Freddy got diagnosed with a blood disorder when he was just over one year old. He got a cold, which turned into a cough which turned into pneumonia and his little body was working too hard making red blood cells to even remotely fight the pneumonia. It's a rare hereditary blood disorder, and I'm so thankful that it hasn't affected his life too much. Once in a while when his body can't keep up with the rapid rate of red blood cell destruction, we bring him to the hospital for blood work and if need be, transfusions.
There's this image in my mind. No, it's in not just in my mind, it's in the gap between my skin and memory, my senses and instincts. That space that juts out into our lives whether we want it to or not like a sharp rock between here and there, a space where we can either stand upon or lose ourselves on. And it's of Freddy's tiny toddler body, bound in a hospital bed sheet in a way that kept him still enough to give blood for tests. He was too young to understand that we bound him to help him. He fought hard against us, against the binding force, his iron will flexing and pushing, the angst inside his body practically bursting through his skin and all I could do was stand there and helplessly watch him fight.
I've seen this scene manifest in different ways with each child. It's not a hospital sheet, in an emergency room. It's on a couch. It's in the backseat of the van. It's in a restaurant, it's at home. It's here and there and everywhere in between but to me, it looks the same, that my child's angst is practically bursting through their skin and all I can do is stand there and helplessly watch them fight.
I want to unzip the gap, gather my babies in my arms and duck us all down beneath the great divide between here and there, stand upon that rock, and know peace. And know peace. To close up the unknown and lie still in the safety of love where there is no pain, there is no fight, there is no angst.
But then we wouldn't move forward.
Showing posts with label fear. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fear. Show all posts
Friday, November 28, 2014
Wednesday, November 12, 2014
Woozy Wednesday: Strength in Numbers (of drinks)
Self-regulate. Have you ever heard that term? I'm not sure where I picked it up but I say it often. It refers to the process of moving from the feeling of being totally exposed, suspended in mid-air and freaked right out toward the feeling of having our feet planted firmly into the ground, chin up, chest open and strong. We self-regulate several times a day without even realizing it.
Being naked tends to demand self-regulation. Think back to how you last felt at the beach or at the pool when you had to peel your clothes off down to your bathing suit and parade yourself down to the water's edge. How did you get there? You self-regulated. You told yourself that your body is just fine, that nobody is looking, or that the size of your ass is exciting and your husband is enjoying the wobble. You gave yourself grace, you let yourself be, and you made it to the water.
Anyway.
What does this have to do with Woozy Wednesday? Have you heard of the term, "liquid confidence?" It's self-regulation in disguise. It's an imposter. However, it comes in handy when we need to cross over into uncharted territory like our first nude beach experience, or when we're asked to MC at a wedding. Sometimes we need to be under the influence of a boozy drink to take all our clothes off and march our fat white asses to the ocean just to get a notch on our (imaginary) belt so that next time it will be that much easier.
But I'll tell you that my favourite night ever was when Tracey and I sang karaoke at a bar on Davie Street and I had not one drink before I got up to sing "Waking Up in Vegas" because I wanted to develop that mental muscle that helps me self-regulate.
For the majority of the population, the self-regulation muscle is a lot weaker than our beer-pouring muscles. But hey. I don't judge.
Andrew started this project where he's going to post video blogs on Facebook every Friday for the next three months. He's terrified, and so with much encouragement and tequila shots, he successfully completed his first post. It will be up on Friday.
May your liquid confidence be rapidly replaced by the strength of self-regulation, and when it is, send us your leftovers.
Being naked tends to demand self-regulation. Think back to how you last felt at the beach or at the pool when you had to peel your clothes off down to your bathing suit and parade yourself down to the water's edge. How did you get there? You self-regulated. You told yourself that your body is just fine, that nobody is looking, or that the size of your ass is exciting and your husband is enjoying the wobble. You gave yourself grace, you let yourself be, and you made it to the water.
Anyway.
What does this have to do with Woozy Wednesday? Have you heard of the term, "liquid confidence?" It's self-regulation in disguise. It's an imposter. However, it comes in handy when we need to cross over into uncharted territory like our first nude beach experience, or when we're asked to MC at a wedding. Sometimes we need to be under the influence of a boozy drink to take all our clothes off and march our fat white asses to the ocean just to get a notch on our (imaginary) belt so that next time it will be that much easier.
But I'll tell you that my favourite night ever was when Tracey and I sang karaoke at a bar on Davie Street and I had not one drink before I got up to sing "Waking Up in Vegas" because I wanted to develop that mental muscle that helps me self-regulate.
For the majority of the population, the self-regulation muscle is a lot weaker than our beer-pouring muscles. But hey. I don't judge.
Andrew started this project where he's going to post video blogs on Facebook every Friday for the next three months. He's terrified, and so with much encouragement and tequila shots, he successfully completed his first post. It will be up on Friday.
May your liquid confidence be rapidly replaced by the strength of self-regulation, and when it is, send us your leftovers.
 |
| Tequila! |
Sunday, October 12, 2014
I Will
I will never be drunk enough for this, for these nights, the ones that shove me forward, my toes on the brink of the fall. There's nothing that can take the edge off the burning in my body, the muscles of my will to survive shaking in exhaustion, digging themselves into the earth. There's no respite, only sharp sobriety.
Anne Lamott is one of my most treasured writers and she taught me how to feel each moment, really drink it in and wait, wait long enough for the moment to reach my extremities. Our tendency is to fight it, to stuff it, to will it away. If I don't let myself feel the pain then maybe I can trick myself into thinking that it's not really painful.
The same theory applies to the pains of childbirth. The more we fight the contractions, the worse they feel and the slower our progression. As each wave hits, if we make our bodies rigid, clenching our teeth in rebellion and fear, we will literally be pushing against Nature in an attempt to win a losing battle. But what does it look like when we let go? Our bodies become vessels of that power, rocking through the waves, delivering love. We move around, roll our heads, sway our hips. Each wave, starting at the centre of Creation radiates freely through our bodies, unhindered by fear, untamed by control. It reaches outward, and is released. And just like that, as we let go, our love is birthed, and we can begin to heal.
I will hold my position on the edge, I will feel the burn of my will to keep going, to hold strong. I will ride each wave as it hits, I will resist the urge to fight it and instead let it move me, let it rock and roll me. Love prevails, and I will let go.
Anne Lamott is one of my most treasured writers and she taught me how to feel each moment, really drink it in and wait, wait long enough for the moment to reach my extremities. Our tendency is to fight it, to stuff it, to will it away. If I don't let myself feel the pain then maybe I can trick myself into thinking that it's not really painful.
