Trying to Stay Afloat

True to my promise in the "Diving In" post three weeks ago, I've started private swimming lessons at my local YMCA. So far, I've survived two lessons without drowning or hyperventilating (success!), and I'm slowly becoming more skilled and less fearful. 

The first hurdle was getting up super-early for my 8 AM Saturday lessons. I mean, I'm used to getting up early (5:30 AM) for work during the week, but Saturday during the past year had become my lazy day to eat breakfast in bed while watching a morning movie. Now I'm up and in the pool before I know it (I suppose there's some benefit to that when you're as neurotic as I am), before my mind has fully engaged to warn me about the potential danger of being a non-swimmer in a huge pool.

For the first lesson two weeks ago, I met my instructor Nancy for the first time when she blew into the locker room like a tornado (a sweet, friendly tornado, though) and introduced herself as I fumbled with my swim cap and goggles. It was approximately 7:50, but she was ready to go, ushering me into the colder-than-expected water before my scheduled lesson. I wasn't sure what to expect after being told in advance she was 72 years old, but I knew I was in trouble when I saw her impressive physical conditioning and learned that she's a personal trainer who also teaches karate and tai chi.

We started off with some water aerobics (which she also teaches), as she grabbed my hands and helped me walk through the water to become more comfortable with moving in it. Then she asked me to put my face, and later my entire head, in the water to blow bubbles. Next, we moved on to practicing proper kicking technique (with body lifted, core engaged, and legs unbent) while holding on to the edge of the pool. Then it was on to arm positions and eventually putting all three together. 

Finally, after 45 minutes of what was supposed to be a 30-minute session, I limped out of the pool, completely exhausted, while telling myself that I MUST return the following week for more torture. I'd come too far to give up.

Trying to make this fierce foe a friend...

I did indeed return for a second session last week after psyching myself up to be fearless enough to willingly do anything she asked of me, no matter how scary. There are times when you need to turn off your brain and just let your body do what it needs to do. (I learned that when skydiving two months ago!)

So I willingly stepped back into the pool for more water torture fun and improved slightly in floating, kicking, and moving through the water while holding on to a kickboard. I didn't know what I was getting myself into, however, as Nancy had a surprise for me when I (somehow) ventured down to the deeper end and was instructed to do 10 chin-ups on a pair of handlebars hanging above the pool. Having placed myself (literally) completely in her hands, I did as I was told, continuing with three more sets of 10 reps each time I made it down there. (I didn't think too much about the chin-ups afterwards, figuring that it was just an added bonus of having a swimming instructor who doubled as a personal trainer, until I awoke the next day feeling as if my upper body had been run over by a tractor-trailer. My arms and abs were seriously, agonizingly sore for the next three days!)

When I finished the second session, I asked Nancy if I was hopeless; thankfully, she assured me that she's very hopeful I'll progress, though I politely declined to meet her twice weekly for lessons. I don't think my body could handle it! 

(And yes, I will return my fearful fearless self to the pool this Saturday. I promise!)

Jeanie's Book Club

This past weekend I reread Jeannette Walls's disturbingly brilliant memoir The Glass Castle with a mixture of horror and page-turning fascination. It's the literary equivalent of a proverbial trainwreck from which you can't turn away yet can't continue looking comfortably without feeling your guts twist in response to the wreckage.

Despite having an intact nuclear family, Walls had the mother of bad childhoods...literally and figuratively. And, in fact, it's Walls's (likely) mentally-ill mother, Rose Mary, who has understandably garnered the most flak (to use a mild term) from readers, even more than Jeannette's severely alcoholic, chronically unemployed father, Rex. It was the combination of both parents's personal issues, though, that resulted in this almost unbelievable (and indeed some readers question its veracity) tale of extreme poverty, hunger, rootlessness, bullying, and neglect.

Many of these horrific details from her formative years had faded from my memory after I read it for the first time approximately four or five years ago, but I remembered that it gripped me, forcing me to turn page after page with growing repulsion for these sick, neglectful parents who were too awash in their own considerable problems to properly care for four children. (If ever there was an argument that some people aren't fit to be parents, here's solid evidence.) 

As the children grew older, they realized they'd have to fend for themselves to survive, rummaging in garbage cans for food that wasn't available at home, working to earn money as young teens to support the family, which their parents often refused to do, and once they realized life as they knew it would never get better (there would be no "glass castle" that Jeannette's father had promised to build), they plotted their escape to a home of their own in New York City.

Once I finish reading a book, I usually scour the Internet to check other readers' reviews. I always wonder if anyone else shares my thoughts of the book or if I was too swayed by my emotional interpretation to see it objectively (that often seems to be the case). With this memoir, other readers overwhelmingly shared my disgust for both parents, but especially for the mom who, whether mentally ill, immature, unmaternal, or just completely self-absorbed, was more attentive to her artistic pursuits than to her children's needs.

