Thursday, July 7, 2016
I know that #blacklivesmatter and I feel like I'm not pulling my weight and I'm sorry
I understand #blacklivesmatter as much as I think anyone with the amount of privilege someone like me has. I really understand it and have never questioned its validity, importance, and, unfortunately, its necessity. That said, I can't watch this stuff. Videos in my feed. Articles. It makes me literally feel sick to my stomach. I made the mistake of watching the execution of Nicholas Berg (the contractor who was killed on video shortly after 9/11 - I can't even bring myself to say or write the word that describes the manner in which he was killed). That was stupid of me. I had no idea how horrific it would be. I thought it would be horrific but it was qualitatively and exponentially more horrific than I could've ever imagined. I had nightmares and flashbacks for quite some time. Then I accidentally watched the video of the young man who was killed a year or two ago. I can't remember his name but he was the 2nd man in Ferguson. I tried googling just now to try and find his name and there were so many video links, so many articles, SO MANY NAMES, that I had to give up. I didn't want to click on any of them. I accidentally saw that video thinking it was an amateur documentary. I continued to think/hope that until the moment the gunfire started. That was also horrific. Watching anyone take anyone else's life feels so unnatural to me, like cannibalism and incest. I screamed so long and hard, a blood-curdling scream that made Erik come running in from the garage to see what was the matter. I sobbed hard, to the point that I couldn't talk, for five minutes? Ten minutes? I don't know. What I do know is that I can't handle this hate, what these killings represent, knowing it is just the tip of the conscious or unconscious iceberg. I have the similar feeling about Trump supporters, knowing that he has significant support, knowing they are walking among us, not knowing who they are, but knowing what they stand for. I can't imagine living my life with this kind of fear and distrust. The closest I get to it is the feeling of being a woman in an unsafe situation but, at least for me, those occur so much less frequently as I've gotten older. In fact, I almost never even felt that while I was working in prison. Ha. Talk about privilege. In hindsight, that was so silly, the inappropriate confidence I had. The fear only ever broke through when I had to walk across one small section of the yard which was out of sight of the gun tower. Every time I did that (several times a day), I would look over my shoulder, take a deep breath, and book it until I got out of the blind spot. I can't begin to imagine feeling that every day. I really can't imagine letting my kids out of my sight knowing that they do or, even worse SHOULD feel that every day.
Anyway, I just can't see this anymore. I do what I can in my own little world. I am vocal (duh), or at least I try to be. I feel like that's the best I can offer. But this trauma... I can't do it. I feel like I'm shirking my responsibility in the situation because so many people live it and I only have to see it but... I can't do it. This is all just so heartbreaking. :-(
This is a long and rambling post but I feel like I'm bursting with all of this. I hope I have the guts to leave it up because I feel like such a jerk for not being able to handle it, feeling like that makes me part of the problem. *This* is the best I can do today in order to try to be part of the solution and it is pathetic at best and I'm sorry.
Sunday, February 21, 2016
Oh, how I wish happiness really was a choice!
If happiness really was a choice, and not just a neurochemical state of being, who the fuck would choose to be unhappy?
The other night I had a horrible night. I don't even know why. I think I was overwhelmed with work, not understanding the technology I needed to understand in order to set up for my next class. The house was a wreck. Everyone was needing everything from me. I was in a bad place. I just went to my room with a couple of beers, cried, and then binge watched all of The Jinx*, I was just so SAD. I am often in a mixed state which, to me, means I'm angry and irritable and short-tempered and generally unhappy. But lately I've been very, very sad. I just felt horrible. At one point I left my room to get something and saw that my entire family was watching Jeopardy (my 10, 8, and 6-year olds - WHAT? But whatever). It made me a million times more sad. I was missing it. It was 50 feet away and I was missing it. I wasn't even busy doing something that needed to be done. But I couldn't bring myself to be out there with them. I just couldn't, well... I just couldn't live.
The next night, I was supposed to get together with the girls who are arguably my closest friends. We have been friends since elementary school. We've been through it all together. But I feel a bit of a void has developed between us over the years for several reasons. First, I've gotten worse and worse, emotionally, and that's what happens because people don't know how to respond to me when I'm obviously out of sorts and they don't know that they even need to respond to me at all when I'm in my good actress frame of mine. Also, children. Children wreak havoc on friendships. We have kids either at different schools or in different grades or with different friends or activities and we have less time to spend with anyone outside of the new kid-centric groups. In the beginning, there was the need to make a very quick adjustment to each other's parenting styles. Who knew that a particular friend was down with using dessert as a bribe for eating dinner (I am not)? Who knew that a particular friend would have easy kids and could be laid back about everything and they would take issue with the fact that I was such a horrible mom because I couldn't handle my soon-to-be diagnosed as mentally ill child. But finally, I've made a couple of very huge mistakes in recent years of which I am unbelievably ashamed. Most of my friends don't know. Some know. I think one who knows has distanced herself because of it. But the bottom line of that is that I feel like I carry some huge dark secrets that I can't share. I know that I'd lose some friends over it and I'd easily say good riddance to those friends. But I'm afraid of the grapevine and I don't want my kids' peers parents to know. I dread the day that I have to talk to my kids about it. So I keep quiet and I feel like there's an elephant in the room. My psychiatrist and psychologist insist that I made these mistakes while I was acutely manic, undiagnosed and untreated (undertreated for the 2nd extremely less serious episode). It's easier for me to think I'm an asshole.**
Anyway, back to going out with friends... I barely felt up to it but I dragged myself there. In the end, I had an okay time. I'm glad I went though I don't know that I would've regretted not going. But the relevant part is this: One of my friends wrote a facebook post earlier that day about how grateful she was for her family and her life and how she was reassessing what mattered and what didn't and was trying to focus on what did. It is not like her to even post on facebook at all so the girls asked about it. She said that the night before, she felt like she was in a huge "pit of despair."
