Month: September 2015

37 Summers (September 1, 2014)

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Today, Labor Day 2014, marks the unofficial end of my 37th summer on the planet. I don’t remember much about the first given that I was just a blob of drool and other bodily functions, having been born in early August. During the second, I was trying to get a handle on that walking and talking stuff. Many cognitive psychologists believe that memories won’t fully develop until one has the language to describe and store them for later recall.

And so it was during the third summer, shortly after the arrival of my baby sister Jennifer, that seasonal reminiscences began to coalesce. Another August child, my first strong recollection is of being pulled from a friend’s backyard pool to visit little Jenny. Then, as now, I did not like the party to start or stop without me. If you’re now envisioning a 1980’s toddler precursor to Ke$ha, well that’s embarrassingly accurate.

Happily, my father knew how to manipulate my stormy baby moods and let me have control of the radio on the way to the hospital. I had strong (positive) opinions about the canon of Christopher Cross as a young lass of two years and three days old. Thus I belted out “Ride Like the Wind” through drying tears, sort of a joyous prompt for the complete awe that would dominate when I finally beheld the newborn girl. That summer I learned that it might not always be a bad thing to get out of the pool before you’re ready.

Summer is my favorite season, for a multitude of reasons. The hardened Chicagoan’s stoic survival of harsh Windy City winters begets frenzied exultation at three months of beaches, sidewalk seating and outdoor exercise. The melancholy writer struggles with seasonal affective disorder and craves Vitamin D furnished by 14 hours of daylight. The anarchist within adores the sense of limitless possibility. And for the student of life, there are always lessons and wisdom to absorbed as people literally and metaphorically throw off their coats.

It was during the summer of 1984 I learned that the arbitrary work of a moment, a face first implant into a living room radiator, could affect every moment thereafter. Self-esteem, opportunity, even the literal shape of a jaw went on another trajectory after an accident that took 25 years from which to fully recover. I also learned that even if I’d been born cute, I might not always be so. Looks can go at any time. Decency, intelligence and hard work became unconscious driving forces as the meaner kids mocked my crooked teeth and thick glasses.

During the post-Communism heat of 1994, I left the U.S. for the first time, and learned that the world is a large, diverse yet strikingly level place. Journeying to Russia and Poland on a cultural goodwill tour with the Chicago Children’s Choir I added the following essential truths to my life book: underage traveling without parents is awesome, there is no amount of dirtiness or fatigue that can prevent a teenage crush and everyone likes Ace of Base.

I wrapped up high school with another CCC tour in the summer of 1996, this time a five-week sojourn to Nelson Mandela’s South Africa. It was there I became aware that family can be chosen, appearances can be deceiving and that the summit of Table Mountain is a great place to use a pay phone.

Ensuing summers taught tougher lessons. 2009 was the summer of prematurely burying friends and coming to understand that desire alone is not strong enough to open a heart that’s closed. The warm months of 2011 were the season of illness that doesn’t make you appear sick and the crippling realization that two people in love can be genuinely, horribly toxic together.

But as I move into my late 30s, the conclusion of my 37th summer, the instruction remains poignant, and the circle is opening more fully. This was the season of horse back riding, wedding singing in Spanish, running races in Canada, hiking, outdoor music, bike rides through the forest at dark, murder mystery theater, new friends and fedoras. It was the summer of saying “yes” to everything external after Chiberia 2014’s confinement and discovering the joys of other terrain besides the concrete jungle.

It was also the season of writer’s block. Or was it? Is the living I’ve done over the last three to four months fodder for more exciting, experiential work? Perhaps I’ll find out next year. Because another lesson my 37th summer has taught me is that I don’t need, or maybe even want, all the answers today. The rewards is in the search, not the explanation.

Nonlinear Equations (July 24, 2014)

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Several years ago, my therapist gave a name to the lifelong inability to express myself coherently in the midst of tense, impassioned conflict – “emotional flooding.” When pressured to engage with a loved one/nemesis (sadly, often one in the same during childhood) in situations where I could not possibly be heard (not that I could find the words anyway), where no good could come from the discussion, I’d become panicked and hysterical, triggering an immediate, disturbed flight response. In addition to these episodes leaving me feeling crazy as a loon, it’s safe to say that the reaction was decidedly unhelpful in resolving the struggle. You can’t really negotiate with someone howling in pain behind a locked door. But you can’t continue tormenting and bullying them either. I guess that was really the subconscious point.

