What is Motivation?

My client/boss asked me today

In my late teens/twenties, I had a goal. Maybe you could call it a motivation. Because my education got all kinds of fucked up, and then senior year I was able to connect a few dots. That’s a longer story.

At that point, I decided that I would do whatever I could to encourage other kids that if I could do it despite the lack of encouragement around me. I did that. My mid 30’s I realized I had accomplished that goal several times over. Then I decided I’d live my life for myself. I had poured out everything nurturing to boost those kids self esteem.

Then I was okay, still struggling with motivation and C-PTSD. As well as depression, GAD, and being undiagnosed Autistic (that will be changing come Wednesday).

I achieved my goal. I didn’t really find a new one. And now, at 50, I’m just floating on the water. I’ve worked toward my MLIS, but I’m stuck having to pay for my last fuckup. Then I have one semester left to finish it. But for now, I’m going to apply to SNHU (rolling admission) for a MFA in writing.

I was on track to get stuff going and then last weekend happened and my survival mode dial got turned all the way to 10. I’m coming back down from that level. I got past the dramatics of the situation and now I can get back down to a more manageable level.

But I still lack motivation.

I’m back! And I’m exhausted.

Man, I’ve been away too long… but I’m back. I guess I needed to gather my thoughts and just take a break.

One thing that has become clearer for me in recent months is that the reason I seem to excel at furniture assembly is because of my two strongest learning styles: visual and tactile.
Show me a video of something and I can recreate it.
Tell me how to do something and I flail.
Hand me a thing to deconstruct or construct and I figure it out.
Assembly feeds my tactile skills the most. IKEA’s instructions are all visual, so that utilizes that skill.
But where, in a world that becomes more and more automated each passing day, does someone like me fit in? The person who loves working with her hands.

Earlier, I had the thought that I was born in the wrong time period and gender. I should have been a Renaissance Man back in the day.

And maybe I was one in a past life.

But right now, I’m a woman in an awkward situation. Unable to fit into the mold society tells me to fit into, but unsure of how to make my mark in this very society and make a living so I’m not dependent on others.

I get comments and compliments from clients about how they’re impressed with my reviews and (the female clients especially) that I’m a woman (and disabled at that) doing furniture assembly in a society and culture where this -working with tools- is a male-dominant field.

But I can’t make this my whole income. Even if it did pick up more. My back won’t bear it. I love doing it; but it kills me physically. After bigger jobs, like the one tomorrow, I’ll need a day or two with nothing or very little going so I can recover.

I’m this misfit in society.

---

I’ve been struggling lately. I still haven’t gotten a steady job. And it’s taking its toll.

I can’t go back to the shelter. It’ll kill me. I’m going to try to negotiate a deal to stay. I have nowhere else I can go.

I’ll come back to posting here more.

For now, I figured this would be a good intro back to blogging…

~A

3/25: Disjointed #poetry

Standing
People pass me, sometimes
Bumping into me.
Am I here? Do I exist?
The sidewalk is not overly
Crowded.
I must be invisible.

Walking
Careful to not be followed.
Do I feel safe?
Where is my stun gun?
Just leave me be.
Fake window shopping.
Make the guy be ahead of me.
I must keep my eyes on
Him.

Running
Fear. Am I late?
Why do I run?
My legs give out.
My lungs give up.
What is it that I fear?

Dreaming
I must fight the
Darkness of my past.
I long to be free of fear and
Pain.
I have whiplash from always looking
Over my shoulder.
Make the pain stop.
Leave me be.

~A

3/25: Being Disabled

Today, when I arrived at Central City Concern’s EAC (Employment Access Center), my case manager asked for my opinion on something. See, they’ve adapted some access points of the center to accommodate disabled folks like me, but it’s an older building and they haven’t gotten everything. They do have a small single wheelchair elevator to go down to the basement workspace, and the front door has an automated button system, but to access the computer area off the lobby, there are two steps up. And then three steps up to get to another area. I have a walker (while I love my cane, when it comes to back injuries, walkers are better because you aren’t contorting your body to use it).

So he asked me what I would suggest. I told him that small ramps could replace the steps and that they might have to be a little longer than the steps take, but it would be more ADA compliant. He had me write this up on a suggestion form and he turned it in.

Why have I mentioned this? Because hearing the opinions and voices of those who aren’t part of the norm of society is something that doesn’t happen often. Since I first hurt my back at 17, I’ve seen and experienced a disconnect from society. We are either invisible, dismissed, second class citizens… you name it.

