Unexpected Reactions

The thing with being proactive about your depression and anxiety disorders is that you don't realize that you're doing things that treat your triggers after a while. This is one thing I've noticed about mine.

My aunt started a conversation with me the other day about her particular form of anxiety. She told me that she tended to be anxious about threats to herself — which is part of what my reactions are like, but they are also about threats to others. This includes people I don't even know, or should really care about, when it comes right down to it.

I realized that I have stopped reading or watching the news. I knew that watching bad news made me hurt, sometimes physically, but most of the time it just broke my heart. In the back of my mind, before I started being proactive about my treatments, I knew that I needed to stop but it's very hard to do so when you're a former newshound!

During my summer internship with a local newspaper, I was encouraged to learn from other reporters by reading their work. My mother encouraged me to read and watch the news from a very early age. I consumed news like it was air at times. And with every plane crash, every politician not keeping their promises, every town and city that crashed with the economy (here's looking at you Detroit), every tsunami, earthquake, and tornado, my heart broke a little bit more.

Some people call it empathy or compassion. Some people call it a blessing to be so concerned with others. Some people call it a soft touch or a soft heart. Whatever you call it, I was born with the weight of the world on my shoulders, and it doesn't feel like it should be a good thing. It's almost selfish to do this to myself, and that's where I feel some confusion. Is it selfish? Is it compassionate? Or is it projecting my internal feelings on the world?

In 2005, Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans. My first reaction was to load the trunk of my car with bottled water and point my car in that direction. I wanted to give more than I had just to help out. I just didn't realize how idiotic that sounded at the time. The governor, FEMA, and the Army Corps of Engineers had shut down inbound and outbound traffic. There was no way I was going to get past that without being a part of the Red Cross or another emergency response group.

One of the best pieces of dating advice (not that I'm dating right now, but I'm considering it...) I have ever received is that you should be up on the latest events, because when conversation comes to a lull, it's a great way to restart the conversation. Well, that's out the window for now. However, I do know that if there is chemistry, then there won't be an awkward silence; at least not on the first date.

Passively accepting that I've started "ignoring" the world is one thing. Actively, what I've done is culled my "Friends" list on Facebook, but I didn't announce it. Anyone who did not contribute positive things to my life's path were either de-friended or un-followed, and I removed the apps that did the same. I realized that I was caring too much, loving too much, hurting too much.

That may not have been the smartest thing to do, but it was a way to save my sanity. I can't be responsible for the world anymore. I can't feel responsible for others and take care of myself. I CAN turn all that energy towards moving forward, toward healing, and toward myself. I think that's the most compassionate thing I can do right now — pay attention to myself for once, instead of others.

Roots Become Trees

Winding through the Blue Ridge Mountains, over Asheville and into Knoxville, my mother desperately tried to pretend like she wasn't scared to bleeding death that I was going to lose my grip on the car and careen us down the face of a mountain and into a valley below. I just grinned like the madcap fool that I am and kept on "mountain surfing"... knowing that we were heading into an area of the country I really didn't know how to love, and neither has she for all of my life.

My mother grew up on a very small farm in Kentucky near the Ohio River. If you look over the bend, looking to the north is Indiana, looking to the east is Ohio. It felt like I was looking at heaven the first time I looked outside our room in the lodge, because there's that river I always wanted in my back yard, there's the mountains all around me, there's all those wildflowers growing...

The last time I was here I was nine, and my grandmother had died at the age of 63 from complications from breast cancer treatment. Her death was my first experience with the passing of a loved one, and it was the hardest lesson to learn. Not the hardest that I've learnt since, but I was nine and very alone in my life. Grandma Liz was my best friend, my confidant, the person who encouraged me most to question my very existence and yet kept me tethered to the world beneath my feet. I still question everything just a tad bit more than I should, come to think of it.

Liz had seven brothers and a sister, so nine siblings all told. Every one of those siblings had at least two children, so my mother and her brothers had a lot of cousins. Back when the cousins were all young, they decided to start an annual family reunion. Some years, hardly anyone came; some years, everyone came. The last time I was at a reunion, I was four years old and very very scared. I hid behind Liz.

I didn't know what to expect, honestly. Mom told stories a lot about the farm, the cousins, her grandparents on both sides; as I got older those stories got a little more jaded, a little more real, a little more tainted by real-world troubles. I knew that this side of the family was composed of some of the gentlest people you ever would meet, but beyond that, I was clueless. I knew names but not faces; I knew stories about people I had no memory of meeting (well, you try remembering 100 people by name who you had never met before when you're a shy nine-year-old and grieving!).

