I don't have any patience today for being politically correct or writing to a specific sensibility or coming up with a lesson or feel-good ending to this post. I'd just like to rant for a moment....
DEPRESSION AND ANXIETY SUCK!!! I can't remember a day in the past 6 weeks that I haven't felt miserable for at least part of the day; haven't cried and hated myself; felt frightened and panicked. It's all so familiar: I've had anxiety and episodic depression since I was about 4 years old. These Twin Demons are old enemies who bully and torment me periodically. It's such a relief when they leave for their Underworld Retreat (likely resting up for the next assault). But back they come, often out of the blue for no goddamn good reason at all, even though every single goddamn time I try to figure out "why?"
Now don't get yourself all caught up at this point and start recommending I "see somebody". I've seen many somebodies over the years; have popped the pills and worked my ass off through debilitating withdrawal to get off the pills; have sat in support groups; amassed a huge arsenal of weapons to help ward off the worst of the attacks, but this one has sent me reeling. Hub is my rock and my support, but even he may be tiring of the whine and tears at this point. I know I'm sick of me.
So, where did this come from? Here are the "whys" that are up for me this time: Seven months ago I lost a community that was central to my life; a community I had devoted my time, talent, and treasure to for many years, with a vision that sustained and motivated me to work my ass off. It all came tumbling down in a hurtful and ugly way and I left. I'm not a quitter -- don't think I've ever quit anything before that I'd made a commitment to -- but swimming in a toxic river just cuz I know how to swim doesn't make the water cleaner. It just pulls me into a dangerous eddy where either I have to fight my way out to survive or surrender to the never-ending swirl of sameness. Nope. Not gonna do that. Some think those who left this community have "taken the easy way out". That opinion couldn't be further off the mark or more hurtful, given the pain some of us have felt over this whole debacle. I wish them well and actually those there seem to be happy and content; apparently things are as they want them to be. I just can't be one of them.
Simultaneously, my brother endured a seven month relapse and ugly decline due to cancer. He died a little over a month ago. I am the only living member of my original family and I am sad and scared as I look in the mirror and see the wrinkles, the sags, the gray hairs. Every twitch and twinge gets self-diagnosed as cancer or a heart attack (the killers in my family), and every forgotten name is evidence of dementia (another scourge I watched my dear, strong, capable, rock of a mother succumb to). The list of feared ailments grows by the minute. And there is always in the back of my mind those episodes of unexplained fainting I had a few years ago. If they couldn't tell me why and fix it, I know only too well it could happen again as it did then out of the blue. What if...I'm home alone with my grandbaby? Driving my car? Walking down a flight of stairs? Oh, I can "what if" myself into oblivion, but my greatest fear is that some harm would come to my little Jewel while she is in my care. I almost can't breathe just thinking of it.
So, what to do? I've got a doctor appt tomorrow and will likely be referred to Behavioral Health where I will sit and yammer on to a therapist who will want to put me on meds again and I will refuse and then s/he will be frustrated at my lack of "compliance". Screw that. I've also been Googling "mindfulness meditation" classes in the area, believing that form of meditation to be best suited to this malaise. I just need more direction and training and a firm commitment to "just do it". I'm motivated and found one class about 6 blocks from my house. Never knew that. Thank you, Jesus. (Or was it Buddha?) Will keep up the Yoga and treadmill commitments, take a week off from Granny Nannying to get a bit of a break from that responsibility, spend time with my supportive, funny, compassionate friends who remind me who I am when I forget. I will try to be gentle and compassionate with myself, but really a hallmark of the disease is a marked lack of self-compassion.
This is all so ugly to admit. A goal I always set for myself when the Twin Demons aim to beat the crap out of me (so I don't devolve into a bedridden bundle of angst and soggy tissues) is to do "one brave and courageous" thing a week. This week it's to hit "publish" on this post. I guess by revealing this struggle I hope to demonstrate commonality with someone out there who might feel better in their own battle with the bullies, knowing they at least are not so alone in the shit-storm. If the Twin Demons haunt you too, you know how all-consuming and crazy-making it feels and how much you hate it. Yep, this sucks.
