Friday, November 10, 2017

My Dear John Letter to America

Dear America,

Look. We have to talk.

I don't want to be one of those couples who go years with their arms crossed, in tense silence, with no warmth or affection. And I think this is the stage we're at: constantly angry, bitter, resentful, frustrated.

It didn't always feel this way. But this was an arranged marriage, remember, so we obviously didn't know each other in the beginning.

I learned as a child that you were the best match I could have possibly hoped for - the biggest and most powerful and bestest ever country of all time. And I loved you the way I loved my mommy: with eyes that saw no flaws. I named my doll Nancy after Nancy Reagan, the closest thing I had to a queen. There was no gray in my world. I was safe, happy, people spoke of freedom ad nauseam....... this was going to be a great relationship. Forever.

That's what I thought, I really did.

As I've gotten older, our differences have gradually come between us. As I moved on from childhood, my pride in you dwindled, not only because of your faults, which seemed to be expanding the more I learned about you, but because I realized how fucking stupid it was to take pride in something that was handed to me with no work or effort on my part, just luck.

Okay, okay, by now you're wondering what's really going on, why is this all coming out now, this is so sudden, we've been so happy in the past. And you're probably a little suspicious, and I am beating around the bush a little, I apologize. The truth is..... I have met someone else.

You're furious and I understand. You're probably yelling "Traitor!" But I am not, I assure you. The truth is...... it's not me, it's you.

See, I'm not a traitor. I just realized that I am the only one trying to save this marriage.

I've been telling you for over two decades how important my values are to me: education, life, freedom, health, peace, in no particular order. And you have been promising me for decades that you would learn to value these things along with me. You promised me you'd change.

Well, time's up. Thirty-nine years is all I'm willing to wait. I'm at an age now where I'm not willing to give away years while you try to figure out why I matter. (fyi: I matter because I'm a person. You know I've been trying to tell you that for YEARS, even though I know the questions you're going to ask next: "But what color are you? What's your sexual orientation? Are you rich? Are you poor? Are you educated? Are you fuckable? Are you Christian? Are you an immigrant? Do you have developmental disabilities? Do you have mental health issues? What gender are you? How big is your house?" And then I would respond, "NO, DUDE, I matter because I'm a HUMAN BEING." And then you'd get a nosebleed and we would have to continue the conversation later. Remember? This was just last week.)

I have tried so hard to get you to change. To help you understand why my values are important to me. I've called representatives, senators, I've written letters, donated money, given my time, attended protests, signed petitions..... I really feel like I've done all I can except run for public office, but my anxiety disorder would make such an endeavor about as pleasant as killing myself with a blender.

I can feel your eyes scanning this letter, wondering who the other guy is. And yes, I'm afraid your suspicion is founded.

It's Canada.

Now, I realize you're probably angry, and I understand that. But you really have no right to be angry with me. Because like I said, it's not me. It's you.

Maybe you remember some of these past conversations?

Me: What would happen if I got cancer?
You: Do you have insurance?
Me: Yes.
You: Then you'll probably just go bankrupt from deductibles and co-pays and out-of-network providers that will most certainly be assigned to you at some point. But don't worry, you won't be like, millions of dollars in debt because you have insurance. You're lucky!
Me: What if I didn't have insurance or money?
You: Eat shit and die for all I give a fuck.

Me: What happens if I get killed by a gun?
You: I'll do my best to make sure the person who kills you is put in jail. Then I will fully rally around the NRA to ensure that other people will be killed in the future.
Me: What if I got shot and didn't have insurance?
You: Oh, well then I'd piss on you before I went to rally around the NRA. But don't worry, I'd still try to get the person who shot you put in jail. Unless a police officer shoots you, then it's cool. But you don't have to worry about that, you're white, right?

Me: You're always bragging about your American dream. My husband's dream was to be a veterinarian. He attended a state university for four years for veterinary school. Those four years cost us $350,000 + $26,000 in interest every year, so now it's up to nearly half a million dollars and quickly growing. His starting salary as a doctor was $50,000. How can you claim to value education and then set up your students, the future leaders of you, to certain failure and condemn them to a lifetime of massive debt?
You: *burp*

Me: I'm a woman.
You: Are you fuckable?
Me: I think so?
You: Go away if you're not fuckable.
Me: That seems really weird.
You: You're still talking but I don't care about the words that come out of your mouth if you're not fuckable.
Me: Really?

Me: I want rights to my own body.

ME: I care immensely about the LGBT community. Do you----
You: HOLY FUCKING SHIT WE LET YOU WHINEY BASTARDS GET MARRIED SHUT UP AND GO AWAY and seriously don't touch me or look at me. I don't want God to think I've gone gay.

Me: Oh yeah, about that God thing. Isn't there supposed to be a separations of church and state?

Me: I'm not Christian.
You: *sigh* All right, I didn't want it to come to this. I'm going to have to kill you because you are a terrible person and a worthless human being.

Me: I value science immensely and staunchly believe it should be taught in our schools.
You: But we don't want to teach lies. We want to teach the Bible. Oh my God, look at how distressed you are! Come on, no tears. I'm sorry I'm laughing, but girls are so cute when they're mad.

