Tag Archives: Possibility

the vast expanse of adulthood (of peanut butter cups at midnight and potty training geniuses)

03 Monday Oct 2022

Posted by in autism, empathy, kids, love, parenting, special needs

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , ,

I don’t fall asleep as easily as I used to. Who does? (Oh to return to February 2020!) Last night I drifted off reading a new mystery novel I’ve only just started. Only to be jolted awake at midnight by my eighteen year old tripping over a box of books and hand weights on the floor of my room.

I groggily shouted “this better be an emergency!” Lest you think me harsh, dear reader, please understand this is approximately the 2000th or so time he’s woken me like this and it was, in fact, an emergency worth waking me up for approximately five or six times.

“Well,” he said, “it’s just that. Just that—“

“Just that what?!” I screamed

“I can’t stop thinking about where did all the dark chocolate peanut butter cups go?” He said this with a bit of a whine.

“Your brother ate them,” I bellowed and then “good night.” He went to talk more when I said “good night” over him several times until he left.

If you’re still thinking I’m harsh, okay, you’re right. He didn’t deserve to be yelled at like that.

What I find myself wrestling with is my special needs son becoming an adult who will likely live with me the rest of my life. The vast expanse of adulthood before us, an endless succession of very similar presents.

As kids grow up, they go through stages where they pull away from us and then come back. Toddlerhood, kindergarten, adolescence, going off to college. It’s bittersweet as a parent. But I’ve always found it much sweeter than bitter. The idea of taking someone from 2 cells to a fully launched adult is the most incredible thing a person could ever do.

Watching your relationship with your child come to an end as it’s replaced with an entirely new one. Less purely dependent, but with new needs that are more complex. And knowing that, with each successive stage, it becomes more and more of a choice for them. Will they let you in now that they have a world you’re not always a part of, an ever increasing level of privacy, a greater internal world and sense of who they are? If they don’t choose you, what will you do? And so, when they do, you’re grateful they’ve chosen you. Because they didn’t have to. And maybe you did something right as a parent after all.

So, what then, do you do with a child who will never launch? Who remains at a particular level of dependency indefinitely. I know I’ll figure this out. But it’s hard. His younger brother is almost 17 now. PSATs and drivers permits and what colleges should he apply to and all of that.

I felt bad for yelling at him. I texted his dad and told him about it and said I don’t know how to stop resenting this situation. And I need to. And as we were typing about it I found myself typing that every time 17 hits a milestone I know 18 never will, it’s hard.

For who, he asked

For me, I replied. Maybe it is for 17 too. I don’t know.

I remember the day 17 passed 18 up developmentally. I remember that it hurt. And I remember that is confused 17. For years.

They were both potty trained on the same day. 17 could have been a year before that but he held off until his older brother was ready. That’s how I remember it anyway. Maybe it’s just a story I tell myself so that this all makes sense.

18 loved cars and trucks when he was little. And it broke my heart to tell him he’d never get to drive. But it didn’t bother him. Now 17 is old enough to drive and doesn’t seem particularly interested. I told him he has to get his permit by October 31st. He’s dragging his feet. It’s important he take that step, become that much more independent. So I push. But the truth is, I am sure I will cry when he starts to drive. Because 18 never will. 18 doesn’t care. He has no desire to drive. So why can’t I let these feelings go?

When our kids pull away at these different stages, it’s scary but exciting for them, and we need to be there, letting them know they’re safe, that we’ll still be there when they come back. It’s scary and exciting for us too, though. Will they come back? Who will they be when they return to us? And isn’t that at the core of all our relationships? With children, with partners, with friends, with God? Life is growth.

And maybe that’s what bothers me, my narrow view of what growth is and how it should look. Feeling our relationship will stagnate. But there is no one right way to grow. 18 won’t grow and change in a lot of the ways his siblings will, that I did, but he will grow and change in his own way. He will still depend on me, he doesn’t really have the choice to leave and come back to me physically. But he will still have the choice, emotionally, spiritually.

And if I keep screaming at him, he very well might not choose to return to me.

And so we’ll have to work it out. Maybe I’ll put a lock on my bedroom door. Maybe he really will eventually learn what an emergency is. Or maybe I’ll learn to get myself to sleep earlier so I’m not so angry when I’m woken up for 30 seconds to answer a simple question from a man who’s grown me more than anyone else. And who keeps on growing me, even at midnight, half-asleep.

The Expulsion

18 Sunday Sep 2022

Posted by in addiction, Catholicism, christianity, empathy, Evil, kids, love, parenting, PTSD, Rape, Sin

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Judith Herman

tells us that trauma is abandonment, being abandoned by all the people who were supposed to protect us, even ourselves, even God. to be utterly alone. when we shouldn’t be. when we least expected it. not knowing will we live or will we die, will this black hole we are falling into ever end.

In church

They tell us that Hell is the absence of God. No need for fire and brimstone. There is nothing worse than to be left by God. And so, trauma is Hell

In the Bible

Adam and Eve ate of the Tree of Knowledge and were banished from the Garden of Eden. Never to return. A life of toil and sickness and pain and death. Final. No way to earn their way back to Eden.

Our parents

Are the source of us. The holy Mother and Father of us. And when they unleash a rage that has no borders, we are Alone. we grow up and roam the earth, trying to find our way back to the Garden. But there is no going back

We cannot go back, only through. Onward into the valley of tears. Where God hears us and loves us but cannot save us. Where he gives us the ability to love one another, hear one another, comfort one another, but not to save one another.

Loving and saving are not the same thing. And that which your parents couldn’t give you will never be found in someone else. There is only one person capable of never leaving you, and that’s you.

