Your Presence is Requested

In Disney’s version of Beauty and The Beast, there’s a pivotal scene where Belle is “invited” to dine with the Beast. He’s not exactly an easy guy to be around. He’s moody to the point of being morose and he loses his temper without warning. Plus, bad table manners. Belle comes to the dining room and both their lives are changed for the better. Not in a moment or even overnight, but little by little.

It’s a beautiful story with many lessons for real life but the the point I want to make today is about showing up, being present, especially in the face of depression.

As always, I fall back on my own life experience, because it’s what I know best. I have gone through many bouts of deep depression, some of them lasting months. When on the inside looking out, it seems that everyone else is happy and has their stuff together. It’s a lonely place, this knowing that I am the only person who feels the way I do; lonely and isolating. I’ve learned over time that it’s in this place of loneliness I need to do the impossible- I need to reach out, connect, accept an invitation to coffee, make a phone call. I know what’s needed yet I’m not exaggerating when I say it feels impossible.

It’s so difficult, I think, because of shame. I know, I know, but please stick with me. When I am in darkness, ALL the very loud voices in my head tell me that it’s my fault. I have done something wrong, or neglected to do something right, again. I should know better. I should certainly know better by now! Yet here I am, hurting and filled with shame. Not a great combo. It’s no wonder that in this place I feel it’s only right to remain alone because certainly others agree with the voices in my head. Shame builds a wall; it keeps me in and you out. To you it feels like I’m pushing you away; to me it seems I deserve to be alone.

I’ve learned something about this cycle that I’ve found helpful: the pain of depression is like being shot by an arrow. It definitely hurts. But adding judgment and self-criticism to the pain is akin to shooting (stabbing?) myself with a second arrow and adds suffering to the pain. Like icing on the cake, but in a bad way. In other words, Pain + Shame = Suffering.

And culture doesn’t help. At least not the culture I live in. The loud and clear messages are all about finding the solution, helping yourself when you have a problem (thus the millions of “self-help” resources), and, above all, independence. So, to do what must be done, I not only have to defy the voices in my head but the powerful voices of culture as well. On the surface, it seems we have more opportunities for connection than ever, what with technology and all. I’m not so sure. I think much of technology at best, provides a small percentage of the human contact we need. At worst, it’s pseudo-connection and in reality we are more disconnected and lonelier than ever. And loneliness kills, as a precursor to disease and, of course, suicide.

Many, many times, the shame wins. I believe its lies that others are as disappointed in me as I am in myself. I believe that to love them is to protect them from this dark version of who I’ve become. I believe that I am an abject failure because I cannot get this mental illness thing figured out and make it go away.

Now I want to speak from my experience as the outsider looking in. You see, someone I love very much also sometimes lives in darkness. And this someone also hears the loud voice of shame.

What’s an outsider to do? My answer isn’t complicated and it also isn’t easy. Come to dinner with the Beast of depression. Come without an invitation, because there probably won’t be one. Come and stay as long as you can. Come again tomorrow and the next day and the day after that. You don’t need answers (there aren’t any), you don’t even have to talk, you just need to be present. We who sometimes, or often, walk in the darkness of depression, need your presence, even if we can’t actually hear that voice of truth, the one that says we’re loved and accepted and valued, enough to dismantle the wall of shame around us.

You see, your presence helps us begin to see that maybe it’s not our fault after all, maybe we’re not failures who just need to try harder. Your presence is validating and helps turn down the volume on the voice of shame. When Belle came to dinner, the wall of shame the Beast had erected began to come down. This is not just the stuff of fairy tales. Your presence is requested, here, now, In Real Life.

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River Magic

Birthed of mystery

Embellished with streams and creeks and falls

I am stones- shiny smooth or

Velvet with moss

Branches overreaching

I am rushing wind and

Soft sultry dusk

I am water ouzel play-working

Wing-flap swimming

At times bright and brazen

The echoing screech of fish eagle

By season, I am somber

Then bursting

Pulsing then

Ablaze with startling scandalous scarlet and

Luminous gold

I am naked and not ashamed

All ripples then glassy sheen

Or dark and secretive

Sheltering fish from hook and line

I am rapids of whipping cream and

Ocean’s deafening swell

Yet also deep doldrums

At times unknowable

But brash and furious

I am constant

Changeless and

Born anew each instant

I speak in these many voices

Biding silence is not for this moment

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Big Talk

“I must confess that cancer ruined me for small talk.” I didn’t write that; Mark Nepo did, but I agree. 

