Flaws

Recently, I posted about romance and reality. Reality isn't always as pretty or clean-shaven or over-the-top emotional as a Meg Ryan movie, but it is honest. And honesty and romance have been irrevocably intertwined in my head. As I was doing some "field research" for the romance post (aka asking deep questions and sharing my thesis with my dear friends via skype) I found myself tearing up and getting the wobbly voice when I said, "I've just been lied to so much in my life by so many people . . . " A Facebook post my friend put up recently struck me as the simplest way I can state how profoundly important honesty is to me: The truth may hurt for a little while but a lie hurts forever.

I've, of course, written about honesty before. A couple of times at least. I value honesty in all the relationships I have, from the friend who tells me, "Umm, no, you can't put your hair clip like that. Only a good friend would say that to you though," to the sibling that says, "You're difficult but that's part of YOU." And I try to give as good as I get. To me, trust comes from saying what you mean, and then following up your words with actions.

I am lucky that I have some good examples of people I know finding ways to thread honesty, accountability and romance together, like my friends who, instead of traditional wedding vows, had a conversational set of promises they made to one another (in front of us). I also, in my research of what people promise each other, was sent this fabulous example of how honesty can meet humor, fun, and romance. (These vows are heartfelt, to be sure, and so true - not IF you get sick or IF you get angry but WHEN -  and genuinely loving. And let's be clear, I wish I could have zombies at any party or wedding celebration I might plan in the future.)

What strikes me is that honesty, like terror and charity, begins at home. For me, perhaps honesty trumps flashy shows of romance because there was such issue with it in my home. I come from a family that struggles with honesty - with one another, and with themselves. In my house this didn't always mean outright lying, but often just a lack of the whole story being conveyed about any number of things or willful ignoring of the skeletons in the closet . . . this is, after all, how it happens that I have a sister I didn't grow up with.  (In point of fact, I didn't know she existed until I was 21 and she was almost 30.) This is how people I lived with for years and love and share blood with ignored the obvious problems while deftly stepping over that lump in the rug barely concealing what they swept under it. Their stories aren't mine to tell, so I won't talk about what I see when I tentatively lift the rug up, but the important realization for me is that I don't just crave honesty. I worry over it.

I make it a deep and daily concern to check in with myself and try to take stock of my ability to be honest with others and myself because, I think, deep down, I am afraid that if I relax on that priority, I will find proverbial rugs and more than proverbial lumps swept under them. I live in a hardwood floor apartment for a reason, and I don't own any rugs other than bathmats, so, this would be alarming.

For me, honesty is, in huge part, about knowing one's self. It's hard to "speak from the heart" if you can't hear your own inner voice, and it's impossible to react and communicate honestly if you don't know how you feel. And for me, an important piece of that is trying, whenever possible, to trace backwards far enough to know WHY I feel that way. More often than not, my feelings come from fears, limiting beliefs, judgment, and insecurities. And more often than not, those fears and insecurities and weak spots in my tough-girl armor come from knowing how flawed I am.

The word flaw actually means: a feature that mars the perfection of something, defect, fault.

This always reminds me of craftsman looking at a piece of wood and rejecting it because of a knot too big to work into the chair or wall they aspire to make, or a big dark spot in the middle of a diamond. Something visible. Which is ironic and alarming, because I work so very hard to make sure my flaws are as invisible as possible. I want the world to see good hair days, no pimples, and certainly not the moments where I am fighting the tears over having to send an email that makes me judge myself by imagining how someone else will judge it. I want those things tucked under the floor boards (since I live sans rugs).

But, I've been brought up short by being unemployed, by going back to therapy, by realizing that people love me not because I am perfect but for other reasons, by seeing a moving TED talk about vulnerability and then reading the researcher's book, and realize now, the flaws in the wood make it richer and more interesting, and I've never cared for diamonds anyways.

So, in going back and re-reading Elisabeth Glibert's book, Committed (about marriage and misgivings and love and honesty and tradition and ways to buy into it without the bullshit . . . in my opinion, better than her more renowned Eat, Pray, Love ) I was reminded that something she and her beloved did before confirming they could marry (even with misgivings) was to present a list of their own flaws to one another and . . . double-check that they were ok with what they were signing up for. They were searingly honest. Witness:

1. I think very highly of my own opinion. I generally believe that I know best how everyone in the world should be living their lives - and you, most of all will be victim of this.

