The Abyss, Again

You never really notice the climb when you're on the way down. Sure, some days you may look up and see that the sun doesn't look as bright that day, but you attribute it to the weather, and not your perspective on it. You may realize you've gone days without connecting to another person, but you chalk it up to their busy lives, and not the fact that few climb willingly into the dark, cold abyss. 

At first it feels good. The mists are cool and welcoming, there is no sun to hurt your eyes, no noise to pierce your ears. There are no people around, so there aren't any expectations. You can sleep all day and do nothing. The chores can pile up around you and no one will care. 

But one day, you notice that every gesture seems slow, heavy, deliberate. You look down and see that your protective layer is made of ice, and suddenly, you feel the cold. 

You panic. You start to notice your surroundings. The steep cliffs of granite, cold and unyielding, looming above you in every direction. The pale cold light barely peeking beyond. The ice makes everything slippery and every movement difficult. With no one around, there is no one to hear your cries. 

Despair becomes real. Hopelessness sets in. And you begin to question the fight.  

It's Time

I've been stuck for a while now, trying to find a way forward that would still leave me whole. I tried to take stock, but all I could see was this mass of old hurts and the laundry list of my lackings. 

Surely in all these negatives, there had to be some positives? 

And this last weekend, I discovered them. I met with this fabulous group of women that I look up to and admire. And I was accepted and liked and yes, loved. And I accepted and liked and gave love. These smart, funny, capable women told me I am strong, and witty, and wise. 

And if they think it is so, then surely it has to be true. And truth is ever true; it cannot be unmade by time or will. 

So, I cannot change the truth of what was: my past made me who I am today, everything these women see in me and more. 

I cannot change what is; we are who we are today. 

I can change what will be. Instead of clinging to the shadows in the ruins left from my past, I can move out into the sunlight, to see and accept the gifts the past has left me. 

It is time to move on.

It is time to let go. 

It is time to forgive. 

Off Topic

Okay, so there is a news story out there today that just maddens me.

http://seattletimes.nwsource.com/html/localnews/2004256586_webdreamsfire03m.html

Basically, the Earth Liberation Front is suspected in the firebombing of Seattle's Street of Dreams. The Street of Dreams was apparently advertised as being more "green", or environmentally-friendly, than in past years. They used recycled materials, reduced run-off by creating permeable hardscapes, etc. The ELF saboteurs apparently felt that the community as a whole wasn't green enough, because of its placement outside the urban area. (More resources required to bring materials and services to the site, destruction of "wild" areas, etc.)

To me, the (alleged) ELF terrorism cuts to the heart of why so many get turned off by the environmental movement: the refusal to see the world as anything but black and white.

Now, personally, I think a 4,000 square foot home is overkill, unless you're planning to take in indigent widows and orphans. I agree with the idea that most homes have become storage lockers, necessary to our everyday pursuit of more and better stuff. (How many of us actually use our garages for parking cars anymore? The junk drawer has grown to become the junk room - where used-up furniture and broken electronics go to gather dust.)

But what if you entertain frequently, for business and personal reasons? You'd need a bigger kitchen to accomodate the food prep, regardless of whether you cook or leave it to professionals. You'd also need extra bedrooms to accomodate the overnighters, or just guests who've had one to many.

And what if you need room for the elderly parents when they can't live on their own anymore? If they, or you, aren't comfortable with institutional care, you'd want them at home. And you'd probably want to give them their own space so they can feel somewhat independent. If they're in worse shape, you might even need room for a caregiver or nursing aide.

These are perfectly reasonable reasons for needing a larger home. And they're just the ones I thought of in the space of five minutes. I'm sure there are more.

So you can't just make a blanket statement that big houses are bad. Especially when you consider possible offsets.

(Now, what do I mean by offset? Well, I don't live near where I work. But, I do what I can to reduce the impact of all that mileage. I bought a smaller, more fuel-efficient car classified as a low emissions vehicle. When I need to make short errand runs near the office, I check out the public transit options. And I "lump" my trips together - picking up groceries and odds and ends on my way to or from the office. These are offsets.)

The Street of Dreams builders made offsets. They knew that larger homes would equal greater run-off (from water impermeable surfaces like roofs and driveways), so they landscaped (and hardscaped) the property to create better "natural" drainage. They used more efficient heating and cooling systems and Energy Star appliances.

The builders might even have used more earth-friendly design features like wood flooring and cabinets built from certified sustainable harvested woods, marmoleum floors, or PaperStone countertops.

Where do these radical "environmentalists" account for these offsets in their black and white view of the world?

