Hello, Anxiety. Who are you exactly?

I read an article recently that suggested that when anxiety appears, you have a conversation with it.  Being the eager guinea pig that I am, I decided to give it a try and it was really helpful.  At the risk of revealing my inner crazy, I’m sharing it here.

Me:  I think there are two voices here.  The first is the Judgmental Older Sister.  You obviously need to go first. 

Judgmental Older Sister:  You know when all of this ends badly? I’m going to say I told you so.  I’m going to look at you with disgust and remind you that you knew better.  I’m going to be sorry for you that you are hurting, but I’ll remind you that you could have avoided the pain if you only did the smart thing. 

Disclosure: I have two older sisters and, for the record, neither of them talk in the voice of the judgmental older sister.  It’s just the way I picture this particular voice. Love you, sistas!

Me:  I think what I am unsure about is how will I know when it’s time to REALLY let go?  And will I be able to do it?  That’s the deep essence of my hesitation.  I am not sure about that.  I guess I can say this.  I knew when it was time to let go of my marriage.  And I was able to do it.  Why the hell would that not give me all kinds of confidence about this?  I just made it through the divorce finalization which was hell.  I did it.  I made the decisions that got me through it.  I did it with my eyes wide open.  It wasn’t perfect but it was pretty damn good.  So how can I be unqualified for this?  I  AM smart.  It doesn’t mean I always do the smart thing, because who even knows what that is?  Certainly not me.  I spent a long time doing the “smart” things and it was totally stupid.  It was my best, but if I had to do it over again, I would totally do it differently.  So I’m not looking for the smart thing anymore.  I’m looking for the precise thing.  That’s all I can do. Because smart is too subjective.  It’s too hard to call.  So, Judgmental Older Sister—you are ego personified.  Ego is the real fear—that I’m going to look or feel stupid.  That’s the worst case scenario.  I can handle that.  I do stupid things all the time.  Let it roll.  I can get through that.  Okay, let’s hear from the second voice.

Fear-of-Pain: I just don’t want us to hurt anymore.  Haven’t we been through enough?

Me:  You mean well.  You really do.  I get where you’re coming from.  Pain sucks.  It hurts.  Sometimes it comes and stays a while.  It makes me cry in front of people which can feel awkward.  It makes doing little things seem hard.   But it’s also where all the growth is.  And avoiding the right thing or the true thing to avoid pain never works because pain is there either way.  Pain shows up in the avoiding and it shows up in the embrace.  Pain is on either side of the equation.  It doesn’t matter how you solve it, pain will be there in some measure.  So, my dear Fear-of-Pain voice, you can be present, because, you’re right—pain hurts.  But you can’t drive the car.  You can’t run the show because pain is coming along too, at least for part of the trip, and we have to make room. 

Then I wondered… could I have a dance party with Judgmental Older Sister and Fear-of-Pain?  Is that possible? Does Judgmental Older Sister dance?  She can sit on the side and watch with mild loathing.  Fear-of-Pain will probably only safely sway in the background.  It’s okay—I will dance for all of us.

Walking is a prayer

I was in a strange state the morning after my divorce finalized.  I felt deeply tired.  I felt angry about how it went with just a hint of giddiness that it was over.  I thought that many people would expect me to be happy.  I wasn’t.  I think at that moment I understood more than ever why so many women stay, not that that was ever an option for me.  No one understands the blood that is lost in that arena unless they’ve lived it. 

Last weekend I got to see Cheryl Strayed and Elizabeth Gilbert have a discussion at UCLA.  I admire these women for their work and for their voice.  The discussion was inspiring.  At the end they had a Q&A session. I am not someone who gets up to ask questions but I COULD NOT resist the opportunity to talk to Dear Sugar and Big Magic. 

I said something like this: “I admire both of you for your willingness and ability to find your truth and then continue to live by it.  This is something I have been working on for a while and really fighting for for myself.  Do you have an practices you do to help you stay connected with that truth?  To keep it uncovered?”

Cheryl looked into my eyes as I spoke.  She is such a mother!  I felt her nurturing spirit and her depth.  At first she noted that the practices would probably be different for each person.  She said her advice would be to identify five things that make you happy and do them.  The answer was so simple.  Then she went on to list some of her things.  “Walking.  Walking is a prayer.”

