Friday, January 12, 2018

We've Lost Our Way

I am so tired of "systems." So tired of bureaucracy, protocols, and guidelines. Tired of "procedure" superseding common decency.

When the leader of a country can speak openly about other human beings and their homes in vulgar terms and dismiss an entire population with "shithole," never suffering a consequence worse than outrage in print, we've gone too far.

When four security guards can wheel a sick, unclothed patient out in to the freezing weather of Baltimore and dump her off without a thought, we are broken.

When a state can, without any research or due diligence, simply begin requiring its Medicaid recipients to work for their benefits, our systems have taken over our humanity.

I wish I knew what it was going to take to bring it back. I want to live in a place where the systems and protocols are secondary. Where we check in with each other, where we feel comfortable saying, "Hmm, I know that is what the paperwork says we're supposed to do, but this doesn't feel right."

I don't want to live in a place where one person in a room is horrified that the president speaks of Haitians with disdain and disgust instead of ALL of the people in that room being horrified. I don't want to live in a place where the narrative becomes about politics and not humans. I don't want to listen to reasons why this is strategic (to keep us from thinking about the corruption investigation) or unimportant "in the grand scheme of things." I want to be in a place where someone speaks ill of others or decides to deposit a woman on the sidewalk in winter without clothes on and EVERYONE around them remembers that we are talking about fellow humans, sentient beings, not people of color or poor people or some other "class" or "group" of people.

We are all sentient beings.
We all deserve to be treated with kindness and respect.
We are more important than protocols or guidelines or rules or budgets.

We are not illegal.
We are not lazy.
We are not addicts or millennials or Democrats or Republicans or liberals or ...

We are human beings who have different strengths and needs and stories and dreams. And the systems were put into place in order to help us, but the systems have taken over, become a means to manipulate the human beings they were supposed to serve.

Anyone who can watch this video and shrug, not see a fellow person in need of help and feel absolutely sick that she was treated this way has lost their humanity and needs to go back and find it, STAT.

Anyone who can laugh at or dismiss Drumpf's callous, hateful remarks in a meeting of fellow leaders of this country as unimportant is missing the point. The only job our government has is to serve its people, and when the focus becomes maintaining the status quo or disparaging the people it is supposed to serve, the government has become part of the problem.

Do me a favor and really look at every person you see today. Take a second and remind yourself that regardless of their circumstances or their appearance or their heritage, they are first and foremost, human, and they deserve your respect. It seems so elemental, but it is so vital. If we are ever to swing the needle back to a place of peace, we have to reaffirm each others' humanity and stop pandering to the systems that keep us from really seeing each other. Please.

Monday, January 08, 2018

Cross-Post from The SELF Project

My latest for parents and teachers who work with teens is here. Once you know how to spot anxiety, the next trick is to figure out what's triggering it.

Tuesday, November 07, 2017

The Problem With Compartmentalizing, Part Two

Part One is here. 

This one's for Birdie. 

Oh, Birdie. I don't know you, but I know you. We've never met, but I hear you. 

Birdie left a comment on the previous post that I'll excerpt. She wrote, in reference to seeking professional help to process the trauma she experienced as a child, "...I can’t be helped and soul destroying because it means I am really messed up. I am so afraid of opening Pandora’s box and becoming unable to deal with what lies waiting. But I am tired. Tired of never being happy. Tired of always feeling anxious. Tired of always, always being afraid."

Talk about 'bringing the whole house down.' That's what compartmentalizing does to us. It makes us feel safe for the moment, but it ultimately destroys us from the inside out. Because when we hide those things away - either for later or for what we think is forever - we deprive ourselves of community and support. 

Human beings are social creatures. We are designed to live with each other. Our bodies respond on a molecular level to touch and interaction from each other - our adrenal glands activate, our neurological systems light up, we secrete hormones that make us feel safe and loved and happy when we let ourselves share experiences with other people (and animals - never underestimate the power of a soft, furry creature to snuggle up to). 

