After what happened in Newtown, Connecticut on Friday, December 14, 2012, I believe we are livin' on the edge. Change is inevitable; our nation has been shaken - but will we wake up? It seems to me we will go in either of two possible directions.
If we are smart and begin to apply all that we know, we will make two critical changes. First, we will begin to educate the public about mental health and mental illness and we will begin to educate the public about warning signs that indicate potential mental health emergencies. We will speak boldly about the often preventable causes of mental illness and we will stop creating the situations that cause extreme psychological unhappiness. That means we will no longer value and glamorize violence. Hurtful behavior will be defined and will be heavily frowned upon. Mental health services will become more readily available. Emergency mental health centers will be available in all communities, just as medical emergency rooms are readily available. And we will use these services as a gateway to recovery and health.
If we are smart, we will finally begin to strictly regulate weapons, but we will also downplay their appeal. Firearms will be associated with old, outdated, less-educated perspectives. We will pride ourselves on our progressive, educated, and peace-loving values, rather than our ability to inflict carnage. We will value safety, happiness, peace, and the ability to get along. Instead of looking out for number one, we will value the integrity of the community. Prisons will not be used to warehouse the mentally ill. Prisons will be use to rehabilitate those who are salvageable, leaving only the most severely damaged and irreparable individuals to be kept separate.
But my fear is that we will take the other direction. My fear is that we as a nation still value the Wild West mindset and disregard all that we have learned about human development. My fear is that rather than strive toward rational living, we will instead create locked and gated schools and communities and will consider arming everyone so that those with the biggest weapons and the most artillery will reign supreme. Strength and domination will be more valued than intelligent humanity.
So we are at a crossroads, it seems. Will we be smart enough to walk away from the old, outdated, inferior ways of the past, and return to an age of Darkness? Or will we finally begin to take a step into a new way, a better way, a more peaceful, loving and humane way? Will we gather the courage to lead the world toward a more intelligible way of life and make history? Or will the history we create involved more episodes of unspeakable violence against innocent people and children?
Twenty children died Friday and many more witnessed what no one should ever have to see. How are we, as Americans, any better than other countries in the world that we criticize when events like what happened in Connecticut happen simply because we have created an environment that values violence and that chooses to remain uninformed about the causes and treatments for mental illnesses? How dare we think ourselves to be superior when in fact, our culture is becoming more barbaric every day? We have the power to draw the line and collectively shout out "enough" - and then set about creating and valuing something so much better.
So I propose this: America, what do we want? What kind of world do we want to create for our children? And then, how do we set about putting those ideals into actual practice. We CAN do it. We can lead the way and rise above this outdated system that overlooks our poor, that ignores all we have learned, and that continues to value violence over compassion and we can instead begin to value compassion, unity, education, and strong communities. We can begin to value both physical and mental health. And most of all, we can walk away from what no longer serves us. It is, after all, the 21st century.
Monday, December 17, 2012
Thursday, December 13, 2012
EXISTENTIAL ANGST
I really thought I was done with the existential issues that we all wrestle with. As I approached my forties, I felt comfortable with mortality. I did not fear death - just a premature or traumatic death. I viewed death as a magical mystery that we all must fact, and felt comfortable knowing that someday, I would be...finished.
Now, not so much. In fact, when Christina left, I feel like she took my magical view of Life with her. Suddenly, the magic was gone and I was left with a fear of death. Now, I fear my own death, and I fear everyone else's death too. I fear it and I am angered by it. I resent mortality. One lifetime is not nearly long enough, and death is so final, so absolute, and so...unpredictable. There is no way to know when it will arrive. And worst of all, there is no way to confirm what happens...after.
It took so long after Christina died to fully comprehend that she would not be coming back. Even now, it doesn't seem quite real. And I find myself wondering where she is...IF she is. And I think of my grandmother - and how the untimely death of her mother kept her grieving her whole life. I understand now how a tragic death can cause a person to be forever changed. Like a pedal note, the pain lingers...
I don't think there is a day that goes by that I don't contemplate my own mortality. I wonder, with much sadness and anxiety, what will become of my belonging or how my children will cope without me. I think about my mom, as I see her aging, and fear the day she takes her last breath. Death. It's not right. It's not fair.
I am angry too that I cannot do what most people do and take comfort in unproven beliefs. I WANT to believe that I will see Christina again. I desperately WANT to believe that my grandmother was reunited with her mother when my grandmother died. I wish I could take comfort in thinking that when I die, I will be with those who have gone before me and that as time passes, my surviving loved ones will join me. But I can't. I just can't. I have no proof and it seems so unlikely. Why can't I just believe the stories? Why can't I take that leap of faith and then revel in the comfort and security that eternity can and will be blissful? I want to...but it escapes me. I just can't. Death is the end. That's what I've seen. Christina was here - and now she's not. She promised: She said that if it were possible to communicate from the other side, she would. And that has not happened. So, either that means that it is not possible to communicate from beyond death, or she has chosen to NOT communicate to me, or it could mean that she simply does not exist any more. Really, any of those potential reasons are equally likely I suppose. But the one that stands out to me is that Christina gone. She was here and now she is not. And that angers me.
