Baby

There's a baby in my lap. By some strange convergence of biological and physical coincidences, this tiny bundle of heat and squirm is my son. Many, many people have written very coherently about becoming parents, and I don't feel very coherent at this point. (I'm sure this has something to do with a general shift in sleeping habits, combined with a transitional event so physically traumatizing that I can only remember it in poorly-lit slideshow flashes.) Nevertheless, I'm sitting here listening to some piano music, watching my son sleep in my lap, and I want to put together letters and words in some way that makes sense of the developing paradigm shift. It's a little like trying to put together a puzzle in a dream: the pieces all look familiar, but their borders have changed and they seem to have constantly changing images within them.

And I know that when I try to describe this to anyone else, in the manner of all dreams it will sound like a mishmash of blurry and impossible impressions linked together by nonsensical leaps of logic.

He is limp with sleep. His arms are draped haphazardly over each other. Sometimes something startles him, and he shoves his tiny hands into the air like Frankenstein's monster, but he doesn't wake up.

Then he does, after a while, and he starts to make these ridiculous little movements. His dad calls them "controlled chaos." He waggles his head from side to side with increasing vehemence, like a progressively intoxicated jilted man telling the bartender, "No, man, you don't understand, we were perfect for each other, and one day I woke up and she was gone. It's just not fair." Which is probably a fair representation of what's going through his head, except that she here is my breast. After a little bit, he gets tired of the drunken head shaking. Instead, he progresses to open-mouthed head-butting of whatever is anywhere near his face. Eventually, between the two of us, we get him fed, and he returns to floppy-boned unconsciousness.

Look, no one said week-old babies led wild lives of excitement and whirlwind thrill-seeking.

He is a week old. That's wild all by itself.

We've spent the last seven days being entirely about something external to ourselves. Someone external to ourselves. It's simultaneously exhausting and somewhat freeing. (This is possibly the only time in my life I've ever so thoroughly agreed with someone I mostly know by how often I see his face on supermarket magazines, but I think he put it pretty well. I, too, get pretty tired of being so self-focused. I'm sure I'll get frustrated with not being able to pay attention to my own needs often, too, but right now it's pretty refreshing.) He's so very small, and so very fragile, and so very determined, and so soft!

The cat, by the way, is predictably unimpressed with this larval thing that cannot perform basic tasks like putting kibbles in her dish or opening the porch door for her. She's also substantially bigger than he is. How is that possible?

When I was very small, although not as small as our son is, and firmly in my scientist-performs-all-the-experiments-even-the-stupidly-obvious-ones phase, I decided to find out what would happen if I were to take a pair of pliers and apply them to my stomach. As you might expect, this did not result in happy times for 小玲玲. To my misfortune the pliers were the kind that locked in place. The incident left a scar shaped like a butterfly just below my xiphoid process, right over my solar plexus.

Our son has a mark just between his eyebrows, probably from the forceps, that looks just like that butterfly.

I can no longer see my own butterfly. It's underneath the first tattoo I ever got, thirteen years ago. The stylized picture of a tree with a knothole showing through to concentric rings that twine between the branches. People ask me why I got that specific image tattooed on me. "It's a reminder," I've always said. "A reminder to stay open and keep growing."

I can't think of better advice I could have given myself as a new parent, from thirteen years in the past, than that.

Chapter 1

January 24, 2015

Mind over Mood

I bought this book, relieved to finally have something like a handbook that I could follow on my journey up the mountain, straight past the hermit cave I’ve believed for so long that I’d need to live in to “fix” myself and emerge “all better” – I mean, even just the secondary title’s promise to help each reader Change How You Feel by Changing the Way You Think was enough to inspire hope.  

I, my dear wife, am an eternal (read: idiotic) optimist.   Just having a plan felt really empowering, but the depression group I was to attend while using this book was almost as inefficiently run as the session leader’s voice was insufferably schmaltzy.   So, I left the group, and am left with this book.   I’ve still got faith in the book.  But starting with four different case studies of severely depressed people, while informative, is not exactly my opinion of the most uplifting way to start a book about how drag yourself out of the shitty depressed funk you’ve crawled just far enough out of to buy this book.

The foreword praises Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, which makes me snicker, since CBT is one of Craig’s favorite psychology buzzword/acronym/terms  (buzzronyms?), and the Prologue (OMG, there’s an effing prologue) made me hopeful at first glance, but now just seems trite and unusual.   I mean, I guess it’s a good perspective, but it’s also, like…. ugh, PhD people, I know you know your audience is all fragile and shit, but that don’t mean I want fucking platitudes.   LET’S GET TO THE PART WHERE I FIX ME, CAPICE?!? 

Whatever.

