Wish I Were Here

I've been realizing that more and more time passes between posts and I also have realized that it's because, when the topics are deep, I get what Brene Brown calls a "vulnerability hangover."

I post and then cringe. 

Did I really write that?  I guess I did.  But no one reads this stuff, right?  Oh wait, they do?

F**k.

Retreat.

But I'm back, three months have passed, and I'm freshly back from vacation, a "spirit journey" to New Mexico where I found my spirit, and it turns out my spirit is kind of a bitch.

I know, I know.  Some of you are thinking, "Oh c'mon, no you're not.  Don't say that," while others are thinking, "And this is news to you how?"

When I think of my spirit, I like to think of her/me as white light and open arms, with a loving heart and the patience of Mary.

In reality my spirit is impatient and inflexible, anxious and judgmental, crossed arms and clockwatching, stressed out and burnt.

In other words, I am my spirit; my spirit is me.

How disappointing. I kinda hoped my spirit was, I don't know, if not Mother Teresa, Oprah.  Or at least Ellen DeGeneres.  But instead I'm Heather Chandler or Judge Judy, only without the lace collar.

Well, f**k me gently with a chainsaw.  Who knew?

Which isn't to say I didn't have a great time on vacation.  I truly did.  I just hoped I'd find myself, and that, well, I'd be different.  Better.  And most certainly thinner.

I've always been jealous of those people who are carefree.  I was born worried.  Is this hospital sterile enough?  I don't like the look of that nurse.  Does this onesie make me look fat?  Take this hat off me, I look stupid.

So I always think of vacation me as the me I want to be.  And I have visions of me relaxed and rolling with the punches, maybe telling hilarious jokes to people throwing their heads back in rapturous laughter, charming the locals and sleeping through the night, all of it set to "Walking on Sunshine" or some other upbeat song about happy people doing happy things.  But the problem is, it's still me.  To tell you the truth, I honestly don't even know what rolling with the punches means or why one would do such a thing.  Why would you roll with the punches and not fight violently against them?  Sounds like something someone lazy made up.  I mean, they're punches, people.  And I'm just not sure that I know any other way to be aside from the person that worries about things being over before they've begun and misses people while they're still here.

I booked a plane ticket for vacation me and planned all kinds of soul-soothing activities for her.  I even packed her yoga pants and a poncho.  But it was the real me who showed up.  Who invited her?  What a buzzkill.  Maybe the real me plays in NYC but the real me doesn't play so well in New Mexico.   It's ... so ... quiet.  How can I relax when all of the restaurants close at 9?   Such pressure.   We are going to starve to death out here and have to feast on each other's carcass - or the bags and bags of snacks I bought at Target, in addition to the snacks I sent FedEx ahead of time, you know, because they don't have stores in New Mexico. Wait, my cell phone doesn't work?   How will I know how to feel without my daily horoscope email?  What if I miss an important coupon from CVS?  What if our hot air balloon operator has a heart attack and dies?  Who's gonna land this thing?   Why are there so many bugs?   And dirt.  We are definitely going to die on this road and never be found again - and by again, I mean, at least not until another car comes along in about 15 minutes.  Of this I am certain.



And yet, somewhere in the quiet and the beauty and the worries about the quiet and the beauty - it's too quiet, it's too beautiful - I found myself.  And I've decided I'm not sure I like me so much.  I don't mean that in as harsh a way as it sounds.  It's like the beautiful New Mexico landscape held up a big old mirror to my soul and my soul screamed back, "You talkin' to me?"

Well, I'm the only one here.

So maybe my spirit isn't all sunshine and happiness, or adobe and turquoise.

But, I'm not going to roll with the punches; I'll fight like hell.

There's still time to land this balloon.

And if not, maybe it's time for a little self-acceptance.  I can always vacation somewhere more in line with my personality.

Like New York.

Or Afghanistan.

Wish you were here.

On Mother's Day...

First of all, I can't believe that this is my first post of 2014.  How shameful.  But alas, here I am.

So much has happened so far this year, and yet, so little has happened.