And it sucks.

For years, even up until about 6 or 7 years ago, I wouldn’t consider myself disabled. I had my back injury and countless other injuries and health issues, but I rarely classified myself as disabled. In part because of how I was treated at 18 at the first community college I attended. They were horrendous to disabled students. Being kicked out of music classes, dismissed for needing assistance, you name it. Their DSRC was a joke. A tiny office barely big enough to hold two desks. No testing areas, nothing. The frustration was palpable.

I now live in Portland, which has a sizable disable population. I now own the label. With my back getting reinjured (twice) and more and more injuries and such added to the list (along with mental health fuckery), I have come to accept the label as part of who and what I am. But just because I’m in a city with a large disabled population, doesn’t mean everything is wonderfully accessible.

There are many apartment buildings and houses I could never live in. Too many stairs and no accessibility. Granted, if I ever had the money to buy a house, I’d hopefully be able to remodel it for accessibility. I can climb occasional stairs as needed, but I couldn’t live somewhere with lots of them.

My case manager asked me today because I had my walker. Because I have to lift it up to get past those two or three steps. If it isn’t loaded down, which it usually isn’t, then that’s okay. Anything more than what I had today would be too much weight.

One other area, and I may expand on this another time, is how the equipment we use is not treated properly. Service Dogs are the main focus with this issue. SD’s are there to help their handlers function within society’s parameters. My PTSD is easily triggered by a person, usually male, sitting or standing too close to me. Having a trained dog with me would help assure that space around me would be maintained for my mental healthiness. Same for other working dogs. They are working, helping their handlers gain their independence from other people. Freedom to do things others find normal, easy tasks without the need for a person to always be there to help. That’s all anyone asks.

But there are far too many people claiming their untrained pet dogs are SD’s, when they are not. There are a number of reasons these are a bad idea. They can show aggression toward other dogs, even Service Dogs, attacking them or humans. This can potentially ruin an SD and this then restricts the freedom once again of the handler. Again, I may likely expand on this in it’s own post.

Our society has long dismissed those who are disabled (among other groups). We typically aren’t seen as equals who can contribute just as much to society as able-bodied/minded people can. Sure there have been some outliers such as Stephen Hawking, but he was known in his field before he was diagnosed with ALS. But for many of us, we are seen more as a burden on society.

All we want is to be treated as equals and be given the chance to contribute to society like everyone else.

~A

3/24: The Void

Pull back from the edge.
Is anyone listening?
Another star burns out.
Too brilliant for common life.

Exist, to what end?
Scream at the void.
As others walk by.
No one sees them as valuable.

Can anyone hear?
Anything other than their own egos?
The void replies with silence.
Choose to move on.

Will anyone bother?
Does anyone care?
The star is now removed from existence.
The void is content.

~A
(If you are considering suicide, please, please, please reach out for help. A friend of mine took his own life this weekend. He fell between the cracks of society and was never properly cared for by modern medicine. Death is permanent.)

2/7: Melancholy #poetry

Sabotage.
On edge.
Permanently damaged goods.
Just too much pain.

Breathe.
Why now?
Make it stop.
Please help me survive.

Tired.
Always on.
Brain wired wrong.
I need a break.

Broken.
No matter.
Need to heal.
Do I fit anywhere?

********
I’m all melancholy right now. Frustration with my own health and job hunt. Trying to get through school as well. Today I finally got a formal diagnosis of PTSD and GAD. These explain a lot. I feel like things aren’t coming together like I, and those around me, had thought they would by now. Like I’m falling apart all over again. This is partly why I’ve been so quiet lately. Poetry just isn’t forming so much of late.

Bear with me as I fight to reclaim the ground I lost climbing out of my own personal abyss.

~A

1/29: The Questions #poetry

The Questions

Where along the way
Did I take the fork in the road?
Paths crossing others’ journeys.
Illuminated briefly.

When did I start scaling walls?
Stepping on myself
Just to reach the other side.
Inflicting pain.

Why leave behind so many?
Burning bridges that refused to burn.
I cannot be for everyone
What I need myself.

What do I do now?
The one within tires easily.
She wants success but
Peace more so.

How must I balance myself?
I am not what I once was.
The pieces shattered.
Some beyond repair.

What am I now?
No longer The Child.
Never The Mother.
Too young to be The Crone.

My path is wide.
Too wide. Too much.
But to narrow it, I must
Sacrifice part of who I am.

