anxiety, Identity, Living, Mental Health

Damn the Weather, Man

That’s a very precariously placed comma.

I don’t wish eternal damnation upon all meteorologists, nor do I have the authority. However, as an anxiety-sufferer who already has enough on her plate, weather reports add another element of doom and gloom.

Perhaps if I didn’t live in New England at the ever-encroaching tail-end of winter . . .

from realbodywork.com

Perhaps if the cold clime didn’t make my already shriveled trapezius muscles jerk ever upward . . .

Perhaps if I woke up in the morning, looked at the thermometer and decided on my wardrobe at that moment on current conditions . . .

Perhaps if I could notice the gentle unfolding of the season with my own eyes rather than through the lens of radar screens and predetermined dates on the calendar . . .

Maybe, then, I wouldn’t be psychologically distraught at the impending snow storm we’re about to get.

I wouldn’t be worried about the fresh shoots that I’d unearthed beneath their layer of winter leaves. I wouldn’t bemoan the loss of soft earth between my fingers that I’d felt just this weekend. I wouldn’t begrudgingly look at the lightweight fleece jacket hanging forlornly on the doorknob.

I wouldn’t feel trapped. I wouldn’t feel like I was experiencing a relapse into unforgiving ways. I wouldn’t be nervously anticipating the loss of something I’d only barely gotten a grip on.

Driving home and noticing shutters pulled tight against the windows of a historical building that I swear I’d never noticed shut before, I actually thought of banishing all weather reports from my existence. If I didn’t know I was supposed to be battening down the hatches, I might delight in the snow. At the very least, I’d adjust accordingly when I woke up that morning by pulling on my knee socks and down coat. I wouldn’t obsess. I wouldn’t worry. I might actually live in the moment.

And that, dear people, is really what this is all about, isn’t it? It never really was about weather reports. That’s my irrational psyche’s way of pulling attention away from what is really at the heart of the matter. If I can blame the weather man for my obsessive tendencies, then I don’t have to take the onus on myself. That I can’t live in the moment. That I can’t still the whirling dervish in my mind and so must look to external forces, such as a lovely spring day, to calm me. Or, in their absence, to name as the reason for my failures.

If only the sun were shining, my heart would be light.

If only spring had truly sprung, my mood would refresh.

If only I had no prior knowledge, I wouldn’t obsess and worry.

If only it were that easy.

(Though weather reports and the attendant technology do pull us out of synch with the natural rhythms of the earth and our surroundings. 😉 )

Art, Identity, Writing

Six Degrees of Memoir

Six words.

Choose them carefully because that’s all you have to tell your life story.

Should be easy, right? Anyone can complete a story that’s only six words long.

But can it encapsulate an entire life? Can it fully relate the defining moment in someone’s life? With only six words, you have to precisely concise.

Or is it even possible to pin down a life in six words, several characters?

That was the conundrum I faced with ‘My Six Word Memoir’, a calling for and exhibition of this unique artistic narrative at the Jewish Alliance of Greater Rhode Island.

A dear friend connected with the organization encouraged me to participate in the project, an offshoot of Larry Smith’s Six-Word Memoir challenge. The Jewish Alliance challenged the “community to rethink the notion of writer and memoir and offer a simple platform to share the short, sharp story of your life.”

The opening night of the exhibit, my friend and I circulated amongst on-lookers and other writers. Some writers gave themselves away with the click of a camera by their memoir. Others pointed theirs out sheepishly when I commented on them. One of the organizers admitted “[her] six words are always changing,” which segued nicely into a conversation with another participant about the difficulty of choosing just one story. We discussed the distinction between a story and the story. Would bits and pieces of our lives represent it as fully or richly as an agonizingly selected six-word summary? Or more so? Someone had asked her whether her memoir was too simple. She’d countered with, ‘But is it?

Perspective is everything.

What seemed like a simple exercise in writing opened up many philosophical and existential conversations – personally, as I sat at my keyboard, and collectively, once I joined the audience at the art gallery. I realized that what I put on my ‘canvas’ was not what others brought to it from their own experiences. And what I read in theirs wasn’t necessarily what they intended. Another case of artist vs. art critic. Writer vs. reader response. Intent vs. interpretation.

Who can say that any one of the versions is wrong? Who can say that any one of us is finished writing the story of his or her life? It is the meditation and conversation that comes with that truly defines us.

* A special thank you to the Jewish Alliance of Greater Rhode Island for offering this project and showcasing it in such a palatable way in Gallery (401).

Identity, motherhood, postpartum depression

Postpartum’s Pithos

Is postpartum a misnomer?

When does the depression start? Is it the instant the partum becomes post? When the final product is pushed from its incubator?

