I want to weigh in on this. I start comments on Facebook, only to delete them. I try to say something aloud, then quickly bite back the words. So I will say this here, in my space, and hope I will not feel, ever, that I have to defend it.
We elected a person who fills me with dread, revulsion, and rage. People told me he was better than Hilary Clinton. She was a security risk to the country, they said. She did something illegal (but they don't know exactly what it was - only that it involved email), then tried to cover it up, they said. She kills babies, they said.
And I am trying to understand how this measures up against a man whom I have seen threaten people with physical harm. I have heard him say words that exclude members of other races, religions, and sexual orientations. I have watched a video of him describing how he humiliates, objectifies, and uses women. He has threatened to close our country to immigration when he, himself, is the son of immigrants. He has discussed his desire for nuclear proliferation. In my mind, these things add up to security risks to our country, illegal actions, and, yes, the killing of babies...and people of all ages.
Perhaps I am too literal.
The truth of all this is that while the man, himself, causes me severe anxiety because of his support of rape culture, bigotry, chauvinism, etc., he was chosen, selected by my fellow citizens. And that is even scarier than the existence of our new president. People like him are real. They take the forms of bullies, abusers, rapists, and oppressors. They are narcissists and gaslighters. They believe they are right, always, and if they say something that is incorrect often enough, people will believe them. This election upholds everything such people have assumed about the general population.
And after Donald Trump is gone, the people and organizations who elected and supported him will still be here. The bullies will continue bullying. The abusers will not cease to abuse. The liars will continue to tell the same untruths repeatedly in an effort to deceive those who hearken to thier words. Those who made this happen are not going away.
So I am here, in this place, making a plan to survive the next four years. That I will survive is a certainty.
But I would love to, somehow, turn the tide that is driving the citizens of this country to believe that deception and denial can somehow become viable social rhetoric.
I would like them to understand that in treating women as objects, supporting rape culture, denying them equal pay for equal work, and forcing them to live in a society which treats them as second class citizens, we are shooting ourselves in the foot economically, socially, and emotionally. As long as women are sexual statistics, we cannot thrive.
I would be ecstatic if the general population did not feel the need to blame people of color or different countries for the problems we encounter here, but rather than blame, seek solutions, especially those that would require us to work with the very people who have been blamed in the past.
I want us to get a grip, become sane, and stop looking to extremist thought and action to bail us out of whatever situation is causing us distress. Because it doesn't work. Not ever. No one is completely moderate, but I'll settle for mostly moderate with a healthy dose of lucidity and logic.
No walls. No threats. No alienation.
We are called the UNITED States. We can be united alone as we ignore global situations and destroy diplomatic ties with our international neighbors. Or we can be united with them as we search for cooperative ways to solve problems and live on our shared planet.
I find it difficult to believe that my opinion is currently shared by a minority of our society. It is abhorrent that a man who publicly attempts to shame women, who is absolutely careless about their social treatment, and who would punish them for making decisions about their own bodies, is now representing the country of which I am a citizen. And yes, for me, it really is about the implicit and explicit treatment of women above all else. That is not to say that I'm dismissing the fears within the communities of minorities, immigrants, and LGBT citizens. I share those fears. But as a woman who has experienced discrimination, sexual harassment, abuse, and rape, those are the things that speak loudly to me right now.
So my hope is that those of us who are thinking clearly, the ones who understand that having a man with a toddler mentality leading our country is a bad thing, can come together. My hope is that we can serve our 4-year sentence with grace and dignity while relentlessly doing what is necessary to build bridges, reconstruct common decency, and stand firmly for what is right. Because it is right to want people from all walks of life to enjoy the same rights as those born with a silver spoon in their mouths. It is right to welcome people who have lost their homes due to terror and war. It is right to work to help the poor and needy, to mourn with those who mourn, to comfort those in need of comfort.
And no matter how many times our current president might make statements that disagree with what I have just said, it is still right. I do not have to say it repeatedly to make it so.
Wednesday, November 9, 2016
Tuesday, October 4, 2016
What was I thinking?
Today it hit me: I'm in Utah, in a two-bedroom apartment with three other adults, looking for a job I will probably hate.
What have I done?
A two-bedroom apartment. My father-in-law enjoys his own room. Aaron and I are sharing with Alex. We're looking for houses. There are all sorts of stipulations:
1. Father-in-law doesn't want anything other than a single-family home.
2. Aaron wants a huge garage or workshop.
3. I just want us to all have our own bedrooms.
Practical considerations, however, are that Del needs a bedroom and bathroom on the main floor and as few as possible stairs to navigate when entering/exiting the home. That's not an easy thing to find. So the hunt continues. And I so hate looking for homes.
I'm applying for jobs. It requires me to explain what I do to make money. This is complicated. I work lots of part-time jobs. And I make money. And I'm leaving those to get a different job because:
1. I need to have benefits and a steady money stream. Even though I make good money now, there are times when work is less abundant. That's not a good thing when no one else is bringing money into our home.
2. I really, REALLY, need to get out of the house. Trying to work with my father-in-law underfoot is going to make me lose my mind. It's time for me to leave.
But the truth is, I left so much behind me. And today I miss my kids and my colleagues and the ability to be by myself.
And I need a hug. A big, long one.
What have I done?
