Category Archives: mental health

Jul14

confusion has it’s cost

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7/11, 11:01am

And so, home now with the day ahead free of obligation, I can sit here and review my week. Something I have yet to define has me feeling like something big just happened. Something life changing, just in the past 72 hours. And I know what started it: the book I am reading – Permission by Elissa Altman. Specifically, the chapter titled The Magic in the Mundane. It – she – has given me permission to be mundane.

“In the most mundane stories lie humanity. It is where the magic is, where the stories lurk, where the most stunning and affecting art is waiting to be made. It is where joy and sorrow and the absurd and the human are plaited together in a tight braid…forget perfectionism: the mundane reeks of imperfection, and that imperfection is what makes for beauty of a human sort.”

If you read the last few days posts you’ll know that I walked out on my job last Thursday. There wasn’t anything wrong or bad happening there. There wasn’t much happening there at all. I didn’t need to be there. It was a distraction from what I need to be doing. I need to be here. It has taken me 73 years, 5 months and 4 days to get here.

You may begin to see a theme running through all the posts of this week. Perhaps it will continue, but I am not about to predict the future – I still have the rest of my life ahead of me, after all.

In January of 2012 I participated in a 13 week group study of The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron. It would prompt me to start this blog. A woman I had never met before sat across from me in the circle and commented on something I had said – or maybe written – in response to one of the exercises. She exclaimed, “Oh my gosh – you’re a writer.” For some reason I thought of that today, and what it meant to me at the time. I was shocked and somewhat confused. I didn’t believe her. Until this past Thursday. Fourteen years later. Is it too late? Apparently not. I’m still here. Or perhaps I should say, I’m here now.

Elissa Altman pulled me aside last Thursday in the bookstore, in that little back tarot-card-reading-room closet. Families of tourists scurried outside the mysterious curtain that provided no privacy for my tears. She let me know quietly that, yes, my family also taught me that perfectionism was the only way to avoid shame. And she let me know that it wasn’t working. It wasn’t keeping the shame at bay. Not the grief. Not the sorrow. “Go home,” I heard her whisper.

And so I am home now. I slept all day Friday. And all night, until the nightmares woke me. This morning, Saturday, my son asked if I had been having nightmares last night. “Why, yes. Why do you ask?” “Because you were standing outside my bedroom door early this morning calling out to me for help.” I wasn’t there physically. But my spirit was.

I used to write poetry. In high school my English teacher submitted one of my poems to a student contest with The Atlantic and it was published…I guess I could say I’m a published author. But I won’t. That same year I also won my second honorable mention in The Detroit News Scholastic Art Awards. And then I left school. A couple of college teachers acknowledged my writing, encouraged me. One invited me to skip a year. But then I left school again.

Schoolwork was too difficult to maintain with a full time job and a baby and a household to run. And an abusive husband who was closer to my abusive family than I had ever been. If I were to believe them, I was crazy still and again. That pattern had begun in the very early years of my life. And it would continue until last Thursday.

I’ve lost most of my family now. Divorced more than once. I’m estranged from most of my remaining family and many well-meaning friends. I am not easy to get along with. Most perfectionists aren’t, especially the ones wallowing in the shame of unexpressed creativity.

My father was not a good man. He was funny. Creative, charming. He was brilliant but uneducated, gay in a time and culture where it was never to be revealed, or even remotely tolerated. Permission was not granted him. And he was enormously gifted as a musician. He was also married at nineteen and had 5 children by the age of 29. He would enter the family business whether he liked it or not. All of his rage would come out sideways. It always does. Of his 5 children I have fared the best, with the least damage. I am the eldest by more than 3 years, first grandchild on both sides. Not only was I adored as a young tot, but my parents addictions were not yet in full swing. The dream was still intact.

The opposite of perfect is not flawed. The opposite of perfect is free. This is not a story about what could have been. It is a report about what is becoming. A PSA of sorts, a heads up. It is a story of endless curiosity and hope and never ending love. It’s my story. Maybe some part of it is also yours. I say we tell it, no matter how long it has taken us to get here.

Jul13

unemployable

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7/11, 9:05 am

My dear fiend has been ill. I texted her yesterday and she responded to tell me she was in the ER. It’s that horrible parasitic yuk going around western Michigan right now. Kinda scary. She called me back later once she was home and feeling better, after a few hours on a gurney with IV fluids. And sick as she was, she still managed to be her usual gracious self. I admire her so for that. I am not that, especially when I am sick. Or stressed, which has been much too often lately.

She always seems to have a gift for me. Yesterday it was a great big juicy gift. Infinitely useful. I told her I was losing my wits, and she assured me I will be okay. Told me I have “hippie wits.” “What?” Did she just make that up? Yes, yes she did. How wonderful. I will always have my wits about me now; I can keep those. I’m not crazy. I’m just a hippie. Which is to say that I have solid values. Trustworthy values.

And then, just coincidently (if you believe in those) Terry Tempest Williams shows up in my feed. Talkin’ about how we – women of a certain age – have been culturally programmed to think we are crazy. Witless. For most of my life it was the most powerful word used against me as a gaslighting technique. No…no no no no…anything but crazy. Crazy people are unacceptable. Weird. Never okay. Unloveable. Broken.