Now, wasn't that fun? Oh gosh...Don't worry! Be happy!
At least, that's the view from here... ©
Showing posts with label sadness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sadness. Show all posts
Sunday, February 28, 2016
Tuesday, November 17, 2015
END OF AN ERA
It's not really writer's block. There is ALWAYS something to say. Writers write. And I've been writing. But it's been mostly random thoughts, stream-of-consciousness, journal-puzzling, email responding, all around my decision to leave my UU Fellowship (well, take a long sabbatical) -- the place and community that has been my home-away-from-home for 23 years.
"Leave my church" is a HUGE phrase and one I want to take back the minute I write it. My church is not a typical Christian church, the image conjured when the word "church" is uttered. I am a Unitarian Universalist -- a seeker who finds wisdom in all faith traditions and within my own human experience. We call ourselves not a church, but a Fellowship -- and have taken great pride in our community of "like-minded" people (mostly liberal thinkers and doers) gathering in an old Methodist church building we bought a couple of decades ago, situated in a fairly conservative small town north of Seattle.
Alas, pride goeth before the fall. This UU community also fancies itself an anti-authoritarian throwback to the glory days of the 60s when "Question Authority" was the rallying cry. I think it still wise to use our brains and question leaders not acting in our best interests. But there is process for doing that -- a democratic process that certainly includes replacement of elected leaders through the election process. There might also be protests and petitions and expressing differing opinions.
But are these appropriate and loving strategies to direct at church leaders, friends who sit across the aisle on Sunday mornings? Is it OK to give voice to flaring tempers? To conspiracy theories and rumors? To name-calling and character assassination? To promoting an "us" vs "them" divide? I don't think so.
But that is what has happened over the past few months at my UU Fellowship. I don't even recognize what it has become. We had a inexperienced (and some might say, controlling) minister, who started the ruckus with a personnel decision unpopular among some, but supported by others. She has now resigned after only being in our church for just over a year. Two months prior to her leaving, I resigned from an important committee chair position because I couldn't work with her any longer for a number of reasons unrelated to her personnel decision (with which I agreed). Three Board of Trustees members resigned for the same reason. All of us have left the whole church to some degree or another because of the vociferous faction that rose up in defense of the dismissed volunteer. Some violated boundaries of confidentiality, decorum, and just good sense. (Really? Calling for resignations? Monopolizing meetings and services with personal agendas? Calling out our Board of Trustees as Nazis that Hitler would be proud of? That's going a bit far, don't you think? Did the good folks on the Board deserve this vitriol?)
So, I've been grieving the loss of what was once a truly loving and supportive community for me. One in which I devoted thousands of hours of time and energy, as well as thousands of dollars in financial support over the years. I had so many friends there, so many positive and joyful experiences. Yes, there were flaws, underlying problems that would surface and then recede, but all- in-all I hung in there, believing (even in the past few years when my involvement seemed like mostly work and worry) that we were "better" than other churches -- we were smarter, more insightful, more loving, more giving, more involved in the community and the world with our activism, more creative and more accepting -- more compassionate. But nope. Not so much.
I get the lesson here. Putting oneself or one's community on a "better than" pedestal is always wrong, and particularly wrong for a church; it never plays out quite that way. I am humbled at the same time I am sad and disillusioned. I am grieving.
I'm also excited about the freedom from responsibility and commitment to that institution. It really was a full-time job at times. If I wasn't physically there, I was there in my thoughts and plans, talking about and organizing for this or that committee or event or worship service. It came only second to my family in importance -- and sometimes (too often) it came first. I thought about it when I went to sleep, when I woke up, and even during my insomniac nights I'd get up and work on a project of some kind. Sheesh! I was completely out of balance!
So, I'm getting quiet now. Sitting with this stunning turn of events that I never saw coming only a few months ago. I'm opening myself to new vistas of spiritual growth, personal development, healing and forgiving.
It's just that in that space, writing has taken a back seat. But I'll be back. Writers write.