A two-bedroom apartment. My father-in-law enjoys his own room. Aaron and I are sharing with Alex. We're looking for houses. There are all sorts of stipulations:
1. Father-in-law doesn't want anything other than a single-family home.
2. Aaron wants a huge garage or workshop.
3. I just want us to all have our own bedrooms.
Practical considerations, however, are that Del needs a bedroom and bathroom on the main floor and as few as possible stairs to navigate when entering/exiting the home. That's not an easy thing to find. So the hunt continues. And I so hate looking for homes.
I'm applying for jobs. It requires me to explain what I do to make money. This is complicated. I work lots of part-time jobs. And I make money. And I'm leaving those to get a different job because:
1. I need to have benefits and a steady money stream. Even though I make good money now, there are times when work is less abundant. That's not a good thing when no one else is bringing money into our home.
2. I really, REALLY, need to get out of the house. Trying to work with my father-in-law underfoot is going to make me lose my mind. It's time for me to leave.
But the truth is, I left so much behind me. And today I miss my kids and my colleagues and the ability to be by myself.
And I need a hug. A big, long one.
Friday, November 20, 2015
Ghost of Christmas Present
When the layoffs came to Aaron's work in May of this year, we were not surprised. The corporation that owned the school had been in the news for at least 14 months. Their fraudulent dealings and misuse of Federal education funds, and falsified data had been reported nationally for months. In October of last year the school was sold to a nonprofit organization. The new organization met with personnel, stating that they "had no plans to lay off employees."
But we knew. The fraudulent corporation had made the decision to fire all recruiters for the school in 2011. By the fall of 2013 the student body had dropped more than 80%. It's not really good business practice to hire a large number of instructors for very few students.
So we were prepared. And when the news came in May, Aaron felt confident that he would find a job in a couple of months and all would be well.
And now it is nearing the end of November. No job. No scheduled interviews. No responses to the many, many applications he has submitted. For awhile there were interviews that ended in no job offers. Aaron's last interview was two weeks ago. Now there is nothing.
Alex is worried about Christmas. He, too, was out of work for about nine months, and now, even though he is employed and looking at the possibility of a very good new job, he's behind on many of his bills and has little money to spare.
Natalie, too, is struggling. Her job pays so little that she would be unable to support herself if she were not living at home. She's seeking employment elsewhere, also with little luck.
Chris has had financial ups and downs in the past six months, as well. Currently, he's employed and liking his job, but the time period when he was between jobs was recent. January will bring financial relief, but November and December will bring little wiggle room in his budget.
So we had a family meeting. And we talked about what it would mean to not give generous gifts at Christmas time. Alex thinks we should just postpone Christmas until May. Natalie is mostly silent. Chris says he doesn't care.
I have money put away for stockings (something the kids say is very important - and as adults, the tradition has been that everyone contributes). I have budgeted enough for a gift or two for Aaron and the kids. It doesn't feel like a big deal to me, but I've never been one who cares about lots of gifts. I have personal reasons for this.
It doesn't feel tragic to me that gifts will be sparse this year. I told my kids that the day is coming - quickly - when we won't have Christmas together anymore. So this year is important to me. We're all here. We plan to spend time celebrating during the month of December. We'll have our "What would Jesus eat" meal on Christmas Eve. We'll make pastries and Christmas cookies. We'll play games and sing and make Aaron crazy with the continuous stream of Christmas music in our usually silent home. We'll tell silly jokes and make blanket forts and read books even though we're all grown up. We'll probably watch a Christmas movie or two.
And while I would give every child of mine every item on their Christmas list, were I financially able, that's not what I would remember in the months after Christmas anyway. I'll be remembering that I have had the privilege to raise three of the finest human beings I've ever met. I'll be glad that they still think it's cool to spend time with Mom, and they make time to do that - not just at Christmas, but throughout the year. I'll be remembering that regardless of what is happening in the world, there is a small corner of Peace on Earth in my home, and that each of my children harbors love for all God's children. Their love allows for different beliefs and traditions and accepts that disagreement is a springboard for learning. In short, I don't really care about the stuff that comes in pretty packages. My children - the people they have become - are gift enough.
Having said that, I recognize the difference between Chrismas as a 20-something person and Christmas as a 40-something person. So I'm trying to think of ways to make this not just an enjoyable Christmas, but one that is memorable in ways that are different from those that are traditional. And in the meantime, I would love it if Aaron's Christmas surprises included a new job. I'm guessing that won't come from Santa. I stopped believing in him many years ago.
But we knew. The fraudulent corporation had made the decision to fire all recruiters for the school in 2011. By the fall of 2013 the student body had dropped more than 80%. It's not really good business practice to hire a large number of instructors for very few students.
So we were prepared. And when the news came in May, Aaron felt confident that he would find a job in a couple of months and all would be well.
And now it is nearing the end of November. No job. No scheduled interviews. No responses to the many, many applications he has submitted. For awhile there were interviews that ended in no job offers. Aaron's last interview was two weeks ago. Now there is nothing.
Alex is worried about Christmas. He, too, was out of work for about nine months, and now, even though he is employed and looking at the possibility of a very good new job, he's behind on many of his bills and has little money to spare.
Natalie, too, is struggling. Her job pays so little that she would be unable to support herself if she were not living at home. She's seeking employment elsewhere, also with little luck.
Chris has had financial ups and downs in the past six months, as well. Currently, he's employed and liking his job, but the time period when he was between jobs was recent. January will bring financial relief, but November and December will bring little wiggle room in his budget.
So we had a family meeting. And we talked about what it would mean to not give generous gifts at Christmas time. Alex thinks we should just postpone Christmas until May. Natalie is mostly silent. Chris says he doesn't care.