2. I require an amount of devotional attention that would have made Marie Antoinette blush.

3. I have far more enthusiasm in life than I have actual energy.  In my excitement, I routinely take on more that I can physically or emotionally handle, which causes me to break down in quite predictable displays of dramatic exhaustion.  You will be the one burdened with the job of mopping me up every time I've overextended myself and then fallen apart.  This will be unbelievably tedious.  I apologize in advance.

4. I am openly prideful, secretly judgmental, and cowardly in conflict.  All these things collude at times and turn me into a big, fat liar.

5. My most dishonorable fault of all:  Though it takes me a long while to get to this point, the moment I have decided that somebody is unforgivable, that person will very likely remain unforgiven for life--all too often cut off forever, without fair warning, explanation or another chance.

What made it ok for her and her partner to leap into this cesspool of uncertainty was BECAUSE they could share these lists of terribleness with each other and say afterwords, "I can work with that."

It sounds terribly unromantic (even less romantic than slaying a zombie head in a wedding ceremony in lieu of lighting a unity candle) but it is an incredibly loving act for another person to say, "I take all of you. Even the hard parts. Even when you make them sound really bad." It makes me wonder: how many of us are able to love ourselves that deeply, looking really deeply into the mirror and seeing every visible flaw, every humiliating or hurtful moment, everything under the rug and beyond? I don't. Do you?

How many people spend the time to know themselves that deeply and then say, "I love me anyways."

If I inventory my flaws, I sound really terrible to myself.

1. I talk too much, think too much, and generally cannot rest until I've analyzed the breath out of everything, everything, everything. Myself, how best to set up the laundry room shelves, my family, my goals, what shoes to buy, how to get $10 a week off my grocery list . . .  This data gathering and analytic machine does not rest and it is exhausting for every other human on the planet, but I can't stop.

2. I am a really judgmental person. I have a lot of opinions about a lot of things. Generally, I don't make snap judgments (see above: data gathering) but when I've thought something over, I typically have a pretty good idea of what I think should or shouldn't happen, how to implement my plan, and why it will be awesome. My niece once asked me if my plans always work out and I answered, without missing a beat, "When my plans don't work it's almost always because someone has failed to follow them." I have tried, in recent years, to speak up promptly when I have no opinion because there are times I meet a topic where I genuinely don't care or haven't formed a thought on, and I want people to get a break from my constant assessments and perspectives. I've tried also to get better at making room for new data, to have my mind changed, and to hear others. I've tried most of all to recognize when judging others comes from judging myself (Almost always! SHOCKER!) but it remains true that I am the most outspoken, annoying, insufferable know-it-all most of you will ever meet.

3. I am what some people call stubborn or persistent. Those are far kinder words than I think apply. I am beyond determined, I am attached to willing things to be the way I need them to be. This often gets me stuck in a rut of patterns that aren't working for me, or what one friend charitably described as me being "dogged, at times." Yup, that's me.

4. I am very attached to my plans, my pride, and my independence. This means that I will jump in and help almost anyone, almost all of the time but will refuse to let my person take a shopping bag from me when he sincerely offers to carry it. I will run myself into the ground being a caretaker for others, all the while ignoring my own needs. It's extraordinarily unhealthy and detrimental to seeking balance and although I've addressed it with a vengeance this year, it will be a lifelong struggle for me to put myself first, ever, and not feel shame about it.

5. I'm deeply principled, and hold myself and others to painfully high standards. But mostly myself. When I can't meet them, as I've described, it's not a matter of failing and then picking myself back up. It's inevitable failure, then kicking myself while I'm down, beating myself up after the kicking, rolling around in the mud, and then expecting myself to write an essay about how I'll do better. This means that although I've been successful at many things I have no natural aptitude for, I'm not what you call resilient. I rebound . . . eventually, but it takes me an inordinately long time to pick myself up after a fall and because I'm so resistant to help (see above) taking a hand up doesn't even occur to me, even when it's offered.

