The trailer for the new Picard Star Trek series premiered a while ago and it choked me up. In trying to articulate why, I wasted a lot of time setting the scene – explaining where I was during the run of the show, why it had such a profound effect on my adolescence, and why, despite its problems, it still resonates in my psyche. But none of that really explained why Picard is my captain, and it occurred to me that I don’t have to explain it. He already did.
Picard is my captain because there are four lights.
Picard is my captain because it’s possible to commit no mistakes and still lose, and that is not weakness, that is life.
Picard is my captain because sometimes there are no laws that fit the crime.
Picard is my captain because children don’t belong on the bridge.
Picard is my captain because on his ship, no one is alone. No one.
Picard is my captain because ordering a man to turn over his child to the state is abhorrent and men of good conscience cannot blindly follow orders.
Picard is my captain because I knew what tea, Earl Grey, hot was before the show and it was the key to my heart.
Picard is my captain because being broken down to component parts teaches us our humanity.
Picard is my captain because vigilance is the price we continually pay for freedom.
Picard is my captain because sometimes the line must be drawn here! And other times there can be no justice when laws are absolute.
Picard is my captain because courage can be an emotion, too.
I was a weird kid. While trying to obey the expectations of my family, there were others I wanted to be proud of me. People who embodied ideals that I didn’t necessarily see around me, but nonetheless knew were good and right. I try to live my life in such a way that Captain Picard would be proud of me. I’m hoping that I can measure that against the new series and be validated, or at least encouraged. I’m striving to make it so.
This is not where I’m settling down. I feel obligated to say that at the outset because I’ve come to recognize the importance of identifying way-stations in life. Permanence is an illusion. The lifestyle I have now is not the one I want forever, and the home I have now will not suit me in the future.
That being said, it’s a pretty sweet pad.
As it turns out, I’m most comfortable in the middle class, suburban environments in which I was raised. An 80’s latchkey kid, I find a great deal of contentment in uniform streets of cookie-cutter houses, with fenced yards and kids running around after school. I greatly appreciate living 2 miles from the fancy grocery store with the olive bar, and the fact that there are a Lowe’s and Home Depot within five minutes of my house bothers me not at all.
Basic af, I know. Not sorry about it even a little bit.
My life has veered from shit storm to stress ball without relief since 2015. So as I sit here in my central air-conditioned, split-level, 3 bedroom, 2.5 bath suburban cookie-cutter house, laundry running downstairs in the entire room dedicated to laundry and the dishwasher happily chugging away in the kitchen, my full time with benefits and bonuses job waiting for me on Monday morning, I don’t give a single solitary fuck how “basic” my life seems. Comparatively speaking, “basic” feels real damn good right now.
I find it difficult to explain what accomplishing your goals feels like. Each line item on my list, confidently struck through by my persistence, represented its own manuscript of stress and worry and depression and fear. I’d get through one and feel giddy like Christmas morning, then freak out wondering what ill wind was going to blow another shit storm into my life. Finding a house and getting moved was the last thing on my list and after accomplishing that a week ago, I started compulsively looking over my shoulder for that feeling of impending doom that’s been my constant companion for the last 4 years and my intermittent companion for most of my life. Wondering what I was forgetting or failing to do that was going to knock me down a peg. And then I remembered – no, this feeling of accomplishment and peace is what I earned for having survived and improved over the last 4 years. Doom can fuck right off for the time being, thankyouverymuch.
My dogs are living their best life after running and playing in our spacious, flat, fenced yard. My roommate is my favorite person on the planet. My job is 4 minutes from my house. Is it exactly where I want to be? Not really, and even that is kind of perfect in its own way because it gives me something else to strive for and look forward to. But this feeling of looking back and seeing only my past, instead of a grasping disaster ready to wreck my life? Yeah, that’s pretty spectacular and I’m just going to sit here and stew in it for a while, let my fingers get all pruney. I’m confident that when I’m ready to pull the plug and move on to the next thing, it’ll be on my own terms.
As of today, I am a graduate with an Associates of Applied Science degree. I won’t tell you what field because it’s small enough to be identifying and I don’t know you that well. Unless I do, in which case you already know! I have some disjointed thoughts I need to get down. Strap in.
A two year degree doesn’t sound very impressive when compared with graduate degrees and before I entered this program I, too, held the opinion that it wasn’t really worth celebrating. That’s because I didn’t know what the fuck I was talking about. I pushed through five straight semesters while also holding down a thankless retail job, paying all my bills on time, walking all my dogs regularly, devoting a not-small portion of my time to volunteer activities, AND I made the Dean’s list. Twice. The particular program I was in incorporates doctorate-level studies (not a lot, but I can talk about some nit-picky science shit, lemme tell ya), and required regular clinical rotations. I worked very hard over the last two years, with no time off, and I earned the respect of both my instructors and my peers. My two year degree is impressive as fuck.