I thought about her language, identifying these meditative activities as prayer.  What feels like a prayer to me?  For most of the last year, R has preferred to go on a walk in the stroller before bed.  We would go out at 8 or 8:30pm and walk the neighborhood for 30-45min.  I usually would listen to a podcast as I pushed R to sleep.  In the last few months, this has changed and he likes to go to sleep in bed so I’ve been missing my walks.  These nightly meditations mixed with light exercise felt like prayer.  They grounded me.  They connected me.  I had so many moments of knowing as I listened to the women I quote so often, talk me through these principles.  It was a prayer.  I resolved to find more moments to walk. 

So on Friday, I dragged myself out of bed.  The sun was shining which felt notable because of the torrential rain the day before.  It was a beautiful day.  With Cheryl’s words in my head, I decided to walk.  I put in my earbuds and put on an Oprah Super Soul podcast and I walked.  I pulled myself into the present by noticing the feeling of the breeze on my skin, the sun on my face.  My earbud's battery died but I didn’t mind.  I pulled them out and walked more.  I listened to the sound of traffic.  I walked past the park where I met R’s dad to tell him I wasn’t willing to try anymore.  Where I gave him back the ring.  I walked across the bridge and up the hill back to my apartment. 

As I reached the top of the hill, an old man was sitting on a bench waiting for the bus.  He looked at me through his sunglasses as I approached.  I smiled.  He smiled back and clapped four robust, distinct claps as I passed by.  I said, “Hello,” in response but that seems inappropriate now.  I thought about prayer and God and walking.  I knew that God was in that man that day.  He was cheering me on.  He was saying, “Run! Dance! Live!”  And I knew that THAT is what I must do.  I must keep walking as a prayer.

"We are asked to learn to ask for what we need, only to practice accepting what we’re given.  And that’s a paradox, but what’s so important about this, for me, is that asking for what we need doesn’t always lead to getting what we need.  Sometimes it does and that’s great. But the reward for asking for what we need is we become intimate with our own nature, we learn who we are by standing in who we are.  The reward for practicing accepting what we’re given: we become intimate with everything that’s not us.  We become intimate with the nature of life.  And it’s the rhythm between our own nature and the nature of life that allows us to find the thread we are in the unseeable connections that hold everything together.” Mark Nepo, Oprah Super Soul Sunday

Benediction

Remember that part at the end of National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation where Clark Griswold goes on a rant about his boss?  That's how I felt walking out of my divorce settlement conference tonight.  It's over.  The papers are signed. The orders are written.  It's over.  Hallelujah!  Holy shit!  Where's the Tylenol?I wrote this last night and it's a good thing because I am completely spent tonight.

On this, what I suspect will be, my last evening as a married woman, I want to write a little about what my marriage meant to me.  I entered into it as a smart, naive, 20-year-old woman.  I intended it to last forever.  I was willing to work, and I worked.  Oh, how I worked.  I poured every bit of work I could muster into this.  I reduced myself to putty to fill in the holes and surround the sharp edges.

I worked.  I learned several occupations.  I learned finances, grocery shopping, cooking, laundry, housework.  I learned how to navigate medical insurance and billing.  I learned how to live with less.  I learned how to change a car tire and patch a bicycle tire.  I learned how to shovel snow.  I learned to trust an old car.

I traveled.  I learned how to live with the contents of a backpack.  How to show up in a foreign city without a place to stay and trust that I would find one.  I learned how to navigate the country with an atlas.  I learned to sleep in places I never imagined I would.  I learned to walk.  I learned to carry a heavy load.  I learned how to endure heat and cold.  I learned how to start a fire and fire a gun.  I learned not to be scared as I walked in the woods alone.  I learned how to paddle a canoe and bait a hook.  I learned to notice the birds in the sky and the fish in the river.

I studied.  I worked more. 

But mostly I waited.  And the sun set as I was waiting and then it became dark and I knew it was time to be done.  So I walked away, into the night, into the most painful and fearful moments of my life.  And in this dark, I have learned to trust myself.  Even that naive young woman who decided to jump on a ship that would ultimately descend beneath the waves.  I have been changed for good.   

An open letter to my evolving self at Christmas time

Dear Michelle,

This is a hectic time in your brain.  Your divorce settlement meeting is looming next week.  Your patients are struggling as is typical around this time of year, with the holidays and the reduced daylight.  Because of the extra things going on, you are out of your routine with exercise and eating.  That routine has become really important because so many element in your life are new and unfamiliar.  Pick up that routine when you can, but be patient when it’s not the thing for that day.  Life will return to normal soon, with the monotony and security of the ordinary.  Holidays help to mark the passage of time and they are supposed to feel different. 