What about the homes' future owners? What about the big software executive who telecommutes, cutting down on his car trips? The owner who hosts parties and shuttles or carpools his guests in from the city? The owner who composts, and has their own organic "kitchen garden"?

Who decides how many offsets we have to have before we can call ourselves green?

Will I be exposed as an earth-killer because I don't live near where I work? Will someone paint "warmonger" on the side of my neighbor's gas-guzzling work van?

The only way to save this Earth for future generations is to work together. To listen to one another and find compromises we can all live with. If I'm too scared of being attacked for my practices, I can't share my point of view. And if I'm not sharing, we can't find a solution.

It is time to take back our cause from the extreme. Lets all promise to listen, and consider, and work together. We can all start with just one thing...

Anger

I thought I'd given up on anger. It's pointless to be angry with someone who's mentally ill. Her mind isn't capable of understanding. So what's the point in being mad? 

But I've learned it isn't that easy to just let it go. I've been storing it up in a little box in my soul for all these years. But anger is corrosive; over all this time, the acid has eaten through that box and slowly leached into my heart. It poisons my everyday thoughts, and twists my every relationship. 

I have to find a way to let it go - even if it means finally acknowledging all that pain, all that hate. It's time to pull it up, examine it, and let it go. So...

I'm angry at my mother: for not being the mother I so desperately needed. I'm angry for her accusations, her assumption that the daughter she raised could stray so far. I'm angry for all the times she accused my father of things he didn't do, tainting forever after my every interaction with him. I'm angry for all the times she embarrassed me in front of my friends. I'm angry for all the friends she made me drive away, for all the friends I never made, because I knew she wouldn't approve. 

I'm angry with my father: for not being the father I so desperately needed. For every time he failed to shield me from my mother's delusions. For every time I needed a fatherly hug, but didn't get so much as a pat on the shoulder. For not protecting me soon enough. 

I'm angry with my sister: for not stepping in to be the mother I so desperately wanted, until it was too late. Stupid I know. But to a 5-year old, a 15-year old sister looks so worldly and adult. I'm angry with her for not guiding me when I just needed someone to tell me what was normal and what wasn't. I'm angry with her for not seeing the damage Mom has already done to our family, and how much more damage she's capable of creating. 

I'm angry with my best friend: for every time she made fun of or disparaged her parents' relationship. I just want to slap her, and tell her how lucky she was, how lucky she is, to have two parents capable of showing love and affection, sharing good and bad. 

I'm angry with the Family Court: for not protecting me from my mother soon. For not protecting MY interests in my parents' long-running divorce. 

And finally, I'm angry with myself: for not letting this all go. 

Things

I find it hard to get "attached" to things. The closest I come is that half-finished craft project I refuse to throw any further than my closet. 

Today was clean-out day. Happens once or twice a year. Unlike some people I could mention, I acknowledge that I live in a small house. And unless I want the local newspaper to report my death by detailing the clutter I live in, I need to periodically cull my possessions. 

You'll probably never hear me say, "I'm keeping that for sentimental reasons." I can understand the behavior in others, to a certain extent - I get keeping that wedding dress, for instance. 

Keeping that horror of '80's fashion that was your wedding travel jumpsuit? Not so much. It's just stuff. Keep it light, you'll move faster. (I should say here that I'm still absolutely amazed by the amount of stuff I live with and find necessary. Just try to pry that stainless steel cook set out of my cold, dead hands.) 

So today was Day 1 of the clear-out - the master bedroom. I am ruthless on clear-out. If you made it through the cut last time, and I haven't touched you since - it's time to go. Clothes with tags still on them, shirts that have seen better days and better waistlines. Total of five bags of clothes, purses, shoes and miscellany. 

If there is one group of things I can get sentimental about, it's my books. But even there, I was coldblooded and pitiless. Bye to Nancy Herndon, Stef Ann Holm - sorry, gals, but it's time to make room for Victoria Laurie and Tess Gerritsen. 

What's the upside of Clear-Out? Well, for one, I can see my closet floor for the first time since Thanksgiving . My bedroom feels lighter. I can go to sleep without worrying that the book I just tossed on top of my To-Be-Read pile will topple the whole stack. 

Downside? Hauling everything to the garbage and the charity bin. Last time, it took me four carloads get everything to Goodwill. 

The other downside? Sometimes, I wonder at my lack of sentimentality. Am I too cold-blooded? Is Clear-Out really a manic episode disguised as useful endeavour? Is this low ...

I don't know where I'm going with this. I guess I just wanted it said. 

Inspiration

This last week, therapy touched upon, oddly enough, my ADD when it comes to arts and crafts. I love arts and crafts. Writing, knitting, sewing, drawing, painting, all of it. But like so many others out there, I have a huge pile of unfinished projects.

