If the emotional toll of having a kid in wilderness therapy isn't enough, the paperwork involved is like having a second job. There is so much and it takes so much time. When I get home from my job, I have homework, just like college or high school, except I don't get off of work at three in the afternoon. It is exhausting.
I have a friend who was on the PTSA Board with me a few years ago. She was a single mom with a high skilled but low paying job. Think something like social work. She worked with low income students. She said while there are lots of scholarships for summer camps and after school activities for these families, the volume of paperwork was a major hurdle these parents had to overcome to access these programs. Imagine not speaking much English, holding two jobs, and having three kids. There were pages and pages these families had to fill out to prove they were broke.
My friend Sarah has a son with profound autism. He is turning eighteen soon and she needs to transition him from being a child with a major disability to an adult with a major disability. She has to work numerous government agencies to get her son the support he will need. Sarah is super smart, college educated, and can afford to be a stay-at-home mom, which is good because managing all of this for her son is an unpaid part-time job. She was talking about the pages and pages of forms she had to fill out to prove her son was disabled.
(You can see where this is going.)
With the Boy, we had to fill out the paperwork to apply for the Education Consultant, the woman whose firms serves a a matchmaker for kids and programs. Then we had to apply directly to the selected wilderness therapy program, even though the Education Consultant had 97% got the Boy a spot in the program. The program might have had a few extra questions not covered by the EC, so we had to fill out almost exactly--but not identical questions. Once he got in, we had to fill out enrollment forms, which had different questions, like details about his meds. Then there are health insurance forms and the forms for the psych evaluation. We are paying for the privilege of filling out mounds of paperwork to prove our son is depressed and anxious.
Why? Why does our society place this huge administrative and bureaucratic burden on families who have the most to take of at home? The upside of this is at least we are empty nesters and don't have other kids to take of right now. Some families have two or more kids at home that need attention. I can barely keep up. How do they?
This blog is about the little and big thoughts that pop into my head. I once read that when Flannery O'Connor walked into a bookstore, she would want to edit her published works with a red pen. In the digital world, we have the luxury of tweaking things up after we've hit the publish button. I can be a perfectionist/procrastinator, where waiting for the ideal means little gets done. Here I will share what is not--and likely will never be--perfect.
Showing posts with label Mental Health. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mental Health. Show all posts
Monday, July 1, 2019
Sunday, June 30, 2019
Alone & Anxiety Attacks
Last week when I dropped my stoicism, my grief for the Boy kicked in. Living alone, I had nothing to normalize it like I did in other traumatic situtations. When Jack and I broke up before we were married, my good friend from college, Carrie, moved in. I had someone to talk about movies with, and ask if we needed more carrots from the grocery store. Plus, I could still do my own thing--come and go as I please.
When Jack and I broke up before, there was no other trauma in our lives other than the break-up. Now, we each have to adjust to the Boy being gone, and being alone. Being alone is horrible. Being alone and in limbo is worse. Jack and I neither together nor moving forward or backwards. We are stuck in a holding pattern.
When the first wave of grief hit, I had no one to talk to, so I called Ellen then my dad, and then I had a piano lesson so I talked to my piano teacher. At some point, I couldn't call a friend. I had to go to sleep. I had to get up in the morning and go to work. My mind was racing, my heart was pounding, and I had a buzzing in my chest. I couldn't really control my thoughts. I had the same sense Friday afternoon at work a few weeks ago when I was looking at spending the weekend alone.
Am I have an anxiety attack? I wondered. Is the stress of the Boy's situation finally maxed out? How can I handle this?
And then I thought, Is this what the Boy feels like all of the time? Is this what he feels like when he hasn't done his Latin homework for two weeks and had a test? (His choice to study a dead language, not mine.) Is this what he feels like when he is looking a big project for school with lots of steps?
I suppose I am lucky that I only feel this way when I am having major stress, like having my kid go into Wilderness therapy and then off to a therapeutic boarding school instead of having this as part of my day-to-day.
I talked to a friend at work and said I was stressed out about the Boy going to boarding school.
"You know this is what he needs," he said. "So don't stress." He is right. How can I stress when I know the Boy is getting better? I think this is my delayed stress--the stress I was setting aside while the Boy was laying in bed all day. The anxiety I supressed because I needed to mobilize and get him help. I couldn't fall apart while he was home because that wouldn't have helped him get better. Now that he is gone--and making solid progress--I can afford to slide into emotional duress.
When Jack and I broke up before, there was no other trauma in our lives other than the break-up. Now, we each have to adjust to the Boy being gone, and being alone. Being alone is horrible. Being alone and in limbo is worse. Jack and I neither together nor moving forward or backwards. We are stuck in a holding pattern.
When the first wave of grief hit, I had no one to talk to, so I called Ellen then my dad, and then I had a piano lesson so I talked to my piano teacher. At some point, I couldn't call a friend. I had to go to sleep. I had to get up in the morning and go to work. My mind was racing, my heart was pounding, and I had a buzzing in my chest. I couldn't really control my thoughts. I had the same sense Friday afternoon at work a few weeks ago when I was looking at spending the weekend alone.
Am I have an anxiety attack? I wondered. Is the stress of the Boy's situation finally maxed out? How can I handle this?
And then I thought, Is this what the Boy feels like all of the time? Is this what he feels like when he hasn't done his Latin homework for two weeks and had a test? (His choice to study a dead language, not mine.) Is this what he feels like when he is looking a big project for school with lots of steps?
I suppose I am lucky that I only feel this way when I am having major stress, like having my kid go into Wilderness therapy and then off to a therapeutic boarding school instead of having this as part of my day-to-day.
I talked to a friend at work and said I was stressed out about the Boy going to boarding school.
"You know this is what he needs," he said. "So don't stress." He is right. How can I stress when I know the Boy is getting better? I think this is my delayed stress--the stress I was setting aside while the Boy was laying in bed all day. The anxiety I supressed because I needed to mobilize and get him help. I couldn't fall apart while he was home because that wouldn't have helped him get better. Now that he is gone--and making solid progress--I can afford to slide into emotional duress.
Thursday, June 27, 2019
Hard and Soft Edges, and Claire-Adele
Yesterday was actually worse than I alluded to in my previous post.
I really couldn't grok what was going on until today. I had buried in beneath a layer of anguish about the Fourth of July.
Yesterday, we talked to the Boy's therapist about "After Care," as it is known in the Wilderness business. Where do these kids go when they are done spending seventy days in the desert? That was the topic.
But wait! Before we can start discussing the details of that topic, Jack and I have to write a letter to the Boy telling him we are sending him some type of residential treatment school after Wilderness.
We have to tell him he's not coming home.
We have to write a letter and explain the benefits of further residential treatment and acknowledge the sorrow of him not coming home. Realistically, he might not ever come back home and live under our roof which is soul crushing to me. Yet, that would kind of be the goal: to have him lead a productive and independent life without us needing to support him.
I have to write this letter. Or Jack does. Or we both do. The therapist wants one letter signed by the both of us. More painful and heart-wrenching homework for us from Wilderness.
My mother used to frequently say "This wasn't what I expected." I had always thought that was a selfish expression, as if she believed the world existed to meet her expectations. I have a quote somewhere that reads "Expectations are the root of disappointment." Expect nothing, and you will be fine. That is a bit too nihilistic for me.
But this is not what I expected. I had not expected sending my sixteen year old off into treatment for depression and anxiety. I expected him to be an only child for the next few years while Claire-Adele was off at college. I was looking forward to dinners out with the Boy. He is an omnivore who loves to try new foods, so we could bring him to almost any restaurant in town. He's been to Pair, Frank's Champagne and Oyster Bar, and he loves Piatti, unlike his sister. Plus, Jack and I were the oldest children (which explains a lot about our marriage, by the way) and I wanted to see what it was like to the only child as a teenager. In some ways, I think it would be harder to be under the microscope with nothing else for parents to focus on, or it would be awesome because parents have already gotten one kid out of the house--they might be more chill.
Anyway, I think part of the agony of having parents write the letter to their kids is the agony part. By writing the letter, I have to come to terms with the decision. This is part of my grief and acceptance process.
This is such a bitch. Really. Jack has unlimited ability to endure physical suffering whereas I have excessive capacity to absorb emotional suffering. But this is too much for me. I was devastated and heart-broken when Ada died, but this is harder. Watching my baby be tortured by his own internal dragons (as they call them at Wilderness) is horrible because isn't finite. It just keeps coming, and he has to figure out how to slay those dragons on his own. The best I can do is send to dragon slaying school.
Today I called Claire-Adele to talk about my upcoming trip, and it was so lovely to hear her talk about her day-to-day: her new job at the ice cream place, the music festival she went to, her super religious roommate. It was so nice to get out of my head and into her world for forty-five minutes this morning. Ditto dinner with a work colleague tonight.
The hardest part about living alone during this period is the lack of soft edges. Two weeks after Ada died, Jack and I watched Ruthless People. It was the slow way of reintegrating into the world after tragedy and trauma struck us. We went to the Shedd Aquarium and watched hundreds of second graders on field trips. It was both heart-breaking and healing at the same time. My Fourth of July friend said I need to start creating new memories. It is true I need soft edges, but I need quiet space to grieve.
I really couldn't grok what was going on until today. I had buried in beneath a layer of anguish about the Fourth of July.
Yesterday, we talked to the Boy's therapist about "After Care," as it is known in the Wilderness business. Where do these kids go when they are done spending seventy days in the desert? That was the topic.
But wait! Before we can start discussing the details of that topic, Jack and I have to write a letter to the Boy telling him we are sending him some type of residential treatment school after Wilderness.
We have to tell him he's not coming home.
We have to write a letter and explain the benefits of further residential treatment and acknowledge the sorrow of him not coming home. Realistically, he might not ever come back home and live under our roof which is soul crushing to me. Yet, that would kind of be the goal: to have him lead a productive and independent life without us needing to support him.
I have to write this letter. Or Jack does. Or we both do. The therapist wants one letter signed by the both of us. More painful and heart-wrenching homework for us from Wilderness.
My mother used to frequently say "This wasn't what I expected." I had always thought that was a selfish expression, as if she believed the world existed to meet her expectations. I have a quote somewhere that reads "Expectations are the root of disappointment." Expect nothing, and you will be fine. That is a bit too nihilistic for me.