This is the first Christmas where R really understands all of the fun things that will be happening. He is already talking about Santa Claus and snow.  This will be a perfect opportunity to reconnect with your own child-like wonder.  So teach him about Christmas, but let him teach you about fun and curiosity.  Allow yourself some excitement and some hope.  Remember to dance and laugh and open your eyes wide to the present. 

To do this, you are going to have to let some things be.  You have been seeking intently for months for answers to some of life’s most difficult questions.  This is a time to rest from that.  Remember your mother’s words, “When I was in my 30s I thought I had to have it all figured out. Now that I’m in my 60s, I don’t believe that.”  There is time.  Lots and lots and lots of time.  Seeking is important but so is rest.  So let the difficult things be.  Trust that you will know when it’s time to pick them up again. 

Remember the things that you DO know.  Like God is there.  God is inside me and if I can get quite and still then I can find the knowing.  I can connect with that part of myself.  On the busy days, the thing that will allow you to continue to feel grounded and joyful is keeping that voice uncovered.  The only activities that REALLY qualify as “self-care” are the ones that clear some of the crap that builds up over the part of yourself that knows.  Focus on those things. 

As you make decisions about how to spend your time, remember what a yes feels like.  That it’s a yes with your whole self, every part of you wants to do it.   If the response feels like less than that, then really consider whether, what you are asking of yourself, aligns with your intention.  You’ve decided that your intention for December will be to let it all be, observe and be present and to feel love.  Let that intention guide you through the fun things and the hard things. 

You’ve got this!

Xoxo,

Michelle

Practice makes practice

When I was first learning to surf, my experienced-surfer friend, Clare, encouraged me to practice my pop-ups.  She recommended lying on my stomach on the living room floor and practicing the process of paddling, then pushing up and popping up.  The pop up is important in surfing and something most beginner surfers struggle with.  It’s the movement that allows you to go from lying prone on the board to being up on your feet in two quick movements.  First, you push your chest up off of the board (think upward facing dog, not push up), then you bring your feet forward in one movement placing them on the board and becoming upright.  Many people will hesitate meaning they only get to one knee, which can work for a while but will eventually, if not immediately, hold back some success. 

I practiced this on the floor at home.  I practiced it with her in the sand on the beach before we would paddle out.  I immediately understood the importance of the practice—to build muscle memory. Muscle memory is procedural memory. It’s building the coordination between movement in a way that allows you to complete the movement without conscious effort.  Practicing the pop up is helpful for a beginner (and really any) surfer because it allows the movement to be made without conscious effort. 

Imagine yourself sitting on a board, watching the waves come in.  You finally decide there is one that is coming at you in the right way that you can be in position to paddle for it.  You are paddling forward checking the wave’s position against yours as you paddle.  The paddling requires a big effort so you are paddling hard, the wave hits, you start to feel it pushing your forward.  This is the moment for the push up/pop up sequence.   If you are like me, a lot of mental energy already went in to getting to that point.  I am still a little hesitant that I might nose in causing the board and me to pushed under the water.  In that moment, the muscle memory of the pop up allows me to commit without much mental energy and get to my feet.  I’m getting better at this but it has taken A LOT of practice.   

I see this pattern repeated over and over again in my life.  Practicing the piano, when I was young, was building muscle memory.  Learning to type.  Learning to play the saxophone.  Cheerleading stunts and dances.  Volleyball skills.  The repetition builds muscle memory which eventually makes the activity unconscious. 

Muscle memory is another term for motor learning--the repetition of a movement until it become automatic.  It’s easy to think of physical examples of this, but what I want to write about today are the other practices I do that are kind of like muscle memory.

I want to create so I write.  You get to see some of it here but I write way more for myself than I publish.  When I first decided to start writing, I wrote at least five times a week for 6 months before I published anything.  And even when I started publishing, it wasn’t because I felt ready.  I just recognized that I would never feel ready.  It would always feel vulnerable to share my writing, and I wanted to do it anyway.  So most days I write something for myself, even it if’s just a short paragraph.  And I try to post here three times a week.  I’ve said this before, but this has been the single greatest sanity builder.  There is something healing in the creativity of this practice.  I process things through writing that I can’t process any other way.  After I wrote the post on Sunday, I emerged from my bedroom and my mom, who was visiting, said, “You look lighter!”  On days when I feel blocked, I remind myself to simply keep writing, to keep showing up for myself.

