Archives for category: grief

The commute home tonight was rich with one of my least favorite things that is so common that it seems quite ubiquitous, perhaps even a default in our so very human behavior… a lack of basic consideration. Consider that, if you would, for a moment – consider the nature of consideration, and of “being considerate” – what does that even mean? Is the meaning quite literal, as in “to give consideration to a thing, person, moment, or choice”? To consider something? Is it more subtle? Certainly, consideration doesn’t seem very common.

Tonight I saw drivers pause as a light turned yellow, clearly positioned to note that the row of cars ahead had no room for an additional car to queue up – then choose to pull forward into the intersection, from a stop, and able to see that there was no additional room for another car, and continue to pull forward until they were stopped in the intersection. A four-way intersection with a signal light – filled with cars filled with people so lacking in consideration that the increased congestion during the commute, and the inconvenience to cross traffic, just wasn’t as important as pulling forward some 20 feet or so, to avoid waiting through the next light. Weird, right? No, uglier than that; inconsiderate.

I saw, also, drivers so anxious in traffic that they were driving at the extreme left or right edge of the lane, crossing over into (left side) the left turn lane or (right side) the bicycle lane, or right turn lane, and making it basically impossible to see further down the road (their own visibility was more important than being safe). Inconsiderate and unsafe.

I saw drivers commuting in full darkness without any tail lights at all. I saw them commuting without their headlights on. Dangerous. Definitely – but also really inconsiderate; any other driver affected would likely experience some additional stress. Rude. Thoughtless. Seriously? Driving in the dark without lights?

For a while, I was behind a transit bus driver clearly making it a committed point not to pull out of the traffic lane to make pick ups or drop off passengers. Instead, he just sort of angled the nose of the bus toward the curb, and in one case managed to impair two travel lanes, a bike lane, and a right turn lane – within a few feet of an intersection, which immediately filled with cars operated by drivers too inconsiderate to watch ahead of themselves far enough to recognize the congestion developing, and so filled up the intersection, impeding the cross traffic, too.

People crossing the street, in the dark, during rush hour, on a busy road, filled with inconsiderate angry drivers… crossing the street, but not on a cross walk, or at an intersection, just jaywalking right on across all 7 lanes (two travel lanes in each direction, a center turn lane, and right side bike/turn lanes in both directions) – wearing all black. What the fuck?? Seriously? That’s… wow. Yeah, I can’t see those pedestrians at all; I count on detecting the interruption in oncoming headlights to alert me of the jaywalking pedestrians. I wish they would consider wearing reflective clothing.

Each choice we make, in each moment of impatience, frustration, or hurry, affects every human being’s path we cross. Every dick move. Every bit of entitled bullshit. Every shortcut, every cheat, and every time we “break the rules” to convenience ourselves holds the potential to seriously fuck over someone else – and if you don’t care about their experience, well… that’s inconsiderate. Simply that; you are not considering them, or their experience, or even, in some cases, your own safety.

I’m not pointing any fingers. I have my moments. Being considerate is a really big deal for me, and I put a lot of work into it – I try to keep that set to maximum consideration full-time. Sometimes I miss. Sometimes I’m the inconsiderate jerk.

Tomorrow I get another chance to begin again, to be more considerate, to be more kind, to be more aware of the human beings around me, each having their own experience.

It took awhile to get here, today. At this point, I am relaxed, content, and more or less comfortable. I spend the day in pain, working, doing the things needing to be done, dodging interruptions and distractions as well as I could – some of them are my own doing, purely a product of being human, and enjoying that moment of connection with other humans. I probably need a few of those, anyway. 🙂 The commute home was routine. Nothing terrible… well… no more so than usual, and somehow less aggravating.

Today was fairly shitty. It was hard, and I hurt all day. It was hard to smile. It was an effort not to complain. It was a struggle to fight back tears, more than once. I feel awkward and graceless on my cane. I feel old to be struggling with pain, and mobility challenges. Did I mention what a shitty day it was? I was mired in it all day.