But this is not what I expected. I had not expected sending my sixteen year old off into treatment for depression and anxiety. I expected him to be an only child for the next few years while Claire-Adele was off at college. I was looking forward to dinners out with the Boy. He is an omnivore who loves to try new foods, so we could bring him to almost any restaurant in town. He's been to Pair, Frank's Champagne and Oyster Bar, and he loves Piatti, unlike his sister. Plus, Jack and I were the oldest children (which explains a lot about our marriage, by the way) and I wanted to see what it was like to the only child as a teenager. In some ways, I think it would be harder to be under the microscope with nothing else for parents to focus on, or it would be awesome because parents have already gotten one kid out of the house--they might be more chill.
Anyway, I think part of the agony of having parents write the letter to their kids is the agony part. By writing the letter, I have to come to terms with the decision. This is part of my grief and acceptance process.
This is such a bitch. Really. Jack has unlimited ability to endure physical suffering whereas I have excessive capacity to absorb emotional suffering. But this is too much for me. I was devastated and heart-broken when Ada died, but this is harder. Watching my baby be tortured by his own internal dragons (as they call them at Wilderness) is horrible because isn't finite. It just keeps coming, and he has to figure out how to slay those dragons on his own. The best I can do is send to dragon slaying school.
Today I called Claire-Adele to talk about my upcoming trip, and it was so lovely to hear her talk about her day-to-day: her new job at the ice cream place, the music festival she went to, her super religious roommate. It was so nice to get out of my head and into her world for forty-five minutes this morning. Ditto dinner with a work colleague tonight.
The hardest part about living alone during this period is the lack of soft edges. Two weeks after Ada died, Jack and I watched Ruthless People. It was the slow way of reintegrating into the world after tragedy and trauma struck us. We went to the Shedd Aquarium and watched hundreds of second graders on field trips. It was both heart-breaking and healing at the same time. My Fourth of July friend said I need to start creating new memories. It is true I need soft edges, but I need quiet space to grieve.
Unsubscribe & Grief
This was possibly the worst day of my life.
But first...
A difficult part about the Boy going to Wilderness is untangling me from the administrivia of his previous life. What is so hard about removing the reminder from my google calendar that I don't need to write a check to his bassoon teacher on Tuesday for his Wednesday lesson, or deleting his weekly appointment with his psychiatrist? On the surface, it seems like that wouldn't be as big of an emotional deal as it but it is death by a thousand cuts. Part of me didn't want to do that until he was officially off, because--you know--mental health miracles occur every day.
And then it was unsubscribing from email lists for track, cross country and the high school in general. Thank goodness school ends Thursday so I won't get anymore voicemails from the high school telling me my son was not in school today, which I stopped listening to after the second one.
The Boy has played for the same club soccer team since 5th grade. Days after the Boy started wilderness, Jack wrote the Boy's soccer coach saying he wasn't going to be playing this summer and next fall due to mental health issues. Yesterday, I finally emailed a handful of moms asking them to find a new team treasurer. These are women I've spend years on the sidelines with, laughing and cheering on our sons. I am losing that group.
Now I have a new group, I am a member of a new club--mom's of kids who are in Wilderness. Sure there is a Facebook page exclusively for parents with kids in the Boy's wilderness program, but I am part of an email circle with four other moms where I wrote today "I cried for two hours." Which was them upped to probably three to four hours by the end of the night. And it is still early! Only 1:30 a.m. here in Seattle!
Fuck. I hate my life.
Grief snuck in on panther feet today, grabbing me by the jugular, shaking me around until I was a limp rag. A good friend of mine who is Indian took me to lunch today, but little did I know he had an agenda. The Indian part is important, because as he mentioned to me once before, where he grew up people considered it part of their responsibility to tell people directly how they are screwing up their lives. And I thought I knew how to have an agenda for a meeting, but he wins.
The agenda: The Fourth of July.
"Laaaauren, what are you doing for the Fourth of July?"
"Nothing..."
"What are your plans?"
"Eh..."
"You need to make plans," he said. "When I lived alone, I would spend the holidays by myself then Monday would come around and it would be awful. You need to leave town. You need a plan. That is your assignment. You could visit your dad."
I suppose my dad would be happy about that, but no. Spending a few days with my mom would make me more depressed, not better.
This conversation was making me deeply uncomfortable, but I didn't know why. I called Ellen and then my dad and I cried. The grief of the Boy being gone hit. I wouldn't need plans for the Fourth of July if he were here--he probably has a soccer tournament. (I should probably delete "Team Snap" while I am uncluttering electronic reminders about the Boy's past life.) I wouldn't need to make plans if the rest of my life were in order.
I have been reading a book called The Parallel Process about having a kid in wilderness therapy. My main way of coping with getting the Boy treatment was to be stoic. I was practical and organized and I had an agenda.
And now, I have fallen apart. When Ada died, I learned that grief waits. With the Boy, I had kept grief waiting at the door, and now she has arrived, to sit with me for a while. I have no choice but to let her in, and keep me company.
Between the tears and the anguish, I got out my laptop and booked a trip to see Claire-Adele in Maryland. Grief can sit with me on the plane, but she can have a break when I hangout with my daughter.
But first...
A difficult part about the Boy going to Wilderness is untangling me from the administrivia of his previous life. What is so hard about removing the reminder from my google calendar that I don't need to write a check to his bassoon teacher on Tuesday for his Wednesday lesson, or deleting his weekly appointment with his psychiatrist? On the surface, it seems like that wouldn't be as big of an emotional deal as it but it is death by a thousand cuts. Part of me didn't want to do that until he was officially off, because--you know--mental health miracles occur every day.
And then it was unsubscribing from email lists for track, cross country and the high school in general. Thank goodness school ends Thursday so I won't get anymore voicemails from the high school telling me my son was not in school today, which I stopped listening to after the second one.
The Boy has played for the same club soccer team since 5th grade. Days after the Boy started wilderness, Jack wrote the Boy's soccer coach saying he wasn't going to be playing this summer and next fall due to mental health issues. Yesterday, I finally emailed a handful of moms asking them to find a new team treasurer. These are women I've spend years on the sidelines with, laughing and cheering on our sons. I am losing that group.
Now I have a new group, I am a member of a new club--mom's of kids who are in Wilderness. Sure there is a Facebook page exclusively for parents with kids in the Boy's wilderness program, but I am part of an email circle with four other moms where I wrote today "I cried for two hours." Which was them upped to probably three to four hours by the end of the night. And it is still early! Only 1:30 a.m. here in Seattle!
Fuck. I hate my life.
Grief snuck in on panther feet today, grabbing me by the jugular, shaking me around until I was a limp rag. A good friend of mine who is Indian took me to lunch today, but little did I know he had an agenda. The Indian part is important, because as he mentioned to me once before, where he grew up people considered it part of their responsibility to tell people directly how they are screwing up their lives. And I thought I knew how to have an agenda for a meeting, but he wins.
The agenda: The Fourth of July.
"Laaaauren, what are you doing for the Fourth of July?"
"Nothing..."
"What are your plans?"
"Eh..."
"You need to make plans," he said. "When I lived alone, I would spend the holidays by myself then Monday would come around and it would be awful. You need to leave town. You need a plan. That is your assignment. You could visit your dad."
I suppose my dad would be happy about that, but no. Spending a few days with my mom would make me more depressed, not better.
This conversation was making me deeply uncomfortable, but I didn't know why. I called Ellen and then my dad and I cried. The grief of the Boy being gone hit. I wouldn't need plans for the Fourth of July if he were here--he probably has a soccer tournament. (I should probably delete "Team Snap" while I am uncluttering electronic reminders about the Boy's past life.) I wouldn't need to make plans if the rest of my life were in order.
I have been reading a book called The Parallel Process about having a kid in wilderness therapy. My main way of coping with getting the Boy treatment was to be stoic. I was practical and organized and I had an agenda.
And now, I have fallen apart. When Ada died, I learned that grief waits. With the Boy, I had kept grief waiting at the door, and now she has arrived, to sit with me for a while. I have no choice but to let her in, and keep me company.
Between the tears and the anguish, I got out my laptop and booked a trip to see Claire-Adele in Maryland. Grief can sit with me on the plane, but she can have a break when I hangout with my daughter.
Sunday, June 16, 2019
Crying in the Morning, Maryland, and The Broken Bowl
This blog post is slightly disjointed, as that is how I am feeling right now.
Thursday morning before work, I cried about the Boy. I was listening to Spotify and the song Solsbury Hill by Peter Gabriel came on and I lost it when I heard the lyrics which I never heard before even though I've heard the song dozens of times:
Hopefully, there will be a day when the Boy comes home. He writes us a letter once a week and we have gotten pictures. It will be interesting to see how he progresses, and how we here in Seattle progress, too.
When I was feeling blue, I put on my Maryland t-shirt and baseball hat I got last year when I dropped Claire-Adele off at college. I need to remember that she is a good place, thriving.
For my birthday, I got a broken bowl in the Japanese style of kintsugi. (This one isn't really broken, just made to look that way.) The idea of kintsugi is to take the cracks and repairs as part of the object's history. The cracks are filled with gold or brass and lacquer, making what could render the bowl useless and instead make it beautiful. And it is true. This would have been a boring, dark gray bowl, but now it is unique.
My life right now feels like one of these broken bowls, still waiting for the brass and gold to fix it up. I could give each of the cracks a name. While I appreciate the beauty, at times I wish my life had a few less blemishes.
Thursday morning before work, I cried about the Boy. I was listening to Spotify and the song Solsbury Hill by Peter Gabriel came on and I lost it when I heard the lyrics which I never heard before even though I've heard the song dozens of times:
"Son," he said, "Grab your things I've come to take you home."
Hopefully, there will be a day when the Boy comes home. He writes us a letter once a week and we have gotten pictures. It will be interesting to see how he progresses, and how we here in Seattle progress, too.
When I was feeling blue, I put on my Maryland t-shirt and baseball hat I got last year when I dropped Claire-Adele off at college. I need to remember that she is a good place, thriving.
For my birthday, I got a broken bowl in the Japanese style of kintsugi. (This one isn't really broken, just made to look that way.) The idea of kintsugi is to take the cracks and repairs as part of the object's history. The cracks are filled with gold or brass and lacquer, making what could render the bowl useless and instead make it beautiful. And it is true. This would have been a boring, dark gray bowl, but now it is unique.
