Each morning, I pull a card from a box that lists an emotion or feeling that I reflect upon over breakfast. Sometimes I even act out the word in front of a mirror, a technique I use as an icebreaker activity for music/rhythm workshops I have facilitated in mental health settings. I love it when I get "grateful", because there's so much I have to be thankful for.
I recently subscribed to this print newsletter and received my first copy in the post today!
I have been craving a simple print publication I could touch and read...and something that wasn't full of sad, troubling or triggering news. Just goodness.
The Happy News is published in the UK by Emily Coxhead, who, along with a few other cheerful folks, authors, edits, illustrates and generally oversees the production of the quarterly publication (ISSN 2632-7260).
One evening in the not too distant past, I stood inconsolably weeping on the mezzanine of an old Melbourne townhouse, teetering over the edge of the shoddy railing and wondering if slamming my body against the many furnishings below would sufficiently break my neck and put an end to the chaos, or simply leave me in a similar vegetative state through which I’d watched my wide-eyed grandmother suffer during the last 20 years of her life. At that point, my partner at the time, estranged but caring, thrust a piece of paper toward me. It was a printed checklist of signs and symptoms of Borderline Personality Disorder.
I fell to my knees, then and there, and read the list. Ticking all nine boxes, I was left reeling. My tears stopped abruptly. My shaking diminished. The violently floating Tetris blocks crashing about in my head began to slow and settle against each other, perhaps not fitting properly, but coming to a rest.
This was me. This was my head. This was my life, and it had been for countless years. I wasn’t nuttier than squirrel shit after all. I wasn’t simply a “spoiled brat”. And I wasn’t just a drunk. I was sick. I was treatable. Moreover, I wasn’t alone. Through some strange alchemy of the human condition, my hot tears of anguish became cooling tears of relief.
Any so my journey to mental health recovery began. To this day, it continues, as it will for the rest of my life. It isn’t easy, nor did I expect to be. But just as there are pitfalls and slippery rungs on the ladder to light, there are also a great many celebrations. Most days, I find beauty and belonging in everyone and everything I see in this slice of heaven on the far South Coast of NSW. Some days it’s hard to scrape aside the muck and let that heavenliness shine through. Eventually, however, it always does. And I relish every second of it.
I am grateful to my ex-partner for bringing about the awareness. I am thankful for the prayers, light and goodness sent upon me by friends far and wide. I am forever in awe of the pragmatic and (relatively) drama-free folks in AA, who serve as endless inspiration to me. I am especially full of gratitude for the medical staff who have worked tirelessly and endlessly to look after me. You are my tribe, and I love you all.
My story isn’t over, so don’t leave your reading glasses too far behind. There are many exciting ventures ahead, and I’ll be sharing them little by little.
Sandy
Ver5.8
Photo by Jeremy Perkins on Unsplash
Just when I was concerned that my therapist and I were in need of direction, now that crisis-mode seems to be over, an event occurred.
That event was me realising that, during a low moment resulting in a pep talk to myself in which I swore an oath that I was not going to my next session feeling depressed, there's no one left to impress. So I 'm trying to impress my therapist.
That'll keep us busy.
(photo: Flickr/shamaasa, CC)
Responding to a Facebook status update in which I asked for advice on a tenancy snafu I am currently experiencing, a friend asked if there was was a compelling reason why I am not planning a return to the US. (She probably asked this in consideration of the sum of my personal upheavals this year). Many others have also posed this question, and it is a concept I have struggled with, particularly over the past six months.
There are, indeed, compelling reasons for me to remain in Australia, at least for the time being. Some are complex, inherently personal and difficult to describe. Others are simple and direct. I'll start with the latter, and if after I have explained those, I feel I haven't grown weary or simply want to end the writing of this blog post, I will try to give some insight into the more complicated reasons.
In my current situation, Australia provides a safety net that the US does not. I am eligible for financial assistance through a social welfare system that is far from perfect, but provides for its citizenry and permanent residents (C/PR) in an admirable way. (My Aussie friends may scoff at that, but I ask them to take my word for it.) Like many going through incredibly tough emotional, physical and financial turmoil, it was tough for me to admit the need for welfare assistance and make that first appointment to seek it, but when I did, I was treated with compassion and without judgment by all involved.
Setting aside (with difficulty) the fact that a great number of asylum seekers, including children and physically/mentally disabled people, are wasting their existence behind razor wire in off-shore detention camps, I mean, "processing facilities", the Australian government looks after C/PRs in ways that include mental and physical health, and by providing financial help. Yes, my US friends, that's right. For those who meet the criteria and survive requisite waiting periods, money is deposited directly by the government into one's bank account (or a check is mailed) on a fortnightly basis.