The same theory applies to the pains of childbirth. The more we fight the contractions, the worse they feel and the slower our progression. As each wave hits, if we make our bodies rigid, clenching our teeth in rebellion and fear, we will literally be pushing against Nature in an attempt to win a losing battle. But what does it look like when we let go? Our bodies become vessels of that power, rocking through the waves, delivering love. We move around, roll our heads, sway our hips. Each wave, starting at the centre of Creation radiates freely through our bodies, unhindered by fear, untamed by control. It reaches outward, and is released. And just like that, as we let go, our love is birthed, and we can begin to heal.
I will hold my position on the edge, I will feel the burn of my will to keep going, to hold strong. I will ride each wave as it hits, I will resist the urge to fight it and instead let it move me, let it rock and roll me. Love prevails, and I will let go.
Sunday, September 14, 2014
Chicken Wings
A few ladies in my general circle happen to be in their dirty thirties--a decade, for some reason or another, filled with pheromones, vibrators and crotchless underwear.
Teenage girls act and dress as if they have sex after every meal but in reality, hopefully, they're all just talk for the sake of male approval. Bachelorette years are filled with bad decisions and sleepless nights. Married life, especially when there are wee ones in the picture, is punctuated by scheduled sex: "I'll feed the baby, you clean the vomit off the floor in Billy's room, and I'll meet you in bed, naked and in the starfish position, at 10:16."
But the kids grow up a bit. They tell us they hate us, and they redecorate with permanent marker but they fucking sleep through the night and that's enough to turn us mommies into sexy sexbeasts. Everything tastes delicious. Our too-tight jeans no longer make our butts feel fat, but exciting.
But anyway. Dirty thirties. And those of us who are in the midst of it or have lived through it can agree with me when I say that we not only need all the sex but we actually get panicky about it. I can imagine it's how a teenage boy might feel. When we pass by our partner in the kitchen and give their butt a swat it's like we haven't eaten in a week and we just stumbled upon a T-bone steak. And what do we do? We panic. And because we are human and life is life, The Sex doesn't always happen. Which makes us girls in our dirty thirties get all pathetic and needy and extremely annoying and frustrating to be around. Our underwear cuts into our skin, the channel is stupid, and the curtains are ugly.
When we sit around and talk about our budding problematic sexuality we have, on occasion, come to the conclusion that the only way around the panic is to be the master of our domain earlier on in the day before the date night because then anything that happens thereafter is a bonus. This way there's no pressure, no ugly curtains, no annoying neediness.
Tommy Boy convinced the waitress to reopen the kitchen so that he could order some chicken wings. He got her to do it because he was relaxed about it as he had a pizza in the trunk of his car if she decided to say no. Tommy want wingy. Same thing.
But then. I mean, it's fine and all, I'm certainly not judging. But I feel a little hesitant about it because whenever I'm stuck at a fork in the road I like to ask myself why. Why do we need to be the masters of our domain before date night? Is it really to take the edge off? Will we die if we wait? What are we afraid of? And if we do decide to go ahead and do it, are we doing it from a heart and mind of love, or of fear? Tommy Boy could have certainly done without the extra meal.
The opposite of love is not hate; it's fear.
Waiting for hunger pains makes food taste just so much better. It's healthier, too. So why wouldn't that concept ring true across the board? It does. It's the great paradox. In a world where all our needs and desires are at our fingertips with the push of a button (did you see what I did there?), our hearts call us to wait. Have patience. Utilize self control. And when it does happen, it's so worth it. And if it doesn't? There's always chicken wings.
Teenage girls act and dress as if they have sex after every meal but in reality, hopefully, they're all just talk for the sake of male approval. Bachelorette years are filled with bad decisions and sleepless nights. Married life, especially when there are wee ones in the picture, is punctuated by scheduled sex: "I'll feed the baby, you clean the vomit off the floor in Billy's room, and I'll meet you in bed, naked and in the starfish position, at 10:16."
But the kids grow up a bit. They tell us they hate us, and they redecorate with permanent marker but they fucking sleep through the night and that's enough to turn us mommies into sexy sexbeasts. Everything tastes delicious. Our too-tight jeans no longer make our butts feel fat, but exciting.
But anyway. Dirty thirties. And those of us who are in the midst of it or have lived through it can agree with me when I say that we not only need all the sex but we actually get panicky about it. I can imagine it's how a teenage boy might feel. When we pass by our partner in the kitchen and give their butt a swat it's like we haven't eaten in a week and we just stumbled upon a T-bone steak. And what do we do? We panic. And because we are human and life is life, The Sex doesn't always happen. Which makes us girls in our dirty thirties get all pathetic and needy and extremely annoying and frustrating to be around. Our underwear cuts into our skin, the channel is stupid, and the curtains are ugly.
When we sit around and talk about our budding problematic sexuality we have, on occasion, come to the conclusion that the only way around the panic is to be the master of our domain earlier on in the day before the date night because then anything that happens thereafter is a bonus. This way there's no pressure, no ugly curtains, no annoying neediness.
Tommy Boy convinced the waitress to reopen the kitchen so that he could order some chicken wings. He got her to do it because he was relaxed about it as he had a pizza in the trunk of his car if she decided to say no. Tommy want wingy. Same thing.
But then. I mean, it's fine and all, I'm certainly not judging. But I feel a little hesitant about it because whenever I'm stuck at a fork in the road I like to ask myself why. Why do we need to be the masters of our domain before date night? Is it really to take the edge off? Will we die if we wait? What are we afraid of? And if we do decide to go ahead and do it, are we doing it from a heart and mind of love, or of fear? Tommy Boy could have certainly done without the extra meal.
The opposite of love is not hate; it's fear.
Waiting for hunger pains makes food taste just so much better. It's healthier, too. So why wouldn't that concept ring true across the board? It does. It's the great paradox. In a world where all our needs and desires are at our fingertips with the push of a button (did you see what I did there?), our hearts call us to wait. Have patience. Utilize self control. And when it does happen, it's so worth it. And if it doesn't? There's always chicken wings.
Saturday, August 30, 2014
Break Out
When I was a teenager, I dealt with zits. But they weren't the nice polite little red dots, easily squeezed and then dried up with special cream promoted by cute models on TV. No. I had something called cystic acne, otherwise known as "under-the-skin zits."
Under-the-skin zits are these hot and infected mounds of ouch that grow beneath the surface of the skin. They cannot be squeezed and if a squeeze is attempted, all that comes out is this clear liquid leaving behind a lump 100 times the original size. I once had one between my eyebrows and ended up walking out of the bathroom looking like one of the characters from Star Trek.
My mom was one of those parents that let me stay home from school when The Zits were really really bad. I recall one day in grade eleven, I had six under-the-skin zits on my face at once. My friends were heading up to Seymour to go snowboarding and I stayed at home reapplying antibacterial cream to my war wounds.
