End of Year Letter with Just A Slight Edge of Gloom

The end of the year is a time for reflection.  I can look back at 2014 and see a lot of positives and a lot of negatives.  Right now, I am in a state of sadness about an ongoing situation in my life that seems to have no end and no resolution.  It is hard to muster up the New Year's cheer today.  For those that have followed my blog, it is related to My Daily Nightmare blog post and the sadness around all this feels like it is going to suck me under.  But, I will push forward and attempt to write and maybe find something in this year, in this day that is worth writing about.

This year was a year of firsts for my youngest, who continues to push forward in life with passion and determination.  First solo, first car and driver's license, first job, and first surgery.  Driving took her further away from us and closer to adulthood; it broke my heart a little, although I tried let go. Her incredible solo punctuated her love for dance and showed others how talented she really is(although I had known it all along, of course).  Tonsil surgery was brutal, but she made it through with a little help from many friends who helped her keep her mind off the pain.   She continues to push forward, much too fast, with much enthusiasm and energy. Her ability to see and create magic and beauty in the world inspires me every day.

Last year, about this time, I was getting ready for big toe joint fusion surgery.  This terrified me as 2 previous foot surgeries had been failures.  Although recovery wasn't easy, this surgery has actually been a success.  I no longer walk around with my big toe in constant and chronic pain.  With effort and a little pain, I was able to hike 3 miles last summer with my sister, niece and my youngest.  This would have been impossible before the surgery.  It's incredible how freeing and amazing it felt to have health insurance, get something taken care of and be able to do things, like yard work, that I had not been able to do for years.  I still deal with chronic foot and back pain, but at least that foot is somewhat better.

One of the most pivotal parts of the year for me was quitting a job which I hated with no 'safety' plan or back up in place.  This decision was one of the wisest decisions I have made although it continues to be terrifying.  I took the time to figure out what I wanted to do and learned how incredibly burned out I was by day to day client work and fighting with systems.  It is yet to be known whether it is a line of work that I will return to, but the break has been extremely helpful.  The break led me to writing again.  I started blogging and have absolutely loved it.  No matter what happens, I know that I did the right thing because the decision led me back to doing something I love, no matter where it leads(and a lot of bonding with  my little pack of dogs!!).

Most importantly, this year has been a year of helping people.  From helping my mom with recovery from knee surgery to helping my youngest recover from tonsil surgery, I was able to be there for my family. In March, we were blessed with a strange and unforeseen(long story) visit by a young man with mental health issues we had never met who had nowhere to go and did not know what to do. This young man was one of the most forgiving young people I ever met and he touched my heart. My partner, my youngest and I were able to be there for him in concrete ways that helped him get to the next place he needed to go.  I am always grateful for the opportunity to help my closed loved ones, but in this case, I was very touched by the three of us and our ability to come through for this young person we had never met.

Writing this blog post has shown me that sometimes, in writing, I realize the good things and can open up my own heart even in the midst of extremely trying circumstances.  There was more to this year: there was theft, filing a restraining order, a great road trip with my partner, a crazy bad camping trip, the loss of our family cabin and some of the upheaval that has plagued us for quite some time. But, the good still shines through: my partner finding a new hobby she was passionate about(fishing), me rekindling my love of writing, and my youngest continuing her amazing life journey and dedication to her passions.

As the Grateful Dead would say, it's been another long strange trip.  Most of my years are.  I am grateful that I found new friends this year to share my journey.  I am grateful for my family and my old friends who love me.  2015 will bring new journeys, heartaches and joys. All I can wish for is to continue growing as a parent and a person and continuing to help people through my writing and more.  Sometimes my heart feels too open, too broken down, and too much for this world, but somehow those little pieces of hope just help keep me pushing through.  Thanks to everyone who helps keep the pieces of my heart from flying apart. With all my love.

From Despair, Into Action

I enter the end of the Christmas season with the usual lack of Christmas cheer.  The kids will probably be critical of the gifts.  The world is filled with tragedy.  My baking and wrapping skills aren't up to par. A few situations in my life are not getting any better. I feel like I have little power to change one of them, and plenty of power to change the other, but lack motivation.

One of my biggest lurking feelings is a feeling of despair.  Reading the comment threads on subjects related to racism, rape, and homelessness has caused me to reflect on the lack of kindness and compassion that seem to be pervasive in our society right now.  Another things that troubles me is a lack of attention to huge horrible things that happen, like our countries drone program and the fact that the Taliban recently slaughtered 145 people, mostly children.  It seems, we either want to hide our heads in the sand or lash out in 'black and white', us vs. them ways that don't serve any of us.

This feeling of despair is not new to me.  I have felt this 'weight of the world' feeling since I was a small child.  It has not served me well in many ways.  But, it did make me an excellent case worker, someone who had big compassion for my clients and an ability look at solutions.  Being a case worker broke my heart, over and over again.  Seeing a system that was so broken, that did not serve my people in the ways they needed to be served killed me a bit inside.  It left me feeling powerless and burned out.  So, I have taken a break and started writing again, an old love rekindled.

Somehow, I need to learn to turn that despair into action.  Blogging has helped ease my powerless feelings.  It has given voice to my personal experiences while hopefully helping others learn from my past and my insights into my experiences.  In ways, it has helped me combat the powerless feelings that I have when I read hateful comments on Internet threads.  My hope is that maybe in my little way, I am doing my part to combat the hatred, to educate people about things like rape, racism, mental health stigma, domestic violence, and more.  I can only hope that it is better than staying silent about these things and wanting to hide in a cave. (although writing does not always take away that 'hide in a cave' feeling)

This Christmas, I also try to have gratitude to turn around that despair.  Sometimes, this works and sometimes it fails miserably.  Many times, I throw up my hands in hopelessness, feeling like I don't know how to parent or even be much of an adult.  So  many things happened this year in the world 'triggered' me and filled me a sense of powerlessness.   There are days that everything seems freaking crazy and that there is nothing to do but despair.  It's my fall back, I am far from an optimist.

I do see that change happens sometimes.  In my home state of Wyoming, gay marriage is now legal. This is something I would never imagine happening in my lifetime.  We have a religious leader, the Pope, who is talking about deep and important issues regarding class and poverty.  Personally, I see the inherent goodness in people; from rallying around people who have loved ones with cancer to people in recovery helping each other in concrete and helpful ways that change lives. The Black Lives Matter protest movement is working to address systemic issues that pervade our culture regarding race.  We cannot afford to be disheartened because all around us, we see that change can happen, sometimes very slowly, but we cannot give up.

Perhaps my despair is actually a gift that pushes me to speak my truth.  It has inspired me to move, to speak about the issues important to me in my personal and professional life.  My despair has almost killed me, but it has also given me a strength and insight that I would not have without it.

This Christmas, I can look back at all the horrible things that have happened in the world and get completely bogged down, or I can choose to re-commit myself to making change in the ways that I can.  I will choose to re-commit myself to being a better parent, to teaching my kids that the latest, greatest gifts and purchases are much less important than the connections we make with people; that through their gifts of writing, dance and art, they can make changes in the world in their own small ways. I will choose to continue following my passion to speak out through writing about issues that are important to me, particularly about our mental health system and changes that must be made.  I will choose to continue learning to connect with new friends and expand my circle of people to make my world a little more 'large'.  Finally, my hope is that we can all learn to speak out a little more when we see injustice, that we can choose to help, instead of harm, that we can make space in our hearts for the suffering of the world and use our own unique gifts to keep pushing forward and change this crazy world.

Who Is The Victim?

My consciousness is not ready to let this topic go.  Camille Cosby's statement on her husband's rape filled me with anger and helped me realize that I still need to speak about this issue.  One blog post was not enough.

