Being not suicidal

A few suicides in the news this week. My first thought — “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous” ?? … unfathomable hopelessness, intentional self-destruction … really, these talented, fortunate people?

The trouble with living with depression/anxiety is the lens. You see through a lens that is distorted and dim and smudged and cracked.  The images coming through that lens bring only despair, perhaps terror.  You try and keep on trying to see light and beauty and goodness.  The trying is beyond exhausting.  It takes everything you have just to draw the next breath.

In rational moments, you know that you have talents and gifts that give you great pleasure in sharing … you know you have people who truly care for you, maybe admire you .. you know you have people who you love deeply … you know you have passions that give you hope and meaning and joy and wonderful, life-enriching challenges to overcome … but they are all on the other side of that damaged lens.   Even if you’re rational, knowing isn’t seeing, or feeling.  You can’t see or feel the other side clearly, or at all–all you have are cracks and smudges and distortions and darkness and demons. That’s all that can exist in your vision.

I’m an inactive member in this club.  I try to keep my distance, but now and then I wander into the banquet room at Downer Denny’s and attend a meeting.   Because I’m “diagnosed,” I guess I have a lifetime membership so I’m obligated to make an appearance on occasion.  There are those rare times when I’m actually there, present and accounted for, participating, squinting  through the same lens, and unable to focus my truly grace-full reality through the melancholy and fear.

So far, I always come to eventually, and realize that all I really want to do is play hooky from the meeting and scarf down a Grand Slam in the normal seating area.  And Thank God.  I’m rescued by the thought of pancakes and sausage and biscuits and gravy.

Anyway, there is nothing anyone can say or do to fix our lens for us. Some of us can bandaid our lens with therapy and meds and practice and duck tape and prayer and knitting and writing and good food and horses and working and the knowledge/hope/faith that Something Greater than ourselves is still at work and will be faithful to complete that work as Promised. I’m on that subcommittee in the club, and fortunate in the way that the Something continually reminds me that even this, the come-and-go darkness, can be a gift should I choose to accept it as that – “… give thanks in ALL circumstances …”

Others will find nothing that will bring light and clarity and joy, nothing, not even love and family and beauty and freedom and wealth and, really, perhaps exactly because they already have everything this world can offer … they come to the point where they have nothing left.

Nothing left to do except to go to sleep.

I pray their journey is bathed in light and grace.  I pray for their peace.

20/20 vision but not in my eyes

I don’t see well, never have.  Discovered that I was nearsighted while in elementary school.

From kindergarten through fourth grade, my kid persona  was the epitome of the teacher’s pet — smart, obedient, studious, attentive, shy but friendly when friendlied-to.     My teachers called on me frequently and  I always knew the answers to their questions.  I basked in the little-kid glory of getting the best grades in most of my classes.  I loved loved loved school.

Then starting in fifth grade, I became inattentive and disruptive.   I didn’t know all the answers, didn’t raise my hand as much.  I got scolded by my teacher Mrs. Bryant for chatting with my neighbors.  And getting called out for bad behavior by Mrs. Bryant, who I adored and whose praise my nine-year-old self lived for, was utmost humiliation.  My young self-esteem was all about being the smartest and best-behaved kid in the class.  Suddenly I was becoming one of the kids that was always getting yelled at.  Soon I would join the ranks of delinquents in the walk of shame to the Principal’s Office.  What had happened?  How did I get started on a downhill slide to Kid Skid Row?

It was all because of where I was seated in the classroom. From grades one through four, my desk was always near the front of the classroom, close to the action at the blackboard.   In fifth grade, my desk was in the rear of the classroom.  Mrs. Bryant apparently got a clue, recommending that I get my eyes tested.  I couldn’t see the blackboard or make eye contact with the teacher from the back of the room.  So I disengaged.

A few weeks later, I was wearing winged cat-eyed montrosities that were the latest fashion in 1960’s eyewear …

fashion eyewear in the olden days … mine were light blue frames topped with white wings

… and happily on a climb back up the teacher’s pet ladder.

Now my eyes have an even harder time.   Since I am old.  Each lens in my glasses contains three different prescriptions — long distance, medium distance for arm’s length, and short distance for reading.  I have no idea what my 20/whatever is, but it must be very bad.

I’m writing in this direction today because I got laid off yesterday.  Good for me,  because I hated that job and the organizational culture I was working in.  Scary for me, too, because I don’t have another job and I am not made of money (yet).

But, great again because God  has a way of leading me, whether I think His timing of particular events makes sense or not.  It can feel a bit like whiplash …. “Wait … what?” … but now I get to put my minds’-eye where my mouth is.   And my mind’s-eye vision is usually perfectly clear. In its landscape, I see 20/20.  In that clarity, I believe I see what God has in mind for my life.

So, time to put the visualization thing to work again.  It has worked before.  For example, from 1990-1996, I lived in a small, semi-dumpy townhouse.  My master bedroom window directly overlooked a busy street.  I lived 5 minutes from the grocery store and right next door to a pair of teenage brothers whose extracurricular activities included vandalizing cars.  Including mine.

