It occurred to me today that I have no idea why we celebrate Labor Day. I figured it had something to do with honoring work and according to the Google-Machine and Wikipedia (yes college professors I used it as my only source, suck it), it turns out I was correct. Grover Cleveland was involved and people had to die(of course). It really probably should be celebrated on May 1st in coordination with International Workers Day but since America is the king of "we did it oouuurrr way", it is celebrated on the first Monday of every September and I am prone to hating it. Don't get me wrong, I love having an extra day off. My problem is the fact that it is the first Monday in September, which means that August is over. Which means Birthmonth is over. Which up until this very year, used to crush me.
I am pretty sure I invented Birthmonth 10 years ago. My amazing friend Tammy remembers me celebrating Birthmonth when I lived in Oregon and the only birthday I celebrated while living in Oregon was my 30th, ten years ago. I highly doubt that I created Birthmonth prior to that year because the years leading up to that year were not full of a lot of celebration. I barely wanted to be alive, let alone celebrate the anniversary of my birth, let alone make it a month-long celebration. In fact, it occurs to me now that I am thinking about it that it must have been that birthday that I shared with my beautiful friend Tammy and others in Lincoln City, OR; at a Country Clutter with ceramic roosters and a serenade by Dar Jordan's husband Bill that inspired Birthmonth. I had re-found life and I was so incredibly happy to be alive after almost a decade of disaster and unmanaged addiction and mental illness that one day did not seem to be enough. I needed the whole month! And so it has been, now for a decade.
So, for the last ten years, I have celebrated Birthmonth. I am an asshole about it....but in a good natured way. I begin reminding people in February when it is the half-way point to Birthmonth. I may have even hijacked my amazing friend Suz's actual birthday, which falls on my half-birthday to get my point across: Birthmonth is coming! Let the countdown begin. I am insufferable by June when Summer gets on its way, because I am counting down. And the weeks of July are sheer madness as I count down days, then hours. By August 1st I think most of my friends and family want to punch me as much as celebrate me....but they are all amazing people and just go with it. I think they must know that it has a much deeper meaning for me than simply fishing for attention. The whole month is a celebration: lunches, cards, CAKE, PIE, dinners, gifts, calls, singing, trips, more CAKE, ball-games, hugs, etc., until this day, 8-31, and then it comes to an end. And up until this birth month, it is possible that I have not handled that well. It is possibly possible that I might even slightly fall apart. I won't bore you with the boring details of the fall apart. But let's just say that I have been known to call Fall the "death-season". I may have referred to September a time or two as "Stupid-Fucking-September". Let's just say I may struggle a bit with the loss of light, the ridiculous marketing that begins tomorrow where we will see confused stores trying to sell pumpkins wrapped in tinsel. And do not even get me started on the fact that baseball season is nearing its end....*sob*, *gulp*......(give me a minute).
C
R
Y
I
N
G
J
A
G
OK. Anyways. I am not doing that this year. Well, I am not making any promises about a major episode after the last game of the World Series, but the rest of it I am doing differently.
Because in my 41st year on the planet I am putting some things in practice that I have learned. Important stuff.
1. I love birth month but it has to end, because everything has to end so it can begin again. All parts of every cycle are important. The whole problem with the whole world is that we don't get this. We want to eat strawberries in Wisconsin in December. That line of thinking has fucked up the entire world. And it screws me up to treat the end of Birthmonth with any less joy than the beginning.
2. If my birth month never ends, other people wouldn't be able to have their Birtmonths. And other people are important. In fact, it is the other people that make having my Birthmonth even possible or matterable. I did not have the greatest Birthmonth ever this year because of me....but because of you. And I want to celebrate you. Because.....Thank you.
3. Life matters. Whether it is Birthmonth or not. Sure, the celebrations are wonderful. But so are the regular times. And life moves fast and it moves on and death comes. Even to Saints. So as mush as I can, I have to appreciate all of life....in September and October.....even in those months of the year I like to call: "not-baseball-season". It is all important.
So, Thank you for an amazing Birthmonth. It was nothing short of perfect. Tomorrow, I will be somewhere without Internet so Happy Birthmonth to all of the Septemberites. Enjoy the hell out of it. Below is a link to the John Denver song I was serenaded with 10 Birthmonths ago. It is my favorite.
"Yes and joy was just a thing that he was raised on
Love was just the way to live and die
Gold was just a windy Kansas wheat field
Blue, just a Kansas summer sky...."
http://youtu.be/82GJgjuoc24
Sunday, August 31, 2014
Saturday, August 30, 2014
Go Outside, Mr. Rogers
I disagree with Mr. Rogers. I just have to get that out there. I almost can't believe it either, but it is true. Mr Rogers is wrong. And because I disagree with Mr. Rogers, it seems I also disagree with Anne Lamott, who is quite possibly my most favorite real-human on the planet (whom I haven't met yet....as opposed to my favorite real-human whom I have met...or my favorite non-real human....or my favorite real non-human, etc.). The point, if there is one, is that Mr. Rogers said something once and Anne Lamott quoted him and despite the fact that they are both incredible, amazing, soulfully brilliant people. They are both wrong.
I am sure you have seen it written or heard it and probably agreed with it....I know I did. It is the Fred Rogers quote that is posted every time humans do something awful to each other. The things that stun us and make us do weird things with our breathing. The things that make us dizzy. It is this quote and it sure seems innocuous enough:
“When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, "Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.”
I saw it posted about the Internet when the shootings in Aurora, CO happened. Then again when the shootings in Newtown, CT happened. Then again when the bombings happened at the Boston Marathon. Now I am seeing it posted about Ferguson. The first time I saw it posted somewhere it made me cry. It touched the social-worky part of me that is a helper so I felt honored. Then I saw it again when basically the same tragedy happened; only on a different day in a different place, but for the same reason or lack thereof, and I was less moved. Then Anne Lamott re-quoted it about something else horrible and tragic that was a different horrible tragedy, but really more of the same thing, and I thought that if Anne still thought that was enough it was good enough for me. Then I saw it posted about something else....either the folks trapped on Sinjar Mountain or perhaps the beheading of James Foley....and that was the turning point, when I knew that looking to the helpers could no longer be the answer, at least for me.
I totally get what Fred was saying and why Anne re-quoted him, I really do. They are saying: when humans do bad things, look to the humans who are doing good things to remind you that humans are capable of good things. So you don't get discouraged. That kind of thinking has made a lot of sense to me for a lot of my life. It's the line of thinking that goes: People do bad things....but then people do good things so there is hope that someday people will no longer do bad things any longer and we will all live in harmony. It is still a valid line of thinking, I guess. It just doesn't work for me. It might have worked for me if the same helpers weren't continually running in to clean up the same mess over and over again, but that is exactly what happens. And it does nothing for me anymore to know that the next time a white cop kills a black man and there are riots that there will be people to help clean it up. It does less than nothing for me to know that there will be helpers in the Middle East after what I am sure will be the next war in Iraq, to fix the destruction from the latest version of religious zealotry and terror that is going on now (as opposed to the last war about the same thing that was going on then). It does even more-than-less-than-nothing for me to know that in an impoverished country, with no infrastructure or ability to meet the basic needs of its people, there are helpers helping because of an outbreak of a disease that could likely have been prevented (if anyone cared about ships before they hit icebergs).
I will not look to the helpers, SamIam, I will not look there even if I can....because looking to the helpers deludes us into thinking that having helpers there is a solution and it is not. Helping fix what is broken is not nearly as effective as not breaking it in the first fucking place. The helpers are tired. The helpers have been here and they have seen this before and yet here they are again and nothing has changed except maybe the time and possibly the place, but definitely not the intent or the actions....and seriously? Helping doesn't seem to be helping.
So what then? What are you supposed to do the next time a gunman opens fire on innocent children? And trust me there will be a next time because nothing has changed since the last time and nothing changes if nothing changes so it is only a matter of time...Isn't that sad? That we all know it is just a matter of time before it happens again. Just a matter of time before we declare war, again. It is outrageous really....So, what should you do when it does happen? If you can't or won't look to the helpers? Go outside.
