Losing My Religion

I chose that title just so everyone would get that REM song stuck in their heads, and also a little bit for click bait. Click so you can see whether I'm losing my religion or not! In a way, it is true, I'm losing a part of my religious identity. I'm still trying to figure out what that means, what it looks like.

When my family came for Thanksgiving, my sisters and their family stayed with me while my parents stayed at a hotel. One night, after my parents had left, the kids were asleep, my sisters, their husbands, and Jason and I sat up late talking. 

I have a confession. I intentionally took myself out of the conversation. I closed my eyes like I was falling asleep, only I hadn't really fallen asleep yet. Granted, I was exhausted and I did eventually fall asleep since closing your eyes often leads to that. It wasn't pretty: to preserve room, I was sitting on my husband's lap, which means when I did fall asleep I ended up sprawled out over my husband's seated body- like a too large child who won't let their parent put them down. It wasn't super comfortable.

Why did I close my eyes? Because the conversation turned to religion. Church. Theology. Here's the sad part. I love thinking about and talking about theology. But I closed my eyes.

My older sister started talking about her and her husband's spiritual journey. The last few years have been years of growth, exploration, and drastic change from their church where my sister's husband had worked over a decade. They talked about theological differences, leadership styles of the pastors, and even liturgical differences between their old and new churches. I could feel something happening within me. I felt myself shrinking, becoming invisible (or wanting to become invisible). My younger sister talked too about how she and her husband struggled to find a church that gave them a sense of community and purpose, that gave space for their questions. My younger sister expressed her need to sort of break up with the church for a while since it had been such a towering and controlling presence for her life. She needed to regroup and ask some hard questions about what church and God meant for her. I felt myself making a conscious effort to get smaller and quieter, to stifle my thoughts and feelings and story. Then they asked Jason a question about his role as a minister. And that's when I closed my eyes. 

I closed my eyes because I had been feeling something growing inside me: the pain of not having church or ministry as an identity. The pain of it never really sticking. I've told the story of when I felt called by God to "be a minister." That happened almost 18 years ago. Holy crap I just did the math. 18 years!! And I have nothing to show for it but struggle. I have this pain inside me because I never doubted (other than the panic in the moment) that God was speaking to me, calling me. I never doubted that I was to have some response to match this high calling. But the pain is that the identity never stuck. I never figured out a way to become a minister. No one in my family ever really saw me as such. None of my friends really did outside of being "a nice person who listens." 

For 18 years I've been wrestling with that calling to be a minister, and in that conversation that night, when my heart was bursting with longing to talk about my own journey, my own thoughts- I knew that it wasn't important. Or that it was too important to me. I also had so many feelings swirling inside me that I didn't quite understand, but they were too big for this fireplace chat. I didn't want to ruin what was a lovely conversation with my own issues. I made myself close my eyes so I could disappear from the conversation. It was far easier to disappear than to care. Caring was too painful. Caring meant I would want people to suddenly recognize this minister identity in me that had never stuck. I would want them to ask me what I thought because of my experience and theological education. Caring meant that I wanted people to see and honor my journey and my struggles. I felt like somehow I needed to be recognized- which was flat out selfish and stupid. So I disappeared, because I didn't know what else to do. I didn't know how else to handle my grief. Caring meant feeling the anger - and I wasn't ready to do it.

I heard Jason saying "If it makes you feel better, Sarah's kind of struggling. She's kinda over church." And I don't think it made anyone feel better or worse. 

I am losing my religion. I've lost the minister identity- not the loss of someone who had something and then lost it- I never had it. I think I'm finally giving up on the thing ever sticking. Maybe God made a mistake. Maybe it was just a ploy to get me to do other things in the pursuit of being a minister. Maybe it was a three year calling and I tried to make it stretch 18. All I know is that it hurts too much to talk about religion right now. I don't want to insert my pain into someone else's journey. I don't want to be the old hag telling the travelers - "been there, done that- you'll see it leads nowhere soon!" That's not really what I think but it is in a way. That doesn't even make sense, but it makes sense to me. It's not a linear journey, but my journey has led me here: nowhere. I've been in the wilderness for so long that I call it home now. The best thing I have found for connecting to God is silence. SILENCE. Maybe I'll be a minister of the wild. I won't get paid for it. No one will ask me about my role as a minister. No one will ask me to pray. No one will wonder about my own theological studies or knowledge. But I can maybe give some water to a fellow wilderness survivor. Tell them that they aren't alone. And they'll shrug and thank me for the water and being a good listener.

The more I allow myself to think about this, the more I think that perhaps part of my problem was that I had an image in my head of what it meant to "be a minister"- and that involved authority, title, respect. Hilarious when I think about it because I have a lifetime of bucking the system and rejecting authority, titles, and blind respect. Oh the irony.

Quick caveat (or note?)- I process my thoughts by writing, so if I start a blog in one place and end it in another- that isn't because I didn't edit for clarity- it's because I figured things out as I kept writing. It might be messy and less crisp- and I hope you'll forgive me. I like naming each part of the process. I don't want to reject the beginning, or the middle, because for me there never is an end- I keep most thoughts open for debate... I don't do final wrapped up finished conclusions very well.

So as I engage this idea of letting go of the "be a minister" identity- which I was ready to completely and utterly chuck over a cliff- I'm thinking I need to let go of the image I had in my head. And embrace the ways I have answered that call- in my own weird ass way. I wasn't called to be a pastor of a church, leading committees, ordering roof tiles, and appeasing people who care too much about the color of the carpet. I don't have the patience for that. And at this juncture- I don't believe I ever really want to have the patience for that. As a woman trying to answer a call- I never knew whether I didn't want to do something because I didn't think it was possible (or didn't get the support) or if I really just didn't want to do it. I have felt good about every vocational decision I have made in my life. As a dear fried said to me today: "nothing is lost." All of it has been my jazz-dancing through life, not in some linear upward track, but in a whirling dervish sort of way. Although sometimes I do less jazz dancing and more silent brooding.

But here's the thing, the book that made me want to go to seminary is "The Preaching Life" by Barbara Brown Taylor. If you have never read anything of hers- go do it- she is exquisite. In her books, she talks about her own struggle with her calling. She felt God telling her that she could do literally anything she wanted- as long as she belonged to God. I remember absolutely loving that part (should have seen that as a bigger sign). In that moment, she decided to become an Episcopal priest. I believe she is now a professor (although she may have left that post). The point is- she changed her answer- but the calling remained the same. Maybe in God's wisdom and also joy- I was given an annoyingly vague calling. Because God knew I wasn't going to do something normal and predictable or even logical. I have this insanely logical part of myself which is constantly at war with the other part of myself that is certifiably insane- but beautiful. I tried to make my calling fit into the logical section. My pretty insane self said over and over "fine, but let's take a little break to do this experiment." And my logical self said: "OK- here's a logical explanation for why that is ok."

I sound like I have split personalities, but I think I've pitted these two parts of me against each other to torture myself, when I just need to blend it all together. I will be insane, and also make wise financial decisions. I can do that. I will not try to make everything check out with both sides. Sometimes I need to be logical, and sometimes I need to take a leap of faith.