It was one of those surreal times of my life when everyone came up to me and gave me a hug, and I didn't mind it one bit. The brothers who were left told me how much I look like Liz, and that made me feel special. There wasn't one fight, not one gut-check, but everyone was laughing and having fun sharing stories and talking about how much they missed one another. I guess you would call it the anti-streotypical family reunion.

Sometimes, you just get this feeling in your gut about the people you dearly love who have passed on. I felt like Grandma wanted me to come see her in the graveyard, like someone was tugging at my heartstrings just a little too hard. I dreamt about her, and about lying on top of her grave, and it hurt so bad I'd cry in my sleep and wake myself up. After the reunion, Mom drove me over to see her.

Fallen over and weathered granite next to brightly polished stones filled this little cemetery that could have been the inspiration for many a story. I felt her before I saw hers and her husband's stone, no different from many other tombstones in many other cemeteries around the country. I knew her stone immediately, even though I could only see the back of it.

I broke down into tears immediately. The pain was back, the pain of losing her, the pain of guilt that there had to have been something I could have done... but there was nothing, and never would be anything. The pain and sorrow of death, even though you know that it's just another stage of life.

There's something to be said for getting back to your roots. To hearing the stories of those who have gone farther in life than you have. To crying over the grave of those you love the most and just letting your heart pour it out into the universe surrounding you. Because then, maybe, just maybe, you start feeling something start to knit itself together so you can start growing again.

What Are Blessings Anyway?

I've always had a fascination with world religions, and history, from a very early age; how could I not be fascinated with how religion figures into human history, and how people operate within those constructs, when I observed so much of human behavior? Long before I saw the Indiana Jones films, I had a fantasy of becoming an archaeologist or an anthropologist.

I thought I understood what I was getting into at the ripe old age of nine years old when my pastor and now good friend, Randy, baptized me in the name of the Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost. After all, through my own studies of the Bible and other religious teachings, almost every thing he said in the pulpit and in our private discussions resonated in my core. I will never forget asking him when I was seven "How do we know we're right in our beliefs, when so many other religions teach the same thing the Bible says?" and his response of, "We don't know we're right. We believe, but other religions believe too. We'll know when we meet our Creator, by whatever name we call him."

We moved away from the city where Randy spread that message to one two and a half hours away, and started going to a church he recommended based on his experiences in seminary with the pastor there. I was ready to continue the same line of discussions I had loved in Randy's church, because we were staying in the same denomination. I had no idea how my faith would be shaken to its core.

The messages from the pulpit were not conversations with the congregation, they were structured in a rigid five paragraph format. The youth group, and pastor, wasn't all that interested in discussing the Scriptures in context of their lives and interests where I had been used to lively discussions with Eric, the youth pastor I had grown up with, and debates that went on far into the night sometimes. The missions activities seemed nominal and mainly funneled through monetary donations, instead of time and sweat and blood and tears, and those were what I most loved about my missions work.

I think the one activity I participated in that most shook me up was the girl's Bible study group, which I'll admit wasn't all that active with Eric because we were so involved in co-ed Bible study, and our youth group was quite small. This girl's Bible study group had one rise through the ranks through the completion of certain activities, much like scouting troops.

During my last retreat with this girl's group, we were all given a "blessings" survey that purported to identify where our strengths and talents lay within the Church's needs, such as music, missions, teaching, etc. The most anyone had been identified in before me was three — I was "blessed" with five of the eight different areas where I could give back to God. This gave me pause and reflection more than pride, because I didn't see these as "blessings" as defined by the teachings I knew through independent research and reading the Bible for myself. For those who are unfamiliar with the Beatitudes, where Jesus outright tells his followers who is blessed, I'm providing them here.

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. 

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. 

Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth. 

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they will be filled. 

Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy. 

Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God. 

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called the sons of God. 

Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. 

Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me.

Do I have a musical gift? Yes, but that's not a blessing here defined. Do I feel a strong need to graciously stand up for those who cannot stand for themselves? Yes, I do, and yes, I do. Do I give of myself more than I probably should? It breaks my heart every day. Do I try to stand for what I believe is right, morally and ethically? Check my employment history; I'm not ever going to apologize for doing so.

Do I feel drawn to appreciate other cultures and not interpret them according to the standards of my particular society? Oh yes. Do I recognize that the concept of God means different things to different people? You betcha. Do I believe in a higher power that has created the universe, by whatever name we choose to give it? I can't look at the leaves on the trees or the stars in the sky without being filled with that knowledge.

That survey only defined one of those as a blessing; my musical gift. Yes, I was born with an innate talent that I developed through hard work, but that's not a blessing. A blessing is recognizing where you are weakest and giving in to that weakness. Giving it up to be judged, not wanting for punishment, but acknowledgment that you are stronger for saying you are weak. Blessings are not how much you make or those external demonstrations of your earthly power; they are those internal forces that make you examine yourself and the humanity you exhibit in your weakest state.

