Goodbye Facebook

Dear Facebook,

You’ve introduced me to some of my closest friends, which I know sounds creepy, but in the world of adoption it truly isn’t that unusual.

In fact, social media seems the least threatening place for me to share my parenting struggles with friends, most of whom I’ve never met in person, because they live too far away to be in relationship with my children. On my blog, I’m able to mostly share my part of the struggle- the part that shares few details of my children’s behavior. With my Facebook friends, I’m able to share the other part without compromising my children’s safety or trust. Without the camaraderie of these friends, I feel as if frustration and repression would have killed me years ago.

This journey has given me an unusual sense of humor, but it hasn’t killed my need for laughter. With my Facebook friends, I can laugh at instances the majority of people would find inappropriate for discussion or would shock them into putting as much distance as possible between our family and their family. Tell me your toddler found a chair to climb on, opened the fridge, and took a bite of Daddy’s surprise birthday cheesecake and I might crack a smile. Tell me your seventeen-year-old underhandedly acquired twenty-one cheesecakes from Costco because he felt hungry for a snack and was surprised when you noticed them stored in your fridge, and I’ll cackle.

I’m sure you’re now thinking, “You can’t leave. You meet some of your closest  friends through me. You keep in touch with your old friends through me. Because of me, you realize some of your “old friends” share your current struggles. Where would you be without me?”

All of the above is true and I’m truly thankful you’ve helped me build community, Facebook, but lately the cost of logging into you seems to outweigh the benefits. As I look back through my timeline, I notice how my posts increased in intensity over twelve years time. Some of the intensity is due to my own life experiences, but, honestly, very little of it. Since your sidebar now includes a constant stream of overwhelming and discouraging news and my feed is also filled with acute posts, I can’t merely visit you to get a break while connecting with good friends like I used to. Your ads are also a distraction and I’m discouraged by their ability to drag me in and cause me to question whether or not I’m content with what I currently have.

I notice the more time I spend with you, Facebook, the less patience I have with the people closest to me and that breaks my heart.

I know you’re thinking, “Yes, but you blog, so you’re stuck with me. Without me you wouldn’t have half of the blog traffic you have. Would anyone even read your blog if it weren’t for me?”

Truthfully, I have to say I no longer care. I care that the people who will be encouraged by my writing will read it, but I don’t care about numbers of pageviews. If I decided to put my hope in numbers, I would stick with you, Facebook. I’d have to, but I know that decision would be made out of fear. For now, I’m going to trust that my friends parenting children from hard places will share my writing if they think it will be helpful to their peers. I have to remind myself that my intended audience can grow even if my overall audience shrinks dramatically.

I have to remind myself that that would be a blessing.

One of my wonderful friends (whom I have never met in person) and I were chatting the other day and I told her how now that I’ve found solid friends, I yearn to dive deeper in those friendships. I’ve even considered committing a year to write actual letters each month to a handful of friends. Why is it this feels like a special project rather than just what good friends do to share life with each other?

Please don’t think I’m going to end this letter without answering your question. As I’ve already noted, I don’t know where I’d be without the friends I’ve met through you. For that, I am grateful to you, Facebook. I don’t know how I would have met some of the most admirable and brave women I know had it not been for your initial introduction. But, I now know them. We don’t have to login to be in relationship with each other. We can call. We can email. Maybe one day we’ll be able to visit in person. With the extra time I’ll have by avoiding all you have to offer, I might even take the opportunity to write a few of those letters.

It isn’t because of you, Facebook. It’s because I’ve allowed you to become a replacement for something I desperately need. I search you and search you and can’t find the depth I’m looking for.

But depth was never your intention. You are not to blame.

I am.

And I’m ready to make a change.

Farewell,

Nicole

Let's stay in touch! You can email me at coffeecoloredsofa@gmail.com.

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Our Marriage & Complex Trauma

Matt and I met under serendipitous circumstances. During our first encounter, he awkwardly avoided eye-contact with me while conversing freely with my roommate.

Two months later, he was secretly learning Sign Language from the outdated VHS tapes he repeatedly checked from his local library. He hadn’t yet asked me out, but he knew I worked at a Deaf school and he wanted to be prepared.

He drew a map of my neighborhood and reviewed it with me prior to our first date so he wouldn’t get lost on his way to pick me up.

