HAPPIER UPDATE

I can't leave February with that last post.  I'll leave it up, since it's true fact of my life sometimes.  But to update -- The Twin Demons have retreated back into their dark hide-y hole.  It took awhile, but I feel pretty much completely "normal" today.  Relief.

I can tell I'm doing better because I just made my third trip to Costco in three days and I didn't even hate it.  Much.

I'm not the Costco shopper in my family -- Hub is.  He loves it there.  He goes every week.  You might wonder how two people can do the majority of our grocery shopping at Costco, but it works for us.  We go through a lot of vegetables and soups and cheese and eggs -- and he shops for long shelf life, frozen stuff,  and "staples" that we pretty much eat all the time.  I guess we are not adventurous cooks.  We have the handful of "regulars" we cook and we are content.  If we over buy or over cook, we share with our family.  And we have LOTS of storage space in our garage 'fridge and on garage pantry and storage shelves for those twin packs of this or that and enormous quantities of paper products that will eventually get used.

Anyway, it works for us to do most of our shopping there.  On the rare occasion I tag along with him, I stand by the cart scrolling my Facebook feed while he darts this way and that, getting what's on his list, what catches his eye, and stopping at every sample station in the store.  I find this frenetic and annoying.  When I go alone, I have a list from which I rarely deviate.  I grab and go.  I don't shop.

But on Saturday I had to buy some supplies for our new cleaning service people (YAY!  Housecleaners!).  Turns out I got the wrong "rags" -- how did I know there was a difference in "rags" but my cleaning guy is very particular, so I went back on Monday to exchange those for the preferred brand.  While there, just inside the door, was a large display of Lucky Brand T-shirts that were super cute and perfect for yoga.  Costco has no 'try on' area, so it's always a crap shoot buying clothing there, but I took a chance and came home with two size large shirts.  That usually works.

Nope.  They were too big.  Just slightly, but even after I tried to talk myself into them, I knew I wouldn't wear them.  They looked baggy and frumpy.  So today I went back to exchange them before they were all gone.  Those special displays disappear seemingly overnight, never to return.  I brought home two mediums, which of course are a bit snug.  So I made two trips to buy two sizes of shirt, neither of which fit.  Oh well....motivation to lose the ten pounds I've been wanting to shed.

On the way home, even on a cloudy, cool day, I was feeling pretty happy and carefree.  I marveled at this turn-around.  When the Demons retreat it all seems like a bad dream, but in the thick of it it feels like it will always be that way.  Mysteries of the troubled mind.

Anyway, I had such a great time car-dancing as I drove home with my weird purchases -- a jug of maple syrup, a two-pound container of cottage cheese, and two shirts that are too small.  My regular FM radio station (I'm so old school -- no Spotify or Pandora or Sirius) played some of my favorites in the 20 minutes it took to get from Costco to my garage:   Bruno Mars "That's What I Like", Ed Sheehan "Shape of You", Maroon 5 "Moves Like Jagger", Fritz and the Tantrums "Hand Clap", Elle King "X's  & O's".  There was another song I didn't recognize and my Shazam app was offline, so I didn't get it, but maybe next time.   Simple pleasures.

When I got home, I discovered my good friend and musician had emailed me.  He's been working on a new CD (or album? or what?  I don't even know what a collection of music is called in these download/streaming days) and a few of the songs on it are ones for which I've written the lyrics (and tweaked in collaboration with him).  He told me he's decided to name the CD for one of the songs that I wrote lyrics for -- Downhill Dancing.  I'm pretty delighted!

So all in all life is good.  Yep, I'm about 85% back...and that feels great!

At least, that's the view from here...©

Photo Credit:  Copyright: <a href='https://www.123rf.com/profile_adamgregor'>adamgregor / 123RF Stock Photo</a>

STRIPPED NAKED

Some of you are old enough to recall a TV show that ran from 1958-63 called "The Naked City", which was a black and white police procedural set in New York City.  It's famous episode-ending line was a solemn-voiced narrator intoning, "There are eight million stories in the naked city.  This has been one of them."  I don't recall ever watching the "grown-up" show -- I was 8 when it started and 13 with it ended and it was likely on past my bedtime.  But I remember that line vividly as it became part of the pop culture of the day. 