I knew that place was not my real home.  I started visualizing where I wanted to live.  I journaled about it and kept the written pages with me at all times.

“4 Jan 1996

My dreams come from God and God has the power to accomplish them.

My creativity heals myself and others.

There is a divine plan of goodness for me.  There is a divine plan of goodness for my work.

 

My dreams for my life are simple and achievable.  Sometimes what I want is so clear and so close.  I don’t know how to get there but I think if I see myself living the life I want, that is the only way to get started.  I seem to be able to create, to think creatively, to live beyond just existing.  But there is something missing — the real plan, the road.  I’m going to start seeing it, visualizing it every day, writing it down, telling myself over and over again what will happen, how I will live my life and place the inch pebbles that will get me there. 

 

My home is a small place in the country.  There are lots of trees, maybe an orchard.  The house has lots of light and a fireplace, not too many rooms but they’re large and there’s room for guests.  I have a good kitchen and a nice room to work in.  The animals have their own place, too.  The kitchen has a window that overlooks the yard, maybe a small pasture where there are 1 or 2 horses.  I don’t know how the house is decorated but it is comfortable and clean, not too dressed up, formal or silly.  Things I love and things I make are all over the house.  There is some kind of porch that I can watch sunrises or sunsets from.  I have a garden and I grow vegetables and flowers.  I keep the kitchen well-stocked with food and I cook!  I have lots of animals and people enjoy visiting my home, and best of all I enjoy sharing my home with them …”

Six months after writing that, I  bought the little house that is still my home … three bedrooms on five acres in the Sierra foothills …   kitchen windows look out over pastures and there are four horses out there now … the fireplace is a wood-burning stove … i have my large watercolor quilt and original artwork hanging on my walls … room for lots of  dogs and cats and they are everywhere now, usually where they aren’t supposed to be …   my front porch faces west to great sunsets  … a huge garden area …  I have learned how to cook …

Now, I’m putting the mind’s-eye to work again on something new.  Can’t wait to see what it comes up with.

the toolbox

first, there is some movement on the fat front.  movement away from me, which is good.  but i’m not allowed to know how much movement until end of this month.  In the meantime, it is very interesting to feel parts of me shifting around and not being there anymore, or not being as big as before.  I can tell this because i am able to pull up the waistband of my underwear to just below my bustline.   When I can get the waistband up and over the boobs, real progress.   And a trip to Walmart for different underwear, I suppose.

For now, though, I wanted to go through my disorder repair toolbox — I need to cowboy it up a bit, I think, given the Paxil withdrawal experience and learning how to live life with GAD  in new and fun ways.    I’m thinking about what stuff needs to be added, but here is the list of the most frequently used items:

1.  Mo:  The best and biggest tool.  He can be the best person on my planet one day, and then the biggest moron the next day.  Heart pounding cardio and hypnotic rhythm.  Self-confidence and humility.  Fresh air and dirt.   Cuddles and nods.  Physical strength and wimping out.  Powerade Zero and peppermints.  Slender legs and helmet hair.  The thrill of victory and the agony of defeat.  or deseat.  which is on the way to de ground.

2.  Deep breathing exercises:  These are for anxiety and they work.  I am learning pranayam from my co-worker.   It is a set of peaceful, meditative breathing exercises that improve the flow of oxygen and reorder my chakras or something.  I suppose.  I am not 100% convinced of chakras but I do feel more reordered somehow after I do deep breathing.  I also feel more anxiety from doing deep breathing.  This is another Murphy’s Law, or maybe a Catch-22.  When I do deep breathing I feel like I am doing something good for myself.  But the fact that I need to do deep breathing means there is Something Wrong, which the Heebie Jeebies read as a Welcome mat.  I think I just need more practice.  And perhaps a half hit of # 9.

3.  Cigarettes:   These work well.  They are especially effective at counteracting both the benefits and the stresses caused by #2.  And Yeah Yeah, I KNOW.  I am just not going there until [1]  significant fat loss, to make room for what I am going to gain back when I quit and  [2] the  100%-off-Paxil date plus a yet-to-be-calculated probationary period.   In other words, not in the very near term.  Get over it.

4a.  Music.  Old skool R&B, classic rock, blues, Latin and classical.   Stuck in the 70s mostly.  Except for Chopin, who wrote Nocturnes while he was stuck in the 1800s.  The Nocturnes were my favorite pieces to play when I studied piano.  This was before my planet invented horses.

4b.  Old Movies.  1930s-50s.  Film noir, crime/mystery, Hitchcock, Bogie, gangsters, westerns.  Roy Rogers and Trigger.  Another sickness of mine — I have collected 88 of the total 90 movies that Roy Rogers made.  Also have CDs of all of his early radio performances and releases with the Sons of the Pioneers, before he became Roy Rogers and got Trigger.  Don’t get me started on this topic, btw.

5.  Knitting needles and yarn.   To keep my hands moving — moving my glasses from my nose to the top of my head and back, back and forth until the glasses get Put Down Somewhere and then … you know this part already (see headaches).

6.  Chopsticks:  These are sticks like knitting needles, except they are prettier and fun to eat salad with.   So, good for both mental and physical well-being.