Go outside. Don't look to humans at all. Get as far away from humans as you possibly can; those doing bad things and those trying to help fix the bad things being done. Go outside. Go way outside, like not to your backyard but go out, out to the ocean or up to the mountains and sit down by yourself. Sit on sand or granite that is millenia old. Sit there quietly and put your hands down on that sand or granite and feel the warmth of the sun. The sun which is 92.96 million miles from earth and breathe in oxygen that may contain atoms from your ancestors who are also millenia old. Don't do anything; anything else but sit and breathe and be quiet. Sit there for a while. If you are lucky, maybe storm clouds will gather and rain will begin falling; watering and sustaining the Earth the way it has since the Earth was born. Stay outside and you will get wet and realize that you have to move to a dry place because the outside didn't care that you were a human doing bad or doing good and it rained on you and now you are wet and small and only human.
Then come home and dry off and consider a world in which we aren't constantly fixing the same problem. Picture a world where we don't have to clean up the mess because the mess didn't happen. Because we did not make the mess to begin with. Because we learned how to do things differently and better and once we knew better we did better. Picture a world where you never have to look to the helpers again to restore your faith in humanity. Because you have stopped losing it. Go outide and remember your place in the world. Go outside. Go outside and get wet.
Wednesday, August 27, 2014
Shameless (Part 4 the done-part)
I keep trying to write a final part to this series on addiction. Keep trying to come up with some solutions. I know what I know...what I have already shared....but other than sharing it, I am not sure what else I can do to change it. Here are the highlights so far, for those of you who only like to read part four of things. I get that.
1. We have a weird relationship with addiction and probably need to check ourselves from time to time when we are running our mouths about "addicts".
2. I know addiction is a disease and not in a quasi-philosophical way of knowing, I know it in a sciencey way, like with proof and research and diagrams.
3.I know that even those of us who believe addiction is a disease don't always treat people with the disease of addiction the same way we would treat someone with cancer or the flu. No one stops by with casserole when a family member relapses.
4. I know that it will take longer than my lifetime to change the policies and perspectives that need to be changed about addiction and I know that this is not because it is a hard concept. We accept that things are diseases and treat them with compassion all of the time.....but we don't with addiction and that is because of the other thing I know....I know about shame.
Sometimes I wonder if shame is the real problem and addiction is simply the resulting disease. Like how no one really dies of AIDS.....they die of AIDS-related pneumonia or AIDS-related lymphoma but not actually AIDS. I think a lot of people are addicts because they got shame somewhere along the way and the resulting disease is alcoholism....or meth-addiction....opiates, etc. And the problem with shame and addiction is that they feed off of each other and our systems, our policies, even our language, add to this shame which then feeds the addiction. We want addicts to pay. We want to hold them up by their hair in front of a mirror and force them to look in it...and we want them to see something disgusting.
I guess it is because we want people to "get it"....we get tired and frustrated. Addiction, like any other disease, affects everyone it touches, not just the person afflicted, so we get resentful and indignant, and since we don't really have the same level of respect for addiction as we do other diseases, we don't try and hide our unhappiness....our judgement. We are embarrassed by addiction, we keep it hidden, anonymous, it is a secret....because we are ashamed or scared which is simply one of shame's symptoms. Shame is a lot like cancer....it just feeds and grows and eventually destroys the life it has found to live in.
So when I think about addiction and ask: How do we change? Where do we go from here? I think maybe the answer is: The opposite direction of where we are. We come away from shame. Where we feel anger, we soften. Where we feel judgement, we open our minds. We change our reflection from disappointment to understanding. We start there not because people shouldn't be held accountable, not because we are OK with people doing whatever they want without consequences, but because we finally understand that people won't ask for help if they are afraid, if they are suffering from shame.....if all we can offer them is more shame. We make addiction easier to talk about and get help for. We own our addiction like we own our cholesterol score. We remove the sensation and remove the shame and we go about the business of helping people heal. We understand that some people will get well and some people won't. We accept that some people have the disease and it is terminal, while others will find remission and we take the morality and the shame out of all of it.
We have an ice-bucket addiction challenge! But an imaginary one! Instead of ice, we pour compassion and it looks like this: In your life is someone with addiction, or there will be one, either in passing or in the mirror, a family member or your weird neighbor...whatever. When you interact with this person or think about this person, re-form their addiction as if it were a different disease. Your drunk Uncle? Consider him as you would if he had unmanaged diabetes....your cracked out neighbor? Terminal Cancer. Just see. See if anything changes. The words you use about them...the things you say to them...how willing you are to help them, etc. My guess is that everybody's humanness will grow, rather than their shame. And they will do it again. Then again.
And maybe, just maybe, that is how we change.
The End.
The End.
Sunday, August 24, 2014
Starting the Revolution (Part 3)
What can we do to change?
*Raises hand* PICK ME PICK ME!!!
Unfortunately, what needs to change about how we deal with addiction in this culture (and maybe other cultures as well...I can't say I have any idea how addiction is dealt with in China for example, so I am sticking with America), will require nothing short of a revolution. A complete overhaul of every system, every law, every policy, every text book, etc. It will take years and it will take a lot of convincing. We have had drug addict scape-goating in this culture for a long time. It is very profitable and comforting to have a group of people to be disgusted with. Think about all of the stereotypes: "drug-addicted welfare mothers", "homeless winos", "crack-selling black gangs".....etc., etc. And yes I know sometimes the stereotypes are true. I just also know that is not the point.
The good news is that the revolution starts very simply. It is based on one shift in perspective; one idea, now proven by science that if we each believed, that if we each knew to be true, would be enough to start the momentum. Cultural shifts start small. We don't just wake up with equality, we start talking about it. We march, we protest. Most importantly, we inform every decision and every policy we make based on what we now know to be true. And what I now know to be true, what I now know to be fact, and what I feel like I need to shout from rooftops is that addiction is a disease. I learned this fact in a very Matthew McConaughey, Time to Kill, closing argument way. Do you remember that scene? Where his final line is "now imagine she's white"? That is how powerful it was for me. But instead of it being about race, when dealing with addiction, it is about choice vs. disease.
It doesn't seem like much does it. But think about it. Imagine if we really, truly thought of addicts as people with a real disease the way we think about people who have diabetes as people who have a real disease. And then we started to play with what it would look like if we treated people with the disease of diabetes the same as we treat people with the disease of addiction. And we started to imagine people being sent to jail and prison because their diabetes was not managed well. Or we started denying other health services to diabetics because they were actively eating donuts, Or we refused to hire a diabetic because we were afraid they might relapse on sugar, get sick and not show up for work. Or we took kids away from parents who were struggling with their diabetes to the point that they were not able to properly care for their kids. And if you think those things cannot happen with diabetes, think again. We don't hear about them happening because diabetes isn't sensational. Unmanaged diabetes is ok with us. Addiction is not. But if they are both a disease....why not?
Before you argue with me....I m going to ask you to watch something....it will take about an hour of your time. It is a movie called "Pleasure Unwoven". It was called to my attention by my mentor, my colleague and my friend, to whom I am forever grateful. It changed my life. It called me to a higher purpose and I think if you watch it you will better understand what I am babbling about. I know when I watch it I better understand what I am babbling about. It starts kind of slow, so please give it a chance before you say: "Seriously, Megan? Why am I watching some guy drive around Utah (I think it is Utah?), and dress up in old west garb?" Just give it the full hour.
And know this. In the part where the gun is to the guy's head? With the shot in front of him? Want to know what I thought in my addict brain? When the craving hit? I thought: "I wonder if I could get the alcohol in fast enough to not feel the bullet's pain". I thought it just for an instant. Because my disease is well managed right now. But the thought was still there. That is how powerful this disease is.
Now imagine it unmanaged.
So you can watch most of Pleasure Unwoven for free on Youtube here (clips 1-8).
https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLA8F89537FD4C3FD1
However, if your life as ever been touched by addiction....either personally or professionally I would suggest buying a full copy (Amazon). That way when the revolution comes you know what the hell is going on. When we come back to our regularly scheduled blogging we can talk about what he heck this all means. If I have figured it out by then.
