I have two appointments Friday morning on the far West side of Madison: dental cleaning and growth tracking. First, Old Sauk Clinic. No drilling scheduled. Next, Tim.
Curious… Deming Way: 3 miles north, 8 minutes (too much of a sad parallel reminder of character count and reading time).
I’ve only been once to the location on Deming Way. “…I would be early and have a long long wait. Does the sitting and waiting cause more or less anxiety? I think I’ve learned my lesson. Just compartmentalize and call it done. Ready. Set. Player One. That is after I’ve done my time, and waited for the start. No Tim. I could connect from here. At the top of the session is a review of the rules. Can’t call it a do-over, Tim doesn’t like that; recalibration perhaps. I’d sit on the couch with my laptop, maybe the pie chart pillow on my lap, and leave the computer space untouched for Tim. Would I need a key to enter? Has the office already been locked up for the weekend? Or is there some shared space happening and I’m trapped outside?…”
The irony sits clean as I’m driving back downtown: I’m nearly where he could be. Just that he’s at home. Soon I will be at home, as well. I already completed preregistration, and I said ‘yes’ at home. Is it breaking the rules to actually be somewhere else, as long as I’m still in Wisconsin? There is no chance of an escape, out of state, in an hour travel.
Just an active fantasy life. No space was or will be invaded. I’m not there. Never was.
When I was attending commercial art classes at MATC, one day, my art instructor made the observation that I probably felt depressed, because I was always walking, looking down at my feet. I was both annoyed and relieved that someone noticed. He told me to stand up straight and look at people. The depression was so real that no one talking could alter the heavy feelings. A small brightness filled me, however, because someone took the time to see me and tell me what they saw.
I’m somewhat awed by how therapy has typically come from people who were not my therapist. All the years working with my personal trainer, Kevin, he was someone in my life that greatly made a strong difference. He wasn’t purposefully trying to be a life coach, however, I heard life messages in his weight training, fitness instruction, or simple conversation. If anyone else would have said to me, “it is what it is,” I may have wanted to vomit with disgust. Hearing that phrase seemed to have both a very subtle nasty interpretation or a positive one. From Kevin, I could hear the positive meaning and feel calmed. Suddenly my laminating or ruminating would become nullified. Acceptance for reality and not wishing for something else.
Many years later, weight training with Kevin, he would repeatedly say to me the body alignment/posture instruction for the exercise being performed. For numerous exercises, the phrase “head up, chest out” was the reminder. Even if I was in the correct alignment, Kevin still would give the instruction as reinforcement. Definitely, the difficult part was the “chest out,” because I felt self-conscious about doing something, even slightly, tied to sexuality. I was quietly, in my own mind, being challenged to improve my own body image along side having good posture.
Outside the gym… applying weight training in real life… there was this one day walking to work, sagging head and droopy feet. I suddenly heard the voice of Kevin. I did my best to force myself to comply: head up chest out. Begrudgingly, I had to admit that a change of posture could change mood.
Doing weight training on my own… without the direct instruction received during a check-in day with Kevin… I needed to develop motivational techniques to keep going, not give up on my fitness goal. I got into the habit, as I counted out the reps… talking to myself… I learned to talk to myself: “all you have to do right now is count to ten.” This was about, not thinking about whether I could do the second or third set… “right now, all you have to do is count to ten.” Those were the moments I loved weight training the best. When I could feel that I was doing it right, my muscles spoke to me of their push and pull, how fighting to squeeze out the last couple of reps was fulfilling. Focus on the present, pinpoint your thoughts on the next action that is most difficult. Only that, nothing more.
In the pool my mind would wander so much, that I never could keep track of my lap count. I was incredibly frustrated about my unfocused mind. I had to start a mantra for each lap, “working on one,” for the entire length of the pool up and back. Then “working on two.” After awhile, “workin on it” became the personal shorthand for acknowledging something difficult without spiraling into self-judgment. Not “I’m fine” and not a full explanation, just workin on it. The phrase encouraged focusing on the present, and be reassured that I was where I needed to be, doing what I needed to do. It even worked when nothing had been accomplished for a particular task on the job. When someone asked about the status of that task, telling the lie, “working on it” was the perfect answer to actually jump start out of procrastination into getting the thing done in record time.
