I have a jacket that I wear regularly in the winter. One day I put a tiny shell in there, the kind that looks like a miniature conch. I just looked it up and it is called a nutmeg. I think that is precious. I have a small nutmeg in my red jacket pocket.
I put it there one day without thinking, I can't remember where I was or why only one shell remained (or made it) in my pocket. But I do remember every time I put on my jacket that it is there. I reach in and grasp it between my fingers, feeling the gentle pierce of the shell on my skin. I love doing this. Sometimes I am with someone, having a conversation, while also my hand is feeling the shell, a small secret in my pocket. I don't know why it gives me joy but it does.
So I put a small, flat stone in another jacket pocket. Now on colder days when I need to pull out my large blue jacket, I reach in for that same tactile secret. This time it is a smooth, barely rectangular stone with hardly any sharpness or roughness at all. It's soothing to run my fingers along the smoothness and turn it over and over in my hand. I can be walking to get the mail, and my flat stone is with me, offering a simple delight of the presence of the earth inside my pocket. I don't know why it gives me joy but it does.
I wonder if maybe there are other small things that might be joy-giving, ways to surprise myself like a note from a lover. Perhaps more shells and stones in more pockets. Perhaps the "I Voted" sticker I pressed on to my brand new washing machine. I defied the feeling that my vote didn't count by putting it there to see every time I do laundry. I defied the teaching of my mother that you should never put a bumper sticker on a car, write on your body, or likely she wouldn't think it a good idea to put stickers on appliances. A tiny rebellion, in good fun. I don't know why, but it gives me joy.
I wonder what tiny little things I might be able to do for others to give a little joy, it doesn't need to be a great sacrifice or a huge effort. My son likes to have his head scratched, much like a puppy. One night I scratched his head in desperate attempt to get him to fall asleep and remembered the love I felt when my mother or father rubbed my back on nights when I struggled to sleep. So I made a mental note to scratch his head every night that I could, just for a little bit, and maybe he will feel the love I felt. Maybe he and I will both have a little joy.
My oldest son gets the giggles if I try to scratch his head. He wants me to lie down next to him and talk to him. What he really wants is to unload his thoughts from his brain stream-of-consciousness to someone who will listen. I remember the feeling I have when someone actually fully listens to me, the gift and joy that is. So I lie down next to him, sometimes I'll rub his arm if he isn't too ticklish, and I'll listen to facts about wildlife pour out, mixed in with stories about school, a documentary, and friends. I can only stay for a little bit, but I hope when I kiss him goodnight, he feels that feeling of love and joy from being heard.
My husband wants me to read his sermons. I like it when I can read and tell him it was great, nothing to change. Sometimes though, I write comments throughout and there's a long night ahead. Tonight I'm sitting here awake, just so he knows that I'm here. That he's not alone. And that I care. I don't have to stay up, but maybe it gives him a little bit of joy, a feeling of being loved.
I will miss my shells in the summer when my jackets stay in the closet. But I'll find other things, small things, for a little joy.
That's my new life experiment: trying on joy so that it becomes comfortable and natural. Giving myself permission to feel it and freeing myself to have the space to offer it. It started with a shell in my pocket.
Monday, March 18, 2019
Tuesday, February 12, 2019
Notice
The rain has come, inches falling over the last few days. Some of it freezing, most of it just soaking right into the already swampy ground.
The last couple of nights I've been tired, hungry, lazy. I ran out of steam and all I wanted to do is sit and eat things. I've thought more about having a glass of wine and poured myself a glass each night.
The last handful of mornings I have been slow to rise, slow to move, and slower to get out of the house. Even when I had plans, I have been running late.
This is the "notice" phase of depression. Before I ignored it and then internalized it as some sort of failure on my part. I'm trying something different today. I'm noticing it, and attempting to address it. I don't mean fix it. I mean temper it, lean into it. I'll try not to shame myself for the morning laziness. I will do what it takes to get going, if that means stepping up the tools then I'll do it.
In noticing, I need to look around me and see what else is happening. Sometimes I think depression just means that your mind gets jammed more easily than others. We don't have enough oil to keep the parts going consistently. So it's not always a *thing* that makes the brain slow down, but maybe for whatever reason, this particular piece of paper was loaded weird and now we have a paper jam.
I think it's hard to pin-point the *thing* that caused the jam, because it's not necessarily special or different, sometimes it's just a missed opportunity to process, a rainbow swirl in our subconscious. Sometimes it's too many little things. Sometimes it is a big thing.
Today as I notice, I think it's a combination of little things and a missed opportunity to process.
The weather does affect me. I wish it didn't, but I guess I spent too much time living in the sunny state of Florida and other southern states. When I don't see the sun for days, I start to dip. Even with my fake sun and my vitamin D.
I have a few things on my "to-do" list that I don't really want to do. One in particular comes around every year and makes me anxious every year and makes me angry every year: taxes. I should be less grumpy about it, but if I knew my taxes were paying for higher teacher salaries and world peace and proper health care: I'd be less grumpy. Doing taxes confronts me with the intoxicating power of money and its hold over local and global politics, and I feel sick every time. Maybe I shouldn't get so existential about my taxes, but I can't help myself.
Then there is the casual battle every household faces: the long-term vs the short-term/daily tasks. When I take a dip in my emotional state, there is usually a feeling that I am not keeping up in this battle. The sheets and towels need to be washed, and I want to organize the garage, and clean out the storage room, and wash the cars, and make sure the kitchen is clean and the tables wiped down. I feel guilty even for my little vacuum robot sitting idle because I haven't been able to decide which floor it should vacuum and when.
When I'm feeling this little dip, the litany of little things is paralyzing. I start looking for short cuts, for ways to make it easier on myself and others. Every short cut comes with an unhealthy dose of guilt for not being able to do it myself. It is very hard to feel overwhelmed and also not shamed. Think about it- when was the last time you said "I have so much to do, I need help" without following it with some sort of "I brought this on myself... I should have been able... If only I..."?
Even now my heart rate is picking up a bit. I feel anxious about the tasks to do. I've turned on my sun lamp for another cycle of sun, feeling guilty like I'm procrastinating (which I haven't convinced myself that I'm not).
Then there is the processing that I haven't done. It is hard for me to intentionally process something. It feels a lot like being asked to come up with a creative solution - here- now, in the next 5 minutes. I want this sort of thing to happen organically. I want to be able to have my thoughts evolving up in my brain cloud until one day while I'm driving- it comes to me out of the blue- without even thinking about it consciously. I think that method actually happens a lot to me. But this one is jamming the system. This one I have to actually put in front of my here/now brain and I don't know how to do it. It isn't organic and I don't trust anything I think or feel about it.
I'm processing some discernment about career/vocation/calling/passion/dreams. It's only literally the only thing I have ever struggled with in terms of decision making for my entire life. No big deal. I'm learning that there are some deeper elements to it rather than "pick a job" and I don't even begin to know how to tackle those foundational elements.
I'm noticing, that when I dip down, the cause is also the effect. I am feeling overwhelmed by decisions, tasks, and lack of clear sunny space. Because of those things, I'm struggling to make decisions, do tasks, and - well- I can't control the rain. It's a cycle. The less I can get a feeling of getting above the minutia that is overwhelming me, the more I find myself drowning in it.
There isn't a fix to this. The taxes will get done and I'll hate every minute of it. The to-do tasks will eventually be accomplished maybe, but no one will care that much about it but me. The sun will come back out, and so will the rain. But with each dip, if I take the time to notice, maybe I'll learn some techniques for hunkering down better next time. Maybe I'll figure out how to load the paper a little better next time. If nothing else, it'll be an opportunity for me to practice grace for myself and others. And grace is always a worthy balm.
The last couple of nights I've been tired, hungry, lazy. I ran out of steam and all I wanted to do is sit and eat things. I've thought more about having a glass of wine and poured myself a glass each night.
The last handful of mornings I have been slow to rise, slow to move, and slower to get out of the house. Even when I had plans, I have been running late.
