Last week I stepped outside my house and heard birds singing. It had been so long since I had noticed their songs. Where had they been? No, wrong question. Where had I been?
I had been gone for so long, locked up in a struggle with anxiety. All of my efforts were focused on the future and I heard little of the present. I do not have clarity on the number of months that slipped by this way. I was going through the motions of life, doing the best I could, but the joy of life escaped me.
And my heart was closed. When I was anxious, I did not like myself and I did not want to be seen. When I do not want to be seen, I close my heart.
It was like being caught in a subway turnstile. Have you ever tried to rush through a turnstile? You put your token in and push quickly against the bar. It pulls you up short. So you push harder and faster. It does not give. To get through you must stop, have patience and gently push the bar forward. It unlocks and spins forward. In anxiety, I keep pushing harder and harder on the bar, getting more and more frantic. I was stuck.
Somehow I broke free a few weeks ago. Was it the couple’s weekend at Shalom Mountain? Was it a visit to New York City to see “The Gates?” Was it a bit of medication? I do not know.
Was it yoga? I have been going to a yoga studio regularly and frequently for about three months. Suddenly I was breathing deeply again. I was finding stillness and relaxation. I was finding a center. Did the yoga break the anxiety or did the break in anxiety open up the yoga? Who knows?
I have been conflicted about going to yoga. It takes time and a lot of my energy. And it does not add to the Gross National Product. It does not make a difference in the world, only in me. It is not productive. And if it is not productive, how could it have value?
“Productive” and “value” are loaded words for me. I was taught early that in order for me to have value in the world, I had to be productive. For many years I was very productive, doing volumes of work. It defined me. After I stopped working I struggled with my lack of production. So I convinced myself that the real issue was quality, not quantity. I was doing a low volume of things that directly helped people. That was better than a high volume of work that did nothing but produce money. This argument gave me my value back.
When I made yoga a focus in my life I did not fit into the measures of either quantity or quality. It had no production at all. So I was conflicted and I fought it.
At the last Gathering I was deep into a process with a partner in which I was asked, “What is your truth?” I would speak my truth and then the question would be asked again. Each time the answer came from a deeper place. Suddenly I voiced that my truth was that I wanted to make yoga the priority in my life. I felt a rush of freedom and relief. I was no longer bound by production and value. This was true letting go. I knew that my truth was right for me.
Since that night I have been breathing deeply a lot. When people ask me how I am I reply that I am happy. I describe my energy as calm and smooth. They ask, “Who are you and what have you done with Jim?”
I have known intuitively for some time that my life is now about surrender and letting go. But I fight it. I like to take things on. Instead, I am dropping things off and sitting in the stillness. I am providing an opening and watching for what shows up.
All of this is very new. I do not trust it. Part of me is waiting for it to end. I am so used to the three sectioned revolving door of anxiety, depression and living. The smallest section was living as I constantly revolved through the three.
Today I am sitting outside the door. I am not going anywhere. To my surprise, I often smile to myself. I feel blessed. And my heart is open again.
I could not have done this without all of you. I could not have done this without my family, friends, fellow retreatants, walkers on the paths of Central Park, the students at the yoga studio and those at the Gatherings. I could not do what I do in a vacuum. I need all of you to help me through and to continuously call me to love and be loved.
March 17, 2005
February 25, 2005
Donuts for Sex
You never know when just the right information will hit your email inbox. Atkins Nutritionals sent me the following official information: “Losing weight can improve your sex life.” Seven little words have changed my life.
It thought that things like a weekend of tantra at Shalom Mountain would improve my sex life. But it seems that the key to ecstasy is shedding pounds. I cannot wait to get started.
I have a problem when it comes to dieting. I do not have pounds to spare. So I am going to have to gain weight in order to diet.
This is like the double bonus on Jeopardy. Instead of buying a lifetime gym membership, I am calling Krispy Kreme today. I want a permanent seat next to the luscious waterfall of liquid sugar that cascades over each donut as it comes down the assembly line. A small side funnel should not hurt the flow.
And where is all of the leftover Valentine’s candy? I am ready for it now. How far off is Halloween?
