Fresh Ink

This is the tattoo I had done two weeks ago. As soon as my mom was hospitalized with heart failure three weeks ago, I knew I would have to get one in celebration because she survived.

It's ironic, in a way, she was in the hospital on Wear Red Day, February 6th, and they were having a huge campaign there for women's heart health. I suddenly realized that week how important having a healthy heart is -- I suppose it is something we take for granted until we are shocked with something that awakens us.

Fortunately, mom's heart failure was caused by a virus. It has since been determined that her heart and cardiovascular system are actually in quite good condition, aside the virus, so far there is no indication of heart disease. So I'm quite thankful for that; nonetheless, I already have enough risk factors for heart disease of my own, without inheriting it from mom, too.

I'm making some changes, albeit slowly (because I always change slowly) to my lifestyle to help protect my heart, and this tattoo will always be a reminder.

Anvils

I feel it creeping up on me long before I can see it or smell it or taste it. And yet, saying so seems redundant; isn't that what I always say? This time, it was the same. It stalks me, and I try to hide or dodge. It tiptoes and I turn and run. But inevitably it catches up.

What is it about me that leads people to believe I want to carry their dead weight? That I want to be unloaded on, time after time? "I CAN'T FIX YOUR SHIT" I want to scream. If I ever were to, scream, that is, I would only hear an echo of empty walls, for no one stands and holds my hand but myself. But the weight is suffocating, some days, and maybe it's only for a reminder to myself, not so much a reminder for anyone else. My heart and life and spirit witness things that are so very close and real, they are heavy and I take them on.

Helpless, I am, in so many ways...and I know the fault lies somewhere between the reality that I really do never let anyone in, not truly...and my hearts desire to protect the people I love from the anvils I carry...no one else should have to even see them. It is from this that people garner the belief that I have room, and strength, to spare, because my anvils are not on display, they think I have none. So I add more, perpetually, without a gizzard to break down the stones.

And yet, somehow, every day, someone adds an anvil, often without even knowing, but sometimes with the expectation that I am able to care, for I hide my own burdens well. Erin is strong, she's a beacon of hope, she's a lighthouse in a storm, she's an anchor, a well-rooted old-growth tree. These are the words spoken over me through countless years. But do they realize I seem so strong only from the years of practice; what I have carried of my own? The shame I would ever feel for allowing anyone to share my burden, that would only mean I had failed to carry it myself. I am no stronger than you are, I am only better at hiding my weakness.

As I dig and unravel, I find a new piece every day. Sometimes I am able to let it go, to slide it off my weathered back, and simply add it to the pile. But then sometimes I lie awake at night and compose imaginary letters in my mind, dreaming of ways I could fix things, even the hopeless things, even the things I cannot control, if only I possessed the magical combination of words. Then I have nightmares about drowning and jumping off cliffs and think tomorrow something has to change. But it doesn't.

(I want everyone to see this paragraph.) Then I stop here and think, will those who read these words project themselves into my feelings? I know all too well who the people are who will wonder if these words are about them, so, you must know, it is not you. If you have stopped to wonder if it is you, then it is most decidedly not you. If have ever asked me how I am and truly care...and if I have ever felt safe enough to unload some of my anvils upon you, it is certainly not you. For I do have many wonderful people in my life who will help me carry; and a little at a time I am learning to share the yoke.

The problem is those who continue to chuck their stones at me and holler "catch" before I have time to duck, but who never could begin to see themselves in these words, even if they were told. It is those who never wonder where my strength comes from, who never wonder if I carry my own pain or ask me how I am, certain I am well, they unload and go on their merry way. Those who assume my tolerance is unending, that my shoulders are broad and strong and never see my back bend under their additions.

Yes, throw stones at me, endlessly, and yes, I will meld them into anvils, eventually to stand upon them, climb from my prison and walk away. Then you may put your stones in the space I have left behind; I won't need them anymore.