But when we wall of parts of our human experience, we relegate ourselves to holding what are often the most traumatic and painful things all by ourselves. It is akin to telling everyone that we would like their help carrying the 20lb. box of papers but that they can go home after that because we'll figure out how to lug that 200lb. desk in the corner alone. Or not at all. There are so many reasons we do that - shame, denial, overwhelm. We hate that desk. Maybe we will just leave it there and never look at the corner where it sits, heavy and ugly. 

It is counterintuitive to expect ourselves to bear the heaviest weights alone. We can't do it, no matter how much we want to or how hard we try. And we aren't designed for it. But when we compartmentalize, that's what we're setting ourselves up for - isolation, solo work. 

So, Birdie, if you're reading this, know that even as you wait for a therapist who is the right one to help you work through that pile of stuff you've hidden in the corner, you aren't alone. While it's important to find skilled counselors to help us dig through the deepest traumas, in the meantime, there are people out there who will help you support the weight of what you've got sitting there. Let them. Don't worry about whether they'll get something on their clothes. Don't think about how it smells or what it looks like. Just know that, together, we can bear so much more weight than we think we can, and that there are people out there who care for you who would like nothing more than to hoist up a corner and take some of the pressure off of you. That's how we're designed. That's what we do for each other. And while it takes some practice (often, years of practice), that feeling of relief that you get when others come along to help bear the load is the beginning of healing. 

Thank you for your courage.
You will get there from here. I know it. You won't do it alone, but that's the sweetest part of this. You'll discover, along the way, which of your friends and family is really great at unpacking, cleaning up, and showing up. Let them. Don't apologize. It's how we're designed. Embrace it and know that you were never supposed to hold all of this by yourself. 


Monday, November 06, 2017

The Problem With Compartmentalizing

By Creator:Giulio Bonasone - http://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/392735This file was donated to Wikimedia Commons by as part of a project by the Metropolitan Museum of Art. 

It is just so tempting, and it's also something many of us are conditioned to do from the time we're little: set aside strong emotions or difficult thoughts until later.

I can't deal with that right now.
I can't think about that right now.
Let me just get through this.

Compartmentalization has its purpose, to be sure. When you're physically occupied by something else - say, driving - you really need to focus on the task at hand. But all too often, when we seek to tuck something away "for later," what we are really doing is hoping it will stay tucked away so that we don't ever have to see it again. And unfortunately, the kinds of things we generally hope to never have to see again are usually the kinds of things that will end up demanding our attention in one way or another at some point.

I've had both extreme examples of this (repressing the memories of childhood sexual assault for decades) and moderate examples (putting aside my fears and grief at the serious illness my husband struggled with so that I could get through the day raising two toddlers), and both times it came back to bite me in the ass.  In the first case, I developed a severe anxiety disorder that made it hard for me to work and live the life I wanted to live for many years until I examined and explored the abuse, and in the second, I spent three years working with a therapist to overcome a depression that nearly drove me to suicide.

What I've learned is that while I may not have the luxury of expressing my emotions and really sitting with my grief every time it shows up, if I don't acknowledge it to some degree in real-time, I will suffer the consequences.  Because here's the thing: if I just keep tucking it away in some box labeled "Later," what are the odds that I will ever voluntarily choose to go back and open that box of pain and look at it? Why wouldn't I just keep it in the corner, always finding some other thing to keep me busy. Who in their right mind would want to set aside time and energy to reopen a container of sadness and grief?

So these days, when I'm confronted with a particularly difficult situation, I do my best to fold it into my life. I cry while I'm walking the dogs or doing dishes. I call a friend during lunch and ask for support. I give myself permission to honor the struggle, even if it means I sob a little every day, because hoarding the feelings I don't want to feel in some back room might be the thing that ultimately brings down the whole house. I know. I've been there, and I don't want to do that again. Big piles of junk attract rats and disease. Dealing with the trash one day at a time means that I don't have to dread what might jump out at me from that heap someday.