I want to have courage so I ask myself what feels brave and I do it.  At least I really try to.  I live with a lot of fear.  It wakes me up in the early morning some days.  It makes it hard to fall asleep some nights.  I have found that the best antidote for fear is to remind myself that I am brave.  A while back, I wrote a courage list in my journal.  I made a list of everything I had done in my life that required courage.  What a helpful exercise!  Now, I have made it a conscious practice to be brave in my life.  When I do my morning thought download and empty out what’s in my mind, I sort through it to identify which thoughts are the fear voice.  This consciousness allows me to know when fear is driving the car so I can kindly ask fear to get in the backseat.  There is not much that feels better than the feeling that comes after courage. 

I want to be sane to I expose myself to the outdoors and exercise.  If it's been more than a day or two without it I start to get antsy.  That's the muscle memory.  That's the intrinsic reminder that I need to recharge in this important way.

These are a few examples of mental/emotional muscles I’m trying to strengthen.  Here’s why I care.  When life is going good, I don’t really need these things.  It’s when it gets hard that they become so important.  It’s when the wave is about to roll me that I need the muscle memory of the pop up so I can get to my feet and ride the wave.  Because—there are days when I absolutely need to write and I don’t feel like it.  I don’t want to face the reality of what’s in my mind.  There are days when I hesitate to do the brave thing—so many days when I want to let fear drive the car.  There are days when it’s hard to do the mom thing and go to work and run the household and care for the friends and family around me. 

Those are the days I need the muscle memory.  I need my body and spirit to know what to do because I’ve been practicing it.  It's the physical manifestation of my intention. 

Something I'm just starting to work on is play.  Brené Brown calls it "laughter, song and dance" in her research.  I used to be really good at this but it's been buried in the seriousness of life.  My life, even the things I enjoy, has become a checklist of activities that have a function for my mental or physical health, household function or work.  I think I need a serious intervention to bring play back into my life, so if you have any suggestions, please help me out!    

Malcom Gladwell wrote, “Practice isn't the thing you do once you're good. It's the thing you do that makes you good.”  I’m less concerned about getting good at any of this and more concerned about being freed by it.  But, I like his acknowledgment that the power is in the process, not in its perfection.  So let’s be intentional about what we practice and let’s be kind to ourselves as we do it.  Namaste. 

Accelerated carousel of mommy guilt

I’ve been kicking around ideas of what to write about all day today.  And now, as I am finally summoning the courage to write what I’ve been avoiding, I’ll probably get this posted about the time you are all headed to bed.  But no matter, it will be waiting for you bright and early Monday morning.

We had a non-conventional Thanksgiving.  Because it was just my mom, R and me, and because I didn’t feel like cooking, we decided to go out.  We actually had a really nice day.  We went for a walk in the morning, then to Cabrillo National Monument for some tide pool exploration.  Then we went out for dinner at a restaurant that served a nice Thanksgiving dinner.  It was a good day, even though I felt a little off all day. 

On Friday, I decided that getting a Christmas tree and decorating it would help things feel more holiday-ish so we loaded up and went to Lowe’s to pick out a tree.  We found a decent one.  The cashier gave me $20 off because the universe loves me (look for evidence—it loves you too!).  We brought it home and Mom helped me get it set up in the tree stand.  I did this all by myself last year and I’m not even sure how I did it! 

R was soooo excited.  He was down on the ground with me, tightening the supporting screws around the tree.  He was testing the branches by hitting them with a ruler.  He was chattering about Santa Claus and snow and presents.  When we opened the box of ornaments, it was all my mom and I could do to keep him from destroying the breakable ones.  He wanted to inspect them all.  We had Christmas music playing and I was frantically trying to get the lights on the tree so we could unleash R with the ornaments.  I think it was our personal record for fastest tree decorating.  R jingled all of the bells and cuddled all of the angels. 

As I’m describing it, it sounds really fun—the wonder and magic of Christmas for a 3-year-old playing out in front of me.  But the truth is, I felt held back.  Damn foreboding joy.   

I got R to sit down and eat a little lunch by putting on an Amazon Prime movie about Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.  Then it was time to load him up to go to his dad’s house.  When I put him in the car he cried.  He looked at me with those big, brown eyes and clearly said, “I want us to be together,” meaning his dad, R and me.  “Don’t leave me, Mommy.”

Words fail to describe the heaviness, the crushing weight, of that phrase falling from his precious, innocent lips.

