Through my Looking Glass

Or, Letting that woman out of the dark

There are some things I’ve known about myself almost forever.

One

Years ago I tried working with the book “Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain.” The first few exercises weren’t bad, but it rapidly confirmed my life-long belief that I have no talent for the visual arts. It was just a fact. Even as a child, I was better with words.

Last winter I found myself tempted to try watercolors. After a friend received a watercolor book and supplies for Christmas, and told me how much she was enjoying it, I decided to order one for myself.

The book and paints sat on my coffee table for a month. I looked at the first few pages and immediately backed off, as though I would somehow ruin the book if I made a mark in it.

When I finally tried the initial exercises I had a sudden memory of my primary school classroom. I remembered the shelf where the readers were stored, color coded for reading levels. I remembered where I was sitting when I learned to tie my shoes. I remembered the charts of numbers and colors, and their placement in the room.

That immediate and clear memory was so strongly linked to the watercolor pencils and brush in my hand that I stopped what I was doing, and haven’t started again. I have no idea how or why, but I’m fairly sure that my conviction that visual arts are not for me, must have begun somewhere in that classroom - and it has stayed with me all my life.

Two

I’ve never been able to maintain a program of physical activity; I’ve seldom been willing to try. This one definitely goes back to childhood, to those damn presidential physical fitness tests, which some jackass of a president has apparently revived. Those red (or even white) patches might as have well said “Uncoordinated, awkward, physically UNfit in every way.”

So I spent most of my life eating cheeseburgers and pizza, and reading, because I was clearly unable to succeed at anything remotely healthy. I have made a few changes over the years, but my weight still reaches the edge of obesity. While I’ve tried walking several times, it doesn’t last long. Winter discourages it anyway, and I swear I’m too young to be a mall walker. I’ve tried gyms but...no.

Three

I’ve never been good at planning. I spent two weeks last spring trying to plan a three-day road trip.

Even when I make a plan, I never carry through. Either I give up, maybe due to fear of failure, or I simply lose interest. My friends are used to it - sudden new enthusiasms that last only a few weeks.

These three things I know about myself, and have always known. I can’t “do art.” I am too ungainly to succeed at physical activity. And when it comes to planning any improvement, I lack the logical capability, the foresight, and the follow-through to make any real change.

Wow. Putting those words on paper makes it very clear - not all of that can be true. Some came from a child so quick to learn that anything at all difficult, cognitive or physical, felt like failure. But those beliefs really got their claws in during years of depression, when I learned, taught myself - to a certainty - that I was not enough, not capable, and I never would be. However it started, it was made permanent by the false mirror of depression.

The other side of the mirror

I have recovered quickly from my recent knee surgery. My doctor and my physical therapists were surprised and pleased by my rapid progress, and they were very complimentary. But to keep improving, I’d need to set up an exercise program and follow through with it. I also needed to think about, and follow, a diabetic-friendly diet; surgery and pain can play havoc with your blood sugar, and I’d like to keep all my toes. A healthy diet was something I’d tried before, and never maintained. Ice cream and cheeseburgers always win.

Planning. Follow-through. Physical activity and healthy living (aargh). Things that have been labeled, forever, as beyond me. I anticipated defeat. I didn’t even want to start.

Then the clouds parted and the sun shone upon me. I realized I didn’t need to start new programs. I had been doing what I needed to do for months now. Successfully.

I was so concerned about having that knee replacement surgery, about recovering my mobility and independence afterward, that I had changed my usual approach to a problem.

I made a four-month plan to prepare for the surgery. I joined a gym (and actually went) in order to gain some strength. I changed my diet in the weeks before surgery, increasing fruits, vegetables, and protein. I drank the required amount of liquids, including electrolytes. And I carried through on it - not perfectly, but consistently.

I made a short-term plan to make my time of limited mobility easier. It was scattered, no detailed schedule, but by the time I actually had the surgery, my house was clean, my freezer was full of home-cooked meals, and I had stocked up on fresh fruits and vegetables.

I followed my physical therapy program and practiced what I was taught.

I had made plans and carried through. I hadn’t really thought about it; I just figured out what I needed to do, and did it. Possibly for the first time in my life.

I was dumbfounded to realize that all of the things I knew I couldn’t do, would likely fail to do yet again, I had already been doing, for months. I didn’t need to force myself into new habits - I just needed to continue what I was already doing, to maintain my success.

Who was this woman, living in my house? The woman who surprised the physical therapists by her rapid recovery? The woman who had planned so well, and followed the plan so well, that she was virtually independent within two weeks after the surgery?

It was all so unlike me. It was all so competent.

This week, at my last session of physical therapy, we created a plan for the exercises I will continue. I asked her to note which exercise affected which muscles, which were to be done daily, which could be done on alternate days, and which were most effective and should not be skipped. My plan includes walking on alternate days, slowly extending the distance, to build endurance and confidence.

Did you catch that? I have a plan. It’s clear, it’s not overwhelming, and it’s been successful for weeks already. And as the therapist reminded me - if you miss a day, or a couple of days, that’s okay. You haven’t stopped; you don’t need a new start. You just need to go back to what you were doing. You need to continue.

A few days ago I went to one of the few remaining salad bars in town. I built a large salad to go. When I got home I wrote down everything I had selected, went to the grocery store and bought everything on that list. I came home, chopped it all, and made my refrigerator into my own salad bar. I also bought fresh fruits to add to meals or eat as snacks. Surprise! I eat the food that’s in front of me. If that food is healthy, I’ll eat well. A good cheeseburger is a couple of miles away; the avocado and green salad and grapes and apples are right here.

That unprepared woman is gone, if she ever really existed. That uncoordinated girl who couldn’t follow an exercise program to save her life, who was afraid to ride the bicycle her sister gave her - she’s fading. (mostly. The fear of bikes remains).

This whole surgery and recovery process showed me something completely unexpected: success. Continuing success.

I wrote recently about the shock of finding myself to be competent at something, because I felt it to be a one-off. It just didn’t feel like me. Of all the things I don’t do, commitment tops the list.

Depression convinces you that, whatever you’d like to do, you can’t, you won’t. I never thought in terms of success, until I saw that I had already accomplished it, without even noticing. Without thinking about the potential for success, I didn’t have the opportunity to invest in my expectation of failure, to set my sights on “barely good enough.”

Once again I’m living my life in reverse; I had to achieve in order to know achievement was possible. I keep thinking I’ll never be able to do it again, because I just stumbled into it. But somehow, I know that’s not true. This has been, so far, five months of progress - major progress, the kind even I can recognize.

I don’t know how long this woman, this stranger to me, has been living in the shadows on the other side of the mirror. I’m just really, really glad she has come through to my side.

This week, I bought more fruits and vegetables. I took a walk this morning, just over a mile, with no cane. This afternoon I’m making reduced-sugar banana bread. And this weekend, no matter how intimidated I might feel by that childhood classroom, I’m doing the next watercolor exercise.