Introverted Extrovert

Whenever I make a new friend, somewhere innocuous like the soccer sidelines, or a new neighbor, (as opposed to through a recovery, business or internet connection where someone already knows me, or knows of me) there is inevitably that moment.   The one where they say, "and what do you do"?

One of my first-ever blog posts ranted about the awkwardness of this seemingly innocent interrogative.  Back in my single working days this question never gave me pause.  "I'm a Blahbity Blah" I'd rattle off without thinking, my identify safely wrapped up in my Job Title Du Jour.

Becoming a full time Mom added a layer of puzzlement on how to answer this.  I hated how often I felt the question mark at the end of my reply, when I'd mumble out "I'm a Mom?"  Sometimes I'd even say, "I'm just a Mom", as if the merits of raising a child were lacking in some key way.

After I started my jewelry business, the question mark still loomed:  I make jewelry? 

When a person expressed an interest in learning more about this, I struggled.  I didn't own my creativity, refusing to believe I was an artist of any kind.  "Oh, it's no big deal," I'd say.  "It's just a little Etsy shop.  Something to keep me from getting too bored."

Blogging added another layer of complexity, especially five years ago when more than half the people would say, "You're a what?? What's a blogger?"

Again the question mark reared its ugly head. "Um, I write about my life on the internet?"

This was almost always met with a puzzled expression and a "Why?"

Back then I didn't know why.  It was just something I couldn't not do, but that answer seemed ridiculous.  And blogging carried for me more than a whiff of narcissism, of navel gazing.  I couldn't understand why I blogged any more than I could understand why on earth anyone would read it.

The awkwardness factor ratcheted up a notch when, left unsatisfied from my self-deprecating mumbling response to why I blog, the person would inquire, understandably, "well, what do you blog about?"

"Well, er, I'm an alcoholic in recovery, and I write about that," I'd sputter, bracing for the person's head to jerk back, for them to stare into the middle distance and concoct an excuse to walk away.

Most people had this response, because the of the uncomfortable vibe radiating from my pores; if I felt embarrassed about it, they felt embarrassed for me.

Little by little, my jewelry business and blog grew, but my self-deprecating manner did not keep pace with the public response.  I'd frame my answer to the what-do-you-do question with "Well, I'm a Mom and kind of a writer. Oh, and I make jewelry."

I wouldn't hand over the business cards I carried in my purse, feeling that was to pushy. If they asked for a card, I'd give them one with a tentative smile.  "You totally don't need to buy anything," I would say, as if that person possessed no free will.

I cringe just thinking about it.

Then I founded my non-profit, Shining Strong, encompassing all my internet outreach projects that were growing by the day:  The Bubble Hour podcast, Crying Out Now, and my advocacy work with other organizations working in recovery advocacy.  And I started my Arbonne business.

Still - STILL - I stumbled over how to answer the what-do-you-do question.  It all came tumbling out in one vomitous reply: I-run-a-non-profit-and-make-jewelry-and-blog-and-am-an-Arbonne-consultant?  And a Mom of two kids?

The middle-distance stare. The shuffling feet. The poor person wouldn't have the first clue how to respond to my rapid fire and apologetic answer that landed at their feet like a stone.

About a year ago, I wrote about this phenomenon in my post Killing The Question Mark. I was preparing to meet Brene Brown, of Daring Greatly fame, and I was trying to own my successes without apology. I sound all put together-n-shit in that post, but the only reason I gave a copy of my book to Brene Brown was that my Mom brought one. I left mine at home, feeling too sheepish about self-promotion.  To Brene Brown, for crying out loud, the QUEEN of overcoming shame and embracing vulnerability.  The question mark came lurching back like a zombie from a bad B movie.

Now Shining Strong is really growing.  I incorporated as a non-profit. I have a fantastic board of directors, and a gorgeous and informative website, thanks to the talents of my friend Amanda.

Suddenly I find myself standing in front of rooms of people, or being interviewed online, or advocating for The Anonymous People,  a movement all about owning your recovery and speaking unabashedly about your recovery to help others.

The critics are loud in my head, but only I can give them power over me.  Only I can allow them to fuel my Question Mark Syndrome.  They are a minority. Most people are a combination of curious and supportive about Shining Strong's mission.  The question mark is weighing me down, and starting to smack of false modesty.


I have always been an introverted extrovert.  Talking to me you would likely never know that I am cringing inside a lot of the time: do I sound like an egomaniac? Am I making sense? Are you bored? Did you just look at your watch? Do you like me? 

I don't know that the introverted extrovert will ever go away. I am learning to love her, to embrace her and tell her: "It's going to be okay. You're not an egomaniac, and the mission is worthwhile".   Now and again someone in person, or through the grapevine, or on the internet, will criticize my efforts to raise money for Shining Strong. Or even my jewelry business, implying that I'm hawking my recovery to make money.

That hurts, and the question mark gains power.

But in my heart, I know that's not true. I named my non-profit in memory of my Dad (my maiden name is Strong) who gave back to the communities he served his whole life.  My Dad doesn't want me to cringe. My Mom is my biggest cheerleader, carrying the flag for me at every opportunity.  My best friend is now in recovery with me and is as essential to me as oxygen.

It's time to kill the question mark for good.

I will advocate now and again on this blog. I will talk about the mission I believe so strongly in.  I will even, on occasion, ask for financial help if you can spare it. I will often ask for help spreading the word.

And, just recently, when I met my brand-new neighbor at the end of our driveway as we waited for the bus with our kids, and she asked me, "what do you do?"

I smiled and said "I'm a Recovery Advocate and an Entrepreneur, when I'm not Mom-ing, which is most of the time".

She smiled back, and said, "Tell me, what is Recovery Advocacy?"

And so I did.

I even gave her my business card.

On Fear, Ego and Gratitude. With a Cameo by Queen Latifah.

I used to think that what made me different from everyone else was my fear.

Fear of just about everything - not fitting in was at the top of the list. I didn't realize what a fruitless goal fitting in actually is, because the bar is always moving.  Am I supposed to be fashionable like her? Brave like him? Popular like them? Athletic? Thin? Soulful? Smart?

