Tag Archives: depression

K is for Knowing

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This weekend I watched the entire first season of Unorthodox, the story of a young Jewish woman who, fed up with the strictures and demands of the religion she was raised in, leaves her husband, her family, her religion, and her country, to go halfway around the world in order to live the way she knows she must.

I believe we are all born with an innate sense of knowing. We come into this world knowing what we need, what we like, who we are. And over time, we learn that not everyone we encounter wants us to be our true selves. In fact, while our parents (if we are lucky) may cheer us on, spur us toward our developmental milestones, they also have their own set of hopes and dreams about who we will someday be.

And then we start school, where our teachers have their own set of expectations, as do the institutions we enter. Sometimes our natural, inborn inclinations are not even given an opportunity to manifest themselves because we lack exposure to the very things we desire, deep in our bones, in our DNA. We may be hands-on learners in a stringently intellectual environment; or we may be poets in a STEM school or STEM types in an art-based school.

We may be natural athletes born into a world without fields or playgrounds or into a family that does not value the human body and its capabilities.

And yet we yearn, and we find ourselves having to trust that inner voice that guides us to discover our true essences.

We encounter powerful structures in place that reinforce what we have been taught by our families, our peers, our teachers, our religion, our culture. Defying the norms, in whatever form we find them requires courage and bravery and self-trust.  We all encounter obstacles that demand we squelch our inner voice, our sense of knowing, and insist we go along to get along, that we let go of what we know to be true in order to cling to an illusion of safety.

Eventually, this tension between what we know to be true and what we do to get along becomes untenable, unbearable, and we have to let go of what we have been told will save us to cling to our inner wisdom. Whether that knowledge is rooted in our bodies, our minds, or our experiences, if we don’t pay attention to it, acknowledge it, it becomes overwhelming anxiety, it becomes debilitating depression. It can become an eating disorder, OCD, a way of asserting control, any control.

When we feel anxious and out of control, it might feel easier to reach for a pill or alcohol or weed to kill that feeling (see J is for . . .). Anything usually feels easier than trusting ourselves, but that’s because we have a lifetime of being told we’re not ok, not trustworthy, that we’re too much or not enough. I ask clients if they have this little voice, this sensation in the pit of their stomach or a voice in their head or a tingling in their arms when they have to make a hard decision. Most say yes, but not everyone takes the voice seriously.

Often the voice of knowing is conflated with selfishness and the belief that listening to ourselves and doing what is right for us will take something away from someone else. That we don’t deserve to take care of ourselves. That others should get first crack at our energies and our resources. But we cannot be good stewards or caretakers or even good friends if we ignore what we know and deprive ourselves of what we need to nourish ourselves. If I am a painter who never paints or a writer who doesn’t write or a runner who doesn’t run or an engineer who is not allowed to design, then what are our gifts for?

Maybe try to spend this time alone and in quarantine listening to the voice that knows, the one deeply buried that we so often ignore and push down. Hear it. Follow it. It doesn’t just know you, it IS you.

J is for Just a Feeling

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Humans have emotions. That is just how we are wired—to feel things, to experience pleasure, pain, loss, grief, jubilation, jealousy, ecstasy, disappointment. Doubt. Trust. Trouble comes when we decide we no longer want to feel our feelings, and we undertake just about any distraction or vice to render ourselves numb: work, sex, booze, exercise, food. And in trying to avoid our original feeling, we’ve added more: guilt, just for starters.

But feelings themselves don’t even last very long. Theories vary, but various experts say feelings last between 90 seconds and 20 minutes. We all know that at times, mere seconds can feel like hours if it’s negative, so if we have an unpleasant feeling, we rush to squash it rather than sit with it.

But sublimating our feelings or chasing them away with numbing agents, doesn’t help us learn to live with them. People come to therapy because they need help managing their feelings: sadness, grief, anxiety, fear, anger, contempt, jealousy.  I say “it’s just a feeling” to my clients on a regular basis. “You can learn to welcome the feeling,” I add. “Invite it in for tea. Get to know it.” I often follow up with “it’s like training a muscle.” Meaning that if they practice enough, tolerating negative feelings will get easier eventually. And I believe that. I do. But it is so hard to put into practice.

I encountered some intense feelings of my own this week in my personal therapy. I’ve been trying to sit with it. I’ve asked for additional sessions with my therapist. I have been trying to dampen the feeling down with television and other distractions, but nothing is helping. Finally, I decided to try inviting it in. Just sitting with it. Just asking it what it wants, what it’s afraid of, what it needs. What it is trying to protect me from.