So it starts, “An ouster creates a pearl out of a grain of sand.  The grain of sand is an irritant to the oyster.  In response to the discomfort, the oyster creates a smooth, protective coating that encases the sand and provides relief.  The result is a beautiful pearl.  For an oyster, an irritant becomes the seed for something new.  Similarly, Mind Over Mood will help you develop something valuable from your current discomfort.”

I’m sorry, I need to wipe the coat of patronizing condescension that you just spewed unnecessarily into my eyeballs and take a shot of something strong-tasting to get this taste out of my mouth…. But fine, whatever.  Some little bits are maybe a little helpful, though the number of “quotes” used in the “explanations” of what “Cognitive” and “knowledge” mean on page two are enough to “figuratively drive me crazy”… even though I did not hate the sentence that finally got to the point: “A central idea in cognitive therapy is that our perception of an event or experience powerfully affects our emotional, behavioral, and physiological responses to it.”  No shit, Sherlock, but I do appreciate having some assurance that we have a mutual understanding of the fact that mindset and perception have an incredibly critical impact on our mindsets, reactions, and, basically, the lives we lead.

So.   Right.   OK.   The rest of this prologue is drivel.  But I’ve already bought you, book, so fine.  I’m just going to skim the eff over these headings of HOW WILL THIS BOOK HELP YOU? and HOW TO USE THIS BOOK (umm, you read it and fill in the blanks and, you know, participate actively with the brain it seems like you may or may not be sure I possess?) and skip to Chapter 1.    Ugh. 

After the heading, Understanding your problems, the first five words (which introduce, it’s clear, a case study), are: BEN: I hate getting old.   FUCK.   Jesus, book.  Really?  That’s where you’re gonna go with this?   Let’s really consider our options.  You could have overviewed the process, maybe outlined “Yo, you’re not in this alone, so we’re going to use some examples to help illustrate what we’re going for here”… but no, the first three words on the page REMIND EVERYONE OF THEIR GODDAMN MORTALITY.  YOU ARE DOING IT WRONG.

OK, fine, I read Ben’s study.  And Marissa’s (who was abused sexually by her father and has had numerous abusive husbands and doesn’t think she’s worthy of living, basically).  Linda is having panic attacks after her father has died, and Vic is so worried about being perfect that he’s got stomach problems, insomnia, and feels inadequate.    What… what…. What do I do with this?   Even taking this with the grain of salt that this is meant to provide a useful couple of examples through which to calibrate my focus on what’s currently going on with me… I… ugh.

Ally just asked me if this is homework for a class, or if it’s voluntary.   I explained that it’s voluntary, and I’m trying to make myself commit to actually going through one chapter a week with you via blog.   I tried to explain how I’m making all of these little obnoxious remarks because I’d be writing them to myself otherwise… and she called my bluff.

Wife, I’m scared to start this process.   It’s not that I’m afraid I’ll do it wrong – I know I can come back and look at it again.   I’m just worried it won’t work well.  The beauty of having a plan is that it’s still all theoretical, hypothetical, all possibility – how does the saying go?   It is best to be beginning?   So… yeah.   I think I’ve been avoiding this so that I can just stay in the “beginning” stages and not actually be responsible for the lack of results if the work I put in does not yield immediate, visceral, visible uplifting outcomes.   Kind of a lot to ask from a book that’s 20 years old.

OK.  Deep breath.  (But I am le tired!   Fine, have a nap.  But zen, ANSWER ZEE QUESTIONS!!)   I’m at a coffee shop, so instead of napping, I’m just gonna take another sip of whatever esspresa-latte-chino I ordered (OH MY GOD PALO ALTO IS FULL TO BURSTING WITH BOURGEOISIE COFFEE PLACES AAAUGH) and do it.

Here goes.

I’m totally going to answer these questions.

OK, first, I’m going to copy this sheet, page 13, word for word.  Internet, this does NOT belong to me.   OK.   OK.   Sip three, two…

EXERCISE : Understanding Your Own Problems

Just as you did for Ben, Marissa, Linda, and Vic, you can begin to understand your own problems by defining what you are experiencing in these five areas of your life; environment, physical reactions, moods, behaviors, and thoughts.  On worksheet 1.1, describe any recent changes or long-term problems you have experienced in each of these areas.  If you have difficulty filling out Worksheet 1.1 ask yourself the questions in the “Helpful Hints” box that follows.  [Questions from the hint box in bold below.]