But it turns out that not only are we not crazy, we are fabulous. Smart. Creative. Genius. And spectacularly alive. We are good, we are beautiful, and we are true. We are very certainly sane and we are transforming an insane world. It turns out we are the holy ordinary. Albeit, unemployable.

Jun16

it’s all a stretch these days…

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Monday, 6/15: Good morning. I’m gonna change up the format here a bit. Since it’s basically always been a journal, let’s go with a journal format, beginning with the date…but all bets are off. Consistency is not a virtue I claim. I aspire. I’m…ya’ know, aspirational. It is a gorgeous summer morning. It is sunny and cool. Fifty-three degrees. It reminds me why we live in Michigan. But Michigan is not for everyone…it’s an “if you know, you know” kinda thing.

Detroit is the same. What an absolutely magnificent city. But if you know, you know. As a young woman I couldn’t wait to leave, but it was never because I didn’t love Detroit. It was because I wanted to live away from my highly dysfunctional family. Well, I wanted to raise my son away from them. And while I am very happy to be living “up north,” I will always miss Detroit. You can take the girl out of the city…

Growing up in Detroit was one of those “right place, right time” things. Born in the early 50’s, I became a teen in the 60’s. Detroit was the U.S. center of the British Invasion of rock in the 1960’s. And I was there for it. I was a sponge for it. I was growing up in a musical family, and as I’ve often said, my parents were beatniks in the 50’s who became hippies in the 60’s. I was the flower child.

I’ve also talked here a lot about being a privileged white girl in Detroit in the 1960’s. And having a conscience, thankyougod. Let’s just say, it shaped me. It would not make my life easier. Naive and 13, we were on one of our many summer getaways with our big-ass Chris Craft cabin cruiser to Georgian Bay, Canada. If you know, you know. It is one of the most spectacular places on the planet. We would use the depth sounder to check how deep the water was at our mooring, often off the beach of some deserted little island. We would watch the fish swimming thirty feet below us as we scooped up a pitcher of water to make orange juice or coffee. We had somehow stumbled into heaven, never suspecting we might not be worthy.

Bored in Tobermory harbor one stormy afternoon my younger sister and I walked into town, where I bought my first-ever record album. Not only did Joni Mitchell sing like no one I’d ever heard, but she had also drawn the jacket cover. Song to a Seagull caught my eye because it looked a lot like my fantastical drawings. Little did I know my life would never be the same.

Fast forward (hahahaa!) another six decades and here we are, you and I…talkin’ trash and livin’ our best life. Have I mentioned how grateful I am? I would try to articulate this sentiment, but then I would turn to a mush puddle and not be able to type through the tears. That’s me these days. Hence, the month-long hiatus since my last post.

Life continues to unfold and reveal it’s many complex layers. I can barely keep up. Is this progress? Who TF knows…it feels like a loop. A loop of grief and addiction with brief glimpses of joy. Is that joy? Would I recognize joy if it bit me?! Today I sit here in dappled sunlight looking out through the trees in a state of absolute delight and possibility. Yesterday I was sick and in a state of dread. Did I mention that consistency and I are not natural companions?

I had big plans for yesterday. A long ta-da list. But I woke with a migraine. Nauseous. Stiff joints and sore muscles. Where did this come from? I had been working outdoors in the garden the previous day, and I had been stung. It could just as easily have been caused by something I ate that day. The raspberries I put on my yogurt were just beginning to mold but I couldn’t stand to lose them. I live on that edge between blissful wellness and painful incapacity. It’s called chronic illness for a reason. So yesterday was a lost day. I sipped electrolytes, ate tiny bites of dry sourdough toast and stayed in my dark, cool bedroom.

But these days I have a job. I hate having a job. Oh, I love my work. It’s the schedule I resent. Having to be up and out of the house (preferably dressed) and then drive 40 minutes to get anywhere. Regardless of how I feel. Take Sumatriptan if necessary, but show up. Because consistency counts. I was loving retirement. I will again. Life threw another curve ball that I was ill prepared for, and now I face a new challenge: find a new way to earn income. So you’re 72?! Buckle up, buttercup. You live in Michigan, and Michigan is part of the good ol’ USofA….

Honestly, this is very likely good for me, being forced to get dressed and leave the house on a schedule. With the inconsistency of ADHD, and it’s sister component lack of discipline, a little imposed structure usually serves me well. It stimulates creativity and I am forced to overcome my preference to hide; forced to engage with others. As in people. Ugh. Present company excepted.

During this past month, I’ve been overwhelmed with grief and…well, despair – for lack of a better word. I guess I must admit despair. It has been a long 6 months of winter filled with grief. I am depressed. Getting out and driving through gorgeous countryside will do me good. I have reconnected with a dear old friend, who gave me work immediately without question when I called for help. And I’ve also met some very nice people. I certainly cannot complain. How fortunate I am when I get out of my own way. Honestly, are we all our own worst enemies?

I’m beginning to engage with life again. One new rabbit hole I’d love to share here is a vlog I’ve recently discovered on YouTube. I love YouTube…so way better than television. Apparently so does everyone else. In fact, in her first year on YT, Angie has rapidly grown to be one of the most popular channels. There are reasons obvious to me, but I will let you see for yourself.