Me: My employer grabbed my butt when I was leaving the office. It freaked me out and now I'm embarrassed and ashamed and I don't know what to do.
You: Slut.

Me: I want to be paid a dollar like Jeff.
You: Here's seventy-seven cents. Be grateful.

Me: Oh my God, these exhausted people fleeing violent countries! Torn to shreds! Children! We have resources to help them! We should!
You: No. I only value children if they're American or in the womb. Unless they're poor. Remember how we just revoked the free lunch program in elementary schools because those lazy motherfuckers wouldn't bring up their grades? Parasites.
Me: I thought you were Christian?
You: *confused* I am. Why?

Me: The environment should be our number one priority because without it, we have no hope.
You: *taking a bath in oil* I keep telling you, I'm working on that. Patience, woman, geez.

Me (in disguise): I'm a rich corporation!
You: *begin cunnilingus*

Look, I know Canada isn't perfect. They have problems and legislation that makes me mad (QUIT BANNING PIT BULLS, MONTREAL!!) and they will continue to make me mad.
But it will still be better. Because my core values fit theirs. If I get cancer, Canada won't tell me to fuck myself. If I want an education, Canada won't outright rob me, set me up to fail, and condemn me to debtor's prison as a reward for all my hard work. The people of Canada elected a person who's first priority was to make his cabinet 50/50 men/women because they value me as a woman. You elected one that brags about his entitlement to my pussy. And they don't pretend to separate church and state. They do.

I know what your saying: You can change! And of course you can. Your next leader could be AWESOME! Really! And honestly, I think your next leader will be awesome because I think there's going to be a swing in the other direction. However, even if you have a fabulous new leader, the citizens that elected your present one will still be there. And they frighten me.

Yes, I used the word frighten. Because I think their ideas are exceedingly dangerous and potentially catastrophic. Waking up every day, knowing they're going to be there in my grocery store, delivering my mail, directing traffic, teaching our children...... it's eating me away and I'm slowly becoming more and more agoraphobic. I feel like my soul has an ache that won't go away because your flaws, America, have overpowered everything good in my eyes.

And it finally dawned on me: What the fuck am I DOING here?

All this time I didn't want to leave because it felt like abandoning my post. I felt, and still feel, a responsibility to stay and fight for change. But the truth is, I'm fighting for a country that literally doesn't care if I die. And I've been trying for so long to explain why I matter, but you're not listening. And even if you start listening some years down the road, it's too late now. I'm not willing to wait any more. I've done my part and now I feel like I need to be with people who value me. In a country that values me.

So we're coming up with a plan to leave. When I was little I thought I was lucky to be born in America, but now I consider myself super duper lucky to be married to a Canadian citizen. We're doing the research, counting the funds, and starting dreams. Don't worry, this won't happen for a few years. Moves like this take time and money, but we're starting the process.

I don't like the story you're telling, America, and I don't want to be a part of your story any more. I don't want to be part of your history. I want out.

So good-bye, America. I'm leaving you.

And I'm taking my pussy with me.

Saturday, September 9, 2017

I'll Take an Order of Ignorance With a Side of Denial, Please. PLEASE.

In addiction recovery, we're told to find the people who have what we want - serenity, passion, balance, joy, success, etc. - and invite yourself to their party and start hanging out with them so you can learn how they got what you want.

It's a really effective tool, in my experience. It was one of the ways I found happiness and wholeness early in sobriety. By surrounding myself with these people's habits, perspectives, and lifestyles, I adopted a lot of them into my own life.

I've been sober for over nine years now and this same strategy has taken a darker turn.

In my last post, I talked about my despair at the catastrophic devastation that lies in wait due to climate change. Now, I'm in the camp that thinks while we probably have a few years to turn this around before it gets to the point of no return, we're not going to do it. I think the planet will go on, but it will go on without the human race and whatever species we destroy along the way. I also think this is going to happen soon. Like, really soon. So soon that when I hear people talk about what the planet will be like for their great-grandchildren, I'm always shocked that they think humans will still be around then.

I'm shocked.

And really, really envious.

I've been envious of such things before. I think we all have. Any time another person doesn't have to face one of our own hardships, we get a little envious, right? The woman with type one diabetes is envious of the person who doesn't have to check their blood sugar every time they want to eat something. The guy with a sick mother is envious of his friend who isn't drowning in medical bills.

There is an element missing in the envy I experience today that existed in the envy I felt before: hope. No matter what hardship we used to face, there was always hope because there was always time. With enough time, there is hope we can fix our cure anything, even if those cures and solutions are discovered by future generations after you and I are gone.

Now, I'm on the fence whether it's a good or a bad thing that I've lost hope. You're probably thinking, "What?! How can the absence of hope be good? All we've ever heard our entire life is that hope is the best thing ever!" And I think that's generally true, but I'm calling bullshit on hope in this situation to keep the sanity in my own head.

It didn't just drive me crazy every time I pulled soda cans out of the office garbage and put them into the recycling bin - it devastated me. The evidence was obvious: The answers about what we need to do to stop this runaway train are readily available to us and we can't be bothered.

