When Change Attacks

I am terrible at change.

This is not an exaggeration, it’s very literal for me. When someone tells me that a small change in plans is happening, I come close to panicking. I think of every possible way this new plan could blow up in my face, or I get angry that I’m not getting my way-even if the original plan was not my idea.

When it’s put like that, I sound like a child. I can clearly see that but it changes nothing. I stomp my feet, whine and pout, sometimes mope if I don’t get what I expected to happen. I’d like to say that maybe one day I’ll grow out of this behavior but those prospects are not looking good for me. I’m in my early 30s and the only thing that has changed is there aren’t usually loud, angry outbursts and attempts at redirecting things in the direction I want (otherwise known as manipulation), but that doesn’t even hold true one hundred percent of the time.

Here’s what’s going on: I have set plans for some aspects of my life. I have a decent idea of where my career path is taking me. I know who I will marry, and I know when. I know when we plan to buy a house together, I know when we plan to attempt a child. I mean, I have this all planned out to the month. I know when I need to have surgery so that pregnancy is most likely to be easy to accomplish. I know when we need to get married if we want to do that before conceiving a child (as funny as the idea of being knocked up for my wedding sounds, I don’t actually want those pictures). So what I’m saying is that these are the big pieces of my life that I have planned. Obviously, they won’t be exactly as planned, but it seems reasonable to me to know what’s going to happen soon, barring emergency or tragedy.

Over the weekend, for unforeseen reasons, my boyfriend found out that he needs to buy a house much sooner than anticipated, by January or so to be exact. This is much sooner than we planned, we don’t even live together yet (which makes the whole idea of me knowing who I will marry and when sound like an obsessive fantasy but allow me to explain: we have been together for 2 years and are waiting until almost 3 years to move in together, for personal reasons). It is at least 3 years sooner than we planned. I had it in my head that we would be picking out a house together, but now he will be picking it out and I have to hope for the best. I will say that he and I have very similar ideas of what we want in a house, at least the most important parts. This doesn’t sound like a big deal, but for me, it is. I panicked and obsessed about this for hours. I eventually calmed down and now I’m a little disappointed but I’m okay.

Back to the knowing my general career path. I am a counselor. I am recently licensed, and just started counseling last month. I got thrown into the position to fill in for a woman that got really sick. I was told that in about one more month, I would be changing positions, slightly. I would still have a caseload, but a small one, and I would be the admissions counselor. Admissions would be my primary position. Fine, that’s cool. This morning, everything was right on track. New building opening up in a few weeks, and a slow, graceful transition into my new position that still had some old qualities.

Guess what happened?

I wasn’t fired BUT I did find out that due to, again, unforeseen circumstances, I will be thrown into a entirely new position. On top of that, I cannot say anything at work until my boss approaches me and talks to me about it. I have to go to work and act like everything is normal. I have to continue counseling my clients like I will be counseling them next week; because when I say “thrown in,” I mean that I start this new position Friday, 3 days from now, possibly Monday, 6 days from now if you count the weekends, which I don’t work.

Guess what I did?

I panicked. I got angry, I called my boyfriend and told him about it, sounding like a run together, never-ending run on sentence. I have to act normal.

Then I start to try to find the positives in this (if you notice, I didn’t do this with the situation over the weekend; that’s because I see no positive in that one).

I’m going into the position I wanted to be in earlier than I planned, which is good. I’m going to be more thoroughly trained for my position before I have to start it, also good.

And the best part is that I’m now likely to have all holidays off.

So I shouldn’t be complaining, but I will. It’s just who I am. I realize I could have a lot worse problems. I’m grateful I don’t. This has been therapeutic for me, even if no one else cares.


The Baseline of Loss

September 19 It was 10:30 at night. I was crouched on the bathroom floor, with my hand in the toilet, the lid sitting on the top of my wrist. This was how I attempted to hide my smoking in the house from my parents. My mother was asleep at the opposite end of the trailer. My sisters were slumbering in their rooms on the other side of the wall behind the toilet. My dad was out, taking his friend home after a weekend of fishing in the Gulf. He’d been gone for several hours and I expected his arrival home to happen soon. I was hyper-aware of sounds; I hoped to be able to finish my cigarette before his return. I was getting close. I had to be careful not to hotbox the cigarette, so I could only smoke so fast.