*Raises hand* PICK ME PICK ME!!!
Unfortunately, what needs to change about how we deal with addiction in this culture (and maybe other cultures as well...I can't say I have any idea how addiction is dealt with in China for example, so I am sticking with America), will require nothing short of a revolution. A complete overhaul of every system, every law, every policy, every text book, etc. It will take years and it will take a lot of convincing. We have had drug addict scape-goating in this culture for a long time. It is very profitable and comforting to have a group of people to be disgusted with. Think about all of the stereotypes: "drug-addicted welfare mothers", "homeless winos", "crack-selling black gangs".....etc., etc. And yes I know sometimes the stereotypes are true. I just also know that is not the point.
The good news is that the revolution starts very simply. It is based on one shift in perspective; one idea, now proven by science that if we each believed, that if we each knew to be true, would be enough to start the momentum. Cultural shifts start small. We don't just wake up with equality, we start talking about it. We march, we protest. Most importantly, we inform every decision and every policy we make based on what we now know to be true. And what I now know to be true, what I now know to be fact, and what I feel like I need to shout from rooftops is that addiction is a disease. I learned this fact in a very Matthew McConaughey, Time to Kill, closing argument way. Do you remember that scene? Where his final line is "now imagine she's white"? That is how powerful it was for me. But instead of it being about race, when dealing with addiction, it is about choice vs. disease.
It doesn't seem like much does it. But think about it. Imagine if we really, truly thought of addicts as people with a real disease the way we think about people who have diabetes as people who have a real disease. And then we started to play with what it would look like if we treated people with the disease of diabetes the same as we treat people with the disease of addiction. And we started to imagine people being sent to jail and prison because their diabetes was not managed well. Or we started denying other health services to diabetics because they were actively eating donuts, Or we refused to hire a diabetic because we were afraid they might relapse on sugar, get sick and not show up for work. Or we took kids away from parents who were struggling with their diabetes to the point that they were not able to properly care for their kids. And if you think those things cannot happen with diabetes, think again. We don't hear about them happening because diabetes isn't sensational. Unmanaged diabetes is ok with us. Addiction is not. But if they are both a disease....why not?
Before you argue with me....I m going to ask you to watch something....it will take about an hour of your time. It is a movie called "Pleasure Unwoven". It was called to my attention by my mentor, my colleague and my friend, to whom I am forever grateful. It changed my life. It called me to a higher purpose and I think if you watch it you will better understand what I am babbling about. I know when I watch it I better understand what I am babbling about. It starts kind of slow, so please give it a chance before you say: "Seriously, Megan? Why am I watching some guy drive around Utah (I think it is Utah?), and dress up in old west garb?" Just give it the full hour.
And know this. In the part where the gun is to the guy's head? With the shot in front of him? Want to know what I thought in my addict brain? When the craving hit? I thought: "I wonder if I could get the alcohol in fast enough to not feel the bullet's pain". I thought it just for an instant. Because my disease is well managed right now. But the thought was still there. That is how powerful this disease is.
Now imagine it unmanaged.
So you can watch most of Pleasure Unwoven for free on Youtube here (clips 1-8).
https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLA8F89537FD4C3FD1
However, if your life as ever been touched by addiction....either personally or professionally I would suggest buying a full copy (Amazon). That way when the revolution comes you know what the hell is going on. When we come back to our regularly scheduled blogging we can talk about what he heck this all means. If I have figured it out by then.
Saturday, August 23, 2014
Breaking Badass (Part 2)
Last year I had the opportunity to be evaluated by some folks who were trying to determine some things about me. One went well and one really, really did not. Since I was the same person both times and answered the questions the same way it has been a real challenge for me to figure out what the difference might be. I had the same truth, I wore similar clothing, I had not had a lobotomy nor do I have multiple-personalities. To read the two reports side by side, however, you would not recognize one Megan from the other. Some have suggested that perhaps it was because one was paid by one side and one was paid by the other. That is an entire blog of its own, but trust me when I tell you I am not so naive as to think that might not have something to do with it.
But I don't think that is everything.
The first evaluator had, by their own admission, little to no experience with drug addiction. But they were fascinated by it. Despite the fact that I have been clean from methamphetamine for a decade, long before I entered my profession which is where these evaluations stemmed from, the majority of the questions this evaluator asked me focused on that time in my life. In fact, even my alcoholism (or addiction 2.0 as I like to call it), was far less interesting to this person than my meth addiction. And the incident related to the alcoholism, which is why I was there? Earned only about 10 minutes of three two-hour sessions. I found that interesting....and odd. And infuriating when I read the report. However, now that I have had some time to think about it, I think I understand. The evaluator was fascinated by something they did not understand and then because they did not understand it, they tried to destroy it. And since I embody the "it".....I was the one to be destroyed.
We do this with addiction and addicts all of the time. We are bipolar with first our deep fascination and celebration of addiction.....think Breaking Bad....and then with our flip-side condemnation of "those fucking losers who trade their food-stamps for dope". For this evaluator, I was some sort of a meth-circus-freak. It was interesting to ogle me in the low-lit office, but I sure as hell did not need to be seen in the real light of day. I think this is true of our society in general. We are all over the fucking map with how we view and treat different addictions, different drugs and different people from different walks of life who ultimately are doing the same exact thing. Robert Downey Jr.? Beloved Celebrity. You would love to have him over for dinner. Would probably let him sleep over. Borrow your car. Take a not-known Robert D. just released from county with the same charges Iron Man has in his past? We aren't sure he is safe. He is certainly not staying in our homes and forget hiring him--he's a felon....he has weapons charges....he sold drugs.
It makes me sad-laugh when I see Breaking Bad winning it's nine-millionth Emmy or I hear people fawn over the characters on Orange Is The New Black. Taystee? I love her too. But she was a heroin-dealer...probably directly or indirectly responsible for people losing their kids....sharing dirty needles...dying. Jesse Pinkman? It's weird because like a lot of the Breaking Bad viewers I think he deserved another chance at a better life too, but when I am working with the Jesse Pinkmans in real life? You'd be amazed at how quickly that compassion dries up when real-life-Jeses want to live next door or work at your neighborhood store.
When I think about addiction I am fascinated by how convenient it is to have it both ways. You want to be impressed by my degree from UC Berkeley but you don't want to hear about how I was high the entire time I was getting it. You want to celebrate alcohol as a national past-time and then separate yourselves from the fact that of all of the drugs of addiction it is by far the most dangerous. The evaluator wanted to hear all about how I lied when I was using so I would not lose my job, then wondered how I could do that, then suggested that maybe I should lose my job because I was honest with her. Which, had it happened? Would have served only to undo my life. Same as it would have then. Which to come full circle...is why I lied in the first place.
The thing with my addiction is that it isn't black and white. The episodes do not neatly end after an hour....I was not able to wrap it up cleanly after a few seasons. No one forgave me because I was their favorite character. I had a lot to lose and I was afraid and we don't make it easy to ask for help here. There are no fandoms in real life.
Luckily for me the evaluator, the evaluation, didn't destroy me. But it did some damage and probably could have done more had I not been part super-hero (or in reality had I not had such great people in my life, professionally and personally). That amount of power mixed with hypocritical confusion about addiction in itself is dangerous. It is also representative of how we think of and treat addicts in general. Our confused state of being with addiction, and our confused relationships with substances are frankly more dangerous than the substances themselves. The question is....what can we do to change?
But I don't think that is everything.
The first evaluator had, by their own admission, little to no experience with drug addiction. But they were fascinated by it. Despite the fact that I have been clean from methamphetamine for a decade, long before I entered my profession which is where these evaluations stemmed from, the majority of the questions this evaluator asked me focused on that time in my life. In fact, even my alcoholism (or addiction 2.0 as I like to call it), was far less interesting to this person than my meth addiction. And the incident related to the alcoholism, which is why I was there? Earned only about 10 minutes of three two-hour sessions. I found that interesting....and odd. And infuriating when I read the report. However, now that I have had some time to think about it, I think I understand. The evaluator was fascinated by something they did not understand and then because they did not understand it, they tried to destroy it. And since I embody the "it".....I was the one to be destroyed.