As I write, it's Mother's Day and I'm filled with warmth and thanks for all of the moms and mother figures I know and love.  And yet also, for the first time perhaps, I also am aware that I am not a mother.  And that, quite possibly, I might never be a mother.  My emotional reaction to this catches me by surprise in the way that I think it catches many women like me off-guard.  It's not a devastation but a slow burn, a sudden not tsunami of tears but just enough to blur your vision and make the guy sitting across from you on the subway take note long enough to decide not to ask.  Kind of like an "Oh."  Oh right, I forgot to have children.  Surely we know that we are, shall we say, getting a little long in the tooth and short on the eggs, but in some ways too it is a surprise, like looking in the mirror and wondering how just yesterday it seemed that there were no lines there and now there are more than a few.  My lines have given birth to other lines.  How can it be that I am 41 when just yesterday I was 21 and I feel 25?

How indeed.

This year has been an emotional one for me in a lot of ways that I hadn't expected and I find myself having a lot of these moments about lots of different things.  Maybe it's that I'm now 41, which is closer to 50 than 30.  All of these feelings feel really self-indulgent.  I'm not the first person to turn 41, and I certainly far prefer this than the alternative, but I'm increasingly conscious of the march of time and, well, time running out for certain things.  Who's to say that even if I decided tomorrow that I wanted to have a child that I even could.  Maybe I never could, even at 25.  But as a control freak, I don't like that time is cobbling away at my ability to decide.   Time is the great equalizer.  The playing field is no longer level but a steep climb. 

I'll be a stepmother, I think.  I'm already an aunt.  Maybe I can do IVF.  Or adopt.  Maybe I'll settle down and be really lucky and be able to have a child of my own.   The not knowing is driving me crazy.

I've never been one of those women who looks at friends having kids and feels jealous.  I truly only feel happy because I don't see their pregnancy or wedding or new job or apartment as having anything to do with the fact that I don't have those things.  Maybe it's because I'm my own toughest critic and the only person I feel in competition with is myself.  And I don't really think about the fact that I'm not a mother all that often, but I do certainly today, and certainly more and more. 

I think about it especially today when I think about my friend Oliver, who was born 6 months ago today, and today, Mother's Day, is his next to last day on earth.  Born with a congenital heart defect, he has spent every day of his short life in the hospital.  I remember how thrilled his parents and grandparents were during his mother's pregnancy.  This was a very much wanted child.  And I remember how equally elated they were when he was born, only to get the news less than 24 hours later that he had the deck stacked against him.  And I've been following their journey for the past six months - the highs and lows, the many tests and medical procedures, the prayers, the hopes, the tears, the circle of family, friends, coworkers, fellow patients and strangers who built a circle of support around Oliver and his family.

And I've thought about how much of a leap into the unknown it is to have a child.  How much courage it really takes when you think about it.   Oliver's parents went from being blissful albeit nervous first time parents to the parents of a very sick child who had to make the decision that no parents should ever have to make - to let their son go.  And on this Mother's Day, Oliver's mother is celebrating both her first Mother's Day and her last Mother's Day with her son.  My heart breaks each time I think of them and I cry for all of the time they won't have together.

And yet, as much heartbreak and devastation as they have faced, and will continue to face, as Oliver leaves the earth tomorrow, they say they have no regrets.  They instead focus on the lessons Oliver has taught them and those who have been fortunate enough to know him.  The lessons of unconditional love and faith.

And maybe most of all, the lesson that we really don't have a damned clue.  About what this life holds, what tomorrow holds, what this hour holds, what this minute holds.  Control is an illusion and nothing is guaranteed, not even the time it takes for me to finish this sentence.  It's important to stay in the moment because it's all we have.   Oliver's life has been a series of moments strung together over six months - and because his parents have known that the next moment is not guaranteed, they have taken nothing for granted.

As Oliver approaches the end of his moments, I am so fortunate to have been witness to his journey - a journey very different from mine, but exactly the same in the sense that we are here for a finite amount of time.  He won't take wobbly first steps or step up to the plate.  He won't feel snowflakes on his tongue, race to finish a melting ice cream cone, or dip his toes in the ocean.  He won't have a first car or pin a corsage on his prom date.   He will never be a husband or a father.  Maybe he would not have wanted to do any of those things.  Oliver has had a lot of love in his short life and a lot of impact, but he has not had time. 

So this is what I'll remember for as long as I have moments - for already I have been very fortunate.  I thank him for reminding me to be grateful and to not focus on what I don't have, because I'll miss this moment, and, bad, good, busy, bored, it's not coming around again and there may not be one behind it.