I have money put away for stockings (something the kids say is very important - and as adults, the tradition has been that everyone contributes). I have budgeted enough for a gift or two for Aaron and the kids. It doesn't feel like a big deal to me, but I've never been one who cares about lots of gifts. I have personal reasons for this.
It doesn't feel tragic to me that gifts will be sparse this year. I told my kids that the day is coming - quickly - when we won't have Christmas together anymore. So this year is important to me. We're all here. We plan to spend time celebrating during the month of December. We'll have our "What would Jesus eat" meal on Christmas Eve. We'll make pastries and Christmas cookies. We'll play games and sing and make Aaron crazy with the continuous stream of Christmas music in our usually silent home. We'll tell silly jokes and make blanket forts and read books even though we're all grown up. We'll probably watch a Christmas movie or two.
And while I would give every child of mine every item on their Christmas list, were I financially able, that's not what I would remember in the months after Christmas anyway. I'll be remembering that I have had the privilege to raise three of the finest human beings I've ever met. I'll be glad that they still think it's cool to spend time with Mom, and they make time to do that - not just at Christmas, but throughout the year. I'll be remembering that regardless of what is happening in the world, there is a small corner of Peace on Earth in my home, and that each of my children harbors love for all God's children. Their love allows for different beliefs and traditions and accepts that disagreement is a springboard for learning. In short, I don't really care about the stuff that comes in pretty packages. My children - the people they have become - are gift enough.
Having said that, I recognize the difference between Chrismas as a 20-something person and Christmas as a 40-something person. So I'm trying to think of ways to make this not just an enjoyable Christmas, but one that is memorable in ways that are different from those that are traditional. And in the meantime, I would love it if Aaron's Christmas surprises included a new job. I'm guessing that won't come from Santa. I stopped believing in him many years ago.
Tuesday, July 28, 2015
House of Cards
My life, for as long as I can remember, has been structured by people. I think that's probably a normal thing for many. Parents and siblings are constructs from whom we derive, even under the worst of circumstances, a sense of belonging and identity. As we grow older, we incorporate others into that structural framework - people who remind us who we are, or who support our ideas or beliefs. Sometimes we don't even realize we've added them to the system until they're no longer there.
My experience has been that I randomly add people for no distinct reason and neither intimacy nor longevity in our relationship dictates that addition. Something happens when we meet and in my mind that person becomes a permanent fixture. This realization became annoyingly obvious to me this year when two of my clients passed away.
The first was a man who was my neighbor when I was growing up. I saw him at least weekly in church, and spoke with him frequently. He would shake my hand and smile, remembering my name and asking a brief question about things that might be happening in my life. He was just younger than my grandfather. His wife enthusiastically sang in the choir with a very wide vibrato that begged for imitation by my sisters and I when we believed no one was listening. I liked my neighbor. I loved his wife. They created a predictable, dependable, structural element as I grew into adulthood.
The second was a woman I met occasionally, but never for very long. My dad and I took care of some estate planning for her parents, and she became a client through our interaction with them. I first met her after her mother's funeral. She remembered me as a young girl, though I had no recollection of meeting her. She called me beautiful and hugged me. Not really a typical client response, but this lady was not typical in much of anything. She was lovely and capable and accepted people into her life with cordiality and delight. Following our meeting that day, I had many opportunities to speak with her as she sought tax-related financial advice, or checked in on my parents as they endured cancer and other difficulties.
This year both of these clients became cancer victims. I received a phone call from the son of the man I had known most of my life. The tax documents were late because of his father's death. He assumed I had been told. I hadn't been. The funeral was past. The documents for the final tax return would come shortly. I expressed my condolences to the son. Then I ended the phone call and cried a little bit. I would never shake that man's hand again, or see his smile, or answer a question while wondering how he found time to be concerned about me and my life. That realization was coupled with the knowledge that it had been a long time since I had heard his wife sing. She lives still, but has dementia. Probably she doesn't know me anymore.
My second client passed away this month after a five-year battle with brain cancer. As they removed portions of her brain to control tumor growth, she fought to remember names and events. She didn't forget me, though. She told me she was grateful for my help-- that she felt she could trust me. There was feuding amongst she and her siblings. She would mention some of the disagreements to me with a brief, cryptic statement, then laugh and say, "You don't want to hear about our childish squabbles. Some adults never quite grow up, you know." Then she would move on to talk about something she loved or that brought her joy. I've still not quite accepted the reality that I won't be speaking with her on the phone anymore.
My life feels out of balance as people exit mortality. These are people that made me feel life was sane when everything else felt crazy and unstable. They weren't part of my every day existence. They were just there. I knew they were there. The fact that they were there without my having to check in with them, made life feel calm and predictable. And now they're not there anymore.
At some point, most of those people of my father's generation and older will go away. Some who are younger will exit this life, as well. I know it happens. I've experienced it multiple times. But there is a part of me that wishes things might stay the same - that I'll go back to that old church building where I grew up and find my friend waiting to shake my hand, or speaking in church, or just waving as he passes my house in his old pickup truck. Or maybe I'll go to the office next week and there will be a message from my client - she has a question - she's spoken to my father - but she'd really like to talk with me, as well - might I call her, please?
It won't happen. I'm going to miss them.
My experience has been that I randomly add people for no distinct reason and neither intimacy nor longevity in our relationship dictates that addition. Something happens when we meet and in my mind that person becomes a permanent fixture. This realization became annoyingly obvious to me this year when two of my clients passed away.