At least, that's the view from here... ©
Saturday, February 14, 2015
VALENTINE'S DAY LAMENT
Seems like I write about my mom a lot. An armchair analyst wouldn't have to stretch far to intimate that I may be working through a few issues. Nothing major, mind you. I just have a few teeny tiny regrets about how impatient I was with her at times. She didn't "get" me and my feminist ire, social justice protests, and committee meeting priorities -- and I thought I was oh so insightful about her. Ah, youthful arrogance.
Well, anyway, the other night as I stood over the stove stirring curry for one (Hub was away on a snowboarding adventure), I felt pretty lonely and my mom popped into my head. I could hear her say to me, as she often did on the phone after my dad died, "I get so lonely sometimes." Here's a good example of my lack of compassion and understanding..."Well, why don't you get out and make some friends? What about those ladies at the church?" (My parents moved 4 years earlier to a small town away from the city they'd lived most of their lives in order to be near my brother and his family; they never really made good friends there.) I said it nicely, encouragingly, but still.
I've come to realize that even when one has tons of friends, and I am fortunate enough to have a goodly sum, there is still loneliness at times for the intimacy and comfort of a partner or housemate who is there for you, who brings you joy and companionship without it seeming like an occasion for chatter, laughter, a project to work on, or an event to share.
Then it hit me. My mom and I could have been those friends. We could have been roomies, comfortable together, if life had dealt that hand. Not as we were back then. But as I am now. I figure the me in my 60s has a lot in common with my mom in her 70s. I wish we could share stories of having grown children, being grandmas, go over old family photo albums, write, crochet, sew, clean out cabinets (I'd let her cook and bake...still don't have that in common), watch a little TV, go for a walk, practice some Yoga. (She did Sun Salutations every morning for 20 years or more...before I even cared a whit about Yoga, which is now my passion). All the things I find myself doing now as an empty-nesting, retired woman heading toward elderhood (OK, fine, already there, I suppose) are things she enjoyed too.
I think I miss her so lately because we finally have so much in common. Believe me, I never saw that coming!
I think it's too bad I've only come to appreciate my mother in her elder years now that I am an elder too. I was so busy with kids, friends, volunteer work, a career, a big house, a husband. I loved my mom and we got along, but so often I felt we had such differing values and views and goals. Now it's all evened out -- and she is gone. Sort of that Cat's in the Cradle song in reverse, I guess. That one laments a father who missed his kids' growing up years. I am a daughter who missed years of her mother's adult friendship.
Makes me sad on this day set aside for love. ©
At least, that's the view from here....
Well, anyway, the other night as I stood over the stove stirring curry for one (Hub was away on a snowboarding adventure), I felt pretty lonely and my mom popped into my head. I could hear her say to me, as she often did on the phone after my dad died, "I get so lonely sometimes." Here's a good example of my lack of compassion and understanding..."Well, why don't you get out and make some friends? What about those ladies at the church?" (My parents moved 4 years earlier to a small town away from the city they'd lived most of their lives in order to be near my brother and his family; they never really made good friends there.) I said it nicely, encouragingly, but still.
I've come to realize that even when one has tons of friends, and I am fortunate enough to have a goodly sum, there is still loneliness at times for the intimacy and comfort of a partner or housemate who is there for you, who brings you joy and companionship without it seeming like an occasion for chatter, laughter, a project to work on, or an event to share.
Then it hit me. My mom and I could have been those friends. We could have been roomies, comfortable together, if life had dealt that hand. Not as we were back then. But as I am now. I figure the me in my 60s has a lot in common with my mom in her 70s. I wish we could share stories of having grown children, being grandmas, go over old family photo albums, write, crochet, sew, clean out cabinets (I'd let her cook and bake...still don't have that in common), watch a little TV, go for a walk, practice some Yoga. (She did Sun Salutations every morning for 20 years or more...before I even cared a whit about Yoga, which is now my passion). All the things I find myself doing now as an empty-nesting, retired woman heading toward elderhood (OK, fine, already there, I suppose) are things she enjoyed too.
I think I miss her so lately because we finally have so much in common. Believe me, I never saw that coming! I think it's too bad I've only come to appreciate my mother in her elder years now that I am an elder too. I was so busy with kids, friends, volunteer work, a career, a big house, a husband. I loved my mom and we got along, but so often I felt we had such differing values and views and goals. Now it's all evened out -- and she is gone. Sort of that Cat's in the Cradle song in reverse, I guess. That one laments a father who missed his kids' growing up years. I am a daughter who missed years of her mother's adult friendship.