Rest in peace, Oliver Robert Halligan.

2013 - The Year in Review

I can't believe I haven't posted since September.  Apparently it's now December.  WTF?  How did that happen?  And yet, here we are.

2013, where did you go?  You loomed over me for 40 years and then you came and went and didn't even leave a twenty on the nightstand.

How rude.

After all the expectation of the fanfare and the fireworks of turning 40, 2013 kinda felt like a stifled sneeze.  It wasn't so bad, but it wasn't that satisfying either.

I had some great times with great friends and wonderful family.

 
I paid a little more attention and realized who my true friends were.

 
But even still, I was "too busy" to see the people I loved as much as I would like, and even worse, they were "too busy" to see me.  I realized how much that hurts.
I realized how often I claimed to be "too busy."
I kept score.
I was a hypocrite.
I checked email and texted way too much.  I fought over text message.
I let most calls go straight to voicemail.  And answered most with a text.
I worked too much but took some days off here and there just to do nothing, or, even better, to do the things I love to do.   It felt great.
I stopped watching most television and read more.
I gained and lost the same 10 lbs over and over again.
I walked more and took fewer cabs.
I went to the gym only a handful of times, and one of those times, I just went in to use the bathroom.
I enjoyed Mallomars (see above) and discovered I might even like kale just as much.
I threw out bags and bags of clothes that no longer fit although it terrified me to do so.
I threw out some other things I had no use for.
I discovered my collarbones.
I realized I could wear a bathing suit on the actual beach in front of actual people and no one would be harmed.
 
I lost my temper and felt ashamed.
I said "I'm sorry" and meant it.
I talked way more than I listened.
I spent my 40th birthday in Vegas, spent time with my best friend in NM, saw how beautiful Minnesota is, and caught up with some terrific friends in Texas.
 




 
I stopped being afraid of riding the Jitney but am still scared of overhead bins on anything.
I sang out loud.
I embarrassed myself.  And didn't care.

I was tired.
I slept too little.
I worried about sleeping too little.
I mourned the days of sleeping until 2 pm.
I was a hypochondriac.
 
I was ridiculous.
 
I celebrated the happy events of others without feeling jealous of what I don't have.
I felt lucky to be in control of my own time and not beholden to anyone else, realizing that one day this will change, and I will feel nostalgic for the ability to just go to a movie spur of moment without consulting anyone else or finding a babysitter.
I beat myself up and spent more time second-guessing myself than I care to admit.
I was judgmental.
I obsessed over the tiniest things.  Over and over and over again.
I stopped feeling bad for having a cleaning lady.
I realized just how much live theater and live music bring me joy, and saw some life-changing shows (Big Fish, Shania Twain, Paul McCartney, Fleetwood Mac, Elton John, Pink).
I turned over the metaphorical wheel to other people now and then, even though it felt terrible, we all survived, and it was all okay.  I guess.
I learned a lesson from a newborn baby whose life has been nothing but a challenge since he took his first breath and yet he smiles and fights on.
I worked my ass off at work and did some great things.
 
I raised a lot of money but it's never enough.
I felt proud.
I fought with loved ones, and learned who will hang on, and who will drop off.
I let myself be disappointed instead of saying, "Oh it's fine."
I discovered my target demographic is two year old boys.
 
I gave up diet soda.
I started to realize that I don't have to do things I don't want to.
I finally relented to something I had put putting off for a long time and kicked myself for not doing it sooner.
I tried to remember that when I looked inside my junk filled closet, but instead closed the door for another day (that has yet to come).
I let things go unsaid and regretted it.
I didn't think before I spoke and regretted it.
I swallowed my pride and was shocked to see I didn't choke on it.
I realized I don't always know what's best for me.
I also realized that sometimes my instincts are spot on and I need to follow them more.
I said yes more times than I said no.
I felt lonely.
I felt loved.
I often felt that I felt lonely more times than I felt loved.
I felt overwhelmed.
I felt guilty.
I felt guilty for feeling overwhelmed.
I felt scared.
I felt excited.
I felt I couldn't always tell the difference scared and excited.
I felt happy.
I felt sad.
I felt happy I put down the potato chips and let myself feel sad.
I felt grateful.
I felt jealous.
I felt ashamed for being jealous when I should be grateful.
I felt old.
I felt young.
I felt lucky to feel all of these things even the bad ones.
And I feel fortunate to have 24 more days of this year to add more to this list.
 