6. I am tough, sassy, and strong. I have same-day surgeries without pain killers, travel like a champ, have almost no phobias, and generally act like I am unaffected by pain, injury, illness, and fatigue. Yet, I have incredibly thin skin. Even small accidental moments can hurt my feelings and sting years later. Having an unyieldingly killer memory does not help this cause.

7. I believe in forgiveness. I believe in letting go of anger and wounds, because otherwise you carry them with you and hurt yourself and others with them over and over. I believe in second chances. I often give third and fourth and fourteenth chances, because despite all of my toughness, independence, and judgment, I see the good in almost everyone. But, when someone has hurt me badly enough or often enough, when all trust or faith in their ability to be decent has been eroded, I am completely incapable, at that point, of the kind of forgiveness that leaves what happened in the past. (The memory thing doesn't help much here either.) It would be far kinder for EVERYONE to just stop earlier and close the door more gently on people that aren't good for me.

8. I have only felt pretty, smart, and appreciated all at the same time for three or four days of my entire life. This means, that when someone tells me I am attractive, I am suspicious they think I'm stupid. When someone praises my intellect, I wonder if that is code for them thinking I'm ugly, and that if they see both, I assume I'm unappreciated for these and any other good qualities. I am constantly undermining myself by playing old tapes in my head of being unworthy of real belonging.

9. I have a horrible, horrible habit of making fun of things I actually care about quite a lot because I can't quite bear to let people see me care that much and be that vulnerable and drop the sarcasm. I suspect this is offputting or at least tiring for many people.

10. As in introspective extrovert (or a very social introvert depending on which test I take and how I interpret questions as applying to my life ) I am often caught up in being what is needed by everyone else, and, as mentioned above, caretaking everyONE but myself. But, I also require an enormous amount of time and mental resources to process all of the data I'm gathering all of the time. Sometimes this all comes to a head and I find myself lying on the couch watching terrible re-runs or staring at the ceiling and not having the will to do anything for a couple of days at a time. At these times, I'm completely incapable of taking out the trash, doing my dishes, or meeting friends when we've made plans. This means my people get lots of attention from me when I am "on" and then suddenly, when the switch flips, I am suddenly 100% MIA. I know I hurt people this way.

11. There is almost nothing in my life that goes unprocessed (see number 1). But, I am accustomed to delaying emotional processing. This leaves me isolated, and often angry, and it puzzles and hurts people when something they thought nothing of resurfaces as an issue I'm still dealing with days, weeks, months later.

How can that list be compatible with being lovable? And yet, despite all of these things working against me, I have friends who call me family that I've had, respectively for 33 years, 17 years, 15 years, and 12 years. There must be something there. I reason it this way - they don't HAVE to see me at Thanksgiving and pretend to like me, they choose me over and over, and I them.

I saw a cartoon once that showed on the left pane, a field of flowers. Daisies, lilies, pretty, pretty flowers. Underneath it, it said, "How we see flowers" In the right hand pane, the same flowers, but with faces in their centers, and all of the faces had big ugly glasses, warts, crooked noses, pimples. Underneath that it said, "How flowers see themselves."

While we are staring in the mirror and side-stepping the lumps in the rug, we're all the while consumed with the pimples and the secret-keeping, which makes it impossible for us to see what is wonderful about us. We're burdened with the things that are less than awesome because we have to carry them around on our backs, and are always angling to stand in front of them so that no one can see what is behind our backs . . . like when we were children trying to smuggle cookies out of the cookie jar by keeping our hands tucked behind our backs. If we stood those things up in front of us and made peace with them, maybe we could see what was fun and useful and easy and memorable about us to others. If I loved my flaws, the bumps and knots in the wood, would I see the good things more easily?

Here's an interesting thing that happened as I was writing this post. I had assembled some of the pieces of this post last week, and sat down to write last night. I got about as far as I had hoped I would (up to the sentence, "If I loved my flaws the bumps and knots in the wood, would I see the good things more easily?") but knew I wasn't finished. So, I decided to sit down with Brene Brown's book. Her writing is just as captivating as her presentations are. I found myself laughing and empathizing as she shared her own struggles with imperfection and courage because they are all of our struggles - being too busy, trying to hard to fit in at the risk of missing real belonging, wanting to send angry emails to snarky people, etc. But I also found this quote:

"When we can let go of what other people think and own our story, we gain access to our worthiness - the feeling that we are enough just as we are and that we are worthy of love and belonging. When we spend a lifetime trying to distance ourselves from the parts of our lives that don't fit with who we think we're supposed to be, we stand outside of our story and hustle for our worthiness by constantly performing, perfecting, pleasing and proving. Our sense of worthiness - that critically important piece that gives us access to love and belonging - lives inside of our story."

