Daddy, I miss you. I really do! I try not to,
because I think I am still mad at you.
I’ve got a nice fat file at the UW Department of Psychiatry to prove it.
I glanced at the back of the room and saw you
sitting there. With your grin,
how I lived to see that grin of pleasure.
It made the whole world feel r i g h t.
A belly laugh, so unexpected.
As if you were filled
with nothing but pleasure,
oh how I loved your laugh.
There is still so much goodness in you Dad
To be remembered — Passion. Faith. Hope.
I glanced over and saw you sitting there.
I want to remember you Dad, before I forget.
When the alarm tweeted at 4:59am,
and you disintegrated slowly,
as I woke and was left
full of longing; I am overwhelmed
by how much I miss you.
In life, I mostly felt your disappointment and my lack.
Perhaps it was your distractions, so important, God’s work
… coupled with a fear that you had.
You didn’t measure up
either.
Oh, in a crisis, if life was falling apart,
of course you were there
and would have honestly and truly,
if you could have, moved mountains to help. But if not,
if life were NOT falling apart, you were busy doing the “Lord’s Work.”
This should have been okay, could have even been healthy,
if — the damage wasn’t already done.
I want to be lifted from the mire of that gloomy, infested death hole. I want to be living not impulsively and with my FEAR overcoming EACH AND EVERY WORD. Not assuming others only tolerate me. Not speaking with a mute’s stutter. Not breathing in constant fear. Not stifling a scream. I want to live healed, anointed. I want to believe that you loved me
and are still hoping for me to have
the fullest,
the most joyful and gut-busting,
irrationally ecstatic, good LIFE.
You are no longer here. And yet you linger in my dreams.
What are you dreaming
for me?
MH 12-9-2010
My father, Dan Harrison, died of brain cancer about eight years ago. He joined my dream last night in a strange way. Just sitting there, in the back of a room full of people. As he often did. He glanced up and I found myself saying to my sisters “Dad’s not gone. He’s right over there.” Sometimes I do wonder if people linger in between this world and the next — hoping, wishing, praying even nudging. I have no theology for this but I do wonder.
My father had a profound effect on me. There are times when I believe that I did not truly begin living until he died. At the least I experienced a new life after he died. There are pages of this story here on my blog. Many many poems and other thoughts, insights, lessons found here. It is not completely a story of a broken person, because I found in a true way Christ’s love and that overcame all my sorrows. I work for and pray for Shalom.
by M.H. Hanson (originally posted December 7, 2010, updated December 7, 2011)
I do not know where the
words come from. They are like
water that gushes from a spigot.
I don’t question their existence. Only quickly place the
bucket of my heart underneath praying my confession.
Come.
And as I try to catch it I Hope that the drops will fall where they should.
In or outside the cup of my heart, dependent on a fate I do not control.
I have a thirst that lives within me, always with me.
And I must live with it every day. And with my commitment to be authentic.
This is an adventure that began with my cavernous need.
If it is true that God suffers with us in our grief, then I am grateful for the comfort of his companionship.
Even for this longing, a thirst that lives ever within.
Always thirsty. I don’t question the
Water’s existence. Only quickly place the
Bucket of my heart underneath praying.
I woke up “in a state.” I cannot shake the foreboding I feel. It conjures up thoughts of very bleak times in my life.
But I start my day just like any other by popping out of bed, drinking strong coffee, sitting and opening my heart to the day.
Days like this I cannot run from or even slip out from under out of timidity, no matter how hard I try. The gloominess sticks to me. That is until I figure out what’s bothering me. I’ve learned, if I don’t slow down and pay attention to it, this mood will pitch a tent inside me, lurking there for as long as it takes. Eventually plundering my heart and mind. And if I’m not careful, my soul.
Shivering from the fear of it, I cede to the fact that I must not ignore it so some things won’t get done today. I resolve not to be overcome by the anxious ideas or allow my heart to be looted by what I cannot tease out. My thoughts like are tangled and knotted up in such a way that the only result is my head and heart ache. Jumbled thoughts, but some along these lines …
Why must women work so hard for less money than their male counterparts?
Why is the Church the most subtly bigoted place I go to in my entire week?
Why are so many Christian marriages “women as modern-day maids serving ‘grown up’ boys.”
Why don’t more women question these things and speak up.
Why do I get hurt by the subtle ways of discrimination in our culture that don’t change: the old boys club that excludes women historically from the organizations, clubs, pulpits, schools, boards, Presidential jobs of institutions, rock and roll bands, television, important movie roles, and so on?
Why is it so hard just to be equals? And why do women accept it? Why is this still true?
I’m not hurt for myself, but I feel a deep empathy for these women. And for our daughters who are growing up in this world.
The suffragists managed to vocalize their concerns and in time changed things. And yet, even as I write this things stay the same. In doing research for his review of the movie Made in Deganham, about the women strikers against Ford UK, Roger Ebert wanted to find out when equal pay for equal work first became the law in the United States.
“I didn’t discover what I expected. Only two weeks ago, a Republican filibuster in the U. S. Senate prevented passage of the Paycheck Fairness Act, which would have added teeth to measures for equal pay…” Here’s his full article.
Yeah, you read that right less than a month ago.
Why do I lose sleep, live with heartache, and write about this. Because it matters, to me.
Jesus
I have read a book recently that parallels the words and work of Jesus through the Gospels: Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. His spiritual journey, guiding the three, twelve, the 70 and all the people he met. Many many things have struck me, but here’s something stunning that’s relevant here.
There is a story that is found in all four books. That makes it striking right off. Simon the Leper and the Woman found in Matthew 26.6-16, Mark 14.3-10, Luke 7.36-50 and John 12.1-8.
In these stories these things are true: A woman (unnamed in three books or called a “sinner” and Mary, sister of Martha and Lazarus in the book of John.) used very expensive, perfumed oil, called Spikenard, to wash Jesus’ feet. She wept on his feet, knowing that he was to die. She was anointing his body for burial. The men in the room disregarded her (and her importance) saying she should have sold the oil for money and give it to the poor. Jesus said, not only did you NOT wash my feet when I came, or honor me treating me with any sort of revere, but you also do not know who this woman is. She will be remembered he said. Because they were calling her “sinner” and implying bad things about her, in one account he even tells a story of the creditor with two debtors, one for 500 and one for 150. He forgave them both equally. And then, in all except Luke) Judas betrays Jesus. Yeah, right then and there.
Jesus promised the woman a place in history for she has done the thing that called out to be done if one is attentive, ready and attentive.
All I can do is highlight the thing that stands out to me.
The nameless woman heard of Jesus somewhere, and believed that Jesus was the son of God and would soon die. She came to honor him. She wept over his upcoming death, anointed his body in an action of believing faith after which Jesus said she was forgiven.
The Disciples saw her come in and wanted to throw her out. Pointed out what a terrible choice she made. Scolded.