Eventually my mom got sick of me whining about my appearance and one day when I was begging her to stay at home, she told me something I'll never forget. A bit cross with me, she said, "Suzy, you're thinking much too highly of yourself to think that everyone is looking at you and your zits." She was annoyed. She was harsh. But she was right.
I often remember her words when I get my feet stuck in my own ego. We can't really engage in life when we're worried about what everyone else will think of us. The land of worry has high electric fences around the perimeter.
But I say we break out of our prison of worry to explore strange new worlds, to seek out new life and new civilizations, to boldly go where no man has gone before. Even if we do look like a Vulcan.
Under-the-skin zits are these hot and infected mounds of ouch that grow beneath the surface of the skin. They cannot be squeezed and if a squeeze is attempted, all that comes out is this clear liquid leaving behind a lump 100 times the original size. I once had one between my eyebrows and ended up walking out of the bathroom looking like one of the characters from Star Trek.
My mom was one of those parents that let me stay home from school when The Zits were really really bad. I recall one day in grade eleven, I had six under-the-skin zits on my face at once. My friends were heading up to Seymour to go snowboarding and I stayed at home reapplying antibacterial cream to my war wounds.
Eventually my mom got sick of me whining about my appearance and one day when I was begging her to stay at home, she told me something I'll never forget. A bit cross with me, she said, "Suzy, you're thinking much too highly of yourself to think that everyone is looking at you and your zits." She was annoyed. She was harsh. But she was right.
I often remember her words when I get my feet stuck in my own ego. We can't really engage in life when we're worried about what everyone else will think of us. The land of worry has high electric fences around the perimeter.
But I say we break out of our prison of worry to explore strange new worlds, to seek out new life and new civilizations, to boldly go where no man has gone before. Even if we do look like a Vulcan.
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
Fack Fear
When my almost 14 year-old son Jake was a chubby-cheeked first grader, he came home from (Christian private) school one day with watery eyes and a trembling lower lip. Apparently, Jake told me, his friend Ryan introduced him to the "F" word.
Hoping that my sweet little innocent boy might be spared a few more years from the vulgar language that I save for after bedtime and speeding tickets, I crossed my fingers and prayed a silent prayer that the "F" stood for "Fart." I asked Jake what exactly the "F" word was and he whispered shamefully, "It stands for 'fack'."
"Oh!" I exhaled with relief. "And what does 'fack' mean?"
Jake was terrified, but managed to squeak out, "It means when the man puts his penis in the lady's bum."
Growing up in the church, my days baptized with skin-coloured pantyhose and potluck dinners, I remember going to youth group functions where the speaker would preach about our sexuality. Our cheeks would burn with guilt as we'd hope against hope that he'd pull a "Jesus and the fishes"* and miraculously spare us from the hellfire that will most certainly consume us if we ever lost our virginity.
The most popular question at these things was always, "where is the line?" as in, "what can we get away with without technically sinning?" The guys would wonder what they could do with their penis without losing their virginity. Was masturbating okay? Maybe put it in a pie? And the girls with acceptance issues would hope that they could, I don't know, do super slutty things without letting the vajayjay out.
It's a brutal way to live, really, because it's fear-based living. We were all focused on what not to do, not because we were mature and cared about our bodies, mind and spirits but because we were scared of sinning. I've always said that the opposite of love isn't hate--it's fear. And since God is (supposed to be) Love, why is fear so prevalent in the church?
I wish the preachers had sent the whole lot of us to the water slides for the day and instead collected our parents into a room and preached at them. God knows they could have used a break from us and a free casserole dinner. Love starts at home. At the dinner table. While we fight, while we play catch, while we pick lice out of our kids' heads. It's in the mind-bending exhaustion of staying up all night with a puker, or taking our teen to the doctor for anti-bacterial cream for a zit that got out of control.
If love drives out fear in our homes, then our kids won't need to find love somewhere else. They won't need to fack.
*Jesus and the fishes refers to the Bible story where Jesus had to feed a gazillion starving people with like, hardly any fish, but somehow, everyone had something to eat.
Hoping that my sweet little innocent boy might be spared a few more years from the vulgar language that I save for after bedtime and speeding tickets, I crossed my fingers and prayed a silent prayer that the "F" stood for "Fart." I asked Jake what exactly the "F" word was and he whispered shamefully, "It stands for 'fack'."
"Oh!" I exhaled with relief. "And what does 'fack' mean?"
Jake was terrified, but managed to squeak out, "It means when the man puts his penis in the lady's bum."
Growing up in the church, my days baptized with skin-coloured pantyhose and potluck dinners, I remember going to youth group functions where the speaker would preach about our sexuality. Our cheeks would burn with guilt as we'd hope against hope that he'd pull a "Jesus and the fishes"* and miraculously spare us from the hellfire that will most certainly consume us if we ever lost our virginity.
The most popular question at these things was always, "where is the line?" as in, "what can we get away with without technically sinning?" The guys would wonder what they could do with their penis without losing their virginity. Was masturbating okay? Maybe put it in a pie? And the girls with acceptance issues would hope that they could, I don't know, do super slutty things without letting the vajayjay out.
It's a brutal way to live, really, because it's fear-based living. We were all focused on what not to do, not because we were mature and cared about our bodies, mind and spirits but because we were scared of sinning. I've always said that the opposite of love isn't hate--it's fear. And since God is (supposed to be) Love, why is fear so prevalent in the church?
I wish the preachers had sent the whole lot of us to the water slides for the day and instead collected our parents into a room and preached at them. God knows they could have used a break from us and a free casserole dinner. Love starts at home. At the dinner table. While we fight, while we play catch, while we pick lice out of our kids' heads. It's in the mind-bending exhaustion of staying up all night with a puker, or taking our teen to the doctor for anti-bacterial cream for a zit that got out of control.
If love drives out fear in our homes, then our kids won't need to find love somewhere else. They won't need to fack.
*Jesus and the fishes refers to the Bible story where Jesus had to feed a gazillion starving people with like, hardly any fish, but somehow, everyone had something to eat.
Thursday, May 29, 2014
Drive
It doesn't take much to get a driver's license in British Columbia because I managed to get one when I turned sixteen. My Uncle Phil taught me how to drive in his Chevrolet Chevette. My knuckles white (my uncle's whiter), I managed to pull whatever courage I had from the recesses of my insecure adolescent body and pour it out onto the roads. With the promise of freedom ahead of me, I left my fears behind.
Until I passed a semi truck on the freeway. It was scarier than playing Bloody Mary at a slumber party. The little car shaking, it felt like we were being sucked in under the truck's trailer.
