Joy

This weeks writing prompt is about Joy.

"...Joy is probably the most difficult emotion to feel. It's hard to feel joy because we are so keenly aware that it's fleeing. When we lose our tolerance for vulnerability, we lose the courage to be joyful. Joy is a daring emotion! We are going to let ourselves stop in a moment that won't last forever, that can be taken away. we fell almost that 'you are a schmuck if you let yourself feel too deeply because the bad stuff is going to happen.'...'If I let myself feel this joy, pain will be all that much harder. If I let myself just really sink into the joy of my child, something is going to happen to him or her, and i will be devastated.' It comes back to the idea that it's easter to live disappointed than feel disappointed. And yet we are starving for joy. I have never met anyone who doesn't want more joy in their life."-Brené Brown.

A few months ago, I had a unique experience that came to be rather serendipitously.  We have a massage therapist that comes into work, and I was in for a chair massage.  She seemed..... different.  Happier.  More centered.  I asked what the secret was, by way of joking around it.

"Did you get laid or something?  You seem more relaxed."

She laughed and said "I did the most amazing thing.  I went to see a Siberian Shaman for a soul retrieval ceremony."

"A what?", I asked.

She started telling me about the experience, and when I got back to my desk, I did a little digging on my own.  (From "Shamanic Soul Retrieval" website)

Emotional or physical trauma can cause a piece of our soul essence to break off, or fragment, in order to continue living — this is referred to as soul loss. Psychology calls this dissociation and it is considered a survival response. It happens for our protection by allowing the trauma to be experienced indirectly, or even to be forgotten. 

 "Soul retrieval is the definitive healing modality in spirit medicine because it affords a reunion of dissociated soul part(s) with the person’s life essence, thereby allowing individuals to have more of themselves available to live their lives in the present moment." - Hank Wesselman, Ph.D. & Jill Kuykendall, RPT, Spirit Medicine (2004)

It intrigued me.  I've been so lonely these past few years, it made me think, maybe I was just missing part of my soul that was wandering around out there, hiding from the day-to-day, hiding from the things I've blocked out.  So I made a phone call.

Grandmother Nadya (the Shaman) had exactly one appointment left before she returned to Siberia.  It was on a night where my hubby had "guy plans" already.  I called my sitter, and she was available that night, too.  I figured 'what's the worst that can happen?' and I booked my soul retrieval time, as well as my sitter.

On my way to the appointment, I texted my best friend.  "I'm going to see a siberian shaman for a soul retrieval ceremony.  If I come out of this as a zombie, you are honor-bound to track her ass down in Siberia and get my soul back."  She replied that she was up to the task, and wished me luck.

I was excited, I arrived early and was chatting with Jan, the facilitator and translator for Grandmother Nadya.  Grandmother speaks only a few words of English, the drum ceremony would be sung in Ulchi, the native language of the village of Bulava in Southeastern Siberia.  Jan told me how it would work - Grandmother would come down in about 30 minutes, she would ask a few question by way of translation, and then she would sing and drum her journey to find my travelling soul.  Jan would be taking notes during the ceremony, and would translate the journey after it was over.  

She told me not to be alarmed if Grandmother Nadya sounded harsh or angry, sometimes the spirits of the earth needed a stern talking-to.  She also told me that near the end, Grandmother would put on a heavy belt of bells, to help her return from the spirit realm, and that she might come close to me and work on my body a bit.  She asked me to sit comfortably, with my palms up and open, and both feet on the floor.

She told me that when it was time to go, Grandmother Nadya would take off the bells, and leave - with no words or farewells.  That the ceremony was draining for her, and that she would need to go to her own rituals to recover and protect her spirit, and that I should not take it personally.

Once we'd covered the basics, Jan asked me about my life.  I started telling her about my son.  How smart he is, how loving, how he is my blessing and my greatest work.  It was still early for the ceremony, but I heard shuffling on the stairs.  A short older woman shuffled in, wearing house slippers, and she looked at Jan and asked a question in Ulchi.

Jan smiled, and replied.  Then she told me "She asked what we were talking about.  She said your joy filled the house and called her - that she couldn't stay away.  I told her you are talking about your son."



Chortling cue ball, at 6 months

I showed Grandmother Nadya and Jan a picture of my boy.  Her response, translated "His soul is a bright light that fills your heart."