When I was 14 years old my world changed.  My coach was arrested for statutory rape.  My world shattered.  He was a man who I spent hours of my life with, who I looked up to, loved and respected. Innocence was lost.  No longer could I trust my instincts.  It did not help that I soon found out that many knew, but, I was one of those who didn't, who was completely blindsided.  I was sickened and sad and had nowhere to turn.  The next year I almost starved to death.  My psychiatrist in the mental hospital I was in at 16 assumed that my trauma was somehow linked to my coach and would try to get me to admit abuse.  The problem was I was never abused by my coach, but the trauma of losing my innocence, of losing someone I looked up to had wounded me deeply.  The clueless psychiatrist refused to see that sexual violence has vicarious victims. Writing about it now, almost thirty years later makes my palms sweat and fills me with anxiety.  These traumas hold on to us.  

As vicarious victims of this crime, we spent hours of our lives year round with this coach. From him, we learned a lifelong passion and life lessons.  It was hard to grasp that he had done something wrong.  It was stunning and sad.  For some, these feelings made them lash out at the victim with great vigor.  I remember being baffled by this also.  They could not grasp that this figure that they loved could do something wrong, or that it was wrong to have sex with a minor, and even more so when you are in a position of power.  Many made the victim the 'wrong' one in this case.  It was a case of extreme bullying which I am sad to say I did not speak out against, but only watched in silence.

Watching this ostracism and bullying taught me that it was extremely frightening and isolating to report a rape.  It kept me from reporting my rape my first year in college. Perhaps if the adults in our lives would have been more open, would have come out and talked to us about how wrong it was,  maybe things would have been different. The victim left our school and life went on.  All of us shell shocked and unsure how to process what we had been through, we just pushed forward.  I don't know if anyone realized how traumatized we were, how much losing our sense of safety and trust affected us. We learned to vilify the victim of this crime and to silently cope with our conflicting emotions in sometimes destructive ways.  

Unfortunately, I have seen this same type of victim bullying in the  Cosby case. For me, these very public rape cases have triggered me and filled me with anger when I see victims blamed yet again. When Camille Cosby compared her husband's rapes to the UVA rape case and said that the UVA rape case 'proved untrue', she was bullying that victim.  I felt sick for the victim in that case as Rolling Stone's poor journalism has thrown her story into question and people are now throwing it out there as an example of false rape reporting. Camille Cosby is using it as an example of why we should think her husband is innocent.   I hear Camille Cosby asking 'who is the victim?' and I cringe inwardly.  In this case, I do not understand how her denial can run so deep as to claim that over 20 women are making up the same story.(a story that isn't new to her since a case was settled in 2006 with Cosby which had 13 witnesses with similar stories, many of whom are coming forward now) Why say anything in this case? Why bully the victims of her husband and the victim in the UVA case?  To many, it is very clear who the victim is, Camille Cosby and it is not your husband.  

We want to believe that sexual predators look a certain way.  It's hard to believe that they are often perfectly nice people in many areas of their lives.  But, the reality is that many sexual predators are like Bill Cosby and like my coach.  They are sometimes good parents, good friends and even 'role models'.  They don't 'look' or 'act' scary and this makes it harder for us to believe and support victims.  We do not want to believe people like our good 'father' figure, Bill Cosby or my 'fun' father figure, my coach are criminals in spite of overwhelming evidence to the contrary. This mantle of respectability and kindness give predators a great deal of power with victims and with the people around them.  It contributes to burying allegations of sexual crimes and blaming the victim.

I think of the men and women who I know who have been sexually abused as I read this latest round of victim blaming.  I think of people who have been abused by siblings, by acquaintances, by fathers, by strangers, by teachers and by coaches.  I knew what it was like to love and respect a sexual predator. When, I found out he was a predator, my heart was broken.  My feelings were so mixed up because I could not accept reality.  Our culture refuses to accept the reality that men and women who are 'respectable' can be predators.  We  need to wake up.

When men and women come forward with sexual harassment or rape allegations, we need to confront those who immediately question and shame victims.  We need to know that in spite of how someone may seem to us, they indeed may be sexual predators. Our culture is rife with examples of victim blaming that starts sometimes as simple as a 'boys with be boys' attitudes when girls are harassed in schools.  It starts with something as simple as abuse of boys by women being laughed off and ignored.  As victims, we need no longer remain silent.  We need to fight back in ways that make things different for our children.  All of us can no longer sit silently by and tolerate victim blaming or sexual abuse on any level.

Together, We Are Not Broken

Since I started this blog a few months ago, I often have inspirations; a small voice that tells me what I need to write about next.  Sometimes these hunches are inspired by current issues in the media and other times they are inspired by personal experiences that are making their way to the surface of my consciousness, urging me to write about them.  This topic has been a nagging small voice for at least a month now.  The media has definitely pushed this nagging voice, with Cosby, with the Rolling Stone debacle and the discussion of campus rape.  But, I had a great deal of fear about writing about my experiences.  I realized that my fear is not all that different from what I felt 25 years ago when this experience happened.  The fear is rooted in the shame of what I experienced and that blame that I still put on myself 25 years later. This collective, misplaced blame that our culture inflicts on survivors of sexual violence is something that is hard to escape.

25 years ago, October, 1989, in my first month of college, I was raped.  As a teenager, I never had a relationship and had never even kissed anyone.  My experience with drugs and alcohol was extremely limited.  On this night that is etched in my consciousness, I hung out with my roommate and her boyfriend and was under the influence of a drug that rendered me somewhat frozen.  My roommate and her boyfriend left me at an apartment with someone I did not know.  This person was drunk, took advantage of the situation and raped me.  

I remember making my way back to my apartment, broken.  I remember the long shower and the feelings that could not be washed away.  I walked around campus that day in a fog of sadness and pain; heartwrenching physical and emotional pain.  Back in my apartment, my new friend, Heidi looked at me and knew something was wrong.  She pulled me back into her room and asked me what was wrong.  I told her.  She was loving and kind and most importantly, believed me.  Somehow the story got out to my 4 other roommates. One was extremely angry and wanted me to press charges.  Two of them did not believe me and openly said that I was responsible for this experience as I was there alone and it must not have been rape.  The one who left me there never did say much except to tell me later that her 'real' boyfriend(not the one she had been with that night) was very angry at her for leaving me there, unprotected and vulnerable.  

Reporting this rape was not an option in my mind.  My mom was a director of a family violence/sexual assault agency and I heard all the stories of women who were raped and their rapists were never convicted.  Most importantly, in high school, I witnessed extreme victim blaming when a victim of statutory rape was ostracized for reporting the rape.  These fears, the reactions of my two roommates, and the fact that it was an acquaintance rape where I was under the influence of drugs kept me silent. I did what was expected of me, kept quiet and let this trauma eat me up inside.  

This experience colored my life in ways that I was not aware of until much later.  It made an already difficult relationship with my body, even more difficult.  I learned to disconnect from my feelings even more and to detach from my body.  The only thing good that came of it was that it solidified my friendship with my lifelong friend, Heidi.  My relationship with men became fraught with mistrust and fear for many many years.  It took away my intuitive sense of what was healthy and what was not, and it was hard for me to discern who the 'good' men were and instead, I could only love men who were broken, even if they were violent.  The disbelief of my roommates and the dismissal by others taught me to question my own reality  My intimate relationships were effected in ways that are difficult to define. I never went to therapy for it because I didn't know if it was real.  Was it a real 'rape' or were my roommates correct in thinking it was my fault for being in that situation?  Were the feelings of violation and deep despair a mere figment of my imagination?  

Since this experience, I met many women and men who experienced similar traumas; women and men who never reported sexual violence, who questioned their reality even when they knew deep down they had been violated.  These shared experiences have helped me validate my own reality, to know that what I experienced was real and to see how it effected me.  I am filled with despair and guilt when I hear the statistics about the percentage of rapists who rape again.  Could I have stopped this rapist? I can only hope it was a one time thing for him, but I will never know.  