This is the "notice" phase of depression. Before I ignored it and then internalized it as some sort of failure on my part. I'm trying something different today. I'm noticing it, and attempting to address it. I don't mean fix it. I mean temper it, lean into it. I'll try not to shame myself for the morning laziness. I will do what it takes to get going, if that means stepping up the tools then I'll do it.
In noticing, I need to look around me and see what else is happening. Sometimes I think depression just means that your mind gets jammed more easily than others. We don't have enough oil to keep the parts going consistently. So it's not always a *thing* that makes the brain slow down, but maybe for whatever reason, this particular piece of paper was loaded weird and now we have a paper jam.
I think it's hard to pin-point the *thing* that caused the jam, because it's not necessarily special or different, sometimes it's just a missed opportunity to process, a rainbow swirl in our subconscious. Sometimes it's too many little things. Sometimes it is a big thing.
Today as I notice, I think it's a combination of little things and a missed opportunity to process.
The weather does affect me. I wish it didn't, but I guess I spent too much time living in the sunny state of Florida and other southern states. When I don't see the sun for days, I start to dip. Even with my fake sun and my vitamin D.
I have a few things on my "to-do" list that I don't really want to do. One in particular comes around every year and makes me anxious every year and makes me angry every year: taxes. I should be less grumpy about it, but if I knew my taxes were paying for higher teacher salaries and world peace and proper health care: I'd be less grumpy. Doing taxes confronts me with the intoxicating power of money and its hold over local and global politics, and I feel sick every time. Maybe I shouldn't get so existential about my taxes, but I can't help myself.
Then there is the casual battle every household faces: the long-term vs the short-term/daily tasks. When I take a dip in my emotional state, there is usually a feeling that I am not keeping up in this battle. The sheets and towels need to be washed, and I want to organize the garage, and clean out the storage room, and wash the cars, and make sure the kitchen is clean and the tables wiped down. I feel guilty even for my little vacuum robot sitting idle because I haven't been able to decide which floor it should vacuum and when.
When I'm feeling this little dip, the litany of little things is paralyzing. I start looking for short cuts, for ways to make it easier on myself and others. Every short cut comes with an unhealthy dose of guilt for not being able to do it myself. It is very hard to feel overwhelmed and also not shamed. Think about it- when was the last time you said "I have so much to do, I need help" without following it with some sort of "I brought this on myself... I should have been able... If only I..."?
Even now my heart rate is picking up a bit. I feel anxious about the tasks to do. I've turned on my sun lamp for another cycle of sun, feeling guilty like I'm procrastinating (which I haven't convinced myself that I'm not).
Then there is the processing that I haven't done. It is hard for me to intentionally process something. It feels a lot like being asked to come up with a creative solution - here- now, in the next 5 minutes. I want this sort of thing to happen organically. I want to be able to have my thoughts evolving up in my brain cloud until one day while I'm driving- it comes to me out of the blue- without even thinking about it consciously. I think that method actually happens a lot to me. But this one is jamming the system. This one I have to actually put in front of my here/now brain and I don't know how to do it. It isn't organic and I don't trust anything I think or feel about it.
I'm processing some discernment about career/vocation/calling/passion/dreams. It's only literally the only thing I have ever struggled with in terms of decision making for my entire life. No big deal. I'm learning that there are some deeper elements to it rather than "pick a job" and I don't even begin to know how to tackle those foundational elements.
I'm noticing, that when I dip down, the cause is also the effect. I am feeling overwhelmed by decisions, tasks, and lack of clear sunny space. Because of those things, I'm struggling to make decisions, do tasks, and - well- I can't control the rain. It's a cycle. The less I can get a feeling of getting above the minutia that is overwhelming me, the more I find myself drowning in it.
There isn't a fix to this. The taxes will get done and I'll hate every minute of it. The to-do tasks will eventually be accomplished maybe, but no one will care that much about it but me. The sun will come back out, and so will the rain. But with each dip, if I take the time to notice, maybe I'll learn some techniques for hunkering down better next time. Maybe I'll figure out how to load the paper a little better next time. If nothing else, it'll be an opportunity for me to practice grace for myself and others. And grace is always a worthy balm.
Monday, February 4, 2019
The Gift of Depression
Ugh, that title makes me want to slap myself.
But in my effort to "Struggle Good," I've learned that there's some truth to "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em."
My name is Sarah and I have the disease: depression. It's truly a dis-ease. I do not feel at ease when depression is in full force. It's a disease that has phases of remission and returns. Currently I'm doing pretty awesome, all my struggling is working- medicine, lights, and some moving around. But I don't have much control over the day I wake up and my body goes "ooof- nope- today just will not do." Sometimes it just will not do. And that's OK.
You might ask: "What do you do for a living to keep yourself happy?"
I work as a hospice chaplain.
"Oh, OK. What do you do as a hobby to ease the depression in your down-time?"
I'm working on a book about my family story in the Holocaust. I also write sometimes about depression and current events/politics/religion/philosophy. I enjoy dabbling with existential thoughts.
"Super. Seems normal." You might say. Buuuuut, I'm guessing you're not thinking that. You're probably thinking- "lady- you got problems. Why the hell would you do those things, knowing full well you have the capacity to nose dive into a black hole of depression? People who study the Holocaust and hang with dying people need to be like, waaayyy up in the happiness stratosphere so they can handle the bummer of a time." You clearly have a lot of opinions about this. Or at least I am imagining you do.
Here's the conundrum: my disease equips me for the sad stuff. I am perhaps more qualified to hang out with the dying, and tuck into the details of horror in the Holocaust.
There's one reason for my qualification: via Henri Nouwen, the concept of the "the wounded healer." This simple, yet profound idea is that those who are wounded and feel the pain of the world are more able to understand the wounded among them, and therefore able to assist in healing through that understanding or empathy. It's why support groups are so effective. We don't need someone with zero experience of soul-wrenching grief telling us "it gets better." We need a co-traveler, or someone who has pioneered before us on a path even more treacherous than ours. We'll follow a guide that has been here before, not one who just flew in for the cookies at the welcome station.
There's another reason I haven't explored as much... my very illness is my method for healing. Like allergy shots. I have been dealt bouts of sadness and struggle that have no logical bearing. I get depressed or my energy depleted for literally no reason at all. I have to deal with that. My tools for functioning despite nothing helping me function- are well sharpened. I'm like a video game character that has ALL the weapons necessary for the battle (I might still lose but I'm doing better than the newcomer with barely a shield).
I have a skill set for functioning while facing the existential wall. A happy person may not have those tools. When confronted with darkness, their eyes have to adjust from the blinding sunlight they spend their lives in. My life has episodes of light and dark, and my eyes don't have to adjust as much when facing death or genocide. I also know, because of my experience, that the darkness never lasts forever. And that in that darkness, there are often glittering specks of light like stars in the night sky. I'm adept at looking for that. I'm not as afraid of the dark, and I'm skilled at finding my way and feeling around for clues and sparkles of hope. I've been here before, it's not so scary.
I also know that I'm not alone, and that I can't do it alone. People who are inexperienced with certain challenges feel ashamed about those challenges and attempt to get through it on their own. They don't want to lean on someone else when they expect they should be able to handle it. I have tread that path and found it totally terrifying and ineffective. I lean hard. I am in a circle of dominoes. When I lean hard, it might knock someone over a bit, but with all of us leaning- somehow we all help each other stay upright, even if a little sideways for a bit.
The biggest tool in fighting depression is discarding shame. It's one of my most powerful weapons ever. Without shame I can use all my tools to fight like a warrior, and I might lose a few but I'll win a bunch. And when your battle comes, I'll lend a hand, I'll let you lean on me, I'll know that you and I both have the power to win, eventually. Shame makes it where we feel stupid for even showing up, for needing to fight. Discard that shame and we are living life, battles and beach trips mashed together- all worth our time and all worthy of our showing up.