In my case, it's called a "Newstart" allowance. Even the nomenclature makes me feel better, but then I worked as a lexicographer for over a decade. Words mean a lot. Plus, I can save the phrase "on the dole" for conversations among those who know where I'm coming from, and for joke mileage among those who don't. It's the funny thing about epithets: they are treasured hypocorisms among those who own them, but the crudest insolence when used by those with the gall to co-opt them.
The financial benefit provided by Newstart (and a smidgeon of separately calculated rental assistance) isn't all that much, but it is, I think, 100% more than I would get in the USA. Centrelink, the Australian government agency responsible for welfare assistance, has its detractors (and its abusers, as does any welfare system), but it helped me enormously after, 1) my split as a de facto partner with my ex, and, 2) my lay-off from the abovementioned lexicographer job. And now, after being bullied six weeks ago to the point of resignation from a job I loved, it will help me again. I am grateful it is there. [Sidebar: it is my aim to pay things forward through volunteer service in some capacity. One could argue that I have "earned" assistance in a number of ways, but I feel it is time for me to return some of the good that has managed to rise to the frothy surface of muck in which I have swum since leaving the Northern Hemisphere in July of 2005.]
The second, most directly compelling reason for me to stay in Australia is that I have access to free or low-cost healthcare. I have been fortunate in life, in that I have had good health. I am a firm believer in preventive medicine, and my healthcare coverage here provides that. It will also help me if the touching of (and knocking on) wood that I just did upon typing this paragraph's second sentence proves an ineffective superstition, and I am stricken with a broken tooth, bone fracture, another kidney stone (please NO!) or something far worse. [Another sidebar: my fellow US citizens who may be reading this, I implore you NOT to underestimate the importance of access to free or affordable healthcare.]
As for the more complex reasons for staying in Australia, I think I'll leave that explanation for later. First, I'll need to look at the aspects of shame, defeat, obstinance, parenting, depression and other topics that I will no doubt begin to explore when I resume therapy over the next couple of weeks.
My path forward is shrouded in a thick haze that over the past few weeks has seemed to clot my lungs with suffocating fear and sadness. I am still scared. I remain profoundly sad. But, at this point, tiny beams of optimism are finally piercing that shroud. However long I end up staying in Australia, I am thankful for those beams. Yes, many of them come from friends, but some of them come from a system that is helping me edge my way forward. Honestly, aside from my wonderful and much-loved friends in the US, I think the system would fail me. And I cannot bring myself even to imagine what that might bring. Let's hope for the better there. Or pray, if that's what you do. Please. I don't mean to sound maudlin, but there are people in worse shape than I am.
October was Domestic Violence Awareness Month. I meant to compose this post during that month, but time got away from me.
Cathy Busha used to head up the Wingspan Domestic Violence Project in Tucson and, I believe, wrote the following article in that context. A dear friend recently sent me Cathy's article via Facebook, and it resonated so strongly that I emailed her to obtain permission to reprint here. I'm grateful she agreed.
The Spiritual Gifts of Surviving Same-Sex Domestic Violence
by Cathy Busha
I
remember my spiritual liberation; it didn't happen in a church but in a
women's studies class. It was the day I discovered there was a
difference between religion and spirituality; namely, that someone could
be spiritual without belonging to an organized religion. Since that
life-altering day, I have been actively constructing my own eclectic
spirituality.
Though my spirituality evolves daily, there are
some truths I have reached. My spirituality is based as much on the
teachings of Jesus as it is on the teachings of Amy Ray. It can be found
in the sight of a Gila Monster scurrying across the desert, or in the
comfort of cuddling with my sweetie and our cats on a lazy Sunday
morning. My spirituality is in the magical moment when a spoonful of
chocolate mousse from Cafe Poca Cosa hits my tongue or in the power of
being awakened at midnight by a monsoon lightning storm. The main tenet,
though, of my personal spirituality is that I am able to learn from
every person, every situation I encounter. In each mirror I find my
private revelations are both singular and universal. I have also learned
that the most painful experiences are often the most powerful learning
tools in my spiritual growth. Surviving same-sex domestic violence is no
exception.
Surviving domestic violence has enriched my life in
countless ways. It has taught me that I am resourceful and powerful. It
has given me the strength and courage to speak out within the LGBT
communities and to name a hate crime that occurs in our homes. I have
found validation, solidarity, and healing with other survivors of
domestic violence. Surviving domestic violence has increased the
attention I place on meeting my own needs and the attention I pay to all
relationships in my life. I also continue to learn how to ask for help.