Why do I share this  now? Some of the reactions I have seen to the Cosby rapes and to the Rolling Stone rape story, have made me deeply uncomfortable.  Again, 25 years later, I see victim blaming and questioning of victims stories.  It is not a walk in the park to come forward with a story of deep sexual violation.  The percentage of 'false' reporting of rapes is very small.  It makes me physically ill when I see women and men accusing victims of lying or somehow profiting from reporting of these horrible violations.  The Rolling Stone story made me even more uncomfortable as I heard that 'friends' were sharing that there were discrepancies in Jackie's story. This could have been me.  My roommates could have come forward with similar allegations, even though what I experienced was very real. My heart went out to 'Jackie' going through her recovery from this horrific event in the public eye.  I cannot imagine how heartwrenching and painful this must be for her.    

I share my story because I cannot be silent.  My silence makes me complicit in a culture that still blames victims for rape.  I have two daughters and I do not want them to live in a world where women are brutalized.  Unfortunately, they do. What can I do? I can teach my daughters to believe survivors of sexual violence, support them and fight for them.  I can teach them to be open about their own experiences, to seek support and fight back.  Importantly, I can teach them to never leave their friends alone in situations that could be dangerous, to listen to their guts and get themselves and/or others out of situations that just don't feel 'right'.  

Looking back on this experience, I feel tremendous sadness for the broken and alone young woman that I was.  My heart fills with gratitude that I had my friend  to support, believe, and love me even though I could not talk about it.  My heart breaks for men, women, boys and girls broken by sexual violence.  Sometimes, we learn to slowly mend our broken pieces and tragically, sometimes we don't ever mend those broken places and escape in death or addictions. The more we speak out about our experiences, the more we can fight a culture that shames us and strives to keep our experiences hidden. If we have the courage to share with others, to band together and speak out, we can become unbroken; ready to change a world that shames us and to eliminate sexual violence.  

Angry White Girl

I thought this week would pass without me doing my Sunday blog post. I felt like any of the issues I wanted to focus on were far overshadowed by the events in Ferguson.  It went beyond the events in Ferguson to racism that I saw in response to this tragedy that showed our collective racism. It just made me sad, angry and filled me with an overwhelming sense of hopelessness. I decided to go ahead and try and address it in my own very subjective way, however imperfect, because being silent is not an option.

I have seen this racism all around me, and yes, I acknowledge that I am racist.  I cannot get away from it.  I grew up in a town where the overwhelming majority of people were white.  I grew up in a family where I heard racist jokes, and knew they were wrong, but did not know how to stand up against them.  Although I went to college in a place far from my small town in Wyoming, it was still overwhelmingly white.  I ended up in a city, which was one(and may still be) of the whitest cities in America.  Then, I chose to raise my kids in another very white town, maybe not quite as white as the one I grew up in, but nonetheless very white.  I can honestly say that I have had only one black friend in my entire life.   Although, I may strive not to be racist, I know that it is nearly impossible for me to escape the insidious and subtle racism that permeates our culture.

As a young child, from the time I learned about slavery,the genocide of Native Americans, and the Holocaust,  I was ashamed that I was a white skinned girl of European ancestry.  This shame went deep and contributed to my life long depression.  I somehow could not separate myself from my ancestors.  The violence and hatred was in my bones and it filled me with an overwhelming sense of despair. Although, this may make me sound like a whiny white girl, it is the truth of my experience.

Later, I was still a whiny white girl with a big sense of sadness about being a white girl, but I learned a small bit about oppression being bisexual, a person with mental health issues and a physical disability which caused some fairly significant limitations.  This small bit of oppression is nothing though in the scheme of things.  I cannot know what it is like to send my girls out in a world where I fear for their lives if they are pulled over by police.  I cannot know what it is like to be targeted while shopping because of the color of  my skin.  I cannot know what it is like to be passed over for employment because of my name or the color of my skin.  I cannot know what it's like. I just can't.

But, what I do know is that I feel despair when I see how much deep racism still exists in our country.  I am sometimes startled by it, as if waking from a dream, or waking from a false reality only to come into the  reality of the nightmare that exists.  Anyone that denies that the lack of an indictment in the Ferguson case does not display our racism as a country is in very deep denial.  I honestly don't know how one can look at the facts of the case and not be dumbfounded at the fact that there was not an indictment. Seriously.

I  don't know what else to say except we need to wake up.  We need to have conversations and dialogue about race in this country.  We need to act to make changes together. Something is very wrong and I don't see it getting better.  We see it in our prison system, in disparities in our education system, and in black people getting murdered by police on a weekly basis.  Yes, murdered.  I am angry and as with all 'big' wrongs in our country, it fills me with a sense of hopelessness as I don't know what the answer is.  There doesn't seem to be anyway to change the deep racism; where people dig in their heels and turn a blind eye to it.  As a whiny sad white girl in my white town, what can I do to be an ally?  Arguing over social media doesn't seem to do anything to help as all I see are people stuck in their positions and not opening their minds, even a little.

I guess all I can do is try and articulate it and speak out.  I have learned from various psychological traditions that anger is something to be avoided, that it can only lead to personal destruction.  I think I need to question this because there is a lot to be angry at.  I still believe that anger can lead to change and I cannot deny I am angry.  I cannot deny that this anger can be funneled into something constructive and help facilitate change.  Maybe we all need to get a little angry and let the force of it bring us into greater understanding and dialogue. Sometimes I wonder if the mostly white forces that decry anger use it as a tool to suppress real dialogue. I feel sick that black people in urban areas and white men with mental health issues in rural areas are disproportionately murdered by police.  There is something wrong.  We need to get angry. We need to get sad.  We need to step out of our little self imposed boxes and be willing to be uncomfortable with our own racism. We need to open our minds and our hearts to listen to and learn from each other. We need to feel all that is screwed up in this world and most importantly, we need to act, to speak out and make real changes.  

Dances with the Devil

My experiences with the medical profession, while annoying, have not been deadly.  This post is dedicated to all those who have died due to inept practitioners who don't take the time to listen to the person as a whole; practitioners who may not be completely to blame in a for profit healthcare system that is failing miserably.  The title of this post may seem extreme, but I want it to be clear that the 'devil' in this case is not the doctors, but, a very broken healthcare system. 

When I was a teenager, I was hospitalized for anorexia. I remember, as if in a fog, the 6 weeks of so-called 'treatment'.  My treatment mostly consisted of a psychiatrist who could not seem to get it out of his head that I was abused by someone I wasn't abused by. Mostly, it consisted of being watched while eating and threatened if I didn't.  I remember being watched continually, strange group therapy sessions, and being moved down to 'level 1' because I would not participate in a movie discussion. When I knew my insurance was done paying, I told the nurse the night before that I would rather die than end up in another mental hospital.  She reported me as being suicidal.  I called my parents and told them what happened.  The psychiatrists could use this so-called suicidal ideation to get an extension through my parent's insurance company.  But, my parents knew this place was not helping me.  They actually listened.  After the hospital, I did not get better right away but was able to find some alternative types of therapy that actually started to help a little.  These mental hospital experiences gave me a lifetime mistrust of doctors and helping professionals in general.  At 16, I could see that the so-called treatment I was getting was really not based on who I was and offered me little in healing my underlying issues. 