The first was a man who was my neighbor when I was growing up. I saw him at least weekly in church, and spoke with him frequently. He would shake my hand and smile, remembering my name and asking a brief question about things that might be happening in my life. He was just younger than my grandfather. His wife enthusiastically sang in the choir with a very wide vibrato that begged for imitation by my sisters and I when we believed no one was listening. I liked my neighbor. I loved his wife. They created a predictable, dependable, structural element as I grew into adulthood.
The second was a woman I met occasionally, but never for very long. My dad and I took care of some estate planning for her parents, and she became a client through our interaction with them. I first met her after her mother's funeral. She remembered me as a young girl, though I had no recollection of meeting her. She called me beautiful and hugged me. Not really a typical client response, but this lady was not typical in much of anything. She was lovely and capable and accepted people into her life with cordiality and delight. Following our meeting that day, I had many opportunities to speak with her as she sought tax-related financial advice, or checked in on my parents as they endured cancer and other difficulties.
This year both of these clients became cancer victims. I received a phone call from the son of the man I had known most of my life. The tax documents were late because of his father's death. He assumed I had been told. I hadn't been. The funeral was past. The documents for the final tax return would come shortly. I expressed my condolences to the son. Then I ended the phone call and cried a little bit. I would never shake that man's hand again, or see his smile, or answer a question while wondering how he found time to be concerned about me and my life. That realization was coupled with the knowledge that it had been a long time since I had heard his wife sing. She lives still, but has dementia. Probably she doesn't know me anymore.
My second client passed away this month after a five-year battle with brain cancer. As they removed portions of her brain to control tumor growth, she fought to remember names and events. She didn't forget me, though. She told me she was grateful for my help-- that she felt she could trust me. There was feuding amongst she and her siblings. She would mention some of the disagreements to me with a brief, cryptic statement, then laugh and say, "You don't want to hear about our childish squabbles. Some adults never quite grow up, you know." Then she would move on to talk about something she loved or that brought her joy. I've still not quite accepted the reality that I won't be speaking with her on the phone anymore.
My life feels out of balance as people exit mortality. These are people that made me feel life was sane when everything else felt crazy and unstable. They weren't part of my every day existence. They were just there. I knew they were there. The fact that they were there without my having to check in with them, made life feel calm and predictable. And now they're not there anymore.
At some point, most of those people of my father's generation and older will go away. Some who are younger will exit this life, as well. I know it happens. I've experienced it multiple times. But there is a part of me that wishes things might stay the same - that I'll go back to that old church building where I grew up and find my friend waiting to shake my hand, or speaking in church, or just waving as he passes my house in his old pickup truck. Or maybe I'll go to the office next week and there will be a message from my client - she has a question - she's spoken to my father - but she'd really like to talk with me, as well - might I call her, please?
It won't happen. I'm going to miss them.
Sunday, June 28, 2015
Happy Sunday!
Today I sat with my children and said this:
At church today, you will hear things that will feel upsetting and wrong. You'll want to respond in kind. I'm asking you to think about these things:
1. With the Supreme Court legalization of gay marriage, there are many good, wonderful people who feel vulnerable and afraid.
2. Those feelings, whether or not you agree with them, are valid, and often motivate those people to say unkind, defensive, or inflammatory things.
3. Your job is to be kind. It's okay to say if you agree or disagree, but always be kind.
This led to a conversation that was good, but also brought up several points that I am sharing here.
The first is that I keep hearing from people of my faith that Armageddon is coming and this is the first step. It makes me wonder why they feel the need to state that. If you read the Bible and believe it, Armageddon has been on its way for more than a century. Nothing has changed. Gay marriage, I do not believe, is a catalyst of that. I believe it will come about because of true wickedness, the root of which will be because people become unforgiving, hateful, and selfish. Weak arguments have been posed to me indicating that gay marriage is the embodiment of those things. I disagree.
The second point was that fear is an indication of lack of faith. If one truly believes that we were sent here by God to learn and to grow, and that He maintains a hand in our lives, AND that he is ultimately omnipotent, then one must concede that He's aware of what's going on. His plan, whatever that may be, will not be thwarted by any decisions made by a tiny Supreme Court in one country on His Earth, and who are we to say that that Supreme Court decision was not a part of God's ultimate plan. We don't know. And while our church has deeply held beliefs about marriage and family, if God is, indeed, omnipotent, it seems a good idea to throw our lot in with Him and allow Him to determine the rights and wrongs of the issue. Also, to allow His voice to be heard and not ours. We are not God's mouthpiece. We are his children.
The third point is that we've not been asked to be strident or ugly but instead, to love one another. People keep forgetting that. Or they remember with reservations or conditions. So I will simply conclude this post with the words of a brother I have never met, but love and respect deeply because he speaks as my heart would:
At church today, you will hear things that will feel upsetting and wrong. You'll want to respond in kind. I'm asking you to think about these things:
1. With the Supreme Court legalization of gay marriage, there are many good, wonderful people who feel vulnerable and afraid.
2. Those feelings, whether or not you agree with them, are valid, and often motivate those people to say unkind, defensive, or inflammatory things.
3. Your job is to be kind. It's okay to say if you agree or disagree, but always be kind.
This led to a conversation that was good, but also brought up several points that I am sharing here.
The first is that I keep hearing from people of my faith that Armageddon is coming and this is the first step. It makes me wonder why they feel the need to state that. If you read the Bible and believe it, Armageddon has been on its way for more than a century. Nothing has changed. Gay marriage, I do not believe, is a catalyst of that. I believe it will come about because of true wickedness, the root of which will be because people become unforgiving, hateful, and selfish. Weak arguments have been posed to me indicating that gay marriage is the embodiment of those things. I disagree.
