Day 3

Today I'm spending the afternoon and evening with one of my oldest friends.  Everyone should have at least one friend who knew you when...

...you had the bad breakup. 

...they had the bad breakup. 

...you doubted everything. 

...you thought you were so sure.

...you finally admitted you knew nothing.

I am grateful that I have such a person in my life.  I hope you do too... 

Day 2

Growing up Saturday nights meant two things at my house: baked beans and A Prairie Home Companion.  There are only a few things that make me nostalgic for my childhood - the scent of holiday balsam, a certain angle of sunlight through autumn leaves, the taste of baked beans and the sound of Garrison Keillor's voice.

I was an anomaly as a teenager  Nearly every one of my friends had parents who where divorced.  That my family sat down to dinner together every night, even on the weekends, was something that was noted and commented on.  My brother and I were home for dinner every night by 6:00pm - except Sundays because Sundays were "every man for himself..." (and it was written as such on the weekly menu my mum posted on the fridge every Sunday night).  This of course really meant, it's the night we eat all of the leftovers from the prior six nights of the week.  Which was okay because, those other six nights - the food was good. 

Each night of the week was a different meal, but Saturday night was always baked beans; sometimes with hot dogs, or cornbread, or brown bread, nearly always coleslaw.  I can remember the sound of the cabbage, carrots and onions being crunched through the hand crank grinder that attached to our counter top.   I remember the light reflecting off the old dented penny that my mother used to brace the screw vice that held the grinder tight to the counter's edge.  

I remember the scent of honey as it was squeezed onto warm cornbread.  I recall the snap of hot dog skin as I cut them up to mix into my beans and the the sweet contrast of brown bread with creamy melted butter.  And always that voice.  That steady, breathy, voice that accompanied the preparation and serving of our Saturday night meal. I remember singing along with the Powder Milk Biscuit song and how when they started taking the show on the road we swore we'd go, and we'd find some creative message to be shared on air during the intermission...

I never did make it to a show.  And my family is now scattered.  My parents joined the statistical numbers of the divorced nearly a decade ago and my brother lives in Alaska.  Try as I might I don't remember the last meal we all had together.  

Tonight, I'm listening to Garrison Keillor's last show with my cat while eating homemade quiche instead of baked beans, and sipping chardonnay.  I keep telling Miss Pickles, she's the cat, how maybe part of the reason I love to tell stories is at least in part due to growing up listening to this man, that I used to write scripts for my own radio shows.

She rolls over and blinks at me...

Day 1

Here's the thing about deciding to do a month of blogging, the first day, it's kind of a freebie.  Why? Because on the first day you get to sit down to write about how you are going to blog for 31 days. You can talk about how you aren't 100% sure you can accomplish the goal of writing every day, but as you are trying to practise self compassion anyway, it will be a good opportunity to not be too hard on yourself.

You might share the theme of your month of blogging, if you have one.  Which you don't, not really.   You do want explore more deeply this thing you have professed to have been doing for five years now. Yep, that's right...five years of blogging, not always regularly, but you have managed to write and publish 449 posts in that time...

Mostly though, you want to figure out whether or not to keep on doing this and if you do, how much of yourself do you want to put out there?  How personal should this blog be?  You've written about a lot of really personal stuff but there are things you've not said; things you keep close.  You know there has to be line somewhere.

And maybe as you are writing this post.  The freebie.  You begin to realize that this isn't about your blog and what you want to do with that, but instead maybe it's about your life and just what do you want to do with the 34 years you statistically have remaining.

You are after all 44 and just got around to finishing your undergraduate degree.  You can only call your self a late bloomer for so long.   You crossed the half way mark nearly seven years ago.  Death is no longer on the far side of the center line.

Like the prior 44 years of your life, you don't really have a plan.
You don't have any blog prompts...  
You just have 31 days of writing.
31 days of trying to figure out the next step.

My Secret...

To be honest I'm not at all sure what it is that keeps me going. What it is that makes me put two feet on the floor every morning. It might be that I have some deeply planted bit of hope and optimism that won't die not matter what life throws my way. I could have a sense of purpose that I don't fully understand. Or it might just be that I really have to pee and the cat needs to be fed, and well, now that I'm up and awake I might as well go on with my day.

I don't really know what got me through the past five years of school/work/create/dance/teach/live. I could say it was my meticulous planning and scheduling, but I'm as much a procrastinator as the next guy and, well maybe I work well under pressure. I had some support, lots of, "Go team!" and "Atta-girl, you can do this." It must have helped - I mean at least no one was saying I was crazy or that I ought to pack it in and go home.

I don't have a secret. There is no special formula or magic plan. Most days I wake up full of self doubt. I face nearly crippling anxiety at least a couple of times a week. I live with depression and a really, really, really not so great self image.

Yes, there are days that I look in the mirror and I manage to smile. I also hate to see things left undone or half finished. I like things neatly completed with the tools tucked away in their proper place after the work is done. There is a need that I have to do right by those that love me, to make them proud of me - maybe it's that I need to feel worthy of the love that I'm given.