Judas rather, one of the twelve disciples who learned from the Rabbi for years, betrayed him for a few coins not believing. Not learning — seemingly — anything.
I do wonder, if women were at the table with the twelve, oh wait she was there. Not “welcomed” at the table with them as a guest, but … If women were in the discussion, affirmed and given similar choices and opportunities to men, how would the world be different? How would I be different? And you?
I believe it is women who have been most betrayed in this life. As over and over again in our society message are sent that diminish and demean. I believe that Jesus has a different message for women. It’s just that men (some, not all of course) just don’t see and hear the truth of Jesus message to the Church about how men and women relate.
More to come.
————————————————————-
Reading Jesus: A Writer’s Encounter with the Gospels, Mary Gordon, Pantheon Books, NY, 2009.
I was asked to write some brief thoughts about the application of Philippians 2.1-11 to my life.
My thoughts are neither brief nor, sadly, do I see them applied very well thus far in my life. Thankfully, the journey of faith is a road slowly traveled and full of grace.
Melody
“Therefore if you have any encouragement from being united in Christ, if any comfort from his love, if any common sharing in the Spirit, if any tenderness and compassion, then make my joy complete by being like-minded, having the same love, being one in spirit and of one mind. Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility value others above yourselves, not looking to your own interests but each of you to the interests of others.
In your relationships with one another, have the same attitude of mind Christ Jesus had: Who, being the very nature of God, did not consider equality of God something to be used to his own advantage; rather, he made himself nothing by taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness. And being found in appearance as a human being, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to death–even death on a cross!
Therefore God exalted him to the highest place and gave him the name above every name, that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue acknowledge that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.”
Paul’s letter to the Philippians.
Obviously one cannot compare their life, whether you are a spiritual person or not, in any way to what Jesus Christ, the Son of God, gave up — his stature in heaven with God the Father — and Jesus did that for you and me. And yet, that’s the irony right? And the beauty. We are so very human and yet in the words of the Apostle Paul in Philippians we are taught to behave so unnaturally, even supernaturally. And we can’t. We can’t do anything like that. A human life can’t possibly compare. What then?
Reread this section of Paul’s letter to the Philippians 2.1-11 in Today’s NIV (above).
Honestly, the Apostle Paul rubs me the wrong way, at times. Especially the way he seems to command the church to do and not do so many things. That I have issues with control is no secret. So, I struggle with Paul’s emphatic tone and his sometimes enigmatic letters full of instructions that are not always clear in their application today. (Just my opinion here.)
But I have come to respect Paul’s story; his passion, his purity of purpose, his agape love for each church that he started, his strong prayer life, and especially as it applies here, his willingness to make personal sacrifices every day for the cause of Christ. What he was instructing the Philippians to do, he most definitely lived out himself.
Writing from a prison cell, it is striking that he says “fulfill my joy” or “make my joy complete” (depending on the translation) by having “the same mind and the same love, by being of one spirit and intent on one purpose.” He’s not saying here’s a way to become a “cookie cutter Christian” thankfully. What he is saying emphatically is do this to be united! And he continues, be humble because it is impossible to be “one church” if you are living for yourself, for your own desires, agendas and needs; If you are constantly seeking those things that only create a better life for yourself, you are not united. And then, as if that were not clear enough he goes on to say don’t do anything out of selfishness and think of others as better than yourself. And if you do this, the result will be unity.
I’m thinking at this point: “Okay, no biggie. Have some humility. Live for others. Give up your “rights.” Be unselfish. Wow, I need to work on this!” I just haven’t had it put so emphatically before. It is as if the message of Christ depends on it. Unity. And I should want to live that way! I guess it’s time to spend some time reflecting on whether that is true in my life. I’m four verses in and I’m totally convicted that I rarely live as if others are more important me.
Incredibly to me, at this point Paul becomes gentle so I guess he has a softer side. I’ve judged him from the lists of dos and don’t in Corinthians.
In a poem he goes on to describe in beautiful words the utter humiliation of Christ for us — Christ’s descent from the throne of God to death as a human on a cross. That is the humility Paul challenges the church of Philippi to and that is our example — Christ chose humiliation. As Christ became human, he gave up being seen as God and emptied himself taking on the limitations of human flesh. He never ceased to be fully God, but for a time he actually gave up GLORY for us. If your mind isn’t blown at this point, well, you’re not fully taking it in. It’s mind-boggling. It is worth pondering a while over the Advent season. It’s incredible.
Christ became human for me and wants me to become humble and unified with other believers in order to be more like him? NT Wright, in Paul for Everyone, says that an inner life of unity seems unattainable. No kidding. But, as we mature these things (paraphrased) should be true about us:
“1 We are to be bringing our thinking into line with one another.
2 Know the Gospel is the the final aim, not simply unity. If “it” doesn’t align with the Gospel, we could be unified around Krispy Kreme donuts, but that’s not what Paul’s promoting.
3 We are to perform the extraordinary feat of looking at one another with the assumption that everyone else and their needs are more important than our own.”
Humility is hard. Humiliation is harder.
When Paul was writing about this idea to the church in Philippi, it must be said, that they didn’t hold a high view of humility. No one aspired to be humble or to humiliation in the Greek world. If I am totally honest, do I really hold that high a view of humility? Being humble is hard! When was the last time I gave up my rights? My power. That is a form of humility and I honestly do not even know. That’s not really esteemed in our culture too much. Paul says we are to regard others as higher than ourselves. And in case we’re still unclear, we are to voluntarily give up our rights (like Jesus.)
As a part of the bigger picture of Philippians, Paul says “True people of God are united by thinking of others as more important than themselves.”
These are difficult times. The recession has effected so many people, that if you happen to have kept your job you feel incredibly grateful! If you have lost a job or may have been forced by circumstance to live with family or a friend, you know you are one misstep away from potential disaster. Perhaps even from joining the most powerless in our society — the poor, the elderly, many children, victims of domestic violence, youth fleeing abusive homes, many immigrants working two or three jobs to get by. None of these groups of people have power or influence in society. They are definitely “the least of these.” Their lives are a struggle and at times unbearable. At the bottom of this list, rock bottom I think, are those that are have lost their home and live now on the streets.
We make assumptions about the homeless and never question them. For the most part we avert our eyes and walk quickly past. There are homeless downtown that are the “stereo-typical homeless person — male, impoverished, smelly panhandlers that smell like alcohol and are acting slightly off.” But, actually, the average age for the homeless in Dane County is nine years old. My youngest is nine and he’s just a kid lucky enough to live in a house. Why him?
1 degradation;2 the state of being disgraced; shame; 3 a humiliating condition or circumstance.
I cannot think of anything more degrading or humiliating than being homeless. Often, if we think of the homeless at all, we convince ourselves that they somehow deserve it. It’s not a clear thought and if we keep it ambiguous and undefined we don’t have to face it. But we probably think that somehow homeless people chose. I challenge that idea completely.