And you

are enough

a room of one’s own

04 Saturday Jun 2022

Posted by in kids, parenting

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , ,

I told you in the course of this paper that Shakespeare had a sister; but do not look for her in Sir Sidney Lee’s life of the poet. She died young—alas, she never wrote a word. She lies buried where the omnibuses now stop, opposite the Elephant and Castle. Now my belief is that this poet who never wrote a word and was buried at the cross–roads still lives. She lives in you and in me, and in many other women who are not here to–night, for they are washing up the dishes and putting the children to bed. But she lives; for great poets do not die; they are continuing presences; they need only the opportunity to walk among us in the flesh. This opportunity, as I think, it is now coming within your power to give her. For my belief is that if we live another century or so—I am talking of the common life which is the real life and not of the little separate lives which we live as individuals—and have five hundred a year each of us and rooms of our own; if we have the habit of freedom and the courage to write exactly what we think; if we escape a little from the common sitting–room and see human beings not always in their relation to each other but in relation to reality; and the sky. too, and the trees or whatever it may be in themselves; if we look past Milton’s bogey, for no human being should shut out the view; if we face the fact, for it is a fact, that there is no arm to cling to, but that we go alone and that our relation is to the world of reality and not only to the world of men and women, then the opportunity will come and the dead poet who was Shakespeare’s sister will put on the body which she has so often laid down. Drawing her life from the lives of the unknown who were her forerunners, as her brother did before her, she will be born. As for her coming without that preparation, without that effort on our part, without that determination that when she is born again she shall find it possible to live and write her poetry, that we cannot expect, for that would he impossible. But I maintain that she would come if we worked for her, and that so to work, even in poverty and obscurity, is worth while. -A Room of One’s Own, Virginia Woolf

I am no longer sleeping on the left side of the bed.

We moved this week to a beautiful house in the country with big, old pine trees. Like the ones I grew up playing in. It’s my forever home. It’s home. Finally home.

There is room to spread out in this house. We still spend a lot of time together but when we want to be alone, there are lots of lovely spots to go to. I sit in the screened in porch and watch the deer and the chipmunks and sometimes a fox. And my bedroom has a sitting room that I have made a little cozy gym. I have my own bathroom. For the first time in my life. I take long relaxing baths now. And I spread out in my bed and take up space. The luxury of space.

My heart has felt the words of Virginia Wolf for so many years. A room of one’s own. When I am overwhelmed by all the needs I am asked to meet everyday I find myself saying, can I just have ten minutes to myself, can I just have one inch that is mine alone. And now, now I have an acre. And a room. A screened in porch. A whole big bed. That is full. Of me alone.

I used to be afraid to be alone. It terrified me. I felt like I was falling into a darkness so deep and wide, with no bottom. That I would just fall forever. Afraid of hitting bottom but more afraid of never doing so. Its the fall that is intolerable. It’s a terrible thing to be afraid to be alone. You keep company with wolves because being eaten seems a better fate than being alone.

I used to be afraid to be selfish. To not be omniavailable (yes I just made up a word) to my kids, my attendings, my patients, my family, my friends. But that’s no good. Ten minutes to myself, sometimes hours or days to myself, is a beautiful thing that makes me a better mother doctor friend. And space. Space that is just my own. Whether it be my tree house in Jamaica or the back room of my office in Grove City or my Mini or my queen size bed.

I wish I could give this to my female patients instead of medication. Space to themselves instead of tiny falling down houses with 6 or 7 people on top of each other. Time. Without kids or work or toxic family. But a lot of them would be terrified by it. We are raised to be this way. To stay small and not take up room. To give ourselves away. Inch by inch, moment by moment. Chipping away the boundaries. To be terrified of our own freedom, afraid to declare our time and space and bodies and thoughts and feelings and wants and needs our own.

And words. To claim our words, our voice, our writing, our ideas, our cadence, our beauty.

There was a time in my life I read Allen Ginsburg and Jack Kerouac and dreamed of all the life that lay outside my little town in the country. All I had ahead of me. The life I would live. Of revolution and gorgeous poetry and art and fascinating people slightly mad but mainly genius burning brightly, so bright.

I have lived intensely and now I am ready to be content, back in the country. Back to my own bed in my own room as it was then. Time to myself, to read and savor and enjoy. My kids are the ones heading out into the world. Beyond the pine trees and the covered porch and sometimes a fox. While I spread out in my bed in the quiet of my room and write you these words of my very own. Send them out into the world and hope they land where they’re meant to. Here in a room of my own.

i would be a terrible dance teacher

21 Saturday May 2022

Posted by in empathy, kids, love, parenting, romance

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , ,

I’ve done this dance as long as I can remember

(not the foxtrot. We did that in Gym and I was awful)

This dance of give and give and be who they want and not who they don’t and when they step on your toes don’t say a word because they might leave you and dance without someone else, someone who doesn’t complain when they step on their toes. So even if your toes are raw and bleeding and you can barely stand up, you keep dancing, because the only way to win is for the dance to last Forever

But

Inevitably it gets to be too much and you realize how messed up this dance is and so you leave. It’s always better to be the one who leaves. And if you should find yourself in that old familiar black hole, well, you’ll figure that out when it comes

They used to have these dance marathons for charity on sitcoms where the couple who stops dancing last is the winner and they’d dance all day and all night and wacky funny things would happen. But really what happens when you lose if you quit dancing is that you get so damn tired and bitter and hopeless and then that’s all your children know of life

They need to know it is not healthy at all to dance all night and all day no matter what the cause. They need to know the Baker bunion is not inevitable just because every other female in the family has it. And so, you sit and rest. You know now in your bones that there are a lot of ways to win, not just dancing forever. Know that bone that is your bunion has been trying to tell you this all these years but you wouldn’t listen. Maybe you thought you deserved to live that way. Maybe you taught them they deserve to live that way. But not anymore.

I was so afraid she’d disappear and never come back. And she did. Afraid if I said even the littlest thing out of line and I was right.

I was so close to invisible I thought I’d found heaven when I heard those words that day. To be so watched you must do everything right and yet not seen at all. And so I see them dancing the dance. And I hope I show them that the way to win isn’t to never stop. That it’s just a silly show and at the end of the day the best part is getting to rest with your feet up at home with the people that love you. And to choreograph your own life to your own song with an audience of one.