Now, not so much. In fact, when Christina left, I feel like she took my magical view of Life with her. Suddenly, the magic was gone and I was left with a fear of death. Now, I fear my own death, and I fear everyone else's death too. I fear it and I am angered by it. I resent mortality. One lifetime is not nearly long enough, and death is so final, so absolute, and so...unpredictable. There is no way to know when it will arrive. And worst of all, there is no way to confirm what happens...after.
It took so long after Christina died to fully comprehend that she would not be coming back. Even now, it doesn't seem quite real. And I find myself wondering where she is...IF she is. And I think of my grandmother - and how the untimely death of her mother kept her grieving her whole life. I understand now how a tragic death can cause a person to be forever changed. Like a pedal note, the pain lingers...
I don't think there is a day that goes by that I don't contemplate my own mortality. I wonder, with much sadness and anxiety, what will become of my belonging or how my children will cope without me. I think about my mom, as I see her aging, and fear the day she takes her last breath. Death. It's not right. It's not fair.
I am angry too that I cannot do what most people do and take comfort in unproven beliefs. I WANT to believe that I will see Christina again. I desperately WANT to believe that my grandmother was reunited with her mother when my grandmother died. I wish I could take comfort in thinking that when I die, I will be with those who have gone before me and that as time passes, my surviving loved ones will join me. But I can't. I just can't. I have no proof and it seems so unlikely. Why can't I just believe the stories? Why can't I take that leap of faith and then revel in the comfort and security that eternity can and will be blissful? I want to...but it escapes me. I just can't. Death is the end. That's what I've seen. Christina was here - and now she's not. She promised: She said that if it were possible to communicate from the other side, she would. And that has not happened. So, either that means that it is not possible to communicate from beyond death, or she has chosen to NOT communicate to me, or it could mean that she simply does not exist any more. Really, any of those potential reasons are equally likely I suppose. But the one that stands out to me is that Christina gone. She was here and now she is not. And that angers me.
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
EXISTENTIAL REFLECTIONS
Since the day my youngest daughter took her life nearly 17 months ago, I have struggled with the "WHY" of it all. Clinically and intellectually, I know why: untreated mental illness - probably bipolar and/or borderline personality disorder - but never formally diagnosed or treated. Today I was reading Viktor Frankl's book, "Man's Search for Meaning," and he quoted Nietzsche: "He who has a WHY to live for can bear with almost any HOW." It struck me painfully to think that my baby girl had "no WHY to live for": Not me, not her father, not her siblings, not her partner, not her own goals...but most of all, not her then 3 and 4 year old children. How could that be??
I posted that tonite in a Facebook group for suicide survivors. It's an agonizing realization, that even her own children were not enough to keep her here.
I realize her mental illness resulted in cognitive distortions, but it still hurts to think that she preferred a permanent vacation to a lifetime with her children. It hurts to think that she must've thought they'd be better off without her - an excruciating thought for a mother to have. But most of all, I hurt on behalf of her children who will one day pose the same question: "Wasn't I enough to keep you here, Mom?"
There were times in my life when I felt so completely overwhelmed that ending my own life crossed my mind; but just as quickly, I thought of my kids...and thinking of them kept me here. I can't comprehend her level of detachment...except that perhaps the fourteen months she spent in CCDOC is to blame for that detachment. Still, when I think of the night she returned home, I felt convinced that she'd never leave those kids again; I felt convinced that all would be well...but a year later, she was gone. A year later, she CHOSE to be gone. And that hurts. It hurts knowing that she made that choice, whether it was planned or impulsive (and we'll never know for sure which it was), she left without giving a second thought to her kids.
Seventeen months later, and I still cry as if it just happened. I still cry because I empathically feel a portion of what she must have felt; and I cry empathically for the emotional pain her children will face as they continue to understand more and more of who their mother was and what she did.
Yes, it is my children and my grandchildren, and HER children that give me the "why" I need to continue with my life. They are not my only "why's" but they are the primary reason why I want to be here.
I posted that tonite in a Facebook group for suicide survivors. It's an agonizing realization, that even her own children were not enough to keep her here.
I realize her mental illness resulted in cognitive distortions, but it still hurts to think that she preferred a permanent vacation to a lifetime with her children. It hurts to think that she must've thought they'd be better off without her - an excruciating thought for a mother to have. But most of all, I hurt on behalf of her children who will one day pose the same question: "Wasn't I enough to keep you here, Mom?"