These are the questions I pose to my clients. I ask them to externalize, to imagine the feeling or emotion or problem as something separate from themselves. Naming it helps. I ask what color it is, what shape, how big, how heavy, what texture. Then I ask the client to imagine talking to the feeling, taking charge. Telling it it can come in, have a seat, and be quiet. Telling it they understand it is there to protect them. It helps to imagine our anxiety riding shotgun rather than as a part of ourselves.

When I cannot tolerate my emotions, and when my feelings seem overwhelming and impossible, I don’t feel like a very good example. And yet, I am the perfect example. A perfect example of what imperfection looks like: someone just trying to sit with the feeling and getting to know it. It won’t hurt me. I might learn something. It’s just a feeling.

 

 

 

F is for Friends (and Family)

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(This is a long one, buckle up).

I am happy I waited (ok, procrastinated) on writing my F blog. I mean, so many F words have been careening around in my head these past weeks; I didn’t want to post a blog that would come back to haunt me. But I have to be real, too. I thought about an F word blog. So much is truly fucked up right now. I would have to be incredibly disingenuous to not acknowledge that a lot of life sucks at this moment.

And. Here we are. We can step into that choice I wrote about earlier. So, I chose to forego the F word blog and write about something more uplifting and hopeful. We can say fuck it, and then we can chose to do something about it.

Which brings me to the subject of this blog:  Friends and Family. I am so grateful for my friends (and family—I am so lucky to be able to call my family members my friends: brother, daughters, parents).

This morning I was up early, awakened by my anxiety, scrolling through the headlines (don’t try this at home), wondering what the F? I had the good sense to pivot to last night’s At Home SNL show before I succumbed to my ennui and inertia. Thankfully, I perked up at Kate McKinnon’s RBG workout skit and Weekend Update. I took heart in Tom Hank’s recovery (money and status notwithstanding).

I was busy envying Tom Hank’s typewriter collection when a message popped across my screen:  Easter at your doorstep it said. My friends had stopped by and left a homemade cinnamon roll on my front porch! And a satsuma! Happy Easter to me. I did not go back to bed, Dear Reader. Now I felt like I might be able to remain upright for the rest of the day. Not long after, my youngest daughter texted me a Happy Easter message, and I sent my eldest daughter video of our ancient cat, Mittens (he’s 19). We shared Mittens stories for most of the morning, back and forth with pictures and memories (yes, he’s still alive, but for how much longer?).

I opened my email to find the poems another friend had promised to send me, and Reader, I swooned to read her breathtaking words, so sharp, so wise, so heartfelt. I found myself on the back porch, Sarah McLachlan blaring on the stereo, tears streaming down my face. And suddenly, a large MEOW. Mittens had stalked me. The old guy can’t find his food dish to save himself, but he can track me down to shatter my reverie? And in the next thought, please don’t die on me buddy. We’ve become an unlikely pair of quarantine friends. Whodda thunk it?

The monotony of the past few weeks has been pleasantly interrupted time and again for virtual meetings with folks, groups of friends scattered across the country, with other pals nearby but oh so far, individuals and groups, former coworkers who have fallen solidly into the friend group, writing friends, friends made vis a vis the writing community. Friends from school. Regular emails from my Dad, texts from my sister-in-law who is at this moment taking care of her father through an illness unrelated to the pandemic in another state, chats and messages with my brother as he navigates the repopulation of his no-longer-empty nest as the college kids return, as if south for some interminable winter.

And between the online sessions (anyone else reminded of Hollywood Squares?), unexpected moments of kindness: salmon and grocery deliveries, neighbors with power tools and the willingness to use them to help me out of a literal jam. Friends making and delivering masks and coaching me through the final part of stitching them up.

So much richness. Such gratitude. And yet, there was a time when I despaired that I would be lonely forever, after what seemed at the time, a lifelong tendency toward false starts and unfortunate choices, not altogether bad, even rewarding in many ways, but not what I had imagined. Not always what was good for me, emotionally, financially, physically. Some choices drove wedges between myself and my family. Some choices healed those rifts. Some of the same choices divided me from friends, estranged lovers, and also brought change, second chances, and mended fences.

Building this community took time, long hard looks at myself and a commitment to be different, to be myself, to learn to like myself enough to make sometimes wrenching decisions. It also took a lot of therapy in order to tolerate the pain of many lonely days, depression, self-doubt, and anxiety. It took being brave, taking chances, reaching out, being vulnerable, sitting with my feelings, writing bad poetry (and some good). It took taking risks.

I remember standing in one therapist’s office and she told me to imagine I was on the edge of an imaginary cliff.  “Your life waits out there,” she said. “When will you be ready to jump?”

Eventually, I did jump. Into a vast sparkling pool of friends I call family and family I can call friends. Take a risk, friends. For yourself.