When I was 19, my foot was ruined by a podiatrist who insisted I needed bunion surgery when I had little pain, just some bunion deformity.  For many years after the surgery, I struggled with pain.  I could no longer run and it was difficult to cross country ski.(2 things that I had loved for years) As the years went on, I became unable to dance, another love of mine.  Finally, I was told that the initial surgeon set the bone wrong.  20 years later, I had another bunion surgery to re-set the bone with the promise it would take away my chronic pain.  It didn't work.  I was told recently that having 2 surgeries on that joint have actually exacerbated pain in my other toe joints. When my other big toe gradually became extremely painful, I was told by a doctor to wear Birkenstocks for a year and it would cure the pain.  Two years later, I was told the joint was so deteriorated by arthritis that the only option was joint fusion.(apparently, Birkenstocks didn't work-surprise!) The interesting part about my foot story is the first doctor was most likely motivated by the money he would get for an unnecessary surgery and did not look at trying non-surgical options first; whereas, the second doctor did not listen at all to how much pain I was in but instead gave me cursory advice in his quick visit before moving on to his next patient.

Perhaps the most frustrating recent experience with doctors has been my experience with medical advocacy with a close loved one and my dad.  In my dads case, I repeatedly told his doctor that his medication was causing agitation and the doctor basically ignored my concerns. This medication was known to have this type of side effect in the elderly, but she dismissed me repeatedly.  In my loved one's case, I see doctor's leap to crazy conclusions about her condition based on tiny parts of things she says. (I won't go into detail, but I will say it is laughably ludicrous) They continue to look at symptoms instead of taking a careful and thoughtful history to determine the best course of action.  Perhaps most importantly, I see them continue to throw meds at her with often less than 15 minutes spent talking with her.  These medications have had devastating effects on her life and may have done more harm than good.  There are still no answers for this loved one and the last visit with a so-called specialist was one of the most demeaning and patronizing appointments I have ever witnessed. In both cases, I have seen doctors baffled by conditions that are not easily 'fit' in a box with no quick fix in sight.  This bafflement, I believe, creates a bit of hostility towards a patient that does not respond well to traditional interventions.  Instead of being open to non-medication interventions in both cases, doctors just throw up their hands and keep falling back on the same old prescription playbook that clearly is not working. 

And finally, my experience working with people with disabilities punctuates my experiences with the medical system with heart wrenching tragedy.  Countless clients have struggled with chronic conditions, with very little compassion and great frustration when quick fix treatments don't work. With certain insurance, like Medicaid, clients were not even able to get second opinions because of the lack of providers that take Medicaid.   I can think of at least 2 clients who are dead because the symptoms they reported to doctors were not taken seriously and they died of aggressive terminal illnesses. Clients fought for years with a healthcare system just to be heard, just to get some kind of treatment that was meaningful.  Some died, some deteriorated and some walked around with an extreme sense of grief and hopelessness feeling like there were no answers. These experiences are not unique and many with disabling conditions are left feeling powerless in a system that is supposed to be designed to help them.

Our fee for service health care system has made health care a business where doctors are paid by treatment, not outcome.  Doctors are conditioned by insurance companies to throw people into simple 'boxes' so they can be paid.  Prescription drug companies have become like car salesman, creating pretty ads, aggressively courting doctors to promote and prescribe their drugs and passing advertising costs on to the patient by increasing prices for medication.  With the costs associated with dealing with health insurance, primary doctors and specialists are often forced to book short appointments.  There is little time to look at the 'whole' picture in this system.  We fail people with chronic conditions in a world that is centered around billing, symptom treatment, and prescription drugs.  Instead of looking at a person as someone with a complex health history who needs equally complex and thoughtful treatment, doctors are forced to look at separate symptoms, throw some meds at the person, and move on to the next patient.  As referenced before, the results of all these things leave patients feeling completely powerless and often, sicker.

Incredibly, in this system there are still 'good' doctors that thoroughly examine and take careful histories of clients.  In the past year, I was blessed to have one of those doctors for my youngest daughter.  This experience surprised me, and it shouldn't have.  This type of doctor should be the 'norm' not the exception in the medical field.   In my personal experience as a care provider for loved ones and my own personal experience, I know the devastating feeling of waiting months for a doctor only to have them completely dismiss your issues.  For some, this dismissal could be deadly as some get tired of fighting and give up.  As patients and caregivers, we complain about these issues.  We complain and complain, but then we run from the idea of 'socialized' medicine as if it is a demon.  I honestly cannot a imagine a bigger devil than the fiasco that is our current healthcare model.  We need to open our minds and demand better.  

Grief Lives

There are days like this, where grief wraps around me like a blanket of deep sorrow.

Where I get tired of being strong and slogging through life without my best friend.  I get tired of finding the blessing in her loss, in appreciating what she gave me when she was here.  I want her here now. I want to call her and pour my heart out to her and have her pour her heart out to me.  I want my friend, my Heidi, and no-one else will do.

There are days likes this when grief lives, when I am tired of seeing loved one's descend into horrible progressive illnesses with seemingly no cure.

I am filled with rage that a horrible illness took away my dad's mind, before it finally took his body.  I get so angry at a health care system that cannot cure my loved one.  It kills me that every day for her is a struggle with no hope in sight.  My rage at seeing a beautiful person robbed of hope and a future just fills me up with an abiding sense of hopelessness.

Sometimes the flip side of grief is rage.  Rage at all that has been taken from me and my loved ones.

And it may sound like self pity, but sometimes I just have to sit with it.  Because it comes unbidden and it seems there is nothing to do but wallow through it. 

There are days like this when being strong seems exhausting.  Where hiding in a hole seems like the best thing to do.  But, somehow I just keep living; knowing that I am not alone.  There are millions are out there dealing with similar feelings.  But, somehow, this thought also fills my heart with sadness.

And in our culture, we rarely make space for grief.  We go to a funeral, we move on.  Someone has an illness that robs them of things, mentally or physically, and they are expected to just keep moving on, hiding the grief of all they are losing. Often, especially for the latter, there is no community supporting them.  They suffer alone. People are frightened of reaching out and often, don't know what to say.  So, they don't reach out and the grieving person is left to suffer alone.  Little do people know, that sometimes all grieving people need is a listening ear, a hand to hold, or even practical support, like meals. 

We learn to be stoic and not ask for help; to hide with our pain and put on a brave face.  Then, we learn to  numb out, knowing that it's not acceptable to express our pain.  There are no circles of support and many flounder, adrift, and sometimes turn to substances to relieve that pain.  We have few rituals to celebrate and suffer through our grief together.  There is little acknowledgment that grief is a spiral and there is NEVER closure. 

But, some days, things turn around.  The rage abates.  The grief lies there in the background, but not as prominent. And even on the hard days, there is beauty.  There are small blessings, like the beauty of snow.  The laughter of a suffering loved one.  Even when the grief feels like it will swallow me whole, there is a small light that keeps me making small steps to honor those I have lost, or make change for those that are still alive and suffering.  My grief will never die, but I do my best to feel it, while learning and growing from it.

I will not deny my heart the strong grief that sometimes engulfs it with sadness.  My grief teaches me how strong I love.  It teaches me how strong I can be, even when I don't want to be.  I refuse to find 'closure' because, for those of us who have lost someone we love deeply, that grief never goes away, we just learn to live with it and appreciate what we have lost.

Knowing what I know about grief, I try my best to reach out to those who are grieving, even if when it's uncomfortable.  Life is impermanent, unpredictable and sometimes tragic; which really sucks.  But, sometimes I have to just find a little sweetness, a little light to grab on to and keep moving.  Some days, there is no sweetness and little hope and all there is to do is feel it, knowing that the feeling may pass, even when the tragic loss does not change and the pain comes back without warning. The human heart is strong and sometimes all we can expect of any given day is to just keep living, embracing all the pain, the grief, the laughter, and the joy as they come,without expectation.    

Let's Break Out of Our Collective Angst

It has been a few days since the Republicans took control of the Senate.  Here in my home state of Colorado, a Democrat incumbent was unseated in a Senate race that was negative, focused on  little of substance and left us all wishing for an end to it.  As any good left wing liberal would, I felt very tortured and sad when I woke up yesterday morning.  Additionally, I was a little confused.

