Lather. Rinse. Resent.

It is a strange, precarious position in which to find oneself.  Only a few years ago, I had started a relationship with someone that anyone would claim to be their soul mate, if they had happened to luck into feeling and being where I was then.  We went everywhere together, shared the same dreams and goals and vibrated so close to the same frequency the universe would likely explode.  That is all over now.  I pulled the plug and walked away and now the mere sound of his voice is enough to plunge me into upset.  Like most persons in my point in time looking back, I wonder how we got from there to here.  It certainly wasn’t on any road map we were using toward our wonderful long life together.  Of course neither was my five months or so of severe depression. 

That was it!  Why didn’t I notice that before?  It was plain as the nose on my face.  Granted we went on for seven more months passed that incident.  But actually the damage to the underpinnings that were important to keep us going likely occurred during the time he would lambaste me after for not taking care of myself, that I made poor choices, that my course of action for a task was incorrect.  The firing of the holy trinity of questions, “Why won’t you do something?” “What were you thinking?” and “Why aren’t you happy yet?” and the honest doubt that he knew not how to deal with any future incidences of me being down again. 

Who could blame him right?  A depressed person could. 

There are plenty of blogs out there that advise one on how to best deal with a person experiencing depression and we read them.  We listened to plenty of audiobooks.  We went to plenty of therapy together later on and I heard much of his opinion on how my personal therapy did not seem to be working.  But we managed to muddle through this horrible thing that I was putting us through.  That opinion was the bailiwick of his friends, not many, a few, but when you’re in the tail end or any part of your depression, those are the things that sink in.  Depressed people must carry one hell of a positive charge because we attract a megaton of negativity.  Luckily, he decided to go party with his friends for the weekend at this point in the process, after I expressly said I wanted him to stay home and I did not feel safe. Because you know, depressed people are such downers, but it’s not like he didn’t get away on his own plenty without having to go cross country to do so.  I hope that break was truly what he needed from me and the unnatural stresses I placed upon him, because it evoked in me the first realization about him, that in a moment of true need, he could not be trusted to follow through.  Now, that is something, a singular moment when one feels their trust is misplaced.  How you recover from that is by saying it was fine for him to go later so that he will believe he did the right thing by you. 

Then over the summer we lived in a sublet.  It was not that bad.  I was given the opportunity to heal further without a job and took up biking and worked on music, but not that much.  I kept the house clean, cooked and easily continued my upward spiral to confidence and mental stability with the occasional panic attack.  But then a new issue arose regarding my contribution to the relationship.  The need to be constantly managed by him, adjusted, fixed.  Have you ever had someone tell you something was a certain way and every time their lips moved, it felt like they were trying to convince themselves it was true as they simultaneously were saying it to convince you it were true too?  When they finished, neither of you felt very assured?  This was the tone and progression of our conversations in increasing frequency.  The bonus was at the time it was not initially perceptible but over time, it equated to feeling unexpressed, unfulfilled and unheard.  Even couples therapy seemed to be more about fixing me than helping us at times.  And coming from my background of feeling like damaged, unlovable goods like I and most of us have (read my first blog) feeling in need of repair, unsatisfactory and irreparable can be par for the course.  We have our inner litany down, I assure you. So in the end here from my side was the beginning of the eroding of our empathy for one another.

Now, after a three month separation and official break up, he within a week of that is seeing a person that, before we moved to the west coast he insisted we meet and had been chatting with online before we left.  From my perspective, he had already checked out long before I left, possibly even before our big move.  One of his big things was feeling the need to find something better, whether it be a place or a person or a partner.  Making sure he had the best possible outcome was something with which he struggled.  Now while together, he assured me that I was good enough and you know I was a hard one to convince, so that in of itself was probably a decent foreshadowing of our demise.  But when you lose trust, empathy and finally communication, any one of them is likely sufficient reason to walk.  So I left him so that he would not have to worry whether I would be capable of holding down a job, prone to bouts of severe depression or able to cash in on all those dreams we initially sent out into the universe together, because after several months of his deciding what he thought was best for me, I thought it only right to return the favor.  At least this once.