When you are homeless no one knows who you are or where you are. You have lost everything: your old life, important relationships, job safety, the security of a locked door, and more importantly being known by someone, giving and receiving love, feeling content, the goodwill of being in community or a family — They chose to give up all that to be a wanderer known by no one? With no history — “lost” to your family and society — invisible — and somehow you chose that? This idea is absurd and is based on our chosen ignorance. Even selfishness.
Yes, the truth about homelessness is that it makes us uncomfortable.
A few facts:
The top three reasons people are homeless are:
1 mental illness,
2 domestic violence,
3 inability to pay rent.
In Dane County in 2008:
3,894 people were served in emergency shelters.
3,636 were turned away.
More than three thousand children, teens, elderly, veterans, mothers and fathers, uncles, aunts, PEOPLE were turned away from shelter for lack of space and resources in Madison alone.
A Simple Story.
As a member of BH Downtown, I was recently asked for$ .75 by a panhandler just outside of the Majestic. I was disconcerted because this wouldn’t happen on the west-side of Madison and I was unsure what to do. But I was with my kids. So I dug in my pocket and gave it to him, mainly thinking we have so much and my kids know it. And I wanted to show them that generosity is important. (Subsequently I learned giving money to panhandlers in Madison is illegal.) Looking back I think it is laughable that they might learn anything from our giving up less than a dollar to a homeless person. There was no sacrifice and there was no lesson learned.
Actually, I have learned because as a member of a downtown Life Group I learned that there are “real” ways to help. (more later)
When it comes to the homeless in Madison, in the past I have consoled my aching conscience with a few dollars and moved on. And I spent some hours thinking, reading, fretting about the complexity of the homeless situation, growing ever more hopeless about resolving the grander issues of funding and public apathy.
But, being downtown every week, if I choose to see the homeless, they are there.
There is a group here in Madison that does see the homeless.
Free Food gathers once a week, at three o’clock in the afternoon on Sundays, at the top of State Street, bringing whatever food and goods they have and giving them away. Variations of this group have been doing this for years. They give what they have — any kind of food, sometimes new socks. And now that it is cold they are seeking hats, gloves, blankets and anything to help someone stay warm on the street. (If purchasing some of these things interests you, shoot me an email and I can connect to pick them up.)
As I’ve thought about the Apostle Paul’s challenge to give up yourself for Christ, I see the actions of this group as an example of what Paul is talking about. I cannot think of anything more humiliating than living on the street, not knowing your next meal will come from; perhaps only having water and a meal once a day. Being constantly cold. It sounds horrible.
Homeless people likely did not lose everything by choice, perhaps simply bad luck or a series of unfortunate circumstances. The less power you have the more difficult it is to regain it. Powerlessness begets powerlessness in America, that’s a fact.
Paul says regard others [the homeless, or anyone] as higher than yourself. Voluntarily give up your rights. One way to do this is to serve the humiliated. Seethem. Go to where they are. Listento their story. Be a friend. Or just be a meal. In these cold nights of Wisconsin winter you might even save someone’s life by providing a coat or blanket or warm meal.
If you want to help on any given Sunday you will find these good people giving away food and other resources. Week in and week out, over the years, people have given up their time, money and things for the lowest and most humiliated in our city.
So even as I write these words in the comfort of my heated home and my belly growling just a bit from “forgetting” to eat dinner, I am convicted. In my humanity I cannot do anything and I don’t really even want to sometimes. It’s unnatural to put yourself in a situation like that. And, it is moving into winter and Sunday afternoons are cozy family times at home. My mind is full of dozens of reasons why I don’t really want or need to help out.
But we are instructed to behave supernaturally. Jesus Christ, the Son of God, gave up equality with God for you and me. That’s the rub. So I need to perhaps get cold and uncomfortable. Go be something more than I really am, because Christ did so much more for me. Not because I owe Him but because I am so grateful and humbled.
Do nothing out of selfish ambition
or vain conceit. Rather,
in humility value others above
yourselves, not looking
to your own interests
but to the interests of others.
I am challenged by these words of Paul to be more like Christ. Jesus was known for giving up his rights for the sake of the world. What am I known for?
And you?
———————————————————————————
Paul for Everyone: The Prison Letters, Tom Wright, Westminster John Knox Press, 2002.
The NIB Commentary, Volume XI, Abingdon Press, 2000
At the end before I quit completely, I was a messy drunk because by then I had to drink a lot to be messed up. More than I want to admit I had occasions of being a mess, stumbling to bed. And many, many Sundays I sat through church with the world’s worst hangover. My faith was shot.
I don’t really know why I was in church, except that I was still keening inside for God to help me. I am glad I was there, in the end. Thankful!
Those days were vile, don’t misunderstand. But I do not feel ashamed. I’ll tell you why in a minute. Anyone who regularly reads my blog also knows I also suffer from major depression and that too wrecked my life. You’re basically non-functioning when it is at its worst.
But I’m talking about why I am not ashamed of suffering from depression or of being a recovering alcoholic.
Why should I be ashamed?
I recently told a group of new friends (They are perhaps more like close acquaintances that I believe will become friends eventually) about my years of depression. I told them quite matter-of-fact, asking for prayer for the process of slowly stepping down from the anti-depressant I take. Afterwords, one of them came up to me and whispered out of the side of their mouth, full of embarrassment and clearly full of fear, “I struggle with depression too!”
In that moment I saw how frightening and risky it was for them to tell me. And I realized all of a sudden that I did not feel that self-consciousness or shame. I quite accept my lot in life. Should I feel ashamed? Am I supposed to be, because I’m a Christ-follower, perfect? I think too often people feel that same reticence. They fear judgment.
This is the real deal. Life is not perfect. Life is what happens when you’re making other plans right? I don’t know who said that? But don’t get me wrong, I have not always felt this way — free and unashamed.
I have been there — Where I could not say these words in one sentence: I– am– an– alcoholic. That four-word sentence took me five years to say out loud and two more to another human being. (Yes, I talk to myself.) And now that I have, I am not going back to live in that shame. So, no I don’t look at the person who shared with me in any judgmental way. I understand the fear.
It took me almost two months to admit to anyone, including Tom for five weeks, that I was depressed. There is an incredible bias or self-conscious reluctance (for Christians especially) to admit to the illness of depression. I run into people all the time. Well forget it. I am not ashamed.
I’ve talked a lot here about alcoholism and family history. Depression runs in families too. Both of these things are simply my Thing. My challenge. My opportunity. Other people have other Things.
As a Christian, what I hope people will hear the WOW in my story— the thing is that God is healing me! Yes, that is what I said. That is what I believe. There’s a psychological aspect to getting past/through/beyond these things, of course. Doctors have played an important part. Medication. Finding balance. But it came down to believing this simple statement:
You are the one Jesus loves.
