to lighten things up by making a light joke.

“Your fear of looking stupid is holding you back.” I came across this quote while doing my usual scrolling, trolling or whatever you want to call it. I felt like I had been stung by a bee. Was this written for and directed at me? I was taking this way too personally. I had to read it about ten times before I could settle down and figure out why it came across my timeline at this moment. What can I say? This really hit home.

While reading through Facebook posts earlier this summer, I came across a post from a guy from my old neighborhood. It was a beautifully written copy and paste post that described what it was like growing up in the 80s. He creatively changed a few words to make it fit his specific block and some of his personal experiences. I absolutely loved it. It took me back to a time when we were able to freely enjoy our neighborhoods and hang outside with little fear. A few of us read it, hit the like button and made nostalgic comments of our own.

I was talking to my sister on the phone the other day. We were gossiping and laughing about a host of things. He said, she said so on and so forth, all between giggles. Somewhere in the middle of the conversation I started rambling about a recent incident that thoroughly agitated me. She listened with an “un huh, un huh” here and there for about ten minutes. Just as I was getting deeper into my escapade, I received another call. After clicking over for about thirty seconds, I came back to her and asked, “Now what was I saying?” Silence. Dead silence! Now my feelings could have been hurt, but I howled with laughter because she couldn’t tell me what the hell I was ranting about. I was okay with that because I had been on the other end.

“If the shoe fits, wear it.” If I had a dollar for every time someone shouted those words, well you know the rest. Sometimes it fits perfectly. Other times, not so much. I was reading an article someone posted on Facebook. It was very interesting since it hit on a very current, popular and sensitive matter. After reading, I “liked” the post. As soon as I hit the like button, a million things rushed through my head. My immediate thought upon finishing the read was how it confirmed something personal for me. I had been struggling with a decision that I couldn’t quite settle within myself. For me, the article was a helpful arrival at an answer. So, of course, I embraced it. The next thought was the question, “Are they going to think I’m being judgmental because I “liked” the posted article?” Although the answer I found worked for me, it uncovered a truth that many others did not want to face. I guess I was thinking that by liking the article, it would appear as though I was saying, “See! I told you not to do it girl. Now look at you.”

When I was younger, not yet a teenager, I wrote a note to a guy in the neighborhood. I had a huge crush on him. No one was aware of this because he had a girlfriend who also lived in the neighborhood. Although I knew her, we were not close friends. She was above my “play grade.” She had an air about herself that said she was too mature to hang out with a girl like me who just wanted to dance and play in the streets. I understood why he wanted her as a girlfriend. Even still, I decided I needed to put my feelings for him on paper. Yes, this was my thought process at the very young age of eight or nine. So, I went for it. I don’t remember exactly what I wrote, but I imagine it was something about what I thought of him, how I thought he was cute, how I loved his smile and so on…

I was cleaning and getting rid of some things in preparation for a transition. In the process, I was carefully going through my things, trying to figure out what to toss. There were clothes, bags, jewelry, shoes, photos, books and much, much more. Everything you can imagine was somewhere tucked away in my chest of treasures. Well, buried away in my dresser drawers, my closets, my storage space and under my bed. I practically had things hiding everywhere. The goal was to get rid of old stuff while only keeping a few goodies that were very special. This was nearly impossible because every single thing I picked up meant more to me than the last. Half-way through the process I became drained. Everything meant so much to me. Everything was something I would need one day. Besides a few bags of clothes I finally accepted would never, ever be worn again, everything was necessary. Everything could be used for something special in the future. Every item brought with it a memory of something, some place or someone at some time in my life. How could I ever part with any of it? Giving up my things would be giving up my past and essentially, giving up me. In my mind, I would be giving up on or erasing my past. Why do we find such difficulty in parting with places and things? Why is it sometimes so much more difficult to part with things than with people?

While watching television one night, I heard someone say, “Shame prevents us from getting the help we need.” I felt like I was dropped into a 1960s episode of Batman. BING, POW, KABLAM, BOOM!!! The resonation was strong. Punched me smack in the face with a dose of reality. Then a current situation reminded me that I didn’t need to time travel to feel the effects of those ultra, dramatic blows. I had just engaged in a short conversation with someone who was having trouble completing a task. I suggested that this person ask someone whom had been successful at the very thing with which they were experiencing difficulty. Silly me! I went from vintage Batman to that foolish little rabbit who never quite seemed to get that “Tricks are for kids.” Surely, I was being very foolish for making that suggestion. Why is it so difficult to ask others for help? Why does reaching out when in need cause us to feel shame?

When I was in a graduate program some years ago, I was at the onset of a divorce. I did not know it then, but somewhere wrapped up in all those feelings that pushed us apart was the feeling of inadequacy. Again, at the time, I did not feel as though I was inadequate in any way. No! It would take many moons and many flailing emotions before I would come to that conclusion. Also unbeknownst to me was not only did I feel inadequate in that relationship, the feeling of inadequacy had followed me through the years, beginning when I was just a small girl. Even if I did not know how to categorize or explain it, it was there.

Last year, I wrote about the emotional rollercoaster. The emphasis was on how we let people take us up and down, dictating how we feel, thus guiding our moods and actions. There is nothing like riding the wave of emotions. I still struggle with that from time to time, but I’d like to think that I have experienced some growth. What I have noticed, though, is that although I do a pretty decent job of not letting others dictate my mood, I have not done so well in the department of self-regulation. One moment I’m feeling positive, and the next I am allowing my own negative thoughts to take over. Am I steering myself off a cliff? Am I guilty of destroying the aura I say I want to protect? Am I the real reason for my life’s motion sickness?

I was standing in the main office when a coworker came in looking very distressed. Initially, I decided not to say anything because I could hear the agitation in her voice as she responded to my hello. I figured she was probably just having a bad morning. Maybe she’d just ended a draining phone call as she left her vehicle. Maybe she scorched the eggs and had to give the children cold cereal instead. Maybe she just woke up on the wrong side of the bed. I really did not know. So, I decided to look away.

On a recent flight, I was sandwiched between two strangers. As if the middle seat isn’t already bad, being stuck for three plus hours between people you do not know makes it even more crappy. I so badly wanted that window seat, but I was stuck feeling like that small kid who was always told to sit in the middle because you are small and the only person who can fit. As my flight neighbors busily tapped away on their laptops and shuffled through papers, I noticed that they were both actually working. Geesh! I must be a slacker. There was surely something I could tap about also. I could crank out a weekly memo to my staff, research ramping up student academic discourse, find a new place for my mom, read all there is to know about potty training my feisty toddler, the list is actually endless. Like seriously, I have work, work to do. I literally had hours of uninterrupted time that could have been used toward being productive. I couldn’t possibly justify engaging in or with anything else.