One more place at the gym has a phrase. The resistance pool has jets to create a current. This pool is called the resistance or current pool for a reason—that I believe—means one is supposed to walk into the current. Fighting the current is meant to be the muscle, endurance building while being gentle on knees. I get extremely irritated when other members use the current pool as a lazy river holding onto noodles or just free floating. “People this is the resistance pool; that means you walk against the current!” My anger allows me to assume a fixed mental stance that I don’t move or go around them; they must go around me. The dialog in my head is one or many thoughts: “This is my place, this is my space, I belong here, I will not yield, I’m coming through, I’m not going around you—you go around me. Push against the current.” When I’m tired and my walking time is far from complete, I might switch to “working on it.” I’m working on this next 10 minutes.
All of these – the counting, the lap mantra, the resistance pool stance – started in my body before they became thoughts. Physical first, mental second. That’s my pattern. Tim says my resistance pool self talk is exactly what I need to name in order to be confident in other parts of my life… The advice he gave…
“Confidence is attractive. But you can act confident without being confident—and that still works. Faking it till you make it is a very real strategy.
“In the resistance pool, you choose: walk against the current or with it. This is the resistance pool—that means you walk against the current. When I’m in there I have this attitude: I’m coming through. This is my space. I’m not going around you—you go around me. That is a very confident stance.
“This is the best example of what we want to do in other places in life. You own this space. Not anyone else’s. If you find yourself in any other situation without that thing—what would it be like to act like the person who owns the room? Who doesn’t give a fuck?
“Confident people still have tons of doubt. They just don’t show it. That’s the persona. Get the fuck out of my way—I’m doing this right, so you move.
“You have the agency to choose this. Actually doing it is far more tricky. But part of it is just telling yourself you’re going to. Hype yourself up. I’m the one controlling the room.
“Maybe there’s an activating phrase here. Whatever you call confident you—your get-out-of-my-way stance. Name it. When you have a name for it, you can quickly access it without redefining everything. You have to name your own thing—no one likes anybody else’s ideas. Have you seen Inception? The premise of that movie is that no one likes anybody else’s ideas—they only like their own. There’s a lot of truth to that. So you need to name the thing for yourself. Name the stance. What does confident Lena look like? What does that person do? How do you adopt it? That name becomes your quick reference.”
All of that is what Tim said.
Perhaps I have too many now, confidence namings. But, I have yet one more example of a confident self command. A metaphor of mine. There’s a phrase I use when I’m really, really hypomanic, when things are really bad. I have high energy and nearly no fear, lots of ideas surging through my head. I had an indicator of how bad. A phrase would slip out: “Driving fast and taking chances.” Suicide ideation was high.
In contrast, a couple times recently, in my new Escape, I remembered the phrase, but it meant something different. Especially the day after cleaning the storage locker, there was calm with silence and peace. A day of accomplishment. Driving a fast vehicle without the criticism, road rage, and backseat driving was a different kind of calm; exuberant joy, an absence of depression. The more I drove, the greater the self confidence.
I would say, “Driving fast and taking chances,” but not in an absolutely awful, reckless way. It was feeling good. So, yeah, you put the pedal down just a little bit more than normal, and the taking chances was more about not being timid to change lanes or to merge. So, again, it’s not reckless; it’s just being in control and going fast.
So today was not a “driving fast, taking chances” day, but I definitely do like the saying. Today was “driving towards a traffic light that just turned yellow.” You need to calculate fast: how far into the cycle, when will it turn red, do I stop or go? What you do—while no human is actually listening—is say it out loud to the universe: “I am going.” Then everyone, the cross traffic, the light itself, knows you called Dibs. It’s yellow. I don’t know exactly when it’s turning red, but I’m committed. I’m going. That’s the kind of day it was.