There were times in my life when I felt so completely overwhelmed that ending my own life crossed my mind; but just as quickly, I thought of my kids...and thinking of them kept me here. I can't comprehend her level of detachment...except that perhaps the fourteen months she spent in CCDOC is to blame for that detachment. Still, when I think of the night she returned home, I felt convinced that she'd never leave those kids again; I felt convinced that all would be well...but a year later, she was gone. A year later, she CHOSE to be gone. And that hurts. It hurts knowing that she made that choice, whether it was planned or impulsive (and we'll never know for sure which it was), she left without giving a second thought to her kids.
Seventeen months later, and I still cry as if it just happened. I still cry because I empathically feel a portion of what she must have felt; and I cry empathically for the emotional pain her children will face as they continue to understand more and more of who their mother was and what she did.
Yes, it is my children and my grandchildren, and HER children that give me the "why" I need to continue with my life. They are not my only "why's" but they are the primary reason why I want to be here.
Monday, August 6, 2012
NIGHTS LIKE THIS
August, September, and October are my favorite months of the year here in the Midwest. Summer has reached its abundance and already the Sun is beginning to shift. The crickets chirp throughout the night and nights are often cool enough for open windows. The sounds of the crickets and the occasional freight train in the distance stirs memories and feelings of my earliest years. The nostalgic part of me revels in in. And yet...
And yet, all of Nature's whispers from the past haunt me. I am reminded of my mortality, and I resent it. I fear it. I fear death. I feel like I am running out of time, and indeed I am.
Still, I treasure the night...the silence and the solitude. It is the only time I feel like I have arrived into the time of my life I once looked forward to: my kids are grown; my time is my own.
Twist of fate. Since Christina died, I feel more compelled to mother: my grown children AND my grandchildren. But then the paradoxical desire for solitude. I want my solitude so that I can enjoy each of my grandchildren, one at a time, so that I can indulge in their unique individuality. Instead, I get them in bunches where they become, in my eyes, "the kids." And that's not fair. It's not fair to them and it's not fair to me. But with two grandchildren living in my household (or, do I live in their household), I am never afforded the privilege of experiencing them at my discretion, one at a time. And I resent that.
And another freight train blows its whistle as it approaches and I am reminded, painfully, that life is short. There is no time for resentment, frustration, and sadness. And yet, tonight (and lately), I am consumed by those three Fates.
Tonight, I struggle with the profound sadness of losing Christina and unsuccessfully fight back the tears. I don't want to repeat mistakes and build regrets. I want to enjoy the moments of life. But I can't. Instead, I see just the demands: dishes that need to be done, towels that need to be washed - and then folded and put away, and all the other endless mundane stuff associated with maintaining an orderly home environment. My resentment...it's also about wanting to play. I just want to play. I want to feel the way I did when I was a child...when there were minimal demands on my time. Each day was a journey of spontaneous activities. Today, each day begins with a To-Do List...and fatigue.
Tonight I feel the anxious pain of dissatisfaction. I love the people in my life...my family, my tribe, my clan. But I resent my lack of solitude, my lack of quiet, my lack of personal space. Surely they must all sense that.
I am running out of time. Still, as I have for decades, I continue to fantasize about a sacred place, all my own. I continue to long for something that is uniquely mine. And I fear going to my grave having never achieved it.
So tonight, I remind myself that above all, I must be firm in my authenticity. I must simply give in to being who I am, rather than feel compelled to meet everyone else's needs and wants. So what, that I sleep throughout the day and am most awake through the night hours? So what?! It's who I am, right now. I cannot be what I am not. I have learned to trust my gut, but lately I've been ignoring that inner voice. More frustration and resentment results. So tonight, I remind myself and encourage myself to just BE. This is ME, like it or not.
And yet, all of Nature's whispers from the past haunt me. I am reminded of my mortality, and I resent it. I fear it. I fear death. I feel like I am running out of time, and indeed I am.
Still, I treasure the night...the silence and the solitude. It is the only time I feel like I have arrived into the time of my life I once looked forward to: my kids are grown; my time is my own.
Twist of fate. Since Christina died, I feel more compelled to mother: my grown children AND my grandchildren. But then the paradoxical desire for solitude. I want my solitude so that I can enjoy each of my grandchildren, one at a time, so that I can indulge in their unique individuality. Instead, I get them in bunches where they become, in my eyes, "the kids." And that's not fair. It's not fair to them and it's not fair to me. But with two grandchildren living in my household (or, do I live in their household), I am never afforded the privilege of experiencing them at my discretion, one at a time. And I resent that.
And another freight train blows its whistle as it approaches and I am reminded, painfully, that life is short. There is no time for resentment, frustration, and sadness. And yet, tonight (and lately), I am consumed by those three Fates.