As
I sought help to leave my partner who was using violence, some
friendships deepened while others disintegrated. Offers of a spare couch
to sleep on, help in retrieving belongings, or just a patient,
non-judgmental ear showed the kindness, concern, and love of my friends.
But
I also watched as my naming the violence filtered out false friends.
The same denial that trapped me--that women don’t abuse other women and
that both people are equally to blame for problems in a
relationship--kept some friends from wanting to hear the truth. The
truth is that women do abuse other women and that domestic violence is
not a relationship issue that can be worked out in couple's therapy--it
is solely the responsibility of the person using power, control and
violence.
As a survivor of domestic violence, I have learned to
appreciate the solitude and safety I create within my own home--I no
longer walk on eggshells wondering what will set her off next. I
continue to discover and nurture my own healthy sense of entitlement. By
surviving domestic violence, I have learned the power of
forgiveness--not of my ex-partner, but of myself for staying too long. I
have learned to extend to myself the same loving patience that I
extended to the woman who hit me.
Surviving same-sex domestic
violence is not a spiritual path I would have chosen--it is a path no
one should have to travel. I remember the terror I felt as I watched the
hands that once stroked my cheek cut the head off of a teddy bear and
punch me in the lip. I cried as her voice that once said, "I want to
spend my life with you" in rage said, "I want to fucking kick the shit
out of you." I remember the confusion and pain I felt as she
systematically destroyed all the gifts, the pictures, the sweet letters
and cards I had ever made or given her. I remember the shame I felt as
we moved a dresser to hide the three-foot hole she put in the wall of
our new home with a baseball bat she swung two feet over my head. I
remember how helpless I felt as she woke me up while I was sleeping,
saying, “If I can’t sleep you can’t sleep, either.” Finally, I remember
the freedom, the power I felt when I finally said, “No more" and left
her. In choosing myself, I claimed my spirituality.
I now work
as an advocate for the Wingspan Domestic Violence Project. If you are
enduring behaviors from your partner that you would not accept from a
stranger--name calling, pushing, harm to pets, accusations of being
unfaithful, invasion of privacy, sleep deprivation, hitting, endless and
demanding messages on your pager or cell phone, destruction of
property, threats, etc—it’s time to get help. Ask yourself, "What if my
best friend told me that her partner had been treating her the way my
partner is treating me? What would my advice to her be?" Most likely,
you would tell your best friend to get out of there--that you are
concerned for her safety, that she deserves better and that you will
help her. Now look in the mirror and tell yourself.
Perhaps you
stay for some of the same reasons I did. You hope that you can learn how
to not make her angry because you believe that her rage is somehow your
fault. She has threatened to commit suicide if you leave her. You
believe her each time she says she is sorry and that it will never
happen again. You are too embarrassed to leave because no one will
believe you or you will lose friends. You fear that everyone will be
angry with your for staying too long or for destroying the myth of the
"lesbian utopia.” You’re afraid your straight friends and family will
get the wrong idea about the lesbian community. You may feel guilty and
somehow responsible for her rage because she says, "I don't get this
angry at anyone but you...you bring it out in me."
The therapist
you are both seeing for couple’s counseling does not hold your partner
accountable for her acts of violence, but instead works with you on ways
you can support your partner when she is “raging.” You may own property
together and it would be a hassle to split up. You know that she grew
up in an abusive home and that you want to help her work through her
childhood pain. You minimize the abuse and danger because her anger and
rage are so common that they now appear to be “normal.” You love her
and want to make the relationship work. It also feels important to say
that I didn’t come into the relationship with “low self-esteem.” It has
been my experience that this myth is perpetuated to keep “victims”
somehow at a distance – that they are very different from and more
“damaged” than everyone else. I did not have low-esteem; rather, I had a
really big, compassionate heart that got stepped on and exploited.
I
am thankful that my spirituality--the desire to find learning in each
situation--enables me to find some gifts I received by surviving
domestic violence--I am not thankful for the domestic violence. No one
deserves to live in fear of her partner; everyone deserves joy, safety,
and peace. Domestic violence doesn't just go away on its own; if nothing
is done to break the cycle of abuse, the violence could continue to
escalate.
If you are with a partner who is choosing to use violence, it is time to get help, [to] start to remove those barriers to your safety. It is time to begin the next part of your spiritual journey--healing and joy.