God knew that. So in 18 years I have been a youth director, a Congregational Care coordinator, a caregiver for elderly, a stay-at-home mom, a writer, and a hospice chaplain. Yes, I ended on hospice chaplain because it makes me sound like a freaking saint. I confess and I don't care. I loved it and also might have enjoyed the respect I got just as much as the job. Now I am writing.

My call to be a minister was more than be a nice person. I am perfect for the wilderness. I have always wanted to be in the center of town because it is safe, comfortable, and organized- and as a minister- you get respect. I don't belong there. I want to, but I just don't. I get restless. I've KNOWN this about myself. But I always thought the wilderness was temporary, and soon I would find "my place" where I would finally settle, I'd get ordained, I'd have some perfect vocational epiphany and finally everyone would recognize me for the minister I was called to be. But that's not happening, because that's not my calling. I'm the minister to the people who hate titles. To the people who have too many questions. To the people who say shit and pray. For the people who would rather die then listen to another stupid sermon. I am a minister with no authority- because I need to fucking humble myself and take up my task. My task is to belong to God- in the evolving way I see God and myself, and to greet people on the journey. To tell you you are not alone. Not because I have authority- but because I live here too. Because the wilderness is home, not a place for outcasts. The wilderness is home. It is a place to stay and wander freely around. And that is sacred, and it doesn't matter if you worship Buddha, Allah, or Beauty itself. I've been here long enough that we have a lot in common, and my humility is what will allow that connection to continue.

And maybe in 5 years I'll change my mind- but I'll still belong to God- whoever that is. And I'll still be a minister to whoever is running around me. And I'll have years of experience.

The Truth

I was going to title this one "Trump was Right" but I couldn't stomach it, even for the click-bait. And even now I'm thinking I might delete that line because it's so terrible to look at.

When Trump said that there were "fine people on both sides" of the Neo-Nazi march in Charlottesville, people got really angry. And for good reason- because politically Trump was equating NAZIS with ... well- not Nazis. And that is a terrible thing to do as a president- and in general.

However, (ugh) I have to admit something. He wasn't completely wrong. And before you burn me alive, hear me out. NONE of us are perfect. I think I've talked about this before, the sort of black and white ultimatums we deal in when talking about people we disagree with (or who are terrible people). You can be a terrible person, have TERRIBLE values, and still act like a nice person. You may even do some very fine, nice things.

One of the sort of insidious trends of the neo-Nazi movement and other white-supremacy groups is to blend in. They wear khakis now. And here's the thing, most of them wore khakis before. They just changed the culture of the group to make sure that they started becoming less obviously deviant or different, or dare I say "evil." It's hard to look at a bunch of white guys in khakis and polo shirts and think- now there's a dangerous group. The reason for that is because our society has conditioned us not to be afraid of those guys. And they are using it to their advantage. Obviously there are people who have had experiences that taught them otherwise, but by and large, if you see a white dude with a clean haircut, khakis, and a polo shirt walking down the street, you won't even notice him. Because he looks "normal."

And that is the whole point, white supremacists are embracing their normal, and everyone is buying into it as evidence that they aren't that bad after all. Hmm- not so fast.

It's true- I bet you that a white supremacist has the ability to be a loving parent. I bet a white supremacist has the ability to do something nice for their neighbor. I bet a white supremacist has the ability to contribute to the community, give money to the poor, do good work in their career. Because a white supremacist does not exist only as a white supremacist. They are whole humans, with relationships, careers, and other hobbies. But it doesn't mean that they are incapable of doing bad things. Obviously, right?!

Let's go further. Let's take the actual Nazis. My Grandfather (Opa) was born and raised in Berlin. His mother was Jewish and his father was a journalist who was black-balled by the Nazi party. Opa had the privilege of perspective when understanding Hitler's special kind of terrible. Opa was able to escape to the United States, but some of his friends from school were drafted into Hitler's army. In fact, Opa was set to be drafted but managed to escape by being smuggled out of Germany before his number was called. It was privilege that allowed him to have even the means to escape! Men serving in the Nazi army were called Nazis. But not all of these men were serving by choice. Sure, they could have died rather than serve (likely the only option available) and then serving is about survival. After the war, the men and women civilians left in Germany were made to clean up the rubble as a sort of a punitive measure for their complicity in the Nazi reign. But I know one of those women was my great aunt, who had kept her daughter's Jewish ancestry a secret to protect her, and did everything she could to protect and care for my great uncle (her eventual husband and the father of her daughter) and my great grandmother who were Jews. Despite clear evidence of her help, she still had to do the punitive work. Because she was a German and she managed not to be imprisoned. Hitler came to power in 1933, and soon after the entire public school curriculum was rewritten with anti-semitic genetic lessons spread blatantly throughout. The war, and the Nazi reign, ended in 1945. So it would be possible for a child to have an entire public education based on Nazi curriculum, from k-12 grade. Do we blame them for believing what they are taught from 5-18 years old?

I'm not excusing anyone's behavior or lack of bigger resistance. (But seriously, what would you do in those situations in Germany?) I'm not even making the argument that there wasn't evil at work. I am just saying that it's never black and white. When we make sweeping judgments, we often miss a a chance at progress and possible solutions.

I AM mad that Trump said there were very fine people on both sides, but not because he was wrong, he was actually kind of right, but because it DOESN'T matter. Because life, history, politics, is not that black and white. Very fine people do terrible things and should be held accountable. Very terrible people can do wonderful things. The point is that we cannot depend on a tattoo or consistently terrible behavior to help us decide if someone needs to stop. This actually can be spread into the whole rape-culture problem too. Just because the rapist is a really wonderful student and all-star athlete, does not somehow make them not also a rapist. It can be applied to the issue of black people getting shot- just because he stole candy or made bad choices does NOT mean he is "bad" or deserves the death penalty without trial.

Our tendency to polarize people into "good" and "evil" creates an impossible situation. If you see only the good in people, then you sentence yourself to never holding them accountable. If you see only bad in people, then their lives are no longer equal to yours or others. It doesn't work. It's bad politics, it's bad theology, it's bad human-ing.

So yes- there are probably some really stellar citizens in that torch-bearing crowd. If you call for all Nazis to burn in hell, then you are no better than they are. THEY hate, YOU hate. So let's throw away the unhelpful unilateral good vs evil argument. Let's be smart. Let us hold every person accountable for the shit they do- no matter how much money they make you or themselves. No matter how many medals they have received. Let's also listen to the story of that kid in the gang. Yes- he did some baaaad stuff. Yes he should be accountable to that. But yes, he is a human and if you hear his story, you might actually learn something. At the very least you may learn that we are all human, we all make mistakes, and what we look like (and our financial status) often determines how we pay for those mistakes. It's not about good and evil- so stop that game.

The truth is- people are far more complicated than a litmus test for good and evil. If we allow ourselves to think and listen with more complexity- we might actually be able to solve some problems. We might be able to create peace rather than using evidence of an ounce of good or evil to slam the scale of justice down wherever we want it.