My confusion comes with wondering why this country would choose to vote Republican when our economy is clearly turning around.  My confusion comes with wondering why our country would vote for a party that wants to destroy woman's rights.  My confusion comes with wondering why some think it's bad that scores of people now have insurance thanks to the Affordable Care Act, myself and my daughter included.  I wonder why some would choose to a vote for a party with no clear agenda except to block whatever the President wants. The next day, the Republicans proved me right in coming out to talk about what they would 'repeal' instead of talking about their ideas for action to move our country forward instead of focusing on the past.

However, I cannot escape these unsettling feelings that I have had throughout the past 6 years.  I wonder if these feelings are shared by others and perhaps played a part in low turnout among younger people and liberals on Election Day. 

When the Affordable Care Act passed, I was actually quite upset.  I posted a video of Dennis Kucinich railing against it.  My feelings of upset were due to my own research on our health care system and health care systems in other countries.  Our private health insurance model is the root of many of our health care problems in this country.  Many other industrialized nations have found models that work well, while we have lagged far behind.  The Affordable Care Act is still based on marketplace private insurance.  Contrary to conservatives beliefs, it was far from a 'government' takeover of health care.  It has yet to be seen how well it will work.  But, I know that my belief is that it didn't go far enough and that Obama backed down from his previous stance that a single payer system was the right way to go. Other countries have done it with great success, but we still collude with private insurers who care more about money than the health of the American people.

Another key reason I walk around feeling disillusioned and angry at our President and his administration is the issue of drone strikes.  We are literally terrorizing civilians in other countries who walk around anxious and afraid of what may be in the sky and potentially kill them at any moment.  Drone strikes have increased dramatically during the Obama presidency.  In his first 5 years of office, he authorized 390 drone strikes which may have reached some intended targets while also killing civilian men, women and children. As of January 2014, the death total reached 2400 with at least 273 reported civilian deaths and countless gravely injured.  This covert warfare is unacceptable and leaves me feeling sick about our country.  Further, no-one seems to talk about it or really care.

I think about our children.  For years, we have seen the poor get poorer and the rich get richer.  The middle class is shrinking.  Middle class children struggle to afford higher education and sometimes forego it due to the prospect of massive debt.  Our young adults struggle to pay rent and often end up at home because they can't afford to live on their own. We have a large population of young adults who see no hope of things turning around, who wander through life in quiet apathy and despair.  No wonder marijuana has become even more popular.  Anything to numb the pain of seeing your promising future vanish in front of your eyes.

Did any of these things prevent me from voting? No. However, these and other issues could have stopped other people who felt that both parties had regressive policies. Our current political climate isn't just about Obama..  Many of us, regardless of age or party affiliation walk around in an apathetic fog.  We vote for the 'lesser of 2 evils'.  Big money has far too much influence on our our political process and we complain, but nothing changes. I notice that many people don't think their vote matters any more.  We see gridlock and fighting that cannot be blamed on either party.  We see politicians that pander to big money donors on both sides of the aisle.  We wonder if our vote matters because maybe it doesn't.  Maybe it's all about the lobbyists and the corporations who control our Congress and our Presidents.

We are scared to speak out against the policies of people in our party like Obama.  We see awful problems like drone strikes and turn a blind eye because 'the alternative', in our eyes, is worse.  It almost reminds me of an abusive relationship where we stay with our abuser because we are controlled and don't believe we deserve better. Of course, we can't all get what we want politically, but why can't we stand up and change things that are just wrong in every sense of the word?? Do we care that we are tormenting civilians in other countries and killing children?  Do we care that our health care system is run by big money private insurance companies and pharmaceutical companies who just look at their bottom line instead of the health of the people? Do we care that middle class young people can no longer afford college and often graduate in massive debt? Maybe we do care, but feel powerless to do anything about it and then become scared to speak out because we don't want to attack someone who is supposed to be on 'our' side.

The big puzzle is how to come together as people from whatever political persuasion and truly address the issues.  Possibly, the vision starts at home.  Perhaps we need to start with progressive politicians coming out in droves at the local and state levels to effect change and push the issues at home until this vision spreads to national levels.  This vision needs to include affordable housing, living wages, affordable college education, affordable health care, and more. There are a few progressive state legislators in my county that care about these issues, listen to people, speak out for what is right and still manage to get re-elected.  We need more like them and importantly, more like them running for national office.

We need to light a fire in our young people and inspire them to be active politically.  We can only inspire them by stepping out of our own comfort zone and speaking out about issues that need to be talked about.  Somehow, we need to figure out a way to see each other's common humanity and come together, regardless of party, to find real solutions for our future.  At times, I walk around with low grade anger, feeling so overwhelmed and frustrated with the state of so many things in this country that I just want to go hide in a cave somewhere. All of us,on both sides of the aisle, need to step out of our collective angst.  We need to stop accepting 'the lesser of the 2 evils' and demand more.  We need to demand more than politicians whose actions are based on the influence of corporate America. Let's stand up and fight; if not for  ourselves, for our children.

For My Dad, It's Been Almost Two Years Since You Left Us

Two years ago today, I sat by your bedside daily as you lay dying. Due, in part to large doses of morphine, you were finally at peace.  I reflected on the past 2 years of suffering.  I reflected on your life. I reflected on all you gave me.  Even though you were beyond verbal communication, I could still feel your love.

Two years later, I reflect back on those two years when your suffering was severe.  I fought and fought with the doctor about a medication that I knew was making you more agitated.  No-one would listen to me.  In the last month before you died, they listened to me.  And finally,  you were calmer, less aggressive.  No-one would listen to us about behavioral interventions that we thought would be helpful.  It was the most helpless, hopeless feeling.

When you told me over and over to 'just shoot you', I grieved.  I grieved for you as I watched your sharp mind deteriorate and your level of discomfort increase.  I grieved that I could not end your suffering.  On our way to a doctor's appointment, several months before you died, you came out of your dementia, as if you were waking from a bad dream.  You asked me about your condition.  You asked me about where you were living.  And we talked.  By the time we got to the doctor's office, you begged me to please just end your life.  Back at your 'home', your dementia took over again.  It ripped my heart apart.  Perhaps it hurt even worse that I knew that your type of dementia gave you these moments of clarity that caused you even more torture. 

And months later, when the end was near, I felt some relief that your suffering was almost over.  Your grueling journey through the horrors of dementia was finally ending. Even though you were not the same 'dad' I knew before, it tore me apart to know that I was losing you.  Because, even in your dementia, your humor and love were still there.  You were not gone.  Those few years were grueling, but, I am so grateful that I got to spend them with you and get a little more 'dad' time before you left this world. 

Your life was not about your death.  Your life was about the legacy you left thousands of the students that you touched throughout your career, especially those students who desperately needed someone to believe in them and respect them.  Your life was about mentoring many teachers and coaches.  Your life was about the gifts you gave your three children and your seven grandchildren.  Your life was about time spent hunting and fishing.  Your life was about your love of sports.  Your life was about loyal friendships.  Your life was about your politics, your humor, your mind, your love.

I am sorry that I did not live in a state where it was legal to end your suffering.  I am sorry that I could not honor your wishes.  I am sorry you had to go through something you railed against: the loss of your precious mind,the loss of your precious memory. 

The last 6 years has given me a PhD on grief.  First, the loss of my beloved Heidi A., so suddenly and unexpectedly, and then you, my beloved dad.  With you, it was a long slow process of seeing you fade away in front of my eyes.  I cherish the time we spent together during this process and yet, I grieve that you had to go through it.  I grieve that we live in a country ill equipped to deal with dementia; that relies on pharmaceutical interventions that often harm people.  I grieve that I could not keep you here at home with me.  I grieve the fact that this horrible ravaging illness exists. I grieve the fact that we live in a culture that does not embrace grief.  Where we are supposed to be 'done' with it after the funeral. 