The anxiety resulting from this despair consumed me. I would be too afraid to get out of a chair. Too scared to eat. Too scared to talk. Desperate to sleep to get some relief. I didn't see a point to anything. I started therapy, medication, exercise, meditation, yoga. But then there would be that goddamn soda can in the trash to unravel all my effort and remind me we're literally about to witness our own extinction.

My anxiety has waned since I wrote my last post in which I, for the first time, publicly admitted I think we are certainly doomed, and not in the "someday, thousands of years from now" kind of way we've always entertained before, but in the "I think at best we have a couple generations left" kind of way.

By admitting that online for everyone to see, I was simultaneously ripping off my last shred of denial, or hope, whatever you want to call it. It was devastating and liberating. The acceptance of our impending doom changed my outlook. Climate change deniers cannot destroy what I think has already been destroyed.

I also began to realize why I had grown so unsatisfied with the same work that used to give me fulfillment, such as dedicating time and energy to causes that may be fixed our cured "someday." I was working to help fund research for diseases that might be cured "someday" while simultaneously believing we're not going to be here "someday." No wonder I was miserable!  So instead, I have started focusing on causes with immediate solutions so I can be part of those solutions. I can still be part of a solution even if I'm not part of the solution we ultimately need. It helps.

All of this, of course, is still devastating. Hurricane Irma is just starting her wrath upon Florida as I type this. Everyone around me is talking like it's the most awful thing to happen ever and I'm sitting here thinking, "Of course we're getting devastating hurricanes. The evidence that this is going to happen has been around for years, where the fuck have you been?! Irma is going to look like the calm before the storm before this is all over. Buckle up." So it's still not easy. I'm still often anxious, despairing, resentful, angry.

Which brings me back to envy. No matter what I do, my brain will not let me forget the truth, even for a second. And how do you live your life when the truth is this: Everything we know, is soon going to be over. I mean, HOLY FUCK, right?

I want what YOU have, Climate Change Denier. I want  your peaceful mornings filled with resolute confidence that we're here to inherit the earth. I want your sense of entitlement as you take that extra-long shower. You don't have to shrug off nagging guilt as you haul a bulging trash bag out to the trash bin. You watch your friends' children without silently apologizing to them for the wreckage they're sure to see in their lifetime due to our collective selfishness. When a devastating, irrefutable fact rears its ugly head, you steadfastly turn your back and focus instead on how you're awesome and that a really good idea would be to have lots and lots of children to carry on your awesomeness.

I get it, Climate Change Denier. I TOTALLY get it. I understand why you're white-knuckling onto your beliefs so hard they have your fingernail indentions. I get why you put cotton in your ears and squeeze your eyes shut. Because to open your eyes, unplug your ears, and open your mind would be to face the extinction of all future generations. Holy shit, that is fucking terrifying. The thought makes you want to catapult yourself into a ravine, right? So I get it, I really do. (That isn't to say I don't blame each and every one of you for selling the future of our species for your own comfort because you were too chicken shit to do otherwise, because I absolutely blame you for that.)

However, I think it would be a terrible idea to invite myself to one of their parties and start hanging out with them to learn how they got what they have. I would most certainly get my ass handed to me. So I guess I'm not going to get the coveted denial that I wish I could have.

What I do have is the rest of the day in front of me. And no matter what happens tomorrow, there are people who can be helped today. That's what I'm trying hard to focus on. I fail often but I'm trying.

In the end, I admit that I don't know what's going to happen. Maybe God will come down and wave her magic wand and fix all this for us. Or maybe North Korea and Trump will blow us all to bits before climate change even gets a chance. Anything can happen.

I am nothing if not an optimist.

Saturday, July 29, 2017

FINE. I'm writing. SEE? I'm writing. THIS IS ME, WRITING!!

My therapist wants me to write. My friends want me to write. My husband wants me to write. Not because they're particularly interested in what I'm going to write (my therapist has never even seen my blog), but because I'm not doing well and they know I do better when I write.

So here I am. Happy, you jerks?

They're 100% correct, of course. I've only written one post in the last year and while that is completely unacceptable, there's also a reason for it.

I'm really, really terrified of what's going on in my head.

And until I write about it, nothing else seems worth writing so I better just face my fear and write it. Which is going to be difficult because now my palms are sweating, dammit. Gross.

So why am I scared? Because nobody is going to like what I have to say.

I've been living my life like a lot of other people: recycling dutifully, making better choices about packaging and locally sourced goods, I've called senators and voted for policy change and signed petitions and donated money, I've argued with relatives about the reality of climate change..... but at the end of the day, my thoughts go like this: "I can rest easy because I know I did my part. I have no control over others and all I can do is what I can do. It's just too bad that none of what I did today matters since we're obviously too flawed to sustain our species and none of us are going to be here soon, anyway.......Oops! Forgot to brush my teeth."

This is a fear unlike one I've ever faced because it's not a phobia and it's not irrational and yet the basis of my fear is so catastrophic that I can't even imagine it. Armageddon-type movies make it seem like a story so far-fetched it couldn't possibly happen without CGI. And yet it's happening in reality as much as it's happening in my head.