Deaf

I had a hair appointment, and before the woman washed my hair, I made a point to let her know I wore hearing aids and would be taking them out, so I wouldn't be able to hear her. She looked at me like people look at you when you say that your dog just died last week. It was a little weird, but I appreciated that she was trying to be caring. Then, while she washed my hair, she said something to me. I almost laughed. She was checking the temperature of the water and by context I figured out what she said and told her it was fine. Then I'm sure she thought I was a big, fat liar about the deaf thing. (Except for my hearing aids in my hand.)

Deaf people are REALLY good at reading context. Like scary good. So we catch stuff even if we didn't hear you. That sounded like a threat and I'm not even sorry about it.

I have this arrangement with my new hair stylist. I have done the deaf dance with several stylists. This dance is the advanced notice that you will have to take your hearing aids out for the hair washing (they are NOT water proof). Then you have to remind them that it means you can't hear. Which is true, but since you're a dope lip reader and context clues reader- the stylist will inadvertently slip up and talk to you and you will respond appropriately because you can figure it out. Here's the thing- when you have your hearing aids out- it takes A LOT of energy to do all that context sleuthing, so you'd really rather them not talk to you. So it's difficult. Then you feel like an asshole because you aren't talking to them or even really looking at them because you're trying to avoid them striking up a conversation. SO you try to dry out your ears mega-fast so you don't have to work so hard at keeping up with the conversation. Here's the problem- your ears weren't perfectly dry so now they feel all damp and weird and the person is brushing or cutting your hair- which means they now have these hearing aids to avoid and you both feel anxious about it. And now you can talk, but seriously it's still hard to talk with hair in your face.

This dance was so damn exhausting that I tried something new with this hair stylist, and I did it with the one I had in Hampton. I said "Hey, I'm deaf, so when I take the hearing aids out I can't hear. They can't get wet, so I need to let my ears dry before I put them back in. It might be a little while. I'm not trying to be rude, but I'll probably just read." My new stylist said "sounds great- we'll both get a little quiet." That's when I knew I found the right person.

I was reflecting about my deafness today- not something I do often. Not hearing is kinda like that sound of the AC cutting on. You completely forget about it until that first warm day in spring and you're like- what's that noise? Oh yeah, the AC. I think my parents played a big part in letting my sister and I feel like we could let our deafness fade into background noise- it didn't have to be our primary identity. I really appreciate that, because it allowed us to have the confidence to do anything we wanted to do. But every now and then I think about it and reflect on it.

My older sister is also deaf, so it's nice to have someone to talk to when I think about it. I don't think we fully realize the blessing it was to have someone in-house who understood what we were going through. We talked about our deafness over Thanksgiving last week, when her family joined mine. We have both been doing a little reflecting on it lately. I'm not sure if that's age, therapy, or just the wind blowing where it does. But it was nice to share with each other what we have realized.

Kelly said that she had thought she was totally comfortable with her impairment, when it occurred to her that she was proud of how well she compensated, not necessarily how she was born. That was a lightning bolt for me. And of course we're proud of how we've compensated. We're awesome. But- it was a realization that we hadn't necessarily fully accepted our hearing loss as an OK thing- but more we were bent on proving that it wasn't a thing at all. By how incredibly amazing we were at not seeming deaf. We fool a lot of people. And for some reason we were more proud of that. I'm still working out what that means. I've tried to be more vulnerable and say when I can't hear people or name that I can't hear in an unapologetic way. I don't feel that I need to apologize, but I do have very high expectations of myself as far as how much I should be able to do to compensate.

And that was the discovery I made. I work really hard to do normal things. It's part of who I am to the point where I don't even notice it. It's like brushing my teeth in the morning- of course I do it! Of course I face the people who are talking to me. Of course I read their lips. Of course I intuitively read their body language. Of course I have a sixth sense of emotions and even a weird spiritual vibe. Of course I can usually tell a creeper from a mile away- I'm constantly watching and listening with every fiber of my being. I realized that not everyone does this. Hell, people can have a conversation AND watch TV at the same time. To me, that's impossible. If I try to multitask - even with the check-out person, I will miss most of whatever it is I'm trying to do. So human interaction takes literally my whole being to do right. THIS is why I was a good chaplain. This is why I am a good listener (hopefully). This is also why I can't do crowds of people for too long, or shallow conversation for too long, or have too many friends. It's exhausting. I can't tune out and tune in at the right time. I have to be fully present for all of it if I want to catch the good parts. I can't select what I hear, so I select who I hear. I used to think that was me being elitist or super-introverted. Now it feels a little more like self-care and grace.

I have always been so proud of myself for being "passable" as hearing, that I think I forgot to give myself credit for the work I have to do to pass. Not in a pitying way- but it made me realize why I have instinctively put up the boundaries that I have. I'm not mean and I don't hate people. I like people- a lot- and I can only give 100% to so many. I am realizing that I made good choices when I said I didn't want to do that thing with all those people right after doing that other thing with all those people.

And now, I have a new set of hearing aids (got em on a huge sale for $5500!). Now I remember all the work it takes. Getting new hearing aids is switching your old ears out for a new sound system. Your brain has to adapt. You have to adapt, and then you have to figure out what needs to be changed (settings, programs, volume, etc). But you still have to go to those events with crowds and people talking. I'll admit the first day I hid in a quiet corner and had wine while I whined about how much my new hearing aids sucked. I *knew* that they would be fine, but I felt terrible. I had to do even MORE work to pass as hearing, and that is when I realize that I'm at the brink of hard work. Trying more completely exhausts and overwhelms me. It'll get better. It'll get easier, and my work will reduce back to the normal level. But it's a lot of work, and it made me feel better to be more honest about it this time around. People at church were asking me how I was adjusting to them- I felt really cared for.

I've always thought of my deafness as something that is background noise. Mere chance to mention in  an off-hand way. But now I am trying to face it a little more straight on. I'm trying to get to know this part of myself a little better, to recognize in my daily quirks and habits, the things that I do because I can't hear. Then, ultimately, to embrace it. To give it grace and worry a little less about "passing" as hearing- or perfect- or anything other than who I am.

Gandalf

Yesterday (I think) was national mental health awareness day. I'm pretty immune to these awareness days because they seem fairly insignificant in the pile of all the other days that we're told to be aware of things. I'm sure the awareness is helpful and has an end game that promotes health and well-being, but I can say that knowing I have struggled with depression - being AWARE of it- does not make it go away. It doesn't really make it easier for me to talk to someone else about it- because awareness and understanding are oh so far apart. It doesn't lessen my load or really impact me at all. I'm grateful that I do not live in a time when I would be thrown in the looney bin or ostracized for being a woman with deep thoughts, but honestly- it doesn't help me now to think about how much worse life was for people before me. That's just more depressing.

All that to say- someone's Facebook post reminded me that I struggle with depression. And I was annoyed by the reminder. Because for all my awareness, I still dodge that sucker as much as I can.

My last therapist (who was helpful to an extent) gave the advice that I shouldn't fight the depression so hard. I don't think she used this analogy, but I thought of how when you are drowning your supposed to stop fighting the current, but relax into it and it'll spit you out in the end. Here's the problem: you might be dead. Or half-drowned. Or on an island someplace you didn't want to be. To let the current take you is to trust that the current will harm you less than your efforts to fight it. This isn't always so clear, especially when the current is a black hole of depression.

