Fish on Land

Sinking

Talking to Mary, you know you don't have to shout

She can hear what you're thinking like you're saying it right out loud  

--Elliott Smith, lyrics from Talking to Mary

Instead of focusing on a lovely Thanksgiving dinner that we had at home, instead of admiring the Christmas tree that we bought and decorated the day after Thanksgiving, instead of congratulating myself for starting to clear out the garage this weekend, I chose to sink. Wrapped in half bedclothes, half street clothes, and finally just carrying a blanket wrapped around my shoulders, a portable bed if you will, from bed to couch and back again. I could barely keep my eyes open and just decided to let myself drift into the boozy slumber of a depressive episode. Waking each time reminded me how utterly perfect my sleep had been and caused me to crave it even more. Asleep, I can’t be prickly with my husband or grouchy with the dog. Asleep, I hurt no one. My sweaty cheek with hair plastered to it pressed hard into the pillow. Sweet relief.

I am quite sure that depression runs in my family. I believe that my mom suffers from intense depression, suffered many years before my brother was murdered. His death gave her depression a valid and physical shape. As a child, I remember playing in the living room while she slept in the bedroom in the middle of the day because she had a headache, every day. I often trip over trying to determine if I “learned” to be depressed and that’s why I sink or if I just inherited the faulty strand that carried the cocktail. I’m better today and will probably get better as the week takes its slow turn around the bend. This is a tough time of year for so many people. I never think of myself as one of the people who has it tough. Even in sinking grief, I found compassion and salty tears for others. I don’t like to focus on what’s wrong. In my depression this weekend, I started to fear losing my husband. During a glassy eyed TV spell, I acknowledged simply that he will die before me and that when he does, I will not continue. It was a clear sentence in my head. I will not continue. It’s hard to think with that kind of clarity now, awake and functioning.

Through the Looking Glass

Ignorance more frequently begets confidence than does knowledge.  - Charles Darwin

You never know what moments in life will matter. In love, family, work, art, ethics. What fantastic memories will be lost and what terrible memories will stick. Or vice versa. What behavior or comment will be used to judge you. And of course what you process to judge others. We have so little control over what people choose to cling to and discard. I’m just realizing this now. And it’s hard to accept. I’m a perfectionist. I despise mess and clutter and irrational behavior and rules that make no sense and I’m stubborn and I usually think that I’m right. I am loyal and dedicated and hold people up to a very high standard. I am confident. I am also afraid. Afraid of being undervalued, used, ignored. I trust people with too much and when they fail I lock them out and make it clear how they have failed. This is a pattern, I see it in myself and the years of disappointment are hard to look at with a clear eye. I’m not perfect after all. 

Listen to Yourself

I’m headed for some big changes. I’m learning to trust myself. I believe that this year has been the most productive, the most painful and the most eye opening for me. I’m really evaluating everything around me. I’m tired of many situations and people and feelings that I’ve been dragging around for too long. Only time will tell if my inner voice is bat crazy or onto something.

You know when you get kind of stuck? You may not admit it to yourself. This isn’t the wake up and kind of wish you could sleep in longer kind of stuck. I’m talking about the deep inside rattling of something loose. The quiet low-level depression that follows you around. I do believe that there’s a steady and clear vision that you have for yourself above it all. You know what makes you happy, even if you only allow it or glimpse it for a few minutes a day.

Honor yourself and listen to what you need. Don’t be afraid. Leave that behind. Trust that you will be OK because you will be. You’ll be better than OK.

Davis Retreat

I spent the last 2 days in Davis. It was wonderfully warm and still there. Everyone dresses casually and is friendly. Lots of tanned skin and flip flops. It was lovely. I actually stood outside, unshaded, in the 90+ degree weather, sipping my icy drink and soaking in the warmth. I lounged in my hotel room and watched way too much bad cable TV. I took an insanely long shower and didn’t care that I used 2 big towels instead of scrimping and using only one. The complimentary breakfast included fresh waffles cooked on the spot. I was in heaven. It was a solitary and restorative break.

I worked my butt off too. Both days, I spent long hours in our Davis office with engineers in preparation for a huge product launch. The office in Davis is totally laid back. Even the managers there are chill, the CTO joking with everyone. After 2 days, it was time for me to return. I missed my sweetie and my home creature comforts and I was tired. I imagined my life if I lived in Davis and how much less stress there would be. Then I did a reality check. The main reason that I like it there so much, is that I am removed and in a bubble. There are no meals to be cooked or bills to be paid or people to confront. It’s a perfectly neutral and safe place. My frazzle level has been at a steady high alert for quite some time. Simple isn’t in my vocabulary. I’ve posted here about a lot of painful and terrible things, but there are new and wonderful things to talk about too:

1. My cousin just married a guy who really loves and adores her.
2. My totally lovable brother-in-law and his wife are the proud parents of the first grandchild in the family.               
3. Our dear friends Joe and Dhea are also the proud parents of a healthy and beautiful baby boy.
4. My brother is, more and more, growing into a thoughtful, patient and loving person.
5. My brother’s daughter, my only niece, seems to be growing into a smart and healthy little girl, despite her mother’s intentions.
6. My other cousin is soon-to-be-engaged to her long time boyfriend.

