…and hardly ever what we dream.

I’ve been lax keeping up this blog. Life – it keeps happening all around me, and I haven’t had time to stop and reflect on it much. Even more so in the coming months.

Election news dominates. Yes, I’m voting for Hillary Clinton. I’ll probably vote a straight blue ticket, since the GOP is now reaping 25 years worth of sown ignorance and bigotry. Jim Wright said it best here. I’m tired, I’m moderately nervous that the necrotic pustule masquerading as a human in a stolen orange flesh suit will leave a rancid stain that will never, ever wash out of our country. I’m deeply disappointed in many of my fellow humans.

But on a personal level, things are continuing to look up. My plan proceeds apace, with just as much uncertainty as ever. Dark days are now just dark, not the all-consuming nothingness that plagued me a year ago. Reminders are popping up on my social media – “Memories!” I could turn that feature off, but I need to see it. I need to see that I am alive, and whole. If, as Emily Dickinson claimed, hope is the thing with feathers, they are finally smoothed. And my storm was sore, indeed. There is an ugly bruise on a part of me, but if I can manage not to poke it then most days I can pretend it’s not there.

Staying in one spot to live my grief has been the greatest challenge of my life so far. Sometimes the memory of the grief is worse than the cause. Drowning, suffocating are such apt descriptions. Conversely, breathing has become newly precious to me.

I am grateful beyond words for the people who showed themselves to be my personal heroes. People whose support has been unflagging and unconditional. At the same time, it’s been healthy to redefine the boundaries with those whose erratic orbits are… unequal to the task. And that’s okay. Not everyone is cut out to handle me at my worst. As it turns out, other people have boundaries of their own (or should). I am unbelievably lucky to have connected with people whose boundaries mesh with mine so seamlessly that their support became integral to my coping mechanisms. Their beautiful humanity carried me when I had little of my own. I have a Tribe. I need them.

I’ve never been this person before, but at the same time, I feel more “me” than I ever have. It’s terribly liberating, wonderfully frightening. It’s like being 18 again, only knowing everything I know at 40. Youth isn’t wasted on the young, it’s previewed. And now, ladies and gentleman, our main feature begins.

The true secret in being a hero lies in knowing the order of things. The swineherd cannot already be wed to the princess when he embarks on his adventures, nor can the boy knock on the witch’s door when she is already away on vacation. The wicked uncle cannot be found out and foiled before he does something wicked. Things must happen when it is time for them to happen. Quests may not simply be abandoned; prophecies may not be left to rot like unpicked fruit; unicorns may go unrescued for a very long time, but not forever. The happy ending cannot come in the middle of the story.
― Peter S. Beagle, The Last Unicorn

Patriot with a capital P.

A few weeks ago I was meditating on the word “respect” and what it means, in practical terms.

And then Colin Kaepernick.

That narrative completely overtook both my swirling thoughts and the media message at large. So many opinions, so much vitriol. There are a lot of responses already on record, many of them succinct, adroit, or powerful in ways I could never hope to be. But I did come across a viewpoint that made me pause.

Someone said that a soldier who left part of themselves (literally) behind in service to this country was honestly and intensely hurt that the flag and ceremony that represents so much honor and sacrifice to them could be “disrespected” in that way.

First, I’d like to address the disrespect issue. Not participating is about the most respectful way to publicly protest. It interferes with no one’s observance. As an atheist, I don’t pray but when I find myself in situations where others do, I wait for them to finish. I can be militantly anti-theist in certain situations. I’ve been known to blatantly attack religious beliefs when and where they actively cause harm. But in a peaceful gathering of non-combatants (so to speak), I find that simply refraining from engaging in their ritual is enough to respect my own identity and keep the peace. I’ll be damned (again, so to speak) if I’m going to fake an observance to something that offends my intellect. The point isn’t that the ritual has no meaning, I’m fully aware of the intensity of meaning to the participants. Sitting it out makes a very clear statement about my own feelings on the subject, without inhibiting their ability to engage in their activity. Non-participation is the height of respect to everyone involved.