I've mentioned this before- but my depression looks a lot like laziness. It looks like someone sitting around doing nothing and being useless. It looks like forcing yourself to do everyday activities like getting out of bed, showering, eating. I always brush my teeth though. If I get to the point where I don't brush my teeth- get me immediate help. Depression for me looks like me thinking about the mist below my dark thoughts. I ask the questions about the rain, but I don't dare touch the lightning inside the dark cloud. If I jump into the deep end, I might not find my way out. So I spin in circles in the haze, never being satisfied or content, but knowing somehow in the back of my brain, that at least I am avoiding the real darkness. If I confront that shit- I might drown. (I recognize that I've jumbled twelve different analogies here- but I'm going to leave it and let you sort it out.)

The thing about black holes of darkness (depression) is that they have a sort of magnetic quality about them. Your curiosity (or sickness) lures you closer and closer to the abyss, until you suddenly have a moment of clarity and realize you are about to stick your toe in it. I was going to say lava- but lava has a distinct quality of heat and fire and pain. Black hole of darkness is like that "Nothing" from Never Ending Story. It isn't something- it's nothing- and it's sucking your world void. You put your toe in- you will pull it back to find nothing. If you jump in all the way- you will vanish.

So my coping mechanism has always been to journey to the other side of the earth, get away from the black hole and fight the gravity that pulls me towards it. When the therapist recommended that I jump in feet first and trust that I'll get out on the other side- I pretty much thought she was full of shit. Really what I thought was that she was"Aware" of depression, but didn't quite understand. Because someone who understands knows that letting go is equal to giving up which equals blank stares for an undetermined amount of time. She might be able to write off a few months of staring as therapeutic recovery - but I have a family and dreams- and certainly have no time to give in to darkness.

So yes, I have considered the thoughts that she might be right, but I need a battle plan. I mean a dive-in plan. I need to know how to jump in to the deep end and not die.

Then, as I often do now, I thought about literature. I wish I had read more fantasy as a child, I think it would have helped me process more of my deep thoughts. But luckily I married a lover of Tolkien and the others, and I have now seen and read many fantasy and sci-fi novels that attempt to ask more of the deeper questions. I thought today about Gandalf. In the Lord of the Rings series, Gandaf encounters a Balrog- a demon of darkness. His quotable line "YOU SHALL NOT PASS!" is his rebuke to this creature of darkness, who attempts to stop the tribe of travelers from destroying the ring. Actually, I don't think the demon gives a shit about their travels, they just tread on his turf and he's a demon.

Gandalf succeeds in stopping the demon from attacking his friends, but he falls into the deep crevice after the demon- and by all accounts, his fall into darkness is assumed to result in his death. Gandalf was grey-bearded then, a powerful wizard but not the most powerful. After his encounter with this demon, he re-emerges like a phoenix, splendid with white hair and more powerful than ever. Everyone is super excited to see him and that's that.

I needed just a few more details of what happened between falling down the dark demon cliff and rising white-bearded with a kick-ass power jump. I went and did some searching and it was actually quite fascinating. Moria- the place this creature lived- means "black pit" - as if my analogy needed some more help. In the search I found the story went that Gandalf pursued the Balrog for eight days and finally there was a battle between the two that culminated on a mountain top, where the demon was thrown from the top and died, splitting the mountain. Gandalf supposedly died as well, but was "sent back" to Middle Earth with greater powers as Gandalf the White. Very special, would love to have a few more details on the whole "sent-back" part.

So all I need is to know that I can kill the demon and that even if I "die" I'll be "sent back." Sorry Tolkien, but I need a little more to go on. How do you confront a demon, die, and live? How do you dive in to the deep end and make it to the other side? I think this is part of my reasoning behind shining light in the cave of questions (I mention that in a previous blog where I'm going to start asking the scary questions and have other people ask with me so we aren't so alone and scared.) Instead of calling depression something dark and demonic- I'm trying to turn on the light down here and invite people to join me in asking the dark demon so many questions that instead of being dark and mysterious it gets sort of annoyed and moody. That seems less scary. I can handle a moody and annoyed demon.

Maybe I shall emerge from this cave not as Gandalf the White, oh wise and powerful... but as Sarah the Persistent, obnoxious but not alone. Or maybe I'll make a home in the cave, since it's too well lit for a demon of darkness to dwell in anymore. Or maybe I'll throw a demon off a cliff and split a mountain and die.... and be sent back. Time will tell.

Neck Grief

Today I had a massage, and before you judge me, I judge me too. However, I signed up for this massage membership in a very low point emotionally, and it was one of my steps toward health. Although I feel embarrassed when I mention it (the frivolity of it!), today reminded me of why I signed up.

Every time I go in, I'm asked the same basic questions about what I need in the massage that day. Every time I go in, my answers are nearly identical. Yes, full body- but spend more time on my back, shoulders, and neck. Pressure? Hard. How do I want to feel? Relaxed.

I actually tried to think of a different word for how I wanted to feel, because relaxed seemed lazy. I want the relaxation to be the result of muscles forced into submission. Luckily my massage therapist understands what I mean. She is not afraid to hurt me. I know the places that will hurt, and I try to breathe into it. I'm not going to lie, I try to pretend it doesn't hurt as much as it does because I don't want her to back off on the pressure. 

Today, I asked her to focus on my neck and shoulders especially, because I felt like they weren't even my own. I didn't explain it well to her. What I wanted to say was that I wished they weren't my own. I have often wished this. That I could somehow trade them out for a new set. That I could hold my head up without constant stretching and adjusting. I want to feel like my head isn't supported by a janky set of sticks duct taped together and ready to collapse at any moment. In my mind I thought: if you can make me not feel like trading it out, you will have performed a miracle.

The complete focus on the neck didn't happen until the very end of the massage, so by then I had been lulled into a peace of silence and introspection. I was even writing a little dialogue scene for my book in my head. There had definitely been some painful muscle work, but I had expected it. She started working on the tendons around my shoulders that connect to the neck, painful but bearable. Then she moved on to my actual neck, focusing first on one side, then on the other. She held pressure points for what felt like a painful eternity. I felt my neck sort of twitch and release. It hurt. Like woah. 

Then I sort of had one of those kind of out-of-body experiences. Not a creepy one. I just sort of panned back and looked at my neck with such sympathy. I thought, God- she's been through a lot. And just naming that gave me this wave of grief. But the kind that you get when you finally think or say out loud something that has been buried within you. It was a release. 

I have had three spinal surgeries and my neck will forever be jacked up. I do not feel things like I should, and my body does weird stuff if I sit or lean or whatever for too long. Spinal injuries are really, really weird. You know how if you break your ankle, it's never really the same and you're more likely to do something to it later because of that crack in the strength of the bone? Spinal injuries are like that, except it manifests in the weirdest ways, and doesn't always make sense, and doesn't have a specific cure or treatment. 