I was thinking about the school I was attending at the time and about how I could possibly get my parents to allow me to return to public school the following semester. The school I was attending was a private, Southern Baptist Academy and I did not enjoy being there. I was unable to follow their very stringent rules–that were supposed to be followed outside of school, as well. The principal gave me an uncomfortable feeling, like I should never be alone with him. I had no evidence to support this instinct, but it didn’t make the feeling any less real (I later found out that he had, in fact, been molesting one of the other teenage girls that went to that school with me. It took me a long time to realize that my instincts were usually very spot on). I was running through possible manipulation tactics when I heard a car approaching my driveway. I sat very still, ready to jump up and run to my room. I waited a few seconds and heard the crunch of gravel in the driveway, accompanied by the sound of an engine. I dropped the cigarette and quickly jumped up, flushing the toilet at the same time. I flew out of the bathroom and went straight to my room, literally jumping in my bed. I closed my eyes, heart racing for fear of being caught, and feigned sleep. I heard the front gate on the porch creak as my dad stepped onto the porch. I listened to his footsteps cross the porch, which was situated along the side of the trailer, running half the length, which included by my bedroom window. When he reached the doorway, I heard the screen door open, and he knocked. Wait. He knocked, he lives here. “He must be too tired to find the key on his keynchain,” I thought. I sigh and get out of bed, trying my hardest to look like I’d been woken up by his knock. I walked out of my room, cleared the hallway, and turned the corner into the living room and approached the front door. As I do, there’s another knock and I get annoyed that he’s being impatient. I roll my eyes and open the door.

There are two policemen standing before me.

“Yes?” I ask.

I can see my neighbors standing at the other end of the porch, near the front gate. My confusion and fear are mounting.

“Is your mom home?’

“Yes, she is asleep.”

“Do you have any siblings? Where are they?”

I point to the end of the trailer by the smoking bathroom and say “down there.”

“Will you please go wake your mother?”


“We’d rather discuss this with her, please go get her.”

Feeling scared and agitated by their lack of response, away I went. I went to the other end of the trailer, to my parents’ room. I gently shook her shoulder and said “Mom, Mom, wake up. The police are here.” She jumped up and ran to her door, then turned and asked me why they were in the house. I told her I didn’t know, I didn’t ask them in.

I’m fairly certain that at this point, and until they told her what had happened, that she thought my father had been arrested. I didn’t know my father had a drug problem, so the only option to me was that he had gotten into an accident. What really happened never crossed my mind as an option–it never does until it happens, I suppose. As we were walking through the kitchen, my neighbors came in, as well. My mother told me to go to my room. I did it, without question. I had no idea what was going on but I was extremely frightened. My fight or flight doesn’t activate every time I get scared, often I am calm and reasonable. This was one of those times. The two sisters that were part of the neighbor’s family came with me, they were my childhood friends. As we were walking into my room, it almost clicked in my head what had happened–but denial was keeping it from all the way coming through. As I sat on my bed, I noticed that my friends were crying. Still, an accident seemed reasonable. I was scared to ask how bad it was. Just as I was about to muster the courage to ask, my mother’s shriek came from the living room.


I looked at my friends and they looked back at me. We sat there looking at each other for what seemed like forever but was probably mere moments. One of them nodded.

I don’t remember how long we sat there crying. In fact, most of that night is a blur. It could have been several hours; it could have been one. There are a couple things I remember. I remember those girls stayed with me, my mom’s grief was too much for me to handle and they stayed. My strength in the face of tragedy came from that night; my feeling of always needing to be the strong one did, too. I do remember how the crying stopped–with comedy. I still do that, to this day. To stop my pain, I make jokes. It was unintentional that night and still is, in most cases. It’s something I do subconsciously. When I blow my nose, I sound very much like a foghorn. That’s what ended our tears that night and brought us to sharing humorous stories of my dad.