When I read this, I realized, if I had just dug into this book a month ago then I wouldn't have needed to spend the 2 hours it took me to pull the pieces of this post together and write all those paragraphs. Brene has already said it more articulately for me.

My story is one of hustling, as she says. Of trying to prove, to please, to make my worth and value known by showing others how useful I can be, how hard I will work for it, how much I am willing to do for others rather than just locating my worthY. When I do this, I attach my feeling of being good enough to external things. Accomplishments and work are the main culprits. And, so, when I look at it that way, being unemployed is my first opportunity to stand apart from what I do or who I am in service to others or my job title. It is, if I do it right, a chance to get very honest in a way that isn't hurtful to the person I'm looking at in the mirror, but instead embraces the knots in the wood so that I can clear a path to seeing how I am good enough, job, no job, and whatever else comes next.

Reconciling with my office

I had a really dumb moment yesterday.

For a decently intelligent person, this happens more often than I wish. One of the ones my mom likes to giggle about was two years ago when my mom was teaching me how to play backgammon. I was kicking around her house just after Christmas and my brother, mom, and I had all been snowed in and were a little stir crazy. For my bro this manifested as retreating to a TV and monosyllabic communication. For me this brought out my silly version of cabin fever, and for my mom she was bustling around the kitchen. All of a sudden I had a memory of a similar night years ago, and my parents sitting at the kitchen table of the house I grew up in playfully baiting each other in a game of backgammon.

I realized I had never learned. This seemed ridiculous since my parents used to play all the time. So, on a whim I went into the kitchen and said, "Mom, do you have a backgammon board? Would you be willing to teach me?" This, in case you were wondering, was my "smart" moment. As she almost skipped to the basement to get the backgammon set up, I put together a snack. Within about 10 minutes of her teaching me, my brother had come into the kitchen and said, "Can I play you once you learn?" It was great. We went from all being antsy and separate to doing something together in about 10 minutes.

My mom explained to me that at the beginning of a game each player rolls one die and whoever gets the higher roll uses the combined roll as their first turn. Now, this is a "fancy" backgammon set with the leather cups for rolling the dice. So, she handed me the cup and the two die. I looked at her bewildered and said, "How do you roll only one?"

Pause. And she looked at me like, Are you kidding me?! And then pointedly picked up one of her die, put it to the side, and put the second die in the cup and then gave me the "Ta-da!" face.

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh. (Duh)

Now, whenever we play backgammon she says, "How do you roll only one?" in a mocking tone and sometimes if she thinks I'm being particularly flaky in some other situation I hear this phrase mumbled under her breath in the, I'm purposely making it so you can hear it volume.

That's ok, I deserve it.

I have these moments. We all do. Secretly, it's actually great for me when my family ribs me about these things since I am often a little more sharp-tongued than I should be and quick to tease them. It balances things out.

Yesterday, I had a dumb moment that revealed something interesting to me though.

Here is the scenario. A very interested company wanted to do an initial interview with me via Skype. I am tres interested in the company, and let me just say it is a name that would not be too shabby to be associated with, but was pleased to have an opportunity to learn more about the job itself.

I am new to Skype in the last couple of weeks but it seems like a pretty sweet deal. However, for this Skype meeting, I wanted to be very prepared. I thought about what questions might be asked, I prepared my questions, and had paper and pen on hand in order to take notes. I even got up early and put on makeup and an interview outfit so that I would appear professional.

About 30 minutes before the interview, I set my computer down on the kitchen table and turned on the camera on my laptop so I could check and make sure I looked ok. I looked fine, but saw a few distracting things in the background behind me. One of them is a very hilarious book, but, well, let's just say, not one I leave out if children are visiting me. (Smile). So, I scrambled around trying to move things. As I did, it occurred to me that the blank yellow wall behind me was a little overwhelming visually. Then I started to fret thinking, "Well, I could sit on the couch, but then he's seeing the back of my couch. The bedroom, but then that's unprofessional." After a few minutes more of pondering what to move and where to be . . . it hit me.