I paused, with him in the carseat and me standing by the open car door.  I told him that I understand his wanting that.  I told him that his dad and I love him very much.  I told him that we had a long car ride and that I would be with him in the car.  This last pieced seemed to satisfy him.  After a few minutes on the road, he asked me, “Is it okay if I take a little sleep?” He slept the rest of the drive to his dad’s house. 

Sometimes we don’t get what we want.  Even if it’s a beautiful desire.  Sometimes it’s a no.  And it’s heartbreaking.  How would I explain to a three-year-old the twelve and a half years his dad and I tried to make it work?  How could I convey the sense of self that I sacrificed to that relationship? Of course, it’s impossible.  But it’s also not his to know at three.  It’s something that he will come to know over all of the years he walks this earth.  He will add to it his own experiences.  And this might be one of them—his first Christmas with the consciousness that he doesn’t get to have it with his mom and dad together in the same house. 

There are not many perks to having a divided family, but I count this as one—perfect is not an option.  Any idea that we are carrying on a perfect life over here is immediately laughable.  We are all just people, doing the best we can.  And sometimes our best is pretty terrible.  But it is our best. 

In Daring Greatly, Brené Brown wrote a chapter called “Wholehearted parenting: Daring to be the adults we want our children to be.”  I came across this chapter at a time when I really needed it.  It’s easy to question how well I’m doing in the parenting department.  This time in my life is an intense struggle for myself, let alone the little human, with whom I’m entrusted.  I don’t always show up how I want to.  On days when I have R, I often feel overwhelmed and tired.  On the days I don’t, sometimes I miss him like a piece of my soul is gone.  It’s like being on an accelerated carousel of mommy guilt where the highs and lows are too dramatic to be fun. 

Brené encourages us to focus on becoming the adults we want our children to be, rather than parenting in the right way. 

“As Joseph Chilton Pearce, ‘What we are teaches the child more than what we say, so we must be what we want our children to become.’  Even though the vulnerability of parenting is terrifying at times, we can’t afford to armor ourselves against it or push it away—it is our richest, most fertile ground for teaching and cultivating connection, meaning and love.”

So who do I want R to be?  I want him to be resilient and hardworking.  I want him to see the world as an abundant place where he can do and become anything he wants to.  I want him to be kind, both to himself and to others, even when they fall short.  I want him to feel connected to friends and family.  I want him to be spiritual, to see the divinity within himself.  I want him to understand respect.  I want him to feel love and to feel loved.  I want him to know that love does not require the sacrifice of self, but that it celebrates and champions the self to become as big and complicated and beautiful as this diverse, messy and wonderful earth God has set us within. 

And so this is my work—to become.  God, help me.

Just in case you ever feel ungrateful

I’m going to let you in on a little secret.  I’m not thankful.  At least, I’m not thankful for probably 95% of my day.  I don’t walk around in a cloud of gratitude and satisfied bliss.  For all my talk about mindfulness and the positive spin I work to put on my life, I spend a huge amount of time buried in unimportant details and worrying about the future or the past.  I am often investing my thought energy in other people’s business (their thoughts, actions or feelings) or God’s business (things that are fully out of my control), instead of my own business.  And none of this makes me feel very thankful. 

Sometimes this fills me with incredible guilt.  Moms of small children get this a lot from older women  who say things like, “Just enjoy these moments because they go by so fast.”  Now, not only am I suffering from the barrage of toddler emotions, but also the weight of guilt that I’m not enjoying his cute little hands placed on my face after he’s just handled a public toilet seat.  Seriously people!  That IS too much to ask. 

I shared with my sister a couple of months ago that I made a short gratitude list in my journal.  I felt particularly edgy because I only put on there what I was feeling gratitude for in THAT moment.  When I told her this, she was unimpressed, “Yeah…so…what?” 

Me: “I mean, I didn’t put all the stuff on there that I’m SUPPOSED to be thankful for!”

Sis:  “Oh [pause] I guess I never think other people will read it so I don’t really worry about what's supposed to be on there.” 

Of course, then she was the empathetic genius she normally is, and tried to make me feel LESS crazy for writing gratitude lists that no one will read but anyone COULD read because they are complete and thorough and no one is left off.   Gratitude felt like a chore for a lot of years (not surprising given this little glimpse into my psyche!).  It was something I was supposed to feel but was terrible at summoning, which only resulted in more shame and it’s impossible to feel gratitude when you’re in shame.   