Confession: I found this vlog because I am researching lifestyle channels, thinking about starting one myself. Sort of a live-action adjunct to this blog. There are aspects of Angie’s vlog I would copy – like wearing sunglasses indoors, of course. And her vulnerability, which I would much rather disguise – but what are the chances?! However, mine would also be quite different. For starters, I’m 12 years older. And far snarkier. Hard as I might try, I am not British. My vlog would have to include my metaphysical studies and spiritual experiences to be authentic. We all know I’ve never had a humble opinion in my life. But there are many things I admire about Angie, not the least of which is her consistency. I could learn something.

I have a long list of ideas…I would love your ideas. Let’s share our curiosity, in hopes that you and I can continue this conversation about life and loss and hope and inconsistency and beauty and all things human. Thank you for being here.

So here is my offering for today: Rare Birds, for those of us growing older, expanding rather than shrinking. For real people, highly sensitive people, who take life as it comes with all it’s foibles and inconsistencies. People like us, who keep on keeping on. Meanwhile, I’m off to my local hardware store to buy myself a garden fork…I hope Angie would be proud.

May17

waving truce against the moon

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“Let the beauty you love be what you do. There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.” – Rumi

It’s time for some true confessions. The less I see of others sharing their vulnerabilities, the more I wanna. Because I’m also seeing some others who are sharing and it looks en-lighten-ing. I want that. I want to be lighter. I will always be a moth to the flame of freedom. All freedom – physical, financial, emotional, spiritual. I’m in my 70’s, and let’s just be frank here – I’m on the approach toward my death. I don’t feel like I’m going to die anytime soon, but the truth is we never know. Yes, I’ve lost much younger loved ones suddenly. But the recent shock of losing my former husband is a different kind of lesson.

He died unexpectedly last month at the age of 88. That sounds reasonably old. But there were things to be considered: firstly, he was the youngest of 5 children. His mother died of complications from an auto accident. But his father and four siblings all lived well into their 90’s. He lost his brother last October at the age of 97. They still golfed and played bridge twice a week with friends. They were active. He fully expected to live into his 90’s. And his death was “unexpected” because he died as the result of a fall, not of old age or natural causes. I had spoken to him a few days prior about getting together for lunch soon. I fully expected that to happen.

But this is really about the fear it triggered. We had been together for over 30 years when we were younger. He was not ever willing to discuss any arrangements for his death, natural or otherwise. He simply refused to consider it. When we were first married, I used to goad him that he thought he was the first immortal human. We had teenage children. His income was 10 times mine. There was no life insurance or any kind of financial arrangement in the event of his death. He was the most stubborn person I have ever known, and believe me, that is saying something in an Irish family.

So when he died in April he left nothing. His retirement pension stopped, which means so did my alimony. The State of Michigan is richer now; they won’t be paying him any longer. His new car has been repossessed by the bank. His 4 daughters inherited a savings account just large enough to cater his memorial service luncheon. Gratefully, I will receive his social security survivor benefits (but no longer receive mine. Social security pays whichever is greater, not both.) My life has just gotten exponentially harder. I’m 72 now and scrambling to figure out how I’ll support myself. It didn’t need to be this way, and of course, it’s absolutely perfect. It must be. I just don’t get to know why.

Yes, I had tried again and again to reason with him, even recently; to put some kind of a plan in place. He refused. In fact he laughed at me. He wasn’t going to die anytime soon. I thought he was unreasonable. He thought I was ridiculous. I guess we deserved each other. I miss him anyway.

If you’ve been here long, you know I’ve been grieving the loss of my beloved cat since October 20th. Just a couple days later my brother-in-law died, and a friend’s sweet dog whom I also loved. Three deaths all at once. And you also know that Chewy, my cat, was coming to me in my dreams and meditations. Twice he said very clearly, “do not make any decisions before spring.” When I heard this the second time, I asked what he meant by spring and he replied, “March 30th.” So…March 30th came, and while I did not feel any better, I was watching and listening for a change. Dick died 2 days later.

Since about the age of 65 I have worked at overcoming one of my biggest fears. It had incapacitated my creativity all of my life. My big, fat, ugly fear that people (especially loved ones) would think I am crazy. Insane type crazy. If you’ve read past blog posts, you know that I have truly healed these fears. All of my life my family and my two husbands had told me I was crazy. So I hid. It was blatant manipulation, what we now call gaslighting. It worked brilliantly. Kept me right where they wanted me – at their service.

Only today am I remembering that decades ago I went for a psych evaluation with a leading psychiatrist at U of M. I had asked my primary care physician to refer me because the antidepressants weren’t working. I thought maybe I needed something stronger. During that hour the psychiatrist said to me, “Well, you are not crazy, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He recommended that I not take stronger medication, but work toward improving my “circumstances.” In other words, pull your head out of your ass, Susan, and stop letting yourself be manipulated. Maybe stop living with addicts. My “over-developed sense of responsibility,” also professionally diagnosed, would get the better of me for a few more decades. Speaking of being stubborn…

So today I find myself back in survival mode, plagued by fears. And I wish to be free of them. I will begin with what I know – I will speak them. Name them. Expose them to the light. When Siddhartha Gautama (the Buddha) met evil on the road to enlightenment, he named it Architect. The Architect who would design his demise. The Architect of self doubt. He turned to face anything or anyone he felt this threat from. He would address them, and he would say, “I see you, Architect.”

