A Fear of Uselessness

Nothing scares me more than an inability to change a situation, or contribute to the solution. It's that feeling when you see a loved one suffering from sickness, unhappiness, or just life in general - and phrases like "It'll be okay" and "It happened for a reason" fall flat on the floor. Compassion drives us to want to take on others' hurts and pains and internalize it because it's better than watching someone suffer.

Then come atrocities like yesterday's in Sparks (close to my hometown). A school shooting. And it's hard to feel anything but useless as we ask ourselves why.

There is a way to make a difference. There is something that we can do about it.

If you read my blog "A Powerful Secret" you have seen into the window of my life that was plagued by mental illness of a family member - and that was just the introduction.

While that series will be continued here, the point of it was that I was ashamed to talk about it. I was ashamed of myself, my situation, my feelings.

And I was alone.

Mental illness is a taboo in our society because we value strength - and we define strength by the ability to get through things alone.

On top of my shame, I felt like I couldn't tell anyone because I needed to prove that I was strong enough to do it alone.

Here's a secret: Strength is not gauged by your ability to internalize. Strength is humility. Strength is asking for help. Strength is community.

How do we make Mental Illness a front runner? How do we make it less of a taboo? How do we help those in need support before they break?

I've started. I've started because I'm sharing my story, my experience, my turmoil with mental illness. It's not a pretty story, but it's a start.

I'm done being useless. I don't know where to go, but I'm going somewhere.

I'm asking for help. I'm asking you, yes, you, to help me. I'm not a psychiatrist. I'm not a doctor. I'm not a counselor. But I am a facilitator. A passionate, driven, forceful facilitator.

I need doctors. I need counselors. I need community members who want to make something good from this tragedy. I need a plan. And it starts with you.

Lost in Translation

Whoa blog, whoa. I know it's been almost a week. Calm down. I'm just getting back into things.

Last week was a doozy. This week, I'm giving you a break. Which means that I've got my Pop Fitness mix playing on Pandora on instead of good ol' Damien Rice which brings the tears flowing through. And when I say Pop Fitness, what I really mean is Flashback Friday a day early.

If I was worried about you judging me, I wouldn't be doing this.

Sometimes life throws you stories- and maybe it's because I'm a writer, or maybe because I can appreciate the makings of a good story, that I cherish the moment with an eagerness that makes me giddy. I'm living in the moment, but I'm also fully intending on writing about it to capitalize the moment into "foreverdom".

We had just arrived at the train station in Rome, ready to depart to Munich for Oktoberfest. At this point in my life, I'd taken 8 years of "token" German. And boy, was I ready to make Munich listen. Kind of.

I had just looked up the word for Passport (Reisekarte), which was fated to luck, because, well, you'll see.

We boarded the train - the first serious train I had ever been on. We headed to our "first class" cabin which might fit a baby llama - but most certainly not two 6'0+ human beings. Our liaison(?) came through to give us some instructions. He looked just like the German version of Santa Clause.

He knew we weren't German. It was probably the inefficient way our travel bags were packed. Regardless, he gave us heavily accented English instructions for our safety. I gave him two metaphorical thumbs up for effort, but based on the glazed look my husband had, neither of us caught on.

Then I made a mistake. "Wie Bitte?" - For those of you needing translation, it's like a nice way of saying "WTF, Tell me in German". So he did.

And I was not prepared.

At the end of the five minutes of drool inspiring catastrophe, Chris turned to me and asked "What did he say?"

"I think we're getting our passports back".

Nevertheless, my first experience with a native German speaker did not deter my resolve. Then we arrived at our hotel. And this, ladies and gentlemen, this is where our story starts.

So. I unpack our belongings to get my mind in order. I'm hanging items, stowing items, fluffing them. Amidst my preparations, I stub my godforsaken toe on this metal door stopper (who does that?) that was shaped like a miniature bread slice with a vengeance.

While hopping around grabbing my flesh wound that has started to bleed a copious amount, I turned to my husband asking him to call down to house keeping. Because if you've ever had a foot wound, you understand.

"I need a Band-Aid. Will you call housekeeping?" (The capitalization is important people. Band-Aid is a Brand name, not a product name).

Chris dials, "Hello. We need a Band-Aid.....a bandage?....a Band Aid?....my wife is bleeding....she stubbed her toe?....oh okay. Great. Thanks"

Minutes go by and a knock comes on the door. I stumble to greet the housemaid and she hands me four boxes. I open the boxes, and instead of my blessed Band Aids, I find four boxes of Tampons. That's right, ladies and gentlemen, Tampons.

Apparently, the phrase the grasped upon was not the one that I had hoped for. I "ran" to grab my dictionary as my face did my Irish heritage proud. I found the translation, ran to the phone and asked again:

"Haben Sie Pflaster?"

"OHHH! Pflaster!!!" (laughing in the background).

At least my German worked this time.

A Powerful Secret: Part 1

We've all experienced pain in our lives. And regardless of the experience, it's relative to those who experience it.

There's something to be done through the pain of experience. With experience comes maturity; empathy.