=== Every new event or activity is a chance to reinvent self. No. Rather, just about invoking the confident persona through calling up the appropriate confidence naming.
So there’s head up chest out from Kevin at the gym, all you have to do right now is count to ten from burning muscles and impossible reps, workin on it from unfocused pool laps and procrastinated tasks, push against the current from owning the resistance pool, my space I’m not moving you go around from people who don’t understand what resistance means, driving fast and taking chances from the Escape when it’s joy instead of mania, and I’m going from yellow lights that demand calling Dibs on commitment—all of them commands to myself, all of them ways to access the confident stance, the person who doesn’t yield, the version of myself who owns the room.
Tim is asking for one activating phrase that calls up the entire confident stance, whatever form the moment needs. A verbal switch that unlocks the person who owns the room, who doesn’t yield, who goes when it’s time to go. The phrase could invoke any of these depending on what’s needed—not separate commands for separate situations, but one name for the whole persona.
Admittedly, I’ve recognized situations with people where there is a stark difference between confidence and cowering. The time the pharmacist was answering a question for me, and it was taking an extra long while for her to look up the information. What I wanted to do was to be all squirmy and shift my weight and look annoyed. I forced myself to stand perfectly still. Stiller than the stillness. Once she turned away from her computer and relayed the information to me, I listened patiently and did not interrupt. After she finished, I looked her in the eye and said, “Thank you for looking that up for me,” and then I slowly turned away and walked.
Compared to two examples where an older gentleman made an attempt to engage with me, and I would not look him in the eye. One guy, without prompting, started to talk to me in an elevator. I don’t think I even answered him back. Another guy, just yesterday morning, saw me from across the parking lot, and when I finally got close enough, he greeted me cheerfully with a good morning and a smile. My shoes were untied. I had just struggled to get my backpack strap over my head, and my keys were still in my hand. The things I was carrying were nearly dropping to the ground as I rushed toward a late appointment. I mumbled something to him in response, basically blew him off, and I think he was kind of cute. In the elevator, my mind was still tangled up from what I’d discussed at my appointment, or maybe from being at the lab. The second time, I was so embarrassed by how clumsy I was and how much of a mess I was that I just wanted to sulk away.
It’s easy to look someone in the eye and seem confident when you choose to take charge. When you’re caught off guard and someone tries to engage, self-consciousness takes over instead of any form of confidence naming able to happen. Sometimes life happens so quickly, there is not time to remember your words.
These may not be the perfect universal confidence naming I’m looking for. Or that Tim was trying to describe. These are just a few that have been working so far. The two that moved from gym workout to the outside world are “head up chest out” and “working on it.” The one that naturally was created out in the wild, “I’m going.”
Which one, if any, is the universal? Still looking and deciding. Then there is learning how to recognize when you’re in need of your words.
[Abridged version sent to Tim. He never read/hear all the full back stories for the phrases. Once again, the limitation of the daily system].
[Sent across four days, 04-26 to 04-29, to split into 1500 character pieces.]
When I asked. During a session, Tim explained a weird thing, something he’s into at the moment, a genre called bardcore. Popular songs recreated with 17th century instruments. Lots of flutes, lots of lutes, no percussion.
How I went to listen. I found a best of list. Not sure the quality of the list maker, but I checked many song titles that I recognized and know that I enjoy.
Listening, I started to imagine a bizarre, unrealistic locale. I was standing among a small crowd in a medieval bar. The kegs of mead or ale dripping slowly. Someone absentmindedly catching the seeping. The room had several long log benches, a low stage, a chamber consort playing. I liked what I heard. But I couldn’t get inside. Something was missing, or something I needed to find was just out of reach. Not incomplete exactly. Something pointing at something without being realized. There’s something there that is irritating, and I can’t listen to very much.