I read something yesterday about losing friends to depression. To tell the truth, I was already angry when I read it and reading it made me angrier still. It seems that all of the pain and frustration and grief and loss I feel is living under the umbrella of this one emotion: anger. I’m finding it highly uncomfortable.

The subject of people going away on me is a hard one to write about. Truth: it’s happened. It happens still. And not just because of the mental illness challenges I carry around like a backpack full of rocks, but add to that the physical stuff and add to that the reality that I have been in a “faith crisis” of sorts for the last several years. Yeah, maybe I shouldn’t share all of this. But I find I’m not very popular. It’s OK, I understand (sort of). And it hurts.

It’s hard to tell the truth, my truth. I’m ALWAYS too concerned about what others will think, how they might feel reading these words. But not telling the truth doesn’t make it less true. Pretending something doesn’t hurt, doesn’t lessen the pain.

I’d like to go back to making small talk, I really would. Yet life keeps calling me to the depths. My hope is that I can bring some comfort and hope to others that dwell here.

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motherless

This is a poem I wrote a few days after my mom’s funeral on December 22, 2016

we sit in this place

I see our faces

the curve of our shoulders

vacant stares

empty smiles

Motherless.

It’s not a new experience

but another, heavier

layer of the life we’ve had

another heavier layer of life

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2 Years Ago My Mother Died

(Following is what I read at her funeral)

My father’s wife of 61 years died last week.

My mom died.

Monica, Melissa and Cash lost their mom too.

Jessica, Kathleen, Nathan, Camille, Travis, Tiffany, Alexis, Sage, Sawyer, Hadley, Olivia, Henry, Abi, Ben and Jack lost their grandma.

Ethan, Adison, Violet, Juniper, Hunter, Evangeline, Alessandra, Sadie, and 2 babies on the way, lost their great-grandma.

And today that loss all but consumes me.

So I’m thinking of gifts-

The gifts my mother gave me.

Of course a few obvious things come to mind: she gave me life and 3 dear siblings who are my best friends.

But there are other things she gave me:

-the pleasure of cooking good food for those you love.

-an appreciation for nature and a love for being out in it

-a love of cookies and dark chocolate

-the serious business of collecting sea shells

-the ability to orchestrate the perfect picnic lunch

-a love for reading and reading aloud

-the ability to spell supercalifragilistic…

-a crazy love for newborn babies

-an aversion to hot weather

-attention to detail; sometimes too much attention to detail!

-a love of learning

-an absurd love for words ( i.e supercalifragilistic…)

-extreme fear of snakes

-an abiding appreciation for the humble petunia

-tenacity, perseverance and the ability to face into hard things

Yes, there is great loss represented here- in this place, on these faces, in these hearts.

AND there are the gifts that each of us has received from this woman, this wife, this sister, this mother, this grandma, this great-grandma -from my mom.

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Mosaic: Gifts

 (2015)

“A mosaic, ” writes Terry Tempest Williams, “is a conversation between what is broken.”

Across the room from me sit two women, their minds eaten away by dementia, or life.
The loud woman is quieted as the quiet woman covers a trembling hand with her own small, quiet hand. A gift.
There is conversation but I cannot make it out.
This place
is rife with, full, brimming with pain and dying.

I found her, the one I came for, sitting alone on her bare bed in her shared room.
“I think I’m dying” are the first words she says to me-her gaze surprisingly direct and intent.
I take her hand and lean in close so that my forehead is touching hers.
“Then what sis?” I ask. “After dying comes cookies and ice cream.” I am shamelessly invoking the sweet gods that comforted us in childhood.
“Yes” she says, then a question: “cookies?” And I begin feeding her the snack I hold in my hands.

Today- like too many before- she is dressed warmly, but she shivers. “Are you cold?”
“I’m fr-freezing.”
So I gently urge her bones so lightly cloaked in flesh, into another layer.
It’s then I realize- 
the odor, sharp and burning…

A quick message sent to the one who loves me most,
“I won’t be coming home before my meeting. I’m sorry about dinner.” (Not that he ever holds me to such an expectation or ever has-no.)
But I am leaving in the morning for 6 days, and a home made dinner the night before going is a gift I wanted to give.

Instead
I do what needs to be done, searching her closet for warm, dry pants, hoping to find some that actually belong to her-
I take her hand
then we make our slow stop and start journey to the bathroom.