Architect, I am scared of dying – not of death itself, but of suffering. Of lingering, being a burden to my only child. Let me be clear, I’m not afraid of pain. I know how to remain whole inside myself when my body is paralyzed with pain. When the morphine isn’t working and you can’t cry out for help. No one wants to learn that, but I have. I have walked trembling and yet confidently through hell and smelled the breath of huge, huge demons. Hoping their chains held; knowing that if not, at least my death would happen swiftly.

I’m afraid of losing the loved ones I have still, but that comes with aging. That’s just the way this works. I’m afraid of poverty. Of not having any control over where I live. Of becoming less and less free as I age. I’m afraid of this grief…of never finding joy again. That scares me most of all. I don’t know how to do grief. I guess I’m learning.

As I’ve said here before, my small group of friends have been patient with me. I went to lunch last week with one friend. It was a make up date because I had messed up our previous plans; I put them in my calendar wrong. Patience…while I am obviously being reset by life. Or as I say, “I’ll be with you in a moment” – my own euphemism for “I am not functioning.” Anyway, after a lovely meal we sat in her living room while I cried, consumed in self pity as I am these days. She reassured me as sweetly as I hope I would do for her. “There’s comfort in melancholy when there’s no need to explain…”

Suddenly she noticed a blue bunting on the bird feeder outside the window. Next thing we knew a spectacular oriole flew in. Brilliant orange, like it was lit up. Then a red cardinal. A bright yellow finch. It was surreal. Surreal is my default notification that God is hangin’ close. The veil is thin, and I am being blessed. I might have dismissed the significance of that if I were afraid you’d think me crazy. If that is crazy, sign me up for more.

“So now I am returning to myself these things that you and I suppressed.”

May9

Leslie Higgins is my spirit animal

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I know, I know – you probably think I’m cool like Trent Crimm. Refined and sophisticated like Rebecca Felton. Humble and magnanimous like Ted Lasso. But no. No, I’m actually awkward and nerdy and a lot more like Higgins than any other character in this series.

For instance, I am apparently the last remaining human with a television to watch the show. Not that it hasn’t been recommended by everyone I know. But recently, in a group of highly respected women creatives, I realized that I couldn’t hold my own in the conversations any longer if I don’t get the references. I’d have to catch up to keep up.

When my sister ran a dementia care home years ago I volunteered part time. I learned about the common occurrence of a symptom called sundowners. Certain activities were planned around and after dinner because the patients became anxious as the sun was setting. I immediately thought, “I have that.” Not just because I am somewhat of a hypochondriac, but because I recognized that I have been that way all my life. Or as far back as I can remember anyway. I become anxious and sad at sunset. My nervous system relaxes once dark has fallen, but for an hour or more every evening I am not myself. I’m guessing that the medical community became aware of this phenomenon in Alzheimer’s patients, and that no one has noticed yet that it happens to many of us without the dreadful disease. I’m guessing it is common in people with ADHD, or like me, AuDHD. But medicine lags behind our cultural experience…so, so far behind. And once again, I am never consulted.

So. I do what any self respecting intelligent person would do – I plan for my shortcomings. I find things to distract me, especially intellectually, after dinner. My preference is entertainment. I’m usually ready to sit down to dinner and then not get up again for a few hours. By 6 or so in the evening I am spent – physically as well as mentally and emotionally.

But oooohhh-eeee….there is a sad, S A D shortage of suitable entertainment available. My standards…once again…too high. Or so I’m told. Well meaning friends have made all manner of piss poor recommendations, from Game of Thrones to Outlander to Gilmore Girls. Jesusmaryjoseph. (Yes, that is all one word.) What, in the ever-loving….?!

No. No, people. Here are the criteria: INTELLIGENT. Which means exceptionally written. With intelligent, believable characters. Who actually behave like the intelligent, MATURE humans we are being asked to accept. Lorelai Gilmore’s neurosis might have been cute when she was 22, but now she just needs therapy. She’s tedious and annoying and if she were your cousin you’d have slapped her already.

Also, good writing must be well acted. Have extraordinary cinematography and preferably spectacular scenery. Fabulous clothing doesn’t hurt my feelings. It needs an awesome sound track. And most importantly – the context must be redemptive. What does that mean? It’s simple: no human evil. Occasional mental illness expected, psychopathy not so much. I love murder mysteries. Cannot stomach crime dramas. Not the same thing at all. Jesus, I don’t believe we are having this conversation again…but, okay, here goes.

Murder mysteries solve murders done by distraught, misguided people experiencing temporary insanity. Crimes of passion where somebody losses their shit and probably didn’t really mean to do it. Bad decisions are made and unfortunate mistakes follow. And, well, honestly – the victim usually had it coming, didn’t he? There is compassion to spare in these intricate stories of deeply flawed people. Nothing is pre-meditated. No serial killers. No middle-of-the-night creepy stalkers in dark alleys. Don’t frigin’ scare me. Instead, explain how this happened and resolve that merciful justice shall be carried out so I can have a good night’s sleep tonight. And merciful justice is why I do not watch period dramas. There was nothing merciful or just about the past. It’s exactly why we don’t like fascists now. Anybody with half a brain has seen the long term effects of that psycho shitstorm played out. Move along smartly.

