Carry On

I came of age along with grunge music.

It is not like I was a huge fan of any group in particular.

I didn't have posters of bands or go to concerts.

I was really too nerdy, too much of a "good girl" to go full on grunge, despite my flannel shirts and Converse shoes.  The preppy look ruled at my private, Christian school.

Anything other than hymns, even contemporary Christian music, was suspect.  Secular music, like most of secular life, was viewed as a potential doorway for immorality.

Still, the music contributed to the backdrop of my life.

Grunge music became more important in 1994 when I started my freshman year of college. That year I experienced the worst depressive episode of my life.  

If I wasn't in class, I was studying, crying or sleeping.  I didn't leave my room except for classes and food.  I had one friend that I spent time with, but in all honesty, she was just a depressed as I was.

My college was in range of Alice, KLLC 97.3, a grunge radio station.  I could listen on days when the weather was just right.

I was listening to Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Soundgarden, Green Day, Bush, etc., etc.,

The music helped me survive.  It helped me carry on.

Grunge music gave me access to the dark feelings that I didn't have words for.

I have words for those feelings now but grunge music continues to provide comfort during times of distress.

I've been listening to grunge music almost exclusively since last November.  It feels like a dark time.

Wednesday night, Chris Cornell, the lead singer of Soundgarden and Audioslave killed himself after a concert in Detroit. He was 52 years old.  

While I am usually saddened when I hear of a celebrity passing away, I don't typically grieve.  I don't have much of an attachment to people I've never met.

But, this death has impacted me.

Partly because it seems like it was a suicide*, which is always a particularly senseless loss. The mental illnesses that lead someone to suicide are treatable.  Suicide can be prevented if the person suffering gets treatment.

Too many times they do not.

Then we lose someone, like Chris Cornell.

But it also impacted me deeply because Chris, as part of the grunge movement, helped me understand the darkness that is depression and gave me access to those feeings.

He likely lived with that same darkness.

In the end, that caused him to end his life, while the the rest of us are left to carry on.

It also reminds me that those of us who suffer from depression or other mental illnesses can never be complacent.  

My depression can go into remission but it will never be cured.  

My husband's depression can go into remission but he will also never be cured.  

We carry darkness in us that must always be managed.  

It is not a pleasant reminder.

It is a reminder I would rather not get.  

But remember it I must.  

Because I must carry on. 

I'm sorry that Chris couldn't.   


Click here to see the final concert

*His wife believes his suicide may have been the result of taking prescription medication improperly, which compromised his decision-making.

Grandpa Howard and the Meaning of Family

He leaned toward the center of the table with smiling blue eyes and said "You know you're not really my granddaughter, right?"

We were in the church basement for potluck and I paused eating my Jello salad.

"Yes." I said.

He continued, "We have different last names but no one pays attention to it and it doesn't matter."

My grandpa smiled and I returned my attention to the Jello Salad.  It had mini-marshmallows and Cool Whip; it was the highlight of potluck. As a smallish girl of 5 or 6 years old, mini-marshmallows took the sting out of getting up early and going to church.

Grandpa Howard was my grandpa by marriage.  My grandma's first husband, my dad's biological father, died in a hunting accident when my dad was around 4 years old.  Grandma Lois was alone with two young children.  She also had epilepsy with frequent seizures.  I don't know how she carried on.

Grandma wasn't alone for long, though.  About year after her first husband passed away, she married Grandpa Howard.  Grandpa said that when he was courting my grandma "she was as shy as a bunny rabbit." He brought her a bouquet of carrots.

Her response to any of his stories, including this one, was to declare "Oh, HowARD!" and wave her hand at him, as if she was trying to shoo him away like a fly.

Now that I think about it, when my husband says something outrageous, I say "Oh, honEY!" and wave my hand at him as I were trying to shoo him away like a fly.

Grandpa was strict when he was raising my dad and his older sister but he wasn't with me or my brother.

He let us tag along when he was picking rocks out of the fields before planting.  The fields in Northern Minnesota always have rocks that need to be picked before planting.

Grandpa & my brother on the tractor in 1983

Grandpa had an old Ford tractor and a trailer he made from scraps.

When we got a full load and emptied it, we would go home and have ice cream and mince meat.

Mince meat, in case you didn't know if pulverized meat of some sort, usually venison or beef or both, mixed with ground up candied fruit.

Gross.  I can't believe we ate that.

But Grandpa liked it, so we did too.

Sometimes my grandma would have a freshly baked cake and we would go pick strawberries so that we could have strawberries and ice cream with the cake.

Me, walking by the clothes line at my
grandparent's home.  1991 or so.

There was a strawberry patch growing next to their little house.  Their house was originally intended to be a wood shed and chicken coop.  The Great Depression hit before Grandpa's family could build the house they planned, so they turned the wood shed/chicken coop into a house.  My grandpa lived there his entire life.

Grandpa also had a big garden and he didn't get mad if we ate the snap peas.  My brother and I would help take care of the garden as well.

He taught me the value of hard work.

And the importance of rewarding yourself for hard work.

He taught me the importance of having a garden.

And the importance of sharing the harvest.

He taught me the importance of family.

And the importance of knowing that family is not just blood, it is who you choose to love.