My life right now feels like one of these broken bowls, still waiting for the brass and gold to fix it up. I could give each of the cracks a name. While I appreciate the beauty, at times I wish my life had a few less blemishes.
Sunday, June 9, 2019
Self-Care, Office Supplies and a Funny Story
While the Boy is at Wilderness Therapy, the parents have to participate in a parallel process of healing and learning to communicate. Part of that process includes self-care. When I first suspected the Boy had depression, I tried to help incorporate the following into his life, in no particular order:
I saw my friend Carrie this weekend. When I told her about the Boy, she told me her oldest son had a similar struggle with school avoidance in high school. This is the "Keeper of Secret Sorrows" effect -- when you quietly and sincerely confide in people and tell them the worst shit about your life, they in return feel safe confiding in you and tell you the worst shit about their lives. It doesn't always work, but it happens more often than not.
My other friend Patti said that I need to look at the Boy as the person he is without the illness.
"The illness is a blocker of whom he is to become," she said. "You need to look at who he is without the illness."
She said it far more eloquently than that, but it was great advice. I thought this also applied to my other friends with mental health issues. Look beyond the illness and see who they are as a person. Are they kind? Self-aware? Thoughtful? Smart? Curious? Funny? Creative?
"Remember that is who the Boy is," she said.
My friend Leslie reminded me that not only is the Boy safe, but Jack and I are also both safe in our respective corners where we each can quietly heal.
Speaking of separate residences, I have a funny story -- I went out Friday night after work and slept in on Saturday morning. Around 9:30 a.m., I was in bed half asleep and half reading when someone knocked on the door. Fox started to bark. I figured it could be one of three things: a neighbor, the building manager or Jack. The joy of a condo downtown is that no random person from outside can knock on my door. They can call me from the outside intercom, but that is about it. I went down, and it was Jack with croissants and a mocha for me from Bakery Nouveau. Except he was really grouchy. His body language said "Here is your fucking croissant."
"Why are you here and why are you so grouchy?" I asked.
"I texted you I was coming," he said.
"I didn't check my phone yet this morning," I said.
"I should have gotten you just a crossiant and no mocha so I could have dropped it off on the front porch of the condo."
I am really confused. And groggy.
"I'll leave now," he said. I felt bad so I invited him in. I finally figured out why he was grouchy. I invited Jack upstairs to eat breakfast on the balcony. He seemed to chill when he learned that Ryan Gosling was not hiding in my closet as a overnight guest.
Seriously. What the fuck?
"I am happy to talk to you about the Boy, but I need some advanced warning," I said. "I might not be ready to talk if you just show up. Maybe let's make schedule time to talk in person, like I do with all of my other friends." He seemed to think that was reasonable. We reached an agreement that if we are going to show up at the other person's place we need to get a response back that it is okay we show up before gate crashing the other place.
- Good sleep habits
- Healthy eating (making sure he didn't get hangry)
- Socialization, friendship and fun
- Sense of accomplishment
- Exercise and being outdoors
As he is gone, I am trying to keep these in my mind. I have been trying to be socialable everyday outside of work, and so far, it seems to be helping me keep my sanity. I can't say that I am not a total mess, but I am keeping it together, or at least faking it.
First off, I want to say I have the most brilliant friends on the planet.
I talked to several friends this weekend who have offered me some good advice: One of my friends this weekend said not to think about Jack or Peter, but to use this time to take care of myself. Lean on friends. Go to the spa.
I like spas, and I'll have to book an appointment, but I love office supplies. I am an office supply junkie. I bought a new printer, toner, notepads and mini-binder clips. I was proud of my restraint that I did not buy more pens or pencils because I already have a thousand.
I saw my friend Carrie this weekend. When I told her about the Boy, she told me her oldest son had a similar struggle with school avoidance in high school. This is the "Keeper of Secret Sorrows" effect -- when you quietly and sincerely confide in people and tell them the worst shit about your life, they in return feel safe confiding in you and tell you the worst shit about their lives. It doesn't always work, but it happens more often than not.
My other friend Patti said that I need to look at the Boy as the person he is without the illness.
"The illness is a blocker of whom he is to become," she said. "You need to look at who he is without the illness."
She said it far more eloquently than that, but it was great advice. I thought this also applied to my other friends with mental health issues. Look beyond the illness and see who they are as a person. Are they kind? Self-aware? Thoughtful? Smart? Curious? Funny? Creative?
"Remember that is who the Boy is," she said.
My friend Leslie reminded me that not only is the Boy safe, but Jack and I are also both safe in our respective corners where we each can quietly heal.
Speaking of separate residences, I have a funny story -- I went out Friday night after work and slept in on Saturday morning. Around 9:30 a.m., I was in bed half asleep and half reading when someone knocked on the door. Fox started to bark. I figured it could be one of three things: a neighbor, the building manager or Jack. The joy of a condo downtown is that no random person from outside can knock on my door. They can call me from the outside intercom, but that is about it. I went down, and it was Jack with croissants and a mocha for me from Bakery Nouveau. Except he was really grouchy. His body language said "Here is your fucking croissant."
"Why are you here and why are you so grouchy?" I asked.
"I texted you I was coming," he said.
"I didn't check my phone yet this morning," I said.
"I should have gotten you just a crossiant and no mocha so I could have dropped it off on the front porch of the condo."
I am really confused. And groggy.
"I'll leave now," he said. I felt bad so I invited him in. I finally figured out why he was grouchy. I invited Jack upstairs to eat breakfast on the balcony. He seemed to chill when he learned that Ryan Gosling was not hiding in my closet as a overnight guest.
Seriously. What the fuck?
"I am happy to talk to you about the Boy, but I need some advanced warning," I said. "I might not be ready to talk if you just show up. Maybe let's make schedule time to talk in person, like I do with all of my other friends." He seemed to think that was reasonable. We reached an agreement that if we are going to show up at the other person's place we need to get a response back that it is okay we show up before gate crashing the other place.
Thursday, June 6, 2019
Seventy Days in the Desert, or Only Connect
So the Boy made it to wilderness therapy Monday where he will spend eight to twelve weeks living with ten other boys his age in the high plains of the Southwest. The morning before he left, he said "I am going into this blind. I have no idea what to expect."
"I can see that," I said.
After we dropped him off, Jack and I met with our parent liaison to ask her questions. The goal is to get the kids back to taking care of their basic physical needs, and then work on addressing their emotional needs. We talked about a lot of stuff, but there were two major take-aways:
When I told the people I work with about the spoon, two of the guys said "Spoon? He can eat with his hands!"
"What about cooking?" asked one of the women.
"How will they stir what they need to cook?" I asked.
"A stick!" the guys replied.
So maybe it won't be so bad on the physical side. The emotional side will be another kick. The program gives the parents a lot of reading and writing. In the seventy-five page packet written in single spaced 6.5 font, they talk about disconnection:
"Attempts to control prevent parents and children from finding satisfaction in their relationship and lead to disconnection. Being disconnected is the source of almost all human problems such as what is called mental illness, drug addiction, violence, crime, school failure, spousal abuse, to mention a few."
That second sentence caught my eye. I immediately thought of the E.M. Forster quote in Howards End:* "Only connect."
Clearly, it seems that being disconnected, alone or isolated could cause a truckload of problems as mentioned above. Solitary confinement is considered to be inhumane punishment. People who are isolated from other reasons have challenges, too. The military often tries to support the spouses of people who are deployed overseas.
I suppose we might need to look at the cause of the disconnection--why is it there, and can it be fixed? If so, how can it be fixed? Is the disconnection caused by a communication issue, or something more structural?
And then I wondered if the quote in the parent book was always true or not. Yet, when I read accounts written by people with depression (See Depression Comix), it seems like there are people in the depressed person's life who want to help them connect, but the illness gets in the way. Is the illness causing the disconnection, or is the disconnection causing the illness?
Whether the statement above is fully true or not, a solid starting point would be to bring the depressed person out of their isolation, and help them feel less alone.
* TBH -- I never read the whole book.
"I can see that," I said.
After we dropped him off, Jack and I met with our parent liaison to ask her questions. The goal is to get the kids back to taking care of their basic physical needs, and then work on addressing their emotional needs. We talked about a lot of stuff, but there were two major take-aways:
- There are no toilets. They will use WAG (Waste Alleviation and Gelling) bags or dig latrines.
- They don't get a spoon. They have to carve a spoon out of wood.
When I told the people I work with about the spoon, two of the guys said "Spoon? He can eat with his hands!"
"What about cooking?" asked one of the women.
"How will they stir what they need to cook?" I asked.
"A stick!" the guys replied.
So maybe it won't be so bad on the physical side. The emotional side will be another kick. The program gives the parents a lot of reading and writing. In the seventy-five page packet written in single spaced 6.5 font, they talk about disconnection:
"Attempts to control prevent parents and children from finding satisfaction in their relationship and lead to disconnection. Being disconnected is the source of almost all human problems such as what is called mental illness, drug addiction, violence, crime, school failure, spousal abuse, to mention a few."
That second sentence caught my eye. I immediately thought of the E.M. Forster quote in Howards End:* "Only connect."
Clearly, it seems that being disconnected, alone or isolated could cause a truckload of problems as mentioned above. Solitary confinement is considered to be inhumane punishment. People who are isolated from other reasons have challenges, too. The military often tries to support the spouses of people who are deployed overseas.
I suppose we might need to look at the cause of the disconnection--why is it there, and can it be fixed? If so, how can it be fixed? Is the disconnection caused by a communication issue, or something more structural?
And then I wondered if the quote in the parent book was always true or not. Yet, when I read accounts written by people with depression (See Depression Comix), it seems like there are people in the depressed person's life who want to help them connect, but the illness gets in the way. Is the illness causing the disconnection, or is the disconnection causing the illness?
Whether the statement above is fully true or not, a solid starting point would be to bring the depressed person out of their isolation, and help them feel less alone.
* TBH -- I never read the whole book.
Monday, June 3, 2019
Durango
We made it to Durango with the Boy, which is kind of a surprise, to be honest. The Boy got back from Ski Camp Saturday, which of course, was awesome. He learned new rail tricks and we saw video of some impressive double jumps.
So naturally, he was pissed that he had to leave for wilderness therapy the next day.
"I'm not going," he said.
Okay...