I figure it will take me a week to gain twenty pounds. And then it will take about two years to lose it. Who cares? For two years my sex life will be improving every day. Talk about learning to suffer!
At the end of two years of constant enjoyment, I will have to slink my way back to Krispy Kreme to start the cycle all over again. I will be the one who looks tired but is wearing a big smile.
It thought that things like a weekend of tantra at Shalom Mountain would improve my sex life. But it seems that the key to ecstasy is shedding pounds. I cannot wait to get started.
I have a problem when it comes to dieting. I do not have pounds to spare. So I am going to have to gain weight in order to diet.
This is like the double bonus on Jeopardy. Instead of buying a lifetime gym membership, I am calling Krispy Kreme today. I want a permanent seat next to the luscious waterfall of liquid sugar that cascades over each donut as it comes down the assembly line. A small side funnel should not hurt the flow.
And where is all of the leftover Valentine’s candy? I am ready for it now. How far off is Halloween?
I figure it will take me a week to gain twenty pounds. And then it will take about two years to lose it. Who cares? For two years my sex life will be improving every day. Talk about learning to suffer!
At the end of two years of constant enjoyment, I will have to slink my way back to Krispy Kreme to start the cycle all over again. I will be the one who looks tired but is wearing a big smile.
January 19, 2005
Three Yellow Buses
On my bulletin board hangs a drawing made by a three year old with the caption “Awaken to the Exuberance of the Day.” The usual stick figure and swirl of primary colors were created by me during an art process at a Gathering at least twelve months ago. I do not remember the process. I do not remember the instructions. But I remember the results.
My intent was to create an image of how I wanted to wake up every morning. I am not one of those people who slides out of bed and feels the way to the coffee pot. For them only deep breathing will do until the caffeine hits the bloodstream. I am one of those obnoxious perky people who hits the floor running with a smile and a cheery greeting. At least sometimes I am. On good days I am.
The moment of waking is a crucial part of my day. It is at that critical place that I decide how my day will be. This morning I awoke from a dream in which I was spending my time at work doing nothing, trying to look like I was doing something, and hiding out. How was I going to fill out my time sheets to bill clients if I was doing nothing? Doing nothing at work is hard. I have not worked in thirteen years. Some things just do not let go.
My malaise at work in my dream hit the reality of my awakened state and stuck. Today was not going to be a good day. I did not have any particular word that I attached to my beginning attitude, but if I had had one, it would not have been “exuberance.”
A morning attitude, good or bad, is like a pair of glasses that I put on for the day. Sometimes it comes from a dream. Sometimes it is like a hangover from the night before. These glasses are a filter through which all of the events of the day will be processed. How I greet these events will depend on whether I put on a good filter or a bad filter.
“Good” and “bad” sound judgmental and God forbid I should be judging myself. I have searched for other words. Several years ago I used to wake up every day convinced that the nature of the day ahead was written on my bedroom wall. Up at the top of the beige blank slate was one of two words: “shitty” or “good.” You can probably guess which one prevailed. So you see, good and bad are a step up in my world.
I am learning that there are other worlds out there. Better systems of morning attitudinal adjustment exist. I was wowed by the system of Christopher, the fifteen year old autistic narrator of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime by Mark Haddon. He counts the cars he sees from his morning school bus. If he passes four red cars in a row, it will be a Good Day. Three red cars in a row means a Quite Good Day. Five red cars means a Super Good Day. Four yellow cars in a row means a Black Day. On a Black Day he will not speak to anyone, will not eat lunch, will sit alone in the corner all day and will take no risks.
I love his system. It is orderly, even if illogical. Even he could see that it was not logical, but it worked for him. Is it any more illogical than my system of looking for words on the bedroom wall? Or just waiting for some lousy attitude to descend?
My system is not working. I am not “embracing the exuberance” too often. Too often my pair of glasses is dark and smoky. So I am adopting a new system. If I see two yellow school buses in a row, it will be a Good Day. If I see three yellow school buses in a row, it will be an Exuberant Day. If I see seven red school buses, it will be a Black Day. Who wants a Black Day anyway? I would miss lunch.