We do this with addiction and addicts all of the time. We are bipolar with first our deep fascination and celebration of addiction.....think Breaking Bad....and then with our flip-side condemnation of "those fucking losers who trade their food-stamps for dope". For this evaluator, I was some sort of a meth-circus-freak. It was interesting to ogle me in the low-lit office, but I sure as hell did not need to be seen in the real light of day. I think this is true of our society in general. We are all over the fucking map with how we view and treat different addictions, different drugs and different people from different walks of life who ultimately are doing the same exact thing. Robert Downey Jr.? Beloved Celebrity. You would love to have him over for dinner. Would probably let him sleep over. Borrow your car. Take a not-known Robert D. just released from county with the same charges Iron Man has in his past? We aren't sure he is safe. He is certainly not staying in our homes and forget hiring him--he's a felon....he has weapons charges....he sold drugs.
It makes me sad-laugh when I see Breaking Bad winning it's nine-millionth Emmy or I hear people fawn over the characters on Orange Is The New Black. Taystee? I love her too. But she was a heroin-dealer...probably directly or indirectly responsible for people losing their kids....sharing dirty needles...dying. Jesse Pinkman? It's weird because like a lot of the Breaking Bad viewers I think he deserved another chance at a better life too, but when I am working with the Jesse Pinkmans in real life? You'd be amazed at how quickly that compassion dries up when real-life-Jeses want to live next door or work at your neighborhood store.
When I think about addiction I am fascinated by how convenient it is to have it both ways. You want to be impressed by my degree from UC Berkeley but you don't want to hear about how I was high the entire time I was getting it. You want to celebrate alcohol as a national past-time and then separate yourselves from the fact that of all of the drugs of addiction it is by far the most dangerous. The evaluator wanted to hear all about how I lied when I was using so I would not lose my job, then wondered how I could do that, then suggested that maybe I should lose my job because I was honest with her. Which, had it happened? Would have served only to undo my life. Same as it would have then. Which to come full circle...is why I lied in the first place.
The thing with my addiction is that it isn't black and white. The episodes do not neatly end after an hour....I was not able to wrap it up cleanly after a few seasons. No one forgave me because I was their favorite character. I had a lot to lose and I was afraid and we don't make it easy to ask for help here. There are no fandoms in real life.
Luckily for me the evaluator, the evaluation, didn't destroy me. But it did some damage and probably could have done more had I not been part super-hero (or in reality had I not had such great people in my life, professionally and personally). That amount of power mixed with hypocritical confusion about addiction in itself is dangerous. It is also representative of how we think of and treat addicts in general. Our confused state of being with addiction, and our confused relationships with substances are frankly more dangerous than the substances themselves. The question is....what can we do to change?
Addiction 101 (Part 1)
I have spent a lot of time thinking about addiction. My whole life really. Other people's addictions, my addictions....I went to real-life school and learned about addiction, then I went to the kind of school where you use the Bic pens to actually write things and I learned about addiction. I work around the field of addiction....my personal life is shaped around being in remission from addiction. I could probably be considered an expert on the subject except that I am not really sure I know anything.
So when you don't know things, if you are me, you think about them a lot. A LOT. And you try and figure them out through observation and consideration, research and open-mindedness. The last one being the hardest because when you try and be open-minded about what other people think about something....and it is a something that you have or are...it can be painful. People don't think much of addicts sometimes. And while I am far from the person I was when I stole things to support my habit or crashed my car because I was driving it drunk...that person is no less a part of who I am than the person who holds two degrees. In fact, I would argue that my experiences as an addict have informed my world-view at least equally to anything else I have learned or done. And while it has been suggested to me a time or two that I don't need to broadcast it and that perhaps I should put it behind me...I find that confusing.
I have a degree hanging on my wall from a top-university that I barely remember getting and no one thinks I should put that behind me. I have toe-shoes from a short lived ballet career that really only existed in my mind and I still talk about that like it mattered. I climbed mountains for awhile, five years ago and yet I am still an REI member. So what I have decided is that I cannot and will not deny any part of who I am or how I have spent most of my life. Had I spent the last 25 years becoming an ice dancer I would talk about ice dancing....but that is not what happened. I have no idea how to dance on ice. I have barely learned how to make ice.
When I sat down to write about addiction I quickly realized two things:
1. I have way too much to say about it for one Blog. At least I think. I still haven't looked into the rules (are there rules?) or standards for Blog writing but I am pretty sure they are supposed to be written based on the attention-span of the average American. Myself included. So this may become a series. If Blogs have those. This Blog does.
2. It is hard. Addiction is hard and fucking confusing. How I feel about it....how you feel about it. It is complicated and personal and it is likely much easier for a lot of people not to read about it or think about it. It is one of those things where it is easier to just think what we want to think and then turn our heads. I get that. So I get if you don't read or read and get bored or read and think "Fuck Megan, I never liked her anyways." Or whatever. My intention is not to hurt anyone. I am responding to a calling by my higher power that allows me sobriety and serenity as long as I never look away. I have to think and write about it. I have to spend the rest of my life trying to help figure out this massive Gobstopper of a problem. That was the deal. Sometimes I wonder if I have made a deal with the Devil because I wish I didn't have to think about it. I wish I could get a nice job at a ball park holding headphones or as a recorded voice reminding you of your doctor's appointments; I wish I thought about movie sequels or what is on sale at Sephora....but that was not the deal. The deal was clear and I took it because my life depends on it and I think life is an o.k. thing.
So. Let's rip the band-aid off. Pull the covers back. Addiction. Let's talk about it. Let's think about it. Let's face it and face ourselves. Are you in?
Sunday, August 17, 2014
Here's to Monday!
I have been on vacation for nine days now. Nine out of the last nine days have been filled with not working and a lot of food. Many celebrations and a lot of baked goods. It has been wonderful, but like everything good or bad it is coming to an end. And in true Megan form I am bereft; devastated by the inevitable return to all things ordinary and routine. I am stunned by the fact that time kept passing and this week, like all of the weeks before and after, had a beginning and now has an end. I am stunned almost silent by this. Almost. There was possibly a little....there may have been a slight bit....I may have taken part in a modicum of......complaining.
Now, I know better than to complain. I was raised in part by a Dad who, other than being perfect, was also something of the "perspective police". He had a neat way of letting you know that complaining about things like having to get up for school or work, putting the dishes away, even the car breaking down, was kind of an asshole way to exist in the world. I will never forget the "it's not fair" discussion (verbal-ass-kicking), circa 1988 when I learned that if you want to see my Dad literally unravel with irritation, all you have to do is point out how unfair it is to be fourteen in white-upper-middle-class California, where your biggest issue is the horror of generic hair products. Then to add insult to injury, point your generic hair-product horror out to someone who knows the gravity of the rest of the world. Someone who made life decisions based on a war. Someone whose friends died in a jungle. Someone who was raised....well let's just say it wasn't soft.
There is a Doonesbury cartoon from a million years ago that my Dad likes to quote from time to time. It is of one of the characters sitting in his bedroom surrounded by stuff....Christmas gifts, new skis, clothes, thing-a-ma-bobs and do-hickeys and he is super-underwhelmed. Or maybe overwhelmed by his lack of whelm....but either way, he is sad and probably can't figure out why. Then his friend calls from a much smaller space with joy in his voice and he wishes melancholy-dude a Merry Christmas. Melancholy-dude thanks him and asks him the proverbial privileged question of what he got for Christmas. With absolute joy in his voice grateful-dude declares: "A number two pencil....With an Eraser!!!!" The last image is of melancholy-dude with his head hung in shame.