The second point was that fear is an indication of lack of faith. If one truly believes that we were sent here by God to learn and to grow, and that He maintains a hand in our lives, AND that he is ultimately omnipotent, then one must concede that He's aware of what's going on. His plan, whatever that may be, will not be thwarted by any decisions made by a tiny Supreme Court in one country on His Earth, and who are we to say that that Supreme Court decision was not a part of God's ultimate plan. We don't know. And while our church has deeply held beliefs about marriage and family, if God is, indeed, omnipotent, it seems a good idea to throw our lot in with Him and allow Him to determine the rights and wrongs of the issue. Also, to allow His voice to be heard and not ours. We are not God's mouthpiece. We are his children.
The third point is that we've not been asked to be strident or ugly but instead, to love one another. People keep forgetting that. Or they remember with reservations or conditions. So I will simply conclude this post with the words of a brother I have never met, but love and respect deeply because he speaks as my heart would:
No issue brings out so much hatred from so many Catholics [or Mormons] as homosexuality. Even after over 25 years as a Jesuit, the level of hatred around homosexuality is nearly unbelievable to me, especially when I think of all of the wonderful LGBT friends I have.
The Catholic [or Mormon] church must do a much better job of teaching what the Catechism [or Church leaders] says: that we should treat our LGBT brothers and sisters with "respect, sensitivity and compassion." But God wants more. God wants us to love. And not a twisted, crabbed, narrow tolerance, which often comes in the guise of condemnations, instructions and admonitions that try to masquerade as love, but actual love.
Love means: getting to know LGBT men and women, spending time with them, listening to them, being challenged by them, hoping the best for them, and wanting them to be a part of your lives, every bit as much as straight friends are part of your lives.
Love first. Everything else later. In fact, everything else is meaningless without love.---Fr. James Martin, SJ
Tuesday, June 23, 2015
Time to Become
When I first began therapy, my counselor (not Nathan) told me I needed to file a police report about what had happened to me. She said I didn't need to press charges. Indeed, given the time that had elapsed and the lack of physical evidence, it would be very difficult to prove my claims. But a police report would substantiate the claims of any other victims, should they choose to come forward in the future.
The idea of filing a report was appalling to me for a few reasons:
1. I was repulsed by the fact that I would need to tell my story to a stranger - possibly a man - who would simply note what I said, ask a few questions, and dismiss me.
2. The thought of there being other victims was nauseating and overwhelming.
3. I had yet to become comfortable with the reality that I, myself, had been a victim.
In the end, I told my counselor that I was choosing not to file the report. I knew she was disappointed in me, though in my mind, her role was not to be disappointed, but just to help me move forward from that point. For a long time that disappointment lingered. I felt that I had failed, that I was cowardly, that somehow I was responsible for any of the conjectured victims who might be stronger and braver than myself - who were able to talk to police and other officials about the things done to them - who needed my story to corroborate theirs.
It took years for me to understand the fallacy of the logic behind those feelings. But they were fallacious, and my counselor was wrong to make me feel that I was letting someone - anyone - down.
There are times when friends and loved ones bring a scenario to our attention, something that is currently happening in their lives. They seem to need advice and we, who so clearly see solutions when the situation does not involve us, are quick to provide that advice. We provide another scenario in which the loved one confronts and solves the problem in the best way possible: our way. And then we wonder why that loved one seems confused or frustrated or even upset by our response. The answer seems crystal clear, and their failure to grasp and act upon the few basic steps we provide, in turn, confuses and upsets us.
They seem deaf to our entreaties that non-action might endanger an innocent bystander. They ignore the fact that by a few simple words or actions they can turn around a potentially dangerous situation and in the process, prevent pain. They do seem cowardly, or stubborn, or just bent on their own self-destruction.
Here's what the well-meaning advisors have forgotten: There is a person in the equation, and that person needs space and time.
I never doubted my counselor when she told me I needed to make an official statement. I just knew that I could not do it. That was not cowardice.
I believed that my statement would help others who were in a situation similar to mine. Still, I could not do it. That was not disregarding the needs of others.
I knew that making a statement would be a positive step toward healing. I also knew that it wasn't going to happen. That was not an expression of desiring to remain a victim.
What I have come to understand after all these years is that it was too soon. I needed time to become.
I needed to allow myself to become a person who had been raped. That's huge. After addressing the immediate pain of allowing myself to be the rape victim, I was overwhelmed by all the nuances of what that might mean. I needed time to sort through all of those and discard the falsehoods while clinging to the truths. I had to become comfortable saying that it happened and I had to stop trying to be a person who would never allow herself to be raped. Reality was a difficult pill to swallow.
I needed to allow myself to pass through the victim step and become a survivor. Strangely enough, that was more difficult. A survivor has been through something difficult and/or traumatic and continues to live life. For a few years, I vacillated between victim and survivor, trying to understand what each meant. Becoming a survivor, for me, meant I could never turn back. I could no longer pretend that nothing had happened. That was scary. I wasn't sure I wanted to take that step.
I needed time to figure out who I was if I had been raped, and who I would become if I moved through that pain to see what was on the other side. For a long time, my persona had been a strong, self-assured, completely emotionally isolated human being. When I began therapy I had to become vulnerable. I had to look at things that were horribly frightening - things that made me feel physically ill. When I added to the mix the fact that I didn't know who I would be if I allowed healing, I felt completely inept and cowardly.