I have more to say about this, but the school day is starting soon and I have to hurry down to the elementary school before I wake up.
My intent was to create an image of how I wanted to wake up every morning. I am not one of those people who slides out of bed and feels the way to the coffee pot. For them only deep breathing will do until the caffeine hits the bloodstream. I am one of those obnoxious perky people who hits the floor running with a smile and a cheery greeting. At least sometimes I am. On good days I am.
The moment of waking is a crucial part of my day. It is at that critical place that I decide how my day will be. This morning I awoke from a dream in which I was spending my time at work doing nothing, trying to look like I was doing something, and hiding out. How was I going to fill out my time sheets to bill clients if I was doing nothing? Doing nothing at work is hard. I have not worked in thirteen years. Some things just do not let go.
My malaise at work in my dream hit the reality of my awakened state and stuck. Today was not going to be a good day. I did not have any particular word that I attached to my beginning attitude, but if I had had one, it would not have been “exuberance.”
A morning attitude, good or bad, is like a pair of glasses that I put on for the day. Sometimes it comes from a dream. Sometimes it is like a hangover from the night before. These glasses are a filter through which all of the events of the day will be processed. How I greet these events will depend on whether I put on a good filter or a bad filter.
“Good” and “bad” sound judgmental and God forbid I should be judging myself. I have searched for other words. Several years ago I used to wake up every day convinced that the nature of the day ahead was written on my bedroom wall. Up at the top of the beige blank slate was one of two words: “shitty” or “good.” You can probably guess which one prevailed. So you see, good and bad are a step up in my world.
I am learning that there are other worlds out there. Better systems of morning attitudinal adjustment exist. I was wowed by the system of Christopher, the fifteen year old autistic narrator of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime by Mark Haddon. He counts the cars he sees from his morning school bus. If he passes four red cars in a row, it will be a Good Day. Three red cars in a row means a Quite Good Day. Five red cars means a Super Good Day. Four yellow cars in a row means a Black Day. On a Black Day he will not speak to anyone, will not eat lunch, will sit alone in the corner all day and will take no risks.
I love his system. It is orderly, even if illogical. Even he could see that it was not logical, but it worked for him. Is it any more illogical than my system of looking for words on the bedroom wall? Or just waiting for some lousy attitude to descend?
My system is not working. I am not “embracing the exuberance” too often. Too often my pair of glasses is dark and smoky. So I am adopting a new system. If I see two yellow school buses in a row, it will be a Good Day. If I see three yellow school buses in a row, it will be an Exuberant Day. If I see seven red school buses, it will be a Black Day. Who wants a Black Day anyway? I would miss lunch.
I have more to say about this, but the school day is starting soon and I have to hurry down to the elementary school before I wake up.
November 21, 2004
A Good Dose
Everyone needs a good dose once in awhile. Or daily. My mother was a believer in the wonders of castor liver oil. I believe that I was in the last generation who received this remedy. I can still see that swooping serving spoon coming at me. I would wrinkle my face and my mother would always say, “It’s good for you.” Then I would be hit with the first belt of bitterness and the oil would ooze from the corners of my mouth. At the final swallow I would blanch with eyes scrunched and face grimaced. There, I was done for the day. I got what I needed.
Sometimes the thought of a dose of intimacy creates a similar feeling for me. I know that I need it because I have been told so. But I do not really believe that it is going to feel good. In my mind it could hurt more than it might help.
Connection comes hard for me. Disconnection is more my natural state, my default mode. I would rather pursue rugged individualism. When a Gathering is coming up I never say or feel, “Won’t it be great to be with a bunch of people Wednesday night?” Because I have been to many Gatherings, I know in my head that it will be great. But I cannot make that connection with my heart. I cannot make the connection to anticipate the joy.
Despite this limitation, I work hard at intimacy. I define intimacy as two or more people sharing their feelings and what is truly going on in their lives. I work hard at it because it has transformed my life.