Worksheet 1.1: Understanding my Problems

Environmental changes/Life situations:

Have I experienced any recent changes?  Absolutely.  Job change, breakup of a 9 month relationship, move to a new city/house/roommates, reconciling but not dating subject of 9-month relationship, plans to move back to the Midwest, changes in mental health care (from

What have been the most stressful events for me in the past year?  Everest, feeling rejected, unwanted, and like a pariah; awful classes at Berkeley coming from such a perspective of deficit, breaking up with Robb, having to move (and not knowing why – there’s no “For Sale” sign… ugh.), having to make friends with roommates, trying to decide whether or not it’s OK that I’m not going to some social events when there are some nights/weekends I feel so empty and alone that I could just cry myself to sleep… Trying to keep up with the demands of ELD, which I’ve never taught before, and feeling guilty

3 years?  Moving a lot, making life decisions, breaking up with Craig…

5 years? Moving a lot, making life decisions, breaking up with Craig…

In Childhood?  Parents’ divorce, Paul being forced to come out, mom’s really awful, unguarded moodswings (much worse before marrying Dan-o), Papa and Betsy’s continued callousness and lack of understanding or empathy for Paul (somewhat understandable, but still sad), feeling like I had to work/figure out the right thing/make sure everyone was happy with me to be worthy of affection/love

Do I experience any long-term or ongoing difficulties? Rumination, procrastination until panic, feelings of emptiness/bleakness/ennui, the cycle of feeling incredibly depressed and then working hard to get out and falling back in…  ummmm, yes?

Physical reactions:

Do I experience any physical symptoms that trouble me:

            Changes in energy level: very low energy when sad.

Appetite: didn’t eat when Robb broke up with me; will sometimes overeat or eat poorly (junk food, fast food, etc.) as a comfort

Sleep: either not enough when ruminating and anxious, or wayyyyyyyy too much (as in recently).

Do I experience any specific symptoms, such as:

            Heart rate fluctuations: not really, though I do get faint sometimes

Stomachaches: ALL THE TIME, along with gastrointestinal/etc. distress

Sweating: somewhat.  Bottoms of feet and palms have begun to sweat more than they used to.   Also had to switch deodorants.

Dizziness: Seldom, but yes.  Much more often than normal, even though it’s only a couple to a few times a month.

Breathing difficulties: not really, except for the one extremely acute panic attack I had back in October.

Pain: yes.  Shooting pain that makes it feel like I’ll snap something if I move.  Always in the chest cavity.

Moods:

What single words describe my moods? 

From most negative to most postitive (from iMoodJournal tracking)

NEGATIVE:

Unloved

Unworthy

Unloveable

Lonely

Sorrowfyl

“So sad”  (hashtagged as one word.)

“Where is it going to come from” (hashtagged as one word.)

Unhappy

“Crying uncontrollably”, “I want a hug”, “Heart hurts”, “I miss everyone” (hashtagged as one word.)

Hopeless

Sweating

Uncomforable

“Feel like I’m dying”

Shivers

“Feel awful”

Crying

Fat

Disgusting

Angry

Distraught

Externalizing

Inarticulate

Depressed

IDGAF

Unsupported

“No will power” “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck” “Baddreams” “Heartisbeatingfast”

Collapse

Uninvited

Losing

Addicted

“Like an Idiot”

Unwelcome

“Like a jerk” “Beth died” “Need Suport”

Weeping

Broken

FOMO

Worried

Sad

Irritated

Disappointed

Ashamed

Awful

Grumpy

“No Energy” “Sleeping too much”

Alone

Upset

Itchy

Lonely

Bummed

Friendless

Embarrassed

Stupid

Uncaredfor

Aggrivated

Overwhelmed

Sick

Restless

Melancholy

Lazy

Sensitive

Apprehensive

Achey

Discontent

Confused

Grieving

Disturbed

Emotional

“I hate Everest” “SPS Sucks” “Ugh OBGYN stirrups”

Dehydrated

Negative

Rebuffed

Hungover

Vain

Ignored

Left-out

Ridiculous

Unimportant

Uncertain

Irritated

Depleted

Lethargic

Rejected

Distracted

Absentminded

Sleepy

Distractable

Irked

Annoyed

Cold

Crankly

Callous

Boring

Inflexible

Dawdling

Uninteresting

Behind

Nervous

Unsure

Unsettled

Sluggish

Unmotivated

Undisciplined

Meh

Weird

Overtaxed

Stuck

Uncomfortable

Bored

Unfocused

Tired

Sniffley

Hungy

Busy

Cramping-up

Swollen

Faint

Out of it

Scrutinized

Unbalanced

Awkward

Upset-about-CTEL

POSTIIVE:

Relaxed

Flattered

Better

Finally-getting-going

Connecting

Communicating

Productive

Inspired

Contributing

“Making good use of time”

Singing

Togetherness

Sleeping in

Decompressing

Energetic

Grateful for sunlight

Appreciated

A peace

Listened to

Helped

Competent

Well-rested

Energized

Belonging

Loved

Recovering

Prepared

Taking-time-for-self

Less guilty

Alone but not lonely

Like I’ve made it

Free

Befriended

Supported

Appreciated

Drunkie

Journaling

Proud

Helpful

Funny

Thankful

Cared for

Energetic

Hopeful

Conversational

Good

Invited

Excited

Well fed

Beautiful

Grateful

Content

In love

Adventurous

Too happy not to sing

Good talks, amazing days

Untethered

Meeting new people

Live music

Clean

Supported

Taken care of

Snuggled

Well

Relieved

In Good Company

Fun

Affectionate

Wanted

Silly

Sweet

Celebrated

Thoughtful

THERE WERE A LOT MORE POSITIVES, but many of them were events or peoples’ names that were hashtagged.  J  Lots of music, people, good conversation, unexpectedly fun times, and spontenaity.