Finally, I needed to understand how to talk about what happened, and I needed to be able to do so in any context. I practiced the brief explanation when someone unthinkingly asked why I had PTSD, and I was grateful that they asked regardless of their obvious embarrassment when I answered the question. I practiced written essays and exercises exploring each aspect of what it meant to me to be the person I was in spite of what had happened. I said the words, "I'm a rape survivor," in doctors' offices, in church, and at business gatherings. I didn't provide details and I said it pleasantly, in tones similar to those I would use if I said, "I like to eat fresh raspberries." I wasn't trying to downgrade or dismiss what happened. I just wanted to be able to say it and remain calm.
In short, I needed time to become before I could attempt what was asked - the thing that seemed simple and logical to my counselor, but overwhelming and impossible to me.
Almost ten years after the request, I made the report. The officer in charge turned out to be not a stranger, but a friend from high school. He sat quietly in the room while another officer allowed me to recount what happened. My friend asked gently for pertinent details and slid the trash can toward me when I looked like I might throw up. He checked in with me several times to make sure I didn't need a time-out to breathe, and occasionally changed the subject briefly when it was clear that I was panicking. Before I left, he took a moment to ask me about my family and tell me about his own. Then he told me he was sad about the circumstances of our meeting, but he was still happy to see me.
At the end of my six-hour drive home, I experienced one of the most physically painful panic attacks of my life. I couldn't breathe. My entire body hurt. I was crying and gasping. I made it home and into my bathroom before I threw up. Then I went upstairs and taught piano lessons. Because that's what you do when you're a rape survivor with PTSD. You just move on to the next thing.
What I learned was that if I had attempted making the statement 10 years ago at my counselor's request, I might never have returned to therapy. The resulting depression was intense enough that I don't know that I would have survived it a decade ago. I wasn't as strong then. I needed time to become.
When a loved one comes with an "easily" solved dilemma, it's good to remember that people grow at differing paces and in many different areas. What seems simple to one might seem impossible to another. Allowing time to build strength and understanding is always more important than an immediate solution. Showing disappointment when a loved one does not act on good advice is never helpful.
The thing that brought me the most growth and strength was the unwavering and constantly growing love I felt from people who were a part of my support system. Their willingness to let me choose what I would and wouldn't do and the unceasing trust I felt from them, allowed me to learn to trust my own judgment. Their belief in me strengthened my resolve and brought me to the point when I could finally do what had been asked nearly a decade before. They allowed me to become - whatever that might be - and they supported my choice to become what I would. I think that's beautiful.
The idea of filing a report was appalling to me for a few reasons:
1. I was repulsed by the fact that I would need to tell my story to a stranger - possibly a man - who would simply note what I said, ask a few questions, and dismiss me.
2. The thought of there being other victims was nauseating and overwhelming.
3. I had yet to become comfortable with the reality that I, myself, had been a victim.
In the end, I told my counselor that I was choosing not to file the report. I knew she was disappointed in me, though in my mind, her role was not to be disappointed, but just to help me move forward from that point. For a long time that disappointment lingered. I felt that I had failed, that I was cowardly, that somehow I was responsible for any of the conjectured victims who might be stronger and braver than myself - who were able to talk to police and other officials about the things done to them - who needed my story to corroborate theirs.
It took years for me to understand the fallacy of the logic behind those feelings. But they were fallacious, and my counselor was wrong to make me feel that I was letting someone - anyone - down.
There are times when friends and loved ones bring a scenario to our attention, something that is currently happening in their lives. They seem to need advice and we, who so clearly see solutions when the situation does not involve us, are quick to provide that advice. We provide another scenario in which the loved one confronts and solves the problem in the best way possible: our way. And then we wonder why that loved one seems confused or frustrated or even upset by our response. The answer seems crystal clear, and their failure to grasp and act upon the few basic steps we provide, in turn, confuses and upsets us.
They seem deaf to our entreaties that non-action might endanger an innocent bystander. They ignore the fact that by a few simple words or actions they can turn around a potentially dangerous situation and in the process, prevent pain. They do seem cowardly, or stubborn, or just bent on their own self-destruction.
Here's what the well-meaning advisors have forgotten: There is a person in the equation, and that person needs space and time.
I never doubted my counselor when she told me I needed to make an official statement. I just knew that I could not do it. That was not cowardice.
I believed that my statement would help others who were in a situation similar to mine. Still, I could not do it. That was not disregarding the needs of others.
I knew that making a statement would be a positive step toward healing. I also knew that it wasn't going to happen. That was not an expression of desiring to remain a victim.
What I have come to understand after all these years is that it was too soon. I needed time to become.
I needed to allow myself to become a person who had been raped. That's huge. After addressing the immediate pain of allowing myself to be the rape victim, I was overwhelmed by all the nuances of what that might mean. I needed time to sort through all of those and discard the falsehoods while clinging to the truths. I had to become comfortable saying that it happened and I had to stop trying to be a person who would never allow herself to be raped. Reality was a difficult pill to swallow.
I needed to allow myself to pass through the victim step and become a survivor. Strangely enough, that was more difficult. A survivor has been through something difficult and/or traumatic and continues to live life. For a few years, I vacillated between victim and survivor, trying to understand what each meant. Becoming a survivor, for me, meant I could never turn back. I could no longer pretend that nothing had happened. That was scary. I wasn't sure I wanted to take that step.