Thursday, September 07, 2017

Working on Being Human

Everywhere I've ever lived there has been at least one neighbor who is way out of the norm. They have all been unique in their own way, and now that I think about it, they've all been male. Hmmm.

Anyway, in this particular neighborhood, the guy who makes me raise my eyebrows doesn't actually live here - he's just here a lot. His 90-something-year-old father owns the house - a 100+ year-old, 4500 square foot house that has clearly been neglected for at least a decade. The owner has lived in assisted living since before I moved here five years ago, but his two sons come by to mow the lawn and do the bare minimum to maintain the house until their dad passes and they can sell it for a million bucks (I'm not exaggerating - this is the Seattle housing market. You can sell your dilapidated, likely tear-down home for $1M + in my neighborhood. Thanks (?) Amazon). But, I digress.

The son who is here several times a week has been dubbed "no-pants neighbor-man" because, depending on the season, he either wears shorts or sweatpants with the side and/or back seams completely split open. And when he bends over to pull weeds or wind the hose back up, he reveals his personal preference for not wearing any underwear. At all. Even in the winter when the breeze must surely remind him that HIS BACKSIDE IS COMPLETELY UNCOVERED AND REVEALING ALL OF HIS ANATOMY DOWN THERE TO EVERYONE WHO IS WITHIN SIGHT LINES OF IT.

Did I mention that this house happens to be less than a block away from an all-girls Catholic high school? The students park along the side streets in the area and walk to school and this guy is a legend. To a girl, every single one of them crosses the street before they have to walk on the sidewalk in front of the house because they all know about this quirk of his.

He seems harmless. He never calls out to anyone or seems to purposely bend over and display himself to anyone - it just happens as he's working in the yard. He has had some prolonged projects in the yard and on the front porch and occasionally sleeps in the house. Every once in a while, I walk the dogs and simply can't avoid him and, except for his attire, he mostly just seems like a lonely old man who feels the need to mansplain to me why my small terrier should be a "house only" dog because when I take him outside I run the risk of having him carried off by a hawk, among other head-shaking things. (I'm not sure where he thinks my dog should relieve himself if I never let him outside, and that's not the kind of thing I'd ever muse out loud about, anyway, because generally I'm most interested in keeping the interaction brief).

Yesterday, I was driving away from the house when he stood in front of my car and flagged me down. When I stopped and rolled down the window, my attention was first captivated by his really awful DIY dye-job, probably because I was working hard to keep my eyes averted from his scandalous shorts that came nowhere near covering what they should have. The hair he has is perhaps 2" long, and it starts just about 2" above his ears. The top of his head would be perfect for a comb-over if he decided to go that route. But so far, he hasn't, and so the top 1/2" of his hair is lily-white while the rest is some shiny black, from a box look. Because I was so absorbed in wondering how often he dyes his hair and how he does it, I missed the first part of what he was saying, but my attention snapped back to his words when he uttered, "...he's a homeless."

A homeless.

No, I thought, he's a person. A human.

I finally realized that the neighbor was warning me that he had just discovered a sleeping bag and some clothing in the backyard of his dad's house and when he went to throw them in the garbage, he ran in to the owner of the items who seemed to be high or really struggling with reality. Of course, he didn't use those terms, and the terms he did use just made me tired and sad.

I endured the next five minutes of the rant/warning/educational seminar on how "the homeless work," cringing inwardly. I admit to having a moment of concern, wondering whether this person who had been summarily kicked out of my neighbor's backyard would seek refuge in mine, but mostly I just felt ill. Every reference to this young man was couched in language that was designed to set him apart, dehumanize him, set up a dynamic that puts us as neighbors on one side and "vagrants," "derelicts," "homeless" on the other. In the end, I nodded my thanks for the warning, rolled up the window, and drove on.