Surprised

Behaviors:

What things do I do that I would like to change or improve:

            At work?  More time being on task, less time switching around.

            At home? PROCRASTINATING LESS, getting out of my bedroom and out of bed and not getting trapped in the lovely, calm quagmire of peace and feeling like I don’t have to deal with things in the sanctuary of my little blue room.

            With friends?  More quality time, less…   I don’t know.  I hate feeling like I have to chase friends around, but mostly, we’re good.   Just figuring out what times and with which people and where I want to be, rather than saying “yes” just because I was invited

            By myself? More discipline; I have a lot, and a lot of compassion for myself, but the discipline of getting up or doing something every day or writing my thank-yous without having to think of what will happen if I don’t (and what a terrible person that would make me)

            Do I avoid situations or people when it might be to my advantage to be involved?  AUGH HOW COULD I POSSIBLY KNOW THAT?!?   But…   No, I don’t think so?   Like, I didn’t go to Liesl’s party, but I genuinely didn’t think I’d be happy going.   I went to the city to go dancing even when I thought it would be stupid (it was), but didn’t avoid the situation; I had an adventure instead.

Thoughts:

When I have strong moods, what thoughts do I have about:

Myself?  God, will I ever find someone to love me?   Am I OK?   Is this because I haven’t eaten?  Am I tired?  Gosh, what do I need?

Other people?  Now that I’m not at Everest, it’s not “gosh, do they hate me or something?” but I do worry about what some think.

****Robb: The moment anything about another woman is involved, I crash deep into depression mode.   It took watching Big Hero 6 twice yesterday to get me out of it.   Ugh.

My future?   Actually, I’m a lot calmer about that now than I used to be, but I still worry about finding the “right guy” (or a “good enough” guy), being a good partner, finding work-life balance, leaving Robb (though not as much), being able to have children, being a foster mom – would my partner go for that?  Could I still teach?, seeing the wife enough, seeing other good friends enough, singing and dancing and exercising and actually fricking cooking for myself and sleeping enough and being happy or at least not dreading the sad times so much and having a good, disciplined setup for myself that’s not so rigid I can’t break it sometimes without losing my mind…

Plus oh shit I should really get on that MN Teaching License application…

What thoughts interfere with doing the things I would like to do or think I should do?  I often think of to dos and then think of how much I don’t want to do them, and then it becomes a “what will be the path of least resistance to getting this done?” which is thinly veiled Katy-brain-speak for “how can I do this later”?

What images or memories come into my mind?  I ruminate all the time about things I feel like I did poorly, especially when it makes someone (anyone, really, but especially Robb) feel bad, disappointed in me, sad that I’ve said or done something, or like I have hurt him.

As you will see throughout this book, no matter what changes contribute to your problems (lifelong beliefs, behaviors, physical changes), once you are depressed or anxious or experience some other strong mood, all five aspects of your experience shown in Figure 1.1 are involved.  While small changes in all five areas may be necessary to feel better, you will learn that changes in your thinking are often most important if you want to create lasting positive improvements in your life.  Chapter 2 will help explain why this is so.

Chapter 1 Summary

·         There are five components to any problem: environment, physical reactions, moods, behaviors, and thoughts

·         Each of the five components affects and interacts with the others.

·         Small changes in any one area can lead to changes in other areas.

·         Identifying the five components of your own distress can help target areas for change.

I left the coffee shop soon after just copying this page.

There were two girls having a genuine but sort of icky conversation full of generalizations and racial stereotypes (about Jewish people by the one that was Jewish, and Russian people by the one that was “Russian”) and Ally couldn’t take it anymore.

I thought it was Ally’s angst and desire to get out that made me feel all jumbly inside.  Or maybe the fact that I was deciding not to go to a party that I definitely, definitely don’t actually want to go to, but FOMO was still making me second guess myself.  Or maybe just that privileged Stanford students can sit in coffee shops on Saturday nights and say whatever the fuck they want without worry, enjoying the silent and polite privilege of not having someone come over and tell them off (which Ally said she had literally seen happen at a coffee shop on the Stanford campus when a white person came over to “correct” the opinions of two students of color.  Ugh, I hate everything.)