She said she felt like her children were the spawn of the devil, that her husband ignores her, that her house is a wreck, that nothing is going right, that she can't even run away because she has no where to go. She said her sister called and tried to cheer her up to no avail. Eventually she went to sleep and when she woke up...
SHE WAS HAPPY!!
She said that she realized she had a great life and that she just needed to pull her head out of her ass and realize she had a fucking awesome life.
The end.
I'll say it again: Wait...What? It sounds like she and I may have had relatively similar evenings the night before but we have clearly had very different days following that. I cannot remember a time in my life when I thought, "I realized I have a great life and I shouldn't be so upset." I would give ANYTHING for that epiphany. If I thought it would stick, I might give LITERALLY ANYTHING for that epiphany. It must be nice to just do a little depression drive-by and not hunker down, plant roots, and build a big ol' brick fortress solidly in the center of Miseryville.
It gave me a bit of insight into the people who say that happiness is a choice or that depressed people could just stop focusing on the negative and all would be good. My stock response to that is 1) how fortunate you to not know how wrong you are and 2) happiness not a choice. It is a neurobiochemical state of the brain.
Sometimes I try to imagine what life would be like if I were happy or if I hadn't fucked my life up with bad decisions that I've made while not feeling good. I can hardly imagine it. I look at childhood photos and I think, "That girl has no idea what shit is coming her way and I don't know how I'd prepare her for it even if there were such a thing as time travel." I'm sure many people feel like their lives didn't turn out as good as they'd hoped. But I really feel like mine is a bit of a disaster. Truly.
I promise to not be such a downer next time. I have a lot to say about Steven Avery (and his attorneys), Brendan Dassey, and, mostly about the legal system. I have a lot to say about Michael Peterson & that "investigation." I have a few things to say about Robert Durst as well. Oh, and Adnan Syed. At least my life isn't that type of trainwreck but the thing about depression, especially for a depressed person who has worked in the criminal "justice" system, I have no delusions about my security from getting pulled into such a thing. They call it "depressed realism."
* Robert Durst is one creepy fuck. Cah-reepy. I was about to wax poetic on that but I think I'll write a separate entry about this whole genre. More later.
** I don't believe I've discussed my theory of the differential diagnosis of "asshole" yet. I'll get there.
The other night I had a horrible night. I don't even know why. I think I was overwhelmed with work, not understanding the technology I needed to understand in order to set up for my next class. The house was a wreck. Everyone was needing everything from me. I was in a bad place. I just went to my room with a couple of beers, cried, and then binge watched all of The Jinx*, I was just so SAD. I am often in a mixed state which, to me, means I'm angry and irritable and short-tempered and generally unhappy. But lately I've been very, very sad. I just felt horrible. At one point I left my room to get something and saw that my entire family was watching Jeopardy (my 10, 8, and 6-year olds - WHAT? But whatever). It made me a million times more sad. I was missing it. It was 50 feet away and I was missing it. I wasn't even busy doing something that needed to be done. But I couldn't bring myself to be out there with them. I just couldn't, well... I just couldn't live.
The next night, I was supposed to get together with the girls who are arguably my closest friends. We have been friends since elementary school. We've been through it all together. But I feel a bit of a void has developed between us over the years for several reasons. First, I've gotten worse and worse, emotionally, and that's what happens because people don't know how to respond to me when I'm obviously out of sorts and they don't know that they even need to respond to me at all when I'm in my good actress frame of mine. Also, children. Children wreak havoc on friendships. We have kids either at different schools or in different grades or with different friends or activities and we have less time to spend with anyone outside of the new kid-centric groups. In the beginning, there was the need to make a very quick adjustment to each other's parenting styles. Who knew that a particular friend was down with using dessert as a bribe for eating dinner (I am not)? Who knew that a particular friend would have easy kids and could be laid back about everything and they would take issue with the fact that I was such a horrible mom because I couldn't handle my soon-to-be diagnosed as mentally ill child. But finally, I've made a couple of very huge mistakes in recent years of which I am unbelievably ashamed. Most of my friends don't know. Some know. I think one who knows has distanced herself because of it. But the bottom line of that is that I feel like I carry some huge dark secrets that I can't share. I know that I'd lose some friends over it and I'd easily say good riddance to those friends. But I'm afraid of the grapevine and I don't want my kids' peers parents to know. I dread the day that I have to talk to my kids about it. So I keep quiet and I feel like there's an elephant in the room. My psychiatrist and psychologist insist that I made these mistakes while I was acutely manic, undiagnosed and untreated (undertreated for the 2nd extremely less serious episode). It's easier for me to think I'm an asshole.**
Anyway, back to going out with friends... I barely felt up to it but I dragged myself there. In the end, I had an okay time. I'm glad I went though I don't know that I would've regretted not going. But the relevant part is this: One of my friends wrote a facebook post earlier that day about how grateful she was for her family and her life and how she was reassessing what mattered and what didn't and was trying to focus on what did. It is not like her to even post on facebook at all so the girls asked about it. She said that the night before, she felt like she was in a huge "pit of despair."
She said she felt like her children were the spawn of the devil, that her husband ignores her, that her house is a wreck, that nothing is going right, that she can't even run away because she has no where to go. She said her sister called and tried to cheer her up to no avail. Eventually she went to sleep and when she woke up...
SHE WAS HAPPY!!
She said that she realized she had a great life and that she just needed to pull her head out of her ass and realize she had a fucking awesome life.
The end.
I'll say it again: Wait...What? It sounds like she and I may have had relatively similar evenings the night before but we have clearly had very different days following that. I cannot remember a time in my life when I thought, "I realized I have a great life and I shouldn't be so upset." I would give ANYTHING for that epiphany. If I thought it would stick, I might give LITERALLY ANYTHING for that epiphany. It must be nice to just do a little depression drive-by and not hunker down, plant roots, and build a big ol' brick fortress solidly in the center of Miseryville.