Tonight, I struggle with the profound sadness of losing Christina and unsuccessfully fight back the tears. I don't want to repeat mistakes and build regrets. I want to enjoy the moments of life. But I can't. Instead, I see just the demands: dishes that need to be done, towels that need to be washed - and then folded and put away, and all the other endless mundane stuff associated with maintaining an orderly home environment. My resentment...it's also about wanting to play. I just want to play. I want to feel the way I did when I was a child...when there were minimal demands on my time. Each day was a journey of spontaneous activities. Today, each day begins with a To-Do List...and fatigue.
Tonight I feel the anxious pain of dissatisfaction. I love the people in my life...my family, my tribe, my clan. But I resent my lack of solitude, my lack of quiet, my lack of personal space. Surely they must all sense that.
I am running out of time. Still, as I have for decades, I continue to fantasize about a sacred place, all my own. I continue to long for something that is uniquely mine. And I fear going to my grave having never achieved it.
So tonight, I remind myself that above all, I must be firm in my authenticity. I must simply give in to being who I am, rather than feel compelled to meet everyone else's needs and wants. So what, that I sleep throughout the day and am most awake through the night hours? So what?! It's who I am, right now. I cannot be what I am not. I have learned to trust my gut, but lately I've been ignoring that inner voice. More frustration and resentment results. So tonight, I remind myself and encourage myself to just BE. This is ME, like it or not.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
ONE LIFE TO LIVE?
I have spent this past year resenting mortality. I resent its finality. I resent its uncertainty: What happens after? Where do we go? Is death the end of the road? Or, is there more? If there's more, why don't we have proof? And most of all, why does life have to be so incredibly short??
Yet, I recently discovered through therapy that while life may be short and, as far as we know, we have but one life to live, I have lived numerous lifetimes in just this one.
I started my adult life way ahead of my peers, becoming a teen mom just a few months prior to my sixteenth birthday. I felt proud. I was ahead of the gang, and I was ready for the Real World. Except that I wasn't being real. I didn't know who I really was yet!
So I did the teen mom thing. And I loved it. And I was good at mothering, considering my age.
Before I knew it, I became Mrs. Gibson. I lived in the city. I gained some sophistication. But then, just as quickly, I was a single mom of two in the suburbs. I had my own apartment. I loved that place and still miss it! It was during that time that I battled with drugs and alcohol, but came clean. Just as I came clean and began to learn who I really was, I became distracted; I fell in love and became Mrs. Stone.
During my years as Mrs. Stone, I lived many lifetimes. I was the Earth Mama, giving birth at home, breastfeeding on demand, and reached out to my peers by starting a mother's group for other like-minded Earth Mommies. And then, succumbing to peer pressure, I found Jesus and became a Church Lady.
My Church Lady years were probably the most dysfunctional of my whole life because it kept me from authenticity. It dictated everything about me - and it all conflicted with my truest nature: self-righteousness, political conservatism, wifely submission, and worst of all, it encouraged horribly abusive parenting. I made mistakes I can never make up for. But somehow, I broke free.
Casting aside my church attire and walking away from the dysfunction was good, but it left me sitting alone with myself and I felt empty. Who was I, really? With all the garbage hauled out to the curb, what was left inside of me?? Just a scared little girl in a grown-up world...and a houseful of children who were no longer babies.
So I became reflective...and then self-absorbed. I was on a quest toward self-actualization. I went back to school. But, along with these efforts toward self-improvement, I was also homeschooling my kids - and not very effectively - and struggling daily to define myself in a marriage that was nearing its shelf life. I had chosen a man so much like my father - though I didn't realize it at the time - and was spending precious time and energy resolving my childhood issues of subordination and submission to tyranny; I was learning where to find my voice and how to use it.
I went to school to become a nurse, but then realized that although I had an interest and ability in the field, I would be more authentically myself as a middle school teacher. So I switched gears. By now, we were deep into poverty and the house was going into foreclosure. With only a year to complete before becoming a teacher, I had to drop out. It would have to wait...apparently for another lifetime.
We lost the house. We lived with my daughter for a year. And then one day, I walked out of the marriage. I walked into the nothingness and the everythingness of the Unknown; but I walked out and didn't look back.
I was homeless, but for less than a night; my daughter Christina found me and brought me home to her place. And then a new life began to unfold.
Or was it new? I was still a dependent. I was still a housekeeper. There were still little kids in the household. It was different, and yet it was the same: same job, different boss. Certainly a kinder, more generous boss, but I was still "just a wife."
Back to school, but change in major - again. The car accident left my vision damaged; I wouldn't be able to manage a classroom of adolescents. Instead, I will pursue a Bachelor's degree in psychology - and then a master's degree in community counseling and clinical mental health.