Wife, I cried when I got home.  I cried and got a hug from every one of my three roommates that was home, cried when Brady said he wished he could give me a hug, cried when Ally explained that the faces I mistook for impatience or irritation were actually faces of consideration of what I was saying.   I love people.   But wife…. crying over privilege or undergraduates having not-fully-developed senses of the world (or appropriate, not-shitty-sounding ways to talk about it), or even just getting angsty about the fact that I genuinely don’t want to hang out at a party where I will like about 2 people and the rest will just make me feel weird and awkward and like I don’t have enough energy to put on the socially-acceptable sugar coating that I would need to survive the night…. All of those things were masking the truth that is continually right in front of me and yet really easy to lose sight of: I am fixating on these things because they are external problems, and it is more comfortable to look at and try to fix those than it is to sit and struggle and truly look at the internal problems that only I have control over.

The world is full of shit.  Shitty decisions, shitty words being said, shitty attitudes leading to shitty treatment of others, all kinds of yucky icky shitty fucked up action and speech and thought and hate and that’s just our treatment of others and not our environment … but, in a way, Robb (and the Buddha, was it? Or Ghandi?  Stupid western civilization misattributing quotes) are right: I can’t do shit about that shit, so I might as well begin with me.  (Or, in the much less coarsely worded quote, “If you would change the world, start with yourself.”  Basically ‘be the change you want to see in the world’ but with more layers and less trite.)

Looking is still uncomfortable.   But, laughably enough, having read Percy Jackson so ravenously over the last few weeks (I think there’s only one more in the series left to read!), I’ve been supplied with a really useful metaphor.  See, in order to explain how all of this mythological, monstrous, Olympian stuff could exist in the world without being seen by mortals, there’s this Mist that makes most mortals see a ‘reasonable’ explanation for the magical or incredible actual events that take place.   Our brains let us see what makes sense, right?  Well… yeah.   I just need to work on remembering to do my best to look through the Mist, focusing not on the fog of all of the many vast and tragic needs of the world, but the ever-present but much quieter inner voice that guides me toward what I need to be able to do a dang thing about it – and let it begin with me.

Evening and mourning; the first day.

3:00am, January 2, 2015

I came home from dinner my dad’s house at 11.  It was obvious I’d been crying.

I came upstairs after saying goodnight to Mom and Dan-o.

My mother came up a bit later, knocked, entered, sat down, and, looking sort of pained, asked if I was OK.  

I didn't really know what to tell her.

I admitted why I'd been crying, mostly about wanting Grandma to stick around, and feeling selfish for it, since her sight and hearing are almost gone.   And that her life has gotten so hard and painful.   (I didn't admit the sadness over seeing papa’s lost child written down on the calendar he gave me, nor that Betsy told me how common miscarriages are, or that I didn't answer when she asked me how I’d save the world.)   I just talked about how it was so sweet seeing pictures of Great Aunt Catherine and Paul together – especially since she'd prayed so hard for him, when he was 2 and a half months premature and in the NICU... and the beauty of the strength of her faith from the stories mom had told me about her made me tear up again. 

“Well, I’m glad to hear that – you wrote something pretty cold about her when she died.”

What?!?  What the heck could I possibly have written?  I have no concept of, no connection to, no real idea who I was then… what?

“Mom, oh god, what on earth did I write?”  I squinch up my face in stomach-knotting anticipation of the flood of self-reproach that will undoubtedly come; I cradle the little mes of the past, and pity and have compassion for them even though I no longer understand their motivation.   Still, I stretch out their wrongdoings like tattered, translucent black banners behind me, a shroud of things to remember not to do again.

“Yeah, you wrote that this old woman died and you felt nothing.  And you wrote for your kids that you’re a Christian, but you don’t participate in religion, so I don’t know what you believe. … “You mentioned that I did all these things right in raising you without having to be told; well, my parents weren't experts, they just tried to teach me to do what’s right.  And that’s what I tried to teach you.  But then, when you were growing up, you would do all of these things and I would wonder, What the hell is wrong with you?”

I put my hands up to my mouth to make sure I don't speak until she is done, but also because I am flabbergasted.   How… what…. Why… what possible reason could you have had for telling me that?  What the hell is the point she is trying to make?   What…?   My brain comes up with a big ol’ “Does not compute,” and I show my confusion on my face.

… and then I asked.  Good job me, good habit, reinforcement, yay… even though it was uncomfortable; I asked my mother right in that moment if that was what she meant, that she thought I was a bad kid and that she didn't know what the hell was wrong with me. 

She got angry. “That’s NOT what I said,” she spat, half venomously.    Perhaps it is from my mother that I inherited my proclivity for unforeseen, spur-of-the-moment mood swings?

“No, you’re right,” I start, just barely keeping from voicing …you just said to a crying daughter… “You said, ‘I would wonder, what the hell is wrong with her?’”  

I try to take the incredulity of my voice, but I have totally failed, and I’m sure she can hear the sarcasm thicker than molasses in my brain: yes, mother, you’re right, that’s so much better.

