To Love and Be Loved

I was raised in an interfaith home.

I don’t mention this as an aside. 

I mention it because it is one of the cornerstones of my childhood.

And that’s saying something, as I was lucky enough to have a pretty damn amazing childhood.

Not only are my parents different religions, but they are both very involved in their communities of faith. My mom serves on the vestry at church and my dad is treasurer of the temple. They socialize with each other’s respective faith group and compare notes after Thursday night meetings, often laughing at the similarities of the discussions. 

Several years ago when my mom was in the hospital recovering from surgery, a nurse poked her head in the room and confusedly explained that her rabbi was there for a visit…confusedly, because my mom’s minister had left about five minutes prior.

I had the privilege of growing up in a home where tolerance and respect for our differences didn’t have to be taught - it was a given. It was the only way I knew.

My brother and I were baptized and confirmed in the Episcopal church, where we spent most Sunday mornings, performed in the Christmas pageants and sang in the choir. We also lit the candles at Hannukah, attended services at temple on the High Holy Days and participated in Passover seders long before we were old enough to remember. (In case you were wondering what happens when you give a baby a whole lot of matzah washed down with a whole lot of apple juice - it ain’t good). We showed the same enthusiasm for finding the afikoman that we did for finding our Easter baskets.

It never occurred to me that this was “weird” or “different.” It was all I knew. It was the same for many of my friends. And as such, I didn’t value it for what it was at the time - it was just normal. It was my normal.

Then I went to away to college where I got a harsh dose of reality that quickly showed me that my little interfaith bubble of tolerance and respect was just that - a bubble.

My freshman year I wrote about my interfaith upbringing for an English class, and a classmate told me (rather matter-of-factly, I might add), that I was the spawn of the devil.

That’s right.

Because my parents are different religions.

Obviously.

There were many more experiences like this one. Both in college, grad school, and beyond. Each one opened my eyes further and showed me what a rare gift I have. I am beyond grateful for my interfaith upbringing and the perspective on the world that it has allowed.

And I have to tell you. The world makes my heart hurt a bit right now.

I don’t understand the seemingly ceaseless string of hate and anger and the resulting hurt and suffering, due in large part to an intolerance of our differences.

Regardless of our race, religion, sexual orientation, gender, family structure, favorite color or what you had for dinner last night, we are all human. We have far more in common than we have different. 

We want to love and be loved.

We want to see those who matter the most to us love and be loved.

We want a dry place to lay our head at night. 

We make mistakes.

We grow.

We change.

We learn.

We adjust.

We love.

And through it all, we remain human. 

Unfailingly, imperfectly human.

All of us.

“In writing it down you realize, love is not a tragedy or a failure, but a gift…that nothing in this world is deserved except for love. That love is how you become a person and why.” - John Green Turtles All the Way Down 

Hello, blank page

Hello blank page. 

It has been a long time. 

A really long time. 

To be honest I can't really explain my absence. 

I have a few theories, but I don't know for sure. 

What I do know is that life got so very heavy. 

Not just my life, but our lives. 

Turning on the news has turned into a downright traumatic experience.

All of a sudden, a foot I fractured by walking (mad skills over here), recurrent blood clots (Hasta la vista Carlos the Clot #1-6) and having myofascial release therapy UP MY NOSE seem like worthless minutiae. 

(Ok maybe not the nose story. I mean, someone put their ENTIRE finger up my nose. On purpose. So there’s that.)

It all just feels a bit much.

Highly sensitive creature that I am, my heart feels like it doubled in weight.

And I stopped writing.

It's not that I didn't try - I have countless starts in random notes and post-its - but mostly I sat paralyzed staring at a blank screen.

What could I possibly say that would actually matter?

I want it to matter.

And feelings are scary. 

Writing about them makes them real.

Real feels scary these days.

I far prefer the world of unicorns and avocado toast raining from the sky.

(Side note - how convenient would that horn be for spearing slices of toast?! GENIUS).

But, here we are. Not a unicorn in sight.

I know I want to write, that I need to write. 

I have a lot to say, when I'm ready.

It’s time to feel it all.

It’s time to write it all.

Hello, blank page.

I’ve missed you, but I'll be back soon. 

Addressing My Elephant

I’d like to start by addressing the elephant in the room:

I’m ashamed to write this post.

Mortified, really. 

I thought about not writing it at all.

Or writing it but not posting it.

But, that felt fake and false and a little bit like lying.

When I started writing this blog, so many years ago, I committed to sharing the truth of my life - and that meant not just the good parts or the funny parts. That meant all of it.