My own mental health improved after quitting my position as Mrs. Stone. School is going well. I will be a great mental health professional. But, just after getting accepted to the Master's degree program, my youngest daughter took her life. The old me disappears in grief; a new me emerges: I am a suicide survivor, a grieving mother, and am forever changed.
I continue to work on my Master's degree as I rush to play Beat the Clock. I may have begun life way ahead of my peers, but right now, I feel as though I have missed the boat. I know myself better than I ever have and have learned that the older I get, the more like myself I become. I am still in a role that keeps me from living in a fully authentic way, but it is functional and it is, as I have learned, all about survival, based upon the choices I have previously made.
I am older, and wiser; but I am wise enough to know that much of my wisdom comes too late; the damage has been done.
So here I am at age fifty, eager to create a career for myself. Seems almost ludicrous at my age. But at the same time, what else have I got going for me? I've reconstructed myself so many times, I think I can do it once more.
One life to live? Yeah, but look how many I've crammed into that one single life!!
Yet, I recently discovered through therapy that while life may be short and, as far as we know, we have but one life to live, I have lived numerous lifetimes in just this one.
I started my adult life way ahead of my peers, becoming a teen mom just a few months prior to my sixteenth birthday. I felt proud. I was ahead of the gang, and I was ready for the Real World. Except that I wasn't being real. I didn't know who I really was yet!
So I did the teen mom thing. And I loved it. And I was good at mothering, considering my age.
Before I knew it, I became Mrs. Gibson. I lived in the city. I gained some sophistication. But then, just as quickly, I was a single mom of two in the suburbs. I had my own apartment. I loved that place and still miss it! It was during that time that I battled with drugs and alcohol, but came clean. Just as I came clean and began to learn who I really was, I became distracted; I fell in love and became Mrs. Stone.
During my years as Mrs. Stone, I lived many lifetimes. I was the Earth Mama, giving birth at home, breastfeeding on demand, and reached out to my peers by starting a mother's group for other like-minded Earth Mommies. And then, succumbing to peer pressure, I found Jesus and became a Church Lady.
My Church Lady years were probably the most dysfunctional of my whole life because it kept me from authenticity. It dictated everything about me - and it all conflicted with my truest nature: self-righteousness, political conservatism, wifely submission, and worst of all, it encouraged horribly abusive parenting. I made mistakes I can never make up for. But somehow, I broke free.
Casting aside my church attire and walking away from the dysfunction was good, but it left me sitting alone with myself and I felt empty. Who was I, really? With all the garbage hauled out to the curb, what was left inside of me?? Just a scared little girl in a grown-up world...and a houseful of children who were no longer babies.
So I became reflective...and then self-absorbed. I was on a quest toward self-actualization. I went back to school. But, along with these efforts toward self-improvement, I was also homeschooling my kids - and not very effectively - and struggling daily to define myself in a marriage that was nearing its shelf life. I had chosen a man so much like my father - though I didn't realize it at the time - and was spending precious time and energy resolving my childhood issues of subordination and submission to tyranny; I was learning where to find my voice and how to use it.
I went to school to become a nurse, but then realized that although I had an interest and ability in the field, I would be more authentically myself as a middle school teacher. So I switched gears. By now, we were deep into poverty and the house was going into foreclosure. With only a year to complete before becoming a teacher, I had to drop out. It would have to wait...apparently for another lifetime.
We lost the house. We lived with my daughter for a year. And then one day, I walked out of the marriage. I walked into the nothingness and the everythingness of the Unknown; but I walked out and didn't look back.
I was homeless, but for less than a night; my daughter Christina found me and brought me home to her place. And then a new life began to unfold.
Or was it new? I was still a dependent. I was still a housekeeper. There were still little kids in the household. It was different, and yet it was the same: same job, different boss. Certainly a kinder, more generous boss, but I was still "just a wife."
Back to school, but change in major - again. The car accident left my vision damaged; I wouldn't be able to manage a classroom of adolescents. Instead, I will pursue a Bachelor's degree in psychology - and then a master's degree in community counseling and clinical mental health.
My own mental health improved after quitting my position as Mrs. Stone. School is going well. I will be a great mental health professional. But, just after getting accepted to the Master's degree program, my youngest daughter took her life. The old me disappears in grief; a new me emerges: I am a suicide survivor, a grieving mother, and am forever changed.
I continue to work on my Master's degree as I rush to play Beat the Clock. I may have begun life way ahead of my peers, but right now, I feel as though I have missed the boat. I know myself better than I ever have and have learned that the older I get, the more like myself I become. I am still in a role that keeps me from living in a fully authentic way, but it is functional and it is, as I have learned, all about survival, based upon the choices I have previously made.