A pause.

Oh my god, I wish I could show her that “Explaining depression to my mother” slam poetry video without her dying.  She doesn't even know why that offended me, nor why she should be in the wrong for just saying something that’s true, and that she thought about me at the time this true thing happened.   I actually believe that she has no idea that bringing up a past discretion against a now-dead woman, which I committed in my adolescence or late childhood, would be an unsympathetic or unhelpful thing to do.

Ugh. 

I don't like having to take care of my mom in this capacity, while simultaneously worrying that she wonders what the hell is wrong with me.    Not just don't like it.   Resent it.   But even in admitting that resentment, I realize that I wouldn't know how to make a friend better, either – and it’s not like mom has Hyperbole and a Half lying around, or would know what to do after reading it together.    She’s unequipped, and saddled with a weird, broken model of the exemplary first-born child she must at least used to have thought was hers.  So… oh well.   With a last pat to the side of his chestnut brown neck, I dismount from my high horse of offense and huffery, and then lead all three of us (horse and all) down what I hope is the higher road than yelling.

…I apologize.

I try to explain it, slowly but hopefully not patronizingly, that that’s just what my brain does.  It hears a whole bunch of stuff, but it’s so afraid of being disliked that it takes the worst of it, takes the part where my mom said “what the hell is wrong with [me]” and hears only that.  I explain that that has become a coping mechanism, a thing I started to do so I could anticipate the worst anyone could throw at me.  “Hope for the best, be ready for the worst, you know.”  Because if I can overcome that, overcome the worst, then there’ll be nothing left, nothing left to hate or be unworthy or disappoint or worry anyone – if I can overcome the worst of it, then I’ll be accepted and love, and I’ll be free.

I see that this is either painful, or I’ve lost her, so I mention that it feels like we’re walking different paths, and that it sounds like hers is simpler and maybe straighter, and mine’s a little twisty, but we’re both getting there.

And then I try to explain about the crying.  About how when I can’t cry, or don’t realize something’s up, my brain protects me by deflecting attention from what’s wrong – I say inappropriate stuff, get a little crazy, make jokes at bad times, have a hard time listening; it’s just my brain trying to cope with a thing it worries about me looking at directly.   So, until I recognize I’m being a little weird and out of control (like I did tonight – again, kudos to me!! -- I took a lap around Papa and Betsy’s stairs!  Two, actually!), I feel manic and weird and don’t quite know what’s wrong with me.

But I'm working on noticing that, and calming down, and crying when I need to.  And I say “need to” because when I cry, it’s not actually always just sadness, mom; it helps me to clear my mind of the turmoil and debris just to see what’s wrong and then figure out what to do about it.

About how I am doing a better job about getting sleep and getting bills paid and getting the skills I need to not have to cry in order to reach catharsis, to not have to get to fall-apart crisis mode before I can start to make it better.

Because, I think to myself, “it’s 10 times harder to put yourself back together than it is to fall apart.”   Thanks, Finnick.

… Apparently, this is a bit much?   As I came to that last bit, I recognized I was monologue, and stopped to see if mom was still with me.   She was looking a bit distant, and had kind of scrunched up her mouth, so I realized I should stop. 

Oh, that’s right, guy from that TED talk or video I once watched – you’re right, people don’t want to wake up to see uncomfortable reality.   A wonderful wife of mine once told me that people don’t want to do the work.  Don’t want to take the path once they've seen it.  

Gosh, I wish I’d realized this as I was speaking; at the time, I just worried I was going crazy.   Are mom and Pat right?   Do I just take things too seriously?   Are the things I just discussed today with KJ, and the topics I can sometimes discuss with Rowan and other friends actually just… proof that we’re too much in our own heads?

So, what I did instead of stopping or checking in or making sure she’s with me is launch into another monologue.  This time, it was try to prove that I am not, in fact, insane, and that crying and talking things out is actually helping me feel better more often.  I talked about spending New Year’s Eve with Pat – modified the story; mentioned that it was a weird night, but leave out the part that I slept miserably.  I focus on how I enjoyed talking to people, enjoyed engaging and listening to how they felt about the evening.   I was genuinely proud of myself, that I stuck up for myself and what I wanted – I was myself, I insisted that we go out, I got to be talkative, got to be a bit sassy, probably annoyed Pat a little, but I didn’t accept just watching movies at his place all night, or that we had to do anything he wanted just because he wanted.   I know I don’t owe him anything.     I’m not the little girl who sat and watched the boys play video games for ever and ever just to gain acceptance – I needed to do that, maybe, to learn a lesson (though maybe not for so long).   But I’m getting there, I really am!  

Mom smiles, but seems… distant?    This pep talk schtick, while all true, doesn’t seem to be working.   So, finally, I check in – “Mom, you doing OK?”