7.   Lily, Lulu, Rainy, Stormy, Ody, Roushone, Dudie, Tinkie, Pootie, Phooey, Babalooey and Izzyboo.  Having furry ones at home to care for helps focus me on other things besides mild vertigo, brain zaps, housework, and my newly developing anxiety about doing deep breathing.  (see #2).

home

8.  Job:   On a good day, a good anxiety fix.  On a bad day, still a good anxiety fix due to throwing things and screaming expletives.  Although sometimes, rarely, throwing things and screaming can sometimes make me feel a wee bit out of control, which can cause an Episode, most times throwing things and screaming make me feel utterly normal and happy about life.

9.  Xanax.  Duh.

10.  My Bible.  Ditto.

11.  My Book.  This is actually just My Storyboard at this point.  But it is a real storyboard taped on my real wall with real things on it that contain the whispers and nudges and glimmers of possibilities of a real mystery novel.   If ever I learn to write like a real writer.

Grace and flashlights

“Listen to your life. See it for the fathomless mystery it is. In the boredom and pain of it, no less than in the excitement and gladness: touch, taste, smell your way to the holy and hidden heart of it, because in the last analysis all moments are key moments, and life itself is grace.”[1] 

I am a Christian, your run-of- the-mill nondenominational Protestant.  Not a religious fundamentalist.  My settling on this particular flavor years ago was greatly influenced by the writings of C.S. Lewis, an atheist who, in later life, converted  to Christianity.

The bottom line to my faith is that I believe I am a created being.

Some of my very best friends are also Christians of various flavors — Catholics, Protestants of various denominations, Mormons.   Some are Hindi, some Muslim.  Some are agnostics, some are atheists.  I don’t have any Buddhists on my planet that I know of but I would like some.  Because they put on really cool festivals with Taiko drumming.

My friends and I talk about our various beliefs or lack of, or we don’t.  It is not a big deal.  I do have very strong opinions about what Christianity is and what it is not, but I stay off my soapbox unless someone invites me to step on it.

I don’t like organized religion.  I don’t go to church very often.  I would like to find a church home, but every time I think I have found one and start to go regularly, something about the church pisses me off.  Which, I’m pretty sure, is not what God has in mind.

Church people can get too churchy for me.  Like being members of a special club.  If you are not in the club, or you don’t conform to the general mold, it is hard to get connected.  Like with any group, if you don’t fit within some of the traditions, or if you believe you have been charged with a special mission to Question Authority, as I do, then you tend to stay on the fringe. I sort of prefer the fringe.  Like high school — when I had friends in the Popular Crowd, but the thought of becoming a card-carrying member myself gave me the heebie jeebies.

I bring this up because I am in closer contact with God these days because of My Great Adventure into improving my mental and physical health.  It has been getting pretty rough at times, and I am not wired to depend on or seek comfort from people.  This is because [1]  people can’t usually do much to help solve these sorts of things;  and [2] some people, although super well-meaning, can be Morons.

I don’t feel better when people say things to try and make me feel better.  I feel better when the thing is solved or when I know I am on track for the solution.   I feel better when I have my own toolbox and know how to stock it and use the tools inside.  Words don’t help but action does.

God knows that when things are going pretty smoothly, I am too busy for him.  Like when you have a new boyfriend and you are too busy to respond to your ever faithful friend’s invites to lunch.  You are happy and life is good and you’d rather be with the boyfriend than the friend.   Nevertheless, this loyal friend remains always on stand by and ready for deployment to your side just when you need them.  So when the boyfriend turns out to be a Moron or, as in my most recent boyfriend episode, an abusive and violent drunk, the first thing you do is call your friend and see if they want to go to lunch.  And that good friend is of course always available, to rescue, or give advice or lend an ear.   Or just go shopping for earrings.

God is mostly that sort of friend to me.  (Except for the earrings part.  I don’t think He approves of my earring thing.  Or my handbag thing.  And many other things.)  He is always there, waiting to respond to my SOS.   That’s His job.  After all, He wired me in the first place and then put me here.  He is obligated to help me out and I challenge Him to that.

His answers always come.  They do not come with trumpets or choirs.  They come quietly, in whispers — yes, I know what you are going through … no, there is no avoiding this lesson … but nothing is impossible … just keep pedaling … live in this moment …don’t worry about a single, solitary thing … be joyful in spite of the circumstances … be thankful in all circumstances …

His answers also come in little sparkling bits of grace that get sprinkled around for me to see and experience.  These are tiny blessings and gifts He places in my path without me doing anything to earn them or deserve them  … encouraging words, beautiful sights, shared kindnesses …

…. “A good sleep is grace and so are good dreams. Most tears are grace. The smell of rain is grace. Somebody loving you is grace. Loving somebody is grace.”[2]

And the darker it gets, the more grace He puts out there.  The trick is to be able to catch sight of the little sparkling bits in the midst of the dark.  So this adventure of mine seems to be a lot about how well I keep my toolbox stocked with flashlights.

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[1] Frederick Buechner, Now and Then:  A Memoir of Vocation

[2] Frederick Buechner, Wishful Thinking