From Eden's Dirt

Hope through despair. Faith through fear.

Author: Melanie Makovsky (page 1 of 3)

Snooze Button: How my autistic daughter helps me see through the system

My two teens with autism have a knack for completely blowing my mind without really even trying. We certainly have a lot of “normal” days when I’m just me and they’re just them, but at least every couple of weeks or so something happens that causes a window to open, and that window allows me to get a quick glimpse of how their minds work. Most of the time I’m impressed by what I see.

           The intellectual events of my morning today are a great example. My daughter, a high school sophomore, needs me to drive her to school every day. She has an early class that many students choose not to add to their schedules, and her school district does not provide busing that early in the morning. The problem, so to speak, is that she is consistently late for this class, like every day, and this is caused by both her desire to get every last minute of sleep that she possibly can, and morning rush hour traffic.

I’ve been fighting with my own frustration about this since the school year began in mid-August. I didn’t want her to take this class, precisely because I knew I would be required to get her there, which would mean spending the first hours of my weekdays pestering her to get ready, move faster, eat breakfast, etc., so that I could get her there in time for the start of her class. (Side note: Because she is less interested in close friendships and traditional social relationships than her peers, finding a “friend” who could give her a ride proved impossible.) So every weekday, for the past six weeks, I have been begging and coercing her to get out the door on time, and then lecturing her on the importance of being on time for class during the drive.

              This past weekend the school released the “six week progress report,” encouraging parents to be aware of their children’s academic efforts. Of course, such markers as this really aren’t necessary for a number of reasons, not the least of which is the fact that all parents have access to a “parent portal” on the school’s website, where they can view their child’s grades for every assignment in every class on every day of the school year. I could write a whole other post on my thoughts about this, but I’ll save that for another time.

              I went through and checked my kids’ grades at this point, even though I had a pretty good idea of where they were at, because as a parent with this kind of access, it seems to be expected that I do so. As I did this, I examined the grading pattern the instructor uses for my daughter’s first period geography class, the one she is always late for. In this teacher’s grading system, assignments are turned in regularly for grading and are graded in the typical fashion, while “class participation” is graded differently. The teacher allows for a certain number of participation points for each student, and then subtracts points from the number for specific behavioral infractions, including tardiness. Currently, my daughter has a C in this class, but her average grades for turned in assignments are A’s and B+’s. Her participation grade is bringing her down, and the points deducted are all a result of being late for class.

My girl has struggled with her grades since she started middle school four years ago, largely because of missing homework assignments, problems with participating in group work in class, and similar issues. It’s been mind boggling for me because in the process I’ve discovered that she has completed most of the missing homework assignments, but misplaced them or forgot to turn them in. In group work done during class, she participates as much as is required, and nothing more. And every single semester she has lost points in at least one class because of not doing something as simple as getting my signature on a class syllabus and turning it in. As a result of these little infractions, her grades simply do not reflect her understanding of the information she’s learning. Her current grade in first period geography is a case in point. But today, a new idea hit me – So what?

              Because of our children’s intellectual and social differences, along with our religious faith and our own social philosophies, we have made a consistent effort to focus on big picture issues with our children. Having children with autism who are sometimes less capable or less interested in adapting to standard social constructs has caused us, as parents, to think more deeply about the mental, emotional, and cultural implications of these constructs. Whether it’s because they’re autistic or because of their experience as our children, my kids tend to look at social behaviors and question why something is expected of them before they accept it as normal and appropriate. And so, we, as parents, find ourselves examining our own life experiences to figure out why we do what we do, even if what we do is the same as what everyone else does.

Although I’ve been known to use the phrase “because I said so” to simplify the arguments in our home, I don’t really want my kids to blindly conform to a certain behavior or mannerism simply because it’s the general custom, and our family life reflects that. Our teens, in fact, have expressed appreciation for our uniqueness as a family and our value of their individual differences as well. That doesn’t mean that we don’t want them to learn and utilize culturally accepted behaviors, but we do want them to examine whether or not those behaviors conform to their own values and beliefs about God, about themselves, and about others.

              When I considered my daughter’s geography grade this morning, my first reaction was low-grade anger. She is scamming the system. The goal she set for herself for this semester was to keep her grades at a C or higher. She’s capable of better than that academically, and when I noticed that she wasn’t aiming for an A or a B and was allowing a seemingly silly issue like being late for class to bring down what would otherwise have been an A-, I was disappointed and worried that her attitude toward school was somehow inappropriate. But then, by discussing my reactions with my husband, I forced myself to back out a few steps from the issue at hand. What is the purpose of school? Does this traditional grading system provide a good measure of my daughter’s understanding of what she’s learning? Will the information she’s learning be important in her adult life?

              Asking myself questions like this helps me understand why my children choose to do things the way they do. We’ve taught them that the purpose of both school and our parenting efforts is to teach them how to work and behave within society so that they can be independent, happy, and lead a life that they find fulfilling. My daughter’s choice to sacrifice a few points each day from her geography grade in favor of an extra thirty minutes of sleep is legitimate and somewhat intentional on her part. The consequences of consistently getting less sleep than she needs are, in terms of her happiness, behavioral abilities, and comfort, more problematic than the consequences of getting a C instead of an A in geography. And she came to this conclusion without having to overthink it like I did.

So why did it take me so much thought, effort, and emotional energy to come to the same conclusion? The answer is, again, cultural expectations. I, like so many other children of the 1970s and 1980s who are now parents, was taught that I am responsible to shape and manage my own behavior and choices based almost exclusively on the opinions of those around me. If someone seemed angry or upset with me, I needed to change my behavior so that they would like me better, even without confirming whether or not they were truly angry or upset, or whether they were angry or upset with me or for some other reason. My default perspective, the viewpoint that I naturally accept when I don’t take the time to consider other perspectives, is to believe that, if it looks to me like someone is unhappy or angry, and there is any chance at all that I may have caused those feelings in that person, I need to make whatever changes are necessary to change their feelings about me. If someone, anyone at all, was angry or frustrated or disappointed in me, it was entirely my responsibility to change their mind. In short, if someone in my presence was unhappy, I had to behave in such a way as to fix it. Any negative feeling on someone else’s part did, in fact, constitute an emergency on my part.

              Our ability as individuals to communicate our thoughts and feelings more easily and to a much broader audience as the result of new technology has allowed everyday people living everyday lives to speak out, and has given us a voice to support or challenge societal norms and expectations as we confront them. This morning I realized that my daughter’s consistent late arrivals in geography class did not, or should not, make her a bad or irresponsible person in the eyes of others, and that even if they did, her choice to be late reflects her own choice based on her personal value. She chooses to be late, and chooses to allow her grade to be lower, because she values getting enough sleep at night. Whether her geography teacher, or even her parents, think poorly of her because of that choice, is much less important than her need for a consistent amount of sleep. As a chronically tired person, I support that decision completely, and frankly, I’m proud of her for it. So, by extension, I will choose (as much as I can anyway) to ignore my own concerns about the impressions she may be presenting to other people of both herself and myself, as her mom. I may not be able to entirely remove this worry from my mind because of my own childhood conditioning to work hard to make everyone happy, but it’s worth working on.