Twelve years ago I was at the ground zero of my life. Everything had been blasted away and I was dealing with a blank slate. My days were fairly vacant. At first I spent most of the day at home alone with my books. I knew I needed people and eventually I would go out at midday to the mall so that I would be near people. I could eat lunch and read my books in the midst of strangers. It was the best that I could do at intimacy.
But over time I progressed. At some point I needed a calendar to keep track of my events. I started consciously scheduling luncheons with friends so that the white blocks on my calendar would not look so white. I would get on a roll and schedule two or three, and they would happen over the next two or three weeks. And then my calendar would be blank again and I would start another round of calls. But in the meantime there would be a gap. Eventually I learned to make rolling calls to get rid of those gaps.
All of that took hard work and it still does. But my calendar now regularly contains many events of intimacy. I checked on November: a Gathering, the Couples Festival, one artist opening, two dinners, one meeting for coffee, seven lunches and five men’s group meetings. All of these events were wonderful and I had great times.
And all of this is in addition to the intimacy in my nuclear family, who gives me the greatest and most important opportunities for intimacy.
Intimacy does not come naturally for me. And yet I do it anyway. I hope that some day I will be all excited about some upcoming events. But until then, I will keep filling up my dance card and dance with wonderful people. I do this because I have experienced the difference it makes in my life. I get a good dose of what I need.
Sometimes the thought of a dose of intimacy creates a similar feeling for me. I know that I need it because I have been told so. But I do not really believe that it is going to feel good. In my mind it could hurt more than it might help.
Connection comes hard for me. Disconnection is more my natural state, my default mode. I would rather pursue rugged individualism. When a Gathering is coming up I never say or feel, “Won’t it be great to be with a bunch of people Wednesday night?” Because I have been to many Gatherings, I know in my head that it will be great. But I cannot make that connection with my heart. I cannot make the connection to anticipate the joy.
Despite this limitation, I work hard at intimacy. I define intimacy as two or more people sharing their feelings and what is truly going on in their lives. I work hard at it because it has transformed my life.
Twelve years ago I was at the ground zero of my life. Everything had been blasted away and I was dealing with a blank slate. My days were fairly vacant. At first I spent most of the day at home alone with my books. I knew I needed people and eventually I would go out at midday to the mall so that I would be near people. I could eat lunch and read my books in the midst of strangers. It was the best that I could do at intimacy.
But over time I progressed. At some point I needed a calendar to keep track of my events. I started consciously scheduling luncheons with friends so that the white blocks on my calendar would not look so white. I would get on a roll and schedule two or three, and they would happen over the next two or three weeks. And then my calendar would be blank again and I would start another round of calls. But in the meantime there would be a gap. Eventually I learned to make rolling calls to get rid of those gaps.
All of that took hard work and it still does. But my calendar now regularly contains many events of intimacy. I checked on November: a Gathering, the Couples Festival, one artist opening, two dinners, one meeting for coffee, seven lunches and five men’s group meetings. All of these events were wonderful and I had great times.
And all of this is in addition to the intimacy in my nuclear family, who gives me the greatest and most important opportunities for intimacy.
Intimacy does not come naturally for me. And yet I do it anyway. I hope that some day I will be all excited about some upcoming events. But until then, I will keep filling up my dance card and dance with wonderful people. I do this because I have experienced the difference it makes in my life. I get a good dose of what I need.
September 21, 2004
Oto Noto
It has been awhile since I have written anything. Two months ago I was stopped dead in my tracks by vertigo. I will save you all the details about how sick I was because I am tired of talking about it. It is old news.
Some people have urged me to look for the lesson in this illness. Those folks I have shot, so they will not be reading this newsletter. Instead I would prefer to look at the humor in all of this. I have had to look very hard because for a long time there was no humor.
My favorite day was my trip to the Massachusetts Eye and Ear Infirmary. This is the holy grail in the Boston area for any malady from the neck up. It took many weeks of letting my suburban doctors tell me how much they did not know before I could get to Boston.
Due to an insurance snafu I spent a long time in registration that day. After awhile I was struck by how many blind people were in one place. They kept coming through the lobby. I had not been to Boston for a long time, so I figured it had to be a city thing. Blind people must live in the city. About twenty minutes later it dawned on me where I was – in an EYE Infirmary. My brain was a little slow.
