Dropping the Albatross

 

“These children suffer trauma as acute as soldiers in combat; they also carry the trauma like an albatross throughout their lives.”

Forty-five percent of the U.S. population is exposed to it, and 28.6 million of them are children. These children grow up with three internal rules—don’t trust, don’t feel, and don’t talk.  Since they are inculcated to deny the reality around them, they develop a resistance to talking about urgent, important, or meaningful aspects of life. 

When they reach adulthood, they are sometimes labeled as extreme introverts and hard-to-get-to-know; they are ‘shy.’ As adults, they may suffer depression and anxiety, and are often characterized as control freaks. The most important emotional leap for these adults is to separate the past from the present.  They must learn to realize that overreaction now, is really feeling pain from the past. Psychotherapy and psychopharmacology can do them a lot of good. (Psychology Today, February 2007).

Psychotherapy and psychopharmacology can do them good.  There was a weird comfort in reading that.  Maybe I'm not as crazy as I thought.

I’ve told myself forever I’m a well-developed adult.  It didn’t affect me. Denial reinforced from many angles. “You left home, you don’t know what it was like,” or “You should write again about how AWEFUL your childhood was (this is where I need a sarcasm font.”  I wasn’t going to write about it, because I wasn’t going to admit it affected me.  I didn't even know how profoundly it DID affect me.

Inculcated to deny the reality around them…

I wasn’t going to write it until I read that statistic—45% of the US population. I’m not alone in my shame and guilt. It DID, and still does, affect me, in ways I don't even know yet.

I don’t know why it’s happening now…this reckoning, this awakening. Maybe, it just is, and maybe there is no rhyme or reason why shit happens. Maybe it just does, out of the blue.

All I know is that I can’t handle more broken-down people, and I can’t handle being broken-down anymore.  I look at life, and realize I’ve worked hard to be where I am, but I really don’t know who I am.  I need to stop telling myself I don’t deserve the things I have.  I’ve got to stop thinking that when things are going good, the bottom of this MFer is going to drop out, and I’ll again have to feel like that little kid sitting at the top of the stairs crying and listening to the yelling and the dishes breaking;  I’m not going to have to run down some dark alley in the middle of the night to get away.

Somewhere along the way, you have to face the fact that it wasn’t your fault.  That no matter how much you try to be perfect, you can't make sick people change.  The refusal of people to heal and change, doesn’t define your value or make you unworthy of anything, especially self-love.

So, I’m told that the first step in dropping this albatross is acknowledging two things after coming out of denial—1) I have no idea what ‘normal’ is, and 2) I have to regain the ability to feel and express emotions.

Three weeks into this shit, and as far as I’ve gotten is that feeling really sucks. It’s terrifying and it comes, wave after wave, crashing down and tightening my chest. In a way, I feel like I’ve been running down that dark alley, terrified, my whole life. And being scared has somehow always been easier than feeling the pain that comes when shit breaks down and the brokenness feels like the heavy dishes crashing on the kitchen floor.

So, I’ve been trying meditation lately—letting the feelings come and trying to process them.  It’s damn hard, and most of the time, I just end up in tears, taking an anti-anxiety pill, and having a good old fashioned cry—more like sob-fest, really.  It’s probably the hardest thing I’ve tried to do in my life.

Some days, I wonder if I’m just wallowing in self-pity, drink a cup of tea, and try to think what my Nan would tell me.  She’d tell me to get my shit together.

Then I remember that's why I'm on this new journey. I’m trying.  And nobody, so far, has told me that dropping this albatross would be easy. As crazy as it sounds, this heavy bird is all I know.  It's almost like I've fed it, nourished it, and held it so tight, that letting it fly means I have to nothing left  to keep me tied to the ground. But, I'm trying like hell to let it fly away, because maybe I'm supposed to fly too.

my new journey

“I look forward to being older, when what you look like becomes less and less an issue, and what you are is the point.” ~Susan Sarandon

My traumatic truth tells me that what I am is wrong.  I am not supposed to be having an existential crisis at 40.  This is the age I’m supposed to be self-aware and not give a single fuck.  Not the case.  Not the case at all.

I’m terrified to tell this story.  It means things are not perfect. The vacuum lines aren't correctly spaced.  Problems exist.