But here's the thing: while it's happening to all of us, I feel like it's only happening to me.

Not because of a sense of self-centeredness (which is something I have to call myself out on CONSTANTLY) but because no one else seems to be scared. Well, except maybe Al Gore, but even he doesn't spend his first hour of the day mute and stiff with fear like me before he can coax himself to start the coffee.

I recently read an article about a fabulous resort that's being built. Everyone is SO excited for this resort. I broke one of my rules and read the comments on the article to see what people's reactions were, and they were full of yay: "When will it open??" "It looks BEAUTIFUL!" "Can't wait to take my family there!"

They were just SO excited that a frozen tundra and its "road" had thawed for the first time, so now they can build FINALLY on it. Hurray!!

Am I the only one who reads this article as though we're playing the fiddle while Rome burns?


My therapy sessions are insanely frustrating right now. Not for me, but for my therapist. Our talks go like this:

Her: "But why do you feel like this is happening?"
Me: "Irrefutable scientific evidence."

Her: "What if you gave your time to an environmental protection charity?"
Me: "I'm open to that.....I'd have to learn how to find purpose fighting for something I really don't think we can win. Hmmm."

Her: "What do you fear will happen?"
Me: "I don't know exactly what will happen...... I mean, this is the first time we've ever melted the ice caps. But I'm sure the results will be something to fear."

Her: "Do you talk about this with your friends?"
Me: "You mean my friends who all have small children? Do I talk to them about how I think we're going to leave their precious children with a dead planet when they just want to talk to me about how their kid can memorize a song on a piano in under an hour? Um, no, I don't."

Me: "I think of today's efforts to curb climate change like an ambulance. [Warning, extended metaphor upcoming, but stay with me] If you're having a heart attack, you call an ambulance. Since the ambulance doesn't have the appropriate equipment or personnel to administer, say, a triple bypass surgery, their job is to keep your heart beating as long as possible until you get to the hospital. The hospital is the real solution to your problem. The ambulance is the vehicle needed to get you to the solution. I feel like all our current and past efforts to curb climate change aren't the solution, but rather the ambulance ride. I feel like all we're doing is slowing it down slightly while we try to get this motherfucker to the hospital."
Her: "So what happens when we get to the hospital?"
Me: "There isn't a hospital. I think we're all standing around looking at each other hoping someone will build one for us."

Her: "What do you think it would feel like if you could find joy within all of this?"
Me: "I think it would feel like celebrating a new resort being built on a newly thawed tundra."

Her: "Do you have any sense of hope?"
Me: "I really, really, really hope that we don't destroy the planet to the point where life can't continue to thrive and grow in one form or another after we've made it uninhabitable for ourselves. But I sense that isn't the hope you were talking about."


All joy feels like denial.

The article about the resort on the thawed tundra was more disheartening to me than any of the "climate experts warn we only have until 2020 to turn this around" type articles because we are at such a precipice. We don't have thirty years to get everyone on board with this. We may not even have a day. Everyone needs to be on the same page to save us now. Right now. But instead of being concerned, people are happy about the new resort and the fact that the tundra is thawing.... and well, we just elected an administration that will gleefully sell our future to the highest bidder, so......

I don't know what to do. I really don't. My husband says, "We've had to face disaster before. Look at the Cold War; everyone thought they were going to die in a nuclear war." And I reply, "But in that scenario, the bombs lay dormant in wait. I feel like the bomb has been launched. But it's dropping very slowly and everyone refuses to look up. And who can blame them? It's far too terrifying."

A part of me really resents the people who can talk about, say, what the music business will look like in a hundred years without giving a second's thought about whether there will be people here to enjoy music at all. And if there are, will they have time to enjoy music or will they be desperately trying to survive on the broken planet we left them? Oh my God, what I would give to have my biggest worry to be whether or not the Beatles will still be relevant in 2150.

I'm doing what I can to stifle the fear: I'm still sober. I've taken up drums. I talk to my husband. We adopted a kitten. I'm planning a great vacation next year. We've increased my meds. Meditation. These things help intermittently. But man, am I struggling. You should see my palms right now, GROOOOSS.


Therapist: "How would you live your life if you could let go of this fear? How would your attitude change?"
Me: ".........Smoke 'em if you got 'em. Good luck, folks." 

Saturday, November 12, 2016

I Break My Mom's Heart Every Day

I was raised in a Lutheran family. ELCA (Evangelical Lutheran Church of America) Lutheran, to be exact. Looking back, our church was somewhat progressive, but when comparing it to other churches in my very rural South Dakota upbringing in the early 80's, that's a pretty low threshold. But they didn't kick you out for being gay or force you to apologize to the congregation if you were pregnant at your own wedding like other churches in the area, so I'm going to go ahead and call them progressive. 

I was also raised by a mom who subscribes to an extreme form of honesty. It's not that she doesn't have a filter, because she absolutely does and would throw herself into a fire before she would make anyone feel uncomfortable or offended. But she simply cannot lie. So when we were growing up, we always knew that Santa Claus and the Easter bunny and the tooth fairy were all bullshit, because my mom refused to lie to her children, even then. 

