If you can’t finish that phrase don’t get all nasty gutter thinking up in your noggins.  I’m talking about Mr. Poppin Fresh.  The Pillsbury Doughboy.    Dang Darn Adorable piece of Doughboy meat that doesn’t stand more than 8 and 3/4 of an inch tall.  CUTE!

And he made my day today.  More specifically, a surprise gift from a resident at work made my day today.  It’s funny how it sometimes doesn’t take much. Or, rather, something so small really amounts to something really big and perfectly timed and a complete game changer.

This resident didn’t know that I had had a really bad day.  She didn’t know I had spent the first half of my day crying.  She doesn’t know about the recent life changing events in my life and doesn’t know much about me at all.  Until a week ago, most of them didn’t talk to me.  But now I am here at the desk every day when she gets home from work.  And we have something strangely in common.  She is back to work for the first time in a long time.  This week.  She was very nervous and very excited and every day I ask her how her new job is going.  And we have talked a little.  She is quiet about why she was out of work, but I suspect it was unforeseen and possibly health related.  I told her I too, am just back to work.  This is my first job being out of work for a while.  “So you understand what its like, then,” she says to me.  “Oh, yes,” I respond.  There is a silent bond for a split second.

She has picked up a job with General Mills.  And she is fascinated with the offices, the set up.  She talks about the Caribou Coffee and the food joints all right there.  She talk about the store there where they have discounted food and some fun merchandise too!  She mentions pajama bottoms that say Wheaties and the ones that have the Pillsbury Doughboy all over them.  And I say, “no?!! I love the Pillsbury Doughboy!!!”

“Do you?” she asks.  Then I tell her about my Kitchen.  Yes.  I have a Doughboy kitchen.  I have always wanted one.  I denied myself for a very long time.  I thought it wasn’t a very adult or professional thing . . .  especially since I already had one room in my house dedicated to silliness:  my beloved rubber ducky bathroom.  But my mother, fun room enabler (she threw me over the ducky fence) gifted me with the most amazing cookie jar, salt and pepper shakers, tea pot . . .   years ago she started it just with pot holders.  She’s so bad!

The kitchen is still a work in progress, but I have some very cute things.  The kitchen is painted blue and ready to be ready.  And in my mind I have a Pillsbury Doughboy Kitchen.  And this resident thinks that’s hysterical and great.  She asks what I have, cus they have stuff at the store there.  I tell her what I have and she is impressed.  She says she’ll keep an eye out for me.  I tell her I’m not really in a position to be buying, but we both agree that you never know what might be there, so it doesn’t hurt to look!

So today, of all days, she comes . . .  I ask how her day is.  She had a better day today, not as hectic.  I grab her mail for her and she has a package in the pack room.  I leave to go get that for her and as I come back and place the package on the counter there is this tiny adorable Mr. Poppin Fresh refridgerator magnet sitting there.  He’s holding a pie!!!  and smiling really big!!  and I gotta tell you, so did I.  Lit up like Christmas.  And I probably giggled.  And grabbed it and held it up to my nose like a stupid little girl and told her she had no idea how she just made my whole week . . .

And I have to say, I am moved beyond words.  I really hope my mind can remember a thank you card for her tomorrow.  I really want to extend a gesture for this.  For her gesture was so meaningful for me.  The magnitude and layers are not lost on my injured processing self.  She has been out of work and hasn’t even received a paycheck yet and makes a selfless, silly purchase for the front desk attendant?  A front desk attendant who, until this very moment was pretty sure most people that lived in this building didn’t remember her name, let alone like her enough to remember a conversation regarding her Pillsbury Doughboy kitchen!!  BUT, most assuredly would NOT think to spend a thought, let a lone a dime, of theirs outside of the two seconds they see her a day to pick up their mail.

These people have made me cry for feeling small and insignificant countless times . . . and this woman, on a day I very badly needed to feel . . . not invisible, came through shiningly.

Mr. Poppin Fresh is hanging out in the top corner of my computer, smiling at me with that wide eyed excitement.  I think every time I look at him I will remember the way this lady made me feel today.  I actually think Mr. Poppin Fresh’s face says it all!

Today during my horrendous vocational rehabilitation testing I did have the opportunity to take a test that didn’t make me cry.  I suppose there are things that I should be thankful for.  Early in the day I sat down with COPS  Self Interpretation Interest Inventory Guide.  An assessment on the professional areas of interests to better direct you in your career search.