"If you wanted me to get out of bed, why didn't you send me to Ski Camp for four weeks?" he said. "Or I could have gotten a job waxing ski or working in the kitchen at the camp."
And then he slunk back into his bed with his phone. We brought both lunch and dinner into his room when he refused to come downstairs to eat.
I don't even remember all of what happened Saturday, but it was awful. Most of the kids who go to wilderness therapy are brought in by the brute squad -- the parents call up a transport service and agents come to your home, take the kid with them, and fly them across the country to wilderness. I called the brute squad and had them on back up in case things went sideways and we couldn't get the Boy on the plane.
All of this costs a crap ton of money, too, but that is and isn't the point. When you kid hasn't gone to school for five months, money doesn't seem relevant. Like the old MasterCard commerical:
The education consultant to find the right program for your kid: $$$
Eight to twelve weeks in wilderness therapy: $$$$$$
The Goon Squad to bring him there: $$$
Residential therapy programs, boarding school, whatever: $$$$$$
Your kid having a fulfilling life and not living on your couch smoking weed until you die: Priceless
It all is coming out of the college fund, because at this rate, without all of this support, he wouldn't make it there anyway.
Sunday morning, he laid and bed and said he wasn't going. I sat with him for a half an hour. Jack had brought the Boy breakfast, but he didn't eat it.
"Can I go next week?" he asked.
"Is going next week going to make it better?" I asked. "Besides, the sooner you go, the sooner you can come back."
"Let me eat my muffin in peace," he said. I left, and went downstairs. I watched the porch to make sure he didn't climb out his window and down the tree to escape. I heard the door slam. I heard the Boy yell. I saw the latte Jack made for the Boy fly out the window.
Then he came downstairs, took a shower, and we left for the airport.
Macro v Micro
A week ago, I was having a bad Friday. Something small triggered me and I fell into a funk. This dip took me by surprise because overall, I had been having a pretty good week. Both my piano teacher and therapist and even my hairdresser told me earlier in the week that I seemed more relaxed and easy going than usual.
And I was. Until this little thing set me off into a miserably sad spiral. Not, it wasn't hormonal. What caused my downward spiral of emotions was a legitimately confusing thing.
I called my friend Ellen to bemoan my existence. "Think macro, not micro," she said. "The rest of the week was fine and moving forward. I am not saying what happened didn't suck, but think of all of the other positive things that have happened this week."
"Think of the pictures of the poppies in you condo," she said. "You have a field of poppies on one side and then a diagram of the inside of a poppy on the other side. Macro/micro."
When she said that, I looked back at what I was upset about and saw that was a small detail in an otherwise positive picture.
* "Pretty good" being relative for someone who is getting their kid into wilderness therapy for depression and anxiety and is also separated from her husband. In spite of the turmoil and confusion, there are also times of peace and clarity.
Monday, May 27, 2019
Practice Day 1: Animal and Son v Husband
Yesterday, Jack and I dropped the Boy off at the airport to go to Ski Camp before he leaves for his few months at wilderness therapy. The night before, Jack made pasta for dinner with bread sticks. I brought arugula from Pike Place Market. Jack made a lemon dressing for the salad.
"Arugula is the best word," said the Boy. It is and it is part of the best line from the otherwise indistinguishable movie, My Blue Heaven.
For his second to last home cooked meal for weeks, the Boy chose pasta, our default meal dinner during the week when we don't have energy to cook something else or go out to eat. I thought it was an exceptionally uninspired choice when we could have had steak or gone to Frank's for dinner. I suppose the Boy will miss the most what he eats the most.
After dinner, Jack and I went to Met Market and bought him a slice of tiramisu for dessert. "Tiramisu is the only dessert," the Boy has said before. The Boy was sluggish coming downstairs after dinner, too busy looking at his phone. When he did come down, he and I sat down while he has dessert, one bite at a time. When the last bite was left, he stuck his head down on the plate and covered his mouth over the chocolate, coffee and cream filled dessert. I laughed.
"I was planning to that for the whole time I was eating," he said, "but I wanted to wait until the piece was small enough to fit in my mouth."
I think this was his going away present to me, making me laugh.
When I went to say good-bye to him Saturday night before I left for the condo, his teased me.
"Don't cry."
"I am not crying."
"Yes you are."
I took off my glasses and showed him my face.
"This isn't me really going. I am just going to Ski Camp. Next week, you can cry. It will still be annoying, but it will be more appropriate."
The next day, the Boy drove to the airport. His father hates it when the Boy drives too fast, so he kept the needle at 55, even though he was passed by every car on the highway. At the airport, The Boy carried his equipment to the baggage check and dealt with the agent. It was hard to believe that this polite, independent and sensible kid could be so down that he sat around for months playing video games and watching Breaking Bad in his underwear and didn't get out of bed except to ski and go to Driver's Ed.
For the first time in nearly nineteen years, I have no kids. There was one vacation/work trip Jack and I took to Paris for five days when my parents watched the kids, and there were two summers where they were both at camp at the same time.
This is different. This is Day 1.
(Okay, that was dramatic. This Practice Day 1 because the Boy will be back in a week and then we ship him out. And it is not like he is leaving the solar system. He is only going to the moon.)
So far, I've walked the dog and watched the Seattle Fire Department's Heavy Rescue team climb up the old viaduct for I don't know what purpose. It was the first time I've seen a hook and ladder in action. When the Boy was a toddler, he had a giant Tonka hook and ladder from his grandmother. He loved that truck so much.
Anyway, Jack and I were talking last night after he read yesterday's blog post. Over the course of the past several months, I have felt Jack and I have been more adversaries than partners in getting the Boy into treatment. Jack seemed to think that I was relying on my friends too much for advice and suggestions, that I valued their opinions more that I valued his.
After he read the blog post, he had an insight that I didn't have myself.
"You were the only person who was going to guarantee that the Boy was going to get help. A teacher or counselor or grandparent wasn't going to advocate for him the way you would. If you didn't help him, no one else would."
The first rule of hiking in the wilderness is don't get between a momma bear and her cub. The same applies to moms in Northeast Seattle. I wasn't acting as a civilized, rational human being. I was reverting to instinct that goes so far back in my DNA that it links me back to the earliest mammals. (Interesting. I never noticed that the first five letters of mammals are "mamma.") In short, don't fuck with my kid or I'll tear you apart.
I might be a little bit more shrewd than ripping someone from limb to limb like a grizzly bear, but the idea is the same.
My friend Betty said to me years ago when her first son was born that she loved her kid more than her husband. I thought it was a crock: how could she love a newborn that couldn't speak and kept her awake for hours more than the sane, rational man she chose to marry? Now when I think about that, I think about the thousands of different loves there are in the world: the love for friends, the love we have for our parents, the love we have for places and pets.
The love for kids is something altogether different. It is a love to see them gone and out of the house exploring the world and kicking ass (like Claire-Adele), and then also a fierce protective love that kicks in when one of them in vulnerable or in danger.
That fierce protective love overrides everything. Love of husband, love of country, love of friends.
I took a women's mythology writing class where we learned about the direct and steady focus of Diana, the hunter, the single, unattached young warrior woman versus the diffuse focus of Demeter, mother of Persephone.
Like the mother grizzly, my attention is both diffuse and focused. All of my alarms are on high notice. I notice everything and I am single minded in getting my kid help.
And now I need to rest and recover, come back in and get ready for the next battle.
"Arugula is the best word," said the Boy. It is and it is part of the best line from the otherwise indistinguishable movie, My Blue Heaven.
For his second to last home cooked meal for weeks, the Boy chose pasta, our default meal dinner during the week when we don't have energy to cook something else or go out to eat. I thought it was an exceptionally uninspired choice when we could have had steak or gone to Frank's for dinner. I suppose the Boy will miss the most what he eats the most.
After dinner, Jack and I went to Met Market and bought him a slice of tiramisu for dessert. "Tiramisu is the only dessert," the Boy has said before. The Boy was sluggish coming downstairs after dinner, too busy looking at his phone. When he did come down, he and I sat down while he has dessert, one bite at a time. When the last bite was left, he stuck his head down on the plate and covered his mouth over the chocolate, coffee and cream filled dessert. I laughed.
"I was planning to that for the whole time I was eating," he said, "but I wanted to wait until the piece was small enough to fit in my mouth."
I think this was his going away present to me, making me laugh.
When I went to say good-bye to him Saturday night before I left for the condo, his teased me.
"Don't cry."
"I am not crying."
"Yes you are."
I took off my glasses and showed him my face.
"This isn't me really going. I am just going to Ski Camp. Next week, you can cry. It will still be annoying, but it will be more appropriate."
The next day, the Boy drove to the airport. His father hates it when the Boy drives too fast, so he kept the needle at 55, even though he was passed by every car on the highway. At the airport, The Boy carried his equipment to the baggage check and dealt with the agent. It was hard to believe that this polite, independent and sensible kid could be so down that he sat around for months playing video games and watching Breaking Bad in his underwear and didn't get out of bed except to ski and go to Driver's Ed.
For the first time in nearly nineteen years, I have no kids. There was one vacation/work trip Jack and I took to Paris for five days when my parents watched the kids, and there were two summers where they were both at camp at the same time.
This is different. This is Day 1.
(Okay, that was dramatic. This Practice Day 1 because the Boy will be back in a week and then we ship him out. And it is not like he is leaving the solar system. He is only going to the moon.)
So far, I've walked the dog and watched the Seattle Fire Department's Heavy Rescue team climb up the old viaduct for I don't know what purpose. It was the first time I've seen a hook and ladder in action. When the Boy was a toddler, he had a giant Tonka hook and ladder from his grandmother. He loved that truck so much.
 |
| Not the hook and ladder, but the Boy with a different truck. |
Anyway, Jack and I were talking last night after he read yesterday's blog post. Over the course of the past several months, I have felt Jack and I have been more adversaries than partners in getting the Boy into treatment. Jack seemed to think that I was relying on my friends too much for advice and suggestions, that I valued their opinions more that I valued his.
After he read the blog post, he had an insight that I didn't have myself.
"You were the only person who was going to guarantee that the Boy was going to get help. A teacher or counselor or grandparent wasn't going to advocate for him the way you would. If you didn't help him, no one else would."
The first rule of hiking in the wilderness is don't get between a momma bear and her cub. The same applies to moms in Northeast Seattle. I wasn't acting as a civilized, rational human being. I was reverting to instinct that goes so far back in my DNA that it links me back to the earliest mammals. (Interesting. I never noticed that the first five letters of mammals are "mamma.") In short, don't fuck with my kid or I'll tear you apart.
