Tag Archives: self esteem

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Dance Lessons Part 1…

I love to dance. There’s something that happens when I hear music that causes a soul-stirring reaction.

I love movement. I love the expression of emotions through movement. I love how beats and rhythms and lyrics come to life in a physical form that is dance.

I am not a gifted dancer. I define gifts as those things that are like breathing, those things that you don’t even have to think about that just flow from you. Dance was not something that came naturally to me. Anyone who knows me from childhood knows that I wasn’t the most coordinated person. Truth be told, I was quite awkward. I discovered dance through my experience as a cheerleader in middle school and high school. I switched over to just dance when I got to college. Dance saved me from myself. When I was a junior in college and in the midst of my second major depressive episode, dance was the only thing that kept me from killing myself.

I am a passionate dancer. Passions are those things that can be cultivated. I see as many dance companies perform as money and time allow. I secretly want to be a member of a Salsa dance troupe and envision the costumes, music and pure joy that would follow. As I’ve gotten older and my passion for dance has been realized, I seek out classes and troupes and studios that would allow me to hone my skills. I’ve taken ballet, jazz, modern, hip-hop, Latin and pole classes. Yes, pole classes. (For more about my experience with pole dancing, click here. It was seriously the most liberating experience of my life!) I have stretched and strengthened muscles I didn’t know I had. I’ve gone from being a terribly awkward girl who was not comfortable in her own skin to a woman who fully embraces her body and sees it as a gift from God. Dance has connected me to my soul and to the Divine.

Dance continues to be one of the best forms of therapy that I experience. I recently moved and while things have largely gone well, I have had some rough times during this transition. Once I found a therapist, I realized that I needed to find a dance class. I signed up for Salsa lessons and am ecstatic that it works with my schedule.  There is clearly a link between exercise and dealing with depression and every time I attend a dance class I am reminded of it’s importance. However, the what I’m learning goes beyond the physical. I am gaining life lessons from this passion of mine and am so grateful.

What things/hobbies/activities serve as therapy for you and teach you life lessons?

Stay tuned…

Love,

Me

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(Not Quite) Daddy’s Little Girl

Unconditional love. Respect. Affirmation. These are the things that I have always wanted from my birth father. For most of my life, I have hitched my self esteem, my self worth and my self identity to his opinions of me. This has definitely been to my peril. What’s ironic about my desire for these things from my father is that he was not a permanent fixture in my life until I was fourteen years old. He didn’t have a track record of giving these things, but for some reason I constantly fantasized about a utopic relationship between us. Why is it that we seem to want the most from those who are least able to give it?

My father and I have a complicated relationship. I am the youngest of his four children by three different women.  My parents were not married when I was conceived and my mother decided to leave him shortly after my birth. I would see him from time to time but I don’t remember him being a steady presence in my life.  My mother met my step-father when I was three and married him when I was six years old. My younger brother was born and we relocated from New York to Texas. This move ended my visits with my birth father. With the exception of a handful of trips to New York, I don’t remember having a substantial relationship with my father before I was a teenager.

As I reflect on our history, it boggles my mind how much his absence affected me and influenced how I engage men in romantic relationships. One might think that I would not be seeking something that I never received but in my mind, I had created a fantasy about what it would be like if my father and I ever reconnected. This fantasy became a reality when my mother and step-father divorced. This was a traumatic time in my life that was overshadowed by the fact that my birth parents were reuniting and would eventually get married. I found myself in a broken state; one where I struggled with the loss of a relationship with my step-father, who had raised me and, at the same time, trying to be happy about the return of my birth father who I really didn’t know. It was a difficult time for everyone involved. I learned very quickly that the life I had envisioned with my birth father would not become a reality.

I had a revelation yesterday. It was actually quite painful but simultaneously liberating. Nothing I could ever become, say or do would engender the affirming and uplifting response that I so desperately seek from my father. And you know what? That’s my issue, not his. I have to come to terms with the fact that I have been looking for that which is life-giving in the wrong place, from the wrong person. For my sanity’s sake, I have to let go of this overwhelming desire to be “approved” of by my father. I am a thirty one year old woman who is finally letting go of something that has not served me well. I am choosing, on this day, that my self worth and identity will not be based on any external factors, particularly those that perpetuate negative and harmful ways of being.

I have never been the proverbial “Daddy’s little girl”. Nor will I ever be. And it’s not necessary that I am. For the first time in my life, I realize how important it is for me to create a new narrative, one that takes into account who I am and have been created to be, first and foremost by God.

I pray that I am able to remember that God created me and simply said, “It is good.”