I am older, and wiser; but I am wise enough to know that much of my wisdom comes too late; the damage has been done.
So here I am at age fifty, eager to create a career for myself. Seems almost ludicrous at my age. But at the same time, what else have I got going for me? I've reconstructed myself so many times, I think I can do it once more.
One life to live? Yeah, but look how many I've crammed into that one single life!!
Saturday, May 5, 2012
FIGHTING STAGNATION AND DESPAIR
I was recently asked what stage of life I feel like I am currently in, and I responded by saying that I feel like I am in the "Where Is That Empty Nest I Was Promised" Stage. Yet, upon further contemplation, it occurred to me that while I was studying Lifespan Development, I identified with Erik Erikson's 2 final stages of development, even though I'm not quite old enough to be in his final stage.
As a refresher, Erikson's seventh stage - Generativity vs. Stagnation - is generally experienced at some point between the ages of twenty-five and sixty-four. If I felt like I had been a success in my life, I would have developed generativity and would be concerned with the next generation; I would've established the virtue of care. But instead, I feel like I instead developed stagnation.
Then, Erikson's eighth and final stage is Ego Integrity vs. Despair and generally applies to people aged sixty-five and older. I also identify with this stage. I feel like I am already facing the end of my life and am quickly running out of time to accomplish my goals. Instead of developing a sense of wisdom, I feel despair. I am playing Beat-the-Clock, trying desperately to be successful at something.
I wondered why this might be. Why would I be so reclusive, selfish, and self-absorbed? But then it seemed so obvious: When I review my life, it seems I lived through more Life Experiences from my teen years into my forties (when I first became reclusive and self-absorbed) than most people do in a single lifetime. Think about it: being molested at eleven, pregnant at fifteen, divorced by eighteen, remarried by twenty-one. Then, during my childbearing years, being Earth Mama, and then converting to Christian Fundamentalism; then leaving Fundamentalism and recovering my self through introspection, coming out of the closet as being bisexual, and returning to school. Then there was the struggle with a bad marriage, home schooling, and children about to come of age. We lost the house, and my marriage ended. Then I met Jim, got in the car accident, and nearly lost my life. And now, here I am, racing against Time to become a counselor. And of course, losing Christina last year, leaving me forever changed. Okay, so that's more living than most people experience in two lifetimes. So is it any wonder then, that I would most identify with Erikson's final two stages of Life?
Looking at my life through Erikson-lenses tells me that I will absolutely HAVE to accomplish my goal of becoming a licensed counselor and then succeed in my profession for at least ten years to properly resolve the Eriksonian conflict I currently feel. I think it is possible; I hope it is likely. Getting both of my books published before I die would be icing on the cake.
And I am reminded of the Little Engine That Could: "I THINK I can...I THINK I can...I THINK I can..."
As a refresher, Erikson's seventh stage - Generativity vs. Stagnation - is generally experienced at some point between the ages of twenty-five and sixty-four. If I felt like I had been a success in my life, I would have developed generativity and would be concerned with the next generation; I would've established the virtue of care. But instead, I feel like I instead developed stagnation.
Then, Erikson's eighth and final stage is Ego Integrity vs. Despair and generally applies to people aged sixty-five and older. I also identify with this stage. I feel like I am already facing the end of my life and am quickly running out of time to accomplish my goals. Instead of developing a sense of wisdom, I feel despair. I am playing Beat-the-Clock, trying desperately to be successful at something.
I wondered why this might be. Why would I be so reclusive, selfish, and self-absorbed? But then it seemed so obvious: When I review my life, it seems I lived through more Life Experiences from my teen years into my forties (when I first became reclusive and self-absorbed) than most people do in a single lifetime. Think about it: being molested at eleven, pregnant at fifteen, divorced by eighteen, remarried by twenty-one. Then, during my childbearing years, being Earth Mama, and then converting to Christian Fundamentalism; then leaving Fundamentalism and recovering my self through introspection, coming out of the closet as being bisexual, and returning to school. Then there was the struggle with a bad marriage, home schooling, and children about to come of age. We lost the house, and my marriage ended. Then I met Jim, got in the car accident, and nearly lost my life. And now, here I am, racing against Time to become a counselor. And of course, losing Christina last year, leaving me forever changed. Okay, so that's more living than most people experience in two lifetimes. So is it any wonder then, that I would most identify with Erikson's final two stages of Life?
Looking at my life through Erikson-lenses tells me that I will absolutely HAVE to accomplish my goal of becoming a licensed counselor and then succeed in my profession for at least ten years to properly resolve the Eriksonian conflict I currently feel. I think it is possible; I hope it is likely. Getting both of my books published before I die would be icing on the cake.
And I am reminded of the Little Engine That Could: "I THINK I can...I THINK I can...I THINK I can..."