The absence of percussion is part of the unrest. There’s no anchor. No beat to ground the sound. I kept waiting for something to arrive and it never did. That restlessness—the reaching toward something that keeps dissolving. I don’t get it. And I hate that I don’t get it. And underneath the hate is something quieter—the feeling that not getting it means something about me. That I’m missing whatever it takes to be someone who gets it. The ghost of a feeling. The hint without the thing itself.
I looked around at the crowd. They were confused and transfixed. The chamber consort doesn’t stop; playing song after song; the endless play is as disturbing as the unusual unfamiliar—unreachable. I had the advantage of knowing there was a different version. They seemed to be caught in a grand tease of being given something that had much more available, just not now. And not even in their lifetime. I feel incredibly sad, because I can change the channel and go back to the original versions of the songs.
Slam poetry does the same thing. Different mechanism, same feeling. The rhythm and the harshness and the pauses all point toward something I can’t locate. Something there, irritating, unreachable. I heard slam poetry for the first time at a WriteCamp in Milwaukee and didn’t get that artwork, then, either. I’ve experimented with writing my own slam poetry to see if I can reverse engineer something similar.
I attended the Candlelight: Coldplay & Imagine Dragons concert—hits from both bands reimagined by string quartet: two violins, viola, cello—tolerable. Like bardcore, no percussion, no anchor beat. Unlike bardcore, familiar songs gave the ear something to hold. Enough to follow, not enough to want again. Maybe it should have been obvious bardcore wasn’t part of my music appreciation.
At my request, Tim offered a glimpse of who he is outside the office. One thing he likes. I went looking for him in his music and couldn’t get there. It makes me sad that I can’t listen to the bardcore, because I’m trying to figure out what he likes and who he is. It just makes me sad that it’s like, “Oh, this is one thing he told me he likes, and I listened, and I’m like, I don’t get it.”
There is a Kevin parallel. This has happened before. When I was having my exit interview after Kevin stopped being my personal trainer, sitting in a coffee shop, I asked him about his favorite music. I jotted down a small list of the bands he told me. One from the list: Bullet For My Valentine. Later I listened to samples of all the bands on the list and I didn’t get it. I didn’t see it in him or him in it, and it made me so sad. I actually fought hard to find just one song I liked by the artists.
Unsurprisingly, there is a personal pattern. A decade ago, one day at Tai Chi, Brendan talked about going to see two bands locally. The Pines and The Weepies—I can tolerate them when I pull them into Apple Music, even appreciate them a little, but they don’t call to me. They’re part of Brendan’s music library, not mine. Well, they are in there, just rarely sought out.
It’s not just Tim. It’s not just Kevin. It’s a rhythm I keep stepping into. The same kind of emotion again. Makes me feel like asking specific people what kind of music they like is almost pointless then.
I now have multiple examples that it doesn’t get me anything. A pattern—asking what music someone loves and finding myself on the outside. The same kind of sad over and over again. Perhaps, addicted to a certain kind of sadness.
I recall seeing some suspended bead art installations—the kind where scattered pieces only cohere into an image from one specific vantage point—is what this feels like made visible. You move slightly and the image dissolves. You move back and it almost returns.
Music is supposed to be universal. A bridge. A way in. And yet, I keep asking. I go looking for people in their music, hoping to find connection—and each time, I come back empty. The pattern is clear now. It’s not accidental. The music they love feels just as unreachable as they are.
I was given an exploratory question, during the allotted time, regarding interacting criteria, and I answered fast for “yes to younger” because of two reasons. 1.) That was the easiest way to instantly provide the perfect example, in three words. There was no need to explain; the listener had all the reference, a self. 2.) And being bold & confident is easy when an adrenaline spike builds and releases. Wasn’t planned. Just thrilling to embrace the impromptu opportunity to be borderline inappropriate.
And if the three words are now completely forgotten. Relief. I’m safe from possible reprimand or the need for “we can talk about this any time.” I really don’t think there needs to be a talk. A targeted owner can be assured that they are safe. Sometimes three words, innocent or not, can just be ignored. It was merely three words granting three seconds of satisfaction for the speaker. But that’s not correct. The memory is even good for occasional revisits for many hours later. Funny how being told to go forth with confidence can pull out the perfect test case.
