I guess it's a thing not to think much of "government workers". We're wasting your tax dollars and stuff. And I use "and stuff" here purposefully, not because I don't have the vocabulary to further explain all of the lame notions people have about the effort, pay and ability of government workers, but because I don't think better descriptors are worth wasting time on. Especially after Friday. Friday my partner and I, both government employees, happened to be off at home together when a really bad man started off a series of events that began and ended with the slaughter of a deputy sheriff. Two total. Also government employees. I say slaughter because that's what it was. From their wounds it is clear, at least to me that: 1. He figured they'd be wearing vests. 2. He shot around that fact to escape being in trouble for whatever he was doing in the Motel 6 parking lot with a gun that looks to me like it should only be used in combat missions against robot-super-warriors. But that's not my point.
My partner and I aren't usually the type to watch news coverage of police chases, but for whatever reason we were captivated by this. I think probably because it was so close to home on so many levels. I watched her watching the coverage with the massive man-hunt, choppers in the air; the multi-agency response. I watched her wince when they confirmed the first deputy had been killed. Then the second. I tried to imagine what it must have been like for the dispatcher somewhere in Sacramento to have received the call from the surviving deputy that shots had been fired; that an officer was down and that the suspects had fled. I tried to imagine what it must have been like for the surviving deputy to watch his partner and friend be shot in the forehead, recoiling back to die in a pool of blood in the parking lot of a Motel 6. To feel what he must have felt all at once; the instinct to return fire and pursue, conflicting with the instinct to save his partner and get help, coupled with at least a touch of fear for his own life. I watched as probation officers showed up at the various scenes to lend a hand during the search. Watched the SWAT teams show up. Watched the ambulance at the end, load up the suspect to transport him to the hospital for medical clearance.
We know these people. Not these specific individuals mind you, but this cast of characters in the county where we work. We know they have wives and children and finances and dogs at home. We know the arresting officers, the SWAT guy. My parents were the teachers who kept all of those kids safe in classrooms across two counties where schools were on lock-down. I live with the dispatcher, often work with the EMT's. I have spent time and laughed with the DA's who will be assigned this case and I've had lunch with the PD who will be assigned to uphold the rights of the defendant. I AM the mental health worker that will be asked to visit the alleged assailant in jail. Or I have been. I am not in this case by a county. One county. I think maybe that is why we watched so closely yesterday. Because it could have just as easily been us and we felt like we owed it to our brothers and sisters, one county away, to stay vigilant, to stay present, to stay faithful.
Last week the supervisors at my agency bought the line staff pizza. Out of their own personal monies. They bought us pizza to thank us for the hard work we do. It's probably the nicest thing that has happened to me as a county worker (a government worker) in all of my years working for a county which is closing in on a decade, come 2016. Not that I expect nice things to happen or to be done for me. Despite popular opinion most of us don't go into public service for the perks and the glory. Yes, I have retirement and yes, I have medical benefits. I earn those things. I also have the luxury of working with the people no one else wants to, because somewhere along the line, in the history of humanity, we decided we can't just kill the people who don't behave the way we want them too. In fact, if you notice, despite everything he did yesterday, the suspect was brought in alive. Thanks to those pesky government workers. Thanks to your tax dollars. We will also now continue to deal with him because he is still a human and still has rights and even though we may have moments where we think otherwise, we agree that it is not OK to start killing people who don't behave. At least not outright.
It' so easy to have scapegoats. Government workers. Cops. Social workers. It's so easy to stomp our feet about tax dollars and to point fingers at waste and bureaucracy. It's so easy to complain about the roles we don't ever have to be in. Until we need to call 911. Until our car is taken at gun point. Until our kid is in a classroom on a high school campus where an armed and dangerous subject may be trying to hide. Until it's us. I know there is corruption and I know that sometimes the cops and social workers themselves don't behave. But I still think we matter. I think the work we do is valuable and worth having some fucking gratitude for.