I pray that my self worth and self esteem will no longer be based on what others think and that I will embrace that I am enough.

I pray that I am able to be in relationship with my father in a way that honors who we both are and leaves room for who we are not.

Love,

Me

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The Skin I’m In

I was called an oreo when I was growing up. In the African American community this was not a term of endearment. It didn’t refer to how sweet I was. Rather it was social nomenclature that described my perceived character. In layman’s terms this word described me as one who, though I was black on the outside, was really white on the inside. As you might imagine this was not just about color. This term and those who used it were referring to my physical appearance and my norms, behaviors and mannerisms. For some reason I was viewed as an outsider within my own community and to this day, I am teased by family and friends alike in regards to my seemingly “non-black” behavior. Truth be told, this had a devastating effect on my identity…

This way of thinking brought so many other things to mind. For one, I wondered what it meant to be black and how someone like me who comes from a black family and was raised in black neighborhoods and went to predominately black schools (even graduating from a Historically Black College & University) was seen as not “black enough”. Black history and knowing my roots was very important in my home. My mother was an educator who took seriously her role in passing down traditions, knowledge, and untold stories of our culture.

I often thought that maybe peoples’ interpretations of me were connected to my faith tradition. I was raised in the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America, which is a predominately white denomination; however the churches of my childhood were black Lutheran churches. Many friends in Texas asked if Lutherans were Christians (to this day the irony of this question makes me chuckle) and when I invited them to church they were taken aback by our worship style when compared to their Baptist/Nondenominational/traditional black denominational way of worship. But once again, even in my church community, black traditions and culture were important and uplifted.

Education was very important to my parents and I was a voracious reader. We traveled extensively during my childhood, taking a family trip every year. My parents made a point to include historic sites and cultural information on every trip. I was well spoken and well rounded, being involved in everything from academic enrichment opportunities in the summer to the requisite tap/ballet/dance trifecta. I finished high school with honors, graduating number eleven in my class of 454, was a Varsity Cheerleader, National Honor Society member, and belonged to host of other clubs and organizations.

Going to an HBCU was important to me. I wanted to be a part of an institution of higher learning that infused African American history, culture and traditions into the DNA of their curriculum. When I arrived at Spelman College in the fall of 1999, I finally felt like I found a place where I belonged. I was surrounded by intelligent, articulate, and vivacious BLACK women. But I soon realized that the world outside of our gates still viewed us as the other.

This “otherness” has been with me as long as I can remember. In my darkest hours, I’ve begun to realize the damage that was caused by those who ridiculed me for who I was, making me question my identity, my worth and my purpose. I’m now at a point in life where I fully embrace the skin I’m in. I fully embrace who I am as one who has been crafted in God’s very own image, gifted for a purpose.

My hope is people judge less and love more.

My hope is that we can broaden our perspectives on what a particular race/ethnicity/culture is like.

My hope is that we realize how damaging it is to ostracize and criticize anyone because of their individuality.

My hope is that we all can grow in love, grace and acceptance of our selves in order to fully love and accept each other.

Love,

Me

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Music Mondays: Break Away by Hunt Ft. Jae Michelle

Click here to see the powerful video for Break Away by Hunt Ft. Jae Michelle.

Abuse, bullying, drugs, alcohol, peer pressure, self esteem…

The list goes on and on and on…

Many try to ignore their reality.

Others try to be something or someone they aren’t.

So many of us who suffer from depression have also experienced one or more of these things during our childhood and youth. I love this song because it highlights some very real issues that young people face today. I also applaud artists whose music inspires… Hunt is one such hip hop artist who has continued to write powerful lyrics that capture the nature of human suffering. Check him out at http://iamhunt09.wix.com/iamhunt.

This song inspires me to continue to fight and face my demons. Maybe it will do the same for you.

Love,

Me

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The Valley of the Shadow of Death

This post was originally written by me and posted on Band Back Together, an amazing blog with resources for those dealing with mental disorders.

Depression is a bitch of a disease.

I’m sure this could be said about any number of illnesses, but depression has proven to be the thorn in my side. I fully embrace that I suffer from depression and anxiety.

This wasn’t always the case.

I always knew that something was… off… not quite right… hovering just beneath the surface. My anxiety showed itself at a very early age, through my need to be perfect, organized, neat, clean and…you name it. I was obsessed with anything outside of myself.

I’m sure this had some root in my biological parents separation, my mother and step-father’s divorce. It probably had something to do with the incest and other taboo behavior that occurred within my family. All of these traumas, coupled with genetic leanings I’m sure, led to anxiety and depression.