Let me say again that the point is not that the ritual has no meaning. It absolutely does. When it comes to the national anthem or pledge, I understand that for some, standing for the flag isn’t just rote indoctrination – it’s a symbol of sacrifice to something greater than themselves. I’m not so logical that I don’t recognize the value of symbolism. I get chills when I see missing man formations fly overhead, I get angry when I see a Nazi swastika. So I understand that the flag is a powerful symbol to those who’ve been steeped in the culture of American service.

Let’s go over exactly how “steeped” I am: I was married to and lived the military life with an enlisted career Army man. My brother proudly served in the Army. My father was in Viet Nam. One of my grandfathers was a Korean War veteran. My great-grandfather was a WWI veteran. My point is that when it comes to military service I’m well versed in the responsibilities and rituals that go along with that. Fortunately for me, part of my family culture is about honoring responsibilities, so while there is a healthy dose of American exceptionalism that overlaps military culture, I was also exposed to an equally healthy dose of personal responsibility and honoring one’s oaths. It’s not all guns and glory for me and mine – it never was. I’ve since diverged from my upbringing in precisely what I think my responsibilities as an American are, but that’s a different conversation.

I know good, decent, non-bigoted people who are truly hurt by the idea that someone could sit down in defiance of a ritual that, to them, affirms what is great about our country. I respect their emotions are real. In fact, that’s the point.

The point of choosing this very sensitive, ritualistic ceremony to highlight your dissent is to BE HURTFUL. It is meant to target people at their most vulnerable, their most unquestioning. Because that is how you challenge the status quo. I hate to break it to anyone who still has a romanticized view of the American civil war or civil rights movement in the 1960s, but those changes were not made via comfortable acts of politeness and respect. No oppressor was ever moved to change by the gentle supplications of the oppressed.

Telling Colin Kaepernick, or anyone else, to be respectful with their dissenting opinion is the same as telling me to pray because it makes people uncomfortable when I don’t. It’s the same as a man telling a woman to smile because it makes him feel better. It’s the same as telling people they must accept their lot simply because that’s the way it’s always been. Respect is not some magical, pre-defined set of rules that everyone agrees upon. Respect is defined by those in power. What happens when we don’t do those things? We challenge those in power.  Not standing for a pledge or an anthem challenges the power structure – and yes, that’s supposed to hurt.

Once more for the people in the back: You don’t change things by keeping everyone comfortable.

Comfortable is where complacency lives.

Complacency breeds contempt.

That’s a lot of slogans in a row, but I stand by every one of them. Unless I’m sitting during the anthem.  Rights are also responsibilities, and at the moment, Colin Kaepernick is the most patriotic man in the country.


Life is improving. Slowly. Marginally. It’s all very undramatic and anticlimactic. Boring. But boring is good after the shock and awe campaign of the last 12 months.

Shit. Has it been that long since my life blew up? Yes, yes it has. They say that after a major life event, don’t make any other drastic changes for a year. I’ve never taken that advice before, but it was forced on me this time.

It sucks.

It’s also revealing. Revolutionary. Wretched. Weird.

I’m cautiously making plans. I have a future, and it looks encouraging. School. Independence. City life. Friends. I’m 40, not 18, I promise. But it does feel like new beginnings and next phases. I’m tentatively approaching anticipation. Skirting the edge of excitement.

Lost things are retreating. Bridges are appearing. None of it is certain, but for the first time in a year it’s not completely shrouded in a depressing, gray fog. Pain is abandoning the siege. The fortress is damaged, but not downed. Ravaged, but not ruined.

Anyway, the pace is plodding. Still the better part of a year to go before the future manifests. Plenty of time for lists, plans, revisions, and surprises. Happy birthday, my destruction. Time to rebuild.

White Rabbits Are Assholes.