“Yeah,” she muttered, utterly unintelligibly.    God, I must get it from both sides of the family.

“What, mom?”

“Yes.   I just… I don't know why you feel like you have to act happy so much of the time.   Like, why do you think you have to fake it?  Just be yourself!  Just… just get organized, and be yourself.   You don’t have to pretend to be happy, if that’s what you think you need to do.”

I want to scream, or go away, or tell her to leave, or pull at my hair, or petulantly insist, “YOU JUST DON'T UNDERSTAND!  I HAVE ALL THE FEELINGS!”… but I actually do take a breath this time, and realize that… actually… I’m doing a much better job at being myself lately than I have in days past.    I quickly gather evidence of this from the last few days, and try to present it cheerily to her.   (Interestingly enough, it just occurred to me that this was exactly what she was talking about – acting cheery – but it was literally the only thing I could think of to do.)

Instead I just say, softly, “But mom, I’ve spent so much of my life trying not to be myself, I need to get the habit back first.”

The conversation, we both realize, is over.

Sigh.  “Goodnight, Katy.”

“Goodnight, Mom.”

I stand up from bed and hug her.   She’s short, and insists she’s “shrinking.”   It is difficult, in this embrace, in this position, to feel as if I am some of the weight on her shoulders that is pushing her down.   That if I could just hurry up and get back into the habit of “being myself”, she’d brighten up, and things would be OK.   Our paths would line up better, and I’d be closer to “being there” and “bucking up” and “just dealing with it” like she has so often and so sagaciously suggested I do.

But it’s not the matter of getting into the habit of being myself.  That’s not nearly all of it.  She’s walking out of the room now, and I know not to mention that the reason I’ve spent so much of my life trying not to be myself is that, in taking the worst of things that people say, I have been trying to figure out what and who I need to be in order to be likeable, to be worthy of love and attention, and make it so there’s nothing the hell wrong with me.   I’ve been trying to make it so I don’t lie and stumble like a clumsy kid into doing the wrong thing again.  I know not to even try to express that rumination, while it has often been a stumbling block, has also been a defense mechanism.  That I ruminate on my mistakes and have often thought myself unlovable because it hurts ten times worse to get yelled at by an angry external source from whom I have expected – and needed – to provide love (and be disappointed) than it is to just take up as a mantra, “That was bad, very bad, don’t do that again.” 

And the fact is, yes, Mom.  You’re right.  I need to get into the habits of caring for myself better, of getting organized, of getting enough sleep, of just being myself.  I will love when I get to do those things, even with the knowledge that I will likely have to teach myself those habits again or a few times more in this lifetime. But, momma, please; I need to do all of this work – all of this crying, and thinking, and talking, and writing, and pill-taking, and beautiful, hard-to-watch mistake-making –  just to get to know and fully love myself before I can even dream of “just being” her all the time.

I fight the urge to cry again.   I know she'd hear me.

So I do what I often do, and browse Facebook for some semblance of acknowledgement that there is love in the world, even if it’s not directed right at me.   That there’s meaning, even though my grandma suffers and my mom may never understand even the first thing about what it is to be inside my head.

And, beautifully, mercifully, as if sent down by the angels that mom mentioned that she knows her father saw as he was dying – this while she was talking about how maybe I need to get back to religion – I saw this picture, and, then, the little caption over the album it's in.

 

                                                                                                             

And somehow, there is peace.   Just like I calmed myself from the tears about to be shed as I latchkey-kidded my way inside the garage door, looking up at the moon and making my breath match the clouds that drifted silently, silently over it... this little caption from the father of a little boy who is half a world away gives me the peace I didn't even remember I was searching for anymore.

And suddenly, it's OK, too.   Oh, little brain.   Goodnight, my dear.  I can hear Mom's soft breathing from the room across the hall, and my heart unclenches, letting go of a tension I didn't realize had been there.

Oh, oh, dear gray little brain.  Don't take away from that that she worries what the hell is wrong with me.   Take away the worry for me, and her hug and the little smile and the shared pain of loss and the shared hope that the future’s not totally shitty and the glimmer of understanding that while we are different, it's going to be OK.

Friends and How to Lose Them

When I was about seven years old, I slowly lost a friend. My best friend. She stopped being available when I called and asked if she wanted to hang out. I didn't understand. We lived in the middle of nowhere, so it wasn't like I had kids lining up to take her place. At the time, I think I blamed school. She'd gone to a public school a year before I did, so she was starting to make other friends. In retrospect, that is in fact probably the biggest reason for our friendship's decline. But I think my brain learned it differently.