Like a chameleon, I would shape shift to fit in with whoever I was talking to, while a silent ticker tape ran in my head: does this person like me? Am I fitting in? 

It's exhausting.

I was afraid of rejection, abandonment, vulnerability.  I thought that if I didn't look like I had my shit together that everything would fall apart. I believed that people loved the version of me I had shown them, and that if they knew about the vast emptiness inside me, if they knew about the fear, they would run for the hills.

Automatically, anything that came from deep inside me was rejected as inadequate.

I filled this hole inside me with anesthesia for so long.  Motherhood scared me, so I numbed it out with wine. Crowds of people scared me, so I numbed it out with a false extroverted persona.   I was simultaneously afraid of being ignored and being recognized.  Nothing -and I mean nothing - was ever good enough.

Enough. There's a concept. Having enough. Being enough.   For a long time, I defined "enough" from the outside in ... and not surprisingly the feeling of having enough or being enough eluded me.

What I didn't know is that everyone is afraid, whether they know it or not.  We're conditioned to hide it, to appear put together, sure of ourselves.  Social media exacerbates this phenomenon -- you don't see many Facebook updates about how bored, messy, afraid, angry or resentful we are.

I'm still afraid a lot, except now I don't have my anesthesia.  Facing fear naked is, well, scary.  Sobriety robbed me - gradually - of the ability to fake it, to appear fine when I'm not.  Little by little, I began to recognize that my fear of life was incredibly selfish, ego run rampant.  The world simply doesn't care about my fine-ness as much as I'd like to believe it does.

Cultivating the courage to be open, vulnerable, was the key to freedom from fear, it turns out, but when I began blogging, dumping my imperfections and fears out on the page for the world to see, I was terrified.  I would walk through the supermarket convinced I knew what everyone was thinking about me:  there she goes, the alcoholic. I'm so glad I'm not like her. 

How self centered is that? 

Little did I know that being open and vulnerable would bring people in, not send them away.

I went to the blogging conference BlogHer in Chicago this past week.  As I wrote about in my last post, I was feeling fear and unworthiness about reading a post of mine at the Voices of the Year community keynote in front of thousands of people.  My old nemesis fear was riding shotgun, fueling my fear-based ego:  you're unworthy of this, people will mock you, ignore you, talk behind your back. You're not as good as the other readers, not as important a blogger. 

Sitting behind the stage, waiting for my turn to read, I was lost in self, in fear.  Every cell in my body screamed at me: you're SMALL.

So I prayed.  I got out of my own head. I looked around at my fellow readers and felt such joy for them, and it hit me: what's wrong with feeling joy for myself?  

Gratitude overwhelmed me as I prayed:  I get to have this amazing experience. It doesn't define me in any way, it's just a really amazing thing I get to do. 

Living closed off in fear is so much harder than living open and vulnerable.  So many amazing people have come into my life - people I used to peek at from my self-perceived sideline and think: wow, she's got it all together.  Now some of these people are good friends - soul mates, even - and we are broken and beautiful together.   I try to fill that emptiness inside me with acceptance - first of myself, then of others.  Jealousy or resentment let me know that fear is taking control again.  Feelings of unworthiness make me examine my ego, tell me that I'm closing off instead of opening up.

When I took the stage that night I felt only peace and gratitude.  I took a deep breath and read my piece as though I was the only person in the room.

Reading "Behind the Veil"

Because that's who I write for:  me.

Of course, this was pretty awesome, too:

Queen Latifah emcee'd the Voices of the Year

All The Things*

The bus rumbles away and I walk into my house and stand there in a daze.

I have so much to do I don't even know where to start.

My life is very full at the moment, brimming over with amazing endeavors, and every minute of every day is jam packed.  I'm loving my new Arbonne business; it is connecting me to old friends and making me new ones at the same time.  My jewelry business is thriving, which in turn raises funds for Shining Strong, the new non-profit I launched last week.  I realized recently that I'm running four websites along with my three businesses.  Add the hectic schedule of two school aged kids, running a household and trying to maintain my self-care regime to the mix, and it gets overwhelming. 

Someone I just met the other day asked me what I do for a living and I just stood there, open mouthed, unsure of where exactly to start.

"I'm a Mom," I said, because it seemed simplest.  As the words left my mouth I felt a tug of guilt in my gut. These days parenting is crammed into my schedule between the cracks of All The Things.

I'm happy - almost deliriously so. This, of course, makes my inner Panic Monkey nervous, waiting for the other shoe to fall.  Another inner tug of guilt: can't you just sit back and enjoy the moment? What is wrong with you? 

There is the undercurrent of anxiety of waiting for the follow-up procedure of removing more tissue around the site of Greta's suspicious mole.  She is an emotional roller coaster these days - up, then down - giddy with happiness and then crying for "no reason". 

I'm leaving tomorrow morning at 3am for a very early flight for a whirlwind trip to Las Vegas for an Arbonne conference, coming back on the red eye Saturday night. Tonight is a Book Club event with a local organization to talk about Let Me Get This Straight.

I'm not packed. I have orders to fill, schedules to button up for the kids and a mountain of laundry to fold.

I feel the stress well up inside me, threaten to burst through at any moment.  I want to curl up in a ball, but instead I find a quiet corner and focus on my breath.

Sitting still, I breathe in and out, and watch my thoughts float by.  All The Things tumble around in my consciousness: logistics, emotions, images of Greta's face crumpled with worry. 

Breathe, I think, even as my diaphragm tightens with anxiety.

My mind reaches back, mulling over where I was this time last year, weak from the cancer treatments that hadn't yet released their grip on me.  The stubborn lump in my neck was still there, more operations were needed.

A day like today was unfathomable back then.  A busy day last year at this time entailed mustering the strength to see my kids off on the bus.

I'm hit with the odd sensation that I kind of miss those days of forced rest.  I have such a hard time with enough.  Then, of course, guilt for even thinking this way.