What I learned as a result of these losses is that life is impermanent and sometimes, tragic.  That it can throw some of the most heartless horrible heartwrenching things our way.  I learned that I have to keep trudging forward even when my heart feels ripped to shreds.  I learned to cherish those that are still here, while honoring the memory of those I lost.  And, Dad, what I learned most, is to be filled with gratitude for what my 'lost ones' gave me.  You gave me life, you gave me love, you gave me ongoing support on every level.  Even in your death, you are not gone.  You live on in my heart and in the lives of all you touched.  I love you and miss you all the time.

A Love Letter to My Dancer

I remember you walking around talking and talking and talking.  Always on the move and always wanting to socialize.  A little bit difficult sometimes for this introvert parent.  But, you gave me a light in my heart that was not there before.  I remember your first dance performance in 4th grade.  You were nervous, and even nauseous before the performance.  I secretly wondered if this really wasn't the 'thing' for you if it made you so ill.  Afterwards, I remember driving home and you were exhilarated.  You loved performing.  You were hooked. 

As time goes on, dance takes more and more of your hours.  I feel like I have 'lost' you sometimes.  My endless talker is gone.  Filling up the few hours at home with homework or sleep.  I feel like a hotel with really good service.  I miss you, my light.

When you started driving, you were gone more and more.  Socializing with your peers and dancing. I know it's all typical for a teenager, but that doesn't make it any easier. 

I wonder if other parents grieve this loss like I do?  The loss of that child who accepted who you were and loved you with all your flaws.  Who would hang out with you and make you laugh and think and grow.  That child turns into a teenager, who would much rather hang out with friends.  That child turns into someone hidden, who does not talk about everything that comes into her head.  That child slowly turns into an adult, naturally separating from her parents. 

It's all part of growing.  That separation.  And watching that growth is beautiful.  I have seen you turn into a leader who is thoughtful and compassionate.  I have seen you embrace art and dance and throw your heart and soul into both of them with passion and creativity.   I have seen you love your friends through hardship.  And, when you do talk to me, I see that you are a deep thinker who truly tries to understand things in a holistic way.  I see your big heart grieve for people going through hardship and reach out to help.  I couldn't ask for more. 

The time does go by in an instant.  And yet, it seems like such a long time ago that you were born after a long night of labor.  When we bonded together alone in that hospital room.  When me, you and Lucy would go on various adventures.  When I would watch your endless trek back and forth across the monkey bars.  When we would play at the lake together.  When we would dance together in the living room before my feet became too screwed up to do that.  When we played games and laughed together as a family.  Some of those things still happen, but it is rarer and rarer.

As you grow and soon leave home, I have to learn who I am apart from being your parent.  I will always be your parent, but the relationship changes.  I have to accept that you are not my little girl anymore.  I have to find my own self apart from you two, my girls.  It's grueling.  This other grief that is not often talked about.  Is it obvious that I have a hard time letting go of almost everything?

You push me to write.  You push me to live, to grow and love.  You push me to think. I hope that I can always be your safe harbor, your resting place, your venting place when the world gets hard.  I hope you can always celebrate your life with me and that we can grow together through this crazy life.  And when I watch you on that stage, I watch in awe.  I created this beautiful person.  This person who can make beautiful art through dance.  This person who can channel her emotions into beautiful pieces of art in all mediums. This person who can lead and love and laugh. Instead, of grieving what I have lost, I will learn to celebrate who you are right now, a young adult passionately launching her way into life.  As I continue to find my own light, your light will always help guide my way. Wherever you are, my heart and my love will always be with you. 

Our Trauma Lives

As you leave jail today, you leave the place that kept us safe from your harassment for a blessed 6 months of not worrying about what lies around the corner or on the other end of a phone.

The legacy of trauma that you left our little family lives.

It lives in the sleepless nights of one you traumatized.  It lives in the ways that I learned to numb myself.  It lives in dreams deferred. It lives in our anxieties, in our sadness, anger and depression.   It lives in the ways that we have all learned to protect ourselves in our own unique ways.  Sometimes we learn healthy ways and other times, we don't.  We shut down, we get ill, we get tense, we get angry.

And it's a funny thing about trauma, I think that I have moved on and found peace.  Then, something hits me and my rage and resentment comes back. It comes back and consumes me.  I try to breathe and let go.  Forgiveness does not come easy.  I know that holding on to that rage is only punishing me, but it comes, without warning.  Then, if I am not aware of it and work through it, it turns into all consuming depression. 

The legacy of trauma that you left us lives.

It lives in our strength sometimes.  The passion and creativity that one of us has used to heal and dance through the pain.  It lives in the beautiful writing and creativity of the other.  It lives in my ability to help others through that pain when they are going through similar issues.  It lives in my deep respect and compassion for others.   My deep pain has opened my heart to others in a way that it might not have opened without the trauma.  It has given our girls an awareness of others struggles and with that, compassion and respect. They have not let that trauma turn into hatred.  Instead, they love others with open hearts.  Their trust of others may not be completely intact, but at least they can still love deeply.  You have not completely destroyed our tender hearts. 

The legacy of trauma that you left us lives.

But, we will not let it take us down.  We will keep putting one foot in the other.  We will dance through it.  We will write through it.  We will love each other through it.  We will take the ugliness and transform it into something beautiful.

You will not destroy us.  We will not let you. 

On the Brink of History for Wyoming

I woke up this morning, nervous and excited.  My home state of Wyoming is on the verge of deciding on full marriage equality.  This fills me with emotion as I think of people I know who have lived whole lifetimes in the closet, who have never been afforded the equal rights of other couples, who have lived in silence.  I could not make it to the rally for marriage equality in Casper this morning, but am there in spirit and solidarity with my fellow Wyomingites on the brink of this momentous event. 

Growing up in a small town in Wyoming, I was not exposed to a lot of diversity.  When I was around 8 or 9, my mom took me to a concert in Salt Lake City.  As I looked around, I remember vividly feeling a little confused.  My mom has told the tale before and I apparently said something like 'what is wrong with these people?' after looking around the audience.  The audience was predominantly lesbian and I was so confused.  Not sure what her response was, my guess is that she just avoided the question and let me wonder.  All I knew is that I loved the feeling of solidarity in that concert.  Little did I know that when I was older, I would become one of' 'those people'.

In Wyoming, when I was growing up, I could not imagine that a mere 25 years from my graduation from high school, we would be looking at the chance of full marriage equality.  Wyoming is a quirky state.  There is homophobia, racism, and sexism, as there is everywhere.  There is a bit of a 'live and let live' attitude that is still also tempered with a quiet acknowledgment that its all fine if you keep it to yourself.  It's been 25 years since I lived there and I know that my friends who were out and gay in my small town later actually ran into a great deal of acceptance.  This was not the case when I was growing up. 

My family attitudes and the attitudes of the society I grew up in kept me pretty closeted for years. My closest friends knew I was gay, but it wasn't something I would disclose in the workplace or to anyone outside of a very close circle, up until very recently.  I still feel discomfort and fear about public displays of affection.  Some of this is knowing that in my current state, Colorado, and in Wyoming there is still some pretty deep homophobia. I think the memory of Matthew Shepard and others who have been murdered, harassed and brutalized still breeds fear among all of us who identify as something other than heterosexual.  Even in my family, my partner,  of almost 14 years, would still be described as 'my friend' by some family members.

Still, I have the models of the people that came before me. Twelve years ago, I had the model of a close family member who came out to me at 15.  I watched him grow and be totally out and comfortable with who he was with his family, friends and community.   The models of people that were out and proud to be who they were helped me open my closet door wider and wider.   