Cha cha cha

addicted

12 Tuesday Apr 2022

Posted by in addiction, autism, Catholicism, christianity, empathy, kids, residency, Sin

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

all of my patients are physically dependent on opioids. ICD 10 F11.20. some of them are addicted to opioids. a lot of them aren’t.

maybe you’re physically dependent on something. for which there is no ICD 10 code. caffeine, zoloft, dopamine, adrenaline. maybe you’re addicted. coffee, zoloft, social media, shopping, toxic relationships, speeding, gossip, little debbie Christmas tree cakes, work, success, sex, HGTV.

maybe you think I’m being cute. or metaphorical. just making a point. no one goes to rehab for gossip addiction (maybe they should). no one goes to jail for possession of little debbie Christmas tree cakes (maybe no one should go to jail for possession of anything. maybe the jails are a crime)

addiction is an escape from the pain of being human. being human is more painful for some than others. but it is painful for all of us. and if someone tells you it isn’t, that is because they are so deep in their addiction, they have lost touch entirely.

eve and adam ate that apple and it all went to shit, you see. our eyes were opened and sickness and pain and toil entered the stage. we all fell down, down, down. and ever since, we have very logically sought to numb the pain of it. because there is no way up, up, up. not in this life anyway.

we are afraid. to hope, to love, to ask for love, to speak our truth, to share our pain, to need or be needed, to want or be wanted. we are afraid to take up space and that we might disappear, to be silenced and to be heard, to be alone and that we might make a genuine connection. we are afraid we are unlovable and that to be loved would be the most unbearable pain imaginable. or perhaps, worse than that, ecstasy.

in addiction we connect with other people. no we don’t. we are with people and we are less lonely and so we think we are connecting. logical. understandable. but let me tell you a story about the time my friends let G die when he overdosed because they were high too and didn’t want to get in trouble and i knew they loved drugs more than they loved me or each other. and the time i went back to my dopamine adrenaline filled emotional intimacy free relationship because right at that moment i loved it more than my kids and i do not want to tell you that but how else can we do better?

and they told me my son played next to other children but not with other children and that he was too old for parallel play. but tell me how much time adults spend engaging with other people and not engaging next to other people? are we connecting spiritually or are we churching next to one another? and those residents we work 90 hours a week with that we save and lose lives with, do we know them at all? and so pass the pipe and hand me that spoon and we will share a hit of Netflix and yoga and pumpkin spice latte next to one another in this Fallen World.

there is no ICD 10 code for the unbearable lightness of being but maybe there should be

silver gray honey

01 Monday Nov 2021

Posted by in love, marriage, narcissism, romance

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , ,

We got engaged in December. It was cold and clear. In front of cameras of course (it doesn’t count if no one’s watching).

The next day, it began. It was cold and sharp. In my car along the Turnpike (with no one watching, of course).

I wouldn’t say the real you came out because I don’t think there is a real you.

You are honey mixed with gray silver micah. Lacking form and shape. You cannot be held but you stick and don’t let go. Clinging to my hands and I cannot quite get all of you off my skin. Dirt and remnants of what was and what wasn’t latched on.

I soak them in water. Warm and clear. And I watch as you dissolve and wash down my drain.

Drip, drip, drip (better times up round the bend)

25 Friday Jun 2021

Posted by in empathy, Evil, kids, love, marriage, my awesome husband, narcissism, PTSD, Rape, romance, Sin, Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Water torture encompasses a variety of techniques using water to inflict physical or psychological harm on a victim as a form of torture or execution

I’d like to start this post by pointing out the term “Chinese water torture” is racist and nonsensical actually. When this torture technique has been used, it has been mainly by Europeans and there’s no recorded instances of the Chinese ever having used it.

Ok, onward and upward.

There’s this book by Lundy Bancroft I bought years ago titled “Why Does He Do That?” It’s about abusive partners and the many myths that surround our ideas of abuse. He’s a counselor that works with abusive men who either want to change or have been forced by the courts to undergo counseling. We often say abusive men need to learn to manage their anger but Bancroft argues that abuse isn’t an issue of out of control anger. Rather, it is a systemic, deliberate process used to control for the benefit of the abuser. They don’t need to learn to control themselves; they need to learn to stop controlling their partner (and everyone else in their lives they’re controlling).

In the book, he details ten different categories of abusers. The one I am going to talk (err-write) about today is the Water Torturer.

We’re all familiar with the idea of water torture. Not the waterboarding done by the US government. Rather, this idea of tying someone down and dripping water down onto their forehead slowly, drip by drip. The drops come randomly and it induces a psychological breakdown.

Lundy uses this as a metaphor for the kind of abuser who doesn’t yell or hit. He is always calm and appears to the outside world to be a great guy. He rarely slips up and lets anyone see what he’s really like. He knows how to push his partner’s buttons and get *her* to scream and get emotional. Then he says “why are you getting so worked up?” “you really need to work on your mental health problems” “stop abusing me.” He doesn’t punch or kick but he engages in subtle physical abuse such as blocking her from leaving the room or following her around the house arguing when she tries to get away. He doesn’t engage in blatant sexual abuse such as rape but rather makes degrading comments about her sexual interests, her appearance or withholds sex. He makes extensive use of sarcasm, put downs, controlling where she goes, controlling money, undermining her sense of self worth, isolating her from friends and family, badmouthing her to other people and gaslighting. Lots and lots of gaslighting.

Because you see, like Harry Houdini who helped popularize the idea of water torture, he depends upon an illusion to keep her with him. He depends on creating distractions so neither she nor the outside world can see what he really is and what he’s really doing.

The good news, friends, is that you don’t have to remain strapped down to that table. The damage done by this abuse is extensive, but most definitely something you can heal from.

You just have to keep in mind the Wizard of Oz is not real and keep your eyes on the little man behind the curtain. It’s hard to do, but you’re a badass so you got this.

I see this a lot in my practice. I have women who come in with black eyes and broken ribs, but more often they come in telling me stories of emotional abuse like this. They’ve been so worn down by it, like a pebble in a stream that becomes small and smooth over time from the water flowing over it. They are too tired and broken to leave. And they’re in love. And they’re addicted to the chemicals our brains grow to crave when we’ve been in toxic, tumultuous relationships for so long.