              What I’m not saying here is that we are amazing parents who naturally taught our kids to stand up for themselves in this way or to choose to honor their personal needs and values above the impressions that others may have about them. On the contrary, it is our two autistic children who have taught us this. How many of our guideposts, ranges of “normal” and “abnormal” behavior, or cultural practices, or body types, or decision-making factors, are built rather arbitrarily from simply determining what the “average” person does or thinks or weighs, and then assuming that we all need to orient ourselves to the average? Is using a demonstrated average ability or position as a guidepost for health or normality really a good way to measure our appropriateness or our value? Why do we so naturally assume that comparing ourselves to others, in any way, is valuable?

I suspect that, because my children have atypical minds and atypical thinking, they have taught me, and could teach others, that our tendency to focus in on a comparatively small range of behavior and consider it normal, and to use that range to determine ways to enforce that normal as the morally correct position, does not always serve humankind very well. It only works sometimes, and we only use it to control ourselves and others. A few generations ago, being Jewish, or black, or female, was considered less than ideal, and that didn’t turn out so well for anyone. While taking away all the measuring sticks could lead to anarchy pretty quickly, on an individual level, each person must consider the appropriateness of the ruler before the determining the appropriateness of its measurement. My autistic kids have taught me this, because they question such things quite naturally, and have an uncanny ability to see straight through societal structures. They ask “why?” while the rest of us jump straight to “how?”. So maybe, if we give people like my kids a voice in our culture, and stop marginalizing them because someone at some point decided that there are margins, all of us could have a lot more peace.

Photos by Jurian Huggins, Josh Felise, Jeremy Bishop, Ridham Nagralawala, Nathan Dumlao, Elen Avivali, and Kaleb Tapp, via Unsplash.

Essentials of Self Care: Rule of Life

This is the fourth post in my Essentials of Self Care series. To read more on this topic, choose one of the following posts:

Sleep

Breathe

Own Your Time

If I had to choose an adjective to describe what life feels like in 2019, I might pick busy, or hurried, or even instant. I’ve been a legal adult for twenty years now, and in that time I’ve observed a steady and alarming progression in the average person’s expectations about how long something should take. For example, twenty years ago my mom had to start her Christmas shopping in October. She had to start that early because the approach of Christmas meant squeezing in shopping trips to the mall or the outlet center, and she already had a busy schedule. If she didn’t want to make the time for one more shopping trip, her other (and sometimes favorite) option was catalog shopping. But to do that she needed to find the type of catalog she needed, find an appropriate gift within it, and then either fill out and mail an order form to the company or call a customer sales phone number and wait on hold for a live person to take her order. And no matter which option she chose, she had to wait for the item she’d order to be prepared, packaged, and shipped, which usually took several weeks.

In contrast from the 90s, I start my Christmas shopping on Black Friday. I rarely buy anything that I need to leave the house for. Most of my shopping happens in one huge Amazon Prime order. I get gifts for everyone that way, because Amazon has pretty much everything, and I don’t have to fix myself up, leave the house, or drive anywhere to get it. I even order most of the stocking stuffers I buy. On Black Friday, or shortly after, I put in one huge Amazon Prime order, click on which of the saved credit cards I want to use for the entire order, and I’m done. I order photo Christmas cards the same way every year from photo storage and gift sites, who often have an option that could allow me to input all the addresses of my Christmas card recipients, so that the company itself will print, address, stamp, and mail all of my cards for me, without me ever even having to touch one on paper.

Amazon, and similar sites that strive to challenge Amazon’s online shopping empire, have taken over so much of our shopping business that small business owners, or even franchised brick-and-mortar store owners, are struggling to survive. The fact that we even have that term, brick-and-mortar stores, speaks to our growing need for instant retail gratification. Interestingly, even though we don’t yet have our hands on the new prize, we get that instant gratification at the point that we order it. “Add to cart” is therapeutic, and when that package shows up on my front porch, its like a shopping orgasm.

Believe me, I’m not about to preach at you about buying local or supporting small businesses. I mean, you should, and so should I, but obviously I fall into the instant gratification trap too, and not just with retail therapy. Five years ago I was obese, a result of several years of bingeing on sugary, fatty, and salty foods. King-size candy bars worked better and faster than antidepressants.

As important as all these things are, I’m not going to write an entire post about things you shouldn’t do, at least not this time. If I’ve learned anything from parenting autistic kids and being a former binge eater, it’s that people eliminate unhealthy behaviors a lot more easily when they can focus on adding healthy ones. That’s where the concept of a Rule of Life comes in.

I first encountered the idea of a Rule of Life in Ruth Haley Barton’s book Sacred Rhythms: Arranging Our Lives for Spiritual Transformation, but Barton didn’t invent the term. A Rule of Life originally referred to a set of guidelines for monastic life. The C.S. Lewis institute describes Rule of Life as “an intentional pattern of spiritual disciplines that provides structure and direction for growth in holiness.” In other words, it’s a commitment to engage regularly in a routine of spiritual disciplines with the goal of growing closer and closer to God.

In a previous post in my Essentials of Self Care series I suggested that we can better ensure that we are living according to our personal values and priorities by analyzing our day-to-day schedules and routines and then adjusting them until the things we spend the most time on are a reflection of those values. It’s a simple concept, but it isn’t easy to achieve because there are countless sources of stimulation that fight for our attention all day long. A Rule of Life can be one way to adapt our lives toward our values, or more specifically, toward a continually deepening relationship with our Creator God. No matter how much we do to practice Christian values, no matter how many ministries we volunteer for, no matter how many times we talk to someone about Jesus, if we don’t build a deeply personal connection with God, our faith is at risk. So yes, I’m talking about reading your Bible, about praying, about your “quiet time”. You can go to Bible studies and prayer meetings (please do!), but no group event or ministry can serve as a substitute for a daily personal connection with our Lord.

There are roughly a bajillion Bible verses that describe the importance of a personal relationship with God. (For starters, try John 1:10-13, Jeremiah 29:11, Revelation 3:20, and Hebrews 11:6.) Believers tend to throw around that term, “a personal relationship with God,” without clearly defining it, but you can get a better idea of what a personal relationship with God looks like if you replace “God” with a flesh and blood person’s name. For example, I know for sure that I want to have a personal relationship with my husband. Although Eric definitely isn’t God, I love him, I want to continue loving him, and I want to do things that build up our love for each other and the relationship we’ve built for the last twenty years. That describes, vaguely anyway, what I see as the goal of a continually deepening personal relationship with Eric. The next question I can ask myself is “What can I do on a regular basis to make our love for each other last and to continually grow in closeness and love with each other?”

