Attachments

Everywhere I look this week people are killing themselves - or trying to.  That sounds funny and wrong, but I'm not trying to make light.  Public figures, strangers, people I once knew.  It's heartbreaking to think that a person can get to that point, the point where ending his or her life seems like the only option.

I get it.  I come from depressive, anxious stock.  I have my moments - not to the point where I have thought about something as serious as suicide - but where I feel disconnected, deflated, defeated, wondering how I have gotten here and where it's all going.

Part of it is that I confess I'm the person who likes to read the last page of the book first.  No surprises.  I need to approve of the ending.  And sometimes the sheer uncertainty of life makes me wonder where the escape valve is.

Stop the world I want to get off.

But I also have lived enough to know that this too shall pass, good or bad.  The old Buddhist concept of impermanence.  We live and die in each moment as each moment leads to the next.  It's depressing and liberating at the same time.  I mean, I want the bad things to end and the good things to last forever, we all do, but it just doesn't work that way.  Nothing is forever, even forever, which, even now, in the few seconds since I wrote it the first time, has now become forever minus one.

You get the picture.

Generally speaking I live by the mantra, "It'll seem better in the morning," and you know what, once I get past the fact that I am SO not a morning person, most things do.

It just makes me wonder, with so many ways for us to connect as human beings to one another, how is it that people can still feel so isolated and alone?  Why are we so stingy with the love and kindness that we all need?

I remember when I was in my early 20s and living in Boston.  I had a job I loved to pieces and a wonderful boss who still remains a mentor, but was absolutely miserable each and every day.  It was good times, I'll tell you.  I was isolated and lonely and felt that I was trying really hard to fit in and make friends with no results - in retrospect, maybe I wasn't trying hard enough, but coming out of college, where making friends had come so easily, where I had finally found my tribe, it was a shock to my system to have it be so hard.  I blamed the entire city of Boston and its Puritan ways.  I cultivated a hatred for the Red Sox, ignited by my Bronx birth but fueled by living so close to Fenway where people would be happily attending games en masse while I walked alone rooting for the Yankees.  I spent way too much time alone, brooding, watching movies, complaining on the phone to college friends, and plotting for a better day as I watched my world get smaller and smaller.

I hated it there so much that, when I made the decision to leave, I actually bought a Page a Day/Word a Day calendar (remember those?) and flipped it over and counted backward a full year to the day I was planning to move.  I don't remember what words I learned because I was too busy being depressed (adj., in a state of general unhappiness or despondency) and maudlin (adj., self-pitying or tearfully sentimental).  But it brought me a lot of comfort to be able to say, "326 days left ... 199 days left" until my exciting new life would begin.  Progress.

But then a funny thing happened.

As I got closer and closer to my move date, people started coming up to me and saying nice things like, "Hey, you're a cool girl, I wish you weren't leaving," and "I'll miss you."  They threw me parties and said nice things and made toasts and even shed a tear or two.  And my only real friend in town, who I had grown distant from and would see irregularly, all of a sudden was attentive to my needs, there all the time, consoling me as I cried and questioned my decision to pull up anchor.

And I remember thinking, "Where the f**k were you people this whole time when I was sitting alone every night in my tiny bedroom in an apartment where I lived with with two strangers watching The Rosie Show I had taped on VHS while eating Annie's macaroni and cheese?"

I mean, if I had known you all cared so damn much, maybe I wouldn't be leaving.  Cancel the U-Haul, I love this place!  They like me, they really like me!  I'm mayor of this town!  Red Sox rule (well, that's pushing it, scratch that).

One of my favorite scenes from my favorite movie, "Grease," is the scene where Sandy first runs into Danny at school after spending their summer together, both convinced they'd never see each other again.  When she sees him, she's superexcited, and he essentially pretends she doesn't exist.  For the one person on Earth who hasn't seen it, it goes like this:

Danny: That's cool baby, you know how it is, rockin' and rollin' and what not.
Sandy: Danny?
Danny: That's my name, don't wear it out.
Sandy: What's the matter with you?
Danny: What's the matter with me, baby, what's the matter with you?
Sandy: What happened to the Danny Zuko I met at the beach?
Danny: Well I do not know. Maybe there's two of us. Why don't you take out a missing person's ad? Or try the Yellow Pages, I don't know.
Sandy: You're a fake and a phony and I wish I never laid eyes on you!

Preach, Sandy, preach!   You tell that fake and phony - find him in the Yellow Pages under D, not for Danny but for douchebag.  Or, totally change your personality, start smoking, and get a slutty wardrobe.

Fielder's choice.

Unlike Sandy, I decided to leave Boston as I had planned, but I do sometimes look back and think, "Hey, what if?  They love me in that town!"

Unfortunately, these are patterns that repeat too often in life -- not just in mine.  And it makes me wonder what comes first.  Was my vulnerability around this big life change the trigger for everyone to open up to me?  Or was it their opening up to me that made me feel safe to be vulnerable?   Or maybe, quite simply, because I was leaving, it was safe for all of us to be more open because we had nothing to lose.  If I had stayed, would I have not been surrounded by loving friends but instead by Danny Zukos rockin and rollin and what not?

I don't know, but I struggle with this every day.

There are so many times that I want to say something and don't.  And believe me, it's not for lack of talking as I say plenty, most of it totally meaningless.   But why is it so hard to say what we're really feeling - why is it so hard to say the things that need saying, the things that we really need to hear?  We punish each other and ourselves by withholding affection.  And why is it so hard to stay open to each other, to trust that we won't hurt each other, or even if we do, to have confidence that it wasn't the intention?