Should I be doing this much? I ponder this thought for a while.  I realize the dreaded "s" word, should, has come back into my life.  Should took a hiatus during my illness, when the center of my universe was Healing.

The answer, I realize, is I don't know.  I don't how much is too much.  Is it because I'm an alcoholic?  Am I overdosing on busy?  Perhaps.  But All The Things are important, and I don't want to let go of a single one.

Just do the next right thing, my Recovery Voice tells me.   But they are all Right Things, my Panic Monkey protests.  Laundry? Orders? Dishes? Email? Meditation? Exercise?  Packing? How on earth do I know what to do?

I sit a while longer and wait for my mind to quiet. Eventually it slows, and I think:  write.

~~~~~~~

*All The Things concept credited to Hyperbole and A Half and her post "This Is Why I'll Never Be An Adult" - one of the funniest and most poignant blog posts ever.

Sometimes The Universe Smiles

Please read to the end of this. There is a song you HAVE to hear. Plus this is kind of a cool story.

I have written several times about how much I adore Brene (pronounced "Bren-nay") Brown's writing and speaking, and how it has changed my life.

No joke.

Her TedX Houston talk went viral in 2010, when my blog was still in its infancy.  Watching this video was transformative for me, because I knew that writing vulnerably was helping me heal, and there was clear response from readers telling me it was helping them, too.

At that time I was writing about alcoholism and recovery, and I had no idea what was coming down the road: a weight loss journey of over 65 lbs that caused me to take a hard look at myself in uncomfortable ways, the sudden death of my father, and a tonsil cancer diagnosis.

I cannot put into words how cultivating the ability to try to be vulnerable and open about these difficult periods of my life saved me.  I truly trace it back to watching that video of Brene Brown bravely standing out in front of what she though would be a few hundred Houstonians, and ended up being the whole. entire. world.  She's a researcher - a PhD, not cut from the cloth of your average "inspirational speaker", and I don't  believe it was her intention to be inspiring.  She was simply sharing her experiences in a way she found interesting from a data perspective, and more importantly how it impacted her personally.

I identified with that, strongly.  I didn't set out on this blog to inspire anyone. It helped me to write about it, and if my words helped others that was a by-product, not an intention.

I had no idea where it would all lead, which I'm discovering is kind of the point. Trust your gut, talk to trusted friends, pray or meditate about it, do the next right thing and let go of the outcome. Pry your white-knuckled fingers off the damn steering wheel and take it moment by moment.  Most of the time it won't go where you planned, and that's likely a good thing.

Yesterday I went with my Mom to the MA Conference for Women, which was full of incredible speakers, including Deepak Chopra, Kristin Chenoweth, Arianna Huffington, Brene Brown and many more inspiring women.

There were also incredible round tables, and I got to sit and absorb advice from someone I admire greatly, who I'm getting to know as a friend, too,  Morra Aarons-Mele from the Mission List and Women Online. I admire her drive, heart and spirit so much, and she has a LOT to offer women everywhere.

I wrote recently how my mother wanted me to give a copy of my new book Let Me Get This Straight, to Brene Brown at the conference.  First of all, I thought she was out of her ever-loving mind, because how was I going to just "run into" Brene and shove my book in her face?  Not my style.  It felt arrogant and self-promotion-y and I'm so star-crossed about Brene I wasn't sure I'd get two words out of my mouth without crying or laughing like a lunatic, or something.

My Mom's response was "you just made me read this book Daring Greatly by Brene and now you won't do it?"

I knew she was right, but still didn't bring a copy of my book with me to the conference because I'm a big. fat. chicken.

My Mom, however, brought a copy, so when Brene sat down to sign books there I was about 10th in line with a copy of her book to sign for me, and my own little Charlie Brown book clutched in my hand (with an inscription by me telling her how much her work means to me).  Even as she signed a copy of her book for me I had no idea that the words, "And, if it's appropriate, can I give you a copy of my book?  It exists because you taught me how to be vulnerable, to Dare Greatly, and I'm eternally grateful".

Here's the thing about Brene Brown:  she is so totally not full of shit.  She gave me the most genuine smile, looked me dead in the eye, and said "I'd love a copy.  Thank you."

And then my Mom snapped a pic of one of the best moments of my life.  No joke:

Brene Brown holding my book! I'm giddy with Fan-Girl-Ness!

To me, this is the power of women coming together to support each other- even if she never reads it - she made me feel so good, and honored how much courage it took me to overcome feelings of inadequacy and rampant "who do I think I am's".   I will always be grateful to her for that.

At a wonderful cancer support group I go to called Women Moving Through Cancer (for people in remission) we talked this week about our dreams. Where do we want to take our lives? How do we want to make our mark?  I instantly though of Brene Brown. I think a LOT of us want to be Brene Brown.   I just want to embody her genuine spirit, her bravery, her willingness to share pieces of herself to help us all be a little braver, a little vulnerable, and share our experiences - no matter what they are - so we all know we're not alone.

Then the group leader asked us where we were in achieving our dream, our footprint in life.  It hit me that I'm  actually there, right now, and I don't have to be a world famous speaker or have a million readers (or any readers) to make that kind of impact.

Neither do you.

If we all come together as women (and men) and honor each other's vulnerability, bravery, truths and experiences, we're making the world a much less competitive, fast-paced, winner-takes-all kind of place.

Thank you, Brene, for planting this seed in me.  I'm having fun watching it grow - it has very little do to with me and everything to do with doing the next right thing and letting go of the outcome.

Beautiful things happen that way.  And sometimes?  Sometimes the Universe smiles.

The conference ended with a performance of "I Was Here" by Kristin Chenoweth of this gorgeous song.  I insist you listen to it. Please. It left me (and my Mom) in tears.  The good kind.

 

I Can't Believe It! And a giveaway!

It CAME today!  My new book!  I didn't expect it to arrive so quickly, and I'm SO happy with the way it turned out!

Please excuse morning hair and face. Too excited to get dolled up for the picture!

I am holding in my hand one of my dreams.  Granted, it's not the same as being published on Amazon or through a literary agent, but hey - it's a step in the right direction and I'm really proud of it.

The color edition of this book is more expensive than the black and white, and I went back and forth as to which one I should pick, but I'm so pleased with the color, and especially when it comes to the photos in the book, it makes such a difference:

I seriously cannot believe I'm holding a book in my hand with the words "by Ellie Schoenberger" on the cover. I can't even pretend to be modest or sheepish about it.  I'm thrilled.