I might be a little bit more shrewd than ripping someone from limb to limb like a grizzly bear, but the idea is the same.
My friend Betty said to me years ago when her first son was born that she loved her kid more than her husband. I thought it was a crock: how could she love a newborn that couldn't speak and kept her awake for hours more than the sane, rational man she chose to marry? Now when I think about that, I think about the thousands of different loves there are in the world: the love for friends, the love we have for our parents, the love we have for places and pets.
The love for kids is something altogether different. It is a love to see them gone and out of the house exploring the world and kicking ass (like Claire-Adele), and then also a fierce protective love that kicks in when one of them in vulnerable or in danger.
That fierce protective love overrides everything. Love of husband, love of country, love of friends.
I took a women's mythology writing class where we learned about the direct and steady focus of Diana, the hunter, the single, unattached young warrior woman versus the diffuse focus of Demeter, mother of Persephone.
Like the mother grizzly, my attention is both diffuse and focused. All of my alarms are on high notice. I notice everything and I am single minded in getting my kid help.
And now I need to rest and recover, come back in and get ready for the next battle.
Saturday, May 25, 2019
Mantra: Kid First, Self Second, and Oxygen
As the Boy has continued to struggle with his anxiety and depression, I have been reaching out to friends whose kids have had similar if not the same issues. Their advice:
"Take care of the Boy first and yourself second."
I know this comes as a great contrast to advice given to new (and probably all) parents: As flight attendants will tell you, put your oxygen mask on before you take care of someone else.
Interestingly, this has be explicit for parents because they might not otherwise do that. The instinct would be to take care of your kid first. Parents would hold their breath while they wrestled the mask over their squirming kid. (I think this policy is part because the airline does not want to deal with a passed out parent and a freaked out kid.)
If you are walking with your toddler and it starts to rain, you would zip your kid's coat first likely before you'd zip your own. Unlike the oxygen mask on the airplane, rain is not a matter of life or death. Being wet is a matter of discomfort. A mom can withstand an inordinate amount of discomfort. A toddler cannot.
Dealing with a kid with mental health issues can be a matter of life and death--for the kid, not the parent. In this case, it means putting the oxygen mask on the kid first and the parent withstands the discomfort.
The plan is for the Boy to leave in a little more than a week for wilderness therapy. As the time gets closer for him to leave on his journey of healing (I hope), I am starting to see a little bit of light. I have put myself second for the past several months, putting relationships with family and friends on the back burner while I tend to the Boy. Some of those relationships I have neglected. Others haven't been neglected but rather put in a holding pattern.
I am grateful for the patient support many have given me. My dad has listened to me rant and rave for months, as has my friends Ellen and Patty. I owe them all a tremendous debt of gratitude. I owe my co-workers the same. Ellen took three weeks off of work before she sent her daughter to wilderness therapy--she said it wasn't a great idea as all she did was fret at home. I looked forward to the distraction of work, but I can't say my game is 100%. I am lucky to have years of experience behind in a variety of environments that I can pull on to help me manage to get through with a decent amount of grace and composure. I am reading Bel Canto, a book about people in a hostage situation, and how these people manage to cope, a majority of them are extremely composed. There are things that we are trained to do in our lives, and putting forth a good public face when your life is complete shit is something white upper middle class Americans are very, very good at. Part of it is training and seeing your friends do it. Part of it is having a solid support network of people who can see behind the curtain when your life is falling part. The other part is sleeping on sheets with 700 thread count, eating nice restaurants when you don't have the bandwidth to cook and having the extra pocket money to buy fresh cut flowers just because.
This week, I was invited to a baseball game for work a few days the Boy is dropped off at wilderness therapy. And for the first time in a very long time, I have something to look forward to, even though it is small.
"After I get back from dropping the Boy off, I really could use a hot dog and expensive beer," I wrote in an email accepting the invitation. And it is true. I am hoping to get hammered. Maybe not literally, but metaphorically. I know I could get drunk if I wanted to, whereas now I am on edge, fearing a hangover or intoxication might make me less capable of caring for the Boy. I am looking forward to not have actively be involved in what the Boy is or isn't doing. Someone else is going to take care of him in ways that I can't.
Dropping him off at wilderness might be both the hardest and easiest thing I'll ever do as a parent (I hope.) Hard because it will be hard for the Boy; easy because I feel confident that he needs help and I am glad to get him back on the path to have a fruitful and meaningful life.
I am looking forward to breathing again while someone else puts the oxygen mask on the Boy.
"Take care of the Boy first and yourself second."
I know this comes as a great contrast to advice given to new (and probably all) parents: As flight attendants will tell you, put your oxygen mask on before you take care of someone else.
Interestingly, this has be explicit for parents because they might not otherwise do that. The instinct would be to take care of your kid first. Parents would hold their breath while they wrestled the mask over their squirming kid. (I think this policy is part because the airline does not want to deal with a passed out parent and a freaked out kid.)
If you are walking with your toddler and it starts to rain, you would zip your kid's coat first likely before you'd zip your own. Unlike the oxygen mask on the airplane, rain is not a matter of life or death. Being wet is a matter of discomfort. A mom can withstand an inordinate amount of discomfort. A toddler cannot.
Dealing with a kid with mental health issues can be a matter of life and death--for the kid, not the parent. In this case, it means putting the oxygen mask on the kid first and the parent withstands the discomfort.
The plan is for the Boy to leave in a little more than a week for wilderness therapy. As the time gets closer for him to leave on his journey of healing (I hope), I am starting to see a little bit of light. I have put myself second for the past several months, putting relationships with family and friends on the back burner while I tend to the Boy. Some of those relationships I have neglected. Others haven't been neglected but rather put in a holding pattern.
I am grateful for the patient support many have given me. My dad has listened to me rant and rave for months, as has my friends Ellen and Patty. I owe them all a tremendous debt of gratitude. I owe my co-workers the same. Ellen took three weeks off of work before she sent her daughter to wilderness therapy--she said it wasn't a great idea as all she did was fret at home. I looked forward to the distraction of work, but I can't say my game is 100%. I am lucky to have years of experience behind in a variety of environments that I can pull on to help me manage to get through with a decent amount of grace and composure. I am reading Bel Canto, a book about people in a hostage situation, and how these people manage to cope, a majority of them are extremely composed. There are things that we are trained to do in our lives, and putting forth a good public face when your life is complete shit is something white upper middle class Americans are very, very good at. Part of it is training and seeing your friends do it. Part of it is having a solid support network of people who can see behind the curtain when your life is falling part. The other part is sleeping on sheets with 700 thread count, eating nice restaurants when you don't have the bandwidth to cook and having the extra pocket money to buy fresh cut flowers just because.
This week, I was invited to a baseball game for work a few days the Boy is dropped off at wilderness therapy. And for the first time in a very long time, I have something to look forward to, even though it is small.
"After I get back from dropping the Boy off, I really could use a hot dog and expensive beer," I wrote in an email accepting the invitation. And it is true. I am hoping to get hammered. Maybe not literally, but metaphorically. I know I could get drunk if I wanted to, whereas now I am on edge, fearing a hangover or intoxication might make me less capable of caring for the Boy. I am looking forward to not have actively be involved in what the Boy is or isn't doing. Someone else is going to take care of him in ways that I can't.
Dropping him off at wilderness might be both the hardest and easiest thing I'll ever do as a parent (I hope.) Hard because it will be hard for the Boy; easy because I feel confident that he needs help and I am glad to get him back on the path to have a fruitful and meaningful life.
I am looking forward to breathing again while someone else puts the oxygen mask on the Boy.
Sunday, May 19, 2019
Moon v Mars, and Bel Canto
Friday night, the education consultant who is helping us find a placement for the Boy gave us recommendations for wilderness programs.
Both choices seem fine and reasonable, but the idea is so foreign it feels like we are choosing between Mars and the Moon.
"The moon has no atmosphere and a dry climate with extremely cold temperatures. Mars also has no atmosphere and a dry climate with extremely cold temperatures. Mars has violent windstorms, but a lovely red color. The moon has no wind, but is a very bleak shade of gray. The moon is a few days travel, whereas the Mars is a few years."
Yeah.
How to choose between the two? This is so hard, or so easy? Eeny, meeny, miny, moe? If we can't tell them apart, is there really a difference? I am sure there is but how can I discern? Unless I see a major red flag in either program (which I don't), I'll trust the recommendation of the consultant, I suppose.
Right now, I am re-reading Bel Canto by Ann Patchett which I read years ago. It is a beautifully written story about an opera singer who gives a concert in the home of the Vice President of an unnamed South/Central American country for the president of a major Japanese electronics corporation. A group of insurgents take over the party and hold two hundred guests hostage.
This book seems peaceful and simple compared to the rest of my life.
Sure, this is a conceit for the author to throw together a bunch of not-so-random people together in a life or death situation. But that I find relaxation in a story about how a group of elites were taken over by a bunch terrorists?
I am looking forward to my life settling down sometime.
Both choices seem fine and reasonable, but the idea is so foreign it feels like we are choosing between Mars and the Moon.
"The moon has no atmosphere and a dry climate with extremely cold temperatures. Mars also has no atmosphere and a dry climate with extremely cold temperatures. Mars has violent windstorms, but a lovely red color. The moon has no wind, but is a very bleak shade of gray. The moon is a few days travel, whereas the Mars is a few years."
Yeah.
How to choose between the two? This is so hard, or so easy? Eeny, meeny, miny, moe? If we can't tell them apart, is there really a difference? I am sure there is but how can I discern? Unless I see a major red flag in either program (which I don't), I'll trust the recommendation of the consultant, I suppose.
Right now, I am re-reading Bel Canto by Ann Patchett which I read years ago. It is a beautifully written story about an opera singer who gives a concert in the home of the Vice President of an unnamed South/Central American country for the president of a major Japanese electronics corporation. A group of insurgents take over the party and hold two hundred guests hostage.
This book seems peaceful and simple compared to the rest of my life.
Sure, this is a conceit for the author to throw together a bunch of not-so-random people together in a life or death situation. But that I find relaxation in a story about how a group of elites were taken over by a bunch terrorists?
I am looking forward to my life settling down sometime.