The test may not have made me cry, but the results were entirely frustrating.  WHAT A WASTE OF MY TIME!!!  Ugh.  I know, I just sound like I have a bad attitude.  Right?  Well, maybe I do.  But this test did not tell me anything I did not already know.  I know where my interests lie.  It did not tell me anything of value.  I spent an hour answering questions.  And at the end of the day, the lady returns with a booklet with a spreed sheet in it that she had worked out all the questions that I had answered meaning that I had this number and this number and blah blah blah.  Bottom line:  Here were the areas of most interest.  She then says, look over the following pages to see the careers that fit into those areas and see if any grab your attention.

Well . . . .

first off, on average people usually score in the 75th percentile in 2 or 3 categories.   I scored in 6.  Thanks for norrowing it down booklet!

Second . . .  I scored highest in consumer economics, business, communications, and arts.  REALLY???!!!  BIG SURPRISE!!  I would never have guessed that.

Third . . . this is what I would be happy doing.  What I might WANT to do.  not what I can do.  Dont put this on me the first day.  I am here, because I dont know what I CAN DO.  I know what I want to do.  But that is GONE.  G-O-N-E-  GONE.     Now you people are to help me make that fit.  don’t put this publication for regular adults in my lap telling me that I might be good at marketing, or store management, or theatre, or insurance, or design.

The lady comes back in the room and asks if anything struck my interest.  And I said, well, of course.  I am interested.  I always have been.  I picked up my booklet, waved it in the air and dropped it back to the table.  “I did all these things. THIS is my past.”

I am not entirely sure how all my upset fits . . .   but I know I don’t like the test and it made me mad and I am indeed decidedly throwing a small hissy fit.  Well, the whole day there was ugly so I feel slightly entitled.  I still have some processing to do.  But I guess I just want to smack someone and yell that the brain injury didn’t change my INTERESTS!!! DUMIES.  That’s part of my big picture problems . . .  Part of the reason why I am (was) in therapy!  The whole  “my life was stolen from me and I can no longer do the things I love” thing and I guess i kinda feel like it was rubbed in my face today.

Rationally I know that was not the case.  They probably get people in there, who, 99% of the time, have no idea what they want to do.  A test like that would tell them if they should be factory workers or roofers or farm laborers or office staff somewhere.  I just . . .  more and more get the feeling, everywhere I go, there is no fit for me.  I do not belong.  There is not a niche out there to help me.  Perhaps I am being too critical too early.  Perhaps I am expecting too much.  Perhaps everyone feels this way . . .

I do have to admit though . . .  the lowest score on there?  the service industry.  Made me laugh.  I must really hate my job!!  But then again, the test did not tell me anything I did not already know. I DO HATE ME JOB!!!  And I had made the decision earlier that my next job, no matter what it is, cannot for any sense of the word be in customer service.  I hate people.   I will work with people.  Its still on the table whether i should work “for” other people . . .   but I cannot work to serve people.  not anymore.  this is my last job serving the public.  in any form.    And now that I made a highly public announcement, i guess I have to make that stick, huh?   SCORE!

At least I sored somewhere today that counts.  ppppppffffffffttttttttt!

The identity of self is an age long question up for debate in social science, the philisophical world and with PHDs of psychology.  The life long search for the identity of self is an individual journey breached at birth.  Some are better at it than others.  Some journeys seem wrought with the answers while others are always hollowed with questions.  Some never asking questions, afraid of the journey and some . . .  some never stop asking even when they have the answers.  Some are just never content to be who they are.

The bottom line:  Being us, and trying to figure out who we are as an individual and where that fits in this world is not easy.  It can be an ugly road leading to sad tragic results such as the newly departed Miss Amy Winehouse, just the last of a long stream of such great potential seeped into the remnants of fateful echos of  heartbreaking, lamentable, destructive icons.

The search for self doesnt end in front page tragedy for most.  But I think there is something to be said that in this day in age there is a giant chasm separating the common folk from finding contentment in their true self.  I couldn’t say it, and neither could thousands of the above stated academics if there was not truth in it.  Our culture has experienced so much rapid growth, as its own entity it is experiencing crisis of self.  Growing so quickly and learning too quickly, forgetting more about ourselves as a race from generation to generation than we can learn about ourselves scientifically.    In our cultures race to grow and be better and know more and go beyond we have shaken the foundation, nearly stepped off the foundations that the human race has cultivated as a main sense of self for thousands of years.