I was released from registration on probationary status and ascended to the medical offices of Otoneurology. That is where they drive through your brain. The secretary proceeded to tell me in a very loud voice about all the forms I was to fill out. Why was she shouting at me? I tried to fill out the forms but she kept shouting at everyone that came in.
I asked my wife, "Why is everyone in here yelling?" Her answer was clear, "Because people can't hear. This is an EAR place. Oto means ear." More evidence that my brain was a little slow.
But my brain was not missing. I have proof now – an MRI of my brain. My nickname in childhood, given by my loving older brothers, was "Head" due to my oversized noggin. I guess they were right because my MRI pictures come in a very large size. I like to think they are oversized because there is so much information stored in my oversized brain. My brothers still say otherwise
I met my new doctor and of course he was younger than me. That seems to happen more and more. Do they send these people directly from nursery school to medical school? What ever happened to more mature doctors?
He wanted to make sure I qualified to be in his hallowed office. So he took my head and shook it in every direction he could think of and then looked at my eye reaction. Did he do this just once? Oh no! Have I felt worse since seeing him? Oh yes!
I have a few more tests before this Harvard Medical School doctor can definitely say that he does not know what is causing my illness. Up to now the medical ignorance is just speculative. Next up is the Full Battery Vestibular Test. They hook up your ears to a car battery and see if they can get smoke to come out your eyes. That will be followed by a VEMP test. That stands for Very Energetic Mind Pummeling. I cannot wait.
After all of this testing I will be easy to spot. I will be the guy with the big head, droopy ears and fire breathing eyes.
Some people have urged me to look for the lesson in this illness. Those folks I have shot, so they will not be reading this newsletter. Instead I would prefer to look at the humor in all of this. I have had to look very hard because for a long time there was no humor.
My favorite day was my trip to the Massachusetts Eye and Ear Infirmary. This is the holy grail in the Boston area for any malady from the neck up. It took many weeks of letting my suburban doctors tell me how much they did not know before I could get to Boston.
Due to an insurance snafu I spent a long time in registration that day. After awhile I was struck by how many blind people were in one place. They kept coming through the lobby. I had not been to Boston for a long time, so I figured it had to be a city thing. Blind people must live in the city. About twenty minutes later it dawned on me where I was – in an EYE Infirmary. My brain was a little slow.
I was released from registration on probationary status and ascended to the medical offices of Otoneurology. That is where they drive through your brain. The secretary proceeded to tell me in a very loud voice about all the forms I was to fill out. Why was she shouting at me? I tried to fill out the forms but she kept shouting at everyone that came in.
I asked my wife, "Why is everyone in here yelling?" Her answer was clear, "Because people can't hear. This is an EAR place. Oto means ear." More evidence that my brain was a little slow.
But my brain was not missing. I have proof now – an MRI of my brain. My nickname in childhood, given by my loving older brothers, was "Head" due to my oversized noggin. I guess they were right because my MRI pictures come in a very large size. I like to think they are oversized because there is so much information stored in my oversized brain. My brothers still say otherwise
I met my new doctor and of course he was younger than me. That seems to happen more and more. Do they send these people directly from nursery school to medical school? What ever happened to more mature doctors?
He wanted to make sure I qualified to be in his hallowed office. So he took my head and shook it in every direction he could think of and then looked at my eye reaction. Did he do this just once? Oh no! Have I felt worse since seeing him? Oh yes!
I have a few more tests before this Harvard Medical School doctor can definitely say that he does not know what is causing my illness. Up to now the medical ignorance is just speculative. Next up is the Full Battery Vestibular Test. They hook up your ears to a car battery and see if they can get smoke to come out your eyes. That will be followed by a VEMP test. That stands for Very Energetic Mind Pummeling. I cannot wait.
After all of this testing I will be easy to spot. I will be the guy with the big head, droopy ears and fire breathing eyes.