Note: This post is simply a part of my process. I won't promise that I'm not being dramatic to make a point, because it must be said, even if I'm overstretching it. And it really isn't directed at anyone in particular, but at a mentality that I must defend myself against if I'm to ever heal. I also don't promise that I'm not at least 50% to blame; some days I go looking for stones to carry, because it is the only thing I know how to do; I'm good at it, and many days I feel worthless if my arms are empty. Wrong or right, it's who I am, but I'm trying to learn to uncarry things. My "therapist" says I need to learn not to carry so much; this admission that I can't and don't want to carry the things I do is good practice for me.

Voca Femina

My friend Kathy Escobar is part of a team who recently launched Voca Femina, an online 'zine dedicated to the voice of the ordinary woman.

"We know lots of powerful, creative women who have beautiful things to say, who may never land a book contract, fill an art gallery, or cut a record deal. Voca Femina is about giving us all a place to share, a place to grow."

The women of Voca Femina are especially keen on interaction. I highly recommend taking the time to check out some of the beautiful pieces there, and leave a comment, when you have time. The February edition contains my piece "Drifting Free".

Light in the Windows

Sometimes healing isn't logical. Sometimes it doesn't come in the packages we expect, and instead comes to us some roundabout way, from behind, by surprise.

All the years of doing the "steps" so to speak, in the church, the prayer and binding and casting and fasting and workbooks and conferences...none of those things ever brought me peace in my heart, but rather a digging deeper into the magical system that, for whatever reason, I clung to. Say the right prayer, spend enough time in the word, have the right people pray over me; these things only buried me in shame for what they did not do. I would have thought these things to be the answer to my pain; instead they were contributors.

Then, the flip side. The grief of the last year has brought me much good in it's midst, much maturity in it's questions, and much compassion in it's tears. So much grief, and yet, I tried every moment to take something good away, something stretching of myself, reaching beyond the boundaries of the pain. Looking inside myself for the connections, the emotional clues that could enlighten me.

This winter, as I sank into in my saturnine, melancholy season, I have fought to have it work for me rather than struggle against it. I have chosen to look for the ways Papa is bringing light around rather than fearing what lies in the darkness.

Almost nine years ago, I made for myself a nest in the church. I had spent most of my adult life running from myself, looking to roll around in the mud of religion so no one could see that I really was just a pig. I was so fearful of not being good enough for the people around me, and truly believed God would make me good enough if I only did the steps right. Apply more mud, my ass is showing.

As you know, the mud failed me.

I have been so entrenched in the events of the last 5 years that it never occurred to me, until very recently, that my hiding had begun many years earlier than I had ever thought. Things have begun to surface that shock me. To be clear, I haven't turned up any victimization that I wasn't already aware of...I have turned up feelings about it that I had never known, or maybe known but not admitted.

About six weeks ago, when in the throws of some strange new thing being birthed, I realized I needed a midwife. Someone who can draw out the things that want so badly to surface, that I am unable to birth alone for fear of the pain.

So I called Rosalie. Or rather, I messaged her on Facebook. This is the 2000's, you know?

You might remember Rosalie. I interviewed her awhile back. God put her in my path, quite divinely I must say, about two years ago. I knew the moment I met her that she was there for a specific purpose, but it took me this long to be ready.

For almost four years so much of what I have needed to work through has centered on events in my former church that I have already talked about at great length. I have known for those four years that these events were simply a catalyst to bring me into wholeness and authenticity that I couldn't even imagine. However, I had to come to a place where I was no longer blaming these specific events for the pain in my life, but rather realizing how the pain that already existed in my life contributed to these events. Pain that has been there for decades.

So finally, having released the things that took place four years ago as being something unavoidable due to my emotional DNA, rather than something inflicted on me due to other people's spiritual DNA, I am able to look deeper into the past.

I have been meeting with Rosalie regularly, with great anticipation of what having someone to talk to, to really open up to (which is one of my struggles) will bring to my life.

I am hopeful now for a future me who owns her past but is freed from it, who holds the links in her hand but is not chained by them, who looks to her pain to interpret the present, but doesn't live in it nor is governed by it.

The salt and the light, they comfort me. They sting in the wounds but bring clarity to the reasons.

Fallen: Part I
Amateur Therapy Hour
She's Like the Wind
Awakenings
Fallen II: Shit Makes Things Grow
The Saturnine Cycle
Light in the Windows

A heart is a most precious thing

February is American Heart Month.
Visit the American Heart Association
for more information on heart health.