As I wrote about before, the profits from book sales are going to fund Crying Out Now and The Bubble Hour.  These labors of love have reached hundreds of thousands of people, and I've reached the end of what I can afford to do on my own and still keep these sites going.  Some wonderful people (announcement coming soon) have volunteered their time to help me keep them going, but the actual expenses are growing (just to maintain the sites).

If you want to support these sites - if they have helped you or someone you love -and you want a "Best Of" compilation of my posts so far (talking about my journey through alcoholism/recovery, weight loss, my father's sudden death, cancer and the joys and trials of everyday life with two young kids) there is still time to receive it before the holidays.  The softcover (color) edition is pricier than normal, but it goes to a good cause.  You can also get the eBook edition (for MAC products) and pdf versions (for PCs) for $9.99.

But the book makes a great gift, if I do say so myself.  :)

Even if I never, ever sell another one, I still can't believe I accomplished this dream that has been on my list for ages.  Thank you to Heather of the EO for the idea, and to Blurb.com for making it uncomplicated to do for a technically challenged person like myself.

If you are interested in ordering the book or eBook, you can go here to do so.

Thank you to everyone who has supported these causes by buying the softcover or downloading the eBook or pdf so far.  I can't tell you adequately in words what it means to me.  And the thousands of people out there struggling with addiction thank you, too.

And if you think I should make it available in black and white at a more affordable price ($15.99) will you leave that feedback here?  I'm so in love with the color photos, but maybe it makes more sense to make it black & white so more people can afford it?  Unfortunately I have to pick one or the other. What do you guys think?

I am smiling from ear to ear today.  I am still working on a book of original writing that I hope to find agent representation for someday.  Someday.  Achieving this dream makes my confidence level to be able to achieve that next goal so much higher.

It's a good day.

I'm going to give away one autographed copy of my book!  If you have already purchased one (eBooks and pdf files count, too) or you purchase one in the next three days, leave a comment and I'll give you FIVE entries.  If you leave feedback on whether I should produce a black & white version instead, I'll give you TWO entries.  And if you comment and say you'd like an autographed copy, I'll give you ONE entry.

The winner will be chosen on Friday, December 7th via random.org:


Thank you!

Killing The Question Mark

I am sitting in my jewelry studio, which looks like a tornado went through it, although as I always say "It's an organized mess".  I know where everything is, and if someone came in and cleaned it up I'd be lost. 

I think that's just the way my artist brain works; it thrives on jumbles. Jumbles of thoughts, ideas, colors, textures, priorities, designs - the list could go on and on.

For the first time, ever, I'm owning my artistry. I have always said what I do with a question mark at the end, like "I make jewelry?" or "I write a blog?".   

I'm done with that. I have dreams, dammit, and that question mark is in the way.  Part of this new found existential enthusiasm is because of Brene Brown's book Daring Greatly - you all know I love me some Brene Brown - and I'm understanding, finally, that the key to  my artistry IS my vulnerability. What I produce, whether it is writing, jewelry or creating outlets for sober people to share community it comes from my heart.  And sometimes, I admit, it makes me feel very naked.  Or, more accurately, it makes my soul feel naked, and that's scary.  

And a blessing. So much of my life was spent people pleasing, or numbing out, or trying to force you to like me by being who I thought you wanted me to be. 

I am literally incapable of doing that anymore, and that is a miracle and a gift.  

I still struggle with Ego.  Maybe that's a good thing; the people I know who don't struggle at all with their Ego aren't very likable. I'm so afraid of coming across as an egomaniac that I run the other way and get all question-marky about my creativity, my business, my dreams.  

I fall into old patterns all the time.  Next week my mom and I are going to the Massachusetts Conference for Women.  Brene Brown will be a speaker (along with a world-class lineup, including Deepak Chopra as keynote speaker).  But I'm there mostly there to hear Brene speak. I even made my Mom read her book. 

I was chatting on the phone with my Mom the other day and she encouraged me to have a copy of my new book Let Me Get This Straight  to give to Brene in case I have the opportunity to get a signed book from her, or shake her hand, or something.  As she was suggesting this, I was shaking my head on the other end of the line.  No way, I thought. There is no way I could do that. It's egotistical and she must get inundated with books all the time and I could never, ever have the guts to promote myself like that. 

My Mom waited a polite beat, and said, "You just made me read this book about Daring Greatly and you won't do this?"  

I laughed. Of course she's right.   "At least have a business card ready to hand to her if you run into her in the ladies' room," she said. 

I had a screaming case of the "who do I think I am"s.  Why do I do that?  Why do so many of us do that?  Scott Stratton, who wrote the book Unmarketing , and who I heard speak at a conference once, has a great line: "do you know who I think I am?" 

I have the opposite problem, but I'm working on it.

It took every ounce of guts I had to promote my book, and to keep talking about it to people.  I really, really want to put a question mark at the end: "I put together a book?"  

But I won't.  I'm learning from some awesome, strong successful women around me - who also sometimes struggle to own their talent, their creativity - to kill the question mark.  We have to prop each other up sometimes.  Because I can see their talent shining from a mile away, and it breaks my heart when I see them down on themselves, and I do my best to set them straight.  Thankfully, they return the favor, too.

My good friend Jessica Bern (the truly amazingly funny and talented co-creator of Two Funny Brains and an internet series currently in production called BlogThat) ordered some jewelry from me the other day, and I sent her the price and then said, "Is that okay?"

Here is her response:  "that is fine although do not ask another customer if your price is "okay" again. You hear me? Your price is your price. If they don't want to pay, fuck em."

THAT is a good friend. 

Daring Greatly is HARD, because you have to be ready for "No", or to have your expectations not met, or to feel small or less than is some way.  The reward, though, is the feeling that you're out there swinging, no matter what.  And that you can't force anyone to do anything for you - like buy your book, read your blog, buy your jewelry - if they don't want to.  It would be nice to have that kind of control over people, but I'm just not that powerful.

My precious Ego gets me into a lot of trouble.

So I'm bringing a business card (I won't have a copy of my book yet - or as my Mom put it "If God wants Brene Brown to have a copy of your book it will arrive before December 6th") to the conference and going to the restroom a lot.  You know, in case she's in there.   