The answers to that question would depend on Eric’s individual characteristics, along with my own, and actions and words that I know from our past together can bring us closer together. The things on this list, and the commitment to practice them on a regular and frequent basis, would be a “rule of life” for my marriage.

Just as my list of practices that deepen my relationship with my husband are likely different than yours, our Rules of Life that guide our committed daily connection with God will differ as well. But there are some essential qualities that define a rule of life, as well as essential practices that God teaches us to use as we walk with Him everyday.

To begin with, the concept of a Rule of Life implies a commitment to practice a set of spiritual disciplines, or to do certain relationship-building things, on a daily basis. In her book Barton provides her own Rule of Life as an example, but not an exact model. Barton’s Rule of Life consists of a daily routine of “quiet time” with God, but also includes weekly and monthly commitments for longer periods of focused time alone with God. So, while your daily Rule of Life practice might consist of Bible reading, devotional reading, and prayer every morning, it’s also a good idea to include actions like Sabbath practice, personal retreats, and periods of quiet, that can connect you more deeply and for longer periods of time with our Father.

My Rule of Life includes daily Bible reading, both in the context of a topical study and a Bible-in-a-year reading plan.  The Bible isn’t a history textbook, a poetry collection, or a good novel, and God never intended us to read it once and put it back on the shelf. Unlike any other book, the Bible is God’s revelation to us of who He is. Just as you wouldn’t expect to remain close to a friend without listening to his words, you can’t stop reading God’s Word to you. No matter how many times you’ve read it, even every word, spending time reading your Bible everyday will never be a waste (Isaiah 55:11). So make daily Bible reading not just a goal, but a unwavering commitment.

I do take advantage of daily devotional books, and for the last years I have found that reading through certain devotional writings by calendar day every year helps to connect me with God’s story in my own life. I’ve been reading Charles Spurgeon’s Morning and Evening every year for about ten years now, and I continue to gain insight and awe from his reflections. If you want to use a devotional but don’t know what to pick, I would suggest starting with a well-loved classic like Spurgeon’s or My Utmost for His Highest, by Oswald Chambers. Then, in addition to a classic devotion book, find a newer book that appeals to you by its topic, intended audience, goal, or writing style.

Prayer, meditation, and writing are also essentials for me, because they engage not just my eyes on the page and my knowledge of God’s character, but my own response to what He has shown me, both by His Word and by my relentless daily connection with Him. Both prayer and meditation open my heart and mind to God, and just as significantly, close my mind to outside distractions. That’s easier said than done, of course. There are many days when my daily time with God is interrupted by children, pets, a to-do list, an oven timer, or a phone notification. Eliminate and reduce distractions as much as you can – turn off your phone, close the door, find something to keep the kids busy, and let the people around you know that this part of your time is for God alone. But know also that God recognizes that you aren’t in control of what is going on around you, and in this too there is forgiveness. The more often you practice this time of quiet, mindful prayer the more those around you will see its value in your life, and the better you’ll get at reducing any interference.

For now anyway, I’m not going to attempt to tell you how to pray, how to meditate, or how and what to write during your time with God. These practices are deeply personal, deeply emotional, and deeply individual. Who am I to say that what I get out of prayer journaling is any better than what you get out of, say, praying the rosary? I can’t, because God knows us so well that not only does He listen to any type of dedicated prayer, but I believe He actually wants you to pray in the way that is most meaningful and connected for you. God isn’t limited to only certain types of communication.

If you’re at a loss and simply can’t find a method of prayer that connects you to God, know that I’ve been there too, more than once. There have been periods of dryness in my connection with God when prayer feels like talking to the ceiling. In hindsight I’ve realized that this often happens when I am withholding something about myself that God wants to change, but that may not be the case for you. So if you need me to tell you what to do, try this: silence. Schedule your prayer time for a time when you can be completely alone, with as little noise and distraction as possible. Get up at 2AM, pray, and go back to sleep if that’s all that works for you. Find your silence, set yourself up to stay both comfortable and alert, and then close your eyes, asking God to speak to you. Breathe deep and wait for a while. See what happens. It’s not easy.

Above all, a Rule of Life is a commitment to learn and grow with intentional action and thought. If you’ve ever learned a skill by hand – playing an instrument, running a marathon, riding a bike, or fixing a car – you know that commitment, attention, and routine can come together to give you a deeper understanding and a closer relationship, even with an action or object. A Rule of Life connects us with God in a similar way, but unlike a bike or a trail or a violin, God is waiting to connect with us in a love relationship that can grow infinitely deeper and more beautiful.

Photos by Clark Young, Jan Kolar, Luisa Scheting, Ben White, Heather Mount, Samantha Sofia, and Aaron Burde via Unsplash.

Just Before Dawn

(a poem)

How good it is when people praise

with grasses green and sunny days,

when all is calm and all is bright

there is no fear of darker nights.

But when heaven’s comforts are on earth

what value has the Savior’s birth?

If from earthly burdens freed

what more of heaven would we need?

How good it is when people groan

longing for a joy unknown,

when life is pain and bodies weak,

the present dark, the future bleak.

For without hurt and fear and loss

what value is the Savior’s cross?

If there were no reason for His death

singing praise would be a waste of breath.

Perhaps the darkness on this earth

can show us what the light is worth.

Hatred, poverty, disease, and sin

can mark the spot where the light begins.

When pain is constant and grief profound,

when our feet are tired, and we hit the ground,

then on our knees, we look up and find

Love excelling, Love divine.

  • May 1, 2019

Photos by Ryan Hutton and Solaiman Hossen via Unsplash

Shifting Gears

When I turned 16, my parents planned to purchase a used car from a friend of my dad’s and have me pay for a portion of it, so that I would have my own car to drive myself to and from school, band practice, voice lessons, and all the other countless things I spent my time on. But I only ended up driving that car once, and it wasn’t on the road.

The problem was that the car didn’t have an automatic transmission, which meant that I had to learn to drive with a stick shift. I was daunted by the idea, but my dad assured me that it would just take practice and eventually it would become second nature. So one summer day I let my dad take me in the car up to one of our farm fields for my first lesson on manual shift driving.

It didn’t go well. In short, I tried it, but I had trouble with the timing of hitting the floor-pedal clutch while also shifting the gears with my hand, and watching the road, and knowing that an automatic vehicle wouldn’t require this of me, I wasn’t willing to practice. After only a few attempts, I gave up, arguing that it was a useless skill for me, since I couldn’t foresee any need for me to learn to shift gears manually.

I’ve been gone from the blog for a while. I did a little writing here and there, but mostly I just got consumed by other things going on around me. Life, for me anyway, has an automatic transmission. God knows when the gears will shift, but for me it comes as a total surprise, and usually with a pretty big jolt.