My father sent me a postcard with this written on it, when I had the first episode of major depression eight years ago. It was framed when I got it and clearly very important to him. He had taken it right off his desk, stuck it in a padded envelope, wrote on a post-it that he loved me, and mailed it off to me. The glass didn’t survive the journey, but the postcard did. And over the years that statement has stayed with me.
When I read that day that “You are the one Jesus loves” I recoiled. My stomach lurched. Because, at that time in my life, I did not believe in the claims of Jesus I don’t think. I believed in the historical figure and in most of what the Bible said. But, as for Jesus, the human and the son of God, who gave up life in a gruesome way FOR ME, well, I did not believe it. I never believed I was loved growing up. Not by God, not by my parents. And definitely I hated myself.
So the healing that came in discovering how much Jesus actually loved me, well … as you can imagine that changed me. Changed my life. Changed my belief system. Changed how I interacted with and treated others. Changed my priorities.
I am a different person.
I not only like myself, but today I believe I am loveable. I guess psychiatrists would say that my “self-esteem” is stronger. Yay! It’s true. No wonder my mood is better. But in all seriousness, knowing — believing — that Jesus would have given his life for me, and me alone, only me, well, that’s incredible!
[This wasn’t one of those miracles that happened quickly. It took lot a of Bible study, times of prayer, listening to and working hard with my Shrink, giving up shit (drinking, smoking, being mean to people, compulsive spending, obsessive self-centeredness, … still working on perfectionism and a lot of other things.)
What I mean to say is this process took years. Deep times in the word of God (ie. Bible). Time with friends in long conversations. Opening my heart to love from others – especially Tom.]
So, no I am not ashamed of my ills, damn it! (Yeah, Tom thinks I should give up cussing for Jesus too. It’s the last cheap drug to go aside from caffeine.)
You see, all of these thing they are a “weakness” of a sort that humble me and help me stay connected to the true source of everything. And for that, I am oh — so — grateful!
I have begun what feels like a slow crawl of healing which requires that I carefully take less and less of the antidepressant drug Effexor. This choice frightens me no matter how much I tell myself that this will be a straightforward and matter-of-fact thing. And remind myself that I am ready!
This day has been years coming. Eight years since I fell into the major depression that would change me and my life forever. Eight years since I have gone a full year without a depressive episode that I was unable to pull myself out of. [I had one that began in May which lasted four months. But, with the things I have learned, I was able to recover on my own (By that I mean without my psychologist’s help.)] More than two years since I have had an alcoholic drink.
Of course I would desperately like to get off the medication but I fear the worst – the side-effects which I have read will mimic a depressive episode. I believe the medication is doing very little for me now. But I fear the crippling, seemingly uncontrollable plunge, the inevitable decline; though I know a number of things that I can do to keep myself strong. Still, the brain plays tricks and already has begun to whisper to me that madness will come, the despondency and stupor are inevitable. And although I am certain these are lies and I counter with what I know, what I have learned, and what I believe more than anything — that this is a spiritual thing. I must wait on the LORD, knowing what he has promised. This is vital.
I waited patiently for the LORD;
he turned to me and heard my cry.
He lifted me out of the slimy pit,
out of the mud and mire;
He set my feet on a rock
and gave me a firm place to stand.
He put a new song in my mouth,
a hymn of praise to our God.
Many will see and fear
and put their trust in the LORD.
Blessed is the one who makes
the LORD her trust. (from Psalm 40, NIV)
I’ve said before that I am no good at waiting. When is comes to spiritual things it infrequently that we are only waiting for minutes. Usually on spiritual matters there is a waiting for months and at times for years. But God hears us.
He heard me. He pulled me from that grim, terrible place. My life has become (more) solid and sure. I am confident that He has given me words to hold in my heart and to write “a new song.” Selah!
I am listening to an NPR interview, on people who have lived with traumatic experiences and it adds to a growing unease I have had all week, a compelling need to write. But I have had no computer. I’ve borrowed one now. It is one of those times when I write to unearth what’s inside me. To recover some bit of story that up until now was lost.
When My Father Died I Was Reborn. This Is A Fact.
To be quite honest I didn’t know it, but I was numb and deadened inside for most of my life. I do remember brief moments as a child when I was conscious; happy and aware of it. It was a beautiful time in Papua New Guinea running barefoot in the jungle, blithely unaware. Even being thrown into the ocean at a young age, in order to learn to swim, was scary but for the most part an innocent lesson. But I remain fearful of the ocean to this day. I do not take any pleasure in swimming.
It Hurts Me Now, To Know How Much Memory Is Simply Gone.
I am a human being who lived more than forty years of life and yet today I cannot recall a good deal of it; I have very little memory of childhood. And the memories I do have are full of the trauma we experienced. I don’t want to only remember the dread and fear. I do not choose to remember the ugliness; the ruthless cruel anger that we experienced. I don’t want to focus on that, but you see it isn’t a selective focus at all – it is all I have left.
I am hopeful though that if I spend the time to remember what little is there, perhaps somehow, some day I will find more of the good memories. I know those experiences must be there . I would think that I and my sisters would not be as “normal” as we are able to be. Would we not have become monsters — like — him?
I am gratified that today I recognize goodness when I see it and so I must have experienced this at some time. I see the tenderness and sweetness of casual, physical affection between a mother and her teenage children and I think “that is normal. That is good.” But I never experienced it. By the time I was a teen, I loathed my father’s controlling touch, a hug or kiss at the beginning or end of the day was a salutation to him. For me, it was a reminder of cage we lived in. And my mother never had a physical connection or bond with anyone — at least not with her children.
Often Today, Unless I Force Myself To Allow It, I Cannot Feel.
My dear mother, aged 73, called yesterday asking if she could pay for my children to attend the Messiah show that I will be in this December since we were choosing to “not afford it.” After years of missing concerts and other things that were important to me due to their travel, she was remembering that this had hurt me as a teenager. I was actively involved in orchestra and chorus. She offered to pay the $30 per child so that my children can attend the concert. She felt this was important to me. I promised her I would think about whether I felt that way. I have learned that if I am not careful, I just feel what she tells me I’m feeling. She wants to help. She’s aware of old pain. She attempts to remake life now, for the adult child. It’s complicated. I have no idea what I feel about this situation.
Feeling things — for me, it takes peeling back the layers of the moment to find – my – feelings. Crushing them was how I survived. Now it takes such hard work to feel. And to trust the feelings.
Remembering what it was like growing up is hard for me. Whether I was conscious or not, it was important to hide or be invisible. I spent lots of time in my room escaping into a book; the fantasy of a romance or historical novel or a Ludlum mystery. I hid in the music, playing the piano or the bass clarinet. In the concerts that my parents received free tickets to over the years. Music has always been an escape.