Note: Thank you to my friend Rebecca for making me examine the word carefully as I apply it to my life. Thank you to my friends Randy (edit: added a link to his website after publishing) and Eric for not disparaging my questioning attitude, rather, encouraging it as it strengthened my internal compass. And thank you to this blogger for his own words on the importance of being careful with the word "blessings."

Keeping Promises to Myself

One of the things that irks me beyond measure is when someone makes a promise to me that they don't keep.  Barring extenuating circumstances, it has always been a pet peeve of mine, so I try my best to keep my promises to others. The hardest person for me to keep promises to, however, is myself.

Here's a story about why promises are such a big deal to me:

I once dated a man who promised to take me to his best friend's wedding in Charleston, SC. I got really excited because it was a big-deal wedding in a beautiful part of the state and packed a bag, and then Mom asked me what trip I was planning. She got excited too, so we went shopping for an appropriate outfit, matching jewelry, shoes, and even got a clutch that matched the dress perfectly.

The day he was supposed to pick me up for the trip, I stepped out to the driveway with my overnight bag and garment bag, and let him know I was waiting on him via text. For three hours, I sat on my overnight bag in the driveway, calling or texting him every 45 minutes or so. He never picked me up. He told me later that he'd gone ahead without me...

I should have dumped him right then and there. Two weeks later, after some smaller promises weren't kept, like dates to good restaurants in our hometown, I broke it off. He kept calling and texting for at least a month after, asking why I had dumped him even though I told him exactly why I had dumped him, and finally I just stopped answering the phone. He got the message or got tired of asking, I'm not sure which.

I've decided to make one big promise to myself, and put a string on my finger to remind me of that promise every day. 

This ring I'm wearing is actually three. The two narrow bands I wore on my middle fingers for years without taking them off, and the one in the middle I have appropriated as a promise ring for myself. It's pretty all together, isn't it?

I promise that whatever happens to me now or in the future, I will not fall into past bad habits. I promise to never make excuses for people who pretend to be my friend because I want to be friends with who they are pretending to be. I promise to listen to my gut and what it tells me about people and places, and to act on those feelings. I promise to be faithful to those who have never lost faith in me, though I have in myself. I promise to wait for the man who fits my criteria and I fit his, learn to become friends with him and him with me, and then we can date if we find it has progressed to that point. I promise to spend the time to find what I love about myself and to relish those qualities every day once I do. I promise to try every single day to not blame myself, to not feel ashamed of my past or guilty for the decisions I made, to forgive myself when I falter or fail, and to keep moving forward.

This is the first time I've made such a big promise to myself. I hope I can keep it.

Apologies & Explanations

My apologies to anyone who is regularly reading my musings... I kind of lost steam. I've not had much energy the past few days, and started and stopped (and started, and stopped) writing a post that's very difficult for me to write. It will get published one day, but it won't be today.

I even stopped keeping track of myself in my journal, which is odd, because that's exactly WHY I started writing in one. I guess we can just take it as read that the reason there are no entries from the 26th of June on (though I'm starting back today) is because I just didn't feel like doing much of anything but binge-watching Torchwood with Mom. I haven't even eaten much in the past week because I just lost all hope.

That's a running theme, by the way. You can tell how well I feel by whether I've drunk any coffee, and it spirals out of control from there into "has she eaten yet?" territory. I don't feel good about myself or my life as I know it, i.e., the anxiety is creeping up and biting me, or the depression is making itself known, and I just don't want to eat. I'll sleep for 14 to 16 hours a day, and stare at the ceiling fan for four, and sit on the couch for four. I might nibble on something because I know I have to, but I don't feel like eating at all.

When I'm employed, these are the majority of my sick days. I can't get out of bed, I cry interminably like my heart is breaking into a million pieces, and I feel like I'm lost on a planet that's not my own. The thoughts range from "I'm not worth any of this (meaning my surroundings)" to "I don't belong to this world anymore. Nobody wants to spend time with me, nobody has any patience with me, I just want to waste away into nothing."And I argue with myself about those statements. It's a war with myself.

“The deeper I go into myself the more I realize that I am my own enemy.” 
― Floriano Martins

I don't know the context of that quote, but it is extremely apt, no? The thing is that more than anything, I don't want to go any deeper into myself. I feel like I am a past master of introspection and brooding. It's dark in there, and I just want to see some glimmer of light.

What would that glimmer of light look like? What would it feel like? These are questions I can't adequately answer... and I wish I could.