We cannot have not problems.  Ever.  "They" need to think we are just peachy.  "Those people, over there."

I’ve always been a writer.  Not necessarily a good one, but it’s something I have always loved to do.  For the last four years, it has been beyond my capability to put anything into words.  As I examine this today, I know that it’s because what I want to say, what I want to FEEL (because my writing is mostly making sense of what I feel, and it always has been), is a trigger for some people. 

Accordingly, I’m not supposed to feel how I do about certain things, and despite being caught up in certain circumstances, my observance and affect to some of those things aren’t valid to others, despite the fact that perception is reality and my reality has always needed to shift to make others comfortable.  

I’m not finding fault.  I need to look at things with which my younger self maybe wasn’t ready to deal, in a new light.  I need to feel those things again as an adult whose coping mechanisms are more evolved.

Making sure my perception doesn’t make anyone else uncomfortable has seriously fucked me over. It’s always been, “No one needs to know things are a mess.  Put on this mask of perfection and all will be ok in the world.  To those people ‘over there,’ everything looks fine, so it is.” 

I’ve fought depression since I was 16 years old.  Back then, the spiral began with the first adolescent rejection.  All of those fears of people knowing things were fucked-up, were validated in that single moment.  It only amplified when I left home for college my freshman year.  Somehow, by the grace of God, I managed to sleep all damn day, miss class, make it to basketball practice, and still pull a 4.0.  Keep up the façade, if you will.

I’ve been in and out of therapy, been on and off countless medications, and done my fair share of self-medicating for the last 24 years.  But the kicker was a few months ago, when I realized I hadn’t slept more than 5 hours on any given night as I stepped out of the shower forcing myself to go to work.  

The thoughts in my head terrified me. So, I sat on the edge of the tub letting those thoughts surface.  I remember the last time I felt what I would call normal.  I was 25, and the only reason I left that counselor was because I moved and lost my insurance.  So, I called that guy.

It took me a couple of weeks to get back in, and the only reason I was able, was because they found my records from 15 years ago.

It was cold and windy that day.  It was my day off—usually a day I don’t worry about make-up or hair or what to wear.  But by God, I was showing up to that appointment put-together. 

 I am NOT crazy.  No one can KNOW I MIGHT be crazy. 

To be honest, my only gauge for crazy, is my judgement of other people.

So, I put on my best outfit, did my hair, made sure I didn’t ‘look depressed to those people over there,’  and did my best to walk stoically into the last place that acknowledged I was, actually, kinda nuts, but really did helped me.

As I was signing in, of course the line was FULL of people I didn’t expect, nor want to acknowledge.  

 Dude, we are 3 again; if I don’t see you, you don’t see me.  

It’s an understood code.  

It was kind of like the first experience buying weed in Colorado—all NO FUCKING WAY! THEY’RE ALL SO NORMAL!

First off, they make you see the psychiatrist…the medical person.  You do it, or they aren’t signing you up for counseling.  At least not if you have the chart I did WAY back then.

The room was exactly as I remembered.  Awesome antique furniture I am scared my fat ass will break accompanied by creepy antique dolls that make you convinced they move when no one is looking.  I’m waiting for the shrink when this tiny Rastafarian chick walks out and calls my name.

New person.

I have to talk to said person.   

I have to TELL her things. 

Of course, being NOT at all crazy, I have an anxiety attack and start to cry—BEFORE I EVEN GET TO THE DOOR OF THE ROOM WITH THE COUCH!  Because…ummm.. social interaction with someone that might judge? 

At this point, I don’t even know. 

At this point, I'm still pondering Kierkegaard, Sartre, and Camus, and wondering if Frederic Jameson's post modernism is in fact, flat.

I am not crazy. Dude, have you seen crazy?!  This is NOT crazy.

She’s very kind and nice…asking me all the questions.  I’m thinking, “cool.  I aced it!”  As if you can somehow ACE that shit?  Then, she says, “You can pick up your prescriptions at 11:00.” 

I cry harder.

Fuck.  I am not strong.  I need pills.  I AM CRAZY!

I pick up my prescriptions at Walgreens, which amounts to 6….fucking SIX prescriptions…so I can cope with counseling.  

I AM FUCKING NUTS!!