I have a confession here. I resisted watching Ted Lasso for, well, years. The story revolves around a football team. I do not simply dislike team sports, I abhor them. They require a certain cult mentality that I avoid like the plague that it is. Large cultural groups are conditioned (I hear groomed) over decades of sanctioned violent dysfunction. Codependence abounds unchecked. Copious amounts of alcohol seem to be involved. Something about this entire subculture is just not right. Is it just me?!

But last week someone said to me, “watch Ted Lasso. It will restore your faith in humanity.”And I was desperate for some entertaining distraction from the crushing grief I have not yet come through. I was desperate for my faith in humanity to be restored. And…this series delivered. Five stars. Do recommend. I wish there were 100 seasons to binge watch; that would get me through to gardening season. To Richmond!

Jan14

I eat fear for breakfast.

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It’s the middle of January. Did you make New Year’s resolutions? I didn’t. I never do. I can’t goad myself into change. If I decide to make changes, it doesn’t matter what day it is. Which is why I’m finding it amusing that I’ve just discovered I have fallen back into a very bad habit. And it needs to change. Today.

It’s a life-long habit, so plenty of practice under my belt. Seventy odd years or so, so I can be gentle with myself, but I’m on it. This bad habit is fear. And unchecked it will kill me. I’m a fear addict, and I’ve fallen off the wagon. I’ve talked for the last three months about this crippling grief and how I don’t seem to be coming out of it. This is where that spiritual advice I heard many years ago would come in handy: “Let yourself fall apart at the SEEMS.” What if this despair isn’t pure grief, but the fear demon has attached itself to me again? C.S. Lewis, grieving the loss of his wife, said “who knew grief felt so much like fear?”

Grief is a big gaping wound in your soul. And fear is an infection that sets in. But the treatment is simple, inexpensive, and readily available. I guarantee you already have the ingredients for the cure in your household.

When my son was going through cancer treatment in his early 20’s, I was a basket case. He had to be brave for both of us. One day in the hospital elevator he said to me, “I know I’m going to be alright, but what are we going to do about getting you some help?” I asked him, “aren’t you afraid?” To which he replied, “I eat fear for breakfast.”

I love the old acronym for FEAR: False Evidence Appearing Real. False evidence, indeed. It might have it’s basis in reality. But our conditioned mind takes hold of that dust bunny and knits us into a cocoon of despair in no time. Confusion sets in, and before we know it we are incapacitated. I certainly have been. Oh, the grief is real. The powerlessness is not.

And the solution? You know this. I know this. The simple home remedy? Creativity. In any form. Not art necessarily, although that would do for starters. But creativity. A creative act. One. Simple. Creative. Act. Watch a favorite old movie, bake muffins, rearrange the furniture, cook a meal, notice something you didn’t see before, write a blog post (journal), sew a different button on your shirt that doesn’t match the others…

THIS is why creativity is radical. It defies a pattern. It’s what psychology calls a pattern interrupt. And it is why creativity is said to be courageous. It doesn’t require anything terribly brave or outrageously defiant. It just is courageous and defiant. It’s a choice. It’s choosing life.

Fear is a bad habit. It’s using your imagination against yourself. It’s not healthy. And the only way I know to change or overcome a bad habit is to replace it with a healthier one. That’s why creativity heals us. It’s the practice of exercising our imagination in service to ourselves – to our life.

Creativity is an act of generosity to ourself. It’s a declaration of our intent to treat ourself fairly, magnanimously, as if we are valuable. “There is a truth and it’s on our side. Dawn is coming, let’s open our eyes.” I’m eating fear for breakfast. You comin’?

Jan5

giving up all hope

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“Forgiveness is giving up all hope of having had a better past.” – Anne LaMott

Forgiveness has been a recurring theme lately in my thoughts and dreams. Call it the cosmos if you wish. The end of the Year of the Snake. The great shedding of old skin. Preparing to meet the Horse, which is my Chinese astrology sign. It’s a sign alright, and I don’t care what we name it. Bring it on.

I have been in a biglongugly funk. Fortunately, I do know how to get myself out of this: W R I T E. I can write my way out. I can draw or paint my way out, too. So can you. You can do any or all of those things. It has nothing to do with talent or experience – it depends on one thing and one thing only – willingness. Well, and a pen and some paper. I recently saw a quote by Dan Poynter that pissed me off. He said, “If you are waiting for inspiration to write, you’re not a writer. You’re a waiter.” Thanks for that, Dan. As my friend Lyn would say, “well that hurts my feelings.” Doesn’t it just…

So I have to sit my butt in a chair and write. Or draw. Or paint. A combination of the three actually works best for me. Because the alternative is insomnia, nightmares, migraine. Lately I have been raging in my sleep. My anger will not be contained. It shocks me how violent my dreams are. I’m fighting for my life, kicking and biting and stabbing and screaming. I am really angry. Keep your distance.

That has to come before the forgiveness. Because I don’t understand forgiveness. I do not know how to forgive. To give forth. To give it up…to let go.