Other's might say I'm just terribly driven. That I get something in my head and I have to see it through, even if it exhausts me or makes me, however temporarily, crazy.

The truth is that I wish I knew. I wish I knew because if I did...then when I have those really tough days. The ones where I just want nothing more than to stay in bed, covers over my head, bedroom door shut, curtains drawn, leaving the world for someone else to manage...and can't I please, please, please just stay here for a week in utter silence???
If I knew, if I could name it, then when I had those moments (days, weeks...), I'd have something to draw on. If I knew what it was then I could make it at will and then maybe, those other days...there would be less of them.

But I don't know. I can't name it. And so, I go on. Without answers, without knowing. Accepting that whatever it actually is, that it will always be there simply because it always has been.

Maybe, that's enough...

Was it worth it?

Photo by J. Grandbois

"How does it feel to finally be done?"

This is the question I have been asked with great frequency over the past several weeks.  My answer is generally about the same. I am glad to be done.  I feel less stressed and for the first time in five summers I don't feel pressured to cram as much as possible into the three and half months I had off between semesters.  Yes, there is a lot of good feelings surrounding my completion of earning my degree.

But...(yeah, you saw that coming didn't you?)

There is some cliche out there about how anything worth doing requires sacrifice.  In economics we call this opportunity cost.  It is the value of the the thing we give up in order to do something else.

Being back in school took nearly all of my energy and focus.  I realized very soon after making my return to school that there was no way I could keep up with everything that had been a part of my life.  I knew I'd not be able to dance as much, keep up with my blog (though I did better with that that I thought I would), that my social life would be greatly cut back and that I'd likely have to turn down opportunities that I'd otherwise pursue so that I could have enough time and energy to focus on school.

Knowing I'd not be happy giving up performing all together, I chose to focus on my troupe instead of my solo dance work.  I stopped updating my blog twice a week, which meant I gave up possible ad revenue, writing and review opportunities through the blog group I belonged to.  I tried my best to keep up with my social life, but very soon found I simply did not have the time, and I felt myself drift out of the communities that five years ago were central to my life.  I stopped working full time so I could finish school earlier and took on quite a bit of debt in order to do so.

I stepped out of my life for five and a half years and I've yet to find my stride again now that I've stepped back into it.  I do ask myself often if it was worth the sacrifice, but that is a question I won't likely have the answer to for a number of years.  I am glad I did it.  I love to learn and I derived a huge amount of satisfaction form completing this goal.  I experienced things, such as Semester at Sea, that I never would have done had I not returned to school.

I just a little bit adrift at the moment. I'll find my course soon.

To be called...

photo by J. Grandbois

“Behind every specific call, whether it is to teach or preach or write or encourage or comfort, there is a deeper call that gives shape to the first: the call to give ourselves away - the call to die.”  ― Michael Card, The Walk: The Life-changing Journey of Two Friends

“The tailor put on the girdle, and resolved to go forth into the world, because he thought his workshop was too small for his valor.” ― Jacob Grimm, The Complete Grimm's Fairy Tales

What does it mean to be called? Those of a religious or spiritual bent might say that to be called is to hear the voice of God or The Universe directing you towards a higher purpose; to do something that would serve the greater good and better the world.

Others might say that it isn't related to a higher purpose at all but that to be called is simply your subconscious sorting through all of the mental distraction and debris of life in order to point you down the path that will be most fulfilling for you. And then there are those that would say what we'd refer to as a being called is simply our own ego, our self centered nature, trying to convince us that our individual life has more purpose and meaning than those of our fellow humans.

How do we know if the call is genuine? Whether we believe it is God, The Universe, or our own deeper selves, how do we avoid the trap of ego? To be chosen, to believe that I might be singled out from amongst the seven million human beings on this planet to do a particular something rings dangerously close to hubris to me. If it is my own mind? We humans have a talent for self delusion and a desire to be unique. What sense of self importance makes us believe that we are somehow different than the rest of the world. Is it that we simply talk ourselves into believing we are "more special" than our neighbors, friends and family?

When we think of those who are called to do something we think of the saints, teachers, those who speak out against injustice, artists and adventurers of the world, but there are dictators, tyrants and those who seek to oppress those different than they in our world. Do they feel called too? Our concept of just what serving the greater good means is a very individual thing. The dictator who seeks to purge the world of a particular race and the volunteer scrubbing pots in the soup kitchen might both see their actions as God's work. In our history there were scientists who tested on the mentally ill, the disabled, and those who they saw as less than human, in order to pursue what they saw as a greater good.

And what of those who hesitate? Those who hear a call, but ask, "Why me? Who am I to think I can do this thing? Am I crazy?" Are those who are called but proceed forward with doubt in their pocket, more likely to avoid the pitfalls of ego?

I'm not sure any of these questions have concrete answers (few questions of this sort do). If there are answers I am certainly not the person who has found them. But I am contemplating the questions...

Depression

Note:  This post was written about a month ago now.  I chose not to share it at that time, in part because I was looking for housing and it is a fact that in our world people don't generally have a very positive image of those who live with mental health issues.  