The Great Depression

I have been depressed in some form for several months.  At the point that you feel no better, want no more, and could not care less, the timeframe like everything else is irrelevant.  My depression saps my will, steals my strength and jumbles my thoughts.  It lets me feel better for a few hours, a few days then hamstrings me on my way to happiness so I’m left crawling and unable to arrive.  Suddenly I realize I’ve not moved forward as far as I had hoped, if I had hoped anything.

Imagine somehow one finds oneself at the bottom of well or pit.  It is dark and cold and if any light trickles down, the colors of one’s surrounding have been leeched of depth and definition.  All one sees is a constant grey that simply reinforces one’s feelings of despair and anguish at one’s situation.  Once at the bottom of a chasm why would it matter our deep it is if you have no clue how to climb out.  The walls have no handholds or place to use.  The depth of the pit becomes a function of one’s depression; at times the top may seem only several feet away and others it appears a pinpoint of light far overhead.  The only true constant is the sense that you cannot reach the escape hatch.  If someone reaches in to help you at this point, they are so far away from you; you see no point in reaching up.

That is a slight description of how my depression feels.  Now imagine as is often proposed that life is a race.  That your speeding down the track has been relatively easy and any obstacles you have encountered you managed to overcome.  Eventually you discover that someone runs alongside you.  This person enjoys your company on the course and you enjoy theirs.  As you run, walk or pause, you find you love similar things along the way, relish the joys and sorrows, stop to take in panoramic vistas and discover in all this beauty the beauty of that person and yourself.  You are in love with this person, with life and at times with yourself.  The great adventure lies before you and the two of you are eager to take it on.

Then you trip, perhaps scrape your knee.  You brush yourself off and stand up and continue on, heedless of such a minor injury.  As you progress together, little breakdowns happen and you manage them with aplomb and take them as part of the journey.  You feel unstoppable until you do not notice a pothole and in your misstep, your ankle twists abruptly sending pain and shock up through you.  At first you think, potholes are nothing new; you’ve encountered such obstacles before.  You step lightly on the injured foot and your running partner slows to accommodate your pace.  You feel silly at the situation and apologize for not being more attentive to your surroundings.

Over time, the ankle loosens and feels better.  You believe it is better and you pick back up to your original stride.  You enjoy parties with friends, dinners out, a new job, your new love and return to the mindset of being indomitable.  Then when least expected, the old injury causes a new fall.  Another fall.  And who knows how old the injury is.  Was it the pothole or something from before?  You want to keep going and hobble along.  Your running mate gives you sympathy and love and holds your hand, lets you lean on them at times.

As you move along, the path begins to get rougher.  More holes and ruts, curves and hills of never-ending incline.  You stumble more and more.  You grow tired and irritable in your journey.  The adventure takes on new meaning as difficult and impossible.  You wonder if you’re capable of all this.  Any encouragement that you can do it is called into question.  Your love tells you how wonderful you are and given your incapability you wonder if that is true.  You recall similar times on the path and wonder how you made it out.  Were the good times a dream and this is actually reality?  Are you even worthy of such a great life?  This is more comfortable and painful and awful and it is what you believe you deserve.

Then you hit a slick patch and end up splayed on the road.  In the fall, you broke your leg, or both or who cares.  If one is broken that should be enough, but it is not.  You are broken, incomplete, and unlovable.  You lay in the middle of the road shocked by how this could have happened, how you ended up there.  Your partner realizes you’ve fallen and bends down to help you to your feet, but you cannot get up on damaged legs.  They attempt to soothe you and assure you through the insurmountable pain.  It actually helps to your surprise and you conclude if nothing else you can crawl or drag yourself along.