My writers’ group got into a discussion of postpartum depression last night based on the arrival of a box of books on a doorstep. The doorstep belonged to a fellow writer; the box was full of copies of the book she’d just finished writing. She said she was saddened by its arrival. When asked why, she said she wasn’t sure; she’d have to think about that. She said it was almost like postpartum depression. But she couldn’t say why. And she said she didn’t really know all that much about postpartum; that she’d never had it, though she’d birthed several children.

Someone asked, was she sad because she’d have to say goodbye?

This question assumes that she enjoyed her time building and birthing this book. That it had grown inside her and expanded her heart and mind to the point of exploding with love and pride. That would make a good case for depression upon its release. This symbiotic element of herself was now separate. There most definitely would be a feeling of loss upon the shearing off.

But what if the division and multiplication of cells riots against the verisimilitude of a woman’s life? Against her will. Her expectations. Her idea of time lines and schedules. In that case, depression would come post haste.

The birth does not usher in a sadness at goodbye. It is the greeting – most often with a big wet smack in the face – of responsibility, duty, expectation. The idea that she’ll be instantly in love with this mewling little being in front of her.

When really it has nothing to do with that child at all.

When it comes right down to it, while it’s enacted by the burgeoning and birth of that little being, postpartum depression is all about the mother. Her reaction to it. The way her hormones wreak havoc on her systems and sanity. The total upending of her reality and orientation of existence.

I didn’t want to say goodbye to the little lovely who sits by me now four years older and bigger. I don’t associate her with the things to which I want(ed) to say goodbye. I would’ve loved to say goodbye to the shit that came with her preparation for and entry into this world. I still would. The sadness started way before the postpartum period. And unfortunately, it still doesn’t fit in any sort of tidy box.

Addie May Hirschten

*** A HUGE addendum to this post: It is NOT selfish to see postpartum as all about you. I think many women don’t receive the help they need because they think it’s wrong to think about something other than their baby. However, I don’t want my post to be construed as a devaluing of the utter miracle of and attendant caring for a newborn. We must get the help we need as women so we can go on to be healthy mothers and healthy individuals.

Identity, Living, Uncategorized

Two sides of a coin. Yin and Yang. Juxtaposition. Oxymoron. Paradox. Jumbo Shrimp.

Just call me an illustrative thesaurus of harsh contrast.

I went to the beach today. Amidst the flying flakes. The frigid temperatures. The howling wind.

Photo Jennifer Butler Basile

As I looked at the caked snow curved across the sand, looking like the negative of the waves that rushed up and left the graceful arc of its crust, I thought how perfect it was that I was there on this stormy morning when my children were elsewhere. When I already felt suspended in some surreal alternative reality. It is truly bizarre when the nonstop duties of mothering fall away. Like going to that place of sun and refreshing surf when it’s overcast and chilling to the bone. There is a void not unlike the cupped depressions in the sand where the winter waves eat away at the coast. It’s gorgeous, but it feels so foreign it’s unnerving. I’m reminded of the needed buffer that comes with vacations – the time it takes to unwind before you can truly enjoy the relaxation of vacation. But there is no time here. I must embrace this as swiftly as the sand that sweeps across the snow drifts leaving a fine layer of brown sugar. That is what I must remember. That there is always a bit of sweet and beauty atop even the harshest landscapes. You just have to train your eyes and heart and mind to work in concert – and do so allegro.

A Study in Contrast

anxiety, Depression, Identity, Mental Health, postpartum depression, Recovery

I Pledge Awareness . . . to the Cause

“I pledge my commitment to the Blog for Mental Health 2014 Project. I will blog about mental health topics not only for myself, but for others. By displaying this badge, I show my pride, dedication, and acceptance for mental health. I use this to promote mental health education in the struggle to erase stigma.”

art by Piper Macenzie

It’s not everyday that I can proudly wear the badge of my illness, but the badge above — this badge I’d slap on my forehead and parade around town.

A Canvas of the Minds is an amazing website dedicated to an amazing cause: spreading awareness of and eradicating the stigma of mental illness. A team of talented authors share knowledge, personal struggle and triumph, and, perhaps most importantly, a reflective surface to show us we’re not alone. It is a team to which I am extremely proud to say I will soon be contributing!

When my water broke at the end of my third pregnancy, it released the flood waters of postpartum depression. What I didn’t know was what else was dammed up behind that. ‘Regular old’ depression, I suppose, and most definitely, anxiety. In some ways, my life has never been better since this deluge; in others, it’s sucked eggs – big, nasty, rotten ones.

But awareness makes a huge difference in all lives – those struggling to achieve mental health and those alongside them.

So bravo, A Canvas of the Minds! And bravo to all of you out there fighting the good fight.

To everyone: please consider taking the ‘Blog for Mental Health’ pledge yourself. Do it for yourself or in support of those you love . . .

anxiety, Identity, Living

Desperately Seeking a Daytimer

Second rewarm of my tea this morning. Second start to holiday vacation for my kids thanks to a snowstorm. Second application of warm socks and boots for the youngest who managed to lose her left one in a fall.