So I am dedicating this blog to all of the government workers who got paid the same wage during Friday's event, while their lives were on the line, as they do on a typical Friday. The two deputies that will never come home. The other two who bore witness to their comrades being slaughtered. The rest of the first responders who responded. The dispatchers who worried themselves sick while remaining calm. The teachers who said reassuring things to their students while they sat in locked classrooms in the dark. The EMT's who responded with the same level of care and responsibility to the fallen officers as they did to the suspect. The social workers who are busy counseling the families of the victims and the perpetrators. The DA who gets assigned this case on Monday and the PD, god help you, who owes the alleged assailant his day in court. You did good. Quite good for government work. Thank you.
Sunday, October 26, 2014
Sunday, October 19, 2014
Nothverything
I don't believe in Karma anymore. Or fairness or just retribution. Or God's Will. Which all sounds probably more hopeless than it is intended. Because it doesn't feel hopeless. It feels real. I believe in nothing and everything. Nothverything if you will, because all words should be able to be combined in a shippy way like you do with couples on TV shows.
People are funny about Karma and God's Will. A lot of Karma believers will go full-hackle-up if you suggest something is God's Will but think Karma makes perfect sense. Then, when you try and suggest that it is not possible for a child to have done anything to deserve to be horribly abused or starved to death, they pull the prior life card. They are paying for something in a past life. Really? That's as ridiculous as it being God's Will. What you are doing is implementing a belief system to try and help you solve unsolvable math. Eventually you are going to have to face the fact that the answer isn't in the back of the book.
If Karma does exist, it sure isn't fair, which I think is the principle tenant of something being Karmic. Some people are asked to pay a whole hell of a lot for doing the same things that other people pay nothing for. Really good amazing people die too soon and they don't just die, they die in horrible ways. Like what the hell did you do, over however many lifetimes, to deserve to be beheaded on international TV? I am sure someone has an answer. And I am glad for you that you do, but whatever it is, I don't buy it. To be clear, I don't believe that was God's Will either. And if it was God's Will.....? Well then God is an Asshole.
Don't get me wrong. I am a believer. I have to be because my sobriety depends on it. Plus the math of belief finally made sense. I have struggled my whole life with drugs and alcohol. I have also spent my whole life rejecting the idea of something bigger than me that I can depend on. Yet, as soon as I decided I had no idea what I was doing, gave up, and decided to believe that as long as I stayed clean and sober I would be taken care of for the rest of my life? Boom! It's better here. But not because I have paid back my Karmic debt or God likes me better or I said enough Hail Mary's. It is better because, for the most part, I have stopped struggling......even though the struggles are all still there. In fact, every once in a while I jump head first into the struggle, just to see if by some chance something has changed, but it never does.
It is better simply by believing that it is not up to me to figure anything out. That the reason is nothverything. That there is no rhyme or reason to anything. But I am going to be ok, anyways. Bad things happen to really amazing people through no fault of their own or God's. Nothing equals out, not a lot makes sense, somedays are diamonds and some days are stones and I have no idea what factors go into making either kind of day get that result. My Dad still got Cancer even though he is the most wonderful man on the planet. My Mom still has horrible, degenerative arthritis and has to have all of her parts replaced, despite being kind and loving and more generous than almost anyone I have ever known. There are innocent people on Death Row. Michael Vick still gets to play football. None of it is fair. None of it is justified. It is just happening. Nothing and Everything. All mattering at the same time.
It is the belief that saves you. Not what you believe in. When you start trying to describe it, it stops making sense. It is the belief that saves you. Nothverything.
Have a good week.
Don't get me wrong. I am a believer. I have to be because my sobriety depends on it. Plus the math of belief finally made sense. I have struggled my whole life with drugs and alcohol. I have also spent my whole life rejecting the idea of something bigger than me that I can depend on. Yet, as soon as I decided I had no idea what I was doing, gave up, and decided to believe that as long as I stayed clean and sober I would be taken care of for the rest of my life? Boom! It's better here. But not because I have paid back my Karmic debt or God likes me better or I said enough Hail Mary's. It is better because, for the most part, I have stopped struggling......even though the struggles are all still there. In fact, every once in a while I jump head first into the struggle, just to see if by some chance something has changed, but it never does.