I Said Yes: An Ode to Daughters and Friendship

It is last Saturday and I am reluctantly sitting down to work on a sewing project I promised my daughter I would do a while back.

Actually, more than a while.  We bought the pattern, material and notions to make her a cat costume last summer.

Getting started with my husband's
grandmother's sewing basket

As I sat down with the pattern, I immediately had flashbacks of me as an 8th grader.  The 8th grader version of myself was tantruming in home ec room as I tried to untangle the mass of thread in my sewing machine for the 500th time.

Not only did I find it impossible to use the sewing machine, my burgeoning feminist sensibilities were insulted by the fact that I had to take home ec and auto mechanics was not even an option.  I wasn't especially interested in auto mechanics either, but it was the principle of the matter!

My best friend, Lisa, was always seated at a machine close to mine. This was primarily for my benefit as she would occasionally sneak over and bail me out.

Unlike me, Lisa was naturally skilled in the domestic arts.  She could actually use a sewing machine and made edible food.  I had a bad habit of doing things like accidentally putting in 1 TABLESPOON of salt in the recipe when it called for 1 TEASPOON.

At this point we had been friends for about a year.  In 7th grade she was the "new girl."  I thought she would likely end up in the "popular" clique because she had cute clothes and knew how to ski.

She didn't seem to like those girls though.  She asked to hang out with me.  I said yes.

And the rest is history.  We are still friends 27 years later. Collectively Lisa and I have experienced three husbands, one divorce, three children, three college degrees, a ghastly amount in student loans, twenty or more moves, several thousand panic attacks, much laughter and some tears.

Most of this is done via the internet, phone calls and text because we haven't lived near each other since 1995.

I texted Lisa as soon as I started working on my daughter's project. I thought she might be amused to know that I was sewing.

As an adult Lisa can do things like make borscht, or chicken kiev, crochet baby clothes and cross stitch. I don't even know what chicken kiev is!

After all these years of friendship, I knew she would appreciate the sacrifice I was making as a parent.

Lisa promptly asked if she should put 911 on speed dial.

As she should, because I really don't know what I am doing!

My daughter talked me into it.

The first piece of fabric I cut.

As the adult in this relationship, I have the option to say no but in my defense, she is a very persuasive speaker.

She is persuasive enough to convince me to sew a costume when I can barely operate a sewing machine and I have sewn nothing more complicated than a pillow.

I said yes.

The only reason I have a sewing machine is because I mentioned to my husband several years ago that I wanted to learn to sew someday and he promptly went out and got me a machine.

I've made some lovely pillows since then.

This is certainly going to be a learning experience.

But, I said yes to my daughter, so this will be an opportunity to work on a project with her and learn something in the process.

Because saying yes has brought good things into my life.

Talking Body, Part 3

My brother, my dad and I were carrying our canoe full of our gear over a short portage in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area (BWCA).  Since it wasn't a long trail, we opted just to haul the whole thing over, rather than taking all our gear out and carrying the canoe separately.  I was about 12 years old, my brother was around 9.  

We went to the BWCA every summer to camp a week or two.  My brother and I looked forward to putting all our gear in the canoe and heading out.  We didn't relish paddling for hours on end but the result worth it. 

As we were hauling the canoe through the woods, we passed four men carrying their own canoe full of gear. Four large men.  The four large men looked at us, one lean, moderately sized man and two little kids.  I could see them evaluate the situation.  On top of everything else, one of them noticed I was barefoot. 

He looked me straight in the eye and said "Do they call you 'Nails' or do you just eat them for breakfast?"

My brother and I in the BWCA around the time
I earned "Nails" as a nickname.  

We all laughed and I squared my 12 year old shoulders, proud that I was tough.  Proud that my dad was teaching me things that made me different from other little girls.  Proud that he was teaching me to be strong and determined.  

Welcome to my new reality.  

I am not confined to a wheel chair all day, every day, thankfully.  I use a wheel chair or scooter in situations where there is a lot of walking, such as when my daughter's class had a field trip to a science museum.  

But I am always limited to being on my feet for about an hour per day, tops.  I haven't timed it but there was an app on my phone that would send me nasty messages when I didn't spend at least an hour a day walking.  I was getting a lot of nasty messages before I finally got rid of that app.  It is supposed to encourage people to be active and healthy but healthy for me at this point in my life is not something that can be measured by an app.  

Right now, healthy is defined by making choices that limit time on my feet.  Too much time standing and walking create a lot of pain.  I can stand the pain actually, I wasn't called "Nails" for nothing.  I am an expert at pushing though, ignoring discomfort and carrying on.

I got tons of practice canoe camping in the BWCA.

The difference now is that the pain never goes away, so there is no pushing through.  And, to make matters worse, I hurt so much that I can't sleep.

I am super non-functional when I don't sleep.  Other people make proud statements about how they get by on only 4 hours of sleep.  I am practically narcoleptic when I sleep that little.  I am unsafe to drive because I cannot stop myself from falling asleep.  And my poor clients do not deserve to have their therapist falling asleep in their session.  There is not enough caffeine in the world to keep me functional.

So, I have to stop doing and focus more on being.  

I'm not super great at being idle.

Especially in the summer.  In the summer I want to be digging in the dirt and transplanting flowers.  Or walking along the river. Or canoeing.

I'm coming to grips with the fact that I need to turn my determination towards not doing.