I think I’ve learned a little about gratitude this past year.  I’ll try to shed some light here incase you are in the same boat as me. 

First, stop living in the future.  As someone who spent seven and a half years in college and grad school, and THEN put her then-husband through four years of grad school, I know a little about this.  I spent a lot of years waiting for my life to start.  I held on to the belief that something magical would happen when school was finished.  And it would transform me from this limbo state into the rapture of fully formed adulthood.  I’m guessing no one is surprised when I say—that didn’t happen. But putting that aside, I spent a lot of years waiting for the next thing, instead of living in the now.  When I was always anticipating the next vacation or step in my education, it was impossible to feel much love for the present moment.  The truth is, there are different phases in life and they each have things that are easier and harder.  Things that I liked more and less.  But anticipating the next phase never did anything but litter the current phase with discontent.

The second is to be kind to myself—to give myself what I need to truly feel cared for.  Giving that responsibility to others is a quick path to resentment and discontent.  Ignoring my own needs leaves me feeling depleted and it’s hard to feel thankful when I’m an empty vessel.  So make yourself a sandwich, fit the workout in, go to bed early or stay up late, binge watch The Office, clean off your desk--then let go of the guilt for things that go undone while you do this.  

The third is something I’ve been learning from my therapist.  It relates to time.  There are two types of time.  Chronos is the time of the world.  It’s the actual minutes and seconds until bedtime.  It’s the hours spent crawling in traffic.  It’s the two minute time out.  It’s the time that passes slowly, that we feel. 

Kairos is the time that we don’t feel.  It’s the hour that goes by when I’m writing in the flow, where I suddenly remember to look at the clock and realize I’m going to be late for work.  It’s the quiet moments floating on the rippling ocean surface watching for the next swell and taking in the sky and the sea.  It’s catching up with a girlfriend over the phone.  It’s late night pillow talk between lovers that leaves me floating and sleepy in the morning.  It’s a long kiss on the lips from the 3-year-old love of my life. 

Chronos is always ticking away, but Kairos only visits, often just for a moment.  And Kairos is where real gratitude lives—sparkling, warm, immersive, flowing gratitude.  The key is to catch it.  To notice when I’m in it, or even after the fact, that I WAS in it. 

Gratitude is a practice, which means it takes practice.  I can’t beat it into myself with shame. I can only hope that as I gently nudge my brain back to the present, I will more readily notice all that I have and all that I am, for which I am thankful.  Namaste.

Most humans are never fully present in the now, because unconsciously they believe that the next moment must be more important than this one. But then you miss your whole life, which is never not now.  Eckhart Tolle

Rebellion in the sparkling line of costume gems

When I was 17 my mom made me a prom dress.  It’s still one of my favorite pieces she has created, which is saying something because this is a woman who has spent thousands of hours behind a sewing machine.  Since before I was born, she sewed dresses for herself and my sisters and me.  For Christmas, Easter, and summer at the least, every year, she would produce four new dresses.  When we were little, the dresses for my sisters and I were matching.  As we got older we would all go the fabric store to pick out a dress pattern and material so we each got a custom frock. 

I have done a little sewing.  In my 20s I received a sewing machine for Christmas from my mother-  and father-in-law.  I was living in their basement at the time and taking prereqs for PA school.  I saved my Joann’s coupons and bought material and patterns and I began to sew garments for myself.  I got some vintage material from Grandma Hurst that was passed down from her mother, who owned a fabric store at one time.  I made shirts and skirts and dresses. 

Sewing, for me, was an interesting mix of technical ability and creativity.  At times, it was really difficult to understand the pattern instructions and inevitably I would sew a seam in the wrong place and end up picking it out.  Sometimes there were hours of unpicking seams.  Sewing is an exercise in frustration and accomplishment, devastation and creativity, and and mostly perseverance.  Sometimes it’s exhilarating and sometimes it’s intolerable. 

So knowing this, when I look at my black velvet, beautifully tailored prom dress hanging in my closet, I understand a bit of what went into its creation. 

My mom was in a moderate-to-severe depressive episode for about ten years, which covered the entirety of my adolescence.  When I think about that time, it mostly feels quiet.  It was quieter in the house without her laughter and music and the hum of her sewing machine.  There were times when she didn’t function.  Times when she disappeared for days.  Her absences felt ominous and confusing.  But most of the time she was there, doing the driving and shopping and cooking and cleaning, in a quieter way.  Most of the time it wasn’t the activity in the house, but the presence of suffering that felt different. 