The sad truth is we all live with mental health issues of one degree or another.  Our culture is not supportive of a healthy mental state.  We work too much.  We are more and more isolated from each other; community seems on its way to becoming a word we Google. And  when we do come face to face with our own pain, there are a plethora of options out there for numbing out so we needn't ever actually deal with it.  

 I tell myself that there is no shame in living with depression, but these words and the actions of my mind very different.  There is that voice that tells me over and over again, "You are broken and because of that you are unlovable."

 A hundred outside voices can tell me, "That isn't true, I love you..." but the voice inside will find a hundred reasons why those words are false.  And each reason makes sense.

A few weeks ago, at the end of my second therapy session in as many days, my new therapist asked me what I wanted out of this work.  I took a deep breath and I replied, "...an end to my self-loathing." 

It was one of the most difficult things I've ever said to another person.  I'd like to say that the acknowledgement of my own pain made me feel better or somehow lighter, but it didn't, at least not in that moment.  I felt very vulnerable.  I felt afraid.  I felt a deep sadness akin to grief.

I don't know why this time is different.  Why, after decades of living episode to episode, this one pushed those words past my lips.  This one was darker than most, and it still lingers. But as the mental fog that accompanies these times begins to clear there is another voice that is there in my mind, and this one is asking, "...but what if they are right? What if there is a way to see with my own eyes what others profess to see through theirs?"

And I'm listening. 

--------

No.  It’s not returning from my three months at sea. 

No.  It’s not beginning my admittedly super stressful and last semester at school.

No.  It’s not sleeping on the couch in my mother’s apartment while trying to find an affordable living situation in the city I love.  

No. It’s not having one friend threaten suicide and being terribly worried about another, and I do worry – about everyone and everything, but no, it’s not my anxiety either. 

No. It’s not coming to terms with the still unprocessed feelings around nearly losing my best friend several months ago. 

No. It’s not trying to figure out how to balance my day job, teaching, school, rehearsing, performing, friendships, creating and everything else that goes along with being alive.  

Yes.  These things may contribute and yes, they make living with depression all that more difficult but they are not the cause.  No.  I can’t just suck it up, deal with it or think it away.  It is a part of me. 

Depression.  I’ve lived with it for pretty much all of my adult life.  For many years it went undiagnosed, unacknowledged and untreated.  When I was first told that I had depression I was angry and I cried (my reaction to nearly any intense emotion is tears).  It wasn’t like being told I had anxiety; anxiety to me made sense and it had these identifiable episodes, panic attacks, that I had learned to see coming and which I could prevent.  And I was used to it.  “Anxiety is my white noise,” I used to say.  

Depression.  Maybe that was it.  Maybe it was because I hadn’t named it before, maybe it was my own preconceptions about what depression meant (comatose, unwashed in a dark room, unable to function…).  Not that I hadn’t had periods in my life that were like that, I did, but somehow those periods (my dark hole wallows) passed, or they didn’t last long, or well that was last year and this year will be different…and because they passed or the calendar changed that must mean I don’t have this thing called depression.  

Depression.  The episodes come and go like the seasons of your favorite reality show.  You don’t want to admit you watch such things, but you can’t tear yourself away.  You, the outsider, can see the train wreck that is to come, you yell at the television (OH MY GOD don’t be stupid, don’t say that, don’t do that, don’t……) but the players stay right on track, chugging along to disaster.  

Depression.  My life is not a reality show.  And I can hear my own thoughts, I can talk to myself.  There is no unbreachable fourth wall in my life.  I can seek help, and I do.  I can reach out, and I do.  And even though there are all sorts of other feelings mixed up in this thing called depression (self-loathing, shame, anger, sadness, grief…) I can name them.  I can face them. 

Depression.  It isn’t easy.  I choose to deal with this without medication.  This is my personal choice.  If there is a side effect to any medication I get it – dizziness, nausea, weight gain, darker thoughts, no thoughts at all, itching, rashes, numbness.  My body seems unable to handle much beyond aspirin.  Though a few years ago I gave medication a try too – it left me feeling spaced out, detached, tired, and uninspired.  And I gained 25 pounds.  I asked if it was okay to try dealing with this without pills.  Yes. 

Depression.  I knew this latest season was approaching.  I saw the previews (the not sleeping, the melancholy, putting on the mask, going through the motions to cover up my waning desire to do…well anything).  This past week I hid out on the couch.  I definitely drank too much. I neglected my school work.  I watched waaaaaaay to much QVC/HSN and Real Housewives (we all have our dark coping secrets). I shut down. I crashed. Hard.  

But…

This week I also started therapy again.  I reached out to close friends to ask for help.  And I’m attempting to reestablish the routines I need to get back on track. Sleep, hydration, exercise, food, meditation, journaling...all of the things that help me manage life (all of the things that I seem to let go as soon as things take a bad turn...) 

Depression.  It’s just another part of who I am; like my asthma, my height, my hazel eyes, my weirdly over-sized second toe on my right foot, it is a piece of me but also like those other things, I do not need to let it define me.  

Nor do I need to hide it.