At the end of April of this year, the gears shifted, and I received one of the biggest jolts of my life.

My father’s side of my family carries a genetic mutation that leads to Early Onset Alzheimers Disease. I’ve known this definitively since March of 2006, when my father received the results of a genetic test after his own Alzheimers diagnosis at age 50. But, in a lot of other ways, I’ve known this since I was seven years old.

I remember my grandfather, my father’s father, better than my younger brother and cousins, but what I remember is that he was different, and I could tell. I remember a distinct memory of sitting in his lap and asking him to read me a book, one I knew well. But instead of reading the words, he made up a story based on the pictures, and I recognized then that he couldn’t read. There are other moments that stick out too – my grandmother getting frustrated with him when he put on two different shoes and refused to change them, some oddly placed comments and outbursts at holiday gatherings, and eventually, his inability to talk or even look at me, as he sat in a “jerry chair” at a nursing home where he received little to no care.

I also remember a night in November. My younger brother and I were both trying to squeeze into my dad’s armchair, and play-wrestling in the process, and he managed to knock out one of my loose teeth. We were laughing about this, and then the phone rang.

My grandmother was at our house as well, though I don’t remember why. My father answered the phone, but the caller evidently asked to speak with my grandmother. When my grandmother took the phone, she burst into tears, and I knew Grandpa had died. He was 56.

I saw and even touched my grandfather several more times after that, which I will describe in greater detail in my upcoming book (more on that another time). But even though I remembered so little about him, I saw his disease and his death as something that wasn’t really over. Later, when I learned that his younger sister was also inflicted with Alzheimers, I knew that this was pretty accurate, and upon my father’s diagnosis, when I was already in my early 20s and had two small children, I knew that God had been preparing me all along.

My grandfather’s death promoted my first attempt at prayer. We weren’t a church going family then, and I knew little about the Bible or about Jesus Christ, but I wanted to talk to God because then maybe Grandpa would still be listening to me. My father’s illness, though, came at a time when I had a strong faith and had received the grace of Christ into my life, but I was also struggling. My two babies, then one and two years old, were challenging me, my husband was gone about twelve hours a day for work, and I had no one nearby to talk to. The babies consumed my energy, and my depression and anxiety were just barely in check.

The news, that time, came as a confirmation of something that I already knew – my grandfather’s disease had also been his sister’s disease, his father’s disease, and it was now my father’s disease. I realized that, over time, I had come to believe that it was a genetic disease, even before I knew anything about genetics. I believe now that God allowed me to know, even as a young child, that my father would get this disease.

I also believe that the news I received at the end of this past April was also something I’ve known since I was a young child.

I am a carrier of a genetic mutation on the 14th chromosome, called the PSEN1 mutation. While there are some genetic conditions that only make a person more likely to develop Alzheimers, PSEN1 is definitive. I will have Alzheimers Disease, and I do have Alzheimers Disease.

I am 38. I will likely die in less than twenty years.

Yes, of course I know that God can miraculously heal me, either through the brilliant scientists who are desperately searching for a cure, or by simply touching my body Himself. Yes, I pray for that. But there is a line that I need to draw between praying for a miracle and expecting one. God hates that I’m carrying this disease, that I have symptoms now, even while I’m still raising my children. Yet disease, it seems, is a part of the curse of humanity, a curse that we chose ourselves.

My disease was there from the beginning, embodied as a snake in the Garden of Eden. When Eve, and then Adam, chose to accept the idea that God may have lied to them, they also accepted a curse on behalf of all humankind. Genesis says that this first sin committed by the first woman and man, unleashed all sin, and humanity’s propensity for it (Gen. 3:22-24). From this beginning, women were cursed with painful childbirth and a longing to be loved and cared for by another (3:16), and men were called to work, to toil, and to put forth great effort and strength, to produce food for themselves and their families, sometimes with little or no results (3:17-19). And, in verse 19, God throws in one last promise that is true for every single person who ever lived, including me:

“You will eat bread by the sweat of your brow until you return to the ground, since you were taken from it. For you are dust, and you will return to dust” (Gen. 3:19).

To quote Kansas, “all we are is dust in the wind.”

I have no doubts of God’s love for me, or for my father or grandfather, and I have no doubts in his ability and desire to miraculously heal me. But I also know that I’m a sinner. I know that that, like PSEN1, I was born with genetics that guaranteed that I would be a sinner. I know that Jesus Christ died and rose to take away the consequences of my sin, and I love Him more than ever now as I anticipate the time when I will meet Him face to face. But, even though my sins are forgiven, as a human person I still face consequences for them. Short of a God-given miracle, I, like everyone else living in this time, will die.

So prayers for a miracle and for a cure (which is a miracle) are happening, and being actively worked for, but they are secondary for me. I am hoping for a miracle, but I am not expecting one. Instead, I am preparing to invest my life in my faith, to make sure that my actions and words serve as an accurate witness,  that I fill my children with my love while reminding them that I can only love because God loved me first (1 John 4:19), and, gosh darn it, I’m going to enjoy every flippin’ minute of the time I have.

Plans are being made, and actions are being taken that were once only ideas. We adopted a dog. We looked at real estate in Colorado. My husband told his Naval command that his next tour would be his last (four years to go!). I quit my job. We’re planning vacations and tattoos (they’re usually equally exciting to me). I’m redesigning our home’s interior to my liking, just because I want to. And I’m writing a book.

I am not the skydiving type, but I am diving into everything I can of God’s creation, His people, and His plans for me. Having a finish line has narrowed the course of my race.

Please stay with me through this. I want to know that my words are helping people think and dream and love. I want a way to express the emotions that will come up as I feel myself forgetting, deteriorating. I am putting myself out there, the real me who God intended, so that when I’m gone, my words will still be here. I’m not abandoning the other topics and series that I’ve begun here; in fact they may be even more significant to me now. But my true desire, now, is to be an advocate. My kids, now, have just as much a chance of carrying this disease as I did and do. But, if we speak out about the pain it causes, the lives it changes, and the damage it does, the efforts to find a cure will receive more funding for greater levels of research for a cure.

Thank you.

Photos by Dylan Gillis, Tom Doerfler, Alexander Andrews, Mat Reding, Veeterzy (with Adobe Spark), Deanna Ritchie, and Pedro Lima.

A Calling to Stewardship: We’ve paved paradise and filled it with trash.

As a kid, I took for granted the idea that our food, in some way or another, came from the land. I grew up on a farm that my family owned for three generations, so food, and the land that produced it, was literally all around me. It was a long time before I really thought about the fact that not everyone could pick a peach off a tree and eat it in August, or an apple in September, or a pumpkin in October. That was everyday reality for me.