I was never a fan of Alice in Wonderland. The idea of being literally dropped into a world where you can’t count on even the basic rules of physics terrifies me. Up is down, flowers talk and a homicidal queen can lop off your head with impunity? No, thank you.

It’s unsurprising, then, that when my world goes topsy-turvy, I’d very much like to wake up from the Wonderland-esque nightmare. Up is down and I don’t like it one bit.

That’s what intense self-reflection does, or at least what it does for me. It flips scripts that have been playing in my head for years – a confounding and dizzying process that un-moors me from my truths.

Attempting to mitigate this upsetting development includes such behavior as limiting my social media interactions, withdrawing from my familial and social circles, stomping my feet, crying, and generally throwing temper tantrums, as well as clinging to those old scripts like crazy-eyed Norma Desmond.

Which is not to say that I’m finished doing any of those things, but I would like to acknowledge that at least I know precisely what it is I’m doing. Points for watching the road, if not mapping the best course, yes?

The impetus behind this period of intense self-reflection is, of course, divorce, while the realization that scripts were in need of flipping is due mostly to therapy. Shout-out to my  competent therapist who recently resorted to calling my bluff and inspiring above mentioned temper tantrum. *ahem*

Also newly realized is the fact that people can go their entire lives without once turning any sort of reflection inward, without questioning the existence of scripts, let alone the need to up-end them. I always sort of considered people who refused self-examination petulant, immature cowards who knew what was up but refused to admit it. I don’t surround myself with those types, so it was honestly a revelation to know that the people who live like a pinball, constantly pinging from one reaction to another, are sincerely incapable of making any sort of decision to control their own destiny.

I need to be clear on this point: I didn’t just think that type of person was willfully obtuse, I was certain they did not exist. That’s how unthinkable this method of living is to me. My reality had no place in it for people who do not engage in self-reflection of any sort.

I suppose I have my ex-husband to thank for opening up my reality, as well as my therapist.

Being angry at the willfully obtuse is easy, but once you make room for incapable it leaves an emptiness that I don’t quite know what to do with. It’s a little like solving a math problem: once you figure out the solution, you can’t believe it wasn’t always so obvious. There’s sadness there – a heartbreak over the kind of bleak and powerless life that must represent. Disgust at myself for being complicit and, I desperately hope, a forgiveness of myself for laboring under a falsehood for so long. Mostly sadness, though. I’m trying hard not to let it veer over into pity, but it’s a struggle.

I don’t know where I’m going to come out on the other side of this. I’ve stopped panicking at the uncertainty. I’ve set new goals. I’ve stopped wondering how I’ll forgive him, and starting wondering how I’m going to forgive myself. I’m looking for my way out of Wonderland.

Black & Blue

When I was 15, a friend and I took the regional bus from about 60 miles north of San Francisco to the middle of San Francisco. If you’re at all familiar with the Bay Area, you know that anything along a that particular 60 mile half-radius is bound to be suburbs. Charming, track-housed, quiet, and very, very white suburbs.

I was myself a very, very white suburbanite (or the child of two), and though my friend appeared to be “exotic”, it was clear she didn’t hail from the barrio. Our clothing, our speech and mannerisms, our very cluelessness were strong indicators that we did not belong in the pre-gentrified Mission District of San Francisco in the early 90s.

We were there by accident. I mean, we were in San Francisco on purpose, but we weren’t supposed to get off the bus there. A responsible adult was waiting for us at the bus station a few stops away. But did I mention our cluelessness? So, there we were – two suburban girls with backpacks, wandering around looking scared and confused in a complicated part of town. But we didn’t want to call home (on a payphone, because early 1990s) because that would be admitting that we weren’t quite as sophisticated and cosmopolitan as we pretended to be when securing permission to make this trip in the first place. So we asked a cop in a patrol car where the heck we were, and how to get where we were going.

It was a long time ago, so I don’t remember exactly what was said. I doubt we were very coherent, or that the officer was intentionally dodgy, but the result of that short conversation was that the cop in the car negligently waved us in a direction that was away from him.