So there are lots of good things happening around me, lots of new and precious life, lots of hope for a future.

Protection

I slept alone in our new home for the first time last night. The house creaks and moans, the roof thumps. I did everything I could to ignore the noises, and then I’d feel a breezy tingly sensation all over and force myself to roll over and stare at the doorway. I wasn’t scared exactly, I just wasn’t sure what would appear. For many years, I lived alone and slept alone. Even when I was seriously dating, I kept my own place. My friends would laugh that I kept a hammer for protection in my bedside table. Just in case. I rarely felt afraid or had trouble falling to sleep. Nowadays, if my husband is out of the house, I can’t even fall asleep. I’m so used to his noises and presence. It’s not a psycho-dependent bat crazy kind of attachment, it’s that our lives are intertwined now. Irrevocably. I marvel at it often. When we’re home together, we banter back and forth constantly, even when we’re in different rooms, which is probably totally irritating to anyone who visits us. We bicker too, we’re passionate people, but we never fight. My little brother Richard visited recently, and my husband let him know that even though it seems like we are mad, we aren’t really, it’s just how we communicate: loud and in your face. It’s something that we do, that’s ours and that outsiders may not understand. Even when we sleep, I talk to him and he talks me back to sleep if it’s a particularly restless dream. I’m forever asking him for something and he’s forever obliging. I can’t really imagine my life without him now. Losing my brother Russell makes me fearful that something could happen to my husband too. It’s a natural thought process, if you lose one dearly loved person, you could lose more. It won’t happen, I won’t let it. I could not survive it. I would follow him. And that’s the risk we take with our love, that one day the other will leave, one way or another, one person always leaves, after all, we don’t live forever.

A New Club

It used to be that when I would hear a story about something traumatic that happened to someone else, I would feel compassion and sadness for the person and eventually and selfishly be thankful that it didn’t happen to me. I would contemplate that the devastation must handicap you; relearning how to sleep and rise and eat and talk, your grief erases those abilities. It was hard for me to imagine what a life looks like when it’s consumed with grief. Horrible loss happens every day, but it doesn’t happen to you, it happens to the others. Those unlucky, unblessed, unloved, unhappy people who don’t deserve it, but maybe deserve it, in some intangible way, a little more than you do.

There’s an expected time frame for the grieving person to return to the world. It’s not a linear point, it’s more based on imaginative calculations made by people who haven’t experienced such loss. It’s a generic best case scenario, some arcane acceptable practice. Employers need them to pick up where they left off, spouses listen for the familiar laugh that they haven’t heard for so long or for the absence of the sobbing that they often return home to, friends call and cautiously ask, “How are you?” and you find yourself standing in the middle of an endless dirt field alone and unable to speak, dried tears on your face, your heart broken and empty.

I feared coming back to work, every fiber in my body wanted to stay on that couch crying. When I arrived, I sat at my desk crying and blowing my nose looking out the window. I was hollow. Outsiders are well-meaning, but the loss makes them uncomfortable. Maybe they see it as a disease that they can catch. Or they see you and without ever admitting it, they think that you somehow caused the death, were instrumental, could have prevented it, which is the same as causing it. Or maybe they just feel sad and compassionate, but ultimately selfishly thankful that it didn’t happen to them.

What's in a T-Shirt

As far back as I can remember, I believed that it was part of dressing well for a man to wear a white t-shirt underneath his shirt. The crisp white t-shirt belongs most definitely under a dress shirt, but also under a casual dress shirt or a polo shirt. I love seeing the neck band and beginnings of the t-shirt peeking out from the top layer shirt. Bare collar bones and chest hairs peeking out? Yikes. Put on a t-shirt!

The white t-shirt has deep and significant meaning for me. It reminds me of my dad, who always wears one. When he is found only in his t-shirt, it’s because he’s sleeping, reading a paper on the couch, or working on the car outside. It reminds me of driving with my mom and dad in the summer heat on a road trip to San Diego or Baja. The wind is whipping our hair around and I can smell the fresh laundered scent of his t-shirt while I sit between him and my mom. It reminds me of dark tanned arms and the precise line where the fair skin is hidden underneath the sleeve of the t-shirt. And ultimately, it reminds me of growing up in Catholic school, and our uniforms with all the boys wearing t-shirts underneath their white button-downs. I loved school as a child, grammar school and even junior high. It only got hard in high school, awkward and dry-mouthed and heartbeat drumbeat, furtive boy glances and girl chatter. Now, as an adult, when a man wears a white t-shirt underneath, he seems clean and well groomed to me. The white t-shirt denotes care, it’s a little extra detail. As ludicrous as it sounds, it’s non-negotiable for me. The only person I ever shared this with up until now is my husband. He was the only one worth sharing it with, if you think about it. Lucky for me, he gets it.