“Everything I’ve ever let go of has claw marks.” – David Foster Wallace

Apparently my body and my subconscious keep excellent records. I assume you also have an inner secretary; mine functions at an executive level 24/7. And there is a thriving Slights Department. I have 70+ years of slights filed here, just waiting for their moment to be justifiably indignant.

In the middle of the night my inner secretary drags out the trauma files and tries to convince me that someone is going to murder me. My nighttime assailant can be any number of people. Usually my father or my sister. They, along with other family members, were prone to violent outbursts. They all spent time in jail for violence against other people. They all weaseled out of more serious charges with the help of a good attorney. As did my former husband, my son’s father. They all drove drunk on a regular basis and never left the house without a gun. I knew what they were capable of, and for anyone who has ever been manipulated by an abuser, that is all it takes. A certain look in their glassy eyes is all it takes for them to back you right into a corner.

To say that I have clawed and chewed my way free of the manipulation of narcissists would be an understatement. The one thing I have not ever done is threaten them back. Oh, I am capable of it, believe me. I, too, have a vengeful murderer deep inside my psyche. I understand them. But I have never actually threatened anyone with any kind of violence at all. I loathe violence. I lived in it’s shadow until I was sixty years old. I had to learn how to walk away and never look back. So I guess I do actually know how to let go. I just don’t know how to make it not hurt.

And, I do swear a lot. Recently my son brought this habit to my attention and asked me to reconsider it. I told him that social psychologists have studied swearing and concluded that it does, in fact, help the body dissipate stress. He said something very wise about it, though. He asked me if it were not a form of violence. And I think it is, yes. I think I will curb my habit of swearing in my effort to live more softly. We’ll see how that goes, shall we? Consider it an experiment.

I have often joked that my obsession with murder mysteries is because I want to know there are people out there more psychotic than my own family. There is always some truth in humor, isn’t there? For the past decade or so I have played with the idea of writing a memoir. But I haven’t wanted to be the angry, confrontative whistle blower of the family. This week, as we begin a hopeful new year, I don’t think I have a choice any longer. I’m tired. I know truth heals. And only truth heals. I want healing. I will be careful and respectful to the best of my ability, but I will tell my truth my way.

Anne LaMott also said, when asked about exposing family dysfunction in her memoirs, “you own everything that’s happened to you. Write your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.” I admit to you here, now, that I still need to overcome the actual fear I carry that my family will lash out and harm me. My sister threatened me years ago when I began this blog.

Many of my family members also had a great sense of humor. My son certainly does. I will incorporate that into my stories, but I will tell them however they show up. And I will share here what I can of them – not because I need you to know, but because I want us to heal. If I can do this, so can you. It’s time. It’s the year of the horse. We ride at midnight.

Dec22

the path of least resistance

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In my last writing, 17 days ago now, I said to myself “take the path of least resistance, Susan.” Suffice it to say that I am terrible at taking my own advice. In fact, I often feel as if I have done nothing but repeat myself here on this blog for over 13 years…I seem to be a very hard learner. This is not new. Dammit. It seems I have been this way all my life.

In the spirit of becoming, as I am trying to convince myself that I can actually live as a verb, ever embracing new habits in the effort to change, improve, evolve….I will once again return my daily routine to the basic practices of self care. I will get out of the shower and put a cotton ball soaked with castor oil in my belly button. I will slather my dry skin with Frankincense. I will write my morning pages, even if it takes me until 3 in the afternoon. Walk. It is cold and icy outdoors. True confessions: I bought myself a walking pad so I can walk indoors. I bought it on sale after Christmas last year. It has never been plugged in. The power cord is around here somewhere…have I ever mentioned that I talk a good game?

There will be no “New Year New You” resolutions declared here for my part. That would be hilarious! If I just stuck to what I know I’d be ahead of the game. When I would challenge my father in my teenage years to walk his talk, he would reply, “do as I say, not as I do…” I wish I didn’t understand that quite so well now as a Mother. I don’t want my child to follow in my footsteps; I hope he surpassed me years ago in every way. Run. Fly.

So. Back to basics. Self care – mentally and physically – is the order of the day. While I’m being honest let me also admit that I am still seriously depressed. I’ve been off antidepressants since my pancreatitis this past summer. I’m trying to stay off of all medications and cleanse my liver and pancreas. Losing Chewy in October has sent me into a tailspin. Grief and the inordinately dark days are kicking my butt. But the real honest-to-goodness truth is that I’m angry. I’m livid. And to explain this would take too long. Where would I start? JesusMaryJoseph, where would I start? I can legit justify my anger into the next millennium, and where does that get me? You got it – sick. It is making me sick.

In my old age I am acknowledging that I have always had an inner knowing that serves me well; that knows the way for me. You have this, too. And that inner knowing has never listened when told, “you need to grow a thicker skin.” No. I have become much too hardened already. I don’t like the world I live in. But I love the earth and the water and the trees, the sentient life; I only want to soften into it as I grow older.