Rockabye Len...

I used to be a good sleeper, and boy, do I miss those days.

I took it for granted then, sleeping until 2 in the afternoon on a Sunday after a late night/early morning.  "Catching up" on sleep on days when I could, my body cooperating and letting me, instead of punishing me for running myself ragged and going too long without enough sleep.

As the youngest child, I definitely have a pretty strong case of FOMO - fear of missing out.  So I'm usually the last one standing, you know, in case something exciting happens and I'm not there to see it.  Since my favorite thing in the world is collecting stories and retelling them again and again, I don't want to miss any opportunity to see someone, you know, fall off a bar stool.  I want to be there for the big reveal.

But even more strongly, as I've blogged about before, I just don't get tired that easily.  In college, I'd stay up most of the night to not miss a thing, and sleep through too many classes.  I have a huge amount of energy that frankly, given some minor medical issues, my overall conditioning and diet, I really don't deserve.  I can pretty much out outwork and outlast anyone, and I am not sitting down until "Last Dance" plays.  One of my fondest memories involves someone who doesn't like me very much looking at me on the dance floor at 4 in the morning and asking, "Don't you have an off switch?  I'm kind of impressed," before grabbing me for a twirl.

I often think that I'll be one of those people who just drops dead -- hopefully at a very ripe old age many years from now and hopefully in the middle of the Electric Slide (and maybe by then I'll be able to remember that it's right, left, backward, forward and not left, forward, backward, sonuvabitch what is it again, dammit?) -- but I can see it happening, essentially just like my batteries running out.  And the curtain falls on my life.  That wouldn't be such a bad way to go if you really think about it.

My concussion two years ago brought about insomnia, which, to be blunt, has been a bitch.  It has gotten much better since my accident first happened and I was spending most nights totally awake in an anxiety induced panic, worrying about my brain exploding.  Who would find me?  Was my apartment was clean enough so that the authorities wouldn't come in and think Big and Little Edie or the Collyer Brothers lived there?  How many days would pass before my fat cat ate my face off?   I'm guessing he wouldn't last a day.   My friend's husband is a firefighter in NYC so she decided that if I went quiet for too long, she was sending him over to break the door down with his fireman's ax or whatever it is he's got.  Even now, on a rare off day, if she doesn't hear from me for a few hours, I get a text reading, "I'm sending John..."  And, from my prone position on the couch in my yoga pants watching the 3rd Lifetime movie in a row, I'll come back to reality long enough to text her back, "Alive!"  Now that's a friend.

So things are much better from those days, but I'd be lying if I said I can remember a time when I slept through the entire night.  Sometimes I get lucky and get a few hours in a row.  Most nights, not so much, but enough to get by.

But recently, after a long period of drifting apart, sleep broke up with me.  I don't know why.  It didn't even leave a note on a Post-It Berger-style saying "I'm sorry, I can't, don't hate me."   Is it me?  Is it sleep?  I don't know, and sleep's not telling.  Just talk to me, sleep, whatever it is I did, I'm sorry.  Please come back.  What is it you want - you want the phone out of the bedroom?  It's gone.  You want me to appreciate you?  I'll do anything.

But everyone else has a theory.

Am I anxious?  Well, sure, always.  I live in New York.  And there's a continuous loop in my head.
Am I depressed?  See "Am I anxious?"
Do I need to exercise more?  Probably, yes, but I'm currently using up all of my energy, um, not sleeping, which leaves me not much energy for exercise.
Am I bored? Yes, because I am AWAKE 24 hours a day.
Is there a lot on my mind?  Yes, especially "not sleeping" and "how long someone can go without sleep."  See "Am I anxious?"

I wish I could use this time for good.  I wish I knew how to cure cancer but I slept through too many classes to know how to do that, which I wish I could say makes me wish I didn't sleep through all of those classes, but if I had to do it all over again, I'd do it the same way.  I'm still friends with all of those people I stayed up all night listening to, and that has to be worth something.

It makes me feel for new parents who are sleep-deprived, but not as much as I feel for me.  At least they have a baby, something to show for it and hopefully that baby will eventually sleep through the night and grow up to, I don't know, give you a funny story to endear you to the security guard who barely cracks a smile, or maybe take the trash out now and then or draw you pictures you can hang on the refrigerator.  I only have black circles under my eyes, a short temper, and a low bar for humor.