I am the proverbial melancholy-dude. I wish humility came more naturally to me but it never has so I have to Keith-myself on a regular basis. I try to remind myself that while yes, vacation is over, I have a job to take a vacation (and a paid one at that) from. I went on vacation from a place and to a place with running water and food (way, way too much food). No one blew anything up around me while I was on vacation and when I got home, there were no air-raid sirens. I don't have to get up tomorrow. I get to get up. I am having a test run first thing in the morning and it will be clean and well-staffed at the clinic so the chances that I will be exposed to the Ebola virus are really, really slim. Whatever comes my way, I will probably survive it and at the end of the day I will be loved and cared for, fed and clothed, and all of my basic needs will be more than met. I bet if I look closely there will be a lot of number two pencils and a lot of opportunities for joy.
Now that I am in my forties and even more wise than four days ago when I was just turning forty, I realize that what my Dad has been trying to teach me all along was to exist first and foremost from a place of humility and gratitude. I see these things on Facebook all of the time about trying to go through a day without complaining.....which I interpret as trying to go through a day without being an asshole. I've never tried it, and in fact I have been known to quietly complain about the posts because I think: "I know you and trust me the next thing out of your mouth is going to be a complaint." But I think that is probably just me looking in the mirror and not liking what I am seeing about myself.
I wanted to spend all day today complaining about vacation being over. But I have decided I just can't do it, not with any conscience. Until I am trapped on a mountain top in Iraq hoping that the German planes can get the food to me, or falling from the sky to my death because I was on the wrong plane at the wrong time....no matter what my first day back from vacation throws at me or the day after that or really on just about any day of my white-upper-middle-class-pretty-privileged life? There is nothing, absolutely nothing, less than nothing, really ever to complain about.
So, I accept the challenge and I am not going to complain. Gratitude-check. Asshole-check. Here's to Monday. Get Keithed. xoxoxo
Now, I know better than to complain. I was raised in part by a Dad who, other than being perfect, was also something of the "perspective police". He had a neat way of letting you know that complaining about things like having to get up for school or work, putting the dishes away, even the car breaking down, was kind of an asshole way to exist in the world. I will never forget the "it's not fair" discussion (verbal-ass-kicking), circa 1988 when I learned that if you want to see my Dad literally unravel with irritation, all you have to do is point out how unfair it is to be fourteen in white-upper-middle-class California, where your biggest issue is the horror of generic hair products. Then to add insult to injury, point your generic hair-product horror out to someone who knows the gravity of the rest of the world. Someone who made life decisions based on a war. Someone whose friends died in a jungle. Someone who was raised....well let's just say it wasn't soft.
There is a Doonesbury cartoon from a million years ago that my Dad likes to quote from time to time. It is of one of the characters sitting in his bedroom surrounded by stuff....Christmas gifts, new skis, clothes, thing-a-ma-bobs and do-hickeys and he is super-underwhelmed. Or maybe overwhelmed by his lack of whelm....but either way, he is sad and probably can't figure out why. Then his friend calls from a much smaller space with joy in his voice and he wishes melancholy-dude a Merry Christmas. Melancholy-dude thanks him and asks him the proverbial privileged question of what he got for Christmas. With absolute joy in his voice grateful-dude declares: "A number two pencil....With an Eraser!!!!" The last image is of melancholy-dude with his head hung in shame.
I am the proverbial melancholy-dude. I wish humility came more naturally to me but it never has so I have to Keith-myself on a regular basis. I try to remind myself that while yes, vacation is over, I have a job to take a vacation (and a paid one at that) from. I went on vacation from a place and to a place with running water and food (way, way too much food). No one blew anything up around me while I was on vacation and when I got home, there were no air-raid sirens. I don't have to get up tomorrow. I get to get up. I am having a test run first thing in the morning and it will be clean and well-staffed at the clinic so the chances that I will be exposed to the Ebola virus are really, really slim. Whatever comes my way, I will probably survive it and at the end of the day I will be loved and cared for, fed and clothed, and all of my basic needs will be more than met. I bet if I look closely there will be a lot of number two pencils and a lot of opportunities for joy.
Now that I am in my forties and even more wise than four days ago when I was just turning forty, I realize that what my Dad has been trying to teach me all along was to exist first and foremost from a place of humility and gratitude. I see these things on Facebook all of the time about trying to go through a day without complaining.....which I interpret as trying to go through a day without being an asshole. I've never tried it, and in fact I have been known to quietly complain about the posts because I think: "I know you and trust me the next thing out of your mouth is going to be a complaint." But I think that is probably just me looking in the mirror and not liking what I am seeing about myself.
I wanted to spend all day today complaining about vacation being over. But I have decided I just can't do it, not with any conscience. Until I am trapped on a mountain top in Iraq hoping that the German planes can get the food to me, or falling from the sky to my death because I was on the wrong plane at the wrong time....no matter what my first day back from vacation throws at me or the day after that or really on just about any day of my white-upper-middle-class-pretty-privileged life? There is nothing, absolutely nothing, less than nothing, really ever to complain about.
So, I accept the challenge and I am not going to complain. Gratitude-check. Asshole-check. Here's to Monday. Get Keithed. xoxoxo
Thursday, August 14, 2014
I'm sorry, Mr. Williams
I owe Robin Williams an apology. Like most people, when I heard about his death, I had a reaction, a first-thought-wrong (AA speak) reaction and upon further processing….and a little guidance (this time from my other-Dad, Bob…and thank Saul I have four parents because I am far too much of an asshole to be able to be handled by just the two originally assigned), I realize I was way off-base.
Mind you, my first thoughts were not based out of surprise at all. I work around real-deal mental illness all-day, every-day. Life demands balance and Robin Williams got far too high to not have lows of equal caliber. All you have to do is look at the range of his movies to see that his incredible humor and affair with the magical in life was always challenged by the deep sadness that comes from seeing life for what it is on the flip-side of magical. It can be brutal here and that brutality can eat away at you until there is nothing left but empty. All you really have to do is look in his eyes…even when he is mid-riff during his best comedic moments to see the pain that he was in. So, no, I am not surprised that this was his ending scene. Not at all.
My asshole reaction, the one that said: “How could he do that to his kids?” “He had so much life left to live!”, was not based in understanding at all…..it was based on the selfish feelings of a daughter who is facing the end of her father’s life. The feelings that drive the magical thinking that has created a world where if someone does not want the remaining years of their life, then there should be some type of donation program for those that do. The thinking that said: “fuck you Mr. Williams….what did you have left? Ten maybe fifteen years? I’ll take them….let Keith have them." The thinking that said: “What about Zelda, Mr. Williams? How could you do that to her? How could you leave before it was actually time?” It never got to the level of asshole thinking where you go on TV and call someone a coward….but it was heading there and for that I am deeply sorry.
In my defense…it only took one sentence from other-Dad Bob to help snap me out of it. He said in his super-intense-especially-when-he-says-things-quiet-and-looks-right-in-your-eyes way: “if you were his daughter, would you really have wanted him to continue living in that much pain?" Whoosh. Deep inhale. Gulp. Me, meekly: “no”. Then with more conviction…”no…not for a minute.”
This is the thing about mental illness including addiction which is absolutely a mental illness…they are called illnesses because they are, wait for it, illnesses(!) and really are just like any other disease. They are progressive and chronic, they have stages; sometimes they can be managed and other times they can’t. I have spent years thinking about this, working in it, and I have his same disease, every day, so if I get to be a fucking expert on anything….this is it. This was not a “long-term solution to a short-term problem,” this was a person who had fought a valiant fight, someone who had sought treatment, someone who, when faced with his disease and the choices that come with living with something chronic and debilitating, decided to be done. When the same thing happens to someone with terminal Cancer, we support them. When the same thing happens with AIDS we understand. What we need to get as a culture and as individuals is that the same thing happens with diseases of the mind. Sometimes the treatments don’t work, a lot of times the side effects of the treatments, when they do work, make life not worth living and it is not up to me or you to decide that someone, when they have given it their best effort, whether it be with Cancer or Depression should not get to decide to be done. Like other-Dad-Bob alluded to, perhaps we should do what we would do with any other terminal patient and instead of forcing them into isolation with a knife and a rope and nothing left but their own pain, help them transition in a way that is peaceful. The implications of which are far too stunning for any of us to probably ever fully digest; but I think are worth thinking about all the same.
