No More Apologies

I have tried.

Over and over, with and without coffee, in the sunshine or the nighttime, I have tried.

Come, lord Jesus,
I have tried.

And the feelings come out but the words stay put, like there's nothing I could possibly say that would be considered an honest expression, or that would do justice to what I'm trying to convey. But I'll give it my best shot.

A year ago I was the most depressed I have been in many years. It is something I've dealt with for fifteen years this September, the worst of which was 2007-2008, with last winter in a close second. I've been considering that time in my life frequently because I'm approaching an interesting milestone: an entire year of being on antidepressant medication. 

Things have been going well. I will spare you the details of an entire year, for the sake of clarity and to save time, but believe me when I say that things have been going well.

I started listening to Christmas music on December 1st, but in the heat of the moment I forgot about that one song. And of course I was driving, over that exact same bridge, and in a flood of cold air and warbling voices I remembered last year.

Last year. Now my heart is / Returned to sister winter / Now my heart is / As cold as ice. Those lyrics washed over me and through me for an entire week, an entire year ago, and I drove over that bridge day after day and fought the urge with every breath not to drive off the bridge. A year ago, listening to the same angsty lyrics on repeat somehow helped me not careen into oncoming traffic, while also reminding me how badly I wanted to do just that.

Sure, it all sounds so dramatic now. But I said it then, and I'll say it now. As a teenager, I knew I could be overreacting simply because I was young and my emotions were often overwhelming. As an adult, with every imaginable support available, those feelings cannot be dismissed so easily.

And last year, in the midst of all that, I apologized. I said I was sorry for my behavior, although not for my feelings, because I didn't know how to handle myself. I spent so many years fighting these neurotic impulses, charging against my heart's desires to seek revenge or manipulate people or feign politeness just to be liked. I fought, and I lost, over and over. I was a sorry loser.

But now I'm done apologizing.

You see, before, I was fighting myself. I was fighting my dark side, the part of me that is vindictive and bitter and false. This is a part of all of us, it's human nature, but it is not always so loud.

I am no longer fighting myself. The darkest part of me still exists but it does not drown out all the other voices. Rather than a fight between my dark desires or good intentions, I am simply fighting for the truth. I am capable of sitting still and asking myself if my feelings are based on reality or fiction. I am capable of praying calmly at any time of day instead of screaming and crying to God because every moment is one of desperation.

So I can apologize for myself beforehand. I was not trying my best to be my best, was not trying to honor God with my life, because I spent all of my energy simply trying to be. 

In the aftermath, in my medicated life, I don't apologize--at least, I don't apologize for trying.

Some days I wake up and everything is fine. I am motivated. I don't have a headache. I go to work or go to the store and buy groceries, and I wake up after the first alarm and leaving the house doesn't require any mental exertion.

Other days it's more difficult. My medication often causes horrific nightmares, insomnia, or can make it nearly impossible for me to wake up. Sometimes I experience all three of those in one day. The nightmares can be especially difficult to shake off because they are very realistic, and thus waking up becomes work. I have to force myself out of bed, I have to pray for a forgetful mind in order to move on with my day, and at that point I have already lost time and must prepare for the potential anxiety of being late for events and the mental sluggishness I'll have later and of course... my favorite thing... trying to figure out how I'll explain my behavior to people.

How does an adult woman explain that she's late for church because she had a nightmare?

This is often the hardest part. Some people already know. Some friends understand my code words, the phrases that indicate I have recently struggled and need time to recuperate. However, there are still many who apparently don't get it --people who are insensitive to depression, don't understand it, and would respond badly if I said I was struggling.

And the truth is, I shouldn't even feel like I need to explain it to everyone. If I'm late for something, I shouldn't have to explain last night's terrible nightmare just so you won't think I'm lazy. If I bail on a responsibility (a decision that I do not make without a lot of thought), I shouldn't be afraid someone will chastise me publicly, or compare me to others.

When you dismiss my fears, when you call my trials "inconveniences," when you tell me other people are capable and they "have it worse," you are dismissing my entire journey. You are dismissing an entire year of trying to be the best of myself and managing the symptoms and side effects and using all my coping mechanisms. You are saying my attempts don't matter.

But even when I fail, because I fail often, my attempts do matter. For all of the fights I have fought, it matters most now that I try and keep trying and that I don't give up.