My depression revealed itself in other ways.

The mind is a powerful thing. I never felt like I was good enough. In fact, I knew that I was inherently bad, which I know is simply ridiculous. I never felt like I fit in or belonged – I looked for meaning in other ways. I felt like an outsider.

There were times I can vividly recall being so sad for no tangible reason. The sadness overwhelmed me. In middle school, I fantasized about killing myself. I considered slitting my wrist, but the anxiety wouldn’t let me do it:

Think of the mess it would make! Would I really be missed? Who would care? The men in my life didn’t seem to value me and life would go on.

So why not end my life?

I’m not sure why I never attempted suicide. I like to think that fear and anxiety got the best of me. Maybe it was God. That explanation brings up all sorts of other questions: why would God save me but not others who have committed suicide?

Looking back, I see that I’ve cycled; times when my depression took over. The first time I was seriously depressed was when I realized that the sexual child play and molestation was a reality; that I perpetuated this cycle within my family. I came to the realization that this was wrong during 4th or 5th grade. Then guilt took over and I lived with self-loathing, shame and anger at myself until the summer of 2010.

The next major depressive episode came about during my junior year of college. My plans and college career hadn’t gone as planned. I attended school I hated and living with a friend. This arrangement eventually led to the demise of our relationship and I couldn’t seem to get myself to go to class.

My life was falling apart.

This was the year of 2001, and September 11 hit hard. A younger cousin, who happened to be the same age as my younger brother, committed suicide.

My grandmother was sick again. Alcohol, sex and marijuana became my refuge. I flunked out of school and began a journey of wandering through the wilderness.

I moved home, unsure of what I was going to do with my life. I should’ve sought professional help as I’m sure that my mental illnesses would have been formally diagnosed. I could’ve begun the process of learning, healing, while learning to live with my mental illness.

I didn’t do that.

It took me two years to get back to feeling like myself.

In 2007-2008, I think that I had a mini depressive episode. I moved to Philadelphia for grad school and be with the man I would eventually marry and divorce.

Life was extremely difficult. I loved school and my community of friends but I hated being so far from my family. I hated the city. I hated certain aspects of my relationship and I grew resentful.

Once again, the dark cloud began to overwhelm me. But I sucked it up. I threw myself into activities, into my marriage, into school and refused to give in.

My health paid the price.

I gained 30 pounds. My blood pressure shot up. Things weren’t going well even though I’d convinced myself that I was handling it so well. The one bright spot was that I did enter counseling. Initially, it was for my marriage but it became very apparent that there were some things I needed to confront that were literally killing me.

In the summer of 2010, I moved from Philadelphia to Atlanta, having decided to separate from my husband. In August of 2011, I moved out of our apartment. In October, my grandmother died. In November, I found out my father was sick, going on disability and in need of a lung transplant that, at the time, he refused to get. My work situation was becoming untenable.

I was crushed by the weight of it all. I couldn’t get out of bed. I began to isolate myself. I slept all the time, telling people I was working from home. I didn’t clean, eat or bathe. I hit the bottom below the bottom.

That’s when it all began…

My friends recognized that something wasn’t right with me.

I was called out and surrounded by a loving community that wouldn’t take “no” for an answer. My boss gave me time off to get better. My colleagues helped develop a plan of care that included finding a therapist that specialized in depression in women and helping me pay for her services. My physician, working with my therapist, put me on course of closely monitored medications.

I came clean with my family, letting them know how I’d struggled and what was going on with my mental health. My friend, who I lovingly refer to as my “sponsor” made me a part of her family, even relinquishing her guest bedroom so that I didn’t have to be alone. She made it possible for me to put one foot in front of the other. I had a virtual community of friends that intentionally checked in on me and allowed me to share my thoughts in ways that I didn’t realize were possible. I began to take care of myself physically.

Things slowly progressed.

I embraced my reality of being a young, single black woman who struggles with depression and anxiety. Instead of hiding it or running from it or ignoring it, I embraced it. It’s a part of me. I won’t lie and say that things are all better now, but I am probably the healthiest I’ve been in a long time. I know that mental illness will be a part of my life. But it’s not all of my life.

The best thing I can do for myself is to be honest about my struggles and share my life with those who have committed to love and care for me. They’ve been with me in the valley and have showed me what it means to go from death to life.

For me, prayer, meditation, therapy, medication and other forms of self-care have created my healing. It’s my hope that others like me will know that they are not alone and though all seems hopeless to remember that someone made it.

And that means? So can you.
Love,

Me