It is better simply by believing that it is not up to me to figure anything out. That the reason is nothverything. That there is no rhyme or reason to anything. But I am going to be ok, anyways. Bad things happen to really amazing people through no fault of their own or God's. Nothing equals out, not a lot makes sense, somedays are diamonds and some days are stones and I have no idea what factors go into making either kind of day get that result. My Dad still got Cancer even though he is the most wonderful man on the planet. My Mom still has horrible, degenerative arthritis and has to have all of her parts replaced, despite being kind and loving and more generous than almost anyone I have ever known. There are innocent people on Death Row. Michael Vick still gets to play football. None of it is fair. None of it is justified. It is just happening. Nothing and Everything. All mattering at the same time.
It is the belief that saves you. Not what you believe in. When you start trying to describe it, it stops making sense. It is the belief that saves you. Nothverything.
Have a good week.
Saturday, October 18, 2014
More About Baseball
The title of this blog is totally on purpose. I have seen some backlash recently about too much baseball talk and it doesn't sit well with me. In fact, it never sits well with me when people on social media or in real life critique other people for being who they are. None of us really care about all of the things people we are following or are friends with care about. I mean, sure, I care in a general I know you or have known you and hope you are enjoying your time here kind of way. But I give less than zero fucks about your football teams, your dinner, your beer, where you are at any given moment, what your kids look like on the first day of school, or what genius thing you have to say about Ebola or Obamacare. I certainly don't care enough to want to take the time to encourage you to stop posting the 17th picture of the bird you saw on your camping trip. Good for you for being into your life. And good for me for knowing how to scroll. I feel the same way about the language police. I say "fuck" a lot. Whether or not it offends you is not my problem when you choose to be friends with me on Facebook. Or read my blog. Or when you come to my house. Or pretty much anytime I am not being paid to have some semblance of appropriate and professional language.
Wondering about how people could be bothered by baseball did prompt me to reflect on just how and why baseball has become so important to me. I haven't always cared about baseball. In fact, I could have cared less up until a couple of years ago. My Dad tried for years to encourage some interest in his beloved Giants, to no avail. Years. My dad is a lifer when it comes to the Giants. He remembers when they came from New York; remembers cutting school to sit outside of Candlestick (made sense at the time); remembers players and coaches; he knows when AT&T opened, knew he was part of history when he saw Bonds play. I, on the other hand, was pretty baseball resistant for almost my entire life. There is a neat story about my Dad and Sandi trying to foster some enthusiasm and father-daughter bonding by taking me to a Giants vs. Dodgers double-header for our birthday one August. Based on my color choices at the time I would guess I was about 13 or 14 because I went to said double-header in ALL black. That's right. All black for eight hours of baseball at Candlestick. In August. My memories of that game are not of father-daughter bonding at all. In fact, my memories are almost entirely of the passageway underneath the stands because that is where I sat. For the entirety of both games.
I couldn't stand baseball. Thought is was boring. Sort of cared about the Giants because it was important to my Dad, but not really. Not enough to know who was pitching when we went to AT&T annually, (or for that matter who we were playing), but enough to understand that it was a cool way to spend the day with my Dad. Plus, the garlic fries were good. I didn't even jump on the bandwagon when they won the series for the first time in 2010. In fact, I wasn't bit by the bug until 2012, during the actual World Series against Detroit. I don't know how or why it happened, all I know is that all of a sudden whether or not Sergio Romo got the save, and whether or not we swept in Motor City, became the number one most important thing in my life. My dad wasn't even home, I don't think. He's funny in that he manages to be out of town just about every time they are in a World Series, this year being no exception. But once I was bit....it was all over.