There is ANOTHER room in my house. In fact it is a room that is white walled, and basically empty. It even has decent lighting and a desk. Imagine that. That's right, my office still stands empty.

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh. (Duh)

This is to say, I have not yet re-established that room. I do ALL of my job hunting and applying in the arm chair in my living room or from my kitchen table. If I'm writing this blog, or messing around on Facebook I can probably be found sprawled on my bed (as I am now) or on my couch (and on one emotional occasion, standing up at my kitchen counter).

I go into the office once a week to copy something for my (awesome) trainer and/or print something for a job interview. Other than that I treat it much as I did before. It's a separate land, not intersecting with my home. Think of it as Middle Earth or something.

When it was literally my office it was as if it was a nearly completely indepenedent sphere from anything else my house touched. Once a year I would go in there on personal time to do my taxes. The rest of the time, I was only in there if actually working. And it felt like I was sequestering myself and entering a different place. I realized in my last year of work how profound this conception of my office was in a couple of different ways. If I "cleaned the house" I would sweep and mop the kitchen, living room and dining room. As I headed down the hall I would get the laundry room and bathroom on the right, but sail right past the office on the left and head directly into the master bedroom. I also discovered that I would give tours of my house to people visiting and skip over that room. People would be like, "Ummm, what's in there??" (is it a murder room?!) And I would respond, ""Oh, that's my office." and keep walking.

So, in my mind, it is STILL my office, and why would I go in there unless I'm working.

Which of course I am NOT. Sooooooooooo, yeah.

Basically this means I haven't been in there or considered that room as having a place in my life since a month ago when it was cleaned out.

Partially, this is because unemployment has been unexpectedly busy for me. There are certainly days I don't get up until after 8. And there are days I watch TV at 2pm, to be sure. But, I have been blessed with a lot to do. I've caught up with friends, and while that doesn't, perhaps, have significance in terms of landing a job, it has been instrumental in my healing from all of this sudden change. I had a real awakening right after I lost my job when so, so many friends contacted me to offer me support and then worked into the conversation, "So, if you're not working when you return from the holidays, do you have time to hang out?" It was an epiphany for me how much the last job had restricted me from being the friend I wanted to be, hell, from having a life.

I also got my car fixed from an accident that happened, literally, a week before my position was eliminated, an with the very supervisor, in my very car,  who let me go. Luckily, the accident was the fault of the person who hit me and was thus completely covered. The cost to me was only time.

And, yes, I have, been applying a lot, and I have been very encouraged to have response to a job I've applied for EVERY week since my unemployment commenced, and an interview on each week except the first. So, I've been busy.

Still, it seems a little silly that in the last four weeks I haven't put any time into re-acquainting myself with that room, going through the things in it, re-organizing, or even putting realistic thought into what I'd like that room to be. (Having said that, of course in the last day I've thought about it. The words of my cool, hilarious chicca friend on the very night I lost my job ring in my ears, "That is the room your foster baby will sleep in." But, that's a little bit cart before the horse at this point. Exercise room? If I get a well paying job I'd be happy to put an elliptical in there. Guest room? Upgrade my bed, and get a futon couch set up going in there? Hmmmmm)

This is a little like when my fiance and I broke up. During the conversation about done-ness he was indicating that maybe he'd come back for his things. I wanted to be smart and realized he had never paid a single cent of rent on this place, and was secondary on the lease so I wanted to reduce ambiguity and suggested he get his things right then, many of which were still in boxes. It seemed to make sense. I started hauling his stuff out, and eventually he (grudgingly) joined me. Of course, in our haste, things got left behind. Months later I found myself in various conversations about my need for him to get his things or give me permission to get rid of them.

A lot of things happened, and he didn't seem to understand that he could divorce himself from his stuff if he needed to, but that given some of his actions and threats, I wouldn't remove those things unless I had written permission. He was stubborn and stupid (and of course, I wasn't stubborn at ALL!), so this went on for a ridiculous amount of time. The result was that 6 months after our break up he was still cycling through "I'll be nice, get her to do what I need, and then disassociate myself as soon as she mentions anything she needs . . . even if it's as simple as sending her permission to dump my stuff."