Thursday, May 16, 2019
It's Quiet Downtown
For those who have not memorized every lyric from Hamilton, "It's Quiet Uptown" is the song after Alexander Hamilton's son, Philip, dies. While the Boy is very far from dead, I feel like I am going to lose him when I send him off to treatment. Unlike Alexander Hamilton's son, my son will return to me at some point.
I've been living downtown by myself for more than a week. It has been quite the change and the change has been quiet. Less than a year ago, I was living with a busy and bustling family of four and now I am not. There was a beautiful article in The New York Times written by a high school student about her kitchen table and how over time it went from serving five people to two, and then of course she leaves for college and her grandfather is left alone. #relatable
A year ago, I was part of a family of four and now I am adjusting the quiet of living alone. I had the dog with me for the first week of the separation--I at least had another heartbeat in my living space and something welcomed me home at the end of the day. This week, I decided to give Fox back to the Boy, so he would have a heartbeat in the house when he is home alone all day. He needs the dog more than I do.
I am getting used to the quiet and solitude. I am not a fan of television, but I have music going in the background to replace what used to have been conversation. I've been having dinner by myself more frequently than I ever have before. I haven't been making too many plans as I have been quiet about the separation. Again, I am focusing on making sure the Boy is all right before I start telling people about my own personal drama.
City life is treating me well, too. Based on my own personal experience, I find it easier to make small talk with people in the city than in the suburbs. Baristas are chatty. Dog walkers say hello to other dog walkers. People in my condo building say hello. My dad came to town this week to hang out with the Boy. My father is staying with me in the condo, so I have someone to talk to.
Still, the quiet will come again. This has been a hard adjustment for me, as I like to think aloud, and not having a sounding board is hard. But I am figuring it out.
A year ago, I was part of a family of four and now I am adjusting the quiet of living alone. I had the dog with me for the first week of the separation--I at least had another heartbeat in my living space and something welcomed me home at the end of the day. This week, I decided to give Fox back to the Boy, so he would have a heartbeat in the house when he is home alone all day. He needs the dog more than I do.
I am getting used to the quiet and solitude. I am not a fan of television, but I have music going in the background to replace what used to have been conversation. I've been having dinner by myself more frequently than I ever have before. I haven't been making too many plans as I have been quiet about the separation. Again, I am focusing on making sure the Boy is all right before I start telling people about my own personal drama.
City life is treating me well, too. Based on my own personal experience, I find it easier to make small talk with people in the city than in the suburbs. Baristas are chatty. Dog walkers say hello to other dog walkers. People in my condo building say hello. My dad came to town this week to hang out with the Boy. My father is staying with me in the condo, so I have someone to talk to.
Still, the quiet will come again. This has been a hard adjustment for me, as I like to think aloud, and not having a sounding board is hard. But I am figuring it out.
Saturday, January 28, 2017
Writing and Bipolar
Tuesday was a good day. Great, in fact. My rehabbed knee got good marks at my post-surgical and physical therapy appointments. I was fitted for a skiing brace. I made major progress on my novel--the groundbreaking kind of progress where seventy-two pages of chaos finally found its purpose. I had a writing class, and then a job interview. I got called back for a second interview. Yay!
I haven't had too many awesome days like this in the past two and a half years, so allow me to gloat a teeny bit. The downside of my good day is that I have positive news on the job front and the writing front. I write between phases of my job search to keep me productive and having a sense of accomplishment. When my writing starts to flag, I usually approach my job search with renewed vigor.
Here is the deal: I love to write. I also hate to writing. Let me tell a story.
Years ago, I read part of Kay Redfield Jamison's Touched With Fire: Manic-Depressive Illness and the Artistic Temperament. (I read all of her book, An Unquiet Mind, about her battle with what is now called bipolar disorder.) Her thesis in Touched with Fire is that the emotional ups and downs of creative people is really bipolar. From the amazon.com review:
The anguished and volatile intensity associated with the artistic temperament was once thought to be a symptom of genius or eccentricity peculiar to artists, writers, and musicians. Her work, based on her study as a clinical psychologist and researcher in mood disorders, reveals that many artists subject to exalted highs and despairing lows were in fact engaged in a struggle with clinically identifiable manic-depressive illness.
While I have the utmost respect for Jamison, I think there might be another explanation. When I write, I have great days and miserable days. There are days when I get feedback that my topic is fascinating and my writing is clear and interesting. There are days when I think whatever it is I am writing is crap/unpublishable/boring and I should give up and get a real job where I could get dressed up every day, be around other people and get paid. Then I imagine the $2M book/movie deal with Matt Damon in the leading male role. Maybe I could make it big, I imagine. And then I started reading Fates and Furies by Lauren Groff and I think I suck. It isn't fair for me to compare my unfinished first draft to a final product that has been reviewed by professional editors, but I do.
I've been going to writing conferences and taken writing classes for almost ten years. If nothing else, writing is a wonderful hobby, but I wonder if I can make it a job, given what I like to write about. I know that in order for something to be published it needs
I think my novel has an interesting topic and a potential audience, which is great, but not sufficient. The book needs to be well written, and in all of my years of writing, I've never written fiction. It is fun to try, but another thing to succeed.
Unlike math jobs I've had in the past, writing has more ups and downs. Quant jobs have incremental progress, where projects progress one step at a time. Writing happens in fits and starts. Of course, a writer needs good habits. The hardest part of writing is getting your butt in the chair. I have decent (not awesome, but decent) writerly habits. Even with good habits, I find writing fiction full of highs and lows. Some days, I think this novel is the most viable project I've worked on, that this will be the one that gets published and finds an audience. Other days, I talk to writers and am reminded of the slog of finding an agent, editor, and publisher. After that, I'll find an article about agents who need new material and are searching for new talent.
I've never had this much of an emotional roller coaster in any other job, even running for office, as I do with writing, but I don't think I've developed bipolar disorder in the last two months. I think writing and other creative endeavors bring out the highs and the lows. I see my writing in the changing light of morning, noon and dusk. Sometimes the light shows me the value of what I have done, other times the flaws. Perhaps the act of creating and nature of creative work causes these deep mental fluctuations, not the other way around.
I haven't had too many awesome days like this in the past two and a half years, so allow me to gloat a teeny bit. The downside of my good day is that I have positive news on the job front and the writing front. I write between phases of my job search to keep me productive and having a sense of accomplishment. When my writing starts to flag, I usually approach my job search with renewed vigor.
Here is the deal: I love to write. I also hate to writing. Let me tell a story.
Years ago, I read part of Kay Redfield Jamison's Touched With Fire: Manic-Depressive Illness and the Artistic Temperament. (I read all of her book, An Unquiet Mind, about her battle with what is now called bipolar disorder.) Her thesis in Touched with Fire is that the emotional ups and downs of creative people is really bipolar. From the amazon.com review:
The anguished and volatile intensity associated with the artistic temperament was once thought to be a symptom of genius or eccentricity peculiar to artists, writers, and musicians. Her work, based on her study as a clinical psychologist and researcher in mood disorders, reveals that many artists subject to exalted highs and despairing lows were in fact engaged in a struggle with clinically identifiable manic-depressive illness.
While I have the utmost respect for Jamison, I think there might be another explanation. When I write, I have great days and miserable days. There are days when I get feedback that my topic is fascinating and my writing is clear and interesting. There are days when I think whatever it is I am writing is crap/unpublishable/boring and I should give up and get a real job where I could get dressed up every day, be around other people and get paid. Then I imagine the $2M book/movie deal with Matt Damon in the leading male role. Maybe I could make it big, I imagine. And then I started reading Fates and Furies by Lauren Groff and I think I suck. It isn't fair for me to compare my unfinished first draft to a final product that has been reviewed by professional editors, but I do.
I've been going to writing conferences and taken writing classes for almost ten years. If nothing else, writing is a wonderful hobby, but I wonder if I can make it a job, given what I like to write about. I know that in order for something to be published it needs
- an interesting topic (this is the pitch),
- to be well executed (this is the manuscript), and
- a potential audience (this is the marketing plan).
I think my novel has an interesting topic and a potential audience, which is great, but not sufficient. The book needs to be well written, and in all of my years of writing, I've never written fiction. It is fun to try, but another thing to succeed.
Unlike math jobs I've had in the past, writing has more ups and downs. Quant jobs have incremental progress, where projects progress one step at a time. Writing happens in fits and starts. Of course, a writer needs good habits. The hardest part of writing is getting your butt in the chair. I have decent (not awesome, but decent) writerly habits. Even with good habits, I find writing fiction full of highs and lows. Some days, I think this novel is the most viable project I've worked on, that this will be the one that gets published and finds an audience. Other days, I talk to writers and am reminded of the slog of finding an agent, editor, and publisher. After that, I'll find an article about agents who need new material and are searching for new talent.
I've never had this much of an emotional roller coaster in any other job, even running for office, as I do with writing, but I don't think I've developed bipolar disorder in the last two months. I think writing and other creative endeavors bring out the highs and the lows. I see my writing in the changing light of morning, noon and dusk. Sometimes the light shows me the value of what I have done, other times the flaws. Perhaps the act of creating and nature of creative work causes these deep mental fluctuations, not the other way around.
Monday, November 21, 2016
Mental Illness, Movies and Bad Guys
[SPOILER ALERT in this post for Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them]
I don't know if there is such a thing as Mental Illness Kindness Day, but there ought to be.
One of my favorite people and good friend was recently diagnosed with depression and anxiety. It is taking me a while to figure out what this means. My mother had depression and was on medication for years. Hers didn't kick in until after I was living on my own in a different state, so I didn't see to the day-to-day impacted on her. My father tells me stories of how she would cry for days.
Yesterday, I went to see Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them with this friend and our kids. After the movie, this friend said she didn't like it: "The bad guy was a psycho bent on destroying the world." This hit her close to the heart.
Having just been diagnosed with a mental illness and starting treatment, she struggles with the loneliness of the disease and understanding how her body impacts her mood in such a way that makes her unmotivated to leave the house. She is functional in some respects of her life because she has to be, but in others, she falls. She tells me of her dark thoughts and wishes them away. "When I get bored, I think. When I think, I get depressed." I can't imagine what it would be like not to want to be inside your own head, wanting to escape your own mind.