Hundreds, if not thousands of hours of individual and group therapy later, I’ve come to understand the pattern and how to avoid it – for the most part. Step one involved cutting the toxic people from my life, or if not feasible, sharply reducing interactions with them. This was a long process, one that also involved replacing those dysfunctional relationships with healthier, more fulfilling ones. As I review the long list of people with whom I regularly interact and communicate today, each and every one, without exception, adds fun, meaning and love to my world. None of these people are perfect and I’ve not emerged from the chrysalis a symmetrical butterfly either. But we misfit in harmony.

Step two required me to get to know the warning signs before an emotional flood: the flushed face, the racing heartbeat, the rapid fire negative thoughts, a growing sense of dread and alarm. Now when such symptoms are triggered, I am far more successful at backing away slowly, rather than precipitously, and asking the other party for a timeout. When I’m deliberate with my responses, I come closest to saying what I actually mean. This has always served me well as a writer, so it stands to reason that the principles apply to other forms of communication.

The final step was learning how to reapproach the subject and the individual without aggression, despair or a sense of persecution. “I love and you and I don’t want to fight with you. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to articulate my feelings better earlier, but I’m ready now if you’re willing to listen.” Two simple sentences have taken so much tension out of so many conversations. Or not. And when they don’t, I walk away. Not in panic or fear but with the confidence that I’ve done all I can to facilitate a rational discussion, laced with something like pride in acquitting myself decently. I’ve come a long way.

But personal progress is nonlinear, as Dr. T is fond of saying. And recently I experienced a minor setback with a dear friend. We had a misunderstanding and frankly, I shouldn’t have picked up the initial call. I was walking up the driveway to an extended family party: late, flustered and somewhat apprehensive. The sledgehammer symbolism of regressing on the property of my kin could not escape me.

I knew what this friend and I were going to discuss and it deserved a longer, calmer conversation. This is a clear loved one, definitely not a nemesis hybrid. I felt the flood coming, too late to do anything to stop it. Thus what should have been, “Can we talk about this later when I’ve had some time to think?” became, “I’m sorry you don’t like or accept me for who I am!” I promptly disconnected the call, utterly sorry and ashamed but with no time or bandwidth to address it immediately – which was probably for the best.

Though my behavior left the impression that I’d stepped into a time machine and traveled back to 2008, the ongoing work I’ve been doing in Al-Anon reminded me that there is no situation that can’t be improved, and I always have choices to make. Yes, I’d blown it. But I could also keep quiet for a couple of days and return to my friend with a mea culpa and a fresh dose of perspective.

Thankfully, as mentioned above, I now have people in my life who understand human error and forgiveness. I’m no longer held to impossible external standards by anyone, which in and of itself encourages reengagement and keeps fear of rejection in check.

Conversation number two went infinitely better than the first. Mistakes were owned and apologies were offered on both sides, as were assurances of love and friendship. It’s my belief that both of us left feeling understood and appreciated, and that particular misunderstanding is unlikely to recur.

But there will be other hiccups with other people. And I won’t get it right everytime. But I’ll get it better, in my own looped and rounded manner.

Life Itself (July 12, 2014)

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On May 2, 2009, legendary writer and film critic Roger Ebert published the essay, “Go Gentle Into That Good Night” on his blog, Roger’s Journal. Almost four years later, the man of letters was dead at the age of 70, finally succumbing to a long bout with thyroid cancer. Ebert’s post is elegant, beautiful and heartbreaking in so many ways, invested with extra pathos given his sustained and painful illness. I don’t know where he found the strength.

 

The opening has stayed with me for years:

“I know it is coming, and I do not fear it, because I believe there is nothing on the other side of death to fear. I hope to be spared as much pain as possible on the approach path. I was perfectly content before I was born, and I think of death as the same state. What I am grateful for is the gift of intelligence, and for life, love, wonder, and laughter. You can’t say it wasn’t interesting. My lifetime’s memories are what I have brought home from the trip. I will require them for eternity no more than that little souvenir of the Eiffel Tower I brought home from Paris.”

I’m an atheist who struggles with her godlessness, so much that I’ve rarely mentioned it in print. I try not to talk about it either, not only because there’s good sense in the axiom that one should avoid discussions of politics and religion in mixed company. Although I believe there’s a certain rhythm and harmony to the universe, I can’t get down with any particular faith’s explanation of who’s in charge. This is a tough position to take in a family mixed with devout Lutherans, Catholics and Muslims.

I am a scientist and logician. Math and tested research. It’s the latter principle that reinforces my belief. Eight years of parochial skill, learning the Catechism and memorizing Bible verses in lieu of world geography. I’ve given it a lot of thought and study. But I don’t know how to talk about it, especially when you throw in the almost perverse jealousy experienced when I encounter a true person of faith. How much more serene and relaxed their worldview.