May 24, 2004
Jaded Hot Tub
I have the "hot tub jades." I would call it the "hot tub blues," but my new tub is not blue. It is jade. I keep calling it green, but the salesman corrects me, "You mean jade." I think that jade costs more than green, just like "pearl" costs more than "off white." Color aside, my new hot tub has me stirred up.
I ordered the hot tub for our deck at home two months ago. I had to prepare for it by reinforcing the deck. The contractor said he would lie under the deck and dig the holes for the new concrete piers by hand. I asked him how deep the holes would be. He replied, "As long as my arm." Ah, the practical side of construction that I know nothing about.
Two months is plenty of time to prepare for installation and placement decisions. I agonized daily about exactly where the tub would go. The big day arrived, I was ready and all went well.
After filling, heating and treating, Merry and I were ready for our first soak together. We slid into the warmth and "oohed" and "aahed" away. At least she did. I was a wreck. I was second guessing all of the decisions that I had made. Should I have bought the bigger tub? Did I place it too close to the wall? Did I face it the wrong way? Did I get the wrong color? And on and on and on.
These questions and the resulting anxiety were eating me up. I could not relax and enjoy the hot tub with my wife. Months of joyful anticipation had resulted in disaster.
I told Merry what I was thinking and feeling. She said, "Let it go, Jim. Everything is fine. It's a great thing that you have done. You have made all of this happen."
Her words broke the spell of negativity. She was correct. I had worked hard to make this happen. Ninety eight percent of what I did was good. And the last two percent was probably good too, but open for debate by someone who was looking for debate.
My inner critic was looking for debate. It was looking for an opening to wound me, a self inflicted wound. I had allowed my inner critic to speak so loud that I missed the totality of what I had accomplished.
Inner critics are tough on perfectionists. The writer Julia Cameron named her inner critic Nigel, a proper, bony-fingered British gentleman. She talks back to Nigel so that he cannot run her life.
I am tired of missing the joy of life because of the debatable two percent. I am going to try to hold sight of the big picture and not get lost in the perfectionist details. Jade is just too lovely to miss.
I ordered the hot tub for our deck at home two months ago. I had to prepare for it by reinforcing the deck. The contractor said he would lie under the deck and dig the holes for the new concrete piers by hand. I asked him how deep the holes would be. He replied, "As long as my arm." Ah, the practical side of construction that I know nothing about.
Two months is plenty of time to prepare for installation and placement decisions. I agonized daily about exactly where the tub would go. The big day arrived, I was ready and all went well.
After filling, heating and treating, Merry and I were ready for our first soak together. We slid into the warmth and "oohed" and "aahed" away. At least she did. I was a wreck. I was second guessing all of the decisions that I had made. Should I have bought the bigger tub? Did I place it too close to the wall? Did I face it the wrong way? Did I get the wrong color? And on and on and on.
These questions and the resulting anxiety were eating me up. I could not relax and enjoy the hot tub with my wife. Months of joyful anticipation had resulted in disaster.
I told Merry what I was thinking and feeling. She said, "Let it go, Jim. Everything is fine. It's a great thing that you have done. You have made all of this happen."
Her words broke the spell of negativity. She was correct. I had worked hard to make this happen. Ninety eight percent of what I did was good. And the last two percent was probably good too, but open for debate by someone who was looking for debate.
My inner critic was looking for debate. It was looking for an opening to wound me, a self inflicted wound. I had allowed my inner critic to speak so loud that I missed the totality of what I had accomplished.
Inner critics are tough on perfectionists. The writer Julia Cameron named her inner critic Nigel, a proper, bony-fingered British gentleman. She talks back to Nigel so that he cannot run her life.
I am tired of missing the joy of life because of the debatable two percent. I am going to try to hold sight of the big picture and not get lost in the perfectionist details. Jade is just too lovely to miss.
April 21, 2004
Connection
Working in the yard can be dangerous. Somehow I always knew that and it has been my dream to have a gardener. I would do well on a large English estate with a full time staff to take care of the grounds. But instead I do what I can in my yard.
