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.

Spring Cleaning with Depression

Welcome to my step by step guide to Spring Cleaning with Depression!

This morning, when you woke up, you thought for a moment about not going immediately back to sleep. Congratulations! Today might be your day!

After you wake up again (about 45 minutes later), you are on your way to spring cleaning.

Drink coffee. Take your kids to the bus stop, even take the dogs for a little spin (walk the long way home and call it a walk).

Get back home. Take a shower. It is now 10am, and you should be proud.

If you are still feeling like you might be able to accomplish something today, then dress for success. That means sports bra (which works because all your regular bras are dirty), yoga pants (you have a clean pair downstairs because your husband folded laundry while watching netflix last night, while you were already asleep), and a tank top.

Now, there is an expression "swallow the frog," which means that you should do the hard thing first. This is a terrible idea. Start with the easiest thing.

Be sure to make several trips up and down the stairs because you keep forgetting to grab what you need. Get your music going, and please don't take too long to decide on a station because you don't have that kind of time to waste. The magic of energy might disappear without notice.

It is 11am, you are dressed, your music is on, your laundry basket has managed to make it to the laundry room with dirty laundry inside. Run the laundry (the easiest task).

Put the superhero sticker from your shirt onto the washing machine and marvel at how it never occurred to you before that you could totally cover the machine in stickers and it might make you smile every time you do laundry. Or will it stress you out because it isn't clean and simple? You decide to leave the sticker on the machine (and another smiley face sticker you find) and figure out how you feel about it later. Laundry is in the wash.

Now you are going to clean the cleanest bathroom, the guest bathroom that no one uses. It will not gross you out and it will feel easy. Your music choice is really working for you, who knew 90s school dance would get you going like this?!

Now you realize the guest bed still has the old sheets on it from when your brother-in-law was here three weeks ago. Take the sheets off. You will make the bed again, once you remember to grab the clean sheets from upstairs.

You found windex under the kitchen sink when you went up to get more paper towels. You don't typically use windex (bc vinegar water works and it's easy enough) but maybe you should just use the rest of this bottle so you can throw it out. So you windex the bathroom mirrors and the glass doors (inside AND out).

Your friend has called and she's bringing lunch over because she's amazing. You switch the wash to the dryer (immediately!) and tell the unmade bed you'll be back later. The windex bottle has three tablespoons left in it and is sitting on the table downstairs. It will likely remain there for another month or two.

Friend arrives and you eat lunch for 45 minutes. Then she asks if the dogs (who have been marching up and down the stairs with you with very puzzled looks on their faces) need a walk. You decide they DO need a walk. SO take a 30 minute walk. Then hang out for another 30 minutes.

It is now 130pm and you have one load in the wash and one in the dryer, and a clean bathroom and unmade bed. And clean windows.

Your friend has left and you think you should probably at least make that bed. You go upstairs for the sheets, see the pile of unfolded laundry on the bed and the sheer sight overwhelms you. SO you sit down and think for about 20 minutes about how you can do this thing. Honestly, you only thought that for 5 minutes, the other 15 was checking email and social media. Anything to distract you from the impending doom of laundry and other unfinished tasks that slowly started to scroll like movie credits in your brain.

You get a lucky strike of clarity and step away from your distraction. You remember what you came for and at 2pm, you grab the sheets, go down and make the bed. The music was no longer giving you nostalgia or pep, so you left your phone playing "My Heart Will Go On" to your laundry pile on the bed upstairs. Downstairs, while you made the guest bed, you came up with an idea for rearranging furniture. You did this rearranging and decided it was OK and left it that way. You aren't sure though. You also remember that one thing you wanted to set up in the guest room, but you can't do it right now. So you cautiously tack it onto the scrolling list and hope to God that you don't get paralyzed again by it.

Before succumbing to paralysis, you manage to switch the laundry, and though the dirty pile is getting smaller, the clean clothes pile is getting bigger. Which is overwhelming. Your energy is running out like you knew it would.

It is 230pm and your child will get home from school in an hour. You feel you deserve a break, so you lie down on the floor and let the dogs lick your arm and lie down beside you. This feels sweet, and you don't want to break the spell, so you stay there. An hour goes by like a flash.