When I look at the Holocaust I can weep and rejoice at the same time. I know that humanity is despicable because I've hung out in the dungeon for waaaay too long, which makes me look at despicable things as a sort of a morbid source of "well see there's that terrible thing- now I feel even more justified feeling this way." But I also know that humanity is gorgeous, because once I let go of the shame of feeling sorrow- I am able to also fully embrace the emotion of joy. I can sit and look at a person doing something kind and selfless (no not those cheesy FB videos where people record themselves helping a homeless person)- more like the millions of tiny good things like when someone moves a turtle out of a busy road. We do big and little good things all the time. Like when someone risks their life every day to hike with people over a mountain to freedom from tyranny or famine. There are thousands of these type of people whose names were never recorded. Like the man who snuck my Grandfather across the German/Netherland border without uttering a WORD. I'll never know who he was.
And then there's the sunset. Beauty always reminds me that there is a source of Good that is constant. Beauty is the most useless and useful reminder of goodness. Useless because beauty does not feed my body, useful because that's the whole point! Beauty has no other purpose but to delight, and what else but Goodness would dream of such inefficiency?!
So, my depression is my staff. It's that cane that shows my weakness and strength at the same time. Kind of like when you see a war veteran with a missing limb. That person knows things we don't know. That person is strong as hell. And when you are as strong as hell - you can beat it.
But in my effort to "Struggle Good," I've learned that there's some truth to "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em."
My name is Sarah and I have the disease: depression. It's truly a dis-ease. I do not feel at ease when depression is in full force. It's a disease that has phases of remission and returns. Currently I'm doing pretty awesome, all my struggling is working- medicine, lights, and some moving around. But I don't have much control over the day I wake up and my body goes "ooof- nope- today just will not do." Sometimes it just will not do. And that's OK.
You might ask: "What do you do for a living to keep yourself happy?"
I work as a hospice chaplain.
"Oh, OK. What do you do as a hobby to ease the depression in your down-time?"
I'm working on a book about my family story in the Holocaust. I also write sometimes about depression and current events/politics/religion/philosophy. I enjoy dabbling with existential thoughts.
"Super. Seems normal." You might say. Buuuuut, I'm guessing you're not thinking that. You're probably thinking- "lady- you got problems. Why the hell would you do those things, knowing full well you have the capacity to nose dive into a black hole of depression? People who study the Holocaust and hang with dying people need to be like, waaayyy up in the happiness stratosphere so they can handle the bummer of a time." You clearly have a lot of opinions about this. Or at least I am imagining you do.
Here's the conundrum: my disease equips me for the sad stuff. I am perhaps more qualified to hang out with the dying, and tuck into the details of horror in the Holocaust.
There's one reason for my qualification: via Henri Nouwen, the concept of the "the wounded healer." This simple, yet profound idea is that those who are wounded and feel the pain of the world are more able to understand the wounded among them, and therefore able to assist in healing through that understanding or empathy. It's why support groups are so effective. We don't need someone with zero experience of soul-wrenching grief telling us "it gets better." We need a co-traveler, or someone who has pioneered before us on a path even more treacherous than ours. We'll follow a guide that has been here before, not one who just flew in for the cookies at the welcome station.
There's another reason I haven't explored as much... my very illness is my method for healing. Like allergy shots. I have been dealt bouts of sadness and struggle that have no logical bearing. I get depressed or my energy depleted for literally no reason at all. I have to deal with that. My tools for functioning despite nothing helping me function- are well sharpened. I'm like a video game character that has ALL the weapons necessary for the battle (I might still lose but I'm doing better than the newcomer with barely a shield).
I have a skill set for functioning while facing the existential wall. A happy person may not have those tools. When confronted with darkness, their eyes have to adjust from the blinding sunlight they spend their lives in. My life has episodes of light and dark, and my eyes don't have to adjust as much when facing death or genocide. I also know, because of my experience, that the darkness never lasts forever. And that in that darkness, there are often glittering specks of light like stars in the night sky. I'm adept at looking for that. I'm not as afraid of the dark, and I'm skilled at finding my way and feeling around for clues and sparkles of hope. I've been here before, it's not so scary.
I also know that I'm not alone, and that I can't do it alone. People who are inexperienced with certain challenges feel ashamed about those challenges and attempt to get through it on their own. They don't want to lean on someone else when they expect they should be able to handle it. I have tread that path and found it totally terrifying and ineffective. I lean hard. I am in a circle of dominoes. When I lean hard, it might knock someone over a bit, but with all of us leaning- somehow we all help each other stay upright, even if a little sideways for a bit.
The biggest tool in fighting depression is discarding shame. It's one of my most powerful weapons ever. Without shame I can use all my tools to fight like a warrior, and I might lose a few but I'll win a bunch. And when your battle comes, I'll lend a hand, I'll let you lean on me, I'll know that you and I both have the power to win, eventually. Shame makes it where we feel stupid for even showing up, for needing to fight. Discard that shame and we are living life, battles and beach trips mashed together- all worth our time and all worthy of our showing up.
When I look at the Holocaust I can weep and rejoice at the same time. I know that humanity is despicable because I've hung out in the dungeon for waaaay too long, which makes me look at despicable things as a sort of a morbid source of "well see there's that terrible thing- now I feel even more justified feeling this way." But I also know that humanity is gorgeous, because once I let go of the shame of feeling sorrow- I am able to also fully embrace the emotion of joy. I can sit and look at a person doing something kind and selfless (no not those cheesy FB videos where people record themselves helping a homeless person)- more like the millions of tiny good things like when someone moves a turtle out of a busy road. We do big and little good things all the time. Like when someone risks their life every day to hike with people over a mountain to freedom from tyranny or famine. There are thousands of these type of people whose names were never recorded. Like the man who snuck my Grandfather across the German/Netherland border without uttering a WORD. I'll never know who he was.
And then there's the sunset. Beauty always reminds me that there is a source of Good that is constant. Beauty is the most useless and useful reminder of goodness. Useless because beauty does not feed my body, useful because that's the whole point! Beauty has no other purpose but to delight, and what else but Goodness would dream of such inefficiency?!
So, my depression is my staff. It's that cane that shows my weakness and strength at the same time. Kind of like when you see a war veteran with a missing limb. That person knows things we don't know. That person is strong as hell. And when you are as strong as hell - you can beat it.
Saturday, February 2, 2019
Honest Resume
Everyone in the work world is told to keep their resume up to date. Because you never know when the next great opportunity will pop up, and then you'll be ready for it.
I suspect my resume reads like many women my age, and perhaps many people in general. There are part time and full time gigs, gaps of time in between, or abrupt transitions with the end date and start date within a week. Just like the cliche goes about the dash in between the birth and death dates: everything interesting really happens in those gaps and transitions.
I wish we could write honest resumes. Like Honest Trailers, only instead of mocking our lives it reads like a tell all, the kind that makes you realize how impressive it is that a person could hold a part time job while also navigating an extremely challenging home situation or paralyzing illness.
What my resume tells you is where I went to school, what job I did when, and what were my responsibilities. Some of the online applications now have an extra detail where they ask you why you left a particular job, but even that leaves little space for honesty and the full story. "Moved," "Babies," "Grandma needed me," "Boss was impossible," "Company ran out of money," "I was miserable"- how can you really tell the story? The idea is that if you have a series of short-term jobs, you're a terrible worker. But maybe you're actually a really lovely human.
I struggle with this. I look at my jobs and I used to think maybe when I was younger I wasn't a good employee. But, I always did what was asked of me. I always had integrity. I just didn't always love my job, so I felt like that made me a bad employee. I didn't always want to put in the extra mile, which made me feel guilty. But at 24 years old, I think it's fair that I hadn't figured out exactly what I was gifted to do yet. I had some learning to do. I did the job, but I could only do it so long before I lost my sanity.