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
SERENDIPITOUS ENCOUNTER
A few days ago, I unexpectedly found myself in the emergency room...the same emergency room where Christina was taken. It triggered pain. I kept looking in the room where she had been, as if I might still see her, as if she might still be there. But no. The room was empty. All I could hear was the now-familiar question that ruminates in my mind: "WHY?"
When I was released, I went into the ER waiting room to text family members for a ride home. I peripherally noticed that I was alone in the waiting area except for a young man who, by his appearance, was a heavy metal fan. His multiple links of heavy chain jewelry and colored bandana reminded me of my own metal-head kids, but I was too self-absorbed to be concerned with his presence.
The TV was on in the waiting area but it was just a distant familiar noise of news that no one cares about featuring the usual issues of non-importance. Yet, a snippet of a story bled through to my awareness: An athlete claiming to be a Christian and boasting about his prayers to God to help him and his team win. I shook my head unconsciously to the athlete's arrogance and at the same time, the young metal-head said, "Well Hail Satan!" I was instantly charmed!
We both spontaneously recognized our mutually shared perspective on the news story - and perhaps on religion in general and faster than the speed of a sound byte, we shared our irritations with the common religious assumptions in our culture and we found ourselves in agreement with our conclusions about That Which is Unknown. He identified as a Taoist and talked about the paradox of the chaotic order in the world and in the Universe at large. While we differed in our chronological maturity, we were kindred spirit.
I thought about Christina. She would've LOVED this guy...a peer who, like Christina, still capitalized on shock value. I remembered the images I took from Christina's Facebook page of religious criticisms, observations, and humor, and I began to show them to this young man. He loved them, as I knew he would. I told him they were my taken from my daughter's Facebook page and he commented about how he'd like to meet my daughter. My joy quickly departed and I told him that she took her life just ten months ago. He too became solemnly quiet and expressed his condolences. I told him she was bipolar and struggled for many years with her internal emotional pain. I told him briefly about the brutal reality of having to help my son and son-in-law take her down from the beam from which she hung herself. And then, without saying a word, he pushed back his sleeves exposing multiple sights of self-injury and even a recent suicide attempt. My eyes met his and I told him, "I understand."
He said he was schizophrenic and that no medication has helped him so in an effort to self-medicate, he has turned to alcohol and now struggled with mental illness AND alcoholism. He confided that he has wrestled with suicidal ideation for a long, long time and even made several attempts. At other times, the desire was there, but the courage to follow through was not. He looked into the barrel of a gun - more than once - but lost his nerve. He had once written his farewell, gathered razor blades and filled a tub, but again could not follow through. Currently, his ideation involved stepping out in front of an oncoming semi or freight train.
I asked him if he had family or friends who loved him. He said he did. I asked him if he loved them. He said he did. So then I said, "All that spiritual stuff we just talked about...do you believe that our paths crossed today on accident?" He looked startled. "No, I don't. I believe everything happens for a reason." So I agreed with him. I said, as if I were thinking outloud, "So then, I wonder WHY...WHY would our paths cross? I'm grieving the suicidal death of my daughter, and you are here because of your emotional pain and desire to end your life. What are we supposed to learn from each other?"
He asked me if my Christina had family members and friends who loved her. "More than she ever imagined," I told him. I told him about Christina and Mary. I told him about her children. I told him that we will never be the same without her and that our pain will never go away. At best, we must simply learn how to live with the pain of losing her.
Silence.
Then I told him, "I know why our paths crossed. I am here to tell you this: I know your pain is great. Death would bring relief, for you. I know that. I understand. You would leave your pain behind. But it would be magnified and left for the ones who love you most to carry. I am asking you if you can promise me that you will reconsider and make a commitment to stay alive." He wasn't certain he could agree to that. I didn't expect him to be able to agree, really. "Ok," I said, "then will you consider this: IF you reach a point where you are determined to end your life, will you do it in such a way that your body will not be so damaged as to further increase the pain and trauma your loved ones will experience? They will want to - NEED to - see you, touch you, kiss you, hold you, one...last...time."
He gave me total eye contact and said, "I never thought of it like that before. I mean, I never thought about what would happen after I..." I told him I understood. I told him that I believed that the reason our paths crossed was so that I could beg him to stay, so that he could see what it is like for someone to lose a loved one by suicide...to expand his comprehension of the situation. "If I leave you with one thought," I told him, "it would be to NOT take your own life, in spite of the pain...and to never forget the pain you see in my eyes."
At that point, my ride arrived and I told him I had to leave. He asked my name and told me his. He put out his hand to shake. As I took his hand, I looked him in the eyes and said, "It was a pleasure to meet you. I thank the Universe for arranging this serendipitous moment. I will never forget you."