If only we could do as we used to do in middle school and high school and dedicate songs on the radio to one another.  I heard "Lean on Me" on the radio last week and it took me back to a time when a friend was having a hard time and we sent her support through this song on the airwaves.   And, if I recall, we felt pretty damn proud of ourselves too.   I mean, some-times in our lives, we all have pain, we all have sorrow, but, if we are wise, we know that there's always to-mor-row.  (We also be jammin' but that's another story.)

Now we have the Facebook and the Twitter where people can choose to share their thoughts and feelings with friends, relatives, and relative strangers, and find support in the most unlikely sources.  And it's comforting, sure, but it isn't enough.  It's especially disturbing to me when I see those posts that say things like, "I know you won't support me by reposting this.  You hate babies and animals."  You're right, I won't support you by reposting that, but it doesn't mean I don't support you or feel for you.  And I don't hate babies or animals, that's just not nice.

As I get older, and frankly don't care as much about how the world sees me -- I mean, I just wore an actual bathing suit to the actual beach for the first time in 25 years  -- I'm making it my mission to pry my heart open a little more each day and let the sun shine in, instead of occasionally swinging it open and then slamming it shut again so it feels like Groundhog Day every time.  And who are you again?  And what are your intentions?  Leave your application at the door; it should be processed in 6-8 weeks...

And, perhaps more importantly, I'm going to try to work to say some of the harder things that need saying.  It's not always popular, or even well-received, and it's always a risk, but if it's in my heart, I reckon it has to come out at some point.  I'm not saying I'm entirely there yet - I have about a 10% success rate at this point, but I'm trying.

But, in the meantime, as I continue to work up the nerve...

I'm sorry.  I'm here for you.  I see you.  I'm a bad friend/daughter/boss.  I'll try harder.  I'm glad we're friends.  I'll try to listen.  I need help.  You hurt my feelings.  I'm lonely.  I'm scared.  I'm grateful for you.  I just can't get onboard with the jeggings.  I understand.  I need you.  I trust you.  What happened to the Danny Zuko I met at the beach?  I want to see you more regularly.  I'm proud of you. I was wrong. I'm so happy for you. I really do watch Keeping up with the Kardashians.  I miss you.  I'm happy to see you.  We all need somebody to lean on.  I love you.

Lux et Veritas

My alma mater, Yale, today announced that, so far this year, six individuals have been found guilty of "nonconsensual sex," most commonly known as rape to you and me.  Not one of them was expelled.

I have always been a proud alumna of Yale.  Until today.

This news is maddening and sickening, sending a message that sexual violence (or violence of any kind really) is tolerated and accepted.

Yale was required to release this report (a biannual summary of complaints brought to the University's Committee on Sexual Misconduct) in response to a 2011 federal Title IX investigation into the University's handling of sexual violence on campus.

Even as I read about these complaints two years ago, I may have raised an eyebrow, but I turned a blind eye.  I had an amazing experience at Yale.  Many of the people I love most in this world I met at Yale.  I earned an excellent education -- one that would have been even better had I went to class a bit more often and studied a bit harder, but hey, coming to Yale from a small town, part of my education was staying up all night talking to people I never would have met had I stayed in my tiny hamlet of a hometown.  People so unlike me and like me at the same time.  It was mind boggling and my world cracked open because of it.  My experiences at Yale enriched my life in so many ways, and the friends I made there continue to do so every day since that late August day I first set foot on campus.

Growing up, well, let's face it, poor, maybe working poor as a stretch, I knew that education was my ticket out of poverty.  And Yale made it possible for me to achieve that education with generous scholarship funds.  Sure, I still have loans of my own that I'm paying off, but Yale made my dreams of higher education a reality with generous financial aid and work study, and I have always been grateful for it.

This is why this report, in black and white released by the University itself, is heartbreaking to me.

Now, I'm not naive.  I saw enough "legacy" students at Yale to know that the University is not entirely pure, students whose families had attended for generations, and whose family money had essentially built the very University they were attending.  I would talk to some of them and think of poor, smart kids I knew, and many more I didn't know, who would never have a chance to attend a place like Yale.

So perhaps what makes me most sick is thinking that this may have had something to do with money.   Well that and reputation.  What will make this go away quickest and most quietly?

The University says these matters are complicated, but, by finding these individuals "guilty," isn't that enough to warrant expulsion?  How can the University, in good conscience, allow these individuals to stay on campus alongside the victims the University itself has found them guilty of victimizing?  And aren't we afraid at all they might assault again?

Of the six, only one was suspended allowed to return to the University in a year.

With stats telling us that one in four college women are victims of rape, or attempted rape, I assume at least some of these victims are women.  At Yale, I certainly knew women who were raped -- in fact, I knew several, and I know for a fact not all of those rapes were reported.  RAINN (Rape Abuse and Incest National Network) reports that 54% of rapes across the board are unreported.

Now, sexual violence is not isolated to Yale, but, as an alum, I expected more of my alma mater.  Yale is one of the most respected universities in the world, producing the next generation of leaders, not rapists.  And, as a leader, it is the University's duty to send a strong signal that sexual violence is unacceptable and will not be tolerated.  They owe that not just to these victims, but to all attending students and their families, faculty, community, alumni, and, well, the world.  This was Yale's opportunity to step up to the plate, to shine a light into the darkness of sexual violence, reveal the truth, right any past wrongdoings, and be a leader. 

Instead, these six people found guilty of perpetrating "nonconsensual sex" (again, read: rape) will graduate with the same Yale diploma that I did.

Hoping for lux et veritas, instead I'm left thinking, "Et tu, Brute?"

It's not too late for Yale to take a stand here, and I hope that those who feel as strongly as I do about this will make their voices heard.  I want Yale to make me feel as proud today as I did the day I got my acceptance letter.  I want this too for these victims and for future generations who can attend Yale knowing that their University puts their safety and well-being above all else so that they can go about becoming the leaders and thinkers this world needs.