Twelve months after that first date, we were married.

And we have no regrets.

For the first couple of years after our children came home through adoption, Matt and I even commented that parenting our children with intense needs was bringing us closer to together, rather than driving us apart.

For almost six years now, our entire family has been impacted by the unique needs that accompany complex developmental trauma. Because we now realize our children often communicate through their behavior, we are continual “interpreters” between two of our children and the rest of the world so they are better understood, have opportunities for personal growth, and aren’t criminalized.

Our family’s lifestyle generates stares that remind us the specific supports we provide for each of our individual children are largely misunderstood. Our relationships with each member of our family is dramatically impacted by the needs of each of the other members. Two of our children need intense structure and scaffolding to succeed developmentally and emotionally. The routine we provide them with lowers their stress level so they can enjoy life and learn, and eventually, become more flexible. All the while, we must constantly problem solve so we can give our two biological children the specific attention they need to be nurtured in the wake of childhood trauma, which is no small thing.

Due to very real attachment needs, we are not able to just drop our children off with a trustworthy babysitter during their waking hours. Because two of our children are still learning to trust us and it takes a long time for them to trust other adults, either Matt or I are “on” at all times. Even when they’re sleeping, “hiring a sitter” involves divulging sensitive information for our children’s safety. It’s exhausting to brainstorm whom would be both capable of watching our sleeping children and will not exploit them with the information we must share.

We hear it’s best to put our marriage first.

We just aren’t sure how to put our marriage first... without our family falling apart.

The stakes are so high.

Two of our children go to school. For them, school is their safe place to learn and their most consistent opportunity to build relationships with trustworthy adults other than their parents.

For our two children who are home during school hours, they need to be home with a parent so they can process trauma and have space to enjoy a healthy childhood.

We are privileged to have the opportunity to so specifically care for our four children’s complex needs. Yet, beyond school, we are the only supports they have. We meet needs seen and unseen. Constantly. There aren’t predictable breaks for us. There are no retreats for mom and dad together.

And we acknowledge that if our children’s needs were not so unique and intense, we wouldn’t be desperate for respite. At one point I was homeschooling one of our children who came into our family as an older child. I explained to Matt how overwhelmed I was because I was convinced that if there were ten of me I still wouldn’t have the ability meet his specific needs. All ten of me would be overwhelmed. Matt nodded in agreement. He got it. And we found a way to keep on until he got into a school that was safe for him.

It feels as if Matt and I have been on an aircraft that’s lost cabin pressure for six years and we’ve only had one oxygen mask for the both of us.

After almost six years of struggling for oxygen and waiting our turn to breathe, it’s easy to begin to resent the other’s need for oxygen.

It’s not logical.

It’s not gracious.

We’re beyond logic and grace.

We’re desperate and we need all of our energy to survive.

His need for oxygen is a threat to my very existence.

My need for oxygen is a threat to his.

We love each other.

We belong together.

And we’re barely hanging on.

Can you relate? Join the Conversation, here,

on Facebook, and on Twitter.


FYI: I should have mentioned that Matt and I read this post together and were both excited about me posting it. In fact, processing our experience together has been helpful for us to work through our individual experiences.

Seeking Solitude in the Digital Age

Had I not accepted an unusual challenge during my senior year of college, I doubt I’d be currently aware of how my heart longs for quiet.

The challenge was to choose a spiritual discipline I’d never intentionally practiced before and find a way to observe it for one week.

The list included disciplines I was well acquainted with, such as prayer, fasting, and meditation. As I read on, I began to wonder if there was a spiritual discipline unfamiliar to me. When I read “Solitude” I honestly had to admit I didn’t even know what practicing solitude meant. All I could picture was living in the wilderness, wearing a brown robe cinched with a rope, and making my own butter.

The whole idea seemed highly impractical, but I do love a challenge.

The year was 2001. At the time, I owned a cell phone but for emergencies only. Because it seemed like such a novelty, I constantly told myself it cost $220 per minute to use (which it might have because I was most definitely roaming where I went to school) so it just took up space in my purse. The internet was up and running, but when writing research papers one still needed to cite real books. Email had become a thing, yet my friends and I utilized it to write each other letters. Upon receiving an email, I would print it out and save it in a special shoebox where I also kept my handwritten notes from friends and family. While I owned a television, I didn’t purchase cable, so I could really only use the VCR unless I wanted to watch something badly enough to get the tin foil out and begin problem solving to make our antenna work. AOL Instant Messenger was new and, on occasion, I would chat with a few friends who had it. LOL was the only initialism I recall ever reading, and I never once used it myself.