I endured. I mostly endured through successful application of a favorite very portable practice (and I’m pretty sure that this particular practice, in part, resulted in the better-than-average commute experience, just saying). It’s too simple. Please don’t laugh…

It’s hard to stay angry or be annoyed with life when I am experiencing gratitude. Just that. Feelings are tricky, though, and faking it doesn’t work. I start with things that seem obvious to appreciate – and I take a moment to appreciate them. Continue until I’m not in a bad mood. Repeat as needed. It’s not any more complicated than that, really, although it can take a bit of practice to get comfortable and easy with it; sometimes it feels like I really want to be mad about shit. That’s hard to let go of.

I start with something immediate and in-the-moment… some small comfortable detail that, by itself, isn’t crappy at all. Like… looking out the window at the office to the workers on the roof across the way; I’m not working outside in the wind and cold. Yeah, okay – I’m grateful for climate controlled indoor work, for sure. Oh, and indoor plumbing, and potable drinking water from a tap any time I want it. The rest room at the office stocks feminine hygiene supplies. I don’t need that stuff on this side of menopause, but I really appreciate that we provide such obvious basic necessities. I value the basic day-to-day courtesy and consideration of our work culture. I have a coworker who sits near me who good-naturedly lifts my spirits on the regular with light-hearted banter. I am grateful for the decency and humor of my colleagues. On it goes. I can continue to list things I am grateful for, until gratitude has filled me up entirely and I have no room for anger, irritation, or surly bullshit.

One note of caution; this is a positive thing, this gratitude thing. I find it more effective to focus on positives for that reason, so, while it is definitely worth being grateful that I don’t have malaria (and it’s amusing to say as much, in any number of contexts), it’s sort of askew from the point of the practice. More useful, perhaps, to note that I am grateful to have had anti-malarial drugs available when I did work in an area that put me at risk of getting it… an observation that tends to lead me down the path of other medical tools, practices, experiences, skills, and medications which I am grateful exist. Yay! More gratitude. That’s the thing with being grateful for the lack of something, or the negation of something else; it’s hard to build on a negative without slowly becoming more negative. Well… that’s my own experience. Your results may vary. Negativity definitely has more comedic potential, if that’s what you are going for. I just wanted to feel better, and enjoy my experience more easily while enduring so much pain.

I got home still managing my pain with little more than my positive attitude. Medication was a huge, if not immediate, relief. It’s an Rx pain reliever tonight. I feel grateful to have it available. I feel grateful that it works. I feel grateful that it ensures I can get some better quality rest (it’s hard to sleep through pain).

I’m grateful that tomorrow I can begin again.

I got home from work feeling fairly committed to writing. No idea what to write about, I tell myself as I cross the threshold after the usual hair-raising commute home in the late autumn darkness. I’ve arrived feeling cross and rather out-of-sorts. The commute? Reason enough, I suppose, but no.

My day started pleasantly. Comfy cute sweater, autumn weather, “good hair day”, pretty nice mood. I am missing my Traveling Partner’s company on his birthday, but when I check in, it sounds like he’s having a pretty good birthday, so I fairly easily let that go. It’s not that, then.

I take a few minutes puttering around the house, ignoring my feelings (maybe they’ll just go away…?) and moving things from here to there in the kitchen, without obvious purpose. I think about making dinner. Choose not to. I fuss a bit more. Consider watching some video, or reading some book. Choose not to. I manage to kill almost an hour that way, just… dithering. Shit.

I pass by my reflection in the patio door, meaning to gaze out at the holiday lights on the houses of not-too-near neighbors. I inadvertently look directly at my own reflection, catching myself in motion as I approach the glass patio door. I lose my smile briefly, my mouth trembles at the edge – a micro expression passes over my face. Distaste? Disgust? Disappointment. I’m fat. I’ll be frank about it. It’s not “just a couple extra pounds” – unless I’m pointing at just the most recent couple pounds, which, I don’t even know where to start. I am feeling a bit discouraged, and a lot frustrated, by how hard this is. Being fat, I mean. I’d like to either be much better at it – meaning, taking really great care of my physical and emotional well-being in the context of good health, without regard to weight, or doing something altogether different than being fat. I’m not there, in either case. I am, in addition to being fat, both unfit and also in health that I struggle to describe as “good” (“fair”? maybe that’s more accurate).