I finally got the permission I needed, and felt I was really, truly DONE (I mean, other things happened. In fact it got really complicated and, regrettably, bitter.) about 9 months after the break up.

But somehow it took awhile for me to actually throw his shit OUT. And when I did, it felt incredibly good, momentous, even. And nothing could have been simpler than taking 45 minutes to gather it all up, check through the house, and carry the boxes out. I wondered why I had waited so long. But I did.

In that case, it was definitely hard for me to completely let go and move on. It took a lot of work and tears, and hard conversations with people who loved me. I wanted things to go differently than they did, even once I had accepted that we weren't right for each other. I wanted more closure than walking his stuff to a dumpster. And I had to take my time to reconcile myself with the fact that what I got was a watermelon story (ask if you want to know!), some really inexplicable emails, a court date to keep him out of my life, and a quiet Sunday where I enjoyed the sun and the feeling of releasing the last vestiges of our relationship into the dumpster. I couldn't change the hand dealt to me, just how I played it. It just took me a beat (or you know, however many beats fit into that number of months) to re-strategize and resolve to play it out.

I process slowly sometimes. This is, I think, not related to my occasional brain dead moment. It's more related to things I've mentioned before. Somehow my emotional path, and the roles I played in my family have lead me to a . . . hmm, strategy sounds too contrived and planned and it's not . . . I'd say, it's lead me to a HABIT of processing things all on my lonesome, off in a corner, and often disconnected from whatever event first gave rise to those feelings. There are benefits to this - it means it is RARE for me to have a sudden passionate bad reaction. It happens more than it used to, and more with people who I know really deeply and trust more. In a weird way, if I'm reacting to something in the moment badly, it's a compliment to that person because I can't do it unless I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I'm fully loved. as a result, it's only happened with my mom, sister, and best best bestbestbest friend in recent years.

On the flip side, those same people (and others!) would tell you that I sometimes baffle them by reacting to something that happened days (or weeks, or months) ago. They feel lost and . . . betrayed? I don't want to speak for them, but know this is the liability of my peculiarity of appearing to be emotive and open, but actually packing up emotions, putting them in boxes, and taking my time getting around to unpacking them and actually DEALING WITH the stuff inside.

People like me often have ulcers and migraines. And all of this emotional delay mirrors what I do with ACTUAL STUFF. I took almost a year to throw his crappy shit out! Almost 3 months after he gave me the permission to do so! I put it in boxes and then put it away, where I couldn't see it, but where it still took up space in my house.If that's not the outward picture of what I do inwardly, I don't know what is.

I know I have to take my time with that room. Not because I miss my job like I miss relationships once they end. Mostly, I feel relief when I think about NOT working for that company. I don't miss the tasks, the lifestyle, or the stress. The gratitude to be released from that is so immense that it eclipses the real missing of 5 of the people I worked with. I miss the certainty of a paycheck, that's it.

But I had a dysfunctional relationship with that job, and as a result, I had a dysfunctional relationship with that room. It will take some time for the room and I to receive each other differently.

If I was a person with more means, it would be great to go out, get some furniture and paint and posters and just go to town on that room. But I'm not, so it will take some time for me to re-friend that room. I, however, aspire for it to take less than a year. And so it starts with just going in there more to remember that that is space that belongs to me, not to my former company. It's MINES!!! (hahahah)

ATM Fraud

That's right. Today, I planned to divide my time very carefully into quarters with one-fourth devoted to submitting applications, one fourth to finishing up my self-training on MS Project 2010, one fourth to my interview and interview prep, and the remaining quarter to pounding out a run on a treadmill or roadside. (Cardio has ceased to be something I purely loath. I still don't like it. That may never change. But, I'm getting better at it, and that helps. Also, I am in a co-dependent relationship with it right now. Cardio needs me to get it done, so I can lose weight and look my trainer and cardio partner in the eye. I need it to help my brain from feeling like it could explode from the effort of staying positive in the face of all this uncertainty. So, we'll stick a pin in that and write another of my many posts about cardio another day.) That was my plan. And y'all know how much I like a plan.