So, here's my tag line:  "There are 40 million anxiety sufferers in the United States of America.  I am one of them."

I wish I was like "The Bloggess", a blogger I love who writes with laugh-out-loud humor about her anxiety/depression and has gotten famous and sold books and has a gazillion followers and fans.  But I'm more the maudlin type, who tries to just tell the painful truth about this condition, hoping my story will resonate with others and we will become sisters/brothers of the heart; not famous, but still fighting for the Light in our own ways, in your own lives, whatever that looks like at your house.

At my house it looks like an almost constant low-level hum of "what if" and "be careful".  (Thanks, Mom, for those oft-repeated "words of wisdom" and the anxiety heredity factor.  I don't blame you anymore;  you are one of those sisters of the heart and I totally get it now -- you couldn't help it any more than I can and you had zero tools to mediate it.  So, actually, hats off to you; you fought and survived all on your own.)  

The hum becomes an audible persistent whisper when I am occasionally home alone for extended periods, like last week. I don't like nighttime.  I joke about being on 'lockdown' with every door and window secure, the direct-to-police department alarm system on at all times, and security cameras scanning.  It only helps a little bit.  (Is there a 'Rent-a-Rottweiler' place I can call?)

Let's add to that a horrific school shooting.  Every single time (there are so many that that phrase is not even weird), I go into "OMYGOD!" mode and project myself into that scene with pounding heart, lightheaded terror, overwhelming grief for those kids and their families.  It seems impossible to take a step back.  

I was sitting at Dairy Queen, enjoying a hot fudge sundae as a Valentine's Day treat to myself, when the report came over the TV (ubiquitous intrusions into public spaces these days.)  The sweetness turned sour in my mouth.  I watched for a few minutes as they reported one dead.  I drove home in dread, switched on my own TV and soon the reporting indicated there were "multiple" fatalities.  We now know there were seventeen.  I turned off the TV.  I meditated.  I did all my breathing exercises and positive self talk.  I started to calm down a wee bit.

Then, at dusk, the doorbell rang.  A stranger at my door is unusual.  I live up a steep driveway with a flight of stairs to the front door.  It's not an easy trek and it is very intentional for someone to come to our door.  Door-to-door salespeople often pass us by...not worth the physical effort.  Same with trick or treaters.  And some of our friends with bad knees.  But this guy made it a point to ring my doorbell.

He was fairly well groomed and not badly dressed, but seemed "off" somehow; darting eyes and kind of a slurry, sing-song-y voice.  He asked for "Lance" and since we've lived here for 35 years, the chances of him coming to Lance's old house seemed impossible.  I told him he had the wrong house and he left, muttering unintelligibly all the way down the front stairs.   

Our neighborhood listserve includes an ex-cop who has warned that often the bad guys will case a house by coming to the front door to see if anyone is home.  If so, they use the ruse that they are looking for someone, and leave.  But if no one answers the door, they go to the back, knock or ring again and if no answer, they break and enter.  This very thing happened to me in 1985 when I found myself alone in the house with a would-be thief who heard me call 911.  He fled, thankfully.  

So that's all it took for my already hair-trigger state of anxiety to tip into, let's call it, paralyzing fear.  Yep, fear cuz some yahoo rang my doorbell.  

I hear how crazy this sounds.  With all the of compassion and caring you can muster you will tell me all the rational ways to reframe this.  I AM NOT STUPID!  I tell myself the same rational story.  But Anxiety is a master teller of horror stories and your voice (and mine) don't stand a chance.

The next several days had me on high alert, where every sound, every shadow held menace; where every breath was hard fought when it feels like you can't breathe.  Still, I went about some semblance of "normalcy", seeing friends occasionally, going to Yoga class.   But I felt like an imposter and couldn't wait to get home to my sofa, and my house ... where I was scared again.  It was all so freaking exhausting.  And I knew it was TOTALLY irrational.  So next came Depression to seal the deal, with the constant berating, the constant judging, the constant nudging toward self-pity and self-loathing.  And that, my friends, is the aftermath of an Anxiety "episode".  

Depression comes in to tell you what an idiot fool you are and you deserve only to sit on the couch and hate yourself for another week or so -- or months or years.  But I think I can beat this thing off me in a few more days because I am now enlightened to its ways, even if I can't stay out of its way completely.  I know I'm coming out of it, actually, because I'm even writing this at all.  It's a step, revealing myself this way, to you who might be laughing at me.  Well, fuck you if you are.  