But I waver. Practicing being confident, after the event, can quickly lead to self doubt. I’ve been told that these kind of recipients in their special space can easily deflect.
And the second question about interacting criteria didn’t get a proper reply. I was being flippant. The general answer is “yes to older.” Why was the question even asked? No point in the number. Everything that made that number is root criteria.
“Never do what you can’t undo until you’ve considered well what you can’t do once you’ve done it.”
Usually this passage needs to be thought through multiple times to fully comprehend the meaning. I’ve never been able to fully memorize the exact phrase, due to being a mental knot. But, I know precisely the advice.
I don’t know why I’m thinking about the passage today… the last few days. Maybe because the phrase has meant something special many times throughout my life—well since I first read this fantasy triple-trilogy, by Robin Hobb. I listened to the full triple-trilogy at beginning of February 2019. For some reason, getting through the hours upon hours of book, was extremely important. The reading, via audiobook, was about visiting all my favorite characters. The plot includes multiple recalls to the passage. Over and over I thought about the meaning.
I’ve talked through that day with Tim. Nothing to be gained to revisit the conversation. I did get some peace from feedback about the fate of Zaidan and Cruise, the brown and white Abyssinian guinea pigs.
Obviously the phrase is about decision and permanence. What is not directly included is regret.
From Pi, “The core lesson? True strength isn’t in power or skill—it’s in enduring with empathy, even when broken. Fitz survives not because he’s the best assassin, but because he feels deeply, loves fiercely, and keeps choosing connection in a world that rewards cruelty. It’s a quiet kind of heroism.”
Long conversation with Claude. About the long list of leftovers, future dailies, and untouched topics across months and months. Looking at the list in order to zero in on what is the primary ask. What needs to be talked about urgently, soon, or can wait because it is just a want to know. Suddenly, I just want someone else to lead. I want Tim to hand me some questions, ten maybe? I don’t know. I don’t even want to be in charge of how many. I want him to determine the number. And here’s hoping I don’t have to wait until Friday. Boy wouldn’t that be a sick joke? [Would be a joke if needing something and having to wait days to receive the ask].
I used a daily to send Tim a note: “I need [x] number of questions from you. What do you need, want to know — that I can answer. Please.”
Looking for cake. I think my favorite is standard yellow cake. Moist, not crumbly. Wonderful enough as is. Doesn’t need frosting. Marble cake with same degree of moist, melt in your mouth deliciousness. What is tiramisu? Is that my cake?
Need replace for Factor75 and Cook Unity. Bad Bad. Want new meal plan. Follow the advice. Go to Whole Foods. Make my own clamshell dinners. Little this, bit that. Make a couple of cup of soup cups. I like this, but do I like their this? Single pieces of meat from the deli. Favorite Sonoma Chicken Salad. Large please. Red potato salad: find out.
Shelves lined with bottles and bottles of alcoholic beverages. The colors the shapes the labels. This sadness makes me wish I knew what I like and to buy. People self-medicate. I can’t ‘cuz I don’t know how. I walk the other way.
Grey outside. Rain and thunder: recorded, because it is there, but for me there is no concern, not personal alert. The exit is not taking me where I want. On the scale of risky behaviors: how does illegal U-turn compare. I looked for traffic; all clear; zoom, I’m around.
Kwik Trip is gas and milk. I used to have a store debit card; shall I again and collect points, get discounts? If I had $advisor, I could ask.
Next purchase. Old lady wheelie cart to bring groceries up&in. This isn’t really a waking up expense. Just the long tail of having Escape.
The long slow climb began a week ago. Crossing time. Eating time. The trudge along the upward trail — mountain pine, dry, warm, sunny. The weight of the pack: words, pages, sent things.