This same super-honest mom is also a very strong Christian. Her love for Christ is bright and unapologetic.  My mom is resilient and strong, and when she attributes her faith to getting her through difficult times like the sudden death of my father, I believe her. 

Like many Christians, it isn't enough that she have her own faith and that it help with her own life. It's also important to her that everyone else finds faith in the ELCA Lutheran Christ to help with their lives, too. 

Now I'm guessing here, but I attribute her passion of recruitment to three elements of motivation:

1. As a Christian, she believes it's her duty. She believes it is her duty to spread the gospel and therefore save people's souls because that's what God commands. 

2. If her friends and family aren't saved, they won't go to heaven and she'll never see them again after death. Pretty big motivator here, I'd say. She believes that heaven is a place reserved for people who have accepted Christ as their Lord and Savior and Jesus as the son of God (sorry, Jews, you're out.). 

3. She feels the need to spread the word about her faith because it gives her a feeling of righteousness because she knows a truth that you don't, neener neener neener. There's a sense of (false) pride that comes with believing you're more enlightened than your neighbor. I think most people have experienced this feeling, myself included.

Now, I've struggled with the church and religion all my life, even as a kid. There was a stark contradiction to all of this. At home, my mom told me Santa Claus wasn't real because of course, one man can't possibly fly through the air with magic reindeer and deliver presents to everyone in the world, duh. Oh, but guess what, this guy in biblical times built a giant boat all by himself and managed to put two of each animal in existence onto this boat and after he rounded up all the lions and giraffes and penguins and otters and elephants and snakes and bears and scorpions and deer......they all lived in harmony and didn't kill each other and apparently all had litter boxes and plenty to eat while God flooded the earth. (I live with four cats and a dog and my life is chaos. This story is bullshit.)

But see, my mom is an honesty extremist. So if this was what she was teaching me, it was true....right?

Much to everyone's chagrin, I started asking questions, and didn't stop. How did Noah get all those animals? How did he build a boat so big by himself? How did he have enough food for everyone? How come it takes a hundred people to plan and build a simple boat today, but one guy was able to plan and build a boat the size of Texas?

Answers would vary between "well it was a miracle from God" or "maybe it didn't really happen that way exactly and it's just a fable from God meant to teach us something." In other words, "we don't know, quit asking hard questions."

But my questions became more persistent. If there are so many other religions, how do we know ours is the right one? Will people from other religions go to heaven too, even if they don't believe in our God? How do we know our God is the right one if they believe in different Gods? On and on. Beaten down, my mom sighed, "Oh honey, you're too young to be asking these questions."

I thought she was too old to not have the answers.

Thirty-something years later, I still don't have those answers and neither does she (or anybody else, for that matter). But she's forged ahead in her faith, steadfast and true, without a moment's doubt or hesitation. And it has worked for her. She's incredibly resilient and she handles tragedy and hardship with grace and strength. I was in awe of her composure after my dad's death, even though she was clearly in tremendous pain. 

She doesn't need all her questions answered. Her faith works for her. I see it. 

I, as you've probably guessed, have taken a different path. 

For me, the game was over when I realized that no one could tell me anything: if God exists, if there's a heaven or a hell, what happens after we die, are souls a real thing, etc. Once that lightbulb went off over my head, I was through listening to anyone who claimed to know  (and not simply believe in) these things, because they were, intentionally or unintentionally, lying. 

But I soon discovered it was nearly impossible to have a rational conversation about these things, because people would grasp at cliche straws as soon as they were getting uncomfortable or backed into a corner:

"I know it's true because I've experienced/seen it."

"I know it's true because God has a plan."

"I know it's true because it's the word of God." 

These are dismissive arguments that are infuriating because you can't possibly argue with them. How can you argue the existence of dinosaurs with someone who believes that dinosaurs didn't exist and God only put dinosaur bones here on Earth as a test of our faith? It's the equivalent of arguing with someone who will only reply with "I know you are, but what am I?" You are going to lose the argument not because you're wrong, but because the other person refuses to play the game.


I cried hard, choking sobs on the morning of November 9. I was genuinely scared, overwhelmed, and hopeless. I cried and scrolled online all day long, looking to see how my friends were dealing with their grief, looking for signs of hope and words of comfort with my broken heart. 

Some friends lashed out. Some were overcome with grief. Others condemned people for sinking to the same level as internet trolls and insisted we must find a way to start listening to each other.

But I feel like I have been listening. And I also feel like I've been heard. But I don't understand how we can continue a conversation when we can't even agree on simple, fundamental facts.

I'm trying to figure out how I can have a conversation with someone who insists that 2+2=5 because God says so. They will not acknowledge that 2+2=4, no matter what, and they are willing to die for that belief. No matter how long I listen and try to understand, in the end 2+2=4 because fact trumps faith. But in their mind, no matter now long they listen or try to understand, 2+2=5 because faith trumps fact. 

On November 9, I knew that we were going to live in a country with a government that makes decisions based on their fundamental belief that 2+2=5, no matter who gets hurt or discriminated against, because 2+2=5 is gospel. 