I may be wrong (but certainly not alone) but I tend to ignore the majority of my spinal issues. Because if I went to the doctor for every tingling sensation or weird symptom (like my hand curls up involuntarily sometimes, mostly when I've leaned a certain way)- I would be forever at the doctor and the only solution they would have is surgery- which would bring a new set of weird possible consequences. Spinal injury for me is deciding what set of symptoms you can handle. If it is too painful or too life-inhibiting, then you might be able to trade a few cards of symptoms for different few cards that are a little less annoying- but you can't fold. You can't trade in your neck for a new one. Some can only trade in twos and threes for fours and sevens. I think as far as spinal injuries, I've got at least a pair in my hand- it's not so bad. 

That's another thing about spinal injuries. They can be catastrophic, searing pain. So even when I feel weird and like my body will never be fully functional (and never knowing if something is related to the injury or something else), I still think "it could be so much worse." I think that mentality of comparison has been helpful sometimes for me to keep in perspective my quality of life. But today, as I released that grief for my neck, I realized that maybe I should have given myself a little space to grieve. 

Of course, it's hard to even know or name what you are grieving. I don't even remember what it felt like to be able to put earrings in my ear without looking, or to clasp the necklace without standing in front of a mirror. I don't remember what it was like to feel the fine texture of something. I do remember being able to do a back bend without much effort, curving my back and neck into a perfect U shape. I remember doing back dives into the pool, landing as well as a forward dive. I remember doing neck stretches in my PE class where my head would touch my shoulder. I kinda remember not having scars. But in that moment, when I felt the acute pain in my neck, I felt the grief. I felt love for my neck rather than anger. I forgave it for giving me so much trouble and felt sympathy for all the trouble it had been through. And now I'm thinking, I am thankful for the courage it has to hold itself together and heal as well as it has. 

I know I'm talking about my neck as if it is a separate thing, or even person. I don't why I do this or why it helps. But it does. It gives me space between me the part of me that causes me grief. Enough space I guess, to give grace. And then I can reclaim my neck as mine- painful and graceful- and continue to get massages. Because my neck, she's been through a lot, and even if I feel silly getting a massage, my neck could use a little love.

Worry

I do not suffer from anxiety. In fact, I might suffer from too little of it: apathy.  The way I handle anxiety or worry is by not caring about it anymore. This can be really helpful- or totally not a good idea. I have a LOT of things that I don't care about right now, which really means that I am deeply worried about a lot of things that I had to pretend don't exist to stay sane.

The other day I did a brief inventory of "expensive things we'll need to replace soon." That inventory got thick real fast, and the replace-by-date jumped right in front of my face like those stupid Halloween zombie actors. It scared the shit out of me. I dealt with it two ways: by texting my sisters that I was having a mid-life crisis and by declaring that everything is meaningless.

Neither were very effective. I will still need to buy: hearing aids, a car (maybe), new computers, and a new cell phone in the ridiculously near future. And keep paying taxes and being generous and shit.

The optimistic person would count their blessings. Remember that they won't starve. Come up with a systemic plan to possibly relax the chokehold. Hold a bake sale or yard sale. Things like that.

I'm not an optimist. I'm a realist. I know that everything will break in a three-month period, and that taxes will also be due then. So I'm 100% sure that I will have to go into debt or figure out how to function without a car (very seriously considering that already), or how to function without both hearing aids, or sell a kidney on the black market. Maybe my husband and I will share a computer and a car and a phone.

Once my brain is overwhelmed by the worry it starts shutting down. It says: woah Nelly! This is just to darned much! We're gonna just go watch a movie, eat some Cheezits, and then have an early bedtime sweet cheeks. When you wake up in the morning, you won't remember a thing. And she'll be right. Sweet little brain of mine. She tries.

But worry induced amnesia isn't a good thing, right? I mean - I'm definitely asking for me. It has been rather helpful, and the truth is that I have yet to starve or go into debt- which is basically the definition of stability and privilege. Don't get me wrong, I save money and am cheap as they come. I'm not just amnesia spending money with no regard. But I'm also not facing things.

Wait, maybe my worry method is fine. I stop worrying, everything works out, and if it doesn't- it wasn't for lack of planning. Maybe worry-amnesia is GOOD!

Not every psychosis is bad.

Lonely Questions

There is something called Light Exposure therapy. I have no idea what it actually is except that I have heard of it. I think it is for seasonal depression- which is why I’ve heard of it. I’m going to take a different approach to it. I realized today that some of my depression is the loneliness in my questions. Or thoughts. I feel alone with my ideas, and not in a poetic way. I have questions and fears that I am afraid to bring to light, mostly because any time I hint at them, I get the blank stares of a population of people who either live in blissful ignorance, or perhaps live in better care of their dungeon of dark thoughts. 

My dungeon of dark thoughts frequently has a jail break. I can’t pretend they don’t exist. I used to think that my problem was that I had the dungeon. That I had these mysterious dark questions or thoughts -and that they really needed to stop existing. Now I’m starting to think that their existence isn’t the problem. It’s the loneliness that I feel in asking them. Maybe we all have the dungeons and maybe a lot of us actually know about them. Maybe these questions are part of what makes us human and alive, but the problem is that we’ve somehow internalized the idea that they are meant to be kept dark and isolated. Maybe I can shine light on these thoughts and questions. That won’t make them go away (like I had thought before) but it will make me feel less lonely. And my hope is that it won’t be a misery loves company situation.

So I’m going to do an experiment with this blog. I’m going to address some of those darker places. I’m going to do what I have wanted to do with the blog all along (and have been doing to some level)- I’m going to shine the light in dark corners. But not the light of eviction, the light of revelation. The light of honesty and truth. The light onto the questions that I do not have answers to. A light into the dungeon that has felt really lonely.

What’s my first question? 

Does our life really have meaning? I suspect that this answer (if there is really an answer) does not look like what we think. 

Think large scale: we as a human species are so teeny tiny minuscule in proportion to the Universe- even as we currently know it- and we know that we haven’t seen the half of it. Even in the narrowed scope of planet Earth- we are a point that has only been recently added to the giant composition of time and space. A dot. We have made a mess of everything within our dot, to be sure. But it could all be undone in a second. With a solar flare- we don’t even have to do it ourselves. Then poof- our existence is unknown. Unremembered. Like it never happened. 

Think small scale: our human body is so crazy intricate and interesting. We have dedicated our entire existence to survival and still don’t know the ins and outs of how our brains and bodies work. We are not easy to understand, we are complex. Panning out just a bit, we’ve seen how our decisions can affect generations. I have learned that my great-grandmother set the tone for generations of my family to be secure in love. One person who I didn’t even know existed until some years ago, was the foundation for the sanity of my family. Truly. This domino affect of the  choices we make is no made-up thing. I’ve seen it. Some of our choices really don’t matter, but some of them do in ways we could never comprehend. Maybe they all do.

But what is meaning? Is meaning assigned only to that which is permanent? Does your life cease to have meaning once the dominoes have completed their cycle? Does your life mean everything only and just because it exists at all? We’re all asking this question, and answering it in different ways. Physicists (I think) came up with this butterfly effect theory about how the beat of a butterfly wing can make a strong wind around the world. I do not get this and don’t know how it plays out or if it’s a dumb theory that everyone knows is not a thing now. But the point is- some scientists somewhere put their heads together to see if something insignificant became significant. Or what I would call: has meaning. 