Your child is coming home from school, your day of productivity is done. You made a bed, cleaned a bathroom, and ate lunch. And put clothes in and out of the washer and dryer. But you feel like you cleaned a 15 room bed and breakfast. You wish that you could be normal, that you could power clean a house in 3 hours, but that happens about as often as a full solar eclipse, except you don't have the ability to plan for it.

That's the end of day 1 of spring cleaning with depression. You have no idea when day 2 will happen. It needs to be tomorrow... but you already know that's not going to happen. At least your guest room has clean sheets.

Racist On Purpose

I keep hearing people say that they are not racist. Some even dare pull out the phrase "colorblind" which I've learned is truly a bullshit phrase that helps no one.

Saying that you aren't racist, and saying that you are colorblind, is a quick way to anger just about any person that has faced racism in their lifetime. But I get it, you really don't believe you are racist. Even those of you who really really are racist don't think you are. One guy who marched in Charlottesville spouted some ridiculous tale about how he wasn't racist, but just concerned about white history being erased. Lord have mercy on all of our souls.

I think this is a special (and evil) form of white logic. Maybe it's human, but we white people take a double dip. We are essentially saying that if we aren't racist on purpose, or if we aren't fully aware of it- it doesn't count. Even simpler: we just really don't ever want to take responsibility for anything. Our idea of justice is our assumed innocence. This innocence must stand over every other fact. So a child who is murdered in the street. It can't possibly be about race because I'm not racist on purpose. I was scared, startled, blah blah blah. Every excuse that will keep me from facing a mirror.

Here's a scary thing, racism is not something any of us Americans have been excused from. If you have grown up in America, you have grown up with a culture that has conditioned you to think, fear, respect, suspect, a certain way. It's called systemic racism: where even if you were taught by lovely people to do loving things, you are still part of a system that is bent by racism. Even if you aren't racist on purpose, you are still racist.

OK- so I did sort of just say we are all racist. I stand by that, but clearly there are divisions of racism with 0 being an infant and 10 being Hitler. If we all start our day by saying "at least I'm not Hitler" and then forgetting about it, we're not doing the work. We have to look in the mirror and say: "I locked my door when that black guy walked by. I need to think about why I did that, and possibly get out of my white bubble." That's a start. We need to check ourselves, and listen to people who are not like us- and see what they have to say.

I confess: when the whole Charlottesville thing was happening, I was hiding on vacation and thinking "same old shit." I'm sad that it doesn't surprise me. But I feel like we should stop pulling out the tired "in this day and age" expressions. YES- in THIS day and EVERY age. ALWAYS. So let's do something! I learned that progress isn't linear when Trump was elected. We have to literally never stop fighting. It's exhausting, but letting the darkness win is worse.

After Charlottesville, I thought "same old shit" and my white opinions won't help anyone. But then my friends of color started saying things on social media like "Don't be silent. Speak up. Silence is complicity." And I thought- well shit- I'm certainly not racist, I don't feel like me saying that helps anyone. What am I supposed to say?! But then I remembered- of course I'm racist- I grew up mostly in the south- that stuff sticks. So what do I say?

A friend wrote an article- so I shared her words. A world-renown museum posted a video, I shared that. 

But still this idea of people thinking "I'm not racist on purpose" kept echoing in my brain. So I am writing about it- another white girl talking about racism. But like my friends said: silence is complicit. 

If you are a person, then you have issues with race that you need to deal with. You may need healing. You may need wisdom. You may need a sit down with yourself to talk about your priorities. I don't know- but no more of this "I'm not racist" shit. You are a complex human born into a complex world. Our world has not yet fully developed the tools and wisdom for handling differences. We still get bullied in school if our ears are too big, or if we're really short, or if we like weird music. We're crazy dumb as a species if you think about it. Clearly we have not yet evolved to the nirvana of not being racist.

To think that you have somehow glided through this life squeaky clean of all societal influences is really a great way to label yourself as totally oblivious. If you think that race is not a problem (or not your problem), you have a problem.