Dreams have been launched from odder places, I'm sure.

Truthful Thursdays - Living Wide Open

To contribute to the weekly Truthful Thursday series (it does not have to be on sobriety or recovery - any topic that is your truth is great), please FIRST read this post here, and send your submission to onecraftyellie@gmail.com. Thank you.

*** Submitted by Corinne


Two and a half years ago I made the decision to live wide open. 

I came out as an alcoholic to family and friends. I posted about my recovery on my blog. I decided I would rather live out loud with this thing, the thing that was a part of my whole truth, rather than have people know me half way.

I do not define myself by being an alcoholic. It is part of me, but I am so much more than that.

However, in this culture where alcohol is referenced at the drop of a hat, it can be difficult and trying to hide behind smiles and laughter when really you want to take anything alcohol related off the plate and help people to understand that their comments might be hurting someone. Because when you can’t, won’t, and don’t consume alcoholic beverages, it’s not always funny to joke about happy hour and the like.

So, in order to live my truth, most often I make people terribly uncomfortable for a bit. I am very up front and tell people my truth very easily. I am a recovering alcoholic. Mostly I do it to save myself having to say no to a drink. It’s kind of a safety net. But also, I don’t want new friends to find out later on, from my blog or from someone else, and feel bad about offering me a drink, or commenting on how wasted they were another time, or how badly they need a drink.

I just lay it out in the open. And that, is vulnerability.

But really? Sometimes I forget that is vulnerability. Because most of the time my truth is accepted and then we move along. Yes, I challenge peoples notions of an alcoholic, because my rock bottom was hardly as bad as it could have been. But still, it was my rock bottom. And I own that. I own that I had two little children, and that I could sense the changes in me and in my desires and in my entire being that called out and longed for and responded to  and found comfort in alcohol. So before I was hiding in the closet drinking stashed bottles {as I was pretty sure that’s where I was headed...} I stopped. I asked for help. I came clean and owned my whole self.

I feel like that is part of it, challenging people’s ideas of alcoholism. Taking away the shame in saying you have a problem. I think that my story can help someone, so I tell it, and in telling my story, I feel free.

And sometimes vulnerable.

The other week I was at a dinner for my homeschooling co-op. A bunch of us were sitting in one of those round, corner booths at a local chain restaurant. I had met most of the women once or twice, a few just that very night for the first time. Somehow the conversation turned to blogs and I was talking about mine and before I knew it I was laying down my truth on the table and about how I used to blog more about recovery. And there were nods and smiles and as soon as they knew I was not there to judge, all was good. Except for one woman.

She couldn’t get past the fact that I had two little ones. And she asked the question that kicks me in the gut because I still struggle with it.

“How did you nurse your littlest if you were drinking at night?”

I drank at night. I basically clocked out when the kids went to bed. By the time my second baby was six months old I barely nursed her at night. And as a very attached parent  {babywearing, co-sleeping, nursing on demand...} for the entire daylight hours I cannot tell you the guilt I felt for so long about letting my husband shoulder the responsibility with my baby daughter at night time.

“I just didn’t. I held off drinking heavily at night until she was around six months, and then I just didn’t nurse her when I was drinking.”

And the look the woman gave me, I can’t even begin to describe the disdain and shock and then she said “wow” and shook her head. And in that instant all I could do was stand still and say something along the lines of “I had a problem, it was a bad time, but you can’t move forward if you hold onto the past” or something like that. Because in that moment, I was shaking in my boots at the thought that this woman, who barely knew me, thought I was a bad mom.

Can I tell you something? I struggle every day to realize that when I was at my worst point with my alcoholism that I was still a good mom. I made some poor choices, but that does not make me a bad mother.

Realizing that is vulnerability. Saying that is being vulnerable. Owning the bad parts and moving forward with honesty and truth, again... you guessed it... vulnerability.

Ultimately, saying my truth and knowing that others will not agree or understand, and knowing I cannot ever change their minds, that too is vulnerability.

We cannot change the world and open eyes and hearts by being closed ourselves. 

Be vulnerable. 

Take a chance. 

As Brene Brown talks about, Dare Greatly. It is worth it, and while some might not understand it, many others will thank you. 

Your heart will too.

Feeling Shame for Telling The Truth - Childhood Fears

**A note from Ellie - this piece is part of my new weekly Vulnerability Writing series, Truthful Thursdays. I am looking for more submissions, so if you're interested in submitted a piece please read this post here.  Thank you.

***Submitted by Judy, who blogs at Get Unwrapped

I just finished reading a post by my friend and fellow-blogger Ellie at One Crafty Mother, a post which has spurred me to talk about something that I don't often discuss. Especially not in a public forum.

I must admit I'm a little daunted.  Especially because the first thing that popped into my head was something that I'm still going through and which I don't see any way out of except through it.  (Wow. That sounds familiar.)  But ... there's something that resonates in me with this concept - that truth makes people free, even if it's not pretty. That ugly things like shame and evil lose their power when brought into the light, when their soft underbelly is exposed.  

So ... here goes.

Last fall, I e-published a book about my journey from the bondage of control-freaking and door-mat-itis into a lifestyle of freedom, passion, and purpose. It was a huge deal for me to have made the journey, and I wanted to write about it! 

The response I've received has been rather sporadic, actually - definitely not what I had hoped.  To be sure, I didn't expect to make much money from it; it was something that I wanted to do so that if even one person is helped by it, then it would be worth it. But I had thought I would receive just a smidgen more recognition than the large round of indifference I've gotten.  

Except from one quarter: my birth family and extended family, and anyone who is friends with them.  

For, you see, I did mention a couple of members of my family-of-origin in the book a couple of times.  I did so to highlight the "before" picture and some of the things I went through to be free of the things certain people did and said to me: things which scarred me my whole life long.  I took great care not to make that the focus, though.  I wanted to talk about the "unwrapping" that happened as a result of a day-by-day relationship with God, with myself, and finally with others.  (For more information on the book, see my "About Me" page.)