I'll go to a craft store, find a yarn that sings to me its siren's song. I can see a shawl so clearly, done in that yarn, with an open gage. It would be so soft, so feminine, so pretty.

So I'll buy the yarn, the right size needles, etc. and tote it all home. Maybe I'll even go so far as to cast on and throw a few rows. But then the clack of the needles stills, and the yarn just sits there, alone, unused. I'll clean up the house for guests, see the project still laying where I'd abandoned it weeks before, and with a little sigh of regret, I'll banish it to the Land of Unfinished Crafts.

It wasn't that I stopped being able to picture that lovely shawl that first caught my imagination in the store. I can still see it, gauzy and fine, hanging around the shoulders of an imaginary form.

It's that I began to fear that vision. Where it could lead me. What if I got all wrapped up in the project? What if I let it consume me? The inspiration leads to chaos - knitting without a pattern.

And that is my great fear - my fear of letting go. If you were to ask me what vision haunts me when the drugs get weak, it is a vision of me, standing on the edge, and just ... stepping off. Letting go.

What chaos that would wreak!

Now, take my Craft ADD to something that means even more to me: writing. I love putting words together. Finding just the right way to express a feeling, a sentiment. I get giddy when people laugh at something silly I wrote. I feel honored when someone finds truth in something scary I wrote.

When I picture myself writing, I see chaos. Papers strewn around me, tacked to the walls, stacked on my desk. I see myself forgetting things like bedtime and meals.

When inspiration hits, the force it generates in me is so powerful, it can call me out of bed in the middle of the night, desperate to get the idea down. And then, it scares me. I can't control it. I don't know where the inspiration might take me, where it might lead, the chaos it might create. So I back off. And another note gets filed away in another notebook, tossed away with the recycling the next time I clean house.

Maybe it's time to let go. I've kept everything under tight control for thirty-odd years, and this is as far as its gotten me. Maybe it's time to let go, and let inspiration set my course.

What's in a Name?

A Name is Power.

In ancient times, they used to believe that you should never utter a baby's name aloud, lest evil overhear. If Evil knew the baby's name, it could use the name to cast a spell upon the child.

Among some American Indian tribes, they had a practice of adopting the names of their spirit guides, thereby summoning the guide's strength and power to them.

If you want to take this out of the realm of myth, you need look no further than a baby. What is one of a baby's first milestones? His first word. When that baby first names his "Mommy", he gains power. He can summon a grown adult to his side with just one simple word. Just two syllables gets him a smile, a hug, a diaper change or a bottle. All his simple needs met, with just a single word.

Now take this to the adult who is seriously ill. You're afraid, but you don't yet know of what. You can't sleep for the worry. You can't eat without choking. You can't ask for help, because you don't yet know what is wrong. You feel helpless against this nameless demon that is trying to take over your life.

But then, someone gives you its name - Depression. You can own it now. It is no longer a faceless demon, but a thing. Now that you know its name, you can ask others, "Have you seen the demon known as Depression? Do you know how to defeat it?"

Now that you know its name, you can summon forth a champion to help you fight it. "Who amongst you has the courage to slay the mighty demon in my name?"

"Go forth, Prozac (or Zoloft, or Effexor) and defeat the demon known as Depression!"

Names have power.

Until you can name your fears, until you can speak their names out loud, you are at their mercy. And they are neither merciful nor swift in the havoc that they cause.

Progress/The Cinder Block Wall

I have made progress (at last!) this past week. Many times before, I have been at a place in my head where it is okay to dress attractively, to wear flattering makeup, and take care to style my hair. But each time, I would hit a point where I would retreat, and not ever "know" why.

This time, I know that the voice in my head, telling me I shouldn't wear that, I shouldn't look like that, is my mother's. And I know she doesn't belong in there. I can take this fear of trying to be attractive and toss it back. It isn't mine. It doesn't belong to me. The girl with minimal makeup, practical clothes, and hair in a clip isn't me.

I am feminine. I like to feel "casually sexy". I like to dress in flattering clothes and wear nice makeup. I like to hear compliments about my skin and my hair. I still love to hear that I'm a great organizer, great assistant, great servicing agent, but I want people to see more of me! I want people to remember my smile, and how I laughed at something silly.

So that is my progress.

But these other fears? I still can't name them. Every time we try to journey a little deeper, this cinder block fortress wall pops up in my brain. And those nameless fears are right there, in the darkness, building the wall a little higher.

The therapist keeps pushing, trying to find a way to help me around, over, or under the wall, but each time, the wall gets higher and more menacing, until it feels like a physical weight in my head.