Final and total, complete agitation.

I rose to the insistent plying of my youngest to make her ‘brefkast’. A detour into her sister’s room to find her playing on her iPad kept her there and left me alone with my laptop. Instead of writing the three posts I should be or researching and revising the short story I should be, I putted around with email, online statuses, and reading blogs and comments other people had written.

I’m about as mushy as this 4-8 inches of snow will be once the temperature soars to a balmy 48 degrees on Monday.

How many pains in the asses do we have to feel before we become a cranky ass?

I’ve gone too long without a routine, this I know. The four to five days following Christmas where we ambled out for a hike once we actually got dressed, ate whenever we wanted, and cuddled in actual or electronic firelight were divine. I sorely needed them. But one day of waking early, rushing to the bus stop, running errands, etc. etc, etc, and then back to that loosey-goosey schedule was not enough. As much as I hate working to a clock, leaving me to structure my own days is a little like playing with that actual fire.

Plus, as excited as I am about some new ventures coming down the pike, they’re new and therefore anxiety-inducing. Will I succeed? Will I have enough time to complete my new tasks in addition to my existing ones? Will I be able to create enough quality content for three blogs? (Rob and Ruby, if you’re reading . . . of course, I can! 😉 ) Perfectionism is the enemy, but if I’m putting my name to it, it best be good. Nothing like self-induced panic and pressure.

We’re in that in-between state where the merriment of the holidays is no more, but it’s unclear what this new year will be. Unknown strikes fear into the heart of the fear-a-phobe.

Which I suppose is why I sorely need a schedule. One trivial, nitpicky way to get some tiny semblance of control over the whirling dervish that is now – my thoughts, my responsibilities, my needs, my children, my irrational, unfounded worries. That should be one hell of a calendar.

Identity, Living, Poetry

How Low Can You Go?

My head keeps butting up against expectation

No amount of plying with my pronged horns can make it go away

Some holes poked, but never enough to tear the fabric,
to crumble the wall,
topple the tower

I can peep through the hole, see the happy people on the other side

Those who can see their blessings
who are pleasantly surprised by the unexpected
those overwhelmed by the ordinary, everyday miracle

Setting the bar is fine
but those who only try to go over
are always left in limbo

anxiety, Identity

Getting to Point A by Starting with ZZZZZZs

It occurred to me last night, as I drove in a dream-like state from sheer exhaustion, that the dreams we experience in REM sleep and those that our soul manufactures for our future do, indeed, intersect.

In the land of greeting cards and self-actualization, dreams are lofty ideals. A higher state of being to which we aspire. Some goal, which in the practical nature of the ‘real world’ seems too good to be true, unattainable. If we could do anything with our lives, it is our dreams we would live. Some bliss-inducing, talent-utilizing best form of our lives. The realization of our truest potential.

In the land of our subconscious, dreams are bizarre alternate realities. Different worlds where I tour Jamaica with Ziggy Marley, but don’t leave the restaurant until I collect the empty glass spice jars from the table that came from my kitchen. Where another woman literally tries to insert herself between me and my husband. Where I’m forever late to work, in danger of missing the bus, grossly under-dressed for some huge milestone in my life.

Ironically, the only way we remember dreams is when our sleep is interrupted. The whole story, the important details would be lost if the alarm or an insistent child didn’t come calling. And usually that’s perfectly all right. More beneficial. All those anxieties that would eat me alive – or that at least would gang up with those that torment me in my waking hours – are processed by my subconscious so I don’t have to worry about them later. I’ve always been one for multi-tasking; if my brain can tick a few worries off the list while I sleep, fantabulous.

If my subconscious can harness its power into removing some of my anxiety while I sleep, I will be more able to achieve my waking dreams. More at peace, calmer, even-keeled, ready to step up rather than be dragged down. The physical processes of sleep prepare our mind and psyche to focus on achieving that other sort of dream – the ones that don’t even occur in our wildest dreams.

So while one sort of dream seems unattainable, the other bizarre, one begets the other. Our subconscious and our soul working in concert to give us true vision.

I would LOVE to have dinner with you – if you bring the spice!

Identity, Living, Recovery, Spirituality

Really Hearing the Sound of Music

Everybody’s talking about The Sound of Music lately.

Julie vs. Carrie. Film vs. live performance. Old vs. new.

Initially I was appalled at the news of a SOM revamp with Carrie Underwood. Who could mess with Julie Andrews’ dulcet tones? I pushed it out of my head and got too busy to set the DVR. After putting the kids to bed the night it first broadcast, I wandered downstairs to my husband’s channel surfing. The remote lighted upon Carrie’s rendition of “The Lonely Goatherd”, yodels and all. Woo Hee. Bouncing and dancing and yodelling. Can’t fault a chick for that. I was thoroughly impressed. She has a lovely voice. But that’s all I watched. I wandered off in another direction.