And so Ebert’s gentle, profound passage on death, his conviction that there is nothing more than this life, is inspirational. My atheism is not the confrontational type in the style of skeptic legends Christopher Hitchens and Richard Dawkins. I don’t begrudge another human being what works for them, as long as they display the same courtesy. Yet the softer voices of atheism are often drowned by those of the white alpha males in the room. Ebert’s is a lovely contribution, and a model for articulating my own spirituality.

Last weekend, a friend and I went to the theater to see Life Itself, the new documentary about Roger Ebert’s birth, career and death from filmmaker Steve James. A must-see for any loyal fan certainly, but the movie is important for so many reasons. It’s no deification of the brilliant icon. We learn of Roger’s outsized ego, his alcoholism, the womanizing before settling down at the age of 50 with soulmate Chaz. Somehow, these imperfections set in relief the humanity that infused every word written over a 45-year career.

What the film makes clear, what Ebert’s body of work certifies, is that he soaked in everything he could from his time on Earth, believing as he did, that you only get one shot. He ate, drank, loved and fought with frenemy Gene Siskel with gusto. He wrote about so much more than the art of filmmaking. Chicago architecture, screenplays, social commentary – Ebert’s career defied the pigeonhole.

And so the title of the movie about the man who loved movies is perfection. Roger Ebert’s fervor for experience both was and is contagious. Whenever the symptoms of the autoimmune disease with which I struggle unleash a pity party of one, an excuse parade for why I can’t, I recall that my hero was missing half his face and two days away from the grave when he published his final essay, “A Leave of Presence.” It’s better than anything I’ve ever written, perhaps better than anything I’ll ever write. But who knows? I’ll keep trying, as I’ll continue searching for explanations to the confounding. Because I believe, as Roger Ebert did, that’s life itself.

13 Cars (June 21, 2014)

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2014 began in acute pain: a broken heart handed to me by a long-time lover with demons; disintegrating, burning hands from the effects of pompholyx eczema. It was unimaginable that either condition could be brought into remission. I was a metaphorical and literal open wound.

Readers of this blog know what followed. I stumbled into an Al-Anon group to try to cope with the distorted and unmanageable nature of life, owing to unsuccessful efforts at controlling my former partner’s disease. It seems so obvious now, but I didn’t realize until fully immersed that I needed the group years before I loved an alcoholic. I was a habitual codependent. While my parents were neither drunks nor drug users, addictions of all types basically wear the same clothes.

Dovetailing with this form of cognitive and emotional healing, a dear friend inadvertently offered mitigation for the autoimmune disease that thousands of dollars and loads of harmful steroids and other drugs couldn’t provide. She asked me to try a bottle of cold pressed, raw, organic, dirt-flavored red beet juice. 20 ounces a day, everyday, since that first sip two months ago, and I’m nearly asymptomatic. Apparently miracles are not always delivered in flashy, explosive style. Sometimes they arrive in the guise of a root vegetable.

Six years ago, before the death of Jesika, before divorce and cancer, before the hard and enormously wrenching choices that put me on the path to the personal and professional satisfaction I enjoy at present, I darkened the doorway of Dr. T – my longterm therapist. My first words to her were something along the lines of, “Fix me before I lose everything.” Her initial response was some version of “I’ll work with you to figure things out if you’re ready, but you might lose some things. And maybe that’s ok, because maybe they’re not the right things.”

Scary words that left me with a huge decision: status quo or reinvention. I didn’t know much about myself at that time, but I was aware that I couldn’t continue on in the same way. I was exhausted. So I came back the following week, and the one after that. The first things we worked on: eye contact and graciously accepting praise.

The six years I’ve spent relearning to navigate the world with the help of Dr. T have not been marked by regular, linear progress. I think anyone who stood by me or suffered as a result of the Great Christmas Breakdown of 2011 will nod their head in agreement. Awakening and change have not come easy, as I suppose nothing worth the effort ever does.

However the inception of 2014 and the convention of the four horsewomen has unleashed a tidal wave. Bi-weekly therapy, Al-Anon, beet juice and a personal determination to break the unhealthy patterns that yielded repetitive relationship disasters. Last week while talking to Dr. T, I likened the experience to an unusual and dated pop culture sensation. I told her that I’d been procuring the right pieces for years, finally put them all together, and then like the great Evel Knievel, revved up the motorcycle engine. This year, I’ve come roaring back, and the personal growth leap I’ve taken feels like jumping that motorcycle over 13 cars. And I stuck the landing.

It’s kind of amazing to feel like you can do anything after decades of keeping yourself imprisoned. The people who were supposed to love and care for me as a child might have put me in the cage, but only by recognizing that I gradually became my own warden has the negotiation of freedom become possible. Serenity, courage and wisdom, nurtured one day a time, can produce death-defying feats.