And I found myself when I was welcomed at church by my youth pastor and in his grizzly hugs. There I found an acceptance of “ME” that I had never experienced in my life. I had a budding faith. I recall lying in my bed late at night, after church, praying out loud the prayer that I could not make myself utter out loud at church; too afraid of not getting it just right. The need to be perfect was true for all of my sisters and for me if I couldn’t be perfect then I would not try.
I do not recall much conversation with my parents as a child and teen. I remember no talks with parents, except being forced to speak about certain things by my father. What does Easter mean to you, tell me! What are you thankful for? Everyone must participate. I recall being yelled at for grades that were below my “potential.” I was dragged, not physically but emotionally, down to the counselor at school so that the person could tell me what a high IQ I had and why I could (i.e. should) do better at school.
I recall gazing at my bitten & bleeding fingernails in the microscope in Biology, wondering if I would ever feel good about myself. Somehow, my hands came to symbolize my brokenness, pain and the ugliness I saw in myself. They represented the self-loathing and to this day, they remain so; if there is anguish inside it always manifests itself on my fingernails and indicates nervousness I can’t control.
I recalled recently, being spaced out started young, a pattern of feeling just slightly crazy or numb. Constantly tuned out started as a way to cope with the unpredictable nature of my father’s anger which could be triggered by anything; A slip of the tongue, a comment coming out a too sarcastically or being considered disrespectful, not remembering an instruction and doing something else, and of course having ideas other than his. That made him the most furious. Enraged. He was never physically punishing to us, but verbally hounding, over and over again; “At you” continuously until you admitted your offense – whatever it was — random things that bothered him.
I began to shut down. Concede not fight. Give in. Confess. Not rebel. Slowly, I gave up and forfeited living for peace.
Even some of my last memories of my father, when they came to visit in October before he got sick, were of making concessions to his disapproval. I had been suffering from five months of deep depression that had slowly been eroding my confidence and energy. When they came to visit “to help, to support” I was very sick. I didn’t have it in me to cook for them, so we took my parents out to dinner at our favorite Thai restaurant. It was admittedly expensive. It was delicious. It was challenging with young kids. He disapproved of the extravagance and made it known. He went on about it as I slowly shut down. There’s no productive discussion when he is convinced of something. No reminder of the symptoms of depression being an inability to make decisions shopping for groceries or to focus for a long time on cooking or overcoming the fear of messing it all up. I would rather have climbed back into bed, but because they were there I was up, dressed and attempting to function.
That is one of my last memories of my father before his tumors began to grow and his personality and ability to speak became impaired. He came to help, to be of assistance, but he spent his visit on the phone and laptop and but he only criticized when he engaged me. That’s a fact. That’s what happened.
As I remember, sometimes I wish I could sugar coat the memories or even just deny them. But what would that accomplish?
[in singular] a reassessment, especially one that results in changes being made.
I am thinking about many things including the future of this blog. I was particularly challenged by a conversation this weekend. My sister questioned why I “live so much in the past?” She was wishing for me that I would be able to “get on with my life.”
Long before that conversation, I have asked for a clear insight about what is next for me. I have been seeking — praying — listening.
Rethinking What I Know about Myself.
I need to know that my life contributes to a grander and larger story than simply my own.
I have certain passions — God-given, I believe. Most notable photography. biblical studies. women. any injustice.
One spiritual gift I have seems to be Mercy. My heart breaks over the corruption and greed in some that leads to poverty and pain for others. Over persecuted people groups. Over homophobia, racism, sexism. Over anyone being homeless.
My voice, in writing, is loud and clear and sometimes even challenging. Out loud I am meek and unclear, which I experienced this weekend to my dismay.
Rethinking Biblical Translation & Interpretation.
I have a hunger to understand scripture for myself. Dare I say this? It frightens me that so much of (most or all) biblical interpretation throughout history was done by men. It gnaws at me from inside out.
I am not a raging neofeminist or even a strong proponent of a feminist or liberation theology. (I guess I don’t know enough about them to say one way or another.) Simply put, things have been stacked against us:women.
A patriarchal society& culture brought us the message of the scriptures that we live our lives by.
Another group of men translated it into the language for “everyone.”
And, then in most churches today men stand up and interpret scripture every Sunday and all week long.
“The Bible has shaped the life of the church in a way that nothing else has done and Christians today are the product of the history of its interpretation.” 1
Why should I trust their translations and interpretations categorically without question? This is simply foolish, in my opinion. And still I pray for a spirit of humility — that I would be a fertile ground. I ask why do I think these things and if my motives are wrong or I am simply being foolish in my thinking, that this thinking would change. And, I have thought of many responses to this conundrum, from applying to be an unpaid intern at my church in biblical hermeneutics, I would hope, to bring a feminine voice to the teaching being done, to going to seminary.
Rethinking My Role.
As I seriously consider the perception of being a “woman of leisure” which I wrote about recently, I get mired in my own frustrations and can’t pull together clear thoughts. Because it is emotional for me! I don’t care about the money (perhaps I should) but I want respect. And I know if I don’t respect women who stay home, then how can I expect others to respect me?
And before you email me about the value of being at home with kids, know that I’ve had more than ten years to ponder this subject. I don’t need “encouragement” in that regard. It is an incredibly complicated personal decision for every women and I do respect the difficult place women (so much more than men) are in. So if you are a man, butt out. No one can make this choice for a woman or explain away her doubt, fear, aspirations, goals, or desire for “accomplishment” or get why she cries to be away from her babies.
Recently, First Lady Michelle Obama was named Most Powerful Woman of the Year, beating out heads of state, chief executives and celebrities in Forbes magazine’s annual listing. Some women came out saying Ms. Obama talks about herself as a wife and mother and were questioning how that makes her influential? Gr…..
But I digressed into an issue that is only a side story in my search for a place to make an impact and contribution.
And I am still left thinking at this point, is this blog much ado about nothing? Is it time to stop?”
Rethink Everything.
It is difficult for me, at times, to look back over the last decade of my life. In human terms — quitting a meaningful, challenging job, succumbing to clinical depression, becoming addicted to alcohol, and straying far away from the LORD — it was all failure on my part. And yet, it was through those experiences, as mortifying as they are and were to me, that I have come to recognize many things.
I am actually grateful to have been brought so low. I can only hope that I am still learning and am becoming a person useful to the LORD. I had to trudge through the violence of my childhood and my feeling of betrayal and disappointment towards my parents — and forgive them. This has opened me up to a new life.
Christ’s broken body for me was real and meaningful in a new way never understood until my humiliation. And gratefully I can say, this drove me to my knees. I went from someone who felt she was competent, powerful, knowledgeable and puffed up with my importance to a broken reed, hardly knowing up from down. Alcohol devastated me — became the thing that I lived for. The passion, the dreaming, the hoping, the living stopped.
I am so grateful to not have lost everything. It is humbling to sit here in the comfort of my home knowing that I am loved by my husband and adored by my children. Undeserved, as I know how close I came to losing all that I now hold dear and even my life.