Here are the gaps I want to explain to my potential employers:
I quit a part-time job under a negative boss to be a caregiver for my newborn son and Grandmother. The part time job would not have paid for the childcare I would have needed. My Grandmother would have been alone in her declining health due to dementia if I took a full time job. My newborn would have been fine, but I don't know if I would have been OK to spend my entire salary for someone else to watch him. Without that gap in my resume, my Grandmother would not have known my son. I would not have the memories from those two years that I treasure now that she's gone. I would have never discovered the old letters she kept that included letters from my great-grandmother to my Grandfather who was a refugee from Germany during WWII. It's one of the best decisions I ever made, and it made me a better human. But I can't put that on my resume because I don't have a 401K to show for it. So what you see on my resume is a two year gap between paying jobs.
I quit one job to take another job that I was better suited for. I knew that if I remained in my old job (which I had been successful at even though I was miserable), I might have negatively affected and stunted an entire program because my heart wasn't fully in it. I was actually doing the program a favor by leaving it. I also wouldn't have learned that I really was gifted with the skills and desire to do one-on-one work in the ministry setting, which led me to chaplaincy where I have excelled. It was a smart choice, but on my resume I quit one job after a year.
I had a challenging internship. It was one of the most humbling learning experiences I ever had, but if my supervisor were called up, I'm not sure she would speak highly of me. Our personalities clashed. Her issues and mine did not mix well. I worked through a pregnancy, un-treated depression, and made calls and visits and attended meetings with a newborn nursing. I thought I was weak and useless, but my God I was superwoman! I learned incredible lessons on humility, and about who I am and how much I need to worry about who others think I am. It was trial by fire and I made it. My liaison who supervised me in the ministry setting would tell you good things about my work- that's why he's on the resume as a reference. The supervisor who watched me struggle in a group who was forced to be vulnerable in an "instant intimacy" expectation: she might not have the best things to say. But she's the one who signed the paper on my internship, so she's the one you'll think matters more. But on my resume, it's a referral I might not get.
I moved after that internship and spent time getting my children settled in their new environment. I took master gardening classes and was involved in my children's classrooms and volunteered in an underprivileged school. None of those details are pertinent to my resume, that dash was just wasted time where I didn't work. But I worked really hard. I invested in my family and in my community. It was one of the first times I felt connected to my community, and as a child of the military, that was ground-breaking. I set down roots when I didn't even think I had any to set down. I learned how to put my compassion into action in ways that didn't pay. On my resume it's another two years between jobs.
In that time I also researched those letters that I found. I made trips to Germany and Kansas, tracing my family's history. My parents and my spouse were all on the journey with me and we will all be forever changed by that research. The book I am writing and the blog I keep are just small (and barely seen, especially not on my resume) evidences of that transformative journey that I am still on. I learned more about family dynamics, history and trauma. These things shape how I see people today and the world we live in now. I am no longer blind to my global community. If I did not have the time and attention to do this, then my Grandfather would not be a part of the new exhibit in the Holocaust Museum in DC. I am very proud of this project. Where do I put this on my resume?
I worked as a hospice chaplain almost two years before my husband's job moved us. I was working full time, well-liked and respected by my peers and supervisors. I had been given new responsibilities that reflected their value of my opinion (being in interviews). I also had been given flexibility to work 4 day weeks and convinced my supervisors to hire an on-call chaplain so I didn't need to be on call 6 months out of the year. They valued me as an employee. (And I set the stage for the next chaplain not to be burned out.) Then I had to quit because we moved. That supervisor will say wonderful things about me, but if you quickly glance at my resume, it's another short stint of two years and gone.
When we moved, I took time to help my children adjust to their new environment. I almost took a full time job as a hospice chaplain but turned it down to focus on my book research and my kids. It was the right thing to do for my family and for myself. I finally got the right treatment for my depression (medication is a beautiful thing). I volunteered for hospice, I made friends so that this new community can be a place to call home. I got a part time job as a chaplain. But on my resume it looks like I dawdled and then became underemployed.
Everything in my resume, gaps included, are life choices I made that made me wiser, healthier, and my family stronger.
Looking back at all of these gaps and dashes and learning experiences, I am sort of amazed. I had no idea how much all of this was good, to the core. If I were to have any regrets, and believe me, I have plenty about the little things, but my main regret is that I didn't give myself enough grace in the learning process. I expected myself to be confident, competent, and omnipotent almost- at every step of the journey. What a ridiculous thing! I am a human who has learned beautiful things. I wish I could have given myself a break from the shame in the learning. Pain was inevitable, but I didn't have to think I was weak or unemployable.
In fact, now I think I might be the best employee you'd ever have. But my resume can't tell you that. I do wish that somehow when we talk to our children, and even our peers about resumes- that we could give space for the learning process. That we could lend value to the gaps and short stints that taught us how to be more fully ourselves. That even though our resume doesn't show our career as a steady diagonal line up to the right, it has nothing to do with how employable we are, and certainly not how valuable we are as humans. Very few people have that steady soaring success on their resumes, and honestly- I'd rather work with the person who started out as a bat biologist and then became a pastor (true story- a friend of mine!).
My honest resume might not make me more exciting to a potential employer, but it has made me more grateful for my life's experiences. Maybe we should keep our resumes up to date, but maybe we need to have an honest one for ourselves that we keep up to date. It might remind us why we make the choices we make, or refocus us if our gaps and dashes aren't telling our true story.
I suspect my resume reads like many women my age, and perhaps many people in general. There are part time and full time gigs, gaps of time in between, or abrupt transitions with the end date and start date within a week. Just like the cliche goes about the dash in between the birth and death dates: everything interesting really happens in those gaps and transitions.
I wish we could write honest resumes. Like Honest Trailers, only instead of mocking our lives it reads like a tell all, the kind that makes you realize how impressive it is that a person could hold a part time job while also navigating an extremely challenging home situation or paralyzing illness.
What my resume tells you is where I went to school, what job I did when, and what were my responsibilities. Some of the online applications now have an extra detail where they ask you why you left a particular job, but even that leaves little space for honesty and the full story. "Moved," "Babies," "Grandma needed me," "Boss was impossible," "Company ran out of money," "I was miserable"- how can you really tell the story? The idea is that if you have a series of short-term jobs, you're a terrible worker. But maybe you're actually a really lovely human.
I struggle with this. I look at my jobs and I used to think maybe when I was younger I wasn't a good employee. But, I always did what was asked of me. I always had integrity. I just didn't always love my job, so I felt like that made me a bad employee. I didn't always want to put in the extra mile, which made me feel guilty. But at 24 years old, I think it's fair that I hadn't figured out exactly what I was gifted to do yet. I had some learning to do. I did the job, but I could only do it so long before I lost my sanity.
Here are the gaps I want to explain to my potential employers:
I quit a part-time job under a negative boss to be a caregiver for my newborn son and Grandmother. The part time job would not have paid for the childcare I would have needed. My Grandmother would have been alone in her declining health due to dementia if I took a full time job. My newborn would have been fine, but I don't know if I would have been OK to spend my entire salary for someone else to watch him. Without that gap in my resume, my Grandmother would not have known my son. I would not have the memories from those two years that I treasure now that she's gone. I would have never discovered the old letters she kept that included letters from my great-grandmother to my Grandfather who was a refugee from Germany during WWII. It's one of the best decisions I ever made, and it made me a better human. But I can't put that on my resume because I don't have a 401K to show for it. So what you see on my resume is a two year gap between paying jobs.
I quit one job to take another job that I was better suited for. I knew that if I remained in my old job (which I had been successful at even though I was miserable), I might have negatively affected and stunted an entire program because my heart wasn't fully in it. I was actually doing the program a favor by leaving it. I also wouldn't have learned that I really was gifted with the skills and desire to do one-on-one work in the ministry setting, which led me to chaplaincy where I have excelled. It was a smart choice, but on my resume I quit one job after a year.