I also learned pretty quickly that just because my dad knew how to coax a plant or tree to produce berries or fruit didn’t mean he had complete control. Peach trees would blossom in the early spring, but a shift to colder weather could bring frost in April, killing the blossoms and the fruit that would have grown from them.

God created the earth and its fruit for our use (Gen. 2:15), and mankind’s very first sin was to abuse that gift through disobedience. But instead of taking back the land He’d created from nothing, God instead put it into our hands to care for and toil over. The land is still our food, whether we grow a tomato ourselves or buy sauce in a can at the grocery store. Yet, with each generation and advancement in agriculture, food production and packaging, distribution, and availability we’ve become more physically separated from the land itself. We haven’t just stopped visiting farms. Most of the time we don’t even know where to find one.

It’s the same with the untamed land around us. Wilderness is hard to even imagine sometimes. As our population grows, so does our need for homes, schools, stores, and businesses. We’ve set nature aside so that what land we have that isn’t consumed by the needs of people is segregated into public parks and preserves, many of which are tamed to meet our needs as well. We take out the nature to add parking lots, bathrooms, souvenir shops. We pave walking trails so that they’re easier on our feet.

None of this is wrong, but it is unsustainable.

When I give one of my kids a gift, particularly one that costs me valuable time and money, I’m hurt when they don’t treat it as a valuable possession. My youngest son loves stuffed animals and values them more than his other toys. He wakes up with back or neck pain some mornings because he sleeps with so many that he runs out of room to lay down comfortably. So when I find one of his stuffies dirty, left out in the rain, or lost altogether, it hurts my feelings a bit. He says he loves it, he plays with it, and he uses it, but despite that he has failed to properly care for it and protect it.

In recent years God has opened my eyes to see that, like my son and his stuffed animals, we tend to use His gifts to us to satisfy our own desires without also taking responsibility to ensure that they are properly cared for. I am annoyed when I go to an amusement park or outdoor eating area and find the trash can overflowing, spilling dirty paper cups and plastic spoons onto the ground, but I don’t take the time to connect that thought to where all this trash will go after someone cleans it up — to a landfill that covers acres of ground, and is itself overflowing.

When I finish eating I go to a big box store. I buy myself a t-shirt because it’s cute and only costs $5. I don’t think about the other 20 cute t-shirts I already own, how easily the thin fabric will tear, leading me to throw this t-shirt in the trash bin, then the garbage truck, then the landfill. I don’t consider whether or not this t-shirt may have been sewn by a child younger than my own, working in a sweatshop, who may never be able to afford the $5 t-shirt that I’ll only wear twice.

It’s big, this problem. It’s everywhere. It hurts to think about it. It makes me want to plug my ears, close my eyes, and pretend I don’t know it’s there.

Which is exactly what we’ve been doing for about the last six generations.

It’s time to stop.

*This is the first post of my new series, A Calling to Stewardship. I invite you to help me treasure the world God created for use and commanded us to work (Gen. 3:19). Let me open your eyes so that you too can see the love of your Creator in every rock, every tree, every animal, and every person.*

Art based on The Lion King produced by tigon at DeviantArt, with my words added.

In Dreams I Rise

(a poem)

In dreams I rise.

Not fly. Not soar.

Just rise.

Suddenly, magically,

By no effort of my own,

I am taken up. Weightless.

But I can still see the ground.

I float out of a busy church,

Then down a city street, three stories up.

No one sees. No one cares.

Their lives continue on the ground,

But I am free.

In the sky I am never weary.

I don’t need to analyze every thought or feeling.

There is no need to think of sorrows,

Of imperfect relationships,

Of pain.

When I float I have no fear of dementia,

Or addiction, or mental illness.

I am alone in the sky; there is no expectation of sanity.

In rising my muscles will never grow sore,

My head won’t ache, I won’t grow dizzy.

I will never wake up in the dark, scared and upset,

Coated in sweat like paint, yet frozen in a coldness that comes from fear.

There’s no need for sleep in the sky.

On earth I am heavy, hurt, weak, and afraid.

When I rise I am carried in graceful hands.

On the ground I toil, carrying my burdens in my mind and body.

I carry rocks for people who can’t carry their own,

And the fight, and the weight of expectations and responsibility grind me slowly and painfully into the ground.

Gravity itself is my sorrow.

The sky, you see, is where I belong,

And my cells are homesick.

Someday I will rise and never come down.

Until then I will walk.

Written by Melanie Makovsky

Photos by Bryan Minear, Ankush Minda, Palash Jain, and Alessio Lin.

My Snowy Day

Have you ever read The Snowy Day by Ezra Jack Keats? It’s a beautiful picture book that I loved reading to my children when they were younger. In all of Keats’ books, both the art and the story reflect the joy and wonder of childhood in their simplicity, while also showing the struggle that a child must navigate as he begins to encounter his own need to adjust emotionally to the world’s imperfections.

In The Snowy Day, a little boy named Peter is overjoyed to wake up to find a deep covering of snow blanketing his urban neighborhood. As you might suspect, he is immediately drawn to the magic of the snow, running out into its depths in his little red snowsuit. He plays alone, performing the little scientific experiments that young children use so openly as they explore their world. He whacks a snow-covered tree with a stick until a pile of snow falls onto his head. He makes footprints in patterns. And, of course, he rolls snowballs.

Yet, after some time, Peter grows tired of his games and uncomfortable in the cold, and wants to go back to his warm home. Yet the snow is precious and new and fun, and he doesn’t want to leave it either. In his dilemma, he decides to roll a small snowball, just big enough to fit in his coat pocket, and then he goes inside. After a warm bath, however, Peter is dismayed to find that his snowball has disappeared, leaving only a wet coat pocket behind.

This weekend, by the grace of God and my husband, Eric, I am spending time alone at a retreat center located near the beach in San Diego. (I’m not going to tell you where exactly. This place is my secret piece of heaven, and I don’t want to share.) I’m here to rest, read, pray, and recharge my batteries, and I get to be here all the way until Monday. This, to me, is the ultimate measure of selfcare, not quite a vacation, but an indulgence in my own inner world, with time to fill only with the things that feed my soul. But the hard part, the damper on my private party, is that, on Monday, I will, in fact, go home.

I came here once before not quite two years ago, and it was one of the best things I’d ever done for myself. Solo retreats are an amazing way to get in touch with God and listen to the leading of the Holy Spirit, and the idea is that, after my God-and-me honeymoon, I can return home with a fresh outlook and a cleansed spirit. And, after my last visit here, that did happen. But my launch back into reality didn’t feel too good after my return home. I pulled in the driveway with an indescribable peace in my heart, and I was anxious to embrace my kids and my husband, to give them the new, best self that I’d uncovered. Then I opened the front door.