It gave me a bit of insight into the people who say that happiness is a choice or that depressed people could just stop focusing on the negative and all would be good. My stock response to that is 1) how fortunate you to not know how wrong you are and 2) happiness not a choice. It is a neurobiochemical state of the brain.
Sometimes I try to imagine what life would be like if I were happy or if I hadn't fucked my life up with bad decisions that I've made while not feeling good. I can hardly imagine it. I look at childhood photos and I think, "That girl has no idea what shit is coming her way and I don't know how I'd prepare her for it even if there were such a thing as time travel." I'm sure many people feel like their lives didn't turn out as good as they'd hoped. But I really feel like mine is a bit of a disaster. Truly.
I promise to not be such a downer next time. I have a lot to say about Steven Avery (and his attorneys), Brendan Dassey, and, mostly about the legal system. I have a lot to say about Michael Peterson & that "investigation." I have a few things to say about Robert Durst as well. Oh, and Adnan Syed. At least my life isn't that type of trainwreck but the thing about depression, especially for a depressed person who has worked in the criminal "justice" system, I have no delusions about my security from getting pulled into such a thing. They call it "depressed realism."
* Robert Durst is one creepy fuck. Cah-reepy. I was about to wax poetic on that but I think I'll write a separate entry about this whole genre. More later.
** I don't believe I've discussed my theory of the differential diagnosis of "asshole" yet. I'll get there.
Thursday, February 18, 2016
Lather, rinse, repeat
I just started a new entry and I was going to entitle it "Depression is a bitch" but that sounded familiar. I went back and looked and my most recent post was titled, "Depression, you bitch." If that doesn't tell you how it goes, I don't know what does. Whatever I wrote in that last post, copy & paste here.
You've heard it before but I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired. If you've never thought about it in terms of mental illness, please do so. I'm so motherfucking sick and tired or being so motherfucking sick and tired.
I've been crying because I made a typo in an email to our payroll people. My 6-year old just came back in, 30 mins later, and asked if I was feeling better. I'm feeling better about the goddamn typo that's probably going to cost us $50. But I'm not feeling better about the fact that my child feels the need to check in on my well-being.
When will his get better? Everyone says it gets better. Everyone is a liar. It has never gotten better. I can't imagine it ever getting better. My poor children. My poor husband. Last night he said something about how different my life would've been if I'd married someone with money instead of him. Is he fucking joking? If I'd married anyone but him, I'd be alone right now because I can't imagine anyone putting up with my bullshit. I can't even begin to understand how he does. He said, "Well, at least you'd have money." That gave me pause. Yes, I'd have money. But I'd still have the same brain and same neurochemistry and I still think I have the best psychiatrist money can buy so....
I would just give anything to have anything resembling the life I thought I'd have when I was in high school and college. Even when I got married.
P.S. The opposite of happiness is binge watching The Jinx on HBOGO in your bedroom while the rest of your family watches Jeopardy and feeling like there is nothing you can do to change the situation. This really is the gift that keeps giving.
P.S. The opposite of happiness is binge watching The Jinx on HBOGO in your bedroom while the rest of your family watches Jeopardy and feeling like there is nothing you can do to change the situation. This really is the gift that keeps giving.
Monday, December 21, 2015
Depression, you bitch.
Mental illness is a bitch. A cunt, even. Just when you start feeling like things will be okay, she shows up to ruin the party.
Charlie Brown is a fantastic example of depression and anxiety. If you haven't seen the recent Peanuts movie and want to understand what depression & anxiety is, I highly recommend it. Here's a guy who can't win, if even only in his mind. When he doesn't win IRL, that's all the evidence he needs. Trying to kick that damn football is the story of my life.
I keep trying to be positive. I keep trying to be successful. And I keep not. Then not only have I been unsuccessful (in being happy, in doing something, whatever the case may be), I've completely sucked in my judgement of thinking I ever had any hope of kicking that fucking ball.
I have the world's best husband. He is unconditionally supportive. He rarely gets angry with me for being an angry, mixed-state* bitch.
He may have patience for me and he may accept that I feel miserable even if he doesn't really understand. I can only imagine how difficult it must be to watch a loved one be in pain and not know what do to help. Today he told me that I had to stay positive. I'd love to. That would be fabulous. And that, my friends, would be the end of the depression. I can't remember the last time I genuinely felt positive (at least not without immediately having the sensation of the "whoooof" that happened as I kicked the football that was no longer there).
Today I sobbed while my 8-year old daughter held me. That is so wrong in so many ways. A child should not be responsible for soothing her parent. And that thought made me sob harder. I am constantly apologizing for being and angry and sad. If the world at large can't understand this, how can a child?
You wanna know what kicked off this downward spiral today? My son dropped a little dish of ranch and it managed to cover every surface (including the underside of the breakfast bar) as it made its way down and crashed. I didn't even get angry (for a change). But I cried. He apologized and started to clean it up but I knew it would only make it worse. 1) He's 10. 2) He's a boy. 3) His fine motor skills leave much to be desired.
A mess of ranch dressing = thoughts of needing to be hospitalized and thinking about whether or not a suicided (I just made that up, I think it's fitting, sort of like "murdered") mom is better than an emotionally unstable mom.
Life really is unfair and there is nothing that says everyone, sooner or later, will no longer suffer. Lifelong suffering is possible, very, very possible.
I stick around for H. It's one thing to have to live with a suicided mom. It's another thing to have to live with that AND to have no one to fight for you in school or in life. Today, I just realized the strongest argument I have for sticking around. I don't see any way around that argument. Lucky me.