I had a challenging internship. It was one of the most humbling learning experiences I ever had, but if my supervisor were called up, I'm not sure she would speak highly of me. Our personalities clashed. Her issues and mine did not mix well. I worked through a pregnancy, un-treated depression, and made calls and visits and attended meetings with a newborn nursing. I thought I was weak and useless, but my God I was superwoman! I learned incredible lessons on humility, and about who I am and how much I need to worry about who others think I am. It was trial by fire and I made it. My liaison who supervised me in the ministry setting would tell you good things about my work- that's why he's on the resume as a reference. The supervisor who watched me struggle in a group who was forced to be vulnerable in an "instant intimacy" expectation: she might not have the best things to say. But she's the one who signed the paper on my internship, so she's the one you'll think matters more. But on my resume, it's a referral I might not get.
I moved after that internship and spent time getting my children settled in their new environment. I took master gardening classes and was involved in my children's classrooms and volunteered in an underprivileged school. None of those details are pertinent to my resume, that dash was just wasted time where I didn't work. But I worked really hard. I invested in my family and in my community. It was one of the first times I felt connected to my community, and as a child of the military, that was ground-breaking. I set down roots when I didn't even think I had any to set down. I learned how to put my compassion into action in ways that didn't pay. On my resume it's another two years between jobs.
In that time I also researched those letters that I found. I made trips to Germany and Kansas, tracing my family's history. My parents and my spouse were all on the journey with me and we will all be forever changed by that research. The book I am writing and the blog I keep are just small (and barely seen, especially not on my resume) evidences of that transformative journey that I am still on. I learned more about family dynamics, history and trauma. These things shape how I see people today and the world we live in now. I am no longer blind to my global community. If I did not have the time and attention to do this, then my Grandfather would not be a part of the new exhibit in the Holocaust Museum in DC. I am very proud of this project. Where do I put this on my resume?
I worked as a hospice chaplain almost two years before my husband's job moved us. I was working full time, well-liked and respected by my peers and supervisors. I had been given new responsibilities that reflected their value of my opinion (being in interviews). I also had been given flexibility to work 4 day weeks and convinced my supervisors to hire an on-call chaplain so I didn't need to be on call 6 months out of the year. They valued me as an employee. (And I set the stage for the next chaplain not to be burned out.) Then I had to quit because we moved. That supervisor will say wonderful things about me, but if you quickly glance at my resume, it's another short stint of two years and gone.
When we moved, I took time to help my children adjust to their new environment. I almost took a full time job as a hospice chaplain but turned it down to focus on my book research and my kids. It was the right thing to do for my family and for myself. I finally got the right treatment for my depression (medication is a beautiful thing). I volunteered for hospice, I made friends so that this new community can be a place to call home. I got a part time job as a chaplain. But on my resume it looks like I dawdled and then became underemployed.
Everything in my resume, gaps included, are life choices I made that made me wiser, healthier, and my family stronger.
Looking back at all of these gaps and dashes and learning experiences, I am sort of amazed. I had no idea how much all of this was good, to the core. If I were to have any regrets, and believe me, I have plenty about the little things, but my main regret is that I didn't give myself enough grace in the learning process. I expected myself to be confident, competent, and omnipotent almost- at every step of the journey. What a ridiculous thing! I am a human who has learned beautiful things. I wish I could have given myself a break from the shame in the learning. Pain was inevitable, but I didn't have to think I was weak or unemployable.
In fact, now I think I might be the best employee you'd ever have. But my resume can't tell you that. I do wish that somehow when we talk to our children, and even our peers about resumes- that we could give space for the learning process. That we could lend value to the gaps and short stints that taught us how to be more fully ourselves. That even though our resume doesn't show our career as a steady diagonal line up to the right, it has nothing to do with how employable we are, and certainly not how valuable we are as humans. Very few people have that steady soaring success on their resumes, and honestly- I'd rather work with the person who started out as a bat biologist and then became a pastor (true story- a friend of mine!).
My honest resume might not make me more exciting to a potential employer, but it has made me more grateful for my life's experiences. Maybe we should keep our resumes up to date, but maybe we need to have an honest one for ourselves that we keep up to date. It might remind us why we make the choices we make, or refocus us if our gaps and dashes aren't telling our true story.
Wednesday, November 14, 2018
I Struggle Good
A couple of weekends ago we went to Chincoteague Island, a favorite not-crowded (at least off-season) retreat for my family. We walked everywhere and up and down the lighthouse, we ate ice cream, we explored. And one of my favorite activities: we watched the ocean breathe water in and out onto the shore.
We even did something so weird: we went to church. I know, it's weird to say that as someone who is married to a pastor. But when we get our rare Sundays off, I am often found sleeping in bed on Sunday morning. But this Sunday was different. It was daylight savings (which is the WORST), but that meant that I woke up at 7am thinking it was 8am. And the pastor of the Methodist Church on this little Island was none other than Joe, a DS (sort of boss) from Jason's previous church assignment, and someone I really connected with while we lived in Hampton. So we thought we'd go to church as a family, actually sit together and not be in charge of a damn thing. It was nice. It was interesting to see how yet another church in the same denomination can worship in such a different way with their own faithful traditions and intentional participants. I enjoyed it. Joe got up and preached, also a nice experience to hear a different voice (and to not know ahead of time what the sermon was about because I had edited it the night before). I honestly don't remember the gist of the whole sermon, because I kinda fixated on this one part: in the midst of talking about inevitable change, he said something about not necessarily being able to be perfect but at least struggling on the path towards it. And not perfect by our standards. Methodists have this weird thing they talk about "moving on to perfection." It's like being a really amazing love-filled person- basically being like Jesus. A good Methodist really wants to be like Jesus. So Joe says we aren't perfect, and change is aways happening, and we're constantly adjusting, and it is a struggle, but we can Struggle Good, and that is moving on to perfection (really: love).
Struggle Good. Somehow that struck a chord with me. The struggle is there, no denying it or taking it away (as much as I hoped I could). But we can struggle good. (I know- it's not good grammar, that's intentional, just deal with it.) Here's the thing about depression and struggling good: it is still a shit-show, but maybe it can be one with a dousing of grace. I'm super terrible about the grace part. I don't even know what it feels like to struggle good, because it all feels like struggling bad. (Just- seriously, don't worry about my grammar.)
In fact, I get really annoyed with how terribly I struggle. Annoyed? No- 100% shamed. The lovely writer Liz Gilbert (Eat, Pray, Love; Big Magic, seriously- go read her stuff), just recently lost the love of her life to cancer. Do you want to know something insanely irritating? She has somehow figured out how to be vulnerable, sad, miserable, and do it well!! She says to people to create while they are grieving- to let their grief and whatever emotion move within their creations. I kinda want to punch her in the face for that. CREATE?! I can't do shit when I'm sad. I can't put a pen to paper, I can't paint anything. How does she get to express her grief in creation when I sit here just working on the basics? But somehow she is doing that too. I feel like SHE is struggling Good, and I am struggling bad. But this is not helpful, to me, to you, or to anyone (says my therapist and logic and pretty much all the voices but the gremlin in my head that wants me to wallow in shame). So I have to think about what it looks like for me to struggle good, and then inject grace into it and be proud of myself. Somehow. My internal gremlin is rolling her eyes at me but she can shove it.
Here's what Struggling Good with depression looks like these days for me... I started medication last March? April? Medicine was like a light bulb flipped on. I was like OH THIS IS WHAT YOU PEOPLE FEEL LIKE?! It was fantastic. Every part of my body was *awake* in a way I thought never possible. Not only did I accomplish normal daily tasks, I did it like it wasn't even a thing! Then it rained every day of May. I was still fine, but I started feeling the grey creeping in. The sun shone out enough to keep the grey monster at bay for a little while, I got through an uncommonly rainy summer, and insanely, INSANELY short Fall. Things were still GOOD though. And now, it's November 14th, the time has changed so that now the sun sets at 5pm, and the Grey Winter is here. Technically, we are still in "Fall" but Mother Nature did NOT get the memo. And inside my sweet, diseased brain, the winter has come. Expletives. Hello, darkness, my old freaking enemy. (Simon and Garfunkel should have told darkness what was what.)