But by talking about their part in it even once, I broke the cardinal rule that was hammered into my psyche as a child: "What happens here STAYS here - we don't talk about it outside these four walls."  

The truth about my childhood has always been a source of great shame for me.  I always thought - until I was well into my forties - that if anyone knew that I was abused as a child, they'd not want to have anything to do with me.  I'd lose everything.  Fear had me by the throat.  I thought people would blame me.  I thought that my family would disown me.  I thought that I would never be able to look anyone in the eye again.

But for the most part, people outside of my birth family have been kind, if not just tolerant. And I've experienced a great deal of healing from those traumatic experiences. 

Yet, I am still ashamed.  Not for the horrors of what happened to me - God has healed me from that shame - but for telling the truth.  Ashamed for (even though it is the last thing I intended) appearing to be disloyal, ungrateful, vindictive.  For exposing the deception and no longer keeping "our little secret." For being honest ... and being called a liar. For having my motives judged and for not being able to explain to their satisfaction why I would cast such a shadow on the reputation of someone who - to friends and family - is the closest thing to a saint that they've ever seen.   

I wish I could say that it's been resolved. That would be nice, nice and pretty, all tied up in a bow and a "wonderful testimony."  But it hasn't.  This is a process.  I struggle with these feelings of shame, of feeling exposed and vulnerable to what others think, nearly all the time.  There have been many nights - even in the last six months - that I have cried myself to sleep because of the fallout, the pointed fingers, the broken relationships, the constant criticism and the lack of any kind of attempt to understand what I'm trying to accomplish. Grief over lost contact, lost favour, lost relationship, is something I deal with daily. All too often, the weight of shame and the crushing, smothering feelings of loneliness, fear and anxiety overwhelm me. 

I fight to keep in the moment; it is the only way I can survive.
 
I don't know how to get past this wall of misery.  I don't know if I SHOULD get past it.  I don't know if I'm doing any good to anyone - or if secretly I WANT them to suffer.  (Am I really that horrible? How can I ever look at my reflection in the mirror? When will this end? HOW will it end if it does?)  

I don't know.  I really don't.  I have wrestled with saying goodbye for good, with writing them off, with closing the door on that part of my life and never looking back.  

More shame. More vulnerability.  More feeling like I want to crawl into a hole and disappear.  

I am exposing my soft underbelly here - in the hope that shame has a soft underbelly too.  My friend Ellie says that shame and vulnerability hate the truth; they hate compassion.  

I hope so.  I really DO hope so.

Pile Denial - Friendship, Connection and Trust

This is not a standard recap of my experience at the Creative Alliance conference in Ojai, CA this past weekend.

Not really.

This is a post about friendship, connection and trust.

There is something about this conference  - I don't even want to call it a conference - that defies explanation. I'm hoping that one of the 50 creative women who were there will find the right word for it when they write about their own experience there. Maybe there needs to be a new word to describe the atmosphere, the culture, the vibrating molecules in the air.

It isn't a surprise that when you put fifty creative, intelligent, innovative, talented entrepreneurs and writers under one tent that sparks will fly.  What is surprising is the sparks aren't created by the clanging of pointy elbows jockeying for position, recognition or posturing. The sparks ignite from ideas flying through the air and pinging off words of advice, comfort and wisdom.

Fifty successful (defined not simply by money, not by a long shot), driven women sit in a circle and talk.  Creative types, people who like to be seen and heard and felt.  Women who want to make a mark in the world, make a difference.

You'd think there would be too many Egos to fit in the room tent.

It is a circle of fifty successful, innovative, driven, creative women and we're all rooting for each other.  It's that rare gathering where nobody there wants to see you trip, or fail.

There is a trust, a bond, a something (this is where I need that word, that one that may not exist yet) that allows people to open up, show their insides, share their dreams and fears without fear of judgment or gossip.

The Blue Iguana Inn, Ojai, CA

Because what we find out is we're all the same inside - whether we create a product, deliver a service, make people laugh, or think - whether we're in it for the money or to do a little good in the world (or both), we all want to be heard.  We all want to be validated, encouraged.  And, believe it or not, help correcting our path if something isn't working.

I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it twice now, with my own eyes and heart - women who strive for the very same thing comparing notes, offering resources, high fives or a tissue to dry tears.

It's a huge ocean, and there is room for all of us. There aren't many new ideas, so as we bob around in this tumultuous creative sea, we can separate and watch each other flail, possibly drown, and hope we're the last one standing, the most successful, the first or the only, or we can band together and keep each other afloat so we all make it. Every last one of us.

It's a place of truth-telling; not just of your own dreams and fears, but of constructive criticism, or even outright concern.

Some of these women know me well.  Better than I know myself.  They know my heart, my dreams, what is in the core of me.  I trust them with my life, and in the past year I have quite literally trusted them with my life. They couldn't cure my cancer, but they could lift up my spirit, or tell me they are worried because I don't seem right - too "fine" or too stressed or too depressed or anxious.  When they ask me how I'm doing, they really want to know.

And sometimes, they don't even need to ask.

Over the course of the weekend, several of the people who know me best expressed concern about me and all my manic "I'm FINE-ness".   I didn't seem like the Ellie they knew, because of all the heartfelt sharing we had done so many times.

Instead of turning a blind eye, or chalking it up to stress from cancer, or losing my Dad, or any myriad of practical reasons, they sat me down, looked me in the eye and asked me, "NO - are you REALLY okay."

And the answer - as it is all too often - is that I am okay, and I'm not.  I'm still reeling from the past 14 months of loss and fear and illness.  I want so badly to be totally fine - the old me - that I ignore any cracks or signs that maybe I'm not as far down the path of healing - not just physically, but emotionally.

Friends like these sit you down and ask you the hard questions and watch you squirm and cry and try to talk your way around it and back into "I'm fine" and they don't let up until they've helped you dig right to the core of you again.

We ended up laughing about everything they helped me understand about myself; we usually do end up at laughter, thank God.  As I rattled off all the things on my plate - my continued fear of scans, cancer survivory (which I just turned into a verb), missing my Dad, crazy hormones from chemotherapy and peri-menopause, my daughter's upcoming tonsillectomy surgery and other struggles, I finally sighed and said "I have a big pile, don't I?"