I decide work is not an option for the rest of the day.  Instead, I scrub my face, put on old PMS sweats and hold a good old-fashioned cry over actually being medicated.  Because, hey!  CRAZY!  

I allegedly ate a pint of Ben and Jerry’s and drank the rest of the worst beer ever made, left over from a Valentine’s Day ski trip with my mother.

At this point, I am NOT looking forward to the counselor.  The last time I went to counseling, she was shitty, yet highly recommended by friends.  Lots of money out…nothing worthwhile in. Same meaningless shit for the previous ones, too. As much as I hate admitting I’m certifiably nuts, it’s worse when they want you to pour money into a meaningless pit of here-read-a-book.

So, I again sit in the antique furniture, convinced if I make a sudden move it’s going to fall apart, and wait.“Jen, if that happens, everyone is going to know you are fat…just like that chick sophomore year.  You should’ve kicked her ass. ..stop it! Everyone knows you’re a lard ass.  You do own a mirror.”

The lady who calls my name is wearing the same skirt as me.  She’s wearing a hemp necklace. 

You can bet your sweet ass I’m sizing her up for all she is worth before she can assign ME as CRAZY.

There’s a Himalayan salt lamp in her office. A University of Idaho degree hung on the wall, bigger than her Ph.D. There’s a Grateful Dead stealy above the sink. Buddhas are everywhere. All I can think is, “Holy shit.  This person might relate to me.”

She says to me as I walk into her office, “sit wherever you like.”

I sink into the chair next to the door, mostly because I'm so far gone walking is a g-dang chore, and the tears start falling. 

I pretty much cry for an hour. I did not anticipate this.  I apologize many times over.

I am supposed to know my 'am' by now.  

People with there shit together don't do this.

More apologies.  

There are several uncomfortable pauses, and at the end of the hour she says, “healing is alright.  You’re hurt is really on the surface. I think I can help if you’ll do the hard work to make healing happen.” 

Healing.  It means acknowledging wounds. I’m so ready for that.

For the first time in in 15 years, I heard I can be healed.  

Healing.  Why has no one told me that is an option, and as a a self diagnosed, somewhat intelligent person, why the hell didn't I think of that?

Just saying the word...it's comforting.

I can accept hurt and be ok?  It's alright to heal?   

Suddenly, the freight train hit me.  Everything hasn't been 'fine,' but I CAN and will let it go.

This is my new journey.

  

Life Sketch For Donna Joy Handy

Donna Handy was born December 18, 1930 in Stockton, CA.  She was the only child of Walter and Freda Jacoby.  She married Frank on October 16, 1949. They had three rotten kids.

I’ve been called to do a lot of life sketches in my life.  And, there are times when you just can’t tell the real story.  Being in a house of God is one of those times.  So, please bear with me as I try give you the G-rated version of one the most awesome people I’ve ever had the pleasure with which to share this great journey we all call life.

The best kind of people are the ones that come into your life, and make you see the sun where you once saw clouds.  They make you laugh.  They are once in a lifetime people.

I’m supposed to tell you about Donna.  I could tell you about when she was born, what great art she could spin on a sewing machine, her jobs, how much she loved history and Heritage Hall.  I could tell you all of those things, but you’ve already read her obituary, and you’re probably here today because you knew her and all of that anyway.

I never met Frank, but I always knew how much she loved him.  That’s the thing about Donna—you always knew EXACTLY what she thought.  About everything.   And, I guess at the end of the day, a life sketch is really about the fine print and the telling the story about the people we are blessed to have known.  Because, really, we are all blessed to have known someone like Grandma Donna.

I have to preface this story I'm about to tell you about Donna.  Back then, I wasn't the type of girl your momma looked forward to you bringing home.

The first time I met Donna, Bill and Becky were putting in the foundation for their house across the street.  I’d gone over to her kitchen to help put together lunch.  I was pulling hot dogs out of the package, and she said, “So, do you do Brian’s laundry?”  I wasn’t quite sure how to answer. I mean, it's this little gray haired lady, and we weren't married.

I thought for a second, and said to myself, “Well, we might as well get this out of the way right now.” And I replied, “Heck, no!  He’s capable.”  

Without missing a single beat or even blinking, she piped off with, “Well, good.  You won’t have to find those wrappers he always left in his pockets when he used to bring it to me.”  