*Bipolar disorder is made up of manic episodes, depressive episodes, and/or mixed episodes. Interestingly, one does not ever have to have a depressive episode to meet the criteria of bipolar disorder. I heard Charlie Sheen once say that one of the many reasons he didn't think he had bipolar disorder was because he was never depressed. He was wrong about so very many things. Another common misconception is that someone with bipolar disorder swings from high to low very quickly. Not so. In fact, a person is characterized as having rapid-cycling bipolar disorder if they have more than 4 different mood episodes IN A YEAR. I think the lay person doesn't understand how deep a mood episode is, with roots, like a deep wave that holds a person hostage. It's not just a little ankle-biter wave. A person is said to have ultra rapid-cycling bipolar disorder if they have more than 4 episodes in a month. I think I'm probably one of those lucky people. I also never get the euphoria that goes with full-blown mania. That's probably good because that often lands people in the hospital but I often wish I did, just for some reprieve from the suffocating darkness. I usually have what are called mixed-episodes. I found this on a website and it is the most accurate description I've found. Most places just say that it's an episode where both manic and depressive episodes can be found, alternating.
Charlie Brown is a fantastic example of depression and anxiety. If you haven't seen the recent Peanuts movie and want to understand what depression & anxiety is, I highly recommend it. Here's a guy who can't win, if even only in his mind. When he doesn't win IRL, that's all the evidence he needs. Trying to kick that damn football is the story of my life.
I keep trying to be positive. I keep trying to be successful. And I keep not. Then not only have I been unsuccessful (in being happy, in doing something, whatever the case may be), I've completely sucked in my judgement of thinking I ever had any hope of kicking that fucking ball.
I have the world's best husband. He is unconditionally supportive. He rarely gets angry with me for being an angry, mixed-state* bitch.
He may have patience for me and he may accept that I feel miserable even if he doesn't really understand. I can only imagine how difficult it must be to watch a loved one be in pain and not know what do to help. Today he told me that I had to stay positive. I'd love to. That would be fabulous. And that, my friends, would be the end of the depression. I can't remember the last time I genuinely felt positive (at least not without immediately having the sensation of the "whoooof" that happened as I kicked the football that was no longer there).
Today I sobbed while my 8-year old daughter held me. That is so wrong in so many ways. A child should not be responsible for soothing her parent. And that thought made me sob harder. I am constantly apologizing for being and angry and sad. If the world at large can't understand this, how can a child?
You wanna know what kicked off this downward spiral today? My son dropped a little dish of ranch and it managed to cover every surface (including the underside of the breakfast bar) as it made its way down and crashed. I didn't even get angry (for a change). But I cried. He apologized and started to clean it up but I knew it would only make it worse. 1) He's 10. 2) He's a boy. 3) His fine motor skills leave much to be desired.
A mess of ranch dressing = thoughts of needing to be hospitalized and thinking about whether or not a suicided (I just made that up, I think it's fitting, sort of like "murdered") mom is better than an emotionally unstable mom.
Life really is unfair and there is nothing that says everyone, sooner or later, will no longer suffer. Lifelong suffering is possible, very, very possible.
I stick around for H. It's one thing to have to live with a suicided mom. It's another thing to have to live with that AND to have no one to fight for you in school or in life. Today, I just realized the strongest argument I have for sticking around. I don't see any way around that argument. Lucky me.
*Bipolar disorder is made up of manic episodes, depressive episodes, and/or mixed episodes. Interestingly, one does not ever have to have a depressive episode to meet the criteria of bipolar disorder. I heard Charlie Sheen once say that one of the many reasons he didn't think he had bipolar disorder was because he was never depressed. He was wrong about so very many things. Another common misconception is that someone with bipolar disorder swings from high to low very quickly. Not so. In fact, a person is characterized as having rapid-cycling bipolar disorder if they have more than 4 different mood episodes IN A YEAR. I think the lay person doesn't understand how deep a mood episode is, with roots, like a deep wave that holds a person hostage. It's not just a little ankle-biter wave. A person is said to have ultra rapid-cycling bipolar disorder if they have more than 4 episodes in a month. I think I'm probably one of those lucky people. I also never get the euphoria that goes with full-blown mania. That's probably good because that often lands people in the hospital but I often wish I did, just for some reprieve from the suffocating darkness. I usually have what are called mixed-episodes. I found this on a website and it is the most accurate description I've found. Most places just say that it's an episode where both manic and depressive episodes can be found, alternating.
Mixed state (also called mixed mania):
I teach about mixed episodes and it wasn't until a week or two ago that I really realized I was in the midst of one. The way I describe it when I teach, and I was probably unconsciously describing my experience because almost nothing ever describes it this way, is having the yucky feelings of depression with the pressured amplification that goes along with mania. It's like depression on speed. And lots of rage. Did I mention that I broke the glass topper on my desk this week? It's been awhile since I've broken anything so there's that. Anyway, mixed episode = the opposite of fun.Thursday, August 20, 2015
Too Much girl. Or worse? Too Much Woman.
First, the age thing. Let's get it out of the way. I can't believe I'm technically middle-aged. When the fuck did that happen? How do I have a house (that we actually, truly, literally cannot afford) and kids (that depend on us for their very survival) and all sorts of other adult things (like plumbing problems and yard problems and appliance problems)? I can't believe it. It wasn't until I kept dropping pop-culture references as I taught undergraduate psychology classes from Seinfeld, Friends, When Harry Met Sally, The Breakfast Club and all the rest, which were almost uniformly greeted by *crickets* that I realized I, myself, am no longer a college student. It never occurred to me that I was not of the same generation of my students. Holy shit.
But on to the main course. Too Much girl. That's me. I think I might be the poster child of Too-Muchness. I am always worried about being too much for everyone in every way. If someone doesn't respond to a message or email, it must be because I'm overwhelming. I'm needy. I'm Too Much. I am constantly walking on eggshells, pulling my punches, because I don't want to suffocate anyone with my Too-Muchness. I wonder if many people, particularly women, feel this way or is this yet another one of the fall-outs from my mood issues. Even that very thought reveals my fear of being Too Much. I wonder if people who don't feel this way can even understand it. More importantly, do they have Too Much people in their lives?