When I decided to practice solitude I knew I needed to set guidelines for myself. At the time, I lived off campus and had a week where I was staying alone. My classes were scheduled on Tuesdays and Thursdays and I was only taking a few credits as I had already met most of my graduation requirements. With this schedule, I realized I could avoid contact with people five out of seven days. I also chose to eliminate listening to any music, watching any screens, and any use of the phone. Having completed all of my final papers, I had already packed my computer up and sent it home. Therefore, I had no internet. Believe it or not, while I didn’t make a rule for this, I also don’t remember reading nonfiction books.

Given I spent most of my time alone that week, and that I had been struggling with loneliness going into the week, one might wonder what I did with my time.

I still wonder that. I remember reading, journaling, cooking, and cleaning. I remember life becoming peaceful, my heart becoming light, and time passing fast.

Toward the end of the week, I was surprised to realize I was no longer lonely. In fact, I wanted to find a way to extend my week of solitude. My heart had found the very quiet it needed. Which was the quiet I had been robbing myself of out of fear- the quiet I usually spent my hours distracting myself from.

Human connections are imperative for all of us. Yet, when I deny myself of solitude, my relationships suffer. I’m too scattered to listen and respond well.

Social media and email are tools, and in order to use them to enhance connections, I need to set the rules.

I don’t want to live distracted by ads, text notifications, social media, and email.

At this point in my life, a week of solitude seems nearly impossible. Still, I know I need to make some changes to quiet my heart. Last week, I made a social media schedule for myself. According to this schedule, I should not be on social media during one minute I would otherwise be spending with my children. I also purchased an ancient word processor to write on so I’m focused during time I’ve chiseled out for writing.

I took these measures after hearing my three-year-old ask me three times before his words began to register, “Mommy, are you listening to me?”

He shouldn’t have to wonder.

My life is complicated enough. At times I am distracted by weighty matters that seem like threats to my family’s well-being. With or without social media, there will always be times I have difficulty being present for my loved ones.

I do have the power to limit distractions.

When I am brave enough to use that power, I’m free to carve out fragments of quiet I once believed were unobtainable as a parent.

As a result, I’m more present with my loved ones- something our hearts mutually desire.

Can you relate? Join the Conversation, here,

on Facebook, and on Twitter. Also, remember, I’m scheduling posts and responding when I can give you my full attention too!

Unintentionally a Spectacle

Photo Found Here

Disclaimer:  I am both frugal and modest, and I’m learning that sometimes in attempt to live out one of these ideals, I sacrifice the other.

You know those articles titled something like, “You probably have a Serious Mental Health Issue if you Wear Pajamas All Day”? When those pop into my Facebook feed, I close the window. Immediately.

Because, while I make no attempt to hide the fact that I DO have issues, I’m happiest while wearing my pajamas.

However, a few months ago, I looked in the mirror and my pajama-clad self looked back at me and I finally saw what Matt had been telling me he’d been seeing for months- a lot of skin. The yoga-type pants I had purchased during college (and had continued to wear to sleep for over fifteen years), possessed the appearance of sheer pantyhose. Cheap sheer pantyhose. [You know, like the kind you purchase when the only store you can find is a dollar store and you end up buying four pairs, because you can’t get into the first three pairs without destroying them.] What had begun as a practical attempt to purchase one item I could both covertly wear to class and to sleep, had fifteen years later ended in me being inappropriate in front all the neighborhood high school and college boys (and their parents)!

You may be wondering why I didn’t just believe Matt in the first place. I would have if I had understood his meaning. Matt and I have been married for over a decade, but occasionally he uses his Southern manners and I miss his meaning altogether.

For instance, “It may be time to toss those pants,” was interpreted by me as, “Those pants are no longer attractive,” NOT, “You’re basically naked and you taking the trash out wearing those things is giving the neighborhood kids nightmares. We might have to pay for their therapy.”

Embarrassed, I decided that while I did not think wearing pajamas all day was a sign of depression for me, I HAD hit a new low.