Well, last night, while I was pounding out some cardio, and smashing my weight lifting workout in fact, apparently my ATM number was in Yuma. And this morning while I was sleeping (biding my time until I could call the fraud line at my bank) that same card was turned down in Austin to buy gas. Weeeeeee!

I've been the victim of fraud and identity theft before. And my experience getting that dealt with (once the conveniently placed long weekend in which I watched weird check amounts being cashed and wandering out of my account helplessly was over) was pretty good. The money I needed to buy my books and pay my insurance and rent was back in 5 days, and I had a new account set up pronto. I had three days of watching money walk away, and practicing deep breathing. They caught those people and uncovered their scam (pretty elaborate, as it turned out, but not very well executed) and I had the opportunity to write something about my experience as the "victim" (HATE that word) of this crime maybe a year later. I had food in the house, so while I couldn't go out with my friends that weekend, and had some stress since I was a poor graduate student at the end of a long month of no paycheck, I wasn't going hungry. And ultimately damage repaired.

So, when I saw money being spent a couple of states away I assumed that if fraud had gotten more tricksy, that fraud response had improved as well. And I was right! My card was shut down last night, which means THEIR copycat card was shut down too. Sorry, guys, no gas for you in Austin. And this morning, I called the number, got my instructions and an order for a new card placed. But, I also had to go to my branch and get a temporary card. Of course, it can't do everything a real one can, alas. But I can buy groceries until the new one comes, and my account is safe. Whew.

Day briefly derailed, money safe and plenty of time for me to go about getting ready for my interview.

What does this have to do with anything, right? We all go through this unless we live like conspiracy theorists. I mean, that's sadly probably true. I got some scary statistics from talking to the bank. In 2009 nearly 5% of the population had to deal with this, and spend, on average, 21 hours and $300 plus dollars resolving the crime. That was 2009! I would be eye-balls-popping shocked if those numbers hadn't gone up in the last 2 years. Lightening struck twice for me, so I asked my new banker friend if there was any way to find out how this happened. Since I know where my card is at all times, and have the right protections on my account, it mystified me. He told me that since my data wasn't leaked anywhere that placed me on a known-concerns list, this was probably a completely unpreventable occurrence. My card was probably picked up by a scanner when I bought gas or used an ATM last weekend. No way to know it. Am I supposed to stop using my ATM card? Suspiciously interrogate everyone who gets me a latte or beer? No.

What I've been thinking about for the last day is that even as recently as  a year ago, this issue would have enraged me. And not having a person to be angry at specifically and feeling helpless would have lead me to turn this fury on the world. I would've and been pissy with everyone from the desk clerk at my gym, to my friends, just because I allowed it to permeate my world for several days. I'm not someone who will tell you that anger is a completely "useless emotion." I think there is healthy anger. I think there are cases where anger can spur people on and lead to determination, motivation, and purging of old hurts. What I am going to tell you is that for me, anger is most often not healthy and instead of leading to motivation or something positive, leads to being short, unpleasant, and unable to be happy about much of anything for days.

When I'm genuinely angry and hurt, I often don't process it right away. Somewhere a long the way I learned that I was deeply alone. And I was for awhile. And even when I wasn't, there was a longer period of time where it wasn't safe or comfortable for me to have my feelings out loud. So, for me, anger turns inward. It is a dark and twisty spiral and it has spikes. It lays in wait, and sets a bomb wrapped in barbed wire. And what happens then is, I take this bomb, and quietly lay it on a shelf. For days or weeks or hours or years, and then I detonate it when I'm all alone. It sounds noble, as though I'm saving others, but it isn't. It actually serves to hurt more people because the bomb goes off at a time and in a way in which I cannot deal with it in a healthy, non-destructive way. The bomb can't be defused. It has to GO OFF and leave emotional shrapnel. And I spend the following days and weeks feeling the after-shock, and passing it on to innocent bystanders, or worse, going back to the person who accidentally hurt me long past the time in which they remember what happened and setting a bomb for them. It's awful.