Yes, you do, they said, gently and firmly.  And you still need a lot of help.

"I'm in Pile Denial", I chuckled, not because I don't respect their advice or the fact that I'm still under stress, but because it's true, and I need a little funny with my truth.

Collectively we laughed, cried, stretched, grew, wrote, spoke our truths out loud and in our minds and hearts.

There aren't really words.

I come home hollowed out and filled back up again, grateful for the truth-telling love of my friends, and the new friendship seeds that were planted, just waiting to take root and blossom.

The amazing Sue Bob made a video, which captures this experience better than my words can:




A heartfelt thank you to Lee and Andrea for putting this together, again, and all the women who worked behind the scenes to help them and prop them up, too.  And to everyone who attended, listened, laughed, cracked open and told your truth - thank you.

Truthful Thursday - An Artist Tells Her Truth

**A note from Ellie: every Thursday I will be posting a submission from someone writing about their shame, vulnerability or guilt.  The idea of this exercise is just to write about it, in its purest form, whatever it is that you've been carrying around all by yourself.  And remember - even if you can't identify with someone's particular truth, it takes GUTS to submit here, so please do comment.  If you can identify, PLEASE comment, because one of the most powerful things in reducing shame is learning you aren't alone.  Thank you.  If you'd like to submit, please read this post here. 


***Submitted by Anonymous

I am currently looking for ways to boost my career (artist, writer) and am working with an amazing creative career coach.

I just failed,  spectacularly, at a task he gave me. an essay to write. a week to do it. 

I should have been able to do this task, it would only have taken an hour. but no amount of false starts, promises to myself, made it happen. 

I am humiliated, and fear the coach is going to dump me because I didn't try hard enough. 

Deep down I think I have not tried enough, because I didn't get up every day at sit at my desk and write, even though I am on the computer half the time, I feel as though I did nothing.

I felt terrible shame (and guilt, sorry) when my elderly cat yawned and I saw she was missing a canine tooth.

I knew she needed dental work, I hadn't wanted to pay for it. I didn't really think it through, that she might be in pain.

I should have known. It broke my heart. 

i don't have children, if that matters, just this elderly cat I adore more than life itself. I failed her. Maybe this is more guilt, because I didn't try hard enough. or, like my first story, I didn't make it a priority till it was really bad. perhaps I'd have felt more shame if my vet had been harsh with me about not doing it?

i don't know that there is anything useful here. Self deprecation, not shame?  But it deflects shame, I think.

Also? I feel shame about feeling I need to justify how much I love my cat. 

Especially when i tell people who have children. 

When I'm all by myself, I feel no shame in this.

Creative Alliance '12 - Leaving My Hammer At Home

I love this rumbling anticipation I'm feeling.

In two days I'm heading to Los Angeles, and then north to Ojai for the Creative Alliance conference.  It's not really a conference - more like a retreat - where creative women get together to fuse our energies, prop each other up, listen to our dreams and fears and walk away having forged new friendships that, by default, become a hybrid of a creative alliance and support group.

I went two years ago, to the last one, and my life hasn't been the same since. No exaggeration.

Before that conference I was a jumble of nerves, but for a completely different reason.  I had a bad case of the "smalls"; I didn't feel worthy to be there, in the presence of some powerhouse social media types, creative geniuses and bloggers I had admired from afar for years.  I didn't think I had anything to contribute, but 2010 was a year of a lot of firsts for me, so I went anyway.

Creative Alliance '10 cured me of the 'smalls'. Thanks to Creative Alliance '10, I put my hammer down.  You know, the one I use on myself?  Every now and then I'll pick it up again, and then one (or several) of my Creative Alliance friends will tell me to put the damn hammer down, remind me I'm worthy.

I found my own creative voice; realized I did have dreams and ambitions, and was already on my way to achieving them, through ventures like Crying Out Now and my jewelry.   I had wasted so much energy comparing myself to others, falling into that old behavioral trap of looking for ways I didn't measure up.  I didn't know 95% of the women there, and I had no idea what to expect.  I didn't exactly picture them pointing and laughing at me - I already knew they had too much soul for this type of behavior - but I did picture lots of heads cocked in confusion, thinking: you're doing what, exactly?

OH, my precious ego.

As we sat in the circle introducing ourselves for the first time, I felt my hands shake in nervous anticipation of my turn. I had a tendency to tell people about my business, my blogs, with a self-deprecating interrogatory slant, like a question:  I write two blogs?  And I run a small business?   Almost like I was asking their permission to exist.

When my turn came, I squared my shoulders and did my best to drop the question mark. Hearing myself articulate not just my accomplishments but also my dreams (saying your dreams out loud is hard, and vulnerable-making), to a room full of women I previously considered intimidating, was so freeing.  Hearing some of the biggest names in the social media world voice their own fears, or neuroses, put me instantly at ease.

We're all the same inside, I thought, us creative types.  Balancing on that beam of creativity and ambition.  Juggling mission and ego.  Creating from inside but still needing some kind of validation, especially from within our own community.

Those bigger, crazier conferences (that I shall not name) are so loud, and crazy, and full of egos clamoring for attention. Those conferences bring out the worst in me, and I won't say my own ego isn't tossing its hat into the fray, hoping to be noticed.

That's not what Creative Alliance is about, not at all. It's about finding your inner light, articulating your dreams, obstacles and fears to safe people who get it - man, do they get it - and forming a community that will pool their ideas and resources to help you achieve those dreams.

This year, I can't wait.

About half of last year's attendees are coming back, and there are many new women whose dreams, accomplishments and ambitions I can't wait to hear about.  I will leave inspired, filled up.

I have to push through some fears, though. I'm still not a big fan of flying, although I'm much better. The tools I'm learning to cope with cancer fear apply to flying, too, interestingly.  I have to land in LA, secure a rental car and spend one night by myself in an airport hotel. I used to do these things almost robotically, when I traveled for work in my previous life. Now I'm up at 2am rehearsing in my head how it's all gonna go down, as if I have any control over it.  That crazy brain squirrel is hard at work on his wheel, huffing and puffing away in the wee hours of the night.  Damn squirrel.

Before I know it, though, it will be over, and I'll be filled up again, full of dreams and ambitions and new friendships.