There are 40 million of us.  We are all struggling, suffering, and hopefully surviving.  I'm so grateful to have a supportive husband (pink roses, endless discussions, loving arms, lots of patience).  I'm so grateful to now understand this chronic condition and know it will never go completely away -- I liken it to a chronic physical ailment that is always there but can be managed, like arthritis or colitis, but still "flares" occasionally and needs a more aggressive intervention.  (Maybe I should call it "my anx-itis".)  

I'm so grateful to have found tools like breathing, yoga, meditation, and cognitive therapies to turn to in both the best and worst of times.  (I fought mightily to come off a terrible medication cocktail for anxiety and depression years ago that had me shaking with chills and head clanging brain fog, so not going back there.)

I'm sending love and compassion to those who share this condition, especially to those who don't have the support and resources I do to mitigate the "flares".  Nobody wants to be in this club.  Lucky you if you are not.  Mostly those of us who deal with this tend to sequester ourselves in a cocoon of isolation when we are at our worst.  But we love you for quietly holding us in your thoughts and being ready to welcome us back, without judgement, when we emerge -- raw, naked, and needing to know you are still there.

At least, that's the view from here...©

A short, easy article about anxiety, FYI:  https://www.elementsbehavioralhealth.com/mental-health/8-facts-anxiety-anxiety-disorders/

UNITED NATIONS OF CHILDREN

This morning I volunteered in my 8 year old granddaughter's second grade classroom listening to kids read.  I do this every Tuesday.  I did the same, reading and spelling with kids, last year in her first grade classroom as well.  Last year I was part of the classroom, sitting at "my" table calling kids back one at a time usually to work with me, but still keeping an eye on what the teacher was doing, what they were working on, how the kids responded (or didn't) to her and the subject.  I helped remind kids to pay attention, gave them a wink or a nod or a finger wag as was appropriate, tied shoes, cleaned up desks, high-fived, chatted, laughed, even graded papers sometimes, and felt loved and appreciated by the kids and the teacher alike.  It was a beautiful experience.

This year I'm having a slightly different experience.  I'm not really part of the classroom.The teacher  has asked me to take one student at a time out to a desk in the hallway where we read together.  I am then to ask them comprehension questions about what they've read. I miss being in the classroom and wondered if I should request that she make room for me, but I realized this isn't about me; it's about working with the kids.

So, I show up and go down my list of about a dozen kids she wants me to work with.  I get through 4 or 5 each week.   Some blow me away with their advanced reading skills; some still struggle with the easiest of books; most are average and at grade level.  They all seem to enjoy reading, love library time, and are eager to share their books with me.  And it seems like 95% of them are "children of color" -- their ethnicities a veritable United Nations hodgepodge of mostly brown, black, middle eastern, and asian kids.

Today I worked with a girl who only speaks Spanish at home; a girl who was born in Pakistan but lived for her earlier childhood in Dubai; a boy from New Dehli; a girl from Mexico who told me "We might have to go back."; an African-American boy who cut his dreds and now sports a short Afro, which he likes.  I ask them about their lives outside of school, what they like to do, what their families are like, their favorite foods and TV shows; about their friends and favorite subjects; about customs and languages.  I try to speak Spanish and Arabic and they laugh at my mispronunciations.

When I show up on Tuesdays, some cling to me and ask "When is it my turn to read?"  I think these kids are starved for positive attention and a friendly adult who talks to them like people, not just students. Some are annoying, some are sweet, some are wicked smart, a couple have trouble behaving appropriately in a school setting --- all break my heart with their vulnerability.  Eight years old and many from single parent homes, some where siblings may be scattered, many where aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents live half a world away, some who don't get enough sleep, some who wear thick glasses, or have crooked teeth, or already feel like the 'nerd' or the 'troublemaker' at recess. Some tell me their parents work 2-3 jobs.  One girl says she has to wake up at midnight and go to a different apartment to sleep when her dad goes to work.