Makes me sad on this day set aside for love. ©
At least, that's the view from here....
Tuesday, December 23, 2014
THE NEEDING SEASON
A FICTION BASED ON REALITY:
I'll be so glad when the holidays are over! The whole thing exhausts me. So much to do, never enough time. I am so distracted I often run out on some errand without my coat! Coats are such a bother anyway, trying to get my seatbelt fastened over all that bulk! I guess I could grab a lighter weight jacket, or my rain coat. Crazy how we need about five different weights of clothing in the Northwest!
Shirley shuffled along Hewitt Avenue. The air was turning cold, night was not far off and she heard a man on the corner talk about snow coming. She pulled her sweater around her a little tighter. She'd walked the entire length of Hewitt ten times that day. Killing time. Trying to keep warm…
I'm getting so frustrated with shopping this year! Toys are getting so expensive! I must have made 20 trips to Toys R Us. Every time I spent more than intended, but oh well. Christmas only comes once a year and I don't want to disappoint the kids on Christmas morning. The bills won't come in for a few weeks anyway. Thank God for plastic!
Carmin waited in line outside Santa's House on the first shopping day. It was 7:00 a.m. and the doors didn't open until 9:00, but she knew she needed to get there early to get anything decent. The good stuff went fast. Donated toys were often broken or worn. She spent Christmas Eve washing a dirty set of plastic play dishes last year -- a partial set. She hoped to find a nice doll for Grace this year, but she knew she'd just have to take what she could get…
Of course there's also all the last minute shopping. You know, those gifts you didn't intend to get, but you got one from them so now you feel obligated and there's always a last minute party invitation that requires a hostess gift. Well, that's what the season is for, right? Generosity and good will toward all! Just like the Hallmark cards say! I also see so much I just can't resist for me too! And decorations! So many cute things to make the house sparkle. Oh, I love Christmas -- so beautiful!
The van was crowded. They'd kept moving it, to avoid suspicion. It was getting cold at night, too. The social worker said all the shelters were full. Christmas was coming, but they could hardly put up a tree in the van! Bill had been out looking for work all day. Cindy and the kids had gone to the park early that morning to play, sit, and wait. Finally she saw the van coming. Bill climbed out and handed her a sprig of holly. He wasn't smiling. She tied the holly to the antenna with a piece of string she'd found on the ground. They watched the kids swing. Maybe they'd come back here on Christmas morning. There was a big tree in the park, all lit up. There wouldn't be any presents, or much food, or a warm fire, but at least they were still together….
I tell you though, family is what Christmas is really about! Even though they can sure be annoying! I mean, Uncle Hal is so boring! And if I have to eat one more of Aunt Helen's "amazing jello salads" I'll choke. And couldn't we just NOT watch sports all day on the holidays? Sometimes I wish I could just go off by myself. Now that would really be a special holiday!
Rosa sat in the dark, holding her baby, both of them crying. How had this happened to her? In Mexico she was a bank executive. Here she was a fugitive. She'd come to this country with her American husband, but after all the beatings at his hand she ran from him. Now the immigration service was looking for her. She was not legal; she'd be deported and her baby would go to her husband or into foster care. She missed her family in Mexico City. What would she do? Her tears continued to fall…©
We think of Christmas as the season of giving, but the season of giving never ends so long as the season of needing goes on and on and on. I originally wrote this piece in 1991, based on stories I'd known of through the social service agency where I worked. It's been published a couple of times since then, and still, not so much has changed in 2014.
May our Christmas be filled with blessings we appreciate and generosity that we remember to demonstrate all through the year.
At least, that's the view from here… ©
I'll be so glad when the holidays are over! The whole thing exhausts me. So much to do, never enough time. I am so distracted I often run out on some errand without my coat! Coats are such a bother anyway, trying to get my seatbelt fastened over all that bulk! I guess I could grab a lighter weight jacket, or my rain coat. Crazy how we need about five different weights of clothing in the Northwest!