And now, same sex marriage equality is sweeping the nation.  In a mere 24 hours, I was stunned to watch my current home state of Colorado have full marriage equality.  A picture of the first same sex couple to marry in my county was printed on the front page of our local paper.  Someone responded to this picture by writing a letter talking about the 'inappropriate' image for children on the front page of the paper.  Does she not know that a lot of us have children? That her hurtful attitudes affect them more than a picture in the newspaper depicting love between two people?  There was also someone in the comment section who talked about 'perversion' and the moral decline of our society.  However, the vast majority of the comments were supportive and railed at the hurtful attitudes expressed by the writer of the letter and the commenters.  The change has come thanks to so many who have given so much to see this happen.  The hurtful homophobic rants are still there, but they are being drowned out by a much bigger voice of acceptance and love.

Tomorrow, I hope and pray that the federal court rules in favor of marriage equality for all Wyomingites.  My home state is a jumble of contradictions, with little diversity, but a lot of love, strong communities and natural beauty.  May Wyoming choose to embrace all of its citizens and validate who they are with full marriage equality.  May my home state and its citizens accept others so that they can be who they are, fully, and without reprisal.   We are the Equality State, let's prove it.

UPDATE: Wyoming did it!! In just 7 days, same sex marriage will be legal in Wyoming barring any appeals.  The governor said publicly that he will not appeal, so I think we are 'in the clear'.  Seriously, did not think this day would come in my lifetime.  Change is here and it is here to stay.  

I Survived..

In honor of Domestic Violence Awareness month, I have decided to share my story and break the silence that accompanies domestic violence.  This post is in honor of someone I knew who lost her life to domestic violence.  Domestic violence is deadly and I hope that no-one ever forgets that.  I am lucky enough to be sitting here writing a blog post, but many are not that lucky. 

Going away to college when I was 18, I was filled with big dreams.  I was filled with excitement to get away from the small town I grew up in and experience life with new hope away from the troubles of my teenage years in high school. I never had a romantic relationship in high school and I looked forward to maybe finally finding someone.  Things did not start well the first few months in college due to a few very traumatic events.  However, the one thing that came out of these few months was my friendship with my 'soul' sister, my best friend, Heidi A. whose friendship still endures to this day even after her untimely death almost 7 years ago. 
 
At the beginning of my third quarter in college, Heidi's friend, X came up to visit.  I was immediately drawn to him.  He and Heidi were not currently in a romantic relationship, but had been in high school in Texas.  Why I was so drawn to him, I am not sure.  Anyone meeting him at that time would immediately sense that something was 'off' about him, but I thought he was charismatic, funny, sweet, and was so different than anyone I had ever met. Don't get me wrong though, I also knew he was 'off'.   Within a few short weeks, he and I were romantically involved.  He was traveling and living in his car with his dog.  The three of us took trips to the ocean and explored the Northwest together.  Heidi and I were left several times in strange cities, for many many hours, wondering where he had wandered off to.  We wondered at some of his behavior and our roommates even staged an intervention to try and get him banned from our apartment.  This early time was also punctuated with weird mind games that he loved to play on Heidi and I.  Looking back, I wonder what I was thinking, but at the time, I was swept up in some romantic ideal that told me that he was just 'misunderstood' and had so much to offer the world with his creativity, his music and his ideas.

My first quarter of my second year in college was a quarter of growth and friendship.  Heidi and I lived in an apartment together and would hang out for hours and hours every night with our friend, Matt listening to music and talking.  X was gone for this semester.  He had traveled to Kansas and then back to Texas.  My parent's divorced during this time, which caused some upheaval and strife.  I ended up going to Texas with Heidi for Christmas and re-connected with X.  I loved his 'nonconformity' and the fact that he would not adhere to any social norms.  After we returned to Olympia, he followed shortly after.  What followed were several months of tumult and strife that culminated in me leaving college and taking off with X.  Within several months, I was pregnant.  X started physically abusing me the summer before I found out I was pregnant.  He was increasingly paranoid about everything and often this paranoia led to hostility towards me.   At the beginning of this pregnancy, I once thought the child had died because he hit me so hard in the back that I started bleeding the next day.

I went back to college and isolated myself from my best friends, Matt and Heidi and from everyone else, including my family.  I know now how concerned they were about me.  I knew I was living a nightmare, but I did not know how to get out of it.  I thought I could somehow help or change him and that he would be better. Ironically, my mom was the director of domestic violence programs for the state of Wyoming.  My family knew what was going on, but felt powerless to stop it.  I remember vividly a letter my mom sent me early in my pregnancy, pleading with me to leave him and sending a big packet of handouts about domestic violence.  I ignored them.  X was becoming increasingly delusional and paranoid.  Violence was an at least weekly occurrence.  On my birthday that year, I came home from school and he held a knife to my throat.  I broke free and took the bus to a movie and stayed at my worried friend, Heidi's house that night.  Of course, I told no-one the extent of what was happening to me.  The pregnancy culminated in X becoming almost completely catatonic, me having the baby and both of us leaving Olympia and going to our respective parents houses. (One thing to note about this time period was that there was a doctor who I saw regularly throughout my pregnancy who had to have seen bruises, but never said a thing.  I do not know if him saying anything would have helped, but I would like to think it might have.) 

Amazingly, after all that, I ended up getting back together with X when our daughter was around 6 months old.  During our absence, he was hospitalized and medicated.  Alternately, I went with our daughter and lived with my dad and recuperated from the nightmare that was my pregnancy.  That winter, the three of us headed back to my college.  Some of this time was somewhat of a 'honeymoon' period for us.  However, although the violence had stopped, the narcissism and mind games were still there at times.  Deep down, I knew that I wanted more than this.  I knew that he hadn't really changed.  Even though some thought that his mental illness caused his violence and abuse, I knew that it did not.  I knew that even when he was medicated, he could still be self centered and hurtful.  He did not work and his grandiose dreams of being a musician were never realized.  We moved to Portland, and that summer, I fell in love with three different people.  I obviously was trying to get away from him, but did not know how.  I did try to leave him after falling particularly hard for the last of the three people, but he left and X was still there.  Within 2 weeks, we were back together.  I do not know why I kept being drawn back to him, but I do know that my self esteem was shattered.  I do know that perhaps I felt that there was nothing better out there for me and that perhaps, he was all I had and all I deserved.

Fast forward several years, we were living in Fort Collins and my oldest daughter was about to start kindergarten.  I was relieved as I felt that I could start working again and maybe get on the path to finally leaving X.  The summer before my daughter started kindergarten, I found out I was pregnant.  This was extremely hard for me as I did not know how to survive on my own with one child, let alone two. At the same time, X was told by a psychiatrist, who saw him for 15 minutes every 6 months, that he could go off his medication.  X became increasingly paranoid and verbally abusive.  One thing I did know is that I could not put my kids through this anymore.  It was enough for me to go through it, but to have my kids go through it was another thing.  My youngest daughter was born and things were not any better with X.  In fact, they were getting worse.  I started to go to an incredible domestic violence support group and therapy with the leader of that group.  The light came on.  Finally, I realized that not only could I get out, I had to.  Our lives depended on it.

I told X he needed to leave.  It was several months before he finally left.  However, he did not stop his abusive behavior towards us.  He would not leave us alone. I still cared for him as if he was a child and worried for his physical safety now that he was on his own.  I cared for him for years and it was hard to let go of that. But,I slowly started to let go.  Without the financial support of my family in these early years, I do not know if we would have made it.