Jeannette Walls and her mother, Rose Mary.

(Ilona Szwarc for The New York Times)

While Googling, I was also very surprised to find out from recent news articles that not only do the author and her mother have a close relationship today, but Jeannette has allowed her formerly-homeless-by-choice mother to live in a small house on her property to ensure her safety. (Her father died in 1994.) As an adult, she has become more of a parent to her mother than her mother was to her as a child. More than forgiving her mother for the horrible childhood she endured, she accepts her, according to a New York Times article, as she is. She also chooses to focus on the benefits of overcoming a miserable childhood, which taught her independence, self-sufficiency, the value of hard work, and an appreciation for all that she has now. 

I truly admire the grace that she's extended towards both parents (which, to me, is as equally compelling as her childhood horrors) and her courage in telling her story fairly, honestly, and without malice. In the end, I realize it doesn't really matter what readers think of her parents, particularly her mother. Her childhood was hers, and the choice to forgive is hers alone. Ultimately, she is the winner for it.

Today's Deep Thoughts

I usually reserve my blog for my own assorted ramblings, but there are (many) times when someone else writes a sentence or passage so much more brilliantly and eloquently than I could that I can't help but gape in awe and, once I've recovered my senses, want to share it with others. So, in that spirit:

"I wish I'd known from the beginning that I was born a strong woman. What a difference it would have made! I wish I'd known that I was born a courageous woman; I've spent so much of my life cowering. How many conversations would I not only have started but finished if I had known  I possessed a warrior's heart? I wish I'd known that I'd been born to take on the world; I wouldn't have run from it for so long, but run to it with open arms."

~ Sarah Ban Breathnach, Something More: Excavating Your Authentic Self

Diving In

After a brief respite to catch my breath and calm what's left of my nerves, I've decided to take my next (literal) plunge: swimming lessons! 

Yes, it's true, this 31-year-old cannot swim, not even a single lap. I can't doggy paddle, I can't stick my face underwater, and God only knows if I can float. And it's not just that I can't...it's that I'm afraid to try. (There it is again, my old nemesis, fear, dropping in to hamper my enjoyment of life.) 

In some ways, I suppose it's natural. I wish, of course, that I'd learned to swim at a very young age, as most people do, when I was far less neurotic and self-conscious than I am now. Because that fear doesn't go away. It builds up on the heels of each bad water experience (flailing in the deep end, being embarrassingly singled out as the lone non-swimmer in high-school gym classes, diving into a pool and having my eyes, ears, nose, and mouth flooded with water, and so on and so forth), eventually taking on a life of its own that has kept me away from pools and other bodies of water. (You can bet I stayed safely along the Pacific Ocean shore during my 2005 trip to Ft. Lauderdale.)

The inspiration to finally tackle this fear is twofold:

1. It's a continuation of this year's personal quest to better myself, to conquer fear, and do things I never dreamed possible. I've spent far too much time over the years lamenting my inability to swim and feeling excluded from something that so many other people seem to enjoy.
2. Spending nearly a week in my sister's pool (while anxiously clutching an inflatable inner tube) and watching my super-swimmer nephew gleefully dive in approximately 100 times a day is sufficient motivation for me to  join the party next summer, hopefully impressing them with my newly-learned swimming skillz.

Next summer's mission: to cast off the inflatables and swim from end to end of the pool!

My Happiness Project

I think I started my own "happiness project" at the start of this year without realizing that's what I was doing. 

True, it's not formal, detailed, or planned month-by-month, but even before reading Gretchen Rubin's best-selling book about her own one-year self-improvement scheme, I began setting similar goals for myself in 2013. Like Rubin, I'm looking deep within myself to discover who I am, what I want, what makes me happy, what's important to me, and which areas of my life would benefit from change.

This year has been all about personal growth, focusing on complete well-being (physical, spiritual, emotional, and intellectual health), stepping beyond my previous self-imposed limitations, and conquering fear in all its crippling forms. As a result, I've taken unprecedented risks, I've grown, I've matured, I've improved my health, and I feel like a better, happier, stronger, more complete version of myself. 

I've gone skydiving (seriously, I still can't believe I did that...), I've started this blog, I've attended workshops, I've amped up my workouts, I've cleaned up my diet, I've tried several new recipes, I've begun making my own food, I've read dozens of good books, I've watched several thought-provoking films, I've treated myself to countless "artist dates," and I've allowed myself to splurge on stylish, flattering clothing, music CDs from some of my favorite artists, healthier food, and better-tasting coffee.

I'm growing, changing, and learning to love myself, one improvement at a time. My own happiness project, begun this year, should, ideally, last the rest of my life. January 2013 was merely the genesis.