I have learned, in a small way, what that might have felt like for her.  There have been nights when I have wondered how I will face the following day—how I can summon the strength to get up and do the few things that must be done.  And I’m in awe that, during this time of darkness, she found the strength and desire to create a graceful, elegant dress for me.  It was a gesture of kindness and love. I see rebellion in the sparkling line of costume gems on the bodice.  An indignant strike against the oppressive darkness.

This is what I learned from my mom: 

To keep moving alongside the fear and the dark. 

To find beauty in it.

And to create in its presence. 

That is how you find the light again. 

Evictions and invitations

After I wrote my last post I have been using, “I’m just going to dance,” as a mantra.  It’s been quite useful, but because life is what it is, it’s been a struggle to keep dancing. Just wanted to reality check that.  I’m still repeating, still working to do it.  I do feel like I’ve risen to a new level in this process I’m working in but, as I keep learning, progress does not equal comfort. 

I’ve been through a meaningful clean-out this week.  I passed on most of River’s baby items to people who could use them.  As someone who waited a long time to have a child (“long time” qualified as such by nothing but my own expectations) and is now facing the possibility that I might not have any more children, this was emotional.  I also sold my longtime companion car (read here if you missed the tribute).  It was time for the car to go and I felt ready, but the experience of selling a car on Craigslist was a little harrowing.  Nothing bad happened but I felt extremely vulnerable, standing under a streetlight in the otherwise dark, holding River, while three grown men examined my car and then haggled with me over the price.  It’s an experience I never anticipated having and I hope to not repeat.

All of this moving-on business has prompted me to think about evictions. 

When I was about 11 years old, a big shift happened in my family.  Around this time my grandpa was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.  His prognosis was poor.  I was young so I don’t understand everything that played into this, but I know it broke something open in mom. She began spending long periods of time in her room, in bed, with the door closed.  When I came home from school, I was met with a serious expression and relative silence.  Before this time there had always been pleasant chatter and busy flow of housework, homework, errands and dinner prep. 

Glennon Doyle described this kind of experience as an eviction from your life.  It’s a point in time in which something changes in a way that makes it impossible to return to your previous existence.  Effectively you cannot go home.  You cannot return to your previous way of living because something fundamental inside or outside of you has changed.

I think my mom would identify this time period as one of her life evictions.  It was my first.  It was the first time I remember understanding that life was bigger than my childhood problems.  That the adults in my life were facing things that were bigger and more complex than I could understand.  I searched for a way to make sense of it and my role within it.  This is when I started to worry about getting good grades.  I started thinking about college.  I started to TRY to get along with my sisters.  I started to believe that if I could be and do enough good, I could control my life and, to some degree, the lives of those around me.

Eviction #2 happened about ten years later.  I was 20 years old when I got married.  Five months after the wedding, I had a septoplasty and turbinate reduction surgery. This was to help me breathe better but was mostly in response to recurrent, severe headaches that had been going on for years.  It was an outpatient procedure but I spent the entire day in the recovery room.  My blood pressure became very elevated during surgery and it took hours to bring it down.  The surgeon advised me get this checked out by my primary care doctor.  I was a BYU student at the time so I went to student health and told the doctor what had happened.  Thankfully she took it seriously.  She began ordering tests to evaluate my cardiovascular and endocrine function.  After a bunch of tests and a misread CT scan that was thankfully given a second look, a tumor was found in the back of my abdominal cavity behind my pancreas. 

I had an incredibly invasive surgery to remove the tumor, followed by another incredibly invasive surgery four months later.  This was my second eviction.  I dealt with this in a similar way to my first.  I put my head down and went to work.  I looked for things I could control to take care of the things I couldn’t.  I went on like this for 11 years. 

I was 31 when I became pregnant with R.  I waited a long time to have a child and I was so excited to be pregnant and bring this little human into existence.  I don’t think it matters what you circumstances are, having a child is an eviction from your life!  It’s something you can’t adequately prepare for, no matter what.  Having R was the best kind of eviction.  Holding my sweet boy, feeling the incredible love I felt for him and believing that God’s love for him was even more perfect than mine—that was the impetus for me.  That’s when I started to believe that God loved me and he wanted something more for me than my self-mandated, contrived existence. 