Which requires that I confront the fact that this disease is interfering with my functioning and grieve the loss of my physical abilities.

Sometimes I'd rather just live in a denial bubble!

I thought that since this was temporary, it wouldn't be such a struggle.

Wrong.

It turns out that a substantial portion of my self-image is tied to being physically able.    And being able to do things for the people I love.

I still feel valuable as a human being, I know that my worth is not tied to my productivity.  Although, at times I get a little wobbly on this.

I'm just having to answer the question "Who am I?" with a different set of variables.

And grieve my losses, even if they are temporary.

I think regardless of the circumstances I can safely say that I am strong.  I'll let you know when I figure out the rest.



You can read Talking Body, Part 1 here and Part 2 here.

Turning Lyme in to Lymeade

I had my finger in my ear, again.  There was a bump in my right ear that just wouldn't go away.  It had been there a few days.  My Grandma finally said to me "Why do you have your finger in your ear all the time?"

I said "There's a bump in there and I don't know what it is."

She peered into my ear and declared "It is a tick."  I promptly started crying hysterically and yelled "GET IT OUT GET IT OUT GET IT OUT!!!"  I was only 5 years old and emotional regulation wasn't so much the strong point.

I heard her sigh and say "I shouldn't have told you until I took it out."

Grandma found a hair pin and dug it out.  I'm a little fuzzy on the details on how exactly she did that.  I do recall watching the fat tick body sizzle in the frying pan, where she dropped it once it was out of my ear.  You can kill ticks three ways: pop them, burn them or drown them.  Popping them was super gross, so burning or flushing them down the toilet was the preferred method of execution.

And we carried on.  I played outside with my cousins, went to preschool, colored in my coloring books; all the normal 5 year old things.

Fast forward approximately 36 years.  I'm sitting in my doctor's office as she picks up the sheaf of papers that contained the lab results from my blood test.  I held up my hand to show crossed fingers.  She asked "Which way are you hoping for?"  I just shrugged, because really I didn't know.

My knees, wrists and lower back had been sore and aching.  I'd initially chalked up the sore knees and back to unsupportive shoes and being out of shape.  Then my wrists started to hurt. Initially the symptoms pointed towards osteoarthritis.  I'm only 41 years old, so that was tough to wrap my brain around.  What would life look like when I was 60?

X-rays confirmed that I did have some arthritis in my lower back, but nothing was found in me knees or wrists.  My pain was also not decreasing with standard arthritis treatments.  In fact, the pain was increasing to the point where I was taking 3,000 mg of Tylenol in order to sleep.  I'd had chronic fatigue since middle school, making my daily functioning a struggle.  The increased levels of fatigue were making me feel pretty desperate.

My doctor said, "I am interpreting these test results as positive for Lyme Disease."

Well, then.

My brother and I around 1986
I probably had Lyme Disease.

"What is your percent confidence that is is Lyme?" I queried, "85 or 90%?"

She nodded.  "Yeah, 90%."

Lyme is a tricky disease, it hides in the body and sometimes the immune system isn't able to detect it.  The blood tests look for antibodies known to be formed in response to the presence of the Lyme bacteria (Borrelia).  Having antibodies present means you have been exposed to the bacteria.  I had the symptoms (fatigue and joint point) and a lot of the antibodies.  I've probably had it since I was a little girl, at least 20 years but probably more.

Given some time to think about it, I am relieved.  Arthritis is a degenerative disease.  You can slow the progression but there is no cure.  With Lyme, there is a possibility of a cure.  Or at least beating the disease down to the point where I experience minimal symptoms.  

I am interested to see what life would be like without fatigue.  And I certainly could go without joint pain.  

My doctor is pretty kick ass.  And she says that I am "tough as brass," so we both expect treatment to go well.  It is a long haul, usually 6 months to 2 years, but I can do that.  Two years are going to pass no matter what, so I might as well be doing something to improve the quality of my life.  

I spent some time wondering "why me?" which is generally a path to misery, so I put the brakes on that thought process.  Really, a better question is "why not me?"  I spent every summer of my childhood in northern Minnesota.  Ticks were everywhere and I had one in my ear for days.  And that was only the first tick I remember having.  

I'm feeling a bit emotionally wobbly because this is not the first major diagnosis I've gotten in my life (you can read a bit about that here.  I promise I don't complain).  I am tad tired of constantly being handed new obstacles.  But I am a fighter and I've got plans to be doing things for another 4 or 5 decades.  

And have I mentioned that I am really, really, really grateful that I don't have arthritis? 

When life hands you Lyme, you make Lymeade.  

Here's to going forward with gratitude.  

52 Week Creativity Challenge, Week 24- World

"From Around the World"

Photo taken on FujiFilm HS 35EXR, Edited in Google Chrome
by S. Clark

"From Across the Ocean"
Photo taken on FujiFilm HS 35EXR, Edited in Google Chromeby S. Clark

When I edit photos, I don't typically include the original photograph in the blog post.  This week, however, the final product for each picture was so far removed from the original image, that I decided to include the originals for the  sake of comparison.  

My usual approach to editing photos is to enhance the image.  I usually try to make the image more vivid but not fundamentally alter it in anyway.  