Let’s say we settle on meaning as a value that is self-contained outside of lasting impact or permanence. Something can be meaningful in only a second. What then of purpose? Is that the same or something else entirely? Purpose feels a lot like something with results. Something that changes something. Meaning perhaps only needs to exist, where purpose maybe needs to change something. 

Here’s my fear. These questions fold into themselves. Part of my brain is engaged with these questions, but then something higher calls into question my entire existence. I become keenly aware that I’m using English, in the US, in a specific time that will be washed away by some other time. I want to ask the question but then I realize I’ve left the gate open to the dungeon and the peeking questions start calling from the darkness “DOES IT EVEN MATTER?!” “Are you wasting your time and everyone else's?” “Who cares?!” “What does this help?” “You will never answer these questions, so why are you torturing yourself with them?” “Are you going to turn into one of those lunatics on the street who talks to themselves about how everything is meaningless?”

I flash to a video that I saw by the Humans of New York guy. It’s of a homeless man who is talking about what he has learned as a 46 year old. He’s clearly homeless, perhaps mentally ill, and he is speaking absolute profound truth. NO one even questions the validity of what he is saying because we all recognize it as truth. But the painful thing is- that we see in this man the price you pay for learning the truth. It means you might not fit into the system, the machine might spit you out. Your comfort with the dungeon means you might be sent to live there. Because no one else wants to really think about it or talk about it. They want to live in the ignorance of the bright upstairs. So you become the keeper of the keys to the dungeon. You become the holder of secrets. You are burdened by the darkness so that the rest of us can function. There are so many utopian books and short stories that play on this concept. 

One of my favorite books of all time, which continues to re-invent itself (like it is now) for me is The Giver. In this book, the main concept is that there is a utopian society that has been set up to function utilitarian style, with careful consideration to what will make the safest and most functional community. As the outsiders reading it, we see clear problems with the set up, but within the community there is harmony and health. In the community, there is a keeper of memories. This person knows what’s in the dungeon, and a lot more has been shoved into the dungeon for the community to function. In this community (unlike ours), the Keeper is revered as wise and respected. Their task is misunderstood but deeply important. A boy is assigned to become the next Keeper of memories- and he is the Receiver and the Elder names himself The Giver. 

I think even as a 4th grader, my soul recognized that I would play the role of giver and receiver in a way that might be lonely. I recognized the feeling of seeing something that other people don’t see (or refuse to admit). I have long had the passcode to the dungeon. Sometimes I’m able to forget it. Sometimes I’m even able to pretend it doesn’t exist. But I know it's there, and you can’t un-know.

Spoiler alert- in The Giver, the boy realizes he can’t hold this knowledge. The loneliness is too great, and the sense of responsibility to help others change is too pressing. So he plans an escape, and his escape releases the memories into the community- like an invisible force field around the dungeon is broken. The Giver remains to help the community process and heal. 

So I’m not the Keeper. I’m not alone, I can’t possibly be. But I feel alone, and selfishly, I want to give a tour of the dungeon so I don’t have to process it alone. I need friends for the ride. I need someone more than the old white philosophers of western Christian Europe. I need you. 

Will any of you walk in the dungeon with me? Maybe we can turn it into a cool coffee shop with candelabras. I just feel so lonely down here and I’ve hesitated to bring it up for fear of ripping you away from the sunny day you are enjoying. But maybe you already are here. Maybe we just haven’t found each other because we were too scared to turn the light on. Maybe we can light some candles and it won’t feel so lonely. Maybe it isn’t a dungeon after all, but a magnificent cave with springs and jewels. Maybe it’s a gathering place and we can feel safe exploring. Maybe we’ll never reach the ends of it, but we’ll learn to have joy in the journey.

That’s what I’m really looking for. Joy for the journey.

That Time I Punched a Boy

These last few weeks have seen a resurgence of focus on women and the crap we have to deal with. Between the #metoo trend that caught on and the news from Harvey Weinstein's garbage pail, we have once again (remember #yesallwomen?) had to re-illuminate the obvious for ourselves and for our male counterparts. I don't mean that cynically, an obvious truth has a tendency to become background noise. Like the sound of the refrigerator running. When I got hearing aids that were advanced enough for me to hear it- I was furious that it made that sound all freaking day. Then I got over it because it was all freaking day. And if something is all day- you have to adapt so you don't go insane. The belittling and dehumanization and just straight up assault that women endure becomes background noise. For survival. 

Now, to be honest, I didn't really get involved in the hashtag movement, because I don't like to be trendy, and it feels like a slippery slope to me. If I change my profile to the France flag, then for everything I have to hashtag and change my filter. This is why my profile picture has remained unchanged for years. I'm just too lazy to keep up, and I don't want to be guilty of missing some awareness or hashtag or movement on social media. So I miss them all. In my head, this makes perfect sense.

But, I did see a video recently that made me think of something. It was that video that's been going around for a while about the ER nurse mom who was called away from work to address her daughter's behavior- punching a boy (which she did after a boy relentlessly snapped her bra to the point that it unlatched). I have no idea if this thing actually happened, and I hate melodramatic preachy videos, but I also have no problem believing that this thing happened (or has happened many times). It's almost like a parable in its universal relatability. (My spell check says that isn't a word. It should be- or maybe I am saying it wrong.) 

One reason why I think the story is totally believable is because it brought back memories of several times this sort of thing happened to me or my friends growing up. But like background noise, I had really forgotten it. 

But one story I have not forgotten, because it is my Wonder Woman story and one that my family told with pride. This story, the story of That Time I Punched a Boy, is one that I don't even know if I actually remember, or if my memory is my imagination from playing it in my mind every time I heard the story. In fact, I even start to question if the story is true, because it has risen to legend level. I do believe it is true, but perhaps some of the details have been altered for entertainment. So for yours, I will tell the story, with all the fun details.

Once upon a time, there was a little girl (it's me guys) who was about 3 or 4 years old. She was tall for her age, with an unruly mane of blonde curly hair (loose curls then). Her knees were often skinned and her fingernails filled with dirt. She was happy, healthy, and loved. 

One day, she was standing in line with her father (to this day I don't remember why we were standing in line). Behind her was a Boy with his father. The Boy decided that today he would poke the little girl over and over and over again. For fun. Somehow (I found a gap in the story here) the Boy's father either didn't notice or care. The little girl politely asked the Boy to please STOP. The Boy did not give a shit and kept poking her back. The little girl once again asked, but more firmly this time for the Boy to STOP. Once again, when she turned to face forward, the Boy poked. 

Then the little girl turned back, and punched the Boy in the face.

The Boy, startled, fell back onto his bum and looked to his father in protest. The father, suddenly realizing that there was something happening, told the little girl's father "Serves him right!" The little girl's father looked at his little girl, and though his words said "Don't punch," his face was lit up with pride and a smile. The little girl felt satisfaction and love and affirmation. And powerful.