So, I could be angry that my plan was derailed and I lost time. I could be angry that doing something completely normal like going to an ATM or getting a box of tampons may have set this theft in motion. I could, but who would I be angry with? I guess I could be angry with whomever thought it was a good idea to take my info and run off to Yuma (Really?! Yuma?!) but, I don't know them. I don't know why or how they did this. Maybe they're in a desperate situation. Maybe they have a sad story. Or maybe they don't. Either way, being angry at them, attaches me to them, and forces my brain to think about how and why this happens. And fraud prevention services told me that this is probably a lost cause - it is probably not possible to track exactly how and when this happens. Why would I attach myself to a lost cause? (I say this like I'm all wise and strong, but this is just EXACTLY what I've done in the past.)

This is like the 6th time in the last month that I've been presented with this lesson. There's a doozy of an example here - ahem, losing my job. A number of people have suggested I explore my anger at my former employer, or even seek legal counsel. But if I did either, that would keep me attached to them for a long, long time. And guess what, I already had more than enough time stewing over anger with them when I was employed with them! For me, anger would do nothing but feed the unhealthy connection I had with that organization. It would lead to . . . nothing but more anger and judgement. That is the very definition of empty calories in my life.

So, look at me, I'm growing. With this fraud, I was curious, I was focused on what I needed to do to rectify the situation, I was open to hearing anything I could do to prevent this in the future. But I wasn't angry. I didn't waste time on that, because I really needed to get back to my carefully orchestrated day. (And i was hoping I could finish up at the bank in time to get a cup of coffee) The banker was all," I'm so sorry this happened, and took your time." Well, ok, but I didn't have to spend 21 hours, or $300 plus dollars. I spent 2 hours, thus far, and have some minor ATM card inconvenience for a week. So, I responded, "Well, this has all been handled really quickly and professionally so I'm satisfied this will be completely ok very soon!"

The lesson I'm trying to learn here, and have been hit over the head with for the last month, is that LOVE PROVIDES AND PROTECTS. I heard that last weekend. Yes, I heard it at church. And so my minister's point was that God's love is without boundaries and unending, and will give you what you need. I struggle with that, and I also have friends who don't believe in God or that kind of God. But I think the application is relevant to the me that wants to believe in that God, and the me that often questions that. (So, I hope it applies to my friends who aren't in that relationship with God too.)

Whether or not you believe God helped me deal with my identity theft, or is walking with me in my job search (which is much more than just hide-and-seek-find-a-job but really me seeking a better life than I had), the reality is, I have been very loved and protected in all of this. My bank protected my account, and quickly. My friends' love has provided for me over and over and over. And over. I have been provided with help understanding my options, the offer of a place to stay if needed, lunches and dinners out with people I love celebrating my "freedom", the offer of help for my healthcare costs, personal training, some part time job offers, introductions to helpful people to network with, supportive rally cries by phone, mail, text, and FB message, help getting my resume together, help getting my resume out there, editing of my cover letter template, people asking to be my referrences, company as I work out my demons by sweating out some cardio, and just so many hugs, high fives, "atta girls" in person and at a distance that I've lost count. I had someone who I met and worked with for every bit of three days and who no longer works with my former employer look me up so that she could reach out to me, ask if I was alright, and if I needed help getting my resume into the hands of an educational company.

I am loved. Whether you think that love comes from God through people, or from people who are awesomely loving and giving, and who I have the amazing good fortune to have in my life, the bottom line is that I am loved. (I think both. Because the God I know gives people the complete freedom to have the morality of frog spit, or to be loving, kind, and generous.) And that love has provided and protected me.

If I needed any further proof of this I would need only to look at this:

In case you're wondering, that's love sitting on my kitchen table cut into the shape of beautiful flowers. I am loved.

(Have you ever gotten one of these Edible Arrangements? They are the bomb. I love getting flowers, and I love getting candy, and this is like both rolled into one, only most of it is healthy. Wow. Luck has nothing to do with it. I am loved.)

And focusing on that, instead of anger, has garnered me the chance to interview for 3 part-time positions, and 4 interviews for full-time positions. I don't want to pat myself on the back too much here, but I'm a little proud that I haven't spent my time stewing and dreaming up evil plots and dealing with a bomb and the ensuing emotional shrapnel. I'm proud that I've taken the time to reflect that it's ok for people to love me and help me. I'm proud that I'm putting my energy into the right place. Also, I really liked that fruit.