This week I decided to try something different.  I wanted make these photographs look like the old pictures I found in my grandparent's attic as a kid; old, beat up and with poor exposure. Photographs that came from old film cameras and spent several decades in a box somewhere.  The editing deviated significantly from my usual approach as a result.  I think that the images above evoke the same sense of age as the photos I remember finding as a kid.  I hope that they give you a similar sense of history.  

I'm Finally My Age

My cousin and I celebrating our birthdays in 1989.
I was 40, I mean 14, and she was 7.
Her brother was "helping" with the candles.

My 2nd dad, whom I have always referred to as "Dear," always said I was 12 going on 24 or 13 going on 30, or whatever age I was and whatever age I seemed.  I am not exactly sure what specific behaviors he was referring to, but I was avidly reading Newsweek and Scientific American in middle school, so I imagine I had some commentary to offer on Clarence Thomas or possibly the Iran Contra Scandal.  I was always reading things above my pay grade.   I also read my mom's self-help books on how to raise teenagers or adjust to living in a stepfamily or whatever was laying around.  My senior year I really felt like it pointless to be dealing with Physics or English when there was genocide in Rwanda.

This is pretty non-standard for  teen girls, so I can see where Dear was coming from.  I know I was a standard teenager in a lot of ways; I cried a lot, I liked dumb boys exclusively, never the nice boys, I disliked driving the ugly station wagon and spent too much time fussing over my ginormous bangs.  I often wanted to kill my brothers and I didn't always clean up after myself (Dear may tell you I never cleaned up after myself and his scissors were always missing, but I do think that is probably an exaggeration). But really, I always felt older than the years I'd actually spent on earth and often acted older, too.

I've been feeling closer and closer to my age for the last few years.  Yesterday, I turned 40 years old and I am finally my age. I finally don't feel decades older than my actual life.  During high school, my English teacher had us write an essay on what we wanted to be doing with our lives.  I was adamant that I was done being a teenager.  The life I described is pretty much what I am doing now; a home with gardens & animals, meaningful work, and engaging hobbies.  The only thing I didn't envision was a husband and daughter, because, hey, I couldn't know everything, right?  All this time, I've been 40. It is difficult to describe this feeling, but my inner world and outer world feel congruent.  My psyche is not banging up against my real life constantly.  It is such a relief.

My daughter, my dog and I on my 40th birthday.

The best I can describe myself is it as though I am psychologically standing in mountain pose, very firm and grounded.  I feel really settled into my hips and solid on my legs.  Like I can hold myself up, regardless of the weight the world might place on my shoulders.  I feel solidly myself.  And while I am certain that I will continue to grow and change as a person, it is my hope that I will also continue to feel solid and become every more myself.

Faith and Doubt

My Grandpa, Aunt Vickie and Me, when I was about 12.

I have always been, am currently and will likely always be full of doubt and questions. Is there really a god?  Is there an afterlife?  What does it mean if there is a god? What does it mean if there isn't?  What about Jesus?  Do the answers to any of those questions change how I live my life?   Why isn't anyone else asking these questions? What is this business about "All things through Christ, who strengthens me?"  

I remember being in my dorm room my Freshman year of college.  I had just thrown up, probably for 5th or 6th or maybe 12th or 14th morning in a row, and my next door neighbor, who I didn't like very much, stuck her head in the door and asked if I were pregnant.  That prompted crying, because I was barely keeping it together.  Stress and anxiety and depression were making it impossible for me to keep my breakfast in my stomach.  Upon explaining this to my next door neighbor that I didn't even like very much, she said to me "Have you tried praying?" Well, no shit, praying you say? Why didn't I think of that?

Except I had prayed, desperately and unceasingly.  I'd only attended Christian schools from 1st grade up until that very moment in time.  In fact, at some point in that awful year, I even attended a class called "The Life and Teachings of Jesus." Of course I had been praying!  Praying didn't help. Eventually, Prozac would prove to be more powerful than prayer and it helped me get a toe hold and climb out of the pit that I was in.  

My freshman year of college at a Christian school with mandatory worship services and people I didn't like telling me I should pray to solve my problems only served to underscore what I had learned growing up.  That is, that I lacked adequate faith.  If I had enough faith I wouldn't be bothered by all these doubts and questions.  Of the 12 disciples of Jesus, three are noted trouble makers; Judas, who betrayed Jesus to the Romans; Peter, who betrayed Jesus three times and Thomas, who doubted that Jesus was the savior.  Doubting was not okay.  Faith had no room for doubt.  Even, Jesus who made the ultimate sacrifice, didn't doubt.  He asked to be removed from the situation, if it be the Father's will.  "Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me; yet not my will, but yours be done." Luke 22:42 (NIV)

Of course, Jesus was God incarnate, in human form on earth, so of course he wouldn't have doubt.  (What? How does that make sense? Even if that is true what does that have to do with eternal salvation? What if I don't accept Jesus Christ as my Lord and personal savior? What if there isn't a personal god? Do we even need a personal god?)  Thomas doubted so much he got a nickname because of it.  

" Now Thomas (also known as Didymus), one of the Twelve, was not with the disciples when Jesus came. So the other disciples told him, “We have seen the Lord!”But he said to them, “Unless I see the nail marks in his hands and put my finger where the nails were, and put my hand into his side, I will not believe.” A week later his disciples were in the house again, and Thomas was with them. Though the doors were locked, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you!” Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here; see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it into my side. Stop doubting and believe.” Thomas said to him, “My Lord and my God!” Then Jesus told him, “Because you have seen me, you have believed; blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.” John 20:24-29 (NIV, italics are mine).  

