Feelings Friday: An essential habit for mental health

I've mentioned this before. Every Friday, I take some time, usually in the morning, to run through a mental-health check-in. It's something that I've done consistently for two years now, and, for me, this check-in is an essential building block for healthy goals/relationships/quality of life. 

Often, I am not motivated enough to practise this discipline for myself. However, I've come to understand that taking care of my brain is essential for my family's health and happiness. The day that I understood how my poor mental health was hurting my kids was the day I committed to getting better: for them.

Being strong mentally involves many different pieces. Feelings Friday is just one, but I thought I would share a bit of my method with you in hopes it may give you some direction and insight. So here it goes.

#1 Fast, visual journaling of what happens every day.

I use the Daylio app to create a record of events during my day and my mood. I fill it out every night at around 9 pm, and the exercise usually takes under a minute. A single sentence in a daily journal would be comparable. It can be hard to remember everything that happened over a week, and a fast daily record can help.

#2 Feelings Friday

This scheduled event is written on the calendar. It takes priority over anything else that I may want to get done. It is not something to be done 'between' or in your 'free time.' It is the thing that you are doing this morning. I make space for Feelings Friday by taking a break from my morning 20-minute workout. I trade my physical exercise for mental. Both are equally important.

#3 Depression and Anxiety Tests

These tests are the same ones your doctor will give you to understand how you are doing mentally. They reflect a basic standard of care used by the medical profession in BC, Canada. They are based on the work of Dr. David Burns: a pioneer of Cognitive Behaviour Therapy.

I fill out my answers by reflecting on the past week and referring to my daily mood journal to remember my ups and downs.

#4 Chart the results.

I wanted to measure my progress, so I made this chart by blending some data from Dr. Burns together. It's not entirely accurate, but it helps me measure things over time. Over the years, I've made notes on my charts about things like medication change or significant events, and I have been able to measure the impact of these events on my health. 

#5 Journal 

I reflect on the past week through journaling. By this point, I usually have identified any struggles to be addressed.

#6 Make a plan 

Suppose I don't have the resources I need to address a problem. In that case, I make a plan: like contacting my doctor, reading a trusted resource on therapy techniques, planning a day of rest and self-care, or just facing up to a problematic situation that I've been avoiding so I can get it off my plate and move on.

So yep. This is what I've been doing for years. Having concrete steps to work through each Friday really helps me to focus. Hopefully, my experiences can help you too!

Also! Even if you don't work through all the steps, taking the time to fill out the depression/anxiety tests can give you a fair idea of how you're doing and if it's time to reach out for help. Many of us normalize our suffering and don't realize that constant misery doesn't HAVE to be our reality. Feeling upset by troubling events is normal. Living in a consistent state of anxiety and sadness isn't. Even in times of hardship and struggle, there is joy to be found. You can be happy again.

Hold Fast

 

    I finished this painting tonight. The paint is still wet and my eyes are roving across it, judging and delighting in the work at the same time. The process of painting this one was special to me... because I did it over a series of evenings after dinner, in the middle of our living room, dodging my kids and chatting with my husband.

It was fun because my whole family became invested in the work. My kids took to the symbolism easily and actually gave me helpful critique. My eight year old said things like: ‘Mom, you need more colour at the bottom of the tree. The top part is rich but the faded roots at the bottom make it look dead.’

They also were there to bolster me when I faltered and questioned my brush strokes. I have no formal training as an artist... and while I tell myself that being clumsy with a brush is fine, ‘it’s just a hobby anyways’, my perfectionist side kicks in and steals my joy by pointing out all my flaws. 

But the kids and my husband know that I’m weak, and when I complained, they parroted the words back to me that I have worked so hard to teach:

“You have a special style, one that is yours. It’s beautiful and unique.”

This painting is about love, about deep roots that hold fast through the storms of life. It’s about family.

One afternoon while painting, I looked over at my husband: lounging in his favorite chair and giggling his way through his TikTok feed.

My heart filled with love. “You do know that this painting is about you?" I said. "It’s about our love.”

He looked up in surprise. “Well, I know it NOW.”

😂 And I’d thought it was sooo obvious.

It’s fun to watch him look at it with new eyes, now that he understands.

And now that this painting is done, even though I held the brush, I’ll always remember it as the painting we all did together.

❤

Inherent Dignity

 I was twenty.

I lived and worked in the Rheinhessen region of Germany. I busked at a bar occasionally and had fuzzy dreadlocks. My favourite skirt had been made from an old pair of jeans torn open at the inside seams and resown together with Sesame Street patches of Elmo and the Grouch.

My blue suede runners were two distinctly different shades. I’d talked the sales lady into giving me a discount. :)

And now I was wandering on foot through the town of Worms (Vvurms!) looking for a friend’s apartment to crash at. I had a guitar and a huge backpack with the obligatory Canadian flag. And I was lost.

The side roads were starting to look a little sketchy. I‘d stopped trying to find my friends’ place and decided I’d settle for an urban centre with a coffee shop (no cell phone... it was the dark ages still). But try as I might, every turn I made seemed to lead me onto an even narrower and more isolated street. The row apartment buildings were tall and tightly shuttered like those Easter Island heads with their eyes and mouths squeezed shut.

I turned a corner and walked into a group of young men hanging out on the street. They were laughing and talking loudly in a language I didn’t recognize. Dark-skinned, baggy clothes and bright bandannas.
The group fell silent. I nodded and smiled and kept walking. My bag was so heavy. My arm hurt from carrying my guitar.

One of the guys peeled away from his group and began following me. He began to shout. ‘Hey, girl! What are you doing, pretty lady? Nice ass...”

There was NO ONE on the street. His footsteps quickened behind me. “Come on, girl...” I began to weigh my options. I could drop my stuff and run. I could scream. I could turn and attack, try to take him by surprise.

And then I heard a voice inside of me: strong and clear as a bell. As the words filled me, my body grew still, and peace washed over me. The words were:

“Give him his dignity.”

I didn’t think. I set my guitar down and turned around with a smile and an outstretched hand. The man was only a pace or two behind me. He reacted without thinking, and his hand fell into mine. It was awkward, but we shook hands. As soon as our palms connected, I knew I was safe.

“Hello! My name is Charity. What’s your name?”

He responded on instinct. Despite a start of surprise, he introduced himself. I asked about his family, I shared about mine. He told me he was a refugee from North Africa looking to support his mother and sister. I shared some of my adventures travelling in Europe.

As we spoke, I couldn’t help but read the confusion on his face. But he was smiling. We both were. We’d made a connection.

The conversation wound down, he asked me if I’d like to go for coffee with him. I told him how great it had been to meet him, but I had a friend waiting for me.

He shook my hand again, and we parted. He walked back the way he’d come: easily, his head high, his hands in his pockets.

I found my friend’s apartment half a block away. I’d been going in the right direction the entire time.

:) God bless.