As I consider what the future holds for me I want to be fertile ground. Looking back, mostly glad to have fallen. To have learned. As I look ahead there is no perfect plan. I must trust while serving, not knowing the future. Trust that I have a contribution to make, but if that “thing” the “plan” never happens, hope that I will continue to be grateful and if I am never made whole, still I will ask for it. And hope. And stay open.
===================================
I have more than fifty poems I have written here. This one, is called addict.
Being an addict catches me by surprise. Today,
seemingly innocent things — a drink, a smoke, a purchase, food, even exercise can become
urgent
need.
In the time that it takes to feel a flash of happiness, sadness or regret;
less than 60 seconds of my life
and I remember,
I am an addict. How could I have forgotten?
Today I must ask what brought this on?
For tomorrow I must fill the need
with OTHER.
As for yesterday, I can only look back and remember
I am an addict, but I am stronger than my need.
And as for this moment — I know I am an addict;
I am. I was. I always will be, always will be
an addict.
ADDICT written april 9, 2009 by melody harrison hanson
Those that have no background in addiction look at the word ADDICT and the word alcoholic as kind of wicked and weak. Face it, our culture doesn’t understand. But if you’ve been there, if you live there, if you love someone who does or has you know exactly what I mean. And I thank you for understanding.
1 Bray, Gerald. Biblical Interpretation: Past & Present, 1996, IVP
Don’t lose any opportunity, however small, of being gentle toward everyone. Don’t rely on your own efforts to succeed in your various undertakings, but only on God’s help. Then rest in his care of you, confident that he will do what is best for you, provided that you will, for your part, work diligently but gently. I say “gently” because a tense diligence is harmful both to our heart and to our task and is not really diligence, but rather over eagerness and anxiety…I recommend you to God’s mercy. I beg him, through that same mercy, to fill you with his love.
I am not a gentle person. I am warm and generally kind. I am open to others, making an effort to set them at ease. My introversion and social anxiety make it so that this is hard work for me, but I do it out of principle. And hardheadedness. I want to know people, so I am damn sure I’m not going to let my flat-sides get in the way.
But my gut response to the world is usually to critique it. It is all too easy and habitual to jump to conclusions and prejudge. I am the opposite of temperate. And I often become grouchy and grumbling about whatever displeases me — from the coffee in a restaurant, to a reporter’s poor grammar, to the design on a book cover or the style in which a book is written. Whether lyrics are theological or food is spiced correctly or a shop is ambient, you name it, I’ve got an opinion. [Unless I don’t care and then I’ve got nothing. Can’t be bothered… but digress.]
I would like to nurture gentleness in myself, however that is done. Even with my children, whom I absolutely adore, I know I can come across harshly. That is why I love more-than-anything-in-the-world just to hold them. To settle into a deep, long snuggle because no words are necessary then. And I fear that with my words, too quickly, I become evaluative and, oh dear, too soon, my love must feel conditional to them.
I am very diligent. I pride myself in being a hard worker which I learned from my father. He taught me that a person never sits idle while being paid to work. He caught me reading a book, as a teen, while I was working in his office. I had run out of things to do. That was the day that my work ethic started, after a long talk from him. Ask for more, I learned that day. Idleness in a job, well that’s plain wrong. And one must always carry out the tasks at hand. I have learned that I love to work hard and if it makes me sweat all the better! I am grateful to have that work ethic from him.
And yet, when it comes to being diligent, I am tense in my diligence, which de Sales claims is “over eagerness and anxiety.” Um, yep. That is so me — mentally, emotionally, spiritually, physically, wow do I need God’s mercy and to loose my hands on the vice grip that I hold on my life. It isn’t pleasant or the kind of diligence required of us.
“I recommend to you God’s mercy.
I beg him, through that same mercy,
to fill you with his love.”
I am just thinking and going nowhere with these thoughts. Except I that perhaps they were worth writing down.
Once our eyes are open, we can’t pretend we don’t know what to do. God, who weighs our hearts and keeps our souls, knows that we know, and holds us responsible to act. –Proverbs 24:12
Be well, friends.
Melody
Francis de Sales lived August 21, 1567 – December 28, 1622. He was Bishop of Geneva and is a Roman Catholic saint. He worked to convert Protestants back to Catholicism, and was an accomplished preacher. He is known also for his writings on the topic of spiritual direction and spiritual formation, particularly Introduction to the Devout Life.
And isolation breeds isolation which creates the stigma and discrimination we need to eliminate. The brain is an organ — just like the heart, liver and kidneys — and we need to encourage everyone to treat it as such from both a medical and social perspective.
If are new to my blog, I have clinical depression. The first time I experienced the REAL, genuine, gut-wrenching, debilitating, life altering, horrible, sink hole depression started in the Spring or early Summer of 2002.
Each person has a birthright of joy to reclaim. — Foust
What I didn’t know.
When I fell into my worst (and first) case of clinical depression eight years ago, neither Tom or I knew a thing about real depression. What I mean by real is not that there is “fake’ but clinical depression is different than mood swings or melancholy. I have since studied and I could give you an ear full on the topic. But I won’t. This is some of what I have learned over the last eight years.
One of the most impressive things I learned over the years is that you have to fight it. And it’s a fight lemme tell you, at certain points for your own life. Sometimes it’s fight someone who loves you takes on as well. You have to want something better. That’s difficult when you are so depressed that you can’t sleep, eat, talk, move, and lost all pleasure for life — but if you have received professional help to get out of that place, THEN you have to fight AGAINST the next time.
I have worked hard for the emotional, physical, and spiritual healing that I’ve achieved. All the while I am confident that this is going to be a lifelong struggle. I have a propensity toward it, this illness that involves the mind, body and the soul.
That is not true of everyone. Some lucky people only have situational depression where a life event like a divorce, illness, death, birth of a baby, job loss, or other tragedy occurs and we become depressed in response to it but you don’t have regular episodes for the rest of your life.
Depression affects how you feel. It changes your thinking in crazy ways. And it causes you to behave in a way quite unlike yourself. These can be a clue for a friend or partner that something isn’t right. If not dealt with it can lead to a variety of emotional and physical problems. And eventually, in scary cases, you may come to feel as if life isn’t worth living. You most definitely lose sight of the belief that you have a right to joy.
Major Depressive Disorder is the leading cause of disability in the U.S. for ages 15-44.
Major depressive disorder affects about 14.8 million American adults, or about 6.7 percent of the U.S. population age 18 and older in a given year.
While major depressive disorder can develop at any age, the median age at onset is 32.
Major depressive disorder is more prevalent in women than in men.
I will never forget a relative** (changed to protect the ignorant) calling when she heard about my depression, saying,
“I’m sorry that you feel so sad.”
My heart sank. Depression is not sadness or the blues or even a bad mood.