This is when I realized I couldn’t continue—I couldn’t fulfill the measure of my creation, within my marriage.  This marked the most meaningful eviction to that point.  That’s the thing about evictions.  They are uncomfortable.  They are supposed to be.  During the past two years, there have been several times when I have longed to go home.  To return to some feeling of normalcy in life.  But whenever I think about this, I try to picture what that would look like and where it would be.  And I realize, it doesn’t exist anymore.  I cannot go home.  Like those whose homes were destroyed in the terrible fires in California this past week, I could return to the lot and I would find a field of charred and scattered debris.  What was there before, only exists in my memory.

This is where the invitation comes in.  An eviction always comes with an invitation.  An invitation to rebuild, to grow, to expand, to understand, to let go, to reach.  These are invitations that I would ignore without the preceding abrupt eviction.  Life in the status quo, however comfortable or uncomfortable, is familiar and it is so hard to let go of the familiar.  I don’t think God provides these evictions.  The world and life and biology are chaotic and complicated enough to ensure that we will find our necessary breaking points.  But God is always the inviter.  God is the one that invites us to turn shit into gold.  It is up to us to accept the invitation—to “trust the inviter,” as Glennon suggests.

When have you felt this eviction/invitation?   

Today my invitation is, not to wait for the downhill stretch, but to get comfortable in the climb.  To stay open.  To love.  Namaste.

It's all delusional anyway

I am a psychiatric PA.  A lot of people get confused by that title.  I am a physician assistant specialized in psychiatry.  I do the same job as a psychiatrist for much less money, and I’d like to think with a little more style!  I diagnose and treat mental illness, primarily with medication.  I have been doing this for 6 years and for half of that time I have worked with the severely, persistently, mentally-ill population.   Most of my patients have schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, substance abuse or some combination of all three.  When I tell people this, I usually get some kind of response like, “I don’t know how you do that. That seems like a really hard group to work with.”  And it is in some ways.  My patients are often dirty and smelly.  They are often high on something or coming down from something or waking up from something.  They struggle with basic tasks.  They get angry easily.  They don’t answer my questions in straight-forward ways.  Sometimes they are violent or threatening.  Sometimes they lie.  And sometimes they are honest. 

One such patient suffers from schizophrenia.  He is usually stoic with limited eye contact when he sits down in my office, but after only a moment he will start to intensely muse about Father Time and the universe and people and places that, I’m pretty sure only exist in his mind.  I’m trying to find out how he is sleeping and whether he is thinking about suicide.  I’m thinking, “Yeah, ok, Father Time… but let’s talk about the important things.” 

And he is probably thinking, “Yeah, ok, sleep…but let’s talk about the important things!" My interviews often feel like a struggle to obtain the information I want without completely dismissing, what to me is complete gibberish, but what to my patient is his pressing reality.  I’ve learned that patients get used to this dance too.  And like me, sometimes it’s frustrating but usually we just roll with it and do our best to play our parts. 

This particular meeting was different.  He started off with a bizarre statement (not so unusual), “Did you know I have AIDS but it doesn’t register?  I have it in my spirit.” 

I think, “Okay, this is how it’s going to go.”  So I look at the report that he completed in the lobby.  It’s called a Common Ground report and it gives the patient a Likert scale to rate various symptoms.  Sometimes psychiatric patients (and really all patients) have a hard time relating their symptoms to their healthcare provider so this is meant to ease the process.  He marked that he was not doing so well at fulfilling responsibilities so I ask him about it. 

“I have trouble remembering to go on walks, wash my plate and the table cloth, and flush the toilet because I spend a lot of time nervous and confused.” The honesty of this statement strikes me.  He continues, “It’s confusing that I know how to understand what I’m going through and still be able to take the pain that I’m going through.”

Heart wrenching. 

This man stabbed himself in the arm a while back in response to some delusional belief.  It became infected but no one noticed and his arm eventually had to be amputated due to the infection.  "Is the pain physical or emotional?" I asked. 

“Emotional,” he replied.

I saw his pain in that moment.  He is living in two worlds, maybe more.  For a moment, he visited me in my reality, but there is pain there so he quickly wandered back into the land of “Mother Nature”, “Father Time” and “alternate universes.” 

This is a dramatic example—and, speaking from the front lines, mental illness is real—but we all get to choose our reality.  Life happens in the mind.  Ultimately, our experiences hold the meaning that we assign to them.  So be intentional with your narrative, friends.  You get to decide if it is a tragedy or the hero’s journey.  You choose the delusion and make it your reality…choose wisely.