I feel like a grizzly bear. I'm ready to hibernate, and if you mess with me too much I'll rare up and growl at you because I just want to go lie down and you're in my way. I'm not even a powerful grizzly, I'm like one of those sad, malnourished polar bears. The ice (sun in my case) is melting away underneath me and I just can't seem to get what I need to make it through the day. I find myself this last week going to bed earlier (and not in a healthy way, in a 10-12 hour sleeping sprint way). I'm staring out at space a little more. Negative thoughts are nesting in my head. Energy is eroded. The Winter Witch is getting nice and cozy inside my brain.
Shit. I'm back to struggle. It's so frustrating! I thought I was good! I thought everything would be easier! And... I confess- it is. I'm still functioning. I'm just struggling after being fairly effortlessly functional for a while. Now I'm facing my old struggle routine. The checklist of medicines I need: Sun (fake or real), Food (real food, Sarah, REAL food), water, vitamins, MORE Vitamin D, Fish oil, good coffee, movement, engagement, medication, therapy, writing (I'm trying to create LIZ).
I now find myself again making those stupid checklists for each day, to remind myself of what I need to do to stay human: Monday- eat food/take meds, shower, go outside, SUN, snuggle a dog, drink water, get off social media, read a book, SUN, talk to a human, don't talk too much (or listen too much) to a human. FIND THE SUN SOMEWHERE. Make appointments only and always between 1030am-230pm. By February, Jason is going to have to walk me to the shower again. But it's all on the evolving struggle medication checklist.
So I'm struggling, but this winter I'm going to try to Struggle Good. This does not mean I'm going to be particularly awesome at being good at things, or doing more things- it just means that I am going to try my hardest to take care of myself, and bathe in grace as often as I possibly can. I'm going to try REALLY hard to tell myself that I am struggling GOOD, not Bad. That I am not a loser, but a struggler, and somehow that is different. It IS different. I Struggle Good.
We even did something so weird: we went to church. I know, it's weird to say that as someone who is married to a pastor. But when we get our rare Sundays off, I am often found sleeping in bed on Sunday morning. But this Sunday was different. It was daylight savings (which is the WORST), but that meant that I woke up at 7am thinking it was 8am. And the pastor of the Methodist Church on this little Island was none other than Joe, a DS (sort of boss) from Jason's previous church assignment, and someone I really connected with while we lived in Hampton. So we thought we'd go to church as a family, actually sit together and not be in charge of a damn thing. It was nice. It was interesting to see how yet another church in the same denomination can worship in such a different way with their own faithful traditions and intentional participants. I enjoyed it. Joe got up and preached, also a nice experience to hear a different voice (and to not know ahead of time what the sermon was about because I had edited it the night before). I honestly don't remember the gist of the whole sermon, because I kinda fixated on this one part: in the midst of talking about inevitable change, he said something about not necessarily being able to be perfect but at least struggling on the path towards it. And not perfect by our standards. Methodists have this weird thing they talk about "moving on to perfection." It's like being a really amazing love-filled person- basically being like Jesus. A good Methodist really wants to be like Jesus. So Joe says we aren't perfect, and change is aways happening, and we're constantly adjusting, and it is a struggle, but we can Struggle Good, and that is moving on to perfection (really: love).
Struggle Good. Somehow that struck a chord with me. The struggle is there, no denying it or taking it away (as much as I hoped I could). But we can struggle good. (I know- it's not good grammar, that's intentional, just deal with it.) Here's the thing about depression and struggling good: it is still a shit-show, but maybe it can be one with a dousing of grace. I'm super terrible about the grace part. I don't even know what it feels like to struggle good, because it all feels like struggling bad. (Just- seriously, don't worry about my grammar.)
In fact, I get really annoyed with how terribly I struggle. Annoyed? No- 100% shamed. The lovely writer Liz Gilbert (Eat, Pray, Love; Big Magic, seriously- go read her stuff), just recently lost the love of her life to cancer. Do you want to know something insanely irritating? She has somehow figured out how to be vulnerable, sad, miserable, and do it well!! She says to people to create while they are grieving- to let their grief and whatever emotion move within their creations. I kinda want to punch her in the face for that. CREATE?! I can't do shit when I'm sad. I can't put a pen to paper, I can't paint anything. How does she get to express her grief in creation when I sit here just working on the basics? But somehow she is doing that too. I feel like SHE is struggling Good, and I am struggling bad. But this is not helpful, to me, to you, or to anyone (says my therapist and logic and pretty much all the voices but the gremlin in my head that wants me to wallow in shame). So I have to think about what it looks like for me to struggle good, and then inject grace into it and be proud of myself. Somehow. My internal gremlin is rolling her eyes at me but she can shove it.
Here's what Struggling Good with depression looks like these days for me... I started medication last March? April? Medicine was like a light bulb flipped on. I was like OH THIS IS WHAT YOU PEOPLE FEEL LIKE?! It was fantastic. Every part of my body was *awake* in a way I thought never possible. Not only did I accomplish normal daily tasks, I did it like it wasn't even a thing! Then it rained every day of May. I was still fine, but I started feeling the grey creeping in. The sun shone out enough to keep the grey monster at bay for a little while, I got through an uncommonly rainy summer, and insanely, INSANELY short Fall. Things were still GOOD though. And now, it's November 14th, the time has changed so that now the sun sets at 5pm, and the Grey Winter is here. Technically, we are still in "Fall" but Mother Nature did NOT get the memo. And inside my sweet, diseased brain, the winter has come. Expletives. Hello, darkness, my old freaking enemy. (Simon and Garfunkel should have told darkness what was what.)
I feel like a grizzly bear. I'm ready to hibernate, and if you mess with me too much I'll rare up and growl at you because I just want to go lie down and you're in my way. I'm not even a powerful grizzly, I'm like one of those sad, malnourished polar bears. The ice (sun in my case) is melting away underneath me and I just can't seem to get what I need to make it through the day. I find myself this last week going to bed earlier (and not in a healthy way, in a 10-12 hour sleeping sprint way). I'm staring out at space a little more. Negative thoughts are nesting in my head. Energy is eroded. The Winter Witch is getting nice and cozy inside my brain.
Shit. I'm back to struggle. It's so frustrating! I thought I was good! I thought everything would be easier! And... I confess- it is. I'm still functioning. I'm just struggling after being fairly effortlessly functional for a while. Now I'm facing my old struggle routine. The checklist of medicines I need: Sun (fake or real), Food (real food, Sarah, REAL food), water, vitamins, MORE Vitamin D, Fish oil, good coffee, movement, engagement, medication, therapy, writing (I'm trying to create LIZ).
I now find myself again making those stupid checklists for each day, to remind myself of what I need to do to stay human: Monday- eat food/take meds, shower, go outside, SUN, snuggle a dog, drink water, get off social media, read a book, SUN, talk to a human, don't talk too much (or listen too much) to a human. FIND THE SUN SOMEWHERE. Make appointments only and always between 1030am-230pm. By February, Jason is going to have to walk me to the shower again. But it's all on the evolving struggle medication checklist.
So I'm struggling, but this winter I'm going to try to Struggle Good. This does not mean I'm going to be particularly awesome at being good at things, or doing more things- it just means that I am going to try my hardest to take care of myself, and bathe in grace as often as I possibly can. I'm going to try REALLY hard to tell myself that I am struggling GOOD, not Bad. That I am not a loser, but a struggler, and somehow that is different. It IS different. I Struggle Good.
Monday, October 1, 2018
Clue 1: Women Dying
In this past week, many women have received a message loud and clear from the United States. This message was sent at the same volume and callousness in 2016. The message is very clear: Women, you do not matter.
Other messages have been sent and received over the course of the entire history of this nation. Other people have dipped their toes in the red-hot river of rage within them. I confess, I did not understand this rage. I am still barely coming to terms with it. I have been able to ignore many of the messages, because they only nipped at my heels or pierced me in non-fatal ways. I was not paying attention. From the bottom of my heart, I am sorry about that. This week I felt a spear through my body. No more ignoring it, no more brushing it aside and hiding myself inside the safety of the good people around me.