Uncle Phil taught me something that day. He told me that wherever I look, that is where I will go. If I stare at the semi trucks in fear, then I will steer into them. If I fix my gaze at the road ahead then my car will drive straight and strong.
I remember a few years back when I was afraid of dogs. I would carry bear spray with me on all of my runs until I realized one day that because the spray was always in my hands, the fear of dogs was always on my mind. I decided that I would rather live the rest of my life in peace than in fear, so I got rid of it.
When I find myself stuck in debilitating fear, I ask myself what I have been focusing on to get myself stuck. Then I turn my gaze back onto the road ahead and drive my heart straight and strong.
Until I passed a semi truck on the freeway. It was scarier than playing Bloody Mary at a slumber party. The little car shaking, it felt like we were being sucked in under the truck's trailer.
Uncle Phil taught me something that day. He told me that wherever I look, that is where I will go. If I stare at the semi trucks in fear, then I will steer into them. If I fix my gaze at the road ahead then my car will drive straight and strong.
I remember a few years back when I was afraid of dogs. I would carry bear spray with me on all of my runs until I realized one day that because the spray was always in my hands, the fear of dogs was always on my mind. I decided that I would rather live the rest of my life in peace than in fear, so I got rid of it.
When I find myself stuck in debilitating fear, I ask myself what I have been focusing on to get myself stuck. Then I turn my gaze back onto the road ahead and drive my heart straight and strong.
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
Lola Lied
I'm not a cook. I know my strengths and weaknesses and I have no
problem admitting that cooking falls into the latter category. Smoke and
oven fires are commonplace, as are the shrill sound of the smoke alarm
and the carcinogenic char stuck to the side of the meat dish.
Lying has never been my specialty, either. I've gone through phases, dabbled in a huge ass lie or two but I quite suck at it. If my extremely guilty body language doesn't immediately give it away then I will surely pay my penance at night when I lay my head down to try and sleep through my guilt. It just doesn't happen. And quite honestly, (he he) in my experience I have found that a) the pain caused by the lie almost always exceeds the pain found in the truth and, b) truth always comes out anyway. It just does. Maybe not the way we imagine it to surface but it does ooze out in some capacity or another and I know that we all know this. So why do we keep doing it?
Because we're human. We have pride, we have excuses, we have perfectly self-validated reasons for lying and now we're so good at it that it would be a shame to stop. It's addicting. It fulfills our need to be something other than who we are. But then it hides who we really are, and all our pride and excuses and reasons and addictions grow larger than life and all of a sudden we've disappeared altogether. And we're alone. We have nobody left around us to lie to.
Freddy reminded me tonight of the time we lost "Lola" our red corn snake. One moment she was throwing down mice in her tank and the next she was gonezo. We went on a snake-rampage, searching every little corner of the house, imagining where a little snakey might hide but we kept coming up with nothing. We eventually gave up. Days passed. Weeks passed.
And then one day I sat down on the floor in the computer room to go through my school binders to find an old assignment and when I flipped open the pages, Lola was found folded, chilling and peaceful along the spine of the binder. I fucking FREAKED. I screamed and jumped and threw the binder in the air. The kids ran over to laugh at me and to collect their beloved pet.
Truth comes out. Lies can hide in cool dark corners but nothing charms them to the surface better than a bit of light. And then once they surface we can let go of all that worry that weighs us down, of when it'll show up, and where, and how much will it hurt? Because once it's out, we're light and free and able to go on living.
Lying has never been my specialty, either. I've gone through phases, dabbled in a huge ass lie or two but I quite suck at it. If my extremely guilty body language doesn't immediately give it away then I will surely pay my penance at night when I lay my head down to try and sleep through my guilt. It just doesn't happen. And quite honestly, (he he) in my experience I have found that a) the pain caused by the lie almost always exceeds the pain found in the truth and, b) truth always comes out anyway. It just does. Maybe not the way we imagine it to surface but it does ooze out in some capacity or another and I know that we all know this. So why do we keep doing it?
Because we're human. We have pride, we have excuses, we have perfectly self-validated reasons for lying and now we're so good at it that it would be a shame to stop. It's addicting. It fulfills our need to be something other than who we are. But then it hides who we really are, and all our pride and excuses and reasons and addictions grow larger than life and all of a sudden we've disappeared altogether. And we're alone. We have nobody left around us to lie to.
Freddy reminded me tonight of the time we lost "Lola" our red corn snake. One moment she was throwing down mice in her tank and the next she was gonezo. We went on a snake-rampage, searching every little corner of the house, imagining where a little snakey might hide but we kept coming up with nothing. We eventually gave up. Days passed. Weeks passed.
And then one day I sat down on the floor in the computer room to go through my school binders to find an old assignment and when I flipped open the pages, Lola was found folded, chilling and peaceful along the spine of the binder. I fucking FREAKED. I screamed and jumped and threw the binder in the air. The kids ran over to laugh at me and to collect their beloved pet.
Truth comes out. Lies can hide in cool dark corners but nothing charms them to the surface better than a bit of light. And then once they surface we can let go of all that worry that weighs us down, of when it'll show up, and where, and how much will it hurt? Because once it's out, we're light and free and able to go on living.
Tuesday, October 1, 2013
Swerve
I used to have huge anxiety problems. It peaked when I was in grade 5 after I spent a week throwing up in an outhouse at camp. It triggered in me this irrational fear of puke. I spent a year eating toast and honey, convinced that it was humanly impossible to throw that up. I didn't exactly Carpe the Diem in grade five, but I also didn't throw up toast and honey. Mission accomplished.
My anxiety seemed to disappear for a while and then pop back up like hammer pants and acid wash. Equally unpredictable and frustrating.
Everyone obviously deals with anxiety in some capacity or another, and most times it's manageable. We get cut off in traffic, we panic, and then self-regulate back to normal once the coast is clear. Sometimes, though, we need to adapt to a "new normal." Say we blow a tire, and instead of driving away in the same condition as we entered, we need to self-regulate while we balance on three wheels long enough to come to a safe stop. We then figure out how to fix the problem and before too long we're back up and running on all four wheels.
For me, the key to managing anxiety is self-regulation. It's like a head-check. Fear is just an emotion--it's not a truth. Just because we feel something doesn't make it true. Right now, I can make a list of a hundred things I'm afraid of, no problem. But my list of truths exceed this list by a million.
Focusing on the truths in my life make them grow. Acknowledging my fears and then balancing on three wheels to drive through them makes them disappear into the distance. And once I come to a safe stop, I can only hope I'm not caught on the side of the road needing a tire change, wearing hammer pants.
