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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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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‘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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Testing, Testing, 1-2-3

I suppose it goes without saying that with a cancer diagnosis comes a lot of medical tests. So many tests, in fact, that one tends to lose track. When people who need to know ask, I refer them to my medical scribe, er husband, if he’s present, and if he’s not, I say something like “You’ll have to look that up. I can’t remember all of it.” In the latter case, I’m pinning my hopes on there being a reliable detailing of the pokes and scopes and imaging this body of mine has been subject to, floating around out there in the ether, able to be captured by a few taps on a keyboard. Whether or not this is, in fact, the case, those asking have always been satisfied with my redirection, as it were.

Tomorrow is Testing Day. A colonoscopy in fact. The method by which I was first diagnosed more than 12 years ago.

Over the past few weeks I’ve been asked by my therapist, my psychiatrist, and my physical therapist, as well as the occasional friend or family member, if I’m nervous or afraid. And every time my answer has been an almost flippant, “no, I don’t think so”, accompanied by a casual shoulder shrug, mine not theirs.

Well, I’m here to say: Wrong Answer. 

I am (and likely have been, since my “procedure” was scheduled a month or so ago) all of the above and more. I’m nervous, afraid, anxious, terrified, filled with dread, etc. ad infinitum. 

But here’s the thing, I really thought I was fine. Taking it all in stride.

My body has been telling me otherwise and I’ve been, for the most part, ignoring those messages. Until I couldn’t. Yesterday I could no longer stem the flood; my finger in the hole in the dike was no longer adequate.

I felt the pressure building throughout the day (what I should be saying is “throughout the weeks”), but I am just so darn good at ignoring, repressing, BS-ing and basically going about life as if there wasn’t this THING looming on the not so distant horizon.

It’s not pretty, the way this plays out for me. I’ll say up front it involves a lot of swearing and self-pity.

The first red-flag symptom for me is my breath. I have this thing, I’ve had it for 40 years, the World Wide Web calls it Hyperventilation Syndrome and in a nutshell, it feels like I can’t breathe. Alarm bells going off in my brain, “Not Enough Air!!” even though there’s plenty. It doesn’t happen all the time but when it does it can last for months and it’s exhausting. If not due to a serious illness or injury, hyperventilating is almost always holding hands with anxiety. Hmm.

Second red flag: overwhelm. As in, “I have too much to get done”, and/ or, “life is too much for me”. I find it interesting as well as inconvenient that, in DBT (Dialectical Behavior Therapy), overwhelm is included in the list of synonyms for anxiety. Surprise, surprise.

By early evening I was waist deep in compulsive behaviors and, as a result, filled with self-loathing. By bedtime I found myself envious of others and, wanting, more than anything, a life different than the one I have. I warned you, not pretty.

But I’m told that all of it makes sense. To feel fear and not want to. To be reminded- again- that this disease has not only significantly changed my life, but that it can (and has) come back; that, like it or not, a certain amount of vigilance is required. Because, I’m told, people want me here.

This tangle of thoughts and emotion brings me here to this page, attempting to distill life’s complexities down to the reduction of words. And I find I don’t know how to end this… I think, because, like the medical testing, maybe there isn’t an end. That’s not something I can wrap up in some neat little word package. So, 

The End.

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