In November of 2016, enough people decided that a man who had a clear track-record of disrespecting, even disregarding the value of a woman, was worth being elected. This man had so many ugly stains on his calendars, and I hated it all, but one that pierced was when his "grab them by the pussy" comment became not only permissible, but not even a big deal at all. Just locker room talk, fit for a president.
Now we have a man that is up for a lifetime appointment to the Supreme Court, quite possibly more important to our nation than the four years of a presidential term. The standards for this individual are importantly high. A woman comes forward (anonymously) before he even makes the final cut, to tell her story of sexual assault by the proposed candidate.
What followed her coming forward (then in name rather than anonymously) showed that a tangible amount of people in the United States do not think that she matters, nor her story. Forget whether she was credible or not, her simply daring to say she had something important to say was immediately not worth listening to, for the sole reason that her story could tarnish a man's reputation. The reputation was most important, whether she was right was secondary.
There was a moment in the recent Senate hearing, likely when one white male was "respectfully" lamenting how horrendous it was that this woman should come forward with her story, inconveniencing the entire process... when I felt that pierce to the heart. The spear: Women don't matter. Thousands and thousands of women had been coming forward with their stories of sexual assaults and abuse, and inside the senate committee and in households nationwide were people saying: "Ugh, but that is not as important as it is to have this man in power... Women, you might have trauma, but don't let it get in our way."
People may think that I'm overstating this message. But once you see something, all of a sudden things make so much sense. Details become clear in the light of the new revelation. I was lulled into complacency by the small progresses for women, lulled by my own safety bubble. But this sword in my side broke open my protective skin. Pouring out are the clues that are so obvious to me now that I know the twisted end. Of course women are not important!
The first clue that came to my mind when I felt the pierce of this message was, strangely, my hospice patients. I am a hospice chaplain. I work part time now but at one point I had as many as 50 patients. As a chaplain I saw varying household arrangements, different races, class, education levels, family dynamics. Do you know something that did not discriminate in the least? Horrific treatment of women. Rich, poor, intelligent, young, old, all colors and sizes. An odd majority of the women that I sat with while dying, were not only battling their disease, but they were fighting the demons of their past.
When you are aware that you are dying, there are common things that occur. One common response of a person (of sound mind) dying is what we call "life-review." You mine the years of your life for purpose, closure, love. You reflect on your life and hope that you will find it had been worth living. You learn a lot about a person when they are on their death bed. It is a sacred and unique place to be, one I have been privileged to witness many times. I find that I am still learning from those moments, even years after their deaths.
When a woman with abuse in her story reflects on her life, that abuse acts as either a spiky speed bump in their processing, or depending on the traumatic nature of the abuse, a sharp detour into a pit of darkness, thorns, and hopelessness. It literally affects their death. Women dying are not free of their trauma, they are often confronted with it. The women I describe below were from all walks of life. The information has been combined (some few patients might be contained in one composite) and generalized so that the identities are protected, but all of what I share here is true, some stories were almost identical across patients with minor details separating them.
I had a patient that had been so hollowed out by the men in her life, that my entire focus and purpose of my visits were to help her feel that she was worthy of love. I would rub her feet, read to her, listen, and when I spoke I said only words that centered on this truth: she was worthy of love. I am not sure if I accomplished my goal, but as she lie dying, I remember telling her that I loved her, that I found her absolutely worth loving, and that the God of the Universe loved her without any hesitation.
I had another patient who was under the constant vigilance and control of her husband. We weren't sure she was receiving the pain medication made available to her. The husband was a womanizer, locked the door behind the mostly female staff when we entered, and blustered about the wonderful care he gave his wife. There was video surveillance to the point where we weren't sure if the patient could honestly and safely tell us how she was doing. Her family had been forbidden to see her. I tried to visit when the husband had a regular errand, and on these occasions, she quietly confessed to me her fears of his temper. Her husband told her she was responsible for a family tragedy (an accident that no one could have prevented and she was not present at). Half of my visits were talking through that guilt and shame. The staff was aware that there were weapons in the home. On one occasion I left the home in fear, and the staff agreed we can only visit the patient in pairs for safety.
Another patient had been brutally beaten by her husband, a truth she only confessed cryptically to me. A family member confirmed and elaborated on what the patient was unable to share. This patient ping-ponged between singing the praises of her husband, who had died years before, and secretly sharing that she feared seeing him in heaven. She was afraid of talking badly about him, even when he was dead. She was afraid to die, in part because she thought she may see her abuser in heaven, and in part because she had been told so often how insignificant she was, she thought she might not make it to heaven. I whispered to her as she fought to stay alive for fear of abuse even in death: "You are safe, you are loved, it's OK to go..."
Another patient had been successful in the business world. Upon her diagnosis, her life felt apart. Her spouse abandoned her, leaving a sibling to bear the burden of the care. She no longer produced income, so she was set aside. The sibling faced the disappointment of her own spouse, who bemoaned her burden.
I could go on. These are composite stories of just a sampling of a larger narrative.
On the flip side, I am trying very hard to remember if there were stories like this of my male patients. I'm sure there must have been, but I cannot recall a single male patient who had sexual or physical abuse as a predominant part of his life review. Most of them reflected on their careers, their experiences in war-time, their families, etc. I am wracking my brain trying to remember one man who had experienced what the women did. It was certainly not a pattern.
Men are not exempt from sexual trauma or abuse, not by a long shot. Women are not unilaterally victims, not by a long shot.
This week I finally allowed myself to see the writing on the wall: that women don't matter. And looking back, a big clue was the sheer volume of women dying with the scars of trauma, abuse, abandonment. Many of them had never been believed, or even worried about. Many of them had seen themselves as a burden. Some of them were not sure if their life had worth. Some even bemoaned that they couldn't die fast enough to relieve their family members. I understand this (as being a caregiver is extremely taxing), but I can't think of a single man who said this.
These women's souls were opened before me, and in a collective cry they told me: We didn't matter. I didn't hear it. I told each of them that no, they did matter. They do matter. I care about them. The God I pray to cares about them. They whispered back, but the rest of them didn't care. And there, I can't argue with them.
Other messages have been sent and received over the course of the entire history of this nation. Other people have dipped their toes in the red-hot river of rage within them. I confess, I did not understand this rage. I am still barely coming to terms with it. I have been able to ignore many of the messages, because they only nipped at my heels or pierced me in non-fatal ways. I was not paying attention. From the bottom of my heart, I am sorry about that. This week I felt a spear through my body. No more ignoring it, no more brushing it aside and hiding myself inside the safety of the good people around me.
In November of 2016, enough people decided that a man who had a clear track-record of disrespecting, even disregarding the value of a woman, was worth being elected. This man had so many ugly stains on his calendars, and I hated it all, but one that pierced was when his "grab them by the pussy" comment became not only permissible, but not even a big deal at all. Just locker room talk, fit for a president.
Now we have a man that is up for a lifetime appointment to the Supreme Court, quite possibly more important to our nation than the four years of a presidential term. The standards for this individual are importantly high. A woman comes forward (anonymously) before he even makes the final cut, to tell her story of sexual assault by the proposed candidate.
What followed her coming forward (then in name rather than anonymously) showed that a tangible amount of people in the United States do not think that she matters, nor her story. Forget whether she was credible or not, her simply daring to say she had something important to say was immediately not worth listening to, for the sole reason that her story could tarnish a man's reputation. The reputation was most important, whether she was right was secondary.
There was a moment in the recent Senate hearing, likely when one white male was "respectfully" lamenting how horrendous it was that this woman should come forward with her story, inconveniencing the entire process... when I felt that pierce to the heart. The spear: Women don't matter. Thousands and thousands of women had been coming forward with their stories of sexual assaults and abuse, and inside the senate committee and in households nationwide were people saying: "Ugh, but that is not as important as it is to have this man in power... Women, you might have trauma, but don't let it get in our way."