I have often wondered how this neighbor came to be in the position he is in - unable to convince his elderly father to sell his house but responsible for taking care of it, lonely and a little out of touch with social norms. I have worked to have compassion for him and also talked to Eve and Lola about how to graciously and cautiously interact with him if he speaks to them. I have, a time or two, laughed about him with Bubba or another neighbor, and I will admit that I wish I hadn't. I know that making fun of someone is a step on the road to dehumanizing them and I'm sad that it took his dehumanization of a homeless person to remind me of that.

It is perfectly natural to have a fear-based reaction when you discover something like my neighbor did. I can't honestly say that I'd have been able to keep my wits about me if I walked into my backyard to find someone sleeping back there. I would certainly have ordered him out and perhaps called the police. I struggle with the line between knowing that everyone deserves compassion and respect and protecting myself from potential harm. On the one hand, I know that what the young man likely needs most is resources to help him, and on the other hand, if he was under the influence of some sort of drug, I can't predict what he would do if I let him stay so that I could call someone to help him.

I know that I will continue to struggle with these kinds of situations, with how to put my beliefs into action. One thing I have gotten significantly better at, though, is recognizing my own tendencies to see certain people as 'other' and resist them. Whatever he has done or experienced, wherever he sleeps, this young man is not "a homeless." He is a human being.

Wednesday, August 30, 2017

Instruction for Difficult Moments

It feels surreal.

I realize that I say that so often now. That I experience things that I have a hard time accepting for one reason or another.

The fact that my mom doesn't know who I am; that feels surreal. As though in some parallel existence my real mother exists and she is still able to take the train up to visit me, sit and talk to me at the kitchen table about how crazy it is that my oldest daughter is a senior in high school. And so every time I see her sitting in her living room, watching Bonanza reruns and asking me over and over again where I live, who I am, why I'm there, it is as though I've been cast in some absurd play without ever having auditioned.

The fact that my oldest child is a high school senior is also surreal. Is it possible that I'm old enough for that? That she is?  Even though it feels like I've been a mother forever - it almost feels like I've never NOT been a mother -  it couldn't possibly be accurate that Eve is almost 18, that this year we will visit and apply to colleges, that next year we will move her in.

I haven't imagined these moments, I guess. Maybe that's what it is. I haven't sat and wondered what it might feel like to be without a mother or to be without my daughter. Is it that, because I can't picture myself here, because I haven't turned these scenes around and around in my head, tried them on for size, pulled them off and tweaked them a little bit and put them back on that I am having trouble believing they're real?

I don't ever remember feeling like anything was surreal as a kid. I don't really remember imagining how things would turn out, though. Maybe as a kid the world seemed so unpredictable, so full of possibility or so fully out of my control that I couldn't begin to compare reality to what I had expected. Even as things happened that were unexpected or unwelcome, as a kid, I simply accepted what came and tried to figure out how to respond. Ignore? Run for cover? Adapt and move forward?

I wonder if it has something to do with the way the child brain works - that it is concrete and so just takes what comes. Adolescents develop the ability for abstract thought, and as we age, we also begin to believe that we can control things in our lives. Maybe "imagination" is the wrong word. Children have spectacular imaginations that are often unbounded by any sort of reality. But as we get older, the kinds of things we imagine center more around ourselves and our desires and our expectations. So maybe surrealism comes as a result of life looking significantly different than my expectations - especially when what I'm presented with is difficult emotionally or something I wouldn't have chosen to spend time thinking about or planning for.

The seduction of the surreal is that it doesn't beckon me to spend much time there. At least not in these two scenarios. I am not fully present when I experience these things because I don't truly want to be there, so perhaps it's a trick of my mind that is trying to tell me I can deny it by labeling it that way.