At this hellish pace, you feel every discomfort along your body as the obstacle-filled track scrapes, bruises, and cuts you.  The journey is not only feeling impossible but the energy it takes to move only a small distance saps you of your reserves.  You must keep moving but somehow you have to heal.  So you settle down and you see therapists, and get meds and take off from work.  Your partner helps you as they can, agonizing at seeing your pain and weakness and hoping it gets better.  Some days you make it a mile and not a foot and they believe you’re better than you are.  Then the next day it is inches and they are surprised but take it in stride.  Some days you make it to work and then find the anxiety overwhelms you.  You take more time off, take more pills, talk to your therapist, your partner who understands but does not.

You feel like road kill that has been trampled down by car after car.  Tires smashing you into rough pavement and you realize you’ve come to a standstill.  The agony of dragging yourself on is unbearable.  Encouragement to move on is heard as nagging, made worse by the fact of your condition.  Your lack of acceptance of the caring hurts the one trying to help and then you feel badly that you hurt them.  Then you find the strength to move again.

At first, successes are imperceptible.  You’re not sure because the scenery is still drab, washed out and you feel like the grey expanse has settled in your soul.  If you do move and your partner praises you, it seems condescending and the things that help you move are insufficient.  Your pace will never meet your dreams; you’re incapable of getting there so why try, why bother?

One day you go miles, the next again, you feel okay for a while, almost good and then the third day you are exhausted from your effort.  Your partner notices you’re down again and comes back to see if they can assist you.  They make suggestions that in your exhaustion you wonder how you’d ever do all that.  In your mind you already do things, have come up with your own ideas and have been doing them and they seem to help in varying amounts.  When you perform at what you think is your best, it is difficult to find you need to do more, try more.  Aren’t you trying?  Aren’t you?  It becomes apparent that your efforts are not enough, so why try, why bother?

You start to dream of the finish line.  Wonder how far away it is and how difficult it would be to bring it closer.  Then you realize at any time it is as close as you want it to be.  And what was once uplifting becomes a buzz that won’t let you rest, won’t let you think.  Why wouldn’t you?  Why can’t you?  And you think can you not see how exhausted I feel at this moment.  Then they get frustrated and down and you feel responsible and you cling to your unworthiness and lack of hope and fear they will leave you on the road and journey on without you.  Why should they not?  Why would you want them to stay stuck here with you?  The agony renews and you fall in what you thought was a pothole but was actually a pit.

You are in the same darkness as before or it never left.  You never moved.  You are paralyzed by fear and sadness.  Then you take another step.

My Father Who Might Be In Heaven

Just before I sat down in front of my keyboard to type this blog, my thoughts seemed to coalesce into brief coherency long enough that I thought myself fully capable of doing so.  Then, as I sat here contemplating the subject I had chosen for this entry, I felt stymied.  It is not a matter I consider with ease, so why should I believe it would come out of me as anything but a breach birth after years of painful labor.  Its form encased in a mottled, repulsive infant that would make all in the delivery room recoil, especially me.  So with that let me begin and tell you about my father.

My father dressed up as Santa Claus.  Not just for myself and my sisters, but for all the “underprivileged” (our church’s word not mine) children who attended our church’s annual Christmas party.  Members of our congregation donated a toy which my father dutifully handed out with a merry "Ho, ho, ho!".  He was a pillar of our church and he made sure we attended as many services as were available.  

My father was Paul Bunyan, just as larger than life.  He would throughout fall and early winter become a weekend lumberjack.  He and my uncle would work to clear fallen trees off a friend’s property.  The wood being stacked in ricks to be taken home to help warm our house to keep heating costs down.  I was dragged along to spend time with him, in my coveralls, eventually helping to load the wood once older.  In nice weather, we might fish in the lake nearby prior to our woodcutting duties.  I thought the fishing was immensely boring but enjoyed the time spent on our own – just me and my dad.