Let me get out of the way the people who are legit racist on purpose with a burning cross in their hands and a swastika tattooed on their eyelid. Those folk have some serious issues- but honestly- their awareness of their hatred gets them maybe one step closer to healing if they are ever willing to think about it. But their issues are not our issues- and our issues are so much harder because we're basically a bunch of alcoholics who won't admit we have a problem.

We have to be willing to admit that we are racist. Then we can sort our issues. That's a really vulnerable and humble thing to do. We Americans are shit at humble. We white Americans are even worst. We white Christian Americans- damn near impossible. We have built an empire out of our own piety.

Saying that people aren't racist on purpose only makes it harder to stop getting black people shot. They truly could not give a single fuck about whether you meant to have a racist reaction or not. From what I gather, people of color just want to at the very least not get shot. Of course there are significantly higher goals like equality- but the reason there are so many protests right now is because it is survival mode right now. They are literally suffocating, bleeding, wasting away on the streets and all America has to say is "well it can't be racism, because it wasn't racism on purpose." How absolutely maddening.

So- you are racist. Yes. Stop ignoring it, stop hiding in your self-serving guilt and shame. You're not the one unicorn who completely missed every cultural reference and flew over the systemic tide curved by racism. You just aren't. That's OK. Join me and confront it. It might be humiliating, but we need the fire of that journey if we are to have any hope as a human species. Maybe we in America could be actual beacons of light for racial healing? It's a crazy tall order- but why not?

What am I doing? I fumbling like a moron, but I'm paying attention. I'm paying attention to the stuff that I watch- if it doesn't have any people of color, I take a note and try to watch stuff that isn't all white. I'm reading literature by people of color- and listening. I read Ta-Nehisi Coates' Between the World and Me, a good book. I read Maya Angelou's autobiography I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, my first Angelou read ever. I'm reading Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. I have The Underground Railroad by Colson Whitehead on my nightstand- pretty sure it's going to wreck me. I have really curly hair and I'm using Shea Moisture products for it- which is not to say I have black hair- but the products work for me and I feel stupid for never considering going into the "ethnic" hair section. An added benefit is I'm supporting a company that isn't owned by an old white guy. I'm trying something as simple as attempting to memorize spelling unfamiliar names rather than saying- oh God how can I ever remember to spell that- let me look it up. It's a feeble start but I'm trying. And I will definitely do something wrong, say something wrong, not know something, not recognize something, something. And that's OK- because this is not about me being right. It's about me learning and trying to shed 36 years of living in American racism.

So- just because you aren't racist on purpose, doesn't mean you aren't racist. Start somewhere- anywhere- in addressing that simple fact. 

Fragility

Today I saw a gorgeous butterfly flailing on the concrete sidewalk outside the coffee shop. It was suffering a completely futile fight. The frail wings were failing, with the right one completely rent in two.

I related the absolute frailty of the butterfly to my newfound horror at our human frailty-- to the story line in Battlestar Gallactica. Yes- I made that leap. In the show (spoiler alert) there are humans who are actually Cylons in disguise. Cylons are machines.... with a highly developed evolution (and who had basically eradicated a huge proportion of the human population in this story line- so humans HATED them). There were people who didn't even KNOW they were secretly Cylons. These Cylon human clones had emotional issues. They were super pissed at their creator (another machine? can't remember) for making them so frail. I thought this was sort of cocky on the Cylon's part since they didn't ever die (sort of). But NOW I kinda get what the author was going for (or unintentionally going for- as art tends to do its own thing). These machines knew their potential, they knew their strength. Yet they had been trapped inside this incredibly fragile human body. How humiliating and cruel. How demeaning and torturous. How strangely relatable.

When I saw that fluttering butterfly, I thought- if that insect has any self-awareness- that is sheer torture right there. It hit me that we humans are frail. Super frail. I identified with that butterfly in ways I did not want to. I realized we are a beautiful mess of cells that somehow mostly know how to work. But one bad cell could make the whole thing come crashing down. One wrong turn, bad deed, misstep- can break us.