When I take the emotion and judgement out of my response to his death I can recognize that Mr. Williams simply (not that there is anything simple about it), died from end-stage depression. It was a life-long disease, that he tried to manage, and did with some success….but in the end, like with many other diseases, the illness consumed him and took his life. The real tragedy is that he had to make final choices that left him exploited and vulnerable to a sick-society that apparently needs details about the positioning of his body. That he died alone. I am no better. I too, “like to watch things die….from a distance (Thank you, Tool), and read all about things that are none of my business. Things that are private. Things that you would not share at dinner about your family members, but do about Mr. Williams because he died of something we don’t understand so we are fascinated by it. Trust me, had he died of end-stage lung Cancer, we would be sad but certainly not privy to the position of his body & the marks on his arms.
And before anyone jumps on me as supporting suicide, let me be clear; this is not a missive that should send anyone with a notion that life is really-fucking-hard running to jump off of the next available cliff. You do owe it to yourself and the other people in your life to at least try and fight what is fightable. There can be hope. Same with any other disease. But I don’t hold it against Keith for making a calculation that the best choice is to let the Cancer win…and I don’t blame Mr. Williams for doing the same with his disease. I have his same disease. I know the darkness. The demons. The exhaustion from fighting and having it recur, fighting and having it worsen. Fighting and fighting and fighting…Gratefully, for me, sitting on my borrowed deck in Jenner, looking at the Pacific Ocean, well-medicated and well taken care of, I cannot even fathom being done. But I am not Robin Williams. It was not my life he was living...it was his and I do not get to judge when or how it came to an end. I was not Mr. Williams, in that final moment when the battle was lost. So I am sorry, sir. I can be an asshole. I hope you have finally found some peace.
Monday, August 11, 2014
Nothing is Free
There is a quote by someone I heard or read somewhere that goes something like this:
"You pay for it all. Every drink, every drug, every love. Nothing is free"
I think it was a musician (or possibly an author, famous in the 60's because I remember referring to him as a "hippie-guy"), who was dying of some type of drug or alcohol or tobacco related Cancer...and I think it was on NPR....or possibly in Rolling Stone. I searched for it once and found it and then lost it again so I apologize to whomever the guy was who said it. You are probably long dead now....as you were really close then and I hope it was a peaceful transition.
It could be that I have the quote wrong by a word or two, but how I have written it above is how I have held onto it and it is in this form that it has become the foundation for the second half of my life. It is what I thought about this morning when I got called to drug test for the third time in less than a week. Well....it wasn't the first thing. The first thought was in the form of the self-righteous, ego-ridden anger that has fueled me for so much of my life but that dissipated almost immediately and was replaced by that hippie-guy's quote and the humility that I am in fact due to be called as often as the universe sees fit.
It took me a long time to figure this out. To figure out that my probation with the Board; the drug testing, blue cards, quarterly reports, etc. has little to do with the one DUI that I got five years ago and everything to do with all of the things that I never got caught for. The Board probably doesn't know that either. Nor do they likely care. They have me on probation for their own reasons....liability, consumer protection, statistics. I don't have any illusion that they have me on probation because they give a fuck about me evolving. But my higher power does. The Universe does. I do.
Here is the truth. The honest stuff. I did really bad shit for a lot of years for a long time. I only got caught once. And while I spent a lot of time fighting against what seemed like an unfair and never ending punishment at the hands of a Board that seemed to want to unjustly crucify me (poor little Megan), in my recovery I have come to recognize that in looking at it like this, I hadn't really learned a god damn thing. I spent years as a meth-addict lying, stealing and breaking laws. I never got caught. When I got clean it was like some sort of fantasy. My parents took me in....in their ocean front house in Oregon and took care of me like a child until I could care for myself. I work with drug addicts now and trust me....treatment, if you can get it, is a bit more rough around the edges for most people. Furthermore, I drank alcoholically for a long time and continued to drink even after I got the DUI. I lied to people. I minimized. I did what addicts do when they are trying to live two versions of the same life and while I finally did have some consequences.....it could have been and probably should have been so much worse.
Your life choices find you. They catch up to you in the weirdest ways sometimes. When I look around at the shape that my life has taken it is always in awe of the influence the choices I made when I was younger have on me today. Particularly around substances. My body is older than it should be.....my kids are imaginary....the first person I call in the morning is an automated man who gets to determine my day. The choices that I have now, that will influence the rest of my life will be influenced by these past choices as well. It never ends. I am being held accountable. But, finally I am evening my own score and grateful to have the opportunity to do it. I am paying for it all. Every drink. Every drug. Every love. And trust me, nothing is nor should it be, Free.
"You pay for it all. Every drink, every drug, every love. Nothing is free"
I think it was a musician (or possibly an author, famous in the 60's because I remember referring to him as a "hippie-guy"), who was dying of some type of drug or alcohol or tobacco related Cancer...and I think it was on NPR....or possibly in Rolling Stone. I searched for it once and found it and then lost it again so I apologize to whomever the guy was who said it. You are probably long dead now....as you were really close then and I hope it was a peaceful transition.
It could be that I have the quote wrong by a word or two, but how I have written it above is how I have held onto it and it is in this form that it has become the foundation for the second half of my life. It is what I thought about this morning when I got called to drug test for the third time in less than a week. Well....it wasn't the first thing. The first thought was in the form of the self-righteous, ego-ridden anger that has fueled me for so much of my life but that dissipated almost immediately and was replaced by that hippie-guy's quote and the humility that I am in fact due to be called as often as the universe sees fit.
It took me a long time to figure this out. To figure out that my probation with the Board; the drug testing, blue cards, quarterly reports, etc. has little to do with the one DUI that I got five years ago and everything to do with all of the things that I never got caught for. The Board probably doesn't know that either. Nor do they likely care. They have me on probation for their own reasons....liability, consumer protection, statistics. I don't have any illusion that they have me on probation because they give a fuck about me evolving. But my higher power does. The Universe does. I do.
Here is the truth. The honest stuff. I did really bad shit for a lot of years for a long time. I only got caught once. And while I spent a lot of time fighting against what seemed like an unfair and never ending punishment at the hands of a Board that seemed to want to unjustly crucify me (poor little Megan), in my recovery I have come to recognize that in looking at it like this, I hadn't really learned a god damn thing. I spent years as a meth-addict lying, stealing and breaking laws. I never got caught. When I got clean it was like some sort of fantasy. My parents took me in....in their ocean front house in Oregon and took care of me like a child until I could care for myself. I work with drug addicts now and trust me....treatment, if you can get it, is a bit more rough around the edges for most people. Furthermore, I drank alcoholically for a long time and continued to drink even after I got the DUI. I lied to people. I minimized. I did what addicts do when they are trying to live two versions of the same life and while I finally did have some consequences.....it could have been and probably should have been so much worse.
Your life choices find you. They catch up to you in the weirdest ways sometimes. When I look around at the shape that my life has taken it is always in awe of the influence the choices I made when I was younger have on me today. Particularly around substances. My body is older than it should be.....my kids are imaginary....the first person I call in the morning is an automated man who gets to determine my day. The choices that I have now, that will influence the rest of my life will be influenced by these past choices as well. It never ends. I am being held accountable. But, finally I am evening my own score and grateful to have the opportunity to do it. I am paying for it all. Every drink. Every drug. Every love. And trust me, nothing is nor should it be, Free.
Sunday, August 10, 2014
Let's do the Time Warp.....Again.
Now that I am almost forty and super-wise I have been thinking a lot about time. A LOT. I think a lot about lots of things, but probably none more than I do time. Time fascinates me. I don't go quite as far as worm holes and other dimensions because my brain is too linear and stalls at anything that is of a higher grade of science or math; BUT I am convinced that time is weird (which is my version of deep scientific/mathematical thought).
I think my issue with time is how loosey-goosey the measurement of it feels. For example, I have been thinking a lot about my other decade birthdays and all of them feel like they were 100 years ago. Now, even with my limited math skills, I know this is not possible....they are in reality 30, 20 and 10 years ago but that's not how it feels. Which is the crux of the matter. Time is weird to me because even though it is measured in a black and white context of math: minutes, days, years, etc. I interpret time by how it feels. For example, some hours at work, particularly in meetings, feel like they are literally lasting for days at a time; but they are just as 60 minutes long as the best Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Grey's Anatomy episode that goes by in an instant and that I can sit through 3 times (it is actually probably more like three hundred times but that would be embarrassing to admit out loud).