The Stigma of Getting Help. Let others help you.
Contrary to what many people believe, depression it is not personal weakness that you can “snap out of.” Depression is a chronic illness that may require the treatment of a Psychiatrist and the counseling from a Psychologist. A medical doctor should not be diagnosing it, unless it is to send you to psychiatrist. I would not (now) trust a Medical Doctor to treat depression with medication. I have learned that the medications are so unique in their effects on each person, that it takes someone specially trained to help you called a Psychiatrist.
Some liken it to diseases like diabetes or high blood pressure that are serious but treatable. For me it feels more like a cancer in remission, life threatening but you can fight it. But it is true that most depression is treatable.
It is easy to get discouraged with the diagnosis. Easy to begin to feel you will never be free of the stigma of depression. You will never be happy. That is I thought for a long time, when I was in weekly therapy working my ass off in counseling. That is some of the hardest mental work I’ve ever done, not to mention emotional and even physical. You have to be committed and even when I was there were lengths of time when I had to take a break from weekly therapy. I simply wanted to enjoy a month or so of feeling okay. Then something would trigger, and I’d be back at it. My work was on the past, learning to rewrite the negative tapes in my head, attacking the lies. Waking up grateful. On taking risks and daring to succeed.
As I mentioned I have received a lot of help from psychological counseling and eventually at a dangerous point, began to take medication.
I do not want this to be a life sentence. I have worked hard. But there’s also a spiritual aspect that cannot be overlooked. And as a person who believes in the message of Jesus, I have disciplined myself to be open to the Holy Spirit and I have quit a few bad habits because of that including admitting that I am an alcoholic July 17, 2008. My last alcoholic stupor… (that’s it’s own story. Check the TAGS.)
Through writing poetry I have made inroads into my Life Story and discovered how it made me who I am. I have discovered a lot, admitted to anger that I didn’t know was there. The opposite side of the coin of depression is anger, but I thought I didn’t have any anger. Perhaps most important, I worked on forgiveness and on being a more honest person.
Over the years I have had a lot of help and support. Number one being my husband Tom who not only carried the load of a full-time job but during those very difficult times he did everything else. I have a number of incredible friends who are always right there when things are really bad.
So many people tell me how amazing it is that I am so frank and all I can do is thank them. Alcoholics are liars. Addicts are liars. Whether you lie to yourself or to everyone else, you convince yourself of many things that are untrue. I protect myself from that by being brutally honest. I have worked very hard to give up the destructive things that were impacting my body for the worse. I will always be an alcoholic. I’m not ashamed of that. I’m strong enough to have quit and let me tell you, there are a lot of people out there who struggle with drinking habits but are unwilling to consider giving it up. I get that. It took me about five years to admit it finally.
What I’ve learned.
So beyond what I’ve already said I came up with a list of eight things that I have learned along the way. If you don’t suffer from depression, you likely know someone who does and it is hard to know what to do. Perhaps these thoughts will offer some help and hope.
1] Each person must find the healing path for themselves.
(with the help of professionals, family and friends.)
Because I’m a curious person and I want to help myself, I read a lot and have learned there are many, many opinions for how to get help or to help yourself. There are new things to try all the time and you have to keep working until you find what works for you. New to me is Yoga something that I have never done. Up until hearing about Amy Weintraub (see below) I had not heard Yoga described as a practice for healing from depression. I have tried an eight week class in Mindfulness and found it to be terrific, but like any discipline it must be maintained for it ongoing benefits. Exercise of any sort is the same way. Research shows that exercise is equal to or more effective than medications for treating depression. Both exercise or medication must be combined with the therapy work of a counselor.
What I do know is that I do not want this struggle my whole life. But I accept that I may never be free of depressive episodes. I know this. If this is the case then my ability to work on being healthy will be important. My commitment to managing the pain also important. Perhaps I will have to work on acceptance of it so that I don’t get resentful or bitter. I think it is important to prepare either way.
2] You can learn to feel it coming.
Though you can’t pull yourself up by your bootstraps when clinically depressed, YOU CAN LEARN TO FEEL IT COMING. And before it completely takes over, you can fight back. But how does one fight back? Keep reading.
3] You should listen to your body and take care of it. Also, listen to your mind.
Get back to counseling. Sometimes just a check-in with your Psychologist can help get back on track. For me the voice of reason asking me “What’s the worst that can happen?” or “And you believed that, why?” is good! Logical questioning helps me immensely. Tom is also able to do this for me now, but not at first. I’m stronger now so I “hear” him differently.
Make sure you are exercising regularly.
Make sure you are eating regularly and well (fruits & veggies, protein, whole grains.) I crave sugar and it’s the absolute worst for my moods. I stop eating meals and binge on bad things. It’s true. When those habits pop up again it’s a sure sign something is up.
4] Take care of our soul — whatever that means for you.
Get back to church (if you go) no matter what it takes.
Pick up the phone. Get together with a friend; one on one is best.
Learn to be a friend even when you aren’t well. I was completely knocked out recently by the realization that my good friend was also suffering and in my complete focus on myself I didn’t even know it. We got together and laughed, cried and hugged, and listened to one another. It was a profound lesson for me that one can heal by giving and receiving.
Perhaps the next suggestion should be first, underlined and italicized.
5] Don’t be afraid to admit that you are depressed.
Tell a trusted person what’s really going on. This is sometimes the first and most difficult step. My pride, my fear, my feelings of failure and personal responsibility for “allowing” it to come back — the lies that crowd in — are hard to overcome, but when I finally admit what’s going on it is such a relief. A trusted person will help you walk through getting help. I guarantee you will get to a point where it gets more and more difficult the longer you wait. Once you start to fight back against what is happening to you, you will get better. And fighting is good and necessary. Do talk to your spouse, partner or a parent. Anyone who has walked with you through life’s challenges.
It isn’t wise to tell an acquaintance or a friend on the periphery of your life because you will be disappointed by their inability to stick with you. It is not because they are bad people or even that they don’t care, but because they just cannot be there.
Don’t let pride get in the way. Need is humbling. But it may come down to a life or a death.
Your friends cannot help you if you are unwilling to tell them. People live busy fractured lives. Good, caring people rush from one activity to the next, especially in the Christian community. So busing doing, slowing down to notice you is difficult. It’s simple a fact of American culture. Tell a friend.
If someone tells you they plan to take their own life, no matter who they are to you ALWAYS believe them. Get them help.
6] Repeat after me.
I have intentionally written this in the first person. (Tom always has to remind me. Yep, every single time…) Say it with me now:
I am not responsible for my depression coming or returning.
Depression is an illness, not a weakness or character flaw or sin. It is not a spiritual mistake.
I will be “happy” some day!
7] Work on your relationships when you are not struggling.