I needed time to figure out who I was if I had been raped, and who I would become if I moved through that pain to see what was on the other side. For a long time, my persona had been a strong, self-assured, completely emotionally isolated human being. When I began therapy I had to become vulnerable. I had to look at things that were horribly frightening - things that made me feel physically ill. When I added to the mix the fact that I didn't know who I would be if I allowed healing, I felt completely inept and cowardly.
Finally, I needed to understand how to talk about what happened, and I needed to be able to do so in any context. I practiced the brief explanation when someone unthinkingly asked why I had PTSD, and I was grateful that they asked regardless of their obvious embarrassment when I answered the question. I practiced written essays and exercises exploring each aspect of what it meant to me to be the person I was in spite of what had happened. I said the words, "I'm a rape survivor," in doctors' offices, in church, and at business gatherings. I didn't provide details and I said it pleasantly, in tones similar to those I would use if I said, "I like to eat fresh raspberries." I wasn't trying to downgrade or dismiss what happened. I just wanted to be able to say it and remain calm.
In short, I needed time to become before I could attempt what was asked - the thing that seemed simple and logical to my counselor, but overwhelming and impossible to me.
Almost ten years after the request, I made the report. The officer in charge turned out to be not a stranger, but a friend from high school. He sat quietly in the room while another officer allowed me to recount what happened. My friend asked gently for pertinent details and slid the trash can toward me when I looked like I might throw up. He checked in with me several times to make sure I didn't need a time-out to breathe, and occasionally changed the subject briefly when it was clear that I was panicking. Before I left, he took a moment to ask me about my family and tell me about his own. Then he told me he was sad about the circumstances of our meeting, but he was still happy to see me.
At the end of my six-hour drive home, I experienced one of the most physically painful panic attacks of my life. I couldn't breathe. My entire body hurt. I was crying and gasping. I made it home and into my bathroom before I threw up. Then I went upstairs and taught piano lessons. Because that's what you do when you're a rape survivor with PTSD. You just move on to the next thing.
What I learned was that if I had attempted making the statement 10 years ago at my counselor's request, I might never have returned to therapy. The resulting depression was intense enough that I don't know that I would have survived it a decade ago. I wasn't as strong then. I needed time to become.
When a loved one comes with an "easily" solved dilemma, it's good to remember that people grow at differing paces and in many different areas. What seems simple to one might seem impossible to another. Allowing time to build strength and understanding is always more important than an immediate solution. Showing disappointment when a loved one does not act on good advice is never helpful.
The thing that brought me the most growth and strength was the unwavering and constantly growing love I felt from people who were a part of my support system. Their willingness to let me choose what I would and wouldn't do and the unceasing trust I felt from them, allowed me to learn to trust my own judgment. Their belief in me strengthened my resolve and brought me to the point when I could finally do what had been asked nearly a decade before. They allowed me to become - whatever that might be - and they supported my choice to become what I would. I think that's beautiful.
Sunday, May 31, 2015
Grandma
My grandma is one month and two weeks shy of 98 years. She has seven siblings. Of the eight children in her family, four are still living - all are nonagenarians except her elder brother who just had his 100th birthday. That's a very long life.
A couple of years ago Grandma stopped taking her daily walks. We used to joke that they were called "daily walks" because it took her a day to walk around the block. There are many people in the neighborhood who have told me they miss seeing my tiny grandma who always greeted them with a smile and a wave. She stopped walking because she had begun falling down unexpectedly and was afraid of falling where no one could help her. She also refused to use a walker because people might think she was getting weaker and falling down or something. When I pointed out to her that that was exactly the case, she laughed and said, "Well, I can't figure out how to use that big old thing anyway."
Until last month, Grandma made bread every week. Years ago she had surrendered the mixing and kneading of the bread to a machine, but I have loved to visit her on Bread Day and watch her shaping the loaves when the dough was mixed. Grandma always poked a fork from the top to the bottom of each shaped loaf prior to baking, so that no holes would form in the dough while it was rising and baking. My mother has done the same thing all her life. Until I was 12, I had no idea that a loaf of homemade bread could be made without the design of small holes across the crusty top. For the last decade, if I was visiting on Bread Day, Grandma sent me home with a warm loaf--not for me. It was for Aaron. Always for Aaron.
My boys always note that when they visit Grandma, she tells them about something she's heard recently that she thinks is funny. Sometimes it's not funny at all, but they laugh anyway because Grandma's giggle is infectious. And it's fun to laugh with her. She's always had trouble remembering Alex's name so she put a Post-it Note on the mirror in her sitting room to remind her what "Dian's second boy" was called. I love seeing the note. It's been there for more than three years now. It reminds me that I'm important to her, and so are my children. Her 90+-year-old mind is too full to retain one more name, but she wants to remember anyway so she writes it down.
My children have had the privilege of knowing all their great-grandparents. Both great-grandfathers passed away when my children were very young, but the grandmas lived long enough for them to establish a deeply loving relationship. Natalie called my dad's mother, Grandma Ruth. She passed away about 10 years ago. But my children have known Grandma Erwin all their lives. We visited her often both before she moved in with my parents, and after. When I was a child, Grandma was 5'4" tall. She was lovely and energetic and always treated me as if I was someone very special. The Grandma my children have known has lost many inches due to osteoporosis. She is now about 4'8" and struggles to weigh more than 90 pounds.