That's just physical. Our mental capacities for torture are endless. Our bodies might be frail, but our minds have caverns to hold trauma, pain, fears, insecurities, etc. The band Guster has a song with a line "Step on a kid, he'll grow up hating you." We're super frail.

We have very little control over it. We were born this way, with squishy skin and vulnerable minds. Sure- we can protect ourselves as much as we can- but there is NO such thing as secure. In fact in our fabulous design- the more secure we are- the more neurotic. SO if you stay at home and don't actually relate to people- you are also insane. To live is to risk is to have pain is to be vulnerable is to be frail is to be trampled. The biggest joy is inseparable from the most terrifying risks. To that, I feel like the Cylon looking at God and saying: Why the hell would you do this to me? Why is THIS your physics? Metaphysics? Why on earth would we be subject to this? IS the joy worth it?

A man in his twenties just took a picture of the flailing butterfly.

The horrors. He's smiling. Does he know he just took a picture of our souls? Does he find it beautiful? Is it not too much?

If we are so special - why are we so insignificant? If we are so important, why are we so powerless? If we are so influential, why are we a speck?

I am transcribing the information cards of family members who were killed during the holocaust. Their certificates of incarceration are tiny slivers of paper that you thumb through like you thumb through a phonebook. You don't even open it, you just feel the sensation of so many pieces of paper running along your fingertips. These people were significant to very few. Their significance at this point was really only in their addition to the heft of the book of records. They added another ounce to the scale of evil, tipped over by the tons.

The frailty of the human experience is enough to paralyze me. When I stop to glimpse it, like I glimpsed the butterfly, I can't bear it. It's too much. It's too painful. It's torture.

Pastor Spouse

Let me tell you something. I had an epiphany the other day that was about 10 or so years late. I realized that being the spouse of a pastor means that making friends is going to be harder.

I mean. I knew this. But when chatting with a new friend, she confessed that if she knew before we started chatting that I was the pastor's wife, she wouldn't have talked to me. I TOTALLY got it. Because I would do the same exact thing. I feel the same way about people who exercise. I am friends with people who exercise- obviously- but it's an intimidating thing for me. So if you're wearing work-out clothes and are clearly actually working out regularly- I'll probably stay mute around you. Just your muscles are enough to make me doubt all of my daily choices. Who wants that kind of pressure? Same I guess with pastor's spouses. Just my regular church attendance makes you feel like a heathen.

So I knew this little fact, and I knew that the perception was there, but I guess I thought maybe I was the exception to the rule? Because, you know, I'm cool. Right? Well, I'm actually so uncool. And also,  no one will know if they don't talk to me to begin with. So then I wondered- how many normal people just start out avoiding me? How many friends have not been made because someone was afraid to say "shit" around me? Or how many sweet people have I scared away because I said "shit" when they were expecting "bless it?" I'm in that awkward in between. I don't bake or play the piano, I don't bless it or pray it away. I say shit and damn and for the love of pete. I also love the church and have a seminary degree. My undergraduate degree is in Philosophy and if you want to contemplate the meaning of life, expanding love and metaphysics, I'm in.

I realized that I was actually included in the "pastor's spouse" club when I was creepily eavesdropping on some moms who were talking about our church's preschool. I can't help it- I can read lips, and like reading a billboard- if it's in front of me- it's read. So I saw the church name coming out of the lips of a fellow mom, and I smiled to myself thinking how nice it is to have the church's preschool be such a positive mention. I thought I was eavesdropping without staring, but then another mom points to me and says: "She's the pastor's wife!" I smiled hella awkward and waved. I WAVED. What is wrong with me?! The other mom, who had been informed of my so-called title, took one look at me and my awkward wave, smiled, and continued with the conversation. Then it dawned on me. Oh my God. I'm the pastor's wife. I am standing here, awkwardly waving, like a doofus, and this lady is likely hoping that I don't talk to her. I mean- I'm totally projecting here- but I thought about if I were HER. I'd steer the hell away from me. Because no one wants to be friends with a saint. I'm not one, but what do I do- start flashing people and swearing up a storm? It's hopeless. Besides- who waves when someone points you out during a conversation that you are technically not part of?? Me. I do.