I communicate my efforts so that you don't assume I am ignoring my responsibilities entirely. I ask for help when I need it (another milestone.) I try to be honest, so you'll know what's going on, so that despite my failure others still feel respected and appreciated. I control my impulses and try not to be reactionary, and I think long and hard about decisions that affect other people.

For instance, when I brought another Christmas album into the car, I wanted to throw out that other CD. I wanted to take the Sufjan Stevens mix and toss it out into the icy air. I wanted to drive over it and hear it crackle. I wanted to smash it on the bridge that tormented me.

However, I cannot give it that much power. I will not be satisfied by simply destroying the thing that kept my depression in perpetual motion. "Trying" means more than just attempting to ignore the places I have been, the person I have been. I have to replace the bad with good.

So... I'm done apologizing for trying.

I might say, "Sorry I'm late!" but I won't say, "Sorry, I had a bad morning," unless I feel like you're going to show me some compassion and listen to my story.

If I'm struggling, I may tell you, "I'm sorry, I can't meet tonight," but won't say, "I'm sorry for bailing tonight, I'm the worst friend ever." I will not be self-deprecating when I'm really just practicing good self-care.

And in the next few days I'll make a new Christmas CD and throw out the old one, because I've thought about it for a handful of days, and I won't apologize. I won't be sorry.

Not even a little bit.

Alternatives

I am not a runner. If you're ignorant or insulting, you could take one look at me and say it. "She's not a runner." But the state of my body is not necessarily a reflection of my life, my activity, or even my "health" as some would put it.

For reasons unknown my body started making cancerous cells. I didn't do anything, eat anything, drink anything, or experience anything to cause those cells to spring into life and then cause chaos within me. So some people will try to convince you that the external body is always proof of a person's intentions, or lack thereof--like I intended to be a certain shape or size.

Before I start to react to old messages, old things that make me feel ashamed (because I'm not!) I'll just tell you that I went to the doctor last week.

I'd been having some knee and foot pain, especially while I was "working out" (a term that sounds obnoxious, even when I'm simply typing it). I have a history of sprained ankles, sometimes spontaneously (as in, I spent an hour standing while singing, holding a microphone, and at the end of that hour I couldn't walk and the next day I got x-rays and my doctor told me my foot was bleeding internally.) Due to this unfortunate history, I wanted to see if maybe I was doing something wrong, and if I could fix it.

She took a look at my right foot and my right knee. The left side of me is fine, inexplicably. She laughed and told me it wasn't broken, as if I had expected it to be. I explained my ankle/foot injuries, the traumatic time I hurt the right foot on a mission trip and never got it looked into because directly after the trip I burst an eardrum. She said, "Well, you have weak ankles. Obviously. So you walk a little knob-kneed, and your ankle compensates, and then your knee compensates for the ankle. Also, you have to stop running."

And I'm a nice person so I didn't laugh at her, but I did hold up my hand like a stop sign to confirm that I do not run. Of course, then she asked what I was doing and I said, Kickboxing. If you know me, you know my face when I'm irritated but trying to be polite. Imagine that face.

This is turning into a long, boring story about a trip to my doctor, a woman who likes to assume things and interrupt me, so I'll fast forward: She told me to stop kickboxing or doing anything with my feet. I am allowed to swim, or bike, or stretch. In a few months, I might be allowed to do the kickboxing again.

I have reliable access to neither of the first two options, so I am left with... stretching.

Now before ya'll go into throwing advice at me (not my favorite thing) about yoga or some other mumbo jumbo, don't. I can take care of myself. I'll figure this out.

Because I know how to find alternatives. Because that's how we survive.

Now, I'm not happy about it. I love... love kickboxing. I explained to a friend last week that there's nothing as exhilarating or even empowering about releasing that sort of aggressive energy through a physical action. When I am fighting an invisible opponent, I am in charge of my body, and my feelings. I decide which emotion I'm feeling and its intensity, every time I cross-punch the air or kick my leg over my head... well, almost.

But now I have to find an alternative.

And it just reminds me of all those other things in life, those desires and dreams we are given, the things we long for and nearly reach but must inevitably give up on--however temporarily--in order to keep ourselves safe.

How many times do we start something and enjoy every moment of it, while we're basking in that experience, but afterwards... realize some sort of regret? Or perhaps a downfall that wasn't earlier considered?