My father was Richard the First.  Just like the king, my father had a lion heart.  Generous and protective of his family, he worked tirelessly at providing a home for his five kids – four daughters and I.  Often he worked overtime at Cummins to earn every extra dollar he could to keep us sheltered, fed and warm.  As is the case for those of my father’s generation, doing so was showing us he loved us.  It was how he demonstrated that he cared.

But just like a king, my father reigned over his kingdom.  He could be most kind and wonderful, but in dissatisfaction, would bellow his anger until the walls would shake.  While there were idyllic times in my childhood, these moments of uncontrolled outburst would make me pray to shrink – to become unnoticed under the table, camouflaged behind the recliner or hidden under the bed.  My sister has professed being beaten black and blue – at times, to spare the younger of us from such a fate.  I remember the terror from these bouts of paternal fury and I can shake uncontrollably to this day.  Whether a hand was ever taken to me, I do not recall.

My father was also unhappy in his marriage.  For several years he sought happiness in the arms of another woman.  The day my mother learned of his betrayal, in front of their pastor and his accusers, she came home, walked to her room and downed every pill she could find.  She survived her suicide attempt but she was left adrift in tears and antidepressants for too much of her life.  I knew nothing of these events, being before I was even ten years old, but have been told of them from enough sources to affirm the truth of the story.

The death of my sister when I was seven did not stop the affair any more than the suicide attempt.   I recall my father spending almost every evening for a number of years in his hideaway in our garage, talking on the phone for a long time to people advertising in our Trader newspaper, a print version of Craig’s list, but actually calling the same number, going out to fuel our car and being gone for over an hour.

I was born after my mother had a tubal ligation.  Oddly, it didn’t take.  Sometimes, I wonder if my birth had been accidental or an attention-getting ploy.  Perhaps at the time, fallopian tubes were harder to tie.

In light of the good and bad, the almost 30 years of indifference, love, caring, anger, and resentment added to the feeling that I had a father that was absent and a mother that at times may have wished she were, I contend now with my own stories and demons of that time.  I fear abandonment like an agoraphobe fears the open sky.  I believe being truly loved is the delusional behavior of a person who cannot see how worthless I am – how lazy and how incapable I am, since that was often my parents’ conclusion of any of my failures.  I see my father in the actions of my partner and displace my anger for him like a battleship displaces ocean to remain afloat.  Although, I know my father is not there and I am just replaying a scene in my head with which I am comforted no matter if it is painful.

At the end, I have only one conclusion of my father.  He may have been many things but at his heart he was merely human.  He was brimming with his own stories, peccadillos, whims, fears and thoughts.  Anger in him not inherited but somehow took on by me like I had.  In my heart, I too am only human.  I identify with his frailty, his desires to be happy, and his dreams for his future and his family and I am struck to tears.  A sadness that I loved him but hated him – that I mourned him but wished at times he was gone – that we both did the best we could and now that is all that I can do.

My conclusion for me is rather simple.  As Carrie Fisher said, “Resentment is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die.”  Forgiveness is not divine – a god does not need to motivate you.  One simply needs to forgive for oneself.  I forgive him but also need to forgive myself.  Thoughts are not sins; they’re just thoughts.  I do forgive myself – sometimes.  I’m getting better at it – it’s a good practice I suggest for anyone. 

As for my father who in his beliefs went to heaven a few years ago, I would say that although I do not believe in heaven, I would like to think he has, by his faith, created his own for himself.  I hope deeply that he made it there, for it is a fate he truly deserves.

Romans 3:23 Does Not Apply To Me

I have not written seriously in close to a decade aside from occasional song lyrics and poems.  But today, I felt an almost insistent drive to frame my thoughts into words.  Over the last several weeks, I have suffered from what my therapist diagnosed as severe chronic depressive disorder – which over the last three weeks has weighed on me like all the world pressing down on my heart and soul.  Today, I tapped into the source of some of this sadness and despair.