Picking up sticks that the wind have blown down. It turns out that this is a hazardous activity for me. Somehow the continuous motion of bending over gave me vertigo
Vertigo can be nasty. The more you move, the worse you feel. It stopped me dead in my tracks. All the things that I had been doing in my life were suddenly on hold and I became depressed quickly.
Depression is not a new state for me, but I do not frequent it as often as I used to. This bout was a different experience in that I could see so clearly what was going on. The self hatred and self loathing appeared quickly with a depth that surprised me. A life that I loved had turned into a useless exercise overnight, at least in my eyes. And I felt the deep shame of being a depressed, worthless person. I was so ashamed of the state I was in that I did not want to be with anyone.
I did not want to face anyone and especially my wife. We have been through this many times in the past and it is so hurtful when I disconnect from her. She knows my patterns well. She let me do what I needed to do while offering to connect as much I would allow. I would not allow much, even though I knew it was helpful.
The day before I became sick I told a depressed friend that he needed to connect with others even though he was depressed. Later, in the midst of my depression I could hear myself mouthing the words about connection, but I could not bring myself to do it. I just could not do it.
When I get into this kind of space I know enough to continue to meet the obligations that I have made. Somewhere I learned that. After a scheduled lunch with a friend he said he would call me the next day and see how I was doing. Then he said, "Or you call me." I responded quickly, "I won't call you. I just won't." I knew that the shame was so big in me that I would not do the thing that I needed to do most: connect.
My friend did call me and other friends called to check on me. Conversations were short because I did not want to talk. But I know that they helped.
I went to the doctor yesterday and started some medicine which should help. I have some hope now that this vertigo state will end soon. Hope makes all the difference in the world. The depression is lifting.
In real estate they say that the three most important things about a property are location, location and location. Maybe in life the three most important things are connection, connection and connection.
This lesson is just starting to sink in with me. It is easy for me to connect when I am feeling good about myself. But it is during the bad times that I need connection the most. When I want connection the least, that is when I need it the most. That is a hard lesson to learn. I wonder how many more times I will have to learn it before I act on it.
Picking up sticks that the wind have blown down. It turns out that this is a hazardous activity for me. Somehow the continuous motion of bending over gave me vertigo
Vertigo can be nasty. The more you move, the worse you feel. It stopped me dead in my tracks. All the things that I had been doing in my life were suddenly on hold and I became depressed quickly.
Depression is not a new state for me, but I do not frequent it as often as I used to. This bout was a different experience in that I could see so clearly what was going on. The self hatred and self loathing appeared quickly with a depth that surprised me. A life that I loved had turned into a useless exercise overnight, at least in my eyes. And I felt the deep shame of being a depressed, worthless person. I was so ashamed of the state I was in that I did not want to be with anyone.
I did not want to face anyone and especially my wife. We have been through this many times in the past and it is so hurtful when I disconnect from her. She knows my patterns well. She let me do what I needed to do while offering to connect as much I would allow. I would not allow much, even though I knew it was helpful.
The day before I became sick I told a depressed friend that he needed to connect with others even though he was depressed. Later, in the midst of my depression I could hear myself mouthing the words about connection, but I could not bring myself to do it. I just could not do it.
When I get into this kind of space I know enough to continue to meet the obligations that I have made. Somewhere I learned that. After a scheduled lunch with a friend he said he would call me the next day and see how I was doing. Then he said, "Or you call me." I responded quickly, "I won't call you. I just won't." I knew that the shame was so big in me that I would not do the thing that I needed to do most: connect.
My friend did call me and other friends called to check on me. Conversations were short because I did not want to talk. But I know that they helped.
I went to the doctor yesterday and started some medicine which should help. I have some hope now that this vertigo state will end soon. Hope makes all the difference in the world. The depression is lifting.
In real estate they say that the three most important things about a property are location, location and location. Maybe in life the three most important things are connection, connection and connection.
This lesson is just starting to sink in with me. It is easy for me to connect when I am feeling good about myself. But it is during the bad times that I need connection the most. When I want connection the least, that is when I need it the most. That is a hard lesson to learn. I wonder how many more times I will have to learn it before I act on it.
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