See?  There is no room for doubt.  To be a person of faith required you to put aside questions and doubt.  You were just supposed to go with it, I guess.  However, I was never willing to set aside my doubts and questions just to claim a solid faith. It would have been false, the doubt would be lurking below the cheery "Yes, I believe because I have faith" and would be a lie. Lying about faith seemed worse than lacking faith, so I have just owned the doubt and questions. I figured I was doing the best I could with what I had. If what ever higher power was unhappy with that, well, I figured that I didn't want to be friends with someone who wasn't happy with my best effort anyhow. 

Today, an author I like, Anne Lamott posted on her Facebook page "every single thing I know" in honor of her upcoming birthday.  You can see the entire list here, but I was especially struck by #11.  (Just noticed there are two #11's, it is the second one, which I quote below that I am talking about, although I like the entire list) 

 "11. Faith: Paul Tillich said the opposite of faith is not doubt, but certainty. If I could say one thing to our little Tea Party friends, it would be this. Fundamentalism, in all its forms, is 90% of the reason the world is so terrifying. 3% is the existence of snakes. The love of our incredible dogs and cats is the closest most of us will come, on this side of eternity, to knowing the direct love of God; although cats can be so bitter, which is not the god part: the crazy Love is. Also, "Figure it out" is not a good slogan."

My Grandpa and I when I was about 12 years old.
(it was hard for him to have serious faces when a camera was out)

"The opposite of faith is not doubt, but certainty." Holy cow! Really?! I don't have any idea who this Paul Tillich guy is, but this is a paradigm shift for me.  I've been wandering in the wilderness of my mind concerned that my grandpa, who passed away in 2001, would be ashamed of me because I was so lacking in faith.  When I was around 12 years old, he told my mom that he was amazed by my understanding of spiritual matters.  With all this doubt and questioning, I figured that I had fallen far from the place I lived when I was 12.  I didn't have doubt when I was 12.  And the answers to my questions made sense when I was 12.  

What I don't have is certainty.  I don't have answers to any of my questions.  Sometimes I am not even sure I am asking questions that are even relevant.  I have a bunch of "I hopes" and "I like to thinks."  I have almost zero beliefs that I hold to so strongly that I feel the need to convince others that those beliefs are the "truth." All except one,  I do believe strongly in "working hypotheses," which I wrote about in this post.   

So, now I am handed this idea that doubt can coexist with faith.  Not only that, the idea that certainty is the opposite of faith.  That makes it seem as if doubt is part of faith.  If that is the case, I have buckets full of faith.  What I am going to do with all these buckets I have no idea, but I think a paradigm shift is enough for one day.  I'll figure out what to do with it later.  

Hands

Creativity Challenge Day 15- Hands

"Holding Freckles' Hand"

I have a memory of me in my great-grandma's bedroom with my great-grandma.  We were standing next to her bed and light was shining through the window next to us.  I noticed that she had spots all over her hands and arms.  I must have been only three or four years old and in my little mind, those marks looked like freckles.  From that moment on, I dubbed her Grandma Freckles.  Because my great-grandpa was married to her, he became Grandpa Freckles.  By the time she passed way, she was simply know as Freckles or Freck by the grandchildren, great-grandchildren, great-great grandchildren and even great-great-great grandchildren. Looking back, I am pretty sure those are "liver spots," the marks elderly people get on their skin as they age. She was in her early 60's when she was assigned this nick name by her first great-grand child.  

I remember this, and many other things about my grandparents.  Grandpa Freckles would pull quarters out of my ear.  I used to walk from my maternal grandparents' home, Bob and Belle Esau, to my great-grandparents home, to eat lunch with them. I rode in my Grandpa Esau's semi-truck when he had to haul things a short distance. I gardened with my Grandma Esau.

I spent a lot of time with my maternal grandparents and my maternal great-grandparents.  I had a connection with my grandparents.  They were not just old people I visited on holidays.  These were people that I spent time with, who knew me and loved me.  I even knew my great-great-great Uncle Jake.  He lived with my great-grandparents. 

And, unlike many people, I had the privilege of having grandparents well into my adulthood. My great-grandma,"Freckles," Anice Ida Leach, passed away when I was almost 35.  It is her hand I am holding in this picture, on the last day I was able to spend with her before she passed away.  Grandma Esau is still alive and lives in rural Nebraska.  When I call my Grandma Esau, chances are it will be a two hour phone call, because we know each other.  She is not an acquaintance I happen to be related to.           

How lucky am I to have this multi-generational connection?  How wonderful is it that I know in many instances that I am the way I am because of the influence of these special people?  How can I ever explain the way that these relationships have shaped me?

This was a gift from God and I don't think it is given to many.

Five Dads & A Messy Family Tree

If my family was a tree, it would look like this!

I have five dads.  I have my #1 dad, Richard, who is my biological father.  My #2 dad, Karl, also known as "Dear," is my step-dad.  I also have a father-in-law, Duke, and step-father-in-law, Bill V.  Finally, there is my brother's biological dad, Bill A.  That's a lot of dads.  It makes for a tangled family tree.  