In some sense, the answer could be to be distracted to the point of not thinking, but then she introduced a new word to my vocabulary: maladaptive. Maladaptive means using a coping mechanism that doesn't improve mental health, like drinking or giving in to other addictions like video games. Adaptive strategies are exercise, being around friends, exploring nature and getting enough sleep.
Her issue is that bad guys in movies are often disturbed or crazy. I suppose a bad guy can't simply be sane because then perhaps he wouldn't be a bad guy because theoretically he or she would know better than to commit evil acts. That being said, many if not most people with mental illnesses know the difference between right and wrong, likely at the same rate sane people know right from wrong. Some folks with mental illness have a very heightened sense of right and wrong -- they might be more sensitive to injustice than a typical person. My daughter pointed out that Putin is sane and Lincoln was crazy. Does that make having a mental illness a good thing? If you only use those two as an example, I suppose so, but life isn't so simple.
I am asking Hollywood this: can we have more empathetic depictions of people with mental illnesses? Can we have some heroes who suffer from bipolar disorder, or OCD? I googled famous people with depression and it was twelve pages long. How about showing a biopic of Lincoln that includes his depression?
Wednesday, May 25, 2016
Ambient Pressure
In December 2015, The Atlantic published an article by Hanna Rosin about a cluster of suicides at Henry M. Gunn High School in Palo Alto, California. I read it at the time, and thought about it this week at it pertained to the Boy. Rosin uses Gunn as her example, but says the pressure kids face there isn't much different than pressures faced by kids in high-achieving schools in affluent neighborhoods in New York, Dallas or Seattle. One of the quotes from the article was "Gunn is a distillation of what elite parents expect from a school." While I haven't seen the movie Race to Nowhere, it is about the pressure affluent kids with high achieving parents face to do well in school and get into a good college.
But is it really the parents or the school that are pressuring the kids? Am I pushing my kid to succeed and is that what is driving him to such high levels of stress? My guess is no. Like most parents, I just want my kids to be happy and successful at whatever they do.
In some ways, I wish the Boy would grow up to be a movie director, as that was a dream I had for myself in my twenties. Sometimes I wish Claire Adele would become a romance novelist when she grows up. She has written some really nice Gothic romances for school assignments. Maybe she could turn one of them into a book? I never told the boy about directing films--he is way too interested in rocket and robots and things that fly to take an interest in movies beyond enjoying watching them. But my dreams aren't theirs and vice versa.
I would say the pressure kids feel is ambient--it is just there in the community. It isn't so much what we say that causes the pressure--it is who we are. People for thousands of years needed to fit into their tribe for safety and protection. Modern teens are no different, except our tribes have become much more stratified and less hetrogenous. The school doesn't directly put pressure on the kids, but everyone heard about the awards the eighth grade band won at the competition last weekend. What happens when this year's seventh graders don't do as well next year?
Plus, the Boy has the own pressure he puts on himself. PTA's mission is "Making Every Child's Potential a Reality." It is a beautiful and simple mission. But what if a child's dreams exceed their ability? What if their ambition exceed their potential? Not every kid who aspires to an Ivy League college or medical school gets in. What then? How do we let these kids know that even if they don't become a doctor or architect or own their own business that things will be fine? That it is okay to be a carpenter, an electrician, a car mechanic or a UPS truck driver? We can tell them that, but will they believe us when they see otherwise? I pick those career examples because I know intelligent, talented and hard working people who do those jobs, and we need stuff built, fixed and shipped. But with rising rents and real estate costs, you better go to a good college and get a good job to afford to live here. How is that welcoming them into the tribe?
But is it really the parents or the school that are pressuring the kids? Am I pushing my kid to succeed and is that what is driving him to such high levels of stress? My guess is no. Like most parents, I just want my kids to be happy and successful at whatever they do.
In some ways, I wish the Boy would grow up to be a movie director, as that was a dream I had for myself in my twenties. Sometimes I wish Claire Adele would become a romance novelist when she grows up. She has written some really nice Gothic romances for school assignments. Maybe she could turn one of them into a book? I never told the boy about directing films--he is way too interested in rocket and robots and things that fly to take an interest in movies beyond enjoying watching them. But my dreams aren't theirs and vice versa.
I would say the pressure kids feel is ambient--it is just there in the community. It isn't so much what we say that causes the pressure--it is who we are. People for thousands of years needed to fit into their tribe for safety and protection. Modern teens are no different, except our tribes have become much more stratified and less hetrogenous. The school doesn't directly put pressure on the kids, but everyone heard about the awards the eighth grade band won at the competition last weekend. What happens when this year's seventh graders don't do as well next year?
Plus, the Boy has the own pressure he puts on himself. PTA's mission is "Making Every Child's Potential a Reality." It is a beautiful and simple mission. But what if a child's dreams exceed their ability? What if their ambition exceed their potential? Not every kid who aspires to an Ivy League college or medical school gets in. What then? How do we let these kids know that even if they don't become a doctor or architect or own their own business that things will be fine? That it is okay to be a carpenter, an electrician, a car mechanic or a UPS truck driver? We can tell them that, but will they believe us when they see otherwise? I pick those career examples because I know intelligent, talented and hard working people who do those jobs, and we need stuff built, fixed and shipped. But with rising rents and real estate costs, you better go to a good college and get a good job to afford to live here. How is that welcoming them into the tribe?
Wednesday, August 27, 2014
Some Men Like Crazy
On our vacation, I read Tender at the Bone by Ruth Reichl. A friend of writer friend of mine recommended I read it. I am writing about my brother's battle with schizophrenia, and my friend thought this book would be a good reference as Ruth writes about her mother's erratic and unpredictable behavior. Later, Ruth's mother was diagnosed with mental illness and was medicated.
One of the interesting subplots is relationship between Ruth's parents. Ruth's father is a neuro-typical, sane man, yet he loves this woman who served spoiled food on a regular basis and ships her daughter off to French language school in Montreal without discussion. She schedules big events with no skills on how to organize them, causing havoc for everyone around. Why does this sane man love this nut job? And this man seems to be psychologically normal to Ruth.
Some men like crazy.
I have many dear friends with diagnosed mental illness who are in stable and meaningful relationships. People with mental illness deserve to be happy, too. I am not disparaging people with mental illness. These friends own and manage their illness, not take everyone in their path into their cyclone of unpredictability.
Back to the point. Some men like women who are unstable, needy, clingy, mean and selfish. Why? Are these women so interesting or humorous that they sweep men off their feet? What about us regular girls? What are we to do? I am slightly neurotic. I own that. But I don't think men have fallen for me because I obsess over small details, worry about things or vent after a stressful meeting.
There must be something that men get out of these unstable women. Do they like helping them stay on an even keel? Do these women make them feel needed and important? Do they like helping someone stabilize? Or, do these men have a blind spot for crazy? Do they just not see it? Or, do these women treat men differently than they treat others, say their parents or children?
I think Ruth wonders the same thing in her book.
Tuesday, August 26, 2014
The Boy and the Fish
While we were in Tofino on Vancouver Island in British Columbia, Jack and the Boy went fishing. The Boy is eleven years old and had never been fishing before -- not on a bank of a pond, creek, river or lake. One of the boys in his class and on his soccer team spends a few weeks in the summer in Alaska fishing with his grandfather. The Boy heard all about these grand adventures, and wanted to try it. He also heard Ron Swanson, a character from Parks and Rec, talk about fishing: "It's like yoga, except you get to kill something." Ron doesn't eat fish. He considers it a vegetable.
I would have tagged along, but the Big E wanted no part of it. I'd rather Jack and the Boy have a good father-son bonding time than have the Big E complain for five hours about how she hated the smell of fish. The Big E and I went stand-up paddle boarding instead, which was fun.
So Jack and the Boy went fishing. They hired a commercial fisher person (a woman about 30 years old) to take them out to fish. Tofino is right on the Pacific Ocean. From there, one can hop on a boat and catch coho salmon or halibut. For a first go out, salmon and halibut would be pretty sweet to catch. Those are real fish, the kind they sell at the grocery store and serve in restaurants. The first things I ever caught fishing was a turtle. My father and I were on an YMCA Indian Princess campout and fishing was part of the deal. The second thing I caught was a bluegill. If I taxed my brain, I probably could recall the place.* I can't remember catching anything other than bluegills. Ever. I've never seen a bluegill on a menu at a restaurant or for sale in a grocery store. Ever.
So the Boy and Jack went on the boat. The Boy got a little woozy and they stuck to inlets and inner channels instead of going out on the ocean. They were out on the water for five hours and came home with one five pound coho. Fortunately, the fish landed on the Boy's line. The limit was two fish per person. We were hoping to come back with four fish, but no luck.
The Boy was all delighted, standing there with his fish on a hook. The fish had been flopping on the deck, so the fisherwoman bonked it on the head to make it stop moving. From there, the Boy began to pale. He vacillated between happy and sad, and then sad won. That night, back at the cabin, he cried over his fish. It turns out he was more into the yoga part of fishing rather than the killing something part.
"Why did it have to die? It was just swimming having a peaceful life," he said. "It wasn't hurting anyone." I patted him on the back during his existential angst. "I am never going to eat meat or fish again."
I let him ponder. While I am a big fan of a rare steak, I understand that something had to die in order for me to enjoy this meal. I try not to dwell on it or think about it all of the time, but I am careful not to waste food. If he were to become vegetarian or vegan, so be it. But the fish was already dead. It was filleted and flash frozen, ready to be cooked in lemon, butter and wine in a few days.
"The fish had a good life," I told him. "You went with a professional fisherwoman who knows which fish to take and how many. She knows what is sustainable. It was going to die anyway at sometime."
"So I just cut its life short?"
"Yes," I said, wary of this line of conversation. While it is not unreasonable that a fish's life is cut short for dinner, I don't want the Boy to use this as a rationale for the death penalty or to think that if someone's young mother dies of a brain tumor that this would be okay. Now that I think about it, the same kid who cries over a fish would likely be beyond consolation if one of his friends died or something equal tragic occurred in his sphere.
"If you want, we can have a little ceremony before we eat it thanking it for giving us this delicious meal that is full of protein and Omega-3 acids," I said. "The First Nations people do that before they have their meals."
"I don't think they used to know about Omega-3 acids."
"Whatever. They are thankful for the fish."
The Boy settled down. When we returned to Seattle, we had half of the fish for dinner. I used the leftovers in a risotto the next night. Before we ate, I asked him if he wanted to have a ceremony for the fish.