My teacher

 It is true, my boy has an infectious laugh, and a smile that lights up his eyes.  He has never met a stranger, and the best part of my day is when he comes running, to throw himself in my arms, calling "MAMA! MAMA!"  I feel like my heart is a pot of water on a stove top, at that point where you never know exactly when the boil will start to ripple up from the bottom, bursting bubbles of joy on the surface.  When I think about him, when I talk about him, when his little hand is nestled up in mine, that's when I'm the most alive, when I'm the most capable of feeling joy. 

Grandmother Nadya put on a leather headband, that had strips that covered her face, we started talking about me, how I feel, both in my body and in my mind. She would ask questions, Jan would translate, and then I would answer and Jan would translate the answer.  After a few minutes of this back and forth, Grandmother grabbed her head and let loose a stream of exasperated, pained Ulchi.  I waited for the translation.

Jan told me "Your worry is buzzing at her mind - like a hive of angry bees.  She says you worry too much, you think too much.  Where did your joy go?"

From a basic cultural standpoint, the drum ceremony was fascinating.  She sang, she played the drum, periodically she would get up from her chair and do a little booty shaking while singing and playing the drum.  The room was dark, lit only be a couple candles, and the smell of sage burning was strong.  From body language and tone of voice, it sounded like questions, imploring, and sometimes scolding was going on.

Grandmother put her heavy belt on, and came to dance beside me, still singing, still playing the drum. She took her drum stick (which was really a hunk of wood, not shaped like a drum stick we would see played in a band) and she swept it down my arms - like she was brushing something nasty off of me.

"Unnnnnhhhhghhghghhhhh", she grunted.

She kept sweeping and grunting - brushing off my arms, my legs, the front of my body.  Her singing was intense, the movement was deliberate. It felt like cold water was being trickled inside my skin as she worked on me.

Then, I shit you not, she took her drum stick and rapped me upside the head. Twice.

She took off the belt, looked at me, and said the only words she said in English the whole night. "Don't worry.  TRUST."  And she left.

As Jan told me about the journey that Grandmother had sung, it became clear to me that while I may be lonely, I am not alone.  She sang to the spirits of the water, to the spirits of the earth, to the spirits of the mountain.  She sang to my mother, who is taking care of the souls of the babies I've lost, she sang to my friend who took his own life, but who is still walking with my traveling soul.  She said my soul is not lost - not gone.  It's just been afraid.  She sang to the light of my son, and asked his love and brightness to be a beacon to bring me back to wholeness.  She told the dark spirits, the negativity, the worry, that they are not welcome.  She brushed them off where they clung to my body.  And then she gave me a couple licks to the head to hammer it all home, to shake the cobwebs loose, to reiterate the point. 

I've never been a 'glass half empty' type, and as someone that battles chronic depression, I take my joy where I can find it.  It's part of why I fight the medication-solution that western medicine wants to throw my way.  I would rather find a way to deal with the lows than to never feel the highs, to never feel the joy.  Telling me not to worry is like asking me not to breathe.  I honestly don't know how to let it go.  I'm working with a therapist who is trying to help me be brave enough to provide a safe haven for the wandering parts of my soul to come home.  I revel in the joy my son brings (while muttering under my breath about the frustrations of raising a toddler), and I let his infectious laughter be my guide.

"Don't worry.  TRUST."

The Broken Parts

I've alluded to this a couple of times, but I do my best writing, which is to say my most consistent frequency of writing, when I'm involved in a group setting, with writing prompts and assignments and the knowledge that for this period of time, there are at least 10 people reading, because that's part of their assignment and commitment to the class.  Today is the first day of the new session.

I'm holding down a table at "Conference Room U", the coffee shop across the street from the office, enjoying what is, in my opinion, the best latte in town with my laptop and 55 minutes to be no one other than "The Writer".  "The Producer" can wait until after this block of time.  "The Mommy" can wait a few hours.  For now, I will be the one that writes.

Today's prompt, from Mark Nepo's Facing the Lion, Being the Lion:

"It is important to realize that Ganesh is a god of embodied wisdom who knows the life obstacles of which he is a guardian. He is a god because he has lived through all the world has to offer, not because he transcends it. Often, he holds in his right hand one of his own tusks, which he broke off in a fit of anger and hurled at the moon. But the moon spit it back, and he carries that broken piece of himself as a reminder of the earthly journey that no one can escape."