This poem brought me to tears. No, I take that back. I don't mean "tears" unless you understand that "tears" is a euphemism for ugly crying. I don't identify with the romantic partner aspect but I can easily sub in any other relationship in my life. I have lost friends who I know I overwhelmed. I was Too Much for them. Not tons. Not enough to make me decide that I am the problem but enough to make me seriously question it. The thing about someone who is not comfortable in their Too-Muchness (though I suppose such a person might refer to themselves as Just Right or Passionate or Living Fully) is that they probably never question themselves. They probably readily write off that friend as having missed out on having a Just Right or Passionate or Living Fully friend. I, on the other hand, go back and forth, analyzing every conversation, every interaction.
"Fuck. I know I shouldn't have made that snide comment."
"Christ. What's wrong with me? Why did I say that? I sound like I'm having a middle-age crisis and no one wants to be around that person."
"OH MY GOD. No one shares in that depth. They're going to think you're nuts."
Along those lines... I am the kind of person who is honest to a fault. I mean, I tell white lies. I would never hurt someone's feelings for the sake of being honest. But regarding myself, you'll get the unedited version any day of the week. I once lost a group of very good internet friends, a mommy board, because I was Too Much, I think. I was too honest about myself. We had a conversation about whether or not we ever have thoughts of harming our young children. I said that, of course, I did. I said that anyone who said anything differently was defending against something unconscious. I said that I thought such a person was unwilling to let themselves acknowledge having such a thought. This is the thing: I cannot imagine how a person could live with a needy, ungrateful being, who is demanding nearly every ounce of your being for survival and (often) rewards your servitude with shitty children behavior, and not have flashes of shaking them violently. I mean, I remember saying to my kids as they fought and cried against diaper changes that I was the one dealing with their shit, in the very literal sense, and they were the ones who were upset? I told my husband that it felt like I was bending down to tie someone's shoelace and was rewarded with a kick to the teeth. I also remember thinking after the birth of my first child, as I suffered from severe postpartum depression, that I was a person with tons of resources. I'm intelligent. I'm not poverty-stricken. I have the world's best husband (and father - truly). I have the support of my parents (we actually were living in their home at the time). Yet I still had flashes of shaking that fucking crying, non-sleeping, hurting my fucking boob, sucking the very life out of me little shit as if he were a motherfucking maraca.
But I digress... back to my internet friends. I think what happens is that most people edit. Most people only tell others 70% of their truth. I do not do that. I tell it like it is. I hold back much more than others do. I think that terrifies people because 1) maybe it makes it sound like I'm in control of my shit and 2) they think, "Fuck! If I hold back the worst of myself and that's what she's saying, what must the worst of her be??" Ummmmm.... that's it. That is the worst of me. But they assume I'm even worse. Not only that but by sharing that kind of scary stuff (as in the thoughts of harming one's child), it forces them to actually think about it for themselves. They can't help but have a flash of it. It's like when someone tells you not to think of a pink elephant. People get pissed that I made them feel like shitty mothers. #sorrynotsorry
I mean, I'm not sorry. I say it because it makes others feel not alone. I can't sugarcoat things because that perpetuates guilt and feelings of Too-Muchness in my fellow mommies/women. I frequently get messages from friends who are so relieved to hear me say the things they are thinking but never say. That both breaks and warms my heart.
Back to being Too-Much more directly, it's a constant fight within myself. I know, cognitively, that I am not too much. But I'm, emotionally, afraid that I am. Reading this poem felt like sort of like I've been suspicious about a man being behind the curtain all this time and finally someone ripped the curtain back. I feel like I need to read it every day.
P.S. I'm still too scared to share this blog with anyone I know IRL. There are things in my life that I am still too afraid to share. I hope that one day I can but for now, I can't risk it for my kids' sakes. I'm sure that eventually people who are conditional friends (or acquaintances) may read this and I'm afraid that the effects of judgement and stigma will trickle down to my children vicariously. Not cool. So until then, I suppose you really are only just getting a part of me. Even if it is a huge part, my fear is that that last part will officially bump me over the edge into Too Much. This, my blog-reading unconditional friends, is the epitome of my Too-Muchness feelings. :-(
But on to the main course. Too Much girl. That's me. I think I might be the poster child of Too-Muchness. I am always worried about being too much for everyone in every way. If someone doesn't respond to a message or email, it must be because I'm overwhelming. I'm needy. I'm Too Much. I am constantly walking on eggshells, pulling my punches, because I don't want to suffocate anyone with my Too-Muchness. I wonder if many people, particularly women, feel this way or is this yet another one of the fall-outs from my mood issues. Even that very thought reveals my fear of being Too Much. I wonder if people who don't feel this way can even understand it. More importantly, do they have Too Much people in their lives?
This poem brought me to tears. No, I take that back. I don't mean "tears" unless you understand that "tears" is a euphemism for ugly crying. I don't identify with the romantic partner aspect but I can easily sub in any other relationship in my life. I have lost friends who I know I overwhelmed. I was Too Much for them. Not tons. Not enough to make me decide that I am the problem but enough to make me seriously question it. The thing about someone who is not comfortable in their Too-Muchness (though I suppose such a person might refer to themselves as Just Right or Passionate or Living Fully) is that they probably never question themselves. They probably readily write off that friend as having missed out on having a Just Right or Passionate or Living Fully friend. I, on the other hand, go back and forth, analyzing every conversation, every interaction.
"Fuck. I know I shouldn't have made that snide comment."
"Christ. What's wrong with me? Why did I say that? I sound like I'm having a middle-age crisis and no one wants to be around that person."
"OH MY GOD. No one shares in that depth. They're going to think you're nuts."