How many times do we reach for something and take all the right steps, only to find we are not ready in some other fashion, or it's not the right time, or the rules have changed?

And in those times, do we give up? Do we bury the dream, stifle our desires, forget the thing which might make us truly alive...?

It's not easy to give up either, you know. It may look cowardly to run the other way, but it isn't, not if you're running towards something else. It's simply realistic. It takes a certain bravery to shelve the things we long for, or change the way it looks, and give in to secondary things, to put our energy into other people and other dreams, to find life and satisfaction and fulfillment in something new.

Just think of all the relationships that have failed. The lost jobs. The unfinished projects. The children that never were, the house that never became a home. And how everywhere, for all people, while they may regret for some time the thing they could not have, eventually everyone finds an alternative.

New relationships are formed. New jobs found. New projects conceived, started, finished. Children adopted. Other places become home. The alternative becomes more than second best, more than something you settled for. The alternative sometimes becomes the new dream.

It feels a little weird for me to make this analogy, basing it on kickboxing. (Although, at least it's not about running.) But the point is, even if I have to give up on the one thing that really made "working out" (barf) worth my time, I'm not giving up on it forever. I'm just not going to hurt myself in order to keep doing it. I'm going to find an alternative... even if that alternative happens to be yoga.

Thirty Thanks, Day 23: My Mind

I dreamed there was a consuming darkness. Even the sunlight was tainted by shadow. The world seemed faded and muted and dull--and yet, each negative sensation was more severe. All of the painful, confusing emotions that we typically try to keep at bay were enhanced and overwhelming. Thus, people found odd ways of putting their guard up. 

I went to a museum, dressed in all black leather, and felt at ease in my surroundings merely because I appeared sinister and untouchable. I wore awful heeled boots (definitely not real life anymore) and believed I could kill, if I wanted to. I felt that powerful, and that close to the edge. But the darkness seeped into even the indecipherable art in the museum. I knew I was looking at a sculpture, or a painting, but couldn't make out distinct colors or shapes. 

In search of something more engaging, I went to a mall. (Now we have definitely left Kansas.) I informed my husband and a friend (the same friend who visited me in real life last weekend) that I would be at the mall, and they should come pick me up. Once inside the enormous, gray shopping center I tried to find a suitable department to browse, but everything was separated by large doors and security agents. You couldn't look at baby clothes unless you were certifiably pregnant, or at formal dresses if you had no proof you would be attending a formal event, and the same went for any type of clothing or appliance or houseware. The agents would interrogate customers in order to let them through the doors and so I curled up in a shopping cart and took a nap. 

When I woke from my mall nap, there appeared before me a large rack of scarves. They were all brilliantly colored and had bright patterns. They were draped at all angles on the rack, calling me with their blues and reds and golds. I crawled out of the shopping cart and marveled at the scarves--the only truly colorful things I had yet found in this shadowed world. But each time I attempted to pull a scarf from the rack, it became caught. I could not have a single one, could not hold it or touch it or enjoy the fabric. 

Infuriated, I decided it was time to go home for dinner. We would order a pizza, because surely a pizza can't let you down in a shadowy place. I saw my husband and my friend approach the mall from a distance. It was extremely windy outside and my husband was carrying my purse, struggling against the coming storm. It would have been a funny sight except that he decided he would just meet me at home. My friend waved goodbye--he was heading back to his home on the train.

Once arriving at home my husband informed me that all pizza was now banned, and so we went to bed. I asked if our friend had made it home safely, and my husband looked at me like I was crazy. Apparently the friend was alright, but he had been in a train wreck, because the train had been carrying a large yacht. This overwhelmed me with sadness and despair and I wept, uncontrollably, inconsolably, for what seemed like years, until my husband started talking again. He said that all of this had happened a long time ago, and I had been in a coma, and while I was in the coma he had started helping out a woman with a baby. She was unmarried and needed to borrow our car on a regular basis. She had the car at that very moment.

Dazed but angry, I redressed in all of my powerful leather and my horrible boots, and went back to the mall. I wanted to get the car back, at least. When I returned to the mall I saw her immediately. She, too, was wearing all black leather. However, she was Latina, with long, dark, curly hair and gold hoop earrings--she pulled off the look much better than I did. Her eyes were sharp. She was pushing a stroller, and I knew there was a little girl sitting in it, but I could not tell what she looked like or if she was even alive. 