So here we are.

Deep breath.

Friends, this year has been hard. 

Quite possibly the hardest of my 34 years of life. 

And I have been racking my brain trying to figure out why. I just needed to understand. I like to fix things. I thought if I could identify what was going on, I could fix it. 

Turns out that doesn’t work so well. 

Nothing has happened.

I don’t have one event or specific life experience to blame.

So I told myself to buck up and get over it. I tried to ignore this gnawing, unfamiliar emotion that kept bubbling to the surface, hoping that if I waited long enough it would just go away. 

It didn’t.

And one day while driving to my 9 millionth appointment, exhausted and twisting in pain, it dawned on me like a punch in the gut.

I finally understood. 

I’m angry.

I’m so very, deeply angry.

I’m angry that I’m 34 years old, childless and broke.

I’m angry that my husband is living this life because of ME.

I’m angry that my family and my husband's family have the burden of…well…me.

I’m furious that when people ask me what I’ve been up to, waiting to hear about hobbies or trips or projects, my answer is that I’ve spent the past 6 months getting rid of a collection of blood clots. 

(Hasta la vista Carlos the Clot Sr, Jr. and III…please don’t send any more descendants.)

I’m angry that life has forced me to leave the job and community I loved, and now I work by myself day after day after day. I’m a pack animal, friends. I’m not a lone wolf.

I’m angry that I spend nearly every last ounce of my energy just getting through the monotony of the day, leaving next to nothing for anything remotely looking like fun or adventure.

In a few weeks, I’ll watch my husband and my friends run a half marathon that I ran years ago, and I’ll cheer my face off. I’ll hand off water bottles and yell encouragement and mean every word. But I won’t be running with them, I’ll be standing alone on the sidelines. And I hate that.

More than anything, I’m so angry that I’m angry. I’m ashamed to be angry while surrounded by so much goodness and love and unwavering support in my life. I feel like a giant hypocrite to have so much for which I am so incredibly grateful, and yet to boil beneath the surface. 

I know anger is a very normal and expected part of grief, and I would be lying if I said I hadn’t had flitting moments of anger over the years. But I can honestly say that I’ve never felt like this. This is the part of chronic, progressive illness that you don’t hear about. Where you work and work and work to be as healthy as humanly possible, and yet the realization that you may never do more than simply get through the day for the rest of your life falls over you like the heaviest of veils. 

Anger makes me uncomfortable. It always has. 
To say I am conflict-averse, is to confirm that the Pope is, in fact, Catholic. 

I’m not an angry person, I want desperately to jump out of my own skin and sprint from the scene of the jump.

I want to shed this layer of lonely ugliness. 

But I can’t.

I’m stuck here, alone with my anger.

Always, always alone.

And it won’t go away.

I have pondered what to do. 

I cannot change what is, no matter how desperately I want to.

So what can I change? My attitude?

Can I smiley face and sticker and cupcake my way out of anger?

No, I don’t think that’s how it works.

PSA: Despite the current state of affairs in the hot mess that lies beneath my skull, my affinity for all things cupcakes and puppies and horses and avocados and mountains and The Ellen Show, has not waned. Fear not.

So…what do I do?

If I cannot change my life and I cannot change my attitude and I cannot change who I am as a person…what happens then?

What do I need to fix?

What CAN I fix?

What if I can’t fix…anything?

What if I’m just…angry?

What then?

Do I just need to be...angry?

Can I be both angry and grateful? Can I continue to take notice of the multitude of goodness that surrounds me, all while steaming in frustration?

Maybe, just maybe, if rather than hiding from it, if I ride in the front seat of this anger, I’ll discover what I have been so desperately searching for all along- something to pull me out of the pool and stop treading water. Something to open up a life that is more than “just okay.” I’ve written about this a lot over the last year, each time convinced that I was ready to make and be the change. This anger is a roadblock that I didn’t expect, but it is one I must endure, and may just teach me the most meaningful lesson of all of this - that it’s okay to not be okay.

But...

I’m not there yet.

I’m still angry.

I’m still angry that I’m angry.

I’m still ashamed.
But I’ll persist, until someday I’m not.

I’ll persist because at the end of the day, that is my only option. 

I believe there is more out there for me - more than just a life of solitary monotony - and maybe I NEED to be both grateful and angry in order to move forward. 

I can be angry. I can be downright furious. But, I can persist.

So I will.