Along those lines... I am the kind of person who is honest to a fault. I mean, I tell white lies. I would never hurt someone's feelings for the sake of being honest. But regarding myself, you'll get the unedited version any day of the week. I once lost a group of very good internet friends, a mommy board, because I was Too Much, I think. I was too honest about myself. We had a conversation about whether or not we ever have thoughts of harming our young children. I said that, of course, I did. I said that anyone who said anything differently was defending against something unconscious. I said that I thought such a person was unwilling to let themselves acknowledge having such a thought. This is the thing: I cannot imagine how a person could live with a needy, ungrateful being, who is demanding nearly every ounce of your being for survival and (often) rewards your servitude with shitty children behavior, and not have flashes of shaking them violently. I mean, I remember saying to my kids as they fought and cried against diaper changes that I was the one dealing with their shit, in the very literal sense, and they were the ones who were upset? I told my husband that it felt like I was bending down to tie someone's shoelace and was rewarded with a kick to the teeth. I also remember thinking after the birth of my first child, as I suffered from severe postpartum depression, that I was a person with tons of resources. I'm intelligent. I'm not poverty-stricken. I have the world's best husband (and father - truly). I have the support of my parents (we actually were living in their home at the time). Yet I still had flashes of shaking that fucking crying, non-sleeping, hurting my fucking boob, sucking the very life out of me little shit as if he were a motherfucking maraca.
But I digress... back to my internet friends. I think what happens is that most people edit. Most people only tell others 70% of their truth. I do not do that. I tell it like it is. I hold back much more than others do. I think that terrifies people because 1) maybe it makes it sound like I'm in control of my shit and 2) they think, "Fuck! If I hold back the worst of myself and that's what she's saying, what must the worst of her be??" Ummmmm.... that's it. That is the worst of me. But they assume I'm even worse. Not only that but by sharing that kind of scary stuff (as in the thoughts of harming one's child), it forces them to actually think about it for themselves. They can't help but have a flash of it. It's like when someone tells you not to think of a pink elephant. People get pissed that I made them feel like shitty mothers. #sorrynotsorry
I mean, I'm not sorry. I say it because it makes others feel not alone. I can't sugarcoat things because that perpetuates guilt and feelings of Too-Muchness in my fellow mommies/women. I frequently get messages from friends who are so relieved to hear me say the things they are thinking but never say. That both breaks and warms my heart.
Back to being Too-Much more directly, it's a constant fight within myself. I know, cognitively, that I am not too much. But I'm, emotionally, afraid that I am. Reading this poem felt like sort of like I've been suspicious about a man being behind the curtain all this time and finally someone ripped the curtain back. I feel like I need to read it every day.
P.S. I'm still too scared to share this blog with anyone I know IRL. There are things in my life that I am still too afraid to share. I hope that one day I can but for now, I can't risk it for my kids' sakes. I'm sure that eventually people who are conditional friends (or acquaintances) may read this and I'm afraid that the effects of judgement and stigma will trickle down to my children vicariously. Not cool. So until then, I suppose you really are only just getting a part of me. Even if it is a huge part, my fear is that that last part will officially bump me over the edge into Too Much. This, my blog-reading unconditional friends, is the epitome of my Too-Muchness feelings. :-(
“Life is complicated. I am tired of hiding.”“Why are you hiding?”“Because I’m ‘too much’ girl”“Oh. I know that story. All too well.”“I just had a long distance lover dump me because I’m too much. And it hurts. Fuck it. No more.”
+++++
Listen to me. Right now.
You are right. Fuck it. No more. Never again.
You are not too much. You have never been too much. You will never be too much.
The very idea is preposterous. Because you were born to be you. All of you. Not a tiny acceptable sliver. Not a watered down version with colors dulled and edges softened.
No. You were meant to be every last pulsing-bleeding-loving-crying-feeling bit.
And if someone tells you that you are too much for them, the only truth you need to remember is this:
It is highly likely that they are not now, and never could have been, near enough for you.
Because you, my girl. You are the sun and the moon and the stars. You are the force that pulls the tides. You are the unrestrained howl under a wide-open moon. You are the essence of what it is to dance into ecstasy. You are the heat and the sex and the sweat and the burn and soft and the grace and the grit and the ocean of tears.
You are all of everything.
You are the mother of us all and the daughter of the universe.
You walk through shadows and light.
You burn down and rise up and hold captive the pulse of the world.
You make the gods tremble.
And that, my dear, is bound to make some people crazy uncomfortable. It will make them pull back and push away. Because the way you dance with your shadows and your steadfast commitment to your light will push them into spaces that are fascinating and compelling and utterly terrifying. Your very being asks them to step into places they may not be near ready to visit, let alone stay.
Because like the depths of the ocean that calls you home, you will never be easy.
But darling, you were not brought here for easy. You are here for so much more.
Because you are a boundary pusher.
You’re a truth seeker.
You’re temptation and seduction and heat.
You’re a mirror and a sorcerer and inside you swirls the power of the ancients.
So no, you are not easy.
But in the space of that truth – please also know this. Do not get this confused with the notion that you do not deserve the deepest ease. Don’t for a minute let them convince you that you will not know the grace of a lover who does not require that you constantly translate yourself or diminish yourself or quiet your storm or tone down your extravagant love.
Because that, my girl, is bullshit.
Because out there somewhere there is a love who will never dream of calling you too much. Who speaks, like you, in poetry and candlewax and stardust. Who runs outside on stormy nights to howl at the moon. Who collects bones and sings incantation and talks to the ancestors. And that lover, when you find him or her, will see you and know you – just as you are and just as you should be.
And they will say yes. Yes, you. I will go there with you. I have been waiting for this.
And so while you are waiting, I want you to do this. For me, and for every last too much girl out there.
You take all that too much and you channel it. You gather every last ember of your too much broken heart and you light that flame. And in doing so you will call forth the others and you sing the song that brings us home.
And then you – in your infinite, perfect too-muchness – unleash it all on the world. And you go and love too much and you cry too much and you swear too much. Fall in love to fast and get sad too often and laugh too loudly and demand with clarity the exact terms of your own desired existence.
Don’t you dare consider doing anything but that.