And I cried. I cried because I knew my friends were going to suffer because of their color, religion, sexual orientation, or gender. I cried because I was overwhelmed with hopelessness at the feeling my childhood bullies had all been elected to run my country and bigotry had been vindicated. All my proclamations that "it does get better" felt hollow and far away. 

As I come through the fog and grief, my questions change from "why" and "how" to "what now?" My instinct is to gravitate toward the idea that we need to learn, listen, and understand each other. (What can I say, I'm a bleeding heart liberal who strives for peace. Sue me.) But I am truly confused as to how to do that. 

In the organization I work for, we have recently pulled support from some offices that haven't been performing well and don't seem to have much hope of performing well in the future. People are understandably hurt and angry, as they have put blood, sweat, and tears into trying to get these markets to succeed. 

One market in particular is pushing back quite a bit. They insist that they raise much more money than some of the larger, neighboring markets. When we showed them in black and white that this is not true, that they actually only raise 25% of their neighboring markets, they refused to believe it. There it was, in black and white - irrefutable numbers. But they looked at the numbers and said nope, they don't believe it. Dismissed. 

We said "2+2=4" and proved it. They said "2+2=5 and nothing you say or show will convince us any different." Everyone went home angry and both sides have been hostile to each other ever since. 

How do we work through this? How? When someone justifies a vote for Trump by insisting 2+2=5, what do you say? What do you say that inspires growth? What do you say that inspires love and understanding? These are not rhetorical questions.

I break my mom's heart every day because I am no longer a Christian (see #2 above). I believe in God, but my God believes that 2+2=4, loves Muslims, marches in Pride parades, protests with Black Lives Matter and believes I can rule a country even though I have a vagina. That no longer seems to agree with what many Christians envision their God to be, so I don't feel like I belong in their churches anymore.

I hate that I break my mom's heart. I mean, what's worse than seeing your mom sad, knowing you're the cause of the sadness? Nothing. Nothing is more gut-wrenching and awful. I wish more than anything I could reassure her of my faith in the God she believes in to make her happy. But I can't. 

Because my mom taught me not to lie. And 2+2=4. And that's the truth. 

Saturday, July 16, 2016

I'll Tell You What' Up, Doc.

So I'm in therapy.

Ugh, therapy. I dread it as though it's an hour-long family reunion. All I can think of are the screaming kids, the awkward conversations with elders who couldn't hear your conversation with a bullhorn, the marshmallow and canned fruit "salad," and my uncle putting on a three-hour slide show of his world travels. Once I get there it isn't that bad of course (with the exception of the slideshow), but the anxiety I get leading up to it is enough to put in therapy. 

Actually, it is enough to put me in therapy. Because anxiety is my issue.

I remember my first anxiety attack. I don't remember how old I was, but I think around eight years old. It was the morning after a friend slept over at my house and we were playing before it was time to take her home. I went upstairs to get a toy or something, when all of a sudden, out of nowhere, I needed her to get out of my house. Now. Right now. Getoutgetoutgetoutgetthefuckout. 

Why? No idea. We hadn't had a fight, I wasn't sick, the house wasn't on fire.... there was no reason I can think of, to this day, why that happened. But after that, it happened over and over again, for several years. This was the eighties and you didn't get help for your kids unless they were burning down buildings. Hiding and denying mental illness was always preferable to getting treatment back then. (In my parents' defense, though, access to child psychology was assuredly lacking in rural South Dakota in the 80's.) 

I was talking to my sister the other day. My niece has started showing the same symptoms I had, and at the same age. We talked about her behavior, and it all sounded very, very familiar. My sister asked me what did I think she should do, since I had gone through this myself. I asked her if she was anti-meds? She said no. I asked if she was afraid of detrimental effects if my niece went into therapy? She said no. 

"Then why aren't you taking advantage of every tool in the toolbox to see if one will help?" I asked. 

A light bulb went off in her head and she said, "You're right! Why am I not doing this? I just hoped it might be a phase...."

phase |fāz|

• a stage in a person's psychological development, especially a period of temporary unhappiness or difficulty during adolescence or a particular stage during childhood.

I dislike the word "phase." It's the word we desperately cling to when a loved one's behavior becomes worrisome in order to buy us time in the land of Denial. It prevents us from taking action and allows us to laugh off troublesome behavior to our friends as we roll our eyes and say knowingly, "I'm sure it's just a phase." 

But it's hard with kids because they do go through phases, sometimes it seems like a dozen in a single afternoon. And you don't want to throw your five-year-old daughter into transgender therapy and hormone treatments if one afternoon she says she'd like to have a penis. It's a delicate dance between staying out of denial and yet not overreacting. 

Anxiety is rarely a phase, though, as I've experienced in my life. I've found many ways to deal with it in my thirty-seven years, both healthy and unhealthy: drinking, exercise, sleeping too much, drinking, procrastinating, eating well, eating terribly, and more drinking. Basically, I led a life wrought with poor decisions and destructive behavior with just enough brief periods of progress and personal growth to get me through to my thirties. 