The University of Illinois did some research and noticed there are 5 stages to leaving an abusive relationship. The first two stages encompass the very beginning of the abused partner noticing there is something very wrong, something that goes beyond normal relationship issues. She’s nowhere close to leaving, but the spell has started to wear off. Stage three, women start to notice the effect of the abuse on their children. They start viewing the abuser’s behavior as abuse on a regular basis. And they start preparing to leave. Maybe they tell a friend what’s going on. Start stashing away cash in case they need to run. Call a domestic violence line. Stage four is an interesting one.

Stage four is the yo yo stage. You leave but then you come back. You might end up yo yo-ing several times before you truly leave. Why? Because he says he’ll change. Because being on your own is hard, financially, logistically (with kids), emotionally. Because he gets other people to guilt trip you. Because he won’t “give up on you.” Because you’re addicted to the brain chemicals. Because this dynamic is comfortable to you. Because you love him.

Stage five is the final one. You have left and you have stayed away and aren’t going back. The researchers define this as having left and stayed away 6 months or more. The abuse can continue if there are children involved and you are forced to have continue contact with your abuser, but it’s much less than before and you can begin to heal and move on.

It’s hard as doctor to have patients in those first four stages. Hard for friends and family too. But you can’t skip stages and you can’t rush someone through them. They have to make the choice to leave and stay left. You can support them by listening without judgement and validating their feelings. If you’re a friend or family, offering help with kids and other logistics can help too. And if they yo yo back, be there for them. They may be afraid to tell you. They may avoid you. Don’t give up on them. The abuser will likely make even greater attempts to isolate his partner if she goes back, so stay in her life whatever way you safely can and let her know you’re there is she ever needs you.

A lot of doctors shy away from dealing with the issue of intimate partner violence because they find it so frustrating to have a patient that won’t leave or who goes back. There are a lot of reasons women stay or return. And the sad reality is, sometimes it’s safer or necessary for her to stay. Being there to keep her as safe and supported as possible is hard, but it can be life changing for her. If you abandon her because she won’t leave, you’re just continuing the patten of the abuser, seeking to control her.

The longer you stay, the harder it is to leave. So, if you’re in a relationship with a water torturer, don’t put off considering leaving. A lot of times the reasons we come up with to stay aren’t as convincing if we discuss them with someone outside the relationship like a therapist, domestic help line or friend. Once you’re down in his world of gaslighting, isolation and control, your sense of reality is skewed. You need someone who isn’t riding that Tilt-A-Whirl.

Once you are out, the healing is not necessarily the most fun process. It’s kind of like when someone is getting over opiate addiction. There’s a lot they need to dig out from. A lot of pain and sadness and the practical part of rebuilding your life. But there’s also joy. And as the months pass, there is less and less pain and more and more joy. And you will look back and say, how did I do that all those years? How did I survive? And you’ll see what a badass you are. And that there are far better things at the carnival than the broken Tilt-A-Whirl. And you and your kids will eat cotton candy and laugh and sleep soundly at the end of the day cozy in your warm, safe beds.

Are you a Mary or a Rhoda? Maybe both.(of divorce and white hot suns)

21 Monday Jun 2021

Posted by in Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , ,

Someone crying a solitary sad tear

I cried a little on my way into work this morning. Well, not work exactly. I was actually driving to the tire place near my office because I got another flat. Presumably due to hitting the curb too many times trying to squeeze into a parking space in front of my house, a popular place for people from all corners the earth to park. Not that I’m bitter. Anyway, back to the crying. I was crying because I didn’t have a head scarf on. I was crying because my divorce was a little about more final now.

This is not my street but the parking looks similar

I started wearing my headscarves five years ago. Was it really five years? It went so fast. It was after my husband and I had reconciled, for the second time. I decided to wear the scarf for a lot of reasons. I’m sure I’ve written posts about it on here. I covered my head on my spiritual journey of my youth. Covered it studying Judaism, covered it exploring Islam, covered it, ultimately as a Catholic (turned post-Catholic). It was a way for me to remember God each day. But it was also because I was married. Muslim women who wear hijab do so whether they’re married or not. Same with the Amish. But Orthodox Jews cover their hair when they’re married.

And I’m not married anymore. Mostly.

Divorce doesn’t happen in a day. There’s the day you file, the day you tell the kids, the day you tell everyone else, the day you move out, the day you change your name back, the day you write up your custody agreement, the day you divide up your assets and debts (the physical ones anyway. Not sure you ever stop dividing up the blame and resentment but I hope so), the day the decree is handed down. But these are just the outward signs of the true divorce, the one inside you.

I don’t think judges get your wedding rings before pounding their gavel on your divorce decree that looks like an elementary school perfect attendance certificate but maybe I’m wrong

I chose to stop wearing my headscarves this weekend after a year and a half of considering it. I thought and contemplated and prayed and searched my heart and consulted the cards. And I knew it was time. I’m still devoted to God and I’ll still wear it on certain occasions. But, for me, a head scarf is for married women. And I’m not married anymore.

But as I was crying, I thought, why are you crying? It’s not that I miss my husband. I reeeeeeally don’t. It’s definitely not that I wish we were still together. I reeeeeeally don.’t. It was something else. A marriage is more than the two people in it. There are the two of you and then there’s who you thought they were and who they thought you were. There’s the couple you thought you were and the couple they thought you were. There’s all the people in your life and what you thought your marriage was to them. There are your kids and what it was to them. And there are your hopes, the life you thought would unfold over the next 30 or 40 years. Your identity as a married woman, now a twice divorced woman. It is a slow, painful death. But.

But.

It is followed by rebirth. All those contractions and dilating and blood and fluid and pushing until you think you might split in two like a wishbone, are worth it in the end. You emerge bloody and red and crying. You might even have some meconium in your lungs to work out. The air is cold and you miss the comfort of the womb, but there’s no going back. Here you are.