I got really good at laundry.

And, that is the thing everybody loved the most about Donna.  You never knew what was about to come out of her, but you always knew it was going to be a straight-up riot and honestly what she thought.  I think all of us liked to get her good and riled up about something, then after she’d give her piece, we’d say, “Tell us what you REALLY think!”  It was rhetorical of course, but she never failed to, THEN, really let you know exactly how the cookie crumbled.

Donna liked to know what was going on.  She used to sit on her porch and watch all the happenings of Dubois while drinking coffee and feeding peanuts to the squirrels.  She loved it when Becky was an EMT and had the radio, because then she had ALL the information.  I thought one year that the best gift ever would be to buy her a police scanner for Christmas, and Brian said, kidding of course, “Oh, that would be fabulous!  Snoop Donna Donna over there; we’d have to get her binoculars too!” And, her nickname was born.

For the last few years, our family Thanksgiving tradition has been to go to the Sandpiper for dinner.  Becky, Bill, and Craig would drive her to town, and Donna loved it.  We always get the same waitress; she has become part of our tradition--and this last year as she got ready to order, the waitress said, “Can I guess?  You want halibut ‘without any crap on it’ and a hot fudge Sunday later?”  She always cut right through the crap, and she never held back.    

Donna was baptized on August 17^th, 2014.  She held a picture of Frank next to her heart.   

She signed her own cremation order, so no one could change how she wanted things.  She left a note and double underlined that everyone had to keep it short at her funeral.  And, as the funeral director stated, we are all willing to face each other in the night, but not following Donna’s orders and having to deal with her at the witching hour would be more than we could handle.

That was Donna—a  straight shooter through and through.  The Annie Oakley of opinions.  But, mostly, she was a great friend, companion, mother, grandmother and wife.  Labels are arbitrary.  She was a great human.  A true person in a world constantly trying to make us be something we are not. And that is character, and character is what really defines a life.

I sat with her family last night, and as we shared crazy stories, I realized how much we are influenced by those once in a lifetime people.  I’m a firm believer that our greatest comforts lie in our memories.  So, give this family your stories.  Share them today.  Those are the things that really define a life. 

Song of Songs, Chapter 8 verses 6-7 tell us: “Set me as a seal on your heart, as a seal on your arm; For stern as death is love, relentless as the netherworld is devotion; its flames are a burning fire.  Deep waters cannot quench love, nor floods sweep it away.  Were one to offer all he owns to purchase love, he would be roundly mocked.”   Love is really the only thing that lasts, and sharing our love today is a better reflection of a life than any of my words could provide.

She had charm, and she was the sweetest little bit of spunk.

Many of this world’s greatest souls live their lives without glamour and social prestige, and without headlines. Yet, their individual histories are examples of life lived and filled with meaning. Donna’s lasting legacy is her family. To her family, she is one of the noblest of  spirits. She is at peace knowing we all sat in her yard and laughed.  

To end with Shakespeare, “Now cracks a noble heart.  Good night sweet [lady], And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.”

Thoughts on the Edge of 40

I opened my email this afternoon and was flooded with a bazillion ways to lose weight.  I could describe a thousand ways that I’m SO beyond tired of people wanting to talk about my weight.  Or my hair.  On the verge of my 40^th birthday, and having returned from an amazing conference titled “Conversation with Exceptional Women” put on by the Sun Valley Institute, I’m seriously pondering midlife, my size, my worth. What have I accomplished?

An older lady in the audience asked a question that got me thinking--dangerous.  She asked why we put old women on the shelf and how to avoid becoming invisible.  It gave me goosebumps.

I immediately thought of Amy Schumer’s skit, “The Last Fuckable Day.”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XPpsI8mWKmg  Because it really, truly seems sometimes that when we are no longer deemed ‘fuckable’ in this society, we have somehow lost our worth.  A poignant question came to mind—the superpower question, “Would you rather be invisible or be able to fly?”  I don’t want to be invisible.  I’ve always wanted to fly. Not in the I-want-to-fly-in-sky kind of fly.  Fat girls don't get that luxury.

 I want to fly in the successful metaphorical sense.