Let’s get this one thing out of the way right off the bat; I’m not saying I don’t have a fuck-ton of ability to make better choices with regard to fitness, health, diet, exercise – all of the things – because I totally do, in spite of pain and other health concerns. I’m just struggling to do all of those things well enough to… to…  to do what exactly? Fuck, why am I doing this? Do I even know?

I’ve realized (a couple times recently) that this has been a sticking point for me. Why am I doing this? Well, and … “this“? What/which “this”, precisely, do I mean? Losing the weight? Is it that? Just that?

I’ve got some health issues that make “losing weight” exceedingly difficult. I also understand that the number that is “how many pounds do I weigh” is not the whole story of my health, fitness, longevity, or desirability. It’s a number, and used in series with a bunch of other numbers, similarly gathered, in comparison or in contrast with each other, or plotted on a graph, it has some potential to provide me with a better understanding of something being measured. Weight loss, itself, is no difficult thing, looking at the math involved; more calories burned over time than calories consumed results in weight loss. Done! So easy. Only… it’s not. It’s not easy. It’s hard. It’s hard, and I’m angry with myself, and I’m frustrated and I feel discouraged.

I’m not much in the mood for “being positive”, and I give myself a few minutes to wallow in a shallow sea of foul temper, frustration, sorrow, self-pity, and general aggravation. I can’t avoid understanding this is “doable” – and I can’t afford to overlook that the doing of it is not going particularly successfully at this particular point. I find myself starting to make excuses, and somehow, rather fortunately I think, found myself “making corrections” – returning my thinking to basic practices that have worked well for other grievous wellness-related concerns in the past couple years. New tools, meet old challenges.

I find myself having some really honest moments with myself about how hurt I was that just at that moment of being past a milestone goal (just a couple years ago) and discovering that the reward I had counted on (in the form of a particular person’s affection) just wasn’t available for me. I’d put in all that effort, all that work, the commitment, the discomfort, the constant fucking fighting myself… and… found myself unnoticed, also unrewarded (and unhappy), when I’d been counting on delicious sensuous intimacy, appreciation, closeness – and validation – I found myself basically alone. It was a hard time. That was just about when I’d started working on letting go of attachment in therapy, necessary, … still hard. Necessary work. It’s taken almost all of my attention, and most of my time, for a while now. I still need to practice, too…

But… as painful moments go, I could have dealt with that one better, and more promptly, instead of letting it fester for years. I didn’t really know how. I avoided dealing with it for… yeah, until like four weeks ago, and then just picking at that scab, until it finally started to percolate up into my mood unexpectedly now and then. I’m dealing with it now. Honestly. Because I can. Because my actual life may depend on it. Because it matters. It matters because it’s hard to pretend I don’t wonder if I am “too fat to fuck”, when I’m interested, but a partner isn’t. Seriously. Still a mammal. Real talk.

…I’m still fat. lol If I want that to change, I’ve got to work “harder” (more diligently? with greater care? with more commitment? something… there are probably a lot of verbs about to just fucking land on me like a cartoon piano on a sidewalk…). I’ve got to work smarter, too. I’ve got to be utterly honest with myself, and more self-aware than is likely to feel at all natural – or comfortable. Vulnerable. Honest. Authentic. Is it going to get any easier? I seriously doubt that it will – but for fucks sake, I should at least be ready to go to my grave confident that it wasn’t a lack of will, or a lack of healthy practices. Not now. Not after all the rest I’ve learned, right? (Does that sound like desperation? I think I’m there.) I have tools.

So. <shrugs> Next steps? No idea – and I may not discuss it in much detail. This is a fairly intimate topic, and in some ways more personal even than sex. I can, though, at least begin again, a bunch of times, and I can apply a number of things I have learned over the past couple years – certainly with greater skill than I have been – and, I suppose this will make some sense – where I am standing now, in life, I’m no longer struggling (at least for now) to be certain whether I want to live at all (pretty confident that I do want to live)… which seems well-timed for this sort of endeavor, more so than while waiting to die, yeah?