Many of these periods throughout our relationship could comprise a book, instead of a mere blog post.  I will be spare in details, but, I finally started to move forward, in spite of all of the hurtful things he continued to do to us.  It wasn't easy.  I was not easy to be in a relationship with while I healed.  Today, we all still feel the effects of the things he has done.  His abusive behavior did not end.  As recently as this year, we had to get another restraining order due to harassing phone calls.  But, we move on.  The effects of domestic violence last a lifetime and there is never a time that I will be completely 'over it'.  Nor will my children.  It is like a scar that is healing, but never fully healed.  For  my children and others, I would impart the lesson that there is hope.  I would also impart that no-one ever deserves abuse and that you cannot change your abuser even when you desperately want to and think you can. And for those who love someone who is being abused and/or see or hear it happening, act.  Do something to help.  Offer financial support.  Offer emotional support.  Call the police.  Do something.  Most of all, do not abandon someone who won't leave their abuser.  Their staying may baffle you, but your support and the support of others could be the key to them finally leaving.  And finally, in spite of all this, I do not regret our relationship because it gave me two amazing young women that give me so much.  I would not trade that for anything.

My Daily Nightmare

I live in a nightmare of daily worry and torment.  Someone I love deeply, who shall remain anonymous, struggles with daily physical and mental torment that daily makes this person want to die.  I struggle with my own demons, my own issues.  But, always, alongside this is a daily shadow of  my loved ones' struggle.  This darkness is deep as often it seems there is no hope.  The drugs that are out there don't help and life for this person becomes a monthly stream of trying new ones and then going through awful withdrawals to get off of them when they do not work.  I get angry when I see articles about people with mental illness that say that 'there is treatment out there'.  Is there?  For some, it doesn't seem that there is.  I know that my loved one's struggle is the struggle of millions and my struggle is the struggle of millions of loved ones.  Knowing we are not alone doesn't make it any easier.

Our system is woefully broken for these people.  All of us should have the chance to live and thrive. But, for some of us, that dream seems impossible.  Seeing dreams of the future slowly fade away is heartbreaking for our loved ones and those around them.  We see little options that haven't been tried. Seeing someone's main aspiration in life become living without unrelenting chronic pain, sleeping through the night and just being able to have a day of feeling at least somewhat o.k  seems so minimal, so sad for someone who has so much to offer this world.  But, everywhere we turn there are dead ends.  People tell us to act on behalf of our loved one, but they do not know how few the options are, how many have been tried and how many have failed.  They do not understand why the person cannot just get a job or go to school or live independently.  Our loved ones do not have the external image of someone with a severe developmental disability, but their disability is just as profound.  And for them, the options are fewer.

Other countries have more expanded options for people with mental health issues.  The Open Dialogue model in Finland is one that has proven success with less pharmaceutical intervention.  Our pharmaceutical lobby is so powerful that we often destroy the lives of people with mental health issues, treating them like guinea pigs when there are other interventions available that are never tried. Some medications are literally disabling, especially with long term use.  Community supports are often few.  People are often isolated in a peer group where they see the same issues all around them and learn helplessness. Programs are punitive to ensure 'medication compliance.  Mental health 'professionals' and doctors minimize the effect of withdrawal from psychiatric medications in spite of evidence to the contrary.  It is no surprise that in our country, there is a suicide every 13 minutes.  

My loved one and I live this daily nightmare with no hope in sight. There are thousands out there experiencing the same nightmare. I wish I had a magic wand to take away my loved ones' pain.  To fix everything so that she could blossom and grow and give to this world.  But, I don't.  And the extreme helplessness I feel follows me around like a demon. There has to be hope out there somewhere and we all must struggle on to find a better way.

Our Beloved Cabin

Some of my earliest memories are at our family cabin at Bear Lake in Laketown, Utah.  I remember driving to Bear Lake in my grandpa's truck, happy to be close to him and excited to get to the lake.  I remember family gatherings that were sometimes fun and sometimes erupted into giant family fights.  I remember playing in the lake with my close childhood friend and hanging out in the bedrooms upstairs.  I remember playing endless games of Yahtzee with my dad.  I remember Rotten Relative with my family when I was little and later Apples to Apples, Poker, and Nickels with my own kids, niece, and nephews.  I remember hanging out on the patio with my best friend, one of the last times I saw her, and how she said that here at the lake she could actually sleep through the night without the daily torment of nightmares that were plaguing her.  I remember the last time I saw my grandma, Lucille, sitting at the lake in the living room, telling me that I deserved more than the man I was with and that she didn't want to see me hurt.  I didn't listen, but I will never forget that last visit.

When my grandparents died, the cabin was inherited by their kids.  I always assumed it would be something around for all of us to enjoy and eventually, inherited by all of us grandkids to pass on to our kids and grandkids. However, many years ago, my uncle, the youngest sibling in the family, took ownership for a variety of reasons.  This changed the flavor of the cabin, as it was no longer 'ours'. However, we still had the great privilege of spending summer vacations there. Things were never easy with this situation, but at least we could still share this amazing place with our families.  Last summer, my uncle decided to completely demolish the old cabin and re-build it and turn it into a rental cottage.

This cabin was built by my grandpa as a gathering place for family and friends.  A cabin, that over the years, had fallen into some disrepair.  A cabin that my kids also had as a constant in their life throughout their entire childhoods. Perhaps most importantly, the walls of this cabin held the memories and love of my beloved grandparents.

It was my sanctuary.  During  my teen years when life was dark and bleak, I still found comfort, peace and sometimes even joy here. When my oldest daughter, now 22, was a baby, it was the place I recovered from the horrible abusive nightmare that I had suffered during my pregnancy with her.  It was the place that same daughter wandered around for hours with her cousin catching snakes and swimming. When my youngest was born, it was the place where she solidified her lifelong friendship with her beloved cousin, where they laughed, swam, fought, and made fun of their weird relatives. This place was also my girls refuge when things in their life were difficult.

After both of my grandparent's died, it was a place that I always felt that connection with them.  Cooking in the kitchen, I remembered my grandma teaching me to make aebleskivers.  In these walls, I sensed her abiding love for me and her inspiration in my life.  Sitting in the living room, I remembered sitting with my grandpa and him telling me stories of the Bear Lake monster and just sitting quietly with the love that he gave me so unconditionally.  And later, after my dad died, I remembered being there with him.  Even the day, me, my sister and him spent snaking out the sewer was a cherished memory of bonding.  I remember his diligent care of the cabin, long after he and my mom divorced, just because he knew what it meant to all of us. These walls held all these memories of my beloved friends and family and marked the passage of time with deaths, births, aging, and building enduring family relationships.

My partner and I went on a road trip last summer and decided to swing by and see what the new cabin looked like.  I was unprepared for how much pain this would cause me.  We drove up and it was all gone, something new being built in it's place.  As we walked around the property, we saw that the concrete tile pathway was gone, as was the fire pit and the old patio.  Absolutely everything was different.  My grandpa's labor of love that he hoped would be shared for generations was completely gone. Taking it's place was a modern upscale house that would now be prime lakefront rental property.  I felt like I had been punched in the stomach.  The walls that held the memories of my beloved grandparents were completely demolished. The path we walked down, the fire pit we sat by and everything that was our family cabin was gone.  Heading away from the lake towards our last stop of the trip, my old hometown, I sobbed.

Seeing the cabin completely destroyed hit me almost as hard as the deaths of some of my most beloved people.  I realized how important a sense of place and shared memories were to my family and I. And I realized that we had suffered a very deep loss.  As my youngest daughter pointed out, the place, the lake and the land are still there for us to enjoy, feel the presence of our departed loved ones, cherish our memories and make new ones.  But, it does not take away the pain of this loss of my place of refuge and my daughters' place of love and laughter. Everything changes in this world.  People die, family houses and cabins are sold, demolished and destroyed.  Yes, it is a loss that I should eventually accept, but for now, I will feel the pain because losing this place has ripped away a part of my heart.  I will hold on to the memories of family and will not forget this place my grandpa built with his blood, sweat and tears for all of us to enjoy for generations.  Goodbye beloved cabin.  We will miss you deeply.