A few days ago I was
receptacle, listening,
taking in the pain and grief of the one who loves me most;
the road we’ve traveled, 
the much that has been lost along the way and
I am flooded-
overwhelmed again with the enormity-
the all of it.
Diseased and damaged body, siblings who are, all three,
very ill. Others whom I love most, suffering.
I sit there facing into these words that seem to burn with sorrow,
anger
at the injustice found in every life,
in our lives.

It’s like I imagine drowning must feel.
Of course the tears come again and I find I am holding my breath.
The softest touch of a kind hand on my shoulder urges me
be here
breathe
feel this pain.
I do.
I must.

I kiss my sister goodbye, promise to visit soon, say I love you, as my eyes brim.

Stop off for smoothie-dinner.
“What did you do today?” the young man asks. 
I say the words “oncologist” “dementia”.
Handing me my dinner-drink- he finds my gaze:
“it’s on me”. And I know then that he speaks truth.
My pain- somehow, inexplicably dancing off my tongue
landed in his compassionate soul and is now
on him.
A gift.

Two hours later I bask in the arms – held tight against the frame of one I call son. 
I am held and comforted.
I don’t need to speak.
He knows.
A gift.

At home, another long strong hug- this time, my baby- 15, this larger-than-life child of mine also recognizes the pain,
maybe it’s in my eyes, maybe it’s the way I look around as if startled by a sharp noise.
He holds me long and close. 
A gift.

A few minutes pass as I reconnect with the All that needs to be done before tomorrow’s morning flight.
Then
daughter-friend, sits close on the sofa, leaning in. 
I rub her back. “So much pain” I say. She knows.
A gift.

And I know now this thing called life
demands from me what I truly believe
I can’t afford to give.
Yet also gives to me- again and again
Gifts
that I assuredly cannot allow the pain to madly paint over with its broad black strokes.

The truth I now believe even while I hesitate:
Life is both-
Pain
Gifts
and oh so often they are holding hands.

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Letting Go

I’m not so good at it. Actually, I’m really not good at it.

I cleaned the room. It needed cleaning. And sorting. Purging even.

There it is, the letting go.

Emptying the closet of boxes, I sat on the floor surrounded by

who knows what.

I deliberated and tossed and put away.

Then I saw it. 

A box full of her clothes. My sister’s clothes. 

I’m not sure why I have them, kept them, stored them.

She’s gone yet immediately I was in her presence.

She was here in the colors and textures.

But not the smell.

I buried my face in each item. One by one.

The socks even.

Nothing.

And I so desperately wanted someone to be there.


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‘Tis The Season To Be Jolly?

Suicide. Suicidal Ideation. Suicidal Tendencies. 

Yes, the topic of this post is pretty much the opposite of our culture’s mandate for this to be a “jolly” time of year, the “Happ-Happiest Season of All.” Why? Because for some, for many, their (our) experience of this time of year is the opposite of that. And we need to talk about it; as individuals and as a culture, we need to talk about it much more than we do.

More than anything, I want to share with you someone else’s post on this subject. I have followed Therese Borchard for a number of years, first by reading her book Beyond Blue and then becoming an active member of a forum she started for people with mental illness called Group Beyond Blue. Therese shares from her personal life and is well- practiced on writing from the heart.

Here’s the link (you will need to copy and paste): http://thereseborchard.com/2018/11/26/dear-suicidal-person/

If someone, other than yourself, came to mind, while reading Therese’s post, please, please share it with them. More than anything else, someone who is suicidal needs to know: a) they are not alone and, b) they do not need to be ashamed. So please share!

I also encourage you to share it with anyone. Share it wide! Let’s make this a conversation we can have publicly with the goal of making it a subject that those who are suffering can discuss without fear of rejection.

I will share more poetry later (I have written more poems about this topic than any other), but just this, to end today’s post:

appreciate the soul

that hurts

when you think 

there’s nothing

sharp

in the air

nothing that 

pricks at

the heart.

Hold out

your hand

anyway

it is a kindness.

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It’s All About You

I want to follow up my last post with a further explanation on self-validation and why (at least in my opinion) it’s important.

First a definition from the DBT Skills Manual for Adolescents: “Self-Validation involves perceiving your own feelings, thoughts, and actions as making sense, accurate, and acceptable in a particular situation.”

Have you ever felt angry with yourself for being angry? Been frustrated with yourself because you are “stuck” in grief? I have. And you know what, this form of emotional invalidation has not made things better. It has, in fact, made my life more of a challenge. For close to 50 years, I didn’t know any different. I thought the best way to change was to, well, change. Acceptance, never entered my mind. And acceptance is the sister of self-validation. If you cringe at the word “acceptance” as it relates to emotions, hang on, I will attempt to ease your discomfort!