The woman intimidated me. I intended on confronting her but found myself incapable. I asked her where the car was and she said, "This way, another storm is coming." Her voice was hard and yet beautiful, her words pointed and haunting. We to the entrance of the mall and it started to rain. It came down in waves of water, relentless and violent. I stepped outside with an umbrella, which promptly broke. With my vision almost completely obscured I pulled my leather jacket over my head and we walked towards the car.

With every step the rain lessened. When we reached the car it had stopped and the ground was drying, but I noticed all the car doors were open--even the trunk and the hood. I suddenly realized the woman had not gone into my car, but had gone to another car next to it. Hers was white, and she put her child in the back. I also realized there was a green car pulled up behind mine. Initially I thought, "You've got to be kidding me! I can't back out with them there!" until someone started talking. 

Sitting in the car were two black men, wearing Harvard sweatshirts. They announced that they were taking my car, and one told the other to search the car for valuables. I told them I didn't have any, and the driver said, "I'm sorry, ma'am, but I don't give a damn." A voice in my head somehow restrained me from telling them that the car wasn't worth much either, although it was definitely worth more than any 'valuables' inside. 

The woman drove away in her white car and I stood next to my black car, drenched and confused. All the doors were open and my life seemed to spill from it, pouring out of the seats and the little garbage bag and the blankets stored in the trunk. I felt defeated and broken from the inside out, like the shadowed world had taken advantage of me, had robbed me of my very soul, my only hope. I kept thinking that it simply didn't make sense, that I had so little--why would someone take from me when I practically had nothing to be taken? 

And so I told myself it wasn't real. I had an ounce of strength left and I used it to remind myself that none of it could be true, and I had to find what was true. 

I woke up breathless in the dark. Half-asleep, the sound of my own breathing and pounding heart immediately reminded me of the ocean. My senses slowly returned but I still felt terrified that all I had was gone. I listened carefully and found the sound of my dog snoring on the floor. I could not regain awareness, did not know where I was, could not find my husband. A few minutes of breathing deeply finally allowed me to roll over and find his warm back.

It was a nightmare. None of it was real.

I know I've mentioned before how lifelike my dreams are. I am easily convinced of their truth, in the beginning. I am carried away by the excitement of a new world, a sleepy discovery. This is why my nightmares are never short-lived. They carry on like a Charles Dickens novel, and you keep waiting for the happy ending, except that in this case they never come. The orphan does not find their family, or come into riches, or marry their true love. And so rather than stay trapped, I keep exploring until I can escape.

And so I am thankful for my mind.  It is a gift, surely, to be able to dream up such magnificent, detailed stories. I have traveled the world and flown the skies and had the desires of my heart, all without leaving the comfort of my bed. But when I am in danger, there is no real suffering. My mind has learned, after all these years of dreaming, to defend itself against the lies of a nightmare. It has learned to find a way out before my heart believes it is broken, before all the misery of the world crushes me in my sleep. It finds a way back to what is true.

I wasn't going to write a blog for the 23rd by itself. It was a long day and so I was going to pair it up with the 24th. But I went to sleep filled with anxiety, apparently. And I had this nightmare. So I was all shaken up. I tried reading the Psalms... but I couldn't resist the need to write it all down.

So perhaps this post is a little odd, considering the others I've done this month. But I truly am thankful not to be trapped in my nightmares.

Thanks, mind. You're incredible. Scary, but incredible.

Thirty Thanks, Day 4: Sleep

Le sleep space.

There is nothing special about being thankful for sleep. It's something everyone needs, and usually they find a way to have it, so it's not something I often think about being grateful for. It's kind of like free coffee at work: you take it for granted, until it's gone. You barely notice how much you appreciate its presence but when it's missing you can't think about anything else. (I'm not saying this from personal experience. I usually partake of the free coffee at work but once a week.)

I've personally gone through many eras of restless sleep. I couldn't tell you the reason behind most these times. It could have been stress, or an irregular sleep schedule, or allergies. (We can blame much of it on stress, probably, or the chaos of college life.) I don't know. But I do know that I missed good sleep immensely. And, of course, there's that tragically desperate period between when you head hits the below and finally falling asleep. That time when you perpetually glance at the clock, calculating how many hours of sleep you would get if you fell asleep right now. 