Shirley shuffled along Hewitt Avenue. The air was turning cold, night was not far off and she heard a man on the corner talk about snow coming. She pulled her sweater around her a little tighter. She'd walked the entire length of Hewitt ten times that day. Killing time. Trying to keep warm…
I'm getting so frustrated with shopping this year! Toys are getting so expensive! I must have made 20 trips to Toys R Us. Every time I spent more than intended, but oh well. Christmas only comes once a year and I don't want to disappoint the kids on Christmas morning. The bills won't come in for a few weeks anyway. Thank God for plastic!
Carmin waited in line outside Santa's House on the first shopping day. It was 7:00 a.m. and the doors didn't open until 9:00, but she knew she needed to get there early to get anything decent. The good stuff went fast. Donated toys were often broken or worn. She spent Christmas Eve washing a dirty set of plastic play dishes last year -- a partial set. She hoped to find a nice doll for Grace this year, but she knew she'd just have to take what she could get…
Of course there's also all the last minute shopping. You know, those gifts you didn't intend to get, but you got one from them so now you feel obligated and there's always a last minute party invitation that requires a hostess gift. Well, that's what the season is for, right? Generosity and good will toward all! Just like the Hallmark cards say! I also see so much I just can't resist for me too! And decorations! So many cute things to make the house sparkle. Oh, I love Christmas -- so beautiful!
The van was crowded. They'd kept moving it, to avoid suspicion. It was getting cold at night, too. The social worker said all the shelters were full. Christmas was coming, but they could hardly put up a tree in the van! Bill had been out looking for work all day. Cindy and the kids had gone to the park early that morning to play, sit, and wait. Finally she saw the van coming. Bill climbed out and handed her a sprig of holly. He wasn't smiling. She tied the holly to the antenna with a piece of string she'd found on the ground. They watched the kids swing. Maybe they'd come back here on Christmas morning. There was a big tree in the park, all lit up. There wouldn't be any presents, or much food, or a warm fire, but at least they were still together….
I tell you though, family is what Christmas is really about! Even though they can sure be annoying! I mean, Uncle Hal is so boring! And if I have to eat one more of Aunt Helen's "amazing jello salads" I'll choke. And couldn't we just NOT watch sports all day on the holidays? Sometimes I wish I could just go off by myself. Now that would really be a special holiday!
Rosa sat in the dark, holding her baby, both of them crying. How had this happened to her? In Mexico she was a bank executive. Here she was a fugitive. She'd come to this country with her American husband, but after all the beatings at his hand she ran from him. Now the immigration service was looking for her. She was not legal; she'd be deported and her baby would go to her husband or into foster care. She missed her family in Mexico City. What would she do? Her tears continued to fall…©
We think of Christmas as the season of giving, but the season of giving never ends so long as the season of needing goes on and on and on. I originally wrote this piece in 1991, based on stories I'd known of through the social service agency where I worked. It's been published a couple of times since then, and still, not so much has changed in 2014.
At least, that's the view from here… ©
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
SEEKING PEACE
I'm thinking about the fragility of life today. I'm thinking of the little burst of optimism most of us demonstrate just by saying, "See ya later!" when we depart from family or friends. Because lately it feels like the odds are against that being the case.
Two and a half weeks ago, on March 8, Malaysian Airlines Flight 370 disappeared into thin air; or landed on a remote strip of island, or crashed into the wilderness, or flew straight into the Indian Ocean -- no one quite knows since all communication was lost (seemingly purposefully) and the jet veered dramatically off course and continued on to "somewhere" for several hours undetected. Searchers are still trying to find Flight #370.
Last Tuesday, March 18th, a news helicopter fell out of the sky on a busy Seattle street next to the Space Needle at 7:30 in the morning. It landed on cars sitting at a stoplight, yet some people were able to escape before the crashsite was engulfed in flames. It was a miracle there weren't more casualties, but the deaths of the pilot and photojournalist aboard and the severe burns suffered by a driver in the wrong place at the wrong time were sobering enough.