There are a million examples of this time dichotomy which is probably why I spend so much time thinking about it (that and the fact that I am crazy and my brain is on fire). I am probably also thinking about it a lot right now because it is birth month and decade birthdays are momentous (see....our entire language is FILLED with time--"right now", "decade", "momentous"). We are surrounded by time, reminded of time, sing songs about time..(in a bottle, or too much of it on my hands)..but personally, I am only beginning to respect time and in turn use it a little more wisely.
Time for me has become a lot like the ocean (stay with me here). It is incredibly powerful and expansive, yet limited in it's resources, and precious. At times it is overwhelming to think about how much time is left, whether you are wanting something to end sooner, start faster, never get here or last forever. Sometimes time is calm and seemingly boring.....and then out of nowhere it sneaks up on you and over-powers you and makes you feel like you are fighting for breath. When you surf which I used to do "a million years ago" (it is really more like twenty but you get my point), I spent a lot of time waiting on the ocean for the "right" wave. Not too big, not too puny, not too crowded, not too scary, not too a lot of things (I probably shouldn't even call it surfing because I spent most of it laying on my board but that screws up the analogy). Needless to say, a lot of ocean passed me by. Time has been very much a similar experience, a lot of it has passed me by because I was stuck on my board waiting for a better wave. While I don't regret the past or wish to shut the door on it (AA speak), I wish I had known the deep limitations of time a lot sooner than three days before forty, but to use another time reference.....better late than never.
I hope this next decade is full of time well spent. I think I am getting better at using my time wisely and spending time doing things I care about. I won't go so far as to say that time is on my side....but time is of the essence and every moment I am alive, I have all of the time in the world even if it is flying by.....and since I can't stop all of this time talk (sigh), let's end with a song. A song from a movie. A song from a movie about drug addiction and wasted youth which seems fitting. A song where the original version pales in comparison to the original. Sorry Simon and Garfunkel.
Here's to having more time than Less Than Zero. MEH + RDJ=TLF
http://youtu.be/TxrwImCJCqk
I think my issue with time is how loosey-goosey the measurement of it feels. For example, I have been thinking a lot about my other decade birthdays and all of them feel like they were 100 years ago. Now, even with my limited math skills, I know this is not possible....they are in reality 30, 20 and 10 years ago but that's not how it feels. Which is the crux of the matter. Time is weird to me because even though it is measured in a black and white context of math: minutes, days, years, etc. I interpret time by how it feels. For example, some hours at work, particularly in meetings, feel like they are literally lasting for days at a time; but they are just as 60 minutes long as the best Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Grey's Anatomy episode that goes by in an instant and that I can sit through 3 times (it is actually probably more like three hundred times but that would be embarrassing to admit out loud).
There are a million examples of this time dichotomy which is probably why I spend so much time thinking about it (that and the fact that I am crazy and my brain is on fire). I am probably also thinking about it a lot right now because it is birth month and decade birthdays are momentous (see....our entire language is FILLED with time--"right now", "decade", "momentous"). We are surrounded by time, reminded of time, sing songs about time..(in a bottle, or too much of it on my hands)..but personally, I am only beginning to respect time and in turn use it a little more wisely.
Time for me has become a lot like the ocean (stay with me here). It is incredibly powerful and expansive, yet limited in it's resources, and precious. At times it is overwhelming to think about how much time is left, whether you are wanting something to end sooner, start faster, never get here or last forever. Sometimes time is calm and seemingly boring.....and then out of nowhere it sneaks up on you and over-powers you and makes you feel like you are fighting for breath. When you surf which I used to do "a million years ago" (it is really more like twenty but you get my point), I spent a lot of time waiting on the ocean for the "right" wave. Not too big, not too puny, not too crowded, not too scary, not too a lot of things (I probably shouldn't even call it surfing because I spent most of it laying on my board but that screws up the analogy). Needless to say, a lot of ocean passed me by. Time has been very much a similar experience, a lot of it has passed me by because I was stuck on my board waiting for a better wave. While I don't regret the past or wish to shut the door on it (AA speak), I wish I had known the deep limitations of time a lot sooner than three days before forty, but to use another time reference.....better late than never.
I hope this next decade is full of time well spent. I think I am getting better at using my time wisely and spending time doing things I care about. I won't go so far as to say that time is on my side....but time is of the essence and every moment I am alive, I have all of the time in the world even if it is flying by.....and since I can't stop all of this time talk (sigh), let's end with a song. A song from a movie. A song from a movie about drug addiction and wasted youth which seems fitting. A song where the original version pales in comparison to the original. Sorry Simon and Garfunkel.
Here's to having more time than Less Than Zero. MEH + RDJ=TLF
http://youtu.be/TxrwImCJCqk
Saturday, August 9, 2014
The secret nobody knows....
Here is the secret that nobody knows. About my Dad. I don't really believe he is dying. I mean rationally, realistically, I know that this is in fact what is happening. I was in the room when the doctor (who has been shark-cage diving, btw, a fact that is probably only important to me, but still pretty fucking cool) said things like: "average life expectancy is six months" and "entire liver compromised", and other stuff in language that was all terminal and sad and really, really way-to-clear.
I was, in fact, the one who insisted Dr. Shark-Cage-Diver explain to me, in detail, WHY my Dad didn't qualify for a liver transplant.....because why should I just believe him? Just because he is an oncologist and deals with cancery-livers all day, every day, does not mean that he is somehow the liver transplant God.....all-knowing and all-powerful. And frankly, I am still not convinced that I couldn't sway the people at UNOS (who actually are the liver transplant Gods, apparently) with a sales pitch about how cool my Dad is. He may not meet their stupid criteria, but seeing as though he is the coolest human on the planet, I am willing to bet that if I went there (and by there I mean wherever UNOS is, which possibly isn't really a place that exists as a place at all) and took old pictures and told stories and maybe even brought my Dad in person (if he was willing to go, which I doubt because I am pretty sure he thinks this is all crazy) I. Could. Convince. Them.....but I won't do that. Because rational, thinking, Megan is on-board. In full acceptance. Rational Megan knows that much sooner than is even possibly comprehensible this liver thing is going to end....badly.
Trust me I get it. I was the one that said all of the things I was supposed to say about supporting my Dad's decision not to do any kind of treatment (which I really do support...the options he was offered sucked and trying to convince my Dad that he should drink Cannabis oil and take Epsom-salt baths four times a day was not a conversation I think he would have tolerated). I have been to the mortuary-office. I know what the plan is.
But here is the secret that nobody knows.....my Dad can't really ever leave me. I do not think it is really possible for me to exist on the planet without him here, in some form. From the very beginning we have had a special bond that is super-human and unbreakable. I was born on his birthday for Christ's sake.....I have his feet. So deep down, in the recesses of my heart, here is what I really believe is happenening: My Dad has been selected to become part of a super-secret faction of spies who, like vampire-slayers, have always been part of the ether of human existence and are responsible for ensuring that the Earth survives the perils of time. I believe in my most secret place that after he "dies", he will still communicate with me through secret messages and signs and that my biggest responsibility is to be aware of this without making a big deal about it, because that's the kind of talk that gets you institutionalized. I believe this like some people believe in Heaven and Rainbow Bridges, Reincarnation and Alien Abduction.
That is the way you survive things like this. With a system that is three parts knowing reality, one part acceptance and one part total-fucking fantasy, aka belief. Because the first four parts are really, really just too hard. Earth-shaking, bottom-dropping-out, I-feel-like-I-can't-breathe-hard. So to survive, which I intend on doing, I will follow the plan to the tee, I will not let my Dad or my family down. I will call the number and pick up the ashes, I will go on with my life because he made me promise, I will help Sandi and I will carry on....