The Boy never poked the little girl again. The little girl never felt like punching a Boy in the face was bad after she had repeatedly asked him to stop harassing her. The little girl (remember, it's me) was taught that day in a beautifully powerful way, that it was OK not to take shit from boys.

The End.

But of course that wasn't the end, right? I mean, boys continued to do stupid shit. But that story, the living of it and the hearing of it, reminded me throughout childhood that I was strong and if I needed to, I could punch a boy in the face. Of course there were times when I was told the cliche sexist thing, but this foundational memory, this moment, was special. I won't put so much pressure on this one event to say that it is why I was able to question all those stupid expectations of women, or why I was unwilling to mold myself to please men under the guise of submission, or why I somehow managed to date men who were not intimidated by my independence and punch-ability. There's also luck, a shit-ton of love and security from my parents, and more stupid luck.

But my God I love that story. And when I tell it, the nonviolent pacifist in me is not ashamed. Maybe that Boy tells the same story of the day he learned how to treat females? Let's hope so. 

Things I Didn't Do

The shower is a fantastic place for ideas to be born. This morning while in the shower I thought about how I am excellent at writing up my "things to do" list, and terrible at actually doing them. Then I thought of all the things I didn't do, for all time. And then the idea was born. I should write a list of things I didn't do. Then everything is crossed off immediately, and it might be funny, sad, or at the very least cathartic for others who have a list just as long. 

Some of these things I have proudly not done, with no guilt. Some of them I learned to let go of. Some of them I feel sort of bad about, but obviously not enough to do it. Some are simply missed opportunities. All of this is true. 

So here goes....

Things I Didn't Do:

-Make a wedding album 
-Get my Wedding dress professionally cleaned
-Baby albums, for either baby
-Save a lock of hair from either child's first haircut
-Any picture album of my family ever
-Updated pictures on my wall
-Completed all the thank you notes for the following:
     -birthdays (mine and children's)
     -Wedding
     -baby showers
     -anything I am forgetting
-Utilize the Study Abroad Program in college
-Travel a lot before I had kids
-Kiss a lot of frogs
-Get most of my dry-clean only clothes dry-cleaned
-Spring Clean
-Exercise consistently for more than two months
-Crafty thing of the day
-Teach my kids to ride a bike
-Teach my kids to cook
-Bake that thing
-Not procrastinate on getting my taxes together
-Clean the dyson like that youtube video says I should
-Clean the keurig like that youtube video says I should
-Write a book start to finish
-Follow through on that volunteer organization
-Volunteer to be a Room Parent
-Go to a PTA meeting
-Have a vegetable garden that I planted
-Landscape my yard in total
-Write that person regularly
-Call that person regularly
-Return that phone call
-Reply to that email
-Go to that event
-Have a career
-Paint that room
-Decorate that space
-Hang that thing
-Consistently mow the lawn
-Consistently walk the dog
-Stop cracking my knuckles
-Write letters to my kids every year like that pinterest thing said
-succesfully do any pinterest project
-Rescue any animal
-Foster a child
-Actively participate in a political campaign that I care about
-March in the Women's march
-Read that one Book
-Return those books to the library or person who loaned it
-Give the dog her flea and tick medicine the same day every month
-Clip coupons
-Not order delivery
-Not drive through
-Not let my kid watch TV
-Not let my kid play video games
-Chaperone the field trip
-Read that parenting book/blog/viral article.
-Watch that epic sad movie (Schindler's List, Hotel Rwanda, etc)
-Run 
-Jog
-Trot
-Ride that horse
-Snorkel with the barracudas 
-Travel to Australia
-Visit your friend in LA or NYC
-Get that eye exam
-Learn German
-Learn Spanish
-Invite your neighbors to a block party
-Host a fancy dinner party
-Fix the fireplace
-Refill the bird feeder
-Go to that festival
-Create my will
-Officially pick (and inform) who gets the kids if we die
-Pretend I liked that person
-Show up on time to that thing
-Go to the party
-Host the party for someone selling something
-Buy the thing from someone selling something
-Buy boy scout popcorn
-Plan an effective surprise
-Claimed that fart
-Introduce myself
-Say hi to that person I actually know
-Maternity Portraits
-Infant Portraits
-Pay extra to keep the ashes of my dog
-Tip the people who didn't do anything extra
-Live in another country (as an adult)
-Get a cloud data storage
-Save enough money for taxes
-Save enough money for new hearing aids
-Napa Valley train
-Take my husband to the Rockies
-Apologize to that person
-Consistently check fire alarms and carbon monoxide alarms
-Weed the garden
-Pay that one girl back
-Stand up to that person
-Return the bra that isn't the right size
-Return the tablecloth you borrowed
-Finish that book
-Fix your engagement ring
-Plant those bulbs
-
-
-

There are plenty more things I didn't do. And I hope you'll make your own list, and then just burn it or something. Because all of us didn't do that thing at some point. And the guilt is just not really worth the weight on our chest. Or maybe the list will be a helpful reminder that you actually don't care as much about the things you didn't do. So maybe you won't care as much about the next seventy hundred. You can put it on your fridge with a note saying "shit I didn't do, and actually feel fine about." Or don't do any of it- no worries.

The Grey

Today the sky loomed grey. It does this often in the winter near DC. I feel the effects of the grey, swirled with the gumbo of awful coming down the city pipelines.

When the Grey hits, it paralyzes me. I am not sad or happy or mad or anything. I'm frozen still as time whips by. Hours pass and I've done nothing. It's as if I'm moving in slow motion and the world spins faster. It makes me feel like I'm losing my mind. This is not my first rodeo on the Grey. I've been here before and I've got some tools, if I can get to them fast enough, I may not lose yet another day.

Today my tool is "treat yo' self" and not like the characters in Parks and Rec. I'm not buying anything. I shaved my legs. I am wearing knit pants and a tank top without bothering with a bra. I'm putting my hair into a pony tail. I am drinking hot tea. I read Mary Oliver. I'm going to put on nice socks. I'm writing this. Then I have a short and simple list. And I'm going to do that list as best I can today, taking breaks for meals. That's it. That's what I have. But I feel comfortable, I feel less overwhelmed. I've given myself permission not to save the world today. I've given myself permission not to write the novel today. I've given myself permission not to make the big to do list today. I'm just going to tackle this small list of three things. That's all.

Words

In the Harry Potter series, Dumbledore has a line that goes something like this: "Words are our most inexhaustible source of magic." J.K. Rowling, the magic-maker herself, has every right to work a phrase like that.

I feel like words are failing me lately. Not for scarcity- no- my God- there are so many words. Too many words. Piles and piles of useless, ridiculous words. I am drowning in the word-piles vomited by people who can't find the edit mechanism in their brain. This might explain my sudden thirst for meditation, silent worship with the Quakers, and as much sleep as I can get. I need to get away from all the damn words. They suffocate me.

It's a bit like losing the foundation to my house.

My sister and I were talking this morning. She shared that she had a bit of an epiphany about doing the best she could at her practice- her skill set. She is a therapist, and she said that she used to have these grand ideas of changing the world- maybe through writing or speaking. She said that now she feels more centered in her new endeavor: to cast aside the "be all things" and focus on the skills that she has already crafted. She is now on a mission to be the best therapist that she can be. She might not have a brand or start a revolution, but her patients will get unbelievable care, and that can be revolutionary.