This conglomeration of dads came about because of divorces and remarriages.  Inherent in these divorces and remarriages, are tough transitions.  Rearranging family ties, readjusting relationships, forming new relationships and grieving past family ties, all these things are present in a family with five dads. 

This was not necessarily done gracefully.  Getting a divorce or being a child of divorcing parents is one of the most stressful life events. In fact, in my case, there have been tantrums, swearing, threatening to move to foreign countries, filling out immigration paperwork to move to a foreign country, therapy appointments and crying. 

Father's day makes me think of all these things, which I believe, is not the original intent.  Wikipedia states that "Father's Day  is a celebration honoring fathers and celebrating fatherhood, paternal bonds, and the influence of fathers in society."  Sometimes it is hard to feel celebratory with a family tree that is a tangled mess.  

On Father's day I as posted pictures of each dad on Facebook, I realized that each dad has had a profound influence on my life today.  This influence is either because of their relationship with me as I was growing up or because of their relationships with my husband and daughter.  So many good things have come of having five dads, it is hard for me to really be unhappy about all the upheavals.  Of course, I sometimes wish that I had experienced less pain and fewer transitions.  But to wish that would also be to wish away core elements of my self, my relationships with others and my life.  

It is hard to wish those things away.  Even though I can't say that I have a perfect life, or I am perfectly happy or perfectly anything.  I still live an imperfect life that is messy and complicated.  But it is a life I choose.  I choose to embrace all aspects of my life, even those I didn't like, because all those events have lead me to my life and my self.  

Drama Queens

This probably sounds strange, but I have a soft spot for middle school girls.  I think they are adorable.  The ones around 11 or 12 years old, full of drama and woes, packed into an outfit you know makes their mothers cringe.  The girls that are moody and slam the bedroom door daily.  So called "Drama Queens."  Wide eyed, gangly and agog on a daily basis.  Those girls are my favorites. 

Under the snotty attitudes and excessive make-up reside young girls trying to establish the foundations of their adult identities.  Brain development causes them to notice more than when they were little kids. Noticing brings more thoughts and feelings.  They don't usually have the tools to deal with these thoughts and feelings.  Something called "neural pruning" occurs at this time as well.  The developing brain kills off a bunch of brain cells in preparation for massive brain development. Thus the moods and drama.  The moods and drama cause most sane adults to head for the hills rather than deal with a preteen girl. 

The adults that can't escape from these girls, also known as their parents, often become totally exasperated and take them to a therapist.  When they end up in my office, I work past the snotty exterior.  I know that the girl with the teased hair and "goth" clothes will become a 4.0 student and the star soccer player in high school.  The awkward one with no fashion sense will grow to be the leader of the debate team.  The girl locks herself in her room and cries at the drop of a hat will get her doctorate.  I know this because I have seen it.  I have gone through middle school about a dozen times at this point.  

They are my favorite because I get to help them figure out who they are.  I get to call bullshit on stuff like acting dumb to get a boyfriend and point them towards self-worth based on their inherent value as a human.  I help them look past stereotypes and learn to make thoughtful decisions.  I get to see them make discoveries about themselves and the world around them.  I get to teach them about integrity, honesty and trustworthiness. I get to do this and how is that not one of the coolest things in the world?

Get

Me (about 3rd or 4th grade) & Dana (about Kindergarten or 1st grade). 

Dana, my little brother, uttered "get" as his first word.  As in "Get out of here!" "Get lost!" and "Get away!"  He probably also heard "Get down from that!" and "Get over here!" but not from me.  The last latter usage of "get" was from my mom or other concerned adults, who were likely afraid that he was going to kill himself before he made it to his 2nd birthday.  Dana had a tendency to hurl himself off of high places, climb on top of things and generally go full speed with out paying any attention to safety.  The former phrases were used by myself, his not so adoring sister. 


It started out alright.  I was almost three years old when he was born and I remember being taken to visit by my Aunt Gail and my Aunt Jen.  I wasn't allowed in the hospital room, so they took me to the window of my mom's hospital room and let me peer inside.  I don't think either of them was old enough to drive, so my grandparents must have been around as well, but I don't remember their presence.  It seem like an exciting thing at the time.

Then he became mobile.  The entire family was wholly unprepared for him.  I was the first grandchild and I was a very complacent, docile infant.  My mom has said that she could put me on a blanket on the living room floor and would stay there, even after I learned to crawl.  Dana, on the other hand, could be better described as possessed.  He was everywhere and into everything.  He used to eat snails he found in the yard.  Thus, the constant use of "get."  I could never get away from him, there was no escape and no respite.  My little girl self was constantly trying to get rid of her brother.  I'd try to lean against a door to keep him from following me or try to sneak away without him noticing.  I had very little success, he got stronger than me quickly because I was a smaller than average kid and he was a larger than average kid.  People used to think we were twins. 

As his motor skills improved, his level of danger increased.  He started taking his bike apart when he was 4 or 5, but couldn't quite get it back together.  Making a face plant off of a racing bike surprisingly only resulted in a fat lip.  My best friend and I called him "duck face."  He taught himself how to ride a bike by stealing my bike.  At 14 he taught himself to drive a stick shift in an old truck with a column shifter.  By the time he was 18 he'd been in more car wrecks than any one I know.  Just small wrecks, though.  Nothing life threatening, right? 