Natalie has always felt a special bond with Grandma. When she was three, she said, "I have lots of Grandmas. Grandma Erwin is like me. She's my little grandma." Over the past decade, I've watched my daughter quietly take Grandma's arm and walk her through the store, or from the chapel to Sunday School class. She spends time in Grandma's sitting room chatting with the elderly woman who can barely hear her. She makes sure Grandma gets a hug. When Nat was in a Utah facility for treatment for depression, Grandma missed her. She was losing her memory at that point and couldn't understand why Natalie was gone. I finally just told Grandma that Natalie had gone away to school. Grandma would smile and nod and say, "She needs to write me a letter."
Grandma had a heart attack last month. At that point it was clear that her death was very near. She's in Star Valley right now with my parents. Grandma's death will come in the next few days. Her body is shutting down. Her digestive system no longer allows her to eat or drink very much and her body is beginning to swell as her kidneys shut down. Breathing is labored, and Grandma sleeps most of the time. She's unaware of where she is or who is with her. Hospice will ease her pain as Grandma passes away.
She's almost 98. Her body has been unable to heal itself from minor cuts and bruises without the aid of intravenous antibiotics for more than a year now. She's lost her ability to read, do handwork and quilting, and even dress herself some days. She told me a few months ago that she's ready to join Grandpa whenever the time comes. But I'm realizing there will be no more days of watching her aged hands shape bread dough, no more giggling with my sons, no more moments for Natalie to gently take her arm and provide stability as Grandma walks. There will be no more smiling through hymns at church as I listen to my Grandma sing. No more questions about whether Chris is ever going to find a girlfriend, or what I named "that second boy."
I understand that death will be a necessary release for my Grandma, but I'm missing her already. And I'm feeling a little bit sad.
A couple of years ago Grandma stopped taking her daily walks. We used to joke that they were called "daily walks" because it took her a day to walk around the block. There are many people in the neighborhood who have told me they miss seeing my tiny grandma who always greeted them with a smile and a wave. She stopped walking because she had begun falling down unexpectedly and was afraid of falling where no one could help her. She also refused to use a walker because people might think she was getting weaker and falling down or something. When I pointed out to her that that was exactly the case, she laughed and said, "Well, I can't figure out how to use that big old thing anyway."
Until last month, Grandma made bread every week. Years ago she had surrendered the mixing and kneading of the bread to a machine, but I have loved to visit her on Bread Day and watch her shaping the loaves when the dough was mixed. Grandma always poked a fork from the top to the bottom of each shaped loaf prior to baking, so that no holes would form in the dough while it was rising and baking. My mother has done the same thing all her life. Until I was 12, I had no idea that a loaf of homemade bread could be made without the design of small holes across the crusty top. For the last decade, if I was visiting on Bread Day, Grandma sent me home with a warm loaf--not for me. It was for Aaron. Always for Aaron.
My boys always note that when they visit Grandma, she tells them about something she's heard recently that she thinks is funny. Sometimes it's not funny at all, but they laugh anyway because Grandma's giggle is infectious. And it's fun to laugh with her. She's always had trouble remembering Alex's name so she put a Post-it Note on the mirror in her sitting room to remind her what "Dian's second boy" was called. I love seeing the note. It's been there for more than three years now. It reminds me that I'm important to her, and so are my children. Her 90+-year-old mind is too full to retain one more name, but she wants to remember anyway so she writes it down.
My children have had the privilege of knowing all their great-grandparents. Both great-grandfathers passed away when my children were very young, but the grandmas lived long enough for them to establish a deeply loving relationship. Natalie called my dad's mother, Grandma Ruth. She passed away about 10 years ago. But my children have known Grandma Erwin all their lives. We visited her often both before she moved in with my parents, and after. When I was a child, Grandma was 5'4" tall. She was lovely and energetic and always treated me as if I was someone very special. The Grandma my children have known has lost many inches due to osteoporosis. She is now about 4'8" and struggles to weigh more than 90 pounds.
Natalie has always felt a special bond with Grandma. When she was three, she said, "I have lots of Grandmas. Grandma Erwin is like me. She's my little grandma." Over the past decade, I've watched my daughter quietly take Grandma's arm and walk her through the store, or from the chapel to Sunday School class. She spends time in Grandma's sitting room chatting with the elderly woman who can barely hear her. She makes sure Grandma gets a hug. When Nat was in a Utah facility for treatment for depression, Grandma missed her. She was losing her memory at that point and couldn't understand why Natalie was gone. I finally just told Grandma that Natalie had gone away to school. Grandma would smile and nod and say, "She needs to write me a letter."
Grandma had a heart attack last month. At that point it was clear that her death was very near. She's in Star Valley right now with my parents. Grandma's death will come in the next few days. Her body is shutting down. Her digestive system no longer allows her to eat or drink very much and her body is beginning to swell as her kidneys shut down. Breathing is labored, and Grandma sleeps most of the time. She's unaware of where she is or who is with her. Hospice will ease her pain as Grandma passes away.
She's almost 98. Her body has been unable to heal itself from minor cuts and bruises without the aid of intravenous antibiotics for more than a year now. She's lost her ability to read, do handwork and quilting, and even dress herself some days. She told me a few months ago that she's ready to join Grandpa whenever the time comes. But I'm realizing there will be no more days of watching her aged hands shape bread dough, no more giggling with my sons, no more moments for Natalie to gently take her arm and provide stability as Grandma walks. There will be no more smiling through hymns at church as I listen to my Grandma sing. No more questions about whether Chris is ever going to find a girlfriend, or what I named "that second boy."
I understand that death will be a necessary release for my Grandma, but I'm missing her already. And I'm feeling a little bit sad.
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