This series of posts will give you a look at my life; one that I don't share too often. But the point of writing, at least publicly, is to share your experience in the hopes that there might be another person, just one, that could benefit from knowing they aren't alone.

You aren't alone.

Why now, though? I'm not in school any longer, and I don't need validation; proof reading. This essay (broken into pieces) is the hardest thing in the world for me to share. I'm not even exaggerating. (Which, I am inclined to do from time to time).

I'm sharing it because I want to make a difference. Mental Health; Depression; PTSD. These are buzzwords - still attached to a stigma that shames. I want to be a part of the movement that changes that. And so I begin.

Dear Lindsey,

I’m writing this to you from the hospital, because I need to communicate with you, and this was the best way I could think of. I love you so much more than anything in the world. You are so extraordinary in every way. I thank God everyday for you…

***

Writing this has been difficult…, even now, the shame of who I was comes shining…no, not shining, leering forward, rising to the surface. I was never happy with myself back then. I hated what I did, what I thought, how I felt. I hate admitting to you who I was. I wish I was different. I wish I was telling you about how I matured, how I helped my mother through it, how strong and capable I was. But I would be lying to you.

***

Every family has its problems, its hidden scrapes and bruises. I didn’t know my family’s problem, I didn’t want to. Ignorance truly meant bliss for me, and to give her children ignorance my mother suffered a war that was fought beneath her skin. She was hurting, but she was a practiced performer, hiding her pain, masking her bruises, making the symptoms disappear. Maybe I didn’t understand because I was too young, maybe it was because my parents thought I wouldn’t have been able to handle it, maybe it’s because I was stubborn, confused, or just happy to have things the way that they were.

Maybe it’s because she was just too good at hiding it.

 But had I known about the battle lying beneath the surface, I would have begged my mother to release herself from the tyrannical oppression of her memories. Or at least, I hope that’s what I would have done.

***

…the only problem is that I wanted to believe I was okay, and that none of that mattered. It does though. It’s taken me forty-five years to admit that. I have some mental illness issues that will probably always be there. I do have depression. Panic anxiety disorder, and post traumatic stress disorder. My childhood was so horrendous that I don’t even know how to describe it. I can’t change that, or genetics as much as I would like to. I never thought I deserved a life because I feel like I failed as a child. I couldn’t change my mother’s schizophrenia, or my brother’s drug addiction. I thought maybe if I cleaned the house of all the mold and made meals for everyone, that all could change. Mom wouldn’t be schizophrenic, my brother wouldn’t be a cocaine addict – everyone would be happy. The truth is that as a child or even an adult, I can’t change my family, nor am I responsible for them. God made them who they are, and unfortunately, I am not a superhuman being…

***

309.81 Posttraumatic Stress Disorder, Diagnostic Features:

Criterion A1:  The essential features of Posttraumatic Stress Disorder is the development of characteristic symptoms following exposure to an extreme traumatic stressor involving direct personal experience of an event that involves actual or threatened death or serious injury, or other threat to one's physical integrity; or witnessing an event that involves death, injury, or a threat to another person; or learning about unexpected or violent death, serious harm, or threat of death or injury experienced by a family member or other close associate

Con-Promise

Compromise. I remember I used to have a ton of trouble reading this word when I was younger and always read it in my head as com-promise. Then it starts to read like Con-Promise.

Seriously - there's a thought here. Stick with me.

Conpromise: when people pretend like they are making a compromise to save face. When they are manipulating stipulations and then backstabbing constituents.

Hey there, political intrigue! I've gone there, and I'm not going back.

Yes, I'm a blogger, and as being such, I have decided to jump on today's topic trend and post about the Government shutdown.

I'm a little stunned, to say the least. And a little irritated by the posts in my feeds of people complaining. Because at the end of the day, I think it's our own lack of compromise that is causing us to meet at these dead ends (and then lack of follow through when we conpromise, instead of compromise).

Seriously. Here's a question for you, and I want you to consider it, truly. And even, if you so desire, prove my point by responding in the comments on this blog. How many times have you entered a heated argument/debate over a political issue, social service, etc, and ended up on the other side of the issue?

I'll be honest. Rarely. I consider myself to be a thorough person, an educated person. I've come to these decisions and beliefs through countless hours of internal discussion. And when I talk about them publicly, I don't enter into conversation to change my point of view.

The more that I think about it, the more that I realize that I'm part of the problem.

Parties are a distraction. An excuse. They are an easy way to become misguided by "ideals" rather than end points.

You know what I look for when I vote for a candidate? A history of compromise. Even if I don't agree with the compromises they made, it shows me promise, moderation.

Here's my beef guys: we can complain on Twitter all day about how lousy Congress is. And frankly, I don't disagree. But honestly, what is that doing? Do you think our Senators go home and cry themselves to sleep on their pillows over their low approval ratings? Hardly. They're still getting paid to manipulate the system.

Stop complaining and start changing.

Start asking yourself hard questions. Am I really as open minded as I think I am? And be honest. I know I'm not. We need to stop fooling ourselves. Because I have friends "on the other side" of the spectrum. And I know that they aren't stupid. They came to those conclusions for a reason.

Stop debating to push your beliefs; start debating to define your beliefs.