I was horrified. I don’t mean I was scared (although I was intimidated by our circumstances), I mean I was filled with righteous indignation that this Officer of the Law didn’t immediately drop everything to personally escort us to safety. Clearly, I was operating on the Sesame Street model of law enforcement. Setting aside for a moment the wisdom of two and a half intervening decades, why was I so certain that a police officer would help me?

Because, quite simply, I’d grown up believing that. I’m only being slightly facetious when I call it the Sesame Street model. From the time I was old enough to toddle, my family, teachers, tv shows and books had shown me, either explicitly or by example, that cops were friendly, helpful authority figures who would protect me. Lost? Find a cop. Scared? Find a cop. Dropped your ice cream cone? Okay, so that one wasn’t taught to me, but it’s not a stretch for a good little girl to make that connection. And who would nay-say me? All my friends lived in my community, looked like me, watched the same tv shows and read the same books I did.

So, to have my expectations so rudely quashed by the heedless attitude of a real life cop was an affront to my worldview. And because I was a well-behaved, middle class, white girl, I was certain that my world view was the Correct and Authentic One(TM).

And that is the extent of my bad experience with law enforcement in America.

Cut to 25 years later. In the space of days two men were violently put down by law enforcement officers at opposite ends of the country. I could say “murdered” but that’s a term we apply to victims, and of course, the narrative of well-behaved, middle class, white America refuses to identify black bodies as victims.

I find it difficult to know what to say to that. I am implicitly a part of that narrative, even when I explicitly speak out against it. The violence done to black and brown people in this country is not for me to publicly be outraged about – it’s not my lived experience and it’s not my voice that should be heard. At the same time, People of Color have been screaming their outrage since the founding of this country and nobody is fucking listening. When the first thing out of the mouths of people who would never consider themselves racist is, “We should wait until all the facts are in,” instead of “Why the hell are our cops killing citizens??” – we know that we live in a racist society. When more outrage is expressed by white America over cops killing dogs than cops killing people, what could I possibly say to make them see the truth? And yet, as a white American, it is incumbent upon me to speak out to other white Americans, and keep speaking out – even though it’s not my voice they should be listening to.

There are important conversations to be had about the militarization of our domestic police force, about the culture of toxic masculinity that pervades institutions of authority, about the actual risk-to-benefit ratio of concealed carry and open carry gun laws. Predictably, they will all take precedence over the more necessary conversation about our racist society. Predictably, they will overshadow the tragic statistics showing how people of color are targeted by law enforcement at staggeringly disproportionate rates to whites. Predictably – because it happens every damn time.

It happens because I survived my “bad” encounter with a cop. That’s what it boils down to: I, and the people who look like me, are not really affected by police violence against people of color. When I log off my computer at the end of the day, I will go to bed safe in the knowledge that I’m actually safe. That if I need to call law enforcement in the middle of the night, they will come to my rescue, not blame me for my victimization. That the odds of my white teenage daughter surviving a routine traffic stop unscathed are astronomically greater than a same-aged black youth. I can choose to look away, I can choose to not say anything. I did make that choice, for a long time. But to paraphrase a man who would know, I don’t want to be the only one left standing when it finally does affect me.

We can’t pretend this isn’t happening. We can’t carry around a bottomless bucket of sand to bury our heads in. Our friends, neighbors, countrymen are dying and if we’re silent, we’re complicit. Speak. But more importantly, listen.

An Open Letter to My New Primary Care Manager

It was busy the day I met you. You were the only nurse practitioner in the office that day, and I was trying to fit in an appointment in my own busy schedule. Since this was a disadvantage to both of us, it sort of cancels out. I only mention it because it may have had an influence on your approach.

I didn’t choose you, but you undoubtedly knew that. I was assigned to you because my own doctor left the practice. Such is the nature of our health care system. Due to a confluence of scheduling issues and timing on my prescriptions, I was forced to take a next-day appointment, squeezed in among patients who were able to make their own appointments well in advance, as well as acute care patients with urgent medical needs. Not an ideal situation, but the best I could do to take responsibility for my own health care.