Start us off easy, why don't you, Nerissa?!?!?  Good lord, I need to be "the writer" AND "face the broken parts"?!?!?

Me and Paul, 2005

A friend of mine took his own life a few weeks ago.  It absolutely devastated me.  We had worked together, and became incredibly close.  We shared the same birthday, we always stood up for each other.  He was my sounding board when things got rough, and I was the same for him.  He loved my little boy, and often referred to him as "the spud".  He believed in me, and I believed in him, despite what other people said.  He lived his life in a bit of a spotlight.  If you did a web search for that public person, you'd see a lot of words to describe him: Hot-headed, outspoken, substance abuse problems, wildly talented, womanizing, misogynistic and I think there was a certain part of him that was so used to those descriptions that he let himself be that person.  I also think there were demons inside him that drove him to not trust in the good parts, and that let his amazing heart, loyalty to friends, sense of humor, and talent be pushed down into the darkness.  And the darkness lied to him, and convinced him that there was no place in the world for him, and now he's gone.

I've been trying to make sense of it, talking to mutual friends, and trying to reconcile the person that I spoke with a few days before he died with someone so desperate to end the pain that he hung himself to find some peace.

In talking with one friend, the subject of the public mask came up.  We talked about how our friend was not really all those things that the Internet says, at least, not inside. But the mask was more comfortable and easier to maintain than it was to let the pain show.  This mutual friend told me "But, then, you know more about living behind a mask than most."

I had to let that sink in, I had to let it roll around in my head and in my heart for a little while before I could accept that he was absolutely right.  I have masks for different occasions, because the person underneath is hurting and raw and far too tender to trust the general populous to treat me kindly.  In an argument a few weeks ago, my husband snarled something about me being "little miss can-do, who never says what she really feels".

It's hard work, being broken.  We all have our personal tusks that we carry in our right hands.  I think the trick is being able to lay it down long enough to hold the ones who love us close and to let that love encompass and balm the hurting spots.

It's no small secret that the Nields music has been the soundtrack to my life, since I first started listening in 1996.  At least once a day, I sing a little bit of one of their songs, as an example of what I'm feeling at that moment.  I've loved each album for it's own reasons, but "The Full Catastrophe" has taken it to a new level for me.  "Your House Is Strong" has become my anthem.  I sing it to my son, I reassure myself with it.

"Our house is strong, and so are you
It's the broken parts that let the light shine through".

I don't know if what's broken can be fixed.  But I believe I can be strong and honest and true, and I want to be the sort of person that will not make excuses for the pain and the darkness.  It is a part of me, a part of this journey, the challenge is in letting my true face show.

Last season, on "Still an Adult".....

It's been far too long since the last post.  I could give 100 reasons why, and they'd all boil down to the same basic excuse.  I haven't made the time for it and I've been struggling in pretty much every area of my life.

Since 'last season', I:

• Fractured my left ankle. Again.  While breaking my ankle, I also ripped a tendon away from the attach point and am waiting for scheduling of an MRI to figure out exactly how bad the damage seems to be.  This was 10 weeks ago and it's still unstable and painful daily.
• Sprained my right ankle.  Again.  I ended up just sitting down and crying for a while after that one.
• Survived a round of huge layoffs at work.  Scope of work has changed drastically, and there is a general sense of jumpiness around the building - we all seem to be waiting for the other shoe to fall.
• Lost a very dear friend to suicide.  Depression is a horrible, LYING disease that allows our personal demons to get the best of us.  I miss him, every day.
• Had what was probably the best series of time with my Dad that I can remember in my adult life.  Kids don't fix things, but having a common interest that is a constant source of amusement is a pretty great equalizer.
• Had my uterus try to kill me, twice.  Popular medical opinion seems to be a combination of cysts, early menopause, and possibly the replacement IUD.  Two months ago, I landed in the ER, thinking I was having a miscarriage because of the amount of bleeding and pain.  GYN appointment next week where we "discuss options".  In the meantime, I'm seriously anemic and running on fumes.
• Realized that marriage is hard fucking work. (I knew this already).  Hubby and I have been at each other's throats constantly; arguing, resentful, frustrated and just not communicating.  There are days where I refuse to give up, because, well, I refuse to give up.  And then there are the days where I seriously question what I'm trying to save.
• My son is the most amazing person I've ever met.  He's learning new words every day, and has SUCH a personality.  It is an honor to be sharing his life.
• I lost my mind a little and had my hair highlighted with pink and purple.  Atomic pink and Pimpin' Purple, to be exact.
• I reluctantly agreed to speak on a panel at a "women in games" focused industry event.  It went a lot better than I'd anticipated, and I didn't throw up before speaking.  Win!