Sometimes I think my obsession with baseball has come with my recovery from alcohol. The timing is about right and it certainly gives me something to think about that can serve as a distraction from being sober all of the time, or from anything else that actually matters. That's right, I just said that baseball doesn't really matter. And it doesn't. Not compared to Ebola or the drought or sobriety or other real life things. I haven't lost my sense of what is really important simply because I have developed a baseball obsession. But I do think it is my obsession with baseball that gives me the ability to cope with the things that do really matter because it gives me an out (no pun intended). If I can focus my attention on whether or not Matt Cain will return to form in the 2015 season I can take a break from a job that is difficult and filled with pain. If I can zone out and watch the World Series I can think about something other than the fact that my Dad is really sick. If I am able to look foreword to Spring Training I can give myself the gift of hope, no matter how deep, dark and cold my Winter may be. If I can talk to my Dad about baseball we can share something eternal. Something that will live beyond him and beyond me and that helps me feel like death doesn't really have to be the end of anything.
What is so funny about my baseball obsession is that it has gone even beyond my Dad at this point. Now I keep him abreast of trade rumors. I let him know what is going on in the American League because he could care less. I will be the one inviting him to games at Raley Field because I am the one who will have RiverCats season tickets. I have a life that is inspired by his and a life that has also grown beyond his. Baseball may not matter. But life does. My Dad does. So just in case you missed it the 1001 times I have posted it, here are some things really important to me and about me:
Go Giants!
Even Year Magic!
I Bleed Orange and Black!
W4K! (Win for Keith)
Don't (ever) Stop Believing!!!
and the best....
"Travis Ishikawa hits one to right. THE GIANTS WIN THE PENNANT"
http://www.sbnation.com/mlb/2014/10/17/6992939/travis-ishikawa-walk-off-home-run-giants-cardinals-nlcs-world-series
Wondering about how people could be bothered by baseball did prompt me to reflect on just how and why baseball has become so important to me. I haven't always cared about baseball. In fact, I could have cared less up until a couple of years ago. My Dad tried for years to encourage some interest in his beloved Giants, to no avail. Years. My dad is a lifer when it comes to the Giants. He remembers when they came from New York; remembers cutting school to sit outside of Candlestick (made sense at the time); remembers players and coaches; he knows when AT&T opened, knew he was part of history when he saw Bonds play. I, on the other hand, was pretty baseball resistant for almost my entire life. There is a neat story about my Dad and Sandi trying to foster some enthusiasm and father-daughter bonding by taking me to a Giants vs. Dodgers double-header for our birthday one August. Based on my color choices at the time I would guess I was about 13 or 14 because I went to said double-header in ALL black. That's right. All black for eight hours of baseball at Candlestick. In August. My memories of that game are not of father-daughter bonding at all. In fact, my memories are almost entirely of the passageway underneath the stands because that is where I sat. For the entirety of both games.
I couldn't stand baseball. Thought is was boring. Sort of cared about the Giants because it was important to my Dad, but not really. Not enough to know who was pitching when we went to AT&T annually, (or for that matter who we were playing), but enough to understand that it was a cool way to spend the day with my Dad. Plus, the garlic fries were good. I didn't even jump on the bandwagon when they won the series for the first time in 2010. In fact, I wasn't bit by the bug until 2012, during the actual World Series against Detroit. I don't know how or why it happened, all I know is that all of a sudden whether or not Sergio Romo got the save, and whether or not we swept in Motor City, became the number one most important thing in my life. My dad wasn't even home, I don't think. He's funny in that he manages to be out of town just about every time they are in a World Series, this year being no exception. But once I was bit....it was all over.
Sometimes I think my obsession with baseball has come with my recovery from alcohol. The timing is about right and it certainly gives me something to think about that can serve as a distraction from being sober all of the time, or from anything else that actually matters. That's right, I just said that baseball doesn't really matter. And it doesn't. Not compared to Ebola or the drought or sobriety or other real life things. I haven't lost my sense of what is really important simply because I have developed a baseball obsession. But I do think it is my obsession with baseball that gives me the ability to cope with the things that do really matter because it gives me an out (no pun intended). If I can focus my attention on whether or not Matt Cain will return to form in the 2015 season I can take a break from a job that is difficult and filled with pain. If I can zone out and watch the World Series I can think about something other than the fact that my Dad is really sick. If I am able to look foreword to Spring Training I can give myself the gift of hope, no matter how deep, dark and cold my Winter may be. If I can talk to my Dad about baseball we can share something eternal. Something that will live beyond him and beyond me and that helps me feel like death doesn't really have to be the end of anything.