Since I have been grieving I have had a strange companion out in my yard. A lone deer. It’s always by itself and it hangs around close to the house. It sleeps under the Hawthorne right outside my bedroom window. It is different than all the other deer that wander through the yard in large herds. It’s face is darker and it is of stockier build. So maybe the herd rejected it? Maybe it’s somehow disabled? I have no idea. I do put out carrots and veggies, especially now that I can assume the bear is hibernating. Most of the birds have gone with the harsh weather, but the crows remain close. The pair of bald eagles are back.

I’ve lost interest in almost anything I used to be interested in. I’m easily made anxious by any media. I avoid friends and any kind of activity. The poor grocery store clerk says the wrong thing and I’m in tears. I’m a pain in the ass. I don’t care. I’m done trying to be anything but honest, but I know most people will be uncomfortable in my presence. Let me spare them the ugly dissolution of my former self. Let me not pretend to codify their expectations. Something in me has died and I will not attempt to revive it. It’s free to go. I’m okay with not knowing who I am anymore. When I allow myself to sit with anger, it dissipates into grief. It loosens me and I can breathe again.

Awake in the middle of the night, I meditate. Last night I fell back to sleep and had one of those wild dreams where I am obviously visiting another time and place. I asked where I was, and was given a specific name. That isn’t unusual. Neither is getting up at 9am to Google it and finding out it exists, although as an ancient ruin. It was a vibrant community last night in my dream. I can only imagine that I was there for healing purposes. That is the prayer I fell asleep with.

These days I can read good writing. I can listen to good poetry. And I can look to Tiokasin Ghosthorse for inspiration, because he lives his life as a verb. As he wisely tells me, “do not try to heal the earth. Let the earth heal you.” Don’t try to understand your dreams; let your dreams understand you.

Dec2

faith

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Let me explain what faith is and how it works. Because your life depends on it. And you are not going to grow, have peace, or live any life worth living until you get honest with yourself about this.

Let’s start with what faith is not: it is not religion. It has little or nothing to do with religion. It is, however, a basic and essential element of your spiritual, emotional, and psychological makeup. It is your connection to God, the divine, life force, intuition – whatever you want to call your inner knowing. There is no inner knowing, or even ability to connect with your authentic self, without faith. It’s the connective tissue of spirit. Without it you’re screwed. You had best become comfortable with it sooner rather than later.

I’m addressing this today because I am in a pissy mood dealing with other people’s lack of faith. No less than four people reached out to me this morning for advice they won’t use. Specifically, half dozen family and friends who want to cry, whine, and vent about the narcissists who treat them poorly. Who undervalue them. But they don’t really want to change anything. They don’t want to let that relationship go, to be precise. They don’t want to quit the job or the marriage. They don’t want to face their fear. They want the other person to get it and change.

Now, lest you think I might be flip or impatient here, let me tell you that I have been listening to the same sob stories for years from these few loved ones. Many years. Maybe decades. Same story, different day. But when I offer some fairly mature, sound advice, they balk – and become immediately defensive. There we go with that defensive shit again. They explane ‘a me…for the umpteenth thousanth time, why they can’t leave. And my mind just tunes it right to the station it is – faithlessness.

I don’t care what you think is the perfectly justifiable reason you cannot leave the narcissist. There is only one reason: lack of faith. And it is costing you your life. Own that decision.

When I decided to leave my narcissistic husband, I had no money. We had less than 5K in equity in our home, which we would split. It wouldn’t cover moving costs. I had no job. No income. Nothing worth selling. No savings. I was 60 and not yet eligible for social security. Nothing. So, your excuse of not enough money doesn’t hold sway with me. I left with nothing. Myself and two dogs to support. NADA. But IT WAS THE RIGHT THING TO DO. I jumped and the net appeared, not the other way around.

There are many, perhaps most, people who would never leave their hated job until securing a replacement. I’m talking to you. I have lost more friends over this issue. I do not want to hear about you hating your job. Quit. Now. STOP MAKING EXCUSES. Pick up your coat and walk out RIGHT THIS MINUTE. Or stop complaining. Do not tell me what your bills are. That is entirely irrelevant.

A (now estranged) old friend, who happens to be a PhD. psychotherapist, would tell me that this is black-and-white thinking, and that it is dangerous. But she remains married to a narcissist, so I will aver that she, in fact, has nothing of value to offer her codependent clientele. She doesn’t walk her talk. She makes excuses. Because…no faith. And then, I must tell you that black-and-white thinking IS THE ONLY APPROPRIATE WAY TO THINK in this culture. In a dualistic environment all energy is divided by good or bad, healthy or unhealthy, right or wrong, love or fear. In a dualistic environment black-and-white thinking is the only appropriate response. If you want to outgrow that limitation, you will have to exercise…guess what?

There is NO justifiable reason to put up with any kind of abuse. And let’s define abuse while we are at it. I adopted this definition from a therapist I met in my 20’s, because I have never been able to prove her wrong: ALL THOUGHT, WORD, AND DEED IS EITHER NURTURING OR ABUSIVE. Period. There is nothing else going on here. Are you being nurtured? No? You walk away. Next question.

If you are rationalizing and adapting to anything that does not serve you well, you are making excuses. You are 100% willing to compromise your health and well-being to accommodate someone else’s agenda. You cannot be free from there. You are enslaved. Whether you physically can’t leave (you are in a body cast) or you are feeling obligated to stay, or guilty, you are not free. And you are willingly participating in a dysfunction that is harmful to everyone concerned.