I haven't done this recently, and I'm grateful. But there was a period of time when this happened all the time, mostly due to the difference in how I sleep, and how my husband sleeps. In general, men fall asleep much faster than women. My boss and I once discussed how men say they "shut off" their brains at night, and that's all we need to do to fall asleep. This is far from realistic for women, but somehow men manage it every night. When the hubby and I go to sleep, he goes to sleep. He shuts his eyes, his legs and hands twitch, there's usually a loud noise (a snort or cough) and then he's out. It takes less than two minutes. For me, I have to lay there, and think about something soothing.

Yeah, that's right. I have to think about something to fall asleep. I usually imagine a paintbrush covered with green paint, held by an invisible hand painting beautiful vines and leaves. I also think about rivers, and sunsets. Pretty things. You know, because I'm a woman. ;)

My real problem is that I'm a very light sleeper. It doesn't require a lot of noise to wake me up. But once I'm awake, it's even harder to fall back asleep. This is why even on my days off I wait to go to bed until Joey comes home because if he wakes me up when he comes in, I will be awake for another several hours.

But, as I said, this hasn't been an issue recently. Our sleep schedules are synchronized. Our work schedules allow for decent amounts of sleep and rest and relaxation.  There is nothing quite like feeling well-rested. Plus, one of my favorite things about sleep is dreaming. My dreams are like movies, but I've probably said that before. They have a plot with a beginning, a middle, and an ending. And I remember most of them, although most people forget most of their dreams approximately 10 minutes after they wake up.

I would also like to mention, as a final note, that having a sleep space is really important. You spend a third of your life sleeping, so it should be enjoyable. Comfy pillows, warm blankets, soft lightning (see photo above for inspiration!) I get to go buy a brand new comforter next week (so far all of the blankets we've had since we got married have been from thrift stores) and I'm so excited, it's practically all I think about. Just sayin.' Sleep space is vital. 

I am so incredibly thankful for sleep. So, thanks sleep. I couldn't live without you. Literally.

(Did you know that if you avoid sleep for 10 consecutive days, you'll DIE?)

National Poetry Month: The return journey

April, it seems, crept up on me once again this year. March arrived, dumped several buckets of ice and cold onto my head, then swiftly left the way it came. But now it is April, and National Poetry Month, and I fully intend on writing a million more poems this year. Feel about that however you wish. I'm forcing myself to do it whether you like it or not.

Statistically speaking... I have probably written close to 2500 poems during my life. It's likely I started writing poetry at about the age of 5, but I don't remember those poems. I do remember a few that I wrote at the age of 8. It was around the same time I started writing books. If that makes me sound like some crazy literary prodigy--I promise you, I was not. Am not. I was just a loner with a huge imagination. Sometimes that makes people famous, doesn't it? I'll let you know how it all works out.

In the meantime, I have a whole year behind me with poetry material, not to mention all the things that might happen this month. There is a sort of torturous beauty in seeing how we change as people in just one year, especially now that social media can potentially keep track of every milestone, every wound. I appreciate it enough for now, but I hope someday when I'm old that I don't regret it all. I hope I might be able to appreciate it more, that we will all realize our memories are worth the effort of cataloging them in various forms. I believe, at least, that the poetry will be worth it. 

For starters, I can't sleep tonight, and I had a weird dream last night that it still causing me trouble. So we'll begin with that. And since it's already April 4th I'll pull a few poems from my other blog, which is mostly a secret. The first two are both about dreams. The third (Dear Universe) is probably my current favorite.

And yes, in case you were actually wondering, all of these poems are my property and were written by me and if you steal them and make money on them or use them as toilet paper or feed them to the birds I will do everything in my power to come after you and make you suffer like a poetry-thief should suffer. Amen.

The Ride to the Airport. (4/4/14)

When Harry met Sally

their mouths were full of snark

--as were ours,

when we were young,

and the dream was new,

still in the dark.

When I needed saving

you called me from the south.

I was to meet you

but you were on your way.

The secret was already out.

When even I am sleeping

and the pull cannot be real

I believe I'll be flying

until my waking eyes

break the deal.

Cinderella Says. (3/28/14)

A dream is a wish your heart makes

without stipulations or magic lamps.