I was so inspired by that, I thought- wow- if we all just focus in on the thing we are gifted for- on the thing we've crafted within ourselves- on our passion- then maybe all the people- as wholly functioning parts- will make a more whole world.

Then I thought: what the hell am I crafting? I have a book, which might as well be titled "the never-ending writing" for the lack of an end in sight. I have a blog, which I fairly diligently update (not this one) and a handful of folks seem to enjoy. I had a job in a career that was respectable, which I took a break from to do this book. Yet, right now my craft seems to be sleeping and eating Cheezits, and also avoiding housework.

This blog is titled "writing light in dark corners" yet every time I feel compelled to come over here and write, I feel like I'm dumping black ink into the sun's glare. I want people to see the darkness that the light of oblivion seems to be blotting out.

And there again, are those precious words. The words which have been my balm and sacred space are now garbage piles. Putrid, overflowing, smothering mountains of absolute rubbish. Weighty little shits that mean nothing. Even the gorgeous words are rendered plain by the sheer volume.

Too many words.

I don't have my art anymore. Loud and thoughtless mouths have taken my paint and pissed it everywhere, demanding that people respect their art form which took them seconds and zero thought. Or worse- they intentionally crafted the words to hypnotize and paralyze and exploit. My precious words have been transformed from flowers to daggers, honey to piss, magic to tricks.

Too many words.

I feel like protesting with silence. Confronting with SILENCE. You're going to trash words? I will make them sacred again. I will stop speaking, writing.

Even worse, I stop caring. That is what has happened. I used to have this fire inside me, I could not sit still if I wasn't writing it down, thinking it out. Now I just sit and stare into the blue sky aching for silence.

Every terrible thing that happens. Every beautiful thing that happens. I no longer have words for them. They have been stolen. Words are no longer magic. I have become an unbeliever.

So I am lost, and I don't even have the words to describe it.

Beauty

Today I looked through some pictures a relative sent me of her time in France, her home country. The pictures were unbearingly beautiful. Unbearingly is not a word- but it works better than unbearable. It's an action - not a past tense thing. I felt nearly assaulted by the beauty. It was screaming at me: "What the hell are you doing with your life? Get out of your house!" It was also offering me a window into my own salvation. "Want hope and truth and goodness? Stare at me."

When things get hard, when I feel the weight of terribleness sitting on my chest and trying to poke holes into my soul, my breathing reaction is to find beauty. If I can just see the horizon on the ocean, if I can just catch a glimpse of the milky way, if I can somehow stand on a mountain with piercing blue skies and crisp air- then I will be saved. Then I can breathe. Then I won't drown.

I become desperate for beauty. 

Often I just long for it and grow depressed in my despair of not having it. Sometimes I am in the right place where I can see it clearly in front of me. Then times like yesterday, I get off my ass and create it my damn self. I plopped our dinner outside, built a fire in the fire pit, and suddenly, I had beauty. I stayed by the warm fire until it grew dark outside and the creatures of the night began yelling and carrying on in their usual way. I'm hardly ever outside for the transition from day to night and that is a soul-sucking crime. 

The bugs and frogs and who knows what else out there were all screaming at me: "It's about time you came out to hear us! Why do you ignore us?" I don't know. Something of practicality and logic keeps me indoors. It's a plastic wrap trap and I am trying to rip it off. 

Time, money, and adult responsibilities keep me from traveling the world and seeing the northern lights. But why? Time, money, and adult responsibilities are all temporary- and SO IS beauty. Why am I chasing the first? Why not chase beauty? 

Disability Porn

I have thought about this topic for a long time and could never quite find an analogy that stuck, until now.

You know those videos that show a deaf person "hearing" for the first time with a cochlear implant? Or the before and after of a paraplegic who miraculously learns to walk? The video of someone who is in medical debt finding out that they will get that prosthetic or treatment they couldn't afford because of some benefactor? You know what I'm talking about, and before you feel the shame rising- don't worry- I've watched them too and I've cried too.

But I always felt this nagging thought at the back of my mind, like something wasn't quite right. I think that I understood it best when I kept seeing people share the video about the cochlear implants. I found myself feeling bitter. I heard my thoughts scream: she can't hear perfectly now guys- she still has a shit ton of adjustments to go! I heard my mouth say: why the hell did she have to wait so long for treatment anyway? I found myself saying: it's not like she's had a shitty life thus far and everything is awesome now that she can hear slightly better. I realized that it really hit home the discomfort I felt when I knew the disability personally.

And that's when I came up with the idea of disability porn. Sexual porn is all about having access to all the pleasures without the work (or reward) of intimacy. Disability porn is the same. You get to have the pleasure of seeing gratification, happy moments, miracles, without any of the work, heartache, or understanding of the context it took for that person to be where they are. Just like porn, you feel good, you almost mistake the pleasure for a good deed and intimate knowledge of the subject. When you watch these videos and you cry, you actually think that you are contributing to the miracle. You feel good because you felt good watching something good happen.

Here's the problem, you haven't actually helped anyone. And you have no idea that you haven't.

Suzy Q with the cochlear implant? Her life was really lovely before she got it. She figured out how to be human without it. She probably even figured out how to be content and joyful without it. Or maybe she was miserable, but you don't know any of that. She likely didn't have access to the information or funding to get the implant until something magical happened like access to healthcare or marriage to someone with a health plan. Or maybe someone gave her the money. Or maybe she saved up. Or maybe she went into debt for it. After the implant? She has to relearn how to hear. That sound of the refrigerator running? It's going to make her want to tear her hair out until her brain finally learns to shove it in background noise mode. Also, she still can't hear perfectly. She won't ever hear perfectly, because that's how it works. But we don't know any of that story. We just see her visceral reaction to hearing a voice of a loved one like she's never heard it before. What we don't know is what her tears mean. Me? Every time I got a new set of hearing aids I was shocked at how terrible I thought my own voice sounded. It was loud and echoed brashly in my head. Her tears? Maybe she's sad that it's not what she thought it was going to be. Maybe she's happy because she has been waiting for this day for a long time and after many obstacles (maybe put in place by our refusal/ignorance to advocate for her) has finally gotten here. Maybe she's just overwhelmed by the sheer noise that is invading her brain. We have no idea because we don't know her. We don't know what she's been through, and we don't know what happens after.

That's why I feel uncomfortable. Because I glean a little pleasure by sneaking in to this sacred space and consuming her miracle. I don't have to do any of the work. I don't have to think about the consequences. I don't have to struggle. And I get to feel like I'm a good person.

That's disability porn.

I apologize that I may have ruined all your disability porn for you. Now you won't be able to watch a feel-good video about someone getting a miracle without the added frustration of wondering why it took so long, or why they needed it in the first place, or why we think that being deaf/blind/mobility impaired is so horrible to begin with. Actually- no- I'm not sorry- because these are the things we need to think about. We can't consume miracles. We can't get all the goods without the intimacy of the journey.

Why not? Because it isn't real. It isn't authentic, and it doesn't help.