My anxiety seemed to disappear for a while and then pop back up like hammer pants and acid wash. Equally unpredictable and frustrating.
Everyone obviously deals with anxiety in some capacity or another, and most times it's manageable. We get cut off in traffic, we panic, and then self-regulate back to normal once the coast is clear. Sometimes, though, we need to adapt to a "new normal." Say we blow a tire, and instead of driving away in the same condition as we entered, we need to self-regulate while we balance on three wheels long enough to come to a safe stop. We then figure out how to fix the problem and before too long we're back up and running on all four wheels.
For me, the key to managing anxiety is self-regulation. It's like a head-check. Fear is just an emotion--it's not a truth. Just because we feel something doesn't make it true. Right now, I can make a list of a hundred things I'm afraid of, no problem. But my list of truths exceed this list by a million.
Focusing on the truths in my life make them grow. Acknowledging my fears and then balancing on three wheels to drive through them makes them disappear into the distance. And once I come to a safe stop, I can only hope I'm not caught on the side of the road needing a tire change, wearing hammer pants.
Friday, September 27, 2013
Expectation
We saw the specialist yesterday and he showed us on his portable ultrasound machine where the blood clot still resides. The star of the show was moving about, opening and closing its mouth and flexing its wee little toes. The doctor flicked off the machine, leaned back in his chair and smiled at us. The panic in my chest certainly did not match his calm demeanor.
Andrew and I tag-teamed him with a gunfire of questions and concerns and his response can be summed up like this:
1) The baby is healthy and safe in its amniotic sac, and so we have nothing to grieve.
2) While most women with subchorionic hematomas (blood clots) go on to deliver full-term healthy babies, some do not. The blood can irritate the uterus and sometimes deliver the baby much too early.
3) There is nothing that we can do to control the blood clot (besides take obvious precautions). He looked at us in the eyes and told us to "let go." To stay connected to our baby just as we are connected to our other children, but to let go of the control that we really don't have. And to stop grieving something that hasn't even happened yet.
I guess they use the term "expecting" for pregnancy for a reason: we carry the baby and grow it and our accompanying body to gargantuan proportions until the baby is ready to breathe on its own. We expect these things, because this is how life most often plays out. Yes, there is tragedy, but it's not what *usually* happens. We don't cry in our cereal every morning, fearing the death of our 13, 11, 10, 8 and 7 year-olds (dear lord, that's a lot of kids), so why would we mourn the healthy person inside of me?
We shouldn't. We have our moments when our knees buckle in fear but we vow to hold on to the expectation that all six of our children will live, and be filled with our love.
Andrew and I tag-teamed him with a gunfire of questions and concerns and his response can be summed up like this:
1) The baby is healthy and safe in its amniotic sac, and so we have nothing to grieve.
2) While most women with subchorionic hematomas (blood clots) go on to deliver full-term healthy babies, some do not. The blood can irritate the uterus and sometimes deliver the baby much too early.
3) There is nothing that we can do to control the blood clot (besides take obvious precautions). He looked at us in the eyes and told us to "let go." To stay connected to our baby just as we are connected to our other children, but to let go of the control that we really don't have. And to stop grieving something that hasn't even happened yet.
I guess they use the term "expecting" for pregnancy for a reason: we carry the baby and grow it and our accompanying body to gargantuan proportions until the baby is ready to breathe on its own. We expect these things, because this is how life most often plays out. Yes, there is tragedy, but it's not what *usually* happens. We don't cry in our cereal every morning, fearing the death of our 13, 11, 10, 8 and 7 year-olds (dear lord, that's a lot of kids), so why would we mourn the healthy person inside of me?
We shouldn't. We have our moments when our knees buckle in fear but we vow to hold on to the expectation that all six of our children will live, and be filled with our love.
"Love has nothing to do with what you are expecting to get - only with what you're expecting to give - which is everything."
Katharine Hepburn
Sunday, September 8, 2013
The "F" Word
When Jason and I were first married we made a pact to never mention the word "divorce" and if we ever had to talk about it we'd refer to it as "the 'D' word." Looking back, and I can only guess, I'd say that our pact was fear-based rather than founded on the security of our relationship. Like how when we were kids, we'd ask Jesus to forgive our sins each and every night for fear of dying in our sleep and waking up naked at the judgement gates with our sins on the big screen. Was I sorry that by throwing Wes' pants into the pile of sawdust puke I'd be burning the bridges of friendship? No. I just wanted to make sure that me and my pants weren't being thrown into the fiery furnace.
Ignoring the urge to throw up and swallowing back the vomit won't stop the purge. Like, I thought I was done my morning sickness phase as the last time I threw up was about two weeks ago but just this morning my orange juice met porcelain. And I always believed with my whole heart that I wouldn't be a divorce statistic. I'm a non-conformist. Fifty percent of marriages end in divorces? Fuck that, not me! I dug my heels in, but into the wrong foundation.
Fear sucks.
I came into work yesterday with puffy eyes and cry-face. I told Bonnie through pathetic gaspy sobs that I had listened to Lee Ann Womack's song "I Hope You Dance" on the way to work bawling my eyes out, thinking about my kids. It's these lines that get me every time:
Ignoring the urge to throw up and swallowing back the vomit won't stop the purge. Like, I thought I was done my morning sickness phase as the last time I threw up was about two weeks ago but just this morning my orange juice met porcelain. And I always believed with my whole heart that I wouldn't be a divorce statistic. I'm a non-conformist. Fifty percent of marriages end in divorces? Fuck that, not me! I dug my heels in, but into the wrong foundation.
Fear sucks.
I came into work yesterday with puffy eyes and cry-face. I told Bonnie through pathetic gaspy sobs that I had listened to Lee Ann Womack's song "I Hope You Dance" on the way to work bawling my eyes out, thinking about my kids. It's these lines that get me every time:
I hope you never fear those mountains in the distance,
Never settle for the path of least resistance.
Living might mean taking chances but they're worth taking,
Loving might be a mistake but it's worth making.
I think our biggest obstacle in life is fear. I really do. It's not death that kills us. I mean, ultimately death has the last word but it's fear that snuffs our life out before death can even touch us. We're so scared of failure that we don't even look up. We're all just heads down, hands tied behind our backs, two feet in the grave. As if by not looking up at the climb we can pretend that it doesn't even exist. Meanwhile, we're left behind while everyone else digs their heels into the side of the mountain to get to the top to enjoy the view.
I want our kids to shake off fear and face their mountains. Of course I don't want them to feel the pain of the climb. But even more so, I don't want them to miss out on the view at the top. If I truly want this for them then I need to be an example of a fearless leader. Trudging through uncharted territory, often messy with sawdust puke, we'll eventually get to the top. And then we'll all look back down at what we went through, and it will all seem so small from way up here.