Life brings all sorts of people to us. The ones that will stick with you when you are at your lowest or “worst” are the ones that we can be investing in when we are at our best. Never forget that the people in your life need you as much as you need them. Remember the corny phrase “You have to be a friend to have a friend.” Well, as silly as that sounds it is true.
I hope my life will include months and some day years where I am healthy and my depression is in “remission.” I want to pour myself into the people I love.
Depression has given me a sense for people that I never had before, or at least an empathetic ear. I never ask “how are you?” unless I have time to hear how they are doing. Once the answer took three hours. Sometimes it is just a hug.
People are hurting all around us. They have physical trials and pain. They live most of their lives alone or lonely. They hurt and I will never know that if I don’t ask. You will never know unless you ask, and mean it. Unless you notice the people in your life and push back when they say “I’m fine” you won’t be able to show them that you heard them.
8] It is important to have a creative outlet or a hobby that you love.
There is a woman in my neighborhood that I don’t know well, but I enjoy very much. She has Multiple Sclerosis. She uses her blog to chart her illness’ progress and to write about something that she loves, which also nourishes and heals, which is FOOD. It arose out of her wish to pay attention to her body and her healing. She says on her blog:
“I am working with what I am given, trudging through difficulties without turning away.”
I love that. That’s why I write about my depression. That’s why I blog. I want to encourage others and I need to be continuously learning and reminding myself of the progress. By writing I make discoveries about myself. I can celebrate the journey I am on and not turn away from it. I can tell the truth.
But I also have my photography which has been an incredible place to express myself, even on the worst days. When I feel so badly that I don’t pick up the camera, that’s an alert.
My Complete Honesty Now.
When the clinical depression is at its worst, it is hell — It saps your energy, your self-esteem, your passion for life, your decision-making ability and steals everything that makes you unique. It is a liar and a thief. A betrayer. (I have some powerful poems about it.) Here’s a powerful one .
I Am Destruction
I wake with the familiar headache.
Deeply tired. My bones in protest.
Emotions already chafing; dazzling, fluorescent, raw. Ablaze.
Coffee the first panacea of the day.
Sip by sip, its power over me if not to heal, then to awaken.
Slowly flooded by familiar disappointment.
Weary, I begin to See myself. I am Destruction.
I am Broken Promises wielding their power.
The surge of rage, justified.
It hurts.
My body adjusting to an awareness
of this old enemy within.
Destruction’s impact yet unknown.
Fury toward the innocent who contribute to the chaos
of my life and toward, the hell inside me.
10/27/08
But I have learned, over the years, how to live with depression and “manage” it. I do believe this strategy is the only hope for me and perhaps something here will help you or someone else. That is my hope.
Be well, friends.
Melody
I recently learned about Amy Weintraub who worked to cure her own clinical depression over time by practicing yoga. She tells her story in her book Yoga for Depression. I can’t wait to read it. The thought that I might be free from depression some day; I do not believe it if I am completely honest with you. I am a realist when it comes to dealing with pain. Pain just is. And so I have imagined the diagnosis of clinical depression as a life sentence from which there is no long-term cure. Unless I can find something more to help or experience a modern-day miracle life will be challenging to manage. Who knows, perhaps yoga. As I said, search until you find what works.
My definition of clinical depression was from the Mayo Clinic.
If you suspect that you or someone you care about is that depressed, check-out the list of symptoms which you should have experienced for more than two weeks. And get help.
In my dream, I experience a cluster of events all surrounding my father and his behavior toward me. Decisions that he makes, that he doesn’t bother to tell me about, though they change my life. They embarrass me. They scare me. And most of all they make me so angry that I am shouting. Screaming at him. Spittle flies. My breath catches in my throat. I am shaking. I am choking on bile and rage. I scream: “Look at me! SEE ME!”
And then along with my mother, her look back impassive, nonchalantly he walks away.
I wake with pain behind both eyes, daggers. pointing. through my retinas out the front of my face I am sure. Heart aching. I can’t do anything about it. Slowly the rage slips away to wherever it goes in between Rage Dreams.
It’s an honest question, I guess. But the implication is that in caring for friends who are gay, lesbian or bi-, or any persecuted population, there must be some underlying story. Let’s be truly honest, at least I will be, for a moment. And I guess I’ll generalize dangerously, but I think I’m fairly close to the truth when I say …
Some Christians don’t know how to love people that they do not like or do not understand.
They are often the ones who avoid the discomfort of being in a setting with any group that makes them feel a minority. That is if they even think about it.
They may wrap their beliefs up in a neat and tidy box, but the fact is they are unwilling to have a friend who is queer. I dare you to step out of your comfort zone. And I can promise that nothing untoward will happen. And you just might learn something about yourself.
Let’s broaden the conversation and throw out an even broader generalization but I believe that most people, Christian or not, very rarely allow ourselves to be without our power.
Perhaps unintentionally, but it rare that white people put ourselves in places where we don’t hold that (white) power. Yeah, I’m talking about white people because being white, we have power just because of the color of our skin. And we might be complete wing nuts, but it will stay true. Also, being straight in today’s society holds power. (Being a man holds power, but that’s not the subject here I just had to say it.)
Here is the real truth. I have someone very close to me who is bi-sexual. This is someone who I love. Someone that I would like to come to know the Jesus I know,the way I know him. Someone who rejects Jesus because of reputation of “the Church” and someone who considers it evidence of bigotry that Christian’s lack love for them…
The friends and acquaintances over the years that are queer — some out and some not, but I love them. I hurt for them. I heart aches over the rejection and disapproval that is shown to queer people mostly by Christians. When I picture those friends in my mind I have to acknowledge to myself that their lives are incredibly difficult and it is mostly because our culture is so bigoted and I want to love them, take them home and care of them. It’s the Mother in me who would adopt all these “kids” so that they’d know unconditional love.
And as for being a minority within a dominant culture, well
the little I have learned is that I have all this power that I don’t even acknowledge most of the time.
And this power makes my life so much easier than those that are not white or straight. Most people, other than whites, face the biases and prejudices of the dominant culture every single day. My culture. My people. My tribe does this and it hurts me.
And one of my new year’s resolutions (Go ahead, check. I wrote them down here.) was to place myself in positions where I was a minority — Whether that is my lily whiteness — or my being straight — or my being a Christian — I want to be with other people, without my power getting in the way, so that I can learn. I’ll become the better person for it.
So why do I care so much about friends who are LGB or T — and People who are Homeless — and People of Color — and Women …. And generally anyone who is persecuted for something that they are, because I hope I am a bridge person in between.
I believe that this is what Jesus would want me to do.
It is as complicated and as simple as that.
OCTOBER 8TH UPDATE: I JUST READ AN ARTICLE THAT MADE ME REALIZE HOW STUPID (REALLY JUST LAZY THINKING TO BE HONEST) IT WAS TO CALL MYSELF, AS A WOMAN, GAY. HENCE THE CHANGE IN TITLE.
Logic & Imagination 