Once in my thirties, though, I got serious about my health and turned everything around, which has worked out very well. Until recently.

For quite a while, my dissatisfaction with my job had me slowly slipping backward into Anxiety World, but my promotion in March suddenly made my regression go from a gentle slope downward to hanging onto a creaky little branch over the side of a cliff. 

Suddenly it was hard to get to sleep at night. I have no appetite and rarely have a bite of food before 9pm. I pace. I can't make simple decisions. I don't exercise. Getting out of bed in the morning is the worst. I avoid leaving the house. 

And what did I tell myself these last few months? THAT IT WAS A PHASE. That as soon as I got into the swing of things with this new job, I wouldn't be as anxious and I'd once again find my healthy routine and everything would be sunshine and unicorns. 

What can I say? I'm a slow learner. 

A few weeks ago, it was a perfectly sunny, lovely Sunday morning, my favorite time of the week. As we were making plans for the day, my husband and I had a disagreement. It was a little disagreement over something trivial, but it didn't matter - I was a frayed rope that had been pulled taught for so long, it took almost nothing for me to go over the edge and rage over the tiniest little thing. And I did. 

Later, my defeated husband said, "You know, we were having a great morning. It's a beautiful day. Why did you have to make such a big deal out of this and ruin it?"

He was right. And that's when a light bulb went on over my head as I thought back to my conversation with my sister. I wasn't taking my own advice. Sure, the job situation might be a phase, but I've known all my adult life that my anxiety is not. I'd lost my grip on it and it was starting to affect not only me, but my family. I wasn't using the tools in my own toolbox. 

The next day, I stopped making excuses and made an appointment with a therapist. I long ago let go of the social stigma that comes with being treated or medicated for mental illness. Once I got older and realized how fucked up everyone is - and I mean everyone - a little anxiety and alcoholism no longer seemed like such shameful secrets. I once heard someone say they were terrified of having their family find out they were in A.A., but for some reason they weren't terrified of their family seeing them once again falling down drunk on a Tuesday morning. My situation wasn't dissimilar: Having anxiety isn't what should make me ashamed. But ruining a beautiful Sunday morning with my husband because I refuse to take responsibility for my anxiety, though? That's shameful. 

So I'm going to try to dig myself out of this hole. And my first step is to get on the couch. 

Saturday, June 18, 2016

There's Always Tomorrow

There's always tomorrow,
With so much to do,
And so little time in a day.

There's always tomorrow,
For dreams to come true,

Tomorrow is not far away. 

--John D. Mark, "There's Always Tomorrow" from Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer

About two weeks before my wedding in 2012, I had a holy-shit moment: Anything that I wanted for the wedding but hadn't thought of, or forgotten about, or hadn't decided, or just hadn't gotten around to, had to be ordered now or it wasn't going to happen. Now, I throw lots of parties but I usually don't have this moment because for those other parties, there's "always next year." But not with a wedding. I only get one (insert lame first marriage joke here), so I knew I had better think of everything because that was going to be it. 

I recently read a quote from beloved television writer and producer, Norman Lear: "Excuse me, age 80 is not circling the drain." Indeed, Lear is an active ninety-three-year-old who probably accomplishes more before his morning oat bran than I do with my entire day, so if he says he's not circling the drain, I believe him. 

And yet.

I'm thirty-seven years old. Ancient by my nieces' standards, a spring chicken by others. So while I tip my hat to Lear for reminding us that age is just a number, I'm beginning to have the same sense of panic I had two weeks before my wedding. Anything I want but haven't thought of, or have forgotten about, or haven't decided, or just haven't gotten around to, must be started soon. Or it isn't going to happen.

When you're five, everyone is just freaking old. When you're fifteen, you're going to live forever. When you're twenty-five, there's still plenty of time to do everything you want to do. And apparently when you're thirty-seven, you realize you better get off your ass and start doing all this shit while you're still able-bodied, able-minded, and alive, because reality begins to set in that it isn't always going to be that way.

"So stop writing your stupid blog and get started already!" is what you're probably thinking, which is a completely valid response, except: 1.) Writing a blog IS one of the things I really want to do, and 2.) A lot of the things I really want to do takes money that I don't have, and 3.) I'm still not sure what I want.

Hence the panic.

I had problems #2 and #3 when I was in my twenties, too, but they weren't as scary because there was still plenty of time to acquire money (I hadn't a clue how I was going to do that, but no bother) and there was still lots and lots of time to figure out what I wanted to be when I grew up. 

One of the realities I'm facing in my thirties is that not all of these things are going to happen. It is a jolting experience to look your mortality in the face and realize with certainty that you've got one shot at this life, and one shot just simply isn't enough to pack in all the things you want to experience and accomplish. 

So then there's kind of a mourning period. You have to mourn the death of a dream that you now realize isn't very realistic, or you begin to let go of a dream that was so, so important to you at one time, but maybe just isn't as important to you anymore. Those big dreams can be difficult to let go of because we often use big dreams to define us. So if we don't have those dreams anymore, who are we? 