Speaking of peers – I didn’t really make any life-long friends. It’s not that kind of program. Most of us were middle-aged and seeking a career change, with built-in families, friends, and support structures. We weren’t necessarily looking to create a new family. But it’s true that cohorts share a camaraderie that you can’t appreciate unless you’ve been through something challenging and emotional with another group of people. Different groups call it different things (such as “unit cohesion” in the military), but the sense of shared accomplishment and the unspoken understanding that comes from fellowship is real. Whether you want it to be or not. My classmates measure success in their own ways, but we all understand what it took to stand here at graduation and say, “We earned this.” It’s not a small thing.
I won’t be walking with my class. It’s a long, boring, stifling, unwieldy ceremony that doesn’t represent accomplishment to me. But I will be joining my class for a meal, sharing that sense of camaraderie one last time before I move on. I was good at school. A linear path with clearly set goals and expectations is a challenge that appeals to me. My instructors had glowing feedback and recognition for me at the end of my courses. The program director said that not only did I raise the bar, but I brought all of my classmates up as a result. They gave me the department award. And they’re proud of me. That feels really nice.
I have a strange sense of dazed aimlessness this morning. No school deadlines to fret over, no continuing project or assignment to dwell on, no particular schedule to slave to. I have other things going on. There is right now an offer letter in my inbox from an employer wanting to give me a full time salaried position. It’s not my dream job, but it is a real job and I desperately need one of those right now. I’ve been three years without a real income or insurance or security and the weight of that stress has become increasingly unbearable. So I’ll take the job, which is a two-year commitment, and I’ll work just as hard there as I did in school and hopefully in yet another two years I’ll be able to move a little closer to the life I envision.
None of this, not one single bit, would have been possible without the unflagging support of my daughter who fulfilled every support role imaginable and some unimaginable. She helped me with my math homework when it literally made me cry. She walked my dogs when I put in 13 hour days. She listened to me rant, rave, and crow. She single-handedly kept us from being buried under an avalanche of dirty dishes. And she’s proud of me, too. That feels amazing. I absolutely could not have done this without her.
Three years ago, I thought I might die from grief, abandonment, rage and insecurity. Today, I’m about dig into a new career, city and future. I’ve rediscovered myself in the most challenging ways, but I’m not ashamed of how I got here. I’m proud of myself, and that’s everything.
I was discussing with a new acquaintance my journey over the last few years and where it might be leading. In the course of the discussion, they expressed surprise and admiration that I turned such bleak circumstances into what is shaping up to be a success story.
I realized that the key components to my success wouldn’t have been possible without the help of friends. I mean “friends” in the wide sense, here. Both close friends and people I’m simply on friendly terms with, but many of them played significant roles in getting me to where I am right now.
There were, of course, the beloved friends who kept me from drowning in my own grief at the end of my marriage. There was the friend who pulled strings to get my family – composed of 2 people and 3 furry companions – into an affordable new home when no one else would take us. There was the friend who suggested the college degree I’m currently excelling in – one that I had never even heard of before he brought it to my attention but one that is going to allow me to financially secure for the first time in my life. The friends that made me feel welcome and valued at my part time job. The friends who show up to be practice patients at my school lab.
So many people who contributed both large and small acts of support, but have without a doubt contributed to my overall success. I hesitate to say “success” too soon – as I mentioned in my previous post, there are some goal posts coming up that are solely my responsibility and I suppose it’s possible that I could still fuck it up. But so much of my momentum is due to the assistance of people who were nice to me. Who just checked in with a coffee date or an evening of conversation, gifting their precious time. I’ve always known how to say thank you, but feeling it is a different story. Gratitude is a complicated emotion for me.
No. That’s not true. Gratitude is a scary emotion for me. It makes my heart seize up. It makes me think that I’m on the hook for some impossible sort of repayment plan – like I’ve bargained away something that will tear me apart later. I wish I’d had a chance to unpack that in therapy. For the longest time, every favor felt like a pact with the devil – life or death against a future life or death. In the past, I’ve literally run from help. But this time I stayed, and being forced to sit with gratitude has made it less scary, less burdensome. It can still be heavy, but more like an anchor – keeping me safe in a storm-tossed season.
With apologies to Simon and Garfunkel for appropriating their song title, I thought I’d show up here with a brief blurb on why I don’t show up here more often.
As many of you already know, I’m a full time student retraining for a mid-life career change. I’m in my last semester, which is awesome (literally I’m full of awe that I got here without any stops at the loony bin), but also tremendously busy. There are finals, plus professional licensing procedures, plus networking, plus job searching, plus certification… Plus, I still have a part time job and three dogs. Soon there will be moving, too. Yes. So.