It's so simple when we are young, "young" being relative because we are always young compared to someone else, to take our health for granted. I know I have. Yes, we might do the right things, eat right, exercise...but how do we know we are doing enough?

Early this week, my mother was hospitalized and diagnosed with a heart health issue. It's important to note that mom has always been healthy, active, watched her diet and done the things she should do. Mom is young and has no risk factors or indicators for heart problems, so this turn of events has been quite surprising. She has had a very stressful last few years, caring for her elderly father until his death in June, however, one wouldn't think that stress alone could cause such a thing. But it can, as I am here to testify.

When people think of heart health, they think of heart attacks., chest pain, etc. However, it's a much more complex issue, and I'm only beginning to scratch the surface of learning about it.

The earlier symptoms of a heart issue can be vague, and easy to attribute to many other causes. Fatigue, occasional forgetfulness, mild difficulty breathing when active, (usually attributed to fatigue) difficulty sleeping...these things could be a cold, they could be depression, they could be stress related. Heart disease isn't even always indicated by high blood pressure. In mom's case, that didn't turn up until very recently, resulting in the doctors not even looking for a heart problem the last few weeks, as mom's condition deteriorated.

The last few months I have noticed that mom didn't seem herself, however, my parents moved out of their home of 33 years in September, and I attributed most of what I noticed to the stress of moving; it was a huge undertaking. Never once did I think it could be a heart issue; like I said, she has no risk factors, so it was the furthest thing from my mind. Even four weeks ago I thought she had caught a winter cold that had developed into bronchitis.

Later symptoms of heart failure are difficulty breathing and general exhaustion, and heavy coughing that sounds like pneumonia, among other things. In my mother's case, they diagnosed her with pneumonia because she was retaining fluid in her lungs. It wasn't until she began to have edema in her feet that we realized something was really wrong. That was last weekend.

I am telling this story to educate. Heart problems are particularly easy to miss in women, because women generally downplay their symptoms...we are always the nurturers, the caregivers, and worry about anything that will prevent us from our normal roles. If you visit GoRedForWomen.org, you can find a great deal of information about women's heart health issues. I urge you to become educated. Ever day in America, women die of heart disease. In many cases it could be prevented.

My life has changed. I have Type II diabetes...which itself puts me at increased risk for heart disease. Now I have additional risk factors I must take seriously. Fortunately, many of the things I am already doing to care for my diabetes are also good for my heart. Still, there are some changes I need to make.

I'm 38 years young, but it's never too soon to take it seriously. If I was 28 it wouldn't be too soon. We take our youth and health for granted, believing we will deal with it "later". Even if we do all the things we should be doing, it's never too soon to be educated, to know our genetic and lifestyle risk factors, and to know what symptoms to watch for that might indicate potential problems.

And so it goes...

Two days ago saw the hospitalization of my otherwise healthy (and young) mother. I'm not going to share details at this point, suffice to say they found a previously undiagnosed and unexpected, chronic problem. I will say it is a very good thing she got to the hospital when she did, because it could have resulted in something much worse than the miserable symptoms she's been having and the treatment she will now face. I'm thankful she's alive and has a great prognosis for recovery, with time.

However, of course, this has been difficult for me, a great sense of frustration that this was not diagnosed earlier, considering how much time she has spent at the Dr. these last few months. I'm frustrated that she had to become so ill before something was done. I'm frustrated that the amount of stress she's been under these last few years is a significant contributing factor, and like any good firstborn I keep wondering if there was something I should have done to help prevent it, or at least I should have realized something was wrong much sooner.

Of course, her symptoms have been somewhat mysterious these last few weeks, seeming very much like one thing, but then turning out not to be that at all. Dad and I both said now that we KNOW what's going on, it makes perfect sense and we both are kicking ourselves for not realizing it much sooner, even a year or two ago. I think maybe we didn't want to face the possibility.

In any case, I'm carrying a new weight around right now, and may not be as present as usual until things return more to normal. I appreciate your prayers for her recovery. Please pray for dad as well. Thanks all!