When I entered school at age 8, I no longer had a best friend. Everyone else had been at the school long enough to form ties. There was no room for a vegetarian non-believer with no siblings and no TV. My classmates didn't know what to make of me, but they knew that I was different from them in ways that they didn't understand. It wasn't anything immediately apparent, or it didn't have to be, but I hadn't yet learned to hide who I was. I was outgoing and unapologetic and proud of my differences. And very quickly shunned. I wasn't just missing a best friend, I was missing any friends at all. The girl I'd been friends with before effortlessly fit in with her new group, sometimes by picking on me. I was a pretty easy target, and I don't blame her now. At the time, though, I was hurt and confused. This was someone I'd trusted! This was someone I'd whispered under sheets with, built snow forts with, endured boring parental parties with. How could she now be pointing and laughing and whispering about me? Had I done something?

(I hadn't done anything but be myself. I just hadn't learned yet that being myself wasn't always acceptable.)

A few years later, I finally made a couple of consistent friends. I'm not actually sure about using that term to describe Shana and Rose (sure, let's call them that), but it was the word I used at the time. It was never a very stable friendship. I got the impression that they were good friends with each other, but that I was someone they sort of tolerated. I don't know why, because most of our interactions consisted of them laughing at me for little things that I was only starting to understand.

(They were laughing at me for being myself. I was beginning to learn that some questions were shameful, that I shouldn't admit to knowing some things, or to not knowing other things. Fifth grade was a minefield of potential, socially catastrophic mistakes.)

The year after Shana and Rose, I met a new girl. We hung out on the playground, we talked to each other, we spent time at one another's houses. I don't think I would have survived that year without her, because that was also the year that we joined Debbie's group of friends. Debbie was bigger than either of us, and she thrilled in her power. She held trials for us over imagined slights in which she was judge and jury, and the punishment was to be ostracized. One week it was me, the next it was my friend. Why not leave? Why didn't the two of us strike out on our own and form a stable and affectionate group of two? We were vulnerable on our own. Debbie gave us a place to sit in the lunch room, and a group to fit in with. Without her, we were nothing but two smart kids that no one else seemed to like very much.

(That same year, I stood on the playground nearly immobile with rage and shame while my classmates threw rocks and pinecones at me. There wasn't a reason for doing it. They were bored. I elbowed one of them in the stomach. None of us said anything about it for years. I forgot about until, years later, one of them sent me a friend request on Facebook. I accepted. We've all changed since then, and she may not even remember the incident.)

I began to take for granted that I wasn't the kind of person that other people wanted to keep around. In high school, I overheard a couple of boys in my class talking about me. "Why doesn't anyone date her?" one asked. "She's got the perfect body."

"Because," the other said scornfully, "she's got a mustache and she smells bad."

How did I know they were talking about me? How did I know they weren't discussing someone else? To be honest, after the first boy's question, I thought with some disgust that they were talking about the cheerleader across the hall. Sexist pigs, I thought to myself. But then the second boy's reply washed over me in a cold slimy wave of shame and filth. Because she's got a mustache and she smells bad. These were two things that had been said to me before. I was a teenage girl, but I didn't wear perfume. I showered, but only once every three days or so. Probably not enough to keep up with the new hormonal changes. I have dark hair, and it has shown itself on my upper lip since I went through puberty.

(Many years later, in college, a valued friend would look at my upper lip while we were on a walk and say contemplatively, "Remind me not to go outside with you in the daylight.")

Clearly, my self was not good enough to be out in public. I learned to crush my brashness, to hide my opinions. I learned to say "What?" to people who asked "How are you?" in order to give myself time to come up with a lie convincing enough that they'd get bored of the conversation and move on to something else. Showing my feelings to others was dangerous. The only time they really wanted the answer was when they wanted to know if they had crossed the line from acceptable, friendly abuse into actionable consequences. I learned to redirect the conversation, to ask them first. No one really wanted to talk about me, did they? Not when we were already talking about someone as interesting as them?

(No. No one really did.)

I learned not to trust that anyone would like me enough to stick around. So I did two things. I became a mirror, reflecting their best parts back to them so that they'd like me better. And I started leaving before they ever could.

I left in several ways. I moved, physically, to other states, other schools. I developed a reputation as a hermit. People who didn't know me very well would invite me to parties or events. I wouldn't go. During some of my worst times I actively tried to drive people away by behaving badly. I was short with them. I yelled at them for trying to help me. They were going to leave anyway, and at least this way I could have some control over when our friendship was over.

It's only very recently that I've started to try to figure out how to reverse some of this staggering lack of trust in other people. I still sometimes find myself leaving. They're not really interested in me, I find myself thinking. Better to back away now, while I still have some dignity. In my better moments I imagine that this is probably very confusing for the people in my life who love me. In my worse moments I imagine that they're relieved not to have to pretend anymore.

I have hesitated to publish this in such a public forum, because I'm not looking for sympathy or platitudes. But having open conversation has always been one of the ways I find I think best. And this is a thing that I really need to think clearly about.