Great Urban Racers (June 8, 2014)

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For the past decade, I’ve tried to entice certain members of the friend and family circle to audition for The Amazing Race with me. Repeated pleas were issued to those with whom I’d work best, with lesser (but still important) consideration given to teammates with the potential to give good TV. Initial enthusiasm runs high….but then a would-be partner encounters the actual application, a behemoth of a document that calls for more evidence and stamina than the state Bar exam, with a lower pass rate. At that point, the initial “Hell yeah! Let’s do this!” turns into a “Well, maybe later.”

In 2011, unable to tamp down competitive scavenger hunt urges any longer, Gary and I registered for the Chicago heat of the Great Urban Race. The event’s website describes the race as, “a fun and challenging puzzle where your city holds the pieces. Teams solve clues, tackle challenges and race for cash prizes in this all-out test of smarts and speed…hundreds of Masterminds take to the streets to complete a variety of exciting mental and physical challenges at unique stops throughout the city. Your team is free to choose your own route as you hustle from clue to clue on foot or by using public transportation.”

Yep, that’s about it. GUR has three major mental and physical components: a initial set of 12 clues and puzzles used to determine race destinations, quick instincts and research leveraged to create a course map, then speed and skills to execute, hopefully fast enough to finish in the Top 25. Teams in that elite bracket are invited to compete against the other top racers from that year’s host cities in a contest for the national championship. In 2014 qualifying heats occurred in: Los Angeles, San Diego, Austin, San Francisco, Tampa, Jacksonville, Houston, Washington DC, Atlanta, Portland, Philadelphia, Boston, New York City, Chicago and Toronto.

In 2011, at 32 years of age, Gary and I ran our first race and enjoyed some beginner’s luck. We finished 41st – respectable enough to whet our appetites for more. We saw that with improved running speed (from me) and a few other tinkers, we had the goods. 2012 would be our qualifying year! …Only it wasn’t – not by a long shot. A more challenging course, more teams and some key errors on our part resulted in a completion time nearly 45 minutes behind the previous one.

In 2013, an unnaturally chilly July day in Chicago, we fared much better, only to be undone near the end by The Clark Bus That Never Came. Team Monsters Are Real was getting older, wiser, and settling into its niche of near-miss tragedy.

Saturday, May 31, 2014 was about as perfect as one could ask: warm sunshine without humidity, not a cloud in the sky. One half of Monsters Are Real awoke that morning full of optimism. Not six weeks before, the deteriorating and painful state of my hands made the consideration of withdrawal a serious one. Gary deserved a real shot at achieving our mutual dream of qualifying for the finals, and I no longer believed I was the partner to help him get there. But that was all before the miracle of beet juice. I’d slept well and hydrated the night before and arrived at the GUR starting point, Lizzie McNeil’s, with a sense of performance promise. I shared as much with Gary, not that I had to. Over the course of 22 years of friendship, we’ve developed a seamless ability to read each other and collaborate without explication.

We ran a great race. There was more walking in certain parts (from me) than I would have liked and I’ll never love Kraft Singles again the way I did before. But once we completed our first task nearly 45 minutes into the competition, we checked them off fast and furiously until we crossed the finish line.

It was clear we’d done well. There were very few teams checked in, enjoying their free-for-racing bottles of Miller Lite. However, while Team Monsters Are Real is in possession of a collectively healthy ego, it stops short of delusion. At best we hoped to match our finish from 2011. Hundreds of groups of competitors kept expectations low. We didn’t even stick around for the award ceremony.

In hindsight, I don’t know what would have been more delicious: hearing live and sweaty that we’d finally done it, we’d cracked the Top 25, or the Jesse Pinkman “Yeah bitch!” moment I experienced in an office conference room the following Monday morning – in front of my new boss and a senior graphic designer. When Gary sent the text message that we’d reached our goal, the euphoria overtook any semblance of professional decorum.

This afternoon, we booked our trip to Vancouver. We fly from Chicago on August 8, the day of my 36th birthday. The GUR national championship kicks off the following morning at 9:00 am in the downtown area of the city nicknamed, “Vansterdam.” This has all the makings of a most triumphant birthday weekend, no matter where Monsters Are Real ultimately finishes. In the ensuing weeks, I’ll be working on my speed sprints while Gary and I research Vancouver’s public transit, major landmarks and streets.

Six weeks ago I couldn’t dance vigorously without cracking, bleeding, burning hands. Today I am planning a training schedule for a competitive Canadian adventure with one of the people I love most. I’ve already won.