Faith is your spiritual muscle, and either you exercise it or it atrophies. And just like charity, or compassion, it starts at home. With you. Right now. So cut the crap. Stop waiting for the knight on a white steed, or your one dollar lottery ticket to make you a billionaire. Muster up some courage. Grow a pair. Take a chance on yourself. Show some faith. Don’t look backwards for guidance to chart new territory. Take a leap of faith and then ask God what’s next. “Lead me.” And know that you will get an intuitive hit, an idea, an inkling – and then you will act on it. Do not reason it away. Do it. No matter how insignificant it seems, or how crazy it sounds. Don’t tell anybody. Don’t run it by four people. Do it.

You don’t hear intuition like that? You aren’t just quite sure…? Well, duh. How do you expect to hear God if you won’t trust? The trust comes first. The faith comes first, by it’s very definition. You don’t find the right job until you leave the wrong one. What if you make a mistake? You’ll learn how to be discerning about what is and isn’t intuition. You’re exercising your faith muscle. You are hard-wired for faith. It won’t take long for you to see tangible evidence.

I’m gonna tell you something else that sounds radical: lack of faith is mental illness. Prove me wrong. And let me close with this thought: that this awareness requires my forgiveness, for I, too, lack faith at times. I, too, am just practicing here.

Nov26

Happy Thanksgiving for all.

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“I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the Republic for which it stands, one Nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.”

Well…almost all. Unless you’re an indigenous native…or gay…or black…or female…or…well, okay, unless you’re anything other than straight white male. And then, depending on your political affiliations, to be determined subject to the current balance of power…or…fuckall…

We children all stood obediently, put our right hand over our heart and repeated after our adoring teacher. In any other setting that ritual would be called indoctrination into a cult. The cult of nationalism has many sub-cults. The cult of school (yay, team), the cult of church. The cult of family. The cult of loyalty, unquestioned and unquestionable. Don’t you dare question. By the time we’re around the age of 10 (too generous? maybe 7?) we are gone. As in, so completely turned around and conditioned that we have no idea who we are. We do know what we stand for – because we have been told. God help us.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving in these here United States. Let the celebration of genocide begin. That is not to say I am not grateful, because I truly am. I might be female, but at least I was born into a privileged white family. In a peaceful, free country. Might not have been the same United States you were born into. But let’s be honest, I’ve had many advantages. And much to overcome. I doubt my father would have been an abusive narcissist were he not born where and when he was. He certainly would not have had so many advantages, least of all a culture of protection around him to hide his psychopathy for 82 years. Talk about an invisibility cloak, phew! That worked well.

My mother died of liposarcoma at the age of 69. The oncologists refer to that cancer as “the anger cancer.” I suspect all cancer takes root in anger, but suffice it to say she died of repressed anger. I’ve told many times here about my memorable 16th birthday gift from her. She gave me two books: The Feminine Mystique by Betty Friedan and The Female Eunuch by Germaine Greer. Was she trying to tell me something? Ya think? At least she made an effort. God knows she never had a chance of any freedom for herself. And I was so conditioned by then, I had only a smidgen more.

Had I not been born into privilege, in a relatively safe environment with abundant food and shelter, would I have ever have gained any insight into the underlying dysfunction? I’ll tell you what my family thinks: they think I am blatantly ungrateful. They couldn’t be further from the truth. I’m grateful for all the same things they are, and so much more. I’m just grateful for different reasons.

You see, I think they are living in a deadly and toxic state of denial. I think they are altogether unwilling to press pause on their insecurity button for just a little moment, long enough to consider – not accept, just consider – that they are not actually superior to everyone else. And so, they behave as if they are absolutely terrified of everyone around them all the time. They don’t leave the house without their gun. The world is a very scary place. It’s full of others.

I don’t envy them that position, although I have at times in the past. God knows most days I’d give anything for that previous naivete. For one more day back home with them all around the dining table on Thanksgiving, laughing. I didn’t know those were fields of gold.

I have often envied them the certainty of their convictions when I was questioning my own motives. When I was requiring myself to be as honest with myself as I possibly could bring myself to be about why I thought I might be smart enough to have figured something out.

I’m not. Smarter. I haven’t figured out shit. But I do have certainty of my convictions now. Not because I accepted what I was taught, but precisely because I have questioned it all and decided how to think and what to believe – beyond a shadow of a doubt. Insert belly-laughing emoji here.

What a mess we have created from fear. Of course, I’m neurodivergent, so conservative ass-holes seem to have everything backward from where I stand. And this grief I am going through recently comes with an equal measure of terror. Most of my fitful sleep is composed of my fighting for my life. Nightmares of my family trying to kill me aren’t new, but lately there are trained assassins after me. I’ve moved up in the world. Or they have. Now they can hire it done.

I’ll tell you what: fuck this shit. I’m determined to look the demons right in the eye and beat them at their own game. It’s freedom or nothing. Give me liberty or…

“Being an American means reckoning with a history fraught with violence and injustice. Ignoring that reality in favor of mythology is not only wrong but also dangerous. The dark chapters of American history have just as much to teach us, if not more, than the glorious ones, and most often the two are intertwined.” – Ken Burns