The intake nurse was pushy and condescending. She told me to get an eye appointment because I was -“Don’t throw your purse at me” – 40, as though she was delivering unexpectedly bad news to a toddler. I tried not to take it personally, though her attitude did set my teeth on edge. I know nurses and medical assistants at that level are over-worked and underpaid, and I’m sure she thought her advice was medically sound, so I made a concerted effort to forgive her thoughtless and trite delivery. After taking my vitals and checking off the list of meds I was asking to be refilled, she left and I waited for you.

It wasn’t a long wait, but sadly, that’s the best I can say about our time together.

After introducing yourself, you sat down across from me and began telling me that the prescriptions I was taking were ineffective for the symptoms I was taking them for. That threw me back. Is this guy for real?? was my thought, but even had I wanted to voice it, you didn’t give me a chance before moving on to your next item of business, which was to tell me that at least two of my medications were narcotics and carried very high risk factors for addiction. You spent the next four minutes lecturing me about my medications, telling me how you wouldn’t have prescribed them yourself, how ineffective and risky they were, how I wasn’t taking them properly, and how the way YOU practice medicine is to establish a “partnership” with your patients. I confess that the rest of the four minutes is now lost to my memory, but you did repeat yourself a lot so I doubt I missed much.

Tell me, sir – what kind of “partnership” is it when one person does all the talking, lecturing, and condescending while the other person is held hostage to the first’s profession? But let’s set that aside for a moment while we deal with the facts that were missing in your extremely one-sided “discussion”.

Had you bothered to ask me how I was coping with my symptoms, I would have told you that in the six weeks I’d been taking these particular medications, my quality of life had improved immensely. That I was relieved and calm for the first time in almost a year, and that in addition to the lifestyle changes I had implemented, I felt that my symptoms were finally manageable. Then, I could have told you that I spent no less than 12 years as a pharmacy technician, so I am well aware of what the medications I am taking are for, their dangers and inefficiencies as well as their success rates. Perhaps I would have lectured YOU for telling me that an anxiolytic, particularly a seratonin receptor agonist, isn’t effective for anxiety, or that the particular norepinephrine reuptake inhibitor I take isn’t effective for depression. I could have told you that when I was in my previous doctor’s office, suffering from sleep-deprivation-induced psychosis, near constant panic attacks, and had to use nicotine as a self-medicating aid, she rightfully concluded that the best medications for me would address all my symptoms and have the fewest number of adverse affects.

Maybe that would have slowed you down for half a second, and I could have reiterated that one of the narcotics you referenced was NOT part of my refill request, as that had been a short term medication only, and the other one was a rescue prescription that I only used for emergencies. Instead of freaking out that I was trying to hoard benzodiazepenes and telling me that I was abusing it, you could have asked how often I was taking it. Then I could have told you I still had over half my original pills in the bottle, but as it is highly effective as a rescue rx, I didn’t want to run the risk of not having any while I was without a provider for 30 days (or longer, since it’s not unusual to wait even longer for a non-emergent appointment).

I doubt we would have had time to go into why I needed these drugs in the first place, what my medical and psychological history was, but at the very least you could have asked me what lifestyle changes I was implementing before jumping to the conclusion that I was ignorant about my own health care. Literally asking a simple question was the very least you could do, and you failed to do it. If I am very generous, I could allow that your intention is to practice medicine in a reciprocal way with your patients, but I can assure you that was not the end result of our visit.

After listening to my lungs and heart, and grudgingly allowing my prescriptions to be refilled (after referring me to the wrong pharmacy, by the way), you finally asked if I was seeing a behavioral health provider, which I affirmed. Then you had the unmitigated gall to tell me “You rock!” and shake my hand while patting my back, not unlike one would do to a Little League player who just hit a single.