So small from way up here.
I want our kids to shake off fear and face their mountains. Of course I don't want them to feel the pain of the climb. But even more so, I don't want them to miss out on the view at the top. If I truly want this for them then I need to be an example of a fearless leader. Trudging through uncharted territory, often messy with sawdust puke, we'll eventually get to the top. And then we'll all look back down at what we went through, and it will all seem so small from way up here.
So small from way up here.
Sunday, September 1, 2013
Everybody Dance Now
My baby belly is starting to pooch out a bit so that people are starting to clue in that it might not be the result of too many post-run Coronas at the river with Lora. And that maybe Andrew and I have been up to a little something or other.
It's a bit funny being in our situation. You wouldn't really know unless you're in it, what it's like. We know people who got divorced and then found love again and had babies together, but there's not a whole lot of us. Whenever we do catch eyes with "our people" we tend to glom onto them the way fat girls do at a freshman dance. It's just nice to be understood, right? To be related to. To relate.
People in our immediate circle obviously know our whole situation and so it's easy to just be around them. But often times we run into people whom we haven't seen in a while and I swear it can take us anywhere from 20 minutes to 3 hours to catch them up on everything. Now that my belly is baby-ized, it's become quite the information overload. I found the quickest way to break the ice is to pump my fist in the air and chant, "Jer-ry! Jer-ry!" and then they laugh and relax and we can all catch up with ease.
What we have often said is that we wish we could walk around with a billboard tied around our necks that give people all our basic information so that we can keep eating our dinner or doing whatever we were doing before we ran into them.
But one day something totally different happened. About a month ago I ran into a girl I knew quite well in university. Anna had NO CLUE about anything so I totally thought I'd be giving her a bit of a shock. Know what? She wasn't shocked. Even though her story was nothing like mine she still nodded along with me. Relating, understanding, connecting. She told me a story of her own that shocked me more than mine, and I learned a lesson that day. Again. That we ALL carry emotional billboards around our necks and that we can stay isolated if we really want to with our heads down, faces full, or we can look up and pull up a few chairs and invite other stories in.
I didn't need Anna's story to match mine in order for me to connect with her. Connection just naturally happened when we told our own stories.
Sometime last year Andrew and I went to a real estate awards ceremony and after dinner there was a dance. We watched a super large lady rock out on the dance floor. She owned that space like whip cream on pie. Her limbs were seemingly everywhere all at once and it was a miracle that nobody got carried out in a stretcher. If she waited on the sidelines until enough big ladies agreed to dance out there with her, she'd be waiting a long frigging time. She would have missed out on the dance!
We will share our stories and we'll listen to yours. Even if it takes 3 hours, and even if somebody gets carried out in a stretcher. Because Andrew and I would way rather live a little than sit on the sidelines. Let's cut a rug.
It's a bit funny being in our situation. You wouldn't really know unless you're in it, what it's like. We know people who got divorced and then found love again and had babies together, but there's not a whole lot of us. Whenever we do catch eyes with "our people" we tend to glom onto them the way fat girls do at a freshman dance. It's just nice to be understood, right? To be related to. To relate.
People in our immediate circle obviously know our whole situation and so it's easy to just be around them. But often times we run into people whom we haven't seen in a while and I swear it can take us anywhere from 20 minutes to 3 hours to catch them up on everything. Now that my belly is baby-ized, it's become quite the information overload. I found the quickest way to break the ice is to pump my fist in the air and chant, "Jer-ry! Jer-ry!" and then they laugh and relax and we can all catch up with ease.
What we have often said is that we wish we could walk around with a billboard tied around our necks that give people all our basic information so that we can keep eating our dinner or doing whatever we were doing before we ran into them.
But one day something totally different happened. About a month ago I ran into a girl I knew quite well in university. Anna had NO CLUE about anything so I totally thought I'd be giving her a bit of a shock. Know what? She wasn't shocked. Even though her story was nothing like mine she still nodded along with me. Relating, understanding, connecting. She told me a story of her own that shocked me more than mine, and I learned a lesson that day. Again. That we ALL carry emotional billboards around our necks and that we can stay isolated if we really want to with our heads down, faces full, or we can look up and pull up a few chairs and invite other stories in.
I didn't need Anna's story to match mine in order for me to connect with her. Connection just naturally happened when we told our own stories.
Sometime last year Andrew and I went to a real estate awards ceremony and after dinner there was a dance. We watched a super large lady rock out on the dance floor. She owned that space like whip cream on pie. Her limbs were seemingly everywhere all at once and it was a miracle that nobody got carried out in a stretcher. If she waited on the sidelines until enough big ladies agreed to dance out there with her, she'd be waiting a long frigging time. She would have missed out on the dance!
We will share our stories and we'll listen to yours. Even if it takes 3 hours, and even if somebody gets carried out in a stretcher. Because Andrew and I would way rather live a little than sit on the sidelines. Let's cut a rug.
Sunday, August 18, 2013
Drop Back In
No matter our social status, height-to-weight ratio, or the presence (or not) of a unibrow, each one of us take turns getting schooled in the lesson of humility.
Jake's friend was attempting to drop in on his skateboard at the skate park, and while he stood there staring down at the steep ramp in respectful fear, other skaters looked on in hopeful support. A few of them even came over and gave him some encouraging pointers. He stood there, rocked back and forth a bit and with the crowd of adolescents watching expectantly, he chickened out. He got off his board and tripped, landing face first over the edge of the ramp, his bum in the air and with his face pressed down into the grass on the other side.
Humility.
His eyes burned with embarrassment but we reassured him that we've all been there. Jake began listing his own personal stories of humiliation while his friend blinked back tears. Some self-regulation combined with a couple shoulder-smacks and a few friendly words of encouragement, and Jake's friend got right back on the board and dropped in on the ramp. Bam.
Becoming a mother is humbling. Sticking my finger in a diaper to check its status and pulling it out covered in poo can put a damper on how I view my mothering skills. Clipping my teenager's dragon toenails and having them rocket into my face can bring me down a couple notches. Lighting breast pump paraphernalia on fire, getting barfed on (ceasar salad, to boot), and losing my bathing suit bottoms at a grade two school pool party on the rope swing, are all examples of humility. In the moment? It's tragic. But if we can keep getting back up, we can look at the scene below us and laugh.
Jake's friend exemplified humility but even more so, he illustrated courage.
Jake's friend was attempting to drop in on his skateboard at the skate park, and while he stood there staring down at the steep ramp in respectful fear, other skaters looked on in hopeful support. A few of them even came over and gave him some encouraging pointers. He stood there, rocked back and forth a bit and with the crowd of adolescents watching expectantly, he chickened out. He got off his board and tripped, landing face first over the edge of the ramp, his bum in the air and with his face pressed down into the grass on the other side.