After two months of slothdom and some pretty radical dietary indiscretion over the holidays, I am now, officially, back in the gym. And pardon my language, but it bloody well hurts. Thankfully, the pain is outweighed by the good feeling of having returned to something that I enjoy and that is also simply the right thing for this middle-aged man to do. I need to keep up my health. I sure won't have the cash to afford a lot of expensive healthcare when I'm in my golden years. Not at this rate.
By the way, I think I just invented the best post-workout or morning tea smoothie ever.
Sandy's Banana-Berry Superfood Smoothie
It's pretty yummmy. Your body will hug you.
The verdict is in. My nose is a mess.
Here's an image from my CT scan last week.
Notice the dog-leg in my septum, which should be a fairly straight line
dividing the nose in half. And don't even mention the bony spur...or
the extra air sac in my superior turbinate. Don't know what that means? Don't worry; you probably don't want to.
For the purpose of comparison, here's an image of a normal nose and sinuses.
Look at them, lying there and gloating with their perfect septum. God I hate them.
(Image from ARS.)
Anyway, despite the plumbing issues, there's no dire, visible pathology that requires immediate attention to improve my overall health. My ENT said that at some point, I will probably have to have surgery to correct the problems, but it's nothing to rush into.
Okay fine. I just want to be able to sing again like I used to. When I told him that, he gave me that compassionate look that we've all seen from our medical providers...the one that translates, "Yes, and I wish I could give you the answer you're looking for."
So what's causing the vocal dysfunction? The upshot: it could be (at least) a couple of things.
Firstly, there are issues with the hypertrophic (meaty) nature of my sinus passages. Over the course of my life, upon coping with so many allergies, the mucosal tissue in my nasal passages and sinuses has basically worn itself out. As a result, it's time to call in some housekeeping assistance in the form of rinsing out my nose twice a day with saline spray. Hopefully, that will keep the tissues working more efficiently and reduce the drainage into my pharynx...drainage that might be causing the dispatch of signals to my brain that something is wrong, thereby triggering an abnormal vocal response. Wow. Me and mixed signals. Who knew?
Secondly, there's the teeth grinding that I mentioned in a previous post. It might be causing hypertonicity (overworking/building) of jaw and neck muscles, contributing to a secondary vocal disorder. I saw my dentist this week and was fitted for a nightguard. If that alone doesn't solve the problem, I might have to have caps put on all my teeth to build them up and unhinge my jaw a bit...a big job and thousands of dollars. Wonder if she'll throw in porcelain veneers for kicks.
Starting Monday, I'm seeing a speech therapist who specializes in hyperfunctional voice disorders. I look forward it. I'm ready to get things back on track, vocally.
March 10 to 16 is International Brain Awareness Week.
Why not treat your gray matter to a little work-out?
Go ahead. What'll it hurt?
Are the rows in this image parallel?
If no, in which direction do they slant?
If yes, any idea why they don't look it?
(image from SharpBrains)
The answers to the following clues are two-word rhymes.
Example: The monsters under my bed stay there because of my...
night light.
1. Birthmark on a person from Copenhagen...
___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___
2. Gastropod residue...
___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___
3. Eating a diet low in cholesterol and fats...
___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___
4. To enjoy festivities in a big way...
___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___
5. What Wallace might see after treating his pup to too much cheese...
___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___
Bonus. Lite, underground reading material for a female impersonator...
___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ - ___ ___ ___ ___
(Puzzle modeled after that found on the Dana Foundation website. Answers on Thursday!)
First of all, let's be clear: there is no need to clone animals for food.
The Bryant Park Project reports:
After six years of intensive research on whether meat, muscle tissue and milk from cloned animals are fit for human consumption, the FDA says they "are as safe as food we eat every day."
If that's not obscene enough, the next line of copy reads:
The stamp of approval from the FDA removes the last regulatory hurdle to mass-marketing cloned meat and milk products.
I don't know why we humans cannot leave well enough alone. It was never about safety anyway. We now know that there have been two issues playing the part of the finger in the dyke. One is the wary consumer who (thank God) is reluctant to buy into the horrific notion of creating lives in laboratories with the ultimate goal of shooting a piston through their heads, and carving up their genetically engineered flesh for our deli sandwiches and $10 Sunday roasts.
The other reason is the impact such an industry would have on the economic fabric of modern times. It would stand to reason that this would be the one of primary importance to the U.S. government.
It's true, isn't it? In life, it really does all boil down to sex (or lack thereof, in this case) and money, doesn't it?
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