Dreams are funny. They're touted as being magical, wonderful, something to hold on to, something to chase, something to motivate us to achieve far above and beyond what we ever thought possible. But I think there's another side to dreams: burdensome and stressful. I get up, I do morning chores, I spend the majority of my days doing a job I would rather not do, I take care of our zoo of animals, I pay bills, I make doctor appointments, I clean, I go to the post office, I work out, I work on house repair, I work on our plants, I make breakfast, I make lunch, I make dinner, I buy groceries, I volunteer..... and then at the end of the day, exhausted, there it is: your dream, glaring at you while you brush your teeth before bed and asking when you're going to make time for it, leaving you guilty and ashamed.

There is some comfort in Lear's comment. There are a lot of valid reason why you may not succeed in achieving your dream, but age isn't one of them. For instance, you shouldn't let age dictate whether you go back to school. "I'll be eighty-five years old by the time I graduate!" isn't a reason not to go back to school since you'll find yourself to be eighty-five years old anyway. 

I realized the other day, with shock and dread, that I was past the halfway mark of age that my dad was when he died suddenly at sixty-seven. So no, Norman Lear, I'm not being melodramatic and saying I'm circling the drain, but I am feeling the pressure to figure out how to swim while I still can. 

There is always tomorrow. Until there isn't.

Saturday, March 12, 2016


When I was in my early twenties, either I really did enjoy spontaneity, or I was so insistent that I enjoyed it that I forced it with an enthusiastic smile. I'm not really sure which it was, but at any rate I lived my life with a lot of unpredictability and I don't remember a lot of fear involved. I made changes all the time and to varying degrees; Whether it was a last-minute night on the town or I decided to rent a U-Haul and move to a different city or apartment, I never seemed to sit still long enough to get too comfortable or to reflect on what was really going on.

But there are a lot of elements that usually come with your twenties that nurtures one's tendency to be spontaneous. Most of the jobs you have in your twenties are disposable and friends seem to come easily no matter where you move. Often children and spouses aren't in the picture. Funds are limited, but where there's a will, there's a way. And in my twenties, I willed myself all over the place with little thought, no plans, and that seemed to suit me fine.

My mistake was thinking that because that's how it had always been, that's how it was always going to be. If I like to fly by the seat of my pants at 23, I will like to at 37, right? I was so married to this part of my identity that I held onto it long after it was clear that I wanted more than my impulsive lifestyle was going to yield. But routine and predictability seemed so lame, so boring, so old.

But I wasn't 23 anymore, and my body couldn't keep up with unpredictable me anymore. So I grudgingly began to identify with the woman who wanted routine and the safety and comfort it provides.

But now that I've been my lame, boring, old self for several years now, I've swung too far in the other direction, and not only do I shun spontaneity, but I dread any change, period.

So when, in the last six months, I went from being an special events assistant to being a regional operations manger for twenty-six freakin' sites from coast to coast in my organization, there wasn't just anxiety. There was full-on, nauseous, white-hot panic.

Because of my terror, one would think that I was just offered this leaps-and-bounds promotion out of the blue and that's why I panicked. Oh, no. I did this to myself. I researched the job, I fired up the ol' resume (after asking a bunch of twenty-year-olds what their resumes looked like. Who knows how the kids are doing it these days. Are they still even called resumes?) and drafted a cover letter after making my best friend read and re-read it until her eyes bled. I contacted old references and had a heart-to-heart with my boss, who I love and love to worth with. So you would think with all this effort, this promotion would be something I really wanted, right?

In my years of sobriety, I have learned that I can often control my anxiety by focusing only on the present. So I told my husband, "I'm not going to think about it. I'm going to apply, but I'm not going to think about the what-ifs. No what-if-I-get-an-interview. No what-if-I-don't-get-it-and-this-was-all-for-nothing. No what-if-I-actually-get-the-job. None of it." And I did. I let it go.

The problem with this strategy, though, is that when I did get the call and they offered me the job, I was totally, utterly unprepared. And so my first thought was crystal clear: "WHAT have I DONE."

All the reasons (and there were many) that I wanted the job went out the window. All I could foresee, and all I could feel, was the dread that comes with major change. Everyone around me, including my husband, was ecstatic and saying all the right things. "You are PERFECT for this position!" "You finally get to work from home like you've always wanted!" "You are going to LOVE this role, I know it!" "You are going to be so happy!" And they were right. I knew they were right. But fear penetrates reason and common sense, and it's hard to talk yourself down from that ledge once you're on it.

Of course, I accepted the offer, but with very little eloquence because I was concentrating on not peeing my pants. It's been about a week and a half since then and in that time, the wheels of change have been in motion. I'm training a new person to take over my old position. I've ordered new furniture for my home office. I've signed contracts, ordered new tech gear, and even made my first travel plans to Texas to help manage one of the events there.

So I'm putting one shaky foot in front of the other and trying to embrace it, because I know old routines will give way to new routines. I know that this change is good. I know I have a lot of support and my friends and colleagues are confident in my ability.

And whenever my self-doubt and fears start to creep up, I remind myself that my new office is going to look something like this.

Pretty soon now you're gonna get older
Time may change me
But I can't trace time
--David Bowie