A few days later, my oldest daughter had some friends over for a mini-birthday celebration. The movie this newly-minted nine year-old chose to watch? The Sound of Music. (original on VHS, baby!) And the four other girls who attended sat in rapt attention and sang along! My husband turned to me and said, “There is hope [for the next generation]!”

We found the televised version on-demand this past snowy weekend and that same daughter begged to watch it. The five of us squished on the couch and did. I don’t know whether it was that this new cast did such a bang-up job or if it was the sheer magic of the story itself that bore me along in its spell. I couldn’t keep from singing. I teared up when the Mother Abbess implored Maria to “Climb Ev’ry Mountain”. I finished with a hope in humanity, the enduring strength and support of family, that standing for one’s ideals will pay off in the end. My middle daughter requested to watch it again two days later when she returned from school. All three girls sang and danced around the living room as if on alpine mountains.

What is it about this story that captures our imagination?

The music has become part of the cultural canon. The refrains are easily learned and easily lodged in one’s head. Their topics and the theme of the story itself is familiar in some way or another to us all. We’ve all struggled with our life’s calling, finding a true mate, the personal vs political, facing up to or hiding from our problems. Perhaps the most enduring theme of all is that love does indeed conquer all – even amidst dire struggle and imperfect circumstances.

For me, personally, the part that really struck a chord – that point in the movie when you could’ve knocked me over with a wisp of Edelweiss – was the conversation between the Mother Abbess and Maria when she balks at returning to the von Trapp home. Maria asks, “How will I know which life is mine to live?” or some approximation of that (a line I don’t think was even in the 1965 film). The abbess (portrayed by Audra McDonald) tells her emphatically that she must go out and look for it, at which point she breaks into a soul-stirring rendition of “Climb Ev’ry Mountain”. Are you supposed to have life epiphanies watching network-television rip-offs of classic cinema? I had a moment.

This conversation, these words, the Mother Abbess’ exhortation, the orchestral arrangment – they spoke to me of things I’d forgotten. Things I’d known, but forgotten to pursue. Things, necessities that have been dulled by constant use or made commonplace by their very existence. Things I learned as a child – most notably when I was presented with a cross inscribed with its own exhortation: “Christ is counting on you to search.”

I may have been like Maria, sulking behind the abbey’s walls because life hasn’t turned out the way I’d expected. Maybe I’d forgotten how to climb those mountains – or even how to try. I’d gotten lazy in my search for a dream that will make me want to live and love it everyday of my life. And I’d forgotten to listen for the sound of music in the hills all around me.

The Sound of Music (1965) was playing on the hospital TV as I labored with my third daughter. I vetoed my husband’s choice of some flavor of Law and Order, saying I’d be witnessing enough blood and gore that night. Somewhere in my subconscious, I hoped it would soothe and inspire me. I can’t say that it necessarily did, but I can’t help but think that, now, it’s brought me full circle. That labor signalled the beginning of ~~one of~~ the roughest times of my life. Perhaps the Mother Abbess’ exhortation has been sent to me again to snap out of it and get out and climb.

anxiety, Identity, Living

Lowest Common Denominator

We’re taught to see the big picture. The interrelationship of all things. This keeps us all on the same page, united in our humanity, celebrating our differences in their similarities. It helps us make meaning and induces awe. I get it. I value it.

But this mindset is antithetical to a ‘one day at a time’ mentality; a live in the moment attitude; that ever-present push for mindfulness.

Especially for an anxiety-ridden person such as myself.

How can I not ‘sweat the small stuff’, when it adds up to a whole mess of stuff? Each tiny bit of tedium I must attend to throughout the day fills up the entire day. I cannot shut off the mechanism in my mind that fits each peg into its hole in the mosaic of my life.

X leads to Y then to Z and every consonant clamors in dissonance. I can’t hear the letter for the alphabet.

I’ll always be an English major, though I graduated a number of years ago. I’ll always be a book reviewer. An English/Language Arts teacher. A writer. A critical reader. A literary theorist. All this is type-set into my skin. I eat, sleep, and breathe words, letters; their combinations, their phraseology.

I am forever searching for ways to form patterns, find themes, stack layer upon layer of meaning.

But what about when I need to reduce? To distill an idea down to its purest form? Base. Primitive. The smallest atom of an idea. I need to reverse operations. How do I learn to do that?

“The proper, wise balancing
of one’s whole life may depend upon the
feasibility of a cup of tea at an unusual hour.”
― Arnold Bennett, How to Live on 24 Hours a Day

Chopping Potatoes

and other metaphors for motherhood

Category Archives: Identity