I guess I was bothered about feeling fatigued on returning from my camping trip to see daughter Kay in Door County. It had hardly been strenuous. Gentle walks each day, plenty of sleep, a modest amount of social interaction. Why was I so tired? Instead of getting the tent and other camping gear cleaned up and arranged on the shelf in the garage, I lounged around, listening to my body. I put away a few things between extended breaks and told myself that this would do for now. Yet I felt frustrated. (One.)
While vacationing, I recycled unopened most of what arrived in my Gmail Inbox. Now back at the house, I read a perfectly fine email, a query that got me thinking about tasks I’d been avoiding either doing or thinking about. None of it is bad, just uncomfortable with a fair amount of uncertainty. Not sure how to proceed, I’ve lacked motivation and have delayed taking action. Maybe it’s time to proceed even without clarity. Sigh. (Two.)
A pervasive swirl of feelings regarding my solitary state shelters (usually) below my awareness. Most of the time, I enjoy my life and find solitude of my own choosing satisfying. But after a point, aloneness becomes excessive. (After the isolation of the early months of the Covid-19 pandemic, many of you are probably nodding in understanding.) We Homo sapiens thrive in the society of others. To be deprived of companionship can be torturous. But for me, family is far away. And I’m cautious of overwhelming a friend.
With the returning energy of healing, I returned to substitute teaching last winter. Getting into the classroom once or twice a week and working with the youngsters there was wonderful! While I barely spoke with adults, subbing fed my need for connection. Sadly, frustratingly (there’s that word again) I noticed by spring how easily my autistic mind can become overloaded. Similarly to how someone with chronic fatigue will need to ration their physical activity, I need to ration my social activity. Even one engagement beyond my regular weekly activities and connections can put me over the edge. Again, sigh. (Three.)
There’s more, of course – mass graves in Ukraine, melting ice sheets, pets treated poorly – but this was enough for me to concede to being angry. As I lay there in the dark, I recalled a journaling exercise I’d once used. I wrote “I’m angry…” then for three minutes wrote of things that angered me, shocked at how easily I filled the page. The words just kept coming. But I was cozy in bed now so, no, not this time. Thankfully, by acknowledging my frustrations I was able to set them aside and sleep.
What bothered me about Friday’s experience was that I didn’t know I was angry. It seems I still don’t have a healthy relationship with the emotion. In my early years, I learned to pretend that anger wasn’t present. Later, a slow-simmering anger punctuated by occasional blowups pervaded my marriage. After leaving that relationship anger seemed to vanish. But while I couldn't recognize it, Kay could and I learned to trust her awareness. Now, alone, I often miss the signs.
Friday the anger snuck in unobserved. If it had spilled the tea and generally made a mess of everything, that would have been unpleasant but I’d have known. And knowing, I could have worked through my frustrations rather than employing a trick to distract myself from them. (As we all know, that works only for as long as the distraction lasts.)
Reading Richard Rohr’s devotion for Sunday reminded me to keep practicing letting go of those things I cannot change. Frustration about chronic conditions or loneliness is understandable but it does nothing for my peace of mind. Such things are a part of my life as much as shared stories and laughter with my daughter or a sense of wonder on wandering through a forested campground after dark.
There’s more, of course – mass graves in Ukraine, melting ice sheets, pets treated poorly – but this was enough for me to concede to being angry. As I lay there in the dark, I recalled a journaling exercise I’d once used. I wrote “I’m angry…” then for three minutes wrote of things that angered me, shocked at how easily I filled the page. The words just kept coming. But I was cozy in bed now so, no, not this time. Thankfully, by acknowledging my frustrations I was able to set them aside and sleep.
What bothered me about Friday’s experience was that I didn’t know I was angry. It seems I still don’t have a healthy relationship with the emotion. In my early years, I learned to pretend that anger wasn’t present. Later, a slow-simmering anger punctuated by occasional blowups pervaded my marriage. After leaving that relationship anger seemed to vanish. But while I couldn't recognize it, Kay could and I learned to trust her awareness. Now, alone, I often miss the signs.
Friday the anger snuck in unobserved. If it had spilled the tea and generally made a mess of everything, that would have been unpleasant but I’d have known. And knowing, I could have worked through my frustrations rather than employing a trick to distract myself from them. (As we all know, that works only for as long as the distraction lasts.)
Reading Richard Rohr’s devotion for Sunday reminded me to keep practicing letting go of those things I cannot change. Frustration about chronic conditions or loneliness is understandable but it does nothing for my peace of mind. Such things are a part of my life as much as shared stories and laughter with my daughter or a sense of wonder on wandering through a forested campground after dark.
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