There have been other moments in my life that feel similarly dream-like that were exhilarating and pleasant, and while they had the same qualities, those were moments that I bathed in, savored, chose to fully experience. Several years ago, Lola and I paraglided off the top of a mountain in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. The ride lasted about 15 minutes and from the second we strapped in and started listening to the instructions, I felt as though I were outside myself. As the wind caught the parasail and lifted my feet off the side of the mountain I pulled my consciousness back inside, tethered it, and focused on each breath in an effort to capture the experience as deeply as I could. I knew it was going to be over before I was ready, and I was determined to pay attention. I will never regret doing that because it remains one of the most amazing things I've ever had the good fortune to do and I'm thrilled that I really took the time to be there while it was happening.

Maybe I need to do the same during other times when I feel as though I'm out of my element. As painful as it is, choosing to be fully present with my daughter and my mom during these moments that I couldn't have imagined or prepared myself for emotionally could mean the difference between simply enduring them and finding some grace in them.

Tuesday, August 08, 2017

Lopez Island Morning

The house I am staying in is on a spit of land with a westward view of a bay and another spit of land. All day long, I could sit on the deck and watch the birds – gulls, heron, eagles, ducks – fish and splash and swim in the shallow, sandy bay. And just beyond it, on that other long finger of land, cars and trucks come and go, with the occasional knot of bicyclists and the rare jogger. There are no homes (yet) on that slim finger that is just to the west of where I am, but this morning, I woke to the bones of a crane just forming through the fog, so I know it is only a matter of time.

            There are homes in the webbing of the finger, though, the crotch of land that connects that spit to this one, and they are huddled close together with some clusters of wind-sculpted evergreen trees. Sitting on the deck this morning, peering through the thick mist, I am pleased that I can see far enough in front of me to watch the gulls scoop up clams, fly 40 feet up into the sky, and drop them on the rocks beneath to reveal their soft insides. Breakfast. I squint to see the houses just to the west and wonder if, from their vantage point, it is as foggy and grey as it seems to me from here, or whether they, too, have a clear visual field in front of them and I just can’t tell. Optics. 


            I wonder if we all assume that our vantage point is the Right one. From here, I think those homes are cloaked in fog and mist. I imagine looking out the window of one of those homes to see nothing but grey. But maybe that’s not accurate. 

            This morning it is so quiet that I can hear the flapping of the gulls’ wings as they rise out of the water. It is the sound of effort, of forward motion, and it prompts me to tighten the muscles of my belly as though I, too, am rising, pulsing my arms to lift myself. I think about how satisfying it feels to be tensing muscles, using my own strength to move. If I could think this way all the time, I would be better at going to the gym. I would have less cellulite and more stamina. Maybe what I need is to live someplace with this view all the time – watching these animals work to live in a gorgeous place. All of their movements purposeful. I am the kind of person for whom going to the gym feels artificial and contrived and there is little that makes me more aggravated than falsehood.


            Often, this morning, the peace is punctuated by gunshots. The first one came solo and prompted me to think that some angry gardener was dispatching one of the rabbits that outnumber people on this island. Perhaps he finally got tired of sharing his bounty with the fat bunnies feasting on his labor and leaving droppings in every patch of grass available. Gunshots are nearly always associated with ‘he’ in my mind. I know that there are women who shoot guns. Women who garden and get annoyed. And it’s not unimaginable in this place where yesterday I saw packs of dirt-stained children wrestling in open areas, wandering up to strangers to talk and pet their dogs, women with three or four of their own tagging along – none of whom are old enough to go to school quite yet. It’s not beyond imagination to expect one of them to sit down and bare her breast to a child who is tall enough to stand next to her and feed. That is the kind of island this is – hippies, home-schoolers, people who want to live away from the city. These women can do anything. I can tell. But it is hard for me to reconcile the peaceniks with gunshots. I know that is my own limitation. I accept it. I don’t know if I’ll work to unravel it or not. Right now, I am more interested in why the gunshots are increasing – now coming in groups of three or four. Who is shooting? What are they shooting? Why? 


My real desire is for them to stop. I’d like to slip back in to the stillness where the only sound is the beating of the birds’ wings as they lift off of the water or the swoosh it makes when they skid into the bay and touch down.
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