All three kids and my husband were home, and all 3 were in full, energetic swing. My elder son had an appointment that day to tour a meterological station in partial fulfillment of a Boy Scout merit badge. When I walked in, he needed to be there in ten minutes, and the station was twenty minutes away. Eric was trying to help him focus on what he needed to wear and bring along, as well as the types of questions he should ask, and in the midst of this my younger son was playing, chattering, and requesting attention. My daughter, who attended an online middle school at the time, was using her school-issued computer, struggling to complete her work in all the commotion. I was dismayed to say the least. All of this was (is) just a typical day in our crazy family life, but after my three days in solitude, the impact of this uproar on my sensory systems was overwhelming. I was able to greet everyone with hugs and kisses and listen to their reports of events that happened while I was gone, but within a few hours, my mind and body shut down. I ended up in bed with a multi-day migraine.

As I sit here again now, the discomfort of that reunion and the frustration I felt toward myself and toward my normal life sits in my mind, and I know I want to avoid that shock on Monday. But I don’t know how to translate the peace and tranquility I experience in this environment into the everyday life I lead. My precious snowball of solitude and quiet can only survive under the right conditions. When I take it out of its natural environment, it will melt. Like Peter, all I’ll have left is a wet pocket.

Learning to balance caring for others, caring for myself, growing my relationship with God and allowing Him to determine the values I will live out, and trying to enjoy the whole process is a never-ending balancing act. I am constantly questioning where and when one of these priorities should stop and another should begin. Ultimately I should be living them all out simultaneously, and certainly I am, but the time factor eludes me. When I need to practice my care for others, should I be sitting down, playing a game or having a talk with my kids? Going on a date with my husband? Keeping my house clean? Cooking a favorite meal? Planning and executing a family outing? Am I really caring for them if I’m cooking a meal and they’re in the other room? Since I’m pretty much the only one in the house who likes things clean and organized, is sweeping the floor an act of caring for my family, or caring for myself? When I’m feeling tired, sick, or resentful, should I continue sweeping the floor because I love them, or should I take a break? Is it too self-indulgent to take a 3 hour nap on Sunday afternoon? Is Eric out there in the living room thinking I’m lazy and growing resentful because I’m napping and he’s not? I definitely see the wisdom in putting on my own self care oxygen mask first before helping others, but I never seem to get enough air. Perhaps if I stopped overthinking it all I could breathe more deeply.

Like Peter, I want to keep my snowball. Having just the snowball isn’t quite as great as having all the snow, but keeping it means that I have a piece of that joy to hold onto any time I want. But, just as Peter wasn’t able to keep the snowball from melting in the warmth of his house, I can’t seem to carry the warmth and peace that I receive in solitude into my active life and my relationships. It disintegrates.

I want to know the secret to keeping the snowball. I want my self care practices to enhance and give depth and meaning to my work and my relationships. Instead I feel like the busyness of life too quickly drains my supply of inner peace.

For now, though, I will stop worrying about how to hang onto the snowball. For the next three days, I’ll just enjoy the snow.

Photo by Aaron Burden. Pictures by Ezra Jack Keats.

Essentials of Self Care: Own Your Time

This is the third installment in my Essentials of Self Care series. To view the earlier installments, choose a link:

Essentials of Self Care: Sleep

Essentials of Self Care: Breathe

Essentials of Self Care: Rule of Life.

I’ve written a lot about self care in the past. It’s important to me because I want others to know what I didn’t. I believe that one of the reasons I now suffer from chronic illnesses, mental and physical, is that I didn’t make time for self care in my earlier years as an adult, and especially after I became a mother. It wasn’t until I developed chronic migraines and other pain that anyone told me that self care needed to be more than remembering to eat right, brush my teeth, and take a shower once in a while.

In the fall of 2016, after several months of extreme anxiety, constant head and muscle pain, dizziness, and nausea, I saw my current primary care doctor for the first time. She asked me about my life, and the first thing I told her was that I was the at-home mother of two teens with autism. I didn’t get to tell her any more. She stopped me, saying, “No wonder you have migraines. I think all of this is happening because of constant stress and anxiety. Your body can’t manage it anymore.” I don’t tell you this here to make the claim that all chronic illness and pain is a result of stress. But stress is a big complicating factor, and it seems like so many people, myself included, feel stressed, but don’t feel like they have the time to relieve it. It’s not that I don’t want stress relief, it’s that any time that I spend caring for myself is time that I don’t spend doing something else that’s important. Like so many other women, I put my own needs last.

Self Portrait

I made changes after that, but I’ve come to the conclusion that, while self care allows me to cope with and enjoy my life, it’s too late for me to be completely healthy again. God may work a miracle for me, and I pray for one often. I am not discounting His desire and ability to make me well. But accepting that my body is tired helps me feel like my self care is worthwhile.

I don’t want others to get to this point where I am. I’m 37 right now, but I often joke that it feels like 87. I’m tired to the point of exhaustion almost all the time; in fact, if I don’t feel tired I tend to worry about what might be wrong. I take 10 pills every morning. While many other women are in much worse condition, I can emphatically tell you that I regret not allowing myself the time for proper self care, especially the kind that provides a release from tension and anxiety.

Here’s What I Wish I’d Known:

You own your time. Every hour of every day in this comparably short life is yours to invest. God has entrusted us with years of life here, and those years are made up of hours. I may be stating the obvious here, but this is something I didn’t know, or chose to ignore, for most of my adult life, and especially after I had children. But I chose that. Or it could be said that I chose not to own my time, allowing all the things around me to own it instead, and in my mind, I had no choice but to be dragged along behind the flow of my own life.

But there are 3 things you can accept and act on if you’re going to make the minutes of your life purposeful and healthy.

Time will pass whether you’re mindfully living your life by faith or allowing the flow to sweep you where it will. In Ecclesiastes, Solomon writes, “All the streams flow to the sea, yet the sea is never full; to the place where the streams flow, there they flow again.” Don’t get caught in the cycle of the tides. Instead, try this:

1. Know your values.

If you can’t clearly define what you value, chances are you aren’t valuing those things. Our values are what shape us, and without them, our efforts are futile, or at least misplaced (Ecclesiastes 2:21).

Spend time in thought, prayer, and meditation, asking God to show you what is most valuable to you and what putting these things first would look like in your life. Give this time. I suggest several days of thought and prayer. When you feel like you know your answer, write down 3-5 values that God is calling you to live your life by. It may help to post this list somewhere where you will see it often.

2. Examine your current investments.

Take out your planner, datebook, Google Calendar, or whatever you use to keep track of your personal schedule. Page backwards. What did you spend most of your time on over the last days, weeks, and months? What values do these things convey? Think about the things you don’t write down as well — sleep, meals and meal preparation, self care, child care, carpools, and commutes. Where is your time going? Do most of your activities accurately reflect your values, or does your calendar represent your preoccupations?

Come up with a way to ensure that the majority of your time is used doing things that contribute to and build upon your values and the things you most love.