~~~~~~~~

A little bit of business:  Truthful Tuesdays is now going to be Truthful Thursdays, so I can participate in Heather of the Extraordinary Ordinary's Just Write link-up, which occurs every Tuesday.

Also - I had to switch to a new email/RSS feed service (I barely even know what that means, so forgive my lack of technical expertise). Long story short, if you think you should be getting my new posts in your Inbox, but you're not, please sign-up again (right hand sidebar, just below BlogHer ads).  If you don't already get my new posts via email but would like to, that's where to sign up, but please be sure to activate your subscription by following the link sent to your Inbox, or else you won't get the updates.

Thank you.

Blogging Shame

The other day I was somewhere (won't say where to protect the innocent) with a bunch of people from around town - some I knew, some I didn't know at all.

A woman was taking me around and introducing me to people. I couldn't place this woman's face,  but knew we must have met before in some context because she was so comfortably friendly with me, and was asking after the kids, how I was feeling, etc. I was embarrassed I didn't remember her, so I was hiding that the whole time she was taking me around I was thinking; how on earth do I know this woman? 

We approached one woman I was certain I had never seen before (I would have remembered her stunning beauty) and as we shook hands the 'introducer' said to the other woman, "you know her - she's One Crafty Mother".

"OH!" said the stunning woman. "It's so nice to finally meet you in person!"

Some strange, strangled noise escaped from my throat, and I mumbled some pathetic response, "Um, yeah, yes! That's me."  She proceeded to talk to me about how much one aspect of my blog has helped a family member of hers, and said she was a long-time reader but never had "the guts" to comment.

I never, ever know what to do in these situations.  I instantly feel ashamed - which I find really intriguing. You'd think I'd be flattered, maybe, or grateful that someone likes my blog?  But the first feeling to leap to the surface is a gut-sinking shame.

Who do you think you are, the shame tells me. Here she is saying how much she likes your writing and you don't deserve a word of it.

Why? Why is that? Is it because as women we are all too often programmed to fade into the background, keep our secrets and feelings, even our accomplishments, neatly tucked under our skirts (or yoga pants, as the case may be).  How can I feel so passionately about vulnerability, spreading the word about addiction, recovery and speaking about my cancer journey and then have this strong shame reaction when someone says it helps them?

Usually, when I'm face to face with people who know me as "One Crafty Mother" I'm at a blogging conference, and referring to people as their blog or twitter name is a common, if not bizarre, tactic.  It's how we know each other, and it doesn't feel weird at all.

When I'm around town, though, it feels really odd to be known as "One Crafty Mother".  I know lots of local people read my blog - I want that, and I don't get to pick and choose who reads it.  It's my choice to put myself out there, and when I push past shame of course I'm glad people are reading, of course I'm glad it's helping.  So why do I feel like making myself so small when confronted with it face to face?

It was the same after I lost all the weight - people would tell me I looked great and I'd feel shame.  Like I was showing off or something, instead of pride that I had worked damn hard to shed over 65 lbs.  Instead of saying "thank you", I'd mumble some idiotic lie like 'it's not that big of a deal', or 'I still have a ways to go', just to minimize my accomplishment.

That shameful, embarrassed person resides in me as much as the writer who feels passionately about being open, honest and vulnerable about her journeys - whether through addiction, weight loss, grief, cancer or spirituality.

It's a dichotomy I'm having a hard time getting my mind around.  I wonder if I should have blogged anonymously - kept my identity a secret - but then I realize the fact that people know me, as a real person, makes it easier to identify with my story.

Sometimes I get into a spiral where I think: why are you doing this? why are you out there writing about all this if you feel this shame when you meet someone face to face and they COMPLIMENT you? 

I think, when I'm able to be somewhat objective about it, it's because I never, ever want to appear like I'm grand-standing, showing off, or acting like I've got it all figured out.  When someone compliments me - even though they're not saying "Wow, Ellie, have YOU got it all figured out" - I feel like somehow I am making a bigger deal out of myself than I deserve.  What they are saying, usually, is "I identified with what you wrote; I feel the same way".

And THAT is why I write. To cultivate a sense of togetherness, community, a we're-not-in-it-alone-ness.  Women can be hard on each other.  I hear more gossipy talk putting other people down than I hear people building each other up.  I like the cracks in people, the fragile parts, the human-ness.  We don't usually sit around having coffee and talking about our fragile parts, the ways we feel we don't measure up. To compensate, we either put others down or we brag.

I am so fearful of appearing like a bragger that I don't even know how to take a compliment.

If you live around town and we meet, it's okay to refer to me as One Crafty Mother, or tell me you know me through my blog.  Clearly, I need some practice simply saying "Hello, nice to meet you!" or how about just plain "Thank you!" when you tell me you like my writing?

If you don't like me or my writing, though, please feel free to keep it to yourself, or just gossip about it with others.  I'm not THAT healthy, yet.

Yet.

~~~~


And speaking of vulnerability, if you haven't read Jane's post below for the first installment of "Truthful Tuesday", please do.  And comment if you can - it means so much to get comments when you bare your soul so bravely, like she did.   Thank you.