Have I been here before? No excuses. Just study, effort, will, practice, failing, beginning again, being, becoming, showing myself compassion, and relying on the woman in the mirror to be doing her best. It’ll have to be enough. 🙂

I don’t suppose it gets easier for a really long time, I’m afraid I’ll fail, but, I’ve got (another) starting point – as good as any – and a new (is it?) understanding that why I’m doing this matters a great deal – enough to change my chances of succeeding at being fitter, healthier, more comfortable, stronger… and yeah, not so fat. Maybe. My results, so far, have varied. I guess I’ll begin again… right here. In this now. Because it matters to me.

What if you died today and had to give feedback to yourself on your life, or defend, justify, or excuse it, after-the-fact? How would well would you rate yourself?

What if you could try again? Would you make any changes?

It’s an interesting thought exercise… I’m inclined to follow through on this one very soon, perhaps over some solo weekend during the holiday season. I did it once before, purely by chance, years ago. It mattered a great deal and gave me new perspective on my life. It’s a tough one, though, and can really mire one in sadness – it’s not for the timid, the faint of heart (nor the inauthentic). Taking it lightly is neither useful nor helpful. I do hope you find it either useful, or helpful, or at least a thought-provoking read over your coffee, or tea.

Ready? Let’s begin…

Imagine this; you’ve died. It doesn’t matter at all how, you are dead. No opportunity for one more please, thank you, I’m sorry, or I love you. You are done. Game over. Right now. Okay, so now let the death part of the scenario just go; you know nothing of it, and can’t. You’re dead. Nothing new to remember. Let’s look at your life instead – or more to the point, you look at it. That’s right. You had your chance. It’s done. Game over. You are only a collection of memories – your own, and those that others left behind have of you.

Look at your words, and actions, and the outcomes of your choices, and  your baggage, – your free will brought you to these ends. What were your actual, no bullshit, real values – based on your actions, your decisions, what you chased in life, what mattered most to you in fact (what you said you valued has no meaning now, you’re dead and those were just words) – what were your real true actual values? (Don’t rush this, you’ve got plenty of time; you’re dead.)

“Why those?” is maybe not the correct next question, more to the point; is this what you wanted of your life, and your choices? Is this end result “enough”, or “what you wanted”? Are you okay with this being your legacy?

Are the things that were stressing you, truly, now that you’re dead and can look back unafraid and unashamed, were they truly stress-worthy? The times you snapped at loved ones over petty annoyances – worth it? Justifiable? (I mean, you can’t change it now, and all they have to look back on is who you actually were, and how you really treated them.) The stress about work, all that potentially wasted time grinding away on someone else’s agenda – was it worth it in the end? Was there ever “enough” money? Was being “right” worth the agita of forcing someone else to say that you were right – even if they only did so to shut you up? Was it ever finally the “right time” to do something about what you wanted most to do?

Ask the hard questions. Gnothi seauton. No bullshit. Turn and face yourself, naked and revealed. Look into the mirror. Who were you? Is that who you wanted to be? Who you expected to be? Who you thought you were?

Could you have done “better” or “more”? Who defined those qualities for you in life? Why wasn’t it your call, your definitions, your free will reaching out to enact your own choices? Why did you settle? Why were you “chasing” happiness… money… pretty lovers…a better high…a more perfect romance…? Whatever it was… the curtain has fallen. You’re done. Was it worth it? Are you content with the person you were? Will you be remembered? How will you be remembered? What is your legacy?

There may be other questions, too, that matter to you particularly, that hold you back right now, questions I can’t possible know – but you know them. So ask those too. Who were you? Is this truly what you want to leave behind when death overtakes you?

Take your time – I’ve got work to get to, can’t stay with you while you work through the details on this one, and really… It’s all about you. When you are finished with being finished with being you… what then? When you allow yourself to understand and fully accept that a time will come when indeed “you had your chance” and now it has passed you by… will you think you have wasted that precious limited life time? Will you feel a moment of regret for the shitty choices, poor values, lack of ethics, lack of conscience, cruelty, carelessness, regrettable loss of control, the hurt you have done to loved ones, and yes, even strangers? I sort of hope that you do, or that, if nothing else, you feel something that moves you to make some change or other that takes your journey somewhere new – somewhere you really want to go, but hadn’t yet gotten to. Because death doesn’t seem to hold a ton of potential to change who you were, you know?