Because we need you. Everyone of us, man or woman, who has been called too much. You are our reminder, in the most desperate of moment, that we are exactly as we should be.
Every last too-much bit.
"All of Everything" by Jeanette LeBlanc
Tuesday, July 7, 2015
Shel Silverstein is either an asshole or hilarious
The Giving Tree. You all know this fucking book.
You probably have fond memories of it from childhood. I know I did. But I've been mulling it over for the years since I became a mother and, you know what? Fuuuuuuuuck that.
This all came to a head when I read Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn (which I highly recommend - I even more highly recommend another one of her novels, Sharp Objects - did I mention that I'm a book geek?). The line? "He Giving-Treed me out of existence." I prefer the term Giving-Treeing oneself as it takes a willing tree to do this. Many a tree resist. I, unfortunately, am not such a tree. It is but one of my hamartias (again, book geek).
For years, I've been using the example of the Giving Tree when I have talked with my girlfriends about motherhood and the soul-devouring nature of children. People don't talk about it. People don't talk about a lot of the things that I talk about. IDGAF.* But I feel like The Giving Tree is overtly about the relationship between mother and child. This would be fine if it ended well but it doesn't. Mr. Silverstein even seems to know that Giving Trees are not happy. In the middle of the book, when...
I feel like, "AH HA! PROGRESS!!" It seems like Mr. Silverstein is going to acknowledge the fact that one cannot have one's very core, literally one's core, removed and still be happy. This is accurate. One cannot have her very core removed, even a mother by her children, and still remain happy. But...
Then the boy returns and he is old and whiny. He bitches and moans and complains about how he can't eat apples or swing from branches or climb trunks or any such nonsense. So you know what that sweet, sacrificing "tree" (as she is no longer a tree, she is nothing but a mere stump) does. "Straightening herself up as she could," she offers the boy a place to sit. Here, Boy... You've consumed my entire being, literally and figuratively. You've eaten my apples, you've sold my apples, you've stripped me of my branches, and cut down my trunk. I have nothing left except for what bad tree excavators leave behind - garbage - but please feel free to use that, too.
And you know what the shittiest part of this fucking story is? These two pages:
And you're thinking and hoping (or at least I am thinking and hoping), "Please dear Lord, Baby Jesus, Master of the Universe, be it He-Man, She-Ra, Mother Nature, whoever, all that is good and holy (or not, whatever, IDGAF*), whatever it is that has control over the matters of us measly humans, PLEASE LET THE NEXT PAGE, THE LAST PAGE, SAY, "BUT NOT REALLY."
But it doesn't. Not really. Not really even fucking CLOSE to "not really."
THIS is what the next page/last page says:
On behalf of all mothers everywhere, or at least the ones with children who are apple-eating, branch-swinging, and/or trunk climbing... fuck you, Shel Silverstein. And fuck the rest of you that perpetuate the myth that mothers should Giving-Tree themselves to death. This is where Mother's Guilt originates. I'm over it.
*I don't give a fuck. I need this as a tattoo. It would be my first tattoo. It's in the running for that honor with a Hunger Games tattoo. I want "She has no idea. The effect she can have," scrolled around the mockingjay symbol on the top of my foot. I've been told it is excruciating to get a tattoo there. This only mildly scares me. I had three children without pain medication, with minimal medical intervention (did I tell you I was a bit crunchy, in just a few ways?). Anyway, the other reason why I've waited is that I've heard the skin on the foot is thin and prone to blurring. Not good for text. Plus text is supposed to be a fairly large size if one doesn't want it to look blurry relatively quickly.
You probably have fond memories of it from childhood. I know I did. But I've been mulling it over for the years since I became a mother and, you know what? Fuuuuuuuuck that.
This all came to a head when I read Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn (which I highly recommend - I even more highly recommend another one of her novels, Sharp Objects - did I mention that I'm a book geek?). The line? "He Giving-Treed me out of existence." I prefer the term Giving-Treeing oneself as it takes a willing tree to do this. Many a tree resist. I, unfortunately, am not such a tree. It is but one of my hamartias (again, book geek).
For years, I've been using the example of the Giving Tree when I have talked with my girlfriends about motherhood and the soul-devouring nature of children. People don't talk about it. People don't talk about a lot of the things that I talk about. IDGAF.* But I feel like The Giving Tree is overtly about the relationship between mother and child. This would be fine if it ended well but it doesn't. Mr. Silverstein even seems to know that Giving Trees are not happy. In the middle of the book, when...
I feel like, "AH HA! PROGRESS!!" It seems like Mr. Silverstein is going to acknowledge the fact that one cannot have one's very core, literally one's core, removed and still be happy. This is accurate. One cannot have her very core removed, even a mother by her children, and still remain happy. But...
Then the boy returns and he is old and whiny. He bitches and moans and complains about how he can't eat apples or swing from branches or climb trunks or any such nonsense. So you know what that sweet, sacrificing "tree" (as she is no longer a tree, she is nothing but a mere stump) does. "Straightening herself up as she could," she offers the boy a place to sit. Here, Boy... You've consumed my entire being, literally and figuratively. You've eaten my apples, you've sold my apples, you've stripped me of my branches, and cut down my trunk. I have nothing left except for what bad tree excavators leave behind - garbage - but please feel free to use that, too.
And you know what the shittiest part of this fucking story is? These two pages:
And you're thinking and hoping (or at least I am thinking and hoping), "Please dear Lord, Baby Jesus, Master of the Universe, be it He-Man, She-Ra, Mother Nature, whoever, all that is good and holy (or not, whatever, IDGAF*), whatever it is that has control over the matters of us measly humans, PLEASE LET THE NEXT PAGE, THE LAST PAGE, SAY, "BUT NOT REALLY."
But it doesn't. Not really. Not really even fucking CLOSE to "not really."