I wish I could say there’s a big boob waiting there to comfort you, but there’s not. After all, you just gave birth to yourself. The only teet is your own. Okay I’m going to drop this metaphor now. It’s getting a little bit too weird.

Where was I? Oh yes, scarves.

When I started covering my head, after we reconciled, if I’m being completely honest with myself, it was about more than God. And it was about more than being married. It was to contain the part of me I had to put deep inside in order to keep my marriage together.

We reconciled because I couldn’t financially afford to leave but we also reconciled because I couldn’t stand to be alone. It took me 40 years to get to a place where I could be alone and not fall apart. Okay, 42; I’ve definitely fallen apart during this divorce process and had to have some very strong external motivators to keep me going. Anyway, when I went back five years ago, it was in resignation. Resignation to the fact I couldn’t afford to leave, resignation to the fact I wasn’t strong enough to leave but I wasn’t strong enough to stay. I knew if I went back this time, that was it. I was in it for the long haul. I couldn’t keep putting my kids through the back and forth. Or myself. I needed to be stable and give them a stable home. I needed to grow up and accept my life for what it was. And so, I knew I had to resign myself to the parts of my husband that always made me want to leave. I had to accept the control and paranoia and misogyny and irrationality and the messy house and everything else. And I had to dim my light, so I didn’t outshine him. And so I covered it with a scarf and said goodbye.

How many of us spend our lives dimming our light to keep the people in our lives happy?

Well, fuck that.

It’s been a long journey of spiritual growth and therapy and a lot of blog entries and a few very good friends. But I have started shining again. Gradually, over these past few years. And now, the scarves are off and I’m aiming for supernova levels.

A photo of me seen this weekend grocery shopping in hoop earrings and platform sandals

It’s not just him. It’s so many people who’ve been in my life. And that’s life. That’s the fallen world we live in where people are insecure and jealous and afraid and don’t realize there’s room for all of us to shine. A million white hot suns. Feel free to stare directly at us, it will not damage your retinas.

And so, I find myself thinking of Gloria Steinem and Rhoda Morgenstern and all the other fabulous, confident, free spirited 40-something women with good hair. I am not someone new. I am just stripping away all the layers I’ve used to dull my shine. The self-imposed vernix. I am becoming more me.

I’m throwing my deep purple scarf in the air, ’cause I’m gonna make it after all.

Lassoing the Beast

24 Friday Apr 2020

Posted by in christianity, empathy, Evil, kids, love, marriage, medicine, my awesome husband, narcissism, PTSD, Rape, Sin, Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

I do not think that I have ever seen a case where the sentencing goal of protection of the public figured more predominantly. Anyone who sat through this trial would realize that this defendant is the worst nightmare of every child’s parent. The entirely credible and overwhelming evidence demonstrated that the defendant is a dangerous predatory sadist…
Hon Sean McLaughlin, sentencing of Jeremy Noyes

golden lasso

A package arrived today. A hoody. Oh, how I love a good hoody. Is there anything better? Cozy and comfy and flattering on people of all shapes and sizes. Maybe it’s because I grew up crushing on boys with long hair in hoodies and Vans, but hoodies hold a special place in my heart. Back to present day: the hoody that arrived was blazoned with Beast on the Bay. Because I have decided to run the Beast on the Bay again this year.

Regular readers may recall that in 2018, I ran the Beast as part of my ten year anniversary of my trauma. It inspired me to get into shape and do something that felt impossible. It also happened to be in Erie, where my trauma occurred and is sponsored by my old med school, who made the trauma significantly worse. I was not able to run the race in 2019 because the previous summer, in the best shape of my life, I had suddenly developed a mysterious autoimmune neurologic disorder a week before I was to run a different obstacle course race, the Spartan. Now, within this surreal time of quarantine, I’ve decided to do it again this September (if it’s not cancelled).

I had come to some new revelations on Easter Sunday. Not regarding God or Armageddon or resurrection. Regarding my immune system.

antibody_1_1

In order for me to explain, let’s rewind to June 2019.

I’d been in training for 14 months and was in peak form. My body fat percentage was its lowest ever. I could run a 9 minute mile. I was pumping out burpees like a champ. I felt amazing. On Sunday, my husband I went to a local Crossfit gym to do a class and practice rope climbing. I’d never climbed a rope in my life. I never even tried in gym class as a kid because I was convinced I couldn’t do it and would just embarrass myself. I knew I needed to climb one for the race coming up the following Saturday so we went and the owners gave me some tips and I did it! I was so damn proud of myself.

The next morning I woke up and felt sick: I was exhausted, my muscles ached and felt weak. It wasn’t the way I felt after a really brutal workout. It was the way I felt when I had the flu. I decided I better give into it and rest as much as possible but I’d been planning on working out leading up until a couple days before the race. I needed to get better quick, though , so I cancelled the workouts. By the time Friday came, I was still exhausted and I knew I needed to cancel the race. I was heartbroken. I’d worked so hard and it meant a lot to me. It was odd I was still feeling just as bad six days in, so on Saturday instead of going to the race, I went to Quest to get some bloodwork drawn.

Over the next few months I saw neurologists and rheumatologists. I had bloodwork, MRIs, EMGs, and EEGs. I began to piece together symptoms I’d been having in the months leading up to my exhaustion. Blistering on my lips I’d assumed were cold sores (they weren’t). Neuropathy in my arms and legs after showering. A tightening of my rib muscles during a run. At one point, my calves swelled and hardened during a run, forcing me to stop. My fine motor skills were off and I was having more of the involuntary muscle movements I’d gotten for years. I was losing my balance more often too.

pemphigus

None of the doctors ever arrived at a diagnosis and I was told to deal with it and be grateful it wasn’t something bad. I wasn’t. How could we know if it would get really bad or not if we didn’t know what it was? I had plenty of patients in the same boat. Vague autoimmune symptoms and slightly off labs but no clear clinical picture of a known disorder. They often found their way to my doorstep looking for help from medical marijuana (Which is smart because it helps both the symptoms and has immune modulating effect which can help longterm outcomes). I was now one of them.