…Well… At least in this instance… you get a do-over. You get to begin again. Are you ready for your second chance to be the person you most want to be?

Here it is. Right now. It begins right here, right now, and with each choice that follows this moment.

What will you do with it?

I woke three times, all three times feeling well-rested, the first two also entirely able and willing to return to sleep – so I did. 😀 It is Saturday, and I have succeeded in doing the one thing I did plan to do today; I got the rest I needed. 🙂

Good self-care is critical to my wellness. (Yours, too, probably.) I used to suck at it completely, always over-compromising what it takes to be well and feel good by grabbing onto other experiences and choices, for…well… reasons. Reasons that seemed to make sense in the moment, but more often than not were excuses and rationalizations for “doing whatever I want” – or, actually, whatever someone else wanted. The cycle of exhaustion, meltdowns, and poor outcomes was so predictable that for many years I simply called the entire mess “hormones” and put that shit on my calendar without any particularly successful effort to mitigate or improve any of it (because… “hormones”… well… that shit can’t be fixed, though, right? Right??) (Actually, no. It turns out that conflating hormones, mental illness, a lack of emotional intelligence, poor self-care, and plain old-fashioned inconsiderate shitty behavior, assumption making, and personal bullshit leaves quite a lot of room for improvement… so… maybe rethinking your inconsiderate bullshit, at a minimum, is a good place to start? 😉 Just saying.)

I am watching, from a distance, as two relationships in my social network struggle with a partner’s mental illness. Both have been deeply committed loving relationships of decades of mutual affection, support, and shared family life. Both are struggling with the challenge of making love work, while also supporting a mentally ill person’s personal challenge with finding wellness, and juggling all the other elements of family life: work, kids, bills, grocery shopping, and even the assumptions of strangers and the well-meaning “help” and support of friends, sometimes less than ideally helpful, no doubt. (Been there.) It’s fucking hard to be mentally ill. It’s fucking hard to love someone who is mentally ill. The coping skills and rationalizations that allowed these relationships to succeed and perhaps even appear functional before mental illness finally prevented that from being a thing at all are reliably breaking down now that these mentally ill friends are seeking (and getting) treatment that may actually result in wellness. Their partners may not be much help at this point, and in fact, their hurts, anger, resentment, and emotional wellness concerns are reliably welling up and becoming problems that need to be managed. It’s when a mentally ill loved one begins the journey to wellness that everyone else’s rampant crazy bullshit comes to the forefront – along with the rationalizations, excuse-making, justifications, chronically incorrect and untested assumptions, and refusal to respect new boundaries and changes of behavior. It’s ugly and it’s hard. There are literally no “good guys”, and as soon as “the crazy one” begins to practice things that are more sane, the crazy on the other side of the relationship becomes apparent – often accompanied by utter refusal to acknowledge it, be accountable for it, accept it, or change it.

When people who are mentally ill seek treatment, find it, and begin their journey toward wellness, the first set back is often because within their once supportive network of friends and family (“I’m here for you!”) are people who are suddenly not so willing to “be there” if “there” turns out to include being aware of their own bullshit, and their continued commitment to a status quo that it turns out has favored them, and met certain needs that must now be met differently – in, oh, hey, some new healthy way. It’s hard. It’s hardest, frankly, on the mentally ill partner now responsible not only for staying focused on treatment, but now this mentally unwell person struggling with their situation is suddenly also forced to have to provide support to the adult in the room who turns out to be less than ideally adult (and sometimes fully unwilling to even be aware of that).

It’s a see-saw, people. When we love someone with a mental health challenge, over time, we make room for some weird and possibly damaging bullshit that changes who we are, ourselves, a little at a time. When someone we love who is mentally ill seeks help, and begins to make real changes, on purpose, with the intent of becoming well – our own crazy is going to well up and fight back, and our failure to be observant and aware, and also take the very best care of ourselves, for real, is likely to be the first step on the path to seeing that relationship simply end. It will end in screaming tantrums, outrage, defensiveness, accusations, and generally – a lot of needless yelling. The cause I most commonly see as obvious and avoidable is that instead of partnerships fighting mental illness together, partners become adversaries and basically forget all about the actual issue being someone who is sick, and not able to be at their best, who needs help, support, consideration, and compassion.