Humility.
His eyes burned with embarrassment but we reassured him that we've all been there. Jake began listing his own personal stories of humiliation while his friend blinked back tears. Some self-regulation combined with a couple shoulder-smacks and a few friendly words of encouragement, and Jake's friend got right back on the board and dropped in on the ramp. Bam.
Becoming a mother is humbling. Sticking my finger in a diaper to check its status and pulling it out covered in poo can put a damper on how I view my mothering skills. Clipping my teenager's dragon toenails and having them rocket into my face can bring me down a couple notches. Lighting breast pump paraphernalia on fire, getting barfed on (ceasar salad, to boot), and losing my bathing suit bottoms at a grade two school pool party on the rope swing, are all examples of humility. In the moment? It's tragic. But if we can keep getting back up, we can look at the scene below us and laugh.
Jake's friend exemplified humility but even more so, he illustrated courage.
"Success is not final, failure is not fatal; it is the courage to continue that counts."
-Winston Churchill-
Thursday, August 8, 2013
Be Together
The kids and I were picking out a movie to watch tonight and Jake informed me that statistically, funny movies are funnier when a bunch of people watch it together. More people, more laughs, good times all around. Then he pointed out that scary movies are much scarier with less people. Isolation breeds fear like Kate makes eight.
This is true for movies, and true for life. Humans were created for community. Laughing feels good. Being scared is inevitable and even though it can sometimes be exciting and stimulating, we still need to know that when the scary part is over we can collapse into the safety of our loves.
Andrew and I are both "people" people. On one of our first dates we went to this ocean side restaurant where we sat at this really sweet romantic table for two beside a huge water fountain. This cute older couple sat down at the table next to us and we could hear them wondering aloud what "sliders" were. I was just about to turn to help them out when Andrew himself started talking to them, explaining the menu and laughing with them about something or other. I remember sitting there staring at him thinking to myself, "HE is talking?!? That's MY job!!!" And I knew we were made for each other. We're like those two guys in the balcony from the Muppet Show. People usually just stare at us with their mouths open while we go off on our little comedy act. We think we're hilarious. Why? Because there's two of us. People laugh because it's contagious! We don't do it to be funny, we just do it because it's fun to be together.
Life doesn't always hand out cotton candy and free tickets to Disneyland. Sometimes it's raw broccoli and shark tanks. Linking up and muscling through the scary parts will eventually get us through it in one piece, and then when we get to the good stuff, we won't be alone to enjoy the rides.
This is true for movies, and true for life. Humans were created for community. Laughing feels good. Being scared is inevitable and even though it can sometimes be exciting and stimulating, we still need to know that when the scary part is over we can collapse into the safety of our loves.
Andrew and I are both "people" people. On one of our first dates we went to this ocean side restaurant where we sat at this really sweet romantic table for two beside a huge water fountain. This cute older couple sat down at the table next to us and we could hear them wondering aloud what "sliders" were. I was just about to turn to help them out when Andrew himself started talking to them, explaining the menu and laughing with them about something or other. I remember sitting there staring at him thinking to myself, "HE is talking?!? That's MY job!!!" And I knew we were made for each other. We're like those two guys in the balcony from the Muppet Show. People usually just stare at us with their mouths open while we go off on our little comedy act. We think we're hilarious. Why? Because there's two of us. People laugh because it's contagious! We don't do it to be funny, we just do it because it's fun to be together.
Life doesn't always hand out cotton candy and free tickets to Disneyland. Sometimes it's raw broccoli and shark tanks. Linking up and muscling through the scary parts will eventually get us through it in one piece, and then when we get to the good stuff, we won't be alone to enjoy the rides.
Monday, April 8, 2013
Heads Up
As I get older and grow in maturity and strength (HA!), I notice that I am able to control my thought patterns a bit more than I used to. Where I would once spiral into an anxiety-ridden mess, I now rein it in and keep my footing.
I had that medical procedure done last week and now I have to wait for the results. While I was running this morning I started to worry about what might be wrong with me and thirty seconds later I was taking mental notes of where my friends and family would sit at my funeral. What kind of food will they serve? There will be a chocolate fountain, for sure, and a giant bowl of ketchup chips beside the guest book. Everyone will sign their names in rainbow-coloured scented felt pens. As you can see, I lost my footing a bit this morning.
Remember that scene from Tommy Boy where Chris Farley is doing the lifesaver demo on the airplane? He puts the inflatable thingie around his neck and blows it up while David Spade informs everyone that "there's no point in learning how to use one of these because if the plane is going to crash into anything, it's going to be a mountain." And everyone gasps in horror.
That's what I was doing this morning--I was focusing on the wrong thing! If I'm going to die anytime soon, chances are it will be from being nailed by a truck while I'm running along the side of the road. But even so, why would I spend my energy worrying about death when I could spend that energy actually living?
I may lose my footing from time to time, for sure. And I really hope that there isn't an open mike at my funeral. But as long as I keep getting up and moving forward, keeping my focus on living and loving fully, then chances are, I won't hit a mountain.
I had that medical procedure done last week and now I have to wait for the results. While I was running this morning I started to worry about what might be wrong with me and thirty seconds later I was taking mental notes of where my friends and family would sit at my funeral. What kind of food will they serve? There will be a chocolate fountain, for sure, and a giant bowl of ketchup chips beside the guest book. Everyone will sign their names in rainbow-coloured scented felt pens. As you can see, I lost my footing a bit this morning.
Remember that scene from Tommy Boy where Chris Farley is doing the lifesaver demo on the airplane? He puts the inflatable thingie around his neck and blows it up while David Spade informs everyone that "there's no point in learning how to use one of these because if the plane is going to crash into anything, it's going to be a mountain." And everyone gasps in horror.
That's what I was doing this morning--I was focusing on the wrong thing! If I'm going to die anytime soon, chances are it will be from being nailed by a truck while I'm running along the side of the road. But even so, why would I spend my energy worrying about death when I could spend that energy actually living?
I may lose my footing from time to time, for sure. And I really hope that there isn't an open mike at my funeral. But as long as I keep getting up and moving forward, keeping my focus on living and loving fully, then chances are, I won't hit a mountain.
Monday, February 25, 2013
Don't Flush Yet
Like sitting on the toilet in the morning after an evening buffet of Indian food dinner, I'm not sure how this is going to come out. As much as I enjoy a solid purge of personal information, I also realize that I need to pick my audience and I'm pretty sure that letting my private life splash into the bowl of cyberspace doesn't come without some dirty consequences. However, my reason for sharing my life with others is to build community and sometimes all it takes for a bond to form is to have one person take the plunge.