The Next Chapter

Hello, 2017.
Hard to believe you're here.
Not going to lie, I am more wary of what you have to offer than I have ever been in my entire life.
And yet...here we are.

I have been trying to write out my thoughts for weeks now - months really, but it has felt like the most intense game of "whack-a-mole," throwing a sentence at the page here and there in hopes of them all magically coming together. As if I was playing the most epic game of Mad Libs.

Recently, I finally found time to sit down and really write...only because I was sidelined with the flu and missing a much anticipated life-planning workshop.

The irony is not lost on me.

The end of 2016 took a turn for the chaotic, but the break in writing is bigger than that. Something broke last year. Not a bone that needs time to mend or a wound that can be fixed with stitches. There wasn't one sudden accident or moment of klutzy behavior that turned into a medical bill. This break was a slow, gradual splintering. So snail-like, in fact, that it took me quite some time to figure out it was broken in the first place. Like fragile petals of a complex rose, the pieces fell off one by one, until all of a sudden, it was no longer a rose.

As I draw closer to the 7 year anniversary of my driven, energetic self taking an unexpected turn from the race course to the couch, I think my petals may have all but fallen off.

And I feel bare, confused, and unexpectedly fragile.

As the years have soldiered on, it has become harder and harder to tread water. After a while, my legs just can't egg-beater kick in the same place much longer - they are tired of spinning in circles, all while never moving an inch, and looking at the same thing day after day after day after day.

For whatever reason, be it age, or the state of the country, or the circling of the cosmos (cough cough, probably the state of the country), 2016 was a year of thought. Deep, honest, at times soul-crushing introspection, that brought my typically even-keeled self to tears.

I'm not a crier, so this was more than a little bewildering to me, but I'm learning that these weird rivulets of water that sporadically appear on my cheeks can be cathartic, and even revealing.

Turns out my tears are not for what I have lost, rather they are because I AM lost. Somewhere in the midst of being a medical and genetic anomaly, my identity drifted further and further away from my desperately kicking legs.

And friends, after much cogitation, and yes, perhaps a few tears, I think it's time to stop treading water and get out of the damn pool.

Like a shattered mug, you can only glue it together so many times before it changes into a pen holder on your desk. The pieces are the same, but it serves a new purpose. It started as one thing, but surprisingly changed to something else.

I am not the same person I was 7 years ago.
I've changed.
I've changed in ways I never could have imagined or expected.
The elements of life that were my defining characteristics have spent years on the hold list, and I think it's time to move them into the archives and check out something new.

Someone recently asked me what I liked to do for fun. I froze. As I stammered out something probably incomprehensible, my mind was spinning with the fact that I have NO idea how to answer that question.

Uhhhh, cook food that I don't eat? Attend my husband and friends' races and events? Add items to the grocery list while wearing athlesiure??

This narrative is mine. I didn't choose it, but I get to write it, and treading water with the same stagnant hopes and dreams is a pretty boring story.

Several years ago, during a particularly challenging time medically, a friend gave me a bracelet that reads "Be Brave." While deeply appreciated and thoughtful, the truth is that getting through medical times doesn't seem brave to me. If I have to have surgery, I do it and follow the necessary steps to recover. If I end up sidelined by a new malfunctioning body part, I take time to adapt and heal the best I can. It's not brave, it's just doing what needs to be done, even when it's not easy. I can follow a do and don't list like my life depends on it...because it does.

But getting out of the pool and facing the fact that I am never going back to the life I left, in any way, shape, or form? Standing up for what I believe in for myself and for my country? Looking at the world through tired lenses, and realizing that if I want change, it has to come from me?

That, my friends, is hard. I need a whole lot of brave there.

My furry sidekick recently hurt his toe, so much so that he couldn't put any weight on it for a while. He never cried or sulked, he merely switched from running around on 4 paws to running around on 3. He didn't give a second thought to resuming his life without the use of one of his toes, he just got up and kept on living (all while his parents frantically tried to keep him "quiet.") Who knew a 7-month-old puppy could be so wise?

I don't know what comes next, for me or for my country, but I know that it's up to me to find out. The choice is, and always has been, mine. It's time to stop waiting and time to start doing. If I want to find a new passion, I must be passionate in my pursuit to find it.

(Though let's be clear that underwater basketweaving better be done in warm water or I'm out of there.)

I know that if I want my world to be light, I have to be the light, and bring the light, and share the light. I cannot expect it to come to me. Even when it's hard.

Especially when it's hard.

It's time to get out of the pool, friends.
I've got another chapter to write.

Be the light.
Be brave.