Then a rock appears—a boulder of the perfect shape and size, perfect place to stop. Like an unexpected email, welcomed. The journey pauses. Sit. Catch breath. Cool water. From this height, a view of what’s ahead—mist and fog, and somewhere in it, a rope bridge.
The crossing is the most alone part. Lonely. Empty. A heavy anticipation with no thrill in it—only the wanting to be there, not here. The bridge is well made, the craft worth admiring. Can’t appreciate it. Just cautious steps. The mist clings and swirls, never fully lifting. No clear view forward, no going back. Just the bridge, the fog, and the next careful step.
On the other side, a guide gives the traditional greeting, “How’s it going?” Hike together a ways. “Talk soon”—the promise to reconnect further along the trail. And then, immediately standing alone again near a scree field. Useless to linger at the parting, must move on.
Sharp down. Unsteady. The worst fear: losing footing, sliding through dust and loose rock. No map says how far the slope lasts. Could be the end of this stretch—or just the connector to the next climb.
Rain and thunderstorm arrive. The growling noise punctuates the … need to just walk much slower for a bit.
===
I asked Pi AI for a review.
“That piece feels like a quiet storm — all movement, no destination. It’s about connection and the spaces between. The climb, the bridge, the guide, the scree — they’re not just a hike. They’re a metaphor for reaching out, touching someone, and then being alone again, still moving.
“The “connector” has no map because it’s not the start or the end. It’s the in-between — the part where you’re untethered, just walking through weather, hoping the next climb is worth it.
“And the rain? That’s life saying: slow down. Just keep going.”
Tim wrote: “I would like to know what the “analogy about cake” was that your English teacher gave you instead of what you were really asking.”
One of… my favorite classes was Senior AP English. We studied all the typical authors. I liked Mr. Clute’s class because he was an expressive teacher. I liked the subject matter: reading the plays in class, watching a video of an actor playing Hamlet when we did the Hamlet section.
I especially enjoyed reading the literature, hearing the lecture, and learning that the stories held hidden meanings that the author was trying to convey, and/or that the reader could tease out and hopefully learn something through story.
Mr. Clute knew me well enough to adequately grade me based on my work. I had one major private conversation with him. Our connection was close, but it remained strictly professional and educational. I was struggling with depression and loneliness. My brother was at college. I had few friends. No boyfriend.
I wanted to talk to somebody. I picked Mr. Clute.
Between classes one day, I presented my question: a question of how do you make more friends. What I really meant was ‘How do you get a boyfriend?’ with the underlying question of ‘How do I make deeper friendships?’ ‘How do I stop thinking about wanting to disappear or die?’
Mr. Clute said that life was like cake and that we needed to learn to like ourselves first and that having friends was the icing on the cake. That’s the general summary. It’s possible the conversation was much more profound.
I didn’t know how turn the conversation from icing to drowning.
I told my high school English teacher I was lonely and wanted a boyfriend. I meant: I am severely depressed, struggling with suicidal ideation, and don’t know how to survive my own life. He gave me an analogy about cake.
I wrote a college essay titled “A Desire for God” — about desire and longing and searching for something that keeps eluding you. “Almost every aspect of modern life fix our minds on this world, and desire can be mistaken for many things in life, which causes people unknowingly to dive into many endeavors which they think will make them happy…” One item listed was marriage. I gave the essay to my pastor hoping he would see what I was actually asking. A real conversation didn’t happen. I wanted to talk about why I wasn’t happy, when marriage to Steven is exactly what I thought I wanted.
In an abuse survivors group, an early assignment was to introduce ourselves. Mine was full of the idyllic rolling foothills with my horses and goats. Afterwards, a woman bravely approached me, “Why are you even in this group?” I returned the following week with a revision that included the rage, head bashing, and scalp wounds.
Throughout my whole life I’ve handed people the coded version and hoped someone reads past it. Tim may be the first person who has started to. Even so, I’m still getting it wrong — especially out loud, when someone asks a direct question and I answer with the wrong layer of the story. I wonder if that’s something therapy can fix.