At 10:45 this past Saturday morning, March 22, an enormous hillside slid down onto a whole neighborhood along the Stillaguamish River, a beautiful, rural, small-town area north of where I live, burying everything in its muddy path in a one-square mile slurry of mud and debris. They say it took only seconds to sweep everything away, to bury everything and everyone in its path under 40-50 feet of mud; no time to run. Twenty-four bodies have been recovered so far; scores still missing.
Tsunamis, earthquakes, hurricanes, and tornados have all been top story news with seeming regularity. People with guns wreck havoc in schools, on campuses, in movie theaters and on street corners so often we have almost come to expect it -- saddened but not shocked anymore. Drunk drivers are so commonplace I am almost amazed we make it home most nights at all, grateful to have avoided the carnage that has come to so many so senselessly.
I realize all of these incidents are echoed through the news media 24/7, creating the sense that they happen over and over, when in truth the odds really are still with us. Yet, no matter the odds, we are vulnerable every day to an untimely, unexpected departure from this life, leaving those behind to mourn, pray, and question fate.
Still, aren't we always, every minute, in a time of transition? We are here for such a brief moment, then we are gone, whether we live in these bodies for one year or one-hundred. It's a quick stop in the grand scheme of things. Maybe the surprise should be that we get the gift of another day at all.
I have a spiritual teacher who stops everything she is doing whenever she hears a siren on the city streets. She spends a moment, not turning away from whatever tragedy may have befallen a stranger, but turning toward that pain and opening her heart with compassion. She chants "Om Namah Shivaya", honoring Shiva the Destroyer, who makes the way clear for rebirth, for regeneration, who represents transition of all kinds.
Perhaps the best we can do is to embrace each of our days with gratitude, send loving compassion to those who suffer and mourn, and know that transition is life and, as my teacher says, "Capital 'L' Love" is really all we have to count on. Om Shanti Om (Peace to all Humankind).
At least, that's the view from here… ©
Two and a half weeks ago, on March 8, Malaysian Airlines Flight 370 disappeared into thin air; or landed on a remote strip of island, or crashed into the wilderness, or flew straight into the Indian Ocean -- no one quite knows since all communication was lost (seemingly purposefully) and the jet veered dramatically off course and continued on to "somewhere" for several hours undetected. Searchers are still trying to find Flight #370.
Last Tuesday, March 18th, a news helicopter fell out of the sky on a busy Seattle street next to the Space Needle at 7:30 in the morning. It landed on cars sitting at a stoplight, yet some people were able to escape before the crashsite was engulfed in flames. It was a miracle there weren't more casualties, but the deaths of the pilot and photojournalist aboard and the severe burns suffered by a driver in the wrong place at the wrong time were sobering enough.
At 10:45 this past Saturday morning, March 22, an enormous hillside slid down onto a whole neighborhood along the Stillaguamish River, a beautiful, rural, small-town area north of where I live, burying everything in its muddy path in a one-square mile slurry of mud and debris. They say it took only seconds to sweep everything away, to bury everything and everyone in its path under 40-50 feet of mud; no time to run. Twenty-four bodies have been recovered so far; scores still missing.
Tsunamis, earthquakes, hurricanes, and tornados have all been top story news with seeming regularity. People with guns wreck havoc in schools, on campuses, in movie theaters and on street corners so often we have almost come to expect it -- saddened but not shocked anymore. Drunk drivers are so commonplace I am almost amazed we make it home most nights at all, grateful to have avoided the carnage that has come to so many so senselessly.
I realize all of these incidents are echoed through the news media 24/7, creating the sense that they happen over and over, when in truth the odds really are still with us. Yet, no matter the odds, we are vulnerable every day to an untimely, unexpected departure from this life, leaving those behind to mourn, pray, and question fate.
Still, aren't we always, every minute, in a time of transition? We are here for such a brief moment, then we are gone, whether we live in these bodies for one year or one-hundred. It's a quick stop in the grand scheme of things. Maybe the surprise should be that we get the gift of another day at all.
Perhaps the best we can do is to embrace each of our days with gratitude, send loving compassion to those who suffer and mourn, and know that transition is life and, as my teacher says, "Capital 'L' Love" is really all we have to count on. Om Shanti Om (Peace to all Humankind).
At least, that's the view from here… ©
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)