Within the last three weeks, doctors have found two different types of cancer cells in my body (two different areas). That's the only part that sucks, because the good news is that both types are completely treatable. But what if I had walked out of the doctor's office today with a diagnosis of malignant melanoma? Would I be sitting in my room right now, scowling at the cat fur stuck to the edge of my chair? No. But the thing is, is that I didn't get that diagnosis.
So how should I live from this moment on? How do I not let myself get caught up in the "what ifs?" and yet, and yet maintain the understanding that each day of my life is a gift? I need to somehow find that balance between being thankful for my life and respecting it. Accepting grace, but not abusing its generosity. Today is a gift, not an entitlement. Life doesn't owe me anything and in fact, life might very well smack me upside the head every once in a while and leave me bleeding in a fucking ditch.
I know what I do want though, and that is to live life and love fully. If I get stuck in the land of what ifs then I will feel the pinch of its roped-in limitations. I vow to move forward with a soft heart, a respectful attitude toward the fragile gift of life, and a fearless dedication to love well.
Take my hand! I washed them, I promise.
Within the last three weeks, doctors have found two different types of cancer cells in my body (two different areas). That's the only part that sucks, because the good news is that both types are completely treatable. But what if I had walked out of the doctor's office today with a diagnosis of malignant melanoma? Would I be sitting in my room right now, scowling at the cat fur stuck to the edge of my chair? No. But the thing is, is that I didn't get that diagnosis.
So how should I live from this moment on? How do I not let myself get caught up in the "what ifs?" and yet, and yet maintain the understanding that each day of my life is a gift? I need to somehow find that balance between being thankful for my life and respecting it. Accepting grace, but not abusing its generosity. Today is a gift, not an entitlement. Life doesn't owe me anything and in fact, life might very well smack me upside the head every once in a while and leave me bleeding in a fucking ditch.
I know what I do want though, and that is to live life and love fully. If I get stuck in the land of what ifs then I will feel the pinch of its roped-in limitations. I vow to move forward with a soft heart, a respectful attitude toward the fragile gift of life, and a fearless dedication to love well.
Take my hand! I washed them, I promise.
Saturday, October 27, 2012
Day Six
Fear.
As a kid, I remember running up the stairs from time to time and getting that holy-shit-something-big-and-hairy-is-chasing me feeling and although I knew on an intellectual level that there really was nothing chasing me, that terrified feeling felt so real! Why did it feel real? Because the feeling WAS real. But just because the feeling was real doesn't mean that there really was something big and hairy chasing me.
Feelings are feelings. Truth is truth. Feelings are real and truth is real, but they're not one and the same.
It seems to me that fear is a powerful one, though. Ghandi wrote: "The enemy is fear. We think it is hate. But, it is fear." That's a pretty ballsy statement seeing as the subject of hate can conjure up some pretty vivid images.
However, I entertained the idea of fear being worse than hate and I came up with a few thoughts. Fear causes that "flight or fight" response which releases epinephrine and nor-epinephrine (adrenalin hormones) into the bloodstream. I remember when Katie had a severe croup attack and when we got to the ER, they injected her with these hormones so that her body would dig deep and fight harder to take in more oxygen. I held her between my legs and with my arms wrapped around her tiny body I felt her heart rate increase seemingly tenfold, and felt her chest heaving while her little blue lips gasped for breath inside of the teensie tiny oxygen mask. She was scared. I was terrified.
The treatment worked and after being admitted for monitoring, she was okay.
That "fight or flight" response is meaningful. We either get stuck (flight), or we react hastily with arms swinging (fight).
When I learned First Aid and CPR I was taught that the initial reaction of someone drowning is to fight the rescuer. As someone jumping into the water to save the struggling swimmer, we need to keep this in mind. It doesn't make sense, does it? But it happens all. the. time. So much that they teach it when they teach us lifesaving skills.
We're human, and so we fear.
I know someone who is afraid of driving over the Fraser River into Greater Vancouver for fear that the bridge will collapse on him. He doesn't cross the bridge.
I know someone who is so afraid of dogs so much that she doesn't run anymore.
I know someone who is so afraid to love again that he'd rather be alone forever.
I know someone who is so afraid of leaving her abusive husband because she doesn't know what life would be like without him.
Hate might be what we breathe out, but fear limits the oxygen we need to breathe in before we can even think about hating.
It kills us before we even get the chance to live.
As a kid, I remember running up the stairs from time to time and getting that holy-shit-something-big-and-hairy-is-chasing me feeling and although I knew on an intellectual level that there really was nothing chasing me, that terrified feeling felt so real! Why did it feel real? Because the feeling WAS real. But just because the feeling was real doesn't mean that there really was something big and hairy chasing me.
Feelings are feelings. Truth is truth. Feelings are real and truth is real, but they're not one and the same.
It seems to me that fear is a powerful one, though. Ghandi wrote: "The enemy is fear. We think it is hate. But, it is fear." That's a pretty ballsy statement seeing as the subject of hate can conjure up some pretty vivid images.
However, I entertained the idea of fear being worse than hate and I came up with a few thoughts. Fear causes that "flight or fight" response which releases epinephrine and nor-epinephrine (adrenalin hormones) into the bloodstream. I remember when Katie had a severe croup attack and when we got to the ER, they injected her with these hormones so that her body would dig deep and fight harder to take in more oxygen. I held her between my legs and with my arms wrapped around her tiny body I felt her heart rate increase seemingly tenfold, and felt her chest heaving while her little blue lips gasped for breath inside of the teensie tiny oxygen mask. She was scared. I was terrified.
The treatment worked and after being admitted for monitoring, she was okay.
That "fight or flight" response is meaningful. We either get stuck (flight), or we react hastily with arms swinging (fight).
When I learned First Aid and CPR I was taught that the initial reaction of someone drowning is to fight the rescuer. As someone jumping into the water to save the struggling swimmer, we need to keep this in mind. It doesn't make sense, does it? But it happens all. the. time. So much that they teach it when they teach us lifesaving skills.
We're human, and so we fear.
I know someone who is afraid of driving over the Fraser River into Greater Vancouver for fear that the bridge will collapse on him. He doesn't cross the bridge.
I know someone who is so afraid of dogs so much that she doesn't run anymore.
I know someone who is so afraid to love again that he'd rather be alone forever.
I know someone who is so afraid of leaving her abusive husband because she doesn't know what life would be like without him.
Hate might be what we breathe out, but fear limits the oxygen we need to breathe in before we can even think about hating.
It kills us before we even get the chance to live.
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