I tried changing to a plant based ketogenic diet but it only seemed to make it worse (and was unpleasant as hell to eat). I tried forcing myself to exercise but it made it worse too. I would have a few days where I felt pretty good, but the symptoms always returned. That is, until November.

In late November, my husband moved out. Our marriage ended. And so did my symptoms. I hadn’t been expecting such a dramatic reaction on the part of my body, but there it was. Fatigue, pain, weakness, skin blistering, muscle jerking, neuropathy. Gone. My toxic marriage had been killing me. My body was sending me one last desperate message before it gave up the fight. And it worked.

What can make you more grateful for the movement of your body than losing it?

There has been a lot going on in my life since then. Divorce, buying a new house and moving in less than two weeks before Christmas, and the in and out of court of a high conflict divorce and custody battle. Finally as February came to a close I felt like things had settled down and I was ready to start working out again and go on a diet to shed the weight I’d gained since June. It went well for a couple weeks and then buh buh buh, quarantine! And it all went to pot. Like it did for all of you.

2AP1TD2-b598c7937e0cb7c3ddb3d98f6d897d82

No more daycare. No more school. Time to homeschool 3 kids and take care of a preschooler. And now you have to take your medical practice and completely restructure it because you can’t do office visits anymore. And no one can help you because it’s a freaking quarantine. And did I mention the high conflict divorce I’m in? Yeah, those don’t improve with quarantine either.

And then we got sick. March 22nd, my four year old and I woke up with a fever, sore throat and cough. Exhausted, body aches, chills, no appetite. Then the other three kids got it. We didn’t qualify for COVID testing so I put us into complete isolation (actually considerably worse than regular quarantine life, believe it or not) and waited for it to pass. But it didn’t. The fever would sometimes for 24 or even 72 hours, but it always came back. We’re now on Day 33. I eventually coerced an urgent care into giving me a test despite not meeting criteria on Day 24 when our fevers went up higher than ever. The test came back negative but they told me false negatives were common and I should consider getting tested again. I consulted with my mentor, the best doctor I know. He said he thought it was COVID and a false negative. I agreed.

bodyHappenFever-1006577818-770x553-650x428

If you consider the other things in the differential diagnosis (cancer, rheumatoid arthritis, Epstein Barr virus, CMV, Lyme disease), none of them made as much sense as COVID.

And so, here we sit in isolation. Now, back to the Beast. I was in a lull of symptoms two weeks ago on Easter Sunday. I was sitting watching a local church service on my big screen TV while my kids ate their candy and watched their iPads, and a verse struck me.

A good man brings good things out of the good stored up in his heart, and an evil man brings evil things out of the evil stored up in his heart. For out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks.

And I realized my husband had ruined my relationship with God. Because that’s what abusive people do. They isolate you. From friends and family and, sometimes, if they’re really good at it, God. I realized how far from God I’d gotten, and how I couldn’t separate God from my husband and the harm he does. And I realized it was now time to stop. And I said hello to God again.

I realized something else that night as I stayed up late journaling about all my newfound epiphanies. I was ready to get in shape and lose weight again. But I needed something to focus on, a race. I thought of the Beast. But when I thought of it, my stomach dropped. I realized the thought of running it alone, without my husband, scared me. That I felt like his ghost would be haunting me the entire time. And most things that scare you, are the things most worth doing. And then it occurred to me. The timing of the onset of my autoimmune issues. I’ve always noted the cruel irony of it beginning right as I was to run an obstacle course race even harder than the Beast, that I’d trained for for so long. Right at my physical peak. My husband was going to run the Spartan with me just like he’d run the Beast with me. He jumped on the Beast wagontrain late in the game. He said he didn’t think I’d actually train and go through with it so he waited. Like it was such a big freaking honor to have him run it. He took something that was mine and made it his. He was jealous. And he was going to take the Spartan from me too. He had spent years complaining I was fat and had a flat butt but when I got in shape, he was so damn jealous, he did everything he could to undermine me. And he couldn’t let me have the Beast, my moment. I didn’t finish high in the Beast, mind you. I couldn’t do about a third of the obstacles. But I finished. And I was so damn proud. He acted proud too: proud of us, proud of his wife, of himself. His wife, not me. His possession that reflects on him. That was what he showed the world. A few weeks after we finished it, I put a “I Beat the Beast” bumper sticker on my car and he looked at it and said “You didn’t beat the beast. You didn’t finish all the obstacles.” And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what he shows his family. For out the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks. I stood up to him and told him I had finished and tried all the obstacles and that was a big accomplishment for me. He gave me a shitty look and walked off.

MasHNGXj_400x400

He took the Beast from me and my body wasn’t going to let him take the Spartan. Maybe that’s why it shut down. Maybe my heart called up my immune system and said, if he does it to her one more time I’m going to break. And my immune system said, ok, time for the Hail Mary. We will throw the switch and shut the whole plant down and give her some time to sit and think. And if she won’t walk away, we’ll leave her there sitting. And if she does, she’ll run it for her. And my heart blew my immune system a kiss and my immune system blushed. Maybe. Maybe it was a gift from my body.

So, I signed up for the Beast. And ordered a hoody. And the next day fruits and vegetable and water became a thing again at our house. Planning and cooking dinners because a nightly thing. And working out resumed for me and my kids too. Life was good. I was triumphant!

But then life happened. Our fever has taken up residence and work and homeschooling are getting harder instead of easier. Yada yada yada. I’m back down for the count. But I’m not cancelling the Beast. I am running it, come hell or high water or fever or economic collapse. Even if it takes me ten hours, I’m running it.

I cried a good bit during the Beast the last time I ran it. Cried for what Jeremy did to me, for what my school did to me, for what their mom having PTSD took from my kids, for all the other survivors I know who will never see justice like I did. I imagine I will cry this time too, for a whole other set of reasons.