He said no. He did it in his head.
The interesting thing about this is how much the Boy reminds me of my brother when he was a kid. My brother used to take care of wounded animals, and was sickened when he saw a bullfight in Spain. It is strange to see these intangible characteristics cross generations, especially when the Boy and my brother have only met a handful of times. I don't think the Boy remembers meeting Michael even. Yet, they both have similar sensitivities. My brother has schizophrenia, but I don't think sharing common feelings indicated that the Boy will have mental illness. Rather, it makes me wonder more about Michael, and if he hadn't been afflicted.
* My dad remembers where we went fishing. Big Trout Campgroup near Rockford, IL. It probably should have been called Big Bluegill.
I would have tagged along, but the Big E wanted no part of it. I'd rather Jack and the Boy have a good father-son bonding time than have the Big E complain for five hours about how she hated the smell of fish. The Big E and I went stand-up paddle boarding instead, which was fun.
So Jack and the Boy went fishing. They hired a commercial fisher person (a woman about 30 years old) to take them out to fish. Tofino is right on the Pacific Ocean. From there, one can hop on a boat and catch coho salmon or halibut. For a first go out, salmon and halibut would be pretty sweet to catch. Those are real fish, the kind they sell at the grocery store and serve in restaurants. The first things I ever caught fishing was a turtle. My father and I were on an YMCA Indian Princess campout and fishing was part of the deal. The second thing I caught was a bluegill. If I taxed my brain, I probably could recall the place.* I can't remember catching anything other than bluegills. Ever. I've never seen a bluegill on a menu at a restaurant or for sale in a grocery store. Ever.
So the Boy and Jack went on the boat. The Boy got a little woozy and they stuck to inlets and inner channels instead of going out on the ocean. They were out on the water for five hours and came home with one five pound coho. Fortunately, the fish landed on the Boy's line. The limit was two fish per person. We were hoping to come back with four fish, but no luck.
The Boy was all delighted, standing there with his fish on a hook. The fish had been flopping on the deck, so the fisherwoman bonked it on the head to make it stop moving. From there, the Boy began to pale. He vacillated between happy and sad, and then sad won. That night, back at the cabin, he cried over his fish. It turns out he was more into the yoga part of fishing rather than the killing something part.
"Why did it have to die? It was just swimming having a peaceful life," he said. "It wasn't hurting anyone." I patted him on the back during his existential angst. "I am never going to eat meat or fish again."
I let him ponder. While I am a big fan of a rare steak, I understand that something had to die in order for me to enjoy this meal. I try not to dwell on it or think about it all of the time, but I am careful not to waste food. If he were to become vegetarian or vegan, so be it. But the fish was already dead. It was filleted and flash frozen, ready to be cooked in lemon, butter and wine in a few days.
"The fish had a good life," I told him. "You went with a professional fisherwoman who knows which fish to take and how many. She knows what is sustainable. It was going to die anyway at sometime."
"So I just cut its life short?"
"Yes," I said, wary of this line of conversation. While it is not unreasonable that a fish's life is cut short for dinner, I don't want the Boy to use this as a rationale for the death penalty or to think that if someone's young mother dies of a brain tumor that this would be okay. Now that I think about it, the same kid who cries over a fish would likely be beyond consolation if one of his friends died or something equal tragic occurred in his sphere.
"If you want, we can have a little ceremony before we eat it thanking it for giving us this delicious meal that is full of protein and Omega-3 acids," I said. "The First Nations people do that before they have their meals."
"I don't think they used to know about Omega-3 acids."
"Whatever. They are thankful for the fish."
The Boy settled down. When we returned to Seattle, we had half of the fish for dinner. I used the leftovers in a risotto the next night. Before we ate, I asked him if he wanted to have a ceremony for the fish.
He said no. He did it in his head.
+ + + + +
The interesting thing about this is how much the Boy reminds me of my brother when he was a kid. My brother used to take care of wounded animals, and was sickened when he saw a bullfight in Spain. It is strange to see these intangible characteristics cross generations, especially when the Boy and my brother have only met a handful of times. I don't think the Boy remembers meeting Michael even. Yet, they both have similar sensitivities. My brother has schizophrenia, but I don't think sharing common feelings indicated that the Boy will have mental illness. Rather, it makes me wonder more about Michael, and if he hadn't been afflicted.
 |
| Sunset at North Chesterman Beach |
 |
| Low tide at North Chesterman Beach |
Tuesday, June 17, 2014
Finding my Tribe
Note: I am doing some blog maintenance and finding old posts that I never bothered to publish. This one is from May 7, 2014. As I mentioned in a previous post, this is my mid-life crisis happening. I talked to a dear friend today about the collapse of my marriage. She asked, "What are you afraid of?" Not in a bad way, but in the philosophical sense. This is a question for me to ponder. It turns out, I am becoming less and less afraid of life in general.
I suppose I can also add "Workaholic Husband and Subsequent Collapsing of Marriage" to the list.
What happens when you don't belong in the tribe that you aren't sure you belong to? Technically, I am a
I suppose I can also add "Workaholic Husband and Subsequent Collapsing of Marriage" to the list.
+ + + + +
What happens when you don't belong in the tribe that you aren't sure you belong to? Technically, I am a
Mother. Daughter. Sister. Wife.
I am also
White. Upper Middle Class.
In many ways, I've lead a charmed life. I friend of mine was giving me shit the other day about it. I recently applied for a job and I didn't get it. I was crushed because I thought I had a decent chance at getting it. Before she gave me shit, she gave me a pep talk. She asked to me remember other times I failed, thought the world was ending, and picked myself to get back on the horse again.
"A good friend of mine from grad school said to expected to be rejected twenty times before you land a job," she told me. "You've not gotten a job before, right?"
"Before I graduated from college, a consulting firm found my resume, interviewed me and then gave me a job," I replied. "That job found me. And when I left that job, I went to my college alumni office, and looked for who was hiring. And I got a job again."
"Okay," she said. "Think about a time when you were dumped by a guy."
"There was one guy in college, but I am not sure that counts as an official break-up because he moved to another state. So it wasn't like I was really dumped. He just moved away."
"You have never experienced rejection before," she said. (This was the giving me shit part. She was otherwise empathetic about not getting the job.) She was kind of shocked. Another hard part is that also really don't need a job, so I really can't cry too hard about that. I would like something meaningful to do and to accomplish something, but my family doesn't need the money. We could always use more to save for retirement, who couldn't? My husband has a good job with long hours and we are fairly frugal and live within our means. (Frugal to a fault, but that's another story.) My being gainfully employed is optional. Before I let her think of me as some kind of sheltered princess, I reminded her of the piles of tragedy and challenges in my life.
My first child died.
My brother has schizophrenia with a tragic outcome.
My mother has Alzheimer's.
So where do I belong? I grew up with a bunch of lovely feminist elementary school teachers (thank you, Sharon Kolin) who taught me girls can do whatever they want. Hellen Keller, Sally Ride, Susan B. Anthony and Eleanor Roosevelt were my role models. Nancy Reagan was not. Yet, here I am, 45, and my life is closer to Nancy's than the others.
What the hell happened?
I married a doctor.
My first child died.
My brother has schizophrenia with a tragic outcome.
I had two kids.
My mother has Alzheimer's.
I sank. I would never say I was depressed, because I wasn't. I was able to escape the hell of losing a child and move on. I withered as I watched mental illness ruin lives. It took everything I had not to fall into the abyss, to stay sane. My life shifted into neutral. I am dog paddling in purgatory. I got tried to write a book about my daughter and one about my brother. I got a volunteer job to keep me busy, but also as penance. Or maybe restitution or an offering to the gods. I knew I couldn't make things back to the way they were, but maybe I could make or find peace.
Where do I belong?
Friday, December 6, 2013
Three Things I am Afraid of
(I suppose the title should be "Three Things of Which I am Afraid." Sorry, Grammar Zealots.)
Stephen King wrote a list of the top ten things people are afraid of, with things like spiders and the dark on the list. (I'll have to look up the list.) In addition to meeting grizzly bears, black bears, and/or brown bears in the wild,* here are three things of which I am afraid.
-- Migraine headaches
-- Depression
-- Chronic Fatigue Syndrome
I am afraid of other things, too, like someone I love getting hit by a car, but this list contains the three things for today. Like a car accident, these three could strike at any time, with little known reason for the cause, and no simple or readily accessible cure. People have to suffer to an extended period of time with these three before people start seriously thinking about treatment, and in the meantime, life would be pretty miserable.
I almost fear speaking their names, in case the gods or fates are watching and decide to afflict me. All three would be like being trapped inside of Sartre's version of hell in No Exit, minus the companionship. Maybe it would be the isolation I would fear, that others wouldn't been locked in with me, that I'd be in my own orbit of misery, without anyone to connect to or with. Which begs Sartre's question in No Exit, "L'enfer, c'est les autres," or "Hell is other people." I'd rather have company, thank you.
* I am also afraid of the grizzly bears at the Woodland Park Zoo. Have you seen that moat? Don't you think a grizzly could get a nice run going and fly over it? Yeah. I do. I get hives when I walk past it.
Stephen King wrote a list of the top ten things people are afraid of, with things like spiders and the dark on the list. (I'll have to look up the list.) In addition to meeting grizzly bears, black bears, and/or brown bears in the wild,* here are three things of which I am afraid.
-- Migraine headaches
-- Depression
-- Chronic Fatigue Syndrome
I am afraid of other things, too, like someone I love getting hit by a car, but this list contains the three things for today. Like a car accident, these three could strike at any time, with little known reason for the cause, and no simple or readily accessible cure. People have to suffer to an extended period of time with these three before people start seriously thinking about treatment, and in the meantime, life would be pretty miserable.
I almost fear speaking their names, in case the gods or fates are watching and decide to afflict me. All three would be like being trapped inside of Sartre's version of hell in No Exit, minus the companionship. Maybe it would be the isolation I would fear, that others wouldn't been locked in with me, that I'd be in my own orbit of misery, without anyone to connect to or with. Which begs Sartre's question in No Exit, "L'enfer, c'est les autres," or "Hell is other people." I'd rather have company, thank you.
* I am also afraid of the grizzly bears at the Woodland Park Zoo. Have you seen that moat? Don't you think a grizzly could get a nice run going and fly over it? Yeah. I do. I get hives when I walk past it.
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