What is so funny about my baseball obsession is that it has gone even beyond my Dad at this point. Now I keep him abreast of trade rumors. I let him know what is going on in the American League because he could care less. I will be the one inviting him to games at Raley Field because I am the one who will have RiverCats season tickets. I have a life that is inspired by his and a life that has also grown beyond his. Baseball may not matter. But life does. My Dad does. So just in case you missed it the 1001 times I have posted it, here are some things really important to me and about me:
Go Giants!
Even Year Magic!
I Bleed Orange and Black!
W4K! (Win for Keith)
Don't (ever) Stop Believing!!!
and the best....
"Travis Ishikawa hits one to right. THE GIANTS WIN THE PENNANT"
http://www.sbnation.com/mlb/2014/10/17/6992939/travis-ishikawa-walk-off-home-run-giants-cardinals-nlcs-world-series
Saturday, October 11, 2014
Finding the Field
My friend Julie's favorite quote is by Rumi. At least I think it's her favorite. I've never asked her. And my phone is miles away in the kitchen so I am not about to get up and go ask her now. So for the purposes of this blog, it's her favorite. Just like for the purposes of this blog I am going to pretend that I know who Rumi is. In reality, I don't know who Rumi is but I like him. Or her. Is Rumi a him or a her? It doesn't matter. The point is my friend Julie's favorite quote (maybe) is by Rumi (whoever Rumi is). It says this:
I found this quote on Julie's door at work and have held it in my heart ever since.
Lately my world has been too full to talk about. And I can't talk about most of it anyway. That's the secret agent part of being a social worker. You get to know all of these things, hear all of these things, see all of these things and it fills you up. Yet, there is no real way to let it out, so you twist and turn your own inside things trying to make other people's inside things fit. Like a suitcase, because you are bound and determined to take only one (!), so you rearrange and smash, and twist two souls full of experiences into one and then use all of your weight to make everything fit and zip up. It used to be worth it to me. All of that rearranging and smashing and holding was worth it, just to be a social worker. But it is becoming less and less easy to fit anything in this suitcase and at this point, I am not even sure I want to keep traveling this road. And I don't know how to fix that, except to say it out loud.
My world is too full and I am not sure I can tell the difference between right doing and wrong doing anymore. I half-expect it doesn't much matter, either. I think the world is a lot harsher than I was ever ready for. People can be angry and unkind and unnecessarily petty and loud. Phones ring shrilly, lights are too bright....intensity is like a drug and the entire world is cracked out. It isn't quiet or soft anywhere. Yet, I am. In my deepest places I am quiet and soft and easily broken. It is hard to admit this out loud because I pride myself on being such a badass. But lately I feel more like Willow trying to grow new skin. I need Buffy's strength. I need directions to that field.
I can't find it right now but I believe in that field. I know it exists because I have had moments there. Moments where you realize that you are so much more than this human being in this seemingly impossible situation. Moments where you see your place amongst the stars and feel the ocean move within your veins. Moments when my soul has rested in soft sweet grass and nothing was hard and there were no sharp edges. And it was too quiet to talk because words were meaningless and there was nothing left to say.
I am going to look closer for that field in the next few weeks. And when I find it.....I will meet you there.
Out beyond ideas of wrong doing
and right doing there is a field.
I will meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass
the world is too full to talk about.
I found this quote on Julie's door at work and have held it in my heart ever since.
Lately my world has been too full to talk about. And I can't talk about most of it anyway. That's the secret agent part of being a social worker. You get to know all of these things, hear all of these things, see all of these things and it fills you up. Yet, there is no real way to let it out, so you twist and turn your own inside things trying to make other people's inside things fit. Like a suitcase, because you are bound and determined to take only one (!), so you rearrange and smash, and twist two souls full of experiences into one and then use all of your weight to make everything fit and zip up. It used to be worth it to me. All of that rearranging and smashing and holding was worth it, just to be a social worker. But it is becoming less and less easy to fit anything in this suitcase and at this point, I am not even sure I want to keep traveling this road. And I don't know how to fix that, except to say it out loud.