But in secret, the secret that nobody knows, I will believe that he is not really dead. For the rest of my life, from the moment he is gone.....I will always be on the look-out for my signs....in a manner that keeps from being placed in any type of locked facility, but looking all the same.
So.....Super-Secret Agent Keith Redden Harris.....make sure you don't forget to send them.
I was, in fact, the one who insisted Dr. Shark-Cage-Diver explain to me, in detail, WHY my Dad didn't qualify for a liver transplant.....because why should I just believe him? Just because he is an oncologist and deals with cancery-livers all day, every day, does not mean that he is somehow the liver transplant God.....all-knowing and all-powerful. And frankly, I am still not convinced that I couldn't sway the people at UNOS (who actually are the liver transplant Gods, apparently) with a sales pitch about how cool my Dad is. He may not meet their stupid criteria, but seeing as though he is the coolest human on the planet, I am willing to bet that if I went there (and by there I mean wherever UNOS is, which possibly isn't really a place that exists as a place at all) and took old pictures and told stories and maybe even brought my Dad in person (if he was willing to go, which I doubt because I am pretty sure he thinks this is all crazy) I. Could. Convince. Them.....but I won't do that. Because rational, thinking, Megan is on-board. In full acceptance. Rational Megan knows that much sooner than is even possibly comprehensible this liver thing is going to end....badly.
Trust me I get it. I was the one that said all of the things I was supposed to say about supporting my Dad's decision not to do any kind of treatment (which I really do support...the options he was offered sucked and trying to convince my Dad that he should drink Cannabis oil and take Epsom-salt baths four times a day was not a conversation I think he would have tolerated). I have been to the mortuary-office. I know what the plan is.
But here is the secret that nobody knows.....my Dad can't really ever leave me. I do not think it is really possible for me to exist on the planet without him here, in some form. From the very beginning we have had a special bond that is super-human and unbreakable. I was born on his birthday for Christ's sake.....I have his feet. So deep down, in the recesses of my heart, here is what I really believe is happenening: My Dad has been selected to become part of a super-secret faction of spies who, like vampire-slayers, have always been part of the ether of human existence and are responsible for ensuring that the Earth survives the perils of time. I believe in my most secret place that after he "dies", he will still communicate with me through secret messages and signs and that my biggest responsibility is to be aware of this without making a big deal about it, because that's the kind of talk that gets you institutionalized. I believe this like some people believe in Heaven and Rainbow Bridges, Reincarnation and Alien Abduction.
That is the way you survive things like this. With a system that is three parts knowing reality, one part acceptance and one part total-fucking fantasy, aka belief. Because the first four parts are really, really just too hard. Earth-shaking, bottom-dropping-out, I-feel-like-I-can't-breathe-hard. So to survive, which I intend on doing, I will follow the plan to the tee, I will not let my Dad or my family down. I will call the number and pick up the ashes, I will go on with my life because he made me promise, I will help Sandi and I will carry on....
But in secret, the secret that nobody knows, I will believe that he is not really dead. For the rest of my life, from the moment he is gone.....I will always be on the look-out for my signs....in a manner that keeps from being placed in any type of locked facility, but looking all the same.
So.....Super-Secret Agent Keith Redden Harris.....make sure you don't forget to send them.
Catharsis or Cath for short
If you are turning forty in four days like I am and have finally decided to write because your entire life people have told you: "Megan....you should write.", (seriously....my whole life. Since way back in Montessori school where I failed at cleaning up after myself but was a mastress in making letters), and then finally something really terrible happened and you could not contain the words in your head any longer, then the first thing that you do is name your brand new computer.
I know what you're thinking. You are thinking: Are you sure that is the first thing you do? Don't you maybe learn about blogging? Or take a grammar/punctuation refresher course? Or, heck, consider the implications of giving yourself one more "have to" in your life when you are already like "fuck everything" on a daily basis? Nope. You spend a ridiculous amount of money on a computer and spend a great deal of time considering the implications of her name. And gender.
I named my ridiculously expensive computer Cath. Short for Catharsis. Or Catharine, after my Grandma Harris who was really a Katherine but since you don't spell Catharsis with a K and my computer is a Cath and not a Kate....it is Catharine. Turns out it is also after the Death Cab song, "Cath", which has been stuck in my head for five days now. And just like the problem with naming anything, kids, dogs, countries, what-have-you, as soon as I announced her name, there were issues. In this case both my Mom and my Partner said: "Cath? Like a catheter?" So now every time I talk to or about Cath I think catheter and have extrapolated that into envisioning her plug as an actual catheter and wondering if someday I might see yellow liquid pooled on the floor as she is charging. So thanks for that, Judy and Heather.
That's the problem with names. Only the namer truly understands what the reasoning and magic is behind them. For example, I am sure Gwyneth Paltrow has a perfectly deep and spiritual reason for naming her daughter after a piece of fruit but every time I see the kid I imagine her head as a Granny Smith. And despite the fact that I will forever be fighting the image of "catheter" in my head (thanks again Judy and Heather), I know in my heart that Catharsis was named for reasons that are beyond the actual letters that form her name.
In Cath's case her name was bestowed after I had a written a letter for friends and family about my Dad, who is fucking dying (which is different than just dying because it is MY Dad who is doing it and it sucks more for me than if it were happening to anybody else's Dad) and Sandi, (my other Mom), suggested I continue writing because what I wrote was so good (I swear she did say that), and because she thought it would help me as we walk through this awfulness. "It could be cathartic", were the exact words she used, which brings us full circle to the here and now of me finally starting to write, but first having to name my computer.
So please let me introduce myself. My name is Megan Emily Harris. I am writing this on my computer Catharsis, "Cath" for short. My Dad, Keith, is fucking dying, I am turning forty in four days and there are too many words in my head.
It's a start.
Cath the song named after my computer.
I know what you're thinking. You are thinking: Are you sure that is the first thing you do? Don't you maybe learn about blogging? Or take a grammar/punctuation refresher course? Or, heck, consider the implications of giving yourself one more "have to" in your life when you are already like "fuck everything" on a daily basis? Nope. You spend a ridiculous amount of money on a computer and spend a great deal of time considering the implications of her name. And gender.
I named my ridiculously expensive computer Cath. Short for Catharsis. Or Catharine, after my Grandma Harris who was really a Katherine but since you don't spell Catharsis with a K and my computer is a Cath and not a Kate....it is Catharine. Turns out it is also after the Death Cab song, "Cath", which has been stuck in my head for five days now. And just like the problem with naming anything, kids, dogs, countries, what-have-you, as soon as I announced her name, there were issues. In this case both my Mom and my Partner said: "Cath? Like a catheter?" So now every time I talk to or about Cath I think catheter and have extrapolated that into envisioning her plug as an actual catheter and wondering if someday I might see yellow liquid pooled on the floor as she is charging. So thanks for that, Judy and Heather.
That's the problem with names. Only the namer truly understands what the reasoning and magic is behind them. For example, I am sure Gwyneth Paltrow has a perfectly deep and spiritual reason for naming her daughter after a piece of fruit but every time I see the kid I imagine her head as a Granny Smith. And despite the fact that I will forever be fighting the image of "catheter" in my head (thanks again Judy and Heather), I know in my heart that Catharsis was named for reasons that are beyond the actual letters that form her name.
In Cath's case her name was bestowed after I had a written a letter for friends and family about my Dad, who is fucking dying (which is different than just dying because it is MY Dad who is doing it and it sucks more for me than if it were happening to anybody else's Dad) and Sandi, (my other Mom), suggested I continue writing because what I wrote was so good (I swear she did say that), and because she thought it would help me as we walk through this awfulness. "It could be cathartic", were the exact words she used, which brings us full circle to the here and now of me finally starting to write, but first having to name my computer.
So please let me introduce myself. My name is Megan Emily Harris. I am writing this on my computer Catharsis, "Cath" for short. My Dad, Keith, is fucking dying, I am turning forty in four days and there are too many words in my head.
It's a start.
"And soon everybody will ask what became of you.....
Cause your heart was dying fast and you didn't know what to do...."
Cath the song named after my computer.
Thursday, August 7, 2014
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