My path to self-improvement has been full of far more failures lately than successes, unfortunately. Important, though, is that I’ve identified what to attribute the successes to. It’s the simple statement I ask myself multiple times per day, “What would the person you want to be do in this situation?”
For me, this question helps me envision what I want (results) and the action required to achieve them all in one short breath. However, it’s not always fun and as much as I’d like to say it’s changed me 100%, that simply isn’t the case.
I think I know myself fairly well, now (and much better after having spent 6 months in Central America) and one thing I’m confident of is that when I’m having a really, really hard time, the worst thing I can do for myself is what I have been doing: moping and watching re-runs of CSI. (On a completely unrelated note, I used to have a ridiculous, unabashed crush on Grissom from CSI Vegas. This was so embarrassing that I never mentioned it to anyone, and indulged it alone with popcorn on Thursday nights. Once, my ex boyfriend sat next to me on the couch and silently regarded the show. He was apparently unimpressed and stood up to leave, but as he reached the doorway he paused, snapped his fingers and said, “Oh I’ve GOT it. I’ve been trying to figure out who Grissom reminded me of for like 10 minutes. He’s exactly like your Dad.” I turned off the TV immediately and sat with my back completely straight for a few minutes alone. I’ve never been so disturbed.)
The person I want to be would seek help when they feel so lost they don’t know where to start. It’s an important distinction because the person I am NOW does not seek help, ever. I’ve never gone to therapy and I was always taught growing up that my problems were miniscule in comparison to the problems of others, so suck it up.
So, I tried therapy. Very recently. It wasn’t exactly what I expected. She was a very nice lady but I’m not sure she was entirely prepared for what goes on in my head. The conversation started something like:
“Okay, G. I know you said you’ve never done therapy before. You need to remember: be honest with me. We can’t get anywhere unless you’re honest.”
“Ok.” I said
“Please tell me why you’re here and what you want to talk about.”
And I think I said something like:
“Fuck. Where to start? I could use a glass of wine.” She smiled sympathetically. Then I said, jokingly; “I hate to inform you of this but after this session I think you might be the one in need of medication.” She didn’t correct me. I’m positive that’s a bad thing.
She asked me at one point what I thought about someone who (in my opinion) had severely wronged and offended me. I told her that honestly, I, on an infrequent occasion, wished something bad would happen to them.
“Bad?” She asked, “Define ‘bad.’”
“Well I don’t know,” I responded, “ I guess, like, impalement comes to mind. I think if they were impaled I would feel great. I would have a great day after that.” I felt strangely satisfied with this answer, but she just cleared her throat, took off her glasses, and rubbed her eyes.
I don’t think therapy is my thing, but the person I want to be wouldn’t write something off so quickly.
It’s hard, you know, to constantly live up to some arbitrary ideal of your future self. Unfortunately for me, mine is such a bitch. She always knows the answers and does the right thing.
I haven’t been running lately, largely because I’ve been upset and usually exercise is the first thing to go for me when I’m under emotional duress. Last night I thought about it really, really hard. I mean I wanted to go. That’s always the way it is. But I just can’t make myself. I looked in the mirror and talked myself out of it. It was the usual. You deserve a night in, watching movies. You’ll feel better if you relax here, not get all sweaty outside. But then there’s that bitch I can see just out of the corner of my eye. The person I want to be. She was wearing a great workout outfit and looked fit and glowy and fantastic.
“I feel great!” She said to me. She couldn’t contain her glee. “I just had the best run EVER!”
“Fuck you.” I said to her, and poured myself a glass of wine.
She’s not all bad though. Once in a while, she gets me off my ass and doing things that will make me feel better. I had plans with my girlfriends last week that I really felt like breaking. I felt unattractive, and sad, and generally wanted to spend the evening listening to depressing music while applying an emo amount of black eyeliner. I thought about calling to cancel, but the person I wanted to be talked me out of it.
“You’ll feel great if you go.” She said, making sense. “What, are you going to sit here all night? And then see the pictures of them tomorrow having a wonderful time without you? Is that how you want your life to be?” She looked at me like I was pathetic.
“FINE.” I said to her as I pulled a dress over my head. “I’ll go, okay? I’ll GO. You can stop fucking gloating now.” I had a great time, but I didn’t tell her that.
Oh yeah. This is supposed to be a food related blog.
Here are some apples I picked recently.
I ate some. I made apple crisp out of some more. And there were 10 or so that I left in the barrel to go bad for no particular reason at all.
Next week will be better.