I'm terrible at fitting into any stereotype- good or bad. A friend of mine does Tarot cards (see- I just threw you off there didn't I?)- he used the whole deck and still had no idea what my future held. I did one of those personality tests on Facebook and my result: 94% complexity. I don't even know what that means (I didn't read it to find out). Since I have a "title" as a spouse of clergy- in some ways I will always be either filling or challenging a person's idea of what that person looks like. It's a trap! It doesn't help that I happen to be awkward, say weird things, don't love crowds or being in charge of things. I'm ridiculously protective of my children against rude people and want to be with them but not all the time. I have really passionate opinions that I have learned to mostly keep to my damn self unless it falls out sideways, then who knows what foot I will stick in my mouth. You know how people go somewhere and say to themselves "these are my people?" The time I felt that feeling most strongly was during an hour of silence with people. Silent people apparently are my people.

So I thought about all the things that go with the stereotype of being a pastor's spouse... and I wrote stuff about it...

I have a love-hate relationship with the church. I don't sing out loud in church because I can't sing and I've listened to enough church music snobs to know better than to throw them off their groove. And when I say this to people - they assure me that I should be making a joyful noise, but I know better than they do because I have heard the meetings and the comments and the ridiculousness- so no- I will not sing in church unless it's my favorite song. Even then, I sing low. I love communion- and kinda wish I was always helping serve it. I also find myself thinking during communion at this new church: who the hell are all these people and why do I still not know them?!

I hate the institutional mud that prevents progress and grace. In fact, I hate it so much that I have become completely apathetic about it and when I hear about conflicts in the church (universal and local), I act like some postmodern prophet who is just so over all that shit. If someone asks me how I feel about a certain topic - I have to think about how my response will affect my husband's ability to do his job. But I also suck at lying- so if someone asks me point blank- I'll answer truthfully. When I listen to my husband (or anyone) preach, half the time I'm dreaming about what I would have preached. During services sometimes I fantasize about complete remodels of the church grounds, sanctuary, parsonage, or even what a church would look like if I could build it from the ground up. Yet at the same time I sometimes look around and wonder what the next evolution of the Church will look like- will it even have buildings?

I have opinions that I choose not to share because I don't want to be put in charge. I slip away some Sundays to go to a different worship environment because I'm not the same faith tradition as my husband. I care about the church but keep it at an arm's length because we move, and the church changes, and people change. I have seen wonderful people get really mean. I have seen mean people be uncommonly kind. And when those same people can literally affect your household income - you learn to stay out of it.

During church when you sit and worry about normal things like being a good person (or when you're at home and enjoying a relaxing day with your family), I'm wondering if my husband remembered to change that one weird line in the sermon that I edited last night. I won't care enough to stress about it- but it'll feel like a missed note in a piano recital that only I notice. During the passing of the peace, I'm trying to manage how to be friendly and not stand-offish, but also not pick favorites, but not ignore people, but smile. I generally say hello only to people in the pew in front and behind me- and act like I physically can't leave my pew. Because if I leave my pew- then I have broadened my parameters beyond my abilities. I have to work on not laughing when my husband does something funny that only I notice- because it's a weird joke that we share about some mannerisms that no one else pays attention to.

I am trying to give my kids the space to develop their own spirituality, while also making sure that their over-comfort with church doesn't offend someone when they are literally lying down in the pew or have their feet up on the bible rack in front of them. When they were really little it was a huge battle just to keep them from running to hug dad- while he's "working." My children dress themselves  for church and I have very low standards- because I never want them to think that they have to look a certain way to please God. At the same time I pray that no one mentions their sweatpants or cowlick to me- because I have larger battles to fight and that is not one of them- and I might stick my foot in my mouth again. I've tried not to care about my hair, my makeup, or the way my children are dressed. If I show up clothed and not too late- I've achieved the task I set before me. Even all that has been a few years of working on letting go- and it hasn't been because people don't notice or comment on any of it.

People who get to just GO to church and hide? Or NOT go to church and no one notices? Lucky. That used to be me.