An acquaintance tells me that he gets angry when he sees people on the subway just sitting, taking up a seat and not doing anything.  It makes him mad when he sees people just staring off into space blankly.  If you're going to sit, he says, you should use the seat properly.  You should do things that you need to sit for, things that would be too dangerous or unpleasant or impossible to do while standing.  Like reading, or knitting, or eating chicken wings, or sleeping.

Ahh, yes, sleeping.

Pushing buttons ... Not thinking, I ask?  Not thinking.   What about talking?  No, not talking.  Definitely not talking.

I laugh and think about my bed where no sleeping happens and think about how, with this logic, that's a waste of a good bed.  Someone else should have it.  Should I keep it as a shrine until sleep happens again? Maybe I'll rent it out with the understanding that I'm allowed to sit and stare resentfully all night at the sleeping occupant.  It's my right.

I'm essentially willing to try anything at this point.  I read that the hops in beer makes you drowsy.  Done it.  Exercise early in the day wears you out.  Done it.  Magnesium.  Done it.  No fluids past 6 pm in case it's a pee thing.  Done it.  Shut off all electronics.  Done it.  Write down all of your worries.  Done it (or tried to, they don't make enough paper).  Keep a regular schedule.  Done it.  Meditation, yoga, visualization - done, done, and done.

And there are dozens more ideas that people have put forth to be helpful and supportive, but, frankly, I'm too tired to try a lot of them.

What I am trying are these herbs from my acupuncturist after refusing them for nearly two years.

Him:  Are you doing ok?
Me: No.
Him: Will you take the herbs?
Me: Yes.
Him: (Clearly prepared for a fight that didn't happen) That was easy.

They taste like dirty feet (I guess, not that I'd know what they taste like) and look like hamster pellets and smell like the woods and hurt my mouth and I have to take them FIFTEEN at a time twice a day but if they work, I'll throw a parade for them and make recipes and bake them into cakes and tarts.  Well, if I did that kind of thing.

Living in NYC, you can hire someone to do anything for you.  Grocery shopping.  Laundry.   Housecleaning.  Change a light bulb.  You can even pay to outsource emotional support.  My therapist gets paid to listen to my crazy.  My acupuncturist keeps track of my period, my moods, my sleep (or lack thereof), and my bowel habits (TMI, I know.  I went there, sorry.  But it's true.).

Really though, I pay them to listen and care (or pretend to) so no one else has to.

Especially me.

Which is maybe part of the problem.

They say that I talk a whole lot but don't say much.  You never talk about you, they say, and I guess they're right.  Don't be nice to me, I say, it'll make me cry, I can't take it.  Just tell me what to do, I say, and I'll do it.  What do you want to do, they ask.  I'm just tired, I say.  Tell me I have no choice but to do it and I'll do it, I say.  It's not that easy, they say.  We don't do that, they say.  It's better if you come to the realization yourself.  Didn't it feel good that you made the decision yourself, they ask.  No, I say, it felt the same to me, like something happened vs something not happening.  Isn't the end result the same?

I guess not.

I'm beginning to realize that I'm the only one who can repair this broken down relationship with sleep.   What drove it away?  Did I neglect it too much?  Did I push it away with a lack of trust?  Did I drive it crazy by talking too much?   Did I say too much or not enough?  Do I snore?  That seems unlikely.

Damned if I know, and ironically, I'm too tired to care.  But pass the Benadryl, and maybe, come morning, I'll be better equipped to tackle this.

But in the meantime, sleep, please come home.  I'll leave the light on for you.

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.

En Garde

"Please no more therapy/Mother take care of me/Piece me together with a/Needle and thread/Wrap me in eiderdown/Lace from your wedding gown/Fold me and lay me down/On your bed."
 -- Polaroids by Shawn Colvin

They say the best offense is a good defense.  If this is true, I've got the best game in town.

I am pretty much ready for battle at any moment - anticipating literal and metaphorical blows from every direction.

It's exhausting.

The stranger rushing for the subway doors, trying to push his way in front of me.  Not so fast buddy, although I don't let on, I see you, and turn my back ever so slightly so you're boxed out.   You're in a big hurry and I know you think you're more important than I am, but you're not.