My world is too full and I am not sure I can tell the difference between right doing and wrong doing anymore. I half-expect it doesn't much matter, either. I think the world is a lot harsher than I was ever ready for. People can be angry and unkind and unnecessarily petty and loud. Phones ring shrilly, lights are too bright....intensity is like a drug and the entire world is cracked out. It isn't quiet or soft anywhere. Yet, I am. In my deepest places I am quiet and soft and easily broken. It is hard to admit this out loud because I pride myself on being such a badass. But lately I feel more like Willow trying to grow new skin. I need Buffy's strength. I need directions to that field.
I can't find it right now but I believe in that field. I know it exists because I have had moments there. Moments where you realize that you are so much more than this human being in this seemingly impossible situation. Moments where you see your place amongst the stars and feel the ocean move within your veins. Moments when my soul has rested in soft sweet grass and nothing was hard and there were no sharp edges. And it was too quiet to talk because words were meaningless and there was nothing left to say.
I am going to look closer for that field in the next few weeks. And when I find it.....I will meet you there.
Saturday, October 4, 2014
Crazy
Last week was weird. It was one of those weeks where you have encounters with other humans who theoretically speak English, (or whatever your primary language is), yet you say to yourself: "Dude. I don't even think we are speaking the same language. How can that possibly be your response to this situation?" The kind of interactions where you can't even really speak words out loud because you would say 'fuck"way too many times, to way too many people, who probably won't find it way too endearing. So you watch baseball and become a Royals fan. Crazy as that sounds.
I read an article about reclaiming the word "Crazy". I personally love the word crazy, use it all of the time and have no shame in using it to describe the behavior of my clients, my friends, public figures, situations, reactions, family members or myself at times. If the adjective fits. Also? There is only shame in a word if you accept it. There is only shame in anything if you take it on as your burden. I know this because I have carried shame and allowed myself to be shamed for a lot of things for a lot of days and have just recently realized it was time to lay that shame down. And that the only person who could lay it down was me. And that all of the forgiveness and all of the redemption I had looked for externally; from you, from my bosses, from my friends, from my parents, from sponsors and boards, and GOD, could only come.....from me. Crazy as that sounds.
We are all crazy. All illnesses, all of them, are spectrum's. Trust me. I could diagnose all of you if the BBS would let me. None of you are excused from Crazy. Whether it is in moments or life-long struggles. Whether it is your obsession with order, your destroyed body-image, the Mommy issues you've never worked out, your hidden crying jags, inability to feel anger, gambling problem, sort-of "dependence" on "as needed" anxiety medication, fear of bridges....whatever. None of us are perfect. None of us get the win for being sane. Plus, what word should I use instead? Nuts? Manic? Ill? Tangentially Confused with Thought-Blocking and Delusions? Hysterical? Depressed? Weird? None of those speak to me like Crazy does. Crazy is one part beautiful, one part struggle, totally human. Crazy is brave and scared, yet filled with opportunity. Crazy is the opposite of At Peace and just like you can't have Joy without Sadness, Pain without Relief, Life without Death, you won't know Real Peace until you have experienced some Crazy. The word police will just have to arrest me, I guess. Crazy as that sounds.
The greatest freedom I have ever found came when I stopped caring about what other people thought. I don't know how it happened, either. Middle-age, maybe. Sobriety, definitely. Hard lessons in the lack of significance that any of this has. And a lot of watching. I watch people all of the time. Not, like, in a weird creepy, stalky way; more like a I-am-a-visitor-here-what-a-weird-planet-way. None of you know what you are doing. And since I am one of you, I guess I finally figured out that as long as I was doing my best, how could any of you question me? That coupled with my divorce from hierarchy, which simply put is believing that people in power know what they are doing and blindly following their lead, and BOOM! Freedom. Janis was right when she said that Freedom was just another word for Nothing Left to Lose. Because the only thing you ever can really lose is yourself. Crazy as that sounds.