That will not do.

~A

1:27: Moss and Ivy #poetry

Ancient stone wall
Crossing the path before me.
Fog enveloping the trees
Along the way.

I climb over.
The moss making my hand slip.
Another hurdle done.
The fog is magic.

I glance back and the wall of fog
Makes the wall vanish.
Did it ever exist?
Or just in my mind.

Each step is treacherous.
Loose stones and tree roots cross my path.
Moss and ivy hide the undergrowth
Flowers strangled, desperate for light.

Another stone wall.
Taller than the last.
I see sunlight over the top.
Unable to reach me.

There is a way.
Must be.
Buried under moss and ivy.
The answer waits.

~A

1/14: The Void (first #poetry)

Standing in the middle.
Never enough.
Sometimes too much.

Where do I sit?
When the table is full.
And no one sees me.

The outcast who sees more.
More than the box.
More than the road ahead.

I am not the help.
But I am also not the boss.
I am in the middle.

Waiting to be seen.
When those who matter
Look up from their meal.

The emptiness of space
Separates me from them.
I cannot hear their words.

The vacuum silences the critic.
It also silences the muse.
Space envelopes the vacuum.

Scream into the void.
Yet I hear nothing in return.
Not even my own voice.

I see them at the table.
All the same. All puppets.
The strings tangled together.

The puppeteer enveloped by the void.
Unseen but there.
The puppets think they have control.

I hold my own strings.
No one owns me.
No one controls me.

The table remains full.
I wish to sit, but
Not to be controlled.

I remain in the middle.
Holding my own strings.
Outside the box.

1/2/19: Perceptions

In the past, I’ve mentioned the relationship my dad and I had before he passed away in 2014. One of the things that I found interesting while typing up the previous post with Disheveled is how I was and am seen compared to how I was back when I was heavily involved in my music.

I stopped playing piano in 2007 and singing in public in 1998. Piano because I had this fear instilled in me when I was little by my mother about playing where others could hear me. I was about 4 and figured out the melody to the Star Spangled Banner by myself. And I was damn proud of that. So, I played it every chance I got, which was a lot. My mother, who was trained herself, could have come over and taught me how to control my volume by how hard or soft I hit the keys. But she didn’t. I’d get about 4 or 5 notes in and from wherever she was in the house, she’d yell, “STOP PLAYING THAT SONG!!!”

Fear instilled. I had moments where I was specifically performing later on and I was fine, but over the years, I grew increasingly self-conscious about others hearing me play. In 1997, I stopped. A year later, I stepped away from choirs and what little solo singing I did because of a couple of factors: one was that same fear. The other was my health. I kept getting sick and couldn’t figure out why. Eventually, I did. We were dealing with an extensive roof leak at my parent’s house and black mold formed (although my dad and sister denied it was there. I’m hyper-sensitive to it) in the attic crawlspace. Living there while working on my BA down the street (quite literally, as we lived right behind CSUH/CSUEB) was wreaking havoc on my vocal chords. A few years ago, I was diagnosed with VCD (Vocal Chord Dysfunction). It took years and then visiting the house after dad died to get to that diagnosis.

Before he died, I got into a conversation with him about getting back into at least playing piano and wanting to save up for one. He was (quietly) over the moon. He was never one for showing much emotion. Somewhere in my blog posts, I tell the full story, but I ended up asking him why he was so excited that I wanted to get back to it. His words:

You were so positive and happy when you were involved in music. I want to see you that way again.

-My dad in 2014

And then I look at some of my really old poetry from while I was still singing and playing. I’ve always thought I wasn’t one for wearing a mask in society. That I always showed who I am, not what others wanted to see. But in a way, I did wear one. I re-read old poetry and stuff of mine and see some anger and depression, all during a time when I was seen as this happy, upbeat person.

Another recent thing involves a meme I posted recently on FB about the Greek words for different types of love. I was reminded of a nickname a friend of mine gave me when our church group was studying them in some setting. “Agape Amanda.” For Agape Love. Love of everyone.

And then I look at my poetry. Dude, what did people see that I didn’t? While Disheveled is a bit more recent than the early 90’s, I do have similar stuff where I was angry at the world for treating me differently for walking with a cane (and not in a good way). Depressed for similar reasons. I was dealing with a lot of different things back then. I still am. Some of them are different than the ones then, but the emotions are still the same. Maybe now I’m more true to who I am in what I show. I can’t hide behind the mask forever.

~A