There is also depression, which has decided to set up camp this month. As practiced as I am at recognizing and intellectualizing its presence and effects, I’m still struggling with apathy and pessimism. That struggle alone often consumes more of my energy than I can rightfully spare.
Financially, I’m not sure how I’m going to accomplish everything. Physically and mentally, I’m tired and worn out all the time (but still – knock on wood – in great health). And emotionally, I’m typically in a constant state of panicked anxiety – except for depression which is a nice, apathetic relief from the constant anxiety. Always nice when the rain cloud has a radioactive lining.
I’m sure I’ll come out the other side victorious, I’m jsut not sure what that will look like. I have a good support system, but most everything is going to fall on my solitary shoulders as all my burdens converge and that’s just the way it is. Basically, life is beating me up, rifling through my pockets, and giving me a really spectacular wedgie at the moment. I’ll survive, but I’ll probably end up walking funny for a little while.
I have so many things I want to discuss here. Sometimes my life feels so surreal, and I wish I could parse it out with more patience and care than I have right now. Politics, relationships, the absolute weirdness that is being a single woman in my 40s – all stuff that takes up brain space but to which I can’t really devote any thinking time. So frustrating. Anyway.
My paypal is email@example.com if you’re looking to be supportive. Proceeds will go to my move, probably. There’s a possibility it will be spent on emergency wine, however, so keep that in mind.
Thank you for your readership, your comments, your shares. I’m sorry I’m not here more often, however I’ve kept to a standard of honesty and authenticity that I’m proud of, and I won’t sacrifice that for content. I renewed my domain, though, so you know I’m not disappearing. See you sometime.
Three years ago my life started to come apart like a rock slide down a mountain. A few pebbles turned into a massive avalanche of falling boulders and ruin. Sometimes I rode the wave, but more often I found myself digging out from under the rubble, then standing around going “The fuck is this shit??” When the structure of your life disintegrates, it makes you examine the support beams. Involuntarily perhaps, but necessarily all the same.
I can’t describe myself as a romantic (and neither can anyone else), but the conclusion that I came to is that the fulcrum of life is love. As Mr. Rogers once said, “Love is at the root at everything, all learning, all relationships, love or the lack of it.” Our earliest notions of love are formed in childhood. Then they change, evolve, grow, or die as we move through time and relationships. I’m not an expert on this; I just know that standing in the wreckage of my life made it easy to see what was left. Mr. Rogers saw love as roots, but I saw it as the skeleton of my inner house. The support beams that stood were not the ones I thought they’d be. Some others stood still, but they weren’t tied to the joist of my survival.
I left some old beams out when I started to rebuild – some old notions of what it means to love. I abandoned the idea that feeling love is the same as doing love. Love is a verb. It isn’t enough to say, “I love you” and expect the recipient to feel loved. That’s like saying “I can fly” and expecting people to call you Superman. It isn’t enough to feel a thing and assume someone else is going to feel it the same way. Love is abundant and cheap when measured that way. But I can tell you when I felt loved in the hellscape of my emotional badlands and it wasn’t in the conspicuous silences of people who claimed to love me. It wasn’t in their admonishments to guard my words, or in their cartwheels of conversations that somehow became about how my suffering was causing their suffering. The places where love wasn’t were just as surprising to me as the places it was.
So where was love? It was in the literal embrace of people who offered what they had: space, time, and a willingness to hear me. It was in the friend who held me as I sobbed out that I felt like a disposable person and who assured me, “You are not disposable.” It was in the arms of a woman who only knew me by profile picture but pulled me into a hug when I arrived on her doorstep, lost and in pain. It was in the offers to kick ass from a thousand miles away – sincere, I’m sure, but thankfully unfulfillable. Most surprisingly, love was in my therapist’s office – that tiny, darkened space in hour-long increments. I discovered there, to my astonishment, that I love myself but I needed assistance in figuring it out.
Love was in all the places where people showed up for me without judgement and with a willingness to share their strength – including myself. That’s it. It’s so marvelously uncomplicated, yet so improbable in daily life.
Where does that leave all those expressions of love that are felt so intently by the giver and never quite reach the intended? There is a saying that “impact is greater than intent” and while that’s true it doesn’t invalidate intent. Intent has value, but it doesn’t move. If you progress to action, to impact, then intent may be a foundation. If the growth is significant and the reach far, it may be said that the foundation is strong and the value might even in retrospect increase. But inertia is the death of progress. Like a dock from which no boats launch, a foundation that supports no progress, no action, cuts a lonely figure. Intent to love which doesn’t become active love instead becomes an echo of emotion that drifts away, inconsequential as a ghost and just as sad.