We are out of coffee here. And I have to buy a shirt. So I am going to leave you with some of the music that has popped up in my head this week. As I have thought these thoughts, the running dialogue in my head is mostly music. I literally have to translate what I write here from the lyrics streaming through my head. Crazy as THAT sounds.
We will talk soon. Good luck out there. Be safe. You Crazy Fools.
REM "Crazy"
http://youtu.be/axVC8bLo-jo
http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/rem/crazy.html
Janis Joplin "Me and Bobby McGee"
http://youtu.be/WXV_QjenbDw
http://www.metrolyrics.com/me-and-bobby-mcgee-lyrics-janis-joplin.html
Lorde 'Royals"
http://youtu.be/nlcIKh6sBtc
http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/lorde/royals.html
I read an article about reclaiming the word "Crazy". I personally love the word crazy, use it all of the time and have no shame in using it to describe the behavior of my clients, my friends, public figures, situations, reactions, family members or myself at times. If the adjective fits. Also? There is only shame in a word if you accept it. There is only shame in anything if you take it on as your burden. I know this because I have carried shame and allowed myself to be shamed for a lot of things for a lot of days and have just recently realized it was time to lay that shame down. And that the only person who could lay it down was me. And that all of the forgiveness and all of the redemption I had looked for externally; from you, from my bosses, from my friends, from my parents, from sponsors and boards, and GOD, could only come.....from me. Crazy as that sounds.
We are all crazy. All illnesses, all of them, are spectrum's. Trust me. I could diagnose all of you if the BBS would let me. None of you are excused from Crazy. Whether it is in moments or life-long struggles. Whether it is your obsession with order, your destroyed body-image, the Mommy issues you've never worked out, your hidden crying jags, inability to feel anger, gambling problem, sort-of "dependence" on "as needed" anxiety medication, fear of bridges....whatever. None of us are perfect. None of us get the win for being sane. Plus, what word should I use instead? Nuts? Manic? Ill? Tangentially Confused with Thought-Blocking and Delusions? Hysterical? Depressed? Weird? None of those speak to me like Crazy does. Crazy is one part beautiful, one part struggle, totally human. Crazy is brave and scared, yet filled with opportunity. Crazy is the opposite of At Peace and just like you can't have Joy without Sadness, Pain without Relief, Life without Death, you won't know Real Peace until you have experienced some Crazy. The word police will just have to arrest me, I guess. Crazy as that sounds.
The greatest freedom I have ever found came when I stopped caring about what other people thought. I don't know how it happened, either. Middle-age, maybe. Sobriety, definitely. Hard lessons in the lack of significance that any of this has. And a lot of watching. I watch people all of the time. Not, like, in a weird creepy, stalky way; more like a I-am-a-visitor-here-what-a-weird-planet-way. None of you know what you are doing. And since I am one of you, I guess I finally figured out that as long as I was doing my best, how could any of you question me? That coupled with my divorce from hierarchy, which simply put is believing that people in power know what they are doing and blindly following their lead, and BOOM! Freedom. Janis was right when she said that Freedom was just another word for Nothing Left to Lose. Because the only thing you ever can really lose is yourself. Crazy as that sounds.
We are out of coffee here. And I have to buy a shirt. So I am going to leave you with some of the music that has popped up in my head this week. As I have thought these thoughts, the running dialogue in my head is mostly music. I literally have to translate what I write here from the lyrics streaming through my head. Crazy as THAT sounds.
We will talk soon. Good luck out there. Be safe. You Crazy Fools.
REM "Crazy"
http://youtu.be/axVC8bLo-jo
http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/rem/crazy.html
Janis Joplin "Me and Bobby McGee"
http://youtu.be/WXV_QjenbDw
http://www.metrolyrics.com/me-and-bobby-mcgee-lyrics-janis-joplin.html
Lorde 'Royals"
http://youtu.be/nlcIKh6sBtc
http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/lorde/royals.html
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