As a woman and as an American, I have a long history of receiving inefficient and belittling “health care”. Of being told that I don’t understand my own body, that I am generally ignorant about matters of health, and/or that I am deliberately misrepresenting my symptoms. You managed to hit all three, and even at “don’t throw your purse at me” 40, I’m honestly surprised enough to almost congratulate you. But having had an insider’s look at our health care system, and having a spine made of stiffer stuff than a wet noodle, I won’t. Instead, I am holding you accountable for your actions, and seeking a provider who will put into actual practice the idea of a health partnership. Someone with at least a basic understanding that such a partnership entails two-sided conversations, and a modicum of sensitivity to a petitioner of health care. You appear to be capable of neither. I was told that you are retiring from the first phase of your career while you transition to the second. Perhaps that is something you could work on.

Most Sincerely,

Your Former Patient.

Empty Spaces

I’ve been thinking lately about spaces.

Safe spaces, community spaces, spaces between words and thoughts. How loss leaves spaces there are no guidebooks for navigating. Many, many people are dealing with that in the wake of the Orlando massacre, and my heart breaks for them.

Before I asked my husband to leave our shared space, I was desperate for him not to. I was terrified of the emptiness he’d leave behind. Then, when I was full to the brim with the kind of terror that comes from watching your most trusted and loved partner turn on you, I was desperate for space away from that. All I wanted was the time, distance and silence of the emptiness he left behind. Funny how that works, isn’t it?

Reclaiming my spaces is a slow process. Physically, it’s a lot of cleaning, which is not very romantic or literary. Virginia Woolf managed to make claiming your physical space sound lofty and appealing, but for me, it’s been about scrubbing grout. It’s been about getting on my knees and confronting the filthiest spaces I can find. It’s been about punishment and hard work and the basic labor of managing “stuff”. Some people burn sage, I organize. Part of that is because I need my physical space orderly and clean before I can confront my mental spaces. Part of it is procrastination so I don’t have to. In either case, though, it’s satisfying in its own way.

Mental spaces are harder to define. I am alternately hiding or lost in mine. Desperate or peaceful. Reclaiming that space, however, is not as simple as boxing up a lot of old crap to donate. No one wants the clutter in my mind. I’ve been relearning loneliness, and dwelling in my own space alone. Not necessarily the same thing, are they? The empty space in my head has been both a yawning cavern and a cozy nook, and it can’t really pick one and stick with it for any length of time. Two weeks ago, I hid in my bathtub because the empty space threatened to swallow me up. I don’t mean I took a bath. I mean I crawled into my empty bathtub, fully clothed in the dark and sobbed and screamed into a pillow because the emptiness that I had so longed for became an unmanageable monster that was going to destroy me.

It didn’t. That I know of, anyway. I may have lost something in that tub – I think it might’ve been my dignity.

Shortly thereafter, I disappeared from my online spaces – those intangible light screens that bring us together and divide us so efficiently – because the cozy nook of empty space was back. The monster was tamed, or maybe it was me tamed and completely in its thrall. I pulled my empty space around me like a cloak and dwelt in the silence happily. Until it became stifling and scary and vast and implacable once again.

How does one reclaim a space that refuses to be defined?

It’s hard to live like this. Harder still for the people whose loves, color, bank accounts, or beliefs force them to exist in these undefined spaces every day. People who’s spaces are overtaken by hateful rhetoric, or even just ignorant words. I have emptiness in my head and in my home, but it’s private if I choose to keep it that way. I’m thinking now of those people who must learn to exist constantly in the emptiness because their countrymen, neighbors, relatives and representatives demand they be set apart. Because when they fill their emptiness with anger, they’re told to be “respectful”. When they fill it with love, they’re murdered.

I wonder if they are alternately lost or hiding. I wonder how they will reclaim their violated spaces.

I wonder if I’ll ever feel full again, and if I even deserve to when so many around me struggle with their imposed emptiness. Join me in my tub, maybe? We can scream and sob together, watch our dignity slide down the drain, and find, like Pandora, hope in the emptiness.