My high conflict divorce has been nastier than ever this past week. We may soon go before the judge via teleconference (ya know, quarantine) and I am scared my husband will convince the judge he’s the guy out there bragging about his wife running the Beast, instead of who he really is, the guy denigrating his wife when she dared to be proud of herself. But this is not my first rodeo, dear reader. I have sat in court with a man who accused me of lies before and I have spoken the truth and justice prevailed. I will lasso the Beast again this time. And I will put on my hoody and take a run and thank my heart for being so damn good to me.

576778_orig

That’s me in the corner, that’s me in the spotlight (or, the fault in our star)

03 Tuesday Mar 2020

Posted by in christianity, empathy, Evil, love, medicine, romance, Sin, Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

losing my religion:  southern term for losing one’s temper, “flying off the handle,” going insane  etc. Note that the R.E.M. song of this title has nothing to do with religion, despite the common misinterpretation of the phrase.

Oh, life is bigger
It’s bigger
Than you and you are not me
The lengths that I will go to
The distance in your eyes
Oh no, I’ve said too much
I set it up

IMG_39BE05EDA837-1

I don’t remember which one became my patient first. I think it was Him. But it could have been Her. He was initially more memorable. He liked to show me pictures. Of his woodworking and antiques he’d restored. Of his boys. Of the squirrels they’d killed that year. I asked him not to show me the squirrels but he did anyway. She was quiet. Told me about the jewelry she made and the things she grew in her garden and foraged for in the forest. I do remember the day I realized they were a couple. That he was the he she talked about and she was the she he talked about. The “Ohhhhh” moment. The “oh wait, she’s *that* She and he’s *that* He!” It happens a lot in my rural practice. Six degrees of separation is not a thing in rural northwest Pennsylvania. It’s more like two.
*
They started coming to their appointments together eventually. They would tell me about their garden and their yard and the retaining wall they were battling to put up. And they would tell me about things addiction patients in rural northwest Pennsylvania tell you about. Meth and heroin and jail and stealing from the people you love and five year old kids calling 911 when their mom overdoses. They’d both been clean a long time, but everyone had relatives and friends still lost in it. They were no exception.
*
They gave me things. A piece of amethyst they’d hunted and extracted themselves. A small glass vase with a flower from her garden. She gave me gardening tips, foraging tips, taught me some herbalism.
*
They were always late. Always. That was a given. And that was okay. As long as they came. Sometimes they mixed up their days and we’d get a call a couple days later and fit them in the schedule for another day. I always held my breath until they called. Because you never know. You never really know if something didn’t happen and if they’re really all right.
*
And so it happened that they came in a week or so after their appointment in early February. I wasn’t at my office in northwest PA so they came to my office in Verona. Sam got to meet them for the first time. They got to see my other office, which is fairy tale themed. I knew she’d like it.
*
She wasn’t herself that day, though. She was sad. So damn sad. He had to talk for her for most of the appointment because she couldn’t stop crying. She’d been depressed. But it was more than that. She’d been having pain in her side a while now and it was getting worse. She’d gone to the ER and they’d drawn blood work which came back with an abnormality but when they tried to get an IV in so they could run some imaging tests, the nurse couldn’t get it. They kept poking her over and over and she ended up leaving the ER.
*
I asked her some questions to see if I thought she needed to go to the ER right now (it had been a couple days since leaving the ER and she hadn’t gone back yet). Based on her answers I told her I didn’t think it was an emergency but she needed to go back and get the test done. I said maybe she could try going to a different ER where the nurses were better. We talked about her depression and I started her on an antidepressant and told her to email me in a couple weeks to let me know if it seemed to be helping at all so we could work on the dosing.
*
I had a crystal sitting there. Malachite. A pretty dark green stone. I’d been feeling for a couple of days I was supposed to do something with it. An odd feeling kind of hard to describe. Like, restlessness. But with a stone. And before she left I took it and said, here, I want you to have this. And she told me she had something for me too. It was a necklace she’d made but she’d felt timid about giving it to me. But when I gave her the crystal, she said, she felt okay to give me the necklace.
*
He said, (or maybe she said?) that it was fitting because it had a star on it and pointed to my walls. The room we were in has a Sleeping Beauty theme and is covered in stars. (It is based off something I wrote about kids with PANDAS battling the disorder and emerging from it, like sleeping beauties waking up). I took it and told her I loved it. And I did. When I went to put it on, the chain broke, so I put it in my pocket. My back jeans pocket. And we walked out together and said our goodbyes. And Sam said they were sweet and I said I was worried about her. And I was.
*
Somewhere between there and my kitchen, I lost it. The necklace, that is. I realized it later that night and told myself, it’s here somewhere. It’s not gone. It hasn’t fallen off planet Earth. You’ll find it (this is the same thing I say to my children when they are panicking over something they’ve lost. I find it is helpful to give myself the same talks I give them pretty often). I looked a couple places I thought it must be (the cubby over my coat hook by the front door, the back pocket of those jeans I’d since thrown in the hamper) but it wasn’t. Over the next few days I looked a few other places and it wasn’t there either. I tried to remain calm.
*
Then a week later I found it. I was trying to dig a quarter out of my left coat pocket for a cashier, in line ahead of a grumpy resentful old man in the Giant Eagle “12 Items or Fewer” lane and I pulled it out instead. I was relieved. He didn’t care. At all.
*
I went to coffee with a friend that morning (please note: this is a rare occurrence) and stopped in at the crystal shop across the street (please note: this is not a rare occurrence). It had been quite a while since I’d received that amethyst. A lot had changed. And I now frequented the local crystal shop (thus, the malachite). I was browsing on this particular day and saw a necklace with a stone in it that looked like the one my patient had given me. I excitedly drew the necklace from my left pocket and held it up side by side to the other and they were an exact match. I told the women in the shop the story of the necklace and asked what the crystal was. They told me and I asked if I could take the little card that had the name of it and its meaning and they said yes. And they said how sweet it was my patient had made me a necklace. And I said, yes she’s very sweet.
*