Two years ago in early January my father died after complications from surgery to place a pin in his broken femur.  This after a long-fought battle in ICU (Intensive Care Unit) and out to transitional care then back to ICU over the course of over three months.  Ten months later, my sister died suddenly just back to home after surgery for breast cancer.  Close to eleven years ago this March, my mother died from congestive heart failure also just back from the hospital’s ICU after a fight with septicemia brought on by a routine heart catheterization. 

At the time of each of their deaths, I grieved – most heavily for my mother.  Needless to say, it left me devastated.  After my father’s passing, I felt orphaned which seemed ridiculous to me at my age, but is not uncommon at the passing of your second parent.  When my sister passed, I was well into feeling a bout of depression.  I blamed her son and especially her daughter for not giving her the post-op care she needed at her home.  Her daughter depended on my sister as almost constant babysitter, which was convenient given she lived next door – and I thought apparently in reverse it is inconvenient.  I do not doubt either of them contended with their own share of guilt regarding their inattentiveness.  I know at some point for my own peace of mind, I will let that go.  But that’s not the point of today’s writing.

Now, in the grips of depression, I realized I had not grieved fully for any of these loved ones.  I had barreled through head down in the hopes of getting through to the other side relatively unscathed.  The result is I am now burdened by grief and sadness for all three simultaneously.  Wracked with tears and shaking with fear at times to the point of incoherence.  Agonizing so deeply to worry and scare my loved one who is still alive and supports me and loves me through all of this.  Letting me be how I am without judgment and giving me space and time to contend with my darkness.  He is an amazing caretaker!

To the point

Being from a Christian family with strong values and belief in Heaven and Hell, the need for salvation and their views of the afterlife, death is cause for celebration.  It is the triumph of the body to release the soul into the eternal presence of the Almighty.  Funerals for our family more resemble tent revivals with upbeat music, praise and elation and little room for grief.  At the least, that is my perception of these hallelujah fests.  And if you are to grieve, then God and the Holy Spirit will be your support and consolation. 

While I do not begrudge my family for their beliefs at most times, I do have to say that for me, it is bullshit.  My beliefs are an amalgamation of several different religious stances from Christian to Buddhist and I might best be described as a half-ass, agnostic Wiccan.  Now given that, I concluded from the funerary rites described above that my beliefs of death and grieving were largely precluded by the ones celebrated all around me for decades at every family funeral I ever attended.  Not only that, but these times were viewed by the preachers of my family, cousins mostly, as times to appeal to everyone that they needed God – to be saved and that given the state of the recently deceased, the sooner the better.

Another layer of ideological difference leaving me to feel even more excluded than ever.  Now, I understand the notion of witnessing and the mission to save souls.  I went on sufficient neighborhood canvassing in my youth to engage people to come try our church.  So that they might be saved, for the Bible says, “for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.”  For me, that doesn't work and furthermore, I do not believe it applies.  It has taken years to realize that feelings of being unworthy of love, of life centered on this one little tenet that is the major center of the religion into which I was born.  Let alone having the bullies in my life say so, but to have my family say so endlessly, my friends and community – no wonder it’s so ingrained, not only in me but several other people in my spot.  I didn't feel unworthy until I was told, and I wasn't sinful until I was taught it.

So here’s a news flash.  I am whole, perfect and complete – worthy of love and life.  When I heard that at my Landmark Forum, I scarcely believed it.  I still to this day have great trouble letting go of the ingrained story and come out with this new truth.  I love myself and how I grieve and my beliefs are perfect as well.  I work to believe that with my whole being because before life, religion and bullies, it was true!  I encourage you to take on this idea as well and let go of any notion that you are unworthy, unloved or need God or some outside force to approve of your existence. 

You are whole, perfect and complete – worthy of love and life!  Tell others in your life and surround yourself with people that will remind you, in case you ever forget.