The whole school is full of these ragtag kids in mismatched clothing, fly-away hair, all shapes, sizes and colors, all creating a patchwork of cultures, experiences, and dreams.  The principal announced at a recent "Reach Around the World" family event (classrooms were set up featuring various cultures represented at the school:  Iraq, Mexico, Russia/Ukraine, Philippines, Guam, China, India, and more...) that 27 languages are spoken by the families of the students at the school.  I was amazed.  I tell every bilingual kid to always remember their original language.  Never forget their traditions.

But I worry about them too.  Especially now in this time of anti-immigration frenzy.  If only people could open their hearts and minds to these kids.  If only they could see the sweet, shy smiles; the open-hearted desire to fit in; the excitement for learning; the longing for friendship and community.  When I think of any of these kids being the target of discrimination or bullying or belittling or denigrating, my heart breaks and my blood boils.  How dare anyone say these kids and their families don't belong?  Don't deserve a chance in this land of opportunity?  How can they ignore that (in my experience) it is these "foreign" kids who are among the brightest, the ones who read all the time at home, (staying inside and safe in neighborhoods that are rough around the edges), their books as their constant companions?

Maybe one day I'll write a funny story about working at the school.  But today I hope I've written something inspiring, and yes, political.  When you hear about ICE raids, or immigration crackdowns, or that brown-skinned people come from countries that our president has deemed "shitholes", I hope you'll call me up and ask me to tell you the stories of these kids -- and then make your voice heard on the political stage in support of sane immigration policies that welcome instead of exclude.

We all came from somewhere else....except my granddaughter, who is partly Native American.  My daughter-in-law's first husband was Choctaw/Cherokee.  We white folks often forget that this country wasn't ours to begin with, so let's open up to a diversity that will enhance our country, not ruin it.

At least, that's the view from here....©

GENETICALLY INCAPABLE OF COOKING

I was getting seriously worried about myself yesterday morning.  First, I was having a little teeny tiny anxiety issue rear it's familiar, yet fearsome head, which throws me off-kilter, so right off the top I'm gonna blame it on that.

On the other hand, Hub and I had recently had a long discussion about whether we wanted to open the "closed" door on our "23 and Me" genetic testing results -- the door which holds the information on whether one has a genetic predisposition for late-onset Alzheimer's and/or Parkinson's disease.  You can find out, but they don't make it easy.  You definitely have to "opt in" at least 3 times to see the result.  "Are you sure?  Are you really sure?  Are you super-duper really and truly sure?  Do you have a genetic counselor and mental health professional standing by?"    So maybe I was already primed for feeling that every lapse of memory was likely the beginning stages of the slippery slide into dementia territory, even though I don't have my results yet.

Anyway, as is my new habit I got up, dressed, headed to the kitchen and put a pan of 4 cups of water on to boil with 1-1/2 teaspoons of Indian spices thrown in to make a "detox tea".  I'm following a Ayurvedic cleanse regimen that promises to cure every ailment I have and then some, plus encourages weight to fall off effortlessly.  I'm 10 days into Phase 1.  No weight loss yet.  But maybe I'm just impatient.  The entire process can take 2-4 months to complete, depending on how quickly one moves through each of the four phases.

So the ritual I've adopted is to boil the water for my tea, let it simmer and steep, then strain it into a bowl, dumping the seeds, leaves, and detritus of the spices down the sink before filling a large thermos to sip all day.  

The first pan of tea boiled nearly dry as I put it on and forgot about it while I sat at my desk in another room, scrolling through Facebook.  I dumped that out and started over.  

I set a timer for the second pan of tea, turned off the heat, remembered I had to strain it, so turned to the sink and dumped the entire batch through the stainer and down the drain.  I'd forgotten to capture it in the glass bowl.  On to the third attempt.

That one was successful, but by then I was feeling rather sheepish about it taking three tries to make a batch of tea that is so easy to do I fully believe my three year old granddaughter could master it if she was allowed to be near the stove.

At dinnertime I successfully sauted some veggies, baked a piece of Mahi Mahi, and steamed some Jasmine rice -- which I also forgot and it sort of burned/stuck to the pan, but was not ruined, so Yay Me!

I have a few talents, but kitchen wizardry isn't one of them.  Based on the day's fiascoes it seems I have the most problem with cooking foods in boiling water.  I wonder if that's a genetic trait that will be revealed in my "23 and Me" test result?   I've definitely decided not to open the scary door -- missing the cooking gene is startling enough for now.

At least, that's the view from here...©