3. Leave a margin.

Even when you’ve adjusted your schedule and your lifestyle to properly invest in what you most value, it’s essential to plan for down time. It sounds a bit paradoxical, but if you fill every hour of your time and don’t leave plenty of blank space in your life, you’ll burn out. Leaving margin in your schedule allows a space for the unexpected, whether that ends up being taking your kids out for pizza or sitting in unexpected traffic. Down time is also a great way to ensure that you can invest in self care when you need it most.

God calls us all to intentionally live in a way that reflects His love to others, and also to ourselves. You may believe that certain actions are valuable, and are what God intends for your life, but if your day-to-day activities don’t reflect that, it means that you’re putting other things ahead of them. Just as important, if you’re spending all of your time chasing after what you value, and none of it caring for yourself and enjoying what you already have, you’ve missed the point.

Allow God to show you where He wants you to invest your precious energy, and when He wants you to rest and recharge. He doesn’t call us to a life of endless toil and striving. He calls us to a life of peace.

Photos by Kristopher Roller, Daoudi Aissa, Mikito Tateisi, and Milada Vigerova via Unsplash.

“In Any and All Circumstances: Beth March, Bungee Jumping, and Finding Contentment”

I haven’t written any posts in quite a while, and it wasn’t a planned break. It wasn’t anything traumatic that stopped me, or perhaps, depending on the perspective I take, it was a whole season of trauma. I am always full of contradiction.

Sometimes I tell people it’s all physical. I tell them that my emotions are currently unbalanced because my hormones are currently unbalanced. Other times I say that that my hormones are unbalanced and I experience varying types of chronic pain because of my emotions; I have a genetic predisposition to depression and anxiety, that, when coupled with many traumatic experiences interspersed across my lifespan, created a recipe for a body and mind that are more decrepit than the number of my years would normally determine.

But in my own private thoughts, I am dying.

Before I get concerned comments and emails, I am not revealing a cancer diagnosis or a death sentence or a desire to commit suicide. There is still no medical diagnosis, root cause, or overarching explanation for the pain I experience, mentally and physically. That’s what offers me the opportunity to alter my description of my physical and mental insufficiency. There is no name for this, and that seems to lend itself to a certain amount of poetic license.

A few months ago I found an old, tattered copy of Little Women. It was a relic I’d saved from childhood that came from a thick plastic zipper-bag one year for Christmas, ordered by my mother from my Scholastic Book Order. I received it along with many other childhood treasures, most of which were more precious to me than Little Women. Heidi and The Secret Garden and Anne of Green Gables are all still around somewhere too, and these three each experienced multiple readings over only a few years’ time. But Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy sat on my bookshelf for a number of years before I had the courage to pick it up, and even then I’m not sure that I finished it. Coming-of-age stories were always a favorite, but I had a hard time relating to any of the four sisters, and the length of the book itself was daunting. Yet I understood its value enough to keep it.

When I found it again a few months ago I was eager to read it, and I did. I stayed up late to find out if Meg’s marriage would survive, despite realizing that Alcott’s perspective was way too optimistic for it not to. I grew frustrated with Amy’s selfishness and materialism, rolling my eyes at her as if she were my own sister. And of course I skipped ahead to see whether Jo and Laurie would end up together. What surprised me most, however, was that, at 37 years old, I did feel a connection with one of these young girls, even though she was perhaps the youngest at heart. I began to feel like Beth.

While the other sisters grow and change, Beth seems frozen in time, growing in knowledge and character, but not in ambition or striving. She’s happy to learn the womanly arts designated to her sex and rarely complains, but also shows great talent at various artistic endeavors, especially music. She never seems childish, yet plays with dolls well into her upper teenaged years, when her sisters are “coming out.” What I related to, however, was her illness. I couldn’t put a finger on why I felt such affection for her until late in the story, when she finally confesses to Jo that, even without an obvious medical condition, she knows that she will soon die. In her own words, she tells her sister that she has never had the desire or the willingness to look toward the future that the other three were now welcoming, that she felt no need to seek a husband or even to venture much beyond the house, because in some way, whether she chose to acknowledge it or not, she has always known that she would die while she was young. And soon after this talk with Jo, she does so, with no regrets, and with contentment of knowing that she is on her way to meet her Savior.

I’m 37, so I’m almost 20 years older than sweet Beth is at the time of her death, but I admire her contentment. I relate to Beth because I feel older than my years, and because I often find myself living under the assumption that my life will be shorter than average. There is a real logical explanation for this. Members of my father’s family carry (and carried) a genetic mutation that causes Early Onset Alzheimers. Like the more commonly known form of Alzheimers Disease, EOAD involves a gradual deterioration of the brain over time which results in the gradual loss of memory and ability, eventually disabling the immune system in a way that generally leads to death. Like the common form of Alzheimers, EOAD shortens the patient’s lifespan. Unlike the common form of Alzheimers, however, EOAD isn’t something that affects the elderly only. “Early Onset” means exactly what it says. People can get it in their 30s, and it’s aggressive, and fast.

Most of the members of my father’s family had symptoms beginning in their late 40s and were diagnosed around age 50. All of them were dead before they turned 60.

I’m not great at math, but that means that if I am a carrier of this gene mutation, I am now well past halfway through my life, and I may only have about one decade left before I begin my decline. Or I could even have Alzheimers Disease now.

I’ve had MRIs of my brain, and the various doctors that I see are aware of my propensity to develop AD. I am involved in a widespread scientific study of the disease that includes genetic counseling. I have not yet chosen to find out whether or not I have the problematic gene mutation. I want to know, but I’m scared. It’s been almost a year since I first met with a genetic counselor, and at that time I told her that I would probably follow through with the test as soon as I was ready. But every time I think I’m ready, I’m not. When I think about having this blood test done, I imagine myself like a bungee jumper standing on the edge of a platform, ready to jump. The platform is small, and there’s a lot of falling to do. But it isn’t the fall itself that’s risky for me.

The difference between me and the bungee jumper is that, until I jump, I don’t know whether or not I’ll come back up.

Saying goodbye to 2018 this week was a relief for me, because this has been a year of weariness. Weary was the word of the year for me. I am weary of my health problems, weary of worrying about them and about how much worse they may be. I am weary of my children’s struggles with autism, ADHD, anger, and depression. I am weary of listening to them argue. I am weary of feeling chronically and interminably tired. And I’m really weary of Fortnite dances.

I’m aware that turning the page on the calendar doesn’t mean any of this will go away. Fortnite dances, it seems, are a way of life now, and it certainly doesn’t do anything about my genetic status. But what it can change, if I act on it, is my perspective on my life. I am weary, yes, and that’s OK, it’s even understandable. But my complaint about my kids’ obsession with Fortnite applies to me too. My attention is in the wrong place. I am focused on my end game, on my misfortune, on counting the years I have left. I am focused on my tiredness and my inability to fix my kids’ problems or make them easier to handle.