I'm an introvert who likes people a lot and is very friendly. But I have my emotional and physical limits. Church is like my weekly 5K. People talking to me, greeting me, inviting me, asking me, telling me, smiling at me, knowing me, noticing me. None of it is bad but all of it is exhausting.  Now add to that the hilarity that I'm deaf. I can hear- I have hearing aids- but it just takes like 7 times more energy for me to actually pay attention to what people are saying and respond with words that have meaning. So let's upgrade church to marathon level. I run a mental marathon every week. With my kids. The longer I'm in the building, the weaker my filter becomes, and the fuzzier my focus becomes.  There is- every Sunday- that moment when I know it is time. Time to jet. Time to leave before the chariot turns back into a pumpkin.

I have to wonder if my husband's job (and my job if I go back to chaplaincy) will turn my children away from religion and faith (our collective passion). Do doctors and lawyers worry that their children will despise medicine and law? One of my passions is spiritual exploration, and I often explore beyond the boundaries of the institution that employs my husband and the institution I might need to confirm my ability to serve as a chaplain. That exploration beyond has prevented me once from being ordained as I mentioned in a previous blog. It's a unique field to be employed in. I have no desire for my kids to follow in our footsteps- not because it's so hard- but because it is so lonely.

I have never chosen my own residence. It's kind of hard engaging in conversation with people about housing because I can't relate to any of it except maybe military housing (although your standards of inspection are far higher and scarier than ours). I can't complain about housing costs because we don't pay a mortgage or rent. I can't get excited about housing renovations or even new appliances because we don't have control over that. I can't empathize about down payments, rent increases, or deposits. I can't talk reasonably about why we picked our house because we didn't pick it. I'm even a little embarrassed about where we live in a way because it is so nice and I feel like I'm out of my league. But how do you communicate that? "Sorry my house is so big- we don't pay rent." Sounds great. When people come to our house and compliment us "What a nice house!" I respond with the awkward "Thanks so much- the church owns it- aren't we lucky?" (Hashtag blessed??) How can that not be awkward?

I love living in a parsonage because we don't have the financial burden of fixing the roof when it leaks or replacing the fridge (although I finally decided I DID want to pick my own fridge and just bought it my damn self). However, having grown up in the military, I wonder if I'll ever have a space that's fully mine. A place I chose. I don't want fancy things, I just want someplace where my roots can remain. Even gardening sometimes feels foolish. I feel ungrateful when I complain about living in a house that is essentially free (we pay taxes on it, but no rent). But I see people slowly make their home theirs and I wonder what it would be like to save up for hardwood floors and then do it- without asking anyone's permission. Or to knock out a wall- because we can. Or when the hot water heater dies, to have a choice about what kind of replacement to get- to go tankless or something fun like that. Or to put in a ridiculous thing like a hot tub - because no one is around to judge you for it. Instead, my back yard faces my husband's work: incredibly convenient, but a constant reminder that this is not really our home. Any money we put into it is an offering- and we always try to leave a parsonage better than we found it.

I know things. Because people confess to me. It's an occupational and personality hazard. I appreciate that people feel safe with me. I love it- because there is something sacred that happens when people are willing to be vulnerable with you. It can be a challenge, because I have to be careful who I am vulnerable with. The reason my husband and I are so close (one of them anyway) is because we are each other's confessor. There is no one else. We don't have our own pastor. We don't have our own group in the church that we can be completely real with. We cannot- for integrity - share some of our secrets with anyone. They aren't ours to share.

With all the secrets and heartaches- I see the backstage of the church. In some ways it makes the whole thing more real and beautiful, in others it makes it all feel like a giant facade. I know a lot of people's pain in ways that most people don't get access to. I never want to lose that- it makes me more grateful and vulnerable and compassionate. But it also means that I am shit at shallow. So it can get awkward fast if you just want to talk about your kid's t-ball team. I am thrilled they are in sports- can you tell me your soul's deepest desires? Oh right, we just met. Sorry bout that.

So as you can see, the pastor's spouse is probably someone you'll just want to avoid. It's just too bad it's me.