I keep asking myself the same question - "Why do I write? What do I hope to achieve?" and the answer is always the same.  I'm lonely.  I'm hungry to have a voice that is heard outside of singing the ABC's to my son.  I want to have a tribe.  I want to have a conversation.  But the responsibility for STARTING the conversation falls on me.  I've decided to expand the distribution of new post notification to a wider (but controlled) audience.  I nominally keep this blog anonymous, as I don't want to turn up on search results talking about things like work, abuse, frustration, or depression.

Thanks for reading, and welcome to the "new season", which is a new commitment for more frequent posts and honest conversations with myself, and hopefully with you, as well.

It Takes a Village.....

I've always loved the proverb, "It takes a whole village to raise a child", even before I became a mother.  I think it's actually bigger than that, we all need our villages to keep us sane and happy.  This life is too much to try and tackle on our own.

My personal village includes hairstylist, aesthetician, manicurist, massage therapist, accupuncturist, doctor, and best friend.  I reserve the right to add or subtract when it gets particularly busy in my head.  Just the other day, I mentioned that I'd like to get in contact with my post-partum doula to see if she could come over and hold me while I nap.  A job description like "Mothering the mother" doesn't end just because the baby is a year old, does it?  Based on the way BabyBoy throws himself into sleep with reckless abandon when I'm holding him, it seems like a great way to nap.  First we need a giant rocking chair....

I've started having migraines again, something I really do not want to revisit, but they're back.  I'd like to blame it all on methotrexate, but I know insomnia and stress both contribute, as well as a family and personal history of migraines.  A couple weeks ago, I got about 30 minutes of an aural migraine where my vision was blurring out in little c-shaped chunks before the beast got it's claws in my skull.  I put in an SOS call to my doctor, and called my accupuncturist to beg for a spot.  An hour in a quiet, dark room with specific needle therapy, as well as picking up a prescription for Imitrex got it under control, but I've been on the cusp at least two additional times in the past three weeks.

Yesterday was one of those cusp days.  I ended up cancelling out of afternoon meetings and just going home to take a bath.  It was GLORIOUS.  I sat in a hot bathtub, with bubbly, good smelling lush products in the water until my fingers went pruney.  I drained off the cooling water and refilled it with hot two seperate times, and I read a book in a totally silent house. 

I've come to a realization recently, partially of my own accord, partially from reading a blog post from one of my favorites, and partially at the request/nudging of my best friend.  I really need to find a therapist to talk to.  There's too much going on in my head and in my life, and I hear things through my own filter, which spirals into familiar internal conversations that poison me.  It's time for me to face this and to start to heal, and if I can't do it for myself, I need to do it for the people who depend on me.  I need to do it for my son, my husband and my best friend. 

And I don't know whether
I believe in me
But I still believe in my friends

by David Nields & Nerissa Nields
© 1999, Ambivalent Fins and Peter Quince Productions (ASCAP)

It scares me, my past experiences with therapy have been not-so-great.  From the psychiatrist who had me drugged so heavily that I was completely numb (but, man, I really miss the valium some days) to the psychologist that spent so much time trying to get me to dig through my past that I couldn't find a future, it's never really been an enjoyable experience.  I have a referral from a friend, but that thearpist has a policy in her practice to not see clients that have external relationships.  She gave me the number of a couple other therapists in the area, and I also got a referral from another source.  The thing I have to keep in mind is that I GET TO INTERVIEW these people.  I'm the only one who knows what I need, and how I'm comfortable working, so if it's not a good fit, that's ok!  It's also ok for me to set guidelines about frequency and time of day.  It's hard work, and I need to keep the rest of my life in mind while starting this. 

Being outside your comfort zone is where the magic happens, right?