Reminder: getting a diagnosis does not suddenly make someone who is mentally ill magically able to not struggle with mental illness. They can’t just point to a page in their handy “So you’re depressed?” handbook or their “The basics of living with PTSD” guide and go down a list of steps to “make it all better” for some other person. Fuck you. That’s sort of one of the limitations of being unwell; there is a fairly commonly implied inability to do all the things.

I’m not saying it’s easy. I’m saying it’s fucking hard. I’m saying a great many relationships that end over mental illness don’t end because a partner is mentally ill – they end when that person seeks wellness and messes with the stable status quo that has allowed the “well” person certain… sanity privileges, that they must now give up in favor of dealing with their own unaddressed bullshit. No one in a relationship recovers from mental illness alone; everyone must deal with their bullshit. Everyone has bullshit.

When I hit that wall in my own relationship(s) I was fortunate. I chose to move into my own living space, and make a significant lifestyle change for a variety of reasons that overlapped in a useful way. I live alone. Sure, there’s bullshit, and I definitely trip over it frequently – and it’s all mine. My bullshit. My issues. My limitations. It’s also my home, my rules, my way; the failures are mine, and so are the successes. I was able to let go of my attachment to “being heard” by my partner(s), and able to comfortably take time to be heard by the woman in the mirror – because I could recognize, in the silence of solitary space, that this was in fact where the issue rested, for me. I was able to begin to sort out my bullshit from the bullshit in my relationships that wasn’t mine, and let go of trying to fix other people, or a relationship dynamic that was unavoidably damaged by my issues, and work on practicing healthier practices that support my own mental wellness… and having gained a measure of wellness, emotional resilience, and stability, then I could begin to tackle the complex challenges of “making things right” with emotionally hurt partner(s). Please note: I am not recommending my choices to anyone else. I am this person here, and my needs are what they are; I thrive living alone. You are likely someone else altogether, with different needs, and other choices may be preferable for you, personally. I’m just saying – achieving wellness may very well destroy existing relationships, and not through any failure of the mentally ill person, and in no way directly caused by their illness, but totally because they attempted to get well – and wellness did not meet the needs of that relationship. It’s totally a thing.

Prepare for change. Seeking mental health changes things. It’s a thing people know about.

Are you a “bad person” if you can’t stay in a relationship with someone who is mentally ill? I mean, you wouldn’t leave if they broke their leg, right? It’s a complicated question. Just as complicated as “Am I a bad person if I can’t stay in my relationship because my partner won’t respect new boundaries and changes in behavior as I improve my mental health?”

Helpful friends don’t feel any more comfortable than anyone else in the context of watching lovers struggle with mental health concerns. Everyone has their “good advice” to offer. People take sides without ever seeing the entirety of the dynamic. Also hard.

Every bit of all the hard stuff is 100% hardest on the person who is mentally ill, who is trying their damnedest to find emotional wellness – they are the one who is sick, people. I’m just saying. Seriously? Find some fucking perspective. Be there for a friend. Listen more than you talk, and refrain from making assumptions. Be encouraging. Be considerate. Be compassionate. If a relationship is struggling with mental illness, everyone is hurting, everyone is injured, everyone is struggling – and no one is the good guy; we’ve all got our own bullshit to deal with.

Two different relationships, two different sets of circumstances. I find myself fairly certain one relationship has already failed, and wondering if the other might manage to survive this; it’s in how they treat each other. In both cases, I see the mentally ill person doing what they must do to become well.

I notice that I have finished my second coffee, and my playlist just ended. It is a lush rainy Saturday, and I’ve got some important self-care to take care of; it’s been a long week, and I find that my own emotional wellness is very much tied to skilled self-care. 🙂 It’s time to get started on the practices that keep me well. Doing so, and staying committed to them, has changed my world, and also my relationships. I swallow one last bite of oatmeal, grateful my relationship with my Traveling Partner has endured my changes. Love matters most.