The casual acquaintance whose probing questions always leave me feeling just a little bit worse about myself than before I sat down with her.  I steer the conversation, keeping it firmly focused on her, letting her exhaust her favorite topic of conversation - herself - until she is the one with more questions than answers.  I leave fatigued but with ego intact.

And myself.  I stifle introspection with worry and anxiety, focusing on what will most likely never come to bear.  But I'm prepared for it.  And when that doesn't entirely cut it, I throw myself into work.  There is always plenty to do.  I could work 365 days a year/24 hours a day and never be "done."  In nonprofit, you can always use more resources, more creativity -- there is no such thing as enough or too much.

Thankfully for my health, I've stopped escaping into food, previously my numbing agent of choice.

I can't pinpoint the day that I started to use food to self-medicate but what I do know is that I was a shy and anxious child.  I cried a lot.  In one early grade, I cried every single day at school, so much so that my teacher that year, who was more than a bit scary in my eyes (and I think objectively so), dragged me into the closet one day, closed the door and asked, somewhat tearfully herself, "Why do you hate me?"  Protip:  I'm no child psychologist, but I can tell you that dragging a crying kid into a closet with you, closing the door and yelling in her face isn't exactly going to stop the tears from flowing.   And I kinda remember thinking that at the time too, even at, what, 7 years old.

I don't know how, when or why it happened, or what triggered in my little brain, but I can look back and see that when my overeating started, the crying pretty much stopped.  As I became softer on the outside, building up layers of protection, I became harder on the inside.   More closed off and fixated on trying to control whatever I could, and whatever emotions or situations I couldn't close off or control, I soothed with food.

De-fense, de-fense.

I'm not exactly sure why soothing yourself with food works, but I'm here to tell you it does.  And I have over thirty years of practice, so I'm really good at it.  I can also tell you it's a form of self-abuse and self-hatred.  In many ways, you are literally killing yourself slowly by your own hand.

I don't know if I'll ever be entirely done self-medicating with food -- old habits die hard -- but I can tell you I don't do it as much anymore, and that's just as much by accident (literally) as it is by design.

When I had my first concussion, I became obsessed with trying to maintain a sense of control and stasis.  I felt terrible, and spent my days really simply just trying to feel better, or, at best, maintaining.  I didn't want to slide backward.  I started eating more healthfully, convinced that the right nutrients would help my brain heal.  I also had a neck injury that made me feel like I was choking all the time.  Consumed with worry, I was rarely, if ever, hungry, and although that didn't stop me from overeating before, what did stop me from overeating at that point was fear.  I found myself thinking, "If I eat too much, I may feel sick, and I can't go backward."

Candidly, it was essentially another kind of eating disorder.  Food became scary to me.  I found myself eating really small portions so I wouldn't choke, and only eating things that I knew well and that I associated with good health.  With food on the DL, I needed to find other ways to deal with my emotions.  I started this blog and discovered not only an outlet for my complicated, sometimes scary, ugly thoughts and feelings, but a way to connect with people.  Acupuncture helped me find a connection between mind and body, two things that I had kept divorced from one another for so long.

Over time, as I began to feel better, it dawned on me that I wasn't eating as much for comfort anymore because food was no longer a source of solace for me.  Overeating and food had played such a major role in my life, and now I feel like I don't have much use for it anymore.  Its kinda run its course.  I've retired its number.

And as I've given up overeating, and have lost weight as a result, I struggle with my identity.  Being overweight is such a huge part of how I see myself that I sometimes find myself lost.  Although I am by no means slim, or even close to the weight that I want to be, I find myself grappling with questions big (can I still blame the fact that this person doesn't like me on my weight?) and small (where do I buy clothes now?).

More and more, I try to not be so critical of everyone and everything, especially myself.  I don't claim to be particularly successful with this, but I'm trying.  As the song goes, "We all got holes to fill, and them holes are all that's real."  Some wounds are best left to heal on their own, some we help along.

I think I'll always struggle to find the right game plan, the ideal balance of offense and defense.  But I've had some amazing coaches and teammates helping me figure it out.  And I guess all that matters is that I'm in the game and not on the sidelines.

As long as I have my helmet.  And some full body armor.  And Dr. Phil on retainer.