Yes, many of these changes are good.  Many old way are archaic.  I am not preaching to go back to the dark ages and shroud ourselves in ignorance.  But, it is mans history to run so fast to what is ahead to what he thinks is better, and run from the past and condemn what he think is lesser, that he desecrates and destroys ALL things that were, and does not keep what was good.  He learns nothing from what may have been something very worthy or important to keep around, and we learn nothing from this repeated mistake.

I mention the dark ages and cannot help but think of the Roman Catholic war on the Witch.  For three centuries, people, mostly women, we hunted needlessly, and accused falsely and executed hundreds of thousands of people out of fear, propaganda, and the basic ignorance and misunderstanding of what came before.  It was at this time a death sentence to be caught healing with natural medicine.  A Pagan practice, a female pagan practice.  To heal this way, you must be a witch . . .   the Roman Catholic church would have nothing to do with it.  but what if they had been open minded?  to learn of these practices?  How many people in how many villages could have not been so sick, even saved, because the knowledge of one root or one plant had been past down generations?

This is an extreme example.  But in our world of twisted priorities, what have we lost?  the family connection that was there 50 years ag0 is gone.  I dont see 1st cousins, let alone second or third.   I dont even had relationships with people on my mother’s side of the family.  And that would break her parent’s heart.  When did that happen to this society?  when did our lives get so small.  When did it become all about us?

And we have to admit, we are pretty self focused.  The plastic surgery . . .  the Persian women wearing bandages to pretend they had plastic surgery. Suicide rates, substance abuse, divorce rates, 500 channel cable and  reality tv . . . we are not content with who we are.  We have built a world primed for escape, and filled it with choices to keep us occupied.

As our world shrinks, maybe it does get harder to find ourselves.  There is a conundrum there somewhere.  You cannot look to the outside to find what is on the inside . . .   But if our outside is broken  . . . if pieces are missing . . .

I dont know.  I do not have the answers.  I only have questions.  But they are such excellent questions.  I have big questions on the societal page, and then I have question for myself.  I am on my own journey.

My journey for self identity feels a little different from most.  I did this once.  I knew who I was.  Liked who I was and where I was going.  was confident, felt I was coming into my own.  Grounded.  Knew where I had been, what I had learned from it all, where I was and where I thought I was going.  And then, things can be taken away from you so quickly.  Even the little big things like all the pieces that add up to what makes you you.

I have no idea who this person is.  I do not have the old tools I once had to figure that all out.  I do not know where I fit in the professional world.  I do not fit in the social world . . .

The lovely gifts of the my TBI do not make up a new identity.  I am not my condition.  And the loss over so much of who I was is so profound, I have yet to reset and begin the challenge of finding the new Amanda.  Who am I without the ambition and professional drive?  without the skill set that made me a competent member of a workforce team.  Who am I if not a leader?  Who am I if not organized, quick, a multitasker.  Who am I if I cannot size people up in three seconds, or sort a situation in five.  Who am if I cannot seek my old desires and dreams?  How do I fit in my family dynamics if there is not a place for the “new me”?  How do I fit in social dynamics if I can’t socialize?  Faced with the loss of so much self, so many friends, professional identity, confidence, physical capability and stuck with the constant comparison to the old me, where does the new journey really begin?

I feel like I am walking around not knowing what all is missing, on stilts like swiss cheese, being hollowed out by termites, undermined by blind unforeseen damage branching every which way, trying to hold my head high, but in reality staring frantically at the ground watching out for the next gaping hole I am going to stumble into . . .

I know it is time to get off the stilts and leave them behind.  They are a shadow of a former life that I will soon one day reflect upon as having belonged to someone else, it being so foreign in concept, the idea of health and happiness and success.  But perhaps, unlike our societal fathers I choose to believe that there are some remnants of that old life that are worth saving.  I just need to figure out what they are.  I can’t ban the dirty nasty swiss cheese hollowed out stilts just because there might be something “all new” and better for me out there and these are “no good for me”.    With in those cavernous walls there lies elements of me that still exist.  If I discard those stilts I might be discarding something of great value to me, something I can get back one day . . .   Even if I cannot see it or recongnize it for what it is right now.

So I think I will take my journey on wounded stilts.  After all, I am wounded, too.  And if I have stilts and I do fall into that next hole, I will be taller to climb out of it.  😉  And, just knowing the imagery of me walking around on stilts no matter how damaged means my arrogance is solidly entranced in those stilts and left unmarred.  And that’s ok . . .