THIS is what the next page/last page says:
On behalf of all mothers everywhere, or at least the ones with children who are apple-eating, branch-swinging, and/or trunk climbing... fuck you, Shel Silverstein. And fuck the rest of you that perpetuate the myth that mothers should Giving-Tree themselves to death. This is where Mother's Guilt originates. I'm over it.
*I don't give a fuck. I need this as a tattoo. It would be my first tattoo. It's in the running for that honor with a Hunger Games tattoo. I want "She has no idea. The effect she can have," scrolled around the mockingjay symbol on the top of my foot. I've been told it is excruciating to get a tattoo there. This only mildly scares me. I had three children without pain medication, with minimal medical intervention (did I tell you I was a bit crunchy, in just a few ways?). Anyway, the other reason why I've waited is that I've heard the skin on the foot is thin and prone to blurring. Not good for text. Plus text is supposed to be a fairly large size if one doesn't want it to look blurry relatively quickly.
Saturday, June 27, 2015
Love & Hate, from the mouth of my particular babe
I was reading the front page of the newspaper, an article about yesterday's long-overdue decision to afford all people the rights that up until now only some people enjoyed. Then I flipped to page three and saw the article about Reverend Clementa Pinckney's funeral. It showed a photo of our President leading the mourners/ celebrators of life in what was perhaps the most moving rendition, objectively, of Amazing Grace. I was so struck by the juxtaposition, the love and hate. So struck. I was completely overwhelmed by the hate that led to the need for yesterday's SCOTUS decision, the love that led to the decision happening, the hate of racism, and the strength of faith. I was close to sobbing. My 8 year-old daughter ("C") came over and asked why I was crying. I cried harder and tried to choke out and gesture that I was fine but I needed a moment to gather myself. The idea of having to explain to my child how we, as people, can hate so much that it leads to the need to celebrate the giving of long-overdue equality to one group of people and to the need to mourn the deaths of members of another group of people. How do I explain such a thing? It is so senseless that it's hard to find words that would make sense to an innocent. This was how the conversation went:
Me: You know how a lot of times men love women and women love men but sometimes men love men and women love women?
C: Yes? (she's still concerned that I'm crying)
Me: Well, up until yesterday it was not legal for men to marry men and women to marry women. Only men and women could get married to each other.
C: *furrows brow* Wait... What's so wrong with a man marrying a man or a woman marrying a woman?
Me: *practically sobbing* Nothing. But some people thing that God doesn't like it (this is where it gets a bit harder to explain, for me, as we are not at all religious - thank the universe that my kids went to a Christian preschool* and know about God).
C: *furrows brow deeper* Why would God have a problem with two people loving each other even if they are two men or two women?
Me: I don't know. I don't think He does. That's why it is so sad that there had to be a big deal and a law to treat everyone equally. It's sad that that even needs to happen. And then on the other page is a story about some people who were black and they were at their church and a man who hates black people went in and killed them all. This is a picture of the funeral and of our President singing a song. (I dug up the video online). It is so sad that there is so much hate and that there is so much hate because of love, all sorts of love.
C: Why do people hate other people like that?
Me: There has been a very long history of people hating people, just because they're different than than themselves.
C: Well, I don't like Star Wars (she happened to be fiddling with a lightsaber) but I don't care if other people do.
Me: *finally, some laughter through tears* Exactly.
C: And black people are only different from white people because of the color of their skin and because people treat them worse.
Oh.My.God Universe. This may be the most poignant/sad/true/wise statement ever uttered by any child. And she is my empathetic, insightful, ridiculously emotionally intelligent child. My heart swells with pride and actual hope that our next generation may make bigger strides towards eliminating the ugliness that we see today. I choose to believe that. I choose to ignore the fact that elsewhere are children being raised by people who are as entrenched in their hateful beliefs as I am in my belief in equality. I cannot bear the idea that there may be other, very different, conversations going on in other homes across the country. I must carry on as I am, teaching my children and my students, in ways that promote love and kindness. While I very much appreciate those who do more, this is all I can do in my little corner of the world so I will continue to do that.
* Regarding the Christian preschool. One day my then 3 year-old son came out of school and as I buckled him into the car seat, he said, "Did you know that Mrs. Smith has a friend named Jesus?" I asked, "Oh, yeah? What else did she tell you about her friend?" He said, "She has long hair. That's all." Kids are great.
Me: You know how a lot of times men love women and women love men but sometimes men love men and women love women?
C: Yes? (she's still concerned that I'm crying)
Me: Well, up until yesterday it was not legal for men to marry men and women to marry women. Only men and women could get married to each other.
C: *furrows brow* Wait... What's so wrong with a man marrying a man or a woman marrying a woman?
Me: *practically sobbing* Nothing. But some people thing that God doesn't like it (this is where it gets a bit harder to explain, for me, as we are not at all religious - thank the universe that my kids went to a Christian preschool* and know about God).
C: *furrows brow deeper* Why would God have a problem with two people loving each other even if they are two men or two women?
Me: I don't know. I don't think He does. That's why it is so sad that there had to be a big deal and a law to treat everyone equally. It's sad that that even needs to happen. And then on the other page is a story about some people who were black and they were at their church and a man who hates black people went in and killed them all. This is a picture of the funeral and of our President singing a song. (I dug up the video online). It is so sad that there is so much hate and that there is so much hate because of love, all sorts of love.
C: Why do people hate other people like that?
Me: There has been a very long history of people hating people, just because they're different than than themselves.
C: Well, I don't like Star Wars (she happened to be fiddling with a lightsaber) but I don't care if other people do.
Me: *finally, some laughter through tears* Exactly.
C: And black people are only different from white people because of the color of their skin and because people treat them worse.
Oh.My.
* Regarding the Christian preschool. One day my then 3 year-old son came out of school and as I buckled him into the car seat, he said, "Did you know that Mrs. Smith has a friend named Jesus?" I asked, "Oh, yeah? What else did she tell you about her friend?" He said, "She has long hair. That's all." Kids are great.
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