We annoyed each other in the way that only siblings can.  Especially since he was 100% "go" and I was at the extreme opposite, "not so much."  I was a bossy kid and as the younger brother, it was his job to fall in line with my expectations.  I didn't physically fight with him, my usual tactic was to overpower him verbally.  I could get some mileage out of big, confusing words, usually in an attempt to get him to slow down or stop being naughty. 

Once we got older, though, we were friends.  We liked playing together and pretending different scenarios.  We were especially bonded by our trips to Minnesota.  Our parents divorced when Dana was an infant and I was still a toddler.  Eventually, the arrangement came to be that we spent summers in Minnesota with our dad and the school year in California with our mom and step-dad.

We flew to Minnesota every June and back to California at the end of August.  We made those trips by ourselves, starting when I was about 7 years old.  We were assigned to a flight attendant and she delivered us to which ever parent was waiting on the other side.  Once I was about 15 years old, the airlines determined that I was old enough to fly with my brother without adult assistance, so I navigated any connecting flights or travel needs. 

I don't think there is as anything bewildering to a child as being without a trusted adult.  The flight attendants were all kind and attentive, but they were strangers.  Dana and I had to be anchors for each other.  When I was crying because I was sad about leaving one of our parents, he took over and explained to people what was wrong.  When someone in first class was smoking and we were in the seats immediately behind the smoker, I asked the flight attendant to make them stop because my brother had severe asthma.  It was my job to take care of my brother. It was his job to take care of me.

We were never apart as kids, other than occasionally spending the night at a friends house.  Our first separation was when I went to college.  Our separation continued as I went to graduate school and later moved to Washington.   Taking care of each other still continues to this day despite the physical separation.  Now he is the person I call when something big is happening or I need help figuring out what to do.  He is still my anchor.

He is still in California and now I tell him "get up to Washington" and "get out of California."  It turns out that "get" is a very versatile  word!

Becoming Sunny

"Sunny Day Sweepin' the clouds away, on my way to where the air is sweet." I've also heard "Keep on the sunny side always on the sunny side, Keep on the sunny side of life, It will help us every day it will brighten all our way.  If we keep on the sunny side of life" a lot!

My mom named me Sunny Elisabeth Clark.  Everyone assumes that my parents were hippies but they were not.  First, they were a little bit too young to be hippies.  Second, they lived in the Midwest and attended religious boarding academies.  There wasn't a lot of cultural "room" be a hippie.  They did have long hair and bell bottoms, but I think pretty much everyone under 30 did prior to 1980.

However, there was Avon.  My mom happened to be flipping through an Avon catalog, browsing the jewelry, perfume and lotions when she noticed the president of Avon was named Sunny.  My mom really, really liked that name.  So, I became Sunny.

It's a funny thing growing up with the name Sunny.  I get complimented on it all the time, people want to meet me because of my name and I have endured endless jokes about it.  The most common joke was "Is your brother's name Moonie?"  My somewhat snotty reply was usually "No, he is not a naked butt."  At least that is what I said starting at about age 11 when I was annoyed by whom ever was making that joke for "like the MILLIONTH time."  And singing, as you have probably guessed, I get serenaded a lot. I am always super impressed when someone knows a song with my name in it that I haven't heard before.  I have had thousands of comments like "Oh! How sweet, you must be just like your name!"  Um, no.  It is one of the great ironies of my name that I am not always like my name.  In fact there have been significant periods of my life, long periods of my life where I was completely unlike my name.

I have depression.  If you want to be specific, I have Major Depressive Disorder, Recurrent, Moderate to Severe (atypical symptoms), With Full Interepisode Recovery, With Seasonal Pattern.  Depending on who is doing the diagnosing, though, my diagnosis can also be Bipolar Affective Disorder, Type II, Moderate, With Melancholic Features, With Seasonal Pattern. 

You probably didn't notice, because you are not sitting here with me, but I just took a giant psychological leap back, put myself into doctor mode and distanced myself from the pain of having all that while having the expectations associated with my name.  And by admitting that, I stepped back into the pain.  It is very, very painful. 

I have two types of depressive episodes- lethargic, sad, guilty, tired, self-hatred, crying, hyposomnia (sleeping lots and lots), avoidant, ahedonic (not feeling pleasure), and amotivational (not motivated).  The second type is agitated, irritable, restless & angry added on top of the symptoms of the first type with out being so tired.  I have the first type of depression in the fall and winter.  I have the second type in spring.  How the party doing the diagnosing categorizes the second type of depression,  determines if they think I have Major Depressive Disorder or Bipolar Affective Disorder, Type II.  It's a grey area and is open to interpretation.  There is a lot of stigma attached to Bipolar diagnoses because those are the people that are often considered "crazy."  I am aware of the stigma but the diagnosis isn't what is painful, it's the experience, so I don't care what label I am given.  Plus, I am a doctor so I get that it is all from a chemical imbalance anyhow.

Did you see how I did that again? I went into to doctor mode.  It's easy, it's safe and I am much more comfortable in it.  When I am in my doctor mode, I am Sunny.  I am bringing help and hope and relief to people.  In fact, I am most comfortable in whatever mode I can avoid certain parts of myself.  When I am interacting with friends, I am Sunny.  When I am with my daughter & husband, I am Sunny. When I am with my extended family, I am Sunny.  When I am with my coworkers & colleagues, I am Sunny. 