I think that’s sometimes natural. I had a conversation recently where I discussed the natural death of relationships – casualties of distance or maturity and there is space in my philosophy for the memory of love. It might be a genuine affection for the past, or a lingering tenderness for the person who now inhabits the person you used to show up for. Those beams still stand, though they bear no weight. Some are beautiful and there’s value in that, too. Others, not so much. I quarreled with an older family member over morals and our ethical stances and even as she told me she’d never talk to me again, she also said that she’ll “always love me” and that’s just strange as hell. We never see each other, we offer no material support in each other’s lives, and we are diametrically opposed in our world view. Where is the “love” in that? All she did when I was at my lowest was to caution me not to express my feelings in public. That’s not love. If there was intent there, it was indeed a ghost before it could reach me. That’s a beam I’m content to let crumble.
Love is hard work, and like most hard work, it doesn’t flow smoothly. Some days we’re just not up to it, other days it pours out of us in a righteous flood. Part of my struggle is realizing that not everyone who says, “I love you” can follow it up with the effort. Kind of like that one friend who says, “Sure I’ll help you move” and then is mysteriously unreachable on moving day. I have this horrible habit of taking people 100% at their word, not because I’m naïve or have never dissembled myself but because ferreting out hidden meaning is also hard work and I’m essentially lazy. But through many (oh so many) life lessons, I’ve learned that the intent isn’t enough; you have to do the heavy lifting. You have to show up, without judgment, and with a willingness to share your strength. I hope there are people in my life who feel I do that for them. I hope I get better at it.
These are the bones of love for me. Most of my life had to die before I could see it. I guess part of being a grown up is realizing that there was only one way for me to learn that lesson – a customized syllabus taught directly to my nature, both the strengths and the weaknesses. But Thomas Paine said that “What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly; it is dearness only that gives everything its value.” The dearness of discovering what holds your personal house up is valuable beyond measure. I hope you find it and I hope it’s love.
Did you give yourself anything this Christmas? I gave myself
a reverse telling of Dickens’ A Christmas Carol.
I’m happy to say that
I mostly gave time and money to others which is satisfying, but I also gave
support to local project. I’m not much of a “joiner” but it turns out that I’m
not a half bad organizer, especially when supported by engaged, passionate
people who want the same goal. This year, it was a small “secret Santa” type
fundraiser for some under-served families in my community. Part of the skill I
demonstrated was forming a committee of smart, active people and letting them
contribute their own strengths to the endeavor. Honestly I may be most proud of
that, because everything that followed was largely a result of the cooperative
So, we began with benevolence and hope; the ghost of future Christmas
a cheery, red-cheeked optimist who happily typed away on social media.
Then began the process of organizing the goods for delivery.
This was a somewhat less cheery prospect, because it involved moving couches up
and down staircases and storing boxes and driving all over town. Nevertheless, the
ghost of Christmas present smiled through backaches and happily played its
The ghost of Christmas past hit me like a ton of bricks
after I made the first round of deliveries. Its icy hand clasped mine and took
me back to times where I, too, felt the unimaginable bounty of an unexpected
$50 at Christmastime, and at the same time the utter despair that it won’t mean
a damn in the long run. Times when December’s rent check bounced and there was
no tree, let alone presents to put under it. Further back even than that, when
I accidentally became the “real meaning of Christmas” lesson to a childhood
friend who realized that the prize of my Christmas morning was going to be a
$20 vanity item while she was complaining about not getting the exact leather
jacket she wanted. Poverty is the breeding ground of shame, especially for
children and especially in this country. The ghost of Christmas past was making
me sick with it.
I’m sure I’ve become an interminable bore to most of my
casual friends on Facebook with my incessant social and economic reform posts.
I mean, I post about my dogs and my lunch, too, but I’m also consistently
pushing a narrative of justice for those who’ve been most victimized by
capitalism. Christmas is a spotlight on those issues, and my well-intentioned
involvement was a thousand watt boost.
Some people might take from this experience the idea that coming together as a community is the best part of the holiday, or doing for others is really a gift to oneself. And you’re welcome to internalize that message if it makes you feel good. But if it stops there, you might be missing the point. Because you may take your “feel good” message to bed at night and sleep soundly, but all of the families that I had a hand in helping are going to go right back to square one after the holiday. The generosity and good will that is in such abundance during Christmas will have disappeared into credit card bills, buyer’s remorse and tax season. I may be on a low economic rung, but others are being crushed under the foot of the ladder.
Scrooge, it was said, “knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge” at the end of his tale. I don’t know what will be said at the end of mine, but this year the addendum will be a lot more posts about systemic equality and our responsibilities to each other.