We ended up on the trampoline that night, still talking about him. I looked over at the fence and realized that around the time he died, I had been jumping on the trampoline and had seen some new blossoms on the flowers growing on that fence. Those girls were there for me during the one of the most painful experiences of my life, and I barely talk to them today. That is also a common thread throughout my life from that point forward–distancing myself from someone that had seen too much of me.

The following day, we didn’t have to go to school. Unfortunately, I am too self-centered to remember how the news affected my younger sister. I do know that as the oldest, I had more time with him, and I frequently had been able to spend quality time alone with him. I remember all of those times fondly. We used to drive around Houston and he would show me his old stomping grounds and tell me stories about when he was a kid. He would let me work for him and he would take me fishing. He would cuddle on the couch with me and watch Ripley’s Believe It or Not! and The X-Files. He’s also the person that taught me that the way to deal with arguments and anger was to yell–which I later found out was not the best way to handle those situations. Listening to him and my mother fight was when I first experienced that heavy feeling of lack of power, the same one that I later felt when a man would break up with me or I would get caught doing something I ought not be doing.

Reflecting on that night, I’ve highlighted the things that I learned from remembering this. These things are a common, corroding thread in my relationships through the years-almost like a baseline of my behavior. I’m a thinker, I’m self-aware, I know what I’m doing and why I’m doing it. It’s only been in recent years that I’ve discovered that I don’t have to be that girl I was that night. This tragic experience doesn’t have to color every feeling and action I take. People will abandon me, either by death or by choice, but I don’t have to let it define how I will treat the people that will stay.

Being No One

The first lie I told to better fit in was when I was seven years old, I remember it clearly. I was sitting at the lunch table with my second grade class; it must have been near the end of the calendar year. My classmates were discussing their lack of belief in the existence of Santa Claus. At that time, I was still a believer and it almost sent me into a state of panic listening to what they had to say on the topic. However, the idea of these other children thinking I was stupid was more appalling to me. When I was asked if I believed in Santa Claus, I told them that I did not. On the inside, I said a silent prayer to Santa telling him that I did still believe in him, that I just wanted these kids to like me. My entire life, from that moment forward, was characterized by lies I told to and about myself to fit into the social group I wanted to belong to.
I do not remember a lot of my childhood, just wisps of feelings, scents, and still shots. I can see myself in Kindergarten, sitting Indian style with my girlfriends–all in a row, playing with each other’s hair. I can recall my sixth birthday party, jumping on the trampoline with several girlfriends and one boyfriend. At some point, there was an argument and I sided with the boy, against all my girlfriends. I remember the first time I felt embarrassed for another person, it was my father. He was teaching me to ride a bicycle on the grass and had a hold of the back of the seat. Then his hand slid off and he fell face first in the grass. I remember my mom chasing me, I cannot recall if I was in trouble or not. I was running in tall, unkept grass with her quickly approaching saying she can run faster than me. I remember being astounded that she was right. I remember my very first bikini and my grandparents being there when I tried it on. I remember the old turn dial TV and water bed in my upstairs bedroom. I remember my best friend’s mom breast-feeding her little brother.
In the second grade, I remember experiencing my first real embarrassment. We were playing heads up-seven up and I was picking my nose while my head was down. For some reason, I brought my head up and it was apparent that I’d been picking my nose. I cannot remember the details, only the feeling–the look on the boy’s face. I remember his name. I remember being in music class and being jealous of the people who could sing, and then believing that I could sing well–briefly. In the third grade, I remember my mother leaving my father and my fear of never seeing him again. I remember the girl who ate crayons and wanting to wear the tightest pants I could get into–at eight years old! I have always craved attention, I have always wished for everyone to like me. From first grade forward, I consistently got in trouble for talking in class and then being a smart ass to my teachers–it was more important that my peers held me in high esteem than to stay out of trouble. I can recall my parent’s fights, the way I felt. I was consumed with fear about what would happen to us, feeling a complete lack of control over the decisions or outcome. I have always wished to have control over my life.