I love the work of Kristin Neff, PhD, she is Associate Professor of Human Development and Culture at the University of Texas at Austin and her gig is self-compassion research. (Look her up on YouTube or check out her work at self-compassion.org). My main takeaway from Dr. Neff’s work is this: based on brain research (fMRI), when we are self-critical and judgmental, the part of our brain that helps us with motivation and change shuts down. Conversely, when we offer ourselves understanding and compassion (self-validation), those same brain centers light up and show an increase in activity. I think that’s pretty good news!

I love this quote from Kristin: 

Instead of mercilessly judging and criticizing yourself for various inadequacies or shortcomings, self-compassion means you are kind and understanding when confronted with personal failings – after all, who ever said you were supposed to be perfect?

An example I frequently use in class involves eating, because we all eat and most of us can relate to overeating. Let’s say I have resolved to stop eating one of my favorite sweets; I’m going to say (for you local folks) Sparrow Bakery’s peanut butter chocolate chip cookies. On Monday I go to my weekly therapy session and I leave feeling uncomfortable. This is not uncommon. (Backstory: I met my therapist when I signed up for a year-long DBT group she was co-leading. She scared the crap out of me and I actually thought to myself, “I would never want her as my therapist!” And yeah, now she’s my therapist. Suffice it to say, my sessions with her are often quite challenging. She calls me on my shit, er, stuff. AND I can tell her anything and she accepts it all without judgment.) Conveniently, on my drive home is a market that sells the above mentioned cookies. Truth be told, I sometimes stop and buy a cookie. Sometimes I eat the entire thing in the store parking lot. 

Used to be, after my wee little 500 calorie cookie indulgence, I’d feel guilty and berate myself with a fair amount of “I’m never going to change…I’m always going to eat to comfort myself”; you get the idea. Since encountering self-validation and Kristin Neff’s work on self-compassion, I buy and eat 10 cookies. Not really. I sometimes still stop and buy and eat a cookie. I sometimes feel a little guilt. But I rarely ever flog myself with nasty, self-recriminating thoughts. This next part may sound silly, but hey, it works for me. Now, I’m more likely to say things to myself like “it makes sense that you want to eat a cookie right now, you just did some tough emotional work.” 

Perhaps you’ve already jumped to the punch line, I know I’m not inventing the wheel here. Treating myself with kindness and validating the emotional turmoil I often feel after therapy (and on many other occasions!), has led to fewer stops for cookies, sometimes choosing a smaller cookie, or even (gasp!) eating only a few bites of the cookie. I know.

Self-validation makes a difference because, when I beat myself up I want to eat more cookies, or similar junk. Or, I take the anger and frustration I’m feeling toward myself and project it onto some unsuspecting bystander. And that’s not pretty.  Either way, I can pretty much guarantee that I stay stuck emotionally because, let’s face it, cookies don’t solve anything, no matter what your mom told you. When I am kind to myself, I am more able to see that I have other options. I can actually remember that last time I had a huge cookie, I felt better…for about 2 minutes, tops. Then I realize that what drove me to eat the cookie is still churning in my gut. 

This behavior is so common in a dieting situation, or when someone enters recovery from substance abuse or any other addiction. One wakes up Monday morning and decides “this is it, I’m going to lose this weight, eat only _____ calories a day and exercise for 5 hours each week.” Then the you-know-what hits the fan: a child is suspended from school, or the evening news is worse than usual (is that even possible?!), or, choose a scenario- it could be a disagreement with a loved one, traffic was bad. You get the idea. The drive-through beckons, those Monday morning goals pale in comparison to “I need to feel better now!!!”. So we go for it, the comfort of food or cigarettes or sex or gambling or meth or booze. Then the self- flagellation begins. “I’m so stupid!”, “I’ll never get it right!”. And then the most insidious message of all flares like a neon light: “I may as well give up.” Yep, off the wagon and it all happens so quickly.

Enter self-compassion. Self-validation. I’m not making this up: research shows it works. Going easier on ourselves when we do the thing we swore we wouldn’t do gives us the capacity to change that very behavior. Kind of flies in the face of all I’ve learned, how about you? 

Acceptance and self-validation do not mean we give up on trying to change things like addiction and other ineffective behaviors. They open the door for that very change to happen. And that, my friends, gives me hope!

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