If I am not managing my symptoms or I hit that self-critical piece of myself, I would probably be better named Stormy.  Even when I am managing my stuff or I am in place of greater self-acceptance, I am never, ever a morning person.  Moonlight or Starshine would be much more appropriate.  My brain chemistry has also gifted me with a couple sleep disorders, which set my biological clock to be a "night owl" and create a need for at least 9 hours of sleep a night.  My name is a misnomer on multiple levels!

I recently received feedback from someone I am acquainted through a Facebook group.  Part of the feedback included a comment about how I didn't match my name because I was critical of myself.  Well, yes, exactly.

I generally do a pretty good job of leaving that aspect of myself out of my day to day life.  It hurts when it is noticed.  It makes me feel anxious and ashamed.  And when I write, it leaks out. It leaks out all over the place.  And while I like writing and I want to write more, I avoid it.  I don't make it a priority.  I do so because writing creates leaks for areas I need to work on.  Greater self-acceptance, creating space in myself for something just for myself, feeling like it is okay to have something in myself just for myself, all come to mind.  For someone who was taught that self-sacrifice was the greatest form of love, doing something purely for myself creates a lot of angst.  I already have a lot of angst to begin with.  A lot of un-Sunny-like angst. 

Some of that self-criticism derives from the chemical imbalance in my faulty, amazing brain.  The rest of that is because of ingrained attitudes about myself that I picked up in my childhood.  I can explain the origins of some of those attitudes and I believe that some will forever remain a mystery. 

Regardless of the cause between my mismatched name and myself, the current struggle is that developing as a writer means putting stuff out there.  Well, that's not so fun, when you are leaky.  It requires courage and determination and willingness to be vulnerable.  I am not always super willing to be vulnerable but I am courageous and determined.  So, I will use those things to push me into vulnerable places, which will force me to confront the leaky stuff, which will then move me to a better place.  I will inevitably hit other areas of vulnerability and continue the cycle.  My life will always be a process of becoming Sunny and letting Stormy go. 

Cacti

On of my earliest memories involves walking around a very big store, with very wide aisles and white linoleum tiling.  I am not sure of my age or location, but I must have been rather small because I remember the floor better than anything else.  Small people are closer to the floor.  I was with my grandmothers.  Yep, that is right, plural, grandmotherS.  I was with my Grandma Esau and my Great-Grandma Freckles.  Freckles was not her real name.  Her real name was Anice Ida Leach.  But I wouldn't know this for several more years because I was small and names and relationships are kinda vague and smoonched together.  What I knew was that Grandma Freckles looked like she had a lot of Freckles, so that's what I called her.  Grandpa Freckles got the name just cuz he was married to Grandma Freckles.  It made sense at the time.  Grandpa Freckles used to pull quarters out of my ears and made coffee so strong that it would make your hair fall out.  I didn't know the part about the coffee until much later, either.  So, me and the grandmas in a store.  I don't know exactly where we were or what our purpose was, although I imagine we were grocery shopping Albion the "big" town (population approximately 1,000) near our "little" town of Petersburg (population 283). 

What is important though, is that I walked out of that store with a little cactus plant all my own. It was the kind that has a green trunk and then a super florescent pink round bit grafted to the top. I don't know what brought about this gift.  My family never had much money and I didn't have the kind of grandparents that expressed love by buying me things.  I certainly didn't ask, that's not how the world worked for me.  Why it was decided I must have a cactus, I will never know.  However, it was love at first sight, I believe. I can't be sure because as I mentioned, I was quite small. But, I have cacti in my home now and more at my office. I often experience the following scenario with clients in my office:
"Are these rea--ouch! They are real!" It is a good measure of impulse control, "can you resist touching the cactus to see if it is real long enough for your therapist to give a response?" There is never a time that I haven't owned a cactus of some sort. I even grew some from seed, once. They are a constant for me. I never thought about it much until recently, though. I happened to mention, in passing to my dad, that I really liked grasses and cacti.  I appreciate flowers and love to have them growing around my home but I don't typically make a bee line for the flowers at the garden section of home stores.  I go for the the cacti or grasses.  My dad replied "Hmm, I bet that is because of your grandmas in Nebraska."  My dad can be kind of oblivious to things, mostly minor, like the birthdays of his children, but he got this one right.  I think I have always had cacti around as a way to remain connected to my grandmas, even though I lived half the continent away from them most of my life, and especially now that Grandma Freckles has passed away.  I remain connected with them by sharing a love for pokie, spiny, awkward plant. There is a beauty to them as well, the variations in color, shape & spines, but you have to have an appreciate for unusual beauty. And when the do flower, it warrants a full blown celebration.  Other plants are like girls from the wrong side of the tracks, they give it up easily.  They flower all over the place without anyone even half-trying.  If you see a cactus blooming and you are not in the desert, you know that there was either the perfect alignment of the stars or the person growing the cactus was very attentive, meeting it's every need, like pampered royalty.  I find them more beautiful for it and I appreciate that I learned to love something not commonly considered beautiful.  That is very likely the true gift of the grandmothers.  And yes, the grandmas had blooming cacti in Nebraska.