He said he would never forget either. I pray his memory lasts a lifetime...a very long lifetime of survival, recovery, and newfound happiness. Is that too much to ask, considering God apparently helps athletes and sports teams win, upon request??
When I was released, I went into the ER waiting room to text family members for a ride home. I peripherally noticed that I was alone in the waiting area except for a young man who, by his appearance, was a heavy metal fan. His multiple links of heavy chain jewelry and colored bandana reminded me of my own metal-head kids, but I was too self-absorbed to be concerned with his presence.
The TV was on in the waiting area but it was just a distant familiar noise of news that no one cares about featuring the usual issues of non-importance. Yet, a snippet of a story bled through to my awareness: An athlete claiming to be a Christian and boasting about his prayers to God to help him and his team win. I shook my head unconsciously to the athlete's arrogance and at the same time, the young metal-head said, "Well Hail Satan!" I was instantly charmed!
We both spontaneously recognized our mutually shared perspective on the news story - and perhaps on religion in general and faster than the speed of a sound byte, we shared our irritations with the common religious assumptions in our culture and we found ourselves in agreement with our conclusions about That Which is Unknown. He identified as a Taoist and talked about the paradox of the chaotic order in the world and in the Universe at large. While we differed in our chronological maturity, we were kindred spirit.
I thought about Christina. She would've LOVED this guy...a peer who, like Christina, still capitalized on shock value. I remembered the images I took from Christina's Facebook page of religious criticisms, observations, and humor, and I began to show them to this young man. He loved them, as I knew he would. I told him they were my taken from my daughter's Facebook page and he commented about how he'd like to meet my daughter. My joy quickly departed and I told him that she took her life just ten months ago. He too became solemnly quiet and expressed his condolences. I told him she was bipolar and struggled for many years with her internal emotional pain. I told him briefly about the brutal reality of having to help my son and son-in-law take her down from the beam from which she hung herself. And then, without saying a word, he pushed back his sleeves exposing multiple sights of self-injury and even a recent suicide attempt. My eyes met his and I told him, "I understand."
He said he was schizophrenic and that no medication has helped him so in an effort to self-medicate, he has turned to alcohol and now struggled with mental illness AND alcoholism. He confided that he has wrestled with suicidal ideation for a long, long time and even made several attempts. At other times, the desire was there, but the courage to follow through was not. He looked into the barrel of a gun - more than once - but lost his nerve. He had once written his farewell, gathered razor blades and filled a tub, but again could not follow through. Currently, his ideation involved stepping out in front of an oncoming semi or freight train.
I asked him if he had family or friends who loved him. He said he did. I asked him if he loved them. He said he did. So then I said, "All that spiritual stuff we just talked about...do you believe that our paths crossed today on accident?" He looked startled. "No, I don't. I believe everything happens for a reason." So I agreed with him. I said, as if I were thinking outloud, "So then, I wonder WHY...WHY would our paths cross? I'm grieving the suicidal death of my daughter, and you are here because of your emotional pain and desire to end your life. What are we supposed to learn from each other?"
He asked me if my Christina had family members and friends who loved her. "More than she ever imagined," I told him. I told him about Christina and Mary. I told him about her children. I told him that we will never be the same without her and that our pain will never go away. At best, we must simply learn how to live with the pain of losing her.
Silence.
Then I told him, "I know why our paths crossed. I am here to tell you this: I know your pain is great. Death would bring relief, for you. I know that. I understand. You would leave your pain behind. But it would be magnified and left for the ones who love you most to carry. I am asking you if you can promise me that you will reconsider and make a commitment to stay alive." He wasn't certain he could agree to that. I didn't expect him to be able to agree, really. "Ok," I said, "then will you consider this: IF you reach a point where you are determined to end your life, will you do it in such a way that your body will not be so damaged as to further increase the pain and trauma your loved ones will experience? They will want to - NEED to - see you, touch you, kiss you, hold you, one...last...time."
He gave me total eye contact and said, "I never thought of it like that before. I mean, I never thought about what would happen after I..." I told him I understood. I told him that I believed that the reason our paths crossed was so that I could beg him to stay, so that he could see what it is like for someone to lose a loved one by suicide...to expand his comprehension of the situation. "If I leave you with one thought," I told him, "it would be to NOT take your own life, in spite of the pain...and to never forget the pain you see in my eyes."
At that point, my ride arrived and I told him I had to leave. He asked my name and told me his. He put out his hand to shake. As I took his hand, I looked him in the eyes and said, "It was a pleasure to meet you. I thank the Universe for arranging this serendipitous moment. I will never forget you."
He said he would never forget either. I pray his memory lasts a lifetime...a very long lifetime of survival, recovery, and newfound happiness. Is that too much to ask, considering God apparently helps athletes and sports teams win, upon request??
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