It just does what it’s told.

It’s a place where

dead women console their living friends

and former lovers let you see their faces,

just before they turn their back to you

one final time.

And that woman made me a cup of tea;

she tsked when I didn’t say thank-you;

she asked me, “Did you love him?”

as if he was already gone. I said

“I did, I did,” but couldn’t remember his name

and in my sleep I wept

in all the ways my waking self wouldn't.

Dear Universe. (3/17/14)

Dear universe,

I forgot how big you were.

I forgot the expense

of living.

I abandoned the wayward thought

which dragged me

toward understanding

my former self was invincible

and would follow me forever.

But you kill those persons 

we have been

because they are lesser minds

with inconsequential hearts,

which gently leads me

to believe

truthfully some souls 

are not worth saving

because they no longer

are.

Do you ever keep your promise. (2/8/14)

Do you ever keep your promise

to trust someone who can keep promises?

Do you let it slide

until it avalanches

and words lose all meaning?

Do you know what I mean?

I cannot trust

you

if there are no trustworthy people

you are entrusted to.

With bruises on my chin

"Will power is to the mind like a strong blind man who carries on his shoulders a lame man who can see." -Arthur Schopenhauer

I don't think about will power nearly as often as some might assume I do. It's outside of myself, a thing that I have without realizing its presence, and internally I am not aware of it. I have it. I use it. But until lately I gave it none of my mind, none of my time.

Generally I am a very strong willed person. I inherited this trait from my grandmother Virginia and from my father, her son. And of course I put this will to good use while defending myself from my older brothers during my childhood. I'm sure you can all imagine it--little Katie with little fisted hands and a little scowl on her face. I did a lot of screaming. I had the will to stand up for myself, the will to make my position known to those who opposed me. Or, in some circumstances, I fought for the sake of a greater good when I knew they were in the wrong.

And I'm not writing this to talk about losing my will as a whole, or finding my will--because I haven't lost it in the least bit. But there is a circumstance, the one that keeps you up at night, the thought that makes you cringe in the middle of class or lose your appetite. It is this circumstance which I no longer have the will to fight against.

I've been getting panic attacks lately, even in my sleep. I have awful dreams in which I am running from something--a holocaust, men with bows and arrows, a pandemic, appendicitis. I am always fighting and I always wake up losing. I wake up with a scream still deflating my lungs and a second scream just around the next breath. I open my eyes with my arms and legs twisted in the blankets and there is stifling heat everywhere.

It is in this manner I have started each morning for the past few weeks. It's usually an abrupt awakening, several hours before any of my alarms are supposed to go off. I have come to the conclusion that I wake up this way because I just can't take the dream anymore. I can't keep running and hiding and getting killed by some bizarre turn of events. I can't fight anymore. I've lost the will to fight.

And this situation, this circumstance in real life, is the same way. I've said so many things and done all I can within my power. I've followed others' advice, I've followed my own, I've given my time and money and peace all for the sake of gaining peace again. But it's out of my control. I'm not a warrior here. I'm not a soldier in this aspect. It's not even my battle, my war. Not anymore. I've lost the will to fight.

I remember when I would have fought for this to the death. I might still, given the opportunity. If I was seven years old, I might scream. I would have busted a lung and kicked the dirt. I would have gone inside and slammed a door. I was once so angry about something I threw a plastic chair at my bedroom door and left a huge hole.

But what happens when you lose the will to fight? It isn't a universal loss in this instance. I still fight for other things. I still go to sleep every night, knowing I will be fighting for my life and will be dead by morning. I still argue for my side and would defend myself if I were attacked. So what happens? It's just this one thing, this enormous heartbreaking thing, which has beaten me down and stabbed me in the gut one too many times. I just can't take it anymore.

This loss does not mean I don't care. This is not me signing off for good and turning my back on you. That would take a different kind of will power. I still have the will to be present in the situation, to maybe whisper how much it wounds me. I still have the will to write about it and face it every day.

Losing the will to fight doesn't mean I've accepted this. It just means I'm hoping someone will remember little Katie with her little fists and the little scowl on her face. Someone, please remember that strong willed warrior, and fight in her stead.

Trapeze Swinger - Iron & Wine (accompanying video is of me drawing...)
The song isn't completely related to this post. But I like it a lot, regardless.