Small Joys

There are numerous small joys in a day. Catching the train just before it’s about to leave. Your morning commute radio station playing not one but two of your all-time favorite songs in a row. Your first morning sip of the perfect cup of coffee. Smiling at someone, anyone, on your way to lunch and finding them smiling back. Nabbing the perfect parking spot on a crowded street. Receiving a phone call from someone who you miss and have been meaning to call. Wearing a new sexy dress. 

There are so many possibilities for gloriousness. In a moment, you have it: you feel brighter, possibly warm, you’re slightly lighter and airy. Not much can ruin it. In a sense it’s serendipity: an aptitude for making desirable discoveries by accident. Your moment of perfection. But maybe it sounds too bold to stare luck in the face? A friend of mine and I were talking about terminal illnesses, and he said that a friend twice removed who is a doctor and specializes in diagnosis and treatment of one such evil illness told my friend that she knew the minute she met a patient whether or not they would survive. It has nothing to do with the illness. It has everything to do with the person. Think about that. Do you see yourself as the survivor? As the one who will persevere? Do you see yourself as the lucky one? I wish you would. It’s all about you, in that aching moment that you would have erased if you could, you and your joys.

Often in my life, I’ve appreciated being underestimated because there was nowhere to go but up and beyond whomever it was that didn’t believe in me. I know that it’s not the healthiest perspective, but if I had a doctor measuring my survival odds based on a one-minute evaluation, I would most certainly hope that she underestimated me. And I’d have a little secret, one that would stir deep down, a small reservoir of luscious and amazing strength fueled by the euphoria of my numerous small joys. And I believe that it would carry me through, just as it has many times before.

What It Means

My husband rubs my feet anytime I ask and usually starts off a foot massage with a kiss on my toes. When I tell him a story about my day, he gets excited and almost irrational that someone may have done something against me. He’s always passionately on my side. He likes to call me his beautiful girl and I like the idea of hearing him say that when we’re old and slow-moving. He cooks for me most nights after he gets home from work and when he asks me if I would like to try something different, and I tell him what it is, he’ll make it the next time he cooks. He always opens doors for me and lets me walk in first, ahead of him, as if he’s my escort. When we walk together, and I hold onto his arm, he stands up a little straighter and seems to puff up his chest. When I come home with a new haircut, he grabs the camera and takes pictures of me in silly poses. He has more pictures of me on his computer and rotating on his screen saver than I’ve ever had taken of me in my entire life. He looks forward to being a parent and mentions that he really wants to have a little girl who looks and acts like me. He kisses me every morning when we wake up and every night when we go to bed. He smiles a broad, open and honest smile and the smile is for me.

I’m lucky and I don’t always remember it. My husband, the love of my life, helps me see and hear and feel what it means to be loved. His love is something that I never imagined I could have. It’s the greatest experience of my life. It has made me a better person. Sometimes the old self creeps back. The one that is selfish and cranky and only takes. The one that complains about everything, nagging him into a disoriented pathos. I say cruelly insensitive things to him and nothing he does makes it right. I see me, that way, and there’s a 5 second delay between my mouth and my mind. My sharp tongue is disconnected from my love for him and my rational mind. It’s terrifying really, I would feel better locked away in seclusion. Sometimes I do just that. I close the bedroom door, lie down on the bed, and stare at the ceiling having a conversation between my 2 selves. When I emerge, I ask him to go easy on me, I’m in a weird mood and I’m trying to reign it in, lest he accidentally step on a raw nerve and I respond with a whopping slug of a comment. I’m not always certain that he should love me, I wonder why he does. I realize that his love is steady and constant and is like him, open and genuine, without judgment, and always there.            

Morning is Memory

It's Thursday and it should be Friday. I don't know how we do it, working 5 or more days a week with around 2 days off, only to go right back in for another round. I take BART and the glum faces of the passengers force me to bury my face in a book and turn up my ipod to drown out my senses. I do that 2 times a day.

What I do like are the unexpected distractions. The newspaper man at the station with his thick groucho mustache and starched white shirt. The ranchero guitar player, with his guitar case open, the thin and taut red velvet lining of the case fading in the streaming sunlight. The lanky and distinguished gentleman at the top of the stairs to the station, with flushed cheeks, bow tie and farmer straw hat - like an aged Huck Finn - singing romantic ballads that would make my grandmother hum along and tilt her head and smile. I can imagine her doing it and it makes me smile and also miss her so much. The wave of people emerging from the depths of the station have their intimate thoughts too, triggered by morning sights and sounds. Memory, desire, wishes that they suppress once they get to the office. It's funny how we become so good at doing that.