People may think that I'm overstating this message. But once you see something, all of a sudden things make so much sense. Details become clear in the light of the new revelation. I was lulled into complacency by the small progresses for women, lulled by my own safety bubble. But this sword in my side broke open my protective skin. Pouring out are the clues that are so obvious to me now that I know the twisted end. Of course women are not important!
The first clue that came to my mind when I felt the pierce of this message was, strangely, my hospice patients. I am a hospice chaplain. I work part time now but at one point I had as many as 50 patients. As a chaplain I saw varying household arrangements, different races, class, education levels, family dynamics. Do you know something that did not discriminate in the least? Horrific treatment of women. Rich, poor, intelligent, young, old, all colors and sizes. An odd majority of the women that I sat with while dying, were not only battling their disease, but they were fighting the demons of their past.
When you are aware that you are dying, there are common things that occur. One common response of a person (of sound mind) dying is what we call "life-review." You mine the years of your life for purpose, closure, love. You reflect on your life and hope that you will find it had been worth living. You learn a lot about a person when they are on their death bed. It is a sacred and unique place to be, one I have been privileged to witness many times. I find that I am still learning from those moments, even years after their deaths.
When a woman with abuse in her story reflects on her life, that abuse acts as either a spiky speed bump in their processing, or depending on the traumatic nature of the abuse, a sharp detour into a pit of darkness, thorns, and hopelessness. It literally affects their death. Women dying are not free of their trauma, they are often confronted with it. The women I describe below were from all walks of life. The information has been combined (some few patients might be contained in one composite) and generalized so that the identities are protected, but all of what I share here is true, some stories were almost identical across patients with minor details separating them.
I had a patient that had been so hollowed out by the men in her life, that my entire focus and purpose of my visits were to help her feel that she was worthy of love. I would rub her feet, read to her, listen, and when I spoke I said only words that centered on this truth: she was worthy of love. I am not sure if I accomplished my goal, but as she lie dying, I remember telling her that I loved her, that I found her absolutely worth loving, and that the God of the Universe loved her without any hesitation.
I had another patient who was under the constant vigilance and control of her husband. We weren't sure she was receiving the pain medication made available to her. The husband was a womanizer, locked the door behind the mostly female staff when we entered, and blustered about the wonderful care he gave his wife. There was video surveillance to the point where we weren't sure if the patient could honestly and safely tell us how she was doing. Her family had been forbidden to see her. I tried to visit when the husband had a regular errand, and on these occasions, she quietly confessed to me her fears of his temper. Her husband told her she was responsible for a family tragedy (an accident that no one could have prevented and she was not present at). Half of my visits were talking through that guilt and shame. The staff was aware that there were weapons in the home. On one occasion I left the home in fear, and the staff agreed we can only visit the patient in pairs for safety.
Another patient had been brutally beaten by her husband, a truth she only confessed cryptically to me. A family member confirmed and elaborated on what the patient was unable to share. This patient ping-ponged between singing the praises of her husband, who had died years before, and secretly sharing that she feared seeing him in heaven. She was afraid of talking badly about him, even when he was dead. She was afraid to die, in part because she thought she may see her abuser in heaven, and in part because she had been told so often how insignificant she was, she thought she might not make it to heaven. I whispered to her as she fought to stay alive for fear of abuse even in death: "You are safe, you are loved, it's OK to go..."
Another patient had been successful in the business world. Upon her diagnosis, her life felt apart. Her spouse abandoned her, leaving a sibling to bear the burden of the care. She no longer produced income, so she was set aside. The sibling faced the disappointment of her own spouse, who bemoaned her burden.
I could go on. These are composite stories of just a sampling of a larger narrative.
On the flip side, I am trying very hard to remember if there were stories like this of my male patients. I'm sure there must have been, but I cannot recall a single male patient who had sexual or physical abuse as a predominant part of his life review. Most of them reflected on their careers, their experiences in war-time, their families, etc. I am wracking my brain trying to remember one man who had experienced what the women did. It was certainly not a pattern.
Men are not exempt from sexual trauma or abuse, not by a long shot. Women are not unilaterally victims, not by a long shot.
This week I finally allowed myself to see the writing on the wall: that women don't matter. And looking back, a big clue was the sheer volume of women dying with the scars of trauma, abuse, abandonment. Many of them had never been believed, or even worried about. Many of them had seen themselves as a burden. Some of them were not sure if their life had worth. Some even bemoaned that they couldn't die fast enough to relieve their family members. I understand this (as being a caregiver is extremely taxing), but I can't think of a single man who said this.
These women's souls were opened before me, and in a collective cry they told me: We didn't matter. I didn't hear it. I told each of them that no, they did matter. They do matter. I care about them. The God I pray to cares about them. They whispered back, but the rest of them didn't care. And there, I can't argue with them.
Thursday, September 6, 2018
Stop All The Clocks
Stop all the Clocks. That's the first line of a poem by W.H. Auden about the death of a loved one: Funeral Blues. It's a beautiful poem that talks about true and raw grief. Here it is so you won't miss the chance to read a great poem:
Funeral Blues
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
It's a somber poem, but I appreciate that it doesn't try to lift up grief. Grief is not up. That first line hit me, along with the feeling/vision of everything sort of slowing down and focusing in, like sound and light is drowned out so that this feeling of grief is crisp, acute, real. I thought about other feelings- joy, fear, sorrow, excitement, anticipation, contentment. I'm drowning them out with plans and several loudly ticking clocks.
I have been creating anxiety for myself out of long-standing life quandaries. I've been trying to plan, figure out, order and control everything before it comes. I have schedules, financial plans, scenarios and their several possible outcomes to be matched with my own master plan to prevent all things negative from happening.
I didn't use to do this as often. I lived a bit more in the moment and worried a bit less about the future or its consequences. I've reached that moment in life when I'm young enough to do something and old enough to realize there is something I should be doing. All of life's normal problems are staring me down at the same time demanding to be resolved, or else.
I must have the following things sorted by the end of this day: financial security now until death, kids' college tuition paid for, zero debts (student and car loans), stay out of credit card debt, medical expenses covered and planned for, freedom to travel, have time with my family, a system for keeping my house clean that works like a machine, a schedule for towels and sheets to be cleaned, a schedule to keep me sleeping enough, a schedule to make me exercise, a schedule that creates space for creativity, a schedule that creates space for my friendships (and allows me to make new ones), my kids' play dates, a system for my kids to learn everything a kid is supposed to learn, a plan for my kids to do chores and learn independence, a plan for my kids to have free time and space to be kids, intentional communication with my kids' teachers, communication with my family, communication with my husband, space for my husband and I to enjoy each other's company, set up a will, get a financial planner, buy a new mattress, save for the next car, save for the next computer, try to get ridiculous internet bill lowered, save for a trip, plan a trip, pay taxes, save for quarterly taxes, maybe get a full time job or a part time job, revamp resume...
Stop. All. The. Clocks.
Auden said this because he just couldn't move forward, nothing should move while he experienced this piercing grief that made all other things nothing. I realized that stopping the clocks might be my path to feeling joy, contentment, satisfaction, peace. Emotions of any sort that makes time stand still and pushes everything else to the side- not because it doesn't exist or need to be dealt with, but because IT is not life. It is a means to an end- the end is life, love, relationship. It is important for those things to be the focus, and the rest to be simply managed as well as possible.
Stop All the Clocks. Just Stop.
I closed out my "schedule" for this fall, because I know we'll break it anyway. I ex-ed out of my spreadsheet for chores because I know we'll do it differently anyway. I stopped crunching the same numbers to see if I could figure out where my hidden million is, because we'll never be rich but we'll make it work anyway. We'll still live our lives and clean the house and pay the bills, but I just need to stop trying to find The Way to make everything work perfectly together. It won't, I won't figure it out ever and I'm making myself insane trying.
Yes, stop all the clocks, turn off the telephone....
listen to music while alone
Get rid of plans that will break
live now, don't let the future take
Tonight I'm going to a concert. It's going to be wonderful and I will stop my clocks.
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