I want to do good in this world.  I want to learn, and read, and cause great waves of change.  I want justice and peace and love.  I want to be good at the things I choose to do.  I want to be valuable to the world.

I considered all the times I felt my sense of self-esteem soar and a sense of validation at the word “pretty.”  All the hours spent in front of the mirror getting the mascara to unclump, waxing, hating my hair, loathing my nose.  Cussing at the scale every.damn.morning.  All the aunts telling me I could be ‘pretty’ if I just did this or lost 15 pounds.  

Now I laugh at 15 pounds. 

And I thought about being invisible.

I thought of my grandmothers, and I started noticing the older women I passed on the street.  I wonder about their friendships and loves.  The people that held them when they cried.  I looked at their laugh lines, and wondered about the times that made them laugh.  I looked deep into the furrows of their brow, and pondered the worries that were carried there over the years.  I want to sit down with them over a Black Velvet and coke, and have the kind of conversations I used to have with my grandmothers.  Those soul-searching conversation when the wisdom and caring of women who have struggle give us so much hope and faith and just an overwhelming sense of being loved.

We all struggle.  Everyone.  Struggle is gender neutral.  But, women have it different, and older women truly understand that.

Someone had the balls to tell that woman that to avoid invisibility, she needed to volunteer.  “Go read to children,” they said.  A group of radical feminists tells her to “enjoy your grandchildren.”  And all I can think is, “WTF?  THAT’s invisible.”

Invisible is thinking I have to look 20 when I’m a month from 40.  It means I have to be a size 10.  It means I have to be ‘fuckable.’  Because, let’s face it, when a woman is fuckable, it means she’s meeting someone else's standard of what a woman needs to be.  It means that when I retire, I’m supposed to smell like rose toilet water, make great cookies, volunteer to read at the museum, and goddammit, know my place. 

I’m supposed to grow big dahlias and wonderful roses and wear purple hats with red shoes. 

Wait a second. WTF?

On the edge of 40, my great epiphany, that I should have known, but never really believed, is that my worth is not tied up in what anyone thinks is good to look at.  That silences us.  It ignores us.  It invalidates our feelings and thoughts and actions that have the possibility to really make the world a better, safer, more civilized place. When a woman is sexualized, and her worth is about her shell, that’s when she is really, truly invisible.

Invisible is thinking the size of my ass is more important than my intelligence.  Invisible is silencing myself, because someone else will eventually say what I’m thinking.  Invisible is being polite and not getting uppity, or upset, or passionate about things that fucking matter.  Invisible is not eating when you’re hungry, so that, God forbid, you don’t take up too much fucking space. 

Invisible is not getting angry.

And maybe, just maybe, the scariest thing about being an unfuckable woman is being like the Cinderella team that makes the final—you don’t have one thing to lose anymore.  You get wrinkled and stretch marked.  You belch.  You pee when you sneeze.  No one is looking, so they might as well HEAR.

I read the papers.  I look at the past and the fights older women fought so I could have the opportunities I have had.  I look to the future for my daughters, and I tear up.  People still believe, actually BELIEVE with every atom in their bones, that my daughters don’t deserve bodily autonomy.  My daughters aren’t supposed to be able to decide when and how to have children.  Or how many.  Certain people think my children should not learn about Henrietta Lacks, because a cervix is pornographic.  

On the edge of 40, invisible is being silent about things that really matter.  I can’t tell you the times I have embarrassed my daughter for speaking when she thinks I shouldn’t.  “It’s not a big deal,” she would say.  

On the edge of 40, my proudest moment was when she said, “Mom, you’ve always stood up and not backed down for what you believe in.”  

On the edge of 40, I refuse to spend the next half of my life invisible.  I might not reach my dream of making sure everyone has clean water, or saving the world like I thought could at 25.  Hell, right now, I’m doing good to save homework and get the laundry done.  But, I won’t be invisible.

On the edge of 40, I’m going to be loud.  I’m going to take up space.  I’m going to call bullshit when I see bullshit.  And, I’m going to do it, so that my daughters know they are worth so much more than being fuckable.   

They deserve to be visible.   

Transparently visible.

And they deserve to be heard.  They deserve a listening ear. 

They are worth so much more than the mask of 'lookability' that hides who they are and what they think and value.

The world needs them visible.