The next day I was answering the phone (Sam was out of town and I was like a dad on a laundry detergent commercial, drowning in ineptness with a lost look on my face, trying to perform basic office functions). I was relieved when a familiar voice spoke back to me. It was him. And then it happened. One of those moments. One of those moments that create a Before and After in your life. He told me she had cancer. One of the really bad ones. There’s no such thing as a good cancer. But there are such things as really bad ones. That’s what she had. I stopped breathing for a few seconds. Parastalsis slowed. I got goosebumps (the medical term for that is piloerection. It’s the same thing that makes a porcupine’s quills stand up when it sees a predator. It’s supposed to make us look bigger and scarier, in theory. It does not, in practice). In my head I thought, “Fuuuuuuuuccccckkkkk.” I did not say this to him. I asked how she was. I asked him a series of questions trying to get more medical type details. I tried to get him to say something that would make me realize he’d gotten it wrong and it wasn’t actually cancer. It didn’t work. He said she was resting but I should call her later. I said I would. Even though I was scared to. Because there’s nothing really great you can say. Because you’re a doctor and you’re supposed to fix people and this is not something you can fix.
*
Her palliative care doctor called a little while later while I was on the other line with someone considering making a medical marijuana appointment for anxiety. They had a hundred questions and, in the end, said they’d call back once they decided what to do. I listened to his voicemail and frantically wrote down his number and called him right back. He was nice. God help me, he was a genuinely nice, caring doctor. If you knew doctors like I know doctors, the way they actually talk when there aren’t patients around, you’d know how rare a thing that is. He hadn’t seen her yet (the appointment was for the next day) but he wanted to touch base with me since I prescribe her a controlled substance and his role was pain management (also prescribed substances).
*
When I talked to her that night (well, to her voicemail), I let her know the pain doc was good people and would take good care of her. And he did. We have texted and talked since then, each step along the way, She and I. He and I. And even the palliative doc and I. There is more to it than this, various details you might not expect. But the heart of it is this: a really beautiful human being is sick with something she likely won’t survive. She is in a lot of pain. And the man who loves her is doing an amazing job supporting her through it. He is an unlikely romantic hero. Not a sappy, trite one. A genuine romantic hero. And she is a warrior. Strong and smart and intuitive and kind and creative and honest. And she is so damn young. Too damn young for this shit.
*
And so it was that I came to wear a star necklace everyday (I ordered a new chain for it the day he called with the news. I kept it in my pocket until the chain arrived). And so it was that I came to wear that necklace the night I ran into a good Christian I know.
*
The Good Christian looked at it in horror. Genuine fear in his eyes. And he said, “Have you lost Jesus?” He was distressed. I looked at him and said, “What?” And he pointed to my necklace and said it was a witch’s necklace, a Wiccan necklace. I said, it’s a star. A patient made it for me. That doesn’t mean I’ve lost Jesus. He looked… freaked the hell out.
*
And I thought of the word the palliative care doctor had used when he told me about her CT scan. Innumerable mets. Meaning, the cancer had spread to so many spots, the radiologist gave up counting. I remember when he told me that I wondered, at what point do they stop counting? 10, 20, 100? Maybe that particular radiologist was lazy and she really only has 3. But that’s not likely. When he used that word, innumerable, the hope I’d held out faded away. And I began to focus on how we could all support her in finding peace and being comfortable and doing the things with her last months she’d like to do. Because, lets be honest, doctors very rarely actually fix patients anyway. So maybe this very nice palliative care doctor and I could help her with these things. Hopefully I could be of use.
*
I thought of that word, innumerable. And I thought of the cancer growing inside her. And about how brave she is. And how sweet her he is. And I looked at this Good Christian and saw something in him. A different kind of cancer. One with innumerable mets to the soul. Dark and sticky. Inoperable. Incurable.
*
And I thought, this patient knows more about Jesus than you ever will. Because Jesus is love. And she is full of love. And she has brought joy and love to so many people. And she will keep doing that. Despite it all. She will keep inspiring other people to love. And she knows that I love her. And she lets me love her. And loves me back.
*
And that, dear reader, is not something the Good Christian is capable of. Not something he even understands. And that is why a necklace can inspire a look of dread and disgust in him. A star. An innocent little star.
*
I told my kids a bedtime story tonight. The boy in the story was looking up at the night sky when a shooting star appeared. My daughter got so excited and was urgently shouting “make a wish quick! Before it’s gone!” She was nervous the boy in the story would miss it. Because everyone knows if you make a wish on a shooting star, it comes true. Because that is what stars are for. To wish upon, to make our dreams come true as we sleep beneath their lovely glow. They’re magical. And shooting stars? They’re actually little burning meteors,  magical, glowing rocks. Kind of like amethyst or malachite.
*
If taking comfort in that means I’ve lost Jesus, dear reader, then consider me lost. Because not every sleeping beauty wakes back up at the end of the story. Sometimes her true love kisses her goodnight one last time. And releases her to shine down on us and remind us of who we are, innumerable stars in an endless universe connected to one another always.

 

***

Oh, life is bigger
It’s bigger
Than you and you are not me
The lengths that I will go to
The distance in your eyes
Oh no, I’ve said too much
I set it up
That’s me in the corner
That’s me in the spotlight
Losing my religion
Trying to keep up with you
And I don’t know if I can do it
Oh no, I’ve said too much
I haven’t said enough
I thought that I heard you laughing
I thought that I heard you sing
I think I thought I saw you try
Every whisper
Of every waking hour
I’m choosing my confessions
Trying to keep an eye on you
Like a hurt lost and blinded fool, fool
Oh no, I’ve said too much
I set it up
Consider this
Consider this
The hint of the century
Consider this
The slip that brought me
To my knees failed
What if all these fantasies
Come flailing around
Now I’ve said too much
I thought that I heard you laughing
I thought that I heard you sing
I think I thought I saw you try
But that was just a dream
That was just a dream
That’s me in the corner
That’s me in the spotlight
Losing my religion
Trying to keep up with you
And I don’t know if I can do it
Oh no, I’ve said too much
I haven’t said enough
I thought that I heard you laughing
I thought that I heard you sing
I think I thought I saw you try
But that was just a dream
Try, cry
Why try?
That was just a dream, just a dream, just a dream
Dream