Instead I need to focus on today, on January, on 2019. I need to see what I have and want it, and realize that what I don’t have I don’t want. I need to stop counting what I have left and start counting the days I’ve had, the blessings my Heavenly Father has rained down upon me. I need to stop allowing my exhaustion to frustrate me and start being thankful and proud of all that I’ve accomplished today.

I need to realize that I am satisfied. There is no need that I have that my God has not already fulfilled. If I believe that there is, then I am only dooming myself to feel that my life and I are totally, incurably inadequate. And if I’m going to die (and I am, whether it be at 37, 57, or 107), that’s not the way I want to feel in the end.

I want to greet God on my knees in praise and thankfulness, not weariness. So this year I’ve chosen Philippians 4:12 as my focus for 2019:

No matter what age I am when my time comes to meet my Savior, I want to know in my mind and my heart that my life was as full as He ordained it to be. I want to learn the secret of being content so that, no matter what the Lord requires of me, I am ready to give it. I want to walk in contentment. Beth March didn’t do that perfectly, and neither will I, but I will at least know that I’m going the right direction.

Photos by Thu Anh, Evan Kirby, Eugenia Maximova, and Eye for Ebony via Unsplash.

Emotional Constipation

I’ve never been good at holding anything back. A big part of my life story involves my big emotions and my tendency to dump them on others. I feel the most guilt about negative emotions, of course. Emotional tirades have been an issue for me since childhood. When I didn’t get what I wanted I let people know. One of my earliest memories is of going, or maybe being sent to, my room crying this loud yelling cry that I’m really good at. (Yes, still.) As I made my way to my room after some kind of argument with my mother I heard my father say in a frustrated voice, “What’s the tragedy now?” And he was right. He was right that I acted like everything was a tragedy, and he was right to be frustrated by that. I know because this is one of those situations where my parents got some payback. My kids do it too. My boys in particular are both especially good at building entire mountain ranges out of a few mole hills.

              Of course as I’ve grown I’ve learned that people don’t want to hear my tragedies. Frustrated comments like the one my dad made peppered my childhood, but when I got older and my problems got bigger, and I still threw my big emotions around, the emotions themselves became my problems. I had no problem crying loudly in the hallway in high school when my boyfriend broke my heart, but the snickers and mocking remarks of passersby still sting to this day, and I doubt my presentation was very attractive for my boyfriend either. Yet whenever I tried to hold back, whenever I just kept the feelings inside, or wrote them in my journal without telling someone else, I kept feeling them twenty-four hours a day. I just carried them around with me and I was constantly aware of them. I’m not someone who can pretend these things aren’t there. So then, when more bad things happened, I added more big emotions to the heap of others sitting inside me, and I felt ALL of them at once. Over time the emotions became impacted. I’m not talking about years of piling these things up; I never lasted that long without exploding. But the emotional constipation hurt like crazy, and when I finally got it out, it felt great.

Until it didn’t, of course. Because no one wanted to hear how bad I felt. I get that. It’s never comfortable when someone unloads a pile on you, even when nothing you’ve done is in the pile. The problem is that because I feel every emotion in a big way, when those big emotions get impacted, those hurts start telling me what to do and who I am. I start wanting to hurt people, sometimes even physically. I start thinking about how much I hate certain types of behavior that hurt me, and then I see it in everyone I meet. I become paranoid. Why is he looking at me like that? Does she think I’m too fat to be wearing this? Maybe my husband is cheating. I bet he is. That’s why he doesn’t like it when I rummage through his bags. I’m so ugly. No one should still get zits at 37. I know it – I’m sick. I have cancer, or an auto immune disease. I have psoriasis, so it’s definitely auto immune. WebMD says I need emergency treatment. But the people in the emergency room always send me home. I irritate them. They don’t care about me because I suck. I’m a waste of oxygen.

              The problem with emotional shit is that it can talk, and the more of it there is sitting inside me, the more it tells me. Nothing it tells me is good, and nothing it tells me is truth. But that doesn’t stop me from believing it. The messages my piled up emotions send me are like those radio commercials for car dealerships. They always make sure to include a catchy jingle that you’ll hate, but will still become an ear worm, repeating itself over and over in your brain. Emotions love to talk shit about me, and I’m the only one they talk to.

Why am I writing this? Why, for goodness sake, would I ever want to write this out and give this information to the general public? Who cares? Anyone who reads it will think I’m a wacko.

I’m writing this because I’m not wacko. I’m human.

Finally, we begin to see that all people, including ourselves, are to some extent emotionally ill as well as frequently wrong, and then we approach true tolerance and see what real love for our fellows actually means. It will become more and more evident as we go forward that it is pointless to become angry, or to get hurt by people who, like us, are suffering from the pains of growing up.”

 

This is not a quote from a famous blogger or a motivational speaker. As far as I know these words have never appeared in a TED talk. Those words were written by a member of AA, in a book originally published in 1952. This is not new information, and it wasn’t written by a millennial.

When you find information like this, information that is timeless, it’s easier to trust it as truth. Emotional backup isn’t my condition; it’s the human condition. There’s a post that bops around on social media that says something like, “Be kind. Everyone you meet is fighting a battle you don’t know about.” That’s the truth. Kindness, politeness, humility, and open-mindedness can take us a long way, and so can being carefully honest about our true feelings.

I’ve done a lot of thinking and research to learn how I can be emotionally open and honest without getting myself into trouble, along with how I can avoid interpersonal troubles in the first place. I know what works for me, but that’s for another post. Here’s my encouragement to you: Be honest about what you are feeling, but be prudent with your honesty. Practice boundaries. Think carefully about how another person will react to what you need to say, and judge accordingly. Don’t let it all out without being mindful about when, where, and who hears it. I’m not suggesting you develop emotional diarrhea. I’m suggesting that we all learn to express our feelings, that we learn how to do it in a way that enables us to begin healing but without indiscriminately hurting those around us. I’m also suggesting that, if someone close to you dumps their emotions, try not to take it too personally. Recognize that what someone else says, even in an attempt to intentionally hurt you, reveals more about the speaker than it does the audience. Give them, and yourself, some grace. Life is hard.

I’m suggesting a steady diet of emotional fiber. I’m suggesting tolerance of other people’s emotional digestion. I’m suggesting that, if you know you are emotionally constipated, take that load to an open-minded friend, a mentor, or a therapist. Don’t take an emotional dump on the person that hurt you.

              Shit stinks. So do painful emotions. But when they’re flowing in a healthy way, and when we encourage others to keep them flowing in a healthy way, we’ll all feel a lot more comfortable.

 

Photos by rawpixel, Jason Roswell, Anna Dziubinska, and Hien Olviera via Unsplash.

« Older posts

© 2019 From Eden's Dirt

Theme by Anders NorenUp ↑