Sometimes I want to laugh out loud when people ask me what I’m currently doing for self-care or about when I get “Me Time.” It’s not that I find these things unimportant. It’s just that I went from having one to having four children in about eighteen months time. Each of these children has very specific needs. Many of their individual needs contrast what their siblings need (and what their parents need). My life is basically a song and dance that results in our family not imploding. [Succeeding beyond “not imploding” isn’t something I’ve had a moment to consider yet.]

What I was realizing through the pants incident is if I wanted to treat others the way I treat myself, I could basically punch others in the face. If I wanted to treat others the way I wanted to be treated, I’d have to take a weekend off to figure out how I wanted to be treated. I was too exhausted to even know.

As if Matt could read my thoughts, he provided me with a weekend away. It was a monumental gift given the intense needs in our house and I didn’t take it lightly.

During that weekend, I came up with a pants plan that didn’t stress me out because plans that stress me out only add to the problem. The plan was simple:  I asked my family to purchase nice pajama pants for me as a birthday gift. I even gave specific direction:  Read the reviews. Make sure they’re cotton. Make sure they’re preshrunk.

The sheer pants quickly revealed more than my legs. Because of the sheer pants, I realized I needed to ask for help. So, I asked for pants AND time for myself for my birthday, and my amazing husband found a way to make both happen.

I guess the lesson I’m learning is that if I want to better know how I should treat others, first I need to get space to know how I want to be treated. [tweet this]

And while neglecting my family is not okay, neither is being naked in front of the neighbors.

Schooled by Burger King

Background:  Two of our children go to public school. Our other two stay home with me. One, I homeschool. Our other child is three. We haven’t deeply considered his formal education yet (which is highly unusual and suspicious where we live). Also, I have stronger feelings than most about nutrition.

Source

One morning a couple weeks ago, I woke up at 8:15, disoriented.  I immediately called Matt to see what was wrong. While he does take all four children on the school drop off routine each morning, he’s usually home before 8.

Matt answered his phone, sounding chipper. “I’m at Burger King, eating breakfast with the kids. We’ll be home in about 45 minutes.”

I burst into tears and mumbled goodbye.

When Matt came home, he approached me warily, as if we’d just met and he was trying not to completely blow it.

“Thank you!” I exuded.

“Whew! I couldn't tell on the phone if those were happy tears or if you were upset that I was feeding the kids fast food,” he said, obviously relieved.

“I was so happy! I couldn’t imagine a better gift. Thank you!” [Again, I said this blubbering and barely understandable.]

The honest truth is that, years ago, I WOULD have cried because my husband had made the poor (and, possibly, unforgivable) decision to feed our children fast food. Sadly, at the time, I was more concerned about meeting my parenting ideals than I was about recognizing and accepting Matt’s gift. When I look back on it, he has rarely (if ever) given the kids fast food out of convenience for himself.

When he takes the kids out to eat spontaneously, he’s trying to help me, and he’s doing it to say, “Thank you.” “I love you.” “I appreciate you.” “I couldn’t do what you do.”

He takes the children out because he wishes he could give me a week away at a spa (or at a nice hotel with a huge library- which would be far better than a spa for me). That gift is highly impractical for a variety of reasons in our family, so he does what he CAN do and I’m finally learning to appreciate it.

I’m trying to embrace a new-for-me concept:  

Lowering the Bar (a lot)

+

Gratitude (a lot)

=

Healthier, Happier Me

With me healthier and happier, our entire family is more relaxed.

The truth is, our family has complex needs* and we cannot handle any non-essential stress. [tweet this] Me unnecessarily adding stress weakens us. Even though I still do not personally think Burger King sausage patties are a healthy way to start the morning, I'll admit, our children are healthier consuming those sausage patties than they are being consumed by my heightened stress level.

However, those sausage patties did lead to intestinal problems that were not exactly calming.

I am thankful for learning an important lesson from Burger King, but, in an effort to give me a peaceful morning not followed by an afternoon and evening of sick children, Matt will likely be patronizing a local diner the next time he wants to surprise me with a quiet morning to myself.

*Our family's complex needs began with adoption. However, the honest truth is adoption quickly exposed our individual weaknesses and THAT is where most of the complexity comes in.

This post was originally published March 1, 2016